The Princess Shahra Hira Minka shot open her eyes and glared at her serving wench. She could have whipped the girl until the flesh tore away from her back.
"I'm sorry, my lady...sorry," the girl whimpered, as she scrambled with trembling fingers to collect the pieces of the shattered chamber pot she had just dropped onto the floor.
What a clumsy, incompetent...Calm yourself, Shahra. You must focus.
Killing before a fight would only wreck her nerves, cause a premature surge of adrenaline. No, she must refrain from punishing her wench. For now, her energy must be focused on more important matters. She would whip her serving wench another day.
The princess inhaled a slow, measured breath, closed her eyes, and resumed her meditation.
Within a few hours, her first Trial would commence. She must not do anything which might cause her to fail it. Today marked the first day of a month-long test of her worthiness to assume her rank as princess and one day become Empress. No ruler of Gorgoroth may hope to gain the support of her people, armies, chieftains, and warlords without having proven herself. The Trials would test her strength, endurance, willpower, military prowess, and ability to fight. And fight she must...and kill, or be killed herself.
The Trials began and ended with a fight to the death. She'd killed before—many times. This time her opponent would not be a mere slave. No, her challenger would be a great warrior. One worthy to fight her. One accepted by the people. One who sought for power. For indeed, to defeat the heir to the throne in open combat would secure the champion great stature and prominence.
Soon she would meet her challenger. She must be ready. For once she entered that arena, nothing but her own skill would protect her. Not even her own mother, the empress, would stay her opponent's blade. The empress would watch her daughter die without so much as lifting a finger to stop it.
She must focus.
She inhaled. Exhaled. Let her mind slip into that state between conscious and unconscious, where the body has no control over the mind. There she stayed, reviewing the many lessons her master had taught her.
An hour passed before the princess once again opened her eyes. This time is was not her serving wench who brought her back, but her own sense that the time for meditation had passed. Gradually, she glided out of her semi-dream state, allowing her senses to adjust to the flood of restored sensory data. Inexperienced meditators often sabotaged the effects of their meditation by doing so. The raw heightened awareness must be carefully mixed with the brain's conscious senses.
Mechanically, she turned her head from side to side as she scanned her room. It was empty. Her serving wench had evidently left her chamber sometime during her meditations. Now that she needed the wench, she was gone. No matter. She would not permit herself to grow perturbed. Not at the expense of her heightened mental state.
In one sinuous movement, she rose from her spot on the floor where only a small rug provided any comfort from the cold stones beneath her. She walked over to the side of her bed, and pulled the flaxen cord which hung over her night table. Ordinarily she would count the number of seconds it took her serving wench to respond. She enjoyed threatening the girl with a beating any time she took longer than one hundred and eighty seconds to arrive. A pleasure she must forgo today.
Instead, she turned her attention to her knife. It was stowed away in a small wooden box, which she kept atop her night table. The blade always brought her some measure of comfort. She had fought with it many times. A trusted companion. Again today, she would carry it at her side. Though not her primary weapon, She often resorted to it. Most opponents did not expect it. The blood of many skilled slave fighters had been spilled by it.
She held the edge of the blade up to her face and inspected the full length of it, watching for the slightest intimation of light reflecting off the edge; a failsafe sign that there was a spot which needed honing. A subtle smile of satisfaction crossed the princess' face. The blade looked flawless. Returning the knife to its holding box, she turned her attention to the portal.
Her serving wench was coming. She could tell by the sound of the scurried footsteps coming down the corridor, soft but uneasy. Within a matter of a few seconds, the poor wretch entered the room, bowing obsequiously and asking what the princess desired.
"It is time for me to dress," she said. "Bring me my armor."
"Yes, my lady," replied the serving wench, as she quickly bowed and made to leave.
"Where are you going?"
The serving wench turned and warily replied, "to the armorsmith, my lady?'
The princess suppressed a surge of anger.
