12. Abigail

12

ABIGAIL

S eparation from Gragash hurt, and the pain filled me with guilt. I'm not with him? Tough shit. He's being thrown into a fight to the death. That's probably a bigger problem, right?

Did thinking that help with the pain? It did not. But how could I miss this chance to beat myself up?

I walked in a daze, paying no attention to where Vaher and his gang led me. I only noticed things had changed when I stepped through a doorway and a cool breeze cut through the stifling heat. At some point, we'd left the darkness and the bare, pitted metal of the service docks behind. The room we entered now was infinitely more comfortable. My feet sank into a soft, deep carpet, a red so dark it was almost black. A subtle pattern wove through it, silver thread only visible because of the bright lighting. The seal of the Guild.

Three of the walls were black marble. The fourth was mostly occupied by a silvery shimmer, flanked by hologram sculptures of gladiators. Faint cheers carried through the forcefield—another fight? If so, I was glad I couldn't see.

Decadently comfortable furniture faced the shimmer. Chairs worth more than my apartment on Earth waited beside tables holding various refreshments. Delicate scents wafted from the dishes to make my mouth water, though after a few days on maker-mush, anything that promised actual flavor would do that.

On a planet, this room would be an impressive display of wealth.

On a space station? Obscene. Importing this weight of stone, dragging it across space, just to line a room? The only purpose was to show off the wealth and power of the owners, the same wealth they hoarded by leaving their workers in the dark. In short, exactly what I expected from Lachrin Station.

The crew of Darha's Blessing did their best not to show how impressed they were. Only Vaher did a reasonable job. The rest clustered near the door as though afraid they'd have to pay for anything they touched.

"Where's the quality?" one of them whispered. My laugh escaped before I could stop it. Everyone wheeled and glared, but I'd had enough of shying away from them now. I glared right back.

"What, did you think you were going to mingle with interstellar royalty? That a Guildfather would drink with you? You're getting to walk on their carpets and breathe their air. To these fucks, that's honor enough for the likes of you."

Ty'anii's snarl showed her teeth, but it was Brish who spoke. "Careful, human. Your Orc isn't here to protect you."

Fuck it. Time to call some bluffs. "He doesn't have to be. Captain Vaher knows what'll happen if any of you hurt me."

The Akedian lunged for me, but Ty'anii was quicker. She caught his wrist, twisting and slamming him into the wall with a heavy thud. Keeping him pinned there, arm twisted behind his back, she snarled at him.

"Idiot! Hurt her, and Gragash is done fighting for us. Kill her, and all he'll ever think about is how to kill us as painfully as possible."

"Yeah, well, if the slave goes berserk, we put him down," Brish replied. "Fucker's getting too big for his boots, anyway."

Vaher shook his head. "Brish, if you put me in a position where I have to kill the Orc, I'll feed you to him first. That fucker made us ten times more than you have, and he got us in here. Make me choose between you and him. I fucking dare you."

Brish audibly ground his teeth, then relaxed in Ty'anii's grip. His eyes locked onto me, though, and I saw that his rage and hate were strong as ever. Stronger, maybe, since I'd embarrassed him in front of his ‘friends.'

I smiled at him. No point not leaning into it at this point, right? He'd kill me if he got the chance, might as well make him miserable until then.

"If I might suggest taking your seats, the fight is about to begin." The voice from all around, speaking with a beautifully musical accent. Ty'anii grinned and gave Brish's arm a last twist before turning her back on him and sliding into the chair beside Captain Vaher. The two seats shifted and merged into a couch seamlessly. I upped my already high estimate of the furniture's value and sat as far from Brish as I could manage.

The silver shimmer vanished with a flourish, and we looked out into an arena. Golden sand gleamed under bright sunlight, and the blue planet hung huge in the sky above. Under other circumstances, it would have been a sight of breath-taking beauty. Now, all of that was a distraction, as was the audience.

There were no stands here, no cheap seats, only boxes like ours, full of people shouting and cheering. So many voices speaking at once that it sounded like noise, not words. Not that I cared what anyone was saying. My attention was focused on a platform rising from a hatch in the arena's floor.

Gragash stood there, magnificent and beautiful and smoldering with a rage that, by rights, ought to have burned the entire audience alive. He wore only a leather kilt, an armored gorget, and a gauntlet crackling with energy.

