Robert Newcomb - Rise of the Blood Royal

“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter,” he said softly.

Reaching to his side, Vespasian drew his dress sword. When it came free of its scabbard, its razor-sharp blade glinted in the reddish light. The crowd held its breath. Persephone leaned forward in her chair.

Vespasian employed the craft to force the slave’s head down, exposing the back of the man’s neck. He raised his sword, then decisively brought it down.

A collective gasp went through the crowd. Rather than separating Tanjiro’s head from his shoulders, Vespasian had buried the sword in the sand before the slave. Tanjiro hadn’t flinched. But when he saw the shining blade standing upright only inches from his face, he looked up at Vespasian with unbelieving eyes.

“I free you,” Vespasian said. “You fought well, and you were ready to accept death with equal bravery. You are now a Rustannican freeman of the Phrygian class. Arise, Tanjiro. You have but to take possession of my sword to claim your freedom.”

The slave was stunned, as was the crowd. Letting the air rush from her lungs, Persephone sat back in her chair. When an emperor gave his sword over to an arena slave, the gesture granted the slave perpetual freedom. From that day forward, the newly minted freeman needed only to show the sword to prove his status.

Lucius smiled to himself, then turned to look at thePon Q’tar. As he expected, they were huddled together, anxiously discussing this unexpected turn of events.

Then the First Tribune remembered what Vespasian had said about wanting to dress down Gracchus. As he took another gulp of wine, he realized that freeing a Shashidan general whom Gracchus had personally marked for death had just done that very thing. And as Vespasian had said, one couldn’t have asked for a larger audience!

Well done, my liege, Lucius thought. This is indeed a day of firsts.

Vespasian released Tanjiro from his enchanted hold over him. The freeman stood and looked his new emperor squarely in the eyes, then reached down and pulled the sword from the sand. He admired it for several moments. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Tanjiro tossed it away. The mob gasped.

“I reject your offer,” Tanjiro said. “Better that I should be killed this day than to live in this monstrous dictatorship and watch my fellow comrades die for your pleasure in the arena. Kill me, Vespasian. Kill me and let’s be done with it.”

Vespasian respected Tanjiro’s answer. As a fellow warrior, he had half expected it. He looked Tanjiro in the eyes.

“Are you sure, Shashidan?” he asked. “I will not ask again.”

“Kill me or send me home,” Tanjiro answered.

“Very well,” Vespasian said. “I have tried to be merciful. Let your death be on your head.”

Vespasian opened his palm and held it out toward the sword lying in the sand. At once the weapon obeyed and jumped into his grasp. He stood there for a moment, thinking. After wiping the blade clean he calmly sheathed it.

Tanjiro glared at him. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Get it over with!”

The spectators were again restless for action, and they began shouting and stamping once more. The chant “Kill, kill, kill!” started thundering through the arena.

Vespasian looked around at the decorated arena walls. Choosing an image, he pointed toward a place on the wall just to the right of the Gates of Death. An azure bolt left his fingertips and tore toward it. It struck the stone surface, then flattened out, blanketing the beastly image that Vespasian had selected.

The creature represented on the wall started to come alive. The sight was terrible, mesmerizing. Crying out in agony as it emerged from the dark stones that seemed to give it birth, the thing took form. On recognizing the beast, the crowd roared in approval. The azure glow faded, and the newly born creature launched itself from the wall to pounce, snarling, onto the arena sand.

It looked like a giant wolf, except that it stood on its hind legs. Spotted tan fur covered its body. Its teeth were long and sharp, and its eyes glowed bright red. Its hind feet were padded like a wolf’s, but its front legs had five long, taloned fingers. Like the Blood Stalkers, it drooled copiously. Dark armor encased its torso; greaves and gauntlets protected its lower legs and forearms.

Vespasian looked at Tanjiro. “It’s called a Rustannican Heart Wolf,” he said quietly. “And the heart it wants is yours. You did say that you wanted to see it coming, did you not?”

Vespasian looked over at the hideous creature and then pointed at Tanjiro.

“Kill,” he ordered. His menacing whisper reached to the far corners of the arena.

The snarling wolf bounded in gigantic leaps across the arena. Calmly, Vespasian stepped aside. Knowing that there was no escape, Tanjiro stood his ground. Just before the wolf took him, he gave Vespasian a final, defiant look.

The Heart Wolf pounced on Tanjiro, pinning him to the sand and disemboweling him in seconds. Eagerly rooting around in the screaming man’s ravaged chest cavity, the wolf latched onto Tanjiro’s heart with its jaws and tore it free. With the Shashidan general dead, the monster devoured the heart and then started gorging on the rest of the corpse.

As the giddy crowd chanted his name, Vespasian returned to his private viewing box and reclaimed his seat. Persephone gave him an admiring look; Lucius respectfully tipped his wine goblet toward him.

“Well done, my liege,” the First Tribune said. He turned to look at thePon Q’tar clerics. Unlike the overjoyed crowd, they sat in stony silence. Lucius barked a short laugh.

Vespasian called out for the Games Master. The nervous man was at the emperor’s side in an instant.

“As usual, your highness no doubt wishes the dead bodies to be dragged away through the Gates of Death?” he asked.

Thinking for a moment, Vespasian sat back on his ivory throne. “No,” he answered. “Let us start another new tradition this day. Bring the next one hundred skeens in, but do not arm them. Have centurions bind them to the corpses and body parts littering the sand-including whatever might be left of their beloved general. For the next fifteen days we will watch them starve to death as they are forced to lie there in the heat, bound tightly to their dead, rotting comrades. As that is taking place, send some centurions into the arena to deal with the Heart Wolf. That should provide some interim amusement for the crowd.”

“As you wish, Highness,” the Games Master answered. “And if I may say so, your idea about binding the living to the dead is an excellent one. It is a fine new tradition, indeed.” Without further ado, he hurried away to tend to his orders.

Suddenly pensive, Vespasian watched as the next one hundred skeens were shoved into the arena. The centurions roughly pushed them to the sand and carried out their orders, first binding the skeens hand and foot and then lashing them to their fallen comrades.

Sensing Vespasian’s mood, Persephone gave him a worried glance. “What is it, my love?” she asked. “All in all, the day goes well.”

Vespasian turned and looked into her eyes. “It is not this day that bothers me,” he answered cryptically, “but all the days to follow.”

He looked down at the Heart Wolf greedily feeding on what was left of the Shashidan general. Blades drawn, several centurions were cautiously approaching the beast. As Vespasian watched the wolf rip and tear at the mutilated body, admiration showed in his eyes.

“That man died well,” he mused. “Part of me wishes that he had accepted my offer of freedom. When my time comes, I hope I can meet death with the same courage that he displayed. They are a tough and determined lot, these Shashidan Vigors worshippers. Often of late, in my nightmares I see us losing this war. Then I awaken, shaking and bathed in a cold sweat.”