The Grand Joke, they called it when it was built. A waste of money on an industrial scale, for who in their right mind would want to sit on hard, stone-backed wooden benches for hours on end to see such a disgusting spectacle?
Those voices, of course, had been muted, only whispered in conversations behind closed doors or over mugs of ale in darkened taverns, where it could be assumed- or at least hoped- that the ears of the Royal Guard would not overhear. It had not been built for some civic purpose or as a way to ensure mass employment in the same vein as the road-building projects that criss-crossed the land, but rather at the direct orders of Her Divine Highness, and one did not overtly question her intentions if one valued the ability to have a heart that was still beating.
Only, strangely enough, in the philippic words of Saddler The Elder had open criticism been permitted, though nopony, least of all Saddler himself, knew quite why that was. Rumours abounded, as they so often did. Some said that the Princess was an admirer of his various treatises and tracts, which, though frequently critical of certain aspects of her rule, were even harsher when it came to Equestria's enemies or those who sought to bring down the nation, whether from within or without. Other wilder rumours claimed that the Princess was actually Saddler's lover, or even his mother, or perhaps both at once, which exempted him from the same kind of fate that would eventually catch up with any other critic. Saddler denied all such rumours as baseless, but that did not stop them from persisting like a particularly stubborn rash.
This edifice, Saddler had claimed, is built upon blood, for the purpose only of spilling more of the same. No other virtue does it possess! It is a monumental waste of resources, a grand showpiece with nothing to display, save for the barbarism that still infests the pony mind and the pony soul! It is a Grand Joke, one surmises; a trick, perhaps, a final laugh from the One Who Changes before he was cast to stone, for what else could it be?
No pony of sound character would revel in the deaths of others, Saddler continued, one of his many public speeches given in the great marble bowl that was the Celestial Auditorium, where noted wits, intellectuals and orators would address adoring crowds or curious onlookers. Only one with barbarity in his soul could enjoy the spilling of blood so openly and for so little purpose, for this is no war, no necessary culling, nor even the slaughter of livestock, but it is the wanton casting of flesh against flesh for no purpose other than entertainment.
The more Saddler repeated those words, the less ponies listened, turning away from his speech, sidling out of the crowds and away from the Auditorium. The crowds drew thinner whenever they knew he was going to be speaking about that one particular topic, and for one simple reason. The Arena was open.
Zico sat in the sweat-drenched sauna, the hot room designed to prepare his body for what lay ahead. There was little else to do but think, and thinking was something he had learned to perfect during the long, dark nights in the fighters' bunk room, behind the thick metal bars that kept him from his freedom, where the muscular warriors were on display like animals in a menagerie. Visitors would come and gawk at them while they trained, while they ate, even while they slept if it took their fancy.
Back in Zebrica, Zico recalled, there was a similar process, but for criminals, those condemned to die by the gallows or the executioners' sword. Citizens could pass by the murderer or rapist or traitor, and spit, shout, hurl abuse or rotten fruit at them as they sat in their cell, waiting to die.
Waiting to die.
Was that any different to this? This half-life, knowing what awaited, yet not knowing a damn thing? It was impossible, maddening. Death would come, he was certain, but there was always that tiny, tantalising ray of hope, that possibility. If he could only win his fight...
It was possible, of course. Zico was a tall, rugged, handsome Zebra, a stallion of great grooming, with ancestors dating back to the very foundation of Zebrica as a republic; from those humble beginnings, the nation had spread its tendrils across the plains and into the mountains, growing stronger, wealthier, fatter. Gems, gold, slaves, spices, oils, potions, all came their way in vast quantities as they crushed smaller tribes and polities beneath their heel, transforming from a republic into an empire, with an elected Exarch upon the newly-created throne. Eventually, however, that growth had to end, and it ended when the Zebrican sphere of interest began to intersect with that of Equestria.
Like all Zebras, Zico was black and white, and with a thick mane of dark umber. His tail was cropped short in the military style, for he was- or rather, had been- a soldier, like his father, grandfather and great grandfather. Now, he was but a footnote, an empty space in a ledger somewhere, missing in action. What his mother must be feeling, his sister, his brother, he could only imagine. As for himself? Zico just felt loneliness.
Away from his family, his homeland, his people. There were no other Zebras here, not right now, at least. No doubt there had been some in the past and would be more in the future, because Zebrica had been suborned beneath the imperialist yoke of Equestria, her armies defeated in battle, her rulers deposed and replaced by enforced worship of the Sun Princess, Celestia. Zebrica was now little more than a vassal state, with a few fiercely independent warlords and their breakaway regiments, all that remained of the once-mighty Zebrican army, holding out in the mountain provinces that once formed the northernmost regions of the Zebrican hegemony.
