WarDog: Book Twelve in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series

by Alana Khan

  Good boy, I quickly praise him.

  Checking that I have plenty of charge left in my laser, I press my finger on the trigger and blast through the wooden door into the room from left to right and back again. From the shouts and moans inside I’m certain I’ve hit more than one enemy.

  Stopping to listen, I hear nothing inside. I wait a few moments and then fire another salvo into the room.

  The thick wooden door is now obliterated. Shards and splinters are everywhere, including a few lodged in my flesh. Glancing into the room through the still-closed door, I see the charred and burning remnants of a finely-appointed bedroom suite.

  I doubt everyone beyond this door is dead, but I’m going in. Using my comm, I call my cadre to give them my location as well as my suspicion that Khour is in this room.

  Stepping one foot through the hole I blasted in the door, I scan the room and then enter. One male is in a far corner. It’s a purple male of Khour’s race—he’s badly wounded. Dragging himself by his hands, his legs rendered useless, he’s pulling himself toward a weapon.

  I’d like to believe this is one of the males who accompanied Khour that fateful day back on Skylose. I’ll never know. I don’t recall any of their faces, just the one who beheaded my mother. Although I don’t have the satisfaction of knowing for certain who I’m killing, I shoot him in the head before he reaches his gun.

  All I hear is silence except for the sound of laser fire from far off in the compound.

  I see aliens of several races dead on the floor of this bedroom. Four Frains and a shaggy blue male who probably stood seven-fiertos tall when he was alive. None of them is Khour.

  I pull a six-inch dirk from the scabbard on my thigh and plunge it into the heart of every body on the floor, ensuring they’re all dead. My nose tells me Khour has been here within the last hoara. In fact, I know he’s still here, yet I can’t see him.

  Is he a sorcerer? A chameleon? Able to turn his body invisible? I stand still and glance around the room, paying attention to subtle clues. Where is his scent coming from?

  My attention is drawn to the wall at my left. It’s paneled in burled wood made by a craftsman who paid attention to the smallest details. I could swear Khour is behind one of these panels.

  I step over bodies to reach the back corner of the room so he won’t be able to hit me if he were to shoot through that panel the way I shot through the door.

  My heart is pounding, and it has nothing to do with the danger I’m in. It’s because I’m so close to Khour. I’ve dreamed, even in my canine form, of killing this bastard since he slaughtered my village. To be so close and not be able to reach him will drive me insane.

  I hear the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway. Eight of my comrades barge through the doorway after opening the destroyed door.

  “Where is he?” Steele asks, his intelligent eyes scanning the room.

  “I know he’s here, hiding. I believe he’s behind this wall.”

  “My weapon has charge left,” Stryker says. “Stand back.” As soon as I step out of his line of fire, Stryker lets loose a steady stream of fire. A moment later, when he stops shooting, instead of seeing through the wall into the next room, we see thick metal plating behind what was left of the decimated wooden wall.

  “Finish the job, Stryker,” Shadow says.

  The gladiator continues to fire until there is almost nothing left of the original wood veneer of the wall. We see a shining silver metal wall; it withstood the barrage of laser fire.

  “A safe room,” Shadow announces.

  “What?” Stryker asks.

  “My parents had one.” An idiot couldn’t miss the hatred and disdain with which he says the word ‘parents’. “And well they should have. They collected enemies like other people collect jewels. It’s a fortified room or closet within a house where the owner can retreat in times like these. See this?” He touches a seam that was hardly visible until he pointed it out. “And this? These seams outline the doorway.”

  “The motherdracker is in there, alright. Hiding like the coward he is,” Dax says.

  “What should we do? Will Justus be able to blow the door off?” Stryker asks.

  “As hated as Khour is, I doubt he spared any expense in constructing this room. We’ll try certainly, but I don’t think we’ll be able to blow our way in,” Shadow says. “Steele, Dax, Stryker, and Maximus, wait here while the rest of us secure the grounds. You all have enough ammo?”

  They nod.

  I don’t want to secure the compound. I want to stay here and figure out how to kill my mortal enemy. I’m not in charge, though. I just joined the crew, at least as a humanoid. I catch up with the group as they wander the hallways investigating every bedroom, refresher, and closet along the way.

  When the house is secured, we inspect the outbuildings. There are many of them, including a small ludus with attached slave barracks. We spend hoaras combing through the area, investigating the thick stone walls, the groundskeeper’s cottage, and an old stable.

  We find Erro’s brother Turk in the groundskeeper’s cottage with six innocent staff he was protecting. We send them to the mansion.

  “Let’s rendezvous back in the main quarters in an hoara. Each of you go back and cover a sector one more time.” Shadow says.

  “I’ll take the area near the garden,” I announce, then hurry over to it. Something just didn’t seem right when we investigated it before.

