The Warrior Race Trilogy BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  Stan huffed. “You know nothin’ Bert. Tomahawk haircut, and tomahawk axes. That’s why Lucius gave him the name. Keep up, old man.”

  “Old man?! You’re nearing a decade older than me you old goat.”

  The men laughed. Merk raised a smile. It was the sort of banter he craved on occasion.

  He sucked down more of his wine, his proximity to the conversation making him feel somewhat part of the group and thus speeding his rate of drinking.

  “Heard of another,” Bert went on, “and saw him up close too. Big guy, lots of red hair and a big red beard. Er…Redmane think he’s called. Came from the frozen lands way, way up north. Has ice for eyes that one. He’s a good shout to win the race.”

  The second man was shaking his head.

  “Something to say, Pap?” asked Bert.

  The man with the long white beard, Pap, nodded solemnly. He looked the eldest of them all, less shouty than the others.

  “You want big?” he asked quietly. “How about this giant in Dom’s stock. He’s a whole lot bigger than your Redmane I’ll wager.”

  “Big isn’t everything,” countered Bert. Stan nodded.

  “Fast too as far as I hear it,” added Pap. “Strength and speed, lethal combo that.”

  All the man agreed on that point. Merk wondered if they were going to mention Shadow, and considered joining the conversation and throwing his name into the ring. As he was about to, his courage abandoned him, and he took another sip of wine.

  The men continued on, listing the various contenders they’d seen up close and regurgitating any other rumours they’d heard around the streets. Merk was so enjoying himself that he soon found his cup empty, and quickly returned inside to fetch another.

  Worried he might lose his spot, he fought his way to the front of the bar and managed to get served more promptly than he otherwise might. It was out of character for him to be that pushy, but he considered it a necessity, barging past a young man in order to get the bartender’s attention and quickly leaving before he could be reprimanded for the act.

  It was all in vain in the end. To his great disappointment, he returned outside to see that his spot had been claimed by another, the space within the shade at a premium. Feeling suddenly lost, he hovered for a moment under the fierce sun, searching for a suitable place to enjoy his wine, if not the conversation that, by the looks of things, appeared to be ongoing and in increasingly raucous fashion at that.

  He grumbled to himself and enjoyed a long gulp as recompense. This day really wasn’t going as planned.

  It was about to get a lot worse.

  Unable to move too far from the popina, he hung around in the sun for a little while, occasionally getting in the way of the crowds as they floated through the square, seeking food and drink or arriving to look upon the fountain and statue at its centre. A glass and a half down, his mind was faltering just a little – Merk didn’t have the greatest constitution for alcohol, particularly on very hot days like this – and he looked upon the statue of the empress with a grumpy expression building on his face.

  Spotting a few soldiers around, he quickly remembered himself, and drew back his thoughts. A smile gathered in place of the frown, and he turned his attention elsewhere. He noticed a guard watching him, face hidden in shadow behind his helmet. He dipped his eyes on instinct and began to whistle as he liked to do. When he glanced back up, he saw that the guard was now looking elsewhere.

  He let out a sigh of relief, and imagined that city living really shouldn’t be this hazardous. And just as he was considering moving on, he felt a sudden shove at his back. His heart lurched, and he turned around. A young man stood before him, clearly a little inebriated and high on the celebrations. He pressed his hand into the old man’s chest.

  “You…it was you,” he muttered drunkenly. “You pushed me at the bar.”

  Merk held up his right hand, less two fingers. The other was gripping his wine.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was in a rush. I meant no offence.”

  The man sniggered.

  “A rush. What rush! You’re just…lingering here. What are you, perving on the girls…” He seemed to notice Merk’s hand for the first time, and recoiled. “Arrk. Decrepit old man. Creeping on the girls.”

  His voice had lost its structure. Merk had seen plenty of similar people around already today, and knew that there was no point in treating with such a person.

  “Sorry,” he said again, quite flatly this time.

