Demon Princess

"How long have you traveled to be here?" The princess asked quietly as she forced eye contact with Tarquin. Her face was still flushed, but she'd obviously regained some of her composure.

"A month, give or take a day," Tarquin answered easily. He immediately found himself respecting the woman, and he knew how preposterous his request had been. He wondered if he would have been able to deal with the situation so calmly if he were her, but then, she was a demon, and demons weren't given to panic easily.

"And how, I must ask, will...lying with me, solve the race crisis?" She uttered a bit more confidently, though her tone suggested that she was on the brink of stuttering.

"According to the goddess, it will give her the ability to sort out exactly where the problem originated from... and give her the ability to put an end to it." He gave the princess only the information she'd asked for, and again, he hadn't lied. He'd come too far to back out, and he didn't want to convolute his chances with a lengthy, unnecessary explanation.

She considered his reply before responding, "And it has to be me?"

"So says the goddess, yes. You are the sole daughter of the king, so that leaves no one else."

Crizet exchanged another look with her father, who had assumed a stone cold poker face, "And you are willing to risk your life in order to accomplish your goal?"

"Yes... I think the fact that we're even having this conversation proves that," he replied with the slightest of smiles.

Gazin exhaled slowly, "My daughter is fully grown, mercenary, and she is without husband... intentionally. Since the passing of her mother, she has voluntarily taken up many tasks that others would have shirked and written off as someone else's problem. I hope you fully realize what you're asking... because if you don't, I may kill you myself."

Tarquin cleared his throat, "Believe me, your majesty, this isn't something I would flippantly request."

The king stared at him, "If you're asking me for permission, I would deny you a thousand times and wrap your intestines around a pike before parading your head down the streets for a week. That being said, my daughter is capable of making her own decisions, and she may lie with whomever she chooses," he said dismissively as he gestured to her once more.

It was clear that Crizet had hoped her father would alleviate her position, and she shook her head once as she looked down for just a moment, "You are a mercenary?" She asked Tarquin firmly, looking up at him.

"Yes, milady, for my entire life."

"You have fought many battles?"

"Numerous, yes, against all man and beast."

She paused, "I'm sure you have heard of our arena here. It's famous for being one of the most brutal in any country, but we also consider it the most fair. Only prisoners of war and criminals fight in it and if they can survive long enough then even they can gain their freedom. Regardless of your reasons, or any goddess', I consider your request to be irredeemably uncouth. If you can survive in our arena for three rounds, I will lead you to my bedchamber myself."

Tarquin sighed under his breath as he glanced at Gazin. He couldn't be sure, but he thought that he saw the king smile ever so slightly, "I agree to your terms and I will gladly risk my life for such an honor."

Crizet, seemingly not expecting his quick agreeance, flushed once more, "So be it."

Gazin snapped twice loudly and an aid wearing a blue uniform jogged into the room, "Take this man to the arena and prepare him for three rounds. Give him access to the standard equipment and submit his name and title into the next betting pool."

The aid nodded, "What is he fighting for? Those who are betting will want to know if he isn't a prisoner of ours. Also, with due respect, your majesty, the fights are over for the day."

"We're holding a last minute event; get the word out. Tell them that a seasoned mercenary is fighting for a roll in the hay with my daughter," Gazin grinned, "And set the betting caps to their maximum."

The aid looked surprised, "Consider it done, majesty." He said nothing to Tarquin, but instead nodded to him before turning.

"Excuse me, your majesty?" Tarquin ventured quickly after taking a single step after the aid.

"Yes, what is it mercenary?" The king looked more than just a little finished with the conversation.

"My mount is waiting for me at the base of the keep's stairs. He's a good raptor with many years of service left in him. If I am slain, would you be so kind as to see that he gets a good home?"

The king nodded once, "I'll stable him here, you have my word."

Tarquin nodded before glancing at the princess. She in turn, was glancing at him, and looked away suddenly when their eyes met once more.

"Lead the way," Tarquin told the aid as he sighed.

