To Steal a Moon

by Erin MacMichael

  As Rall advanced, Bálok ran straight at him and jumped into the air, kicking him hard in the chest with both feet to send him flying backward while he sprang off of Rall’s chest into a back flip onto his hands, springing all the way over to land on his feet. The crowd roared in surprise as he dashed forward, slashing wickedly across Rall’s thighs when the Goran rolled backward to rise, bringing a shout of pain from the man’s throat.

  “Damn it to hell!” Rall yelled, lunging forward with both sets of claws raking the air in cross motions toward Bálok’s chest. Bálok ducked and twisted to the side, waiting for the instant Rall raised an arm to strike again before pounding a kick into his exposed ribcage to push him away.

  With a malicious growl, Rall came on with multiple kicks, followed by overhand and underhand strikes with his claws. Bálok blocked each blow and twisted away from Rall’s slashing hands, watching his opponent’s rhythm of strikes.

  Whipping his arms out on the downswing of an overhand slash, Bálok grabbed Rall’s wrist in both hands and yanked him forcefully forward, throwing kicks into his chest and stomach before twisting and pulling Rall’s wrist down across his body with one hand. Reaching over Rall’s arm, he threw a backhand fist into his face, raking his claws up across Rall’s shoulder and neck as Rall pulled himself around to jerk his hand free of Bálok’s grip.

  The Goran commander circled with his fists in front of his face.

  “You fucking Ka,” he panted, his fury-filled eyes locked onto Bálok’s. Behind him, the other Goran fighters shouted coarse insults while his supporters in the stands goaded him with barbs and gibes.

  Bálok circled and waited, watching for the first signs of Rall’s attack. As soon as the Goran twisted around to launch a spinning kick, Bálok dropped to the floor and rolled to the side, throwing his right leg up the second Rall touched down, hooking his foot around his neck and flinging Rall’s head to the ground with a loud crack. Bálok pushed himself up off the floor and spun around, kicking down on Rall’s back to pin him to the floor while reaching down to swipe deeply across the back of the man’s neck.

  Rall did not rise.

  Bálok stood and panted as the stadium burst with shouting. From somewhere close behind to his right, he heard Mardukan’s voice call out, “Finally, a Ka who fights like a Goran. You’ve been holding out on us, Bálok.”

  Sprayed with blood and his claws dripping, he walked out of the ring past Izar’s ever watchful gaze toward Jimat who had run to the sidelines to grab several clean towels.

  “Is he dead, Lord?” the captain asked pensively as he ran up and handed him a wet cloth.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Bálok replied as he started a thorough wipe-down of his body.

  “Apparently he’s still alive,” Jimat responded. Bálok glanced up to see Rall’s men lift him up from the floor and carry him off toward the palace tunnel, followed closely by a team of white-coated medics. Shifting his eyes to the Emperor, he found Tashek grinning from ear to ear and nodding with pleasure.

  The stadium buzzed with excitement as the ring attendants scurried around the floor to sweep off the excess blood in preparation for the final match. Majah strutted in front of the Goran fighters with feverish eyes trained across the ring at Izar. As soon as the attendants were finished, Majah pranced out into the fighting space with his fists in the air, turning to the audience with loud whoops while Izar walked serenely into the ring.

  Jabbing a finger toward his towering opponent, Majah yelled, “I’m taking you down, Rastaban, and I’ll have your pretty little wife for dinner.”

  “Kill him a little faster than you did Daga,” Mardukan mocked, laughing sarcastically.

  Majah flipped a rude gesture at the Lord of Orion and scowled at Daga who was standing at the front of the fighters just outside the ring. “Just watch me.”

  Bounding across the ring with a flourish, Majah whirled into action to mount his attack. His feet and hands flew in a series of tricky moves aimed at catching an opponent off-guard and sinking claws into flesh. A less experienced fighter would have been bleeding within minutes, but the slippery Rastabanian blocked and deflected, or twisted away from every intricate thrust or kick, watching every move with laser-like focus to stay just out of reach of Majah’s flying razors.

