by Michael Karr
For several minutes, the princess stood, waiting. But she refused to grow impatient. This was an opportunity to prepare, she decided. Not time stolen away from her by her mother. She mentally reviewed her training with Razain, inventoried the strengths and weaknesses she knew of her opponent.
When at last the empress set down the letter and addressed her, the princess felt thoroughly refreshed on her lessons.
“I have few words to say to you this morning, daughter,” said the empress. “Your mind is no doubt focused on the Trials ahead. I did not call you here to give you encouragement or to wish you luck. You need no such words from me.”
She paused, rose from her chair, and turned to the bookshelves along the back wall. Pulling an item from a near shelf, she turned back and dropped a leather-bound tome onto the desk. The book landed on the desk with a ponderous thud, kicking up a plume of dust into the air.
The princess looked at the book indifferently. She knew the book well.
“The Law of Our Fathers,” said the empress, pointing at the volume, “requires that the Trials be passed by any heir to power over the Nation of Tor. Gorgoroth shall have no unproven leader, future or present. This you know well.
“But know this, also. The law also grants you amnesty from the Trials. You may abandon the Trials at any point, of your own free will. However, by so doing you abdicate any right to power, rule, or rank. You will become nothing but the daughter to the empress. The law gives you this prerogative.”
The empress pulled herself up to her full height and stared down at her daughter with fire in her eyes.
“Daughter,” she said, “do not abandon the Trials.”
She said no more, but sat back at her desk and resumed her reading. That was all she would say, the princess knew. Abandon the Trials? Give up her right to rank and power? The princess would rather die. No, she had but one course: to fight.
Within an hour, the princess was sitting in a carriage bound for Mardakkar Arena. Razain Du Kava sat opposite her in the carriage, mute and calm. Ahead of them, the empress road in her own carriage, pulled by a quintet of midnight black steeds Her mother preferred the archaic mode of transportation. In her mother's view, it was a more fitting royalty; to adhere dogmatically the ancient protocols and traditions of their fathers. The castle—the entire city—was a testament to this adherence. Her mother had not even gone so far as to allow phosphorescent lamps in the castle. The princess failed to see the honor in living so. The poorest citizens of Gorgoroth still used candlelight. At least she permitted the guards to carry blasters. They still carried crossbows, of course. Blasters were only employed when necessary.
The princess watched the crowded streets through her window as they plodded slowly along. Many cheered when they noticed the procession pass by, calling out to the princess, "may thy blade drink blood." A few, she noticed, did not cheer, but turned away and spat on the mud-mired street. Still, others took no notice, but kept pulling their carts to market, or carrying their sacks, laden with wares, on their bent shoulders.
A weary-looking lot, thought the princess.
As their carriage drew near to the arena, the streets grew more and more crowded, packed to capacity with eager spectators come to watch the fight. Their armed escorts on their mounts pressed closer to the carriages, to protect them from the throng.
After what felt like hours, the carriages passed through the arena's outer gates. Once within the outer gates, their cavalcade turned right and entered the arena through a guarded entrance. It was large enough for the carriage, entourage and all, to pass through. And when the carriage came to a halt, the princess found herself in the familiar inner chamber of the Mardakkar Arena, where they stabled the animals during a fight.
Rizain wasted no time waiting on the footman to open the carriage door, but immediately bounded out, and indicated for the princess to follow. She silently obeyed.
Two guards flanked her as soon as she stepped out, and they stayed at her sides as she followed Rizain across the chamber and through a side portal. She did not expect this level of security inside the arena, away from the masses. Her mother’s orders, no doubt. But why?
They walked the length of a corridor with narrow walls and low ceiling. They came to a stop at a nondescript portal.
“Stand watch outside,” ordered Rizain, as he opened the portal and ushered the princess inside.
It was a bare chamber, windowless, with stone walls and a dirt floor. A solitary table stood against the far wall, set with an earthenware pitcher and two goblets. Razain strode over to these, poured some water and ordered her to drink it. He then ordered her to lie down on the table so that he could help limber her muscles.
“You know well the protocol of this fight,” he said as he pulled her arms over her head to flex her rotator cups. “As the challenger, your opponent may decide that either you both select your own weapons, or that you each select the weapon with which the other will fight. I cannot tell you what this Commander Roarde will do. He is a young hot-blooded warrior—cocky, and well liked by the people. Do not be surprised if he elects to choose your weapon. Do not allow it to vex you. The weapon is only your tool. You are the weapon, Shahra.
“And whatever weapon you select for him, choose that which is most susceptible to the strengths of your own.”
The princess internalized all he said with silent composure. In truth, the idea of her opponent selecting her fighting weapon unsettled her. But Razain had always forced her to train extensively with all types of weapons. Even with objects that aren’t considered weapons: ropes, pebbles, chairs, rags, glass jars—anything. And she would have her blade at her side, should her primary weapon fail.
Rizain continued to work her joints and muscles in silence, while the princess focused on the imminent fight. At length, a swift rap at the portal broke the silence. The time had arrived. One of the guards entered the chamber. A full escort now stood outside, waiting to lead her onto the arena floor.
