Rise of the Blood Royal dobas-3 Read online

  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 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,” Tanjir
o 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.

  “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.”

  “I know, my love,” Persephone answered quietly. “But we will prevail, I promise you.”

  The crowd cheered again as one hundred more armed skeens were prodded into the arena to face the vicious Blood Stalkers, and the carnage resumed. For a moment Persephone took her gaze from the games and again looked at her husband’s profile.