  The well is a round, stone structure that looks like it was part of the original grounds that were built centuries ago, long before the mansion was erected. When we passed here before, something nagged at the back of my mind, although I’m not certain what.

  Now that I’m here, I see it. I check my laser and see that it’s almost back to full charge, then ease forward to the patch of soil behind the well. It’s been recently disturbed. The ground hasn’t been tamped down properly.

  I kick the dirt with my boot and easily scrape it down until I feel something hard underneath. After hurrying to the groundskeeper’s shed, I return with a shovel. In just a few moments, I scuff newly-placed earth off a wooden panel, then prise it up and hurl it a few fiertos away.

  Steps. There are steps hewn into the soil. By the look of it, they’ve been trod not that long ago. Someone went to great lengths to hastily cover this over and hide its existence.

  I hurry down the steps with a sense of urgency. It’s not just my instincts that are blaring an alarm, but my canine is chuffing inside, by his impatience this mission seems urgent.

  My nose is assailed with smells. None of them are good. The first thing I notice is the stink of dirty bodies. The filth is so thick, the stench so horrendous, I’m not sure if I’m smelling animals or humanoids. Even WarDog drops and covers his nose with his paws.

  Then the scent of misery slams into me like it’s a living thing. Fear and dread vie with anger for my most prevalent emotion.

  I’m in a dungeon under the soil. It’s almost pitch black in here. There are dim lights built into nitches in the walls. Even with them, it’s almost too dark to see my hand in front of my eyes. I smell death, or perhaps dying. That’s clear. But there are living souls here too. Humanoid.

  Cells are crammed in down here. Old, rusting bars not just on three sides, but on four, so the poor souls couldn’t claw their way out through the dirt wall at the rear of their cells.

  I swallow. Hard. But it’s not enough to keep my emotions at bay. Tears warm my eyes as I see the misery here. Naked males of many alien species. They’re filthy. And there are no facilities. The buckets of shit and piss are overflowing. WarDog whines in misery.

  We were kept in a cell just like this.

  Thank the Gods I don’t remember this, WarDog. Though I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you shoulder the burden.

  The water buckets in each cell are empty, and when I see the inhabitants’ parched lips, I have no doubt they haven’t had a drink in far too long.

  The most surprising thing
of all is the silence down here. Where are their pleas? Why aren’t they welcoming me as their rescuer? Or at least questioning me about who I am and why I’m here?

  I know the answer before I ask, though. Fear. These males are terrified. They all sit on bunks whose mattresses were eaten by vermin long ago. Their eyes are downcast, their emaciated shoulders slumped. None of them have the courage to look at me. None have kenned to the fact that I’m not their usual jailer. Maybe this isn’t fear I smell but despair. Total hopelessness.

  “I’m Bayne,” I say, trying to imbue my voice with friendly confidence. “I’ve come with a cadre of males to free you.” Surely they heard the weapon fire. But no, down here in the depths of the soil they would have heard none of the life-and-death battle we waged up above.

  “I’m Bayne from the ship the Fool’s Errand. Our ship and the Devil’s Playground have come to set you free. We’ve killed all of your captors except Daneur Khour himself. We’ll be coming up with a plan to do that before the sun sets.”

  I watch as one by one the males hazard a glance at me, then look down at their feet again. Now that my eyes are better accustomed to the darkness, I see some of the remnants of their physical pain—whip marks, bodies so thin I can count the ribs, lips cracked and white from thirst, and evidence of vermin bites in every stage of healing.

  If I hadn’t wanted to kill Daneur Khour before I descended into this hole, I certainly do now.

  “Urgent!” I call into my comm. “I need a cohort of males to the well. As many as can safely be spared. I’ve found prisoners. Come with water and blankets. Some of these captives won’t be able to walk out of here without help.”

  I don’t have to look far for the keys. It’s as if they were placed by a sadist. The ring of keys is large, hanging on the wall across from the cells so every prisoner could look at it all day long knowing he’d never reach it, never taste freedom again.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so relieved as when I hear the first boot strike the top step. Soon my comrades are here, offering water and covering filthy naked bodies with the first coverings they’ve worn in . . . I have no idea how long.

  I’m proud to be part of this. I’m a liberator. A helper. I found these males who possibly would have died within days if I hadn’t stumbled onto this secret hiding place.

  One male stands. His flesh is green and he has thick ropes of flesh cascading off his scalp instead of hair.

  “Thank you, brother,” he says through dry lips.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Time loses meaning,” he says, his gaze flicking to the floor. “I don’t know how many lunars it’s been. For the others? Much longer.”

  “Your name?” I ask.

  “Abraxx.”

  Not one of the other males has the strength to walk up the steps on their own power. My hands fist at my sides and I have an inner battle with my canine to calm him. He’s throwing himself at me, trying to burst out and shift. He desperately wants to help. I only help him gather control when I tell him it would traumatize many of these prisoners to see me turn into a fighting canine with two-inch teeth.

