Opening gambit, p.1
Opening Gambit, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Opening Gambit (Tales from the Arena)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Also by Elizabeth Schechter
About the Publisher
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Opening Gambit © 2018 by Elizabeth Schechter
Previously published as Tales from the Arena: Opening Gambit
Cover credits:
Female figure © Yurmary | fotosearch.com
Background art © Algolonline | fotosearch.com
ISBN 978-1-61390-192-2 ebook
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Also by Elizabeth Schechter
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The Rebel Mage Series
Prologue
"What are we supposed to do with them?"
The question echoed in the cavernous university lecture hall that had been acting as the ersatz Council chamber ever since the bombing of Amali City, the capital of Tyese. No one answered. Andradae looked around at her fellow Council members and sighed, fighting the urge to rub her temples as her headache grew. When she'd volunteered for the Council, she'd never expected to become Senior Councilor. Damn the Aakari, and the bombs that had killed most of the Ruling Council in Amali. Ten years, and still no end in sight—
"Pardon, Councilor, but did you mean the researchers? Or the... soldiers?" someone asked. Andradae didn't recognize the voice. One of the newer Council members, she assumed.
"Both," Andradae answered. "They're heroes, the lot of them. They've saved countless lives, not to mention the entire Tyesean nation. They won the war. More importantly, they ended the war! And... they're illegal. So, the question remains: what do we do with them?"
As if on cue, the doors at the rear of the hall swung open, and into the chamber marched a dozen black-clad men and women, accompanied by two men wearing the white and red coveralls of the medical research college.
Andradae rose. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.
One man in black stepped forward and bowed. "I ask the Council's indulgence. My brothers- and sisters-in-arms have asked me to speak for them. I am Quaran, Ran-ti-ar of the Ishkarin."
"Ish—" Andradae blinked. "That's Old Tyesean."
Quaran almost hid his smile. "Yes, Senior Councilor. I am—I was—a linguist, before I volunteered." He looked around, and Andradae was struck by his calm demeanor and the intelligence in his dark eyes. He was older than she originally thought—this close, she could see the silver at his temples, and the wrinkles around his eyes.
"I see," Andradae said slowly. "And it means?"
The smile was definitely visible now. "It means Black Sword, Councilor."
"Thank you," Andradae said with a smile. "You've come to speak to the Council. The Council is listening."
Quaran bowed again and clasped his hands behind his back. "Thank you. Councilors. I am Ran-ti-ar. That is, I am the acknowledged leader of the Ishkarin. And I come to you to with a request, and with a proposal."
"Why do you think you have the right to come to us and ask anything?"
Andradae gasped at the hateful tone of Under-Secretary Durrant's voice, but Quaran merely looked amused by the question. "I am Quaran. I am a son of Tyese, a son of this very city, as are you, I think, Councilor Durrant?" He didn't wait for an answer, looking at the rest of the Councilors. "I am as you are, save in only one area. You did not ask to be born. I did. We all did, my brethren and I. We volunteered for our new lives. We gave up our families, our careers, our castes, so that we could become something more, and serve Tyese."
"You did," Andradae said. "You did, and we are all grateful. But your purpose is now served."
"And that is why we've come. Our purpose is served," Quaran agreed. "The war is over. But we face the aftermath now, and the question of what is to be done with the Ishkarin must be answered."
Andradae nodded. "And... I presume you have an answer?"
"One possible answer, yes, Councilor," Quaran said. "On behalf of my Ishkarin, I hereby volunteer our services to the Council, and to Tyese, in perpetuity."
"Your services?" Durrant asked. "What need does the Council have for a troop of manufactured killing machines?"
"Durrant!" Andradae snapped. "That was uncalled for!"
"We've been called worse," Quaran said drily. "And, to answer the question? There have been no riots since the ceasefire was called. No looting. No disorder. Not here, nor in Aakar." He fell silent, and smiled.
"Malena?" Andradae asked without turning. "Is that true?"
"It is, Senior Councilor. And frankly, we've been wondering why. It's... not the norm," Malena answered, and Andradae heard soft beeping coming from Malena's datapad. "Every time we've had a break in the fighting before, the damage from... call it friendly fire, was worse than what we'd had from across the Melnamore."
Andradae nodded. "Thank you, Malena. Quaran, this was your doing?"
Quaran bowed slightly. "It was, Senior Councilor. There is no point in winning a war if there is nothing to come home to. This is our proposal. That the Ishkarin become the military arm of the Council. We will maintain the law, maintain the peace, both in Tyese and in Aakar." He fell silent, and the Council members all looked at each other, their confusion plain.
Finally, Andradae cleared her throat. "Let me see if I understand you plainly," she said slowly. "You are volunteering to become... peacekeepers?"
