The Rise of The Skulls Child: Prologue

The ancient city of Pykrie Ma’r was situated in a vale formed by a crescent-shaped mountain range known as the Northern Scythe. The mountains were cursed, a snow-capped barrier no man in living memory had dared to try and cross, but for more than a thousand years the city built in their shadow had ruled over the six continents of the Southlands. In that time its roughly circular perimeter had been steadily expanding, swallowing up vast swaths of woodlands to either side of a broad, swift river that snaked down its middle. To the north, east, and west a curving white cliff of tremendous height prevented the city from climbing any farther up the blue-black slopes of the Scythe; to the south the river fractured into a series of tributaries before empting into a luminous blue sea.
Depending on their station and livelihood, the people of Pykrie Ma’r called their river by several different names. The noble classes for example, called her Sarin’sa, an old word meaning ‘blood of all’. Dreanalai Masters and acolytes on the other hand, almost always spoke of her as Telia na’bath, which signified something like ‘time in the wet’. Commoners called her Rath’un , a homonym for both ‘relentless’ and ‘murky’, and gladiators knew her as Grushenka, ‘body catcher’. There were in fact dozens of phrases that were used to reference the river, but outside the city it was most commonly known by the name that enemies of the Pykrie had given her—Lanala, meaning ‘advantage’. Those who despised the Pykrie believed that without the river the great city would never have amounted to anything, and in part this was true, because Lanala was indeed the city’s lifeline and the source of its wealth.
From sunup to sundown barges and flotillas carrying everything from exotic spices and linens to blocks of ice crawled in and out of the new port on the outskirts of the city bordering the ocean. The old port, which was called the Ma’r—meaning heart—was marked by a colossal, circular stone edifice that stood farther up, in the center of the market district. At one time, the entire area encompassed by the Ma’r had been an artificially flooded marina used to house the War Fleet, but in the past few hundred years the fleet had outgrown the walls and the Ma’r had been transformed. For century or so it had served as a port, then when it was no longer adequate for that purpose either, it had been drained and converted into the most colorful, dangerous neighborhood in the city.
Now, the thousands of ominous black warship that once filled the Ma’r berthed directly on the river, moored side by side on both banks in quays that stretched from the top of the vale almost to the ocean. Their wedged prows were armored with a bright metal that flashed quicksilver in the sun, and their sails were a vicious shade of scarlet, trimmed in gold and marked in the center by an imposing sigil: a black scythe inscribed inside a circle. The terror inspired by this sigil and the deadly prowess of the ships that bore it had enabled Pykrie Ma’r to subdue every civilization within two month’s sail of its borders. Each new conquest had added slaves and resources, helping the city to swell in luxury, influence and renown. For the most part, the foreigners who came now came willingly, looking to enlist as mercenaries in the War Fleet or otherwise seek their fortunes. Dozens arrived every day, as a result the center of Pykrie Ma’r was becoming densely overcrowded.
At the very back of the vale, under the shadow of the great white cliff, an imposing, colossal palace had been carved out of the mountains. Its massive, rectangular perimeter was lined with columns twice as wide across as a man is tall and crowned by more than a hundred gold statues depicting every empress that had ever ruled over the empire. The river ran directly underneath the pediment that the palace rested on, hidden beneath the rock, then surged out of a cavernous opening. The roar of the water as it cascaded into the palace gardens was thunderous; in the quiet hours of morning it could be heard halfway across the city.
At the head of the river, tucked against the garden walls, hundreds of lavish buildings huddled practically on top of one another, rising to precarious heights. Some of them had been added-on to so haphazardly that their upper floors were canted and ready to topple. Others had in fact already collapsed, leaving behind conspicuous heaps of rubble to mark where they had once stood. The homes closest to the palace and along the banks of the river were extraordinary; most of them belonged to powerful noble families and merchants and they all practically dripped with opulence; gilded statues, exotic flowers, frescos, fountains, and ornate tile work were on display in such abundance that the eye could not possibly take in a tenth of it at once.
In the evenings, it was commonplace for lovers from all over the city to come stroll in this section of the city, which was called the Font, and marvel at the craftsmanship while taking in the pervasive scent of Hysternia blossoms, which were strewn over the cobbles twice a day. According to midwives and herb vendors, Hysternia was supposed to be a powerful aphrodisiac.
For sheer beauty and artistry, there was no finer example of Pykrie architecture in all of the Southlands than The Font, but as far as most of the city’s inhabitants were concerned, none of the edifices there were half as interesting or important as the massive elliptical stadium that loomed a few blocks farther to the south.
Known as Mal’Mostra, The Blood Theater, the great stadium surged up out of a dense warren of taverns and open air markets. It was ten stories tall and straddled the river, which flowed through a magnificent arch in its middle. The exterior walls were encircled almost completely by elaborate carvings of famous battles that had taken place inside over the centuries; in panels that varied from the size of a house to the size of a coin depending on the notoriety of the moment, warriors of all the races of the Southlands were locked in deadly battles with other men, beasts of every kind, and even fire.
The gladiators that fought in the blood theater were called Deprived Warriors, because they were bastards and orphans who could not own property or join the War Fleet. Under the letter of the law they were citizens, but in terms of social status and rights they were indistinguishable from slaves. The Pykrie believed that healthy children were the mark of great prosperity, a gift to be cherished above all else. To abandon a healthy child was anathema, and only the most shameful and dishonorable citizens of the empire would ever permit such a thing to happen. When it did happen, the children that had been orphaned or bastardized were thought of as the sons and daughters of criminals, and the shame of the parent was transferred to them. Females became household servants called Bentnecks and were sent to an imperially sanctioned slave broker; males became Deprived Warriors and were sent to a squalla—gladitorial school.
Once a year, the twelve most highly-ranked squallas from across the Pykrie Empire came to the city for the largest and most violent tournament that the city held, a three day affair called Maladesta—Blood Carnival. On the first day of Maladesta, twenty fighters from each of the twelve squallas fought in a round-robin melee that lasted nine hours. On the second day, the remaining warriors from each camp were pitted against a surprise adversary—sometimes bears or lions or a flood of scorpions, sometimes a deluge of arrows or buckets of boiling oil sent down from the gallery above the arena floor. Whatever it was, it was always something that made for gruesome deaths. On the third day, the survivors of days one and two—assuming there were any—chose the best man among them to fight one on one against the others until only a single warrior was left. This warrior, whoever he was, emerged as the victor of Maladesta , earning his squalla and himself the highest honor attainable by a Deprived Warrior, a blessing of freedom from the Empress herself.