Walhart and Farber buried Hildegard and Gloria on a hill outside of Sakdrisi the morning after the fire. They were far enough away to avoid the smoke, but it could still be seen rising from the city in the distance, and it provided a melancholy background to the burial. Walhart could do little but stand and stare at the small graves for the only two family members he really had. Farber desperately tried to think of something, anything, to say, but he knew full well he could never truly understand the gravity of a situation. Still, he had to say something.
"She was… four months pregnant?"
"Yeah." Walhart responded, his voice dull.
"You know… uh… you know they say everyone is here for a reason. You know? Naga puts everyone here for a reason. When you die, it means you fulfilled your purpose in life. When a child dies, it just means they fulfilled their purpose in life quicker than most people."
"Farber." Walhart turned to him. "That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard."
"Yeah, that was… that was stupid. I don't know why I even said anything." Farber slowly stepped forward. "I can't… I can't imagine what you're going through, but I want you to know that I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you. I'm glad I met you, Walhart, and I'm glad I'm your friend. And… um… maybe… uh…" Farber's eyes fell to the ground. "Maybe… I could be… more than that."
Walhart didn't seem to register that Farber was trying to open his heart to him. He just stared through him, only vaguely aware of what he was saying. "Men need friends. Men need companions. The last vestige of my humanity died with my my wife, my mother-in-law, and the child whose face I never even saw." Walhart turned back to Hildegard's grave and knelt in front of it. "I'm sorry, Hildegard. You deserved so much better than me, but at least you're with the man you loved so much now. He died with you." Walhart took off his wedding ring, one of the most expensive things he'd ever owned, and buried it under a layer of dirt on top of the grave. "He died with you, my love. I'm nothing now."
Farber placed his hand on his shoulder and gently rocked him. "Walhart…"
Walhart was silent for a long time, but he eventually stood up and looked Farber in the eye. His voice was low and monotone. "Farber… there are going to be changes. The man you knew is gone now. I have to know something. Will you stand with me? No matter what I do, no matter how far I go, will you stay by my side?"
"Walhart…" The two clasped hands. "I would follow you into the fires of hell."
"Then let us leave this place. There's nothing for us here."
Walhart stepped out into the rectangular floor of the pit and looked up to the cheering crowds. The stands were jammed with people from all over Kronshtadt. Some of them were commoners. Others were nobles and city officials. They all stomped their feet in rhythm until the entire balconies of each level bounced up and down, pushed to the limits of their tensile strength. The noise was already overwhelming, and it would grow so loud that the gladiators of the pit would fight with their ears bombarded by a constant, maxed out white noise. The only other thing they'd hear, besides the screams of other gladiators should they be nearby, was the cheering and roaring of the frenzied mass.
Walhart had entered this arena, or another very like it, over a hundred and fifty times. He'd emerged victorious in every match. Every single one. Walhart had become so infamous that the pit bosses changed the rules for matches involving him. He no longer fought in one on one fights. If he was in a team match, his team would be smaller. If he fought by himself, then he'd fight multiple opponents. Walhart's foes were also given better weapons and armor than him, and they were allowed to take the field first so they could camouflage themselves in the debris intentionally strewn along the arena floor. It was a cowardly way to fight, but it worked in Walhart's favor. His enemies were given a number of advantages over him, and yet he'd always win regardless. Those victories made the crowds adore him. They made him look invincible.
Word was spreading. It had been eight months since Walhart left his life in Sakdrisi behind, and he was twenty nine years old now. It had been just eight months since he had entered the arena for the first time as a novice, but he quickly became one of the most fearsome gladiators of all. Now he was without a doubt the most feared, and his matches drew massive crowds. Walhart had also earned a nickname for himself, and the crowd cheered it now as he approached the center of the pit.
"CON-QUER-OR!" They chanted. Walhart had been given this name because of his many victories. He didn't necessarily care for it, but he was happy to let the crowd have its fun. He stood tall as the chanting continued. "CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR!"
Walhart had long since learned to think even as he drowned in the noise produced by the crowds, and his eyes quickly scanned the pit floor. Piles of debris and junk had been scattered around the arena floor to make the match more interesting, and Walhart just knew his four opponents were hiding in them. His eyes soon locked on a large collapsed wooden structure. There. My opponent is there. It was an obvious hiding spot, but Walhart knew that most of his foes lacked tactical subtlety. His mind was just as important in his many victories as his strength. Walhart drew his short sword and readied his arm shield, but he didn't approach his foe. Instead he raised his sword into the air and egged on the crowd. His fans eagerly took the opportunity to interact with him, and they happily resumed chanting.
"CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR!"
Walhart did this for a reason. For one, it got the crowd on his side. This made his foes doubt themselves and feel like the arena was against them. Two, any gladiator with an ounce of self-esteem would be infuriated at seeing him pantomiming victory before it had happened. Angry opponents made mistakes.
Walhart's taunting worked, but a single gladiator did not charge at him. Rather, three of his four opponents emerged from behind the structure and threw themselves at Walhart. The three gladiators were all equipped with leather and plate armor, and they wielded steel weapons. Walhart himself was armed with his short sword, and he also had a double handed battleaxe slung on his back, and he wore only a studded, leather skirt, sandals, and dark red plate armor on his arms. He looked like a common brigand, whereas his foes looked like soldiers from a well equipped army. None of this mattered to Walhart, and he didn't feel a trace of fear as the three men charged. Moving quickly, Walhart brought his arm shield up to block the sword slash of one man and then spun to the side as a second tried to bring his own axe down on him. He stunned the man by simply backhanding him across the face, then lunged forward and brought his short sword through the leather armor protecting the first man's leg. It was a powerful blow, and Walhart could feel the blade forcing itself through the gladiator's femur.
One down, three to go.
