Ein grinned broadly, making no attempt to conceal his delight.
“Done. Sold at thirty-eight.”
The men both spat and shook hands and the rich man carefully counted out the credits. Ein slapped his brother on the back, and the two men hugged and danced a little jig.
“Well, will ya look here at what we just done?” Del said. “Thirty-eight. It’s a fortune.”
“Yup,” Ein agreed. “We sure as Deceiver’s shit will have some fun spending that. I bet even Jeannie will want me now.”
And so it was that Ash was purchased by the highest bidder. But there would be no time to get to know his new master. For Ash had been sold to provide sport, to die in agony under the fascinated gaze of hundreds of spectators.
21. Death and Life
Mother Latnok demanded, “Say this: ‘I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.’” The Seer knew that I was frightened, and this realization made me angry. A strange sensation came to me then from somewhere inside. It clawed at me, wanting to get out: courage, pride and … something else … something inhuman. I thought: This is what I’ve lost. This is what I seek … this truth. It was then that all fear fled, banished by a sudden powerful awareness from within.
— Trueborn private files
Flanked by two tough-looking bodyguards, the buyer paid Del the agreed-upon sum. One grabbed Ash’s neck shackle, and began to pull. Numb with shock and disbelief, and already on his knees, Ash stumbled and fell heavily on his face and shoulder. With his arms bound in handcuffs behind his back he couldn’t break his fall, nor could he right himself. Without a moment’s hesitation the man and his associates simply dragged him in the dirt. The chain bit fiercely into his neck. They were pulling him toward the pit where the maddened boar waited.
“Wait,” Ash choked. Shifting and stumbling awkwardly, working to keep the ring from pulling, Ash staggered, and managed to get to his feet. At length, with a few running steps, he was able to follow behind his new master. They pulled him onward, to the wooden benches that surrounded the arena.
“No,” Ash whispered as he gazed into the pit. The boar, its pink tusks glistening with blood, was still charging, back and forth, its anger unabated. Ash swayed, feeling faint. Terror gripped him and he screamed “No!” at the top of his voice.
No one heard him in the din. The wagers continued with fresh enthusiasm. It was two to one that Ash would be dead within thirty seconds. No one bet that he would live more than a minute.
A pig-dog handler scoffed, “One man against this maddened boar? Five seconds is all I give him — and he’d be lucky to last that long.”
There was ribald laughter and coarse jesting in response. The mob yelled to each other with feral joy. People were smiling now, joking and laughing. Bets were hammered down, one after another, pounding unabated like water in an equatorial downpour. Drinks were sculled, and trays of foodstuffs were sold and consumed; half-clad women were plying their trade. It all added to the demonic revelry. Credits flowed like mountain streams after melting winter snows. A number of others, out of credit and unable to bet, were entertaining themselves by throwing stones and other objects at the infuriated boar, keeping its fury fresh.
“Five credits that the slave dies in less than thirty seconds.”
“That boar, he so mad he gonna tusk and tusk that boy to shreds. Ain’t nobody gonna live more than ten seconds in the ring with that animal.”
“I’ll take that bet,” a skinny, plain-faced woman with brown hair shouted, raising her arm, and holding out her money. Ash observed that she had a black eye and was missing her front teeth. “Boy looks fit to me. He’ll get a chance to run some.”
“Who wants in on the tusking? It’s a big boar … tall, too.”
“First tusk anywhere above the groin,” a dark-haired man with a long, dark beard and thick eyebrows offered. Ash noticed that the man had a toddler sitting on his shoulders. The young boy had his pudgy childish fingers in the man’s hair. Beside him, a pinched-faced woman held a baby on her hip. “That’ll be my wager: three to one. Gonna be stomach or back, you mark my words now. Who’ll bet?”
“I bet the leg. Close to the ground. That off-worlder’ll be jumping around, trying to outrun ‘em.”
“Left or right?” The dark man queried.
“I win no matter which leg gets cut first.”
“I wager the boy fights. He looks strong. He’ll fight.”
“Can’t fight with his arms locked behind his back.”
