The Rastabanian rubbed his jaw as he crouched and circled. Bálok could have sworn he saw the glimmer of a smile behind Izar’s watchful, hawk-like gaze.
Izar came on with flying claws, his eyes narrowed in calculation as he threw a whirlwind of strikes at Bálok’s head and upper torso. Bálok blocked the rapid blows, picking up on a distinct rhythm, and waited for the opening, reaching in to slash upward across Izar’s breastbone with a quick flick of his fingers.
With the hint of a nod, Izar flipped into a complicated pattern of snapping kicks and slashing sweeps, cutting Bálok once across his left arm in the middle of the sequence. When the same split-second pause came up again, Bálok struck through and cut shallowly into Izar’s upper right pectoral muscle.
Izar shot forward with blinding speed, grabbed Bálok’s right wrist and flipped him around, pulling and pinning his arm behind him. His deep laughter sounded right next to Bálok’s ear. “You crafty bastard. We’re playing the same game, aren’t we?”
Bálok growled through clenched teeth. “Are we?”
Throwing a fist into Izar’s face and a sharp elbow back into his stomach, Bálok wrenched his wrist free and grabbed Izar around the neck, pulling him forward over his shoulder to throw him onto his back.
“He’ll never give you the destroyer, even if you take me down,” Bálok snapped, swiping toward Izar’s shoulders as he rolled quickly away and jumped to his feet.
“Of course not—he’d just shoot me if I won,” Izar replied, circling with his hands in front of his face. “That was never part of my plan.” As the question flickered across Bálok’s face, Izar lowered his head and looked him straight in the eye.
“I knew he’d give it to you.”
Dashing forward, Izar flipped a high crescent kick toward Bálok’s head, forcing him to duck while he brought his claws down across Bálok’s upper right shoulder close to his neck. “You’re a lone wolf, not in my pocket,” he said as Bálok winced and blocked another strike toward his chest. “A word in Burdek’s ear about your bloody feats in the ring made it to Tashek’s ears.”
“You started this?” Bálok flared angrily, snatching Izar’s wrist on a downward thrust and throwing a hard kick into his chest, knocking him backward as Izar yanked his wrist away. “Then why the hell did you force your way in?”
“To get to you,” Izar replied, rubbing his chest in obvious pain. “And to push Tashek’s buttons, keep attention off of you.”
“Oh, you pushed his buttons alright—damn it, Izar!” Bálok yelled. “Your price tag just kept going up.”
“He promised you the moon, didn’t he?”
Izar smiled when Bálok’s eyes widened in surprise. “But you have to kill me to get it.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Bálok hissed. “That’s what you were after this whole time!” For a split second, he didn’t know whether to laugh or to tear the cocky son-of-a-bitch to pieces.
Flying at him with a yell, Bálok threw his fist into Izar’s jaw. “You used me!” he thundered. “Now I’m pissed—really pissed!” He pummeled blow after blow at the Rastabanian’s face, venting his spleen, until Izar kicked him sharply in the stomach and threw a hard right cross into his jaw to knock him away.
Izar panted, keeping his arms raised, waiting until Bálok shook his head and looked up at him again. “Yeah, I want the moon, but I came for you—you’re my prize, Bálok. You’re worth more than any destroyer. I fought all these assholes, risked my family, just for you.”
Bálok glanced up above Izar’s head at the gorgeous woman standing tensely at the rail in front of thousands of shouting Drahks. For a moment, his breath hitched before he lowered his gaze back to Izar.
The Rastabanian let out a short laugh. “You want Saryn? I’ll share—but you have to have both of us,” he added with a leering grin.
Bálok reached out and raked his claws toward Izar’s head. “You’re bloody outrageous!” he shouted.
Izar ducked to the side and flipped around behind him, snaking his arm around Bálok’s throat to lock him in a choke hold. Bálok instinctively grabbed his arm with both hands and pushed his body back against him while Izar held on, keeping his grip loose enough for Bálok to breathe.
With a surprised intake of air, Izar laughed softly. “That didn’t really make you angry—it broke last night, didn’t it? Mmmmm, we may have a future yet.”