The second man threw away his heavy battle axe and quickly drew a stabbing weapon—held like brass knuckles but with a blade coming out. He tried to unceremoniously jab Walhart with it, but he caught the man's arm by the wrist with his left hand and used his right arm to shove his own short blade through the man's shoulder. Walhart smiled as the man recoiled in pain, and he used his raw strength to twist the blade while pushing it further into the man's body until his arm came right off. Walhart heard a brief splash as a spray of blood hit the pit floor, but every other noise, even the man's own cry of anguish, was quickly overpowered by the excited roar of the crowd. Walhart roared back as he lifted up the severed arm and hurled it towards the seating area, such that those sitting in the bottom stands could clearly see it, and the crowd was driven into an even greater frenzy. They loved brutality like that, and those kinds of moves made Walhart insanely popular. Of course, gladiators were forbidden from killing each other, but maiming wasn't against the rules. The quick use of a healing stave could heal the wound, so long as the arm was reattached within a few minutes, and Walhart didn't intend for this match to last that long.
Walhart displayed such ferocity for a reason. He wanted the crowd to know that he was dangerous. To think that he fought like he could bring down the building on top of their heads at any moment. To think that he fought like he knew he could die and had nothing to lose, but at the same time, to also think he thought himself invincible and feared nothing. Watching Walhart fight was like watching a force of nature. This is what brought in so many people. Only a portion of the population found enjoyment from the inherent violence of gladiator matches, but nigh every human being can be amazed by a sheer display of power. The same instinct that makes people stare at tornados, tsunamis, floods, and other such disasters made people stare at Walhart now. They could not take their eyes off him.
But Walhart himself had to quickly scan the area to find his other opponents. The third man was armed with a bow, but he was too horrified by what had happened to his comrade to attack. Walhart gave him little time to recover. He sprung forward and quickly slashed at the bow, severing its string. He then headbutted the man. Walhart's bare flesh now seared with pain as he hit the man's metal helmet, and the man himself was entirely uninjured, but the kinetic energy involved still sent him to the ground. Walhart easily could have slashed the man across the chest, but he didn't want to win too quickly. Displays of strength like that only increased the crowd's fervor.
Walhart turned to the crowd and basked in their affection once more, intentionally giving the man a chance to get up. The third opponent was again rendered blind with rage at Walhart's taunting, and the shorter man literally leapt onto Walhart's back as he drew his knife, searching for the most vulnerable point to attack.
Walhart had no vulnerable points. He had no weaknesses. He was Walhart!
Reaching back with both hands, Walhart seized the man and slammed him against the floor. "You are but a footnote before my might!" He shouted as he repeatedly struck the man in the abdomen. Walhart assaulted the archer until he couldn't even scream anymore. He could only curl up into a fetal position as blood gurgled out of his mouth. The match hadn't even been going on for two minutes, and already three of his opponents were down. Standing tall, Walhart left his injured foes behind as he looked around for the fourth. Understanding an opponent was the first step to defeating them, and Walhart pondered why the fourth gladiator hadn't fought with the others as he looked at the piles of debris along the arena. Was it pride? Fear? Was he simply disliked by his teammates?
The answer seemed to be Walhart's first guess as he noticed a hulking figure darting through the debris with surprising speed out of the corner of his eye, and Walhart spun around and engaged in the duel his foe seemed to want. This man wielded a steel sword and protected his arm with a large shield strapped to him. His equipment was better than Walhart's in every way, and he found himself driven back by the gladiator's furious offensive. He tried getting away from the gladiator and attacking from a new angle, but his foe was relentless, and Walhart was punished for trying a risky move as the man took the opportunity to drive his sword into his bare chest. Walhart recoiled in agony as the blade punctured clean through him, and for the first time since the match started the crowd actually fell silent. Their nervousness was palpable, and it only made the opposing gladiator all the more gleeful as he drove the sword deeper into him. "Heh." He said with an eager smile. "Not so invincible. You're finished."
Walhart would have been finished long ago if single injuries could keep him down, and he channeled his pain into rage as he brought the endless white of his eyes to the gladiator's. "HUAAAAAGH!" Walhart groaned through gritted teeth as he forced himself closer to his stunned foe. "Hrrg… urrgh… t-think so?!" Walhart grabbed the man's face. "THINK SO?!"
The gladiator was too shocked that Walhart could move at all to let go of his sword, and Walhart used his left hand to jab at his eyes while his right hand slowly and agonizingly pried his jaw out of position. The man recoiled in pain, far less capable of dealing with it than Walhart, and the conqueror took the time to draw his axe and bury it into his abdomen. He fell over twitching and crying, and Walhart stood over him as he pulled his axe out and triumphantly thrusted it into the air.
All while still having a sword impaled in him.
The crowd went into a fervor, and Walhart basked in it. He wiped the sweat from his brow and flicked his long black hair around, letting it fall tantalizingly down his broad shoulders like the male hero from a historical epic might, then finally turned to his admirers. "Who defeats the conqueror?!" He shouted back to them. "Who can stand against me?!" He began pointing towards people in the stands. "You?! Can you defeat me?! Will you stand against me?! How about you?! Will anyone do it?! Will any five of you?! Any ten?! Will you challenge me for all the glory I've won?!" Walhart's finger fell randomly on people. Sometimes he pointed towards adults who vaguely looked like they could defend themselves, but his finger also fell on the elderly, uptight nobles, and even teenaged girls. He wasn't really being serious. He was just trying to rile up the crowd, and it seemed to work.
"CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR!"
"Remember this day! Today is the day you saw Walhart in battle! Today is the most exciting day of your lives! Remember!"
Their adulation fell on him like rain. It wasn't that Walhart needed their validation. It was that the fighting, and beyond that, the thrill the crowd got from the fighting, made him feel alive. He'd worked as a laborer for years, and almost everyone in the world stuck their noses up at him. Now, risking his life for the entertainment of others, he ironically felt like he was respected. His name meant something now. People wouldn't forget him now. Never again would he be a nameless, faceless cog in an apathetic machine. All his life he had felt worthless to the world. Worthless to everyone except Hildegard. Deep down Walhart had started fighting to forget the pain her loss caused him, and yet as he fought with sword in hand, the only thing he forgot was the complacency conditioned in laborers like him. He felt alive in the ring. When he was victorious. He knew that feeling would fade from this moment on until the next time he fought, and he hated it. Why did he have to go back to his quarters and kill time until the next match? Why couldn't he always feel like this? What if the thrill of victory never ended?