“Twenty says he is dead in less than a minute.”
“Done.”
The betting slowed to a trickle, then finished. The man who bought Ash stood to win a fortune if he lasted less than thirty seconds. It was time for the sport to begin. Roaring, the crowd surged toward him. Ash was lifted like a leaf on water, as many hands raised him and moved him. They placed him on the wooden ledge, ready to be pushed in when the timer called.
The crowd pulled back like a tide, watching … waiting.
Ash stood for a moment, wavering, getting his balance. He thought: I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian, and I am not afraid. But the mantra didn’t work. He was terrified. For the last four years he had worried about dying from madness caused by the Dark Sankomin. Now it seemed that he wasn’t going to live long enough to face that fear. His heart pounded as he imagined tusks thrusting into him, his body lifeless, trampled into unrecognizable bits of cloth, blood and flesh.
“Wait! Release me. Give me a knife!” he yelled. “I can’t fight without a knife. I can’t fight in these chains!” Ash screamed at the top of his voice, burning with anger over the injustice of it all. His chance of survival was negligible. Unarmed, with chains holding his arms behind his back, he had Chinters, which was to say no chance at all.
He considered sending an Icom alert to the authorities. He could say Forseth was at this location. They would rush here then. He may serve an Indentureship, but at least he would be alive. Except that an Icom alert would make no difference, now. If he had known what the crowd intended … but no, everything was happening too fast. The authorities couldn’t arrive in time to save him.
“Let me fight,” Ash shouted, and the crowd finally heard him.
“Fair game! Fair game! Fair game!” The mob began to chant.
“A knife! Yes. Give him a knife. Not fair without a knife!”
Someone passed Ash a three inch blade — a thoughtful gesture, but useless with his hands bound behind him.
“Release me!” He attempted to display his handcuffs by raising his arms up as high as possible behind his back.
There was a loud roar of agreement as a wave of people put their hands in the air and moved toward Ash. The crowd was wild with excitement. The man was planning to fight. This was new. This would be something to see.
“Take off the shackles, take ‘em off, take ‘em off!” became the chant.
“Four and a quarter credits the slave lasts a minute with his hands free.”
“He can run faster without chains. Be a bit longer before the boar can strike. I want to change my bet. Five credits that the off-worlder lasts longer. Three to one.”
“Done!”
Bets were being taken once more, a storm of offers and counter offers, the odds changing. Ash’s new master seemed happy to comply with the demands of the crowd, removing the handcuffs. Ash’s shoulders were sore, his wrists were raw. The man grabbed Ash roughly by his tunic and pulled him down near him, face to face. His new owner wanted to speak privately, unheard above the yelling the crowd.
“Listen, off-worlder,” the man said his eyes hard and fierce. “I have a kill-pill here. You put it between your teeth. If you want a fast, painless death, bite it. I need you to die in less than thirty seconds. So do me a favor. Make us both happy and bite the pill.” With that advice he jammed a small red capsule firmly into Ash’s mouth.
Ash straightened. The ring remained around his neck, but his owner had removed the long heavy chain. His arms were no longer bou
nd behind his back and he had a knife.
“Push him in! Push him in!” everyone screamed at once.
“Wait …!” a voice called.
“Push him. Push him. Push him in!” The chant continued.
“… I need to check the time.”
Ash squared his shoulders and held his chin high in a haughty, defiant demeanor. He scanned the multitude of ignorant Ferals, clenched his teeth and thought bitterly: May the Deceiver take you all. I am Ashton, Trueborn of Delian. I am not afraid.
With a knife in his hand and unshackled, the mantra worked.
His fear left him and time stood still.
Ash fell into a peculiar sort of hyper-awareness. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, as if the last moments of his life were going to proceed leisurely. Perhaps, knowing death was upon him, he was savoring the experience, truly living his life fully in these last few moments. Or perhaps everything had stilled as an apology for his premature demise, leaving him calmer than he had ever been in his life. He looked for Jani, for some empathy, for some human connection, but he couldn’t see her. There was no compassion in this crowd — only cold self-interest.
