It was the overwhelming smell of breen. And even before I hauled myself off the ground and looked about, I knew that we were completely surrounded.
28. Living with the Man-eaters
We stood stock-still, fully aware of the slippery footing beneath us and the sheer, wet walls that towered twenty feet over our heads. I judged the far end of the pit to be about thirty yards distant, albeit the dim subterranean light made such measurements chancy. But it was no lack of light that made the counting of breen difficult; rather it was their numbers that confused the issue. Still, argued the remaining rational portion of my brain, barricading itself against the primitive caveman pleading to be let out so he could run, run from the sabretooth that had invaded his home—what difference did it make? My entire infantry division would have had little enough chance against these creatures. Ten or a thousand, my companions and I had been dumped into an underground abattoir. The Vulsteen's use for us had become horribly clear.
The breen stood silently in a loose curving line about ten yards away. Terror stretched out the final seconds of our lives. Would we feel it when those claws and teeth tore through our entrails, or did the breen kill quickly with a swipe across the throat? I wish I could say that I was more concerned for my friends than for myself, that I was tempted to throw my body between that horde and Marella in a doomed attempt at chivalry—but I was not. Even before I came to this world, I had been a soldier, and in the dark, bloody world of war the only way to keep your life was to keep your head down and, yes, sometimes you pray that the whistling sound you hear overhead will end in the body next to yours instead of your own. And to be truthful, the man next to you is hoping the same thing.
And still the breen did not charge us. Even in the adrenaline-flooded attenuation of time that comes with impending death, the seconds still pass. Slowly I came to realize that we had stood thus for a span of moments, unarmed and unprotected, surrounded on three sides by beasts that by all accounts would stand with the shark and the piranha as among the most vicious predators ever to stalk our world—yet still we lived.
I allowed myself to breathe.
A breen broke ranks with his fellows, carefully placing his feet as he walked slowly toward us, outstretched hands ending only in fingers, not claws. I mirrored his action, stepping away from my friends to meet the breen in the center of the cleared space between us. If this were the ceremonial beginning of the kill by a tribal animal, then I was walking to my death—at least then it would be swift—but I thought otherwise. Breen hunted among thunder lizards, but no breen would walk up to a thunder lizard open-handed and alone!
As we approached, it—he—put out his right hand, palm up. I could hear Timash's breathing behind me. With only a trace of a tremor in my fingers, I reached out and gingerly placed my hand atop the breen's.
Clasping my hand gently, he smiled—or at least so I took his baring of shark-like fangs to be, for I still lived. My heart was hammering and my face so numb that even an automatic answering smile was beyond my ken. And then he did the most unexpected thing of all.
"Peace," he said.
It had been surprising but certainly not unpleasant when they lead us from the muck of the pit onto dry ground, although the smell attached to our drying clothes (on top of everything else) would remain, our host explained apologetically. Even with the amenities the breen had earned or built for themselves over the generations, washing facilities were unknown. Unlike man, the breen had never incorporated original sin into their rise to intelligence: they wore no clothes. Not that they were dirty; like cats they groomed themselves, and like Timash's ancestors, they groomed each other as well, but trapped here there was only so much they could do for themselves.
Understandably skeptical at first, my companions had slowly come around to the notion that we were not about to be eaten. The breen were patient with us; they had gone through much the same process with every one of the previous humans who, wandering occasionally into the clutches of the Vulsteen through some great error or accident, had been as unceremoniously tossed in among the great beasts even as had we. When I asked what had befallen them—for there were none but breen here now—our guide explained they had all been done to death by the Vulsteen. Further he would not say.
We were conducted across the pit, quickly discovering that only one area was thick with muck and mire; the rest of the floor had been scraped clean and the debris piled up where the Vulsteen routinely dropped their victims. It seemed an entirely civilized practice for a mob of hairy, naked man-eaters, but there was much to these breen that I had yet to learn.
For example, they did not all live in the pit all the time; they had tunnels and chambers underground, just as their captors. The four of us were even given our own space, a three-walled open room with no furniture, admittedly, but still ours to use. Again, our guide apologized for the cramped quarters, but four prisoners at once was quite rare—most came in singly, survivors of some awful crash, who had fought their way past the thunder lizards and bloodbats of the upper world only to be dragged down here like lost souls into hell. The breen, of course, did not put it that way, but our continuing descent into the bowels of the earth was disquietingly similar to Dante's. However, since my fellow inmates would not have appreciated the comparison, I was forced to keep it to myself.
What the breen failed to give us was a name: They didn't have any, another sin that they had avoided, perhaps. Nevertheless, I felt its lack when referring to our guide, who appeared to be chief among them, and so after some thought I took to referring to him as Uncle Sam. Timash and Marella looked upon my announcement as evidence that I was losing my sanity, but Harros seemed to find it amusing, even if he could not have gotten the joke.
We spent our time sitting listlessly in our cell, having explored the limits of our confinement within the first hour. Simple creatures at heart and by necessity, the breens' rooms were not segregated for separate tasks, as they had few tasks to perform. They wandered freely about, but the only opening in the warren was the pit itself, and there was no escape through the walls. The irregular tunnels were defined by the foundations of the original buildings above us, and nothing we could bring to bear would even scratch their surface.
