by Jess Granger
Smoker laughed as they turned to the boy. “What about this one?”
Yara heard a boot connect with flesh, but the boy didn’t cry out.
“Get up,” Smoker insisted. Another loud thump made her stomach turn over. She heard a shuffle and cracked open her eye enough to watch the boy stand.
With light spilling in through the open door, she could see well enough to get a look at the boy. Filthy blond hair stuck to his scalp as his protruding ribs pushed in and out with each breath.
Tears streamed out of his shut eyes, but his thin lips remained stoic and defiant. The tears were probably from the light, not his fear.
“He’s not worth what we feed him,” the leader lamented. “I’m afraid he’s developing a tolerance for the bands. The pain reprimand isn’t working the way it should.”
“Should I test it?” Smoker suggested with a cruel humor in his voice.
“Not now. I’m hoping to pawn him off as pit fodder. If the Rasso doesn’t want him, go ahead and put him down.”
Yara trembled with her rage and disgust. If they activated the bands, she couldn’t stop them. They were out of the reach of the chains.
If they killed him, there was nothing she could do.
Again she felt the hot rush down her back as her mouth watered again. She was going to be sick.
“Let’s go. It smells in here,” the leader suggested. They turned and walked out of the cell. The heavy black door slid shut behind them with an ominous boom.
Yara opened her eyes wide, trying to adjust to the dim light.
“You okay?” she whispered.
The boy didn’t answer. He had huddled into a ball once again, his skinny arms wrapped around his bony legs.
Yara wanted to reach out, to comfort him. She had never done such a thing in her life, but the instinct to comfort the boy was nearly overwhelming.
“Are you injured?” she asked again.
He sighed.
“If you come over here, I might be able to help stop the bruising from getting worse,” she suggested. She had enough battle-med to know how to apply pressure to a contusion.
“No,” he insisted.
Yara tingled with relief. His voice sounded strong. His injuries couldn’t be too severe. Still, he barely had any resources left in his emaciated body. How would he heal?
“Are you really a fighter?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted, sitting up and pulling her own legs in close to shield her body. “I was a commander for the Union. I’ve fought to stop the slave trade.”
The boy didn’t say anything, and Yara realized the irony of what she’d just said. She obviously didn’t fight hard enough. She saw her assignment as a mission, one more thing she had to complete for her ascension. It hadn’t been personal, not until now.
“I want to fight,” the boy said, his voice soft and hollow. “I don’t know how.”
“You are fighting,” Yara assured him. “You were very brave just now.”
His breath hitched. She couldn’t see his face, but the soft intake of air was unmistakable.
“They’re going to kill me.”
“They won’t,” she promised. “I won’t let them kill you.” She didn’t know how she’d do it. It was a futile and foolish thing to promise, but she felt like she had to. She’d protect him or she’d die trying. At least they wouldn’t die alone.
“They’ll probably make you kill me,” he whispered.
Yara nearly vomited on the floor. They had just said as much. “I won’t kill you, I won’t.”
“What can you do?” the boy snapped with the hard edge of anger. “They’ll make you want to die. You won’t last with the pain. I’ll be nothing to you. Watch, you’ll see.”
“That’s not true,” she promised. “I’ll die first. I promise.”
They both fell into an ugly silence.
“You need a name,” Yara insisted. She didn’t want to call him “the boy” any longer. He wasn’t an object. She refused to use a label for him.
“I don’t have one.” His voice sounded very soft, so very alone.
“Then take one,” she urged. He needed to take this one bit of control. “What is your name?”
The boy fell silent for a long time. Yara waited in the darkness. She thought about her own name, the simplest and purest name of the line of Yarini. As she grew and fought through the ranks of the Elite, she always turned to the solid strength of her name and the honor there.
Her name marked her as the blood of the Just.
Justice.
She had taken pride in it. Now she realized she hadn’t fought hard enough for it. In tactics meetings, delays were accepted, casualties reduced to numbers, slaves thought of as a commodity.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t just.
