The Warrior Race Trilogy BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  Now the whispers grew louder, as Merk stood there suddenly mute. The crowd were turning to each other, wondering. Was this Merk the Mighty? Was this the man who defied the Empress? Was he here, now, to tell of his tale, to speak out against her many crimes?

  Such thoughts and whispers pervaded the crowd, and more quickly took notice. Before long, they were flocking, merely by the sight of the old man. He looked upon them, his voice caught in his throat, as his name began to be called out.

  "Merk! It's Merk the Might!" they said.

  The calls came louder, drawing more eyes. Soon enough, Rufus and his security team were needing to cajole the crowd into place to stop them from climbing about the stage. He looked up at Merk with stern eyes.

  "Say something!" he grunted. "Do what you're here for!"

  Merk nodded and began to lift his left hand. The reaction of the crowd was something that sent chills through his body. They began to quieten at the gesture, the hundred of them, perhaps many more, shushing each other as Merk prepared to speak.

  And as in the arena, his confidence began to swell. He saw the adoration and respect in their eyes. He saw the love they had for him. He saw faces he'd longed to see for so many years, all his life.

  The people loved him.

  And he loved it.

  "Good morning, everyone," came his voice, cleaner and stronger than he'd ever hoped. The crowd smiled and beamed. They knew his face and knew his name. But his voice was new to them. And they liked it. "My name...my name is Merk," the old man said. "And I'm here today to help."

  "Merk!" called a loud voice from the crowd. "Not just Merk. Merk the Mighty!"

  The people roared and cheered, and an applause rang out. More eyes turned. More people gathered.

  "Yes...that's it," smiled Merk, his yellow, toothy grin catching the light. "My name is Merk the Mighty, and I'm here to speak for you today!"

  Merk caught eyes with Rufus, who was watching carefully. His glare told him not to milk it. It wasn't so easy as that.

  The feeling was thrilling for Merk. And for a moment, he forgot just why he was there. The people began shouting out questions, asking him to tell them stories of the games, why he was there, about the Empress and what she did to him.

  And he obliged.

  "I was taken," he called out. "I was tricked. But I was lucky out there, my friends. It was Kira, The Red Warrior, who saved me!"

  "Kira! The Red Warrior!" they chanted. "Saving Merk from the evil Empress!"

  A laugh rippled over the place. It seemed they felt safe now, safer than ever, to express their true feelings. Merk appeared to give them that strength, this spokesperson for their woe.

  But as he spoke, he looked at Rufus again, whose eyes were now crafting angrily. Merk was quite aware why. He wasn't here to further inspire the people's hatred, but to quell and stifle it.

  He raised his hands again, and the people calmed.

  "My friends, my friends," he called out. "This isn't about me now, but about you. The people of Southside deserve better. Better sanitation. Better protection. Better support and aid, and food and clean water!"

  The people were nodding, applauding.

  "I am here to tell you that that's exactly what you'll be getting. The Empress...I am here on her behalf. Yes, she has ignored you all for too long. But no longer, I assure you. The people of Southside will be fairly treated, but any violence needs to stop. This...uprising that's spreading through the streets. The Empress wishes for a peaceful resolution..."

  The cheering began to quieten. Individual claps could be heard. Faces were changing now, not looking upon Merk angrily. Just confused.

  Merk didn't like the change. His voice faltered and he looked over the throng, sinking a little into his shell.

  "We've heard all this before," came the loud voice of a man. "We've heard these promises for years!"

  The noise picked up.

  "Yeah! We can't trust the Empress! How can you?!" came another voice.

  "She's evil!" came another. "Merk is working with her! He's not so mighty after all!"

  People took up the query, dozens of voices now questioning Merk. It was something Dom had warned of, something they knew might come.

  "My friends, I am here to help," the old man shouted out. "Do you not want peace? Do you not want more food for your children? Cleaner streets? Less disease?"

