The Warrior Race: Book One (The Enhanced Universe)

by T. C. Edge

Only, hers didn’t go for the old man. And it didn’t go for Deadeye either. It went instead for the blade he threw, cutting it off mid-flight and flashing with a white spark as metal clattered against metal. Both blades flew off at different angles, missing Merk by a few metres and cutting into the stand instead of his flesh.

  The crowd’s gasp resulted in a silence, and many sets of eyes instinctively flew to the screens in hope and expectation of a slow-mo replay. Many others just stared at Kira, watching the little figure far below to see what she’d do. Had she stopped the knife to kill the old man herself? Did she want to claim the free pass for her own?

  Their answer came swiftly. And it was a resounding ‘no’ to both.

  As Deadeye flung himself forward, going straight for Merk and drawing his sword, Kira quickly followed. She dashed before him, intersecting his path, and the crowd were gifted with a final bout.

  The silence was torn apart, and they all leapt to their feet as Kira and Deadeye began thrashing with their blades. The ringing of metal once more filled the air, and the two combatants danced their way over bodies as they flashed here and there around the battlefield.

  It seemed Gwyn could only watch from down below, her loss of blood too great. And Vesper’s voice, calling for the old man to die, was impotent against the roar of the crowd.

  She had no power over this moment, and Dom knew that would inspire great wrath, Kira defying her once again.

  Yet he watched her in wonder and with a smile on his face, marvelling at her courage and defiance. She’d deny herself the chance to rest and get a bye through the games. She’d go against the wishes of the empress and make a terrible enemy in the process.

  She’d do it all, Dom knew, because it was inbuilt within her to act as such. She was a defender of the people, a champion for the defenceless. She’d risk her own life and put herself in great peril in order to protect those unable to protect themselves.

  She’d do it here, and she’d do it anywhere.

  Because she’d been doing it all her life.

  And as the empress’ face grew red, so did the flesh upon Deadeye’s body. Bit by bit, imbued by her need to fight against injustice, Kira slashed her opponent apart, drawing blood from each of his limbs and covering him in a crimson coat.

  The crowd grew wild as they watched, stamping and roaring in the upper tiers where the seats where cheap. Where they would look upon someone like Merk as one of their own. Where many, most likely, will have known someone cut down by Vesper’s treatment of heretics, or anyone who’d speak out against her manner of rule and mental state.

  They cheered Kira for saving Merk, and for defying the empress who they all hated so dear. And in the royal box, a deathly silence fell as eyes darted and glanced anxiously, and lords and ladies withdrew, afraid of just what Vesper might do.

  But Dom knew full well that she was hamstrung by the rules of the games. They were sacred to her, and sacred to the city, and she couldn’t alter them without losing a great deal of support. Without the entertainment of the games, distracting the people from their daily lives, they might just lose their collective patience with her. And that she couldn’t abide.

  So as Kira put the finishing touches on Deadeye, and the man sunk to the sand and joined the hundred more who’d never leave this place, Dom was quite sure that Merk would get a reprieve.

  Yes, his sentence was death, but so it was for all of those upon the sand today. The three left standing, stated the rules of the cull, would go through to the next round. And Merk, along with Kira and Gwyn, were the only ones up on their feet.

  With Deadeye’s death, the crowd seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Dom. A stillness settled over the stands, and a hundred thousand faces turned now to their ruler. She stood, her jaw shut tight, and knew there was only one choice.

  She lifted her left arm aloft, showing the crowd she wished to speak. Then, perhaps seeking to get them onside, she smiled brightly, exposing a set of white teeth that will have been visible from the top of the upper tier.

  “A fine bout!” she called out. “It looks as though we have a new hero among us.”

  She gestured her arm in Kira’s direction. The stadium cheered once more before going still.

  “This here is Kira from the city of Haven, one of Prince Domitian’s contenders,” the empress called out. “But I think she needs another name!”