The fighters here were a motley collection. As well as Zico, there were other captured soldiers; Yaks, Griffons, even a few of the indomitable Diamond Dogs. There were failed mercenaries looking for a get-rich quick scheme, for winners were showered with riches. There were prisoners and pirates, condemned to hang, offered the choice of fighting for their life and taking it. Only those accused of civil crimes- rape, murder, arson, ponynapping- could be offered such an option. For traitors and heretics, there was only the fire of the Holy Sun, and no clemency would be granted.
Not everybody was even a trained fighter. Those who were not soldiers or mercenaries had whatever skills they had scrounged up through a lifetime of crime, brawlers for the most part, not well versed in holding a sword or thrusting with a spear. Their desperation drove them to commit to fighting in the Arena, for the alternative was simple execution. At least a condemned pony had a chance, however small, of living through a fight.
"You, Zebra. Come on, they're waiting."
Zico looked up. The trainer was in the doorway of the sauna room, a gruff, barrel-chested pony whose formerly chestnut mane was rapidly going grey with age. He was responsible for the wellbeing of the fighters, no matter what race they were or what crime they may have committed. Cinder was his name, and he was a good pony, despite his brusqueness and insistence on addressing everybody by either their species or crime- You, Zebra. You there, Rapist. You, Killer.
Zico stood, tossing aside the towel he had been wearing and walking naked to the training area. Here, those condemned to fight would polish their skills, honing their natural talents. Wooden blocks, sacks stuffed with straw or training ponequins served as targets for spears to be driven into, swords to slice and maces to smash. The clink of metal and the low chatter of the fighters filled Zico's ears as Cinder helped him to dress.
No bright uniform for him today. He was no longer in the ranks of the Zebrican army. A simple loincloth, sandals, armoured greaves on his lower legs, vambraces for the forearms, breastplate, helmet. The smell of metal filled his nostrils as the last piece was lowered into place and the visor dropped. Visibility was not brilliant in such a helmet, more like being inside a kettle than the more free-fitting uniform he was used to, but it could protect against a well-aimed strike.
A sword, long, tapered, the Equestrian style, was thrust into his right hand, a shield into his left, not much more than a simple buckler in truth and nothing like the longer convex designs used by the Equestrian army. That was his choice. The Zebrican army had long favoured the more manoeuvrable style of warfare, both at a strategic and individual level. Their armour was usually light leather, brightly painted or daubed with symbols and runes. In a straight fight, a Zebrican soldier was faster than a pony, with Pegasi being the unfair exception. They fought with movement; the Equestrians fought with brute strength, and magic, their secret weapon.
No magic, however, was allowed in the Arena. Nor was flight. Any attempt to cheat would see a fighter immediately disqualified, and disqualification meant death, either by a hail of arrows from the Guardsponies around the perimeter, or capture and dispatch by a unicorn's snare-and-snap combination- seizing a fighter with magic, then breaking their neck telekinetically. The Arena was a test of skill, and that meant weapons, shields, and nothing else.
Equipped and ready, Zico was guided out by Cinder to the wooden elevator, the rickety contraption that clanked and ground its way up from the northern training area. There was another at the other end of the Arena; that was where his opponent would arise from. No longer thinking, Zico's mind was full of what ifs instead. What if he won? Would he be free? Free to do what? Could he go home to his family, or did freedom only mean freedom from the Arena? Would he become a slave to some Equestrian noble?
If he died, what then?
The whole place hummed, like some kind of magical artefact, throbbing with power, barely contained. Ponies packed the stands. They were everywhere, sitting on wooden benches in the dappled light of the sun, filtering through canvas covers above their heads. The more prominent citizens, the nobles, Sun-Priests, parliamentarians and generals, occupied the front rows, where the benches were of polished marble- no more comfortable by themselves, but more grandiose, and topped with silken cushions to ease the burden of sitting upon them for hours.
The Arena itself, Saddler The Elder's Great Joke, was a vast sweeping amphitheatre, a marble colossus that rose some two hundred feet from the ground like a three-tiered wedding cake, all vaulted arches and sloping stands. It could house sixty thousand ponies, hence Saddler's epithet, for how would they ever find sixty thousand ponies who wanted to watch others die?
And yet, they had.
The Arena only hosted shows on the weekends, but every weekend, it was full, packed to the proverbial rafters- being an amphitheatre it had no roof- with ponies eager to bathe in the latest spectacle. Sometimes there were grand displays, parades with ornately decorated floats, dancing troupes, or celebrations of various festivals- the Harvest Festival, the joyous fertility festival of early spring, and the most important of all, the celebration of the Summer Solstice, known colloquially as Celestia's Day, for it was a celebration of the light and warmth of the Sun, the giver of life.
