BLOODLUST:
A GLADIATOR’S TALE
By C.P.D. Harris
Copyright © C.P.D Harris, July 17th, 2012
Cover Artwork © Daniel Barclay
Special thanks to my parents, my siblings, everyone who helped me with the book, and all the wonderful authors and game writers who kindled my love of fantasy.
(A Glossary is included at the end of the book for your convenience.)
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Magic is the ability to weave the patterns of reality.
Those who develop this power are called the Gifted.
In the past, the Gifted were free and created many wonders.
The strongest were immortal and potent: gods among mortals.
Yet some among them thirsted for ever greater power.
And so they fought against each other with army and spell.
The magics they invoked destabilized the pattern of the world.
Called the Reckoning, this war resulted in the near destruction of all life.
Even now, more than a thousand years later, the land remains tainted.
The Domains are the last bastion of the old civilizations.
To prevent a second Reckoning, the Gifted are controlled.
They may choose to surrender their most powerful magics,
becoming free, after serving many years as a Vassal.
Or they can choose to earn their freedom with blood,
to fight in the arenas of the Domains as the peoples' Champions.
These Gladiators keep their magic, but they are not free.
The very best of these warriors can, however, win the greatest prize:
A place among the Chosen, the immortal rulers of the Domains.
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Chapter One: First Fight
1138/09/01 AR (After Reckoning), Campus Martius in the City of Krass, Capital of the Domains
"In the Domains of the Chosen, the Great Games never end. Even when the arenas are all empty the Gladiators still hone their skills, the Factions still plot their victories, and the fans still tell their tales, all eager for the next match." Chosen Giselle, the Silken Scorpion.
Picture the legendary City of Krass in all her brazen glory: the burnished copper-tiled roofs of the new mercantile district garishly reflecting the afternoon sun, the ancient ivy-eaten white marble palaces of the old nobility surrounding the bustling Faction headquarters, that unmistakable skyline dominated by the colossal forms of the Grand Arena, the Hall of the Chosen, and the Assembly of the Covenant. Krass, the only city in the known world that survived the wars of the Reckoning intact. Krass, the very place where the weary refugees of that great calamity finally imposed their will on the magic-wielding Gifted who caused it, forming the set of laws called the Covenant. Krass, the beating, bloody heart of the Domains of the Chosen, last light of civilization in a world still infected with chaotic magic. Krass, the People's City, where all the races and cultures of the Domains are welcomed.
Picture the imposing outer wall, rune-marked and battle-scarred: hundred foot stone bastions that kept our enemies at bay even during the worst years of the Reckoning, walls that now serve to keep the slums of the underclasses from spilling into the city proper. Lesser walls that mirror the great outer bastion divide the great city into sections. One of these sections is the Campus Gladius, where the Gifted, those who can channel and weave powerful magic, are trained. That place is a world apart, forbidden to everyone except young Gifted in training and Officers of the Deliberative in their grey robes of office. Even the immortal Chosen do not set foot there, though many of them started their rise to power in its sheltered halls. It is here that the Gifted are trained to use their magic, and where they choose to become Vassals, who serve, or Gladiators, who compete.
Next to the Campus Gladius is the Campus Martius, where the young Gladiators who have finished their training fight their first few matches and learn to fit in with the rest of the people, as best they can. The freedoms they are given are measured, for a Gladiator can command the very same powers that brought about the Reckoning. They are watched carefully. The Campus Martius itself is large and inviting, a place open to any free citizen of the Domains. True fans of the Great Games often come here to watch the young Gladiators train and fight, trying to spot greatness early or enjoying the wild energy of the youth that live here. Recruiters for the Faction teams are thick here as well, looking out for future prospects.
To one side of the Campus Martius is a honeycomb of small arenas, from the hundreds of tiny underground pits with standing room galleries that can accommodate perhaps fifty spectators at most, to the classical arena which seats five thousand, and is a much smaller copy of the Grand Arena dominating the centre of the city. These little arenas are open to any citizen of the Domains, and allow even the poorest of citizens to enjoy the great Gladiatorial games.
Picture one of these small arenas: the bright brass call of the trumpet brings the small crowd to attention, a heavy portcullis rising in the entrance on one side of the small sand-filled fighting ground as the echo dies. A young man steps out the shadows, his perfectly polished armour catching the light as he raises his weapon to salute the handful of people watching from the small gallery up the wall opposite him. He is muscular, well-tanned and dark haired with a physique enhanced by training and magic. Picture his clear blue eyes meeting those of a beautifully attired woman who smiles with slow deliberation once she is sure of his attention; revealing her too-perfect white teeth. He smiles back slowly, betraying some nervousness, he has trained for years, fought countless practice matches, suffered wounds that would kill an ungifted without complaint, but this is his first professional match in front of spectators. It is a momentous event for any Gladiator.
