The sun blazed down on crowded tiers of stone seats, and flashed from barbaric ornaments, the rich banners of stiff silk blazoned with imperial heraldry.
Although the crowd had been drinking heavily and the men were hoarse from shouting, all was still in this suspenseful moment. The throng gazed down in delicious anticipation . . . waiting for the moment of death, when the bright sands below would drink hot red blood.
In the center of the arena, the naked Darland swordsman blinked sweat and blood from his eyes, narrowing them against the sun-glare. His gaze was riveted on the monster thard and his brawny hand tightened on the worn hilt of his longsword, knuckles whitening. A dozen paces from where he stood, the beast crouched, belly scraping the sand, motionless save for the uncontrollable twitching of its twenty-foot tail, which bristled with thorny spikes. Its brass-colored, bird-like beak gaped hungrily, foam dripping from scaled jaws, flaming eyes glazed with fury.
The swordsman was superb: a blond titan, thewed like the bronze statue that stood before the arena gate. Although little more than a youth, he was tall, and for all his well-muscled bulk he was lithe and quick-footed as a jungle-cat. For seventeen minutes now the youth had successfully evaded the frenzied lunges of the monster reptile. The marks of his agile bladework showed: dribbles of red blood marked the thard's gray-and-yellow-mottled hide. And along its back, where the spinal ridge of jagged horns rose bristling, several had been sheared away. The young swordsman himself had received only one wound, a narrow slash across the brow. Slight though it was, it would prove his undoing, for the blood was running down into his eyes, blinding him. He blinked again, as the scene swam in a red haze before him.
In the stone rows, the thronged crowd held their breath, waiting -- for, despite his valiant efforts, the longsword was useless against the giant strength of the thard, mailed in tough scales that were proof against anything less than siege-engine projectile.
This the swordsman knew well. His only hope lay in tiring the monster. And this seemed an empty hope, for the jungle reptiles of the northern climes were tireless engines of muscle and bone.
A philosopher in his rough way, the swordsman mused on the changeful ways of Fate. In this moment of time he was filled with robust life, bursting with manly vigor in the full hot morning of his youth . . . in the next moment, his virile body would be an awful bundle of bloody rags, crushed under the inexorable feet of the slavering thard.
The blood flowed steadily, trickling into his eyes, the salt-stinging gore drawing tears that blurred his vision to a swimming haze. He blinked his eyes clear again, knuckles tautening on the sweaty sword-pommel. At any second now the thard would charge again . . .
Gates all around the arena swung open. A new round of applause and adoration swelled and soared outward from the crowd. Then, with millions of expectant eyes upon them, two dozen tormented and starved tyrannosaurs, separated from each other by almost a quarter mile, suddenly burst onto the grassy plain. They scanned their surroundings, bellowing into the air as they sought the scent of food. Almost as one, their golden eyes trained on the sole occupant of the arena
The great beasts charged at a dead run while the bloodthirsty crowd cheered.
We are toys at the feet of the gods, he thought.
For the next late afternoon the arena floor was being cleared; the gored corpses of the victims slain under the hooves of a herd of maddened bulls were dragged away to the bone pits. Fresh sand was sprinkled over the gore-splashed, befouled ground. Then a gigantic pit was uncovered, revealing a mighty tank filled with seawater.
A full scale ship of light wood was wheeled into the arena, lifted by levers from its trolly, and eased into the great pool where it floated, swaying slightly. Its sails were of golden silk and garlands of fresh-cut flowers adorned the gilt figurehead. Ropes of flowers were entwined around the masts and into the rigging. A tense silence. A hush of expectancy fell over the stands.
Tied with their hands raised above their heads in such a way that their bodies dangled down all along the outer hull of the galley, were the victims. Still others hung aloft in the rigging, or were spreadeagled against the base of the masts. The ship, driven by poles from guards along the edge of the tank, drifted out into the center of the water and lay there bobbing a little, waiting.
… A scarlet tentacle lifted from the blue pool!
A rustling sound, as of wind passing over fields of ripe wheat, crossed the stadium as rows of Imperials leaned forward expectantly.
