Captive - Cheryl Brooks Page 0,86
into the box seats surrounding the throne from a hidden entrance. If any of the ruling class were female, Moe had never heard of it. Several appeared to be Terran or Davordian—at that distance, it was difficult to tell—with a few blue-skinned Edraitians scattered throughout the group. Wives or concubines, Moe decided.
He’d been hoping to see her, but his heart nearly stopped when Klara entered a moment later, accompanied by three Zuteran women and four Nedwut guards. She looked positively regal in a flowing white gown that sparkled as though it had been coated with diamond dust. She didn’t seem the slightest bit frightened or apprehensive as she stepped onto the dais and took her seat beside the throne. She might’ve been a queen who put in ten public appearances a day.
Had she been brainwashed already? If so, was she still carrying their babies? Moe would’ve given a lot for another of those prescient visions—hopefully, something more useful than the green fields and billowing curtains version he’d had a few days ago. That was the first vision he’d ever had. At least, that’s what he thought it had been. Might’ve simply been his mind playing tricks on him. A vision telling him a way out of this mess would have been his first choice. How was he supposed to kill every opponent Pelarus threw at him? Or worse, what if he had to kill their friends?
Then again, Temfilk and Nexbit would know to play dead and let him win. He wasn’t so sure about the Racks.
Or I could play dead and let someone else win. Hmm…
Moe didn’t have time for further consideration, because Pelarus chose that moment to enter the royal box with as much pomp and glitter as any reigning monarch, his voluminous robes sparkling with more jewels than Klara’s dress. Moe had to smile when the crowd responded with more boos than cheers.
Pelarus raised his hands for silence, which, unfortunately, he got. “Moriconthan Tshevnoe, you are hereby sentenced to trial by combat. You may choose any weapons you wish.” His lips twisted into a malevolent smirk. “However, your opponents will arrive fully armed.”
The crowd let out a roar of protest, which Moe doubted would have any effect on the rules.
Hearing the rattling of sabers, he glanced to his left where a throng of warriors were gathered behind an iron gate. A similar clamor to his right revealed yet another gate holding back even more potential adversaries, all bristling with weaponry.
“I have to fight all of them at once?” Moe shouted.
Pelarus’s expression grew more evil than before. “I never said earning your freedom would be easy. There can be only one winner of this battle.” With a nasty chuckle, he added, “May your gods have mercy on your soul.”
Seemingly of their own accord, Moe’s eyes sought Klara’s. Her face was now nearly as white as her gown. Only her lips moved, but he understood her, nonetheless. “I love you.”
“I will always love you, Klara,” he whispered. “Even death cannot destroy my love for you.”
Pelarus raised his hands again, and as he lowered them to his sides, both gates rose simultaneously. With ear-splitting battle cries, the raging hordes stampeded toward him. Seconds later, Moe realized he wasn’t up against a ragtag bunch of criminals awaiting trial in the dungeons. This was a freakin’ army.
The sword and shield he’d decided upon might as well have been on the other side of the galaxy for all the good they would do him. His speed and agility were all he had, plus his mother’s knack for taunting an opponent. “Come on, you scurvy bastards! Don’t keep me waiting. This is a good day to die.”
The way they were spreading out, Moe doubted he would be the only one killed in the initial charge. At least half of them would fall in the first engagement.
Klara screamed for him to run.
He waited until the last possible moment before sprinting toward the end of the line. He’d never witnessed two opposing armies meeting in hand-to-hand combat, but he didn’t need experience to know what was happening behind him. The screams of the dying and the clash of metal on metal were proof enough. Turning, he saw that he’d been correct; the number of soldiers was already drastically reduced, although he was still overwhelmingly outnumbered. He kept running, snatching a sword and shield from the wall as he sped past the row of weapons.
He couldn’t hope for their numbers to be reduced by half again, because most