Prefight Debate

The crowd was growing restless. They had been outside in the sun for over an hour now, waiting to be let in to watch the slave fights. Aḫu suspected the officials were doing it on purpose, to ensure that the audience was sufficiently riled up when the show started. Over the last few months, they had had to wait outside for increasing amounts of time. And indeed, once the killing started, the audience reaction was generally rapturous - their enthusiasm and level of participation beyond what Aḫu had ever seen before. But who knows, perhaps someone somewhere had forgotten what time they were supposed to start.

Aḫu’s attention was drawn by a ruckus a little further down the line. He saw his sister Aḫātu making her way down to investigate, shoving waiting wardum out of the way. He followed in her wake.

The commotion, it turned out, was caused by a group of people who were shouting and pointing at an odd figure. A preacher of sorts was standing on a small box and trying to engage the crowd in conversation. Behind them, a battered servitor seemed to be writing down everything they were saying - a scroll of dirty parchment gathering around its feet. The preacher was dressed in simple clothes and their middle-aged face was round and benign. They seemed unperturbed by the clamouring, turning from one person to another to respond to their shouted questions and/or invective.

As Aḫātu and Aḫu approached, it became possible to hear some of the things that they were saying.

“...not here to fight with you - I’ve just come to help you…” A knife whistled past the preacher’s ear. They deftly dodged it and continued talking.

“The path you walk is dangerous, but it’s possible to leave the darkness in which you labour and find yourself illuminated by a light unlike any you’ve seen before.” They smiled beatifically at their growing audience.

“Rubbish!” someone shouted.

“Khorne leads us and his path seems pretty damn clear to me,” someone else added.

The crowd affirmed that statement enthusiastically.

The preacher found the guy in the crowd who had spoken and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Now, it’s interesting you should say that, my friend” they said. “I wonder, what is the path Khorne leads you on?”

The man hesitated briefly, but quickly recovered from being put on the spot. “To the Mighty!” he shouted.

The crowd nodded approvingly. “Hail to the Mighty,” some of them whispered.

On their box, the preacher nodded too. “And what is it that makes a person mighty?” they asked.

“They’re the strongest among us,” the man responded. “They’ve spilled the most blood and pleased Khorne the best.”

“Then tell me this, friend, how do you know who has pleased Khorne best? After all, do you not say that Khorne doesn’t care from whence the blood flows?”

Some people in the crowd cheered at the mention of the sacred dictum.

“If all blood is equally important to Khorne, why does it matter to him that the Mighty have spilled blood more than any others? Could you not say, instead, that for Khorne every little drop helps?”

The crowd was silent for a minute, trying to process this. Then Aḫātu seemed to have an idea. She surged forward until she was in front of the little makeshift platform.

“If Khorne favoured everyone who spilled any blood, that would go against the natural order of things. All around us we see the mighty fight and conquer the weak - the leonid kills the grox. It doesn’t matter if the grox accidentally tramples a bug and spills their blood. They are weak and the predator is strong. That is how Khorne wills it,” she said, confidently.

The preacher turned to Aḫātu with interest. “I’m pleased to hear such a great answer to my vexing little problem,” they said. Though they were smiling benignly, Aḫu was close enough to notice a vicious glint in the preacher’s eye.

“It certainly sounds like you’ve solved it, perhaps my job here is done! But -” their smile widened. “Allow me to prod one of the things you’ve put in front of me there, just a little more. You talk of the natural order, of predators and prey. I’ve been wondering the following: what is it that makes prey, prey? And what is it that makes a predator, a predator? It can’t be just that a predator kills, and a prey is killed - as you say, a grox may kill a bug, but is still prey. And a predator may be killed by another predator, but we wouldn’t say that that means a leonid is not a predator, would we? Maybe you can help me?”

“Surely, a predator is someone who specializes in killing prey,” Aḫātu responded.

“Indeed, and then prey are those who specializes, in a way, in being killed?”

“I would say so,” Aḫātu said.

