Cobra Slave-eARC (28 page)

“Your first happenment with the Games?”

Merrick turned. Another of the black-and-copper men had come up behind him and was eyeing him with open curiosity. Merrick opened his mouth, remembered just in time that he was supposed to be mute, and quickly brought up his hand to point at his mouth as he shook his head.

“Merrick Hopekeeper is unable to speak, Henson Hillclimber,” Anya said, coming up to Merrick’s side. “And no, it’s not his first happenment.”

Merrick gestured toward the boys, holding out a horizontal palm to indicate their height. “But the one I witnessed alongside him was more elaborate and risksome than this,” Anya continued. “And as he now points out, in that Game the fighter was fully grown.”

“Witnessed,” Henson repeated the word, a knowing look in his eye. “So he didn’t grow up in a Games-bred village?”

“No, that he did not,” Anya conceded.

“And yet you brought him here?” Henson pressed. “Deny it not, Anya Winghunter. I know the others still enmeshed in greeting. They either would not or could not have been so bold.”

“Yet Ville Dreamsinger is also here,” Anya pointed out. “I did not bring him.”

“Ville is at least one of the Games-bred,” Henson countered. “By your own admission Merrick is not. So again I ask: why did you bring him here?”

“I met him during my period of slavery. When we were ordered back to our homes, he had no place to go.”

“Why not?”

“Do you truly have to ask?”

Henson’s eyes flicked past Merrick’s shoulder at the Trofts. “No,” he said, some of the truculence finally leaving his voice.

“He wished to come with me, to my village,” Anya continued. “I accepted his wish, and him.”

Henson hissed between his teeth, muttering something under his breath at the same time as he eyed Merrick. “So you still have the death of this village at heart?”

“I never wished our death,” Anya insisted, her voice firm but with an edge of pleading beneath it.

“Your actions belie your words.” Henson gestured to Merrick. “For truly, an adult male without Games abilities could be disastrous to us all.”

“He can fight,” Anya said firmly. “Our village will not be shamed or isolated.”

“We shall see,” Henson said. “And as to whether Gangari will continue to be your village is a matter for further discussion.”

There was a sudden, louder thud from the center of the field. Merrick turned to see that one of the boys was now on the ground, lying still but with his fingers still twitching. His opponent stood over him, a mixture of satisfaction and guilt on his face. Apparently, the fight was over.

Across the field, one of the Trofts took a step away from the aircar and called out something in that odd dialect that Merrick had yet to completely figure out. Henson lifted his hand in acknowledgment and called back something in the same dialect. Gesturing the other black-clad man to move back, he started toward the two boys.

And was jerked to a stop as Anya caught his arm. “You cannot,” she said urgently. “They’re too youthsome. It could be dangerous.”

Henson shook off her hand. “Better a could than a would,” he countered darkly. “It has been ordered. Stand aside, or face the wrath.”

Anya glared at him. But she let go of his arm without further argument. Henson turned again and strode off across the field, digging into a small pouch hanging from his belt.

Merrick took a step closer to Anya. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly.

“The masters demand the Game continue,” she said, her tone angry and pained. “Henson must therefore give the downed boy a dose of bersarkis.”

Merrick stared at her. “Bersarkis? That poison we just walked through?”

“No, no—that is bersark,” Anya said. “Bersarkis is the refined form, a potion that aids in healing and recovery.”

A memory clicked: the vial of light-brown liquid that Anya had always been trying to push on him during his imprisonment on Qasama. He’d never trusted her enough to take any of it. “So if it heals him, what’s the problem? Just that he’ll get up and they’ll keep trying to kill each other?”

“You don’t understand,” she said tightly. “Henson won’t give merely a healing dosage. He’ll quatro the amount…” She trailed off.

Merrick focused on the boy who was still standing. He was trying hard to look calm, but a closer look with Merrick’s infrareds told a different story. The boy was all but shaking with fear as he watched Henson approach and kneel down beside his unconscious opponent. “What does quatroing the amount do?” Merrick asked.

Anya gave a shuddering sigh. “It creates mindlessness.”

