 
# The Chronicles of Aallandranon

Episode Four

# The Siege of Enigma Station

# By Benjamin Allen

# A Science Fiction-Fantasy Series

Smashwords Edition

First American Edition

ISBN: 9780463834534

Copyright © 2016 Benjamin Allen, EK Publishing Media. All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2000 The Chronicles of Aallandranon, created by Benjamin Allen

EK Publishing Media.Com

This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of interested readers. This eBook may not be re-sold for profit, but may be loaned at the purchaser's discretion. This eBook may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes provided the eBook remains in its complete original form and all due credit goes to the original author, Benjamin Allen. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is intended for mature readers. Scenes depict graphic murder, drug use, and sexuality. This story is also a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales, are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

# Summary

The Starship Enigma has fallen, and the survivors have each experienced their own form of Hell on the planet of Aallandranon during the weeks following their landing upon its surface. Jonathan Tabith, the designer of the vessel, crashes the ship on a remote part of the continent of Chartan: far to the east of the tower city of Crysies. He disembarks the ship only to find himself in the necropolis of Fort Drogan—a graveyard that is haunted by eerie alien creatures that quickly surround Jonathan before they're mowed down by the Aallandranon natives on horseback.

Jonathan is taken hostage and like many of the survivors who are captured by the Aallandrons, he is forced to fight to the death. However, the Aallandrons haven't quite figured out who these Humans are and why they're so hard to kill. Jonathan survives what he believes is his execution, and is sent across the Adane Sea to be killed elsewhere. The boat he and the other prisoners are on is lost, and he washes up as the only survivor on the shores of Ire where he meets a young woman named Aya.

Jonathan meets up with a fellow Enigma recruit named Joel before his fighter spacecraft, known as a Hawk, gets stolen. Aya's brother, Balor, takes pity on Jonathan and Joel and teaches Jonathan how to fight. The shack where they are staying is ambushed by thieves while Jonathan and Aya are out getting food. Balor is killed while Joel is taken prisoner. Jonathan tracks the thieves and avenges Balor before falling for Aya. The next morning, Jonathan is recaptured by the Aallandrons and sentenced to fight until his last breath.

Meanwhile, many survivors return to Fort Drogan and the Enigma, thinking the city and ship would be easy to defend. They begin building homes and fortifications, but the Aallandrons seem to have eyes everywhere. Jonathan must figure out how to survive his unfortunate fate as the Enigma survivors adapt to the harsh reality that they've been dealt.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

# 1

Northeast of the tower city of Crysies, on the Aallandron named continent of Chartan, eight four-wheel-drive Earthen vehicles—all full to capacity with Human survivors of the Enigma—rolled across the barren landscape of the Dedlands in a line. They overtook a hill and began their descent toward the wreckage that the Enigma discharged when Jonathan Tabith crash-landed the spacecraft.

Chance Trillian stood up from the passenger seat of one of the four-wheelers with a pair of binoculars up to his green eyes. He scanned the wreckage while they still had the height advantage. He saw the large compartment that had been Weapons Division C in the distance. It was covered with the Ferenite bastards that Emellio, their Aallandron translator, had mentioned. Chance directed the driver toward the trashed and scattered facility at the base of the hill, warning the other passengers to be ready to fire.

They rolled up to the facility to have the Ferenites emerge from within like ants to a disturbance on the surface. The four-wheelers came to a halt. Everyone ejected the vehicles with their weapons at the ready. They dropped into a formation line and the air filled with the constant patter of exploding gunpowder and bullets. They gunned and reloaded, and gunned some more. The distorted mask-like faces of the creatures torqued and erupted in purple blood and amber bone. The survivors of the Enigma mowed the Ferenites down as they advanced on the facility with their semi-automatic rifles and shotguns. Once inside, the Ferenites had such limited melee access that the Humans didn't have any problem taking them down. They had the place cleared in ten minutes, all the weaponry to themselves.

"No casualties," said Chance. "See, if you listen to me you'll never go wrong."

Goose snickered. "If we listened to you all the time, we'd never have liberated the Enigma from these bastards. Enigma Station is going to be our best line of defense."

"Enigma Station is a giant sitting duck. Establishing a human base is your first mistake and it may be your last." Chance said, perusing the ammunition cabinets.

"Yeah, yeah, everyone knows how you feel about the Aallandrons. We'll see how they feel when we become a superpower."

"Guys, we have company." Chuck Staley said. He was the youngest member of their group. "Aallandrons on horseback. They followed us and turned around when we saw them. What should we do?"

"Catch them and bring them back here." Chance said. Chuck hurried back the way he came.

"What do you plan to do after that?" Emellio entered the room. He had short black hair and dark brown eyes.

"What they would do to us if we followed a troop of theirs." Chance said.

"Don't kill them. They're just following orders. You might avoid bad ties with Crysies if they tell their superiors we released them."

"Crysies made bad ties when they didn't spare our people." Chance picked up a small nuclear device that was still active. "This might come in handy." He clipped it to his backpack.

"Hey Chance," said Nathan Burks, a man with short blond hair and bright green eyes. "You might want to come take a look at this."

—

Chuck jumped into the four-wheeler next to Remus, a man in his mid-thirties with a big black beard and mutton chops. The afternoon sun descending toward the horizon in the west glared off the thick black sunglasses covering his brown eyes as he sucked on the end of a thin cigarillo.

"It's your lucky day, Remus." Chuck said, starting up the vehicle. Remus lifted his mechanical right hand to hold on to the titanium frame of the vehicle. They fired forward. The shocks absorbed the rocks and brush as they bounded over the hill and aimed for the two figures galloping toward the forest line preceding the twisted wood of the Dedlands.

They caught the Aallandrons on horseback in a matter of minutes. As Chuck pulled up close to the riders, Remus stood up while still holding onto the vehicle. Chuck pulled closer. The Aallandron nearest to them swore. Remus planted his fist in the rider's side and grabbed hold of his cloak. Swinging him into the back seat of the four-wheeler, Remus punched out the man and watched the other rider disappear behind the tree-line.

Remus grabbed hold of the rifle from the holster beneath the passenger dashboard, directed the nozzle toward the flash of green fabric beyond the passing trees, and fired. There was a splay of red, and the fabric fell away from the brown and white color of the horse as it galloped out of sight of the field. Chuck pulled the vehicle to a halt near the trees. "Stay here," barked Remus.

He got out and entered the cool air of the forest. The Aallandron man was crawling toward a rock preceding a narrow creek. Remus picked him up by the back of his cloak and took hold of his neck. Surveying him, he saw that his shot had tagged him in the shoulder. The man pleaded for Remus to spare his life. Remus drew the knife at his hip and was about to cut his throat when an odd feeling crept through him. He looked around the clearing, hearing only the gentle trickle of the stream beneath the yammer of his prey.

"What's the hold up?" Chuck asked, approaching from behind.

That's when Remus saw them: an incalculable number of Crysies soldiers in the trees beyond the creek. It was already too late. He turned to Chuck. "Run! Tell the others! RUN!" He tried to run, but he didn't even get one foot in front of the other before he felt at least six arrows throughout his backside. He fell to his knees, watching Chuck narrowly avoid the swarm of arrows barraging from the hill behind him.

Chuck ran as fast as he could. When he emerged from the tree-line, their prisoner was awake and directing his crossbow right at him from the back of the four-wheeler. Chuck dodged the bolt and tackled the soldier in the back of the four-wheeler, punching him across the face. Chuck tossed the crossbow over the edge of the vehicle and clambered into the driver's seat. He kicked the four-wheeler into gear and made for the weapons facility.

—

"What the hell is it?" Nathan Burks asked Chance, directing the beam of his flashlight into the hole burrowed into the earth at the back of the facility.

"Some kind of Ferenite hidie-hole. Emellio, do you know anything about this?" Chance asked.

Emellio peered at the formation. "I don't know very much about the Ferenites, but I've never seen anything like this before."

"Great, looks like we get to figure it out." Chance said, ducking to enter the tunnel. He clicked on the flashlight at the end of his gun and moved forward quickly with the descending path until it filtered out onto a balcony overlooking a huge underground city. What struck a chord of horror with Chance was the millions of Ferenites filling every square inch of the city. They moved like ants, a sea of them churning in different miraculously coordinated paths, their motions causing a dull roar throughout the cavern.

"Holy crap!" Nathan whispered.

"How are there so many left? They were supposed to have been wiped out decades ago." Emellio said.

"Let's get out of here." Chance ordered. The three hurried back the way they came. Chance paused and grabbed the device he'd picked up earlier. He set it for five minutes and tossed it over the ledge where it fell fifty feet and landed on what had been part of an elaborate aqueduct system. It then cartwheeled down the duct and fell into an ancient well that channeled deep into the recesses of a chamber that connected to the Volean Sea to the north. It then landed between a set of boulders beneath the crucial shelf supporting much of the plate of earth above. Chance, Emellio, and Nathan hurried to the surface.

"All right people, grab what you need. We have to be on our way out of here in two minutes." Chance said. He loaded his pack with ammo boxes, two repair kits, and a few grenades. Everyone else hurriedly gathered all the good equipment and started leaving. On his way out the door he grabbed a combat shotgun and an extra crate of shells.

The seven remaining four-wheelers filled with people and they started riding away from the facility. They were about two-hundred yards away when the detonation went off. The facility was disintegrated as a tower of fire engulfed the area. The earth began to rumble beneath them. geysers of water flooded across the valley from giant cracks in the crust.

Chance peered over his shoulder from the passenger seat. The sky went ruby red as a result of the firestorm. Behind them, a massive angle of earth was melting into the Volean Sea. "Jesus.... Probably shouldn't have done that so close to the Enigma...."

"You're some kind of stupid, right?" Boxer said as he manned the wheel. He was a burly man with a red bandana wrapped about his bald dome. His eyes were hazel and he had a tattoo of a vicious rabbit on his arm.

"Pest control, my good man. Wise man once told me that you have to get to the root of a problem." Chance said.

"I don't think that applies when you nuke part of the continent off. Where I'm from, that's called overkill."

"Let's get back to Enigma Station. I'd like to get back to Meacham early tomorrow morning."

"Why, you got a hot date in that shit-sty flea market?"

"One does not boast when others are not so fortunate, Boxer." Chance said.

—

Prince Jorar Crysies stood on the hill with General Peptis and Second Major Lucan. They watched through a break in the trees, the thundering force of the Humans and their machines, the dangerous technology they brought with them. They did not know or understand the power they had contained. It was only a matter of time before their force affected and ruined everything the Aallandrons held dear.

"Send for the full army." Jorar said to Lucan, eyeing the civilization that had matured within the city of Drogan that had not been there prior.

"Are you certain that's a good idea?" Peptis asked.

"Look at what they're capable of doing." He said, indicating the plate of earth that sank into the sea, sending a huge wave outward to the east. "What if they did that to one of our cities—to Scerasa or Narcuss? There'd be no survivors. We can't abide while this threat incubates. Now go, and be ready to storm on my command."

"Yes, lord." Lucan nodded and gigged his horse into motion. It was a long ride back to Crysies.

# 2

Jonathan made for the Vorago in the middle of the Sceresian slush pit. Those that didn't get out of his way he put down. One man tried to jump onto Jonathan from an overhead cliff, but Jonathan grabbed him by the wrist connected to a hand clutching a small makeshift shiv and broke his arm. He left the scraggly, dirty man to his fate on the side of the road, knowing that with a broken arm he had no chance of survival.

The closer he got to the Vorago, the more sophisticated the weaponry in the hands of the prisoners. Jonathan side-stepped a large club wrapped with wire, painted with blood, and filled with chunks of bone. He kicked the owner so hard that he hit the wall and dropped the club only to be ransacked by three hungry inmates. It was different being here instead of in the previous slush pit, even though almost everything was the same. Jonathan had learned to take care of himself. He felt safer here than he did out in the forest surrounded by thieves. There was no false security of safety.

He met a clearing between a path leading to a dilapidated building on his right and the path ahead that meandered to the Vorago ring. A group of prisoners emerged from the slabs of stone surrounding the intersection. Several carried pieced-together spears, while many held rocks or cudgels of sorts. They closed in, smelling of shit and piss. As they drove in on him, Jonathan wiped them out. He saw his attackers the way a fly sees a moving threat: slow and manageable. Everything Balor had taught him bubbled to the surface. Spears filled his vision, but he broke the ends and used them to end the lives of their owners. When he caught his bearings, he saw eleven men lying mortally wounded on the ground around him.

Jonathan continued on.

—

Myre Winshock, the executor of Duke Farnham Dartis's Hall of Champions, stood on the balcony overlooking the great Sceresian ring: the Defringo, as it was known for witnessing the rise and fall of champions. He wore a royal blue tunic, sash, and dastar. He had a brown mustache and beard, and his eyes were a deep blue. Every off season, he scouted for their house's new champion. The Dartis family had witnessed seventeen champions over the last fifty years, six of which had risen to power beneath Myre's training. He made it his business to seek out the most capable intermediate winner and take them back to Dartis where he would train them to face real champions.

He watched Jorez the Scorpion decapitate Yeats the Striker and maintain his title throughout the next four matches. That was a good sign. He saw other recruiters and executors in the audience as well. Ragul of Cherry, Harrol Roah of Crysies, Jemain Singul of Cathera; they were all known rivals, and each had their own set of complex techniques to teach the survivors.

Myre decided to wait before beginning the bid for Jorez. The day had only just begun, and who knew what kind of trophies lay in wait for him?

—

Jonathan grabbed a man's fist and threw him over the ledge of a narrow, dilapidated stone bridge leading to the Vorago ring. There were other men, but most of them backed off after seeing Jonathan put each foe down without trouble. The ones that didn't were ended. A large gate guarded the way beyond the end of the bridge. He stood before the wall at the end of the bridge, perusing the height of the formation.

"Vorago doesn't begin for another hour." Polari's voice carried from behind him. Jonathan turned around and saw him standing there, his long strawberry blonde hair tied into a ponytail. He had the largest sword Jonathan had ever seen in real life propped on his shoulder. "May as well wait for a bit."

"You made the biggest mistake of your life coming here." Jonathan said. "After what you did to me this morning, I should pull you apart bone by bone starting with the ones that won't kill you."

Polari grinned. His blue eyes never left Jonathan's. "Sounds like fun, but let's see just how much you really want it." His forearm flexed as he raised the massive sword over his head.

A pair of hands wrapped around Jonathan's throat. Jonathan grabbed the arms of his attacker and slammed him so hard into the ground in front of him that the man's shoulders dislocated from their sockets. More men came at him from the left and right. Jonathan fought his way through a swarm of vile, filthy, clawing fingers. He kicked the legs out of those in his way, throwing his fists into the boney ribs of decrepit prisoners. Jonathan kicked one man in the chest so hard that it stopped his heart. He used one of his assailants to block a set of knives while breaking a man's teeth on the stone bridge with the other. He used their own weapons against them, and broke them until it was only Polari standing at the end of the bridge. He looked displeased by Jonathan's survival.

Jonathan was covered in blood and sweat, stained with oily black from the grime and muck that these peasants lived in. He made for Polari, eyes narrowed with determination. He saw no red in his vision now. There was no other taking hold: it was all him, his drive to feel this man's life tapering out between his fingers, to feel Polari's blood running down his arms.

Jonathan charged. Polari swung his blade, missing Jonathan who put his fist into Polari's solar-plexus. His sword fell from his fingers and clattered to the ground before it toppled over the ledge behind him. Jonathan brought the point of his elbow down hard, shattering Polari's thigh, knee, and calf, bringing him to a bow. Jonathan grabbed Polari's right arm as his left pounded Jonathan in the back repeatedly. Jonathan planted his knee in Polari's bicep and pulled, breaking Polari's arm in six different places. Polari howled in agony until Jonathan punched him in the face. Blood and teeth fell from his lips as Jonathan broke his other arm.

He threw Polari's broken body off the ledge of the bridge. Polari splashed face-down into the black river below and made no attempt to rise. At least one hundred prisoners and inmates stood at the other end of the bridge, staring in horror at Jonathan.

Jonathan stared right back at them, needing no words to convey that he was not a force to be reckoned with. He turned as the gate behind him opened, and entered.

—

Lady Andra Winre sat in the high royal box overlooking the Defringo. She had long black hair flowing over the back of her chair. Her lavender eyes rolled into the back of her head as she tipped her head back, smiling. Her fingers ruffled the dark hair and neck of Chesner, her Catherian-born manservant as he pleasured her with his tongue beneath her gown. Her bare feet rested on a padded pew beneath the counter as his tongue lapped the little nub hidden beneath its soft alcove. His mustache tickled the skin of her thighs as he worked his talent. The crowd cheered from the stands below. Andra grew bored. She tapped Chesner on the neck and pushed him back, dropping her feet to the floor.

Chesner sat in the seat next to her and wiped his lips with a moist towel as Andra looked out at the crowd. "Would someone please explain to me why that buffoon is dancing around down there?"