“Get off,” Bálok snarled, pulling downward and twisting his body to flip Izar around his side. “You couldn’t just call me instead of dragging me through all this bullshit?” he grumbled as Izar twirled away and danced backward.
“You would have turned me down and we still wouldn’t have a destroyer,” the Rastabanian countered, shaking his hands out to prepare for another offensive. “You’re so closed off—I needed to find out what makes you tick and how to get through to you.”
Launching forward, Izar attacked, his hands a blur of slashing talons. “You needed a good dose of Tashek to knock you out of your comfort zone,” he declared as he advanced, forcing Bálok to give ground and duck backward or block, time and time again. “And you needed to see that I know exactly … what … I’m … doing.” Lunging to the side, he twisted one hand in under Bálok’s blocks and tore deep tracks across his stomach, bringing a deafening roar from the throngs in the stands.
Bálok threw a kick into Izar’s chest to push him away and dropped into a crouch, clenching his teeth against the pain in his belly. “You’re so damned sure I’ll join you.”
Izar circled, his claws tensed and ready, his gleaming eyes locked onto his. “I’m staking my life on it.” In a sudden burst, he moved in and shot a wicked side kick into Bálok’s fresh wounds. “Come on, give me your rage!” he shouted through the surge of screeches flooding the arena.
“Fucking prick!” Bálok bellowed, rocketing himself straight into Izar’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him with his shoulder as he grabbed him around the waist and lifted, flipping Izar up and backward over his head to crash to the floor. Bálok whirled with raking claws, catching Izar across his back as he rolled away and came to his feet.
The Rastabanian swayed and shook his head, clearly winded and dazed from the hard fall. Bálok charged forward, cracking several punches into Izar’s face, splitting his lip open and spraying blood into the air as his head snapped to the side.
With exaggerated fury, Bálok grabbed him around the neck with both hands and shook.
“You want my rage?” he yelled. “I’ll give you my rage!” Bringing his knee up sharply, Bálok pumped several pointed blows into Izar’s stomach.
The Rastabanian groaned before he rallied and thrust his hands up between Bálok’s arms to break them away, shooting a foot into his ribs to shove him backward while he turned to the side, panting hard.
Bálok moved in again before Izar could recover his wind, throwing a light kick into the side of his head to keep him rattled, followed by a deliberate rake down across his arm. Izar’s reflexes were slowing and the crowds could see it.
Bálok kicked and slashed again and again, beating him back one pace at a time. The arena was in an uproar. With another kick to the head, Izar fell to one knee with a hand on the ground to balance himself, obviously fighting to stay upright. Bálok shifted his body, making sure his back was to Tashek to cover what he was about to do.
“Had enough?”
When Izar looked up, his green eyes were clear and determined. “Go get the moon, Bálok, and your son—make it look good.”
Rising from the ground, Izar lifted his hands in front of his face and lunged forward with an overhand strike. Bálok kicked his hand away and spun around to send his fist slamming up under Izar’s jaw.
The Rastabanian took a step backward, reeling from the blow. Bálok whirled around once more, flying into a carefully controlled tornado kick, hitting Izar in the primary nerve down his neck with just enough force to knock him out cold.
As Izar’s eyes rolled back into his head, Bál
ok landed and whipped around with a blood-curdling yell.
“Damn you! You knew it would come to this!” he shrieked, slashing his hands back and forth across Izar’s chest and neck, shredding his skin with calculated precision to spray the most blood in the few seconds he had before the Rastabanian hit the floor.
The moment Izar’s bleeding body crashed in front of him, Bálok jumped forward to straddle his sides, pulling his right arm back high in the air and knifing his hand down toward Izar’s heart, curling his claws and fingers under into a fist the instant before impact. Izar’s body jerked from the force of the blow and lay still.
Bálok rose slowly, splattered with Izar’s blood as frenzied screams shattered the air. He threw back his head, letting the waves of ecstatic bloodlust roll into his flesh, and started to laugh as it hit him how thoroughly and supremely Izar had manipulated him from the outset of this whole charade. That cunning son-of-a-bitch had maneuvered him and everyone else in the arena across a chessboard only he could see.