"Yes, Senior Councilor," Quaran answered. "We feel that there would be a need, and it is the logical role for us to take. We are made for conflict, and it will be quite a few years before the people of either nation come to terms with being at peace. There will be enough for the Council to worry about without having to think of keeping order. The armies of both nations are tired, and rightfully so. To ask them to take on the role would be cruel. Let them go home."
"But, to maintain that kind of presence here and in Aakar..." Malena frowned as her voice trailed off. "Quaran, how many are you?"
"Our main force is made up of four hundred and thirty-five men and women, Councilor. We had some losses," Quaran answered.
"How many losses?" Andradae asked.
"Fifteen, in the final push to the Imperial compound, Councilor."
Andradae nodded, then actually heard what Quaran had said. "Your main force," she repeated. "That number... that isn't the total number of Black Swords, is it?"
Quaran smiled broadly, and his unassuming features were suddenly strikingly handsome. "I see why you are the Senior Councilor. No, Councilor, that is not our total number. We have twice that in training, men and women who are too young to serve at this time. And we have children—"
"You can breed?"
Quaran ignored the outburst from the Health Minister, a man who had nearly had apoplexy when he'd discovered what his own researchers had been doing under his nose. "— who may or may not have inherited the enhanced abilities. Time will tell."
"I see," Andradae murmured.
"Senior Councilor, may I?"
"Of course, Malena." Andradae took her seat, suddenly feeling as if she'd been standing for years. Malena rose and smiled at the Ishkarin.
"Quaran Ran-ti-ar, you said a proposal and a request. We've heard the proposal. What was the request?"
Quaran looked oddly embarrassed. He shifted slightly, from one foot to the other. It was a small movement, one barely visible, but in someone who had been standing at attention, it was startling.
"We... are hunters. Predators," Quaran answered, obviously searching for the right words. "It is what we were made to be. And... it is what we are. Our purpose was to end the war. Now, we have no purpose. It is my hope that acting a peacekeepers will fulfill some part of our... instinct. But I am afraid that it will not be enough."
"Speak clearly, Quaran," Andradae said. "What is it that you need?"
"Prey, Councilor," Quaran said, his voice flat. "We must have something on whom we can prey. We've tried mock drills, and they are not enough."
"If I may?" One of the researchers stepped forward, a tall, bony man with unwashed brown hair. "I am Brinnock. I was Researcher Mathias' assistant in his work of creating the Swords."
"Oh, good. Then you can tell us where we can find Mathias," Health Minister Lurton said.
"He's dead, Councilor,"
"And the traits breed true?" Lurton asked.
"In sixty percent of recorded cases, yes, but—"
"Wait," Lorton said, holding up one hand. "If you can cite a reliable statistical sample of how many children have inherited these abilities, this project has been going on longer than any of us thought."
Quaran nodded. "That is true, Councilor. I volunteered for the program when I was eighteen. I am now forty-one."
"Over twenty years," Andradae murmured. "Well, then, Brinnock. What can you tell us?"
"We chose the candidates for the initial test subjects based on several factors. Intelligence was one factor. Aggression was another, as was a certain... ruthlessness, I suppose you would call it. What we ended up with were soldiers who would stop at nothing to defeat their enemy. What we didn't expect was that those traits, when enhanced, would also lead to a certain..." he paused, then looked at Quaran.
"We enjoy what we do, Councilors," Quaran finished. "The hunt, and the aftermath. It is... as a drug to us. We call it the bloodlust. The only problem is that if we do not regularly experience that... release, we descend into.." he paused, frowned, then nodded. "Uncontrollable rage. Which is probably about as similar to what you would call rage as saying that your glass of water there is the Melnamore. We must have prey."
"You want us to supply you with victims?" Durrant asked, his voice spiraling up in disbelief. "Have you all gone mad?"
"Not unwilling victims!" Brinnock answered quickly. "It is... there is something that Mathias discovered, as he tested for candidates for the program. That there were some who were... well, mirrors. Exactly the opposite of what he wanted. People with incredible empathy, with a need to serve, and an odd affinity for... ah... call it adversity."
"Adversity?" Ancrade repeated, and watched as the researcher turned red to his ears.
"They... ah... they seem to... to find... stimulation in... suffering," he finally stammered. "Mathias thought that these people could be trained as... as healers of sorts. The natural complement to the Swords, if you will. These would be people who could serve in the aftermath of the war, both as the logical targets of the Ishkarin's aggression and as counselors to the men and women who had spent so many years of being on the front lines of the war. He anticipated some... aftereffects among the Swords, you see, that would need more than a physical outlet. He developed a program to test for those qualities, to train them to his purpose. And he died before we could implement that second stage of his work."
"So, what you are proposing is that we approve this... program?" Andradae asked. "Is that your request?"
"It is, Councilor," Quaran answered.