"Icca," she said as if the name were a curse, "what kind of fool goes into a close-combat fight, against a single opponent, wearing plated armor?"
The girl stared back at her blankly.
Sighing, the princess shook her head.
"My fighting skins, Icca," she said. "Bring me my fighting skins. I need armor which will give me freedom of movement, not protection from arrow tips."
Icca turned sheepishly toward the princess' wardrobe. The princess nodded as the girl walked over, opened the wooden doors, and began pulling out pieces of her fighting skins.
As the serving wench dressed her mistress in the thick animal hides that would protect her from grazes and partial thrusts, the princess spoke to the girl.
"You should be grateful to me, Icca," she said. "Grateful that I keep you. No one else wants you. Not even your own parents—whoever they are. You'd be a street beggar, and likely a bad one."
"Yes, my lady," replied Icca meekly, as she laced up one of the princess' forearm covers.
"Not too tight," said the princess. "My muscles must not be constrained"
The serving wench loosened the lacing. With her other hand, the princess gripped her forearm, rolled and flexed her wrist, testing the fit. Deeming it well adjusted, she held out her other arm for Icca to tighten the lacing. The girl did so, then moved on to the princess' breastplate. It, too, was made from animal hide, smooth and formed to her figure.
She could have worn a steel breastplate. In such a fight the upper torso required less freedom of movement than the rest of the body. But she preferred the lightness of the hides, even though its toughness was no match for the thrust of a blade's tip. Her trainer had always told her that if any opponent's blade had opportunity to strike her thus, she deserved to die.
Next, Icca fastened the upper-arm shields. These would protect her arms from her opponent's deflected blade.
"In your heart, you may wish that I am defeated today," said the princess. "But if I die, none shall take care of you. That I can promise you, Icca. So, pray to the gods that I win."
"Yes, my lady. I should never wish you killed."
"What a fine liar you are, Icca. I never suspected it of you before."
"No, my lady...I swear—"
"One should not speak of death before a fight," interrupted a harsh voice, "unless it is the death of one's enemy."
The serving wench turned around to see who it was. The princess already knew. Without turning, she answered him.
"Yes, Master Rizain. My words were unbecoming a true warrior."
"Such language puts doubt in one's mind," he went on. "You need neither prayers nor speeches. You need only use what I have taught you and there is no chance of defeat."
The princess turned to face the man she called master, her trainer, Rizain Du Kava, Imperial Weapon's Master and Combat Specialist for the Empress. He stared at her with that cold expression that she had never seen warmed by laughter, or smile, or brightness. His one dark eye that wasn't patched possessed the power to unsettle the nerves of all but the empress herself. It stared at her now, calculating, always calculating.
"You're mother wishes to speak with you before the fight," he said abruptly. "You'll find her in her study."
Then he turned and strode out of the chamber.
The princess narrowed her eyes and breathed out, "Mother..."
The princess did not rush off at the bidding, but allowed Icca to finish dressing her. Then, securing the dagger at her side, she went to her mother's apartment. Just as Rizain had instructed, she found her mother in her study. Her mother was at her desk, reading a letter, her jet black hair pulled back tightly in a braid. The empress did no look up when her daughter entered, but kept her eyes fixed on the parchment. A terse "come in" was all she said to acknowledge her daughter's presence.
For several minutes, the princess stood, waiting. But she refused to grow impatient. This was an opportunity to prepare, she decided. Not time stolen away from her by her mother. She mentally reviewed her training with Razain, inventoried the strengths and weaknesses she knew of her opponent.
When at last the empress set down the letter and addressed her, the princess felt thoroughly refreshed on her lessons.
"I have few words to say to you this morning, daughter," said the empress. "Your mind is no doubt focused on the Trials ahead. I did not call you here to give you encouragement or to wish you luck. You need no such words from me."
She paused, rose from her chair, and turned to the bookshelves along the back wall. Pulling an item from a near shelf, she turned back and dropped a leather-bound tome onto the desk. The book landed on the desk with a ponderous thud, kicking up a plume of dust into the air.
