The Gladiatrix

Iriman laughed as the whip tore the flesh from my back. I refused to cry out. That was what he wanted. I would let the pain become hatred and the hatred would fuel my resolve. I would deny Iriman, that pettiest of tyrants, no matter what it cost.

My crime had been minor. I had been caught speaking Rhandic with Hulda. Even with my privileges, I was not immune to the law. Five strokes for speaking anything other than Kharish. The other five were Hulda's, given to me because Jezreal didn't want to scar her beloved handmaid. Besides, she knew that striping me would wound Hulda even more.

I sagged against the stocks, my back stinging and wet. Only ten stripes, but ten was more than enough to reduce me to rags. The entire castle watched my humiliation, and I think that wounded me more. Foolish pride, I suppose. Hulda was there as well, and I was grateful that I could not see her.

When it was finished, Grud and Uitzin bore me to my quarters where the healer shortly joined me. I lay there, the stinging maddening. The stining would not cease, as the healer was not there to take my pain away. He was there only to stop my bleeding. Kharsoomians had a method of healing but leaving a scar, so that a slave would never forget their disobedience. Ironically, those ten whip scars across my back would later prove my status as a boldisar. Iriman had given me a gift. I would return the favor in my own way. He never healed that scar either.

I had already made the decision to escape and was deep in preparation, hiding food and water, finding a map that would take me to safety. I thought I would go north, then west to the coast. There was a section of Kharsoom, north of Deszu, the Shattered Reef. Not truly a reef, but a place where the coast had been broken far inland, leaving a treacherous land of unexplored islands. It was a pirate haven, and I thought if I could make it there, I could find passage on a ship. I had the skills of an able seaman and a pirate would not care I had been a slave.

But first, this final indignity. The healer left me to my thoughts of escape. As I lay on the bed, exhausted and in agony, the bell rang. Grud's voice came from my doorway. "Stay there, barbarian. She does not mean to summon you. If the bell rings again, I was wrong and you will rouse yourself." It was the closest I had heard him come to genuine sympathy.

Not long after. I heard the door open and felt a presence on my bed. Hulda's scent enfolded me, and I shivered, a fresh cascade of stings over my back. "Oh. Ashuz," she murmured, touching my shoulder.

"I am fine."

She kissed my cheek. "Her Highness bade me spend the night with you."

"The one night I cannot take you."

She gave a rueful chuckle, then climbed into bed, pressing her warm body against mine. "I do not always need to be taken."

I did not sleep, but she did, and that was enough.

All the time and effort I put into preparing my escape came to naught. That, I suppose, was inevitable. Though the gods of Kharsoom were dead, that did not mean they had lost their sense of humor. As the saying goes, a dead god can still laugh.

It was the arrival of the messenger one uneventful day that heralded the beginnings of my escape, though I could not know that at the time. The wounds on my back had turned to scars by the time he rode through our gate on the back of a qobad, flying the red flag of peace. I was in the midst of drills, and did not attach too much significance to the event. Messengers were common enough.

It was not until I was in the central hall while the Prince and Princess were dining that evening, that I learned what had happened. When I arrived to take my ceremonial position behind the Princess, they were already deep in conversation.

"...not concerned with the spears. Behnan will choose them," Zahudmammu was saying.

"Can we spare twelve men?"

"We have no choice. This invitation--"

"I know."

The Prince sighed, momentarily regarding his food. "I want to use your barbarian as champion."

"No! He's mine!" protested Jezreal.

"My love, be reasonable. He is the strongest warrior we own. If we are to win, we need him. I am not asking for your greenskin or warmaid."

"But what if he is killed?"

"Then I will buy you a new guard. One with a thick spear and soft eyes, the way you like them."

She pouted. "Fine. You may have him."

Zahudmammu broke into a wide smile. "Wonderful. You saw him against the boldisar. He will bring us glory."

That night I was not surprised to hear the bell ring. Grud chuckled as we made our way to Jezreal's quarters. We found her in a perfumed bath, her handmaids washing her shapely limbs. Hulda's eyes met mine, and I hoped we would be allowed to lay together. Sometimes Jezreal enjoyed watching the two of us. I suspect she liked the sight of genuine passion.

"My sweet Ashuz," Jezreal said. "Come here and let me look at you."

I approached the bath. "What were you and the Prince speaking about?"

She gave me an indulgent look. "I should have you beaten for that insolence. It's lucky for you that I find it adorable. We have been invited to participate in a Crown Game."

