by Ben Hale
But could he use that? The value of Reklin’s team had plummeted since entering the Crucible, and the krey of House Torn’Ent had been furious about taking on their contracts. But if their value dropped any more, Thorn’Vall might sell their contract to another House just to be rid of them.
Worg set aside his hammer and lifted his holoview. The light above the crystal coalesced into the head of a dakorian female, one with distinct red stripes in her horns. The coloring was similar to Worg’s, although much more pronounced.
“Hey, I got a beamcast from Lenala,” he said.
“I don’t know why you’re infatuated with her.” Alina motioned to the holoview. “She’s as vapid as a krey noble.”
“She’s beautiful,” Worg retorted. “And one day she’ll be my wife.”
“When does she finish her century for the Empire?” Reklin idly watched the training dakorians, wondering how to proceed.
“Five decades left,” Worg said, grinning. “But she has a six-week reprieve coming up. If we finish this assignment on time, I plan to spend mine with her.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Teridon said. “You’re not going to stay together for fifty years until both of you are done.”
“I accept your challenge,” Worg said with a smile.
Alina snorted at that. “So when you’re done, you’re both heading back to your clan world to what, have little dakorians?”
“Is that so bad a fate?” Worg swept his hand to the holo. “Can you imagine dakorians with my musculature and her features?”
“I’d rather not,” Teridon said dryly. “Your horns are too pointed.”
“At least they’re taller than yours.” Worg fastened the final plate on the hammer and tapped the power rune on the lowest setting. The weapon sputtered to life, the top center of the head turning white. He nodded in satisfaction and powered down the lance.
“She’s still only a sergeant,” Alina said. “I just don’t see her appeal.”
“Can you not see her beauty?” Worg stabbed a finger at the holo. “She’s the most stunning creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Our children will be Bloodwalls by the time they’re a hundred years old.”
Alina fiddled with her own hammer. “You assume she wants to be a mother.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Worg demanded.
“Because not all of us want children.” She set her hammer in its rack and leaned back on the bench.
“You don’t want to be a mother?” Worg asked. “Why?”
Alina reached up and tapped her horns. “Giving birth to horned infants does not sound pleasant.”
Reklin snorted with amusement, and said over his shoulder, “The horns usually don’t come in until several years later.”
“Usually isn’t always,” Alina shot back. “And besides, I want more out of life than chasing whelps.”
“Like what?” Worg asked.
“Like becoming a Bloodwall,” she said.
“Since when did you want to be a Bloodwall?” Teridon asked.
“Since our distinguished captain managed to get chosen.” Alina motioned to Reklin. “If an old grayhorn can do it, I can.”
Worg snorted derisively. “Females are rarely chosen to ascend to Bloodwall.”
Reklin cut off Alina’s impending outburst. “She’s a better soldier than you, Teridon. And females are just as likely as males to be chosen as Bloodwalls.”
“But most of the Bone Council is male,” Worg protested.
“And a millennium ago, it was mostly female.” Teridon pointed to Alina. “If she wants to be Bloodwall, she has a better chance than you—or me, for that matter.”
Worg shook his head, his smile one of derision, but before he could speak, Reklin rotated to face him. “I know your perspective comes from your clan, so I’ll be blunt. Female or male, Alina can choose her own fate, same as you. A dakorian can be a crucible fighter, a father or mother on a clan world, or a Bloodwall. All is possible to a dakorian. Speak so derisively to anyone in my command again, and I’ll have you demoted.”
Worg stared at him, his eyes wide. Reklin rarely spoke with such force and preferred to let the soldiers in his command grow on their own, but Worg’s opinion would be a blade through their unit, and that he could not allow. He liked Worg for his amusement and skill, but he was the youngest of the group and had the most to learn.
“As you will,” Worg said.
His response was required, and Reklin was grateful his tone conveyed confusion rather than anger. He was a good soldier, but the Rogonith clan he called home was notorious for their biased gender beliefs.
