by Scott Baron
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“He’s burning up. Feel his forehead,” the man said, touching Charlie’s head.
“I did. What should we do?”
“I lost a lot of money on him. I don’t know why the beast let him live.”
“That’s why they call it gambling, Linook.”
“Whatever,” the man grumbled. “I say we let him die.”
“Look at his arm. It’s red. Maybe infected. If he got even a drop of Zomoki blood in that wound, he won’t survive the night.”
“We have to tell Gramfir. He’ll want to know why his newest purchase is taking up cot space when he should be filling a dragon’s belly.”
“But if he is infected, no Zomoki will touch him. That would explain your loss. You know how they are about sickness. They can smell it.”
The gathered overseers and facility managers charged with keeping the operation running smoothly huddled over Charlie’s immobile body a while longer, quietly debating his fate while he lay in a fever state, oblivious to the world.
After weighing the punishment for having an illness on their shift versus not reporting it to their boss, the trio finally drew straws to select the unlucky soul who would inform their employer.
“Sick, you say?”
“Yes, sir. He is running a high fever, and his arm is inflamed. An infection, I’m sure, though one of the others thinks he may have gotten a drop of Zomoki blood in his wound.”
“Oh?” Gramfir asked, suddenly interested in the new development. “But he isn’t dead yet?”
“No, not yet. He’s hot, and his arm is red, but he’s still hanging on.”
“Then it’s definitely just an infection. He’d be dead, otherwise. Still, fascinating. A fighter, then, this one.”
“Time will tell, sir.”
“Indeed, it will. But how did he come to get Zomoki blood on himself? Was one of my beasts harmed during the feeding?”
“No, sir. It was the damnedest thing, actually. You know the injured Zomoki? The one people call Old Red?”
“Yes, a recent acquisition, that one, and quite a difficult catch.”
“Well, he was feeding it––”
“Ah, I see. He approached the beast and its blood flew on him when it flapped its wings in rage?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“No? Then what?”
“Well, he, uh, mended its wing. That’s when it got on him.”
His master’s silent pause hung heavy in the air.
“I’m sorry, did you say he mended its wing?”
“Yes.”
“He actually touched the beast?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it let him?”
“Yes.”
Gramfir stroked his long beard, his brow furrowed. “Very interesting. There is bravery there. Or stupidity, often one cannot tell the difference. See that he has the care he requires. If he survives, this one may be of great value to me yet.”
Charlie did survive, though for a few days that was in question. The fever rash spread to his entire body, turning him somewhat red for a time before gradually receding. At the end of a week, though, he was well enough to sit up and take fluids, and even a few bites of solid food.
“What happened to me? I feel like I was hit by a truck.”
“Ah, you’re awake,” the overseer said. “I must tell Gramfir. We’ve all been most expectant, wondering if you’d live or not.”
“Gee, thanks. Did you win the betting pool?”
“Sadly, no. I did not bet on your survival and lost a small sum.”
“Shit, man. I was kidding about there being a death pool on my head. That’s not cool.”
“In any case, you are on the mend, and Gramfir wished to see you as soon as you regained consciousness. He will be most pleased.” The man quickly exited the room to fetch his employer.
Hang on, they upgraded my translator, he realized. What’s going on?
Charlie rose unsteadily, swaying on weakened legs.
Exactly how long was I out for?
He looked around the room. It appeared to be a small medical facility of some sort, though lacking in what he would consider traditional equipment. Having come face-to-face with an actual dragon, Charlie was forced to accept that this galaxy really was fueled by magic, and if that were the case, their healing tech would be no different.
There were some crystals on rods hanging from mounts on the wall, all varying in size and color. What resembled an operating table lay in the far end of the room, another set of odd implements laid out beside it.
“Surgery by magic,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I am most definitely not in Kansas anymore.”
Cries and cheers of a crowd met his ears, reminiscent of the merriment of the men and women watching him and the others feeding the Zomoki. But this sounded different. Louder. And there was the faint clang of metal on metal and the grunts of men. Fighting, he realized. But where and why was the question.
A slight breeze was blowing in from the window, and Charlie found himself smelling far more of the strange world than he had upon first arriving. Scents were clearer, crisper, and he seemed almost able to tell them apart from each other within the overwhelming stench of sweating bodies, refuse, and death. With a bit of effort, he suppressed the odors, making himself only smell the planet’s vegetation on the breeze.
“Now that’s downright odd,” he muttered as he looked out the window.
He was in a higher window. Likely the third floor, if he gauged the distance correctly. Not too far in the distance, he could see what appeared to be the edge of the bazaar, where a small space port welcomed new arrivals.
He’d never seen ships landing from this vantage point. He’d always been either locked within a cell aboard the Tslavar craft, or hunched over, carrying some massive load through a dense crowd. But this, this was fascinating.
