Farmers & Mercenaries (2 page)

R
olling onto his back, he lay on the hard slab that formed his bed and glared at the stone ceiling. Its wooden support beams stretched out like the fingers of a giant hand. Sleep had come little to him over the previous eve. Once more, he wondered how it would feel to have the ceiling come crashing down, ending his suffering, and releasing him from his burdens.

I never rest well before a fight.

Tilting his head, he squinted at the early morning light spilling through the bars of the tiny window set high in his cell wall. Dust motes danced above the dingy floor.

Curse you, Lords of the Dark. Why must you retreat from dawn’s light each morn?

His muscles made their usual complaints. The pain in his right shoulder burned like a festering evil, nagging at him continuously. The wound causing this annoyance was a souvenir from a man whose body now fed the worms. Knots had formed during the eve as well. The combination of these irritated him and fueled his foul mood. Rolling to his side, he pushed himself off the rags that served as his bedding and swung his hindpaws to the straw-covered stone floor. The dank smell of urine wafted in through the small barred window of his cell door, saturating everything.

Filthy Humans!

Reaching up, he massaged a kink from his upper back and shoulder. While sleep eluded him, he had forced himself to endure an extra aurn of training. The dirt from the dingy cell mingled with his sweat, matting his fur in several places. Running his sharp claws through the tangles, he worked at combing them out.

I need no matted fur beneath my armor this day. Provided the Julitans of the Games even allow me to wear armor.

“Beast!” A bellow rang out from the hallway.

Focusing on the barred window set in the center of the ironbound-oaken door, he scowled with hatred as the bloated, ebony-skinned face of his Keeper popped into view. “My name is Klain, you hunk of pig dung!” Although Klain spoke no other tongue, his guttural growl made the Human words seem foreign even to
his
ears.

Baring his front fangs, Klain spat on the floor.

“Aye, mayhaps. Alas, the crowd will chant for the
beast
this day. They shall no sing your praises.” The Keeper chuckled and leaned his forehead against the bars. “And they do care less than I of what your name be.” Exposing a mouthful of rotted teeth, the man’s dark black lips split into a wide grin. Chuckles turning into howling laughter, the Keeper withdrew from the window. “They do wish only to watch the Kith beast fight—and die.”

A small slot at the bottom of the door opened and a tray of raw meat slid into the cell. Glancing at the Keeper, who once again looked through the window, Klain knew his confusion was obvious by his opened-eyed expression.

“Aye, beastie, tis fresh. Twas slaughtered this morn. The Master did say to give his Kith beast a good final meal. This day I do think you earn him back all the ta’narians he did spend on you these past few turns of the seasons.” The black man turned, disappearing from Klain’s view. The Keeper’s laugh echoed along the stone corridor as he wandered down the hall, smacking other cell doors in passing. The mumbled complaints from the occupants of those rooms increased the delight in his laughter.

Alone once more, Klain sat and stared at the dish resting on the dirty floor. His first impulse was to refuse the fresh meat. His mouth watered over the rare delicacy he had enjoyed only once before during his short life.

I will
not
give the Master pleasure thinking he has given his
pet
a treat.

His heart boiled with rage. Within moments, however, he relented. He would need the extra energy it would give him for the tasks awaiting him this day.

Besides, the fat pig could be correct. This may well
be
my final meal.

With a grunt, he leaned over and snatched up one of the hindquarters by its protruding bone. He brought it close to his face, hoping to drive the stench of the dungeon from his nose, if even for a moment. His whiskers bristled.

Lamb! Fresh, as the pig said.

Klain sank his fangs into it, allowing the blood it still held to drip onto his chest fur. He fended off the urge to rush. Instead, he ate leisurely, savoring the flavor of the raw meat.

The Julitans of the Games have planned my day. There is no need for me to hurry. My Keeper will come for me when the
Julitans
deem it right. I will be equipped with whatever pleases
them
. All for the amusement of
their
crowd.

His Master, Estular Jerts, had delivered him into the hands of the Games.

My life is forfeit.

He had heard the wild tales that accompanied his arrival to the city—knew the lies his Master told the people of his s
avage crimes
. How he had ruthlessly attacked a small farming stead, hunting and slaughtering its children for sport, feasting on the corpses of the dead. Stories of his fight against the Proctor’s men spread as well, growing more outrageous with every telling. Of the small army of Humans it took to bring him down, bind him, and deliver him here to satisfy justice. At first, he had not understood why Estular had spread these lies.

Now I know. The crowd hates me, and the Julitans will do everything in their power to please them. They have bought and paid for my death.

A slam against the metal bands of the cell door snapped him from his thoughts. Jerking into a half crouch, Klain growled with fangs bared, his long tail lashing out in a wild arc.

“Oh, you
are
in rare form.” His Master, Estular Jerts, smiled through the barred window. With his black hair combed flat, beard and mustache trimmed and waxed, and his olive-colored skin shining, the Human exuded perfection. Klain peered into the cold, green eyes he had grown to hate over the past two turns of the seasons, and fought the urge to fling himself against the thick door that was the only thing separating him from the man. Turning his back to Klain, Estular spoke to the hallway. “As I told you, Honored One, a frightfully uncivilized beast at the best of times. Please do not be shocked by what you see.” Estular’s accent was different from any other Human Klain had ever heard—it had a high-pitched clip to it.

Rising, Klain hesitated as some
thing
replaced his Master in the window. Peering through the bars at him stood a creature stranger than anything Klain had ever seen. The head of the being was the shape of an inverted teardrop. The smooth skin covering it, devoid of any facial hair, gave off a faint grayish-blue hue. Slim, deep-gray lips formed its mouth, and a tiny set of slits created its recessed nose. Silky-white hair flowed up and over the top of the creature’s head, accentuating the lack of any protruding ears. It gave the thing an eerie, alien appearance.