"I don't know what that is."

"You are a barbarian. How ould you know the proper ways to assert your clan's status?" She smiled as I had no response. "You will play a great game in the hippodrome in Ghanappur. You have the honor of being champion of Clan Sesamhat."

"What does that mean?"

"You will be the most valuable piece on the board. All you need to do is move where you are bidden and slay any you come across."

"I believe I understand," I said, though I could not.

"Good," she said, standing up. Water cascaded from her bountiful curves. "Tonight you will take me. Grud, you may watch."

The half-orc sighed in disappointment. "As you wish, mistress."

I learned that we would be a team of twelve, with four positions between us. There were the spears. Numbering six, they were the lowliest of the pieces. My friend Uitzin was selected to be one of these. We had three outriders as well, and I noted the choices seemed to be the longest-limbed of the castle's guards. Then there were two sentinels. This sparked another argument as Zahudmammu wanted Grud for one of these, but Jezreal flatly refused. The half-orc caught my eye and smirked. I do not know what victory he thought he had achieved in that moment.

Lastly, there was one champion. Me.

I did not know what these positions truly meant. In fact, though I have participated in a Crown Game, I still don't truly understand its intricacies. I still hold Kharsoomian title, a Prince of Clan Abibaal, but I have never played a Crown Game. I suppose I am lucky in that Tanyth found such things to be distasteful.

Our caravan departed a week later. The twelve of us who had been selected for the game were allowed to ride in the carriages. Other guards would protect us.

"Can you believe it, Farmer?" Utizin said. "We were picked. We defend Clan Sesamhat's honor for the glory of the crowd."

"I don't share your excitement."

"Of course not. You already have the easy job. Me? I could do better. I do well in the Crown Game, maybe I'm in the castle. Maybe they give me the post up on the wall, where the castle's shadow falls in the afternoon." He broke into a wide smile.

"Your dreams are something to behold. What know you of the Crown Game?"

He shrugged. "A fight is a fight, isn't it? Kharsoomians love their bloodsport. Give them something to cheer and they will love us. Bring glory to Clan Sesamhat, and Prince Zahudmammu will love us."

The city of Ghanappur was the equal of Deszu, located on a bluff rising out of the wasteland. A gnarled forest of petrified trees surrounded it, testament to a time when the cracked and desolate land bloomed with life. The bluff was honeycombed with tunnels and plazas, a second city beneath the first. This would prove my salvation.

The city's gates were at the base of the bluff, the rest of it rising along the contours of the land. The hippodrome was at the top, the city's main road running in a straight line from gate to gate. Much like Deszu, it was a modern shanty built atop ancient ruins, filled with constantly decaying life. Kharsoom was a scavenger empire, but the carcass it feasted upon was magnificent.

The crowds watched the royal caravan with some interest, but the city was too alive to pay too much attention to such arrivals. The stench was incredible. Filth, unwashed bodies, and other more exotic scents warred in my senses, constantly threatening to overwhelm me. I sat back in the carriage, trying to center myself in this madness.

The hippodrome was a great, five-sided building at the edge of the bluff at the highest point of the city. The caravan stopped in front of its yawning front gates, where a delegation of other Kharsoomians waiting. The guards bore a crimson standard emblazoned with a hawk, a flag I had seen flapping from the city's battlements.

A group of four Kharsoomians stood at the forefront of these guards. One wore a slave collar, and reminded me of Happanu. The others, two were women and one a man, all three in vital middle age. Each of them dripped with gold and jewels, putting the wealth of Clan Sesamhat to shame. I would learn that the man was Prince Enlilbanipal of Clan El, ruler of Ghanappur, and the two women his wives.

Zahudmammu, Jezreal, Happanu, and Iriman all dismounted from the caravan and made a great show of bowing.

"What are they saying?" whispered Uitzin.

"Pleasantries," I said.

He shot me a glare. After the proper Kharsoomian manners were exchanged between the two groups, Iriman returned to the carriage. "Crown pieces, get out. Show yourselves to our hosts. No speaking. Maintain the dignity of Clan Sesamhat."

We filed out. The waiting Kharsoomians watched us with the interest of children inspecting new toys. Seeing Zahudmammu and Jezreal being humble before these two was jarring.

"Spears here," Iriman said, pointing to spots on the ground in turn. "Then outriders, sentinels, and you, barbarian. Step lightly, or I'll put another ten lashes on you."