Regardless of whether there was anything else to celebrate, there would always be fights. Every weekend since the Arena had opened, there had been fights. This weekend was no different. There would be fights. There had already been some, before the noon-day recess, when ponies scampered down to the lower tiers of the Arena, where the food carts and street hawkers plied their trade, with fresh fruits, warm-baked bread, bowls of hearty stew, quenching cordials and, of course, plenty of ale and wine, for there was no crowd quite like a bawdy, drunken crowd that would cheer heartily for their favourites, leer lewdly at the pretty maidens dancing, and roar with approval when a hated foe went down.
The crowds were the most important part besides the fighters themselves, for without them, the Arena would be an empty, dull cavern cut from marble, a sepulchral structure where combatants duelled to the death in silence save for the clash of their swords. The crowds made it what it was meant to be. The crowds made it magical.
Zico could hear them as he ascended the elevator, his helmet hot and heavy upon his head, sweat already dripping into his eyes before he had even entered the Arena. He raised his visor to wipe them, and his brow.
"You ready, Zebra?" Cinder asked, standing beside him. Zico nodded. "Good lad," Cinder gave him a slap on the shoulder. "You'll do alright. Just remember not to beg."
The elevator arrived at the top, inside a vaulted doorway off to the side of the Arena. The murmurs of the crowd could be heard. Ponies had taken their seats again after the intermission for lunch and were ready for more. Their appetite for food may have been satiated, but their appetite for violence had not. A sandy expanse lay ahead, beyond the metal gate. Sand to absorb the blood.
Cinder opened the gate and held an arm horizontally in front of Zico, waiting, waiting. The wait stretched out, precious seconds of calm drawing into eternity. Zico was able to think once again. Thoughts of home, his family. They probably didn't even know where he was, alive or dead. The records of the defeated Zebrican regiments were incomplete, their casualty lists not filled out whenever an army had been defeated and routed by the Equestrians. Some were dead, some were prisoners, some had fled into the hills and swamps to wage a guerrilla war or link up with one of the tribal warlords in their holdfasts, but unless the Equestrians had bothered sending detailed lists of the names of all of their captives, then Zebrica could only guess at the true fates of many of its sons and daughters at arms. Zico's family would be among those with more questions than answers after the war had ended. Only the fates knew if he would ever see them again, but he was ready to fight for that chance. It was all he could do now. Fight, and hope, and pray.
"Fillies and gentlecolts, welcome to your afternoon's entertainment!" A loud, amplified voice sounded, some stallion given the task of announcer for the assembled throngs of spectators. "I hope you are all well fed and ready for some more enjoyment. We have some more fights for you!" There were some happy cries from the crowd. They sounded keen for the afternoon's display to start, like any group assembled to watch festivities- a play, an opera, a lyrical reading from one of the great poets. But this was no high culture event, no. This was the basest form of entertainment, that which civilised beings would not even admit to enjoying until they actually sat and watched it. This was barbarity given a veneer of respectability from the fact that it was officially sanctioned, and well attended by, the nobility and the government.
Zico waited, his thoughts far away. He was used to carrying a sword, though not one of this length or size. The Zebrican battle swords were shorter, curved, like those of the Saddle Arabians, the race of great, hulking, desert-dwelling equines that had so far resisted the attempts of Equestria to conquer them. The curved sword lent itself more to fast action, mobile war that the Zebras were best at. Being weighed down by heavy plate and mail was not in their nature, but if that was how he would have to fight to regain his freedom, then so be it. Sword, shield, helmet. He would adapt. He had to.
"From the far corners of the world, tropical, lush, verdant!" the announcer continued. "We have a new fighter, in his first bout. Will it be his last? Who can say. This combatant is battle hardened, a former soldier, now a brave battler in the Arena for your entertainment. From our newly allied province of Zebrica, welcome Zico to the fray!"
Trumpets sounded and Cinder moved his arm away. "Off you go lad. Good luck," was all he had to say.
Zico stepped forward, into the clamour, the familiar sounds of battle- trumpets, drums, shouting. But they were not the cries and war-refrains of a charging enemy; rather an adoring crowd, or at least, a not overtly hostile one. There were a few scattered, desultory cheers from the high stands, where the commoners sat. Rather less noise came from the front rows. Zico stepped out into the light, the sun-baked sand firm beneath his sandaled feet, reflected light casting his bronze helmet and steel sword in bright, burnished splendour. He may have appeared impressive, but a foreign fighter, no matter how tall and strong beneath his armour, only ever drew mild applause at best from the crowd. Their hearts lay with their own.