What if all of Valm was his arena?
"I just, I-I just don't think t-this is such a good idea! He's a very big man!"
All popular sports have several things in common. They involve athletes, they attract legions of fans, and perhaps most importantly, they all involve massive amounts of money. The gladiatorial games in Kronshtadt were controlled by a syndicate of career criminals—the pit bosses. Some of these men were retired gladiators, but most were crime lords who also had ties to sex trafficking, arms running, gambling, and the unlicensed distribution of alcohol and narcotics. If there was money involved in something, they had a share in it. They cared very little for the gladiators, and they ran them like machines. Who was to know or care? The government of Kronshtadt turned the other way, and a gladiator couldn't go to the city guards and complain that he was being mistreated in his illegal occupation. Walhart used to be a darling of the pit bosses. After all, he brought in the crowds.
But Walhart had been chafing under their control for the past two months. As popular as Walhart was, his crowds were slowly getting smaller. Some people adored him, but others didn't want to pay money to see a game where they knew who would win. Writings about his matches didn't sell as well, and the bosses had noticed. He was becoming too big. Things were about to come to a breaking point.
"Scared, Ruger?" One of the men replied as he looked down to the trickster.
Ruger helped organize the gladiatorial games and find new gladiators, but he wasn't considered one of the bosses. This was just one of the many skeevy things he had going on. On one hand, that made it easier to pack up and leave if the police ever cracked down on the operation. On the other hand, he had to do whatever the pit bosses told him to. "Hell yeah I'm scared! The man is huge! I should know! I'm the one who found him! Besides, I'm not sure you've really thought this through. Walhart is very popular here."
"We don't want a popular gladiator. We want a lot of popular gladiators. This one has to be taken down a notch."
"But-"
The man shoved Ruger to the ground. "If you don't want to face him, then stay here! We'll deal with this, little man."
Ruger nervously ran his hands through his navy blue hair as the pit bosses walked ahead of him. "I am not that little." He whined.
Walhart had been quietly reading in his private quarters when the pit bosses arrived to confront him. There were eight of them, all carrying weapons. Walhart himself was only wearing his smallclothes, and gladiators weren't allowed to have weapons in their quarters. The only thing he had on him was his book, Peace In Our Time, which had also been one of his few possessions to survive the fire in Sakdrisi. The paper was warped from the heat, and the cover was barely hanging on now, but Walhart casually read it all the same as the eight men took position by his bed. Walhart knew full well what was happening, and he didn't even turn his head to look as the men spoke. In fact, he only barely registered what they said. They told him he was the finest gladiator they'd ever seen. A real immortal. They spent some time buttering him up, but then they inevitably got to their point. He'd gotten too big, and not everyone wanted to see the same gladiator win each game. They further revealed that people placed bets on the gladiators, and this was something Walhart didn't know. Walhart brought in money from admission prices, but he was bad for betting. No one wanted to bet against him. They told him he had to take a fall, starting with his next match.
It was a moment that only occasionally comes along in a person's life. A moment where you have to decide right then and there whether you want to stand up for yourself, or go along with someone else's plan for you. Walhart made his decision.
Ruger was nervously pacing back and forth outside the door to Walhart's quarters when he turned to find the gladiator standing behind him, drenched in blood. Ruger's heart skipped a few beats, and it was a while before he could speak again. "But?! But they had weapons?! How did you… but they had… how did you-"
Walhart took one of the weapons he'd stolen from the pit bosses and brought it to Ruger's neck. "I'm in charge of the pits from now on. Do you have a problem with that, little man?"
Ruger's blue eyes darted around in terror, and his voice was squeaky. "N-no! No, sir! Uh… all hail Walhart! I'll spread the word as you will."
"Yes. Always as I will."
"Oh my gods that feels good. A little lower… mmm, a little lower… oh, there we go."
Within her residence in Sakdrisi, Magistrate Commodia was deeply enjoying a personal massage. That didn't necessarily mean she was lounging around. In fact, she was in the middle of an important meeting. Standing in front of her were a number of important men; Decius, Captain of the City Guard, several city officials including Quaestor Excellus, and Father Nominus, who represented the Church of the Divine Dragons in Sakdrisi. (Father Tyranus was more significant, but Commodia knew of his power and didn't allow him into her home.) All of these men wore their varying elaborate uniforms and stood at attention, but Commodia herself just lied face down on the massage table, resting the side of her head against her arms and wearing absolutely nothing save for a cloth around her rear. The masseur too was entirely focused on his work, never bothering to look at the other people in the room.
Commodia inherited a lot from her noble birth, but she also had to work a great deal to get to where she was. As a general rule, Valm was a conservative, patriarchal society. Men had their places, and women had their places. As is so common in agricultural societies, the roles intended to be male dominated afforded more power, wealth, and prestige. Women were not expected to fill the necessary roles of government, and Commodia's parents never expected her to have any kind of career. They'd be proud of her brothers if they became government officials, but all Commodia had to do to earn their pride was marry a rich man and produce grandchildren. Commodia had other plans. She liked power, and she'd worked since girlhood to seize it.
Adamantly refusing marriage offers since she was thirteen years old—including several that would have made her very comfortable—Commodia saved up her trust fund to afford an education in law and eventually managed to secure a minor position in Sakdrisi's government. Her family didn't even hail from the city. They were simply the first people that would take her. From there she clawed her way up the ranks while slowly building up a retinue of loyal and morally flexible individuals. Several years of backroom deals (and backstabs) later, she was Magistrate of Sakdrisi, and her personal power and wealth had only grown from there. Her influence was beyond that of any other Magistrate, and she was indisputably the most powerful person in the kingdom outside the capital of Kremnica. Commodia would call herself a self made woman, but commoners like Walhart might quickly point out that she still took advantage of opportunities only afforded to her by her noble lineage. Commodia hardly cared what lowborn commoners thought. All that mattered to her was power. Right now, she was in a room full of well dressed, dignified men, and they all had to stand at attention and speak to her in a very respectful manner while she herself was half naked and couldn't even be bothered to stand up and look them in the eye.