  The crowd were confused. Some were nodding, others shaking their heads. Merk then began to realise that it was one group, in particular, that was leading the charge against the Empress, shouting out against her. He looked upon them and saw men with firm, stubbly jaws and fierce eyes. Men with weapons concealed beneath their robes and togas, just like Rufus.

  And Rufus saw them too.

  He looked to the security team they'd brought, and nodded, before stepping up onto the stage. He lifted his hands up.

  "OK, show's over now," he said.

  The crowd booed loudly, all shaken up into a frenzy.

  Rufus ignored them and turned straight to Merk, and shoved him back through the door and into the carriage, moving in beside him. As the stage was folded back up, and the guards took position once more, Rufus looked at the old man.

  "You'll need to do better next time," he said. "But that one was a lost cause."

  "Yeah, did you see that group?"

  "Yes. They'd have made it impossible for you to convince anyone. But...onwards and upwards. We've got plenty more to go."

  And that they did.

  Escaping the riled up square, they began meandering deeper into Southside. They came upon more squares, filled with troubled people. The stage was erected, and Merk stepped out, and as before, he was greeted by cheers and words of adoration. But the more people they saw, the more muted the cheers became. Word was spreading, and spreading fast, that Merk was on the Empress' side.

  He tried, of course, to persuade them otherwise, to tow the line carefully. He spoke with passion, just as he did the previous night with Dom, about the terrible things Southside had faced, and the awful things the Empress had done. Yet he did so, each time, with the caveat that the Empress admitted she was wrong. That she would take closer notice of their troubles. That they would be supported now, if only they cast off their anger and hatred, and let this rising revolt settle and die.

  He said what he needed to, what he was instructed to, but the longer the day went on, the more his words fell on deaf ears. He had to field questions he had no answer for, defend against accusations of betrayal. The people called out about the loved ones they'd lost. To starvation and disease. To the soldiers who came to take them away. To the hangman and the executioner.

  All the pent up hatred was coming out now, and Merk saw a face of Southside he'd never seen before. It was boiling over, and his words couldn't stop it, his promises weren't enough. The Empress had gone too far, and he knew that the people would never accept what she told them, any concessions she made.

  And within each square, during each speech, Merk noticed the same pockets of disgruntled men leading the charge. Some seemed to follow him from place to place, several groups of them always on hand to destabilise his attempts to placate the crowd, to get Vesper's message across.

  They stood there in the middle or at the back, armed beneath their robes, their voices hoarse from shouting, their chins cast from iron and dark with grains of black hair. Eyes of fury lit up, always visible to Merk as he did what he was told to do, commanded to do. And each time he stepped onto the stage, he saw them first, and he knew that he was already defeated.

  They had more to go, more places to visit, but it was becoming clear that their day was done.

  "I'm not going back out there," said Merk, the carriage now rolling unsteadily along the trash-strew and forgotten roads, followed behind by a baying crowd who now chanted Merk's name with a different moniker.

  "Merk the Mole!" they shouted out, laughing wildly. "The old man is Vesper's lackey! He's sold us out! Merk the Mole! Merk the Mole!"


  Merk was shaking his head.

  "I'm not going out there again," he repeated.

  And Rufus nodded, laying a sympathetic hand upon the old man's shoulder.

  It was time to return home.

  The shell Merk resided in became all too appealing as that day went on. He sank back into its comfortable shade, his brief time as a hero among the downtrodden people of Southside quickly coming to an end. He'd be ridiculed again, looked upon as a traitor. More than ever, his life in this city would lose all meaning.

  His attempts to placate the people had failed. The immunity and reward that Vesper promised would, surely, not be upheld. And now, more than ever, his world would be treacherous.

  And now, more than ever, he knew he needed to escape this city.

  Never to return again.

  68

  A carriage rolled through the gate and into the compound, turning left and hurrying across the courtyard towards the ludus. Behind the gate, within the training yard, the gladiators were at work, sparring, training, sweating in the heat.

