19.
Summer sun reigns over Shafrash.
The kingdom’s gentle hills are golden waves frozen in time, lined with meandering roads fringed by cypresses resembling emerald candle flames.
Sheep lounge under umbrella pines and between twisting trunks of ancestral olive groves that tell stories of mythic heroes and their voyages long past.
A man - whose wrinkled, wind-whipped skin mirrors that of the olive trees - reaches up for an olive branch and plucks its fruit. He is the only person who stayed home today, because his knees hurt, and as he himself told those who left this morning, ‘I am too old for the games.’
He is all alone in that dry golden landscape dotted by green trees.
Not even a lone wanderer with a donkey trots the paved roads. And if they did, they’d direct their steps toward the Shafrash city itself: to its humble houses crowned by vibrant red-tile rooftops, and to the grandest arena the dragon lands have ever seen.
Oh, it is an architectural marvel.
A temple to art, martial or otherwise, a centerpiece of Shafrashian culture.
While the city is built from yellow limestone, the circular amphitheater shines with polished marble so clear one can admire their own reflection in it. Colored statues of fighters, performers, and athletes look outward from their alcoves: Elenia the disc thrower; Piheris the organ player; Visia the charioteer; Gabirus the reaper, holding a sickle and buckler… Many pedestals carry a hero or a heroine, and many still await the birth of a new arena god.
Twisting trees blossom red atop the arena, creating a canopy of crimson clouds that cast a shadow over the circus.
The arena is filled with people. Some sit or stand, still finding their seats. A sea of faces. Rich or poor, high or low, woman or man, divisions do not apply in this sacred space. All sit side to side in total silence, looking up at the red canopy one hundred and fifty feet above. They are looking up and waiting, waiting, waiting.
Suddenly one red petal falls. It twists and tumbles through the air until it touches the sand in the middle of the arena. Then another petal falls and another and another... In five heartbeats, there is a shower of crimson as the trees start shedding their petals in unison; two hundred thousand voices cheer.
The summer games have officially begun.
Only two people remain seated while everyone else is on their feet celebrating. A lanky silver-haired woman in a blue dress and a burly ginger-bearded man. The woman wears a scowl on her brow while the man’s face radiates elation and excitement.
Suddenly, drums and bells roll, building up into a crashing cymbal crescendo.
Horns sound a triumphant fanfare.
A thunderous choir answers.
A gate opens, and outward tumble acrobats in red and white, followed by fire-eaters and dagger jugglers; beastmasters with lions, and rhinos trot past; more acrobats appear teetering in a human pyramid on an elephant's back; oil-glistening strongmen heft impossible burdens; graceful dancers whirl about; and finally, the announcer rolls out of the gate on a golden chariot pulled by a team of twenty-four black and white horses.
The entire procession circles the arena, with the artists and performers departing through the same gate by which they entered, while the announcer and his chariot halt in the middle. He is dressed in a purple toga, and upon his head rests a golden wreath of laurel leaves. He raises his hands, and the orchestra falls silent. The crowd follows, and his voice rises.
"Welcome to the Summer Games! Welcome those who will water the earth with their sweat!"
The horns sound once more. Here come charioteers, javelin throwers, discus throwers, runners, and archers.
“And now, welcome those who will water the earth with. their. blood!”
The crowd erupts as gladiators bearing every manner of gear and arm enter. Many wield swords and spears, but there are also flails, sickles, staves, chains, whips, and even one fighter who dares brave the games with nothing more than fists and a loincloth.
The woman with silver hair sighs and rests her chin on her fist. “This is sooo... mind-numbingly... boooriiing.”
And the ginger-maned man beside her exclaims, “What? This is amazing!”
The first performance: discus throwers. Then the beastmasters make bears and lions dance and play instruments. After a short break - during which vendors walk the aisles selling honeyed nuts and dried fruits and sweetmeats and pastries - the kneeball match begins. Then a short comedic play and a poetry contest.
