Shadowkill

##

After several hours of this, Kizra began to worry. Getting out of the mess she was in depended on that baby and the mother’s exhaustion couldn’t be good for it. She dropped back until she was walking beside Aghilo. “Is it really needed, all this?” she whispered urgently. “The Matja is too tired now. She shouldn’t let herself get that tired.”

Aghilo patted her arm. “Yes,” she murmured. “I know. Don’t say anything.” She flicked the fingers of her left hand at Kulyari’s back. “That one.” She shrugged. “Give her a crack to pry at and she’ll have the Matja out before… tchah! Once the Matja has seen everyone, she’ll rest. She can’t miss anyone out. There are jealousies…

“I see.”

“She’s a blessing to us all, you don’t know.” Aghilo shook her head. “You just don’t know, child. It’s why the Irrkuyon hate her so much, even her own Family. She makes them look… ah… like what they are. She shames them. You keep your eyes open, you’ll understand. Now hush, there’s nothing you can do but sing your songs and play your music and make the day brighter for her and for us. She knows what she has to do. She’ll rest when it’s time. Go, go, I’ve talked too long…”

Dyslaera 6: Spree

The gym was a long oval with three tiers of seats along one side where the spectators could look down on the games being played out on one section or another of the springy floor.

Nine Savants formally dressed in cowl, mask, black robe and gloves sat in the lowest of the tiers, a waist-high wall the only barrier between them and the floor. Behind them there were two score techs in their formal whites. Behind these stood a dozen wards in cowls, black leather, and stainless studs; six had heavy-duty stunners, six held dart tubes armed with exploding missiles.

Down on the mat, facing the Savants, Ossoran and Feyvorn stood naked, arms dangling, loosely by their sides. Ossoran’s fur was rexed and sprinkled with gray; it shimmered in the light with each breath he took. Feyvorn was a red Dyslaeror, he shone like liquid copper. They were heavily muscled, and despite everything the techs had done to them, they were in magnificent physical condition. Savants and techs murmured with pleasure. The guards stood imperceptibly straighter.

Savant 1 leaned forward, spoke: “Look up, Dyslaera.”

A black cylinder emerged from the ceiling fifty meters up, the cable it was attached to lengthening slowly as it paid from an unseen drum. It stopped when it was about five meters from the mat.

The cylinder dissolved, revealing a Dyslaerin in a cage. She was very young, terrified, furious-and in season. Her claws had been removed, her fingers shortened by a joint; she was biting at the bars, wrenching at them, trying with everything she had to bend them just enough to let her limber body through.

Savant 1 watched the Dyslaerors, smiling with satisfaction. “A contest,” he said. “You will fight each other for her. The victor will be allowed one month free of tests and the services of the female. One of you must die. If both are alive at the end of the time we will set, she dies. If you refuse to fight, she will be artificially inseminated and as soon as the cub is born, she will be vivisected like that youth you saw a short while ago. Questions?”

Ossoran stared at Feyvorn. Feyvorn nodded.

“How long?” Ossoran said.

“Thirty minutes.”

“We will fight.”