A Curse Made Real
2000 short story by Jonathan Hicks Thirty-five years after
Episode IV – A New Hope With
the first guardsman bent over and his head under his arm the trainee ran at
the metal gate. There was an audible gong
as the skull of the man connected with the bars, the body going limp and
dropping to the ground. “Kill him! Kill him!” the second guard
screamed, his arm twisted at the wrong angle behind him and his leg bent at
the wrong angle at the knee. He had a bloodied face and mouth, his eyes wild
as he tried to struggle to his one usable leg. The
third guard had drawn his laserwhip and leapt
forward as he swung the weapon high over his head, the ceiling of the cell
high enough for him to make such a manoeuvre. He roared his fury as he
attacked. The
huge lizard had already ascertained his assault and already prepared for it
as the body of the guard he had just rammed into the gate fell from his
grasp. He turned, his bright green eyes flashing as he spun. As the guard
came in he dropped low under the arc of the weapon, grabbing the man by the
lower leg and the cloth of his tunic. With a grunt of effort he used the
man’s momentum to lift him over and into the gate, the guard upside down as
he completed his trajectory and slammed into the bars. The man fell to the
ground next to the first guard, who was starting to stir, put a hand to his
back and roared in pain. The lizard faced the second guard on the ground and,
with an expression of cold indifference, started forward towards him. Other
guards were entering the cell. The lizard standing could see no possible way
to win this and so he held up his hands in submission, knowing that what he
had done was already a crime. His apparent stance of surrender didn’t stop
the new arrivals from beating him to the ground with the butts of their
blasters. Cathum
watched as sirens sounded and men ran from all directions toward the shouts
and screams from one of the cells further down the hall. He frowned, his hand
over his eyes to shield them from the sun that was shining brightly on this
side of the stadium and tried to get a better view of what was happening. He
had arrived early, wanting to get the inspection of the new arrivals over so
that he could concentrate on the Setnin issue. He was expecting more reports
in over the next few days and he wanted to be on hand to take the news
personally so that it wasn’t passed onto him or the Prime Lord second or even
third hand. The
prospective bodyguards had been led out onto the parade ground in front of
the stadium from a large arch in the side of the building that led into a
hall lined either side by heavy cells. They were dressed in simple clothes,
their white tunics and brown leather greaves simple in design but giving the
impression that they were warriors. They all looked straight ahead and
ignored the commotion from the cells. “Sergeant,” he motioned to an officer to
his side as he turned back from the scene and pointed at the row of men.
“There were supposed to be twenty four here. I count only twenty. Where are
the other four?” The
officer, a large man with a scarred face, heavy metallic armour and a helm
with a long red plume hanging down his back, snapped to attention and looked
down the line. “Three died recently at the school, sir. The other is not what
I’d say proper material.” His eyes darted back down the hallway where a guard
had been thrown from the cell and deposited on the floor. There were shouts
and roars echoing into the street and some passing citizens stopped to see
what all the ruckus was about. Cathum
allowed a wry smile to pass over his face as the guard got back to his feet
and ran back into the cell. “I take it the trainee doesn’t want to be inspected,”
he murmured. The sergeant heard his words and assumed they had been directed
at him. “He tries to come out here, sir, but his fate has already been
decided. He was the one who killed the other three trainees.” “So a sergeant wants to fail one of my
hopefuls when he should be out here on parade?” Cathum wanted to know, his
face assuming a mask of annoyance. “We were going to place him in the arena,
sir. We didn’t want to waste your time with him.” “I’ll decide if my time is wasted, sergeant,”
Cathum snapped. “Take him alive and bring him to me. Now.” The
officer saluted quickly and ran off towards the archway entrance, shouting
orders for the prisoner to be taken alive. Cathum
tutted and turned back to face the
line of men in front of him. Each one was tall and lean, with a stiff stance