"And now, here he comes, fillies and gentlecolts! Your friend and mine, the six-time heroic Arena tournament victor, the only stallion with more than fifty individual wins to his name! The most handsome, the most fierce, the most amorous; careful ladies! It's Ruby Rush!"
A roar went up, drowning out the fanfare of trumpets, the subdued cheers Zico had received paling into insignificance as the ponies' champion was announced. At the other end of the open sandy expanse, a second figure strode into the Arena, his sword raised high above his head. His helmet was surmounted by a plume of deep red feathers, not entirely dissimilar from the shade of his body, much of which was exposed, for he wore a similar outfit to Zico- helmet, breastplate, greaves and vambraces, and loincloth. The figure was not as tall as Zico, but just as broad-shouldered and thick-legged, rippling muscle all across his frame. No horn or wings; an earth pony, those stalwart fighters, the backbone of any infantry phalanx. They were the strongest of all ponies physically, the best in hand-to-hand combat by some innate evolutionary process that pushed them a step higher than their more fragile Unicorn and Pegasus brothers and sisters. Ruby Rush seemed to be a true champion of the common pony, judging by the adulation they heaped upon him as he marched proudly into the Arena. Some did their best to toss laurel wreaths and flower garlands down to him, though many just landed among the lower tiers of seating instead. Kisses were blown, gestures of support and adoration were made. They loved him.
They did not love Zico. It was hardly surprising. There were likely almost no Zebras in the crowd anyway, and any that were calling for him would be drowned out by the home supporters and their favoured champion. They already knew, or thought they did, who the victor would be in this latest bout, and it would not be the foreigner. Technically, though, Zico mused as he watched, he was no longer a foreigner after all, for Zebrica was, as the announcer had intimated, now a mere province of Equestria, having succumbed and bent the knee in the age-old symbol of subjugation. No longer was the throne occupied by a Zebra, but by a usurping pony princeling, some distant cousin of Celestia, probably no more closely related to her than Zico was.
It was a shame on the Zebra race, but it had not come about because of some failure of diplomacy or intermarriage of royal families. It had come about because they had been bested on the battlefield, time and again, by the shield walls and archers and airborne cavalry of the Equestrian army. It was as simple as that, and there was a nobility in such a defeat. The Zebras had shown no cowardice; they had never backed away from a fight, never fled in terror, never lain down to await the inevitable. That the inevitable had still come said more about the Equestrian military might than it did about the Zebricans' failures. To succumb to martial force was an honourable end, for a nation or for an individual. Zico hoped he could live up, at the very least, to that precept. If he was fated to die in the Arena, then he would die having fought bravely and well.
Though his vision was relatively limited thanks to his helmet, Zico could see Ruby Rush, who continued to stride forward until he stood in the centre of the Arena, facing his Zebrican opponent. The cries of joy from the mouths of the crowd scarcely died down even one decibel, though they would be hushed by trumpets before the beginning of the fight itself. Ruby struck an imposing figure. His armour was no glittering piece of ornamental work, but battered bronze, the slightly misshapen panels where the armourers had beaten it back into shape after taking some monstrous blow still visible beneath the simple paintwork, which itself was chipped and dulled in places. Zico noted six feathers in the plume of his helmet- one, he surmised, for each of the tournament victories that the announcer had spoken of with such pomposity.
Ruby extended his hand, a pre-match show of good faith between combatants, like the touching of knuckles before a boxing bout commenced. Zico eyed it warily for a moment, fearful of some trap. Was this how Ruby had his victories? Pretending to go for a handshake and then driving a hidden dagger into his opponents' ribs? Surely that would constitute cheating of some sort- after all, the fight had not officially started. Zico knew that much. The gong had to be sounded first. He grasped Ruby's firm hand with his own.
Through the grill of his visor, the pony nodded to him. "Fight well, Zebra," he spoke, his deep voice matching his stature perfectly. "May the best fighter prevail."
Zico nodded back in reply. He didn't feel much like talking, and there was not much to say that was not already being spoken loudly to the crowds from their body language and the handshake of mutual respect that proved this was no grudge match. It was only business; the business of the Arena. The business of blood. Now, three paces back, each. Swords gripped firmly. Ruby Rush turned to the stands where the nobles were assembled, and bowed deeply. Though a foreigner, Zico was expected to do the same, especially now that his nation lived under the dominion of Equestria. He turned, raised his eyes to the stands, and that was the first time he saw her.
Among the great and the good of the Equestrian nobility, bedecked in their gilded finery, gowns and smart uniforms and primped headdresses, sat the Princess herself.