Rizain released her arm and stepped back from the table.
The princess sat up and alighted onto the floor.
“I’ll be watching,” her master said.
She realized that she must go without him. She nodded in comprehension. Then, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she followed the grave procession and marched rigidly down the corridor, out toward her opponent and the fate that awaited her.
Mardakkar Arena roared with the frenzied commotion that only such a fight could produce in the people. The sound deafened her ears. Ten levels of stands, all packed to capacity, surrounded the arena floor. So many people. A mob hungry for death, for the blood of one or both fighters, to stain the sand on which they fought.
High above, the rising sun poured down its red glow.
Blood, they want blood.
And they shall have it. But it shan’t be mine.
Across the dusty arena floor from her own procession came that of her opponent, with the commander trailing. He was a proud figure, with shorn head and naked torso. Only his loins and feet wore any sort of covering. The people considered this a token of bravery: to go into battle so unprotected. Foolishness! One might bleed himself into delirium with the scores of cuts an exposed arm might suffer in close combat.
The two processions approached one another. At mid-arena each halted and executed an about-faced turn, so all now faced the empress' personal box. With dignity, the empress rose to her feet. Only then did the arena fall silent. Like a judge of worthiness, the empress looked down at the princess, inclined her head slowly, then turned to Commander Roarde and did the same. Then, lifting her head, she addressed her people.
“Welcome, people of Gorgoroth.”
Her voice reverberated loudly around the arena.
“Today we commence the Trials of the Princess Shahra Hira Minka.”
A renewed burst of shouts and cheers rang through the crowd.
“The first of these Trials is to face an uns
olicited challenger in open combat, in a battle to the death.”
More cheers erupted.
“This very hour the princess shall face Commander Roarde. Do the people of Gorgoroth accept the challenger?”
Again, the deafening roar filled the arena. The princess fought to maintain her composure, and stay her nerves against clamor. She would have to ignore it when she fought. This noise was not something she had anticipated. The slave fights…those were never before such a crowd as this.
It is but noise, Shahra.
Smiling, the empress returned her gaze to the arena floor, to the princess and her challenger.
“I, too, accept the challenger,” she said. “Let the battle commence!”
With that, the crowd broke into a roar ten-fold the intensity as before. The princess felt as if her head would implode from the sheer force of the noise. Still, she held her composure. She was suddenly aware, amid all the commotion, that her entourage had detached themselves from the line, undoubtedly to leave the arena floor. Now came the game's master, the arbitrator of the match. A line of servants followed closely behind him, carrying great wooden chests between then. Five in all, the chests were laid to breach the gap between the princess and the commander. One by one, the locks were unbolted and the chests opened to reveal their contents. Weapons. All the great hand-fighting weapons of the Tor Nation, designed and perfected over the centuries. The princess knew them all well.
She resisted an urge to look longingly at her favorites.
"These are the weapons of Dajra, the Fight of Death," spoke the game's master. "Each fighter shall have one with which he may defeat his opponent and a single knife blade at his side. Should your weapon fail you, your blade shatter, none other shall be given you. The match will end when one or both fighters die. Once begun, there is no surrender. If either opponent wishes to call off the match you may do so now."
The game’s master pointed an iron mace at the commander and boomed, “do you Commander Roarde wish to withdraw your challenge?”
The commander turned away from the mace and looked straight into the princess’ eyes. An arrogant half smile slithered across his lips.
“Nay, I do not withdraw,” he replied calmly.
His reply brought the crowd to life again, with tremendous cheers of approval.
The game’s master nodded solemnly, then slowly turned the mace on the princess.
"Princess Shahra Hira Minka, you may reject the challenger. But know this: In so far as he has been accepted by the people and of the Empress Supreme, by so doing you shall abandon the Trials, and relinquish all right to power and rank.
“Do you reject the challenger?”
Now the princess turned her gaze on the commander. That same haughty smile lingered on his face. She squeezed her fists tightly.
If only I had my sword…
“No,” she cried for all in the arena to witness. “I do not reject the challenger. I accept the challenger and the Trails.”
The crowd screamed their approval.
Withdrawing his face, game's master replied, "Very well. Commander, as you are the challenger, our protocol dictates that you may choose either your own weapon or the weapon of your opponent. Which do you choose?"
The commander did not speak, but moved directly to the second chest and drew out a two-meter-long naginata. This he held out to the game's master, declaring, "I choose this for the princess."
Curse’m! He knows that’s too long for me.
She breathed in sharply, but immediately calmed herself. She could not allow the commander to detect her anger. He smiled again at her before returning to his place on the other side of the weapons. Shahra stared back as indifferently as she could muster.
It was her turn to choose a weapon for the commander. The words of Rizain came back to her…choose that which is most susceptible to the strengths of your own. She could not hesitate in her selection, but show as the commander had shown, the utmost confidence. Even as she approached the line of weapons, her mind calculated the hundreds of options, weighed the subtle strengths of each weapon. The minutest nuance mattered. All these possibilities she weighed against her own strengths and those she knew of her opponent.