  The carriage stopped outside the gate and high walls, and a man stepped out holding a letter. From across the training yard within the ludus, a flat-faced man with wispy white hair came walking at a brisk pace, the gladiators ordered to stand down as he moved.

  He reached the gate as it was opened by two guards, and stepped right through. The man from the carriage awaited him, his hand outstretched and the letter caught between his fingers.

  "A message for Prince Domitian," said the man.

  Claudius nodded and took possession of the note, turning swiftly back towards the training yard and villa beyond. As soon as he passed through, the gladiators were ordered to continue their training. One, with hair like fire, watched on curiously, as she had been doing all day.

  Claudius paid her no attention, nor anyone else. He moved straight for the villa and up the stone stairs, the letter in his hand of urgent attention. The seal on the front made that clear, and the old attendant knew just whose seal it was. He continued up the stairs, right to the top floor where he reached a door and knocked.

  A voice came from within.

  "Yes, come in," it said.

  Claudius opened the door and stepped inside. Dom sat behind his desk, covered as always in books. His eyes lifted straight for his aid, and saw the letter in his hand.

  "Another one, Claud?" he sighed.

  The old man nodded as he moved forward, handing his master the note. Dom immediately noticed the seal, and grimaced. He knew the emblem all too well and who it belonged to.

  And he knew, too, just what the contents of the letter would be.

  He took a breath and ripped it open, scanning the official request. Such requests were a common occurrence on this first Sunday, when the gladiators all had a day off, and the city was at rest. Lords and ladies of high birth, and other nobles of great wealth, could put in visitation requests, giving them time alone with the most talked about gladiators of the games, to hear their stories and marvel at their forms. And, potentially, more.

  It was a ritual that many aristocrats enjoyed, and Dom had already received several such requests that day. The likes of Oom, for his colossal size, was of great interest to the people, and as with the pre-games ceremony, many wished to see him up close. Unlike that event, however, these visits would be private, and questions could be posed and answers given. It was a more personal affair, and the gladiators needed to be on their best behaviour.

  Other than the giant, Finn was being inundated with requests too. The boy was a growing star, and had captured the attention of the ladies of Neorome. And the more they were willing to pay, the more time they could get with their chosen companion too. And, the more they could do while with them.

  That, however, was down to the lanista's discretion. The gladiators were admired throughout the city, not only for their powers but their physical strength and beauty as well. Men and women would seek to indulge their base desires with these fine warrior specimens, but it was always down to the lanista who owned them to determine just how far they could go.

  It was well known that Dom didn't favour such things. He drew the line at physical contact, and preferred to have his fighters left alone. Interference with them through physical means was generally outlawed, and the people knew it. However, he would occasionally give special dispensation if the price was right, and the gladiator in question in extremely high demand.

  Finn certainly was. But Dom had no inclination to allow him to be interfered with. The other gladiators among his crop didn't capture so much attention. At least, all except one, and she was the subject of the request in Dom's hand.

  Kira was a prize beauty as well as a prize fighter. His desk was full, not only of books, but of letters to spend time alone with her. Such a gladiator could fill his coffers for a year with a single evening alone. And with this much attention, Dom knew that the men, and women, wishing to spend time with Kira that night would only be afforded a short time with her.

  They could pay more, of course, for more time. And within the rules, Dom had to accept. Though he could set limits on just what they could do with the gladiator while alone, he couldn't rightly deny a request when it came, and had to give them more time if they were willing to pay for it.

  And unfortunately, his rival's wealth was almost unlimited.

  "It's from Master Lucius, yes sir?" asked Claudius, watching Dom as he stared angrily at the letter.

  Dom nodded. Claud had known it from the seal.

  "Shall I add him to the schedule then, sir?"

  Dom wanted to shake his head, but couldn't.

  "Yes," he said blankly. "He's paying for half an hour. And more for a prime-time slot."

  "Which time then, sir?"