The princess looked at the book indifferently. She knew the book well.
"The Law of Our Fathers," said the empress, pointing at the volume, "requires that the Trials be passed by any heir to power over the Nation of Tor. Gorgoroth shall have no unproven leader, future or present. This you know well.
"But know this, also. The law also grants you amnesty from the Trials. You may abandon the Trials at any point, of your own free will. However, by so doing you abdicate any right to power, rule, or rank. You will become nothing but the daughter to the empress. The law gives you this prerogative."
The empress pulled herself up to her full height and stared down at her daughter with fire in her eyes.
"Daughter," she said, "do not abandon the Trials."
She said no more, but sat back at her desk and resumed her reading. That was all she would say, the princess knew. Abandon the Trials? Give up her right to rank and power? The princess would rather die. No, she had but one course: to fight.
Within an hour, the princess was sitting in a carriage bound for Mardakkar Arena. Razain Du Kava sat opposite her in the carriage, mute and calm. Ahead of them, the empress road in her own carriage, pulled by a quintet of midnight black steeds Her mother preferred the archaic mode of transportation. In her mother's view, it was a more fitting royalty; to adhere dogmatically the ancient protocols and traditions of their fathers. The castle—the entire city—was a testament to this adherence. Her mother had not even gone so far as to allow phosphorescent lamps in the castle. The princess failed to see the honor in living so. The poorest citizens of Gorgoroth still used candle light. At least she permitted the guards to carry blasters. They still carried crossbows, of course. Blasters were only employed when necessary.
The princess watched the crowded streets through her window as they plodded slowly along. Many cheered when they noticed the procession pass by, calling out to the princess, "may thy blade drink blood." A few, she noticed, did not cheer, but turned away and spat on the mud-mired street. Still, others took no notice, but kept pulling their carts to market, or carrying their sacks, laden with wares, on their bent shoulders.
A weary-looking lot, thought the princess.
As their carriage drew near to the arena, the streets grew more and more crowded, packed to capacity with eager spectators come to watch the fight. Their armed escorts on their mounts pressed closer to the carriages, to protect them from the throng.
After what felt like hours, the carriages passed through the arena's outer gates. Once within the outer gates, their cavalcade turned right and entered the arena through a guarded entrance. It was large enough for the carriage, entourage and all, to pass through. And when the carriage came to a halt, the princess found herself in the familiar inner chamber of the Mardakkar Arena, where they stabled the animals during a fight.
Rizain wasted no time waiting on the footman to open the carriage door, but immediately bounded out, and indicated for the princess to follow. She silently obeyed.
Two guards flanked her as soon as she stepped out, and they stayed at her sides as she followed Rizain across the chamber and through a side portal. She did not expect this level of security inside the arena, away from the masses. Her mother's orders, no doubt. But why?
They walked the length of a corridor with narrow walls and low ceiling. They came to a stop at a nondescript portal.
"Stand watch outside," ordered Rizain, as he opened the portal and ushered the princess inside.
It was a bare chamber, windowless, with stone walls and a dirt floor. A solitary table stood against the far wall, set with an earthenware pitcher and two goblets. Razain strode over to these, poured some water and ordered her to drink it. He then ordered her to lie down on the table so that he could help limber her muscles.
"You know well the protocol of this fight," he said as he pulled her arms over her head to flex her rotator cups. "As the challenger, your opponent may decide that either you both select your own weapons, or that you each select the weapon with which the other will fight. I cannot tell you what this Commander Roarde will do. He is a young hot-blooded warrior—cocky, and well liked by the people. Do not be surprised if he elects to choose your weapon. Do not allow it to vex you. The weapon is only your tool. You are the weapon, Shahra.
"And whatever weapon you select for him, choose that which is most susceptible to the strengths of your own."