Makdesh was a massive city of industry and trade, and the province had done well for itself over the last generation. In an effort to eliminate poverty and joblessness, the previous monarchy had instituted a rule where those who had no skill or vocation would automatically be accepted into military service. Those who were unable to soldier for whatever reason were put into clerical positions, but nearly every citizen had served the royal military at one point in their life.

Because of this, crime in Makdesh was almost non existent, and Tarquin noticed how clean the streets were as he followed the aid to the arena. The fighting man couldn't help but chuckle as he thought about the kingdom he'd been in last: Fallbridge. Fallbridge was mostly comprised of humans, and their monarchy was headed up by a church. There was a lot of prejudice between the two kingdoms, mostly because the church saw the demon race as something that was created outside of the holy confines of heaven, but for all their talk of goodness and of light, Fallbridge had plenty of slums while Makdesh had none.

The aid glanced back at Tarquin and furrowed his brow as they wove through a market street, "You don't act like a man being led to his death, mercenary."

"This is my constant disposition," Tarquin smiled, "That way, when death does come, I don't have to think about what expression to wear."

The aid chuckled, "You really came all this way to sleep with the princess?"

Tarquin raised his voice as they passed a vendor selling baby raptors, "I really did," he reached out and pet one of the small creatures before nodding to the proprietor, "Cute."

The aid kept his pace, "You must know that the king won't stand for such a thing... he's going to throw everything he has at you."

"I'm counting on it."

The aid didn't speak for a long time as they walked through the streets. Tarquin admired the shops and the sheer variety; it was incredible how different each province was, but few provinces offered what Makdesh did. Fruit and vegetable stands stood full of things that Tarquin wasn't sure he'd ever tried, and the smell of roasting meat and peppers filled the air. The trade was fairly taxed, and instead of il-legalizing gambling, like most other countries did, it was heavily enforced and taxed, and made up a good portion of the kingdom's income.

The aid led him through another series of streets where the smell of smelting steel filled his nostrils. An army of smiths were lined up in front of their shops, most of them demon, and it looked like all of them had plenty of work to keep themselves occupied.

"Would you mind if I stopped here for a moment, mercenary?" The aid asked him, "There's a man here that will get the word out about your fight faster than I can, and I'd hate to have to come back."

"Certainly, my time is your time," Tarquin replied jovially and a little sardonically.

The aid nodded and shuffled into one of the shops, leaving Tarquin alone.

"Hey, stranger, come over here for a moment, if you would," Tarquin heard a voice behind him.

The mercenary turned and saw a smith standing over a small anvil. He was an older man, but still plenty strong looking, and the size of his hammering arm made Tarquin's biceps look limpid.

"Good afternoon, what can I do for you?" Tarquin asked politely. He was used to speaking with strangers, and smiths and armorers especially seemed to love to chew the fat with a man such as himself.

"Is that a Zinstar sword you've got there on your back?" The smith asked with interest.

"It is; good eye!" Tarquin unbuckled his sheath and drew his sword slowly, "Wanna take a look?"

"Aye," the smith took the sword and looked it over for a long moment, "Gorgeous piece, I'm guessing it's not just for show."

"Used it a few times," Tarquin's eyes laughed as he smiled slightly.

The smith grinned and laughed, "Aha. Where did you happen upon such a thing? I'd have to sell half my assets to get ahold of some of that steel, although I would love a chance to forge something out of it."

"I get around. I've had this blade for about ten years and it's served me well. I was tired of swords breaking, you know, so I decided to spend some real money and I made a three month journey to Zinstar via ship. It was a long trip, but well worth the money and time."

The smith handed the blade back to the man, "Thank you; it's nice to look at something from so far away. Where are you headed?"

Tarquin thumbed over to the obnoxiously sized arena that was now less than half a mile away, "Gonna have a fight."

"Oh?" The smith looked surprised. "Willingly?"

"Yup. I'm sure the details will get around sooner than later, but without getting into too much detail I'm fighting for the princess."

The smith set his hammer down and reached up to scratch the place where his horn sprouted from his head, "You're goading me. That woman doesn't need anyone to fight for her, she's..."

"I should have clarified and said that I'm fighting to bed her," Tarquin said flatly.