Slowly, another long slender tentacle lifted into view. The two curved gracefully through the air, like hunting serpents. Ugly rows of horny suckerlike discs lined their undersides. The topsides were tough rubbery red hide. Water drops fell from them into the pool.
It was difficult to tell the size of its ovoid body, for the sliding, sinuous tentacles that grew from it. There were twenty such tentacles --- a hideous sight, like a tangled nest of writhing serpents. The seabeast had been brought from the Pongo Isles at vast expense. It would surely provide exquisite entertainment, as it had been starved for days...
Amidst the slithering tangle of serpentlike arms, one great mad eye blazed with icy green fires. A fang-edged parrot beak chomped and clacked in a frenzied pantomime of hunger.
Then it scented the nearness of hot fresh blood.
One thick tentacle of hot fresh blood.
One thick tentacle uncurled from the mass and slid across the rail of the ship, feeling its way delicately, like a blind paddler with his cane. It touched the shoulder of one man, crept down the body to the legs, coiled tightly around one leg – and pulled. He jerked convulsively. Then his body came apart slowly in several pieces. The tentacle conveyed one of these – the left leg, and portions of pelvis and buttock – into the sharp parrot-beak which chomped gruesomely. There came the sound of human bones crunching into powder. Still the beak clacked voraciously, and the tentacle went questing along the side of the ship for another tidbit.
A vast, satisfied sigh came from the crowded tiers of the arena. Eyes rolled hungrily. Wet mouths worked. White teeth glistened. Another victim was torn from the rail in pieces and devoured. It was a gorgeous spectacle. Nothing unaesthetic marred the magnificent scene. Heavy perfume rose from the flowers, sweetening the air. The still-living slaves were mute. They neither screamed nor curse nor pleaded for mercy. This would have been an offensive note of ugliness, distasteful had it been introduced into the beautifully composed artistry of the panorama. The slaves did not howl or cry out because they could not; each was very effectively gagged.
For almost seven thousand years it has stood at the southeastern edge of the southern continent, a monument to the aura of decadence that darkens the world of Caspia. The events and games in this colossal coliseum are great spectacles of the greatest power in the world, epitomizing the conflicting themes of the world itself: wonder with dread, power with slavery, and opportunity with doom.
It is one of the largest single structures on the planet, a ring of reddish stone and glistening steel as large as many small cities, more than two miles wide and 650 feet high at its rim. It seats more than four million, both Imperial and Celestial—and rarely is there an empty seat to be found when it is active. The closest thing mortal empires have to offer is the comparably tiny Roman Colosseum. Yet that great arena would fit into the space occupied by the War Circle seven hundred times over.
The large, central area where the actual fights take place is known as the Fighting Grounds. From the huge, open-faced King’s Box, the scale of the arena can stun the mind. As one looks out over the expansive field of battle, one sees not a grassy plain but something like a small sea. Depending on the current day’s matches, it can be divided up into subsections so multiple fights can take place at once (a common occurrence when a large slate of gladiators has to be whittled down to just a handful who compete for a championship). In other cases, particularly when extremely powerful superhuman gladiators are fighting, it can be left as one vast, open battlefield. Twelve colossal doors ten stories can open on the arena’s sides to admit participants.
Events are held only twice a year, for the sheer magnitude of each simply would not allow for any more. Months are spent in readying the arena—more are spent afterward in removing the physical aftermath of the carnage. Without fail, the wealthy and powerful turn out for each spectacle, sitting not among the throng but in private boxes passed from generation to generation. It is an envied status symbol to be able to claim lifelong attendance at the War Circle, and those with the opportunity take it. For the lower classes, however, the experience is a rarity. The wide, mult-tiered rings fills rapidly with common spectators for the day’s contest, some of whom have saved for years and have waited a decade for the opportunity to be in this place on that day. Few will live long enough to get a second chance.
