The Gladiatrix

Iriman laughed as the whip tore the flesh from my back. I refused to cry out. That was what he wanted. I would let the pain become hatred and the hatred would fuel my resolve. I would deny Iriman, that pettiest of tyrants, no matter what it cost.

My crime had been minor. I had been caught speaking Rhandic with Hulda. Even with my privileges, I was not immune to the law. Five strokes for speaking anything other than Kharish. The other five were Hulda's, given to me because Jezreal didn't want to scar her beloved handmaid. Besides, she knew that striping me would wound Hulda even more.

I sagged against the stocks, my back stinging and wet. Only ten stripes, but ten was more than enough to reduce me to rags. The entire castle watched my humiliation, and I think that wounded me more. Foolish pride, I suppose. Hulda was there as well, and I was grateful that I could not see her.

When it was finished, Grud and Uitzin bore me to my quarters where the healer shortly joined me. I lay there, the stinging maddening. The stining would not cease, as the healer was not there to take my pain away. He was there only to stop my bleeding. Kharsoomians had a method of healing but leaving a scar, so that a slave would never forget their disobedience. Ironically, those ten whip scars across my back would later prove my status as a boldisar. Iriman had given me a gift. I would return the favor in my own way. He never healed that scar either.

I had already made the decision to escape and was deep in preparation, hiding food and water, finding a map that would take me to safety. I thought I would go north, then west to the coast. There was a section of Kharsoom, north of Deszu, the Shattered Reef. Not truly a reef, but a place where the coast had been broken far inland, leaving a treacherous land of unexplored islands. It was a pirate haven, and I thought if I could make it there, I could find passage on a ship. I had the skills of an able seaman and a pirate would not care I had been a slave.

But first, this final indignity. The healer left me to my thoughts of escape. As I lay on the bed, exhausted and in agony, the bell rang. Grud's voice came from my doorway. "Stay there, barbarian. She does not mean to summon you. If the bell rings again, I was wrong and you will rouse yourself." It was the closest I had heard him come to genuine sympathy.

Not long after. I heard the door open and felt a presence on my bed. Hulda's scent enfolded me, and I shivered, a fresh cascade of stings over my back. "Oh. Ashuz," she murmured, touching my shoulder.

"I am fine."

She kissed my cheek. "Her Highness bade me spend the night with you."

"The one night I cannot take you."

She gave a rueful chuckle, then climbed into bed, pressing her warm body against mine. "I do not always need to be taken."

I did not sleep, but she did, and that was enough.

All the time and effort I put into preparing my escape came to naught. That, I suppose, was inevitable. Though the gods of Kharsoom were dead, that did not mean they had lost their sense of humor. As the saying goes, a dead god can still laugh.

It was the arrival of the messenger one uneventful day that heralded the beginnings of my escape, though I could not know that at the time. The wounds on my back had turned to scars by the time he rode through our gate on the back of a qobad, flying the red flag of peace. I was in the midst of drills, and did not attach too much significance to the event. Messengers were common enough.

It was not until I was in the central hall while the Prince and Princess were dining that evening, that I learned what had happened. When I arrived to take my ceremonial position behind the Princess, they were already deep in conversation.

"... not concerned with the spears. Behnan will choose them," Zahudmammu was saying.

"Can we spare twelve men?"

"We have no choice. This invitation--"

"I know."

The Prince sighed, momentarily regarding his food. "I want to use your barbarian as champion."

"No! He's mine!" protested Jezreal.

"My love, be reasonable. He is the strongest warrior we own. If we are to win, we need him. I am not asking for your greenskin or warmaid."

"But what if he is killed?"

"Then I will buy you a new guard. One with a thick spear and soft eyes, the way you like them."

She pouted. "Fine. You may have him."

Zahudmammu broke into a wide smile. "Wonderful. You saw him against the boldisar. He will bring us glory."

That night I was not surprised to hear the bell ring. Grud chuckled as we made our way to Jezreal's quarters. We found her in a perfumed bath, her handmaids washing her shapely limbs. Hulda's eyes met mine, and I hoped we would be allowed to lay together. Sometimes Jezreal enjoyed watching the two of us. I suspect she liked the sight of genuine passion.

"My sweet Ashuz," Jezreal said. "Come here and let me look at you."

I approached the bath. "What were you and the Prince speaking about?"

She gave me an indulgent look. "I should have you beaten for that insolence. It's lucky for you that I find it adorable. We have been invited to participate in a Crown Game."

"I don't know what that is."

"You are a barbarian. How ould you know the proper ways to assert your clan's status?" She smiled as I had no response. "You will play a great game in the hippodrome in Ghanappur. You have the honor of being champion of Clan Sesamhat."

"What does that mean?"

"You will be the most valuable piece on the board. All you need to do is move where you are bidden and slay any you come across."

"I believe I understand," I said, though I could not.

"Good," she said, standing up. Water cascaded from her bountiful curves. "Tonight you will take me. Grud, you may watch."

The half-orc sighed in disappointment. "As you wish, mistress."