The woman seems to enjoy the theater, but then more sports come, and she stands up and leaves to wander the city for a few hours, returning only as the sun sets, right when the announcer circles the arena in his chariot for the second time.
“And now, the moment you've all been waiting for. The gladiators!”
The woman squeezes past the seated people and sits down next to her colleague again. “Your champion is taking his sweet time. Why do I have a hunch that he won't show up at all.”
“He will show up.” The man answers. “Now can you please shut up? I am enjoying the show.”
“Why did you drag me here anyway?”
“To show you what real culture looks like. Look at that beauty, the skill on display; it's glorious!”
“It's barbarity.”
“Weakening someone by thieving away their time and poisoning their mind with doubt; that is what I call barbarity. But this! This is the pinnacle of culture right here. Look at them. Taking the limits of mind, soul, and body and pushing past them. This is why I like humans so much. I thought you’d learn something from them, but no. So be it. Feel free to remain ignorant. I don’t need your agreeability to enjoy myself.”
The woman answers with a dismissive, “Hmph.”
***
Two gladiators enter.
“Fargon!” The announcer raises his right hand. “Rope-dart! Seventeen wins! Two losses!”
A portion of the audience covered in blue paint chants a war cry, and a group on the opposite side of the arena, painted red, responds with whistling and farting.
Charming. Tayron thinks, snatching a cone of peanuts from a passing vendor.
The vendor frowns at him, but Tayron's female disguise quickly disarms the human male with a smile. “On the house.” The vendor says with a slight bow.
“Why, thank you, handsome.”
Like snatching candy from a baby. And he stuffs his mouth. He doesn't need to eat, but tickling those taste buds is one of the few delights the material world offers. And besides, caramel-flavoured peanuts are his favourite.
The announcer sweeps his hand to the left. “Ashurbal! Urumi! Twenty wins! Four losses!”
Now the reds clap and the blues fart.
What a pointless exercise in vanity, just like dueling back home, except with more theatrics. Perhaps that is why my brother finds them so endearing.
Tayron's eyes swivel left for a moment to look at the ginger-haired man beside him, then he looks back to the arena.
The referees have just finished affixing two pieces of fruit to wooden poles.
A melon and a pineapple. Those humans don't stand a chance. He smirks.
Urumi, a flexible whip-sword, zips through the air and cuts the melon in two. The fighter with the rope-dart spins up his weapon and kicks the dagger attached to its end, and the pineapple explodes in a shower of yellow fruit flesh.
The fighters bow to the crowd; a bell sounds. A large hourglass at the referees’ post turns, and their duel begins.
They are clearly skilled enough to kill or injure each other in seconds, and yet the fight continues for minutes. The crowd cheers at every attack, counter, and flourish.
Dominance is not the point. What is then? Tayron cracks a smile, stuffing another fistful of peanuts into his face. Showing off?
He leans forward.
The rope-dart fighter spins the weapon around himself in an intricate pattern; the rope wraps around his neck, he turns, and the dagger at the end shoots towards his opponent.
The urumi fighter dodges, performing a one-handed cartwheel and counterattacks.
The urumi lashes, cutting the dart from the rope. The crowd erupts in applause.
Aha. The point isn't to kill or bloody the opponent, but to outdo them by displaying skill.
This theory proves itself correct when the next fighter kicks up sand into her opponent’s eyes and injures him with her spear. The crowd boos and jeers, and the referee holds up an orange stick.
A sign for disqualification, I wager.
Another fistful of peanuts. Munch. Munch. Munch.
He stops chewing, feeling his brother's eyes on him. He turns.
“What.”
Galadon grins. “Starting to enjoy yourself?”
“No, I was just- meditating, that’s all.”
“As you were then,” Galadon answers with a knowing smile.
Cunning shurga. “You said that I would recognize the champion when I see him. The man with the flexible sword? He seems quite skilled.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s not him.”
“Then the woman with chakrams?”
“Alas.”
“Then what about the fencer?”
“Wrong again.”
Tayron sighs.