that made them appear as statues. He looked at each one in turn, pressing
muscles or turning their heads to inspect their faces. Another officer
followed him, a datapad in hand, marking off names as Cathum made his
decisions. “This one. This one. Not this one, or this one. This one.” He
knew what to look for in a warrior, what to expect from the man just by
looking into his face, the set of his eyes and jaw, the
build of his body. Those too muscular would not be lithe; those too thin
would not be strong. Those with blank faces would be good, those with an air
of defiance or any other expression would not do. Cathum
disliked the methods used by the school that owned them or the warriors who
trained them. He always felt that a soldier should understand why he was
fighting for the Prime Lord and not simply a product of a man’s ideals. But
then, as he thought of the fact that even he was unsure of his loyalty to the
Prime Lord, maybe this was the way it should be. This way the man on the
throne would not have to worry about insurrection. Blindly loyal troops were
no real threat. Cathum
had his thoughts interrupted as he came to the end of the line. A scuffle was
creating a lot of noise behind him, making the gathering crowd murmur with
expectancy. Cathum waved to the nearest guards and then at the crowd. The
guards lowered their blasters and started to disperse them. The
trainee had a lasso around his neck with a long pole attached to it so that
he was almost completely immobile. He still spat and snapped at the closest
guards as they created a ring about him with drawn swords and levelled
spears. He had both hands around the rope and Cathum could see his muscles
knotting as he appeared to be trying to snap it. He marvelled at the will of
the lizard, amazed that even bound he still tried to fight his captors. He
was like one of the huge animals they kept under the stadium for the arena,
hating to be under restraint and doing what they could to escape from it. As
the trainee was brought closer Cathum’s features
began to change. He was amused by the sight at first, that
he had to admit, but as the flailing being came nearer his expression of
amusement slowly morphed into one of surprise. Here,
before him on the ground, in the dust and dirt of the stadium grounds, was a
figure he recognised. “What is his name?” Cathum demanded of the
sergeant who had come back to stand beside him. The
officer was a little shocked, not expecting his superior to be interested in
the names of the hopefuls. He
cleared his throat to answer after a brief pause. That pause seemed to last an age for Cathum. He had already guessed what the
sergeant was going to say but wanted to hear it for himself. “His name is Dagger, sir,” the sergeant
answered finally. The
big lizard was still struggling although he had noticed the presence of
Cathum. He was on his knees, his chin lifted up as the rope pulled his head
back, but his eyes still had that glare in them. It reminded Cathum of
another being's eyes, one he knew, the way the light made them glow green. Cathum
leaned forward, his face inspecting every line and feature of the being's
face. He could see only Arkin as he had been when he was defeated by Atheus's army. He drew in a deep breath to clear his
head. The day had suddenly seemed to grow a little hotter. “Dagger,” Cathum said in a low voice. He
was amazed at how fast the child had grown into a full adult of his species.
Had it been only four years since Arkin's death? The
trainee had ceased to struggle and stared at the man in front of him. Cathum
was amazed at how much the man looked like his father, dead for twenty years. “Dagger, why are you fighting my men?”
Cathum asked. Dagger
didn’t answer. He breathed deeply from the exertion, the dust covering his
face and lips. “Do you wish to be a bodyguard of the
throne?” Cathum asked with the voice of a gentle father, trying to calmly
bring the truth out of the trainee. “I wish it, but I killed a guard and three
of my siblings in the school. They say that is a crime,” Dagger rumbled. His
voice was deep, Cathum noticed. Also like Arkin. “To kill your own outside the arena is
punishable by death,” Cathum said gravely. “Why did you kill them?” “A drunken guard said I was the spawn of a
murderer and I would be good for nought but the arena. I challenged him and
the three trainees interceded on his behalf...” “He said the guard produced a weapon and
he was forced to defend himself,” the sergeant snarled. “They were prize pupils.