I learned that we would be a team of twelve, with four positions between us. There were the spears. Numbering six, they were the lowliest of the pieces. My friend Uitzin was selected to be one of these. We had three outriders as well, and I noted the choices seemed to be the longest-limbed of the castle's guards. Then there were two sentinels. This sparked another argument as Zahudmammu wanted Grud for one of these, but Jezreal flatly refused. The half-orc caught my eye and smirked. I do not know what victory he thought he had achieved in that moment.

Lastly, there was one champion. Me.

I did not know what these positions truly meant. In fact, though I have participated in a Crown Game, I still don't truly understand its intricacies. I still hold Kharsoomian title, a Prince of Clan Abibaal, but I have never played a Crown Game. I suppose I am lucky in that Tanyth found such things to be distasteful.

Our caravan departed a week later. The twelve of us who had been selected for the game were allowed to ride in the carriages. Other guards would protect us.

"Can you believe it, Farmer?" Utizin said. "We were picked. We defend Clan Sesamhat's honor for the glory of the crowd."

"I don't share your excitement."

"Of course not. You already have the easy job. Me? I could do better. I do well in the Crown Game, maybe I'm in the castle. Maybe they give me the post up on the wall, where the castle's shadow falls in the afternoon." He broke into a wide smile.

"Your dreams are something to behold. What know you of the Crown Game?"

He shrugged. "A fight is a fight, isn't it? Kharsoomians love their bloodsport. Give them something to cheer and they will love us. Bring glory to Clan Sesamhat, and Prince Zahudmammu will love us."

The city of Ghanappur was the equal of Deszu, located on a bluff rising out of the wasteland. A gnarled forest of petrified trees surrounded it, testament to a time when the cracked and desolate land bloomed with life. The bluff was honeycombed with tunnels and plazas, a second city beneath the first. This would prove my salvation.

The city's gates were at the base of the bluff, the rest of it rising along the contours of the land. The hippodrome was at the top, the city's main road running in a straight line from gate to gate. Much like Deszu, it was a modern shanty built atop ancient ruins, filled with constantly decaying life. Kharsoom was a scavenger empire, but the carcass it feasted upon was magnificent.

The crowds watched the royal caravan with some interest, but the city was too alive to pay too much attention to such arrivals. The stench was incredible. Filth, unwashed bodies, and other more exotic scents warred in my senses, constantly threatening to overwhelm me. I sat back in the carriage, trying to center myself in this madness.

The hippodrome was a great, five-sided building at the edge of the bluff at the highest point of the city. The caravan stopped in front of its yawning front gates, where a delegation of other Kharsoomians waiting. The guards bore a crimson standard emblazoned with a hawk, a flag I had seen flapping from the city's battlements.

A group of four Kharsoomians stood at the forefront of these guards. One wore a slave collar, and reminded me of Happanu. The others, two were women and one a man, all three in vital middle age. Each of them dripped with gold and jewels, putting the wealth of Clan Sesamhat to shame. I would learn that the man was Prince Enlilbanipal of Clan El, ruler of Ghanappur, and the two women his wives.

Zahudmammu, Jezreal, Happanu, and Iriman all dismounted from the caravan and made a great show of bowing.

"What are they saying?" whispered Uitzin.

"Pleasantries," I said.

He shot me a glare. After the proper Kharsoomian manners were exchanged between the two groups, Iriman returned to the carriage. "Crown pieces, get out. Show yourselves to our hosts. No speaking. Maintain the dignity of Clan Sesamhat."

We filed out. The waiting Kharsoomians watched us with the interest of children inspecting new toys. Seeing Zahudmammu and Jezreal being humble before these two was jarring.

"Spears here," Iriman said, pointing to spots on the ground in turn. "Then outriders, sentinels, and you, barbarian. Step lightly, or I'll put another ten lashes on you."

I stopped cold, staring in Iriman's yellow eyes. He was about my size, and though muscled I had not a single doubt I could kill him with my bare hands. I considered it, imagining my hands upon his throat. Armed guards, both Clan Sesamhat's and Clan El's, were all that saved him.

"You should not look at your betters that way," he said.

"I'm not," I said quietly enough that only he could hear.

He raised his hand to cuff me, and Jezreal barked. "Iriman!"

"Cousin," chided the Prince. "Harming our champion before a Crown Game?"

"He is insolent."

"You can give him some lashes when we return."

"You are confident," said Prince Enlilbanipal.

"Yes, Your Highness. The barbarian is quite skilled. He is Clan Sesamhat's champion for a reason."

Enlilbanipal clapped his hands in glee. "Wonderful, wonderful! I look forward to seeing him perform."

"We apologize for our late arrival, Your Highness," said Zahudmammu.

"We are still awaiting Clan Maharbaal," Enlilbanipal. "They are the ones I shall be cross with, not you."

"Which clans are participating?"

"Sesamhat and Maharbaal, of course. Then Zukhet, Ektet, and finally El."

"El? Your clan?"