  The crowd now burst with their own ideas. Thousands of voices called, and Vesper pretended as if she was listening, looking left and right, up and down, with a glowing smile upon her lips.

  She let it go on for a while, and then the raising of her arms drew silence.

  She turned to Dom.

  He knew she wanted him to stand, and so he did.

  “What does Prince Domitian think? Can we give her another name?”

  Dom looked at Kira, her eyes swaying about and perusing the crowd.

  “Yes of course, mother,” said Dom, too quietly for most people to hear. “Name her what you wish.”

  Vesper continued the act, stroking her chin. It was a chance for her to seem more personable and she knew it. She hadn’t yet lost all her marbles.

  Then she nodded.

  “I have it!” she called out. “The Imperial Games are known among the streets as the warrior race. And Kira here has shown herself to be a fine, fine warrior today. Isn’t she striking with her red hair and robes? Oh, I have a name for her…”

  The crowd listened intently. Vesper drew out the moment.

  She took a breath, and then stretched her arm to the girl in question.

  “We shall name you…The Red Warrior!” she cried.

  The stadium showed its assent, applauding and cheering. And slowly, from the highest seats, a chant began to spread, flowing with a cadence that rumbled all the way through the city.

  “Red warrior…red warrior…red warrior…”

  Kira seemed overawed, such adulation unexpected. And Merk, still groggy, stood gazing about not quite knowing what had just happened.

  It was the greatest opening day of the games for many, many a year. Perhaps even ever.

  Yet standing there, as Vesper smiled bright and the crowd roared loud, Dom was quite aware that this was only the beginning.

  And much tougher tests awaited.

  38

  The ending of the cull was the ending of the day within the Colosseum. At least, down on the sand.

  Sometimes it went on for much longer. Sometimes it all ended rather too fast. Today had perhaps veered towards the latter, but the drama had been far more than anyone could have hoped for. In the end, the crowd very much got their money’s worth.

  Upon the balconies, and within the stadium, however, the party was set to go on. As an army of slaves came forth from the gates to clear the arena of the dead, the stands continued to flow and heave as the people recounted their favourite moments from the many bouts they’d witnessed.

  And at the summit of the top tier, the screens were already showing highlights, not only within the stadium but outside of it as well, where tens of thousands more people had gathered to watch from the plazas and squares. It would be a day long in the memory, and the perfect way to bring in the games. The warrior race had kicked off with quite a bang.

  The two most responsible for that now gathered together in a cell within the bowels of the great amphitheatre. What had once been a large chamber of many cells, filled with many gladiators, was now a ghost town. Only Gwyn, Kira, and Merk remained, all covered in blood, grit, and sweat, and two requiring speedy attention.

  The medics were already working on Gwyn’s arm as she lay on a stone bench being seen to. Merk sat on another, his head being sewn up and quickly restored. Only Kira remained uninjured, desiring only a long, cold shower and a bit of peace and quiet.

  She stood to one side of the cell, watching Merk being patched up, a number of questions in her eyes. Merk, however, was too quick on the draw in giving her his unending thanks.

  “I don’t
know what to say to you, Kira,” he was mumbling. “You…you saved my life twice…”

  “Three times,” corrected Kira with a straight face that turned quickly to a grin.

  Merk did a little count in his head. He was clearly still a little fuzzy.

  Kira went ahead and explained that she’d killed the two gladiators with her throwing knives, before stopping Deadeye’s knife too. Those were the two occasions Merk was thinking off. He hadn’t considered that Deadeye was set to chop him down straight after with his sword before Kira stepped in. He’d counted all of that as one.

  Still, his gratefulness couldn’t have been more profound whether she’d saved his life once, twice, or a dozen times.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked, still in a slight state of shock from it all. “You didn’t have to save me at all…”

  Kira shrugged.

  “I recognised you from the boat. Merk the Mighty,” she said, drawing a slightly shy grin to Merk’s face. “I guessed you shouldn’t have been there. What did you do?”

