Warrior Spirit

by Laura Kaighn

  “Leave me, Dorinda,” Vesarius growled into his aching fist. His body was unyielding mahogany. He did not even rotate his smoldering eyes to hers. He felt her cooler hand drop. She hiccoughed a deep sigh and trudged from the cell.

  As the door rumbled shut, the Vesar was left alone to extinguish his Fury. Despite his apparent trespasses, would Brahmanii Sule grant Vesarius an honorable death? Or would the wayward warrior be given yet another chance at redemption? The truth would soon be known by all.

  Chapter 20: Battle Scars

  “What do you mean it’s already started?” Dorinda stammered launching herself from the couch where she had been dozing.

  “The dignitaries have all gathered in the viewing box,” Coty explained his face creased with grave concern, his breathing quick from running. “We better hurry, or we won’t be allowed entrance.”

  “But,” Dorinda started bounding forward toward their quarter’s exit. “You’re his counsel. I’m his wife!”

  “On Vesar, we’re only Alliance citizens,” Coty corrected taking her hand and guiding her quickly down the hall. “The Orthop high chancellor’s the one who told me. Come on.”

  Together they trotted across the hot city plaza toward a towering, circular structure visible through the surrounding adobe buildings. “It looks like a baseball stadium,” Dorinda offered breathily.

  “They call it the Quei´tarr … the coliseum,” Coty elaborated jogging beside her. His dark, wavy hair twisted in the dry breeze. “There.” Huffing the captain pointed to an arched entry hall attached to the right side of the complex. “Hurry, Dori.” Increasing his pace to a dead run, Coty led the way.

  Dorinda gathered a quick gulp of desert air and launched forward on her long legs. Grateful for her recent increase in physical exertion and training, Dorinda accelerated smoothly to keep pace with her captain.

  The pair rushed across the hover parking lot then tramped to a stop just short of the guarded gate. “We’re from the Pompeii. I’m Capt. Coty,” the captain gulped at the twin mahogany pillars with their leveled power rifles. “Let us pass, please.”

  “No humans allowed,” the right hand sentry growled.

  “This is a Vesar event,” said the other.

  “The Orthop high chancellor will clear it,” Coty panted. “Ask him.”

  “He’s my husband!” Dorinda spouted. She braced her twisting ribcage. “You’ve got to let us in.”

  The two Vesar security guards exchanged glowering sneers. Then the right hand officer rumbled with visible disgust, “Proceed, Khumahns.”

  “Thank you.” Dorinda flung her cramping frame forward again and through the arching entry hall. Once inside the main building, the pair paused, eyes searching.

  “I can’t read Gremsctok,” Coty gasped scanning the directional signs above their head.

  “If it’s like any sports stadium,” Dorinda puffed, “the best seats’ll be downhill, straight ahead.”

  “Right,” Coty agreed and grabbed her arm to propel her through the central archway and down a descending ramp. When they again saw fiery orange sky, Dorinda inhaled at the spectacle before her. The dimly lit tunnel opened onto a circular arena surrounded by scores of seating tiers each packed full of mahogany bodies. The ruckus that assaulted their senses made Dorinda totter dangerously on shaky legs. “There, Dori!” Coty blurted.

  Her eyes followed her captain’s bronze finger across the dirt-floored field. At its center, a lone figure stood. “Sarius,” she breathed. Quickly, Dorinda tramped to the guardrail encircling the pit. Barely aware of Coty’s tense frame beside her, Dorinda could only focus on the Vesar alone in the sand. His eyes peered skyward, arms outstretched in appeasement. Even from the distance of fifteen meters, amid the din of warrior howls from the crowd, Dorinda could hear her lover’s booming bass.

  “I await your judgment, Brahmanii Sule, Creator of Obji and of all Vesar!” Vesarius hollered to the sky.

  “What’s he doing?” Dorinda asked perplexed by Vesarius’ imploring stance.

  “I think it’s a ritual, to start the trial. Listen,” Coty urged. He tilted his own head, cupping an ear to discern his first officer’s words.

  Bare crested, clothed only in his tanned briefs and hide calf-boots – his raven hair free-flowing in the dry breeze – Tankawankanyi faced his rowdy audience with clenched fists. “My freedom is forfeit at my defeat. Judgment will be final. I await the judgment. Let death be swift!” he bellowed into the sky.