He stands there, frozen in salute, waiting on the thirsty white sands. The trumpet sounds again, louder it seems, now that the audience is quiet with anticipation. The Gladiator's weapon drops instantly from salute to ready position as the portcullis opposite him lifts. The grim growls of several beasts, deep and dog-like, rumble out of from the shadowed passage. Huge furry forms explode into the fighting grounds, all claws and teeth, startling the audience with their speed and ferocity. Pure white sand kicks into the air as they close in on the Gladiator, who tenses but does not move. The three beasts loom over the man, seeming much too large and ferocious for a single young warrior to face. The small crowd is excited, eager eyes thirsting for the sight of blood; their cheers fill the small arena, higher pitched than the growls of the beasts but guttural nonetheless.
Picture all this. Think of the blood and the drama, noble steel against tooth and claw, and answer me. How could you not stop and watch? Would it not entertain you?
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The day of Gavin's first match dawned and he had yet to purchase weapons and armour. The young fighter cursed himself for putting off such a crucial judgement until the last minute, his stomach tying into nervous knots as he tried to narrow his options. Most Gladiators choose their kit a day or two after graduation from training; in Gavin's case he had put the decision off for much longer.
As he rushed through the streets of the Campus Martius, he thought back to his first day in there. After saying goodbye to his teachers and leaving the Campus Gladius, he'd been full of vigour and confidence and sure of the grand destiny that awaited him; he'd marched straight to the registrar and arranged for his first professional match as quickly as possible. That day had been only a month ago.
Gavin, who was far more serious than most young men enjoying their first small taste of freedom, had planned to adhere to a much more ambitious schedule than was usua
l for a young Gladiator. He wanted to leave the Campus Martius as quickly as possible, venturing out into the wide world beyond the walls of Krass. He dreamt about wandering through the Domains, exploring ruins and tasting the fruits of exotic cultures far from the capital. Most of his peers, on the cusp of adulthood, were busy enjoying their new found freedoms, exploring the training grounds, bars, and shops of the Campus as well as each other. In training, Gavin had been a bit of a loner spending more time with his teachers, whom he admired, rather than his peers, who were sometimes immature and brutish in his eyes.
Gavin had expected to spend this time training hard, but instead he had wasted precious days worrying about choosing the tools of his trade. In training he'd had access to any weapon he wanted; now he would be limited to two or three weapons that he would own, perhaps for the rest of his career.
In his small apartment, nestled in the tall, maze-like South Residences of the Campus Martius, the desk was heaped to overflowing with books about weapons and armour. Gavin loved reading, and naturally turned to books to help him with his decision. Venerable volumes of perfect pedigree like "Mazurin's Guide to Bladed Weaponry" mixed with newer, more radical titles of uncertain parentage such as "Killing with Style: Lady Jezebelle's Guide to Polearms." He'd read them all, some several times, ignoring the lively, youthful exuberance of his peers in neighbouring apartments.
Some of these texts had been left wide open, their spines on the verge of cracking, margins desecrated by Gavin's small, overly neat writing; important exclamations such as "good point!" or more referential notes like "M. disagrees, need more research... check M pages 203-207 and also Cavarius". Each of the books stacked on his desk and the floor nearby were bookmarked with strips of paper and categorized, sorted into piles by weapon type. A dozen crumpled sheets of paper orbited these; the remains of numerous lists in which Gavin had attempted to reason his way through choosing the absolute best armaments for a Gladiator of his fighting style. In spite of all this research and deliberation on the relative merits of weapons, he was still unable to come to a decision.
In reality Gavin’s fighting skills were not yet specialized enough to require or to lean toward a single weapon type, but he lacked the experience to assess this fact and the confidence to choose on instinct. Most of his young peers decided on the weapons they used based on aesthetic evaluation, "what looks cool" or "what feels right", and further developed their skills based on this choice. To a thoughtful person of Gavin's bent, this behaviour seemed irrational; every choice needed to be weighed carefully in order to maximize the chances of the best outcome.
In the Domains of the Chosen, each novice Gladiator, upon graduating from training, is allowed to choose two weapons, one set of armour, and either a shield or a third weapon. The only way for a Gladiator to get more gear is to purchase them with Victory Coins, a heavily regulated form of currency earned only from fighting in the arenas. If it were done any other way the Gladiators from wealthy families or with powerful patronage would enjoy an immense advantage, being able to buy any armaments they desired.
The story most often used to illustrate this point is that of Siamar Lighteater, a Shadow-Elf of distinguished and powerful lineage who rose to prominence in the early days of the Arena. Siamar's family, clearly seeing the advantages of having one of their kin among the ranks of the Chosen, gifted him with an enchanted suit of armour and a soul-drinking sword with a bound daemon inside. None could stand against him in the arena, and he easily won his place among the rulers of the Domains. Currently, Siamar has served on the Council of the Chosen for over nine hundred years, and his family has grown in wealth and influence accordingly. However the perceived unfairness of his rise to power, long ago, caused a massive public outcry; the rules were changed, with Siamar's approval. Modern Gladiators now buy and enchant their kit only with Victory Coins, spending those only at shops approved by the Deliberative, the body that oversees the Gifted.
In other words, someone with an unfair advantage forced a change in the rules, one of a thousand little regulations that have been added, repealed, and added again to govern the lives of Gladiators.