  With a yell of exasperation, Majah leapt off the floor into a soaring kick aimed at Izar’s midsection, his claws poised to come down raking. Dropping quickly onto his right hand, Izar kicked hard across Majah’s calf to knock him toward the edge of the ring and hurled himself backward onto his feet, following on around in one liquid movement to rip across the top of Majah’s left bicep. Shouts went up as the Lord of Tyl landed and spun, squawking with indignant surprise.

  Majah charged again with blistering kicks into Izar’s left side before stepping in closer for an overhand strike. Wheeling abruptly, the Rastabanian dropped to his knees and pulled himself into a spin with outstretched arms, reaching out once to graze his unsuspecting opponent across his right shin before lunging off the floor and darting away.

  Bálok was mesmerized. Izar in motion was a spectacular thing to see—fluid, lightning fast, unerringly accurate, unpredictable. Bálok watched and analyzed every block, every move, pacing around the ring as he searched for any kind of weakness or loophole he could use when he faced him in the finals. The trouble with defeating Izar was that there was no pattern he could pin down, no suggestive quirks or apparent method to Izar’s strategy. He just always seemed to be ten steps ahead of his opponent. Like a master chess player, Bálok had no doubt the man could maneuver countless games and adversaries, all at the same time, and beat each one with ease.

  As Izar continued to elude Majah’s claws, the Goran’s fury rolled into a thunderhead. Bálok shot a quick glance up at the Emperor who was sitting on the edge of his seat, his teeth bared, frowning at the insolent Rastabanian who had the audacity not to hold still and bleed.

  The moment Majah appeared ready to explode, Izar moved in to slice him down. Throwing a volley of fists toward Majah’s jaw to force him to block, he whipped his hands up to grab both of the Goran’s wrists, pulling them down low and holding them out to either side with sheer brute strength. Glaring into Izar’s face mere inches from his own, Majah snarled with anger while the Rastabanian smiled and laughed deep in his chest. Majah’s muscles trembled and jerked as he tried vainly to break free of Izar’s grip of steel.

  “Damn you, Rastaban!” the Goran shrieked, beside himself with indignation.

  With the speed of a striking snake, Izar released Majah’s wrists and slashed his right claws across the Goran’s chest before he pivoted and walked away.

  The arena burst into exhilarated cheering and yelling as Majah stood at the center of the ring, stunned and enraged while Izar stalked around him, glancing once at Bálok before heading out of the ring toward his men, watching his rancorous opponent out of the corner of his eye.

  As the fighters and guards around the ring began to disperse and move away toward the benches, Bálok kept his gaze pinned on Majah who had turned to walk slowly toward the boundary of the ring. Bálok frowned when he realized Majah had yet to resheathe his claws and that the nobleman’s eyes were narrowed on someone in the crowd just ahead of him.

  “Oh fuck,” Bálok whispered under his breath as he followed Majah’s line of sight to Daga just outside the ring heading back toward the far sidelines beside one of his men. Bálok bolted out across the empty space of the ring just as Majah raised his right arm to strike and jerked his head sideways.

  “Daga, drop to the floor!” Bálok shrieked and launched himself into the air to swing over Daga’s diving form with a reverse hook kick straight into Majah’s head, knocking him backward with flailing arms. Bálok landed and crouched with claws ready as Daga rolled away and came to his feet behind him while everyone else around them instinctively backed away from the raving Lord of Tyl.

  “How dare you touch me! I told you not to cross me, Bálok!” Majah screamed.r />
  “I don’t take orders from pricks like you,” Bálok replied evenly.

  “You filthy Ka! I’ll wipe you and your house out of Eltanin when this is over!”

  “I don’t think so, small man.”

  With a guttural howl, Majah charged at him with slashing claws, but Bálok knocked his hands away with a powerful sweep of his arm and threw a fist into Majah’s jaw. The Goran reeled and shook his head, raising red, dilated eyes as he gathered himself for another assault.

  “Damn you, Bálok! I’m going to slice you open and smear your blood all over you!”

