by Morgan Rice
Erec charged forward, ankles splashing in the water, grabbed his sword, extricated the whip, and kicked the taskmaster back, then stabbed him in the chest.
The fighting continued, on and on, thick and heavy, the waters running red with blood, men dying in every direction—until finally, it slowed. The clanging became less persistent, the smashing of shields dropped away, the sound of armor clinking died, as did the shouts and cries of men. Soon all that could be heard was the running of the river, thick in the air of silence.
Standing there, breathing hard, sweat running down the back of his neck, Erec looked about and surveyed the battlefield, and slowly, inwardly, he rejoiced as he saw his men standing over hundreds of Empire corpses, victorious. They all looked to him proudly, these great warriors of the Southern Isles, men he could not possibly be more proud to lead.
Slowly, like rabbits emerging from their holes, the villagers crept out of their houses, out of the village, coming forward in disbelief at the sight. They seemed hardly able to fathom that all the Empire taskmasters, these people who had oppressed them so badly, were dead.
Erec stepped forward and raised his sword and walked through the ranks of villagers, slicing the shackles holding them together—and all around him, his men did the same. He saw the villagers’ eyes fill with tears as they dropped to their knees, liberated.
He looked down as one of them grabbed his leg, knelt, and cried.
“Thank you,” he wept. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Darius was rudely awakened, his head smashed into the iron bars of the carriage as it came to a grinding halt. He barely had time to process what was happening when keys jingled in the lock, the iron door slid open, and several rough hands grabbed him by the chest and yanked him out into harsh daylight.
He landed on the hard dirt ground, tumbling, dust rising all around him, squinting his eyes into the sun as he held up his hands. His ankles and wrists shackled, he couldn’t resist even if he wanted to. The Empire taskmaster knew that, yet he placed his boot on Darius’s throat anyway, enjoying inflicting pain on him. Darius could barely breathe, feeling his windpipe being crushed.
More rough hands grabbed him and yanked him to his feet and Darius shut his eyes again, every muscle in his body aching, feeling so stiff and sore, every movement hurting him.
“Move it, slave!” yelled a taskmaster, and Darius felt a rough shove as he stumbled forward through the streets.
Darius slowly opened his eyes into the glaring sun, trying to get his bearings and figure out where he was. At least that carriage had stopped; he could not stand another minute of its jolting his head.
Darius heard shouting all around him, and he realized he was in a crowded city, people bustling everywhere, slaves like him, chained by wrists and ankles, being ushered by Empire handlers in every direction. He was marched with a long group of slaves, dozens of them, all of them being ushered through a tall, arched stone opening, leading into a stone tunnel and toward what appeared to be a training barracks.
Darius heard a thunderous roar, and he glanced up and saw beyond that, a coliseum twice the size of the one in Volusia. It was the most glorious and terrifying thing he’d ever seen. And then he realized, without a doubt, where he was: he had arrived in the Empire capital.
Darius barely had time to consider it when he felt a club on his back.
“Move it, slave!” the man yelled out.
Darius went stumbling with the group into the darkened tunnel, and as he lost his balance and rushed forward, he felt a sharp sting as he was elbowed in his face.
“Don’t bump me, boy!” snarled another slave in the darkness.
Darius, furious that a fellow slave would catch him off guard like that, would strike him for what was clearly an accident, reacted. He shoved the slave back, sending him stumbling backwards into a stone wall. He was so pent up with aggression that he had to let it out on someone.
The slave rushed forward to tackle Darius, but at that moment a new throng of slaves marched in, and it was so dark in here, the boy pounced on another slave, mistaking him for Darius. Darius heard the boys all shout out, as the two strangers wrestled on the ground. It went on for a few seconds before the taskmasters appeared with clubs and beat them both.
Darius kept moving with the others, and a moment later, he emerged into sunlight again and found himself in the dusty courtyard of a square, stone training barracks, its walls lined with arches all around. Lined up were hundreds of slaves, mostly boys his age, chained to each other by long shackles. Darius felt a rough hand on his wrist and he looked over as an Empire taskmaster clamped his shackles to another boy’s
Darius continued shuffling into the courtyard in the long line of boys, hundreds of them lining the walls, until finally he felt a yank on his chain, and all the boys came to a stop, in a great clanging of chains.
Darius stood there in the tense silence, looking out with the others, wondering what to expect now. What agony awaited them next? he wondered.
A dozen Empire soldiers emerged from one of the arches, marching into the silent courtyard, a huge Empire soldier leading the way, clearly their leader. He paced up and down the line of boys, examining them one at a time.
Finally, scowling, he cleared his throat.
“You have all been brought here, to me, because you are the best of the best,” he called out, his voice dark and malevolent. “You each hail from villages and towns and cities all over the Empire, from all four horns and both spikes. Every day, hundreds more of you are brought to me—yet only the best of you will fight in our coliseum.”
All the boys remained silent, a thick tension in the air, as the taskmaster paced, his boots crunching on the ground.
“You might all be the best from wherever you are,” he finally continued, “but that means nothing to me here. This is the greatest coliseum in the greatest capital in the world. Here you will find foes that will make your skills seem worthless. Most of you will die like dogs.”