It was small wonder Ruby was bowing so deeply, then. Celestia was not just their monarch, but their spiritual leader, a goddess made manifest in physical form, according to their own holy writings. Zico had never subscribed to that religious doctrine; the Zebras had always had their own gods, spirits of the sky and the water, the planetary birds that daubed themselves across the sky each night in the form of constellations. They had a deity that represented the sun, yes; but the ponies claimed their Princess controlled it. A nonsense, surely, for no mere mortal could harness such power.
Yet looking at the Princess, Zico suddenly felt doubt that she was mortal, for she looked divine. Celestia sat in flowing robes of the purest white silk, her golden crown atop her head, elegantly perched upon her throne-chair, while all those around her in the Arena sat upon benches. Her Chancellor and her Field Marshal flanked her, the head of the government and army respectively, both large stallions, and she sat a full head and shoulders taller than either of them. That was not a product of the chair she rested upon, but of her own prodigious height, for she was no ordinary pony, but an Alicorn. To Zico, that just meant that she was an impossible combination of all three other pony subspecies, for that was what he had been taught about such mythical beings. Yet, just looking at her suggested she was far more than a mere hybrid. No accident of nature was she, but something more than just a pony. There was an aura to her, and he could almost see it, beyond her beauty and grace and strength. Something else, yes. Something more.
Foals swinging censures full of incense, fawning ministers of state and priests in their cloaks, faithful retainers and gruff, silent bodyguards clad in golden armour surrounded her, the royal court in miniature. But she could not possibly control the sun, could she? That had to be nonsense, like most religious propaganda. Nevertheless, he bowed respectfully, for confronted with such a powerful figure, one could do nothing else. Any princess, prince, king or queen would command that gesture, but in Celestia's case, it seemed almost to be a compulsion. He felt that he had to bow, not just that bowing was what he had been told to do. by Cinder, the trainer. It was as though Celestia demanded it by her mere presence. When he returned to standing tall, he found she was looking at him, and though his visor covered his face, he could feel her brilliant magenta eyes burrowing deep into him.
Then, all at once, the gong sounded, and the battle was underway.
Ruby Rush wasted no time in trying to once more win his Princesses' favour. He charged in immediately, catching Zico half off guard, as he had still been distracted by Celestia. His heavy sword swung up in defence, deflecting Ruby's blow, but the stallion was fast, despite his bulk. He swung his shield like a weapon, too, not just as a tool for his protection. Zico stepped back, staggered by the force of Ruby's strike, and swiftly rolled away to the side, springing back to his feet to return the favour with his own attack, swinging his sword. It bounced off of Ruby's shield, and the pony struck with his weapon too, almost catching Zico with a swift cross.
The Arena was large, intended not just for single combat but for mock battles, or pitching unlucky captives or fierce mercenary fighters against wild animals like timberwolves and manticores. With just two combatants inside its vast, sandy expanse, one might have expected the event to lose some of its spectacle, but instead the opposite was true, if anything. Every last spectator, from the ministers and earls around the royal box to the fishmongers, labourers, farmers and whores up in the sky in the top tier of benches, could see exactly what was going on. No view was obstructed- fancy ladies and Sun Priests alike were required to remove their headwear before being seated- and there were no distractions in the Arena. No terrain, no obstacles to fight over or around, just simple perfection, force of will and a blade, the purest manifestation of martial prowess you could hope to find, distilled down to its most basic, and most engaging, form.
Zico ducked the sharpened edge of Ruby's shield and brought up his sword, but Ruby had already moved and his blade found nothing but thin air. He was damned fast, for such a big stallion, nimble and flexible despite his armour. His torso was uncovered, as were his strong thighs, enabling him to turn and lunge with power and pace, unencumbered by the weight of a full set of military armour. Similarly clad, Zico had the same advantages. He was used to fast-moving combat, but not with a heavy Equestrian sword. Ruby Rush, on the other hand, was clearly a very practised user of the standard weapon of Celestia's battalions. His blade cut through the air with the grace and precision of a fine fencers' rapier, a sport enjoyed and practised by, it was said, the Princess herself.
She would not, however, pit herself against a brute in armour in such an elegant sport, regardless of whether or not she could beat him- and given the tales of her martial prowess, that was highly likely- because that was not what the essence of fencing was about. It was about finesse and flair, more akin to a troupe of balladeers or actors than the kind of dirty, bloody pit fighting that the Arena played host to. This was a war in miniature, following the rules of the fight, yes, but no less brutal for it.
