The Kaiserine's Champion

by Derek Paterson

  The door slammed shut and heavy locking bolts were driven home. I stripped off my clothing and went to the basin, washed and shaved, then put on the brown uniform. The jacket, trousers and boots fit me well.

  Glancing at the bed, I saw the girl's leather glove. It must have slipped off when the soldier lifted her. Closer examination revealed something else, however. Inside the glove was an artificial hand, carved from wood. There was a thin leather strap to allow its owner to secure the false hand to her forearm; but the strap had parted, perhaps during our brief struggle. A less suspicious soul might have assumed she had lost her hand in some awful accident, but everything I'd seen thus far convinced me that it had something to do with Doctor Schmidt. I left the wooden hand on the bed. Perhaps someone would return it to its unfortunate owner.

  When the heavy bolts were drawn again, it was Ludwig who opened the door and peered up at me.

  “The coach is waiting,” he said. “Are you ready?"

  “As ready as I'll ever be,” I told him.

  The dwarf led the way downstairs, to a rear door that gave access to a high-walled courtyard with wrought-iron gates. The coach was the same one that had transported me from the prison, with the same masked driver. I climbed inside.

  “Good luck,” Ludwig called up to me, before he slammed the door shut in my face. It saved me from having to tell him where he could shove his good luck.

  The coach set off again. Judging from the rattle of the wheels on cobblestones and the echoes from nearby walls, we passed through several narrow alleys before emerging onto a main road. The coach had to stop to allow regiments of soldiers to march past, preceded by booming drums and shrieking flutes; it was and followed by the unmistakable, bone-shaking rumble of the Junkers war machines, the smoking iron and bronze beasts that had ground the Moskovian armies to dust. I guessed these must be part of a celebration parade for the Kaiserine's birthday. Eventually the coach continued on its way again. The coach turned sharply off the main road and went down what I took to be a ramp. The clattering of the wheels was suddenly much louder, indicating we'd moved inside a building.

  At last the driver stopped and operated the mechanism that unlocked the door. I climbed out. We were in an underground chamber, presumably beneath the Arena, as suggested by the huge support pillars with their arched buttresses. Other coaches were coming down the ramp and discharging their occupants before trundling off up another ramp to disappear into the daylight outside. At first I thought the scene chaotic and disorganized, but dozens of uniformed footmen were moving rapidly through the crowd, directing the confused new-arrivals this way and that, imposing a sense of order.

  The Arena is an impressive example of Imperial architecture, surrounded by giant heroic statues and elaborate carvings of the epic battles that gave our Kaiserine dominance of all Europa. Within, the famous Hall of the Champions contains bronze busts of those fierce, skillful warriors who survived the previous contests. There is no corresponding Hall of the Losers. Rumor had it that the dead, and quite often the dying, were buried in a mass grave behind the Arena and promptly forgotten about. An exaggeration, of course. Then again, perhaps it was true.

  The rewards by far outweighed the dangers. He who won the annual contest and became the Kaiserine's Champion not only earned a vast sum of gold, but was given a minor title and a private estate by our ever-generous Kaiserine. He'd never have to work, or fight, again. But most of them did come back to test themselves against the fastest, deadliest warriors in the Empire. Fighting and killing were all these men knew. Even with the vampyre's gift pulsing in my veins, I was none too sure of my chances of surviving the contest, let alone winning.

  A scarlet-uniformed footman stopped in front of me, holding a portable writing board containing crested note paper and a small brass ink-well.

  “And who might you be?” he demanded.

  “The name's Bruno,” I said. “I serve the Lady von Klaus."

  He consulted his list. “Ah, Bruno,” he said. His powdered white wig wobbled as he flipped open the ink-well lid, dipped his quill and made a mark upon his list. “Come with me."

  I glanced up at the coach driver. Just for a moment, a kind of empathy passed between us, a sympathetic bonding. The driver nodded, and I nodded back. Then he jerked his reins and the coach moved off, circling around to join the queue at the exit ramp.