"Jorez the Scorpion. He's from Cathera. I knew his eldest brother when he was a child." Chesner said.

"It would be gratifying to see him trampled or maimed in some way."

There was a knock at the door to her box. Andra hiked up her undergarments and dressed her robe as Chesner answered.

It was Freid, her middle son. He had his mother's brown hair and his father's green eyes. He wore a fancy tunic and black leggings tucked into finely tailored boots. The sword at his hip swayed as he entered. "I placed the bet on Garissen as you asked, Mother."

"Wonderful. Chesner," she barked, "have the waiter bring Freid and I each a platter of ham and fruit, if you would be so kind. And fetch me a tall gineve-sarton'."

Freid sat on the side of her opposite to Chesner's seat and peered over the balcony to the ongoing games below. Chesner brought the platter and drink for Andra. He sat down and watched as Jorez danced on the sidelines. He laughed as Jorez went from buffoon to serious fighter and slaughtered his competition.

Freid looked from Chesner to the field. "Mom says I'm not allowed to compete in the games."

"Of course not. No one would be down there if they had a choice." Chesner said.

"I would be. We're all up here," said Freid. "I'd love to let my blade drink the life of another."

Chesner glanced from Freid to his mother who was giving him a look of disgust, urging him to make it right. Chesner cleared his throat. "Being up here and being down there are two very different things. To be down there would be to deny all that your mother has worked for, to make sure your life is comfortable and without violent confrontation."

Freid sneered the way children do when they haven't the bearings to understand the gift of wealth that they are given at birth. To live under royalty, at peace, with a promise that no matter how dangerous the world becomes peace will never become forfeit. The idea that Freid would throw it all away for what others must know as servitude is simple ignorance. Even Chesner was in servitude to Freid's mother, but Freid had always been spoiled. "I want to head an army, I want to slay giant monsters like the champions and marry the princess of Narcuss."

Andra rolled her eyes. "If only they could pin down that girl. Rumor has it she goes missing every other night—turns up the next morning with a hangover. Despicable."

Freid scoffed. "She'd not do that if I were her husband. I'd lock her away and have her guarded day and night. I'd let her out to go to the bathroom once a day, and then it would be back to her room."

The idea was so childishly ignorant that neither Chesner nor Andra thought it necessary to correct the twisted reality the boy had concocted. To their own ignorance, the suggestions Freid made were not mere fabrications. He genuinely believed these things were possible, and that the world could bend and accommodate to his will.

"Did you ever fight in the games, Chesner?" Freid asked him.

"For a period in Cathera. Your mother bought me before Tertalus the Maimer could rearrange my face."

"Is that true?" Freid asked.

"No, I was across the street when Chesner, who had escaped from the arena in peasants' clothing, begged me to buy him so he could avoid an upcoming fight. I had recently discovered my maidservant sleeping with your father so I poked her jugular and made him watch her bleed to death all over the bed they... fornicated upon." She glared at the field, watching Jorez march up and down the sidelines as another fight went on. She blinked and took a deep breath, gathering herself. "If you two will excuse me, I will return momentarily."

Andra stood up and left the royal box. Chesner and Freid continued watching the games placidly, mesmerized by the continual onslaught on the field below.

# 3

When Chuck woke up, he was lying in a field of fire. He was covered in flame, but still alive somehow. His flesh burned as he hobbled to his feet. The four-wheeler was a jumbled heap of metal lying next to the charred remnants of a tree. The weapons facility that had been far ahead, last he remembered, was now a boiling lake at the bottom of the hill. Something had gone wrong. To their great misfortune, things had been going wrong since the Enigma.

When he turned around, a sense of horror iced through him. From the trees at the top of the hill leading to the southwest, a wave of Aallandron men on horseback surged down the tree line. The sun of the morning light set the gold and yellow colors of Crysies ablaze. They carried torches and held their blades up high. Reaching for his communicator, he realized that everything had burned off him. He was just a corpse on fire, awake to watch the death about to unfold upon his people.

At the peak to the north, Enigma Station lay against the lavender blue, star-studded morning sky. The small group of survivors were within the walls of what the Aallandron natives called Drogan's Fort. The wave became a full-blown tsunami. Across the landscape within Chuck's vision he saw more army than field. There were barely a thousand people living in Enigma Station. This was an army of fifty-thousand men at least. The army passed into the walls of Drogan's Fort with ease. Smoke filled the sky above the city as the Aallandron army ravaged one of the last remaining beacons of hope for Humankind.

People on horseback attempted to flee. Some of them got away by following the coastline before the Aallandron soldiers could head them off. Others were overtaken by the current of Aallandron soldiers. As the fire spread, the generators began to erupt throughout the city, killing people on both sides of the attack. Chuck heard them as pops. The rest was soundless due to the distance. So many were being murdered, so many taken. The women who weren't executed for fighting back and the ones who survived the wrath of the soldiers throughout the next few days until they reached Crysies would be sold as slaves. The men were doomed to die in the great gladiator battles where even if they survived, they would fight until the end of their lives. That's all the Aallandrons did with their prisoners.

It took perhaps thirty minutes for the city of Enigma Station to fall. Considering their technological advancements, it seemed like they would have survived longer, but they were scientists. Their knowledge of combat was minimal at best. Even if they had received prior knowledge of the attack, the Aallandrons and their numbers would have made everything they had obsolete.

Two Falcons and ten Hawks jetted out from the Flight Dock of the Enigma and launched in different directions. Most of the city was on fire when the Aallandrons of Crysies declared the battle a success and began filing out of Enigma Station and Drogan's Fort with their prisoners. Chuck couldn't believe what he was seeing. Men and women he had known throughout the academy on Earth and Pluto Station were shoved into cages or threaded together by chains. Their lives were over. Everything they knew and had been taught no longer applied. If the Aallandrons said their world was flat, no one would be at liberty to argue. That's how far back they were going: a pre-Galileo world with no promise of renaissance in sight.

—

Jorar Crysies emerged from one of the houses within Enigma Station looking satisfied. He panned the city on fire and smiled at the line of prisoners being led toward the fort entrance. Two guards left the house behind him, shoving a brown-haired girl with her clothes torn down to her knees into the street. Her face had been bloodied and bruised, and blood and dirt stained her legs. The body of the boy she had been living with was hauled out and tossed onto a pile of other dead bodies and burned.

Peptis rode up on his horse and slowed to Jorar's side. "A nice morning assault is so empowering, especially when there's virtually no defense. Everyone was still asleep, even after we started attacking."

"They are rather lazy, aren't they?" Jorar pinched the face of the young Human girl. "But their women are fighters. I like that." He slapped her across the face and directed his guards to take her away.

"There's more to search at the strange structure up the hill, but we haven't seen any people there so far." Peptis said.

"We've done enough. Let's get back and see if we can make it to Crysies by afternoon. We want all our men to have a satisfying night with the prisoners after a successful victory." Jorar said as two soldiers brought his black horse to him. Jorar climbed onto the back of his horse and adjusted the chain-mail armor beneath his plate-mail. Every king in his house had taken his pick of the fertile young women after a battle and took them to bed whether they opened up to him or not. Jorar had only been in six major battles, and only two of which involved young maidens during the after celebration.

He took a moment to finish arranging himself. He was about to gig his horse when one of the makeshift house doors flew open and a young man with dark hair and green eyes exited with a woman with blond hair by his side. The man carried one of the exploding sticks Jorar had seen circulating the games recently. He directed it at Jorar and fired. The explosion struck his chest and he flew off his horse. Soldiers flooded through the intersection from all directions, dog-piling the man with the gun. The girl tried to get away, but she had nowhere to go.

Peptis dismounted his horse to help Jorar up. "Are you all right, my lord?"

"Yes, stupid bastard only hit my armor." Crysies got to his feet and caught his wind again. He walked over to his attacker who'd been placed on his knees before him. Jorar snapped his fingers toward the girl with the blond hair who was sobbing uncontrollably. "Unfortunately, I'm already spent, but you can watch my men rip her to shreds before your eyes."

The man glared at Jorar, breathing so heavily through his nostrils that his nose flared.

"You don't like me." Jorar paced before the man as six soldiers ripped the clothes off the man's girlfriend. She screamed in protest as they crowded her and began to loosen their armor. "That's okay. If I were you I wouldn't like me either, and not because your girl would normally be scraps for my dogs." Jorar's attacker balled his fists as the men held the girl at the ready. "Boys," Jorar held up a hand and motioned for the guard holding the man's shotgun. "I'm just not a very nice person." Jorar cocked the shotgun as he walked around behind the woman. He placed the barrel of the gun to the woman's head, and fired, disintegrating the back of her skull to blood and bone. Her lover's eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

Jorar dropped the shotgun and took the dagger from his belt. He walked up to the man and stabbed him in the throat with the knife, allowing him to bleed out over the sandy floor. Jorar swore and wiped his hands with a towel that one of his men gave to him.

"Garbage," said Peptis. "Wonder why they holed up here. Where did they come from?"

"People hide in strange places." Jorar shrugged, wiping the blood from his dagger.

"Didn't we run through this place months ago looking for Ferenites? What are those flying machines? I think the situation is a little more complex than you give credit, Crysies."

"It doesn't matter. If they come back, we'll kill them again." The two mounted their horses and followed the army filing out of the city.

Chance Trillian was one of the last chained prisoners to leave Enigma Station. He had known this would happen if they set up permanent residence on this planet. He heard and saw everything. He vowed to make the Aallandrons pay for all of this if it was the last thing he ever did.

—

Jonathan waited in the first Vorago alone. The quartermaster for this arena was an enormous man with a bald head and scars all over his shirtless body. He had twisted teeth and muscular arms and legs. His eyes appeared as black discs beneath the dim torchlight of the underground Vorago that looked like a colosseum that had barely survived an apocalyptic event. The stands were empty. They didn't look like viewers could sit in them for how dilapidated and ruined they were.

"The eager first, I see." The quartermaster said as he opened the gates behind Jonathan. There was a line of prisoners on the walk outside the arena. Few of them made eye-contact with Jonathan as they filed in. Once everyone was inside, they grouped together. The quartermaster opened the cage to the weapons and turned to address them.

"My name is Bec. No need for formalities as only one of you will be leaving this arena today. Rules: the rules are, you get one weapon or item from the cage each round and you either kill your opponent, or your opponent kills you. Every weapon that enters the arena, stays in the arena. We alternate between one on one and two on two. The winner of the first round fights with a partner for one round, and then there's another round of one on one. No partner from a previous round will be pitted against you until the final round where the last men standing face off. I take it there are no questions.... Great, we'll start with you," Bec pointed at Jonathan and looked at the other prisoners who had each taken a huge step back, "and you." He directed his fat finger at a man who looked no older than twenty-five with long black hair.

The man had a mustache and dark eyes. Wherever he came from he had worn a uniform. It was folded down and tied about his sweaty waist. He didn't have a lot of weight, but his body was caked in condensed, tight muscle. He moved forward silently as Bec led them to the cage, which looked like a barred tool shed from the outside.

Bec opened the cage door and Jonathan surveyed his options. There were swords, knives, shields, maces, axes large and small, and even a few pieces of armor lying about the shelves. A lot of the weaponry looked too bizarre for Jonathan to understand, like the chains and blades hanging from the post in the corner. On one of the shelves, Jonathan saw an Earthen double-barrel shotgun. He picked it up and looked it over. He broke it open: only one shot in the right barrel. Might be worth a round if he didn't miss, otherwise he was better off with a club.

The man with the jumper about his hips perused his options and grabbed one of the blades and chains from the post. Jonathan decided to keep it simple and use a long sword. Bec took a spear from one of the weapon racks and led them to the middle of the arena beneath an ornamental chandelier with half the torches burned out. It also hung at a slant, swaying with the wind current channeling through the under-prison. Jonathan and the man stood opposite to one another with Bec standing outside their range of battle.

"Name?" Bec pointed at Jonathan.

"Jonathan." He answered, staring at his opponent.

"Frey." The man said, glancing from Bec to Jonathan. Considering most of the prisoners had witnessed Jonathan break a man and heave his body off a bridge, Frey didn't seem scared of him. He was either not afraid of Jonathan or, more likely, not afraid of death. There was only one survivor in these games. Everyone knew that. Maybe the best way to go about it all was to play impartial.

"All right, let the games begin." Bec said half-heartedly and moved to the edge of the arena, giving them more room.

Frey took several paces back, and then started swinging the chain over his head. Jonathan watched him with his long sword at the ready. When Frey released his attack, the blade flew to the sand at Jonathan's feet. Frey didn't know how to fight. He was probably in prison for petty theft or something equally useless. Frey began to reel in his chain as some of the other prisoners chuckled.

Jonathan hated Frey more than any man he had encountered, because he was completely innocent—at least so far as Jonathan knew. Of all who deserved to be murdered, a man like Frey didn't belong on that list. That's what made it so hard when Jonathan darted forward. He had no choice. It was Frey or him and Frey wouldn't pass the next round if Jonathan gave him his life. After all, in the scheme of survival, even innocent lives are forfeit.

Jonathan's blade came slicing across the image of his opponent. Frey's eyebrows flared as he tried to back-step out of the way, but Jonathan was faster than he anticipated. The sword wasn't sharp, as Jonathan had noted when he picked it up. It still sank through the flesh and muscle tissue of Frey's face, sticking painfully in his skull. Blood oozed down Jonathan's sword as Frey screamed with the sword still hanging at an angle across his vision. Still holding on, Jonathan toted Frey around as he tried to free his sword. He caught some of the disgusted looks of the prisoners as he fought to wrench his weapon from his victim. Bec gave a husky, dry laugh at the debacle.

Frey wrapped the blade and chain around Jonathan's leg with the attempt to entangle him, but he was frantic and delusional. Jonathan took hold of the chain and kicked Frey back, sending him to the ground with Jonathan's sword still rammed in his skull. Opaque red flooded down Frey's face and drenched his chest, but he still tried to rise. Jonathan took the hilt of the blade at the end of the chain and tried to bring it down on Frey, who was prying Jonathan's sword from his head. When Frey rolled out of the way, he knocked the sword free. Jonathan managed to pin him in the back of his right shoulder. Laughter filled the Vorago from the other prisoners as Frey writhed in agony.

Jonathan gaped at him, unable to muster the strength to finish the man off. Bec stepped forward and, with the perfect throw of a seasoned spear-fisherman, his spear drilled Frey in the head. The spear shivered upright, maintaining the precision of its master's arm. Frey's form fell still.

Bec grinned. "No need to waste time. You there," he pointed to a man with bright blue eyes who was still grinning from watching Jonathan struggle to kill his opponent. His smile immediately fell to a terrified stare. "Pick a partner. Jonathan, you pick one too."

Jonathan chose a tall, bald man who was wearing a uniform the same navy blue color as Frey's but it was buttoned up to the neck on him. There were several other people wearing the same outfit. His opponent chose a man with a thick beard and broad shoulders. At the cage, Jonathan took the circular buckler from the wall on the inner side as his item, and laced it over his Manica. His partner picked up a glove with two knives sticking out of either end of the fist. It looked like a devastating weapon Batman might carry in one of the crude graphic novel renditions Jonathan used to stay up late to read when he was a kid. There was a second knife glove, but they were only allowed to take one weapon at a time. Their opponents chose a club with a nasty, torqued nail sticking through the end and a hammer with three sharp spikes on either end of the hammerhead.

The four paired up and stood opposite to one another in the Vorago. Bec asked for their names. The bald man's name was Luciton. The blue eyed man's name was Percens, and the other's name was Greppin. "You may begin when ready."

Greppin immediately charged Luciton. Luciton threw a punch with the bladed glove. Greppin tackled him to the ground and drove the hilt of his club into Luciton's skull. Luciton didn't even have a chance before it was over. His arms fell lax as Greppin slammed the weapon into his brain repeatedly. Meanwhile, Jonathan squared off against Percens. The hammer struck Jonathan's shield. Jonathan took up his long sword from the sandy floor and clashed it across Percens's hammer neck. He used a technique he had picked up from Balor that Jonathan had dubbed 'The Roman Boxing step', and shoved his shield into Percens while stepping forward, enforcing his stance as well as driving Percens back.

Dropping the buckler, Jonathan forced the long sword down through Percens's leg. Percen's screamed as he flailed to the ground on his back. Greppin stood up from the bloody mess of Luciton and ran at Jonathan, intending to defeat him with the same method that he had used on his partner. Jonathan retrieved his shield and brought it to the ready. He turned, sidestepped Greppin, and used another downward strike. He didn't quite decapitate Greppin, but left the blade half-way in as Jonathan ducked the hammer that Percens threw at him.

Jonathan took up the blade and chain that Frey had dropped. He moved for Percens with the resolve of a serial-killer. Percens turned around and scrambled to run away from him. Lacing the chain about Percens's neck, Jonathan pressed a foot into the middle of his back with the chain wrapped around his throat as Percens clawed and gasped for his life.

The rounds following went on in a similar manner, except that Jonathan got faster. His empathy began to dissolve as he slaughtered his competition. The group in the Vorago dwindled until there were only a few rounds left.