That was the kind of influence she wielded.
"My investigation into the problem has yielded results, Magistrate." Decius had been speaking to Commodia about the fire that had ravaged Sakdrisi eight months prior. "It seems the mages responsible for starting the fire were drunk on wine someone had just gifted to them. They were careless with their magic. That's why the fire spread to the rest of the city."
"Mmm, get my shoulder." Commodia said to the masseur. "It still doesn't feel right after that peasant threw a rock at me."
Decius cleared his throat. "Magistrate?"
"I was listening, Decius." Commodia turned her head slightly to have Decius in her peripheral vision. "So someone just gave them the wine right before they were to begin their mission? That doesn't seem suspicious to you?"
"I'm continuing the investigation, milady."
"I still can't believe you intentionally set fire to the city!" Nominus snapped as he stepped forward. "Such a callous disregard for human life!"
Commodia sunk her face into her arms as the masseur worked on the shoulder Walhart had managed to strike a year prior. "Like I said, Nominus, the fire wasn't supposed to be that large. It only spread because of the incompetence of the Captain's mages."
"It was a horrible idea." Nominus said aloud. He realized even as the words left his mouth that he shouldn't have said anything, and Commodia looked up to him.
"Are you questioning my authority?"
"No! No, Magistrate!"
"Decius!" Decius stepped forward, slapped Nominus across the face, then returned to where he'd been standing. "How dare you doubt me, priest! My government gives the church a lot of resources. A lot of privileges. This is my city. You'd do well to remember that, boy."
"Yes, Magistrate!"
"The fire was a very calculated move. We still need to build more infrastructure to fully automate the mine, and the fire allowed us to get emergency relief funding from the crown in Kremnica. We'll have the profits without having to spend anything, and the fire was only supposed to destroy the decaying areas around the gold mine anyways. It's not my fault it spread into the slums." Commodia turned her head towards Excellus. "Tell me, Quaestor, how much funding have we received?"
"Hee hee, hundreds of thousands of gold so far." Excellus replied. "But I'm sure I can squeeze them for even more. I'm having the forms prepared as we speak."
"Very good."
Nominus shifted around. "I don't like this."
"Well I hardly much care what you think. Now, all of you turn around. I'm getting dressed." The men turned their backs to Commodia as she sat up and let the cloth fall to the floor, but in truth she didn't bother herself worrying about what they did and did not see. If anything it was a display of power that she could be so casual around them. She'd have you flogged if you were disrespectful to her, but she could do whatever she wanted around you. Commodia continued the conversation as a small army of handmaidens appeared and helped her into an elaborate dress. "The way I see it, everything is going as planned. Soon the King will grant us enough money to complete the infrastructure, and the gold will flow once more. I'll be a hero of Valm for saving the economy."
"What about the areas of the slums still damaged?" Nominus asked.
Commodia scoffed. "The peasants have already rebuilt much of it themselves. I'm sure they can fix what's left. They're good with their hands."
The men turned back as Commodia, now clad in a stunningly ornate gold and purple dress, approached them. "Is there anything else, milady?" Decius asked as he held his head high.
"Continue your investigation, Decius. Excellus, send those forms to the capital as soon as possible. Dismissed. All of you."
Excellus hurried back to his office as soon as he could, and he found his own assistant, Nelson, waiting for him. Excellus sat himself in his chair, and Nelson, long since past the point where it even had to be requested of him, had prepared yet another light meal for his superior to enjoy. Today's treat was a cream custard tart made with almond milk (which was quite expensive in the Middle Ages) and seasoned with honey and imported Chon'sin spices. Excellus had already devoured half of it by the time Nelson returned with a stack of papers. "You're back, sir! How fared the meeting?"
"Oh, more of the same."
"Was the Magistrate impressed with the results of your brilliant maneuvering of Kremnica's bureaucrats?"
"She was, but it's not quite enough. We'll need to wring a little more money out of them. Just falsify reports of the fire doing more damage than was originally believed or something."
"Of course, Quaestor."
"Now, onto more important matters. Have you prepared the other forms I've asked for?"
"Of course." Nelson handed Excellus the stack of papers, and he smiled as he read through them. These papers were never meant to be seen by the Quaestor's eyes. He was working outside of Commodia's interests now. "Proof that the Magistrate had the great fire of Sakdrisi started intentionally. This could ruin her. Is that why you wanted these? Blackmail?"
"Oh, Nelson. You always jump to the most obvious solutions. Commodia and I have done a lot for each other. You don't bite the hand that feeds. Not directly anyways. Besides, she has plenty of dirt on me." Excellus selected a few papers and handed them back to Nelson. "No, I don't want the officials in Kremnica to see this. Do you remember the miners Commodia tried to imprison?"
"I've been keeping tabs on them, yes."
"Make sure those papers find their way into the hands of the Kronshtadt gladiators. I want Walhart to see it."
Nelson had been keeping detailed records on the escaped miners for Excellus, and Walhart was the one that caught his eye the most. "Ah yes. The one believed to have thrown the rock at Commodia. The one who killed the soldier in the riot. The one who lost his wife and mother-in-law in the fire. He'll be infuriated if he learns that the fire was intentionally started."
"Exactly. He'll surely lash out in some way. I can just feel it." Excellus gave a twisted smile. "Remember what I said about instability?"
"Your ambition has no limits, sir. You'd bring down all of creation just to satisfy your own desires." Excellus looked at his assistant, wondering if Nelson was insulting him, but he actually seemed to be in awe. "I am so glad to be working here!"
"Okay, Farber. Listen carefully. This is intended to be a philosophical exercise, so think carefully about your answer."