Enlilbanipal smiled, a predatory expression. I had no love for Zahudmammu, but I felt the ghost of sympathy for how his heart must have sunk in that moment. "I would not miss a Crown Game."

Zahudmammu swallowed. "I have heard tales of your champion."

"They call her Iron Rhayn," said Enlilbanipal with the pride of one who has just gotten to broach a topic he had been waiting for. "She is magnificent. This will be her fourth Crown Game. She is beloved in the hippodrome. Though a greenskin, she has been taken by Ghanappur as their own."

"Aren't we lucky," said the Prince, not meeting his wife's eyes, who was glaring daggers at him.

"I will have your pieces taken to quarters. They will be made comfortable. Tomorrow we will get our first glimpse!"

A contingent of Enlilbanipal's guard led the twelve of us to the gate. As we passed, I heard Jezreal mutter to her husband, "I will have Happanu plan us a trip to Deszu. And I will have two new guards, not one."

"Of course, my love," said Zahudmammu, his crimson forehead shiny with sweat.

We went into the cool dark of the hippodrome. These were the great corridors where the visitors would pass on the way out to their seats. The guards took us to a staircase, leading us down into the bowels of the building.

I expected a dungeon, and I found myself pleasantly surprised. We found an area well lit by torches, a five-pointed room furnished like the servants' quarters of the castle. Sections of the room were barred, creating five cages, each one touching two others. Before the doorways hung a flag. We were led to one of the empty cages, where the urok on green of Clan Sesamhat hung.

The cage to one side of us was marked with the hawk on red of Clan El. To the other side was a tower on gray that I would come to know as the sigil of Clan Ektet. A skull on orange marked the cage of Clan Zukhet. The empty cage, marked with a ghalak, belonged to Clan Maharbaal.

The ghalak is long extinct, but it was a grotesque predator that hunted the desert dunes in parts of Kharsoom. It was loathed by all, except for the Maharbaal, who had chosen it as a sigil. I would never understand this. I always found the sigil of Clan Abibaal, the scorpion, to be strange, but I have grown to appreciate the heraldry.

We went into our cage, and the soldiers shut it behind us with a thud. The twelve of us looked about, while the other teams watched us from their cages.

"Look at this, Farmer," Uitzin said, pointing at the biggest dais. "The champion's bed."

I grunted. "This is ridiculous."

"It's not," called a half-orc from Clan El's cage. She was tall, her limbs covered in lean muscle beneath taut skin. Her complexion was a brownish-green, a pleasantly forested hue unusual in the Red Wastes. Her auburn hair was cut into a mohawk, with tattoos running down either side of her skull. More tattoos crawled over her arms, and a down her thighs. She was nude, eschewing even a harness, wearing only a pair of sandals laced up her calf. My gaze crawled over her body, lingering on her scars, her hairless sex, her wide nipples, and her powerful neck. "Champions have their privileges."

"Who are you?"

"Rhayn," she said, "Also a champion."

"The true champion," said a man in her cage.

"Iron Rhayn," I said. "I heard your name."

"Everyone's heard my name," she said with a smirk. Her lower canines were heavy, almost, but not quite, tusks. "And what of you?"

"This is Ashuz," said Uitzin, stepping up next to me. Then, lowering his voice menacingly. "The Farmer."

Three cages laughed, though Iron Rhayn did not. "Good name," said the man who had spoken before. "If we were growing wheat, I would be frightened."

"No," said Rhayn. "Nickname like that, means he has nothing to prove."

Uitzin nodded at me. "Thank you," I muttered.

"Take him," Rhayn said, gesturing at the cage marked with a skull, Clan Zukhet's team. A man, half again as tall as me stared back with a single baleful eye in the middle of his face. "They call him simply the Crusher. A cyclops from the wastes. I know why he is called that. Look at him. But the Farmer? Why could he have such a name?"

"I nearly had a farm of pepper trees," I said.

The dungeon went silent. Then, a moment later, laughter. Rhayn didn't laugh, her bright green eyes sparkling, never leaving mine.

The caravan from Clan Maharbaal arrived the morning of following day, after we were fed. I was surprised to see a xerxyss among them, though not surprised to learn she was their champion. Soon after their arrival, the guards took us from our cages up to the floor of the hippodrome itself.

I blinked in the bright Kharsoomian sun. The air was hot and dry, sweat springing from my skin and almost instantly vanishing into the thirsty air. Only the skin under my boots and loincloth felt fine, the subtle enchantments on the garments keeping me comfortable.

I stared at the massive structure around me. It was an incredible construction. Built a thousand years ago, it rose around us like an artificial canyon. The stands weren't even full, but the cheers of those present were magnified and by the shape of the building.

The floor was dirt, with five entrances leading into the lower levels of the hippodrome. Guards bearing our flags separated each team. We followed our flag to one part of the arena, where a rack of weapons waited. The escort then stood still, our green urok flag flapping in the sluggish breeze.