She should have done more.
Yara thought about the statue of Yarini in the Halls of Honor. It towered over the shining white floor, her strength and pride radiating out over the Hall, but her eyes were closed.
She should have opened her eyes.
“I don’t know a good name,” the boy said, breaking Yara’s thoughts. “What does your name mean?”
“On my planet, we pass down the start of our names if we are part of the family of one of our great leaders. Each family is known for a different trait.” She rubbed her wrists. The cold metal was digging into her skin just below the bones.
“What is your trait?”
“Justice.” Yara watched him. His pale face looked ghostly in the dim light.
“What do you name people who are brave?” he asked.
“The bloodline of Isa the Bold are known for their bravery.” She waited as he stared up at the ceiling, deep in thought.
“Call me Ishan.” His words were so soft Yara almost couldn’t hear them.
“It suits you, Ishan.” She smiled at him, and the boy looked away, but the corner of his thin mouth twisted up just slightly.
In the silence of the cell, she heard him whisper his name over and over, as if reassuring himself that it was real.
The room jolted. Were they still on the Kronalen ship? They must be coming out of macrospace. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be sold.
She shuddered as the chill of the cell sank deep into her bones.
How was she going to make it out of this?
10
“WHAT DO WE DO?” ISHAN ASKED AS THE JOLTS FROM THE DOCKING PROCESS shuddered through the ship.
“Stay calm,” Yara advised. For the first time, the boy sounded like the frightened child he was. Her hands shook as she gathered the chain, her only weapon.
Minutes stretched into hours, or maybe they were hours. She didn’t know how long she remained shackled in the dark, waiting.
Ishan crawled across the compartment and hunkered down by her side. She grasped the boy’s hand and held it hard, hoping the strength of that connection could somehow give them power.
Dark thoughts circled in her mind like carrion birds: rape, pain, humiliation, helplessness, and death. They were coming for her. She tried to fight the terror but couldn’t. It overwhelmed her. She had to gain control of herself. She wouldn’t let them break her. Stinging tears began to form in her eyes, but she couldn’t stop them.
Ishan squeezed tighter.
Footsteps echoed in the hall.
“I’m with you, Ishan,” Yara whispered. The words seemed like such an empty comfort. She couldn’t save him. Still, she wouldn’t let him feel alone any longer. “Whatever happens, I’m with you.”
Bright lights blazed to life, turning the near darkness to searing white. Ishan screamed in pain and jerked his hand away from her.
“Ishan,” she called in desperation. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t open her eyes. Her heart stabbed at her chest with each frantic beat while the room filled with his agonized cries. She tried to reach out when the chains around her arms yanked straight up, pulling her to her feet.
Hanging from the chains, she tried to support
her weight but could barely scratch at the floor with her toes. She grasped the chains, so she could hold her weight with her hands instead of letting the cuffs dig into her tender wrists. Her arms felt like they had been ripped from their sockets, and she had to fight for each panicked breath.
She tried to kick, but the shackles at her feet pulled down as tightly as the ones on her wrists pulled up. She was helpless, strung out like a snared bird. The promise of death whispered in the air around them.
“Yara?” Ishan whimpered.
“Stay down,” she warned.
Great merciful Matriarchs, protect the boy.
Her prayer was all she had left to save him. She tried to crack open an eye, but the light was too bright. Still, she forced herself to open one eye as she heard footsteps enter the compartment. The stinging light burned her as she fought to keep her eye open long enough to see through her tears.
She wriggled in her chains. She couldn’t just give up. She would never give up, no matter what happened.
Survive.
The tears burned down her cheeks as she held tighter to the chains.
By the Mercy of Ona the Pure, help me!
“Speak or strike out in any way, and I’ll kill the boy,” the deep-voiced Kronalen warned. “I’ll turn down the lights enough for you to watch.”
He didn’t value the boy at all. If she could keep his attention on her, maybe he’d leave Ishan alone. Her compliance was the only thing buying him time.