  Merk’s eyes darkened. He looked at the medics working on Gwyn, and his eyes went shifty for a second. Kira could sense his nerves. He clearly didn’t want to speak with such people around.

  So she spoke for him.

  “I’m guessing you spoke out against Vesper, right? That’s what all the prisoners were – heretics and traitors. Ridiculous if you ask me. She’s even worse than the tyrant back home in Haven.”

  Merk’s eyes widened and flicked again at the medics. Kira didn’t care one bit about whether they were listening or not. She was a gladiator, and would die in the arena whatever happened. Nothing could change that now.

  “Actually,” whispered Merk. “I didn’t say anything. I just thought something bad…something I shouldn’t have.”

  Kira huffed audibly and shook her head.

  “You’re kidding me. They sent you out there to die for just thinking something bad about Vesper? What the hell…”

  Merk nodded silently. Kira’s lungs filled with a fierce breath.

  “But you saved me,” whispered Merk again. “Thank you…thank you so much…”

  Kira raised a hand.

  “It’s all right, Mighty Merk,” she said casually, “don’t mention it. I had to kill those guys anyway to survive, so…”

  “Well, no that’s not true,” countered Merk. “You could have got a bye through the next round if you’d killed me yourself at the end.”

  “Pfft. What good would that do me?” asked Kira grumpily. “It would just be delaying the inevitable, right?”

  “Maybe…maybe not,” said Merk. “You were really something out there,” he said. “You might have a chance you know.”

  Kira shook her head.

  “I’m not so sure. But you…what’ll happen to you now?”

  Merk’s shoulders and posture sunk a little.

  “I really don’t know.”

  As the medics finished off with the back of his head, the sound of footsteps came calling from the corridor outside the cell. First to appear were a small cohort of guards Kira recognised from the ludus. Then, Dom came sweeping in with a grand old smile on his face.

  He glanced at Gwyn, still lying flat, and then at Kira for a far longer moment, before finally turning to Merk. He marched quickly over, and Merk lifted himself onto old, tired, and still shaking legs.

  “Merk, my old friend, my goodness me that was tense!” came Dom’s voice. He took hold of Merk’s hand and shook it violently, before doing something completely out of character and drawing the old man into a hug.

  Merk could never have expected such a reaction. It seemed to make the whole ordeal worthwhile.

  “I cannot tell you, Merk, how happy I am to see you alive. We’ll get this mess straightened out, I promise. They’ll be no going back into the arena for you.”

  “Really, Master Domitian?”

  The old man was close to tears. He’d suspected that he’d be tossed straight to the lions to see his sentence fulfilled.

  “Fear not, Merk. You’ll be coming back to the ludus with me. I’ll set you up nice and safe, don’t you worry.”

  Merk was having trouble staying on his feet. He began to sway and looked as if he might faint from it all. Dom stepped forward and lowered him down to the stone bench, speaking softly as he went.

  “Rest now, Merk. You just sit there and rest.”

  As the caretaker settled in with trembling hands and shaking legs, Dom turned to Kira. She stayed steadfast by the wall, watching proceedings with a small smile that she seemed unable to suppress.

  “Kira, what a performance,” said Dom, his voice turning a little more official. “I was absolutely right to seed you at three in the first place, and you really showed my mother what for. The crowd really took to you, and that could be a great help in keeping you alive. Tremendous. Just tremendous.”

  His cool began to fade as he spoke, and as with Kira he was unable to subdue the smile. Yet while Kira’s was no more than a hovering grin, Dom was beaming, a set of perfect white teeth shining in that dim cell. Kira looked upon him, so confused. He had a charm she couldn’t deny, yet he was still a man who stole her from her homeland, from her war, from her friends.

  And he was still a man, too, who was little more than a proprietor of death. He was truly difficult to work out.

  She nodded.

  “Thank you, Dom,” she said, that smile still simmering.