A man in a slave collar, well-muscled and bearing a bone-headed axe, gestured to the rack. "Take your weapons. You are to put on a show." Practice weapons of every description were lined up on the rack. At that moment, a group of warriors carrying practice weapons came from each of the five entrances, approaching a different team.

"Are these the games?" Uitzin asked.

"No, my savage friend. This is merely to whet the appetite of the crowd. The gamblers will want to know how to place their wagers. You'll not want to hold back. There's honor to be had in your performance today."

We spent the day sparring, both with each other and with the group of warriors who joined us. In between matches, I looked across the wide arena floor to the others. As champion, the target was squarely upon me, and I found myself looking at the other champions, the cyclops from Zukhet, the xerxyss from Maharbaal, a Kharsoomian man from Ektet, and of course Iron Rhayn. She was glorious, every movement a violent poem.

During one of my breaks, I looked out into the stands. Hulda looked back at me, as though she had been waiting for me to see her. She had been watching. I wished I could talk to her, but I could not. I had already spoken my final words to her, though neither of us could know that. I suppose we needed no great farewell. Our love was a thing of convenience. I would miss her, but she never ached in my breast the way Zhahllaia or Ixem did.

I took what comfort I could in Hulda's gaze. It was a moment before I noted Zahudmammu and Jezreal sitting in front of her. The entire delegation was as tense as bowstrings as they watched the five teams spar in the hot sun.

In the late afternoon, we were ushered back into our cages, where we were given food and water. "Sad to say the rest of you haven't a chance," said the champion from Clan Ektet, a bulky Kharsoomian.

"You're a fool," said one of Clan Zukhet's outriders. He gestured to the massive cyclops. "The Crusher'll have you."

"None of you knows what it takes," said one of El's sentinels, a dwarf woman. "We've played the Crown Game before. This will be Rhayn's fourth. My third."

"You've never faced the likes of us," sneered Ektet's champion.

Uitzin opened his mouth, and I held out a hand. He went silent. "Listen," I murmured to my team. "Let them betray themselves. Listen, but don't speak."

"Look at the uroks there," said the Ektet champion. "Afraid to talk."

I silenced my team with a look, then turned, meeting his eyes.

"You afraid?" he sneered. "What will you do when I come for you?"

I had watched him that day. He was big, but not as big as the Crusher. No one was. He favored his left side, holding the right away from his opponents. He did it then, in the cages, as though he and I were about to fight. Without intending it, I felt a thread enter my mind. Not as clear as the ones my old weapon had offered, but clear enough. I saw myself stepping past his defenses and striking to kill. A stroke through his neck. He was too slow to stop it, his body in the wrong position.

I realized then that I had not spoken. I had merely been staring into his burgundy eyes. Not worth talking to anyway," he said, trying to hide a shiver.

The other teams lost interest in us. The bulk of the chatter came from Ektet and Maharbaal, but El and Zukhet were far from quiet.

"Farmer," said Rhayn. She stood by the bars that separated our cages, beckoning me. They had all been at each other for hours, and the taunts were only just beginning to wane. She had remained mostly silent, her team more than willing to boast on her behalf.

I went to her. "What?"

"You don't care for the talking."

"It's foolish."

"It can be good for your team. Builds spirit."

"You want us to talk?"

"I want you to put up a good fight. No glory in a bad fight."

"The Kharsoomians do not like disappointment."

"To the wastes with them. I don't fight for the Kharsoomians. I fight for me. Do that they remember."

"I don't understand."

"The glory one gains in the hippodrome will outlast the arena itself. We become immortal in our fighting. I know that I will be glorious."

"Why do you speak to me?"

"I watched you. You are not my equal, but you are the only one who could possibly come close. If I am to cover myself in glory, then it is with your help I do so."

"Tell me of the Crown Game."

"You're from Chassudor, from the looks of you. Don't have anything like this back there."

"You're from Chassudor?"

She shook her head. "Mairault. But that hardly matters, does it? As for the game, you have little control over how it transpires. Merely win your fights. Which, I suspect you will, as long as you don't fight me. Although I suspect that we will face one another before it is over."

"How does this happen?"

"The Prince of each clan moves his pieces."

"Pieces. Us."

"Yes."

"How will we know when we're moved?"

"Follow the lights. It will make more sense when it happens. When you enter the tile occupied by a member of another clan, kill them. But this is important, you must make it entertaining. If you merely kill and move on, you will be forgotten, your tale untold."

"You care," I said in amazement.

"I have seen your kind before. Proud barbarians who don't want to put on a show. You fight well, but you are nothing. Write your name in the book, Farmer. Paint your deeds on the wall in blood."

We had two more days performing for the gamblers. By the second, the gamblers had started erecting boards with our odds, numbers that changed as we performed through the day. It looked to be serious business, and though I could never understand quite how they calculated our odds, the way they went about it implied great thought and skill went into it.

On the final day, we returned to our cages cloaked a feeling in the air like unshed lightning. The food they brought us, the same simple stew and brown bread, tasted better. Conversations were bright and jagged. The taunts had an edge of hysteria to them.

