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 DaggerTunius |