He counts on me choosing a rapier, or a battle axe—something considerably shorter than my own weapon. But I’m no fool, Command Roarde.
She passed the three chests, coming to a stop at the fourth. She looked up at the commander. Whilst keeping her eyes fixed on him as she reached in and drew out her choice. A nagamaki, slightly shorter than her own, but long enough that the commander would lose any short-range advantage. The commander replied with a slow incline of his head, as if to say “well played.”
The game’s master held up the weapons to the crowd. The people voiced their approval emphatically. Then the servants removed the chests, and the game’s master handed the princess and commander their weapons. The princess discreetly tested the weapon in her hands. It was light. Obviously made of a finer alloy than the typical naginata. She would use that lightness to her advantage.
An official ushered the princess to her starting position, a small red circle located fifteen meters from the commander’s. She planted her feet inside the ring, then turned to face her opponent. All her senses focused on the weapon in her hands, on the enemy which she must eliminate. The roar of the crowd could not break her concentration. Somewhere, the game’s master would soon signal the start of the match. It did not matter. All she needed to know was when her opponent engaged.
The next instant, the commander bolted toward her, his weapon gripped firmly in both hands.
The princess crouched, held her weapon at the ready, and waited.
Three
Skylar stepped out onto the deck of the Cloud Harbor interplanetary spaceport. A flood of memories filled his mind, as beads of sweat immediately began forming on his skin. His nose twitched slightly. He'd forgotten how distinct the smell of the docks was. The smell of teryleum fuel mixed with carbonized metal. His eyes squinted involuntarily in the scorching Haladrian sun. Everything looked just as he remembered. The multiple levels of steel-grated decks bustled with dockhands, most loading or unloading cargo from one of the many ships docked at the port. Ahead, the huge elliptical-shaped docks for receiving massive convoy ships lay empty. He spied station 47, one of the hundreds of winch station surrounding the dock. It was that same winch station he’d manned not long ago as an apprentice dockhand. The same winch station that had almost gotten him killed.
His gaze drifted out beyond the docks, and the harbor's control tower. Out to the wasted expanse of desert, which surrounded them in every direction. The desert. All he'd ever known growing up was the desert. It felt like such a desolate place to him now after living on the lush planet of Ahlderon.
He licked his lips. The moisture evaporated before his tongue returned to his mouth. Suddenly he was aware of the intense heat. How had he lived here? Had Haladras grown hotter in the year since he left for Ahlderon? He wanted to return to the relative coolness and shade of the Luna.
“Great Yurik, it’s hot!” exclaimed Endrick before he’d even fully emerged from the ship. “That sun’s going to roast us alive.”
“That’s because we’re all dressed like outsiders,” said Grüny. “Look at ‘ya! Wearing a leather jerkin, leather pants, and tall boots—all as dark as pitch. You’re just asking for the sun to burn you to a crisp.”
“Grüny’s right,” said Skylar, “we need better garments while we’re here. I didn’t think to bring any of my old things. We can purchase some in Kaladra.”
“That’s assuming we don’t become sun-dried carrion before we get there,” said Endrick.
The trio briefly discussed a few details of their plans before Skylar and Endrick left to hire a transport. Grüny would stay behind to deal with any paperwork the port officers would require for the Luna to remain docked at the harbor, in addition to paying the mooring fee. After that, he would
head into town to procure a few more supplies he felt they would need for the next leg of their journey.
In the meantime, Skylar and Endrick planned to make a quick stop in Kaladra before heading to his father’s old dwelling. After all, that was the whole reason for their journey to Haladras. They sought information. Information, Skylar believed, that only his father’s secret abode in the middle of the desert might contain.
The pair strode across the deck. Their boots clanked on the metal grating. The familiar sound stirred up a thousand memories in Skylar’s mind from his days as an apprentice dockhand. That was a lifetime ago, another life. Or so it felt.
Despite his nostalgia, however, he warily watched for faces he recognized. His trip to his home planet was unannounced. If someone recognized him, he would be hard-pressed to contrive an excuse. Haladras was far from en route to Kyndoo Yavi. Even now, he wore a co-pilots cap and visor to help shield his face from view. Once in Kaladra, he would procure a desert shroud to better disguise his face.
The dock bustled with people and ships coming in and out of port. Mostly smaller cargo ships. In the past few years, Haladras had grown indispensable to the empire. Spurred by the abundance of teryleum found deep below the planet’s harsh crust, miners flocked to the planet in droves, establishing new mining units every week. With these miners came outfitters, welders, mechanics, drillers, geologist, surveyors, and suppliers of all kinds.
Skylar and Endrick walked up a plank to the main deck. Nearby a gang of dockhand loaded piles of crates onto a conveyor. Skylar forced himself to avoid eye contact with any of the hands. He might know any number of them. They were too busy to pay attention to stray passersby. Skylar understood this well. Once, this had been his task, to lift crate after crate.