Page 42 of The Space Between Stars

Calver shifted and swallowed as he pulled from the Survivor’s memories the rules of engagement—or lack thereof. A year ago, fights to the death had been things of story. He’d even romanticized the concept a time or two, imagining how he would fare against a barbarian, a beast, or a horde of armed men. Of course, he always came out on top, dowaga cutting cleanly, flesh parting like petals around the blades. He didn’t even break a sweat. He had fans—lots of fans—all rooting for him. Calling his name. He would stand in dazzling sunlight, foes vanquished, waving at the stands.

Idiot. Knowing of the tens of thousands of Tume’amic wasted here, Calver was no longer confident how he would fare.

As though sensing his reservation, Cul’Mon brought his mouth to Calver’s ear. “You will not fail.”

The words punched into him. A horn blared, and the cheering increased tenfold. Calver’s limbs seized, frozen. Shit. How was he supposed to fight if he couldn’t move?

Yet he flinched and stepped forward, instinct kicking in. In training with Calisto, hesitation was met with verbal correction. With Cul’Mon, it was met with pain. Now that he was here, he was glad for it. Better not to be split into two bloody halves before he could get his wits about him. Nostrils flaring, hands shaking, he unhitched the dowaga from his back. A boy stood at the opposite side of the arena with feral hunger in his eyes. Hunger to just keep breathing. His hair was light—nearly absent of pigment—as with many of the Tera’thians, his skin the same. It made it easier for Calver to see his scars.

The barbs Cul’Mon had given Calver still cut fresh into his skin with every twist. He had earned two now, for his unruliness. How many did this boy have? Calver would find out if he managed to bring him to the ground. Nausea rose into his throat.

{Go back,} the Survivor jeered. {You will only hesitate. Use me. Live another day.}

Calver strained to swallow again. The stump in his mouth still ached, despite the months that separated it from the muscle that had been there. He nearly resisted; he would defy this creature that had taken everything from him, if he could. But instead he flinched. If there was one thing he’d learned from Cul’Mon, it was that resistance brought pain. Not victory. Never victory.

He faded. The Survivor surged forward. His feet vaulted over obstacles as it veered toward its prey. Calver slipped until he was no more aware of the colosseum as he was of his own heartbeat while dreaming.

The void was his victory now.

NIKLAUS

Year: 748 Post Cataclysm: Present Day

Location: Jiradesh Desert

When the sun set, Niklaus approached an impromptu stand erected from crude wood and canvas in the northeast quadrant: the rally’s betting booth. As he grew closer, he winced, recognizing the match marshal seated behind it.

Darial Trokus ran three separate gambling rings in Korshuva, all legal, which governed everything from stones matches to grappling to gig-racing. The last time Niklaus had left one of his institutions, it was with a guard on either arm, to be pitched into an alley beneath Korshuva’s highmoon. He’d been writing an article on trafficking and might have gone a step too far… A leap, really.

Niklaus owed Trokus at least five hundred silver notes from that night. It had been nearly half a year, though, and the man hadn’t come after him. He knew Niklaus always made good on his debts. Eventually.

When Niklaus stepped up to the table, Trokus looked up from beneath the rim of his hat and groaned. “Oh, Fates help me.”

“Good to see you, friend.”

Trokus clapped his hands to his temples, like he might be able to imagine Niklaus away. “Oh. No, no, no. Preservation, please, no.” Who would have thought a friendly greeting could induce this level of groveling? “Get out of here, Meyernes. I’ve got a good thing going now. I might even get my club back at the end of this run if I can steer clear of your trouble.”

Niklaus’s insides took a dip. He’d forgotten. Trokus had had investments in a Korshuva bank that had lost three ships to raider vessels last term. Niklaus’s own mother had dragged him to the oligarchical jury that had voted against bailing them out.

He licked his cracked lips. “Pen the roster for me, please?”

Trokus shook his head. “As much as I would love to see someone give you a good bludgeoning, you wouldn’t last five minutes, and I don’t have liability waivers out here like we did back in Seraphinden.”

“Well, for me, but it’s not for me.”

The marshal’s brows nearly kissed over his nose. “Why doesn’t he sign up himself?”

Niklaus shrugged. The acute motion compounded his headache. “Pretty sure he’s on restricted access. Or can’t write. Or both.”

“If that’s the case, I won’t be giving him a weapon.”

“Then don’t.” He suppressed a tremor. Beads of sweat stung at his eyes, helping him to bear the scathing look the match marshal gave him.

“You’re entering a man to fight in the rally without a weapon?”

“I’ll give you an extra ten silver for it.”

“You already owe me five hundred and twenty.”