  Someone rested a weight upon her shoulder. Yet Dorinda could not tear her eyes from the lone mahogany figure whose back was now toward her, fists jamming at the air. Vesarius’ blaring voice continued its challenge to the spirit of his creator.

  “Little One,” a translated voice echoed after clicking speech. “Come with me.”

  “High Chancellor,” Dorinda sighed turning to face the towering Orthop. She clasped the serrated foreclaw upon her shoulder. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Regrettably, I am uncertain. Please, return with me to the judge’s box. It is cooler in there. There are refreshments -”

  “This isn’t a damned ballgame!” Dorinda retorted, swiping his claw away.

  “Dori,” Coty interrupted. “We’re being welcomed in. Don’t be disrespectful.”

  Dorinda swallowed her anger instantly gone. “Yes, Michael,” she said more calmly. “Forgive me, High Chancellor. I’m worried for my husband.”

  “As am I,” the Orthop clicked resignedly. Dorinda followed his lofty, hunched-backed frame to an encased spectator’s box almost three meters above the sand arena.

  Suddenly she froze. Someone had called her name. Listening she heard it again. Spinning toward that voice, Dorinda forced back anxious tears and gripped the hand-railing with blanched knuckles. Vesarius had seen her and was calling from the arena floor.

  “I love you. As Brahmanii loved Her children.” The warrior’s arms were stiff at his side, his spine defiant against his uncertain future.

  With a heart-caught sob, Dorinda shrieked, “Vesarius!”

  “No, Dori,” Michael Coty urged. He pried her fingers from the railing to forcibly guide her arm. “It’s not allowed. Come on.”

  “But, Michael ...” Then she was stumbling into the recessed observation box and shown to a seat. Eyes never wavering from the man within the amphitheater, Dorinda sat beside one Vesar bureaucrat and leaned forward in her chair. She prayed for her husband’s safety. Please, God, not again. She couldn’t bear to lose him. Not again...

  In the full heat of the Vesar afternoon, amid the dark and critical stares of his warrior kin, Vesarius stood tiny and insignificant upon the sand. His ebony eyes gazed again skyward. His muffled voice pleaded the air, fists pounding overhead.

  Beside Dorinda, a Vesar dignitary scrutinized the printed program on his lap. “He will follow this procedure to the letter?” The man’s deep voice was dripping skeptical.

  “If the programming is complete and the controller chip in place, yes,” another touted. “Daratowke´tyo assured me this would be a grand spectacle.”

  “Indeed,” the first exclaimed dark gaze shifting expectantly toward the arena floor and its lone occupant.

  Through the plastiglass window, Dorinda watched also. She chewed unconsciously at her lower lip, her fingers entwined in nervous pleading. Not again...

  Minutes passed. About the coliseum, monster screens activated to highlight the action in the pit. Finally a voice announced the event’s start. “Tankawankanyi, you are accused of murdering your blood kin and of treachery in a plot to reseed the desert of Orthop violence. How do you plead?”

  “I am guilty,” Vesarius bellowed into the air, “only because of an Orthop control device and its deadly efficacy.”

  “Do you now prove your claim with this test of the device’s programming?”

  “I do!” came the less muffled reply. Luckily the crowd had hushed to listen, and Vesarius’ sonorous voice was far carrying and clear.

  “Then let th
e trial commence.”

  A charged hush fell about the arena. Beyond the adobe structure, an unawares bystander would not have known of the crowd inside. The breeze even silenced. Now it only hung in the hot air ... like death.

  Dorinda shivered with apprehension. From along the far wall of the three meter deep arena, a black maw yawned. Dorinda watched Vesarius face that shadowed doorway and clench for battle. The crowd’s hush was suspended in a synchronous gasp as a meter tall, sienna-furred beast lumbered out onto the hot Vesar soil. The feline was heavily-muscled and broad, almost stocky. But it sported huge, round paws and sickle-like canines. In response to its lionesque features, Dorinda covered her mouth with a clenched hand.

  “A tarlocat,” Coty breathed as the spotted predator slunk forward – shoulders hunched and head low – toward its now sighted prey. “It’s huge!”

  Dorinda balked as the saber-toothed feline drew back its deadly maw for a shrill battle scream. “Stop this,” she croaked and swallowed, on her feet a second later. “He’s unarmed.” Steel fingers gripped her shoulder freezing her in mid-step. Forcing her fearful stare away from the advancing tiger-sized cat, Dorinda glared unbelievingly at the firm and unmoving body beside her.

