A Land Of Fire (Book 12)

by Morgan Rice

  Raj laughed and took the lead, but then Darius caught up to him. The two raced, each alternately taking the lead, back and forth, competing with each other, each gaining the edge then losing it. They stood on the saddles as they rode, wearing broad smiles, the wind blowing in their faces. Darius relished the feel of the shade; if nothing else, it felt so good be out of the sun, and it felt ten degrees cooler here in the forest.

  They turned a bend, and Darius spotted, at the end of the path, a wall of dangling red vines. It demarcated the forbidden zone.

  Darius suddenly got nervous, knowing they had reached the limit to where they could go. No one crossed the vines—that was Empire territory. The only slaves allowed outside were the women, and only in their labor. If they crossed as men, they’d be killed on the spot.

  “The vines!” Darius called to Raj. “We must turn back!”

  Raj shook his head.

  “Let us ride. As boys. As warriors. As men,” he called out.

  Raj turned to him, and added: “Unless, of course, you are afraid.”

  Raj did not wait for a response, but screamed, kicked his beast, and rode faster, heading right for the red wall of vines. Darius, his heart pounding, his face flush from the indignity, felt that Raj was going too far. Yet at the same time, he could not turn around. Not after being challenged.

  Darius kicked his horse and caught up to Raj, and Raj grinned to see him at his side.

  “You are growing on me,” Raj said. “I see you are as stupid as I!”

  They both ducked their heads and, together, they rode through the wall of vines.

  As they burst through to the other side, Darius looked around, shocked. It was his first time on this side of the Alluvian Forest, and here everything was different. The trees changed color, from green to red, and he saw that the path, in the distance, led out to a clearing demarcated by a thick canopy of red trees. He looked up and saw swinging vines overhead, and saw strange animals swinging from branches; their exotic shrieks pierced the air.

  They rode until they reached the very edge of the Alluvian, and they both stopped, breathing hard, their zertas winded, too, and sat there, side-by-side, looking out at the clearing.

  Darius saw before him a dozen women from his village, working the wells, each pumping the long iron rods, filling water for pails. The women all labored hard, with humility, heads down, hands raw from the pumping.

  On the outskirts of the clearing stood several Empire soldiers, standing guard.

  “See anyone you like?” Raj asked, with a mischievous smile.

  Darius shook his head, his anxiety increasing at the sight of the guards.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” Darius said. “We should turn back. We have gone far enough. Too far. This is more than a game now.”

  Raj looked out, taking in all the girls, undeterred.

  “I like the one with the long hair. In the back. Wearing the white dress.”

  Darius looked over the women, realizing Raj was not going to listen to him. He was not in the mood for this. And what bothered him even more was that he was shy around girls. And this was hardly the place or the time.

  But as Darius looked them over, despite himself, there was one girl that riveted him. She had just turned from the well, and as she did, he caught a glimpse of her face, and his heart stopped. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. She was tall, well-built, looked to be about his age, with short, black hair, almond skin, and light yellow eyes. Her features were not that delicate, with a strong jaw and chin, and broad shoulders and a stocky build, but there was something about her—the shape of her eyes, the curve of her hips, the way she stood so tall, so proud—a certain dignity to her—that completely mesmerized Darius.

  “Who is that?” Darius whispered to Raj. “That girl there. With the yellow dress.”

  “Her?” Raj asked disdainfully. “Why do you settle on her? She’s not as pretty as the others.”

  Darius flushed, embarrassed.

  “She is to me,” he said indignantly.

  Raj shrugged.

  “I believe her name is Loti. My parents exchange goods with hers. She lives on the far side of the village, behind the cave mounds. She rarely comes to town. She comes from a family of warriors. Strong-willed. Not an easy girl to tame. Why don’t you choose someone easier, prettier?”

  Suddenly, a zerta charged into the clearing from the opposite side, and all the girls stopped what they were doing. Darius looked over and saw an Empire officer, wearing a uniform different than the others, ride in and come to a stop in the clearing. He slowly surveyed all the women, and they all looked back up at him with fear. All except Loti, who remained proud, expressionless.