Merrick was still trying to figure out how to respond to that when Henson pressed a small white patch of something onto the unconscious boy’s upper arm and gave it a sharp slap. The boy jerked, lay still another moment, then jerked again and opened his eyes. For perhaps three seconds he stared up at the man leaning over him.

And then, abruptly, he reached a hand to Henson’s chest and gave him a shove that sent the man toppling over backwards. Pushing off the ground with his other hand, the boy shot to his feet and hurled himself at his opponent.

The other boy did his best. But it was like stopping a summer storm. His attacker was all over him, flailing with hands and feet and occasionally even butting furiously with the front of his head. The blows weren’t all that accurate, and the defending boy was able to block or avoid many of them. But the ones that got through were powerful enough to stagger him.

And through it all, the attacker filled the air with shrieks, snarls, and animalistic grunts.

Merrick looked over at the Trofts. They were watching the fight closely, with no indication that they were appalled by the carnage. In fact, judging by the quivering of their upper-arm radiator membranes, both of them found the bout highly exciting.

Maybe exciting enough that they wouldn’t want it to simply end with the drugged boy beating the other into the ground?

Merrick swallowed hard. Because it would apparently be simplicity itself to keep the fight going. Another order to Henson, another white patch or two, and the loser would get his chance at some revenge.

One of the attacker’s blows missed and the boy fell heavily to the ground, giving the defender just enough breathing space to scramble a few steps away. His face was pinched with fear and blotched with spots of oozing or trickling blood, and for a moment Merrick thought he might take advantage of the momentary lull to run away.

But despite the obvious reluctance in his movements, he nevertheless slowed to a stop and remained still, his breath coming in great heaving gasps as he waited stolidly for his opponent to get back up.

It was at that exact moment that it suddenly occurred to Merrick that he still had target locks on both Trofts.

It would be so easy. A quick pair of antiarmor laser shots—hell, even his fingertip lasers would probably do the job at this distance against unarmored aliens—and Anya and Henson could break up the fight and get both boys the medical attention they surely must need by now. He could load the aliens’ bodies into the aircar, fly it out into the forest somewhere, and find a big tree to crash it into. By the time anyone found the wreckage, scavengers would probably have eaten enough to obscure any evidence of how they’d died.

Only it wouldn’t work. The rest of their garrison or settlement would surely know that the pair had planned to come to Gangari today. They would send someone to investigate, and while Anya might be willing to cover for him, Henson almost certainly wouldn’t.

Unless Merrick was also able to take out the investigators before they could report. But that would do nothing but postpone the inevitable, because even the stupidest Trofts wouldn’t buy the idea that two teams disappearing in the same general vicinity was pure coincidence. The next Trofts would arrive in force, and in the end the entire village would suffer.

Time and again during the Troft invasion of Qasama Merrick had seen the Shahni and other leaders make decisions about who would go into danger, and probably die, so that others might live. At the time, Merrick had been glad he wasn’t the one who had to make such decisions.

Now, suddenly, he was.

And in this case, there was no doubt as to what he had to do. If the fight continued, one of the boys could indeed die. But if he interfered, the whole village would be devastated.

As Henson had said, better a could than a would.

The drugged attacker made it back to his feet and lurched again for his opponent. But something now seemed to be happening to the boy. He was moving slower, more hesitantly, and a quick check of his facial infrareds showed that the rage or fear that had been driving him was receding into a pain-wracked bewilderment.

He tried another couple of steps. His opponent kept his distance, watching warily. The drugged boy took a final step forward and stumbled, going down on one knee.

And to Merrick’s surprise, the defender took a quick step forward and delivered a roundhouse punch to the side of his head that sent him once again sprawling flat on the ground.

Merrick caught his breath. What the hell kind of trick was that? The kid had been ready to fall over all by himself. He certainly hadn’t needed someone’s fist to help him along.

But at least the fight was over.

Maybe.

He looked over at Henson, wondering if he would step forward and slap the unconscious kid with another white patch. But apparently the Trofts had had enough of the Games for one day.

Possibly more than enough. The two aliens were chatting amiably with each other, like a pair of bored spectators waiting for the timer to run down so that they could go home.

For a moment Henson waited, probably making sure there would be no further orders. Then, turning to the other black-suited referee, he motioned him forward and gestured to the two boys.