The taskmaster continued pacing and then, without warning, he drew his sword, stepped forward, and stabbed one of the boys in the heart.
The boy gasped and dropped to his knees, dead, yanking on the others’ chains—and the other boys gasped. Darius, too, was shocked.
“That boy was weak,” the taskmaster explained. “I could see it in his eyes. He did not stand tall enough.”
Darius felt sickened as the taskmaster continued walking the line; he wanted to reach out and kill him—but he was chained, and weaponless.
A moment later, the taskmaster reached out and sliced a boy’s throat, and the boy collapsed at his feet.
“That boy was too frail,” he explained, as he continued walking.
Darius felt his heart pounding as the taskmaster neared him. Hardly twenty feet down from Darius, he swung his sword and cut off a boy’s head.
Darius saw his head roll on the ground, and he looked up at the man, shocked that anyone could love killing so much.
“That boy,” the taskmaster said, grinning a cruel grin and staring right at Darius, “I killed just for fun.”
Darius reddened, enraged, feeling helpless.
The taskmaster turned to the others, and his voice boomed out:
“You are all nothing to me,” he said. “Killing you is one of my great joys. There will be many more to take your place in the morning. You are truly worthless now.”
Down the line the taskmaster went, trailed by his entourage, killing nearly every other boy, all in brutal ways. The boys, shackled, were defenseless; one tried to turn and run, but the taskmaster stabbed him in the back.
As they approached, Darius, sweating, no longer caring, filled with fury, forced himself to stand tall and strong. He stuck his chin up and stood as straight as he could, despite his wounds, staring defiantly straight ahead. If they would kill him then so be it; at least he would die proudly, not cowering like some of the others.
The taskmaster stopped before him and examined hi
m as if he were an insect, sneering.
“You’re not as big as the others,” he said. “Or as muscular. I think we can do just fine without you.”
He raised his sword and suddenly lunged at Darius, aiming to stab him in the heart.
Darius reacted. He had been prepared to stand there and die—indeed, would have welcome it—but something inside him took over, some warrior reflex that would just not let him die.
Darius sidestepped, raised his wrists, wrapped with shackles, and used his chains to catch the blade. He wrapped them up in it, then stepped aside and yanked hard, pulling the taskmaster toward him. He then leaned back and kicked the taskmaster in the solar plexus, sending him stumbling backwards, gasping and weaponless.
Darius sneered back and dropped his sword at his feet. It landed with a clang.
“You’re going to have come at me with a lot better than that toothpick,” Darius said, reveling in the moment.
The taskmaster stared back, shocked, and turned apoplectic. He grabbed a spare sword from the scabbard of the soldier beside him, then began to charge once again for Darius.
“I’m going to carve you into pieces,” he said, “and leave your corpse for the dogs.”
The man charged, but then stopped abruptly.
“No you’re not,” came a voice.
Darius was shocked to see a long staff suddenly drop down between him and the taskmaster, against the taskmaster’s chest, holding him back.
The taskmaster scowled as he turned and looked over, and Darius was shocked to see a man standing there—a human—about his size and build, perhaps in his forties, his light-brown skin the same color as his, wearing only a simple brown robe and hood, and wielding only a staff. Even more amazing was that he held the Empire soldier back. Darius had no idea what a free human was doing here.
The man looked back at the taskmaster steadily, fearlessly, calmly, standing there proudly. His sleeves cut off, he was wiry and muscular, like Darius, but not overly so. He wore sandals, the laces wrapped up his shins to his knees, and he bore the proud face, square jaw, and noble look of a warrior.
“You will let this one be,” the man ordered the taskmaster, his voice low and full of confidence.
The taskmaster sneered.
“Get that stick away from me,” he replied, “or I will kill you along with him.”
The taskmaster raised his sword and slashed at the staff, to cut it in two.
But the man moved quicker than any warrior Darius had never seen before, moving so quickly that he was able to move his staff out of the way and bring it down in a circle on the Empire soldier’s wrists, smacking them so hard that he knocked the sword from his grip. It fell to the ground, and the man then held the tip of his staff to the stunned taskmaster’s throat.
“I said, this boy will live,” the man repeated firmly.
The taskmaster frowned.
“You may train them,” the taskmaster said, “but it is I who decides who lives and who dies. You might be able to outfight me, but look around—here are dozens of my men, all with fine weaponry and armor. Are you going to stop all of them with that stick of yours?”
The man, to Darius’s surprise, smiled and lowered his staff.
“We shall make a deal,” he said. “If your dozen soldiers can disarm me, then the boy is yours. If I, however, can disarm all of them, then the boy is mine to train.”
The taskmaster grinned back.
“They will do more than disarm you,” he said. “They will kill you. And I’m going to enjoy watching you die.”
The taskmaster nodded to his men, and with a shout they all raised their swords and charged the man.
Darius watched, riveted, his heart pounding for the man, desperate for him to live, as the man stood in the center of them all with only his long staff. He spun every which way as the men approached from all sides.