  The officer breathed hard and looked around as if he were looking for a snack, something to satisfy his urges. His roving eyes finally stopped on Loti.

  Loti, balancing two pails of water over her shoulder, averted her eyes, looking away, clearly hoping he did not settle on her.

  But the officer grinned an evil grin, showing his yellow fangs, his red eyes flashing as he dismounted and, spurs jingling, the dust rising beneath him, strutted directly for Loti.

  He stared down at her, and she finally looked back at him, defiant.

  “What, no smile for me?” he asked. “Have you slaves not learned to please your masters when they address you?”

  Loti grimaced.

  “I’m not your slave,” she replied, “and you’re not my master. You are a heathen. It doesn’t matter how many slaves you trap beneath you—it will never change what you are.”

  The officer stared back at her, mouth agape, shocked. Clearly, he had never been spoken to that way before. Darius was shocked, too, and in awe at her courage.

  The officer reached back and backhanded her across the face, and the sound shattered the silence as it tore through the clearing. Loti cried out and stumbled backwards.

  As Darius watched, he had involuntary reaction; he could not restrain himself. Something shifted within him, and he suddenly lunged forward, to stop the officer.

  Darius felt a strong hand on his chest, and he looked over to seek Raj next to him, holding him back, looking nervous and serious for the first time that day.

  “Don’t do it,” he said. “Do you hear me? You’ll get us killed. All of us. The girl, too.”

  He squeezed Darius’s shirt hard, and Darius’s muscles tensed up in his grip, and Darius stayed there, reluctantly, before conceding. Darius decided to wait and watch, willing to see what happened next before he took any action.

  The officer turned and walked to his zerta, and Darius relaxed, assuming he was about to mount it and leave. But instead, he reached to his saddle and pulled out a long shining dagger with a copper hilt, and held it up glistening in the sun, grinning cruelly at Loti as he began to walk back toward her.

  “Now you’ll learn what it means to be a slave,” he said.

  Loti’s eyes widened in defiance as she dropped the pails of water from her shoulder and faced him. To her credit, she did not back away, but continued to stare at him defiantly. Who was this girl, Darius wondered? How could she have such a strong spirit?

  “You can kill me,” Loti said, “but you will never claim my soul. My brothers and all the souls of my ancestors will avenge me.”

  The officer grimaced and, raising his dagger, rushed toward her.

  Darius had to act; he knew he could not wait another moment. He shook of Raj’s grasp, and as he did, he began to feel a power well up within him, a power he had felt but a few times in his life. It was like a heat, like a prickling sensation, taking over him, slowly climbing up his skin. He did not understand what it was—but right now, he did not wish to. He only wished to embrace it, to wield it.

  Darius examined the clearing, and as he did, the world slowed; he was able to see every blade of grass, to hear every sound, every chirping of every insect; he felt almost as if he were able to slow time. He entered a strange dimension, where he was not really here, caugh
t in some gap in the fabric of the universe.

  His eyes focused on a small red scorpion that he had not seen before, and, using the power within him, Darius pointed a finger toward it. As he did, the scorpion suddenly lifted out of the grass and went flying across the clearing. It lodged itself onto the officer’s calf. It was not a lethal scorpion, but it would suffice to hurt him badly—and incapacitate him for a while.

  The officer, just feet away from Loti, suddenly screamed out and dropped to his knees, clutching the back of his calf.

  “Help!” he shrieked, his voice cracking.

  The Empire guards quickly ran to him, grabbing his arms, trying to drag him to his feet.

  “My leg!” he shrieked.

  One of the guards reached down with his dagger and sliced the scorpion from his leg, and the officer’s shrieks filled the clearing.

  “Get me back!” he yelled. “Now!”

  They quickly mounted him on his zerta, and his zerta took off, racing through the clearing and disappearing back into the forest.