Her stomach churned as she heard more men enter the room. With each new male presence, the lancing fear in her gut dug deeper. She tried to crack open her eye again. One was tall, with a mass of snarl-braids. She couldn’t see him clearly, only enough to get a hint at his height and coloring.
Another man stood behind him while the Kronalen in his blurry red robes blocked the door to the left. Analyzing their position came as second nature, but it wouldn’t do her any good. She couldn’t break the chains.
“As you can see she’s in her prime, young, strong, agile.” The Kronalen’s voice sounded too cold. How could such a creature be human? It was as if she wasn’t a living, thinking thing at all, but an animal. “She’s marked with tattoos, and the Bacarilen that sold her to me assured that she’s been trained to fight.”
“She skinny, too much so,” the buyer grumbled. The lilt of his accent made his words sound like the hissing of a snake. Yara’s heart dropped down into her gut. “And wounded,” he added.
“It’s hardly a scratch,” the Kronalen dismissed. “She’s healthy and ready to fight. She’ll pull in good money in the pits.”
“She tamed?”
Yara willed him to come closer so she could show him how tame she was. She’d bite him if she had to. Then she thought of Ishan, whose life hung in her hands. The cold-blooded slavers in the room wouldn’t think anything of killing him right there in front of everyone.
“Go ahead and pet her,” the Kronalen suggested with an oily tone to his voice.
Yara’s body tensed as a raging war cry drowned out any thought in her mind. She couldn’t let it out.
Ishan made a strangled sound. Yara fought to open her eyes. The brute of a man standing behind the Ankarlen grabbed the boy by the neck.
“Don’t,” Yara shouted. Great Matriarchs, what would she do if they killed him?
“Quiet,” the Kronalen demanded. Yara felt a burning sting in her arms, and then weakness stole through her body. She fought to maintain her grip on the chains and her fragile hold on consciousness.
“I apologize for the boy,” the Kronalen continued. “He’s a distraction. I’ll put him down.”
“No,” the Ankarlen stated. Yara’s eyelids felt so heavy. She couldn’t keep them open. Staying awake felt like a struggle against a mounting tide, but her life depended on it. “For now, leave him. You ask for how much?”
“Eighty thousand bars of conductive trillide.” The Kronalen moved to block the door. Yara couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. Her arms stretched above her head, tingling from lack of blood flow. She wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.
“YOU SPEND TOO MUCH TIME IN SMOKEHOUSES,” CYN COUNTERED, IMITATING the odd speech patterns of the Rasso-Ankarlen. So far, his disguise was flawless. Now he just had to play the part. “You can have forty for her and the boy.”
Cyn spared a glance back at Yara, even though he couldn’t let his worry show on his face. He was losing her to the tranquilizers. The Kronalen bastard that took her was the lowest kind of scum. If the man hadn’t insisted on showing his wares inside the security of his own ship, Cyn would have slit his throat, stolen Yara, and been done with the leech.
He let his glance drift down the long, smooth lines of her athletic body, and his stomach churned in protest. She was too beautiful to suffer this way. He had to get her out of there. Immediately.
Then again, he had to be careful, or he’d end up chained beside her.
Xan had his back and thankfully subdued the Hannolen youth. Cyn didn’t want to see the boy killed either. He looked at the boy and saw himself, years ago. The pain of it burned like a fresh wound in his mind. As it was, he was fighting with all his concentration just to keep old visions from distracting him.
“Forty, don’t insult me,” the Kronalen complained. “She has not been off this ship and is untouched. That alone is worth at least an extra twenty.”
Cyn wanted to agree to whatever terms the Kronalen offered just to get her out of there, but he knew it would be an immediate red flag. Ankarlen were nasty negotiators.
“Forty-five. She shows no proof she is worth any more than that.” Cyn tried to maintain an aloof expression, but the subdermal pinchers he’d inserted to shape his eyes and cheeks hurt like a bitch. He just hoped his grimace looked somewhat like a superior sneer. He didn’t have that much trillide. He only had one thing of worth, his ship.
