by Michael Karr
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 unsolicited 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 weighe
d 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.
Continuing on, they passed the open hangars where frigates, tenders, convoy ships, planethoppers, and cargo vessels were safely stowed. Sandstorms posed a constant threat to space crafts.
Climbing a set of stairs, they made their way to the port office, where they could hire a transport. Skylar looked up at the four-story, steel-plated building, topped with watch tower and command post. The few windows it boasted, running the upper levels, acted as mirrors in the noon Haladrian sunlight. His own thoughts reflected back to that day he entered that building to stand before the Bureau of Interplanetary Travel. Kindor was with him that day. A sharp pang in his stomach reminded him of yet another unhealed wound. Kindor should be at the docks, or even commanding his own ship. If only…
Does the pain ever stop?
He shook his head, as if to shake the thoughts out of his head.
Endrick opened the sliding portal door and stepped inside. Skylar made to follow. He stepped forward, but someone seized his shoulder and jerked him backward. Before he knew what was happening, he was whirled around to face the chest of a massive figure.
“I thought I told you to clean the latrines,” growled a voice that rattled his bones.
Rasbus, his old port master, stared down at Skylar with something like a smile on his face. Skylar half wondered if Rasbus might truly put him to work. Rasbus evidently read in Skylar’s face the need for discreetness. He turned to a few dockhands standing nearby and ordered them off on some conjured errand.
“What ill wind brings you to my docks, Skylar?” he said in a low tone.
“I’m just here to visit some of my old friends,” said Skylar.
“That’s a bunch of malarkey. What are you really up to?”
“I can’t say. It’s…complicated.”
With his huge thumb and forefinger, Rasbus rubbed his chin. Then grunted.
“Keep your secrets, then. What do you need?”
"The Luna, she's docked here. Can you see that she's well looked after? We'll likely be traveling a great distance in her. We need a small transport, too. To get into Kaladra."
“Consider it done.”
Within minutes, Skylar and Endrick were climbing into the fastest two-seater Cloud Habor could supply.
“Whatever you’re up to,” said Rasbus, before they left the harbor, “don’t do anything idiotic. You’re important now—as much as that fact pains me.�
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Skylar nodded, knowing full well he would probably break that promise more than once before their journey was through. With a wordless farewell, the pair sped away from the harbor, out into the endless expanse of Haladrian wasteland. Though he had hoped to avoid contact with anyone he knew on Haladras, Skylar felt gladdened by the brief reunion with his old harbor master. Rasbus would keep his secret. Of that, Skylar felt confident.
Their first stop in Kaladras was to the Gorge, as it was called by the locals. Further west, that ravine was so harsh, it was named the Devil's Throat. A wide ravine, into whose walls were carved thousands of cave-dwellings and shops, all interconnected by a vast network of switchback paths. The early colonist of Haladras had painstakingly carved the first caves there. Not only did the ravine provide some shelter from the sun and sandstorms, but the rock isolated the dwellings, keeping the heat at bay. Skylar himself grew up in one of the small Gorge caves not far from where they now walked.
The first shop they visited was an outfitter, where they purchased garments better suited for the Haladrian climate. To Skylar, the clothes felt familiar, yet somehow strange, as if he'd worn them before but couldn't remember when or where. The desert shroud an article he seldom wore during his years growing up on Haladras. Designed to prevent inhalation of sand during a sandstorm, it was mostly worn by colonist in the deep desert, where the storms were harsher and more frequent. Except for newcomers to Haladras, few people in the Gorge wore them. So Skylar would look like a newcomer—all the better. Though dark-lensed goggles and helmet usual accompanied the shroud, he opted to forgo wearing these.
With Skylar as his navigator, Endrick piloted the transport down into the hidden tunnel that led to his father's underground cavern. Skylar had not visited there since his father's death. Everything lay just as he remembered. The solitary hammock where his father had slept, still hung along one of the side walls. The stone ledge still held its small collection of books. No embers glowed from the fireplace. The same sacks of flour and dried beans sack in the corner. Though, holes in some of the bags attested that desert rats had taken up moved in. His father's desk still sat near the wall opposite the hammock, maps, and parchments strewn across it. A few scattered garments lay on the floor, evidence of a hasty departure. Everything was there—except his father. Skylar scanned the room absently for several minutes before Endrick brought his attention back to what they came for.