More matches transpire until only two gladiators remain: the urumi fighter and the bare-knuckle fighter, who has so far defeated all opposition with a mixture of acrobatics and body throws.
The last match isn't even close.
The bare-knuckle fighter dances around his opponent like a hornet. He evades all strikes, and right before the time runs out, he ducks under the lashing urumi. He rolls behind the opponent, hooks the ankle with his own leg, and flips the urumi fighter onto his back. The crowd leaps to their feet in thunderous applause.
“Is that him?”
“Nope.”
“So, when will he show up?”
“Right about … now.”
***
“Wyrms eat it. You two, come over here and help me out, eh?”
The three men stoop and lift, but the circular object slips out of their grasp and clangs against the floor.
“Bloody hell! This thing is heavy.”
Elephant footfalls of sandaled feet; a wide shadow cast by torchlight falls over them. A deep voice thrums.
“Your help is appreciated, but I will take over from here.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
They scurry aside as a bear-sized hand reaches for the shield on the floor and lifts it.
***
The announcer rolls up to the victorious gladiator.
“That’s it, folks, we have a winner. And you know what a winner needs? A wreath! But who might be fit enough to crown the new god of the arena? Who is deserving? Well, none other than the one, the only, our protector, champion, our king, Udar Thregaaa!”
Horns blare, the gate opens, and a giant steps out into the light among the falling red petals. The black horsehair of his crested helm brushes the doorframe. A hoplite the size of two men stacked on top of each other; a bronze breastplate shaped into musculature; a tiger pelt around his shoulders. He bears a circular shield depicting a charging bull, and a spear so thick it could be a trunk of a young oak.
“That’s him?” Tayron exclaims. “By the ancestral throne! What are they feeding him?”
“According to my sources, it's mostly turkey breasts and cartloads of eggs. Apparently he also likes strawberry ice cream.”
“How did he get so big?”
“Bluthang alchemy.”
They watch as Udar stakes his spear into the sand, sets down the shield, and approaches the victorious gladiator with laurel leaves.
“The Blood Clan has their claws in this?” Tayron asks.
“Not entirely. The Threga family is renowned for its long tradition of herbalists and alchemists. I suppose Thregas managed to recreate one of the Bluthang formulas. They’ve been improving and adding to it ever since. Their firstborns, the kings, always grow to inhuman proportions and strength, but they might have developed other abilities since. The record I worked with was old.”
“Why are they doing this? It’s unnatural!”
“Shafrash arose from a J’ktal tribe, just like Urkalesh. The kingdoms were originally chiefdoms. Any chief could challenge their neighbour for the right to rule. This tradition has carried over to this day. Every ruling family has a way to ensure their champion is the strongest. The Haga family developed arcane swordsmanship. The Threga family focuses on building up the body.”
“And I guess he will face Tristan on our behalf.”
“Precisely. Now watch.”
The gladiator kneels before the king, and Udar’s massive hand descends. He could crush the man’s head in his fist, but he puts the wreath on his head with care. Udar bids the gladiator to rise, and the newly crowned ‘arena god’ steps onto the golden chariot and, together with the announcer, leaves the sands as the audience cheers.
Udar raises his hand; people quiet down.
The king of Shafrash doesn’t shout; he merely speaks, but his bass carries to the uppermost seat.
“My subjects. Bearing the mantle of kingship has been a tremendous honor. However! Even kings need to follow the law. I wish to win your approval. To show you that I am worthy to protect the realm. On this day I shall be judged by you, here upon the sacred sand. Witness! And decide.”
And then they release the bull.
***
He is a raging mountain of quivering meat. Black fur glistens in the orange artificial light. He trots around the arena looking for a receiver for his pent-up frustration. He has always been grumpy. Ever since he was a calf, but today he has had it with the non-cows.
For the past year, every day was the same. He would wake up with the sun and embark on the vast pastures with his herd. There he was free to frolic and lounge about all winter, autumn, and spring, but as the days grew warmer, so did his agitation because he knew what was coming.