  “Sit down, Dorinda,” Michael Coty ordered. She had not the strength to fight her captain’s command. Trust Coty, her inner voice shouted. She sank to her seat.

  The tarlocat now circled the mahogany figure on the sand, its golden eyes searching for a weak spot, a flaw in the prey’s demeanor or defenses. Vesarius drew his knife from its boot sheath; the steel glinted in the angled sunlight. Dorinda knew the serrated blade was a puny defense against the feline’s long claws and teeth.

  “The cat won’t rush him unless he breaks,” Coty explained quietly. “Vesarius knows how to handle a tarlocat. He’s wrestled two in his lifetime.”

  Then, as Coty and Dorinda watched helpless and horrified, Vesarius gathered his feet and bolted toward the still open hatch at the far end of the stadium. “No!” Coty yelped in utter surprise. It was the one thing you never did before a predator.

  “He is doing it,” a Vesar spectator hollered near them. “The programming is working.”

  Dorinda could only dig her nails into her palms as the four hundred pound predator cat launched itself onto the retreating Vesar. Claws drawn, it collided full against Vesarius’ bare mahogany back. A great crack followed, and the cat lurched sideways screaming in agony. Dorinda blinked at the sight. “What?”

  Vesarius tumbled to the ground, dust flying, free of his deadly attacker. In a heap beside him, the cat lay ribcage straining. From the viewing box, Dorinda could hear its roaring lungs taking in great painful gasps. She checked the closest viewscreen for confirmation.

  “It’s been shot,” Coty surmised a moment later. “They never intended to let it kill him.”

  “Thank God,” Dorinda sighed. Her emerald eyes strained to find her Vesar mate through the clearing dust kicked up from the thwarted attack.

  Out of the haze, Vesarius climbed unsteadily to his boots. Deep slashes oozed nutmeg blood from his shoulders. His blade still dangled from a flaccid fist. The wind kicked from his lungs, Vesarius choked on flying debris and braced battered ribs with his free hand.

  “A complete success,” the stadium announcer proclaimed over the loudspeaker. The spectators roared a concerted agreement into the parched afternoon, and the dead predator was quickly cleared from the arena via a medical sled.

  As Vesarius regained his breath, a hush again settled amid the crowd. Dorinda held her lungs. What next? Two tarlocats? Another hatch was opened. From within its shadowy interior bolted a pulsing, wild-eyed steed, fully sixteen hands high and trumpeting a curdling challenge.

  “A horse?” Dorinda muttered. “How dangerous ...” Her skepticism trailed off as the ebony equine charged the smaller man. Unequipped with deadly horns or vicious talons, the Andalusian nonetheless sported solid hooves, hard enough to crack bone and sharp enough to slice flesh. With a tossed head and prancing gate the animal halted before Vesarius’ raised arms. There the black stallion hesitated, eyes white with fury. It snorted and pitched its arching, satin neck.

  “It can’t be ...” Coty mumbled to himself. “That’s Raven ... Vesarius’ horse.”

  “His horse?” Dorinda’s eyes were still locked on the arena.

  “From his parents’ homestead. I saw a holo of him once. Vesarius loved that horse.”

  “Will Raven remember Vesarius?”

  With a slanted smirk Coty assured, “In a Vesar heartbeat. Sarius was the only one who could ever ride that wild thing.”

  In the arena, the lone Vesar gingerly slid away his knife. He spoke calmly to the snorting, arch-necked stallion which pawed at the dusty ground before him. Then, slipping closer, Vesarius raised his hands, palms outward, to stroke the beast’s quivering flank.

  “It is Raven,” Coty confirmed.

  Next, in one athletic leap, Vesarius was upon the stallion’s wide back. With a grunt, the mount bucked against its load. The Vesar held fast, his fists entwined in Raven’s flowing mane. A stomping false start, another rearing protest, and the two were soon racing about the arena. Twin ebony locks undulated in shimmering waves behind them like roiling seas.

  Beaming, Dorinda stared wide-eyed at the fluid spectacle. “They’re beautiful,” she swore under her breath. She watched as Vesarius leaned Raven into a tight left turn that brought them again to the center of the ring. There, they halted. Leaning full against the equine’s powerful neck, Vesarius stroked the stallion reverently. Together they panted in breathless reunion. Through trembling muscles, the stallion pranced in place and whinnied. The moment hung like a cherished memory, a sacred joining of free spirits.