As we ate, my eyes went to a dark corner in Clan Zukhet's cage. Two members of the team, a spear and a sentinel, were in the opening salvos of loveplay. I was momentarily taken aback, but I quickly saw they weren't the only ones using this final night thus. Each kept to the shadows, but with the copious torches, the shadows weren't small. They could not hide.

A whoop went over the cages as one couple was noticed. The two of them were fishhooking quite enthusiastically. More whoops sounded as the other couples and trios were found. Some of those whoops vanished as they sparked inspiration in others.

"Farmer," called Rhayn. She leaned against the bars. The air, already redolent with sweat, was joined with the musk of arousal. My eyes fell to the apex of her muscular thighs. The lips of her sex glistened in the torchlight.

I went to her. She looked me over hungrily. "Come, you have no one."

"You want me?"

"I want the strongest fighter. That is you."

"Bars separate us. Or did you forget them?"

She grinned. "We can do this. I have done it before. It will be difficult, if you are not particularly endowed."

"Turn about," I said.

"Shy? Shame."

She did as I asked, pressing her hindquarters to a gap in the bars, widening her stance. I reached between her thighs. Her bare lips were sopping. She would not need much teasing, and that was fortunate. I had no patience for it that night. I lifted my loincloth, and guided myself to her. She was hot on the tip of my staff, her body pressing vainly into the iron bars. She moaned as I pushed into her.

"You needn't be shy, Farmer," she said.

A whoop went up among my clan. "Champions doing battle!" called Uitzin.

She pushed back, gyrating her hips as I slid in and out of her. She loved what she felt but would not be overawed. "I will defeat him here now too," she called breathlessly.

I reached through the bars, gripping a handful of her auburn hair while throwing a brutal thrust into her. She uttered a choked cry. "I will take her deeply."

Another cheer went up. And I saw a man from Clan El kneeling, performing the knight's kiss on a shapely outrider, her hands caressing her soft breasts.

I kept my grip on her hair, pulling her head back, my other hand on her muscular hip as I thrust into her. The feel of her was creamy, sliding up and down my staff, taking me to the head, then back down to the base. I looked down at her rosebud, winking at me, the flesh around it an alluring deep forest green.

As though she could sense my sudden desire. "No buggery today," she gasped. "But hard. I want you hard."

I wanted to respond, but something inside her took me away. Her body was powerful, her orchid strong against me. She had control, her muscles milking in counterpoint to the swirl of her powerful hips. Yet this ecstatic sensation was not what took me. It was the harbinger of something greater that transformed this experience from the sordid to the sublime.

Inside her body, something brewed. Energy sheathed my staff, sparked with every stroke inside of her. It was not merely her expert touch, but something deeper inside her, a power nurtured perhaps by her glory. As I pushed into her, burying myself, I sought it.

The thundering of my heart was loud in my ears. Each thrust brought another peal, and I felt my staff turning to lambent blue-white energy, crackling in her. I spread with each stroke, touching more of her, rocking through her powerful thews as I slammed my sex into hers. She was loud now, joining the grunts and moans of the other gladiators. Half of us were in the midst of loveplay, the other half watching, rapt, unable to believe this was happening.

We had lost control, if control had ever truly been ours. I hammered another stroke into her. At the apex, I felt my spear come apart, reaching beyond into her womb, up her spine. She cried out, a ragged, broken thing, her body quaking with need. I would not stop now. I could not.

She had lost her balance, her palms on the floor, presenting her haunches for me, supplicant but undeniably powerful. This mighty warrior, every part of her engineered to kill, and in this moment, she was slave to her passion. The swirling of her hips had become more stuttered, more jagged, less controlled. She had lost herself in our coupling.

I was the clouds, my spear a shaft of lighting, her sex a flower drinking in the rain, longing for those clouds to break to be flooded. My thrusts did not quicken. Instead, I listened to the thunder of my heart. I danced to the music of the storm inside me. A storm I wanted to unleash upon her.

Her cries were animal. She had pushed past everything that had made her more than nature to touch on something primal. Her body had been taken by the bliss, crying out for more but knowing that bit would break her. She wanted to be broken irrevocably. For in that breaking was glory.

The end of each thrust, as the lightning spiderwebbed into her, I felt more of her body. Fingers of my lambent energy touched every part of her, sparking fires through her powerful thews. I touched her mind, exploded behind her eyes. Then I withdrew, that pregnant place between the rains, before it would break again, only to take her all over again.

She was broken, past any protest. With the storm crackling over me, I pulled myself from her. A final hammering stroke, the breaking of the storm. I took her to the hilt. The bliss seized me, and thunder reverberated in my skull as I spilled into her hungry womb.

I collapsed, holding myself steady against the bars. Breathing came back to me slowly. I looked about, wondering if the others had heard the thunder. Only a few looked at us. Most were deep in their own loveplay and they had as many spectators as we.

