by Morgan Rice
Kendrick screamed out in agony, dropping to his knees, when just as quickly, his agony was relieved. Squealing, the creature went flying off him. Kendrick looked up to see Koldo, holding a sword, the creature impaled in it, dead.
Kendrick, grateful to him, wasted no time. He stood at full height and swung his flail in a wide arc, aiming high so as not to hit his own people. The three studded balls whistled as they swung through the air and impacted with several creatures; it tore them open with a splat, its razor-sharp spikes piercing their flesh. The creatures dropped from the air and fell to the ground, one of them killed right before it could land on Koldo’s back.
Kendrick turned and swung his flail in wider and wider circles, again and again, rushing into the thick of men and knocking the creatures from the sky. Their screeches filled the air as he felled them one at a time, in each direction, falling like flies.
Soon, a pile of carcasses lay at his feet.
Kendrick looked out at the battlefield and saw Naten crying out, dropping his sword. Two creatures were on him, one biting his wrist and another his neck. A third lunged for his face. Kendrick knew that in another second, he’d be dead.
For a moment Kendrick hesitated, recalling how poorly Naten had treated him. But then he shook off his hesitation—his code of honor compelled him to save him, no matter how he had behaved. Kendrick would fight to the death for anyone he fought with, whether they deserved it or not.
Kendrick rushed forward to save Naten’s life, swinging with all his might; his aim was true, and he managed to smash the creatures off of him, one at a time, with each swing. Realizing he wouldn’t kill them all in time, Kendrick switched hands with his flail, drew his short spear with his free hand and threw it. It soared through the air and pierced the creature aiming for Naten’s face, saving him just in time.
A great screeching filled the skies and all the creatures, in one coordinated action, began to retreat, lifting up into the sky, back into the twisted tree, like crows, clustering high in the branches. They made odd chirping strange noises as they all sat there, looking down on Kendrick and his flail, filled with hesitation.
A stillness fell over the battlefield, as Kendrick’s men took stock and nursed their wounds, groaning from the bites and scratches. No one had escaped unscathed.
As Kendrick looked over at the men of the Ridge, he observed something different in their eyes this time: respect. These men of the Ridge, once so wary of him, now looked at him differently. He had earned their respect.
All except for one.
Naten just stared back coldly, then turned his back and walked away. It was a strange gratitude, Kendrick thought, for saving his life.
Koldo and Ludvig came up beside him.
“You fought bravely,” Koldo said. “You men of the Ring have proved your worth.”
“You saved our men’s lives on this day,” Ludvig chimed in.
“Not quite,” countered a dark voice.
Kendrick turned to see Naten standing there, frowning down at a corpse.
“He did not save his,” he added.
Kendrick spotted a dead soldier, a man of the Ridge he did not recognize, lying there, his armor bloody, his eyes open, staring at the sky, covered in one too many scratches and bites.
“We shall bury him with all honors,” Kendrick said, saddened by the loss.
Naten glared at him.
“We don’t bury our dead, stranger,” Naten snapped. “Not in the Ridge. We bring each and every one back for holy burning inside the Ridge. And do not forget: he would not be dead if it weren’t for you.”
Kendrick, taken aback by his coldness, watched as the other soldiers picked up the corpse and draped him sideways over a horse. The chirping of the creatures was reaching a new crescendo, and Kendrick looked up at them; they glared down menacingly.
“The sweepers are all attached,” Koldo announced. “It’s time to turn back.”
As they all mounted their horses, one of Naten’s men looked back up over his shoulder at the shaking tree.
“Tree Clingers,” he said gravely, shaking his head. “A bad omen. Our mission is cursed.”
“Nothing is cursed,” Ludvig snapped.
“It is cursed, my lord,” he said. “This was supposed to be a routine mission, to cover the trail. Now here we are, all of us wounded, one of us dead. You know as well as I do, we will never make it back to the Ridge again.”
As Kendrick sat on his horse looking into the setting suns, back toward the Ridge, somewhere out there on the horizon, he began to feel it too; a creeping sense of premonition was settling in, a sense of pending doom, of a simple mission going vastly awry. He could feel it, sitting like a pit in his stomach.
And somehow, he, too, felt that they would never make it back again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Darius stood in the small circular courtyard, framed by tall stone walls, and faced the mysterious man opposite him, wondering. This trainer for the Empire, this man who had intervened and saved his life, stood there now, in his simple brown robe, with his simple staff, and Darius did not know what to make of him. Deklan, he had introduced himself as. On the one hand, he had saved his life, and for that, Darius felt eternally grateful; on the other hand, Darius had no idea why the man had went out of his way for him, or what he wanted. Would he turn out to be cruel, like all the others?
Deklan looked back at Darius and studied him as if he knew him. He looked upon Darius with respect, viewing him as a warrior would, and Darius did not understand why. This man, too, was so mysterious, so out of place here in the Empire, with his brown cloak and simple staff. Darius had never witnessed a man fight like that, take down so many soldiers with such a simple weapon. He was the most nimble fighter Darius had ever seen, and he sensed he could learn much from him.