He experienced a strange sort of out-of-body disconnected feeling. He felt like a spectator to his own death.
The pit was in the middle of a field. It was impossible for him to run toward the beckoning safety of the woods; he’d be cut off by the bloodthirsty mob. The sky was dark and moonless, but the stars shone bright above the burning torches. Even without a breeze, the cool night air was biting. There would be heavy frost in the morning, he knew; it was doubtful that he would be alive to feel it. Off in the distance he could just see the lights of Tombay, a city he had hoped to escape to. He had visited once. That visit now seemed so long ago, like another lifetime.
If he was to die now, the last of his race, then he would at least do it well. Contemptuous of a coward’s way out, he spat out the lethal capsule. Only one expulsion of breath had passed since he had said his mantra. One tiny sigh, yet that moment had stretched eternally, off to infinity.
It had been all the time there was and would ever be … and yet no time at all.
Jana keep me, he thought. With one last look, Ash leaped into the arena.
The crowd roared. Like a rushing wave, storm driven, they surged toward the pit.
The boar, seeing a new foe, gave a maddened snort. With a squeal of anger and a flash of hooves, the boar lunged, thrusting his tusks toward Ash with slashing, deadly precision. Ash moved. Quick and light as a flying bird, Ash leapt. He flew upward, soaring into the air, out of the boar’s way. Gracefully executing a forward roll, he landed securely on both feet.
It was close. He had moved just in time to avoid the boar’s razor sharp tusks.
“OOOOweeee! OOOOOweeee!” The noise erupted as if one loud voice. The mob yelled with rabid frenzy, carried away by the spectacular demonstration of Ash’s athletic evasion.
The off-worlder had escaped the first thrust.
The rank smell of fresh blood assailed Ash’s senses. The pit, in places, was ankle deep in gore. His stomach recoiled, but he continued a wide range of offensive and defensive movements. His katra disciplines were intuitive, and he thanked Jana that despite the ill health of his youth, he had persisted with regular training from early childhood.
Ash went in for the attack while the boar was still recovering, altering its course from that first charge. In two quick strides Ash leaped on the animal. Tensing his muscles, using all of his strength as well as both hands, he plunged his knife up to the handle, into the boar’s solid, sinewy shoulder.
“Ahhhhhhhh.” The crowd roared.
With a strength born of desperation, Ash attempted to maintain his position astride the boar’s back, but it was impossible. Swift and unpredictable, the animal changed directions and dislodged him. Ash’s feet fell to the floor of the arena and he was dragged, still holding the knife.
His wrists and arms were strained and jarred by the struggle, but he refused to relinquish the weapon. With a valiant effort he pulled the knife loose. On hands and knees, Ash found he was covered in gore past his wrists, buried in the blood, flesh and entrails of uncountable unfortunate creatures.
Ash scrambled now on all fours. His heart pounded wildly. Fear and adrenaline coursed through his veins in recognition of the danger he was in now that he was down. If he stayed on hands and knees much longer he would never get back up. He would die right here, right now in this arena. He heard a squeal and a grunt and with wolf-honed instincts, he moved. Jumping up and running sideways, his feet ran along the hard clay wall of the pit, the speed of his momentum defying gravity for an instant.
Ferocious with pain and rage, the animal spun around faster than Ash’s eye could follow. Forsaken Worlds! Ash cursed. It was fast, too fast. It sprinted full tilt and speared Ash in the shoulder before he had time to escape that slashing thrust.
Ash screamed.
“Ohhhhhhh!” yelled the crowd.
“The off-worlder has been tusked!” a woman said, with both revulsion and fascination in her high-pitched voice.
“OOOOweeee! I win! I win!” The dark-haired man yelled gleefully, the toddler on his shoulders almost falling off as he jumped up and down with delight.
“Ill-begotten mother-whore of Perdition,” another man swore.
A mad chorus of foul-mouthed cursing, resounding boos, hissing and profanity echoed from above the pit. It seemed that a number of people had lost money.
“First tusk is above the groin. What did I tell ya all?”