  Then he turned, and began to wander off.

  He felt another shove almost immediately. Not a proper push intended to topple him, but more a goading sort of shove designed to provoke.

  He drew in a long breath as the crowd around began to part, taking notice. Merk was hovering on the line. One side called for sense, to walk away and leave it. The other – the side which had now all but completed two cups of wine – was fed up of being pushed around and wanted revenge. It was the same side that would grin and bear it when the guards on the boat laughed at him. The side that had had enough of the other side’s weakness, of being bullied by younger men with all their damn fingers attached to their hands.

  He drew that breath, and the angrier, louder side pressed it right out.

  He turned. The young man stared at him with hungry eyes, eager for the confrontation.

  “That’s it old man,” he slurred, body wavering slightly on the cobbles. He looked unsteady, like a well-placed kick to the leg would send him to the floor.

  Merk’s calmer side thought better of it. The man grinned an ugly grin, rotten teeth, stained red by wine, telling of his lower station.

  “You wanna hit… me,” he hiccupped. “People like you…sicken…me.” He stepped towards Merk in a manner to intimidate. Merk was having none of it.

  Not today.

  Right then and there, several years of pent up anger escaped him. Years of being taunted on the boat. Years of living alone here in the city. Years of seeing his own self-worth, his own self-confidence, beaten into the dust.

  What had he become? He was a man who got up early to avoid gangs of children. Who kept to a set routine to keep the loneliness at bay. Who spent all his time on dry land in stasis, just waiting to return to the water, just waiting to serve his master.

  He was friend to Domitian, Prince of Neorome, son of Empress Vesper. He wasn’t to be cowed by this drunken yob.

  His leg thrust forward as all those thoughts poured through his mind, kicking at the younger man’s shin. It was enough to shake his balance, the man stumbling to the side a little, his defences down.

  Merk took the opportunity. Dropping the cup from the hand with all fingers intact, he balled his fist and swung. He spent half his life around great warriors and soldiers. He knew just how to land a blow.

  And so he did, right to the side of the young man’s face. He connected far better than he perhaps suspected, a hidden gift for combat inside him, and felt the crack of bone as the man’s jaw fractured, lip splitting and spurting blood.

  The crowd had got the show they wanted. A cheer rang out, suggesting Merk was the favoured party in the exchange. Perhaps the drunken fool had bothered others today. Perhaps they just wanted to see the underdog win. It was like his own little battle, his own time in the arena, the mini-crowd cheering him on.

  And it all went straight to his head.

  As the young drunk crumbled, toppling to the cobblestones, Merk swept in with a heavy kick. He managed to connect with the man’s face once more, plush on the nose this time, and felt a horrible crack. The nose was warped out of place, and more blood came gushing, joining the stream dribbling from his lip.

  The second kick was enough to quiet the crowd. Their cheer had turned to more of a gasp, and Merk realised in that moment just what he’d done.

  It was the stamping of feet he heard first. He was looking down at his defeated opponent, and didn’t see them come. They surged from behind him, working through the crowd, three guards decked in si
lver armour and with fine swords on their belts.

  They snatched Merk up in their hands as he tried to protest, hauling him off from the scene as another guard stepped in and began an inspection of the man on the floor.

  “I’m friends with Prince Domitian!” Merk called out. “Prince Domitian is my master!”

  His struggling was of absolutely no use with such men. Nor were his pleas. They ignored him, just as the men did on the boat, just as all others usually did.

  But today, he hadn’t been ignored. Not today.

  His struggling continued as he was dragged from the square and down a side street. He was pressed up against a wall, and one of the guards stepped before him, staring into his eyes.

  “Empress Vesper,” he said, and nothing else.

  Merk frowned, confused. The name drew forward thoughts of the city’s ruler. Words sprang to mind.

  Mad. Obsessed. Evil.

  All words he’d heard used to describe her in quiet discussions. Words he heard, but didn’t use. But he didn’t need to say them. His thoughts were enough, and all the soldier needed.