Having been exposed to many strange beings in his life, Klain did not understand why this creature would cause him to feel so uneasy. Yet, his hackles rose and a low growl rumbled deep in his chest. He stood, locked in the being’s gaze, unable to move. Large and black, like pools of liquid infinity, the creature’s eyes held him. They lifted him up though his hindpaws never left the ground. They reached in and ripped out his very essence, paralyzing him. Never before had Klain felt naked, vulnerable. He wanted those eyes to embrace him forever, to hold him and let him weep. Though he had never wept before.

Klain searched his mind, or more appropriately, watched as some other force searched his mind. He had no memories of freedom. Had never run anywhere nor hunted anything as the lies his Master told spoke of. All of his early memories were of chains and bars.

I was a mere cub when they took me captive.

Dreams stemming from the tales told to him in his youth still haunted him—stories of the Humans who slaughtered his family and sold him to his first owners. He hoped those were lies as well.

The lies of a puny race.

In his mind’s eye, the vision of what he imagined his parents might have looked like took shape. His sire stood tall, even for a Kithian, head and shoulders above any Human. Golden-brown fur lay painted over his sire’s muscular frame, and a lush, dark-brown mane surrounded his head. The mane came to a point well below his chin and rested against a bulging chest. The image cast a striking likeness to what Klain thought he himself was growing into. The figure conjured of his sire both pleased and comforted him. Klain yearned to see the pride in his sire’s eyes, longed to watch the older Kith’s fangs creep from their sanctuary behind thin lips as his mouth formed into a smile.

His roar must have put the fear of the Gods into anything that heard it!

In times past, Klain had dreamed of his sire’s claws brushing through his own developing mane, to scratch behind his round, tufted ears.

A second Kith also materialized in his mind. He had never before seen a female of his species, yet what he saw seemed correct to him. She did not have the large mane that he and his sire shared, though she was covered in the same golden-brown fur and stood strong as well. It upset Klain to see that her face lay hidden by a shadowy shroud. The living image melted away as abruptly as it had appeared. A longing filled Klain as the picture fled from his thoughts, and once again he grieved for the loss of a mother’s embrace. An embrace he had never felt.

I know in my heart she loved me, though we were not together long.

Actual memories were drawn out and examined as well. Klain had spent his first turns of the seasons on display in a far-off land the Humans named Silaway. His first masters had kept him in a small cage, raising him as a freak show attraction in their traveling ménagerie. He grew up in that tiny pen, or chained behind it while they pulled the cart along to the next town or village.

Two winters past, Klain had noticed many of the entertainers leaving, as well as entire shows being canceled. The crowds of onlookers grew smaller and smaller. The ménagerie traveled to fewer towns, camping more and performing less.

Before that season’s end, the owners of the ménagerie sold Klain to his current master, a vile and cruel little man named Estular Jerts. Estular had moved his new possession to a small villa on the coast and trained him in the art of combat. Spending the next full turn of the seasons with a dozen different trainers, each with their own style, they taught him how to use weapons, fangs, and claws. Showing him that anything could become a tool for dealing out death.

“Train hard, my beast, yet be well, for you
are
my future.” This was a favorite saying of Estular’s as he watched his pet’s progress. The man watched little, however, instead choosing the comfort of his villa over the open air of the courtyard. Klain never understood how his skin held its permanent tanned appearance.

Then one day, without explanation, they packed Klain into a cage and set off.

Expecting to be put on display once more, the prospect appalled him. Even though his Keeper beat him often, and the trainers wore him down to the point of collapse, Klain relished this new life of fighting over that of a caged freak. The freedom to move about in a large, open courtyard seemed palatial compared to his past existence in that tiny cage. Though he fought with fake weapons and specially designed pads covered his claws, the elation that gripped him as he pitted himself against his trainers lifted his spirits to a height he had never believed possible.

Estular’s agenda, however, had not involved the Kith serving as an exhibit. Once they reached their destination, they dropped Klain into a large dirt pit surrounded by a throng of shrieking men. Klain’s understanding grew as they tossed a hairy brown creature—all teeth and claws and fury—into the pit as well. The thing stank of something left to wallow in its own filth for moons. Any intelligence the creature may have possessed in the past had long since been beaten out of it. The hunger showing in its eyes had sent a shiver of uncertainty streaking through Klain’s core.

It had no fear of me until the very end, when it knew me as predator, not prey. Kill, or have death wrap you in its cold embrace. A pleasure I have come to know well these past few turns of the season.

He still savored the memory of that first real struggle for life. Reliving it now did nothing to tarnish its glory. As he never had before, Klain knew what it meant to be alive.

Moons later, after many an opponent had made him feel life at the cost of their death, his Master booked passage for them on a sailing ship.

“We travel to the lands of Ro’Arith, and the grand city of Mocley!” Estular stood watching as sailors lowered Klain’s cage into the darkness of the vessel’s hold. “The land of your birth.”

Ro’Arith! A place I thought I would never see.

For near three tendays, Klain endured the rocking of the dank hold with the rest of the cargo. Other than his Keeper, who brought him food, the ship’s rats became his sole companions. On the day the ship docked, Estular paraded Klain with much fanfare down the streets of Mocley. His Master rode the whole way, perched atop his pet’s cage, announcing to all that a Kith beast would fight in the upcoming Games—something the man proclaimed had never before happened during the Game’s long history. The trek through the massive city brought Klain to the cell he now occupied. During the past few tendays, he had resumed training to recapture the strength lost during the long voyage. Since they worked him in private, he seldom saw any faces other than those of his trainers or Keeper.