Zico parried when he could, but while he could match Ruby Rush in strength, the stallion was faster than he was, much more accustomed to using the Equestrian sword and being clad in the heavier armour, a natural with blade and shield. Zico struggled to match him, unfamiliar as he was with the heavy broadsword and armour plate that, while leaving most of his body uncovered, was still heavy and cumbersome compared to the lighter leather armour favoured by the Zebrican legions. Though he had trained with it in the pit down below the Arena for weeks, he still could not quite get the hang of it. He had no natural knack for it like Ruby seemed to, raised, so Cinder had told him, on a diet of war, a decade and a half of service beneath Celestia's banner fighting against the Yaks, the Saddle Arabians, and yes, even the Zebras. A peaceful retirement beckoned after fifteen years, as it did for all those Equestrian soldiers who survived that long, but Ruby rejected the quiet life, not content to become a greengrocer, smallholder or minor merchant as so many of his fellows had down the years. Nor did he choose the other option, staying on as an experienced hand, a Sergeant Major perhaps, or the Quartermaster of some fortress somewhere. Instead he chose a third option, and a most fruitful one it had been.
The six-time Arena tournament champion came at his Zebra opponent again, leading with the shield this time to throw him off balance. Zico spun, a fine pirouette that drew some scattered applause from the crowd, bringing his sword around with a grunt of exertion, but Ruby, again, was faster, and his shield, which had been leading his charge, was already in the way, blocking Zico's strike with a dull clang of metal-on-metal. A moment later, Zico felt a hot flash of pain stabbing through his thigh as Ruby's blade cut into his flesh. It was a minor wound, but a painful one, although most of the discomfort was masked by the wash of adrenaline pumping through his veins.
The sight of fresh blood spattering the sand brought the crowd really to life, and they began to cheer raucously, waving and pumping fists in the air, expecting more from their champion. More blood, more, more, always more. The crowds in the Arena had a thirst for crimson that would make a timberwolf look tame by comparison, like ponies dying of dehydration, always craving one more sip, one more drop of that most precious fluid, never quite slaking their thirst for violence and death, so long as it was put on by the state, paid for by the government, and attended by their Princess. That, essentially, both legitimised and glorified the slaughter. This was no cellar-pit where dishevelled tavern-goers crowded round with mugs of ale in their hands and staggered against each other as two vagrants or hardened gangsters went toe-to-toe in a makeshift ring, shoved back into the fray by drunken patrons of the illegal fight club whenever they stumbled. This was a royal affair. The banners fluttering outside the stadium carried the golden seal of the Princess herself.
Zico tried his best to ignore the crowd, as he knew they would never chant for him. Not when they had their own champion. More strikes, more blocks, his shield working hard, paint chipping and flaking off with each harsh blow of Ruby's sword. Each strike sent an electric shockwave through the nerves of Zico's arm and shoulder, sharp jolts that reminded him just how much work it was to simply stay alive against an expert swordspony. He was no slouch himself, however, and struck a glancing blow across the armoured greave of Ruby's right leg with a low sweeping swing of his sword. The pony jumped backward and with a quick one-two movement of each leg, brought his sword down upon Zico's blade to pin it down before kicking it from his grasp with his other foot.
Zico staggered back, disarmed. There was a shrill intake of breath from the crowd. A disarmed combatant could be a desperate one, or they could succumb in moments to their opponent now that they lacked an easy counter to their deadly blade. Ruby Rush had the advantage, but whether that was tellingly decisive or just a temporary setback for the Zebra depended on how Zico responded. His sword lay in the sand, but any immediate attempt to retrieve it would be leaving him open to Ruby's strikes. Instead he backed off and circled warily, mindful both of the threat from Ruby's sword, and the hubbub of the eager crowd.
Open warfare now became a cagey affair, with Zico slowly moving, shield ready, while Ruby flourished his sword for the crowd's affections, drawing more cheers and whistles of support from the faithful. He had the upper hand, and he was a six-time tournament champion with fifty wins under his belt. The crowd knew this as well as he did, and they loved to see their favourite fight, especially when everything was moving in his favour. Zico spared a single brief glance toward the royal seats, where the Princess was still watching, her long legs elegantly crossed and an expression of only mild apparent interest upon her face.
If blood did not excite her in the same way it excited the crowd, Zico wondered, what would? Perhaps a stunning upset victory by an outsider, a newcomer, might pique her interest. That would be something unusual, judging by Ruby Rush's fearsome reputation. The crowds adored him, but to see him lose might sour their mood for days. If he were to die? Well, that might even provoke a riot. Then again, the ultimate fate of a defeated warrior was down to the Princess, not the populace.
Of course, that relied upon defeating Ruby, and he was not going to roll over and surrender just like that. Thrust and counter-thrust, blow and blow, parry, cut, stab, swipe, sweep. Zico rolled and jinked, leaping over a descending blade to strike Ruby's face with his knee, an act which drew a few cheers from the foreigners in the audience. A symbolic blow, a slap of derision across the visage of the Princess and her kingdom. No ponies cheered for that.