The smith blinked before bursting into boisterous laughter, "Shite, come on, now you are goading me!"

Tarquin laughed along with the man, "It's true. Three rounds in the arena to sleep with the princess; that's the cost, apparently."

The smith calmed himself, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"As death, yes."

The smith pawed his chin, "Anyone tell you about her?"

"Nope. What is there to know?"

The smith smiled, "You talked to the king about this?"

"Yup."

"Ah. Well, you look like a man who knows the crazy that he pursues, but I'll let you in on something. The princess isn't married because she hasn't found a man she thinks is suitable. It works well for her father, because he doesn't wanna to see his girl getting married off to some shithead, but I think she's also afraid that if she does start having kids of her own, they'll all be girls. Now, we've had a queendom before, ain't no difference to me, Makdesh isn't like everywhere else, we don't necessarily need a man at the throne all the time, but eventually, with the crisis and all... you know."

"I know," Tarquin agreed. "I appreciate the information. You should come to the match and put some money on me."

The smith laughed again, "I like you, kid, I don't wanna see you get chopped in half. If you're not making this story up, then the king is going to throw his worst at you."

"They're raising the betting caps to the maximum."

The smith grit his teeth, "Gah... no," he shook his head, "Thanks but no thanks."

Tarquin replaced his blade into its sheath and crossed his arms, "How about this: you put some money on me and if I die you get my sword? If I win, then you win, and if I die, you still win." He undid the buckle at his front and slung the sheath over his shoulder before handing the entire bundle to the man.

"Hey now, hang on!" The smith took the bundle hesitantly.

"No, I'm serious. They aren't going to let me use my own equipment anyway, and I if I bite the dust it'll be nice knowing that a fellow lover of excellent steel will be taking care of my investment. Just gamble whatever you think you can sell the sword for; no loss for you either way. I'll be by tomorrow to pick up my half of the winnings and my sword. What do you say?"

The smith shook his head and chuckled, "You're insane. Fine, I'll do it, though, between you and me, I'd really like to give this back to you."

"And I'd really like to take it back from you," the mercenary returned the chuckle, "Tarquin's my name."

"Ambol," the smith nodded, "I'll see you in the arena."

Tarquin heard the aid step up behind him and turned.

"Entertaining yourself?" The aid asked with a look of amusement.

"Yes, and giving my worldly possessions away."

The aid pursed his lips, "You're an interesting fellow... I think I'm going to put a little money on you."

The mercenary and the smith exchanged a look before Tarquin laughed, "I'm flattered."

"Anything in this room?"

The aid nodded, "Anything you want, though the arena master will only let you take so much. You're alloted one main weapon, one secondary weapon and as much armor as you want to wear. I suppose the upside is that no one else is fighting with you, so you don't have to argue for the things you want."

Tarquin and the aid were standing inside of a relatively small armory where an assortment of primitive weapons were lined up on the walls. Several armor stands in the middle of the room were laden with equally primitive hide and bone armor, and none of it was what anyone would consider quality merchandise.

The mercenary pulled a spear from the wall and frowned down at it, "What kind of opponents will I be up against?"

"I can't answer that; I don't know myself. The match ups are kept secret right up until they're announced. It gives people about a sixty second window of time to add to their bets, and it makes the fights more interesting... supposedly."

"What are the rules?"

"Rules? There's only one, really. If an opponent concedes, they forfeit the match and become non combatants. If you kill them after they concede, or they you, its penalized by another round. Your opponents will be able to give up, but honestly, it doesn't happen very often. Most of them are prisoners, and they concession equals more time in the arena and probably a bad time with their fellow inmates."

Tarquin pawed his chin, "So, if they concede, I don't have to kill them, and they will probably not use it as a trick to kill me?"

"Probably."

Tarquin laughed, "That doesn't make me feel a whole lot better, but it makes sense."

The aid nodded, "In any case, this is where I leave you. You've got about thirty minutes to prepare yourself, when you're ready you can talk to the arena master through the doors and down the hall to the left."

Tarquin nodded, "Thanks... see you out there." He turned back to the shoddy weaponry on the wall and grimaced, "This takes me back," he muttered before chuckling lowly.