  "Make it 10PM," said Dom, scrunching the letter up into a tight ball, and tossing it into a bin.

  "Of course, Master Domitian. I'll inform the messenger immediately."

  Claudius swept from the room, leaving Dom alone. The day had been a disaster already, and it was still only mid afternoon. He'd heard that Merk's mission over in Southside was rapidly falling apart, and now he had to deal with an evening of drunken, delirious luminaries, fawning over his fighters.

  That would be bad enough, but Lucius topped it all off. Dom had always known that he'd get his time alone with Kira, despite his protestations. All he could do was control the circumstances, and he was firmly of the mind that she would not be touched by anyone, least of all him.

  He shook his head and grimaced. His world was falling apart right now, and there appeared nothing he could do about it. In a month or so, and perhaps even less, he wouldn't even be heir to the throne. He'd be chased out of town at best, and hunted down at worst. And yet, before all of that took place, he'd have to continue to do his duty, see out his final days, and keep on wearing this mask. If he didn't, that worst case scenario might just come around a lot quicker than he'd like.

  He stood from his desk, stamping around, and quickly hunted down some wine. Rufus' advice about avoiding rash decisions when drinking was sound, yet it was a habit too ingrained in Dom to ignore. In the end, he had little control over it, particularly when things were going oh-so wrong.

  He gulped down his cup and filled it again. It took the edge off his anger, soothing his troubled mind just a touch. There was a lot going on in there, both immediate and long term concerns. In truth, Dom had never been quite so stressed out as he was right now, and there was no surprise in that.

  There seemed no obvious solution to his myriad problems. The likes of Lucius, and his visit later tonight, was an irritation but nothing more. Seeing as it involved Kira, it provoked a deeper anger in Dom than it should, but it was a situation he could at least control. Really, it was his fault for letting Kira get in his head, and for allowing Lucius to do the same.

  Of far bigger concern was his mother, who was stripping away the layers of his life, bit by bit. It was a slow torture, a form of emotional flaying, and yet desp
ite what she'd said, and done, Dom couldn't be sure just how things would go.

  She was prone to dramatics, a habit that came hand in hand with her madness. And while Dom didn't doubt for a second that she'd engineered this new heir for herself, he wasn't positive of the impact it would have on him. Would she really banish him, or see him as a threat and do something worse? Had her sanity really eroded to the point where she'd have her own son, her real son, killed because he refused to stand in line?

  Dom would never have expected such a thing even months ago. Before he left on his voyage to the west, off to gather up his new contenders, she was unhinged but not to this degree. The breakdown of her mental faculties was speeding up, and the city was well aware of it. The trouble in Southside was a symptom of that, and while Merk's attempts to help settle things down were failing miserably, perhaps that wasn't the worst thing after all.

  Dom considered it more closely, and began to see the merits of this revolt. It would lead to bloodshed, that was true, but it would also cause distraction. The Empress was clearly paying attention now, and her resources, powerful as they were, only stretched so far. With her eye drawn to the south, she might just be vulnerable...

  He shook away the idea.

  It wasn't pleasant, what was going through his mind. There was a darkness there now, a place of demons and awful thoughts. It was, perhaps, a natural and necessary thing, forced by his mother's actions. But even for a man like Dom, who dealt in death, the imaginings that now grew in his head were not those he ever wished for.

  And the word that came with such thoughts was the darkest word of all.

  Murder.

  69

  Training upon the yard was muted that day.

  Having watched Merk taken off on his mission, looking decidedly anxious and uncomfortable, Kira had been forced to await his return with a similar nervousness to the previous day, when her friends were fighting upon the sand.

  Their escape hinged on the old man's return, and were something to befall him out there, their hope would fall like a toppling tree. And it wasn't just the threat of violence that worried Kira, but the very fact that his mission might be successful. If so, and he were truly rewarded for his actions, then the idea of helping Kira and her allies from the cells and city might not appear so appealing after all.