The Warrior Race Trilogy BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  Filled with several hundred rooms, some of which Dom had never even seen, the palace was a sprawling place where one could quite easily get lost. Some rooms were like this, high-ceilinged chambers that did little more than present passage to other areas of the palace. Others were far smaller, bedrooms and studies and libraries, and a range of rooms for dining and reclining and reading spread across its many floors.

  Yet the theme of luxury and magnificence ran through them all, money gathered from trade and conquest poured into its furnishings. And meanwhile, places like the swamps and Southside fell into decay, the threat of disease seeming a distant concern for his mother, the great Empress of Neorome.

  Dom swept the thought from his mind as he pressed on towards the main stairway. His conscience was his weakness, as he’d often been told. Men like him weren’t supposed to worry about the poor. It was a habit that was dying hard, a constant thorn in his side.

  He reached the steps with Claud and straightened out his thoughts once more, his eyes sweeping across fine art, delicately carved tables and lamps, a carpet of deep maroon that was subject to regular, almost hourly attention to keep it clean.

  Once, perhaps, he’d loved it here. Loved the smells and sights, the wonder of it all. Loved to go up to the highest balconies in his mother’s chambers and guide his eyes to the sprawling city as it stretched away across the rolling lands, changing and developing year on year according to his mother’s designs.

  But as his years had advanced, so had his dislike and distaste for these hallowed halls and rooms. As he’d grown older, his mother had grown less loving, more dogmatic, more committed to consolidating her grip on power. She was, Dom thought, far too influenced by her devotion to the past. And like the ancient emperors, she sought only to gain complete and absolute rule.

  One of her methods of doing so had been to create the Imperial Games, the competition fought over a month-long period towards the end of the summer. It was a festival to celebrate strength and power, to showcase the sorts of people the world now contained. And Empress Vesper used it all to keep the people happy, to give them joy, to distract them from all the little problems that littered their lives.

  And the people were like sheep. They bleated with wonder and excitement as the warriors stepped onto the sand. They grew as obsessed as their ruler by the sight of blood and gore; by the staggering feats of strength and power the exotic contenders would show them. They forgot their troubles, the calendar revolving around the games that grew to dominate their lives, capture their attention, demand their deference.

  And across the streets of the city, the Imperial Games began to carry a different name. A name that the lower classes used during conversations in taverns and squares and gambling dens. A name that showed the games for what they really were: a fight for survival, a chance to showcase ones warrior credentials. And a name, too, that was synonymous with the culture of the people.

  Because the games were, in the end, a race.

  A race to survive. To be crowned warrior king. To stand above all others atop the steps and join a select group of people who could call themselves champions.

  It was The Warrior Race.

  13

  The throne room in the imperial palace was a vast and open space. At times, it would be filled with chairs and people, ready to witness the signing of some imperial decree or to honour the woman who would hold the pen. But no, not now. Now it was empty save its primary occupant, and a small contingent of guards who rarely, if ever, left her side.

  Dom stepped down the main walkway feeling less like a son and more like a court jester, here to perform. Ahead, his mother sat in her high-backed and soft cushioned throne, finely carved from a single piece of oak and designed for her specific shape. The increasing plumpness of her form over the years had, of course, required some further reworking of the wood; by now, Dom figured, half the chair must have been shaved and sanded away.

  The walkway towards the stage where the throne sat was paved in fine marble, the entire floor polished to a shine and displaying only the scantest of scratches and minor blemishes. To the left and right, large, intricate windows allowed the warm sunlight to spread in, and the high curved ceiling oozed wealth, painted with wonderful frescoes and surrounded by walls marked by golden statues depicting some of the fabled leaders and figures of the past.

  Dom saw one and had to stop his eyes from rolling. It was of his mother, her face crafted in a smug smile, her figure trimmed of the fat that had begun to cover it, all the wrinkles eliminated from her façade.

  The real-life woman who next met his eyes was a far cry from the golden sculpture. She was wider, shorter, older, and far less attractive, dressed in fine garments and jewellery and with her black hair beginning to show flecks of grey. The only thing that remained a spot-on comparison with the statue was the smug smile she held on her face.

  She filled her throne right up, snugly caught between the glossy wooden armrests, and looked a little fatter than when Dom had left. Quite why she’d chosen to greet him here rather than her own chambers was anyone’s guess. Dom had long given up trying to determine just what she might do on any given day.

  “My dear, dear Domitian,” crowed her voice as Dom strolled forward. “What a glorious day to see my son after so many months. How long has it been?”

  Dom cleared his throat as he reached the bottom of the stage.

  “Two months, mother.”

  Vesper’s eyes fluttered in surprise. She looked as though she thought it had been longer.

  “Well, come here and give your mother a hug.”

  She didn’t budge from her throne. She merely sat forward a little, forcing Dom to take the long route up the steps, endure a fleeting embrace, and return to where he came from.

  “That’s it?” she asked as he reached the bottom of the stage.

  “Sorry, mother?”

  “That’s all I get? A little hug. No kisses to the cheeks? No joy to see me?”