I turned my attention back to Rhayn. She unsteadily got to her feet, and I fell from her. She leaned against the same bars as I. Her hot breath caressed my face, and I longed to kiss her lips. Even the tusks poking from her bottom jaw gave me only desire. I leaned in and she leaned away.

"No," she murmured. "Do not ruin what we shared."

"What did we share?"

"Do not ask questions you know the answer to, Farmer." Her gaze dropped to my lips, and then, quietly, "I will see you on the game board tomorrow. I know you will not disappoint me."

I slept fitfully that night, the energy of the storm crawling over my body and soul. I did not know then what this was, what I had touched. I would soon find what I believed to be the reason, but it was in fact the corner of a much vaster phenomenon. I believe that I could not recognize it for what it was, because I had forgotten how to hope.

It had happened without my realizing it. I believe it started in that damnable war, and the death of my poor Oddrin had given it form. And though I had found many moments of beauty in my journeys, I had not truly found hope.

Despite what would soon transpire, I did not learn to hope until I was on the deck of The Typhoon Cross. Though I would take the first step upon my journey home as a full-fledged wizard that very day, I did not see it for what it was.

Morning dawned, as we were fed. The lots of us ate in silence, with love behind and death ahead, there were no words that could bridge that gulf. After our meal, the guards escorted us from the cages on the path to the arena. Uitzin fell into step next to me. "How do you do it, Farmer?"

"Do what?"

"At home, the Princess gives you use of a handmaid. Beneath the hippodrome and you conquer that glorious beast there."

"I do not know."

He sighed. "Too much to hope that you would tell me your secret."

We emerged out into the punishing Kharsoomian day, each delegation led by a guard bearing our clan flag. The hippodrome, filled with people, erupted in cheers. The thunder of the crowd's united voice shook me to my core.

This day is remembered. Most chronicles assume that I had been enslaved in the home of Clan Sesamhat, and this was my thunderous return to the world's stage. The earliest histories did not always connect Ashuz, fighting-slave of Clan Sesamhat with Belromanazar, archmage of Stormspoint. My favorite description of events is in The Royal Contest, a history of the Crown Game for which my participation was a mere footnote, and I was named as Ashuz the Farmer. Humbling, that. As Tanyth is fond of telling me, I could use humbling from time to time.

As the Crown Game has passed along with the rest of Kharsoom, I will describe it as it transpired. The Royal Contest has a far more detailed explanation, including the various strategies masters of the game used to employ. Rather, look at this as how a barbarian experienced it.

In the center of the arena was the game surface itself, a five-pointed star. Each point carried twelve spaces, then twenty-four more between. At each point of the star was a rack of weapons. Each one of us took what we wanted. Across the surface, I found Rhayn, selecting a pair of straight Kharsoomian blades. I wondered if I should take something more than the simple bone spear, but now was not the time to learn a new weapon.

Our guide directed us to our places on the field, every one of us given a tile of our own. The spears were in the front, bolstered next by the outriders, then sentinels, and finally the champions at the point farthest from the center. The goal of the game was to get the entirety of the team, whoever survived, into the point of another team. The purpose of the game was creating a series of exciting combats the crowd could relish.

I looked about, shivering in the thunder of the crowd. The sounds of their roar played over my skin, touching the lightning that had been there since the previous night. I noted. At the corners of my tile were fist-sized rubies glinting in the bright Kharsoomian sun.

Our controllers were off in a box on the balcony across the hippodrome. I could not see them, but I believe they were all there. Each of the five clans, their full delegations, played their own game even as they played the Crown Game for the crowd. Hulda would be there. Perhaps it was a mercy I did not see her then.

The crowd went silent. A voice, magically enhanced, boomed over the hippodrome. "People of Kharsoom! Five noble clans have gathered! Today they pit their slaves in the Crown Game! To the winner, glory! Honor! To the losers, dust!"

The answering roar was deafening.

Ahead, on the board, the rubies about one of Clan El's spears lit up. The man, without expression, advanced two spaces into the center. Next, Clan Zukhet sent a spear into the center as well. Then the rubies about Uitzin lit up and after looking about, he advanced cautiously into the intended square. Maharbaal was next, and Ektet was last.

In the next round, El advanced another spear, Zukhet brought out an outrider, we advanced another spear to Uitzin's side. And then, Maharbaal sent their first spear to Uitzin's tile.

My heart seized. Unbidden, I leaned forward to see the result of this contest. The Maharbaal spear, despite the name, was a woman wielding a pair of bone axes. With a wild cry, she hurled herself at UItzin. She was stronger than he, but he was swift. The two clashed, parted. They circled one another like jungle cats, only to rejoin in battle. The crowds cheered, and so did our clans. I let my friend hear my voice as he fought for his life.

Then, Uitzin struck home, impaling the other spear beneath her ribcage. She fell with a choked cry, and the crowd roared its approval. Uitzin looked around, as though he could not believe what had happened. Though he had won, a ragged wound dripped from his thigh. He managed a salute to the crowd and then to the box where Prince Zahudmammu controlled his team.

The round finished with another battle as Ektet sent a spear against El, and was cut down without much ceremony.