I stopped cold, staring in Iriman's yellow eyes. He was about my size, and though muscled I had not a single doubt I could kill him with my bare hands. I considered it, imagining my hands upon his throat. Armed guards, both Clan Sesamhat's and Clan El's, were all that saved him.

"You should not look at your betters that way," he said.

"I'm not," I said quietly enough that only he could hear.

He raised his hand to cuff me, and Jezreal barked. "Iriman!"

"Cousin," chided the Prince. "Harming our champion before a Crown Game?"

"He is insolent."

"You can give him some lashes when we return."

"You are confident," said Prince Enlilbanipal.

"Yes, Your Highness. The barbarian is quite skilled. He is Clan Sesamhat's champion for a reason."

Enlilbanipal clapped his hands in glee. "Wonderful, wonderful! I look forward to seeing him perform."

"We apologize for our late arrival, Your Highness," said Zahudmammu.

"We are still awaiting Clan Maharbaal," Enlilbanipal. "They are the ones I shall be cross with, not you."

"Which clans are participating?"

"Sesamhat and Maharbaal, of course. Then Zukhet, Ektet, and finally El."

"El? Your clan?"

Enlilbanipal smiled, a predatory expression. I had no love for Zahudmammu, but I felt the ghost of sympathy for how his heart must have sunk in that moment. "I would not miss a Crown Game."

Zahudmammu swallowed. "I have heard tales of your champion."

"They call her Iron Rhayn," said Enlilbanipal with the pride of one who has just gotten to broach a topic he had been waiting for. "She is magnificent. This will be her fourth Crown Game. She is beloved in the hippodrome. Though a greenskin, she has been taken by Ghanappur as their own."

"Aren't we lucky," said the Prince, not meeting his wife's eyes, who was glaring daggers at him.

"I will have your pieces taken to quarters. They will be made comfortable. Tomorrow we will get our first glimpse!"

A contingent of Enlilbanipal's guard led the twelve of us to the gate. As we passed, I heard Jezreal mutter to her husband, "I will have Happanu plan us a trip to Deszu. And I will have two new guards, not one."

"Of course, my love," said Zahudmammu, his crimson forehead shiny with sweat.

We went into the cool dark of the hippodrome. These were the great corridors where the visitors would pass on the way out to their seats. The guards took us to a staircase, leading us down into the bowels of the building.

I expected a dungeon, and I found myself pleasantly surprised. We found an area well lit by torches, a five-pointed room furnished like the servants' quarters of the castle. Sections of the room were barred, creating five cages, each one touching two others. Before the doorways hung a flag. We were led to one of the empty cages, where the urok on green of Clan Sesamhat hung.

The cage to one side of us was marked with the hawk on red of Clan El. To the other side was a tower on gray that I would come to know as the sigil of Clan Ektet. A skull on orange marked the cage of Clan Zukhet. The empty cage, marked with a ghalak, belonged to Clan Maharbaal.

The ghalak is long extinct, but it was a grotesque predator that hunted the desert dunes in parts of Kharsoom. It was loathed by all, except for the Maharbaal, who had chosen it as a sigil. I would never understand this. I always found the sigil of Clan Abibaal, the scorpion, to be strange, but I have grown to appreciate the heraldry.

We went into our cage, and the soldiers shut it behind us with a thud. The twelve of us looked about, while the other teams watched us from their cages.

"Look at this, Farmer," Uitzin said, pointing at the biggest dais. "The champion's bed."

I grunted. "This is ridiculous."

"It's not," called a half-orc from Clan El's cage. She was tall, her limbs covered in lean muscle beneath taut skin. Her complexion was a brownish-green, a pleasantly forested hue unusual in the Red Wastes. Her auburn hair was cut into a mohawk, with tattoos running down either side of her skull. More tattoos crawled over her arms, and a down her thighs. She was nude, eschewing even a harness, wearing only a pair of sandals laced up her calf. My gaze crawled over her body, lingering on her scars, her hairless sex, her wide nipples, and her powerful neck. "Champions have their privileges."

"Who are you?"

"Rhayn," she said, "Also a champion."

"The true champion," said a man in her cage.

"Iron Rhayn," I said. "I heard your name."

"Everyone's heard my name," she said with a smirk. Her lower canines were heavy, almost, but not quite, tusks. "And what of you?"

