A Stalker's Game (Short Story) Read online

four months since his capture? Maybe it had already been a year and four? Tom slumped, drained enough for it to have been that long, and then some.

  Every slave talked about the twelfth, the day of The Battle of Hell, the last day he had breathed free air. All talked about it because all had been there, fighting. Now, the wounded left to die on the battlefield, all lived as property of the Dwarves, salvaged and mended by the Scavengers. Slaves in the mines, combatants in The Mortal Ring: an arena that doomed all who fought in it.

  “This means,” his Master continued. “That for the first five days, The Five Houses will be having the annual hunt, a Stalker’s Game: a search and destroy for the highest bidders. On each day, a member of The Five Houses, along with those who buy the five other tickets for the day, will stalk selected stock outside the confines of the halls, up on the slopes of the mountains. On the sixth, the five winners of each day will meet in a free-for-all for the grand title!” People joined the Dwarflord in applause for the games. “Winning will be based upon the number of kills, monitored by our adept mages, to keep it fair. Only one winner will be awarded the grand title this year, for our females are too few to allow more as in previous years. With this highly craved title, the winner will receive breeding rights for the entire next year!” Applause filled the room once more.

  His Master stopped the female dwarf, nudged her back, and walked forward toward his stock. He clutched the grimy chin of the first man. “Ether, two times in The Mortal Ring, very good . . .” The Dwarflord wobbled on to the next man, whom he slapped around a few times. “Barcus, a survivor as well.” The two wriggled within a hand’s length of each other, chained at both ankles and one wrist: all slaves came in pairs, Tom had learned, better kept tamed and made sure none went running off, for one always ran faster than the other, and limbs were bound to get tangled sometime.

  The Dwarflord limped to the next two, slapped, named, congratulated, then went on. “Stevens is the name, yes? A prior Footman in The Conqueramada?” The slave nodded. “Three times and still you live . . . tomorrow will be your end, boy.” He smiled and patted the man’s head. With a rough hand, he touched the cheek of the next man. “Ruku, a fine warrior you are.”

  “Dragonlord Ruku,” the man muttered. Dangerous eyes met. “My name is Dragonlord Ruku, and I demand that you release me. I am an officer in—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. Except that your rank doesn’t matter here, Dragonlord, nothing about your past matters.” Standing before his slave, the Dwarflord released his urine on his stock’s squirming body. Ruku cursed his Master, but the Dwarflord ended the scene with a brutal grip to the man’s throat, held for seconds, only to let go and backhand the slave to the floor.

  The Dwarflord pressed on, squinting humorously at Tom and his cellmate. “And you two, six times in The Mortal Ring and by chance you breathe in my house. That’s two times beyond the old record.” He grinned. Everyone liked a winner, except for the Dwarflords who had lost, for they became bitter and jealous of champions killing their prized stock. But Tirranus carried mixed feelings about these two, as he wanted Tom dead, but he also wanted him alive and winning: his pocket had almost doubled since their first round of survival in The Mortal Ring.

  “The Paragon, what a mighty name for hero. A nickname given for being the youngest and finest Dragon-Rider, eh? Well, Paragon, tomorrow, for you and the rest of the lot, is the end. Enjoy your next meal.” A firm grip on the shoulder let Tom’s cellmate know the Dwarflord was thankful to have the six-time champion, and the bigger payouts at the bookmakers the winnings entailed.

  Tom, the last in line, lifted his muddy eyes to meet his Master. The Dwarflord did not touch him, maybe because he respected him, but more than likely out of fear for what Tom wore. Known by the moniker within The Mortal Ring as The Cursed, Tom never took off his crimson armor, not even by the strength of all the guards that could circle his body. Intricate black and bronze swirls and designs were inlaid throughout the entire suit; black roses covered much of the pouldrons, their stems spiraling down to meet the bracers. Three dull, silver spikes protruded from the back edge of the shoulder line, curving outward away from the body. A bronze sai with its blades facing down lay centered on the breastplate while a black rose climbed up the middle prong.

  “The Cursed, tomorrow that armor becomes mine after it is pried from your frozen corpse.” Tom gazed at his Master through a narrow opening in his helm. If he leaned just a bit forward, a bullhorn would cut through the Dwarflord, but several guards held him stable, locked where he knelt.