He’s always been acceptable as a pupil until this.” Cathum
was annoyed at the officer’s interruption but decided to pursue the claim
that Dagger was a problem. “Was he not doing well?” “Oh, he was, sir, but he’s always had a
tendency to go a little too far. He never breaks from combat when ordered,
never uses the light blows we tell him to use in training. He acts like he’s
got a mind of his own.” “Like the trainees who fought him,” Cathum
mused. He wanted to reach out to turn Dagger’s face so that he could get a
better look at him but thought better of it. “It sounds more like he’s a
little over-eager, sergeant.” He stood back up to his full height. “You can’t
have enough of that in a soldier. Let him go, put him with the other accepted
soldiers and take them to the garrison for instruction.” “But, sir...” “Do as I say, sergeant.” “But he downed five of my men...” “Did he kill them?” “No, but...” “Then your men have had a serious lesson
in why they should pay more attention to their training.” Cathum waved at the
man with the rope pole and indicated that he should set Dagger free. As he
did so the soldiers surrounding the new bodyguard stepped back, blasters
still ready. They knew how dangerous these trained warriors could be and
didn’t want to take any chances. In
all there were only twelve hopefuls who were chosen for bodyguard duties. The
others, showing no emotion or disappointment that they had been selected for
combat in the arena, followed a guard back to their cells with no resistance. Cathum
watched the ones who passed his inspection fall into line, with Dagger at the
back, and follow the sergeant and several other soldiers towards another
archway that led through the stadium and out the other side, heading for the
garrison. He watched Dagger as he assumed the stiff gait of his fellows and
walked away. He
couldn’t explain why he had decided to allow Dagger to live. He saw in him
the fire of a soldier but was worried what his apparent defiance may mean. He
should have given the order to have him killed, there and then, but he knew
that would have been too simple a solution. He knew that the Prime Lord had
wanted Dagger to grow up to be a servant of the Ki-Ki Sector, his last cruel
joke on the bloodline of Arkin, but he wasn’t sure whether Atheus even
remembered what he had done so long ago. He had become so obsessed with his
throne that all other considerations had been pushed aside. He never lighted
candles for his dead father or brother anymore, he
never took an interest in his people. All he saw was the expanding of the
Ki-Ki borders. He
hadn’t quite understood why the Prime Lord hadn’t come here to inspect the
hopefuls himself but he found his heart was beating faster and his breath
becoming deeper because he hadn’t
come and because he didn’t know
about Dagger. Here was a living reminder of Atheus’s
past, of the man who had very nearly escaped his wrath, and the Prime Lord
would be terrified of the omen so close to his parade. And
maybe that was why he had allowed Dagger to live. Maybe the thought of seeing
the Prime Lord scared appealed to him. There
was also something about the last words of Arkin, words that were now nothing
more than a disjointed memory. The words about his blood living on, leading
to these almost prophetic proceedings as if the Prime Lord was destined not to be here on this day. Cathum
shook himself. What was he thinking? He was the servant to the Prime Lord who
should not have such thoughts. Even
now it saddened Cathum to watch, even after the many contests he had
witnessed since the re-opening of the games. He knew what was to come next
and it made his jaw clench and a strange tightness to constrict his throat. He
never watched the kills. He knew what it was to pierce a man’s flesh with a
weapon, to feel the vibrosword suddenly jar to a
halt as it connected with armour and then skin. How it seemed to slow as it
entered the body, the arm muscles tightening further to push harder as the
blade became mired in the opponent’s innards. Feeling warm, free-flowing
blood splash down the arm as it tried to pull the suddenly unresponsive
weapon from the falling corpse. Wishing to whatever Gods may be watching that
you didn’t have to look into the dying man’s eyes but not being able to help
yourself and staring, staring as the wide orbs glazed and then appear to
focus on something far away. It
was not that which upset him. It was the way the crowds of beings in the
stadium erupted into roars and cheers of appreciation, some feeling the death
blow, some impressed by the kill, some wishing they were on the sand-strewn