"And... that is also the reason that you want to become peace-keepers?" Andradae continued, the whole suddenly clear. "Because if the entire nation is under your protection—"
"Then perhaps I can keep my Swords from preying on the people they serve," Quaran finished, nodding. "A case, perhaps, of using wolves to guard the kine."
"Wolves who still need to hunt. I see," Andradae said, rubbing the bridge of her nose with one finger. "Thank you, Quaran. The Council will consider your request and your proposal. If I may ask, how long before your wolves need to hunt again?"
Quaran bared his teeth and Andradae blinked, startled to see the human wolf standing before her. "Soon, Councilor. There are Aakari rebels in the mountains, and I will take my troops there while we wait for your decision. If you decide against, then we will remain in the mountains. For as long as I can keep them there." He bowed. "Thank you, Councilors, for your time."
Chapter One
Five Years Later
The celebration was loud and rowdy, but remained good-natured, something that the restauranteurs appreciated when the troop of Ishkarin moved on. Gavir was highly respected among the men and women of his Division, and his recent promotion to Kian-ti-os, second only to Quaran Ran-ti-ar himself, was considered by the greatest majority of Ishkarin to have been well-deserved. When the promotion had been announced, a dozen of his troops, many of whom had served under him since he had been Division Commander of their cadet troop, had made arrangements for an evening pass. A night on the town—dinner, a show, and finishing off the night at the Arena.
"Honestly, you didn't need to do this!" Gavir shouted, laughing as two of the men towed him towards the Arena entrance.
"You've done for us, for years," Delan, his Division quarter-master, said from behind him. "Let us take care of you for once, sir."
"No sirs!" Delan protested. "Not from you lot! You call me by my name."
"Rank must be observed... sir," Delan answered. Gavir turned and saw the other Sword smirking at him.
"Delan, what are you up to?" Gavir asked, tugging his arms free and stopping just outside the Arena doors.
Delan looked at the other Swords, then nodded. "All right. We made a reservation for you tonight. Here. Now come along or you'll be late."
"A reservation? Delan, I've never needed a reservation before."
"That's because you have no taste," Delan answered, his voice tart as he repeated something that Gavir had said of himself a thousand times. "You take the first collar that catches your eye. No, we're going to make a connoisseur out of you, Gavir. Mark me on that."
"A conn... what in the Creator's name kind of reservation did you make?"
"You'll see," Delan answered. Gavir snorted with amusement and let the troop steer him inside.
In the five years since the Ruling Council had agreed to the proposal set forth by Quaran, the Arena had become such a focal point that there was talk of changing the name of the very city from Niran to Arena City. Once, this building had been part of the University, home to their championship gravity-ball team. Then, after the war, it had been a refugee camp, until the Council took it over and had it renovated. Now, it was simply the Arena, home to the Tarken, the White Collars, and favored hunting ground of the Ishkarin who were not in the field.
Gavir had no idea how the Tarken were chosen, but the ones who made it through their training—something he'd been assured was every bit as grueling as Sword training—served for five years. The first hundred had been released from their collars only the previous week, rewarded for their services with high-caste status and lifetime pensions. Perhaps there was a new crop of Collared, he thought as he identified himself to the gray-clad trainee behind the desk; Gavir allowed his identichip to be scanned, then accepted the control band that the trainee locked around his wrist, waiting until it showed the green lights that meant it had synced his wrist-comp to the Arena central control computer. The others of the troop followed suit, and they headed towards the lift with more laughing and ribald jokes about Gavir's admittedly bad taste in partners.
The lift doors opened again to let them out into the Lounge. The bar area was already crowded with Ishkarin and civilians alike, sitting at tables with food or drinks, chatting in corners, or gathered near the large windows that looked down onto the Floor. Gavir wandered over and looked down, smiling as he saw the people milling around between the stations. Things weren't busy on the Floor yet—he'd have his choice of equipment. Good. His fingers curled slightly as his thoughts turned darker. The whipping cross first, perhaps. Old-fashioned, yes, but so incredibly satisfying...
"Gavir?"
Gavir heard Delan call his name, turned, and saw red. Brilliant red, the color of fresh blood. He blinked, staring at the crimson-clad woman standing in front of him. As he watched, she went to her knees, bowing her head as she said, "Kian-ti-os. I serve."
He knew who she was. Iras was one of the Hundred, and there was no one among the ranks of the Swords who didn't at least know her name. She was easily the most celebrated among the Collared, one of the few womento volunteer when the call went out, and one of only twelve who made it through training and took the collar to become a Tarken. Gavir knew of her, but he had never actually worked with her—her skills were widely in demand, and she was never available for a spur-of-the-moment assignation. There were those who called her the Queen of the Arena—as beautiful as a blade, as alluring as the bloodlust.