  He pulls back, but just a bit, watching with so much anger and sorrow I know he’d kill Khour with his bare teeth if he ever got the chance.

  My comrades have emptied the dungeon, and I look around one last time to see if perhaps one of the males had one possession, a piece of clothing perhaps that he might want to carry out of this heinous place, although I can’t imagine any of them will want a memento to remember this place by.

  This primitive place had a walkway that held only the keys on the wall. Across from it were eight cells, now empty, thank the Gods. The dim lighting was only near the steps. At the eighth cell, it’s close to pitch black.

  I see a small mound of . . . something on the floor of the last cell. The remnants of a rat-eaten mattress? A pathetic piece of blanket the male used to cover himself with? My eyes give me no additional information, but my nose tells a different story.

  I smelled death when I entered this forsaken place. Here’s a body. I say a prayer for the poor male who died far from his loved ones in this Godless place.

  My inner canine whines to get my attention. Wait. When I follow his intuition, I see the slightest movement. Could something be alive here?

  I open the cell and approach slowly. Whatever, whoever, is here might be frightened of me.

  “I’m Bayne,” I croon as if I’m talking to a scared pup. “I’ve come to rescue you.” I’m still not sure if I’m talking to a male, a pile of rags, or a dead body.

  It’s definitely alive. I see the shallow movement of breathing, though I’m still not sure what manner of creature my eyes are seeing.

  I crouch down and move the rags, but they’re not rags, it’s fur. When I look closely, then sweep fur from his face, I see a male of Zar’s race. The light is dim, but what I see is enough to turn my stomach.

  The male has the flat feline face that’s similar to the captain of my ship. His lips are pulled back in a rictus of pain exposing two empty spots where his fangs should be. Did someone pull this male’s teeth? Of course. It would render him more defenseless, although it’s hard to look at him now and believe he could ever have been a threat to anyone.

  His fur is coming out in tufts, from malnutrition I assume. His muscle tone is nonexistent. He could no more sit up than a babe right out of his mother’s womb.

  Even with immediate medical attention, I wonder if he will live another hoara above ground.

  “Zar!” I comm excitedly. “I know we agreed you should stay on the ship and not be in the melee, but you need to come down here. If Dr. Drayke isn’t saving a life, he needs to bring a stretcher and medkit. Tell Willa I’m fine, not to worry. I’m in the dungeon near the well in the courtyard.

  I stay crouched near the male and scrutinize his features. He’s panting, his tongue lolling between his lips. His fangs are conspicuous in their absence. His head is too weak to lift, but his golden eyes watch my face. I walk to an abandoned water bucket Erro brought down, grab the dipper, and bring it to this dying male’s lips.

  He’s too weak to drink, so I drizzle a few drops of water onto his tongue. He opens his mouth for another sip, and then another. The moment Shadow joined us down here he warned us not to introduce food or drink too quickly to these males. Unbelievable as it sounded, he assured us it could actually kill them.

  “I’ll give you more in a moment, my male. Just one sip at a time though.” I touch his shoulder. Just the barest touch. The male’s muscles twitch, as if he’s trying to flinch but doesn’t have the strength. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s felt a touch not filled with torment.

  I’m certain he can’t talk, and wonder if he even has a translator. But I babble to him, hoping that by my presence he knows help has arrived.

  “We’ve got an excellent physician,” I tell him. “We’ll nurse you back to health on our ship.” Even as I say these words, it feels like I’m lying. He’s too far gone. I fear I interrupted his dying breaths. Certainly, if he had any fight left in him, indeed, any life left in him, he would have called out before the last one of us walked up the steps and abandoned him here to die alone.

  It seems like an eternity before I hear footsteps. Zar bounds down the steps, followed by blue Dr. Drayke.

  “Here,” I say, assuming they’re still blinded by the change from the bright outdoors to the darkness down here.

  Zar approaches, certainly knowing something remarkable must be happening. No one would have called him here unless it was an extraordinary circumstance.

  It takes him a moment, as it did me, for his mind to make sense out of what his eyes see. I stand and move out of the way to allow him access to his fellow countryman.

  “Ton’Arr,” he says as if it’s a prayer. “Ton’Arr,” he intones more loudly. This is the name of his race.

  I’ve backed into the corner, but I can see the male’s face. The dim light allows me t
o see his eyes widen, then fix on Zar’s face. He makes a pitiful sound. It’s unintelligible. My translator works fine. I doubt his lips do, though. But he tried to speak. Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.

  Zar’s feline features look fearsome when he’s serious. Even when he's jovial, but especially when he’s somber. Right now I can tell he wants to kill whoever is responsible for this.

  “Drayke!” He calls the doctor, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “Right here, Zar.”

  I watch as the doctor bustles in and tends the male on the floor. After running a battery of tests on his medpad, he pulls out a vial and attaches it to his hypogun.