Drooks of varying abilities controlled the approach and descent of the various ships, glows of differing colors enveloping the craft, depending on the origin of their magical propulsion slaves. The ships, too, were many in shape and design, though despite his time with Captain Saramin, Charlie still couldn’t tell which ship was from what system just by looking.
Shrieks and bellows cut his contemplation short. The Zomoki were restless, it seemed, though unlike previously, it sounded as if someone was hollering back at them equally loud.
“Let me look at you!” Gramfir said, his robes flowing behind him as he breezed into the room.
He was dressed in far nicer attire than when Charlie had first seen him. This, he realized, was his non-public image. The bearded man put on quite a show for the rabble, but in the comfort of his own walls, he was actually surprisingly refined. For a slave trader, at least.
“How do you feel?” he asked with genuine interest. “Do you have pains? Do your ears ring? How about your eyes? Can you see better than before?”
“I-I don’t think anything is different,” Charlie replied as the man grabbed his arm for a closer inspection.
“Look!” he exclaimed. “Nearly entirely healed, and despite the possible contamination. Oh, you, my boy, are a strong one indeed. You are strong, and you heal fast. Most promising, indeed!”
“I’m sorry, what’s promising?”
“Why, you are the most fortunate of slaves. With some luck, you may even live long enough to achieve true glory. And win me a lot of coin in the process. And if you are truly exceptional, maybe even your freedom one day.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. Bring him,” he commanded, flowing out of the room like a man of half his mass.
“You heard the boss. This way,” he was ordered, then led down a long corridor to a staircase leading down to the ground level.
Once outside, they steered his fever-weary legs around the building until they reached a large pen full of men in wild and varied costumes. Only they weren’t costumes, he soon realized. They were wearing armor. Strange, a
lien armor.
The men were pacing with nervous energy, the heavy bands around their necks glowing with power. Charlie noticed they were wearing slender konuses on their wrists, and many had slaaps dangling from their hips.
Some had power, too. Not as much as the captain or his new owner, but there was magic there. That explained the stronger control collars. They were deadlier by design, but still needed to be controlled. These were men preparing to fight. Fight for the pleasure of a crowd.
Gladiators.
“Ah, I see you recognize what is going on,” Gramfir said happily. “I lost several of my better fighters in the last bouts. Unfortunate, and completely avoidable. But you, my boy. You will help replace them.”
“But I don’t want to be a gladiator.”
“Yes, Captain Tür told me as much,” he said, stroking his mighty beard. “But despite the kindness I am showing you today, you should know, I am not nearly as gentle and understanding a man as your former owner. Now, you heal quickly, and you even survived the Zomoki, and that makes you a valuable asset. However, I do not suffer fools, and if you think even for a minute to refuse your training, you will quickly find your world to become one of extreme discomfort.”
A bruised and injured man groaned slightly from the cot he lay on. Welts covered his body as if he’d faced some terrible foe and barely come out the other side.
“You see him?” Gramfir gestured toward the man. “This is what will happen if you hold back. You will train with the best of them, or you will be used as a practice dummy.” He fixed Charlie with a steely stare. “One choice seems to be the obvious one, don’t you agree?”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The ship carrying Charlie to his new training camp left the very next morning, whisking him off to yet another world, only this time he wouldn’t be someone’s pack mule. His work would be grueling, no doubt, but as a gladiator-in-training, he would be afforded at least a modicum of respect. Or so he hoped.
Only two others accompanied him on the small craft––gladiator hopefuls who had volunteered to be trained in hopes of bettering their circumstances. It was a rare thing, a non-slave entering the profession, but when times were tough, tough men sometimes resorted to unusual measures.
Bini and Gok were the men’s names, the former a slender greenish species, likely a close cousin of the Tslavar, while the latter was pinkish, and nearly indistinguishable from human. They were both in excellent spirits for men who were about to be beaten and forged into hardened fighters, though given the scars each bore, Charlie had a feeling they’d both already seen their share of conflicts.
“Hey, Charlie. How much longer do you think it’ll be before we get there?” Bini asked.
“I told you an hour ago, Bini, I have no idea when we’ll get there. Jeez, next thing you’ll tell me you have to pee.”
“Well, I do, but I didn’t think that was relevant.”
Charlie grinned. In the short time he’d known them, he dared hope he could one day call his two companions friends. They were both of excellent spirit and jest, and were fairly articulate as well, though he also chalked that up to his new owner providing him a far better translation spell than Captain Tür.
And then there was that. The magic. Spells and powers, running everything from the toilets to spaceships. Charlie had slowly, but finally, come to grips with the notion that what they called magic was––whatever its source––their version of technology, completely normal and integrated into all aspects of daily life.
For that matter, Charlie figured his technology and science would probably seem akin to magic to the denizens of this galaxy, though a rather inelegant variant, from what he’d seen of their sensibilities.
“I hear Baruud is one of the greatest fighters ever to stain the arena’s sands,” Gok commented, idly picking his teeth with a gleaming dagger. “If we can achieve even half of what he has, we will be living like kings.”
“Famous, beloved kings.”