Unlike many "sports," gladiatorial combat always spills blood and the battles are often to the death. This especially appeals to the people of the Imperium, who are addicted to violence. Betting on the outcome only adds to the excitement, adrenaline flow and, for the management, the profits. Life and death combat fuels the passion of the human spectators.
The management are endlessly creative in staging duels which are unusual and elaborate to the point of being downright baroque: herds of massive tyrannosaurs and other great beasts, held alone in these underground pits and starved for weeks beforehand, rip each other apart as they are released all at once into the arena. Battles between ground-based, naval, aerial, and even semi-subterranean opponents; grudge matches between members of rival ethnicities or ideological persuasions; whole armies of chrome-armored warriors, complete with battle gear and fighting vehicles, fight upon its broad, blood-soaked plain, leaving hundreds of thousands littering the ravaged field once the battle is finally won and the slaughter ends. Sometimes the two are combined, where hundreds of combatants are pitted against each other in a free for all. This incites the carnosaurs into a blood-lust frenzy. By the end of the melee, with the majority of the slaves either dead or dying, herds of dinosaurs join the orgy of blood and gorge themselves on the spilled guts, entrails, and carcasses of the freshly killed. Another favorite event is the Monster Mash, in which trained monstrous beasts fight each other while their trainers shout out orders and strategies to them. Depending on the type of beast, these battles can take a few seconds to a couple hours. A popular event is Tyrannosaur Challenge, in which 6-10 warriors (sometimes high-tech, sometimes magic-based) take on a ferocious tyrannosaur. So far, the tyrannosaurs have won 8 out of 10 times. Amateur gladiators, featuring wannabe warriors and young toughs who think they can find fame and fortune in the arena, is another hugely popular show. Another popular show is Battlefield, where as many as two companies of opposing warriors fight to the death on a mock battlefield. The environment changes every time, as do the types of battles and environment. Medieval knights, Earth Old West style gunfights, Earth Old West style Cowboys and Indians battles, and magic vs tech are among the most popular. There have been fights on stilts or networks of tightropes over pools of carnivorous fish or metal spikes; fights with elaborate scenery and strict rules about where and how the combatants can fight in different areas of the Arena; and so on.
At its least brutal, its displays surpass the cruelest, bloodiest battles of the Great War, waged again and again. At its worst, it is a nightmarish vision beyond imagination, and with a paying audience. That audience, aroused by the bloodbath before it, always creates thousands of casualties of its own during the drunken riots that inevitably break out in the seating ring.
While the standard “bare sand floor” matches that just tests the gladiators’ skills remains the favorite at the War Circle, the management often likes to “mix things up” and challenge their gladiators by altering the Arena’s environment, either selectively or throughout. Matches taking place in areas that have been flooded, filled with floating or ground-based obstacles, seeded with mines, or rigged with various traps and weapons are quite popular. Some of the most common choices include:
randomly placing stone columns that gladiators can use for cover, as weapons, and the like.
the pit of the circular arena floor is filled with water to a depth of nearly a hundred feet in preparation for the event, making the arena a small lake for full-scale naval battles complete with carnivorous marine reptiles. A nearby aqueduct is tapped for this purpose. In the alternative, the arena floor may be flooded so that gladiators can only successfully fight on the "islands" left uncovered.
While the entertainment is usually blood sport, the type of entertainment the War Circle hosts ranges from concerts to orgies, to religious ceremonies.
In addition to numerous ground entrances, it has three major entrances via walkways from the Circle’s “wall.”
Located beneath the arena and other parts of the War-Circle, well out of sight of visitors, are the Catacombs — an extensive series of underground corridors and chambers that contain some of the War-Circle’s essential infrastructure as well as some of its less savory elements. The Catacombs include:
living quarters for free gladiators fighting in the Arena voluntarily (the more popular the gladiator, the better his accommodations).
training areas for free gladiators and for kidnapped gladiators (the two are separate, since kidnapped gladiators need security measures that free gladiators don’t) equipment storage areas for weapons provided to gladiators, gear needed to alter the arena for particular types of battles, and so forth.
power generation systems for the Circle's storage, repair, and recharging areas for the Servitors