Editing Warhammer High (section)

==The Trader's Son==
Sport is a war.

Death might be a freak occurrence, injuries might be accidental rather than deliberate and the prize might be a mere trophy, but the act of two teams competing against one another was nothing more than a controlled and stylized form of ritual warfare. That was a truth the ancients had long grasped, and one that was foremost in the mind of Muldorn Pryror as he surveyed the playing field and the opposition.

This was nothing serious, or so the instructors had said. Friendly tryouts. But everyone knew that was a lie. This was a cutthroat contest to sort the wheat from the chaff. And Pryror knew what he was.

Scrumball. In a long-forgotten tongue it was called Rugby, but that was a coarse name bereft of any poetry, artistry or class to Pryror. And it was a sport that deserved those words. A sport where brawn and brains were needed in equal measure. Where speed was as much a weapon as muscle. Where attack and defence needed to be balanced, and psychology counted.

In short, the perfect sport for testing the skills of the young nobles of the Imperium.

Pryror gave a small grin as he eyed his team, each wearing a blue sash. Only the very finest were allowed to study at Imperator High. The cream of the crop of united humanity. Every man on the pitch was a child of perfect genetics and eugenics, brought here to compete. From such competition would the future of the Imperium be forged.

Then his eyes spotted someone across the pitch with a red sash around his chest, and in an instant his grin was replaced with a scowl. The broad chested, sandy haired heir to the Kimball-Carlin dynasty. Not everyone here was up to the standards that should have been the foundation of Imperator High. A few were decidedly subpar. And Carlin was one of those. The grin returned, now with a wolfish edge. He would show him. Pryror would show the upstart what it meant to face the Imperium’s finest.

Pryror was the heir to the Pryror Rogue Trader dynasty, one of the oldest and most venerable of all the many Rogue Trader lineages. His dark skin had a smoky sheen, and his handsome features seemed sculpted by a master craftsman.

It had only been a month since Pryror had started his schooling, and he was still struggling to get used to it. He was the first of his family in over three thousand years to walk on the surface of Terra. It was much changed from the days of his illustrious ancestor, Ras Runako Pryror. Great hives had arisen from the destruction of the Unification Wars, and Imperator High was sited upon one of those, the rather blandly named Hive Tetra in the old Jermanic territories. The hive was a grand statement of the Emperor’s intent, and the schola even more so. Imperator was as grand as one of the great palaces on Terra, an architectural marvel that never failed to fill Pryror with awe.

The Imperator High Sports grounds were just as impressive, over five miles across. Everything from firing ranges and carefully cultivated ‘bush’ areas for wilderness training to more conventional playing fields that were havens for students during the midday lunch breaks were present across the expanse. The towering fastness of the main building loomed over them, spires reaching for the skies. Imperator High was a city in miniature, an entire world unto itself.

A blast of the whistle jolted Pryror back to his senses. The head Coach, a broad man chewing on a cigar called them all over.

“This is a friendly match. I don’t want any groxplay. You can show your skills, but don’t overdo it. Got that?”

“Sir, yes sir!” The students chorused.

The two teams separated, and Pryror’s team gathered around him. He was humbled when they had chosen him as captain, and he was determined not to let them down.

“Men, you all know what to do. Remember, a knife through the flanks is a better move than trying to batter through the centre. Keep on the attack, keep them off balance, keep them on the back foot, and we will secure victory. Got that?”

The chorus of roars was all the answer Pryror needed. These were the sons of planetary governors, noble houses, segmentum megacorp CEOs and other powerful and influential dynasties. They were the best, paragons of the next generation. They would not fail.

The teams formed up, two mirror images facing each other across the field. Pryror was a halfback, in the perfect position to defend or attack. A good place to survey the field and help his fellows if they needed it.

Red team had the ball. He watched as they started moving it up the field, and the fullbacks moved to intercept.

A crowd of students had already gathered on the stands and were watching proceedings. Though Pryror could not make any of them out, a thought stung him. Were they watching from the bleachers? Were the eyes of the most noble, the mightiest, the ones around whom the whole student body revolved like satellites watching this contest? He was not worthy of them. None of the students here were. But they could show that even the merely human could equal their standards.

There he was. His rival. He had the ball. Now Pryror had a chance. He could give the upstart a lesson, a lesson in his own weakness, his own inferiority.

Pryror moved. He had to be fast. He had to hit him before he could pass the ball, or worse, get out of range.
In ancient Merica, they had worn armour while playing scrumball. They weren’t wearing armour here. Pryror collided with, throwing both into the air. The pain of landing was only slightly less than the pain of impact.

As he lay on the ground, his fellow blue team players gathered around him, and Pryror smiled. Now the red team advance was stalled, and they could go on the attack. This was a good start to the game.



In the end, Pryror’s faith in his teammates won out. Blue team won 27 to 20. A close game, a hard-fought game. One in which both sides had played hard. As the coach said, honour had been satisfied all around. Pryror though could not keep a satisfied smirk off his face as the two teams went down the line, shaking hands. An old tradition, a sign of peace among the combatants.
Alex Carlin saw his smirk, and his eyes narrowed. As both sides broke up and the students started walking back to the changing block, Alex gestured him aside.

“What the hell is your problem, Pryror?” Alex asked.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” Pryror replied. “My problem is you.”

“Me?”

“You. Do you know what you are?” Alex just glared at him in reply, until Pryror could not take it any more.

“I’ll tell you. You’re an upstart. Someone who does not deserve to be here.”

“Excuse me?” Alex growled.

“You heard me,” Pryror stated firmly. “Your family got their warrant of trade by sheer accident. Mine was forced into it to pay penance for the crime of fighting the Emperor.” It was an old family story of shame and penance. “My ancestors were nobles of the Mid-Afrik hives, ground under by the Thunder Warriors and given the chance to serve as Rogue Traders to atone for opposing the Emperor. I am the first in four millennia to stand once more on the soil of Terra.” He did not try to hide the pride in his voice.

“You claim that as a virtue?” Alex scoffed. “My family have never been anything but loyal to the Emperor.”

“And what has your family achieved? Over the millennia my family brought dozens of human worlds into the Imperium peacefully and marked dozens for compliance actions. They scouted xenos empires for the Astartes Legions to purge. My family’s wealth came from serving the Imperium, from fighting in the grand struggle, not from grave-robbing dead worlds far from the action.”

“So your wealth came from bleeding compliant worlds dry, right?” Alex said spitefully. “So who’s the more righteous party now?”

Pryror returned his gaze stonily. “My family helped build the Imperium. Yours merely profited from it. Don’t try and equate yourself with me. Your warrant of trade is a mere sham next to mine, and don’t you forget it.”

Pryror could feel a withering gaze from Alex as he turned and headed for the changing block. Let him glower. Alex Carlin would learn his true place. Muldorn Pryror would make sure of that.