The next round moved more into play. Now, each advance guaranteed a contest. I was not surprised when Zukhet's outrider's move swept him about the El spear blocking the way and landed at Uitzin's tile.

I do not think Uitzin could have defeated this outrider at full heath, and he was wounded. It was with a queasy feeling I watched him move too sluggishly to respond to the outrider's swift attacks. The Zukhet man toyed with my friend, slicing pieces from him as the crowd roared its bloodlust.

Finally, I could take no more. Game be damned. I ran for the tile, ready to cut this outrider to pieces. An explosion of pain stopped me. I felt as though I had run into a stone wall. I reached out, and at the border of my tile, a barrier invisible to the eye yet solid to the touch. I cursed bitterly, and then, watched helplessly as the outrider slew my friend.

I fixed the outrider with my hatred, but I could do nothing. In a proper battle, I could have slain him, but this was no proper battle. Our movements were controlled by those in the box. We could only travel along the pathways they gave us, transferring one cage for another. My gaze slipped to Uitzin's lifeless body, laying in pool of gore.

By the time I was brought out onto the board proper, not a single tile was free of a corpse. Dead members of every team littered the ground, their blood and ichor pooling beneath their still bodies.

Clan Maharbaal's team was scattered across the board. Their Prince was apparently easily baited into taking injured pieces, and thus he was unable to mass his team for a coordinated push to any one goal. Clan Ektet was almost entirely wiped out, and their few remaining pieces were making a run for Maharbaal's undefended goal. Clan Zukhet was in similar shape to Clan Sesamhat. Our Princes had kept us mostly together, and we had not lost too many, but we were not in position for victory.

It was Clan El who looked to win. They had advanced slowly, but now they had turned their attention to Maharbaal, and it was clear that there were not enough pieces to oppose them. I admit, I was filled a strange sensation. I did not want them to win, as though a victory for a different clan would somehow hurt my own pride. This was a game of the people who called themselves my owners. I was a piece, with no will of my own.

When it came to our turn, Prince Zahudmammu threw me into combat against one of El's spears. He did not stand a chance against me, and soon his corpse lay across the top of the other on this tile.

For the first time, I was close to Rhayn. A clear avenue separated us. I was not the only one who noticed. The crowd's roar called to us. They wanted the champions to battle. Rhayn looked to me, her green eyes flashing. Sweat glistened over her magnificent body.

We were not the first. El threw Rhayn into battle with the champion of Clan Maharbaal. The xerxyss proved to be a skilled combatant, but she was not the equal of the half-orc. She landed one hit on Rhayn, but it was not enough. She took the creature's head. And with that, any pretense of Maharbaal adopting a defense was gone.

I was not surprised to see the rubies light up in a path leading to Rhayn's tile. Wounded, perhaps I had a chance. She grinned, her tusks standing stark against her lips. She wanted to fight me. I believe this was the true ending of our coupling the previous night. This was, I believe, why she chose me.

She held her two blades, a long and a short, out. It was an opening, an invitation to attack. I strode forward. We joined in battle.

The struggle was titanic. I am not certain I have ever faced Rhayn's equal in single combat. She was not the quickest, nor the strongest I have fought, but she had a unique combination of abilities that made her the perfect fighter. More than anything else, her keen intelligence served her well, enabling her to always attack at my weakest point, yet never overextend.

She slipped past my defenses and drew blood upon me. Not an especially deep cut, but the scar she cut along the upper half of my left arm remains. Faded over time, but it will be there until my death.

When her blade ran over my arm painting that bright stripe of red, I felt a rumble of thunder. Lightning crawled from the pain, slithering over my tigerish form. I thought it a momentary fancy, but as I struck back and she parried, the boom was once again like thunder. Now, every time our weapons hit, a boom that heralded a storm echoed over the hippodrome. It was mad, but I knew this was the same storm that had first arrived the previous night. A storm we had conjured with our love, now one that would find its purpose in death.

I was not filled with rage at the prospect of killing or dying. This was how we had to end, for we were warriors. I had, in that moment, been seduced by Rhayn and her vision of the arena. This might sound strange, but there is no other way I can explain what we shared. Many times, loveplay is a comfort, but what Rhayn and I shared never was. It was a prelude. I believe that it primed me, the way demon powder can prime an explosion. When I took her, we were gathering the clouds. Now they would truly shed.

Strikes were our lightning. They landed, sparking bright blood on each of us. She pressed forward. Her blows were swift and sure. I saw in her the roiling of the storm, a crackling thunderhead heralding death. She was the bloom of cloud, the rake of lightning, the howl of wind.

And that was the moment I knew she would kill me.

She was better than I. As much as I had forged myself into a terrible opponent, she had been sharpened by the hippodrome. This was her home, and none could stand against her here. This could have very well been the end of my tale.

But it is not.

Her blade slipped past my defenses, and she kicked me in the chest. My spear fell from my hand to clatter on the bloody tile. I staggered back, hitting the invisible wall at the edge of our space. She moved in, ready for a killing stroke.