“So let us investigate in what way a predator specializes in killing - because we are trying to understand what makes the Mighty most favoured by Khorne. The way I see it, the claim that a predator specializes in killing can be interpreted in two ways. Perhaps they especially like or enjoy killing, like an artist might specialize in a specific style of painting…”

Some people in the crowd looked at each other in confusion. It seemed like the analogy had gone over their heads.

“...or a particular fighter might especially enjoy a particular type of blade.”

They were back on board now.

“On the other hand,” the preacher continued, “we can say that someone or something specializes in something if they have been optimized - perfected - for that purpose. Like a servitor might be specialized for a particular task, because it has been given the implements needed to perform that task.

“But we’re talking, of course, about animals, and while some animals certainly have the capacity for enjoyment, many do not. So the first type of specialization cannot be applied to predators in general. Don’t you agree?”

“I agree,” Aḫātu said.

“So a predator is an animal who is perfectly designed for killing, for example because their claws and teeth are perfectly suited to rend flesh. And prey, on the other hand, are those who are perfectly suited to be killed, on account of their nutritious flesh or similar features.”

“That is so.”

“Now then, it seems like the end is in sight. The Mighty are those who, like all predators, are perfectly suited for the spilling of blood. Surely that’s why Khorne loves them! But, one last question remains - maybe you can help me with this too, my wise friend,” the Preacher was facing Aḫātu, seemingly ignoring all the people around them. The intensity of their focus on his sister made Aḫu a little uncomfortable. He was reminded of a snake in the grass, slowly approaching an oblivious prey animal.

“Tell me this - if what makes the Mighty most loved by Khorne is their specialization in killing, what is it that Khorne really loves? Does he love the Mighty because they spill blood for him, or because they are perfectly suited to spilling blood?”

Aḫātu thought for a second, but then shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, preacher,” she said.

“If you’ll indulge me, I’ll try to explain with an analogy - a story told to me by a friend, the scholar Nistu Adema. On his travels, he met a warrior who proudly boasted that he was the best warrior not just on his planet, but in his whole system. He boasted he could beat a Space Marine. Now, Nistu had a companion who was also a very talented fighter. So he proposed to this warrior that if he could beat Nistu’s friend, Nistu would spread his story across the universe. The warrior eagerly accepted. When the fight started, the warrior was trying to hit Nistu’s friend from all directions, and he was whirling around the battlefield like a storm. Nistu’s friend was evading most of the hits, but he wasn’t able to lay a finger on the warrior. It seemed obvious which way the fight was going to go.

“But as the fight went on, the warrior was getting tired and Nistu’s friend was still standing. He was evading and dodging all the warrior’s attacks. And, finally, as the warrior was nearly too tired to keep attacking, Nistu’s friend was able to slip behind him, and open his throat with his knife. The warrior died - and in that one moment, Nistu’s friend spilled almost as much blood as the warrior had done during the whole fight. Now tell me, friends, who was the more perfect predator here? Who of these two men has perfected the art of spilling blood? The warrior who stabs and slashes wantonly, and only as by accident spills a large quantity of blood? Or the fighter who studies his prey and strikes only once, at the perfect moment?”

Aḫātu hesitated. “Perhaps Khorne loves them both?”

“Ah, but a grox could spill a lot of blood by accident, just like the boastful warrior. It seems to me that only the careful fighter is a true preda-”

Another knife flew towards the preacher, this one lodging itself in the chest of the servitor. The crowd had had enough. They cheered when a rock hit the servitor’s head.

“We don’t want you here, you heretic,” someone shouted, and the gathered audience surged forwards to try and drag the preacher off their platform.

But it seemed like in the scramble, the preacher had managed to escape, leaving behind a cloud of sweet smelling smoke as well as their battered old servitor, scrolls of cheap parchment heaped on the ground in front of it. It was quickly torn to shreds by the baying crowd.

When the people were finally let into the stadium, the preacher was quickly forgotten. All that was left was the destroyed servitor, and snippets of parchment drifting away in the soft afternoon breeze.