It had been a week since Walhart seized control of the gladiators. The matches continued, and the crowds continued to roll in, but significant changes were just around the corner. At this particular point in time, Walhart and Farber were having a casual conversation in the arena's VIP box. It was a comfortable and spacious area, and it even featured a fireplace and a bar, but Walhart paid little attention to these things now. Farber had idly engaged him in conversation while he was reading Peace In Our Time, and that had since grown into a long discussion on philosophy and ethics. It didn't go as smoothly as Walhart wanted it to, as Farber just didn't have the same intellectual capacity as him. He was a far simpler man.
"But I answered your questions well enough, Walhart." Farber replied.
"Philosophy isn't about finding some objective and simple answer. It's a thought exercise! Now, here's another one. Say a mage invented a spell that would instantly teleport you from here to the Ylissean continent. The spell works by destroying you completely-"
"You said the mage was teleporting me?"
"Let me finish! It destroys your body completely and entirely, but then rebuilds you exactly as you were on the Ylissean continent."
"Does it hurt?"
"That's irrelevant."
"It sounds relevant to me."
"Just listen! Anyways, the spell replicates your body exactly. You have the same brain. The same memories. Even the cut on your upper lip you got from shaving that morning. You feel the exact same as you did before the spell was cast. Now, are you the same individual? After all, the body you have after the spell was cast is different."
"Yes. You are the same."
"But the body is different, so are you truly the same?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you just are."
Walhart sighed. "Really think about this! Now, say the spell was upgraded. Say the mage could produce multiple copies of your original body on the Ylissean continent. They all have the same brain. The same memories. They all even have the cut on their upper lip. Which one is really you? Which is the original?"
"The first one is."
"But they're all exactly the same. Which ones are clones?"
"The clones are clones."
"But how do you know which ones are clones?"
"The cloned ones are clones."
Walhart face palmed. "Okay, say you had no idea which ones were created first. How would you know which one is the original?"
"The first one will tell you."
"You're not really thinking about the question, Farber! I mean, could you ever know an observation is true?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"By looking."
The two glanced over as Ruger entered the room. "Knock, knock. I'm back from meeting that mysterious Sakdrisi official. The one who contacted us."
"I'm surprised it wasn't a trap." Farber answered.
"What did he want?"
Ruger tossed an envelope to Walhart, and the gladiator reflexively caught it. "He gave me several official documents. You… you're going to want to read them."
Walhart had no idea what to expect as he read over the documents, but he never thought the contents would make his face twist with fury. Walhart's blood felt like it would boil out of his skin, and without warning he gave a furious roar as he flipped the table in front of him. "Celica's bones, Walhart!" Farber cried. "Calm down!"
"CALM DOWN?!" Walhart shoved the papers in Farber's face. "There's no justice in this world, Farber! We have to make our own!"
Farber read the papers himself. "That fire… they started it on purpose. Gods… I knew Commodia was a rich jerk but… oh my gods."
"It wasn't nature that slew my family! It was the will of man!" Walhart's eyes fell on his copy of Peace In Our Time, and he gently scooped it off the floor. "I'm sick of this! I remember what Hildegard said to me before I started working here. I wasn't in control of anything happening to me. The strike. The prison ship. Working here. It was all forced on me."
Farber and Ruger both gave worried looks. Walhart's voice was low and sinister, and it unnerved both men. "Walhart?" Farber asked.
"I used to believe so strongly in this book, but now I see that it's not enough. I spent all those years writing, but nothing changed. I spent all those years working like a good citizen, and nothing changed. Here, things changed, not because I kept my head down and worked, but because I stood up for myself! I seized control of the pits and now I know what needs to be done to create a world where people won't lose their families like I did!" Walhart looked back to the book. "Celica and Alm worked together to end the age of gods and build the One Kingdom of Valentia, but they aren't considered to be the same. They had different viewpoints. Celica believed so strongly in achieving peace without fighting, but Alm was willing to take up the sword and do what needed to be done. In the end, Alm is remembered as the hero who struck down Duma. In the end, the continent was named 'Valm', not 'Velica'."
"What are you saying?"
"Celica was wrong. Peace isn't possible when the government rules through force! The pen is not mightier than the sword when authors are censored! Sometimes fighting is necessary! Sometimes good comes because of it! Alm saved Valentia from Duma through violence! Marth saved Archanea from Medeus through violence! The First Exalt stopped Grima through violence! Even Celica was a woman who could burn a man alive with but a flick of her wrist. Man is only the ruler of this realm because he is willing to defend himself! I'm going to give Alm's way a try." Walhart threw his book, his most treasured possession, into the fireplace. "Assemble the gladiators! I have something to say to them."
There were over three hundred gladiators involved in the underground matches of Kronshtadt, and about two hundred of them were available in the arena to listen to Walhart. The hulking gladiator leader was far beyond any fear of public speaking now, even though he'd never spoken to this many people before, and his voice boomed across the pit as he stood high in the stands. "My friends, you come from all over Valm. Some of you come from here in Kronshtadt. Some come from Sakdrisi. Some come from Kremnica. Some of you aren't even from this Kingdom. You come from Ylisse. Plegia. Ferox. You come from Chon'sin. Roseanne. Kyros. Veslil. Tarsque. We are all diverse, and yet we are not. We come from different locations, but we all come from the same background. We were all laborers. Farmers. Miners. Apprentices. Soldiers. We were all disposable. We were all peasants! We brought our misery together and fought in these arenas to forget our worthless lives. We were the forgotten—forgotten until we held a sword in our hands. When we fought, we felt it. We were alive! In fighting for the entertainment of others, we made a name for ourselves! Now at the end of each day you can drop your weapons and crawl home, but what if you didn't have to? What if we were always gladiators? Assembled here, I see strength. Power. What if we used that to change society? What if instead of fighting in Kronshtadt, we fought across all of Valm? What if instead of fighting each other, we fought the ones who put us here? We, the working classes, are everything that is needed to constitute a nation! We don't need the rest of the feudal society! We don't need nobles! We don't need bankers! We don't need priests! We don't need soldiers! We don't need a King! We don't need a Queen! We don't need spoiled Princesses! We are the spirit of Valm! It is time we broke the shackles of the feudal society. We will build a new and better society! It is time we take the wealth and prosperity that was earned on our backs! It is time we take the wealth and prosperity that always should have been ours! No gods! No Kingdoms! No masters!"