Zico turned and grasped his sword from the dust, bringing it to the ready once more. Now he could fight fair, give himself a chance, however small, of coming out of the other side alive and victorious. Such was his hope, but hopes were fleeting and foolishly held by those who would dare to stand before the Sun and raise their weapons in anger. Ruby was ready for him, despite bleeding from his nose and diminishing vision from a steadily growing puff of blackened skin around his left eye, Zico's defiant knee leaving a visible mark of his dissent, his and so many others, the disillusionment of a million Zebras, Yaks, and Griffons who toiled under the yoke of Equestrian occupation. Their flags no longer flew- only the white-and-gold of the Sun Princess- but they still cared. They still longed to be free once more, to throw off the weary ropes that bit into their tired flesh, the lead-weighted shackles that bound them to their new masters. Their soldiers may have been crushed, their armies crumbled to capitulation before the spear-tips and arrowheads of Celestia's endless legions, but their souls still yearned for independence again. To those watching, only Zico could metaphorically give them that.
Except he could not.
Ruby Rush, the Sun's champion and the chosen hero of the citizens of Canterlot, was a better fighter. It was as simple as that, no matter how Zico or those non-ponies watching might try to rationalise otherwise. There was no trick involved, no magic, no skulduggery, no cheating. Zico's blade clashed with Ruby's; once, twice, three times; left, right, low sweep, high block. Metal met metal time and again, until Ruby found an opening that even Zico did not realise was there. The Zebra's strike was met with shield and turned aside. Ruby thrusted forward, like a sprinter out of the blocks, striking Zico in the face with that same shield instead of swinging his sword as expected. Zico blinked through the tears and blood and managed to block the sword swipe which did follow, but Ruby's shield was in his face again, staggering him and jolting his neck back. With a grunt of pain, Zico raised his shield as Ruby raised his sword, a powerful roar emanating from his lungs as he lifted his weapon for the fatal blow. Zico got his shield up, but Ruby had no intention of bringing the blade down upon his head. Instead, the stallion's shield impacted with Zico's own, a sudden outward lunge of the arm, while his sword, raised above his head, came down instead in a sweeping, graceful curve, describing a perfect arc before severing both of Zico's legs just below the knee and just above where his armoured greaves protected his lower limbs.
Zico was too stunned to cry out, but the crowd were not. They voiced their approval with a thunderous bellow, cheering wildly as Zico fell into the sand, like a tree chopped through at the base. Pain began to spread like a red blanket over him, nerves crying out in agony where his lower limbs now ended. The sand began to stain a dirty rust-shade as his blood flowed out of his severed stumps. Ruby spun with his sword extended, as if for the finishing blow, but stopped with the point of his blade inches from Zico's throat.
A sudden silence fell, as though somepony had closed a great door and blotted out all of the sounds of cheering and the cries of triumph from the masses. All eyes, including those of Ruby Rush, turned toward the Princess.
She sat stoically, as though contemplating some great mystery, looking down at the two combatants, one the victor, the other defeated, lying in the dust of ages, the same sand where thousands before him had fought and died. The ultimate arbiter of each fight was not skill or courage or even luck, but the will and judgement of the Princess, for it was her choice to make. Live, or die?
Ruby held his sword at Zico's throat and looked up at his leader through the visor of his helmet. Zico slowly turned his head toward her also, as though drawn by a magnet. Where else could he look? There was only the glinting steel of Ruby's weapon hanging above him, waiting for the signal. He had lost the fight, that was abundantly clear. Even if he could recover his sword, dropped into the sand somewhere when he fell, he could no longer rise to his feet and continue the battle, for he was no longer in possession of them. All he could do was accept whatever fate the Princess would decide for him, for his own future was out of his hands and resting entirely in hers.
The hushed crowd peered down at him, their collective gaze torn between their leader and their champion, holding the defeated Zebra at sword-point. As he looked back up at them, Zico felt a strange kind of peace settle over his fallen form. If the Princess truly was a goddess in physical form, as her followers believed, then would her decision not be a kind of absolution for him? Either way, whatever she chose, that would quite literally be the will of the heavens. If, however, she was nothing but a particularly powerful pony, an Alicorn but not a god, then perhaps the Zebrican spirit-fathers of the Sky and Water had willed Zico's life to come to this point for their own unknowable reasons. That, at least, could give him some comfort, even if it was a fabrication or an outright falsehood.