Ash wasn’t listening — he was concentrating on staying alive. Lucky for him, he had been able to turn slightly sideways, so that the boar’s long pink tusks only penetrated the outer portion of his flesh, lodging into the muscle of his shoulder and not skewering him from back to front as was intended. With an uncanny wolf-like agility, combined with a gut-level need for survival, Ash managed to spring away. He had jumped to momentary safety, attaining a small space apart from the boar once more.
Quick as a cat, the boar pulled back for another run.
Groaning, Ash held himself in a crouch, shoulders hunched, head hung low. He clenched his teeth, attempting to control a pulsing wave of nausea and pain. His vision tunneled and turned yellow then gray. He felt his consciousness slipping away. There was a roaring in his ears. A moment passed as, with a heroic effort, he forced himself to focus, pushing his attention away from the fire in his burning shoulder.
His vision and hearing returned.
Ash was exhausted beyond measure. As an infant, child, and adolescent he had fought ill health and the promise of death again and again. Continuous threat to his life was a part of his earliest memories, and as a consequence he had discovered an inborn tenaciousness. It was not in his nature to give up.
He thought: I want to live. The certainty of this steady resolve rolled through him as a kind of revelation. Jaw clenched, Ash steeled himself for his next efforts. He was spent. With a silent prayer to Jana, he dug down; he reached deep into the eternal strength one can only find in heart and soul.
A plan was forming in his mind. Ash was thinking and acting like a wolf now. The animal within him welled up. He was running on instinct. It was a familiar sensation. There was something he knew, some knowledge deep inside him, but it was just out of reach.
Trueborn! Inhuman!
“Time?” came a call.
“He’s been in the arena ninety seconds exactly,” yelled a reply.
“He ain’t dead, yet,” someone protested. “Gotta be dead before we call time.”
The animal eyed Ash and began to charge. As the boar neared, Ash took a deep breath and leaped. With a blur of inhuman speed, using the last of his reserves, he moved as if uninjured. Springing to the animal’s side, he plunged the knife into its hide, this time successfully slashing the softer covering of the animal’s underbelly.
The boar gave a heart-stopping bellow, a piercing inhuman scream.
I
t sped away from the knife, a string of purple entrails and blood dripping and dragging beneath it. Sides heaving, its breath sending clouds of steam from its nose in the chill night air, the boar stopped and faced Ash. Head down, the boar’s beady eyes were fixed on its adversary.
“Ahhh!” the hill people roared, energized and astonished. They never expected to watch Ash inflict a fatal wound. A cacophony of sound erupted as the crowd went berserk.
“Two to one on the off-worlder lasting two minutes,” came an excited shout.
“That animal is all-fire mad. He’s thinking things over now, but he gonna come back and land on that boy like a mountain. I give him another fifty seconds.”
“Three to one.”
There was an urgent rush, the odds changing. Echoing in each individual mind, their thoughts were almost visible: The off-worlder might live!
Ash felt relieved … elated. That last slash, a lucky gut wound, had been propitious. The boar, although hard to kill, had received a mortal injury. Blood dripped from its belly. Its entrails were hanging low, dragging through the refuse of the pit floor. The heat from them sent tendrils of steam into the chill night air.
The enormous beast swung its huge head. It focused on its opponent through a blinding haze of pain. Its eyes were red with fury. They seemed to hold Ash as if with pointed spears, pinning him to the side of the arena.
For a moment both stood glaring at each other, transfixed.
But no — the boar stepped toward him, more enraged than ever. Breathing hard, Ash realized that the boar was still incredibly strong. It could yet kill him. That last lucky strike against the animal had caused him such elation. For a wonderful moment, Ash thought he was safe. Such short-lived relief didn’t help. His imagined safety had been taken away, and this painful truth crushed his flagging spirit. Now he felt empty, and disheartened. Ash trembled and panted, still trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t get enough air.
The boar shook its head and took a step toward him. Had the onslaught of pain prodded the animal to attack? Ash knew then that it was going to charge.
WOLF DAWN: Science Fiction Thriller/ Romance (Forsaken Worlds) Page 30