The Makdesh arena was one giant square surrounded by four tall walls. It was a simple structure, but solid enough to be used as a keep in of itself, and anyone who had ever participated in its games and had survived, hadn't walked out without fighting.

Stone and steel seats surrounded the masses of Makdesh as hundreds of late arrivers flooded into them. Most of them were locals, which made them demons, but many out of country races could be spotted here and there, travelers and merchants who were looking to make some quick coin on an interesting fight.

That was why everyone was there, after all, to see a stranger fight three rounds in the world's most brutal organized arena simply so he could bed the princess, Crizet.

In the culture of demons, sex was not a casual thing, and a strong, able partner was highly regarded. Gender equality had never been much of an issue for them, historically, and it was just as normal for women to propose to men and negotiate marriage terms.

Given that, it was no surprise that the arena was almost completely full. Tarquin could hear the loud, white wash of their excited chatter through the thick wooden gate he stood in front of. he suspected that many people had come to watch him die, given the outrageousness of what he planned to claim if he won, and he hoped dearly that he would disappoint them. It was nice to know that there were at least a handful of people who were betting on him, however, and he smiled at the thought as he hefted his light leather shield and readied his spear.

The gate rolled open at some point, and the mercenary took a deep breath and held his head up. He was wearing a set of tattered leather and chain armor, and instead of choosing a full helmet, he'd opted for a steel studded cap. The cap looked ridiculous on him, but it would offer more protection than a full helmet if he took a direct blow. Besides that, having his full range of vision was just as important to him as his mobility, and he always preferred to dodge an attack over weathering it.

Tarquin winced slightly as the mid afternoon sun glinted in his eyes. He lowered his head and surveyed the arena quickly as the gate continued to roll upwards. The arena was basic: a dirt floor with wide, open spaces. Some areas were separated by varying lengths of wooden pikes jutting from the earth, and Tarquin assumed they were used as makeshift walls to act as cover and make certain fights more interesting.

Speaking of interesting, his eyes fell upon several points of interest in the arena that he quickly made note of. Rock traps set into fragile dams on either side of the arena looked as if they could avalanche down from their steep incline at any moment, and they were held at bay by a single rope. Tarquin told himself that if two traps existed in plain sight, there were probably more, and whatever he might be able to use to his advantage could most certainly be used against him in the same way.

Tarquin stepped forward slowly until he was completely clear of the gate before a deep voice broke out over the sounds of the crowd, "Good afternoon, Makdesh, and thank you for attending this event on such short notice."

The crowd quieted somewhat and turned their attention to the arena master, who was standing on a high balcony. He was speaking into some sort of sound magnifying device that looked like a horn, and his voice flowed clearly and powerfully over the crowd as he spoke once more, "As I'm sure you've all heard, there is indeed a stranger here that has willingly volunteered to fight in our arena: A raptor rider, in fact."

Tarquin pursed his lips and frowned slightly, "Aw, come on," he muttered as the crowd began to jeer at him. The term 'raptor rider' had become synonymous with self serving mercenaries, since most swords for hire rode raptors instead of horses. Raptors were stronger and smaller than horses, and required less maintenance, but the trade off was, at times, bearing the negative assumptions that people made about them and their riders.

The arena master continued over the sound of the booing, "What's more important than his vocation? The reason he has come here, of course."

Tarquin groaned, "Can we get to the fighting already?" He muttered once more as he heard the gate roll shut behind him.

"What you have all heard is true: the mercenary is here to fight for a night with her highness, Crizet."

The crowd exploded into a plethora of laughter, clapping and more angry booing. It seemed that there were more people who were entertained by the idea than Tarquin had initially thought, though he could care less about it either way.

"Before we start, I'd like everyone to know that this fight is quite exceptional, even within the realm of exception. Because of this, we've been given permission to raise the betting caps to their maximum."

Nearly everyone cheered wildly at the mention, and Tarquin took the opportunity to check every entrance that an enemy could potentially come in through. There was another gate opposite the one he'd come through, the western side, but besides that there were only a few small steel gates build into the south and north sides of the arena.