  Her tone had taken a turn. It wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t anger. It was a mixture of them both, and more. Dom shook his head, quick to apologise at times like this, and lifted a smile.

  “Of course, mother. I’m delighted to see you!”

  He rushed back up the steps and kissed both of her cheeks. Over the last few years, an awkwardness had developed between them, any affection they once shared blown away like sand on a blustery day. He smiled as warmly as he could and tried to recall the woman she once was. Her eyes, stark blue and quite opposed to his own, were like glassy pebbles. They had developed a strange, inhuman quality that spoke of the brewing madness within.

  His second go didn’t seem to appease her. Her face had melted into a frown and her eyes had determined that looking anywhere but him was a good idea.

  “I really am happy to see you, mother,” said Dom. “How…how is everything? How have you been? I’d love to hear all about it.”

  He stayed by her side, and noted an Imperial Guard standing nearby shuffle a little. Even he was made uncomfortable by the exchange.

  Vesper lifted her chin, her pursed lips creaking open.

  “Don’t lie to me, Domitian,” she said blankly. “You have no interest in hearing about my life, or the running of this city. Your interests lie elsewhere, in drinking and gambling and…other such exploits.”

  Once again, Dom’s eyes attempted to perform a little roll. He stopped them just in time as his mother’s gaze swept up.

  It was an on-going issue of contention between them. Dom, given the manner in which his mother ruled, had little interest in such a life. Vesper, given her fascination in the past, wished to create a lasting legacy that would exist long after her death. And, since Dom was her only child, he was her one shot.

  “Nothing to say?” she queried. “I suspected as much. But you will do your duty, Domitian, when the time comes.”

  “I am doing my duty,” he countered, taking a step back. “You wished for me to gather warriors for the games, mother. That i
s what I’m doing.”

  Vesper set her eyes upon him. He sunk a little deeper.

  “Yes, that is your duty for now,” she said coolly. “But you think I wish you to be a lanista all your life? You are a prince, Domitian, and will be emperor one day. And your son will be emperor after you, and his son after him. You will take your place here when the right time beckons. You will do as I command.”

  Dom held firm, his jaw clenching.

  “Yes, mother.”

  The reality for Dom wasn’t a simple one. Becoming the ruler of the city wasn’t necessarily a position he was opposed to in principle. He enjoyed the fame his birthright afforded him, and considered himself to be a decent man, despite the questionable morality of the role he’d been assigned.

  On his better and brighter days, in fact, he’d wished for the opportunity to sit atop the throne. He could shape the city in his own vision, alter it to suit himself and the people he’d take under his wing. He’d be a benevolent ruler, a good ruler. He’d see the city prosper, and the people flourish, and might even spread the burden of power, return it to the democracy the city no longer seemed to be.

  Or would he?

  He’d asked the question too many times before, and could never truly fashion an answer. Over the years, he’d watched his mother’s brilliant and powerful mind decay. He’d seen how the burden of rule affected her. He’d witnessed first hand her descent into something resembling madness, her obsessions growing more pronounced, her desire for absolute power all consuming.

  And he knew, too, that the same gifts that populated her mind, the same enhancements, populated his own. Like him, she had the power of telepathy, the power to influence minds. She’d used that power to great reward, dragging herself from a station of low aristocratic rank when she was a young girl, right up to the top seat at the table. She’d influenced all those around her, her powers growing over time, enough to have the whole city impacted by the varying states of her mood.

  But now, with her advancing years, those powers were warping her mind, corrupting her from within. Once a good leader, she had become rigid and dictatorial in her thinking, allowing large parts of the city to fall into decay and disease.

  Dom’s concerns were quite simple: that the same power would have the same effect. That ruling so many would do to him what it did to her. That life at the summit of the city would be his undoing, and turn him into something, someone, he didn’t want to be.

  He’d had this conversation with growing regularity with his mother, and lately had been finding it hard to deny her. The reservations he spoke aloud, though, were different from those in his head. He didn’t tell her he was afraid of going mad like her. He didn’t broach the topic of her mental state, a matter that had seen people hanged or beheaded in the public squares with a frightening frequency over the last couple of years.

  No, he merely spoke of his wish for a simple life, of his joy of being at sea, of travelling the world and guiding his contenders in the Imperial Games. He lied through his teeth about so much of it, and hoped his mental gifts would keep his mother’s prying telepathic mind at bay.

  But every time, he was forced to relent, forced to tell her what she wanted to hear. So, like today, he merely said, “Yes, mother,” and searched for a chance to change the subject.

  It came with word of his acquisitions, something she was always so interested to hear about. He briefly mentioned the warriors he’d gathered, listing them and their abilities one by one, but noted that Vesper’s attention was frayed, the two months he’d spent away serving to scatter her faculties further.

  As he spoke, she merely fluttered her hand with mild aggression and said, “I’ll see them during trials,” before sending her gaze to the door ahead, the one leading out of the throne room.

  Dom knew he had annoyed her, and he took it as a cue to leave. He dipped his head reverently and descended the steps, his tapping feet echoing through the great hall as he inched closer to the exit.