  The footman took me through a door and along a wide corridor. We entered a square chamber with whitewashed stone walls and bare wooden floors. Benches had been set along three of the walls. The fourth wall consisted of a weapons rack, heavy with swords, knives, axes and even wicked-looking pikes, all oiled and gleaming, and no doubt meticulously sharpened.

  “This is one of the waiting areas,” the footman explained. “You'll remain here with your fellow contestants until your name is called.” He consulted his list again. “The first round draw has already been made—you're to fight in the seventh match, immediately after Zargek and Helmut. Remember these names. When they are called, you should make ready to fight. If you fail to report for a match, for whatever reason, your name will be struck from the contest lists and your mistress’ entry fee will be forfeited. Is that understood?"

  “Yes. Do you know who will I be fighting first?"

  “Gunter, the Duke's man."

  “The Duke Wilhelm, you mean?” I could hardly believe this remarkable coincidence.

  The footman nodded. “None other."

  “What's Gunter like?” I asked.

  “He's good—very good. Came third last year. Killed two opponents as I recall, before he retired with a shoulder wound in the fifth round."

  With this casual but unnerving comment he left me alone, but within moments I was joined by more than a dozen other men of various appearance, most wearing uniforms, and none of friendly persuasion. Forced to congregate before they fought in the Arena, they kept their distance from each other and from me, each picking a vacant spot on one of the benches.

  I sat down too and waited, feeling very philosophical about the whole thing. I'd been a soldier and the thought of dying didn't particularly bother me—I'd learned to live with my fear on the bloody battlefields of Europa, when the blast of a single cannon or an explosive dropped from an airship could decimate an entire company of men. I closed my eyes and considered my strengths and weaknesses. My best weapon was undoubtedly the saber, and I was better on the attack than in defense. So I'd attack, and keep attacking until either I or my opponent lay dead on the Arena floor.

  I opened my eyes again and stared at the man who was staring at me. I'd felt the prick of his attention through my closed eyelids. He was a tall, dangerous-looking fellow wearing a plain white shirt and black leather pantaloons with high, knee-length boots. He sat opposite me. His dark hair hung loosely over his face, and through this curtain he watched me with unblinking eyes. A gold ring adorned his left ear-lobe, catching the light from the lantern suspended above his head. His singular interest in me stirred my curiosity.

  “Your name wouldn't be Gunter, would it?” I asked.

  He grinned, showing white teeth, but didn't offer an answer. The others sat immobile, pretending to ignore us but nonetheless interested in whatever our exchange might reveal about us. I closed my eyes again. Then opened them as he crossed the room and came to stand over me like a menacing shadow.

  “You're Bruno,” he said. I nodded. He scowled and leaned forward so we were almost nose to nose. “I'm going to fillet you like the ugly fish you are, Bruno. You're going to flop around the Arena floor, begging for mercy."

  He suddenly looked down. I'd drawn his own knife from his boot and held the point against his stomach. He took the hint and stepped away quickly. I reversed the knife, offering it to him pommel-first.

  “A fish,” I said, “can't fight back. The same can't be said for me."

  His face assumed a blank expression but his eyes narrowed into dark slits. He snatched the knife out of my hand, returned to his place opposite me and sat d
own. One or two of the men who'd been watching smiled. Others deliberately avoided looking at Gunter, which I took to be a sign of how much they feared him and respected his fighting skills. Despite my small victory I was still by no means supremely confident of my abilities. Just how much of a gamble was Thenck taking with my life?

  A perfumed dandy of a nobleman stepped into the chamber and looked around disdainfully, as if he'd accidentally blundered into the local cattle market on a hot day. Behind him stood two guards, their gleaming muskets held ready.

  “My name is Count Laszlo,” he introduced himself. “Some of you have fought in the Arena before and already know this, but there are those of you who have not, therefore I am obliged to explain.” He opened an expensive silver snuff-box, put a pinch of powder on the back of his left hand, inhaled sharply, then sneezed explosively. “Before the contest begins, you will all be taken upstairs into the Arena to salute the Kaiserine. Anyone who fails to salute the Kaiserine will be taken away and shot. The Kaiserine will then give a short but encouraging speech, which you will all applaud with great enthusiasm.” Another sneeze followed a second pinch of snuff. “Anyone who fails to applaud the Kaiserine's speech with great enthusiasm will be taken away and shot.” He looked around the room. “Does anyone have any questions?"