My hand was empty. I reached out, as though that would put my lost spear into my hand. Thunder boomed.

This time I knew it was not in my mind. From the corners of my eyes, I saw others react, looking about into the cloudless Kharsoomian sky, that flat blue that holds neither cloud nor rain. A shaft of lightning stabbed down. Brighter than the sun, it burned away my senses. Then it was in my hand, solid and humming with power.

As the world returned, I stared in amazement as I held my spear. My true weapon. Ur-Anu, a weapon forged in an earlier age to slay a god, its very name means Fate in a forgotten tongue. I had thought it lost, but it had returned to me in a moment of need. Something like this had happened once before, when it returned to my hand on a bolt of lightning, but that was in the space of moments. Had it been awaiting me elsewhere?

I held it by a forearm-sized swatch of supple leather wrapped about a point on the upper third of the weapon, the grip where I would hold it at rest. The creature that had given the leather was not known to me and I believe long extinct by the time I took up the weapon.

The shaft was forged of wood, bone white and as warm as a lover's breath. Carvings snaked their way along the wood, images from my own story. At the base, a tower rose over the stormy sea, a tiny figure overlooking. Above, a lamp clutched in hands. Then above, the great trees of Iarveiros, the Mythseekers in front of the tower, Tarasynora and I on the back of a stag, me upon an altar annihilating ghasts, then images of the Turquoise Conquests, of war and ships at sea.

More carvings ran up the shaft, describing my adventures to this point. Images in time, showing me battling through the jungles of Uazica, standing against the beast Mh'rohgg, striking Zaqhat the Enchanter through the heart. The last image was this one, me in the hippodrome, holding Ur-Anu. Reunited.

At the top of the shaft were two disks of stone on either side, set with precious gems. Opals the size of my fists, looking like the night sky in stone, sat in the center. Other, smaller gemstones orbited these. Obsidian teeth bristled from the circles.

Above this was the blade. Longer than my forearm, it looked to be made of obsidian. That would have been impossibly fragile, and no fool would have made a blade like that. Inside was the white-blue veins of lightning, crawling from the base of the blade to its edges. Yet this was not obsidian, but the remnants of a stone from the sky itself. As sharp as volcanic glass, but harder than any substance I had yet found. I had seen it slice through metal as easily as flesh.

Rhayn stared in wonder, but only for a moment. With a cry, she lunged. The thread caught me, and I saw myself turning away, striking her down as she landed. She would expect me to attempt a killing blow here, and only her incredible body control would enable her to dodge it. That would have overextended me and placed me perfectly for a killing blow. Had I still been using a mundane weapon, I would have fallen into her trap.

I rolled away, and she landed, adjusting her attack. It was too late. I buried Ur-Anu in her heart. The hippodrome was silent. My eyes met hers. She broke into a grin, blood falling from her lips.

"Glory," she gasped. Her swords clattered from her nerveless hands. The light faded from her green eyes. Her body fell lifelessly to the tile. She had been a great champion of the hippodrome. I wondered if she would get her wish and be remembered.

The crowd roared. I felt nothing in that sound. I concentrated on the hum of the spear in my hand. Then, without thinking, I stabbed the ruby at the corner of my tile. The blade of my weapon sliced it in two, the stone shattering like glass. A scent like rain filled the air.

I reached out to the wall that had once separated me form the next tile. It was gone. With a grin, I jammed Fate into the seam of the tiles and moved, slicing the rubies apart as the smell of rain grew and billowed.

The crowd began to murmur as I left my tile, then their chatter grew frightened as I kept moving. The other fighters watched me in wonder as I broke ruby after ruby, none of them daring to stand against me.

"Stand fast, barbarian!" boomed Iriman. I whirled. He ran for me, holding his whip. At all five points of the arena, armed guards emerged from the interior, ready to take me. Threads struck each, guiding my steps as I prepared myself for battle. Even with my weapon, there were too many. I might be struck down, but I would take my chance. As Rhayn had said. Glory.

Iriman arrived first, his whip snaking out like a living thing. I cut the leather tail in two, swept him from his feet and gave him long enough to realize his death before giving it to him. He never begged. I suppose he had that.

Two groups of guards converged on me, the others surrounding the game surface, ready for other rebellion. The threads of death in my mind were a cacophony. I picked one, readied myself to follow it. And then there was a thunderous crunch.

I turned to find the Crusher, the massive cyclops who served as champion of Clan Zukhet, had smashed a pair of guards beneath his massive club. Our eyes met, and the beast gave me a tiny nod. I returned a salute with Ur-Anu, and we got to killing.

The story of what happened that day stands in the histories. It is a day steeped in blood. I slew more than I can recall as I fought my way from the hippodrome. I made my way into the undercity, emerging from the bluff days later. From there, I journeyed out into the Red Wastes and into legend. The glory that Rhayn had spoken of would be mine.

I once again took the role of boldisar, the first step on my path to regaining my name, my power, and ultimately my home.