“What’s our next conflict?” Reklin asked.
“All four of us are in a war contest,” Teridon said as he withdrew his holoview and activated it, showing a hologram of a water arena.
At first glance, the arena looked more favorable than the volcanic, subterranean, and sky arenas where they’d previously fought. But then Reklin noticed the heat of the water.
Bubbling from underground magma currents, the water gurgled and steamed, so hot it could melt even dakorian flesh. The pools and streams of water were almost as dangerous as the lava itself, only more deceptive.
Sprawling across an entire valley, the Steamwell arena lay blanketed in patches of fog, obscuring the uneven terrain. Its size accommodated large-scale conflicts, making the arena a spectator favorite.
Teridon frowned and pointed to the script at the base of the holoview. “Looks like the purpose of this contest is to reach the top of the tower at the center of the arena.”
“And we’re going to have war mechs.” Alina touched the holoview, expanding the arena to show two of the mechs positioned at one end of the valley. “Looks like SAWs and Blinkers.”
The mechs were military-grade war machines for ground conflicts. Soldier All-World Ships, frequently called SAWs, housed a giant Drum lance, named for the concussive boom when they fired. The enormous weapon was favored by the dakorian clan of Helvor and used two operators, one pilot and one on the lance. Rather than a straight beam of energy, Drum lances detonated on impact and could take down Ro fighters with a direct hit. Drum lances were frequently mounted to the ground, but on a SAW, they rested on a disc-shaped gravity repulsor, making them highly mobile.
The SAWs dwarfed the second military vehicle. Blinkers were tiny, little more than a flat board of black seracrete. When activated, a trio of gravity repulsors held it off the ground. Without shields or armor plating, the Blinker left the rider completely exposed, but what it sacrificed in protection, it granted in speed. Blinkers were named for their distinctive feature, an onboard Gate that allowed them to portal short distances. Doing so repeatedly made the vehicle appear and disappear. Fast and light, they were vehicles for dakorian scouts.
“How many fighters in the contest?” Worg asked.
“Looks like fifty to a side.” Teridon shifted the hologram to show the rankings of the current fighters. “There will also be a handful of slaves and krey thrown into the mix. And Blackhorn is on the opposite side of the conflict from us.”
“We should put Alina on a SAW.” Worg motioned to Alina. “She’s the best of us on a mech.”
It was a tacit apology, and Reklin nodded. “Alina can go for the nearest SAW, while Teridon can use the Drum lance. Worg and I will go for these Blinkers.” He flicked the holo back to the map and pointed to a group of four Blinkers near their starting position.
“What do we do once we get them?” Teridon asked. “We could win, of course, but a sudden reversal in our skill would confirm to the krey that we’re glintmongers.”
“And get us killed by our own House.” Alina jerked her head in disagreement. “So no winning.”
Worg took the holoview from Teridon and shifted the view to the list. “But no losing either.” He pointed to their four names listed at the bottom of the rankings. “Looks like this isn’t just a war, it’s a War Hunt.”
“What do you mean?” Reklin asked.
“T
his contest is a bounty,” Worg said. When all three stared blankly at him, he rolled his eyes. “Did any of you ever watch the Crucible?”
“I live it,” Teridon said. “I don’t need to watch it.”
Worg rubbed his forehead. “The bottom four of either team are the bounty, worth a million glint each.”
“So the bottom four in the rankings are being hunted during the war?” Reklin asked.
“Exactly,” Worg said. “And any guesses who is at the bottom?”
Alina folded her arms. “A thousand glint says it’s us.”
“A thousand glint to Alina,” Worg said.
“So we’re at the bottom.” Reklin folded his arms, considering the reason. “We’re even below the humans?”
“We are.” Worg tapped one of the human fighters, bringing up his tally of wins and losses in the crucible. “But these humans have been in the crucible for a while, long enough to gain a reputation.”
“We still shouldn’t be ranked below slaves,” Teridon growled. “We’re Shards.”