All year round, the non-cows stayed on the periphery and at a respectable distance. But when the soil got hot, and the herd had to hide in the shade, the two-leg non-cows riding four-leg non-cows came with ropes.
They lassoed him and pulled him away from his paradise. They drove him for many hot days to a noisy place full of strange smells, and moving things, and more non-cows.
They kept him in this small enclosed space. Fed him hay. Not fresh grass. Hay! What an insult. And now they released him into this strange place full of light, and more noise, and more non-cow smell, and sand getting stuck between his hooves, and it just makes him oh so mad.
He wants to ram something. Stamp it into the dirt. And what do you know, there is a non-cow, just begging for some good ol’ trashing.
***
The bull scrapes the sand with a front hoof, snorts, and charges, but Udar doesn't step out of the way. He meets the mass of muscle head-on. His hands grab the bull's horns, heels dig into the sand, skidding under the sheer momentum. When he finishes absorbing the last drop of inertia, he stops, not even a step. Not even an inch of ground given. Instead, he starts pushing back.
First a half step, then a full step, then two. The bull shakes his head to dislodge himself from the grip, but to no avail. They wrestle for minutes, seemingly even, if not in mass, then in sheer strength. But eventually, the exertion takes its toll. The bull goes down on one knee.
Udar lowers his stance, letting go of one horn. He gets his massive hand under the beast's belly, and hefts the bull on his shoulders.
People gasp.
The king takes twenty steps, completes a circle, and puts the bullock down on its side. Gently. He pats the muscle hump behind the animal's neck. “Thank you, friend. Now return to your heifers and pastures. See you again in a year, eh?”
The attendants rush in on armored horses and lasso the panting bull. The creature stands up and lets itself get led away, too exhausted to resist.
Tayron leans to his brother. “Impressive. But is pure strength enough? Tristan is slippery. Crafty. He won’t just waltz willingly into Udar’s embrace, you know.”
“Quit yapping. You’ve seen nothing yet.”
Udar goes to pick up his spear and shield. He arms himself and waits.
The southern gate opens again, but this time it’s not a gladiator or a performer entering. Instead, a heavy four-wheeled cart rolls in, pulled by two oxen.
The cart driver strides backwards in front of the carriage, driving it from a distance with reins. Ten heavily armored soldiers with pikes surround it, aiming their weapons at a cage with thick bars, and inside it, a gaunt woman and man in rags, both chained. Their cheeks are hollow, hair matted, feet bare, eyes empty of hope.
When the cart comes to a stop, two soldiers with hooks at the ends of long poles pull the chains out through the bars and affix them to steel hoops anchored to the arena wall. The driver opens the cage with a rope attached to a lever, and the guards stab at the prisoners inside.
“Out! Out!”
The woman moans, shrinking away from the sharp metal. The driver jerks the carriage, and the prisoners tumble out.
The guards quickly pull back. All leave through the opposite gate in a hurry.
Tayron’s false face stays impassive, but his pupils narrow.
Inside, there is a storm.
He watches the two prisoners struggle to their feet. Dazed. They clearly haven’t eaten for days.
Mistreated. Why? For justice? Imprisonment is understandable, but torture? A deterrent?
He scans the crowd. Drops of perspiration on their foreheads. Shallow breaths. Anticipation of violence.
No. They want blood. I was wrong. All that posturing and talk of excellence… only pretense. Witnessing the suffering helps them forget their own misery. Nothing but loathsome beasts. All of them.
I shall not allow this.
He stands up, but suddenly he feels an iron grip on his wrist. He looks down to meet Galadon's stern look.
“Don’t.”
And Tayron answers in Draconic with all its unpronounceable sounds. “I shall not sit idly and witness slaughter for the sake of sheep’s entertainment.” People around them turn to look, perplexed by the woman and the strange sounds.
“Sit down.” Galadon responds in Shafrashi.
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, I will make you.” Galadon pulls Tayron down to his level and hisses into his ear, this time in a dead tongue, altogether foreign to J’ktal nations: “You don’t understand the culture, customs, or context. I’m aware this touched a nerve, but if you act now, the plan goes tits up, so sit the fuck down.”