Stepping away from Izar’s body, Bálok raised his fists into the air to a cacophonous ovation and pounding drums while he paraded next to his kill. Lowering one arm, he pointed straight at Eo.
“I’m coming for you, motherfucker!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. If Izar didn’t want him dead, he could at least scare the vile wretch while he had the opportunity.
Suddenly a mournful, high-pitched wail surged above the chaotic noise.
Bálok turned his head sharply as Saryn appeared from behind the Rastabanian guards and ran out onto the floor past the imperial troops who had yet to lower their weapons. His loins twisted as the exquisite woman came within several feet of him and slowed, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Crouching and creeping forward, Saryn fell to her knees next to Izar and ran her hands over his bloody chest and neck.
“Nooo!” she cried, lifting her head again with an anguished expression. With a soft whimper, she came to her feet, her cream gown stained with her husband’s blood, and began pulling pitifully at Izar’s limp, dead-weight form. The males all over the stands chortled with laughter.
Bálok flipped his head around to see Tashek chuckling as he sat back down in his chair, his wrinkled features etched with a sarcastic sneer. Turning back to Saryn, Bálok realized that her visible distress didn’t quite reach her eyes. She knew. And in the face of widespread male derision, she was playing her part to distract Tashek to get Izar out of the arena alive.
“You’re beautiful!” he called out, taking a step toward her. Startled, she glanced up at him, the pupils of her amber eyes dilating before she quickly dropped her gaze.
Raising his hand, Bálok motioned for the Rastabanian guards to come out onto the floor. At Tashek’s signal behind him, the imperial troops all over the stadium lowered their rifles and stepped back, causing a low murmur to flutter through the stands.
Bálok exchanged a glance with Jimat and breathed an inward sigh of relief while the Rastabanian guardsmen rushed out, shooting furious, daggered looks in his direction as they picked their lord’s mangled body up from the floor and hauled him off toward the airfield. Wearing a bitter mask, Saryn shifted her eyes from Izar up to her son.
Bálok whirled around and glanced up at Shim and Kamál standing tensely at the front of the Emperor’s box.
“Your Majesty?” he asked with a solicitous tip of his head.
Tashek waved his hand carelessly to authorize the release of the hostages. Bálok looked on in utter astonishment as Shim scrambled over the rail and dropped himself to the next level down, holding his hands up for the little boy who followed his lead and jumped into his waiting arms. Shim hurried down the steps to the front rail where the two lowered themselves once more to the arena floor. Kamál took one look at Bálok and bolted in terror across the floor toward his mother who was already half the distance to the airfield exit. For several heartbeats, Bálok watched Saryn’s stately form as she walked away before he turned to finish his part of the act.
With a dramatic roll, the drummers called for attention while the announcer held one hand out toward the ring.
“Bálok, Lord of Eltanin—the champion of the Emperor’s Tournament!”
Bálok raised one fist into the air as the Drahks in the stands, both Goran and Ka, shouted and yelled to applaud his win. He turned slowly in the middle of the crimson-stained ring, his body still glistening with his blood and Izar’s. Zirik and his Eltanin officers screeched and cheered, beside themselves with pride. As his eyes landed on Eo’s dark figure, he couldn’t resist pointing at the bastard again before he moved on with his incremental rotation. There were many, like Shahr and Nakkár, who seemed to peer at him with a new respect, while scores of others, including Daga and Jimat, appeared confused and unsettled by what they had just seen. And some, like the broodingly silent Tirgal, looked down at him with the same bitter disappointment that Saryn had shown before she left the arena.
It didn’t matter—they would all know soon enough that the game was on and that their world was about to change.
Completing his obligatory display, Bálok walked forward out of the ring and bent down on one knee in front of the Emperor with his head bowed. Wiping his hands across his bloody chest, he raised them in offering to Tashek, knowing it was the last time he would be yielding to the bloodthirsty tyrant.
The Emperor rose from his seat and waited until the noise settled enough for Bálok to hear him speak.
“You may rise, champion,” he said with a tone of indulgent satisfaction.