He turned, unerringly bringing his burning gaze up to mine. As though he knew exactly where to find me, as though he felt my gaze on him. As impossible as that was, it felt right and natural. Equally impossible was the calm that settled over us as we exchanged looks for what might be the last time.

Another platform ascended, and Gragash broke eye contact with me to face his opponent. I looked too, and didn't like what I saw. The newcomer was the size of Gragash, slate-gray skin covered in scales and scars, but with an extra pair of arms. Each of his four hands held a different weapon, and he looked like he knew how to use them. On his left he whirled a short, barbed spear, while holding a shield close to his body. On his right, an ax and a net. It seemed an unfair setup, and the crowd loved it.

Around me, the slavers leaned in to watch and my heart hammered loud and fast. The gray-skinned alien, Eater-of-Chains, was announced with a long list of prior victories, enough to make me worry. Surely even Gragash didn't have that many wins.

Fenx giggled to himself as the announcer began Gragash's intro.

"Dont'cha worry, girl," he said, voice low enough no one else would hear. "Big guy's a brute, but your Orc's got ‘im."

He must have seen the confusion on my face, because he giggled again. "No point in you being scared and all, girl. Doesn't make me any richer, and talk doesn't cost me anything."

With that, he turned back to the arena, leaving me to shake my head. I guess it's technically better to be a slaver who's not a sadist, but does he really think it makes a difference?

I looked down at the four-armed brute squaring off against Gragash, wondering if his mate was being told the same comforting lies. It wasn't a helpful thought, and I tried to put it out of my mind as the two warriors faced off.

A bell chimed, and they leaped at each other, too fast for me to follow. Weapons flashed in the hot sun's light, and then they were past each other, spinning to assess the damage they'd dealt.

Overhead, holograms helpfully replayed the exchange of blows in slow motion. Gragash ducked under the ax, but the spear gouged down his back as he lunged. His punch struck Eater-of-Chains on the shield with a flash of light. While the shield took most of the blow, that arm didn't seem to move right afterward.

But the gash on Gragash's back was more worrying. Deep and long, blood dripped from it and my heart froze as I saw my orc lover wince. It was well-disguised, perhaps invisible to anyone else, but Gragash's injury slowed him.

Eater charged in again, attacking with speed and fury, and drove Gragash back. The orc parried and dodged, unable to land a blow in return. The spear and ax together were too fast.

The tension around me rose fast, and the slavers sat forward in their seats. I wondered what their plan was if their champion lost this fight. How much had they bet on Gragash? If they bankrupted themselves in this match, it might make Gragash's ghost happy. It wouldn't make up for the pain of losing him, but it would give me some satisfaction, too.

I winced and looked away as Eater's ax tore through Gragash's left arm, his counterpunch trapped in the net. Someone cursed and Ty'anii slammed her fist into the wall beside her, leaving a dent.

It was impossible to watch. Even more impossible to look away, to not see what happened to my beloved. Praying I wasn't going to watch him die, I uncovered my eyes and looked out over the arena sands. Gragash still stood, bloody and weakened, but for how long?

His opponent had taken his own share of injuries, but not nearly so many as my orc, and now the long reach of his spear let him keep his distance. Eater circled Gragash, watching for an opening, and Gragash turned with him, guard up.

It couldn't last. Impatient shouts from the crowd told me it had gone on too long already. Gragash dropped his guard for just a moment, and Eater lunged in, spear sliding through Gragash's belly.

I howled in pain, drowned out by the frenzied cheers from the crowd. We all fell silent as Gragash launched himself up the spear. His wound should have stopped him, the agony of a gut wound or the loss of blood, but he ignored those petty details, charging with a roar.

Eater-of-Chains looked as shocked as the rest of us, but he could afford the moment of frozen paralysis. Gragash's gauntleted fist slammed into Eater's throat with a crack like thunder and sent him tumbling to the sands. Clutching at his throat, he tried to get up, but Gragash hit him again.

This time he stayed down, lying still. Gragash stood over him, raising his bloody fist, and a hologram of him appeared overhead. The arena's speakers amplified his voice into a thunderous boom as lightning arced around his gauntlet.

"I dedicate this victory to Abigail ko'Gragash," he said, and his voice echoed through the arena. Then he toppled backward, slowly and majestically, to lie unmoving on the ground.