The lack of openings meant a lack of air circulation, and the breen-scent hung everywhere. Over the course of what appeared to be several days—we had no means for reliably measuring time save for eating and sleeping—our noses came to accept and ignore it, but even the breen could not stand it forever, any more than we would enjoy living in a locker room. Wandering about the open pit was a favorite pastime that we did well to emulate.
It was during one of these excursions that Harros sought me out. I tried to hide my annoyance, as solitude after a fashion had been my aim; as much as I liked Timash, even we had had too much of each other of late. Still, Harros' sudden sociability was so entirely unexpected that my irritation was equally balanced by curiosity. Living in that cage had started exceedingly dull, and gone downhill rapidly.
As it turned out, this was the crux of Harros' conversation.
"Are you bored yet?" he asked with false humor.
I raised my eyebrows. "In this five-star palace? No wants, no needs, room service—" we were fed twice daily a steady diet of mushrooms and tubers grown elsewhere underground— "plenty of exercise and no responsibilities. And I haven't had a vacation in years!"
He nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, me too." His eyes darted about, as if seeking someone, and when he didn't find him, they came back to me. "Uh, seeing as we're stuck here…"
"I'm sorry about that," I interrupted. "If it wasn't for me you wouldn't be here. I should never have brought you along."
"What, I'd've been better off with the conservationists? If they'd known any breen, they'd've fed me to them in bite-sized pieces." He shook his head emphatically. "Uh-uh. I asked to come along. I knew it wasn't gonna be a picnic. But listen, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to ask you about Marella."
"Marella?" I frowned. "What has she to do with me?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. See, it's getting really dull down here, and if truth be told we might not be leaving on our own two feet, if you know what I mean. So I was wondering how you'd feel if I tried to…make a move. On Marella."
Truth to tell, I was not sure for a moment how I felt. Harros must have caught a flash of my thoughts, or perhaps they were reflected on my face, because he retreated half a step, but then I shook my head and caught his shoulder.
"No, it's all right. You're a gentleman for asking, but I already have someone else." Yes, my moral sense scolded me, you do. Marella was a beautiful woman under all the dirt and danger, but I had embarked on this journey to rescue Hana Wen, and to turn my heart away from her now would be unconscionable, notwithstanding whether or not I continued on to Dure. "For a minute there, I was jealous, but it wasn't because of you. We've been through a lot together, and if you want to try to find some comfort with Marella, then God speed you."
For perhaps the first time, I saw Harros' face broaden into a full, genuine grin, and clapping me on the shoulder, he was off, searching, I assumed, for Marella. I stood alone, as I had wanted to be, and hollow.
My solitude was soon ended for a second time. Feeling a presence at my elbow, I turned to find Uncle Sam standing there. I was hardly an expert on breen emotional states, even after studying them at close range for a few days, but even I could see that he was nervous, agitated more than I had seen before. Come to think of it, he and the others so far had resembled the Vulsteen in some respects, as if their masters' wooden equanimity had rubbed off upon them. Up until then I had never questioned exactly why these breen were the way they were: The sheer relief of finding our lives spared by some of the most feared carnivores on earth had chased away concern for the reasons. Now I sensed that my unasked questions were to be answered. I doubted I would like it.
"It's going to be soon," he began cryptically. "We can tell the signs. The Vulsteen are going to come for us soon. You need to gather your friends and stay out of the way. That's the only way to keep from being hurt."
"Hurt?" I seized his shoulder but immediately let go. The muscles under his fur were tight, rolling with nervous energy. "What's going on? What do the Vulsteen want?"
"Listen carefully. The Vulsteen have kept us here for generations. The only time they let us out is when they take us to the arena. They have some sort of object there. They point it at us, and we go wild. Something takes hold of us and it's just like we were outside again." He glanced up at the far ceiling, but he was seeing the sky. "There's fighting, and killing. Not all of us come back. That's what's going on; everyone's scared because they know the Vulsteen are coming to put us in the arena. If you don't stay out of the way, you could get hurt before they even pull you out."
"Pull us out? Why?"
He paused a breath before he told me. "So they can put you in the arena with us."
Uncle Sam looked up again, and stepped back quickly. An instant later a loop of tough cord yanked closed around my upper arms and I was hoisted into the air!
29. In the Arena of the Mind-Mutants
The rope bit into my triceps; my heels kicked the side of the pit while they pulled me up, heedless of my pain or shock. It was all over in a few moments and the rope was removed, but I was surrounded by armed men. Angry as I was, that would not have stopped me, but the small remaining portion of my mind that could still claim rationality told me that I stood too close to the precipice and less than a shove would be more than enough to end any impromptu rebellion.
Thus restrained, but in no way calmed, I allowed them to bring up my companions, whom Uncle Sam had fetched. At least they were not taken by surprise, so their ascent was easier than mine. Even as Harros, the last man out, cleared the lip, I could see that Uncle Sam had done the right thing; the breen were milling about, growling and bumping each other. The smallest had already fled to the comparative safety of the rear chambers, and those who remained appeared, if anything, eager to work themselves into an ever greater frenzy. And Uncle Sam had told me they did not go truly wild until they entered the arena!
