The Hunter on Arena by Rose Estes

other. Some few of you will remain loyal and those will die soonest. The
     others, those with the least amount of loyalty or trust, will live longer, but in the end, they will die, too. Death is the
     only escape from the arena.”

8

    “It cannot be true, nor would I believe it had I not seen him with my own eyes,” the man said in a whisper as he turned from the narrow slit in the wall and sagged against it
     in despair.
    His companion stepped forward and peered through the narrow crack, no more than a chink between the stones unless one knew
     what to look for. He wore a troubled expression on his lean face. “Perhaps we are mistaken. Maybe we are imagining it simply
     because we wish it to be so,” he said in a low voice.
    “Think what you are saying, Erte. Why would we wish to see Jocobe here in this place, a prisoner, fodder for the games? No
     one misses him more than I, but surely he is better off in exile, far better anywhere than here. To be here is death. And
     if it is Jocobe, where is Mirim? No, I think we are deceived. This is merely one who looks like Jocobe through some trick
     of fate.”
    “I have never known another race that looked like us,” Erte said softly, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We are unique
     in the universe as well you know, Brit. This is Jocobe; it can be no other. The question is, what shall we do about it?”
    “We cannot let them put him into the arena,” Britsaid despondently, sinking back against the wall. “Dare we risk rescuing him? How could he have fallen into their hands a
     second time? I thought he was safe from harm on that speck of a world. How does he come to be here?”
    “It has been twenty years and more since we saw him last,” said Erte. “Anything could have happened on that distant world.
     One of us had best attend a Council meeting; they cannot keep from gloating, and one of them will say something and tell us
     what we wish to know.”
    “They will not talk with us there,” Brit said bitterly.
    “No, Brit, you are wrong. That is precisely why they
will
talk,” argued Erte. “They always suspected that we were sympathetic to Jocobe and Mirim’s cause, even if they could not prove
     it. They will not miss this opportunity to let us know that he is in their grasp again.”
    “But how, Erte, how could it have happened? All these years, with all the defeats, at least I have been able to think that
     they were safe and well, living their lives in peace, that our efforts have not all been in vain. My little sister… and the
     child? What of the child?”
    “Calm yourself, my friend. The years have not been entirely in their favor, we have had our victories too. Kiefer’s way has
     not been entirely free of strife. Jocobe and Mirim will be proud to learn what we have accomplished. Nor are we alone or powerless
     in the Council these days. There are many who side with us and many more who would do so if only they dared. The day is fastapproaching when we will be strong enough to challenge Kiefer openly rather than work from behind the scenes.”
    “We cannot let them have Jocobe,” Brit said resolutely. “Somehow we must rescue him. He is not a young man. He would not survive
     the arena. Somehow we must save him.”
    Erte opened his mouth to speak, to remind his friend of the difficulty and danger of such a task, but seeing the steely resolve
     in Brit’s cold, blue eyes, he could only nod in silent agreement. She was right. Somehow it would be done.

9

    Batta Flor wakened with a bad taste in his mouth. His tongue was coated with foulness as though a merebear had hibernated there. He opened his eyes slowly and groaned as a bright,
     red light struck him, driving shards of crimson sunlight into his brain. A shadow fell over him, dulling the light somewhat,
     and sounds echoed inside his head. He lifted a large hand and shaded his eyes, blinking against the light, trying to bring
     the figure into focus. Distantly, he took note of the