  Darius quickly looked around, wondering if Raj suspected anything, and Raj looked back at him with a different look, a somber look, perhaps a look of suspicion, or of awe. But he did not say anything, and Darius did not know what he’d seen, if anything.

  Raj turned to go, and as Darius turned to join him, he did notice, from the periphery of his eye, one person staring back at him with an unmistakable look of awe: he turned, and his eyes locked with Loti’s. She had seen him. She knew what he did. She knew his secret.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alistair stood against the wall of Erec’s chamber, craning her neck up at the window, side-by-side with Erec’s mother, and looked out the window in fear. She could see hundreds of torches, an angry mob of Southern Islanders hurrying through the night, chanting, all making their way in a procession toward the house of the sick. They were being led by Bowyer, and she knew they were coming right for her.

  “The devil girl has escaped!” one of them yelled, “but we shall tear her apart with our own hands!”

  “For the murder of Erec!” another cried out.

  The crowd chanted and roared as they marched in procession right for her.

  Erec’s mother turned to her, face grave.

  “Listen to me,” she said urgently, clutching her wrist, “stay by my side and do as I say. You will be fine. Do you trust me?”

  Alistair looked at her, her eyes welling with tears, and nodded back. She looked over her shoulder and saw Erec, fast asleep, and at least took solace in that.

  “Will he be able to help us?” his mother asked.

  Alistair shook her head sadly.

  “The healing spell I cast on him takes a long time to take effect. He’ll be sleeping. Perhaps for days. We are on our own.”

  His mother bore the news with the resolve of a woman who has seen it all, and she took her hand, led her across the room, opened the door to Erec’s chamber, and closed it firmly behind them.

  They marched down the stone corridors of the house of the sick, all the way to the barred main doors, tall wooden doors that were already buckling as the mob slammed against them.

  “Let us in!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Or we shall knock it down!”

  The two guards who stood before it turned and looked at Erec’s mother, puzzled, clearly not knowing what to do.

  “My Queen?” one asked. “What do you command?”

  Erec’s mother stood proudly, fearlessly, with the fearless countenance of a queen, and Alistair could see in that moment where Erec got it from.

  “Open those doors,” she commanded, her voice dark and hard. “We hide from no one.”

  “Stand back!” a guard yelled out, and he then removed the iron bars on the doors and opened them wide.

  The move clearly surprised the mob; stunned, caught off guard, instead of rushing forward they stood there as the doors opened wide, staring back at the Queen and at Alistair.

  “The devil girl!” one called out. “There she is, back to harm Erec again! Kill her!”

  The crowd cheered and began to press forward, and Erec’s mother stepped forward and held out a palm.

  “You shall do nothing of the sort!” she boomed, with the commanding voice of a queen, of a woman used to being listened to.

  The crowd stopped in their tracks and looked at her, clearly a woman they respected. Stepping out front and facing her was Bowyer, leading them.

  “What do you mean by this?” he demanded. “Will you protect her? The woman who tried to murder your own son?”

  “My son is not murdered,” she replied. “He is healing. Thanks to Alistair.”

  The crowd mumbled, skeptical.

  “Why would she heal him after she tried to kill him?” one called out.

  “I do not believe he is healing. He is dead! She is just trying to protect the girl!” another yelled.

  “He is healing, and he’s very much alive!” Erec’s mother insisted. “You shall not lay a hand on this girl. She did not try to murder him. It was not her.” Erec’s mother turned to Bowyer and pointed. “It was him!” she boomed.

  The crowd gasped in shock, as all eyes turned to Bowyer. But he fixed his scowl on Alistair.

  “All a lie!” he yelled back.

  “Alistair, step forward,” the former queen said.

  The crowd quieted, now unsure, as Alistair stepped forward humbly.

  “Tell them,” she said.

  “It is true,” Alistair said. “Bowyer tried to murder him. I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

  The crowd gasped and grumbled, swaying with indecision.