The Zebrican gods had never shown themselves in physical form to their followers; they were more of a concept, an idea, an untouchable, intangible essence that permeated everything associated with them, an animistic force of being that controlled the threads of destiny of each and every creature living within their domain. Within their domain. This was very much not their territory, though how far outside of Zebrican lands their influence stretched was impossible to truly say. Their reasoning and their judgement was unknowable, for they never spoke, and how much power they wielded in the land of the Sun Princess was mere guesswork. In these moments that stretched out before Zico like an eternity, his life in the hands of a former enemy and now an oppressor, he began to doubt that they really existed at all.
Celestia, however, most certainly did exist, and whatever she was- mortal or goddess- her subjects worshipped her. Even sitting silently, she exuded power and grace like no other. Zico imagined that, if he had been born a pony and not a Zebra, he would have happily fallen into line and worshipped her. If nothing else, she looked like a goddess, and though she had not spoken either, unlike the Zebrican gods, she had clear and obvious power over his fate. How she responded in the next few moments would trump all Zebrican destinies and prophecies, for her word was final, whether spoken aloud or demonstrated through a simple gesture.
He found himself amazed by how much time he seemed to have to think, irrelevant thoughts flitting through his mind as the interminable infinity passed, waiting, like the spectators, for some response from the Princess. Thoughts of home, of family and friends, some lost forever in the wars, some waiting forlornly for news. But news of captured prisoners was slow to filter through at the best of times. Perhaps the story of one gallant but ultimately unsuccessful Zebra challenger in the Arena would one day filter back home.
The silence dragged on, the pent up emotions of the crowd waiting to burst forth, but none dared pre-empt their Princess. Nopony uttered a word. Her magenta eyes bored into Zico as he lay there helpless, just another vassal from a subjugated state who had tried and failed to impress in the Arena's bloody cauldron. What was one more? She had probably seen hundreds of such brave challengers come and go. A month from now, she probably would not even remember this fight, or the choice she had made.
The choice.
Celestia raised her right hand above her head. Though the crowd was already quiet, it almost felt as though there was another intake of breath, for this was the moment they had been waiting for. Her arm remained outstretched, and Zico watched on, almost as though he were an outside observer, someone peering in from afar, like a spectator who had not paid for his entry to the Arena's grandstands and was instead peeking furtively over the rim of the tall stone bowl to watch from outside, illicitly observing from the amphitheatre's rafters. Pegasi could do that, as well as their more intrepid friends who thy could fly up to perch precariously. Maybe some were watching now, breath held like those inside the stadium, waiting for the royal declaration.
Celestia lowered her arm, and a tumultuous roar erupted from the throats of sixty thousand ponies, like the breaking of a long-awaited summer storm. An arm held out at chest height meant life; an arm lowered to the side meant death. The Princess had lowered her arm all the way. A simple signal that meant so much, to the audience around her and to her fallen, conquered subject.
Ruby Rush looked down at Zico, just for a moment. "Good fight, bad luck," he intoned, audible only to Zico above the din of the crowd, baying for blood, for the final, fatal blow to be administered. Ruby could not deny the will of the people, or, more importantly, of his Princess, and he thrust the tip of his blade downward, through the unprotected throat of the Zebra.
Zico died silently, other than the gurgle of blood and air leaking from his punctured neck. His thoughts were elsewhere, a continuation of the long and lonely pause, where time itself had seemed to stop and the Princess had mulled over her decision. Home and family were on his mind, taking away some of his pain and fear, flooding his head with memories. Even if the Princess had spared him, let him go, what use would he have been to his family and his clan as a legless, useless failure?
No, this was for the best. The Princess had made the decision for him. He did not have to worry about the shame often heaped upon former prisoners of war, the assumption of cowardice and surrender, the begging for food, the inability to hold down any meaningful employment, the despondency and suicidal thoughts that many veterans suffered with. This was the quick and simple way out, death out of his hands. It was the same as dying in battle, wasn't it? After all, he had just fought a war, however brief, with Ruby Rush. There was honour in that, a great deal of honour. Yes, this was for the best. The Princess, it seemed, was truly wise after all.
As Zico slipped from the physical realm, the crowd cheered. Ruby Rush bathed in their adulation, the wreaths of flowers thrown at him, the kisses blown at him, the love shown to him. He raised his sword, slick with the breath-blood of his opponent, pointing it at the Princess before burying it tip-first into the sand and kneeling in supplication before her. Such pious devotion was as popular with the crowd as skill and victory, and the Princess nodded at him and bade him stand with a simple gesture. He paraded out to cheers from the audience as two litter-bearers entered to remove the lifeless body of his defeated opponent. Ruby Rush had another victory to his name, and the Arena had claimed one more victim.