All this was just noise in the back of Gavin's mind as he stood in the aptly named "Runes and Weapons", the sprawling three story shop where freshly trained Gladiators get their weaponry. He'd been there almost every day for the last month, and the shop's attendants had learned to leave him to his thoughts, unless he asked for their assistance.
"Do you think he'll ever make up his mind? I've never seen any Freshie take this much time choosing," said one attendant, admiring the lean muscularity of the Gladiator despite her disparaging tone.
"I don't know; he looks a little panicked today. Perhaps he's due to fight soon. Or maybe today is the day that he finally admits he is secretly in love with you, and he's just working up the courage to ask you to come home with him..." said the other, smiling wickedly.
"I wouldn't mind at all, but I think our young lover has more of an eye for hafts and blades than tits and ass," said the first attendant, thinking of the well-worn adage that a Gladiator's first true love is his favourite weapon.
"Shhhh, do you want him to hear you?" said the other, trying not to laugh.
"You're right, next time I'd better say bosom and buttocks so he thinks we're less crass..." said the first attendant, giggling now.
If Gavin heard their whispered conversation he gave no indication. He was lost in thought; choosing his weapons was important. Anecdotes and calculations raced through his mind, spurred by nervousness over his first match, which was now less than three hours away. The knot in his stomach tightened. He cursed himself for not being able to choose.
Unlike a traditional shop, Runes and Weapons is owned by the Deliberative, the body that regulates magic in the Domains. Selected smiths from all over the lands are invited to send their work to be sold within. This practice prevents any single group of smiths from gaining too much influence over the lucrative market of young Gladiators in the Campus Martius, considered important enough to have caused a few small trade wars before regulation. Each weapon in the shop is inspected by Officers of the Deliberative before being put up for display, ensuring that it is of the highest quality and does not carry any hidden runes or enchantments. The smiths are paid out of public funds, since the young Gladiators do not actually pay for their weapons. Though the smiths are paid well for their goods, the honour of selection is the real prize, a mark of distinction in the weapon-maker's art.
Swords are a common weapon choice in the arena. The aristocratic, even heroic, image of the sword attracts many young Gladiators to this weapon. Swords are much more versatile than most weapons and come in a large variety of makes and models. Those who favour this say that there is a style of sword for every fighter. Falchions and broadswords are better for brute force chopping while rapiers are superb finesse weapons. Dwarven short swords are excellent for getting close and thrusting into an opponent's belly while Elven sabres are without peer in the realm of perfectly balanced slashing strokes. Trained as a defender, Gavin appreciated that most swords were excellent for parrying; in training he'd become proficient with most types of sword, but he did not favour them over other weapons.
Few weapons speak of focused brutality like a heavy bladed axe. Axes are primarily offensive weapons, however, and Gavin's training had leaned toward defence. Nonetheless he was seriously considering an axe, albeit paired with a shield to give him the needed defence. The first time Gavin used an axe in training he had lopped the arm clean off his sixth year training partner, the much larger ogre Molg, a student known for his brutality. The vivid splash of blood and the shocked, stupid look on Molg's face as the ogre looked down at his bleeding stump were still fresh in his mind. The rest of the class had erupted in cheers as Molg started wailing, which left Gavin with a favourable impression of the weapon. When Molg had returned from the arena with his arm fixed, he'd shown Gavin much greater respect.
Maces are a weapon oft overlooked
by novice Gladiators. They don't draw blood like cruel axes and sharp swords. They aren't as impressive as massive hammers or whirling flails. However few weapons are as effective against heavy armour as a weighty flanged mace. As an added bonus, blunt weaponry is much less likely to get stuck in an opponent. Gavin had not yet seen a mace he liked in Runes and Weapons.
Gavin passed through the hammer section of the shop, having ruled this weapon type out already. Warhammers, mauls, and massive half-sledges are best left to the immensely strong, who can take advantage of the weapon's heft, and they offer no protective advantage for a defensive fighter like Gavin
Flails are a difficult weapon to master, but full of possibilities. The heavy weight whirling at the end of the chain can inflict serious damage, but this requires that the warrior wielding it learn to master these unusual motions. Flails are very good for getting around shields, the chain allowing the striking end to wrap around its edge with relative ease. The ability to use the weapon's chains to entangle and disarm a foe is enticing to Gladiators of Gavin's mindset. Clever opponents can turn the flail's advantages against it, however, causing tangles and fumbles. It also has the stigma of being one of the only major weapon types with which no Gladiator has ever won a grand championship. Gavin was very well versed in the history of his profession and was neither reckless nor confident enough to try to be the first fighter to win his way into the ranks of the Chosen with such a weapon.
Spears and Tridents are nearly as common as swords in the arena. Generally made for both one and two handed use, they offer versatility, reach, and fairly good penetration of most types of armour. Since weapons made for Gladiators are made from the highest quality materials, by the very best craftsmen, the usual vulnerability of a wooden haft to being split by an opponent's attack is a moot point.
Bloodlust: A Gladiator's Tale Page 1