# 4

Andra stood at the viewing gate, watching Jorez the Scorpion rinse his sweaty blond hair with a bucket of water. He was strong and muscular beneath his copper armor. A great deal of time and effort had gone into his training. Andra loved watching a gladiator break between matches. The testosterone in them was the highest it would ever be at any given time in their lives.

He glanced over and saw her watching. He was no stranger to suitors and onlookers at every moment of his life. Jorez allowed her to stare and continued rinsing his hair.

"You have my favor, Jorez." Andra said, catching his attention again. "If you live until the end of this day I will not only buy you, I will fulfill your every earthly desire."

"Do you know how many of you I get each match?" He asked, walking to the bars blocking him from her. "How many earthly desires do you think I'm allowed to enjoy?"

"Your life of slaughter is over after tonight, unless," she cocked her head, "you just enjoy that sort of thing. But you'll kill for me instead of Luthren, and believe me when I say that I'm a much more desirable employer than a bald glutton who doesn't even show up for your matches." She gave a playfully sad face as Jorez met the bars separating them.

"So it will be. I will win this day, and tonight, I dine with the Lady Winre and all the wonders that come with her."

"So you shall," she grinned. "It looks like I've taken up all of your time. Good luck today, Jorez." She turned and made her way back up the ramp to begin the long trek back up the steps to the royal box.

—

Jonathan pulled his blade from the last corpse, which heralded his victory over the first match in the Vorago. His arms were caked with blood. His hands shook and his muscles threatened to give way after unclenching from the tightness of battle.

"You did well," said Bec. "You have an option now. You can take a short break and eat, and then register as the last contestant of the day for the Defringo, or you can call it quits for the night and sleep in the stables. Should you choose the second option, the Defringo will be weeks away. You'll have to fight in the preliminary stages first. I think you'd make a good show today since Jorez needs a formidable opponent, and the flow is a trickle with challengers until the beginning of spring."

"I'll face him." Jonathan said without thinking. Perhaps it was his ego or maybe he was just ready to die, but if he didn't make as much progress as quickly as he could then he would die on this planet. And if this Jorez person was his executioner, then all the better.

"Come then, let's get you cleaned up and put some food in your stomach so you don't drop your sword out there." Bec chuckled.

Jonathan followed him through a locked door. Beyond that door, everything changed. The floors were laid out with red carpet and the light radiated from lamps instead of primitive torches. The walls were perfectly square with portraits of dukes and kings lining the hallway. There was gold trim about the base of the wall and at the ceiling as well.

"What happens if I kill Jorez?" Jonathan asked.

"That would make you champion of the day—you want that, but Jorez isn't like the others you've fought. He's been trained. He does this for a living. It will be interesting, that's for sure. So interesting, I'll probably be sending out a few messengers before your match. I can have the Defringo full within two hours."

"Can I bet?"

Bec laughed. "You'd need money first. You don't get thrown in prison and tossed a sack of shards as well. If you win, you'll make money. After that, you can bet on others, but you can't bet on yourself."

"But can I have others bet on myself on my behalf?" Jonathan asked.

Bec turned around with a sneaky glint in his eye. He clapped a meaty hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "You think like a politician. What you do in your spare time is up to you—once you get spare time. Jorez will probably chop off your head and you'll get to see the view of Scerasa from the lowest pike on the wall for a few weeks."

Jonathan said nothing as they passed through another door and entered a bigger corridor. "This is Castle Trimoli," said Bec. "You'll bow when addressed and obey every order, no matter how tedious or condescending it may seem. Your allegiance is always to the king of Narcuss, Lord Cerveys Narcuss. Should you do well, you'll need to know that."

They walked through a great room with molten metal pouring through large ducts crisscrossing over the main pathway. The room glowed with warmth as they walked by a hall leading to a smithing and smelting quadrant that looked vacant.

"Everyone leaves early on Posdei to see the games. Everyone's ready for the weekend."

"Posdei? Please explain." Jonathan said.

"You know, Posdei...." Bec stared at him like he was crazy. "Tomorrow is Ferdei... yesterday was Medei."

"I don't understand." Jonathan wanted to explain his contrast, that to him, Friday was the day before the weekend, but that would make as much sense to Bec as Posdei, Ferdei, and Medei meant to him.

"How can such a skilled fighter be so stupid? I wouldn't try figuring it out now." Bec said. "There's a good chance most of everything you know will be scattered across the sand in the next hour."

The room narrowed to a hallway with alcoves containing different staircases leading up and down on either side of the hall. They entered one seemingly at random and began to ascend the steps.

"You'll only be allowed up to three bowls of rice before a match. If I was you," Bec said as they continued climbing the steps, "I wouldn't eat but one. Stringy guy like you will hurl his guts up before he gets to the field. A lot of lucky prisoners eat all three, thinking they're getting the best meal they've had in years. Three bowls is what a champion would need to get through a match. They've been conditioned and have the right metabolism to use all that energy to their advantage."

"Hey Bec," said Jonathan. Bec glanced over the railing at Jonathan below. "Do I look like I'm just lucky?" Jonathan's gaze met his. The light filling the column of stairs was that of a lamp several stories higher.

Bec's eyes were shiny in the dimness, but he seemed to be considering Jonathan carefully. "Come on." He said and continued climbing.

—

As Myre continued watching the afternoon tournament, he noticed a break in the growing crowd to his left. When he looked over, he saw Harrol Roah sliding between knees and seats nearby. He had a thick head of brown hair, a clean-shaven face and a fierce determination that he carried in stride. Roah wore a gray duster over his formal tan military tunic, and shiny leather boots that stopped just below the knee.

"Good to see you here, Myre. How is the great port city of Dartis?" Roah asked.

"Doing well. Farnham has just signed a new trade agreement with Crysies. The price of grapes is sure to go down, and you know what that means." Myre said.

"I do. I was part of the agreement," said Roah. "Cerveys Narcuss has recently reassigned me as the Parceta docks overseer. I doubt I'll be training champions this time next year."

"Didn't you once tell me over a pint of ale that you wanted to be the general of Crysies's army? Is that what you're gearing to do?"

"It would be nice." Roah shrugged.

"How do you work for such an arrogant old fool?" Myre asked.

"He's getting worse, Crysies. I don't believe, mentally, that he's capable of running a kingdom anymore, and our alliances with Cherry, Trenton, Tephydil, Ricardson, and Yuvaria are shaky at best. A lot of people are considering action."

"Interesting, a possible uprising against the great king of Crysies." Myre said.

"Not an uprising, a trial that will assuredly declare Crysies unfit to rule. He will then be removed from his position legally and without conflict or violence. His son will take over and all will remain essentially the same."

"There's no fun in that." Myre frowned.

"Crysies has a bad reputation for corruption. If I'm the last man with any sort of moral compass at the table, then at least it's a good start. Maybe the rest of the city will follow my example and we can polish the tarnish from our name."

"You certainly are ambitious, Roah. Have you ever considered the position of king?" Myre asked jokingly.

Roah didn't appear to think it was very funny.

Myre changed the subject. "What do you think of Jorez?"

Roah glanced at Myre. "I think he's destined for a fall."

"You get that feeling too?" Myre laughed. "Maybe it's the overwhelming pride."

The two sat in silence as the last of the current round finished before the break preceding the final round.

—

Jonathan's stomach rumbled from the rice he had just eaten. He had been allowed some leather equipment to wear so he didn't look like he had just come from the under-city. There was a lot of discrimination toward champions without a lot of time in the ring. Bec explained that they were going to have to pull the fabric over the audience's eyes so they wouldn't figure out that he actually wasn't prepared for this battle.

The goal was for Jonathan to provide at least ten minutes of entertainment before being executed by Jorez. It was expected of both of them by everyone: Bec, the quartermasters from other cities, the king of Castle Tripoli, the audience; if Jonathan walked away from the field alive this evening then something wouldn't be right.

He had a few minutes left before the battle, so he tightened the straps on his armor and tried to do some meditation exercises on the stone seat beneath the Defringo. He could hear the cheering crowd through the walls nearby, the pounding of feet on the surface above. There were a few others in the ready-room with him, but his fight was to be the last event of the evening. At least his death would be worth more than swill in the gutter. People would genuinely enjoy watching him die this way.

Bec ambled down the steps and sat on the stone beside Jonathan. "Are you ready? Have you made prayer to Omne?"

"Pray to the one who left me broken here?" Jonathan's eyes met Bec's. "If I defeat Jorez, it won't be by Omne's will, it won't be because Jorez was too slow: it will be because I made it happen. Nothing else matters. There is no fated hand that rests over the pieces of this game on this day."

Bec seemed unnerved by the statement. The people of Aallandranon were like the Earthlings of the middle-ages when Christianity was just what everyone did. No one knew or thought otherwise, and it caused a millennium of war and famine. One day, the Aallandrons would figure out that there is no Omne the way the Earthlings figured out in the twenty-first century that they were alone in their little section of the universe without an omnipotent presence to guide them.

A bell rang through the preparation hall. Bec glanced at the doorway where Jonathan was going to enter. The smirk returned to his face. "It's time."

Jonathan stood, feeling as ready as he ever would. Bec led him to the threshold leading to the inner Vorago ring. He pulled a ring on a chain and the barred door opened. Bec motioned for Jonathan to enter. He stepped past Bec and entered. The door slid closed behind him.

He walked forward seeing the star-dotted lavender sky through an opening in the center of the massive city ceiling. The seats of the Defringo were full to capacity. There were several platforms dispersed around the wide arena. Jorez, a man with blond hair and a strong upper body walked around the rim of the arena with his arms raised over his head. The crowd closest to the floor cheered wildly.

Jonathan met the cage on the outskirts of the battleground. Jorez jogged across the field as another bald quartermaster in plate-mail made his way to the cage. The quartermaster pulled the chains away and opened the door to the weapons alcove. Jonathan went in and took the long sword. Unlike the one he had had in his previous match, this one looked sharp enough to cut through metal.

Jonathan noticed that Jorez had a piecemeal assortment of armor. He wore plate shoulders over a mesh of chain-mail and matching chain-mail leggings, and leather boots with metal cuff-guards to allow for maximum maneuverability while providing a guard in the likely event that someone went for his feet. He was well defended, and a few inches taller than Jonathan. This wasn't going to be easy. Jorez picked the halberd and the two made for the middle of the arena.

The crowd went silent, and Jorez dropped to his knees. It took Jonathan a moment to remember to do the same. He bowed, and noticed a man in red with a copper chest-plate standing at a towering speaker's podium on one side of the field. He wore a crown on his head.

"I hope you've all had a wonderful Posdei evening," the lord of Scerasa called. "We'll be finishing this tournament with a finale between Jorez the Scorpion and a newcomer who has yet to prove himself. You may rise." The crowd cheered and clapped as he turned around and sat back down next to a woman with black hair and a soft face wearing an elaborate white getup that labeled her as royalty.

Jonathan and Jorez stood. Jorez looked high into the stands. Jonathan followed his gaze and saw a woman in one of the royal boxes looking down to him. He met Jonathan's eye and raised his halberd to the ready. Jonathan bent his knees and watched Jorez as the bald quartermaster stood between them with his arm raised. He chopped forward and moved back.

Jonathan squinted. Jorez took one step, and fired the halberd at him. It happened faster than Jonathan had anticipated. He blocked with the sword, barely holding off the attack as Jorez torqued the end of his weapon to throw Jonathan's sword away. Jonathan unhooked the sword from the halberd and rolled. He fired a chop over his head and cut Jorez's spear in half. The look on his face was that of annoyance.

Jonathan kicked Jorez onto his back in the sand and rose to his feet. The crowd awed. Jonathan moved in, murder in his eyes. Jorez threw the useless end of the halberd away and grabbed the bladed end from the sand. He got up and heaved the blade at Jonathan. His Manica-Band deflected the lash, giving Jonathan the opportunity to put his fist into Jorez's chain-linked stomach, knocking him back to the floor. The audience was entranced. Jorez looked angry. Jonathan remembered Bec telling him to make the fight last at least ten minutes, but it had hardly been one. How on Earth was he to survive for that long without killing Jorez or allowing Jorez to kill him?

Jorez rose, determination in his eyes. He took hold of the remaining hilt of his halberd close to the neck near the weapon side like a hatchet. His weapon was slow and Jonathan's wasn't. Jorez moved in regardless. He hacked at Jonathan with the determination that only a mass murderer can muster.

Jonathan deflected each blow as he paced backward. Jonathan tried to maneuver to a different side, but Jorez forced him back in line no matter where he went. He was working so hard keeping Jonathan on the defensive with a constant attack, sweat had begun to drip from Jorez's forest of blond hair down the sides of his face. He started to slow down, tire from the monotony. Jonathan was about to go for Jorez's legs when Jorez threw the halberd at Jonathan, and then jogged away.

Surprised, Jonathan kicked the forgotten halberd away as Jorez took up a previous contender's weapon, a short sword. Everything that falls in the arena stays in the arena until the end of the games. Jonathan walked toward Jorez, making sure to stay as calm as humanly possible on the inside. Jorez met him with a renewed sense of vigor. Their blades clashed in a flurry of speed and maneuverability.

The crowd stood as the battle leaned in different directions for each opponent. Jorez nicked Jonathan's bicep and Jonathan caught a piece of Jorez's ear. They were like a gyroscope of moving blades and sparks, everything within moving so quickly that nothing was visible. Jonathan struck down as Jorez defended up, cutting the end of Jonathan's blade off, putting Jonathan on pure defense.

He managed to get out of the danger zone, only because Jorez was breathing so heavily that he couldn't go forward. Jonathan was winded, but not nearly as much as Jorez. He scanned the field for items. There was a sai, a mace, a hammer—and then he saw it. Jorez followed him as he ran across the field and snatched up a staff with a wooden center and metal ends. An arm remained attached when he picked up the weapon, so he had to shake the fingers free. Jorez caught up to Jonathan as he turned and blocked his thrust.

Jonathan moved methodically, regurgitating his training with Balor as Jorez tried to penetrate his defense. He was shot down with each attempt until Jorez grew too tired to keep up. Jonathan brought the staff end down splintering Jorez's left shoulder. Terrified, Jorez lashed out, and attempted to flee. Jonathan tripped him and he fell hard on his sternum. Jonathan kicked his short sword away and jabbed Jorez hard in the back, breaking several bones but keeping him alive. Jorez attempted to crawl away with the last strength of his life. Jonathan forced the staff hard on the side of Jorez's boot, pinning him in place so that as he struggled, he drew only sand.

Looking up to the stands, Jonathan saw the woman for whom Jorez had been fighting. She looked mortified as Jonathan considered his next course of action. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, his hatred amplified for everyone on this planet. He bent over, picked up Jorez by his pelvis, and positioned his fingers between the mesh of his torso chain-mail and under his ribcage. Jonathan hoisted Jorez up over his head. The crowd gasped as they witnessed the steady downfall of Jorez the Scorpion. Jonathan brought the middle of his back down on his knee.

Jorez gave a defeated gasp as his eyes widened at the star-dotted sky over Jonathan's face. Jonathan lifted him back over his head and dropped him again. The torment on Jorez's face as his back shattered was gut-wrenching. Jonathan lifted him, and broke him a final time. He pulled with each hand as Jorez's center of gravity weighed on his knee, severing the remaining tendons and muscles holding Jorez's body together. With a final exertion of effort from each hand, Jonathan ripped Jorez in two, flinging the pieces of him aside. No one cheered in the crowds. They stared in horror at the atrocity, the absolute dishonor of dismembering a fallen foe.

His arms were covered in blood again. Jonathan surveyed the audience with disgust as he made to exit the field. Who were they to judge him? He had been stripped of all personal identity and thrown into a filthy prison twice. He had been forced to fight and execute all these people for the sake of entertainment, and now they were going to say that he went too far? Jonathan was beyond caring. If they were going to force him to play their games, he would play them his way and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it.

Or they could kill him. Either way, Jonathan would win.

—

Every kingdom on Aallandranon is different, but the rules to each city's Vorago are the same. It's not a complicated system, buying the champions or exchanging owners. However, after Jonathan's match—which Remin Werth didn't bother to attend due to his drug addiction—every single quartermaster for every city that had a representative watching the match arrived at the auction stand with hopes of putting in their bid for Jonathan. He might have been brutal, but it was a kind of hating attitude that most of them had never seen. Most people with that much aggression were considered juggernauts or berserkers for the army. They couldn't contribute to society or hold a job otherwise, and most didn't get through the first round of the Vorago. There is little skill in losing control and getting angry.

Even Andra Winre arrived, her jaw tight and lips pursed. She despised Jonathan for his insult to Jorez and her. She wanted to purchase him just so she could whip him and beat him around the house whenever she pleased. Andra always got what she wanted. Things were considered very wrong if luck didn't turn in her favor.