The princess internalized all he said with silent composure. In truth, the idea of her opponent selecting her fighting weapon unsettled her. But Razain had always forced her to train extensively with all types of weapons. Even with objects that aren't considered weapons: ropes, pebbles, chairs, rags, glass jars—anything. And she would have her blade at her side, should her primary weapon fail.
Rizain continued to work her joints and muscles in silence, while the princess focused on the imminent fight. At length, a swift rap at the portal broke the silence. The time had arrived. One of the guards entered the chamber. A full escort now stood outside, waiting to lead her onto the arena floor.
Rizain released her arm and stepped back from the table.
The princess sat up and alighted onto the floor.
"I'll be watching," her master said.
She realized that she must go without him. She nodded in comprehension. Then, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she followed the grave procession and marched rigidly down the corridor, out toward her opponent and the fate that awaited her.
Mardakkar Arena roared with the frenzied commotion that only such a fight could produce in the people. The sound deafened her ears. Ten levels of stands, all packed to capacity, surrounded the arena floor. So many people. A mob hungry for death, for the blood of one or both fighters, to stain the sand on which they fought.
High above, the rising sun poured down its red glow.
Blood, they want blood.
And they shall have it. But it shan't be mine.
Across the dusty arena floor from her own procession came that of her opponent, with the commander trailing. He was a proud figure, with shorn head and naked torso. Only his loins and feet wore any sort of covering. The people considered this a token of bravery: to go into battle so unprotected. Foolishness! One might bleed himself into delirium with the scores of cuts an exposed arm might suffer in close combat.
The two processions approached one another. At mid-arena each halted and executed an about-faced turn, so all now faced the empress' personal box. With dignity, the empress rose to her feet. Only then did the arena fall silent. Like a judge of worthiness, the empress looked down at the princess, inclined her head slowly, then turned to Commander Roarde and did the same. Then, lifting her head, she addressed her people.
"Welcome, people of Gorgoroth."
Her voice reverberated loudly around the arena.
"Today we commence the Trials of the Princess Shahra Hira Minka."
A renewed burst of shouts and cheers rang through the crowd.
"The first of these Trials is to face an 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."
Cursed'm! He knows that's too long for me.
She breathed in sharply, but immediately calmed herself. She could not allow the commander to detect her anger. He smiled again at her before returning to his place on the other side of the weapons. Shahra stared back as indifferently as she could muster.
It was her turn to choose a weapon for the commander. The words of Rizain came back to her...choose that which is most susceptible to the strengths of your own. She could not hesitate in her selection, but show as the commander had shown, the utmost confidence. Even as she approached the line of weapons, her mind calculated the hundreds of options, weighed the subtle strengths of each weapon. The minutest nuance mattered. All these possibilities she weighed against her own strengths and those she knew of her opponent.
He counts on me choosing a rapier, or a battle axe—something considerably shorter than my own weapon. But I'm no fool, Command Roarde.
She passed the three chests, coming to a stop at the fourth. She looked up at the commander. Whilst keeping her eyes fixed on him as she reached in and drew out her choice. A nagamaki, slightly shorter than her own, but long enough that the commander would lose any short-range advantage. The commander replied with a slow incline of his head, as if to say "well played."
The game's master held up the weapons to the crowd. The people voiced their approval emphatically. Then the servants removed the chests, and the game's master handed the princess and commander their weapons. The princess discreetly tested the weapon in her hands. It was light. Obviously made of a finer alloy than the typical naginata. She would use that lightness to her advantage.
An official ushered the princess to her starting position, a small red circle located fifteen meters from the commander's. She planted her feet inside the ring, then turned to face her opponent. All her senses focused on the weapon in her hands, on the enemy which she must eliminate. The roar of the crowd could not break her concentration. Somewhere, the game's master would soon signal the start of the match. It did not matter. All she needed to know was when her opponent engaged.
The next instant, the commander bolted toward her, his weapon gripped firmly in both hands.
The princess crouched, held her weapon at the ready, and waited.