  “It is easy to accuse others after you have been caught with the murder weapon!” Bowyer called out.

  The crowd broke into an agitated murmur, vacillating.

  “I do not ask for you all to believe her!” Erec’s mother called out. “I only request she have a chance to assert her right of truth.”

  She nodded, and Alistair stepped forward and said:

  “I challenge you, Bowyer, to drink from the fountain of truth!”

  The crowd gasped again, shocked by this turn, and they then quieted, somewhat satisfied, as all eyes turned and fixed on Bowyer.

  Bowyer flushed, enraged.

  “I need not accept her challenge!” he called out. “I need not accept a challenge from anyone! I am King now, and I demand she be executed!”

  “You are not King!” Erec’s mother yelled back. “Not while my son is alive! And no man in our kingdom, no honest man, can reject a challenge to drink from the stone. It is a tradition even of kings, of my father and his father before him. You know this as well as us. Accept the girl’s challenge, if you’ve nothing to hide. Or reject it, and be imprisoned for the attempted murder of my son!”

  The crowd cheered in approval as they all turned to Bowyer. He stood there, squirming, clearly on the spot, and Alistair could see the storm of emotions within him. She could see that he wanted more than anything to draw his sword and kill her. But he could not. Not with all these eyes on him.

  Slowly Bowyer loosened his grip on his sword and sighed angrily.

  “I accept the challenge!” he yelled.

  The crowd cheered, and Bowyer turned and stormed through the crowd as it parted ways for him.

  Alistair looked at Erec’s mother, and she nodded back solemnly.

  “It is time to reveal the truth.”

  *

  Alistair, after ascending level after level of steps, moving with the throng, finally reached the highest plateau on the island, and she entered the small plaza to see before her an ancient stone fountain. The fountain was immense, made of shining white marble streaked with black and yellow, and unlike anything Alistair had ever seen. On it was a large gargoyle, and through its open mouth there trickled glowing, red water. The water was caught in a basin below and circulated back in the fountain.

  The crowd fell silent upon her arrival, and it slowly parted ways for her, clearing a space for
her to approach. In the tense silence that followed, all that could be heard was the soft gurgling of the fountain.

  Erec’s mother, standing beside her, nodded to her reassuringly, and Alistair parted from the crowd and walked alone toward the fountain. Hundreds of Southern Islanders stood around it, clearing a space, and as they did, one other person stepped forward: Bowyer.

  Alistair and Bowyer, standing beside each other next to the fountain, turned and faced the crowd. The plaza was lit by hundreds of torches, and in the distance, on the horizon, Alistair could see dawn slowly breaking, the southern sky lighting up, turning a pale shade of purple.

  As she stood there, waiting, Bowyer scowling at her, there appeared from the crowd an old man, wearing a ceremonial yellow cloak, with a drawn, grave face. He held out before him, in both hands, a small, yellow marble bowl.

  His face was somber, and he looked at Alistair and Bowyer with a grave expression.

  “These are the waters of truth,” he boomed out, his voice ancient, the silent crowd hanging on his every word. “Anyone telling the truth cannot be affected by them. But a liar who drinks will suffer an immediate and painful death.”

  The old man turned and studied Alistair sternly.

  “Alistair, you stand accused of attempted murder of your husband-to-be. You claim innocence. Now is your time to prove it. You shall take this bowl and drink from the waters. If you have done what you are accused of having done, you shall die here on the spot. Do you have any final words?” he asked as he held the bowl to Alistair.

  Alistair looked back at him proudly.

  “They shall not be my last words,” she said, “as I have nothing to hide.”

  The crowd watched, engrossed, as Alistair took the bowl and leaned forward over the fountain. The sound of trickling water filling her ears, she reached out, placed the bowl beneath, and captured some of the red liquid. She held the small bowl in both hands, filled with the red water, then put it to her mouth.

  Alistair took a tentative taste, then she drank until she finished the entire bowl.

  When she was done, she turned the bowl upside down and held it out for all to see.