Myre and Harrol Roah arrived side-by-side and sat in a set of chairs toward the back. Roah had already decided that he was going to pass on Jonathan. Myre, on the other hand, wanted to make certain Lady Winre and Jemain Singul didn't piss Jonathan's fate away on useless servitude and house chores. They were notorious for buying potential champions for those very reasons.

Fascination filled everyone's eyes. On few occasions did the underdog pull out on top. No one had ever pulled a win and boasted the way Jonathan did. It was a ruthless conviction: the attitude of a survivor and winner—the attitude of a potential champion.

Draff Trew, the auctioneer's voice emerged from the back room of the auction hall and took the stand. He was a tall, bald man with a thick beard who's voice was famous on the continent of Ire. Also Duke of the Society of Modern Arts, he frequently hosted banquets before putting on an enormous show in Cathera in the autumn of each year.

"Well, that was quite a battle." His voice boomed from the podium and carried to the ears of everyone seated before him. "Jorez will be sorely missed, his antics on the field never forgotten. This man, Jonathan, however: Remin Werth's assistant told me that if Jonathan won, start the bidding at two-hundred shards. Do we have any takers?"

Lady Winre and Jemain Singul had their hands in the air first. Nearly everyone else raised their hands as well, except Roah.

"Two-fifty, three-hundred, three-fifty, four-hundred," the number rose and everyone kept their hands in the air. "Five-hundred." A few dropped. "Six-hundred.... Seven-hundred." Singul's hand fell, but Winre was staring determinedly at Trew's face as her arm remained rigid. Myre, Winre, Ragul of Cherry, and Nibbens of Tephydil kept their hands up as the number broke the thousand mark. Jorez had sold last for twelve-hundred shards. Jonathan was at fifteen-thousand when Ragul and Nibbens dropped out.

It was a battle between Andra Winre and Myre Winshock—cousins oddly enough, though they had never associated with one another other than exchanging a few words in passing. The bidding got to twenty-two hundred when Winre decided to bail. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to go higher, but she knew Myre had Farnham Dartis's money behind him. There was always a breaking point, but Andra wasn't interested in finding it.

"Sold, to Myre Winshock of Dartis. You have until noon tomorrow to collect your prisoner or else the bidding shall start again. Thank you for attending the Posdei Defringo Vorago. Have a wonderful weekend and I'll see you on Betdei as always." Draff Trew smiled and waved at everyone before descending the steps to the podium. He disappeared through a door into the high hall where nobility could navigate through the city of Scerasa without having to rub elbows with the lower classes.

"Congratulations!" Harrol Roah stood with Myre.

Lady Winre made directly for Myre. "Enjoy your success. I hope it's as hollow as Jonathan's last victory! You know most lucky winners don't live passed their first round. You just wasted your money." She scoffed.

"They do still sell male prostitutes at the Genesis Brothel, correct?" Myre asked.

"Son of a bitch!" Winre shook her head and marched off.

Harrol Roah stifled a laugh. "You know she'll get you back in Narcuss. Once she tells her father what she wants, he'll buy Jonathan in a heartbeat."

"That's the beauty of inflation, my good man." Myre said as they entered the south quarter of Scerasa near the Defringo. "The games in Narcuss don't begin until summer. That gives me all spring to rack up enough wins with Jonathan for him to be worth three times what we paid."

"If he's truly a winner." Roah added.

"I have a good feeling about him."

They found the entrance to the lower level of the Defringo and passed through the larder to the large, circular ready room. Jonathan was sitting opposite to Bec, the quartermaster for the lower Vorago of Scerasa. Jonathan looked shell-shocked, his eyes wide and face gaunt. He had changed into a simple tunic and brown leather leggings and boots.

"Well, this is interesting." Myre said as he sat down across from Jonathan.

Jonathan looked at him without saying anything.

"My name is Myre Winshock. This is a good friend of mine, Harrol Roah." Myre gave his introduction. "I've heard Jonathan is your name. Fascinating."

"He's not much of a talker." Bec said. "A little different, this one."

"I assume you've purchased me?" Jonathan asked. "So I am no longer a slave of House Werth, I'm a slave of House Winshock?"

"You are a member of Farnham Dartis's Hall of Champions. We will train you to contend with other champions who may prove to be an equal or more difficult challenge than Jorez the Scorpion. We're going to train you with hopes of dethroning Nikus. He's the current champion in Narcuss."

"So I have no choice but to continue murdering." Jonathan said.

Myre's eyes darted left then right. "You're very good at murdering. Not everyone gets paid to perform where they excel, but you'll be paid handsomely to perform the way you did in that arena earlier."

"And what if I choose not to murder anymore?"

"I'll sell you and you'll either be put to work, or forced to murder by someone else. It's inevitable, but I like to believe we're fair owners." Myre said.

"Is there any way to regain my freedom?" Jonathan asked.

"If you defeat Narcuss's champion, you will be free for the most part. However, you'll be called to defend your title should a new challenger arise—at least until you're too old for it to be interesting. No one's going to pull you out of retirement if you require a cane or carriage to get around, unless you want to die in the arena. A lot of people do. It is more honorable to die in the arena than to slip away at death's final beckon in the comfort of one's home."

"Not where I come from."

"Regardless, there comes a time in your life when you must fight. There is no alternative, so perform at your best and the stories of your tribulations will stretch far and wide. Make your stories heard on every continent."

"That's very sweet, but I know I'm just a project for you to grow. Everyone loves me when I win, but if I lose, you'll shrug and move on to the next project."

"I'm afraid that's simply how it works, Jonathan. Now, we should go and gather our supplies. Our ship for Dartis leaves from Cathera in two days." Myre said. He and Roah stood.

"Are you sure it wouldn't be faster to take a boat from Narcuss?" Roah asked.

"And cross that damned hundred-mile bridge? I'd rather take a raft of my own making than deal with that traffic."

Bec got to his feet and helped Jonathan up. "You did well. I hope Omne figures out how to find you before it's too late. Good luck." He took Jonathan's hand. They shook and parted ways. Bec disappeared through the door nearby that led back to the prison.

"Come, Jonathan. It's a long ride to Cathera." Myre said. Jonathan did as he was told and followed his new owners.

Harrol Roah led the way. They found the stable, received their horses, and were on their way to Cathera by morning's first light.

# 5

Ryan Thompson, Clara Wallace, and Juan Langston hiked through the wood as the twilight dimness crept out of the sky and into the trees. They had been traveling across the continent of Ire for the last four weeks, trying to get away from the attention of the road guards. Ever since the beginning of winter, the patrols had been on full force, checking everyone's status and asking questions. The Aallandrons knew something had changed upon their world recently. Nearly every survival and recovery group that had formed so far had fallen, the inhabitants captured. All of the Humans that were captured were never seen again. The three had only survived because there were only three of them.

Night had fallen by the time they had put a comfortable distance between themselves and the main road. The three set-up camp by a river. Juan meditated while Clara gathered wood for a fire. Ryan skinned the rabbits they had caught and prepared to skewer them.

They had not said very much to one another in recent days, partly because there was nothing to say. Another complication was that Ryan and Clara had confided in one another, leaving Juan to follow as the third wheel. While Juan didn't mind in the beginning, he appeared tired of being the reason for their awkward silence. He was tired in general. All the running, hiding, hunting, surviving: it took its toll on a person's sanity.

"Tomorrow," said Juan as he watched the crackling fire cook the rabbits, "you two will continue north. I'm going to stay here."

"That isn't wise." Ryan said.

"We need to stick together. The three of us can manage." Clara agreed.

"The two of you can manage just fine without me. And I can manage just fine without you."

"Each of us could probably survive for a certain period of time," said Ryan, "but our odds are better in numbers."

"I no longer fear anything, not even death." Juan said, staring into the crackling fire before them.

"But we need you, Juan." Clara said.

"You perpetuate your need with every breath you take, Clara." Juan sighed.

"Everyone's dead or lost." Clara sat on her end of the fallen tree with her head down. "I wish we could get everyone back together, like a meeting place that the Aallandrons could accept so we could stop running."

"Even if we stop, we'll never stop running on this planet." Juan said.

"We're clearly doing something wrong," said Ryan. "Based on what we know, the Aallandrons only attack when we make it clear that we're not from this planet. They attack if they're suspicious that we're of the ethnicity of those who've claimed to be from Earth."

"But they don't attack their own civilians or people they think are Aallandron civilians." Clara said. "Blending is the only method. It's going to take a sensitive touch, and the right kind of exposure."

"This is something that you two must do," said Juan. "It does not require my assistance."

"It will take more than just us to do anything special." Ryan said.

"You will find the people you need among our survivors. Tomorrow, I go my own way, for better or worse."

"There's nothing we can do to change your mind?" Clara asked.

Juan shook his head.

"I'll miss our morning meditation sessions." Ryan frowned.

"You'll be fine on your own. Don't drop the habit. It may be the only thing you have to keep you going. Imagine having nothing to keep you going: then you're in a very bad way." Juan said.

The three watched the fire die in silence, and then retired to their bedrolls.

—

Lidia had emerald-blue eyes and long black hair that had been pulled into a ponytail. She was smaller than everyone else at the table—first and second year recruits from Jome Academy of Narcuss. Her best friend, Cess, rested his meaty elbows on the table as he drank and listened to his companions stories. This was the academy bar about six blocks from Narcuss Castle. Every night things got so crazy here that the place was more likely to shut down for the evening than to gracefully meet closing time.

"So," continued Germ, a first year blacksmithing student, "little Vrec had just finished pounding out his chest-piece when Shamir asks if he remembered to give the small hammer to Burks. Vrec gives Burks the hammer, then walks right over with his welding gloves still on and slips the armor over his shoulders. I've never seen anyone throw a suit of armor off their body that fast!"

Lidia laughed as Frent, across the table, met her eye. He nudged her knee. She rolled her eyes and averted her gaze. She and Frent had shared a small fling a few weeks prior. Both were drunk so it was more of an accident than anything else, but ever since he had been trying to meet her again. It was such an impulsive decision, Lidia hardly considered it legitimate intimacy. He hadn't been very satisfying—not that she had been in any position to judge. She had only told Cess, and had asked that he make sure Frent didn't try anything.

Cess usually allowed her to crash at his place unless he had company planned, in which case she just snuck back into her father's home and slept in her own bed. Tonight would be one of the latter. Cess and Nona, the bartender, had been making eyes at one another since he arrived. Lidia hated staying at her father's, not that he bothered her or even took the time to look for her, but she was ready to leave home. There's just a certain time in a person's life when they need to sever the umbilical cord and get out on their own.

Cess leaned over to her. "You okay if Poi walks you home?"

"I'll be fine, Cess. I can make it back okay."

He nodded. Lidia finished her round of ale with the others and decided it was time to head out. She went to the bar restroom and exited out the back so she wouldn't have to go out the front. Unfortunately, Frent was waiting for her.

"Hey Lidia!" He said and began following her.

"Hey Frent," she sighed.

"Can I walk you home?"

"I think I'm just going to run it. I'll get there faster if I go by myself." She shrugged.

"We've been to my house, but I want to see yours."

"That's not such a good idea, Frent. I sneak out because my dad is crazy. If he found out about you he'd beat me within an inch of my life. And probably kill you."

"C'mon, just for a few minutes? What would the harm be? Can I not just see your bedroom?" He pressed her.

She was getting annoyed. "No, Frent. I don't want company tonight. You will never see my house."

"Why?" He asked, genuinely hurt by her answer.

"Because no one sees my house."

"That doesn't make sense. C'mon, why are you being this way? I thought we had a good time."

"We did, Frent, but.... It's just that, I don't have a house." She lied. "That's why I can't let you come with me. It's too embarrassing for me to let you guys see me sneak into the poor quarter."

"You?" He laughed. "I don't buy it. You'd be the cleanest poor person I've ever seen. Come on, Lidia, let's go get a room in the inn and have fun all night."

"I told you, Frent—"

Frent grabbed her by her ponytail, but Lidia whirled around with her pocket knife at the ready and slashed at him. He recoiled, looking mortified that she would be so quick to draw a weapon.

"If you touch me again, asshole, I'll cut off your balls and feed them to you!" She pushed him back and ran down the avenue.

"Lidia! I'm sorry, please don't go!" He called, chasing after her.

Lidia ran but didn't turn with the alley. She ran up the wall and caught the ledge to the rook separating the commercial district from the upper district. Frent watched her pull herself up with ease and disappear into the shadows of Narcuss.

—

The city of Dartis was a breath of fresh air for Jonathan. A bustling port city that had been established nearly two-hundred years prior, Dartis had changed rulers four times and changed names twice since its founding. The Aallandron cities were either renamed when a new duke or king took the throne, or the initial name remained as a reminder of the years that the inhabitants had appreciated so greatly. Sometimes names were given to cities in remembrance of a fallen hero or great leader even if that person didn't have the fortune to grace the throne. Farnham Dartis—a tall and charismatic presence within the city—had taken over after assisting the third Crysies with the Ferenite problem during the previous invasion, taking over from the late Greig Tate who had died nearly twenty years prior. The town had conjoined democratically without a leader in the time before Dartis initiated his reign.

The morning after his arrival, Jonathan stood in the sparring grounds looking up to the pink morning sky. The air was cooler here than it had been in Scerasa. Seeing the massive city beyond the cliff ledge nearby was surreal; the ocean, the pine trees surrounding the houses and lining the streets. There were so many Aallandrons living the way Humans lived on Earth. Entrepreneurs lived in those houses, slaves to societal demands, people with small businesses; poor people, rich people. All of them had problems, complications, money issues, weddings, births, deaths in the family, funerals.... Granted it was all in a different time and on a different planet, but nothing was inherently different. Everyone just wanted to live and die in peace.

Myre entered the sparring hall with Farnham Dartis at his side. Dartis was a tall man with a bushy blond mustache. He looked jovial and kind when he smiled, but when he approached Jonathan, his face became hard.

"Jonathan," he extended his hand for Jonathan to take. "It's good to finally meet you."

Jonathan took his hand and shook. He did as he figured he was expected and dropped to one knee before his new owner.

"You may rise," said Dartis. "So, you pulled a man in half I hear."

Jonathan got to his feet. He shrugged.

"Unfortunately," Dartis broke into a slow pace, "you won't be able to do that again. It's customary to give a man his dignity in the arena when he falls. Most of you are prisoners and this lifestyle is an insult to your being as our differences are circumstantial. I could be you in any other life and you could be me. As a man forced to live the way you must, fighting men who are being forced to live the same way, it's only right to respect your foe even in death."

"I didn't want to take his life." Jonathan said.

"But you did," said Dartis, "and that comes with a responsibility. If you are to fight in my name for my reputation, you'll follow my rules. No more disrespectful behavior. Do I have your word?"

"Yes." Jonathan nodded.

"Good, now, Myre is the overseer of training. Your trainer will be someone we've only just hired. He's fresh out of Ethan Academy, on the west coast of the city, so you'll be breaking one another in. His name is Deltia Chester and he'll be along shortly. It was good to meet you Jonathan, if we meet again it will be because you've done something either very good or something very bad. Do your best to make certain it's not the latter." Farnham Dartis gave a small bow of his head before turning on his heel and making his way back to the castle door.

"All clear. I think he likes you." Myre said.

"He's just being cautious while he figures me out." Jonathan said.

"Nobility." Myre waved. "Your next match will be on Intidei. That's four days from now. You're off on Vendei to do as you please within the Hall of Champions, but you're not permitted to leave. If anyone sees you in the castle, you will be executed. I just want to make that clear. Come, I'd like to show you around the hall if I may."

Myre led Jonathan to an archway in the wall that surrounded the whole of the sparring grounds. A wide bridge led down to a sunny courtyard and grove that extended to the edge of the shelf overlooking the city of Dartis. Pine trees were everywhere. At the top of the hill at the back of the shelf was a great marble building with four marble columns holding up the front step. It took them a few minutes to get to the path leading to the building.

"That path leads to Champion Forest where most of the ceremonies are held after successes. Training is also done in there." Myre said, pointing at a wooded area. They continued up the path and climbed the steps to the building. "You will be permitted to leave with a security escort to places within the city on Ferdei and Praedei—any other Ferdei than today because we have to get you ready for Intidei."

The Aallandron week system continued to befuddle him. They entered through the doors of the building and stepped into a hall corridor that went through the building and exited out the back leading to another sparring ground. There were staircases leading to the second floor from the main foyer to walkways feeding different rooms.

A man on the second floor with long brown hair left his room and locked his door. He turned around and saw Jonathan and Myre standing near the threshold. "New prey?" The man hurried down the steps, jumping down the last four. He stuck out his hand for Jonathan to take. "Name's Mahat."

Jonathan shook his hand. "Jonathan."

"Mahat has been here for almost a year," said Myre. "That's pretty good for a champion."

"I've been lucky, but which one of us hasn't?" He shrugged.

Jonathan nodded.

"T'was good to meet you, colpa-brother." Mahat gave a bow of his head before heading for a large hall that looked like a medieval cafeteria. Mahat took a long roll of bread from a box at the back of the room near a ceramic oven. He exited out the kitchen entrance. Jonathan and Myre could see him through the kitchen window as he sat at one of the stone tables beneath the pine trees in the courtyard. There were several other people out there as well.

