Tarn froze and fixed his gaze to Zachem’s. “Creation,” he murmured. “I was right.” Surprised that the male
still
showed no dread, Zachem had to know. “Why is it you’re not scared of me?”
Shaking his head, as if to free himself from the lust building between them, Tarn answered, “I don’t fear the unknown. And you’re not as much a stranger to me as you’d think.” He licked his lips. A promise of things to come? “You know, the more I think about it, the more I welcome this fight. Don’t worry, Zachem. I swear I won’t be too hard on you when we meet. Unless you need it, that is.” He stood and waited, but for what Zachem wasn’t sure.
He was too stunned at Tarn’s words. “
You
think to challenge
me
? Truly?” Perhaps Tarn had been hit in the head one too many times. Though the male looked sane enough, time in The Pit could dull the sharpest of blades.
“Truly. Thanks for the food. I’ll see you around.”Tarn turned away, led from the room by two guards.
Zachem stared after him, simultaneously baffled and thrilled. A chance at a worthy opponent. And after the fight, a worthy bedmate, at least for as long as Furon would let Tarn stay. Would let Tarn
live
.
The thought didn’t sit well with him at all, and as he left the room to go to the training area, he puzzled over the enigmatic Tarn. For the first time since Zachem’s escape from that hated laboratory, he wondered if he’d win their battle, and why the thought of losing didn’t bother him as much as it should.
Tarn rolled his neck, easing the building tension. Clad only in his ragged trousers, he felt free to move his arms about, stretching his muscles as he prepared to face his newest opponent. Yorum had informed him that if he continued to win, he’d face the beast in seven days time. With each win, Tarn would receive a reward. Better food. Better women. Even a shot at fucking the beast, if he so dared.
A glance at the fighting ring to his immediate right showed the object of his fascination waiting to battle three heavily armed Mardu. Tarn had to force himself to think about his pending fight and not how damned good the man looked wearing nothing more than a loin cloth.
Zachem glanced his way then ignored him, which piqued Tarn more than a little. After their lunch earlier, he would have thought he’d rattled the man. Then again, Zachem didn’t react the way others did. The male challenged Tarn on several levels, which made avoiding him an impossibility. Tarn
had
to know what it was about the male that called to him.
“Brawlers, at the ready,” Yorum announced from outside the caged ring.
Tearing his attention from the beast, Tarn still hadn’t decided how to proceed. On the one hand, he needed to remain in The Pit for the next ten days. Those who lost their bouts sometimes fought again, though most were taken below ground to aid in the mining efforts.
He’d rather battle ill-bred warriors than waste his time and talent digging for Colony Quartz.
But if he defeated his opponents too badly, he’d be under an immediate spotlight, making it that much harder to remain inconspicuous. Added to that, the unshakable fact that he wasn’t sure he could throw a fight. An Ebrellion never gave anything but his all in battle.
It felt wrong to even consider losing before he’d engaged.
“Gather and place your bets,” Yorum yelled into his amplifier. “Argon the Arrogant meets Slave Six.”
Tarn grimaced, the warrior within aggravated by such a ridiculous name. At home, he’d have been introduced as the The Krusch Killer, Destroyer of Kings and Berserker of the Otherworld Army. Here they called him Slave Six.
He huffed.
What I deserve for volunteering to leave my homeworld for this System. I can’t
believe I thought policing rogue Ebrellions would satisfy me.
Tarn was ever in search of a challenge. With the Krusch defeated and his homeworld again safe, the army had little use for him other than training. After one day with the new recruits, Tarn had known he had neither the patience nor the interest in preparing soldiers for war. He lived for the battle, not the headache and political jockeying for promotion that became a way of life in the army. A definite waste of his skills.
Thus his decision to venture into the Vrail System—unknown hostile territory—to deal with rogue Ebrellions. Unfortunately, word leaked that he’d been sent to contain his brethren, and they avoided him whenever possible. So he stuck to his cover, that of a bar owner in Four Walls on planet Mardu. The scum that frequented the bar couldn’t compare to full-blown Ebrellion warriors, not that very many of them even tried.