“It’s over,” Anya murmured, sounding tiredly relieved.

“That’s for sure,” Merrick growled. “What the hell was that last punch—?”

“Keep your voice down,” she cut him off. “You have no idea.”

“Fine. Explain it to me.”

Anya’s lips compressed. “If the winner had simply let the loser collapse when the bersarkis had run its course, the Game would have been a draw,” she said. “There’s no gain in a draw.”

“But there’s gain in hitting someone when he’s already down?”

Anya turned away. “I said you wouldn’t understand,” she said over her shoulder. “Stay here until the masters leave. Henson will find you a bed for the night.”

“Anya Winghunter?”

Merrick turned. Henson was standing beside the Trofts, and all three were looking across the field at him and Anya. “Anya Winghunter, attend the masters.” Henson’s eyes shifted to Merrick. “And bring your companion.”

Merrick looked at Anya. Her anger at his naiveté had vanished, a quiet dread now in its place. She flashed Merrick a look, then headed across the field. Making his face as blank as he could, Merrick followed. They passed the two boys as the loser was beginning to show signs of returning consciousness and came to a halt in front of Henson and the aliens. [The masters, what is their wish?] Anya asked in cattertalk.

One of the Trofts’ membranes gave a brief fluff as he replied. Only this time, to Merrick’s surprise, his dialect wasn’t nearly as hard to understand as it usually was with members of the Drim’hco’plai demesne. In fact, aside from some strangely accented words, it was no worse than deciphering Anya’s own slightly off-plumb Anglic usage. [Your language skills, your captivity has harmed them,] the Troft said.

[My apologies, I offer them,] Anya said, bowing deeply. [My masters, this speech they used. My understanding of true speech, it has been affected.]

Which was, Merrick knew, a lie. Back on Qasama, she’d had no trouble conversing with the Troft doctor who used this same dialect. Why she would risk the aliens’ anger by forcing them to shift dialects he couldn’t imagine, unless it was for Merrick’s own benefit and ease of understanding.

[Slaves’ minds, they are all too easily affected,] the second Troft said scornfully. [Trof’te minds, they are stronger.]

[The difficulty, I apologize for it,] Henson said, flashing an angry look at Anya as he also bowed.

[The difficulty, there is none,] the first Troft said loftily. [The dialect of our friends and allies, we have no difficulty speaking it.] He pointed to Merrick. [This slave, he does not appear familiar. His identity and occupation, he will tell them to us.]

[The slave, his voice is damaged,] Anya spoke up quickly. [His voice, an accident robbed him of it. Merrick Hopekeeper, his name it is.]

[Merrick Hopekeeper, to the Games is he bred?] the first Troft asked.

[The Games, he is not bred to them,] Henson spoke up before Anya could answer. [His occupation, a winghunter assistant it is.]

[A winghunter assistant, he is too old to be one,] the first Troft said suspiciously. [A full winghunter, I believe he is one.]

Anya’s throat tightened as she looked at Merrick. Once again, there was clearly something going on that he wasn’t getting. [A full winghunter, he is one,] she confirmed reluctantly.

[Good news, that is some,] the second Troft said. [A hunt, the two winghunters will begin one at once. The delicacies, we will feast on them by moonlight.]

[And the hunt, we will observe its progress,] the first Troft said, his voice still suspicious as he eyed Merrick. [Their winghunting ability, we will evaluate it.]

[The hour, it is too late to scale the mountains,] Anya protested carefully. [The morning, we cannot leave until then.]

Merrick looked at the cliffs rising from the ground behind the aliens. The mountains were not only tall, but they were also steep and rugged, with quite a few places that were rocky enough to keep any trees or bushes from getting a foothold.

And winghunts started from somewhere up there?

[The hour, it is not too late,] the first Troft said firmly. [The dawn, we will not wait for it. The mountain, we will begin ascending it at once.]

[The mountain, you do not need to ascend with us,] Anya said quickly. [The way, it is very steep and difficult.]

[Fools, do you consider us them?] the first Troft demanded scornfully. [The mountain, we will not ascend it by foot. Your path, we will fly alongside it.]