  But just before he reached the door, freedom a step or two away, he heard her voice suddenly call out.

  “Domitian, where are you going?”

  He stopped, and turned. And even from this distance, he could see the odd arrangement of her features, always moving from one emotion to the next in a fashion no one could call natural.

  “I…I thought you wished for me to leave, mother?” he called.

  She shook her head.

  “What would give you that idea?” her deadpan voice floated across the room.

  Dom drew a long breath into his lungs and pressed it out, as if there was some poison in the room, some fog that would imbue him with the same crazed mental state as her. Then he lifted a wide smile, one of his most dazzling.

  “Do you wish to continue speaking, mother?”

  He began walking forward slowly. Her reply could quite easily go either way.

  “Of course,” she said after a few seemingly endless moments. “You are my son. I wish to speak with you always.”

  Dom felt a slight pulse of regret at the words. They were spoken with some heart, some truth. But they were little more than a window into her past, into a person she once was.

  And person who, aside from the odd glimpse, was now long gone.

  When Dom finally retreated from the throne room, he was exhausted. Time with his mother was now a battle of wits. He might even admit, in his softer moments, to being frightened of what she might do or say should he utter something out of turn.

  It was a problem that the entire city felt. If even Dom was afraid of speaking the truth, then what hope did anyone else have? The sight of heads on spikes and bodies swinging from arches was a common one these days, and orders had been sent through the military ranks that could see any dissident to her rule and mental state sent straight to the grave, often with a detour that included terrible torture.

  It had become so bad that any high profile advisors and bureaucrats within the city tiptoed around her to avoid her wrath, and the rich aristocrats and lords chose to parlay with her as infrequently as possible, even if it meant suffering financial losses. For such men to allow any move towards the red, something had to be very wrong indeed.

  In the end, she had only sycophants by her side, snivelling worms who would tell her just what she wanted to hear in order to advance their own positions. And with her Empress’ Guard being such a powerful force, and the vast military resources at her disposal keeping the city under strict watch, there were few who were even giving voice to the option of opposing her.

  For Dom, there was always the hope that his time away would yield a positive change. Yet those hopes were continually dashed on his return, and his ability to suffer his own naivety had its limits. Now, he knew, there was no going back. And perhaps only he was in a position to do anything about it.

  As he wandered back through the palace with Claud by his side, he found his old servant asking how it went. He lifted a wry smile and merely said, “as well as could be expected, Claud.”

  Claud, not one to show emotion, nodded his understanding.

  “What now, sir? Back to the ludus?”

  Dom nodded, thoughts of copious wine, freshly baked bread, and delicious cuts of beef filling his head. His time at sea hadn’t been generous in such terms, and his cravings for good food and drink needed to be properly sated.

  As they marched speedily towards the large double doors that presented passage back into the imperial plaza, Dom saw the attendant quickly let in the light. He heaved the mighty doors open, and the late afternoon sun swept inside like a glorious wave of yellow water.

  There were few feelings more pleasant to him than leaving the palace, especially after such a frosty exchange with his mother. The resulting smile, however, didn’t linger on his face too long.

  The culprit on this occasion was a man of his own age, or thereabouts, though vastly more youthful in maturity. At least, that’s how Dom saw it. As he stepped into the sunshine, dousing the marble steps outside the p
alace in a warm glow, he took in the form of his once-friend-turned-rival, Lucius, walking with a casual gait alongside his father, Lord Pontius.

  Unfortunately, they were too near to the top of the steps for Dom to pretend he hadn’t seen them, and for him to divert his course now would be considered by Lucius as a moral win, and by Lord Pontius as terribly rude. So, he steadied his gaze upon them, turned his natural smile into something more artificial, and joined them midway down the steps towards the plaza.

  Before he got there, Lucius was already smirking, his hair shorter than Dom’s, though similarly black, and eyes more hazel than brown. He was - objectively speaking at least, because Dom would never admit to such a thing – a handsome young man too, tanned and chiselled in the face, with the sorts of dimples the girls seemed to crave.

  In fact, when they were younger and on better terms, they were often confused for brothers. And, well, they called themselves such as well. For a time at least.

  “Well well, Dumb Dom,” called Lucius. “I heard you were back.”

  His smirk widened.

  “Now, Lucius, let’s not be insulting to the prince,” reprimanded his father.

  Dom considered it for show. Pontius was a man he’d never trusted, even when he was young. He spent plenty of time over at his vast estate in the northern hills as a boy, and rarely found him to be an amiable host. As the richest individual in the city, his goal was further wealth and power. They were a set of ambitions that made him dangerous.

  And aside from all that, he always wondered whether he had designs for his mother. The thought was repellent.

  “Ah, it’s just friendly teasing, father,” said Lucius, reaching out to shake Dom’s hand. Dom took it half-heartedly. Claud stood several paces back, his chin bowed reverently. “How are you, Dom? Been back long?”

  Dom shook his head.

  “Just returned this afternoon actually. Truth be told, I’m rather tired, so if you don’t mind I’ll be getting off.”