"This is Ashuz," said Uitzin, stepping up next to me. Then, lowering his voice menacingly. "The Farmer."

Three cages laughed, though Iron Rhayn did not. "Good name," said the man who had spoken before. "If we were growing wheat, I would be frightened."

"No," said Rhayn. "Nickname like that, means he has nothing to prove."

Uitzin nodded at me. "Thank you," I muttered.

"Take him," Rhayn said, gesturing at the cage marked with a skull, Clan Zukhet's team. A man, half again as tall as me stared back with a single baleful eye in the middle of his face. "They call him simply the Crusher. A cyclops from the wastes. I know why he is called that. Look at him. But the Farmer? Why could he have such a name?"

"I nearly had a farm of pepper trees," I said.

The dungeon went silent. Then, a moment later, laughter. Rhayn didn't laugh, her bright green eyes sparkling, never leaving mine.

The caravan from Clan Maharbaal arrived the morning of following day, after we were fed. I was surprised to see a xerxyss among them, though not surprised to learn she was their champion. Soon after their arrival, the guards took us from our cages up to the floor of the hippodrome itself.

I blinked in the bright Kharsoomian sun. The air was hot and dry, sweat springing from my skin and almost instantly vanishing into the thirsty air. Only the skin under my boots and loincloth felt fine, the subtle enchantments on the garments keeping me comfortable.

I stared at the massive structure around me. It was an incredible construction. Built a thousand years ago, it rose around us like an artificial canyon. The stands weren't even full, but the cheers of those present were magnified and by the shape of the building.

The floor was dirt, with five entrances leading into the lower levels of the hippodrome. Guards bearing our flags separated each team. We followed our flag to one part of the arena, where a rack of weapons waited. The escort then stood still, our green urok flag flapping in the sluggish breeze.

A man in a slave collar, well-muscled and bearing a bone-headed axe, gestured to the rack. "Take your weapons. You are to put on a show." Practice weapons of every description were lined up on the rack. At that moment, a group of warriors carrying practice weapons came from each of the five entrances, approaching a different team.

"Are these the games?" Uitzin asked.

"No, my savage friend. This is merely to whet the appetite of the crowd. The gamblers will want to know how to place their wagers. You'll not want to hold back. There's honor to be had in your performance today."

We spent the day sparring, both with each other and with the group of warriors who joined us. In between matches, I looked across the wide arena floor to the others. As champion, the target was squarely upon me, and I found myself looking at the other champions, the cyclops from Zukhet, the xerxyss from Maharbaal, a Kharsoomian man from Ektet, and of course Iron Rhayn. She was glorious, every movement a violent poem.

During one of my breaks, I looked out into the stands. Hulda looked back at me, as though she had been waiting for me to see her. She had been watching. I wished I could talk to her, but I could not. I had already spoken my final words to her, though neither of us could know that. I suppose we needed no great farewell. Our love was a thing of convenience. I would miss her, but she never ached in my breast the way Zhahllaia or Ixem did.

I took what comfort I could in Hulda's gaze. It was a moment before I noted Zahudmammu and Jezreal sitting in front of her. The entire delegation was as tense as bowstrings as they watched the five teams spar in the hot sun.

In the late afternoon, we were ushered back into our cages, where we were given food and water. "Sad to say the rest of you haven't a chance," said the champion from Clan Ektet, a bulky Kharsoomian.

"You're a fool," said one of Clan Zukhet's outriders. He gestured to the massive cyclops. "The Crusher'll have you."

"None of you knows what it takes," said one of El's sentinels, a dwarf woman. "We've played the Crown Game before. This will be Rhayn's fourth. My third."

"You've never faced the likes of us," sneered Ektet's champion.

Uitzin opened his mouth, and I held out a hand. He went silent. "Listen," I murmured to my team. "Let them betray themselves. Listen, but don't speak."

"Look at the uroks there," said the Ektet champion. "Afraid to talk."

I silenced my team with a look, then turned, meeting his eyes.

"You afraid?" he sneered. "What will you do when I come for you?"

I had watched him that day. He was big, but not as big as the Crusher. No one was. He favored his left side, holding the right away from his opponents. He did it then, in the cages, as though he and I were about to fight. Without intending it, I felt a thread enter my mind. Not as clear as the ones my old weapon had offered, but clear enough. I saw myself stepping past his defenses and striking to kill. A stroke through his neck. He was too slow to stop it, his body in the wrong position.