"This is the study." Myre showed Jonathan to a three-story room full of bookshelves packed with books. There was a clean-shaven man sitting in one of the chairs browsing through a stack of books he had pulled down from the shelves. "You're free to lounge around here whenever you please assuming you've completed your training for the day. Do try to put books back where you found them."

"Someone will have to teach me how read your language."

"Sure. You're not the first illiterate champion to join our ranks, but if you're willing to learn we will show you how."

"Ah, so this must be the one I'm here to see." A man said from the doorway to the library. Jonathan and Myre turned around to see a man not much older than Jonathan with slicked back brown hair and piercing green eyes.

"Deltia Chester." He shook Myre's hand, and then Jonathan's. Myre introduced himself and then Jonathan. "Looks like you and I will be getting to know each other well."

Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest, fixing Deltia with a hard stare.

"Shall we get started shortly?" Deltia asked.

"Once we finish the tour," agreed Myre. "We'll meet you in the grounds."

Deltia nodded and left without saying anything.

"This is your room." Myre and Jonathan followed the walkway by a large window and found a room adjacent to the library entrance on the second floor. Myre opened the door with a key and gave the key to Jonathan. It had a leather lanyard tied to it so Jonathan could wear it around his neck. Inside the room was a bed, a toilet, a chair by the window, a three-layered wooden chest of drawers, and a small desk and table. "You're required to keep the room clean and the bed made. You can personalize however you please so long as it is neat and honorable."

Jonathan looked around the room. He could not have imagined a more perfect setup. All of this was happening because of his perseverance to survive. The last place he had slept was on the ground during the three-day trip south to Cathera. Tonight, he would be sleeping in his own bed, in his own room, in easily the safest place in the entire city—with his own toilet. He would be able to empty his bowels without a dozen people gaping at him, not that he'd had very much to drop since his arrival on Aallandranon. It was the best he'd had since having his room on the Enigma.

"This is incredible." Jonathan faced Myre. "You haven't the first clue of how great this is compared to what I've grown accustomed to."

"We get that a lot. Anyone who comes from the lower Vorago knows what hell looks like, and it's not where Klepindarf holds court. Fortunately, there is no lower Vorago in Dartis. We have a Vorago near Mason's Tower in the market, but we prefer to attend the games in Crysies where there is an entire level dedicated to quenching your thirst for slaughter."

"I think I've seen as much of Crysies as I care to see." Jonathan cocked his brow, remembering the events following the Enigma's crash.

"There's a bathhouse on the other end of the second floor," said Myre. "Everything is at your disposal so long as you respect the facilities and do as you're told in the arena. The penalty floor isn't part of the tour, but keep that image in mind. You should go meet Deltia. Your leather guards are in the bottom drawer over there. I'll be around so let me know if you need anything, Jonathan." He bowed to Jonathan and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Jonathan basked in the silence of his own space. He could be at peace here. "Between days of drenching my hands in blood." He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair that had grown long in the months prior. His facial hair had returned since shaving at Aya's house. Observing his forearms, Jonathan realized that he was in the best shape he had ever been in his life. His hands were thick and strong, his chest and stomach tight, his thighs toned and calves pressed. He could run a hundred miles without getting tired and kill from sunup to sundown.

How had he come to this life? How, after being who he was on Earth, did he become this person: a primitive murderer sworn to spill blood without a moment's hesitation? And how could he be so good at it? Maybe all his life he had been forcing himself to be that other person, but at heart, this is who he was meant to be. If he had been born at any other time on Earth, perhaps he'd have been some kind of warrior or military leader. He thought about these things, trying not to lose the contrast between this life and the life of leisure he had led before.

Jonathan searched the drawers. The top two drawers were empty. The bottom housed a leather chest-piece, helmet, bracers, elbow pads, leggings, and boots. Jonathan took off his shirt and put on the chest-piece and helmet. He slipped on the leggings, boots, elbow pads, and bracers, and finally the helmet.

Hurrying down the steps, he entered the sparring ground. The sun was high in the afternoon-day sky, baking the six other duos training for the next assigned Vorago. Deltia stood at the back of the sparring ground near a weapons rack holding a practice sword.

"I'd like you to know that I saw your match." Deltia said. "Most everyone berated you for finishing him in a dishonorable way, but what you lacked was drama. The people want a climactic end. You have to make them want it, make them work for it. These games are nothing but a giant show. If you go in and kill everyone as quickly as you can and get out, you'll be whipped by your quartermaster as punishment. Your job is not to win—it's to stay alive for long enough to line your owner's pockets with profit from the show. Winning just happens as a result."

"So, I'm supposed to dance around like Jorez and put on an act for the crowd?" Jonathan asked.

"Jorez was an idiot. Your persona can be whatever you want it to be. The best approach in your situation is to play cat and mouse. You have the upper hand, but give your opponent the sense that he's in control. Observe: I have a practice sword, and you don't. I want you to land a punch in my face. Really try."

Jonathan did as he was asked and advanced on Deltia. Readying the practice sword, Deltia waited for him to strike. Jonathan made a move to hit, but Deltia batted his wrist with the back of his offhand fluidly and pushed Jonathan back with a quick flex of his fingers. Jonathan feigned right and struck out with his left. Deltia used the flat side of the practice sword to catch his wrist, and then punched Jonathan in the chest with the rounded end of the hilt.

"I'm never striking you, I'm just deflecting you and letting you tire. You need to become water. You didn't even lose your breath, killing Jorez. You can out-maneuver your competition and still put on a show for the big dogs upstairs. They'll reward you handsomely for it. Again."

Jonathan nodded. He moved in for the strike, slipped his foot behind Deltia's and pushed him before he could defend. Deltia fell over Jonathan's ankle and landed on his ass in the dust. Jonathan smiled as he turned around.

Furious and red-faced, Deltia got to his feet. "Don't ever do that again!"

"You told me to really try."

"I told you to try to hit me in the face, not cheap-shot me. You must follow instructions during training. Otherwise, we'll never get anywhere."

"As you wish." Jonathan said.

"Let's try it again."

Jonathan trained for the rest of the afternoon. He learned quickly that he didn't like Deltia very much and nor did Deltia like him. It wasn't even that he was particularly cruel to Jonathan either, but that he simply wasn't a very good person at heart. Regardless, Jonathan did as asked and attacked or defended when instructed. Deltia was persistent and driven, forcing Jonathan to lift the heaviest blocks in the yard. Several of the other members of the Hall noticed Jonathan's growing plight when they saw him carrying the Aallandron equivalent to the Earthen weight of two-hundred kilograms over his head. Jonathan didn't know how much he'd been lifting until later that night when Mahat and two others sat around him at the table in the courtyard and explained what they saw.

"I had no idea I was lifting that much." Jonathan looked around the room for Deltia. He was eating elsewhere. What could Jonathan do? Deltia had authority over him and to defy that authority would be frowned upon by Dartis and his other superiors. The rules of this world seemed so tedious. Pleasing the inane rulers felt impossible.

"You didn't seem to be having any trouble lifting that amount." One of the other men at the table by the burning bonfire remarked. He had introduced himself as Lun. He had long locks of blond hair and brown eyes. The other man was Suvey. He had blue eyes and long red hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. Everyone at the table looked like they were well on their way to becoming body-builders.

"That doesn't make it okay to have him carry that kind of weight." Mahat insisted. "His first day? No, that's harsh."

"Maybe he's being punished for ripping Jorez apart." Suvey suggested.

"Or maybe he's just a ruthless bastard." Jonathan said.

His words were proven true the next day. When Jonathan woke, it was raining across the city of Dartis. A misty fog had settled over the dock and intermingled between the city streets. Horse-drawn carriages filled the alleys and passageways, bustling in and out of the market district. The whole town was alive with trade and traffic. People walked the streets and vendors pushed carts through the busier areas.

There came a knock at his door. When Jonathan answered, Deltia was standing there. "Good morning, Jonathan. No Vendei for you. We have a match in three days for which we must prepare."

"It's raining outside."

"And?" He glared at Jonathan.

"I'll get ready." Jonathan said.

Ten minutes later, he was standing in the rain holding a practice sword in each hand. Across from him, Deltia was preparing to initiate what he believed would be the roughest spar Jonathan had ever experienced. After sparring with Balor, he didn't think that would be possible, but Deltia was something else. He was much faster than Balor.

Their practice swords clashed, Deltia forcing Jonathan back with vengeful determination. The rain pelted their shoulders as Deltia drove him across the sparring ground between the sparring posts designed for independent training. Jonathan defended himself well at first, but then Deltia pushed him farther, moved faster. He had not believed that anyone could be faster than him. Deltia's blades cut between his until he felt them reach his ribs, his sternum, his sides, his abs; he was beating the living shit out Jonathan an hour in.

Mahat and the others peered out from the windows of the Hall, watching Jonathan fight for his life as Deltia slapped him in the head, bludgeoned him in the legs, beat him on the neck, and struck him on the arms. His whole body felt tenderized when he fell to one knee. Deltia fluidly hit Jonathan across the face with the flat of the practice sword, knocking him down. Jonathan balled his fist as he lifted his bruised skull from the mud. He pushed himself up to his knee as he took hold of the practice swords. Deltia turned to face him. Jonathan glared at him, his eyes dark with rage. The sky stormed around them.

"Now we're getting somewhere; get up and fight me, Jonathan! I know you have it! I know you're just as angry as I am. Prove it!" Deltia screamed through the rain.

Jonathan rushed him. Deltia defended himself with only one practice sword as Jonathan attacked. The champions of the hall exited the building to crowd around and watch as the two became a blur of clashing blades. With the first break in Deltia's defense, Jonathan landed a kick in Deltia's stomach, blowing him back. He stumbled, but didn't fall. Jonathan moved in. Deltia pushed back, using both weapons now. Using Balor's disarm technique, Jonathan got the practice swords out of Deltia's hands at the cost of one of his own. Jonathan held up his remaining practice sword to Deltia in triumph.

"What are you waiting for? Strike me! The fight isn't over until one of us is down." Deltia called.

Jonathan did as he was instructed and moved to strike Deltia. There was a flash of fire, and then Jonathan was twenty yards away from Deltia at the edge of the shelf with a giant burning hole in his leather chest-guard. The flesh beneath it bubbled and burned as the falling rain quenched the fire. Deltia turned and made his way inside the building.

Inside the hall, Jonathan sat at a table in the cafeteria as Mahat helped bandage his chest. "What the hell was that?" Jonathan asked.

"I've heard of people using spirit energy at times," Mahat said. "People have won using it, but they always get disqualified because it's like cheating if the other person doesn't know."

"Does this guy have a stick up his ass or what?"

"I know his daddy's a duke. They're a pretty big family in Dartis. They've been here since the city's founding."

"What happened to you?" Lun asked. He placed a plate of fruit onto the table and sat down next to them.

"Deltia beat the shit out of him," said Mahat.

"With most of the people I've fought," said Jonathan, "I've quickly been able to adjust and modify my style to retaliate against them. I never reach the pinnacle of Deltia's knowledge and skill. He reminds me of me."

Mahat chuckled. "Don't worry, it will come. It takes everyone a while to acclimate to this lifestyle."

Jonathan nodded and finished his dinner. He spent an hour in the library perusing the books before going to bed. He had another long day of getting the life drained out of him starting after breakfast the next morning.

# 6

Ryan and Clara made their way across the plains of Ire. When they had woke that morning, Juan and all of his things were gone. He had slipped away without waking them. Ryan had been in a foul mood since he found out. Clara had tried to consolidate him by explaining that it was easier for all of them if Juan left without notice. No one wants to say good-bye. Ryan thought that was a form of denial, an insult to his and Clara's intelligence and capability to accept one another's decisions.

They continued making their way until they overcame a crest and saw a vast city resting upon the plain below. There was a forest to the west. To avoid notice, the two passed into the wood and eventually came upon a relaxing forest path. The sun gleamed through the trees as it continued its descent into the late afternoon.

"I figured we'd have been secluded enough to set up earlier, but that city was in the way. We need a place considerably farther away from the Aallandron populace." Clara sighed.

"We need to find more supplies, at least something with which to sharpen our knives." Ryan said, surveying the trees. Ever since the fall, he had been able to sense things that he never could before. He didn't even know what he was sensing, but it was a form of heightened awareness that extended to every part of his body. He could see farther and hear things from farther away. He could see colors in people, emotions, drives—their spirit energy.

Clara had noticed changes as well. She frequently scraped her knees or cut herself on barbs of bramble crossing the path. There was pain, but the wound didn't last longer than an hour. There were no scars, and the scars that she'd accrued on Earth had vanished. Her skin was a perfect peach color that didn't change. Something she had noticed but hadn't mentioned to Ryan: during their last visit to an Aallandron city—before they had deemed it too dangerous to mingle with the natives—she would attempt to communicate with the Aallandrons. The moment she started speaking, they became entranced by her every word.

But that was only half of this newly discovered skill. Before Juan left, she had noticed several road guards investigating one of their fires, and had literally warded them away. She imagined an explosion far in the distance behind the approaching guards. Sure enough, a loud boom echoed from across the land behind them. The road guards turned around to look, and when they turned back, they didn't see Clara, Ryan, or Juan. They also seemed to have forgotten why they moved to investigate. She had tried to formulate an explanation for it, but could think of nothing more than that she might have some form of psychic manipulation over another's visual cortex.

The two continued until they entered a clearing. Within the middle of the green grove, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, stood a large cathedral. The place reeked. They hadn't intended to get any closer, but then they noticed the dead bodies littering the area. The smell became unbearable. As they were passing the courtyard, Clara saw it. Her eyes widened and she stopped dead in her tracks. Ryan noticed and paused alongside her.

"Is that what I think it is?" Clara asked.

"I see it too." Ryan said.

Sitting within the courtyard of the cathedral, surrounded by five guards bearing the colors of Scerasa, lay one of their Hawks from the Enigma. The guards seemed to be investigating the ship, trying to figure it out. The odd part was that the canopy of the vehicle had been torn off completely.

"How do you think they ripped the canopy off?" Clara wondered.

"I was just thinking about that. These people don't possess the tools to cause that kind of damage."

"They can't be allowed to figure out our technology." Clara said. "Besides, there's a chance that we may be able to connect to the Enigma Network to get someone out here to pick us up."

"What do you intend to do about them? They outnumber us."

"They already know too much. We need to kill them." Clara nodded.

"Kill? Are you sure you're capable of that?" Ryan whispered.

"They are," she said. "They've killed plenty of us for no reason. It goes both ways, but at least we have a good excuse."

"We're talking about killing the natives. That's a really sour move." Ryan said.

"We don't have a choice. Other survivors have taken fate into their own hands. Those soldiers can't live to tell others about that ship."

"We can't move that ship and it's not operational to fly." Ryan said.

"That's not what's important: making sure no one finds anything out is. Understand?" Clara narrowed her eyes on Ryan's.

"I do. Once again, we're outnumbered and they're well-armed."

"But we have the element of surprise, and a few tricks we've learned," said Clara. "Here's what we'll do...."

—

Nearby, beneath the city of Scerasa, an influx of new prisoners, survivors of the Enigma that had been shipped from Crysies, were herded into the Sceresian slush-pit. Chance Trillian was among them. Before he had been captured in Enigma Station, Chance had managed to grab a communicator and remain in contact with William Mason until the guards conducted a search within the docks of Dartis. He was able to let him know that Enigma Station had fallen and that they were on their way to Scerasa. William had been flying one of the remaining Falcons back and forth between Meacham and Enigma Station for supply runs. As Chance watched his people congregate with the violent creatures from the underbelly of Aallandron society, he hoped that someone might be able to get them out of this nightmare.

Their fate lay in William's hands.

—

Nitle, Bival, Vhuu, Grobeche, and Loder stood around the strange object feeling dumbfounded. None of them had a clue as to what the thing did, but they'd been asked to investigate the area so they were going to spend a good amount of time acting like they were doing just that. The thing about technology is that it looks unfathomably complicated to the untrained eye. They knew it involved a seat of sorts, they knew it was used as some form of travel, and that was pretty much it.

"This is a waste of time." Vhuu crossed his arms. The heat of the sun in the afternoon was beginning to make them sweat beneath their armor even though the harsh wind would blow now and then, making them shiver.

"Yes, but if we don't look like we made a conscious effort to figure it out then Hedger will know and he won't give us our pay." Loder said, examining the dashboard of the ship.

Grobeche looked beyond the arches of the wall surrounding the courtyard toward the trees, hearing something.

Bival slid out from under the exposed part of the vessel. "This thing's sealed. We could get in if we crafted the tools, but it would take a long time."

Nitle had been checking out the tail and thrusters. It all looked like parts of a giant puzzle that he was too stupid to figure out. "How hard would it be to haul this thing back to Scerasa?"

"It'd take all of us," said Loder as he climbed out of the ship. "And it'd probably take all day."

