Rise of the Blood Royal

by Robert Newcomb

  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.

  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 sur
rounded. 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, the Pon Q’tar, the Priory, and the Tribunes all watching. He extended his hand again. Calling on the craft, he forced Tanjiro to his knees.

  “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 the Pon 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!”