The gladiators didn't know what to think when Walhart began speaking, but his words spoke to their resentment and their pride, and they exploded with fervor as he finished. "NO GODS! NO KINGDOMS! NO MASTERS!"
Walhart basked in their admiration before speaking again. "Thousands of years ago, the legendary hero Alm fought against a corrupt and oppressive regime! Now, we shall follow in his path and free this land from the greedy nobles that have corrupted it! From now on, we are not just gladiators! From now on, we are the DELIVERANCE!" Some of the gladiators understood the historical significance of this. Others didn't, but they were still driven into a frenzy by Walhart's words. "Who stands with the conqueror?!"
"HAIL, WALHART! HAIL, WALHART! HAIL, WALHART!"
"Are you alright, dear?"
As powerful as officials like Commodia could be, true power in a Kingdom always rested with, well, the King. All governments have their leaders, and people ranging from philosophers to lawyers have spent millennia arguing as to what a leader's role should be, and how much power they should have. Virtually all human societies have executive branches. Sometimes the executive exercises complete authority, and sometimes power is distributed among multiple branches of the government, but there is always an executive organ that holds responsibility for governing the state. So long as that is true, and it always has been true, there will be legions of followers who will cling to the executive in the hopes of sharing in power. Even in the modern United States, for example, there are those who argue for the ever increasing power of the President. Why should the President share so much power with Congress? Why shouldn't the President reign over the entire executive branch without checks from the legislative branch? Proponents of the strong unitary executive theory suggest this, and this is an age where democracy and checks and balances are the norm.
In the Middle Ages, such ideas were considered quaint. The King had to share power with nobles and rule with the help of a bureaucracy for practical purposes, but from a philosophical standpoint, the power of a late medieval King was nigh absolute. His authority came not from men, but from divine right. The King was the Kingdom, and he had legions of followers who would happily support this in the hopes of sharing in his power. The King was not subject to the will of the aristocracy, or any other estate of the realm. He certainly wasn't subject to the will of his people. Only the gods could judge him, and to challenge the King was not just treason. It was heresy. This was power beyond imagining. The King didn't just rule over kilometers of land. By the Divine Right of Kings, he ruled over the very soul of the Kingdom. Any man who was King, no matter who he was, had his rule justified through this concept of divine right. If Naga didn't want him to be King, then he wouldn't be King. To challenge him is to challenge Naga.
Talk about a strong executive theory.
But for all that, the King of Valm was still just a man, and he had the same desires as any man. Right now, he wanted little more than to spend a nice, quiet evening with his wife.
Merovech had technically been King since his father died when he was only four years old, and he'd taken the throne from his regent at twenty one. He had blue eyes and the same navy blue hair as his daughters. Merovech had a rather dull face, but that was not to suggest anything about his looks. Many people, including the Captain of his own Pegasus Knights, would attest otherwise. Rather, his face had a lack of cunning. It was an open face, with kind eyes and a warm expression. Plotting and planning seemed alien to him, and deceit wasn't in his nature. He was trusting and kind. He would help other people without question, and his very presence was inspiring. People trusted him, and they wanted to follow him. The King's youth was leaving him, but he was still in the prime of his life. He was very young to have teenaged daughters—Adalhaid having been born when he was only nineteen—but he quickly adapted to his life as a father and a family man.
Merovech had been relaxing in a chair when his wife, Queen Serria, had come up to massage his shoulders, and he smiled as her brown eyes met his. Serria had been a Pegasus Knight in service to the royal family as a teenager, and she was a clumsy one at that. She much preferred being Merovech's wife and partner.
"I'm fine." The King finally replied as he smiled back. "At least, I am now. With you here."
Serria leaned over to gently kiss his forehead, and her brown hair—so faded in color that it was almost silvery under certain lighting—fell over him as she did. "Mmm, well it's over now. I'm stuffed. How about you?"
The King and Queen had recently returned from a banquet. The food was prepared well enough, but Merovech could hardly tolerate the forced smiles and pleasantries he was made to provide to nobles he barely knew. Merovech gave a long sigh as he sunk into his chair. It was partly because the day had exhausted him, but it was also a pleasant, swoon like sigh as he realized he could finally be alone with his wife. "I couldn't eat another bite, and I can't spend one more moment with those nobles."
Serria went back to caressing his shoulders. "Well it's just the two of us now. You know, Adalhaid and Annalisa are being tutored at the moment."
Merovech looked up and gave a sly smile. "Oh?"
"How about we spend the rest of the evening here, never leaving our quarters? Just you and I? Mmm, maybe with some scented candles. A nice dessert?"
"But wouldn't that entail leaving our room?"
"Not if I've already prepared it." Merovech got up from his chair, and Serria readily received him in her arms. "I love you, Merovech." She said softly as their lips finally parted. "Even after days like this, and even after all your duties as King, and all my duties as Queen, I still look at you like I did when we were teenagers."
"Stop it, Serria." He said with a smile.
"But I do. How about you? Do you still see me as that klutzy girl that stumbled so readily into your arms?"
"I don't."
Serria's expression soured. "Oh come on." She pouted. Merovech laughed.
"I don't, because you've grown so much more beautiful since then." Serria giggled, and she bit her lip and leaned her head into Merovech's hand as he caressed her cheek. "Tell me. How did you plan for the night to end?"
"Well…" Serria whispered directly into her husband's ear. "We could retire to the bed. Give the handmaidens something to clean up in the morning."