The man, as quick as lightning, swatted the sword from one soldier’s hand after another. Darius had never seen anyone move that quickly, and he was a thing of beauty to watch, spinning and turning, ducking and tumbling, wielding his staff as if it were alive. He deflected one soldier’s blow, then jabbed another soldier in the gut, disarming him. He swung around and smashed one in the temple, knocking him down; he poked another straight on, breaking his nose, while with another he swung upwards, knocking the sword from his hand—and with another, he swung low, sweeping his feet out from under him.
As other soldiers ran and swung for him, he jumped high in the air, missing one sword slash, then brought his staff straight down, jabbing the man in the back of the neck and felling him.
On and on he went, spinning and slashing and jabbing and ducking, a whirlwind, creating havoc in every direction and disarming one after the next, and then felling each one.
As he knocked down the last of them, he stepped forward and held the tip of his staff at the man’s throat, pinning him to the ground. He slowly surveyed the battlefield, the dozen soldiers all disarmed, on their backs or hands and knees, groaning, and he looked over at the Empire taskmaster and grinned.
“I believe the boy is mine,” he said.
The taskmaster turned and stormed away, and the man turned and met Darius’s gaze. He was the most noble and skilled warrior Darius had ever laid eyes upon, and he felt in awe to be in his presence. It was the first time a man had ever risked his life for him, and he hardly knew what to say.
He didn’t have time, though, because the mysterious man turned abruptly and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Darius baffled. Who was this man? And why would he risk his life for him?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thor held tight to Lycoples’s neck, gripping his rough scales as they soared through the air, exhilarated to be riding on the back of a dragon again. They tore through the air at full speed, the clouds whipping Thor in the face, as they raced for the pack of gargoyles on the horizon carrying Guwayne. Thor burned with determined to retrieve his son, so close now, finally, urging Lycoples on to ever greater speeds.
“Faster!” Thor prodded.
Lycoples flapped her wings again and again, lowering her head, equally determined to save Thor’s son.
Thor felt elated to be riding with Mycoples and Ralibar’s offspring—it made him feel as if he were back with Mycoples again. He had missed her terribly every day since she’d died, and riding with her offspring made him feel restored. There was also no more exhilarating feeling than flying through the air, moving at such speed, crossing oceans in days when it would take ships moons. It made him feel invincible once again. He felt light, as fast as a bird, with nothing left in the world to stand in his way.
Thorgrin also felt an intense connection with Lycoples, a very different energy than with her mother. Lycoples was much smaller, still young, half the size of a full-grown dragon, and she flew with an awkward passion, bounding through the air, not quite in full control of all her powers yet. Flying on her back, he felt new life coming into the world again, the birth of a new race unfolding before him.
Thorgrin also found himself easily able to share his thoughts and feelings with her, and he knew she sensed his urgency to find Guwayne. She flapped furiously without his needing to prod, going faster than he could ask her to. They flew so fast that he could barely catch his breath, dipping in and out of the clouds, closing in on the gargoyles. Thor clutched her scales while with his free hand he gripped the Sword of the Dead. He could feel it throbbing in his hand, eager for blood.
They began to close in, getting closer to the pack of gargoyles, now but a hundred yards away, and Thorgrin wondered where they were flying to, where they were so eager to take Guwayne. As he squinted he could see Guwayne, dangling from the claws of one of those creatures at the head of the pack. Were they really taking him to the Land of Blood? If so, why?
Thor looked out at the horizon and saw nothing but ocean as far as the eye could see; he saw no Land of Blood. Had Ragon been mistaken? Were those just the words of a dying man?
Sudd
enly, Thorgrin was surprised to see the huge flock of gargoyles split in two, half of them circling back and racing to confront him, while the other half continued on. As they approached he got a good look at them and could see they looked like enormous bats, with wide, slimy black wings, long claws, and fangs. They reared their narrow heads and screeched as they flew right for him.
Thor gripped his sword, eager to meet them in battle, and Lycoples, to her credit, did not waver in fear. Instead, she flew faster, and Thor, eager to set wrongs right, raised the Sword of the Dead high. It was so heavy, ten times the weight of any other sword, yet somehow it felt perfect in his hands. Its black blade glistened in the sky, and as the monsters screeched, Thor replied with a battle cry of his own. He would cut through all of them to retrieve his son.
As the first of the gargoyles reached him, raising its fangs for Thor’s face, Thor reached down and slashed the sword, slicing it in half. Its blood sprayed everywhere, as the gargoyle tumbled through the air, past him.
Another came at him, then another, approaching from all sides, and Thor turned and slashed in every direction, ducking and slicing them in half. He cut off the talons of one, the wings of another, then ducked as he was scratched on the shoulder by a third—and reached up and thrust his sword into its exposed belly.
The swarm of gargoyles descended on him, and Thor fearlessly met their embrace, fighting like a man possessed, a man with nothing left to lose. The Sword of the Dead fought, too, coming to life, like a living being in his hand. It whizzed and hummed and led the way, urging Thor on, leading him to slash and thrust and block blows. It was like having a fighting partner in his hand. The Sword hummed and sang as it sliced through the air, leaving a trail of blood and severed gargoyles in its wake, all of them tumbling down to the ocean far below.