Deklan stood there, so calm, staring back, as if waiting for something in the silence, and Darius did not know what to say or do. After all, this man clearly served the Empire—and that meant he would either be preparing to kill Darius himself, or preparing Darius for the arena—both of which amounted to the same thing: death.
As Darius watched, wary, the man stepped forward and removed a small ring of keys from his belt. To Darius’s surprise, he unlocked each of his shackles. Immediately the heavy shackles fell to the ground, and Darius, feeling a million pounds lighter, rubbed his wrists and ankles, not realizing how much they had been weighing him down.
Deklan then surprised Darius further by drawing a sharpened sword from his belt, and reaching out and handing it to Darius, hilt first.
Darius stared down at it, unsure if it was a trick.
“Why would you give me a sword?” Darius asked. “I could kill you with it.”
Deklan only smiled.
“You won’t,” he replied.
Darius looked down, staring at it, then slowly reached out and grabbed its hilt; it felt great to wield a sword again.
“You unlocked my shackles,” Darius said. “Why?”
Deklan smiled back.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” the man said. “It is far more dangerous for you outside these walls than inside them. All of my fellow soldiers would gladly kill you, while I am the only one who wants to keep you alive.”
“But why?” Darius demanded.
Deklan moved a few feet away from Darius and studied him.
“It is my task to train these boys to fight in the arena. Not one has ever survived. I prolong their lives, yet I do not save them. Yet in you, I recognize something different. A boy who can, perhaps, survive.”
Darius looked back skeptically.
“I recognize in you,” he continued, “a boy who is also a man, and who deserves a chance to fight. A boy with a warrior’s spirit should not be killed in a courtyard, with shackles and chains on him.”
“So then you preserved my life only to make me a better fighter, so that those in the arena can have more enjoyment in watching my death?” Darius asked, annoyed.
Darius, disgusted, threw the sword down to the ground and it landed in the dirt with a clang and a small cloud of dust. He stared back at the man defiantly.
Deklan, surprised, shook his head slowly, then turned his back and circled the courtyard.
“Whether you lose your life quickly or go down fighting is your decision,” he continued. “I offer to give you a chance. One chance. And that is the greatest gift I can give you. Enough talking,” he said, facing him.
Darius stared back, looking down at the sword in the dirt, debating.
“If I kill you,” Darius said, “you will be unable to train these boys. They will die sooner, the games will not be as exciting—and perhaps the Empire will end them altogether.”
Deklan smiled.
“If only the Empire were that kind,” he replied. “Death fulfills them, whether it is quick or slow. I am an insignificant cog in a machine far greater than us both. But if you believe I am the enemy, then let it out on me. Fight me. Come here and learn how to really fight. Unless you are afraid.”
Darius burned with indignation, and he stepped forward, rubbing his wrists from the shackle marks, and reached down and took up the sword.
He studied its sharpened blade, and looked back at the man holding a simple staff.
“I have a blade of steel,” Darius said, “and I have killed greater men than you. You have but a stick. It is not I who should fear.”
Deklan smiled.
“Then see if that sharp blade of yours can damage my little stick. Unless you do not know how to wield it?”
Darius shouted out in a burst of rage and charged the man, thrilled to finally have a chance to let out all of his pent-up rage at someone.
Darius charged, raised the sword high, and brought it down on the man, who stood there perfectly still, with all his might.
Darius was surprised to find himself go stumbling past, as the man, with lightning quick speed, sidestepped him at the last moment.
Darius wheeled and faced him again, furious. He shouted and charged again.
This time, Deklan surprised him by not backing away or sidestepping—but rather stepping forward to meet him. As he did so, Deklan raised his staff sideways with both hands, and came in so close that he caught Darius’s wrists as he was bringing the sword down, smashing them with the staff and causing Darius to drop his sword.
Darius hurriedly bent down to pick it up, but as he did, the man jabbed him with his staff in the chest, knocking him back on his butt.
Darius lay on the ground, humiliated, looking up at the man—who smiled and circled back across the courtyard before facing him again.
“Do you know the difference between a knight and a master warrior?” Deklan asked.
“A knight is gallant and proud and chivalrous; he is honorable and fearless. He charges into battle at a moment’s notice, and he exhibits grace. He does not succumb to his fears.”
Darius lunged for his sword, trying to retrieve it off the ground, thinking he might catch Deklan off guard; but Deklan saw it coming, and he waited until the last moment then struck it with his staff, knocking it out of Darius’s reach. He then shoved Darius with his foot in his ribs, sending him rolling.
Deklan smiled down, unfazed.
“A master warrior, on the other hand,” he continued calmly, “is all those things and more. He is the very first one into battle—or sometimes he is the last. He is not predictable, as the others; he has his own code. He has internalized the laws of battle and has made them his own—and morphed them to his own code. His primary objective is, always, to win.