"HELP!" A woman called. All five of them turned around and looked toward the cry. A woman dressed in a tattered travel cloak emerged from the brush beyond the courtyard archways. "Somebody please!" She panted. The guards hurried over to her as she climbed through one of the arches and dropped into the courtyard.

"What's the matter?" Bival asked.

"Are you hurt?" Loder asked as he helped her up by her arm. Beneath her cloak, she wore a navy blue vest over a white blouse. She was royalty.

"My name is Clara Wallace, and I am the duchess of a large school based in Cathera. I was on my way to visit the site of our new location in northern Ire when my cart was attacked and my driver killed! I only barely got away."

"Where is your cart?" Loder held up a hand. "Which route?"

"I—I can't remember." She stammered.

"Well that doesn't help anyone, now does it?" Grobeche waved.

"Calm down, Grobeche." Loder said.

Grobeche breathed and shook his head. He noticed the man clambering into the ship behind them. "What is this?" He took a few steps, and then broke into a run toward Ryan who was having trouble withdrawing the pistol from the inner door of the vessel.

Bival, Nitle, and Vhuu hurried after him as Loder rounded on Clara. "Is this some sort of diversion?"

"I—" She didn't have time before Ryan kicked one of the guards in the face, causing Loder to turn away.

"Son of a bitch!" Loder yelled.

"Wait!" Clara grabbed his arm. Loder looked at her, her hand on his arm, and then looked into her eyes. His shoulders went lax and his attention seemed to center only around her in that moment. A devilish plan crossed into Clara's mind. "I want you to kill the men attacking my friend. They look like guards, but they're bandits in disguise. You're the only one who can help us."

Loder looked over his shoulder to the struggle as, to him, four men dressed in Sceresian armor were ruthlessly assaulting a civilian hanging out of the strange vehicle. Loder slid his blade from his sheath as he walked toward the men. He pulled one of them off of the civilian and ran his blade through his stomach. Nitle gaped at Loder in horror as the others turned around.

"What are you doing?" Vhuu began to draw his sword, but Loder slashed his blade across his throat before he could. Bival rushed him. Loder planted his blade in his belly as Bival fell over him in a hug.

Grobeche managed to get his sword out before Loder could shove Bival off, but Ryan had finally gotten the pistol free. He pointed the gun's nozzle at Grobeche's head and fired. Blood splattered everywhere as surreal realization struck Loder. He had murdered his own men for virtually no reason. The spell was broken, but it was too late. Ryan turned the pistol point on Loder and ended him as well.

Ryan fell back against the seat of the ship. Speckles of red covered his face. "What did you do?" He panted as Clara gawked at the carnage she had helped incite.

"I just... told the man that his men were bandits trying to attack us. He didn't hesitate for an instant. It's like, in his eyes, I couldn't be telling a lie."

"Well, problem solved. We've got the ship and no witnesses." Ryan said.

"We also have five different sized Sceresian guard uniforms. It comes with a difficult price." Clara said.

"How do you mean?" Ryan asked.

"Part of staying under the radar is to make sure no one knows about us. These guards were sent to investigate this ship, ordered by a superior who will wonder why his men never returned. That's a blip on the radar."

"So what do you propose we do: don the garb of the guard and go tell their manager in a guard tower somewhere in Scerasa that his men went AWOL?"

"That's exactly what we do. But first." Clara grabbed the manual communicator from the dashboard of the ship. "Let's see who's listening."

—

William Mason sat in the padded leather seat of the Falcon. He watched the navigation map as the Falcon passed over the continent that everyone had come to know as Ire. The thrusters dropped to twenty-five percent and the ship lugged to a steady land-speed. He descended through the clouds as he approached the city of Scerasa. A flickering communicator light flashed on the communications part of the dashboard. William hit the button and listened.

"Clara Wallace of the Star Ship Enigma communicating via Hawk manual communicator. Does anyone read? Clara Wallace of the Star Ship Enigma. Does anyone read?"

William switched on his communicator as he piloted the freighter. "This is William Mason of the Star Ship Enigma, en route for Scerasa of Ire. I read you loud and clear, Clara. Do you need assistance?"

"We need to get to Scerasa. We're not far." Clara's voice crackled over the communicator.

"Are you aware that Scerasa is the town where at least six-hundred survivors of Enigma Station have been transferred?"

Silence followed his question for a second. "That is not something we were aware of." Clara said. "Maybe we can help each other out. We have a pile of Sceresian guard uniforms here. We were going to take care of some official business, but nothing says 'fun' like a prison break."

"Where are you?" William asked.

"At a cathedral about forty-five miles north-west of Scerasa."

"I'll find it. Stay where you are."

Ten minutes later, they heard the thrusters of an Earthen space-craft thunder over the tree-line. The Falcon hovered overhead, bending the tallest, thickest trees around as it descended in the field on the north side of the cathedral. Clara and Ryan met William as he lowered the loading dock door.

William had grown a full beard and mustache. He wore a Kevlar vest over his blue long-sleeved shirt from the Enigma, and carried a holster with a 44. pistol around his waist. His brown eyes were filled with determination as he shook both their hands. "How have you faired?" He asked.

"Better than most, obviously," said Clara. "Enigma Station has fallen. I keep reading that everyone's getting captured and killed."

"Yes, the Aallandrons and their death matches. It's like Rome all over again." William said. "What business did you have in Scerasa?"

"Before I tell you that, I have to explain that we're about to do things very differently, and that means I need your support one-hundred percent, William. Do I have that?" Clara asked.

"What do you mean?" William wrinkled his brow.

"I mean from now on, I want you to fly for me; not for Meacham or anyone else."

"I suppose that's doable, so long as I'll be allowed to continue assisting distress calls. I get about six a day and it keeps me busy."

"You will, but instead of assisting individually, you'll be helping me assist globally. I have a plan to form a new city, but I intend to break in to the Aallandron tax and records office in Scerasa, and put our city on the map officially as an Aallandron town. We find a position to do this, and we set up a visual so that when the Aallandrons come to collect our city's taxes, we look no different from them. They won't attack what they think is theirs."

"Good plan, except the tax and records office is probably going to be in Narcuss as that's the capital city of Ire. I'll tell you what: you help me spring a few hundred people from Scerasa, and I'll help you get to Narcuss to set up your town." William proposed.

"Sounds like a deal. We have to tie up some loose ends in Scerasa anyway." Clara said.

William helped Clara carry the equipment from the bodies of the soldiers while Ryan started taking every functional electronic device from Joel's fallen Hawk, and loaded it onto the Falcon. Once everything had been salvaged and all that remained was the empty shell of the vessel, the three took panels from the Hawk and began to dig. It was nearly dark by the time they finished digging a hole large enough to encompass the Hawk, but they had no choice but to destroy the evidence. They hauled the bodies of the five guards, and all the bodies they could find surrounding the cathedral, into the hole with the Hawk. They then spent the last of the remaining light burying the ship.

"We're done here." William said as the three made for the freighter nearby. The three boarded the ship and William navigated them to a mountain flat he had seen earlier so he could set the ship down without being noticed for the night.

"First thing tomorrow," said Clara, "we don the guard armor and—"

"I don't think you should come with us, Clara." William interrupted. "These people aren't going to listen to any woman, and you'll blow our cover if we walk in with you by our side."

"This is my idea." Clara stammered as she watched William from one of the side control panels.

"No one's denying that it's your idea. We just can't let you come with us. You understand why, right?" William asked. "We're not trying to oppress you, but the Aallandrons haven't yet passed the hurtle where women are equal to men. Earth is very progressive by comparison to Aallandranon."

"I do understand, but.... Oh fine, I'll stay behind for Scerasa, but I get to lead in Narcuss." Clara resigned.

"That should work," said Ryan. "You know more about what you want to do there than we do."

William shrugged. "Besides, we're going to need a pilot to touch down in the upper market square once we reach the surface. We're going to have to fight our way that far if possible, but I don't think we can get out of the city with how many guards are on the upper story. The Defringo will be our relief point."

"I can do that." Clara said.

"Sounds like a plan." William kicked his seat around and got up. He walked to the kitchen area of the inner Falcon and took three metal cups from a cabinet, and a bottle of whiskey from another. "We should check out soon." He said, pouring each of them a glass. Clara and Ryan each took one. "To better days ahead." They raised their glasses.

"And luck for tomorrow." Ryan added.

The three nodded and drank.

# 7

Lidia left the bar, half-drunk. She wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep or puke, or do a combination of both. After stumbling into a trash-can, Lidia forced herself to walk straight and try not to look drunk. Someone emerged from the alley and pulled her into the shadows.

"Hello, Lidia." Frent said

"Oh Frent, why won't you leave me alone? You know I'm not interested."

"I'm afraid I simply can't do that. You belong to me, Lidia." Frent said. Lidia felt him stroking her hair as he held her tight. She felt for her knife beneath her cloak. Where it should have been was nothing more than a soft, empty space, meaning she had either forgotten it at home or lost it in her drunken haze.

Frent's words wormed their way into Lidia's skull. Several other shadows emerged from the darkness. The world was still a daze, but she knew she had to escape. Lidia elbowed Frent in the stomach and pattered through the damp streets. She knew she was being chased as heavy boot-falls clinked behind her. She ran through an empty market-square. Like a monkey, Lidia jumped to a wooden podium at the far wall of the square and climbed to the second story. Someone cussed beneath her and she heard the footsteps move for the stairwell.

Lidia climbed to one of the rooftops nearby and jogged the route toward her part of town. From the dark mist outside of her zone of familiarity, a hand grappled her arm. She came to an abrupt halt in the hands of a roof guard. "You're not supposed to be up here!"

Lidia shoved the man back. In his break of contact, she kneed the guard in the groin. Bouncing off the wall behind the guard, Lidia kicked off the guard's back and pulled herself up to the third story of the rooftops.

Free of obstruction, Lidia returned to her home.

—

"When you leave this afternoon, Jonathan... I don't ever want to see your face here again." Jonathan's father said to him as Jonathan stood in the doorway to the kitchen. He had been preparing to leave for college over the last six weeks, and his father hadn't said a word. It was clear then that he thought of Jonathan's decision as a betrayal. He needed help. The government had bought off all his ranch hands and assistants. Being one of the last independent farmers in the world, he had little of the funds required to maintain the farm.

It had become a kind of game to Matthew Tabith. He wanted to see how long he could last, being one man versus the world. He had made the mistake of believing that family would always be there to help him. He had already driven Jonathan's mother away.

"You never belonged here." He said, sipping a glass of scotch as he sat at the kitchen table beneath the fluorescent bulb radiating overhead. Beyond the window, the sky outside looked dark and ominous, threatening rain beyond the glass dome overhead. "You were like your mother... weak," he sipped, "putting your head in those damn books all the time like nothing outside matters."

"You're drunk again." Jonathan said, determined not to back down this time. He clutched the strap to his backpack in his hand at his side.

His father got to his feet. "You think age makes a man? It doesn't. A man makes himself into a man, and you're not a man. You never will be, no matter how hard you try."

Jonathan said nothing.

"It's that," Matthew Tabith scoffed, "that passive aggressive attitude you got from your mother."

"I am my mother's son. You're the only one who seems to have a problem with that. Fortunately for me, it doesn't matter anymore. You were a shit father anyway."

"I did everything for you." His father glared at him with the stern lines of rage etched into his withered face. The expression was timeless, something that may as well have been carved into marble for the years of anger that Matthew Tabith had held so close. It had cost him his family. Those wrinkles and curls in his brow, the definition lines of disgust in the cheeks, the taught sneer of his nose between his cheekbones: it was the expression Jonathan would adapt in later years as the rage his father had instilled in him was ruptured by the planet of Aallandranon. "I fed you three times for every single day you slept under my roof with food that I grew with my own two hands. We had everything, but it was never enough."

"We're not your pets. We can't be put in a cage and tended to at your leisure."

"Ungrateful bastard." Matthew shook his head and walked toward him. He was old, tired, and sick with the secret of cancer that he took to his grave four years later.

"I'm not a boy anymore. You may not think of me as a man, but I'm not a boy." Jonathan said.

"You will never be a man." Matthew repeated.

Jonathan remembered all of this as he watched the sand slip between his fingers, the sun sparkling across the grains like glitter as it dried his flesh. He stood across from Ashteg the Terrible, a beefy man in chain-mail and chain leggings with ridiculous looking ornate clan tattoos on his face. Jonathan missed the announcement for the battle to begin. He thought of his father and how much he hated the man, how much he wished he had punched him in the face, or beaten him bloody when he had the chance.

The last of the sand drained from his fingers. Ashteg was almost upon him and Jonathan hadn't even raised his sword. The rage trembled into his fingers. The man, Ashteg, blundered forth, but Jonathan only saw Matthew Tabith's sneering hatred.

Ashteg swung at him. Jonathan ducked and put his left fist into Ashteg's stomach. Ashteg doubled over, Jonathan put his hand on his chest and pushed him back. He could have ended it, but Deltia told him never to end an opponent quickly in the arena unless challenged to do so. The crowd went crazy as Jonathan moved toward the man, his eyes seething with bloody yearning. The roar of the audience became nothing more than a dull pounding in Jonathan's ears.

Ashteg was the most unfortunate man in the world right now. You wouldn't know it with the smile on his tattooed face, or the way he curled his fingers around his axe with anticipation. He had only won three Vorago matches. Usually, if a herus can get three victories out of a praelis, the prisoner will be considered worth his initial cost. Ashteg would never see four victories.

Jonathan blocked Ashteg's strike with the solid thrust of his blade. Ashteg dropped the axe down for a side lash, but Jonathan caught the sword and kicked him back. Ashteg's rolls of fat bounced as he stumbled. The crowd called for Jonathan to finish him. Who was he to deny his audience a show? Jonathan jumped onto Ashteg's chest, sending him flailing backward. Jonathan stabbed him through the chest five times as he went down like a fallen tree.

The people in the stands rejoiced as Jonathan took the shield mounted on the inside wall of the equipment alcove. Two other warriors walked from the Vorago entrance to the field. Jonathan waited for his second to walk out, but no one came. Auctor Delcam stood up from the podium overseeing the Defringo and held up his hand to quiet the crowd. He wore a flowing blue robe and had silver armlets wrapping his forearms down to both wrists.

Once the volume dropped to a reasonable level, Delcam began. "The preliminary rounds of this year's games have officially begun. Champions will define themselves here today and for the rest of the year. Let our aspiring hero show his skill when the odds aren't in his favor." He sat down.

Jonathan's two opponents gathered their equipment before readying themselves adjacent to Jonathan. He raised his sword as Delcam gave the signal for them to begin.

"Weak..." His father's voice echoed into his mind. "Helpless..." Jonathan closed his eyes, allowing the roar of the crowd to dissolve in a euphoric thunder of sound. "You will never be a man...."

He opened his eyes as the first challenger reached him and slammed his sword onto Jonathan's shield. Jonathan slapped him back with his shield, turned, and then fired a kick with such tremendous force that the man rocketed backward, losing his long sword before he tumbled to a stop seventy yards away from Jonathan with every single rib broken. The crowd awed. The second challenger gaped at Jonathan as Jonathan brought his sword down on his hammer. The end of Jonathan's sword broke off, but it didn't matter. With the remaining edge of his sword, Jonathan forced his opponent down to his knees. Jonathan proceeded to beat the life out of the second man. Finishing, Jonathan released the rickety, bloodied corpse to the sand. He tossed the hilt of his sword aside and walked to the center of the arena, spreading his arms intimidatingly toward the Auctor.

They wanted blood: he would give it to them.

"Tell me I'm not a man now, you dead son of a bitch." He whispered to himself.

Auctor Delcam didn't look pleased. Jonathan had finished the round in less than thirty seconds; impressive yes, but not very good for the audience or their supply of opponents for such a powerful foe. Jonathan saw Delcam beckon his assistant over and say something into his ear. The assistant nodded and quickly hurried off. Auctor Delcam returned his impartial gaze to Jonathan.

Jonathan paced, watching the crowd as an apparent interruption was in progress. The sound of drums filled the stadium. Torches burst into life upon the marble pillars jutting up from the sand. The earth began to shake beneath Jonathan's feet. The pillars slid away from the middle of the arena. A grate fell over the equipment alcove and it slid into the wall nearby. The side doors opened and hundreds of topless dancers danced their way around the arena. The audience seemed to appreciate the sentiment.

Once the last the of the dancers had filed off the field, the ground rumbled again. Jonathan watched Auctor Delcam watching him. The sand began to seep through the ground near the middle of the field as a giant compartment door slid apart. Jonathan kicked one of his previous opponent's swords into his hand and walked backwards out of the way. The pillars on the sides of the arena moved to the corners of the field and slid higher into the sky. Between the pillars on Jonathan's left, a wall of translucent blue snapped into existence. The same thing happened on his three other sides. The blue energy also cut across the void of the opening in Scerasa's under-city ceiling. He was trapped. The crowd had turned into a riot of positive emotion.