  We had none. Count Laszlo gestured and we filtered out into the corridor, toward a wide ramp. Fighters from other waiting areas were already on the ramp. We fell in behind them, and climbed up into the Arena.

  Above the ten-foot-high wall surrounding the circular Arena floor were tier after tier of spectator benches, already filled to capacity. The Empire's nobles got the best seats, of course. Social rank was defined by how closely the audience sat to the Kaiserine, who had her own private box. She was surrounded by a dozen or so high-ranking officers and aristos dressed in their finest regalia. The men wore dazzling arrays of medals while the women, resplendent in purple and blue silk dresses, were weighed down by gold and jewels. In and around the Kaiserine's box stood Imperial Guardsmen, armed to the teeth and ready to obliterate anyone foolish enough to cause the slightest ripple of trouble. I'd witnessed their kind in action in Moskovia. They were formidable soldiers, the best in the Empire, which meant they were the best in the world.

  We formed up in rough lines facing the most powerful monarch Europa had ever known. The Kaiserine, wearing a purple silk dress and a diamond tiara that could have purchased kingdoms, stood. As if on cue, sunlight suddenly struck her box and reflected off her tiara, momentarily dazzling me, but I had enough sense to bow along with everyone else. Or almost everyone else. Someone just behind me didn't bow. He'd either been drinking and his wits were addled, or he was criminally stupid. Or both. Guardsmen moved in fast from all sides, grabbing him and bundling him away. The Kaiserine showed no indication of having seen the scuffle. She smiled down at us, captivating us with her flawless beauty.

  “Warriors,” she said, “I salute your courage. Fight well today, and victory will be yours."

  With this, she sat down again. A short speech, indeed! The Kaiserine was supposedly sixty years old but didn't look a day over twenty. Whatever arcane secrets kept her young were known only to a very small number of people, most of whom were never permitted to venture outside the walls of the Imperial Palace—or so the rumors went. Were they true? I'd no way of knowing, and supposed I never would.

  Remembering that we were supposed to applaud her speech, upon pain of death, we applauded. Then Count Laszlo shooed us back down the ramp again.

  As I turned away from the Kaiserine's box, I saw Otto Thenck. He sat behind the Kaiserine and slightly to her right, and was watching me closely. I wondered how much he'd bet on my winning the Arena contest? That could be the only reason he'd go to so much trouble to secure the services of a half-vampyre swordsman. A small fortune, probably. I resented being used for such a base purpose, but again the alternative flashed briefly before my mind's eye, and I cleared my throat uncomfortably.

  On the Kaiserine's left sat a gentleman with a large white mustache and a dueling scar that marked him as the Duke Wilhelm, one of Her Majesty's senior advisers and commander of the City Guard, otherwise known as the Wardens. He leaned across to speak into the Kaiserine's ear while Thenck looked on, frowning in disapproval. The disturbing thought I'd had earlier returned to niggle at me. With several dozen names in the hat, the chances of mine being drawn out with Gunter's in the very first round were somewhat remote, to say the least. My suspicions were confirmed by the hostile look Thenck gave the unwitting Duke when the Kaiserine laughed at whatever Wilhelm had said. Perhaps Thenck didn't so much care who won the contest as who didn't win? Perhaps he wanted to spike Duke Wilhelm's chances of success, and had deliberately matched me against Gunter just to make Wilhelm look particularly bad?

  Conjecture was useless and merely served as a distraction. Survival must be my only concern. We were escorted back to our various waiting areas, and didn't have long to wait before the first match was called.

  “Cortez! Von Gump! Step forward!” a voice shouted.

  One of the men in our chamber, a short, dark-haired youth with the swarthy looks of an Espanyan, stood and went to the weapons rack. I assumed this was Cortez. He selected a straight-bladed sword and nothing else. Without looking at any of us he went out into the corridor. Someone from one of the other waiting areas met him there and they climbed the ramp into the Arena together.