“Yes, Bini, that too,” Gok said.
“And women. Don’t forget the women.”
“Yes, Bini, of course there will be women,” he replied with a deep laugh. “And food, and wine, and all manner of good things.”
“I was going to say––”
“I know, so I said it for you. Now, didn’t you have to pee?”
“Ah, yes. Thanks for reminding me,” he said, trotting off to the head.
“He’s a good friend, but I swear, some days I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t a little something off up here, you know?” Gok said, tapping his head.
Charlie chuckled and shook his head.
“You both signed up for this of your own free will, Gok. I’d say there’s something wrong with both of your heads.”
“Funny, Charlie. But you wait and see. If we excel, glory is ours for the taking.”
“I’d settle for a quiet life back home right about now. No adventure, no dragons and aliens, just me and a porch, quietly watching the world do its thing.”
“But where’s the glory in that?”
“That’s the point.”
He lay back and closed his eyes, resting and regaining his strength. He was nearly at one hundred percent, and from what he heard about his soon-to-be home, he’d need it.
It turned out to be a fairly long flight to the planet he learned was called Habogad. It was a small world covered in dense forests, thick swamps, and rugged mountains. The air was crisp, and the gravity was only slightly heavier than Earth-normal. It was there he would come under the tutelage of the great Ser Baruud, survivor of hundreds of contests, and now head of his own training center.
Their arrival was not greeted with fanfare or attention, but rather, a lone man of average height and build, dressed in a plain tunic, waiting to show them to their quarters.
“But where’s Ser Baruud?” Gok asked. “I thought––”
“Oh, you’ll meet him soon enough,” the man said with a knowing look. “But for now, you are to go to your new lodging and become situated. You may walk the grounds, but do not venture outside the compound unattended.”
“Why? Are there animals out there?” Bini asked.
“Because it is what Ser Baruud wishes,” the man answered plainly. “Now, please, follow me. You will receive your novice tunics in the morning. Training begins at sunrise. I suggest you eat heartily and get a good night’s sleep. You will need it.”
“You hear that?” Bini chirped with excitement. “We’re going to begin training tomorrow. We’re going to learn to kick ass!”
Their guide merely smiled and quietly led them to their room.
“This sucks,” Charlie said, standing atop a slender pole on one foot, balancing a meter above the ground, holding a tiny cup of water in each outstretched hand. “Tell me again how this is going to be fun. How we’re going to learn to kick ass.”
“Shut up. I didn’t know they’d make us do this,” Bini grumbled.
“Quiet, both of you,” Gok said from his adjacent pole. “Don’t give them any reason to make things worse.”
“What could they possibly––”
“You! Bini! Come here!” a burgundy-clad man called from the training field.
“You hear that? Now we get to the good stuff!” he said, jumping down from his pole and trotting over to the training assistant.
A flurry of swift fists and kicks greeted him upon his arrival, knocking him to the ground.
“Did I tell you to spill your water?” the man barked.
“No, but you said come––”
“Back to your pole!”
Bini’s species didn’t have tails, but if they did, it would have been planted firmly between his legs as he trudged back to his pole and climbed up. Once he had regained his balance, the man in burgundy walked to them and eyed them all with steely intensity.
“Do see that you don’t spill them this time,” the man said, then walked away, leaving the trio perched atop their poles.
Thirty long
minutes had passed, and their shoulders were crying out in pain, when a middle-aged Wampeh with broad shoulders, his hair pulled into a neat ponytail, casually strolled up to them, looking them over like one assesses a horse at market.
The three men wisely said nothing, focusing instead on remaining balanced, and not spilling any of the water.
“I am Ser Baruud,” he informed them. “You are here to learn to be better than you are. Stronger, faster, tougher.”
He began pacing around the poles, the three wondering if he’d lash out at them. He did no such thing, but, rather, gave them a speech he’d undoubtedly given hundreds of times before.
“You will learn the ways of combat here. The fist. The foot. The sword, and spear.” He paused, lightly kicking the poles the men were standing on, making them shake. “You will also learn the ways of power weapons. The slaap, the konus, and, if you show true skill, the claithe. But before you are allowed to handle a power weapon, you must first learn to control them. To that end, you will each memorize a specific set of commands. I recommend you learn them. Those who do not will be returned to their homes or owners with an unsatisfactory performance report. Any questions?”
No one uttered so much as a peep.
“Good. When the sun sets, you may descend from your perches, but not a moment sooner. To do so is to court fate.” Without another word, Ser Baruud spun on his heel and walked away, leaving Charlie, Bini, and Gok to their own devices.
Charlie silently sang his mnemonic song of magical words to himself, accepting their situation as best he could. The three men didn’t budge until the sun was well down, finally climbing to the ground in the dark with the horrible realization that this was going to be far more difficult than they’d imagined.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Charlie dodged the heavy staff swung at his head but was a little slow in his reaction. The tip of the pole caught him above the ear, knocking him to the ground.