“Doesn’t matter what they think,” Reklin said. “Our actual value has not changed, and our perceived value has no meaning.”
“And it’s our perceived value is what we need to reduce,” Alina said. “We’ve lost every contest and barely survived. This is our mission, remember?” She’d activated her own holoview and was scanning the list of combatants. “Worg is right. These humans have managed to not just survive, but flourish. They’ve been fighting against humans, of course, but they are decent fighters.”
“One more thing.” Worg turned to Reklin. “In a War Hunt, the rankings are not fixed, meaning the rankings can shift in the middle of the conflict.”
“How do they manage that?” Teridon asked.
“The oddsmakers will be watching,” Worg said. “Every act of skill will move us upward, while acts of weakness move us downward. Land a blow or record a kill can will automatically lift us from the bottom four.”
“So we have to fight a war—while being hunted by another army—and keep ourselves from winning or losing?” Reklin asked.
“And not die,” Worg said.
“They don’t give easy assignments to Shards.” Worg tapped his newly repaired hammer. “But I must say, we usually get better weapons.”
“How do the combatants know the rankings of others?” Reklin asked.
“That’s one of the best parts to a War Hunt.” Worg activated his holoview, and a holo appeared above his arm. He shifted through several vids until he came to a hologram showed the same Steamwell arena, a fight from a few months ago.
Hundreds of dakorians, krey, and humans raced through the blistering steam, ducking ion blasts that streaked between large mechs. Blinkers slipped through the chaos, their riders firing into soldiers crouched behind boulders. The dead lay on the ground, the wounded crawling into shallow depressions or the many caves lining the sides of the bowl-shaped valley. On the back and front of every combatant, a large hologram was displayed on their torso, revealing a single number.
Blackhorn, easily noticed by the number 1 on his chest, darted through a pair of dakorians and jumped, kicking another dakorian right off a Blinker. Landing on the opposite side, he caught the tail end of the Blinker and used it like a club to bash the number 46. As the dakorian was crushed, a disembodied voice laughed.
“And another one goes down to Blackhorn. That’s a million glint to his name. He’s survived for a record-breaking four hundred contests and will soon stand among the greats of the Crucible . . .”
Reklin had seen Blackhorn in the training rooms of the underground bunker, but only a few times. As first in the rankings, he had his own spacious accommodations. Reklin had seen him far more in the holos that were always on display, and he was an exceptionally talented fighter.
“All four of us are now on Blackhorn’s list.” Reklin shook his head, disliking the options.
“That’s not a good place to be.” Worg swiped across the holo, extinguishing the vid. “He has more kills than the next top five in the ranking—combined. If we go up against him, we’re going to have to kill him.”
“We can’t,” Teridon said. “Killing Blackhorn would skyrocket our rankings. Our value would be so high we would never be able to bring it back down.”
“You’d rather let him kill us?” Alina asked.
“We’re going to have to get out of the bottom four rankings,” Reklin said. “And do it fast enough that he doesn’t have a reason to come after us. But I don’t like such a dangerous opponent on the field that we know nothing about.”
“How much time do we have until the War Hunt?” Alina asked.
Teridon checked his holo. “Six hours. What are you thinking, Captain?”
“Blackhorn is a threat”—Reklin was nodding—“but we don’t know anything about him. We need intel.”
“I can talk to the other dakorians,” Worg said.
Reklin nodded. “Do it. Teridon, you talk to the ones holding our contract. Tell them we’re going against Blackhorn, and we want to know everything we can.”
Teridon nodded, and he and Worg left. Alina was on her feet. “And me?”
Reklin motioned south, toward the archive rooms where past contests were stored. “I want you to watch the archives of Blackhorn’s earliest fights, before he gained notoriety. Also, use your beamcast and look into his past. I want to know everything we can before we step into an arena with another elite.”
“You think he was a Shard?” Alina placed her hammer on her back. “Why?”