Within the cylindrical pit that the compartment doors had created in their absence, the twisted, copper head of a massive reptile entered the arena alongside a chain and post. As it raised into the arena it became larger. Enormous yellow wings were folded against its back as it remained at a crouch. The platform came to a halt on-level with the field. Jonathan hadn't noticed, but his own jaw had dropped. He was staring into the blood red eyes of a dragon. It twitched its head at Jonathan and took a huge step with a fat, yellow claw, sending a tremor through the ground.

Jonathan looked to Delcam. He sneered back at Jonathan without sympathy. He had just sentenced Jonathan to execution. The dragon's wings exploded outward, giving it the appearance of being significantly larger. Blood red lined the inner parts of the dragon's coloring. The chain around its neck broke and coiled to the ground as the dragon was released to feed. It rocked back and forth as it waddled over the field toward Jonathan like a giant chicken.

A disconnect ran through Jonathan's brain as he watched the monstrous lizard advance on him. A fear that he did not understand ran through his skin like electricity, sending signals to his brain to flee at all cost. The wings flapped up as the dragon reared back, becoming three times as large. It then threw the sails of its wings. The wind billowed dust and grit through Jonathan, pushing him down on his ass. The creature towered overhead, blocking out the sun shining from above, its eyes glowing red from its silhouette against the sky.

He could do nothing as the dragon's long neck darted. Jonathan felt the jarring impact. One moment he was sitting on the arena floor and the next: he and the sand of the arena were inside the dragon's narrow mouth. A line of gargantuan, sharp teeth tore through the sand on Jonathan's left as a thick, forked tongue snaked to the roof of the mouth. It pushed him into the line of the other teeth as they began to fall. The sand, muddied and mixed with saliva, slipped around Jonathan's form as he managed to slide under the dragon's tongue momentarily as it tried to chew him up. The weight of his blade knocked into his side. He grappled the sword. The dragon's tongue attempted to force him into the teeth again.

From outside, the dragon appeared to be struggling to contain the food in its mouth. It shrieked as Jonathan stabbed it in the tongue. Jonathan, covered with mud and saliva, flew from the dragon's mouth, on fire, into the electric wall. It shocked him and knocked him to the ground. He lay there, hissing—his leather chest-piece smoldering.

This fight wasn't going well.

The dragon looked furious as it chewed nothing and cocked its head, staring at Jonathan with a need for vengeance. Fire erupted from its nostrils with each angered breath as it stammered forward. Jonathan saw it suck in a huge amount of air and rear back. Jonathan grabbed his sword and saw his shield. He dove for the it. A wall of fire and heat billowed over the spot where Jonathan had just been, transforming the sand to glass. Jonathan hooked his hand into his shield and turned in time for the dragon to focus its breath on him. He crouched behind his shield as fire tore around him. Searing heat boiled the flesh of his arm as the shield melted to the charred, skeletal wooden frame that had constructed its form. Jonathan screamed in pain as the heat of hell scorched through him. The dragon's fire breath ceased, its lung capacity depleted.

Shaking with fury, Jonathan threw the smoldering shield aside. The dragon snapped at him again, snake-like. This time, before it could strike, Jonathan grabbed hold of its nose and forced his fist into its nostril. The dragon whipped its neck back and threw Jonathan straight up into the air. The crowd was going wild below as Jonathan cartwheeled through the sky. As he fell, he saw the dragon's open mouth, a dual set of razor teeth greeting him.

Transforming himself into a bullet, Jonathan fired straight down the dragon's gullet. Adrenaline drowned his fear. He stabbed his sword through the dragon's inner throat. He had to push with all his might. Once he felt the relief, Jonathan slashed. Precious light met him as he cut through the dragon's throat and tumbled toward the sand. The audience drew breath in amazement. Rancid dragon blood covered him from head to toe as the dragon flailed in horror of its impending death.

It set its sights for Jonathan. Jonathan's heel struck the hammer that had belonged to one of his previous contenders. He grabbed it in his offhand and raised it just in time to deflect a strike as the dragon pawed him. It hooked its nails around the hammer hilt and chucked the hammer away. It struck again. Jonathan cut its claw with his sword. It continued to paw at him, but Jonathan maimed it each time.

It drew its head back again. As it lowered its head to breathe its fire-breath all over him, Jonathan dove forward and rolled beneath its initial trajectory. Fire billowed above his back from the dragon's nose and mouth—including a stream flowing from the hole in the thing's throat. He tumbled to a stance, stabbing his blade into the dragon's stomach where it remained before the dragon lifted its gigantic foot to crush him. He dropped to one knee as the dragon's foot came down.

To the audience, there was no sound or smash although the foot seemed to have crushed Jonathan. Weakened by physical trauma, the dragon's thigh and stomach shook. It winced, squeezing its eyes closed as its leg was forced upward. Jonathan, glaring determinedly at the field from beneath the dragon's great foot with his arms raised high, lifted a portion of the full weight of the creature. He twisted and pulled, feeling and hearing bones in the dragon's thigh popping. The dragon lifted off the ground and landed on its back as Jonathan threw all the weight from his shoulders. It looked pathetic and unimpressive, sprawled helplessly on its side.

Jonathan found his sword protruding from the belly of the creature. He yanked it out and walked to the spot on the dragon's neck where he had torn out. Hacking through the remaining part of the dying creature's gullet, Jonathan gripped the thorny spinal cord and broke its thorny head from its body. The audience went into a state of audible ecstasy as Jonathan lifted the head and tossed it toward the base of Delcam's podium.

He then walked off the field.

—

A tray of dishes flew down the corridor leading from the speaker's podium to the royal corridor, breaking across the floor and shattering beyond recognition once they struck the far wall. Auctor Delcam walked sullenly down the path around the broken glass with his two servants and petite wife, Helga, following along behind him. It wasn't the first time a praelis had defeated an obese, baby dragon, but success was so rare that he got used to not having to pay prisoners after its release. However, for Jonathan's survival, Delcam now owed a significant weight of shards to Dartis and his Hall of Champions, especially since he had bet Zeakan that Dartis's new man wouldn't live through the day.

He didn't find Zeakan, Zeakan found him.

As they entered the royal corridor, Zeakan—a kind-faced man with a stubble beard and earnest green eyes entered the hall. He saw Delcam before he could get to the seclusion of his flat. "A lovely day for bets and gambles between chums, or perhaps, quite the opposite for some." Zeakan chuckled as he eyed Delcam's wife. "I believe you owe me close to three times the amount we agreed upon?" His voice rose in question.

"You will have your shards, Zeakan. I am a man of my word." Delcam said.

"I do not speak to deny that, but I would barter for a different boon if I may."

Delcam watched Zeakan warily. "Go on."

"The price you owe, waved, for an evening with your eldest daughter."

Fury sparked like a wildfire through Delcam's upper torso. His fingers shook. He was going to punch Zeakan today. He said that to himself every time he saw Zeakan, but today he meant to procrastinate no longer. Helga's fingers curled around his arm, cooling the intensity building inside of him. It was enough to reconsider Zeakan's offer. Jessble had just seen her seventeenth birthday and she remained pure, collateral for a financial disaster that had not yet occurred. He could afford to pay Zeakan for the wager they had constructed, but the price was close to the worth of his first estate. Paying out would leave him vulnerable for further potential woes.

Delcam didn't have much in the way of choice. "I'd be lying if I didn't find insult in your offer, but the weight of shards outweighs the security of keeping a fresh, untouched daughter clean in spite of her frequent adolescent urges. I will give you her purity if it is what you desire, in exchange for bets rendered prior to our conversation here."

"I will see it so, should you be so generous."

Delcam nodded, chewing his jaw in thought the way he did after striking a bargain of some kind.

"Bring her by in the morning, and I will have her returned to you the morning of the following day."

The two parted. Delcam started back to his flat.

"Jessble will be pleased at last." Helga said.

"By the shit-eater, Zeakan. If not for Dartis and his new dog, we could sell her for twice the worth."

"There's still Cessble. In another four years, she'll be worth as much as Jessble."

"We can only hope that she'll have more semblance of her mother and less of me." Delcam growled.

The two met the door to his apartment and entered.

# 8

Ryan and William emerged from the woods wearing the Sceresian guard uniforms. They stood on the vista that peered over the wall to Scerasa. The rooftops and buildings beyond were bathed in golden afternoon sunlight. A set of stone steps led down the cliff to the field where a trail led to the main road to the city.

"Just remember," said William, "you're Grobeche and I'm Loder."

"You really think they won't recognize us?" Ryan asked.

"They might. However, if these were just lowly guards at the bottom of the chain, their faces aren't likely to jog anyone's memory. There's another problem. Are you able to speak the Aallandron tongue?"

"I've done it pretty well. Don't know how, but when I talk to them they seem to understand me."

"Nobody knows how we can understand the Aallandrons, but everybody seems to figure it out at about the same rate. The more we speak, the more like them we sound." William said.

"It's hard for me to communicate the language without hearing them talk first." Ryan said.

"Me too, but we have to get in and out as quickly as possible."

They met with the main road and made their way to the west gate of Scerasa. The guards stationed by the entrance were laughing at them before they could come completely into view. It was too late to turn around, so they had to keep moving forward.

"What happened to your horse this time, Grobeche?" One of them asked.

Ryan and William approached warily. The attention wasn't ideal, but the fiction seemed to be in order. They met the steps and began to climb.

"Captain Trilo was expecting you back yesterday," said the other gate guard. "Where's the rest of your group?"

"Took off." William said simply. He hadn't been communicating enough yet to speak comfortably to anyone in the position of authority.

"And your name?" The left asked as both guards stepped to block the threshold.

"Loder." William replied.

"You were the leader of this group. Trilo will be expecting a detailed explanation of where and why your group deserted you."

"All right." William said.

The guards looked to one another, fighting back laughter. "Go on, then." The right said seriously and stepped aside.

William and Ryan quickly entered the city. They walked the winding path through the channel, seeing lily pads and water flowers jutting from the ornamental waters alongside the main street. They passed a large fountain with a Poseidonesque merman statue ushering the waves through the city foyer, and entered the market bazaar.

"Any idea where the guard station will be?" Ryan asked as they descended the steps to the marketplace.

"When I was scouting with the survivors from Meacham, we figured a lot of stuff out about the Aallandron cities. The guards are actually based out of the capital of each country and distributed amidst the allied cities. Every city has a guard tower at the southwest corner of town." William said, following the path that fed into the wall that led to the south side of the city.

"They still have dedicated armies, right?" Ryan wondered.

"Based on our evaluations, each city has a native army, and then there are the guards that protect the cities. They're connected to a kind of government that oversees everything from the capital. There are road-guards that move along the main roads at any given time, day or night."

"So it's primitive Earth, about the medieval era?"

William glanced at Ryan before they entered a tunnel leading to the south-west rounding the outer edge of the city. "We have reason to believe that there have been several periods of civilization that advanced throughout this planet's history, even some that have gone so far as to achieve space-travel. How far they went is still unknown to us, but in our short time of exploring we've discovered the ruins of at least three vast cities where the former inhabitants had clearly defined roads for high capacity traffic, cities with old vehicles similar to cars, and the mother load just south of Meacham: one of the largest underground cities I've ever seen."

"We steered clear of everything that looked like civilization after a group of us got executed in some village after we tried communicating for a few minutes. Clara, Juan Langston, and I were the only ones who made it away from that village." Ryan said as they walked down the tunnel passage. Torches lined the walls, illuminating the path in full so as to defeat any and all shadows.

"Adapt and survive. That's all there is to it," said William. "C'mon, the guard tower is right across the street."

Clara's voice-over clicked on through the communicator in each of their left ears. "I'm standing by in position. Let me know when you're ready."

They exited the tunnel and hurried across the cobblestone road during a break between the trade caravans headed for the markets in the upper and lower parts of the city. Several guards emerged from the tower and walked past William and Ryan without notice. The two climbed the steps and entered through the large double wooden doors leading inside the building.

Everything within was of a delusional grandeur. Red Sceresian banners draped from every archway, doorway, wall, and mantle. The carpet on the steps of the stairway leading to the upper stories matched the royal red flavor of the building. Guards in various stages of uniform ushered from desks covered with paper-work to offices with superior officers, to rooms with wooden filing cabinets. Couriers jogged from desk to desk grabbing out-bound papers and occasionally dropped off packages or parcels for the guards. One of the walls displayed a massive board covered with many layers of wanted pictures. The whole place was a bustling operation for law enforcement.

"Grobeche!" Someone yelled. Ryan swallowed as one of the guard captains approached. "I told you to replace that helmet!"

He turned to William. "I don't know how you were trained in the Cherry guard, Loder, but if I find that you didn't fill out your alpha script again, I'll be sending you to the Yuvarian Mountain Mines for stationary duty. Do you understand?"

"Yes." William answered.

The guard captain grabbed a blank page and a quill and ink bottle from someone's desk, and shoved it all into William's hands. "Fill it out, and put it on my desk in five minutes."

The two walked to the nearest vacant desk. William sat down and looked at the paper. It looked incomprehensible to him. While the verbal language was easy to pick up, the writing was completely different. "What is this, elvish?" William whispered to Ryan.

"Take a picture and send it to Clara," said Ryan. "The computer on the Falcon should be able to figure out the patterns and tell us what we need to know."

William nodded. He looked left and right to make sure no one was looking, and then tapped the modulator on his ear. The lens popped in front of his eye and focused on the page. He focused until the page was as crisp as he could get it and captured the image. Pressing the button over the ear-piece again, he switched back to the communicator. "Clara, I've just sent you an image. We need it translated and filled out so I can copy and give it to the guard captain within the next few minutes."

"The computer is analyzing. I'll send it back to you here in a second." She replied.

The two looked around. Everyone was busy with their processes so they didn't notice William and Ryan waiting for seemingly nothing. A moment later, William received a file. He tapped the modulator and brought up the image he had sent to Clara, except now it had a line of English written above the words on the page. In the spaces provided on the page, Clara had written in the Aallandron language, the replies they needed to answer.

The page was actually the document they needed in order to avert attention from their situation from the previous day. Apparently, the real Loder had forgotten to fill out a report explaining how many people and who he was taking for his assigned task. Under this line, Clara had written simply two, and Loder and Grobeche were the only ones listed. William copied the text she had written onto the sheet. Everything else was just information that superiors were supposed to fill out later. She had answered a few other questions with guesses. William copied everything. Everyone else who died at the cathedral will—to the Aallandrons—have seemingly deserted for no apparent reason.

Once he was finished, he found the guard captain's office and placed the document on his desk. The captain moved it to an obscure place on his desk without even looking at it. He handed William another sheet. "Fill out your event report, and then you and Grobeche are commissioned to prison duty for the afternoon. Don't make me remind you again."

"Right, Sir." William nodded.

The man glared at him from behind his desk. "Don't get cocky with me, soldier! "

They filled out the second document with Clara the same way. When she sent it back, they realized that it was an incident report based on a series of undercover agents that had been deployed within the ranks of the thieves of Scerasa forest. Instead of explaining what really happened, she said that when they got there, the bodies of the missing bandit agents had mysteriously disappeared. Further investigation in and around the cathedral didn't yield anything more. However, she indicated that they found tracks leading toward the mountain nearby.

After putting the document on the captain's desk, William received more paperwork. One sheet was Loder's next assignment: prison duty for the remainder of his shift. The other was his alpha script. He sent both to Clara and filled out a few names for the sake of the act so they didn't get called out before they could leave. On their way out, Ryan grabbed a map from the edge of someone's desk.

"Where are you going, Loder?" The two stopped in their tracks as they made for the door. The volume of chatter throughout the room dropped as their guard captain stood in the doorway to his office, glaring at them. They could feel the eyes of the unsuspecting Aallandrons on them. "Prison's down the hall this way. Don't forget your keys again. Omne," he swore and turned around to enter his office, "every year they get stupider. And change that damn helmet, Grobeche!"

William and Ryan made for the prison door. A guard with a smirk on his face slipped a different helmet into Ryan's hands. Ryan took off his helmet and put the other one on. When he looked down, there was a giant gash in the front that had apparently happened before the real Grobeche's death. He put the defunct helmet on the shelf as they approached a barred door preceding a stone stairwell leading into the depths of the city prison.

Taking one of the twelve sets of keys hanging from nails to the left of the bars, William opened the door and allowed Ryan to enter. Leaving the vicinity of the other guards put their nerves at ease. The air became colder as they descended the spiral case.

"This is actually going better than I expected." Ryan said.

"We wouldn't have gotten this far if it had gone south even a little. We're lucky our personas were delinquent enough in life to warrant prison duty. If we can find Chance Trillian, we'll be in good standing order." William said as they dropped to a small corridor lined with torches. It led to another staircase that delved deeper into the planet's surface.

Clara's voice crackled in William's ear. "Make sure you let me know when your cover's blown. We're not messing around with getting our people out and I don't care who knows it. I'll set down in the god damn arena if I have to."