  The telepath smiled as he looked right into Merk’s greying old eyes.

  “Wrong thoughts, old man,” he said coolly. “Now your head’s for the spike.”

  He turned to the other two guards and nodded, and once more Merk was heaved off his feet and bundled away.

  He knew just what was going to happen. He knew just what the telepath meant. The brawl had given them their excuse to grab him, and they put all the wrong thoughts right into his head, forcing him to think them with just a simple mention of that name.

  The wrong thoughts, in this place, could get a man killed. And today, exactly that had happened.

  No, it wasn’t Merk’s day at all.

  19

  The afternoon had taken a turn. It was as if the sky was grumbling about something, displeased. A gathering of grey cloud had begun to accumulate, with a blacker mass threatening the distant skies. The evening would see the first rain for a couple of weeks, no doubt about it.

  Dom had spent the morning at work, although he liked to masquerade it as leisure. He’d wandered the main forum, catching up with old friends and hearing the latest news, while using the opportunity to tout his new batch. Naturally, betting upon the contenders was a large part of the games, and from top to bottom, the city indulged in the pastime.

  Of course, Dom wasn’t likely to partake himself. Betting on your own men was strictly forbidden among the lanistas, and while it was technically permitted, they would never consider wagering on any of their rivals’ contenders. Such a thing would be frowned upon, a conflict of interests of sorts, and Dom had to have faith in the likes of Shadow and Oom to do him proud.

  He did, however, listen carefully when gathering information on Lucius’ new collection. He’d pay a personal visit to his rival’s ludus soon enough, but he was always keen to hear the general public’s perception about what they’d seen, and what the current odds were based on the early rumours spreading through the city.

  Of course, around the main forum and imperial plaza, most were fairly tight-lipped with Dom. Few had the gall to denounce his own litter and suggest that Lucius’ was far better, even if that’s what they believed. Around here, tact was a trait that was skilfully deployed.

  However, Dom had his own little gifts that he was equally adept at applying. Being a telepath, he was capable of quite easily reading people’s minds if he saw fit. However, such behaviour was considered uncivilized and an invasion of privacy among such esteemed company, so Dom refused the urge.

  Instead, he merely engaged his ability to judge and assess general feeling and emotion. He’d know just when someone was being disingenuous, or fibbing right to his face. He’d feel it when they grew nervous, or sought to hurry the conversation along and turn it elsewhere.

  In the end, the picture wasn’t particularly in his favour, and he left the plaza with the knowledge that the general feeling among the upper classes was that, once again, Lucius had gathered the more formidable force.

  Of course, it was only early days. Mostly, the public were working on rumour right now and little more. The official assessments hadn’t yet been conducted, and the contenders hadn’t yet been put on show. And even then, no one could really determine with any accuracy just who might become a star of the sand.

  In Dom’s experience, the favourites weren’t always the ones to march through the early bouts of the games and straight towards the finals. Sometimes, other less celebrated contenders would come out of nowhere, win over the crowd, and emerge victorious at the end of the month. Dom had seen it before, and he’d see it again. And that was why the warrior race was so exciting.

  In order to cheer himself up, Dom wandered to the main city baths and spa on this side of the Tiber. There were a number of them dotted around for the general public to enjoy, depending on their social class and wealth.

  Dom’s only real choice was the Royal Baths, used only by the wealthiest and most privileged people in the city. They were luxurious, all polished marble and glorious aromas, a place where Dom had regularly found himself losing track of time. With the various rooms, from larger communal bathing areas to more private spas, and the many massages and treatments available, it was perfectly easy to lose several hours in that place without realising until you stepped out the doors.

  And so it was that day, Dom exiting to find that the sun had decided to take a break and the clouds had taken dominion of the skies. The air had grown close; that humid, sticky feeling in the air that suggested a storm was brewing. It was time, Dom knew, to get back to the ludus and see just how his contenders had been getting on.