arena floor, holding that weapon and killing that man. People who would most
likely shrink from conflict but seemed to be enthralled by it when they were
nought but spectators. He
looked around the slightly elliptical stadium as the crowds leapt to their
feet and waved their arms and screamed their satisfaction. He wondered; do
they feel this passionate when making love? Dagger
stood like stone next to him. The advisors small platform next to and just
below the Prime Lord’s box was filled with the men of the senate, all taking
advantage of the two days of rest they had allowed themselves and relaxing as
only they knew how. Some simply laid out on couches
and talked between themselves, ignoring the bloody spectacle on the arena
floor. Some watching and passing credits between themselves. Some with the
crowds, being part of the citizens they were apparently representing. Dagger
allowed his glance to fall on them but his attention was mainly on the crowd,
watching intently for signs of trouble that may threaten the Prime Lord. Cathum,
however, noticed that Dagger’s gaze also watched the fight in the arena as it
progressed, a strange look on his helmet-shadowed face. He was narrow-eyed
and watchful, almost confused. As the defeated combatant screamed with the
deathblow, a sound that caused the crowds to roar even louder. Cathum tapped
the bodyguard on the thigh. Dagger looked down. “What do find interesting, Dagger?” Cathum
asked casually, engaging the bodyguard in real conversation for the first
time. He fought to control the tremble in his voice as he thought of another
similar-looking lizard those few years ago. “The combat or the crowd?” Dagger
was confused by the question but he hid it well. “The combat is as I
expected, sir, but the combatants are fighting longer than they should. I
have seen several instances where the one with the helmet and faceplate could
have ended the fight cleanly. I do not understand the need for the
entertainment value. A warrior should fight, not dance. The response from the
crowd is vexing, also.” “Why so?” Cathum suddenly became
interested. “I cannot decide whether they are cheering
for the victor or the loser.” “The victor, of course, bodyguard. Why would
they cheer the loser?” Dagger
took in a deep breath. “If the man knew that there was a good chance of death
in the arena then he has done a great service to this crowd in providing them
with entertainment, showing them what they wanted to see. Surely they should
be appreciative of the fact that this man died so that they could return to
their homes feeling good about what they have witnessed and their day at the
games.” There
was a slight pause before Cathum barked a laugh. “My goodness!" he said after managing
to smother his amusement before any of the other advisors noticed and took an
interest in their conversation. “The people are not interested in the loser or the winner, just the spectacle of
two men in mortal combat. You are a warrior, trained by a school that should
have hammered this into you. You, of everyone in this stadium, should know
that.” “I do know it,” Dagger said, a little
upset over the apparent mockery his charge was throwing at him. “I also
know...” “Know what?” Dagger
cleared his throat. “That it’s not right, sir, that a man should be allowed
to die and yet not be appreciated by those who wanted him there. If a man is
willing to die for a cause then he should have something to take to the other
side with him so that he can look into the land of the living and be
remembered for his sacrifice. We are taught this as potential combatants, but
I feel the two are linked somehow.” Cathum
stared at the man who stood next to him. His thoughts of laughter were all
gone, now, as he looked the bodyguard up and down with wide eyes. His shock
at Dagger’s words was evident on his face. A warrior shouldn’t think this
way! He was the embodiment of a soldier of the Ki-Ki Sector, willing to
accept his fate be it warrior or combatant. The knowledge of his possible
fate had been drummed into him during all his time in the school, during
training, during meals, during classes. The single most important thing
taught to a prospective was this; serve the Prime Lord, serve the Ki-Ki
Sector and die in their service. No questions. No debate. No choice. And
here was such a man, recently birthed from the bloody womb of the school,
actually questioning the reasoning behind it. Not condemning the games or
condemning the combat but questioning the attitude of the crowd and the
reasons for their love of it. “Why...” Cathum found his throat had
