" No, I wanted Krek. He-"
" This isn' t for me?" she whispered, her hand working down over his naked belly, then slipping even lower. Even though he began to physically respond, Lan' s mind remained apart. Apart and worried. Something was wrong.
And he didn' t know how that could be when everything was so right.
" Fifty on the spider!" came the cry.
" Covered. Give me odds."
" Three to one!"
The betting went on as Krek stood in the middle of the arena, outwardly placid. Inside, his spiderish emotions churned. He killed through necessity, not for sport. Arachnids were mighty hunters, vicious opponents, but not wanton killers. Yet he had become that. Every day he came to the arena, stood in the sandy pit, and sent dozens of men and women to their deaths not because of physical hunger on his part, but because of psychic hunger on the part of the spectators.
In a way, killing the mechanicals was even worse. They did not bleed, but their expressionless faces haunted him. Powered by some technology he didn' t understand, the mechanicals obeyed and perished as surely as if they were flesh and blood.
He tried to stop himself and failed each time. While no mage, his abilities to deal with magic were more pronounced than Lan Martak' s. Krek felt the spells used on him but couldn' t sidestep them. The more he tried to fight them, the more potent they became.
Nashira, Suzerain of Melitarsus, proved herself a powerful mage.
Krek turned and studied the woman indolently reclining in the royal box perched on the edge of the wall. She smiled at him, took a sip from a drink laced with aphrodisiac, then slowly nodded her head. Gates opened and men trotted out, armed men intent on killing. Nashira flicked her hand and a score of human serving girls hurried to her side. They stripped her naked, then began sensuously applying oils as their nude sovereign watched the beginning slaughter in the arena.
" Kill!" shrieked the nearest man.
Krek' s mandibles severed the swordsman' s arm. He died amid a spray of his own blood.
" Circle," came the more cautious command from the senior of the remaining soldiers. " I' ve watched previous bouts. He' s big, he' s strong, but we can bring him down."
Krek lightly jumped a flung net, cut a pike' s head off, kicked out and buried a hardened claw into the midsection of a careless mechanical. The actions came automatically now. He tried not to think of the suffering he caused or the intense emotion of those watching.
He tried not to think of the intense emotion welling inside himself. The spider' s delicate sensibilities twisted and soured at this slaughter; the men never presented a different attack.
In spite of himself, he turned to study Nashira. The woman moaned softly now, her eyes half- hooded and her body arching so that her servants could rub the pungent oils over every square inch of skin possible. The spider couldn' t decide if the bloody slaughter or the erotic touches aroused Nashira most. It might have even been a combination, one no good without the other.
" Stop, please," he begged as the soldiers advanced. " I do not wish to slay you. I am more powerful, more skilled. Leave me alone!" The shrill wailing cut through the roar of the crowd and caused a hush to fall. The men facing Krek shifted uneasily from foot to foot, wondering how to react.
" It' s a trick," said one of the men. " He' s done this before. He lulls us into a false sense of security, then attacks."
" You' re sure about that, Neeck? He sounded sincere."
Neeck laughed harshly. " My best friend, Lor n' Histima, thought he sounded sincere, too. Lor' s dead these past four days, him and four mechs. That bug bloody ripped his head off!"
Krek heard the exchange as if from a distance. Nashira' s moans and softly muttered words rang like bells in his head. The spell she cast worked on him, drove him insane with bloodlust, brought out the most vicious of his arachnid hunting instincts.
Unable to stop himself, Krek lunged. Four men died in a single slash of his pincers. Four of his legs drove forth, buried deep in unarmored chests. He recovered, bounced as if on springs, then shot forth a sticky hunting web. The elastic band rocketed out, curled around the body of the remaining soldier, then slowly pulled the struggling man inward. Krek' s insides twisted when he saw the raw fear on the face, felt the shaking of stark panic, saw the voiding of the man' s bowels.
A single snip removed the man' s head. The body shook and escaped in one direction while the look of fear on the man' s face became a permanent feature in death. The head lay ten feet away in the sand.
The crowd went berserk. Cheers echoed throughout the city and gamblers collected bets.
Inside his head, Krek heard Nashira' s voice say, " You have done well, spider. Your servants will clean you, tend to your needs. You are the champion of all Melitarsus." Mocking laughter faded and left Krek alone and weary in his own skull.
He tried to form the words, to practice them so that he could tell Lan Martak what happened to him every day. Only inarticulate gurglings emerged. Tears of frustration formed in the spider' s eyes as mechanical attendants led him from the arena.
" How are you today, Kyle?" asked Lan Martak of the Suzerain' s young son. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide. For no reason, Lan felt a shiver of dread up and down his spine.
" I am fine, thank you," came the polite reply. " You are very good."
" Beg pardon?" asked Lan, surprised. " Good at what?"
Kyle' s lips pulled back in a grin that hardly belonged on a seven- year- old face. The laughter accompanying it bordered on the demented.
" My mother will see you now, if you like," said the boy, his mood shifting swiftly. The brief view of something demonic passed. Only innocent child remained.
" Thank you," said Lan uneasily. He walked the length of the audience chamber, conscious of the rumbling echoes his bootsteps made and feeling all the more anxious because of it. He might have been a soldier called before his commanding officer rather than an honored guest seeking out his hostess.
" Lan, it' s been so long since we' ve talked," greeted Nashira. She rose, her arms outstretched to him. He allowed himself to be hugged, scenting the gentle essences of her perfume and brushing his cheek against her lustrous blue- black hair.
" It' s over a week," he said.
" Too long. Do forgive me. Matters relating to the city have been taking too much of my time. Those damned ' hoppers," she said, sadly shaking her head. " They grow worse rather than better. I fear we' ll have to resort to sterner measures."
" Magic?" he suggested. Lan felt the woman tense slightly. She recovered quickly and shook her head. " Not that. The people of Melitarsus would never stand for it."
" Why not?"
" As useful as magic can be, they' ve had bad experiences. My grandfather overthrew a sorcerer to gain the throne. The sorcerer had misused his power and enslaved the populace, making them no more than his personal servants. My grandfather vowed that no Suzerain of Melitarsus would ever again practice magic- or allow its practice within the walls. We have our mechanicals to serve us and do not need spells. The wagons powered by demons are imported and not allowed to remain longer than a week, and our flyers are totally wind- powered, no magics at all used."
" But you' re a sorcerer," blurted Lan, regretting the words immediately.
" What do you mean?" Sharp, hard.
He covered, saying, " Your beauty ensorcells me. Your intelligence enthralls me. Your wisdom transcends magic."
Nashira laughed delightedly.
" You' re such a rogue, Lan. I' m so happy you have come to Melitarsus. None of my court say such things to me. Not a one. All my ministers talk of is crops and cash flow, road repair and how to fend off the next wave of ' hoppers. They are so dull." Her long fingers stroked over his cheek, the dark- painted nails cutting slightly into his flesh to leave small red crescents. Lan felt an electric tingle pass throughout his body, do things to him.