“Why don’t you feel her out?” the Kronalen suggested. “She’s quality.”
The chains rattled as Yara flinched and tried to pull away. Her fear was so stark and clear on her face, it broke him. He felt his stomach clench. He couldn’t touch her like this. It went against everything he believed in. He held himself to a strict code of honor, and this would be the deepest, most terrible violation of that.
“No need, her condition is evident.” Cyn brushed off the Kronalen who circled around and eyed Yara with a hungry look on his ratlike face.
“What kind of a Rasso are you?” he asked, raising one dark eyebrow. “Your people love their bed pets. Perhaps you prefer the boy?”
“Pit fighters are needed stock for the pits. New bed sports hold no interest now.” Cyn risked a sidelong glance at Xan. Though he was dressed in a simple slave tunic as part of the ruse, the pirate was armed to the teeth. They both figured no one would check a slave for a small arsenal of weapons.
“I could demonstrate her fitness,” the Kronalen leech suggested with an evil grin on his face. “If you’re not interested in keeping her clean, I might as well try her out. I’m not selling her for less than sixty.” He moved up behind her, and again Yara pulled on her chains as a helpless gasp escaped her beautiful lips.
He had to stop this.
“Don’t touch her,” he growled.
The Kronalen laughed. “Feel her out if you’re interested. Then we’ll discuss price.”
Cyn closed his eyes behind the shades protecting him from the blinding lights.
He had no choice.
“TOUCH ME AND I’LL BITE YOU UNTIL YOU BLEED,” YARA PROMISED.
The Kronalen flesh trader laughed his low, sickening laugh. “See? Fierce.”
What was she going to do?
She couldn’t defend herself. She couldn’t defend Ishan. She didn’t even know if the boy was still alive.
Her heart thundered an erratic, painful rhythm in her chest. She could barely feel her arms, the only sensations in them a deep, numb ache and the sting of the cuffs digging into her wrists.
She felt the Ankarlen�
�s presence as he drew closer to her. The drugs swam in her mind, but the sharp sting of her terror gave her clarity.
Somehow, she’d kill him. She swore it to herself.
Her body tensed, waiting for hot, ugly hands to grope her body, but they didn’t come. She could feel the heat of him in the cold compartment. It enveloped her, making her feel less exposed, but he did not touch her.
What is going on?
She tried to open her eyes again but couldn’t.
The tickle of breath caressed her neck. “Forgive me, Pix,” he whispered, so low she almost didn’t hear him.
Oh sweet merciful Matriarchs! Her heart pounded harder as she almost collapsed with dizzy relief.
Cyrus.
How did he find her?
The tips of his fingers barely touched her jaw, trickling over her sensitive skin as a sudden rush of adrenaline coursed through her blood. She turned her head away from his touch.
She had to think. This was all a ruse. He was pretending to be her buyer. She had to play along, or they’d all be dead.
Why did he come for her?
Jerking her face away from his touch, she tried to muster the strength to pretend to resist him. His fingers burrowed into the hair just behind her ears, while his rough thumbs smoothed over her cheekbones. He turned her head one way, then the other. She pushed into the touch, wanting it to look like he had to force her, but the stronger contact with his warm hands felt safe as he cradled her face.
He brushed at a cold trail of her tears with his gentle touch, and a hot, stinging tear spilled out of her eye to re-form the damp trail.
His warm palm circled one of her wrists. He gave her a light, reassuring squeeze, then let his hand slide slowly down her forearm and the backs of her tired arms. He massaged the ache in the muscles of her back and neck, his hands strong and forceful in the touch. It was part of the act, a pit-master feeling a fighter’s potential strength, but he managed to relieve her pain with it instead of harm her. The rush of relief that followed in the wake of his touch made her dizzy mind swim and her heart stumble.
Dear sweet Creator, I am going to die.