suddenly gone dry and he cleared it with a cough. “Why do you say this?” he
asked. “Answer me honestly, now. You’ll find I’m a lot more receptive to the
truth than I am to mere servant formality.” Dagger
watched as the victor raised his bloodied vibrosword
to the Prime Lord’s box in salute. The corpse of the defeated man was being
dragged off the arena floor by small droids to the boos
and jeers of the crowd, showing their disgust of the loser even after his
death. “I just know it, sir. I believe that
sacrifice, no matter what form it takes, be it a
loss of a life or the loss of a belonging, helps to define the true nature of
an individual. I doubt whether most of the people in the crowd would part
with anything to satisfy the needs of another and yet they constantly expect
the warriors in the arena to do just that for them. They are taking and not
giving.” “They paid good credits to get in here,”
Cathum smiled. “Credits can be replaced,” Dagger replied
quickly. “The money does not go to the combatants.” “It was not always this way,” Cathum
mumbled sadly, low enough not to be heard by the other senators. “The games
used to be in honour of the creators of the Ki-Ki Sector and the dead. The
people would cheer for the combatants, be they victor or loser, because they did appreciate it. Slowly, over time,
the games became more of a spectacle than a celebration. Fights were planned
to get the maximum amount of entertainment from them. At that time the civil
war going badly for the Rebellion. Battles were re-created, as they are now,
and men died in their dozens to satisfy a need to see blood, to release the
tensions and fears of the citizens. One such battle was so horrendous, so
bloody, that Prime Lord Atheus’s father stopped the
games, seeing that they were a mockery of what they once meant. He...” Was Dagger ready to hear such things? “What makes you think this way?” Cathum
suddenly wanted to know. “I find it difficult to believe that you are taught
philosophy in the school.” “That is true, sir,” Dagger said as he
stepped towards his charge. He had taken up the man's coat now that the
crowds were starting to make their way towards the exits and he helped it over
his shoulders. “We are not taught such things. Forgive me for speaking so.” Cathum
waved his apology away. “There is nothing to forgive. The day a citizen is
not allowed to speak his feelings is the day that man becomes as cattle.” As
Cathum stood from his couch and adjusted his coat he looked out over the
stadium, watching the beings slowly pouring from the huge building. He saw
them excited, passionate, replaying the fight they had just witnessed with
invisible vibroswords and inflicting imaginary wounds
on friends. All responding to the wish of the Prime Lord and not realising
it, all watching and listening to what the Ki-Ki Sector showed them and
accepting it blindly. He
bit his lip. “Yes,” he said, turning towards the exit. “Sheep.” A
speeder driver waited for them at the base of the stairs that ended in the
door leading to the street. As the advisors emerged they patted backs and
gripped wrists, spoke words of parting and headed for their vehicles. Dagger
noticed how the advisors gave Cathum only a token gesture of goodbye. He
looked at Cathum to see if he had noticed but he seemed unfazed by the
obvious snub. “A good day, sir?” the driver asked,
gesturing for the men to climb up into the three-seater
transport he had ready for Cathum. “Same as always, Tunius, blood and sand. I
think we’ll take the scenic route home today, my boy, by the lake.” “You have a meeting with the military
council, sir,” Tunius reminded as he took the controls. It started to move
through the throng of people in the street. “He waits in your house.” “Already?” Cathum exclaimed and looked at
his chronometer. “I didn’t realise it was so late. You were right, Dagger,
the fight did go on for a long time.” He looked down at the Praetorian who
had fallen into a quick step at the side of the transport. “The garrison commanders seem mightily
perplexed,” Tunius said worriedly. “They said that I should get you back as
soon as possible.” Cathum
spared a glance at Dagger and frowned. “On, then, Tunius, and don’t stop to smell
the honeywine.”
A Curse Made Real 2000 short story by Jonathan Hicks Thirty-five years after Episode IV – A New Hope
Histories - Arkins son Dagger is brought back into the story by his training at Gladiator school in this Jonathan Hicks tale. Found by Cathum, Dagger soon eases into a position of strength and possible influence - a precursor of events to come. Cast of Characters
Cathum Dagger
Tunius
|