Robert Newcomb - Rise of the Blood Royal

After tearing the smashed shield and bloody heart from his axe, the stalker dispatched the remaining two skeens with equal ferocity. He severed the legs from one and the sword arm from the other. Then, leaving the wounded skeens to bleed to death, the semihuman monster let go a victory scream and lumbered off to find fresh quarry. Persephone took a gulp of wine, her heart beating wildly.

At last the fighting neared its end. All the skeens lay dead save one, and only two stalkers had been rent asunder. Persephone quickly calculated the score. For every stalker that had been killed, nearly fifty skeens had died. She had to admit that she was impressed. Just then she heard the crowd roar with laughter, and she soon saw why.

The last surviving skeen had been surrounded. Rather than kill him outright, the stalkers were taunting him for the amusement of the crowd. But as one stalker moved in a bit too close, the skeen lunged swiftly and plunged his trident into the thing’s chest. Impressed by the skeen’s courage and skill, the crowd stamped and shouted gleefully.

Knowing that his fate was sealed, the skeen did something entirely unexpected. In a last act of defiance he dropped his net and trident and ran to where a stalker had shoved one of the Twenty-third’s standards into the arena sand. Pulling the standard free, he charged the nearest stalker. As the surprised monster tried to parry the blow, the skeen deftly sidestepped and impaled him with the standard’s pointed end. Screaming wildly, the stalker fell to the sand and died, taking the red flag and golden staff with him.

The crowd was stunned into silence. For a legion standard to touch the ground was unthinkable, much less that such a travesty might be caused by a worthless slave. The incensed stalkers stood there for a moment trying to absorb what they had seen. Then they collected their wits and charged en masse. Standing his ground, the unarmed skeen screamed out a degrading epithet that he knew would be his last.

Suddenly an azure bolt shot through the air, thundering skyward with pinpoint precision through the gap between the two red canopies. Its explosive sound drowned out even the bloodthirsty mob. Recognizing the signal, the stalkers stopped in their tracks and turned to look toward their emperor’s private box. His chest heaving, the condemned skeen also glared upward.

Vespasian was standing at the edge of his viewing box. It was he who had sent the bolt into the air. One azure bolt launched during the games always signaled that the emperor commanded the action to stop. The stalkers had immediately complied, and the crowd quieted. An eerie combination of tension and silence filled the stadium.

Vespasian turned to look at the Games Master. “Send out the branders,” he ordered.

“Yes, my liege,” the man answered.

Walking to the edge of the box, the Games Master quickly swiveled another of the signs. The centurions manning the Gates of Life opened the gate doors and hurried through. When they reemerged, each man was holding a branding iron. The irons’ tips glowed red hot.

The centurions wandered among the vanquished Shashidan slaves lying on the sand. One by one, each victim was branded with the image of the imperial eagle. When the bright red iron touched the slaves’ skin, those feigning death were immediately exposed. Seven were found to be still alive, screaming in agony at the unexpected pain. As the crowd cheered, the centurions quickly put them to the sword. When their grisly work was done, the centurions saluted their emperor, then went back through the Gates of Life and closed the iron doors behind them.

Vespasian extended his arms and levitated up and over the wall of his private box, his purple and gold cape fluttering behind him. Every eye in the arena was on him as he landed gracefully before the sole surviving skeen. He turned to look at the dead stalker lying impaled on the Twenty-third’s bloodied standard.

Raising one hand, Vespasian pointed at the stalker corpse. At once the monster and the standard rose into the air, the stalker’s arms and legs dangling toward the sand, his body dripping yellow, acidic blood where the standard had entered his chest and exited his back. As the blood hit the sand it hissed and smoked.

Vespasian beckoned with his fingers. The standard slowly pulled free from the dead stalker and floated in the air. Then Vespasian pointed downward and the standard plunged itself into the sand to stand upright once more. Vespasian released his hold on the dead stalker, and the monstrous corpse crashed to the ground.

Turning back toward the skeen, Vespasian walked closer. The skeen looked to be about forty Seasons of New Life, with dark hair and a ragged beard grown during his months of imprisonment. Vespasian watched the man’s muscles coil as he neared, and he sensed the intense hatred the skeen had for him. Despite the skeen’s deadly circumstances, there was a sense of commanding authority in his eyes. This had once been a man of some note, Vespasian guessed. Stopping about two paces away, the emperor folded his arms over his chest.

“What is your name, skeen?” he asked quietly. Vespasian took care to employ the skeen’s native dialect, and he used the craft to make sure their words would reach the ears of every spectator.

“I am Tanjiro of the House of the Six Rivers,” the man answered.

“What was your rank in the Shashidan army?” Vespasian asked.

“I am the First General of the Twelfth Cohort,” Tanjiro answered. “And I do not answer to you.”

Vespasian smiled. “Ah, but you are wrong,” he answered. “Not only do you answer to me, but you are no longer a general. As a once high-ranking officer, you must also have been a craft practitioner.”

“Yes,” Tanjiro answered bitterly. “But my gifts are gone, courtesy of your endowed Twenty-third Legion’s centurions.”

“That’s only fair, don’t you agree?” Vespasian answered. “After all, your forces do the same thing to our captured officers who are trained in the craft.”

Enraged, Tanjiro stepped menacingly toward the emperor. The stalkers lunged to protect Vespasian, but he knew he was in no danger. He stopped his grotesque servants with a wave of one hand.

“We don’t murder our captives,” Tanjiro growled, “or sell them at auction like cattle! Nor do we work them to death, or use them as sexual playthings! We treat them as respected prisoners of war! Shashida has but one class of people! All people-be they of endowed blood or not-are treated equally!”

His chest still heaving, Tanjiro tried to catch his breath. “That’s a concept with which you Rustannican Vagaries worshippers seem to be unfamiliar.”

Tanjiro was surprised to see Vespasian’s expression soften a bit. Then the emperor stepped closer.

“You Shashidans are as skillful at lying as you are at fighting,” he said. “Even so, I find that I like you. Under different circumstances we might have been friends. You have courage. Moreover, you are the first skeen to send one of my standards tumbling to the ground during a coliseum spectacle. You risked everything to dare that last act of defiance. You could scarcely have asked for a larger audience! Had I been in your place, I would have attempted the same thing. But that does not change the fact that we are mortal enemies.”

As his words echoed throughout the arena, Vespasian looked out toward the multitudes. Every spectator was on his or her feet, eager to know what would happen next. The emperor decided. He looked back at the slave.

“Get down on your knees,” he said.

“No,” Tanjiro growled. “Not today, not ever. If you’re going to kill me, I demand a warrior’s death. Let me remain standing so that I can see it coming.”

Vespasian was in no mood to barter with a slave-especially with one hundred thousand citizens, thePon Q’tar, the Priory, and the Tribunes all watching. He extended his hand again. Calling on the craft, he forced Tanjiro to his knees.