  For a split second, Bálok’s vision wavered and he saw Eo’s knife swimming in front of him. In the next heartbeat, he catapulted at Majah with both sets of razors flying as a tidal wave of rage slammed through his body. He struck hard and fast, tearing into Majah’s arms, shoulders, and chest—anything he could reach to sink his hands into, ignoring the swipes Majah managed to rip into his forearms while he bulldozed the Goran lord backward. Each time Bálok’s claws found flesh, a surge of heat shot through his veins, deep and satisfying, filling his staff with blood and bringing him into a heightened state.

  Majah flung obscenities at him, foolishly goading him, and he sent his fist smashing into the bastard’s face, knocking him to the ground. Standing over him, Bálok raised his fist and pounded him several times in the head before raking down across his chest, throat, and stomach, sending blood splattering in all directions while Majah screeched wildly, long past any shred of rationality. The moment Bálok’s fury crested and peaked, he pulled his right arm back and knifed his hand straight down into Majah’s heart, killing him instantly.

  The stadium went berserk as he rose above Majah’s lifeless body, covered with blood, and let his head roll back, soaking up the heady frenzy of the kill. He cracked open his eyes and lifted his head to search for Eo’s stony face in the screaming crowd, locking his gaze onto Eo’s cold dark visage for several heartbeats before he turned to find Tashek on his feet with the rest of the arena, leering at him with burning eyes.

  A moment of angst gripped Bálok’s insides. He recognized that heated look and realized there was nothing he could do now but stand and wait to see if his actions brought accolade or the roof crashing down on his head.

  With a wave of his hand, Tashek signaled for the imperial guards stationed on the floor to move in to surround him, causing a stir of unrest throughout the arena. As a dozen rifles were raised and aimed at his head, Bálok watched helplessly as several soldiers stepped into the hostage section above the Emperor’s box to force Shim to his feet. A glance to his left at Jimat’s horror-stricken face and tense stance told him the captain was ready to signal Zirik and the mass of Eltanin officers up in the stands to fight their way to Shim and blast their way out of the arena, most likely all dying in an effort to carry out his orders. With a subtle signal, he told Jimat to stay his hand and wait. The captain swallowed, visibly shaken by the dramatic turn of events, but nodded his assent.

  “Bring him to me,” Tashek rasped harshly. “His son as well.” Turning with a snap of his fingers, the Emperor disappeared through the door at the back of the box.

  The arena burst with agitated voices as the imperial guards motioned with their weapons for Bálok to step away from Majah’s body and move toward the tunnel entrance. Bálok turned his head and discovered Izar standing a few yards away at the front of the fighters on the floor, watching him sharply, and over Izar’s shoulder, he caught sight of Saryn standing stock still, pensively gripping the rail as he was conducted away from the ring at gunpoint. His officers looked on in strangled silence as he was led past them through the throng of watchful fighters and on across the open floor beneath a flood of shouting Drahks.

  In the wide hallway leading to the palace tunnel, the guards turned into a corridor to the right which wound around and under the stands and stopped in front of an open doorway with posted sentries, motioning him through into a wide, dimly lit chamber. His trembling son stood to one side surrounded by five imperial guards and looked at him through terror-filled eyes as Bálok walked past and bent down on one knee in front of the Emperor.

  Tashek sat on a smaller version of his ornate throne on a dais at the back of the room. Beside him, Ulgeb scowled, doubtlessly fuming over the beating Bálok had just given his son less than an hour ago in the arena.

  Bálok lowered his eyes and bent his head, dripping all over the expensive carpet while he waited for the Emperor to speak.

  Tashek rose and stepped down from the dais to stand in front of him.

  “Just look at you,” he whispered with a ragged sigh, moving around to the right to hover within Bálok’s peripheral vision. Bálok’s skin prickled as Tashek’s eyes slid over every square inch of his blood-drenched body.

  “You’re every bit as delectable as I thought you’d be,” Tashek crooned in a quaking voice as he reached out a withered hand and wiped it languidly across Bálok’s wet chest before bringing it to his mouth to lick it dry.

  “But what were you thinking out there, Bálok?” the Emperor asked conversationally. “If you had killed him in the ring, I would have rewarded you. You know very well I cannot tolerate open violence against a Goran—just what am I supposed to do with you?”