  Finding his carriage outside the spa, he climbed aboard and was hastily escorted home by his cohort of guards. They hadn’t been permitted entry into the baths, of course, and so had been waiting patiently outside. It didn’t take long – Dom’s residence and training school wasn’t too far from the Royal Baths – and within about five minutes the carriage was pulling up to the main gate of the compound and passing inside.

  As it rolled in, Dom instinctively turned his eyes left across the main square and was surprised to find Claud waiting outside the gate to his ludus. The expression on his face rarely changed, but his actions and behaviours were easily readable. Dom knew something was up.

  He hopped straight out of the carriage and hurried across the large courtyard, lined along one wall with a number of other carriages. One stood out above all for its opulence, and he immediately knew just why Claud was awaiting him.

  “Master Domitian,” said the white-haired attendant, “I’m afraid we’ve had an impromptu guest.”

  Dom approached, and could hear the sounds of battle beyond the gate. He searched through the bars and saw his gladiators in action, swiping with wooden swords at wooden figures, thrusting spears, throwing knives. They were hard at work, and the sound of Rufus’ whip was ever-present, slashing loudly through the air.

  “How long has he been here, Claud?” asked Dom, arriving before his servant.

  “About half an hour, sir. I tried to tell him that you weren’t home and he couldn’t come in…but you know what he’s like.”

  Dom patted the old man on the shoulder.

  “Not to worry, Claud. I’ll handle things from here. I assume he’s in the main residence?”

  Claud nodded.

  “Up on the balcony, sir. He’s been perusing your contenders.”

  Dom thought as much. Lucius was always keen to get a head start on him, and had a thorough enjoyment of mind games too.

  The gate was called to be opened, and Rufus noticed Dom approach from the main square.

  “Halt fighting. Stand still,” his voice rang out. Immediately, all of the contenders stopped in their tracks, the yard going quiet.

  Only once all activity had been temporarily paused did Dom enter through the gate and travel across the training yard, his guards and Claud going with him and passing into the m
ain house at the front. Dom refused to look up to Lucius, smiling down from the balcony with a goblet in hand and a servant fixed to his side with a tray of food. The poor girl looked exhausted, holding the tray out before her in the sticky air on quivering arms.

  It was another hobby that Lucius enjoyed – torturing those he deemed beneath him. Which was more or less everyone.

  Leaving his guards downstairs, Dom swept up through the open, airy residence and onto the first floor, marching straight out onto the balcony where Lucius stood waiting, nasty grin etched across his tanned face.

  Dom’s focus didn’t start with him, however. He turned to the servant-girl with a soft expression.

  “It’s OK, Silia, you can go inside and take a break.”

  The girl dipped her eyes and quickly scurried off into the shade, placing down the heavy tray of food with shaky hands.

  “Pfft, still so soft,” spat Lucius. “I was enjoying her company.”

  “You were enjoying tormenting her,” countered Dom. “Did you even eat any of the food on the tray?”

  Lucius shrugged.

  “I decided I wasn’t hungry. She had a pretty face, for a slave,” he smirked.

  “Well, perhaps you’d be better off squashing bugs back in your own yard, if that’s how you like to spend your time.”

  “I recall a time when we both enjoyed it.”

  “When we were kids, Lucius. I’ve grown up.”

  Lucius huffed and clipped his fingers. Another servant came rushing out carrying a large flask, and began filling up Lucius’ cup with wine. He stared at Dom the entire time, as if making some sort of point. Dom just ignored him.

  “What are you doing here, Lucius? It’s hardly becoming to enter a man’s home when he’s not present.”

  “That was the entire point,” said Lucius. “I wanted to come take a look at your cattle before you got back. I must say, I’m not particularly impressed.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be, would you,” yawned Dom, so used to this sort of exchange with his old friend. He dismissed the wine-bearing servant and turned his eyes down to the yard.