  She often wore the expression to battle and found it hard to dismiss for some time after, despite the horrors and carnage she’d just participated in. She was, after all, very much used to it, and could detach herself from such things. To her, killing was no more unusual than eating or drinking or taking a nap. She lived and breathed it. And taking life, perversely, made her feel alive.

  “Right, well let’s not stay any longer than we need to in this cell,” said Dom, glancing around at the surroundings. “You all deserve a long wash, rest, and as much food as you can eat. The wagon is waiting. Be prepared for some attention from the crowd.”

  With Gwyn’s arm now put back in order and her skin appearing a little less pale, Dom led the three survivors out through the passages beneath the arena and towards the exit, surrounded by his guards. They found a huge throng gathered to greet them, cheering the name of the ‘Red Warrior’. And Merk’s name, too, was being chanted, the old man now recognised by some of the denizens of Southside.

  They cheered as he stepped aboard the wagon, his name spreading through the crowd. Only Gwyn, it seemed, had failed to catch their attention, though she didn’t seem to mind, her body still recuperating and focused only on replenishing her stores of blood.

  Kira and Merk sat opposite one another in the back of the wagon, raising their eyebrows at their flourishing fame. And, unchained this time, Kira took the opportunity to stand, and moving over to Merk she lifted the old man up and raised his arm to the air, just as she did with Gwyn in the arena. And, just as they did then, the crowd roared their approval and their chants grew louder.

  Kira winked at Merk, and then turned to the crowd.

  “His name is Merk the Mighty,” she called out. “The commoner who killed a gladiator!”

  The nearest amid the throng heard her, and the chant of his name began to morph. Merk stood, overawed by it all as the title he’d assigned himself began to be called out by thousands of men and women.

  “Merk the Mighty,” they called. “The champion of the people!”

  And sitting in his carriage ahead of the wagon, Dom heard it all go down. He smiled as he listened to the old sailor’s name, chanted over and over. And Kira’s new title too, already spreading through the city like a blazing bushfire.

  For the entire journey back to the ludus, the celebration went on, the people following the small convoy through the streets, the mounted soldiers having to jostle to keep them at bay.

  And though it was very early days, Dom couldn’t help but smile wide as they went. He would celebrate that ni
ght, and perhaps even allow Kira and Gwyn to join him and Merk in the ludus. He’d give them food, and wine, and honour them for their performance. And, of course, they’d drink to Gecko, the first of his gladiators to be lost.

  He certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  39

  As the celebrations went on, and the people continued to chant and rejoice long into the night, not far away a woman was stewing.

  She sat on her throne within the palace, quick to return after the cull had ended. And though the walls were thick and the throne room set back from the main entrance, the cheers of the crowd still reached her ears.

  A grimace floated up her face, and those mad eyes of hers, subdued in the face of the people, returned in full force. She looked to the young man before her, similarly disappointed to hear the city extol his rival’s warriors, and watched him whisper into the otherwise quiet room.

  “You wished to see me, Empress Vesper,” said Lucius, bowing his head reverently.

  Vesper nodded.

  “You suffered a defeat today, Lucius,” said Vesper, her voice cold. “That girl…she made you look a fool.”

  Lucius raised his head. It was her who Kira made look the fool…

  “She was too gifted for the cull, Highness,” he said plainly.

  Vesper stiffened.

  “Yes. So it would seem,” she murmured. “Too good for the cull, perhaps, but not for your higher seeds.”

  “Highness?” queried Lucius, frowning.

  Vesper filled her lungs and sat up straighter in her grand throne.

  “You will set a high seed against her in her next bout,” she said. “I want her gone, Lucius.”

  “But, she isn’t rated to fight a high seed yet,” contested the young lanista.

  “Then you will alter your seedings,” said Vesper firmly. “Your number one, Jaeger…no, that would be too obvious…” She thought for a moment, and Lucius just stood and waited, powerless to interrupt or complain.

  “Kira was rated as third seed by Domitian,” she continued. “Who is yours?”

  “My third seed, Highness?”