Merovech unintentionally giggled himself, partly from the comedic value of that kind of statement coming out of a Queen's mouth, and partly because Serria started to nibble on his earlobe. He closed his eyes and gently bit on her neck, and Serria moaned right in his ear as she ran her hand through his blue hair. They most assuredly would have gone further if allowed, but they both turned their heads at the sound of someone approaching to see the Captain of Merovech's Pegasus Knights. Much like in Ylisse, many kingdoms in Valm had Pegasus Knights in their military. The Captain, Caeldy, was a woman about their age with long, flowing red hair. She and Serria had actually been childhood friends, and she'd also nurtured a crush on Merovech since she was a girl. Of course, no one needed to know that, and she'd long since learned to turn her infatuation into a professional dedication. "Uh, heh…" Caeldy had seen everything, but she quickly collected herself. "My lord."
"Oh." Merovech cleared his throat as he awkwardly stepped back. "Captain?"
"The war council meeting is being held, and your attendance is requested."
Merovech furrowed his brow. "I thought that was tomorrow?"
"It's been moved up. The officers demanded it. I'm sorry."
"You've nothing to apologize for. I'll be there at once." Merovech turned to Serria and ran his finger under her chin. "I'm sorry. I'll return as soon as possible."
Serria looked down dejectedly. "Hurry back… my love."
Merovech was still wearing his dignified attire from the banquet, so he thankfully didn't have to change. He immediately followed Caeldy down the winding halls of his palace until the two reached the room where the meeting was being held. Several military officers were in attendance. Among them was Cervantes, the Captain of Merovech's palace guard and the retainer for his daughters. Also there was Federico, the Captain of his Knights. Federico was a tall man with a full set of plate armor and brown hair. He'd been Merovech's personal guard since he was a teenager, and the two were especially close. One of the officers had been giving a presentation, but he quickly stood at attention as Caeldy and Merovech entered the room. Caeldy slammed the shaft of her lance against the ground, and everyone else soon followed.
"Attention!" Federico shouted.
"At ease, everyone." The officers sat back down as Merovech stepped into the center of the room and looked at the board. It had been two weeks since Walhart reorganized the gladiators, and they'd slowly become known to the military officers. There were several papers detailing the underground gladiators of Kronshtadt, and a few individual names were listed. Farber, Ruger and Walhart. Merovech groaned as his mind drifted back to his patiently waiting wife. "Why couldn't this wait until tomorrow?"
"We believe we should deal with the problem as quickly as possible." Cervantes answered as he stood up. "These gladiators seem to be organizing an insurgency of some kind. They're even calling themselves the Deliverance."
"I'm guessing it's not a coincidence that's named after the group Alm was part of in the legends?"
"I doubt it, milord." Federico answered.
"If we know so much about the gladiators, why were they allowed to proliferate?"
"You know how lazy the local magistrates and lords can be." Cervantes replied. "They turned the other way at the gladiator matches. Now we're paying the price."
"Well it stops now. You all know how I operate. How serious it is that I'm here. I don't play games. This is how it's going to go down." Merovech straightened himself. "We'll be sending scouting teams to the probable locations of the gladiator venues. They will be at permanent postings in Kronshtadt until a location of rebel activity is confirmed. Then we'll work with the local city government to send strike teams in. We'll deal with this quickly and quietly. These criminals may be evasive, but they're not invisible. We will crack down on this cult."
Merovech turned as his officers nodded, but Cervantes didn't sit back down. "Uh, milord? Could I speak with you in private?"
Merovech gritted his teeth, still thinking of Serria. "Uh… sure. Of course, Cervantes."
Merovech lead Cervantes outside of the room. He quickly stood at attention again, but Merovech silently implored him to get to the point. "I'm sorry, milord. I hope I'm not intruding."
"Just… you had something to say?"
"Milord, I know I'm sworn to serve and protect the princesses, but I was the pride of the military academy."
"I'm well aware."
"My King…" It took a few seconds for Cervantes to work up the confidence. "When the time to crack down on the rebels comes… let me lead the strike teams. Allow me this chance to serve the Kingdom."
"Cervantes…"
"I'm trained. I'm willing to put my life in danger! I can do this."
"But I need you here."
"But… these rebels could theoretically put the entire Kingdom in danger. In this time of potential crisis, we need strong men to lead the charge."
Merovech placed his hand on Cervantes' shoulder in a friendly manner. "It's because the Kingdom is in danger that I need you here. With my daughters. I need to know they're protected."
"I… understand, milord. It's just that-"
"Please, Cervantes." Merovech shifted around. "I'd really like to get back to my wife."
Cervantes was frustrated when he realized the King was putting his carnal desires ahead of the security of his own Kingdom, but he'd never let that show on his face. "Of course… my lord. Give my regards to the Queen, eh wot?"
Merovech patted him on the shoulder again and hurried away, leaving the matter of planning the operation to his officers.
The military of the Kingdom of Valm wasn't much to speak of. It was strong enough to keep order and enforce the King's rule, but it didn't have the numbers to stand up to any of the other kingdoms on the continent. It was, however, famed for its specialized reconnaissance units, the Royal Scouts. These units were trained to operate independently for long periods of time, and they were instrumental in cracking down on criminal operations.
Op Team 11 consisted of a man and a woman. Courtney was a young, slender soldier of twenty three years. She had tanned skin, dark brown eyes, and curly black hair that went down to her chin. Her partner, a twenty four year old man named Conrad, was tall and lanky with fair skin, lighter brown eyes, and unmanageable soft brown hair that would yield to no comb or brush and seemed to change every time Courtney looked at it. Royal Scouts always worked in pairs, and they often developed an intensely personal relationship with their partner. Conrad and Courtney were almost like brother and sister.
The two were in the rafters of one of the buildings believed to be a hotspot of gladiator activity. The building in question was an abandoned warehouse at the outskirts of Kronshtadt, and the two had been in the area for two days now. "No sign of activity here either." Courtney said as she scanned the floor of the building. She noticed the floor had been modified into an arena like structure, but that didn't necessarily prove the gladiators were still here.