  Their names were shouted again and the crowd applauded as the two warriors made ready to fight. The applause died away as they got down to business. Steel clashed on steel, almost delicately at first, as each man tested the other. Then a heated exchange brought a concerted gasp from the audience. The fighting went on for a good while and then, suddenly, silence.

  Guards marched down the ramp and past our door, dragging a blood-spattered body behind them by the heels. The Espanyan who'd picked the straight sword came in and sat down in the same place as before. His gaze met mine and I grinned at him. He grinned back. His dark orange shirt had been slashed and blood ran from half a dozen minor cuts, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered.

  Count Laszlo stuck his head through the doorway. “Well done, lad. The Kaiserine liked that trick of yours. Very nasty. You can rest now, while everyone else has their turn. The doctor will tend to your wounds if you've anything that needs stitching?"

  Cortez sensibly went to see the doctor. Another two names were called; another two warriors faced each other in the Arena and in a short while one of them was dragged down the ramp with his adversary's sword sticking out of his body. The winner, limping badly, went to see the doctor.

  The same scenario repeated itself, this time with the winner smiling from ear to ear because he hadn't sustained a single wound, while his opponent was virtually slashed to pieces.

  As the matches went on, another three of the warriors in our waiting area went out. None of them returned. Finally I heard Zargek and Helmut being called to fight. Gunter and I were next. He'd already gone to the rack and picked his weapons, a sword plus a vicious-looking short axe. The latter was an unusual choice, and one that gave me cause for concern.

  Above, Zargek and Helmut drew gasps of admiration and bursts of wild applause from the crowd. Gunter swung the axe in his left hand while his sword, in his right hand, made neat little circles in the air, as if gouging out an imaginary opponent's eyes. Footsteps and harsh breathing echoed down the ramp and along the corridor. Gunter swapped hands, taking the axe in his right and the sword in his left. His weapons blurred as he attacked another imaginary foe. Zargek and Helmut moved away from the ramp, back into the middle of the Arena, locked in a furious exchange which could only have one ending. It came quickly. The crowd roared and spectators stamped their feet in approval.

  Count Laszlo stuck his head into the room again.

  “Gunter! Ah, there you are. Where's this fellow Bruno?"

  I stood. Count Laszlo's gaze rested briefly upon my Corsican mercenary's uniform
. “Let's see if you can give as good a performance as those last two. ‘Pon my word!” He inhaled snuff and sneezed. “I've never seen such speed and skill."

  “Then keep your eyes open,” Gunter said. “You're about to witness the fight of the century, if my friend here is as good as he thinks he is."

  “I'll try not to disappoint you,” I said, standing up and moving to the weapons rack. I selected a saber, then indicated that Gunter should leave the area ahead of me. “Ladies first."

  “Fools come last,” he said.

  Laszlo smiled, his teeth gleaming. “'Pon my word!” he said. “Such entertainment, and the day is still young."

  He led us out into the corridor and over to the ramp. We arrived in time to see the previous pair coming down. One of them was dead, his eyes and mouth open wide in an almost-comic expression of eternal surprise. The front of his tunic was stained black with blood. The other man wore a jerkin with an unusual pink and green harlequin pattern. He had a spring in his step that made me look at him twice. Our gaze met briefly and he grinned at me, then passed us as we climbed the ramp.

  “Friend of yours?” Gunter asked.

  “No. What's it to you?"

  “I was about to suggest you bid him goodbye, since he won't be seeing you again in this life."

  “My word!” Count Laszlo said, and sneezed a moment later.

  The unmistakable smell of blood hung heavily in the air. An excited buzz of conversation went around the Arena as the audience discussed the previous match. Count Laszlo pointed to the two large crosses that had been marked on the Arena floor. Gunter walked over to one cross and I occupied the other. The Count remained at the top of the ramp, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  A uniformed, bewigged flunkey consulted the notes on his writing-board, then shouted, “Gunter, for the Duke Wilhelm, and Bruno, for the Lady von Klaus!"