“An elite soldier recognizes another elite.” Reklin pointed to the doorway. “Hurry. Anything we can learn could be essential.”
“What about you?” Alina asked.
Reklin pointed to his command crystal, the only one capable of beamcasting directly to dakorian command. “I’m going to contact Voice Malikin and see what else I can learn.”
As they parted, Reklin wrestled with his sense of foreboding. The War Hunt seemed deliberate, especially with all four members of his unit at the base of the rankings. This wasn’t just any contest.
It was an execution.
Chapter Thirty
For the next six hours, Reklin tried and failed to get information from his contacts on the Bone Council. None were able to locate his history, or even an archive of his time serving in the military. As the War Hunt approached, he did manage to reach Malikin, who finally managed to locate the record of Blackhorn’s military career. Unfortunately, it was sealed.
“Why would it be sealed?” Reklin asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Malikin said. “Blackhorn is not your mission. And a ship tagged to House Bright’Lor just entered the orbit around Dedliss.”
“They’re here?” Reklin asked.
“It appears so,” Malikin said. “And your rankings are now low enough to get noticed. They will be watching. Now forget Blackhorn and complete your mission. I shouldn’t have to remind you of what is at stake.”
Reklin didn’t bother being annoyed. The krey rarely understood the priorities on a battlefield, that to complete his mission he needed to intel on Blackhorn, but at least it seemed Bright’Lor was here to find dakorian contracts to purchase. Reklin’s time in the Bone Crucible was almost over.
“I’ll contact you when it’s over,” Reklin said.
“See that you do.”
On impulse, Reklin said, “Also, I took the liberty of anonymously contacting a Reckoning officer as well. I thought it prudent the investigation begin so when the evidence is in hand—”
“I’m disappointed,” Malikin said, his sneer betraying anger, and oddly, a touch of panic. “Your job is the mission. My job is Reckoning. Get back to work, Captain.”
The beamcast ended, and Reklin considered Malikin’s response. Was Malikin afraid of the royal pulling the strings? It certainly seemed like it. Just then his holoview beeped, signally he was to report to the battle ready room.
Reklin picked up his broken sword and slun
g it over his back. Then he exited his quarters and made his way down the corridor. Now used to the scornful looks from the other dakorians, he barely noticed them as he pondered his mission and the upcoming fight. When he reached the battle ready room, Alina and Teridon were already present.
“Anything?” Reklin asked as Alina and Teridon joined him next to their departure Gate. Both shook their heads.
“Whoever Blackhorn was, I couldn’t get anything from his time before the Crucible.” Alina motioned to Reklin. “What did Malikin say?”
“He tried to look up Blackhorn’s past, but it was sealed. What I did learn is that a Bright’Lor ship has arrived. Ero and Skorn are here.” Reklin pointed to the Gate in the contest ready room, and the vid above showing Steamwell. “They will likely be watching for dakorians with contracts cheap enough to buy. Fortunately, we are some of the most affordable.”
“Maybe they will get to see us die in the War Hunt,” Alina said with a grunt.
“Where’s Worg?” Teridon asked.
The Gate activated, and the opponents, the red army, filed into the portal with Blackhorn at their head. The towering dakorian did not glance in Reklin’s direction, but Reklin got the feeling the first-ranked fighter was well aware of their presence. Reklin surveyed the others gathered in the battle ready room, searching for Worg, his tardiness risking severe punishment by House Thorn’Vall.
A krey with red eyes walked around the fighters, fastening small mechs to their belts, front and back. The mechs brightened and put a holo on their chest and back, displaying a number. The krey eyed Reklin’s 50 with disgust.
“We should never have bought the contract of a hornless.”
The krey moved on, and Alina growled. “The sooner this mission ends, the better.”
Grimacing, Reklin led his two soldiers through the Gate and into the Steamwell arena. Aptly named, the steam washed across his body, hot enough to spark instant sweat. More steam rose from the hundreds of ponds heated by underground magma currents, some so hot they bubbled and spit.