  Bálok kept himself rigidly still while Tashek made a show of contemplating his wayward subject. It was disgustingly evident that the Emperor was far from angry over Majah’s death and was pouncing on the opportunity to grab him by the balls and wield him like a blade. He knew exactly what the conniving wretch was after and waited in silence for the ax to fall.

  Tashek moved in lazy deliberation around him and stopped behind his left shoulder where he leaned in close to his ear.

  “I want you to kill Rastaban.”

  The Emperor walked placidly back up to the dais and settled himself again on his throne.

  “All will be forgiven, Bálok, if you do this for me.”

  “And if someone else kills him first, Your Majesty?”

  Tashek mulled over the question before answering. “Then my reward will be paid to that fighter and you will pay restitution to Majah’s son. But frankly, Bálok, I don’t see anyone else too close to bringing that whoreson down. Rastaban seems to be burning a hole through everyone out there.”

  “And if I lose, Your Majesty?”

  “Your son’s life is forfeit.”

  The silence in the room pressed heavily into Bálok’s chest. Tashek let his threat sink in before he sat forward, leaning on one arm.

  “Kill him, Bálok,” he spat, “in the bloodiest way possible and I’ll give you a moon destroyer for one Darbanian year—to use at your pleasure against your … adversary,” he added with gloating emphasis. “There was someone up in the stands you had your eye on when you butchered Majah, wasn’t there?”

  Again, Bálok remained mute under the Emperor’s scrutiny, chafing that the snake thought he had him nailed.

  Tashek laughed, taking Bálok’s unwillingness to answer as confirmation of his conjecture, and raised a hand, motioning for his officers to step forward. “Escort Lord Bálok and his retinue back to his quarters and post sentries outside in the corridor. None of them are to leave until the games begin tomorrow morning. Return his son to his special accommodations and double the guard.”

  Bálok rose to his feet, keeping his eyes lowered as the imperial troops surrounded him once more.

  “Don’t disappoint me, Bálok,” the Emperor uttered in a menacing voice.

  With a dip of his head, Bálok turned and glanced at Shim, nodding once in an effort to reassure him before walking out of the chamber in the middle of a dozen guards. Out in the corridor, Jimat stopped his nervous pacing the instant he saw him, raising anxious eyes to his while the rest of his officers stood as taut as bowstrings, alarmed that he was still surrounded by troops.

  The captain of the imperial guard raised his hand and brought the party to a halt. “You will all come with us back to your quarters,” he or
dered, signaling his men to make an opening in their ranks. At Bálok’s nod, the Eltanin guardsmen stepped forward and fell in quietly behind him.

  Once they reached the door to their suite, they were ushered inside while the imperial troops took up positions in the hallway. Bálok stopped in the middle of the outer lounge and waited until the door latched shut.

  “We’re all restricted to these chambers until tomorrow’s finals,” he grated without turning around. “Relax and get some rest.” When he reached the door to his private rooms, he paused with his hand on the lever.

  “I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the night.”

  Bálok stood under a stream of hot water in the tiled shower area to one side of the long bathing pool in the garden. It was his third shower, but he still didn’t feel clean. After scrubbing down twice and taking one of the females numerous times, he’d slept for a while under the heat lamps in his bedchamber, but woke again with a gnawing in his gut he couldn’t assuage.

  He leaned his hands against the tile, warm from the steam, and let the water flood over his head and face to cascade down his body. Since the light from the overhead moon was bright enough to cast deep shadows, he hadn’t bothered to turn on lights or lamps, finding the darkness and hot water balm for his inner disquiet.

  Tilting his head back to let the water fall on his chest, he froze, sensing the presence of someone standing a few feet away. Stifling any outward reaction, he turned his head to see the shadowed form of Izar leaning casually against the tile.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” Bálok bristled, reaching out to snap off the shower.

  Izar tipped his head back over his shoulder toward the walled garden. “The roof.”

  Bálok let out an irritated hiss and turned toward the open room behind him with the door to the outer chambers.

  “Don’t bother to call Jimat—he can’t hear you.”

  Panicked, Bálok flipped back around and turned on the Rastabanian. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”