Our hosts, meantime, spared no time marching us away toward our fate. Through more halls we were lead, alternating between dust and rock, fine finished stone, and the occasional lunatic mural, but this tour was shorter than our first. We were herded into a small chamber through a heavily barred door, which was quickly shut behind us. Ahead another door, also barred, lead to a lighted area. I could feel a cold breeze through the bars. That door lead to the surface!
Closer inspection revealed that we were not in a chamber at all, but a cage, not unlike a large prison cell. Outside our jailors stood for a moment staring at us, then they all but one filed away. For the first time, we heard a Vulsteen speak.
"You are going to die," he said in a voice dry as a hacking cough. I could almost hear his leathery jaw muscles creaking in protest at the unwonted exercise. "We find it heightens the experience if you know why."
All reasons to the contrary aside, I was fascinated by his narration. To hear a Vulsteen speak of "heightened experience"—notwithstanding the novelty of hearing one speak at all—drew me like a moth to flame. Perhaps this would explain the psychotic art splashed across random walls! At the very least it would explain why we had been kidnapped, and why the Vulsteen had gone to such lengths not to kill us (although I admit it was a near brush with death by fright when we were thrown in with the breen). After all we had suffered, they owed us this much.
"Years ago," he continued in the same distracted tone, "we lived on the surface, as other men. But the land changed, and the thunder lizards and the breen and the bats came and we were chased beneath the earth, where they could not reach us. We were safe, but the confinement drove many mad. Our scientists perfected a method of draining out all volatile emotions. This allowed us to live underground without sun, without air, and without madness.
"But as time passed, violence began to break out. Men murdered without warning, without reason. We found that emotion could not be drained, only suppressed, and that when it built up, like fluid in the brain, it must be allowed to escape or it would explode in violence.
"It became a conundrum: that we must express emotion to survive, but quash it to live. We discovered, at last, that we could draw emotion from others and rebroadcast it toward ourselves. With this catalyst, we could experience our own emotions in a powerful but harmless burst of energy. For a few hours we are gripped by strong passions, but they can be channeled, and then we return to the serenity and calm order of our lives.
"For our emotional subjects, we chose the breen: bestial savages but with manlike emotions that could be drained and reused. They have served us for generations, even though left to their own devices they would do naught but kill each other, and soon we would have none left. But the breen prefer killing outsiders to fighting with their own kind. So when we find travelers, we bring them here, and we loose them in the arena, where they fight for their lives. It takes only exposure to the outer air to whip the beasts into a frenzy, and you Nuum, when you are threatened, are particularly vicious. We will absorb your energy and use it. If you live, you go free—but you will not."
Three us stood stunned at this matter-of-fact lecture on the rationale of our execution, but Timash was having none of it. Throwing himself against the bars, he reached one sinewy arm as far as it would go, clutching air inches from the Vulsteen who, I am certain, had chosen exactly that distance from the bars for precisely that reason.
"You see?" he rasped. "It works." He pointed to the far set of bars, which slid upward as at his signal. "Go." He pointed at Timash. "You are the largest. You go last."
Unwilling to march to our own horrible deaths, none of us moved. But the Vulsteen must have seen it all many times.
"That door will remain open whether you leave here or not. The breen will find you regardless."
There is not a man
worth his mother's pain who would not rather die in the open than in a cage. I lead Harros and Marella onto the sand of the arena, and whirled when we heard the bars crash down behind us, a second ahead of Timash's anguished roar. Again his arms plunged through the bars; his hands grasped them in a futile attempt to move the door, but it was adamant. I took his hairy paw in my own.
"Courage!" I hissed at him. "This is all planned. Find out why they left you there and use that knowledge to help you to escape!"
Several soft thumps sounded behind me and I turned to find that our weapons had been thrown into the arena with us. Even as I seized mine I had to admire the Vulsteen’s ruthless consideration for the conservation of their resources. Armed, we would survive a few moments longer, providing a few more precious drops of passion for their dead husks of souls.
I twisted the handle of my staff until the sword leaped out, ready to do battle as was Marella's, while Harros stood bravely with a club and net. But even as I hefted it, I saw myself pushing the point between the ribs of the breen I knew as Uncle Sam, and my rage grew at these arrogant ghouls who threw friend against friend in a battle to the death only because they lacked the courage to make their own way in the world.
I raised my head to shout my defiance at the crowd—and stopped, speechless at the sight of hundreds of pale-skinned living skeletons perched on their stone benches, burning eyes pinned on me in rapt anticipation of their upcoming feast upon my soul.
Sucking in my breath, I resolutely turned my back, forcing my emotions deep down in my breast and taking the last calm moment that my life might ever know. Across the way, I saw a barred door lift away and the breen emerge into the light. Pushing and snarling, they broke onto the sand singly and in fractious pairs, raising a small hope that perhaps they would, after all, break into a riot before they even saw us.
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