Bálok came to his feet and stood, calmly waiting while Tashek finished his languid perusal of his body, surprised when no further salacious remarks issued from the Goran ruler.
“The reward in gold will be sent to you on Sakkara at once,” the Emperor declared, surprising Bálok yet again. The fact that Tashek was readily paying out the exorbitant bounty on Izar’s head in addition to the destroyer told him just how elated the Emperor was to be rid of the Rastabanian threat.
“The other reward we discussed will be standing by and waiting for you whenever you are ready to claim it. The new Lord of Gianfar had better get himself home and batten down the hatches,” Tashek quipped with a quick glance at Eo across the arena. “I’m very pleased with you, Lord Bálok. Well done.”
Bálok dipped his head once with his eyes lowered. “Your Majesty.”
Without further ado, the Emperor turned and walked toward the door at the back of the box.
Bálok closed his eyes as the throngs in the arena began to hum with conversation and disperse. A number of loud voices called out praise and congratulations, and a few hurled derogatory remarks about the bastard from Rastaban. He ignored them all while he let out a long, exhausted exhale.
As the tension began to drain away, he became aware of someone standing close by and opened his eyes to discover Shim a few feet away, waiting and trembling in silence. When he raised his head, he saw Tiga looking back at him through his son’s eyes, and with a shaking hand, he reached out and gripped Shim’s shoulder for several long minutes.
Without a word, Bálok turned, slid his arm behind Shim’s shoulders, and walked across the arena floor to his stolid band of Eltanin guardsmen. As he approached, Jimat’s golden gaze met his, bright with grim understanding and overwhelming relief. With a ragged sigh, Bálok acknowledged the captain’s unspoken thoughts, but when he was proffered a pair of towels, he shook his head. “No, leave it. Just get us out of here, Jimat. I’m ready to be gone.”
Explosions from below rocked the Igigi. Bálok’s hands flew across the keyboards of his command console shooting out rapid orders to his fleet commanders while his eyes darted over the banks of screens showing multiple views outside the flagship. The mansions of the Goran noble houses of Kish were in flames from the pounding the Eltanin warships were giving them.
The final push for Darban was almost over.
So much had transpired in the seven long years since Bálok had left Darban as the champi
on of Tashek’s tournament. In the months during Izar’s recovery, Bálok had weathered the backlash in public opinion and his businesses from disillusioned Ka gentry and focused his attention on mobilizing his forces as well as paying a visit to Mardukan in Rigel. No one was surprised when he’d claimed his reward from the Emperor and mounted a full scale attack on the Gianfar system, but the stir caused when the Emperor’s moon destroyer had suddenly been hijacked over Eo’s home planet had been felt throughout the entire Draco Expanse.
If it hadn’t been for Izar’s swift action in regearing and redeploying the waylaid moon to Sakkara to disable incoming imperial destroyers sent by an enraged emperor, millions would have perished before the war had even begun. By the time the news had spread that the Lord of Rastaban was “back from the dead,” enough of the destroyer fleet had been seized to protect the populated worlds of Eltanin and Rastaban from Tashek’s bloody wrath.
Ka leaders from all over Draco had flocked into the two systems with their fleets, drawing the line in the sand for the Goran elite. From that point on, the war between Ka and Goran noble houses had shifted into high gear. Izar’s forces had poured out of Rastaban, shocking even his allies by the sheer numbers and well-trained fighting abilities of his vast warship fleets. With the combined Ka armies and the newly acquired destroyers at his command, Izar’s cunning, flawless strategy had brought them victory after victory. The Goran home systems had fallen one at a time—Tyl, Alrakis, Edasich, all of Thuban’s populated worlds other than Tashek’s home planet. A good portion of Mardukan’s holdings had been taken over by Eo’s forces and Rigel was now under siege.
And today, with the fall of Darban, the Empire would be theirs.
In one long battle outside the portal, the remainder of Tashek’s destroyers had been neutralized and most of his warships annihilated. Ka fleets were swarming over major cities and military bases on the surface and into the interior to secure control over the homeworld of the last Goran Emperor.
To Steal a Moon Page 12