“Fight!” Yorum screamed as a loud bell rang.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tarn saw Zachem take on his armed opponents. A glance at his own adversary made him frown. Argon stood as tall as Tarn and had a good bit of muscle, but he didn’t move like a brawler. His balance was off, his footwork worse than poor. A glance at the male, using his inner sight, showed his
shei
bruised and beaten. The energy around the male’s hands looked black. A definite weakness.
“You don’t hit with your whole fist, you
drun
,” Tarn said, shaking his head as he waited. Argon threw a punch he easily dodged. “You hit with the flat of your knuckles and ease into the blow. Like this.”
He swung and connected with the large male’s belly.
The man went down. The crowd roared.
To his right, Tarn watched Zachem toy with the Mardu. A waste of energy on those three, he thought. Zachem’s
shei
shone brightly, the glow of health and power a natural draw for a true warrior.
Like me. He should be fighting me, not those idiots.
A kick to his ribs shocked Tarn into paying better attention. Argon grinned at him, a sadistic light in his black eyes. At least that was something Tarn could work with. Though the man didn’t have talent, he had the will to inflict pain, which made the fight somewhat bearable.
Even going easy on the male, Tarn defeated him in less time than it took to go through his stretching exercises at home. He left Argon the Arrogant with broken bones and a damaged
queil.
He’d piss blood for a week and heal well enough, as long as he received proper care. A glance at the guards hauling him from the ring made Tarn rethink the possibility of that notion.
“Nice work, Slave Six.” Yorum chuckled, fingered a handful of credit chips, and led Tarn from the ring, away from the crowd and into the mouth of the corridor leading to the slave pens. There they stopped and watched the beast.
A larger crowd around Zachem’s ring screamed in delight as bodies hit the caged walls of the cell. They chanted his name and raised their hands into the air.
“Now that’s a fighter.” Yorum puffed up with pride. “I can’t wait to see you two go at it.”
Neither can I.
That much control obviously held a lot of passion. Rage or desire, Tarn didn’t much care. He wanted to see both on Zachem’s face when he plunged into the male’s
honet
and filled the tight warmth with his seed.
To his regret, he couldn’t see Zachem’s face with so many fans rushing the raised platform. Several in the crowd had to be stunned to force them back. Zachem even knocked a few away before his guards guided him through the rush into the corridor. Towards Tarn.
When their gazes met, the heat unfurling in his gut blazed into a burst of desire Tarn barely held back. He thought he saw the same in Zachem’s eyes, but the beast squelched his emotions quickly enough after a glance over Tarn’s shoulder.
Tarn stiffened, prepared to fight this new danger.
Before he could turn around, Yorum shoved a phaser in his side. “Easy, Slave Six.
Master Furon wants a word.”
“The name is Tarn.” He turned slowly to meet Master Furon, face to face.
A slender yet muscular male, Furon stood two heads smaller than Tarn. Looking down on the male would have provided him some satisfaction, were Tarn not aware of the pleasure Furon had in looking up at him. A quick study with his inner senses showed him the power that radiated in the slave master. This was not a man to take lightly. Zachem had the right of it to be wary.
“Nice fight, Slave Six.” Furon smiled, an oily expression of delight on his handsome face. He looked almost too pretty to be a man. Probably hailed from Nebe6, the pleasure planet. A Nebite, especially considering his propensity for sex, as Tarn had witnessed the previous night. Nebites loved nothing more than desire. They lived with it day in and day out, and were the only race whose genetics seemed to mix with the others in the System.
“Master Furon.” Tarn bowed his head slightly, while keeping his gaze on Furon’s face.
“Now this is how a slave should respond.” Furon laughed then glared at Zachem.
“Beast, you fought well tonight. But I though we’d agreed you wouldn’t finish them until the third round.”
Tarn glanced at Zachem, not surprised to see the rage banked in the blaze of his eyes.
“I tried, but I’m afraid the scythe caught at my control.” He held out a bloody arm, and everyone watched as the jagged wounds continued to heal in front of them.
Fascinated, Tarn wondered if Zachem had any Ebrellion in him. Though he didn’t sense the male was of his line, self-healing was not a common trait among those who dwelled in this corner of the universe.
“Not good, Beast. I think you need another lesson in discipline.” Furon clenched his fist around a small remote and a low hum sounded.
Zachem dropped to his knees in agony. He contorted, his body seizing as Furon activated an enon pulse in his collar, yet he remained strangely silent through it all. A hideous display of torture for such an admirable fighter.