"Yeesh." Conrad said as he flicked some kind of arachnid off his arm. "Even members of an illegal fight club would be slumming it here. What makes the officers think there's anything going on at a dive like this?"
"Come on, Conrad. Mouth shut unless you have something important to report. Eyes open."
"Yes, dear." Conrad answered sarcastically. Courtney gave a small smile, but she quickly focused as she noticed movement in the distance. She silently alerted Conrad with finger gestures, and the two watched intently as a group of men walked into view. A large gate on the side of the building was opened, and a carriage parked itself by the men. They quickly got to work offloading construction materials. "No wonder we can't track their supply shipments." Conrad whispered. "They don't ship the arena components to the venues. They build it on site."
"I'm repositioning." Conrad nodded as Courtney darted along the rafters to find a new vantage point. She looked back down to see two particularly large gladiators walking into view. These two men matched the descriptions of Walhart and Farber.
The gladiators still had regular matches, but they weren't sporting events anymore. The crowds weren't allowed to see them, and no money was involved. One on one matches had been banned, and the teams were getting bigger and more organized. Walhart was preparing for a war.
"This looks like a good place, huh?" Farber asked. The leader of the Deliverance didn't seem to be listening.
"We're not alone, Farber." Courtney froze in place as Walhart looked around. "I know you're there! Show yourself!"
Courtney was an instant away from shouting out to Conrad, but she quickly realized Walhart was looking towards something else entirely. A scrawny looking mage strolled into view from behind the carriage, two large men with heavy crates flanking him. "As you wish." He answered. Farber drew a tome and materialized a fireball in his hand as he stepped in front of Walhart.
"Who are you?! How did you find us?!"
"Oh please. The gladiator matches are a poorly kept secret."
Walhart gently but firmly moved Farber aside. "What do you want?"
"My name is Nelson, and I have a proposal for you." Nelson snapped his fingers, and the men dropped the crates and revealed weapons and armor. Nelson smiled as the gladiator's eyes widened. "Yours for the taking."
Courtney quickly made note of everything present. There were steel swords, lances, axes, and bows, and there were also esoteric weapons like levin swords, double bows, and blessed lances. There were tomes of all kinds ranging from simple fire tomes to Mire and Nosferatu tomes. There were also full sets of plate armor. Farber stared on in wonder, and Ruger seemed to materialize out of nowhere and eagerly picked up a levin sword, but Walhart just glared.
"What do you want in return?"
Nelson's smile grew. "My master only requests that you use them as you see fit."
"Really?"
"Who is this guy?" Courtney whispered as she struggled to remember everything in the crates. Nelson continued as Walhart himself inspected the weapons.
"My master believes that your forces, your Deliverance, are preparing to strike against the government of Kronshtadt."
"Sakdrisi." Walhart replied. "We'll start with Sakdrisi. However, we plan to rally the people themselves. Why does your 'master' believe we'll need weapons?"
"Oh, he's good at predicting things. He's very perceptive, and he's teaching me to be too." Nelson looked up, and this was no false alarm. Courtney knew when she'd been spotted. "As a further display of trust, allow me to deal with your uninvited guests."
Courtney tensed up as Walhart looked towards her, and Ruger disappeared from sight while Farber scrambled for a tome. She sprang to her feet and turned to Conrad. "Bail! Bail! We've been compromised! Do you acknowledge, Conrad?!" Courtney looked on in horror as Ruger blasted Conrad off the rafters with his levin sword. "Conrad! CONRAD!" She looked back to the ground to see that Nelson had fired a blast from an Arcfire tome at her. "Bollocks!"
Courtney had been knocked out by the fall, and it took some time for her to wake up. She regained consciousness to find herself stripped of her armor and holdout weapons. She was being forcibly restrained by Farber. She tried rising to her feet, but he simply shoved her back down. "Gah! Get off of me!" Farber backhanded her, and Courtney's eyes fell to Conrad as her head was forced to the side. She quickly turned to see that he was in front of Walhart himself. His leg had been broken from his own fall, and the gladiators had clearly done nothing to treat it. "Conrad!"
"Courtney." He replied weakly. "Just stay calm."
Courtney looked up to Walhart. "Please! You have to do something for him! He's hurt! He's your prisoner, you have to treat him fairly!"
Walhart wasn't listening. "Are you watching?" To Courtney's horror, Walhart took a knife and simply slit Conrad's throat. He held him up by the head until he finally died, then shoved his corpse into a pool of his own blood.
"CONRA-HAAAD!" Courtney wailed. "He was like family to me! You monster! Why did you do that?!"
"Because I want you to understand what will happen if you don't tell me what I need to know! Who sent you?!"
"I won't tell you anything!"
"Who sent you?!"
"I'll never talk!"
Walhart surged forward and struck Courtney hard enough to tear her from Farber's grip. "Tell me!"
"Screw you!" She cried. Walhart kicked Courtney like a ball, and she was sent over a meter back.
"Tell me!"
The pain was getting to Courtney now, but she still tried to be defiant. "I would die for my King!"
"You realize you just told him what he wanted to know?" Ruger taunted as he stepped forward. Courtney slowly rose to her feet and glared at Walhart.
"Maybe, but that's all you're going to get from me!"
"I believe you." Walhart didn't acknowledge Courtney's bravery. He just struck her in the head, and she collapsed to the floor with a cracking noise. "This site is compromised!" He said to the other gladiators as he turned. "Everyone get ready to leave."
Farber walked over to Courtney. "What about her?"
"She's not a useful tool. There's no point in keeping her around."
Courtney couldn't control her fear anymore, and she raised her arm in desperation. "Oh, Mila help me!"
"No god will save you now, soldier. The only thing that matters in this world is the will of men, and you have sided with the wrong men." Walhart cracked his knuckles as he loomed over her. "Now what did you call me earlier? A monster?"
Walhart took his time killing Courtney, and the other gladiators learned to work through her tortured screams. He looked intently at his work when he was finished, and he ran his fingers through her blood as it slowly pooled under her mangled, still, lifeless form.
There was no going back now.