“I can not let this happen.”
“Sit.”
Tayron swallows the urge to freeze him.
But then he takes a deep breath and obeys.
Galadon keeps whispering in his ear, switching to Draconic, “Now that the red fog has cleared from your sight, search your memory. You are more observant than I. What did you truly see?”
Tayron quickly sifts through the fragments of the past. Pikes. Hooks. Reins. All instruments longer than need be. Cold sweat. Eyes open wide.
And then it dawns on him: “The guards, and the people around us… they are afraid.”
“Indeed. And now you shall see why.”
Tayron watches Udar creep and then inch closer to the prisoners.
Poised to attack?
No.
To defend.
He stops ten feet away, within striking distance of his spear but far enough that the prisoners can’t reach him. He is saying something.
Tayron sharpens his senses.
“…st! Beast! I’m talking to you.”
The woman’s hazed eyes suddenly clear, and she looks up at the king. A gash of a smile splits her face, and she utters one word.
“Meat.”
The man staggering nearby suddenly stiffens, his head lifting like that of a sobering drunkard. “Meat?”
“Lots-n-lots. Kidney-liver heart-n-lung, a walking feast to feed-n-feast ten times over and-then-some.”
“Where… meat…”
“Right behind you.”
“Where…”
“Use-ur-nose, block’ead.”
The man sniffs the air. He turns, his face slack-jawed, but his cloudy eyes finally fix on Udar as well. His mouth spreads into an idiotic smile.
“Meat.”
Udar swallows. Tayron hears his heart hammering. And he hears something else. Or rather, doesn't. The prisoners' hearts are still.
Dead.
He summons his sixth sense, letting it settle over the two creatures. The moment he touches them, he recoils. His stomach knots, seized by a sudden urge to vomit.
He knows that energy.
Primordial.
A buried memory claws its way to the surface.
He was a wyrmling then. Ventured on his own despite Uldun’s warnings.
Wasn’t careful and fell down a dark hole. Got caught, wrapped in a cocoon, hung upside down. A twisted creature - half spider, half human, twice his size - leaned close, its mandibles clicking inches from his face.
“You are all flea-lice slithering on my sovereign's hide. It slumber-sleeps, but one day it will slip-slip from sleeping. All you wyrm-people-slime will twirl-slink to its trills. How could you not-not? We all are suffer-slaves, sculpt-crafted from its flesh.”
He suppresses the memory before the thought of spiders paralyses him entirely.
Like the spider-creature, the prisoners share an affliction.
Fragments, half-sentient parasites that stirred when he touched them but who didn’t notice him, being too preoccupied by the gnawing hunger inside and the closeness of their prey.
All he can say with absolute certainty is that the prisoners carry within them parasites of a different breed. A different strain. More predatory and so much hungrier.
“This is your last chance to renounce your crimes and die with honor.” Udar thunders.
“Crimes?” The woman bellows. “What crimes? It is our nature to ‘unt-n-feed. Is a wolf evil when it ‘unts-a-hare?
“It is the nature of humankind to control instinct. To transcend our own failings. You are people of the same blood as me and those who witness. That you have been corrupted by forces beyond your control is pitiable, but the way you face your change... Not only have you succumbed willingly. You revel in it! This is your last chance to reclaim your dignity.”
“What is dignity? To cover an’ hide behind made-up lies? Look at you, meat. For all that alchemic waste in your bloated body, you are 'fraid.”
“I’m still human, and so I’m afraid. But I face my fear. You faced it too. But you blinked.”
“Nuf talkin’.”
The man cuts in. He is panting. Foam is coming from his mouth. His cloudy eyes are now clear and sharp. Where there was a dim-witted smile before, there is now a cock-sure grin.
“Let’s hunt.”
“Agreed.” The woman says. “You want fear, ‘umie? Then have some.”
And their true forms emerge, like butterflies from pupae.