“You can always sense a master warrior: he is very still. He need wield but a single, simple weapon. He needs to prove nothing to anyone. He might even appear motionless—but when the time comes, he will strike, in the most unexpected way, like lightning. Like a fly across the lake. Quick and fast and silent, you will never even be sure he was there. And with the slightest touch of his was weapon, he can do more damage than an entire legion of knights.”
Darius, enraged, jumped to his feet, raced across the courtyard, grabbed the sword, and turned to charge Deklan—but as soon as he turned around, he was surprised to find Deklan right behind him, swinging his staff and sweeping his legs out from under him—sending him landing on his back on the desert floor.
“Your problem,” Deklan continued calmly, standing over him, “is that you are still merely a knight. This arena is littered with the bodies of dead knights. I have trained them all. It is the home of the brave, a joust of knights. The path of the knight is to joust, to compete, to prove himself at all times. Most of all, to better himself. And what is needed to survive here is not merely a knight, but a warrior. A master warrior.”
“And how would you know what is needed to survive, if no one ever has?” Darius asked, still in a fury, wiping blood from his lips as he jumped to his feet and raised the sword. He charged and quickly slashed downwards—but Deklan this time turned his staff sideways and deflected the sharp end of the blade. As Darius slashed, pushing Deklan back, Deklan deflected the blows, left and right, left and right, the sword clacking on the staff but never damaging it.
Deklan never broke a sweat, keeping his balance and his calm until had enough—he then reached around and spun his long staff sideways and smashed Darius’s wrist, sending his sword flying through the air. In the same motion he spun the staff and smashed Darius in the side of the head, sending him stumbling down to the ground.
Darius, breathing hard, beaten, feeling more insecure than he’d ever had, finally realized the futility of fighting this man, who was a thousand times faster, quicker, stronger, and more deadly than he could ever be. He looked up into the sun as Deklan stood over him, holding out a hand.
Darius took it and let him pull him to his feet.
“I know,” Deklan continued, “because I was the arena’s sole survivor.”
Darius stared back, flabbergasted.
“You!?” he asked. “You survived?”
Deklan said nothing, and Darius felt the mystery deepen about this man.
“Can you train me?” Darius asked, breathing hard, hopeful. “Can you train me to become a master warrior?”
Deklan surprised Darius by suddenly turning his back and walking away.
“I can point the way,” he said. “But no one can teach you that but yourself.”
As Darius watched the man go, he was suddenly filled with a burning curiosity.
“Who are you?” Darius shouted out after him.
But the man turned and exited through an iron door, leaving Darius alone in the courtyard, listening only to the sound of his own voice echoing back to him—and wondering why this mysterious man, whom he had just met, seemed so eerily familiar.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Loti woke to the sound of slamming metal, and she jumped up and looked all around, wondering where she was. Her throat was parched and her eyes had a hard time adjusting in the dim light as she tried to shake the dreams from her mind. She had been dreaming of a never-ending journey, dreaming of riding an iron carriage off the face of the earth, falling off cliffs and landing somewhere in the ocean.
Loti woke on high alert, looking all around, trying to remember. It was stifling in here, hard to breathe, dust swirling in the air, and she looked all about and saw that she was encased by iron bars. She was in a cage, so low to the ground that she slammed her head as she tried to stand—and immediately knelt back down. She looked around and saw a dozen other bodies lying listlessly on the dirt floor. She turned and saw, beyond the cell bars, the dusty desert, waves of heat rippling off of it; she saw that she was in the center of a small, busy village, horses and carriages racing back and forth, slaves shackled and being paraded everywhere. She heard a sound, and her heart filled with dread to realize it was one she recognized all too well: a taskmaster stood close by, lashing a slave across the back.
Then she remembered: her mother. She had set her and her brother up, had sold them as slaves to this
caravan. It was an act which she would never forgive.
“Sister,” came a voice.
Loti’s heart soared as she recognized it and turned to see her brother Loc, bound in shackles beside her. Her eyes filled with tears of relief.
They embraced, and she hugged him tight.
“You have been sleeping the entire day,” he said. “The slave traders brought us here the night before and threw us in this cattle pen. Now we await our fate.”
Loti was horrified as the reality of what their mother had done sank in.
“How could she do this to us?” she asked.
Loc sadly shook his head.
“She must have some reason,” he said. “She must have thought it was best for us.”
Loti shook her head in outrage; Loc had always stood up for their mother, regardless of what she had done.
“Better for us?” she asked. “How could this possibly be better than anything? We are slaves again.”
He shrugged.
“Perhaps she thought that if we stayed with Darius, our fates would be worse.”
There came a clanging of keys, and Loti turned and watched with horror as a taskmaster yanked out several slaves from the holding cell, grabbing them by their ankles and dragging them across the hard desert floor. With a kick and a shove, the shackled slaves were sent off to the fields of labor—joining hundreds of others who were chipping away at rock.
Two more taskmasters approached their cell, and Loti, burning with fury, reached down felt the dagger hidden in her waist. She would not succumb to a life as a slave—never again. This time she would go down fighting.
As the taskmasters approached, she turned to Loc.
“Not this time,” she said with steely determination. “I shall never be a slave again.”