  Then Vesarius slid from Raven’s back and reached for his boot. In one swift movement, he clasped the horse’s muzzle in a death grip and slit Raven’s throat with his gleaming blade.

  Dorinda bolted upright utterly horrified. “My God!” she gasped as the regal stallion lurched away spouting blood and gurgling a death trumpet. The horse took two stumbling steps backward then collapsed onto its shaking hindquarters. A moment later, Raven threw back its gory head and toppled sideways hooves flailing, nostrils snorting crimson. “He killed his own horse.”

  Coty was beside her, jasper eyes creased in disbelief. “He loved that horse. It was the one thing he most regretted leaving behind after his exile.”

  “They made him do that,” Dorinda fumed, lips as taut as iron. “To prove the Orthop programming’s too powerful to fight.” Then her mouth softened, and her heart pounded in shared agony as Vesarius dropped his blood-stained blade. “Oh, Sarius,” Dorinda sobbed.

  Scuffing toward his dying horse, the Vesar’s hunched back and drooping head were testament to his grief. His knees hammered sand. Vesarius extended a bloody palm to stroke his steed’s quivering neck. Time froze, until the horse’s straining lungs and ribcage collapsed in one last, heart-draining gasp. Vesarius toppled onto Raven’s flank. His own lungs took up the jerky gasps of the now silent stallion sprawled on the desert sand.

  Dorinda, too, wept, for her helplessness was two-fold. Unable to prevent this callous act, she was now powerless to comfort him as Vesarius lay alone among the gawking onlookers. “Please stop this,” she gulped. Coty took her arm and pulled her gently back to her chair.

  “Again success!” the arena announcer proclaimed. Another choral cheer deafened the air.

  “Damn all Vesar,” Dorinda spat.

  “Dori!” Coty snapped in warning. He, it seemed, was still aware of who surrounded them.

  When the crowd returned to their expectant silence, a maintenance crew arrived with another hover sled to hoist Raven for removal. One Vesar attendant clasped Vesarius’ arm and ordered him away from the carcass. Dorinda could not hear the words, but the gestures were clear in any language. So was Vesarius’ reaction. Bolting to his boots, the Pompeii’s first officer slammed one solid fist into the younger man’s jaw. Th
e attendant jerked away cradling his mouth and gesticulating in angered shock. The other two men rushed to defend their injured comrade.

  Instead of attacking the threesome, Vesarius abruptly froze in his belligerent advance. He lurched as if stabbed from behind then sank to his knees clutching his neck in both hands.

  “The command device,” explained the announcer to the observant crowd, “can also be utilized as an effective deterrent.”

  Vesarius was thus subdued while the maintenance crew cleared the dead stallion from the arena. Only once the hover sled and its attendants were safely behind their closed hatch was Vesarius released from pain. He folded onto his hands and was allowed to gasp back his sanity. Slowly the warrior regained his feet to shake away the lingering ache in his head.

  Then the final test commenced. “Now what?” Dorinda moaned as Vesarius wheeled about. His dark eyes rose. His muscles clenched at an unseen enemy. From her seat, the third hatchway was almost directly beside their observation booth, too angled to look inside. Quickly, Vesarius scrambled for his fallen knife, instinctively wiping it clean upon his boot shaft. The large screens about the arena were focused on Vesarius’ disheveled hair, severe scowl and defensive posture. Still the attacker was out of Dorinda’s view, though she strained forward to glare down along the arching wall.

  “I can’t see it.”

  Coty too leaned at the viewing box’s railing. “Neither can I.”

  Vesarius backed away, his face encrusted in blood and dirt. But his round eyes betrayed the emotion hidden beneath the mask. The crowd’s roar of anticipation echoed about the stadium.

  “There!” Coty pointed as a craning appendage appeared below the observation booth. The arm was slender, glinting of white metal and equipped with a jagged claw and razor-sharp fingers. “It’s an assassin. They’re illegal in the Quei´tarr,” Coty protested darkly. “Illegal almost everywhere in the Alliance.”

  “No,” Dorinda moaned. “If this is the last test, then maybe this one’s meant to kill him.” Her voice was gruff and full of foreboding in her own ears. “Michael ...”