Robert Newcomb: Rise of the Blood Royal

“And not a day too soon, I might add,” Lucius whispered with a smile. “I know that he is your and Persephone’s mentor. But he is also your servant, and he sometimes forgets his place. This is not the first time he has openly defied you. He taunts you, but for what reason, I do not know.”

Persephone sat back in her chair, waiting for the arrival of the Shashidan prisoners and Blood Stalkers. She knew what Blood Stalkers were, and she was eager to see them in action. Stalkers were captured Shashidan mystics who had been transformed by the craft to serve the Rustannican Empire. The transformation from Shashidan prisoner of war into Blood Stalker changed the captured Shashidans into something less than human. Their sole purpose in life became one of detecting and destroying other Shashidans possessing endowed, right-leaning blood. They also made for excellent legion scouts. It was said that the Coven of Sorceresses used them to great effect in their war against the Vigors wizards that took place several centuries ago on Eutracia. It had been long assumed that Failee-the late Coven’s mistress-found the needed forestallment calculations to create Blood Stalkers in the Vagaries Scrolls. Rustannican mystics, however, had possessed the formulas for much longer.

By now more slaves were scurrying around the arena wall, shouting out the changes in the program. Just as Vespasian had expected, the crowd first quieted as they absorbed the news, but almost immediately they became more eager than before. Many started stamping their feet and calling out Vespasian’s name in appreciation of their emperor’s cleverness.

Just then a shrill bugle call rang out, ordering the chariots, musicians, and slaves to hurry back through the Gates of Life. As the tension in the coliseum mounted, the massive gates closed for a moment. When they opened again, the crowd came to its feet, and its thunderous roar could be heard in the farthest reaches of Ellistium.

The first group of one hundred male skeens was being prodded into the arena by Imperial centurions holding brightly lit torches. If a skeen hesitated he was immediately burned. To the crowd’s delight, this happened dozens of times. The smell of burned flesh started drifting its way up into the stands, to the spectators’ uproarious approval.

The skeens wore only white loincloths, and their skin was oiled to highlight their bodies for the crowd. Just as Vespasian had ordered, they were armed; some held short swords and shields, others brandished tridents and nets. As they neared the center of the arena they huddled together and stared in wide-eyed terror at the towering stands.

Their jobs done, the centurions retreated through the Gates of Life and locked the iron doors behind them. As the crowd stamped and shouted, the privileged few who were able to command the craft to augment their hearing soon heard the sounds of clanking chains.

An iron trap door in the arena floor slowly opened, revealing stone steps leading into the darkness of the coliseum’s subterranean workings. Then, one by one, fifty of the Blood Stalkers attached to the Twenty-third Legion walked up the steps and into the light. Like the skeens, they had never been in the arena before, so they too looked around in bewilderment.

When all the stalkers had surfaced, the trap door closed. Leaning forward on her throne, Persephone regarded the stalkers. She had to admit that they were the most gruesome beings she had ever seen.

At first glance they seemed too large to be men, though they had two legs and two arms like men. Their elongated heads held bloodshot eyes, but there were no noses, only slits in the skin where a man’s nostrils would be. On each side of their bald heads lay elongated ears that ended in ragged points of skin. A white fang protruded down from each corner of their mouths. Lathered drool ran from their mouths to their chins and slithered down their hairy chests in long white strings. Their only clothing was fringed leather warriors’ skirts, which did little to hide the misshapen male genitals beneath them. Dried excrement clung to the backs of their legs, and each of their elongated fingers and toes ended in a sharp talon. Each stalker wore a collection of dried eyeballs hung around its neck on a leather string-Shashidan war trophies, Persephone assumed.

Each Blood Stalker was armed with a terrible battle-axe the like of which the empress had never seen. The long black helves were randomly patterned with dried blood, and each was crowned with a human skull. From each of the skull’s temples a shiny silver axe blade extended outward at right angles. The sunlight filtering through the coliseum’s red canopies glinted off the axes’ highly polished edges.

Besides their battle axes, two of the stalkers carried the familiar standards of the Twenty-third Legion. The standards were sumptuous red flags, hung vertically from golden crossbars secured at the tops of long golden staffs. Atop each staff sat a magnificent golden eagle, its wings outstretched in triumph. The flag itself bore the gold-embroidered image of a great bear, the mascot of the mighty Twenty-third. Beneath the bear appeared the number XXIII, also embroidered in gold. At a signal from one of the stalkers, the monsters formed ranks, and the two standard-bearers among them plunged the golden staffs into the sand, allowing the red flags to wave in the breeze for all to see.

Persephone peered closely at the stalkers. She could sense more than ordinary insanity in these creatures, something she could only describe as a crazed need to kill. A shiver of excitement shot through her.

Suddenly the stalker ranks started moving. As if the one hundred armed skeens didn’t exist, the stalkers marched around them in lockstep toward their emperor.

Vespasian stood and walked to the front of the viewing box. When he raised his arms, the massive crowd stilled. For the first time today, absolute silence reigned in the arena. He smiled down at the Blood Stalkers. Calling on the craft, Vespasian used his gift to augment his voice.

“Kill them,” he ordered.

At his words, the stalkers raised their axes and turned on the skeens. The crowd went wild.

At first the skeens tried to use their superiority in numbers to surround the stalkers and kill them. But it was no good. The drooling monstrosities swung their axes in wide circles, making any approach by their enemies impossible. Realizing that their only viable strategy had failed, the skeens broke ranks. The stalkers chased after them, and the killing started in earnest.

Several skeens died immediately, their blood gushing into the thirsty sand. Only when the survivors finally turned and formed up in numbers against an individual stalker did they have a chance of killing it, and even then their victories were few. Breathless with excitement, Persephone eagerly watched one such struggle unfold.

Waving their tridents and swords wildly, four skeens managed to force an enraged stalker up against a section of arena wall. With a shout, one of the skeens threw his net over the drooling monster. But just as the other three skeens started rushing in for the kill, the stalker unexpectedly laughed.

Reaching up, the stalker gripped the net with his hands and tore it down the middle as if it had been made of parchment. After tossing one half aside, he threw the remaining piece over one of the approaching skeens, trapping him. With one swing of his dark axe the stalker took the skeen’s head off at the shoulders and sent it tumbling to the sand. Blood spraying from the gaping neck, the skeen died where he fell.

Screaming wildly, the three remaining skeens tried to rush the stalker all at once. The first to reach the monster raised his sword and shield. But the stalker was much faster. As the bloody axe blade came down it cleft the skeen’s shield and plunged into the man’s chest. Transfixed, Persephone watched the stalker pull the axe from his victim. With it came the skeen’s heart, impaled on the axe blade.