"If it becomes necessary that we dust-off in the arena then that's what we'll do, but let's try to stay calm and stick to the plan we came up with last night." William said.

Clara gave no response.

The two eventually came to the foot of a large corridor with many sub-corridors branching from the passageways connected to the four different stories. There were two guards that they could see pacing the corridors on each level above. William turned to Ryan as he tugged the visor attachment from the ear-piece and drew it over his eyes. Ryan did the same with his and switched on the thermal-vision. They were able to see a significant increase in the number of guards. They appeared as green holographic figures within the walls nearly as far as the eye could see.

William tapped his ear-piece. "Turn off your communicator." He instructed Ryan.

Ryan did as asked. "Why?"

"I didn't want Clara to hear," he replied, narrowing his eyes on Ryan's. "We're going to have to kill a lot of people in order to get everyone out of this prison. All these green figures are going to have to drop. Are you going to be able to do this?"

"I—I," stammered Ryan. "I think so."

"Sorry buddy." William said. He placed his hand on the side of Ryan's head. Ryan managed a quick protest, before William slammed his head into the wall. Ryan collapsed in a heap on the floor, a nasty scrape bleeding from his cheek from the impact.

William turned to the corridor. He dropped his arms. The metal sleeves on his forearms melted in thick gobs down to solid razor-sharp sword points in each hand. William prepared himself for the genocide he would have to commit. He would have to do it quickly, methodically, rhythmically.

Killing required a difficult trick of the mind. Taking the person that he was, William set that person aside and took upon himself another: that of a soldier doing his job to protect his family. It was in his blood, deep in the root of his primal being. If, after he finished, the man he had been remained he would assume his role again without the burden of murderer upon his head.

—

When Ryan came to, William was sitting opposite to him with his head in his hand. He was covered in blood. Ryan got to his feet and looked down the corridor. Bodies littered the hall down the passage ahead, and there were several at the foot of the stairs where they had entered.

"It's done." William said.

"You killed everyone?" Ryan asked.

William nodded. "There are doors to the prison cells, but they take two people to open. Don't look at me like that. You knew what had to be done."

"But I was going to help you." Ryan protested.

"I wanted to limit the burden to myself." William pushed himself off the wall to a stance. "Also, you hesitated when I asked if you were ready."

"So? Is that why you had me turn off my communicator?"

"Yes. When it comes to murder, if you hesitate a little at the idea, you'll hesitate a lot when it comes time to do it. Come on. We've spent enough time in here." William led Ryan up to the top story of the room, bypassing dozens of guard corpses sprawled throughout the walkway. William stood on a switch on one side of the double doors. "Stand on the pressure plate over there. Can't open either side unless both guards are on their side of the door."

Ryan did as asked. William put his arm in the ornate door handle and pulled the door open. They could hear moaning and wailing from the cavernous room within. They stepped off the button to lock the doors open. The two entered the room as the Sceresian guards. They perused the prisoners. There were a lot of prisoners in tattered clothes throughout the barred cells, but they didn't recognize any of the faces.

"These must be the older inmates." William said, looking about the room.

"Should we release them anyway? They might help us get out of here; have them start a riot or something."

"Once we get our people and prepare to make for the surface." William said. "Communicators on." He tapped his ear and heard the connection to the Enigma Network click to life.

"About time." Clara's voice reverberated in their ears. "After scanning the sub-levels of the city, your safest exit will literally be the Defringo. Of course, you'll have to traverse the streets of lower Scerasa. We can dust-off there, but only if you can hold off the guard until everyone's aboard."

"I thought you were joking when you proposed that yesterday. Is that feasible?" William asked as the two started out of the chamber to the one across the hall.

"I don't know. How many guards do you think are in this city?" Clara wondered.

"Quite a few. We'll keep you posted on where we are, but get inventive in case things go south. We're about to blow the cover."

"I may be able to help you once you get into the arena. I've fit this bird through some pretty tight places." Clara said over the communicator.

"Whatever assistance you can give will be appreciated." William said. "Let's do this, Ryan. Let them all go." He jogged past one of the many giant bowls of fire to the control tower where a guard watched him approach curiously. William climbed the tower and kicked the guard out from the top. On the wall, there were a series of levers, and one master lever with a lock on it. William broke the lock in his fist and pulled the lever. All the cell doors opened. People flooded from their confined rooms to the middle of the cavern where William and Ryan were making their way through.

"We're breaking out!" Ryan yelled, first in English and then in Aallandron. "Follow us if you want to see the light of day again!"

"Gather as many as you can!" William called. He ran into the chamber they had left previously and released the older prisoners. At least a hundred people herded through the upper level toward the stairwell.

William and Ryan pushed to the front of the crowd and broke free of the herd. They each rushed into the cell caverns and released the inmates on the next two levels. The cells below were crowded to capacity. Hundreds of ratty, smelly prisoners rioted into the hall. Some carried rocks, others carried broken swords they had found or salvaged. There were a few Enigma survivors, but most were on the bottom story.

Once the two liberated the last two levels and the base corridor was flooded with offenders innocent and guilty, William surveyed the crowd. "CHANCE TRILLIAN!" He called.

"HERE!" A man yelled back, but with all the movement and haggard looking men, it was hard to tell where he was. A moment later, Chance pushed his way through. His clothes had turned to rags, and his face looked ragged with facial hair.

William hoisted the corpse of a dead guard into Chance's arms. "Get changed. I need you to find out where they took the women and get them out."

"Already on it." Chance said over the dull roar of the prisoners.

"What the hell?" One of two guards cried from the foot of the stairs at the end of the corridor. They were at least two-hundred yards away. Both turned to report the massive prison-break, but Chance took William's pistol from the poorly hidden holster tucked between his guard uniform. He aimed, thumbed the hammer, and fired two bullets in quick succession. There were two blood-sprays as the bodies of the two guards fell to their knees in the same timing that he had fired. Chance slipped William's gun back in his holster.

"Good going." Ryan said amidst the crowd of awe-stricken prisoners.

"Can't afford to get every guard in the city on us." Chance said. "Do you have a way out?" He directed his question to William.

"Clara's on pick-up if we can get to the Defringo." William replied.

"That's a relief," said Chance as he began donning the garb of the guard. A few others saw this and did the same with the many bodies on the floors.

"Take this." William said to Chance, handing him a communicator.

Chance slipped it over his ear before he put on his helmet, connecting with the Enigma Network.

"What's up, Chance?" Clara spoke casually in his ear over the full broadcast so that everyone could hear.

"Could do with a nice shower and a shave, maybe a quick screw if things are in my favor." He smirked. Behind him, a look of jealousy filled Ryan's eyes. "I'm going to need you to guide me to the docks, Clara." Chance said in a private channel so that only he and Clara could communicate.

"Hey!" William smacked Ryan hard in the shoulder. Ryan had been glaring at Chance and eavesdropping on his and Clara's every word. "Get your head out of the clouds. We need to get to the lower arena. I saw the door this way." The hundreds of people migrated toward the opposite end of the bottom floor.

"I'm out this way, guys." Chance said, pointing and walking toward the entrance to the guard tower behind them where he had shot the two guards.

"Good luck, Chance." William called.

"Let's do this." Ryan said.

William took the lead and led them to the double-doors where he and Ryan stood on either side to open the threshold. The prisoners flooded through, trampling guards as they entered the hall. "Silence is broken. Do your thing, Clara." William said over the communicator.

William and Ryan opened the next door and allowed the prisoners to rush the many guards of the lower arena preparation room. Everyone crowded and hurried up the ramp into the large lower arena. The people in the stands screamed and fled as guards jogged to other guards, spreading the information of their escape like wildfire through the social web of Scerasa. All four-hundred of the escapees congregated in the middle of the arena as dozens of guards began to file in from all four sides of the structure.

The roar of some other-worldly vessel filled the entire city as Clara brought the Falcon in through the east entrance to inner Scerasa. The sheer force of the thrusters overturned everything within the streets of the city funneling deep into the planet's surface. The inhabitants fled for safety. Clara brought the Falcon over the lower arena and hovered there.

"Hey guys, too tight to set down here, but I brought you gifts!" She said over the communicator. The weapons and loading docks on the freighter opened, releasing all the weaponry William had gathered and stored from over the last few months. Pistols, rifles, and carbines rained upon the prisoners. Hands reached to the air and caught the firearms. A hail of fire filled the different areas of the crowd as they mowed the guards down with the fire of Earth. One man acquired a rocket-launcher and blew a massive hole in the arena stands. Just as quickly as she had arrived, Clara returned from where she came.

William and Ryan guided the prisoners through the hole in the stands into a lavishly decorated corridor that ran through the city.

—

Lady Isble and her husband Bethros were coming back from dinner in a close friend's abode. They had entered the royal corridor a few minutes prior. They passed through a door and heard and felt the sound of hundreds thunder through the corridors. Something was very wrong here. Bethros tried to turn back, but the closest door to the common streets was up ahead. It could be ten minutes of walking through the royal corridor back the way they came before they'd have another chance to get out.

Isble tried to make for the door, but a hundred ratty, half-naked men swarmed around the corner. Her eyes widened. Bethros managed to grab her hand, but she was taken. For an instant, he watched the weight of dozens break his wife's bones and trample her face before the crowd overtook him as well.

Guards broke into the royal corridor, headed by Knight Captain Jiper Guff. They marched forward as the prisoners burst through the door ahead and charged forward. They were like water, charged and driven by the impulse to move forward without direction. Guff saw men in guard uniforms moving with the herd. He didn't know if they were deserters, prisoners who had attained the equipment from fallen guards, or guards who had gotten swept up and knew of no other way to get out.

Fear crossed Guff's mind as the herd thickened. They had crammed fifty guards in here, thinking that would be enough. The sea of inmates poured through the corridor by the hundreds. "RETREAT!" Guff roared. He managed six steps backward before the prisoners with rifles filled his back with bullets. The rest of his men didn't get close to the gate leading out either, but one guard managed to play dead in the corner by a set of steps leading up to the next part of the corridor.

After the massive herd finally passed, Ricci got to his feet. He had a broken arm, a concussion, and a fractured shin. Hobbling as quickly as he could, he passed the crushed corpses of Isble and Bethros, and emerged from the royal corridor. A road guard saw him and hurried to his side.

"What happened?" The guard asked.

"Prison break. They're headed toward the Defringo." Ricci winced.

"Stay here. I'm going to go tell the rest of the guard."

"Hurry, dammit!" Ricci shoved the guard away and collapsed on a bench by a nearby house beneath the torchlight.

Unfortunately for the Humans, the guard were quick to respond to the information that the horde of inmates was headed for the center of the city rather than the exits where they had anticipated and stationed guards. Now, as the information made its way through the ranks and platoons guarding the exits to Scerasa, hundreds of guards flocked toward the center of the under-city. The guards in their red uniforms descended upon the circular Defringo like blood cells attacking an infection.

# 9

William drove the prisoners toward the direction of the Defringo. When they passed through the massive set of columns and descended the steps onto the sands of the great arena, the bowl in the center erupted with flame. From every entrance that led to the field, guards in the red Sceresian uniforms advanced on them.

"Get us out of here, Clara!" William yelled.

"I'm on my way." She replied.

"You guys didn't start the party without us did you?" Chance Trillian said over the network. As he spoke, at least two-hundred women and Chance Trillian entered the arena from the larder of the Defringo. They hurried together in a giant group with the other prisoners as the guards charged for them. The Humans with weaponry formed a circle around the rest of the prisoners. Arrows filled the arena from all directions, taking down Humans and guards alike.

A massive strand of guards broke away from the front line to attack the women, thinking they would be easier targets. Chance plucked the rifle from the hands of someone who got hit by an arrow, and took down eight guards before it went empty. He used the gun as a melee weapon on three more guards before it broke into pieces. William appeared at his side, slicing through guards left and right. As the soldiers replaced the defeated guards, more of the prisoners with weaponry moved in to protect the unarmed survivors.

The first six waves of Sceresian guards went down with ease. Clara flew the Falcon overhead and slowed to a stop. Arrows pelted the bottom of the vessel helplessly. She lowered near to the giant bowl of fire. When the back right thruster came close, it tipped the bowl over, sending fire rocks tumbling across the arena sands. She lowered the landing hatch. People by the dozens herded inside, Aallandron prisoners as well as Humans.

Everyone able packed into the ship, some being taken by arrows before they could get aboard. The humans with weaponry had run out of ammunition. The guards swarmed them until they fell, ushering the army of Scerasa upon the Humans and prisoners. William and Ryan were among the last of the survivors to board. The guards slew the escaped inmates all the way up to the back door of the freighter. The only remaining prisoner was Chance Trillian. He had taken a sword and shield and would not stop fighting.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Chance yelled through the communicator as he kicked and murdered guards until they backed away due to the rush of wind from the Falcon's thrusters. One of the guards took up the rocket launcher that one of the inmates had lost. He aimed it at the freighter and pulled the trigger before Chance could cut off his arm. Before Clara could get them away, the rocket connected with part of the back left thruster, jostling the ship. Clara and the other survivors left, disappearing into the under city to escape from where she had entered.

The guards stopped fighting Chance and backed away from him as he fell to one knee. He took off his communicator and crushed it beneath his fist. The guards moved in, but they didn't kill him. They disarmed him and grabbed hold of his arms before leading him back to the prison.

—

"Jesus!" Clara yelled, looking at the damage sensors. The back left thruster was hanging by some wires and two support beams of twenty-four. They exited through the giant entrance to the under-city of Scerasa and rose above the line of trees to the north. It was night time and the moons radiated an eerie pink glow over the landscape below. William and Ryan entered the cockpit behind her.

"Let's just get a safe distance away from the Aallandrons and set down to see if we can repair the damage." William said. His face was covered with a grimy mixture of blood, sweat, and sand. Hundreds of people were crowded in the lounge of the freighter—455 by the ship's body-count; 236 women and 219 men. There were 398 Humans, and 57 uncharted humanoid organisms aboard the ship.

"Do you think Chance made it?" Ryan asked.

"I don't know." William said with his head down. Everyone on the ship but Clara looked just as filthy.

After twenty-minutes of flying as fast as comfortably possible, Clara slowed the ship. "This is about as far out as I feel we can go without risking a major accident." She lowered the landing gear and descended upon a hill within a vast forest. She powered the freighter off and removed the communicator from her ear as she turned to face the crowd of survivors. "Mission accomplished everyone. We're looking at the last survivors of the Enigma."

"There are still people in Meacham." William said.

"We're stranded now," said Clara, "on a continent of Aallandrons who know who we are, what we look like, and that we're hurt. Meacham may as well be Earth for how accessible it is."

"What should we do?" Ryan wondered.

"Bury the ship," said William. "We form a town like you said, Clara: pretend like we're Aallandrons and don't draw attention to ourselves until their animosity blows over."

"Right." Clara said. "We have to embrace what Chance kept telling everyone, that we can't stand out as separate from the Aallandrons. Our survival scares them so much that they'll go to war in a heartbeat, or attempt to enslave us the way they do with any other opposing force. If we are to survive on Aallandranon we have to give up our humanity, and that includes the abilities we've learned to cope with as well."

"We'll have to adopt Aallandron names, understand and recite Aallandron holy, religious scriptures, use Aallandron building and economic techniques; the list goes on." William said. "It won't be easy but we have no other choice. We can't keep running."

####

# Pre-Order Dreadnaut

Elgar's second story in the Hell-Sword Series

So once again it falls to the great King Elgar to save the universe—or I screwed things up so badly once again that I have no choice but to save the universe. People started calling me King Elgar after my hero complex when I got stuck with the job of sealing Ryptose the World Ender to the Hell-Sword last October because I'm the only necromancer left in existence. Speaking of that, did you know every three-hundred years Cthulhu comes back to our universe to parley with the psionic community through a group of necromancers? Me neither. Too bad all the necromancers but fourteen-year-old me are dead.

You'd probably hate to be the loser who got stuck having to answer to Cthulhu without any guidance or ability to speak ancient demonic. I'd ask the Holy Council for help, but I'm pretty sure they're hoping this whole Cthulhu reunion goes sideways; just a feeling. At least my friends always have my back. Wait till you see Andrew's new getup. Not saying we'd win in a battle against Cthulhu... but.... How big can Cthulhu actually be anyway?

About the Author

Benjamin Allen is a writer, podcaster, and French Horn restoration artist from North Texas. He has been writing for over fifteen years, and has trained and worked in some of the top musical instrument repair facilities in the southern United States. He hosts the Apocalypse Theater Podcast weekly. Ben lives with his wife in Fort Worth.

Other Titles by this Author

The Chronicles of Aallandranon — Episode One — Ant-Lion

The Chronicles of Aallandranon — Episode Two — Stranded

The Chronicles of Aallandranon — Episode Three — The Prodigy Effect

To Kill A Monster, 2016

The Quasar Lite Novel, 2018

World Of Glass, 2018

The Last Necromancer, 2018

The Chronicles of Aallandranon — Episode Five — The Kidnap Of Marissa Narcuss

Available Summer 2019

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