  “How is a gimp going to stalk me? Leave me shackled right here, so that you may spear me and call it a hunt?” Tom said sotto voce. He did not laugh, there were no laughs left in him.

  Ire rose in the Dwarflord, veins visibly popped throughout his naked body. Yet, he restrained his hand. Between Tom’s inner forearms rested two sai, looped through two holes and attached by a clip, never to be taken from their bindings, except by Tom himself. Cowardice did not ward off the Dwarflord’s hand from action, but rather a keen idea of the games ahead, for no slave had ever escaped with their life, and tomorrow would not be any different. The remark went unheard by the rest of the room, only then would such clever talk be disciplined.

  The Dwarflord hobbled back to his chair, turned, waved for his son to take stage. “Since my injury does not permit me to enjoy in the games, my first son, Rogelius, will take my position for the house of Tirranus.” Hands smacked in ovation. Distant family members roared their congratulation to the young dwarf. Rogelius bowed at the honor. The Dwarflord raised his hands, silenced the crowd, and then named the highest bidders to accompany Rogelius.

  A gesture from the Dwarflord sent the eight back to their cells for the night, but Tom snuck one last look at the female, yet her allure faded, along with her features, shaping into those of a human friend he had once consoled. He blinked and she vanished. The walk ticked by as quiet as the first, not a sound breached their throats; their dry swallows went unnoticed in the hushed environment.

  Thrown into their cell, the guards retreated, and all the light with them. The hot, humid night wore on, and in the darkness creatures crawled over Tom’s metal body while visions of his dead family played in his mind as though reality. He could not hide from them. So instead, he focused on the only thing he learned that night: the games came annually, which solidified his capture only four long months ago, an agreed four months too many by his cellmate. Maybe tomorrow, though, just maybe he would escape, or at least the armor would let down its presence, and let death swoop in to carry him off to a peaceful land. He clung to a glimmer of hope.

  Tom deduced why the dwarves celebrated the coming of winter: they loved snow. Hundreds of dwarves played long hours in the white flakes, all dressed in thin leather, the cold must have been quite a relief from the furnace that were their underground networks. Always warm under the hollowed-out massif.

  Three hours after the eight filled their stomachs, dressed, and primed themselves for death, just like any other day, guards and mages led them outside the reinforced marble gates. The meal differed from the previous ones, though. Much heartier, with a wide selection of foods none of the slaves had seen since their arrival, and a few items that none recognized at all. The highly preferred corned beef had been the most overwhelming of all the scents.

  Blinded by the intense expanse of white, the slaves slowly adjusted to the sunlight, though the days spent in darkness had greatly debilitated their sight. The smell of pines recalled memories of better times. Before taking in the scenery and all its glory, guards threw Tom down into the powdery snow, along with his cellmate, and the other six. Their ankle fetters were released by a nearby mage, given the same freedom to maneuver as they were in The Mortal Ring. Once he recovered, refreshed by the gelid air, he noticed the actual gates into Lo’Darrow, the home of the dwarves. He had no memory of how he entered the dwarven kingdom, but The Paragon had informed him that they came through a sandy crater top o
f a mountain. This sight was new for all of their eyes. Tom wondered how many humans before him had the dejected opportunity to gaze upon the dwarven rarity.

  On each side of the gates, a towering dwarf, hewn from marble, held up a column that another dwarf stood upon; the two top dwarves held a crossbeam for the fifth and largest dwarf to stand in the center, above the gates. The massive dwarf held the favored Raven’s beak, a two-handed war hammer, protecting the city’s entrance.

  The Dwarflord saw Tom’s awe, limped even more in the snow, but nonetheless made his way over to his prized stock. “They come alive when the city is threatened. Simple magic, from the early days, thousands of years ago, but no magic can construct such magnificence, had to be built by our own hands first.” Tom did not know why his Master told him such, but loneliness encased the Dwarflord’s words. Still, others stood around, others of his own kind, so why talk to a slave?

  The Dwarflord trudged off, joined a circle of men standing around one of many barrels of ale, immersed himself in conversation for a few minutes, but finally called attention to the group. “By the great Úpok, god of the mountains,