Tarn studied Zachem’s reactions, noting how the healed wound suddenly bled again, how Zachem’s skin, in pain, took on a bluish, sickly hue. How he writhed in anguish but refused to give Furon the satisfaction of a scream.
“Master Furon?” Tarn said to stop the torture. “Master Furon,” he said again, and felt a wave of relief when Furon released his trigger on the remote.
“Slave, you speak without permission,” Furon murmured, focused on Zachem, who looked unconscious as he lay on the cold ground, his wounds slow to heal.
“Forgive me. I meant no offence. I merely wanted to offer a suggestion.” Furon turned, and the dark energy seething through his body alarmed Tarn with its power. “Speak.”
“I come from a small but advanced slave community in the Outer Rim. On my world, the enon collar has its place. But we found a much better form of control over the slaves, one they hated more than anything.”
“You speak as if you were a slaver.”
“I was.”
Furon’s interest increased. “How did you end up here?” Relying on the story he’d fabricated for this mission, Tarn answered. “I was the lead of our guard, a dispenser of discipline, like yourself. Unfortunately, I underestimated my rival.
The bastard took advantage of one small lapse in judgement. He drugged me and sold me before I could gather my wits and retaliate. Truth be told, I’m still not sure how I ended up in The Pit.”
“A pretty story. Not that I believe you, but I’m curious. What would you say is more painful than that?” He pointed at Zachem.
Tarn couldn’t believe his good fortune. “Would you like me to demonstrate?” Furon scowled. “Not on me, fool. Pyrgo, come here.” Tarn started as Pyrgo moved slowly, breaking his sudden camouflage from the stone wall upon which he’d waited. Knowing he needed to neutralize the threat immediately, Tarn flexed his arms and felt the sting of claws overtaking his nails. A subtle readiness, one he’d put to use just as soon as Pyrgo stepped a foot closer.
Pyrgo, the bastard, stopped in his tracks and stared hard at Tarn.
“Destroyer, you have
my respect and my silence. I would warn you to watch what you do. Furon is much more than he
seems. We must talk later.”
To Furon, Pyrgo nodded his head in deference and said, “Yes, Master Furon?”
“Submit to this one’s whims. I’m curious to see what could be worse than the collar.
And Slave Six? If I’m not satisfied by this display, you’ll feel the sting of the enon pulse next.”
Tarn bowed his head. “It would be my pleasure to demonstrate.” To Pyrgo, he added,
“I’ll be quick.”
Pyrgo made no overt moves, but Tarn could sense the Ebrellion’s tension. Nice to know his reputation preceded him.
“Get on with it, slave,” Pyrgo said with a sneer. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.
Tarn approached and placed one hand on Pyrgo’s belly and the other around Pyrgo’s throat.
“What are you doing?”
Pyrgo asked.
“Masking The Hold.”
At mention of The Hold, Pyrgo froze, but it was too late. With his mind, Tarn reached inside the man’s body and firmed a psychic grip around Pyrgo’s
shei
.
Tarn interrupted the field of energy making up Pyrgo’s essence.
Pyrgo groaned and shivered under Tarn’s hands. Tarn drew meaningless patterns over Pyrgo’s skin to look convincing, because no physical touch could do what Tarn’s mind could.
But Furon didn’t need to know that.
“Interesting,” Furon murmured and stepped closer. “He looks to be in extreme pain.
Pyrgo? Pyrgo, how does it feel?”
Tarn disregarded Furon’s excitement and concentrated, so as not to overly harm Pyrgo while still making him most uncomfortable. The Ebrellion began to sweat and his muscles cramped. His heart stuttered, trying to overcome the blockage of energy putting him on the verge of passing out.
“Can’t…breathe…” Pyrgo whispered around another groan of pain. Blood trickled from his nose.
“Fascinating.” Furon stared with a wide grin. “You are indeed correct, Slave Six. This is much better than an enon pulse. The pulse renders them unconscious. But this keeps them awake and aware of the pain. Enlightening.”
Tarn didn’t wait for Furon to tell him to stop, since it appeared the slave master would rather Pyrgo died than order Tarn to relent. He released his mental hold over Pyrgo’s
shei
and quickly repaired the small damage he’d done.
“Pretend it still pains you. Moan, dammit.”