by Morgan Rice
But Darius was so beat up, like the others, he barely had the strength to move, much less to fight again. Morg, he realized, had spoken the truth on that first day, when he’d said they would all die, and to prepare themselves. But how could one really prepare oneself for death?
Darius looked over, exhausted, at the sound of an iron door swinging open, and he saw Morg strut in, alone, this time not needing any guards. He knew they were too beat up, too wounded, to resist.
He stood there, staring down at them, hands on hips and with a self-satisfied smile.
“You cannot win, you know,” he said, examining Darius.
Darius lowered his head back into his hands, trying to nurse the pain, trying to make Morg and everything else go away.
“You should have accepted my offer,” he added.
Darius, head down, ignored him, too tired to respond.
“None of my gladiators have survived the final day of matches. Not one. Not in all the years I’ve been here.”
Finally, Darius looked up.
“I feat not death,” he said, his voice cold and hard, parched from lack of water. “I fear only a dishonorable life.”
Morg, realizing it was a dig at him, smirked back.
“And yet, you can still avoid this,” he replied. “All you have to do is agree. Agree to end the fight in your own arena, where you will be spared. Agree to let the others die. Drok, you hate anyway. And look at your friend Raj: he is dying as we speak.”
Darius grimaced back.
“But he is not dead yet,” he replied. “And as long as he lives, I shall remain by his side.”
Morg scowled.
“You are a fool,” he said. “You will be swallowed alive by your honor and go down to the grave with it.”
Darius managed to smile back.
“You will never understand,” Darius said. “My dream on this earth is not to merely live—but to live and fight with honor, with valor. If I were immortal, I have would have nothing to lose, and those things would mean nothing to me. My dream is made possible precisely because I am mortal. I have something to sacrifice, something to lose. And that is what makes it honorable. My dream is a dream of mortals.”
Morg grimaced.
“You will die,” he said.
“Only cowards die,” Darius replied. “The valiant live on in death.”
Morg, enraged, glared down at him. And with nothing left to say, he turned and stormed out, slamming the iron door behind him, leaving Darius more alone than he’d ever been.
*
Darius sat at Raj’s side, as his friend moaned through the night, clasping his shoulder. Darius did not need to look at his festering wound to know it was in dire shape, to know he could not live. Raj lay there, wincing in agony, and as flies landed on his wound he did not even have the strength to swat them away.
Darius could see the light fading in his last friend’s eyes, and he was overwhelmed with grief. Here was Raj, the most confident of his friends, the most daring, the one who Darius had been sure would never die—and he, too, was going the unstoppable way of death.
“You will be fine,” Darius said, clasping his shoulder after a bad bout of moaning.
Raj shook his head.
“You always were a bad liar,” he said.
Darius frowned.
“There is no way I will let you die.”
Raj winced.
“Even you, my friend, cannot stop that.”
Darius shrugged.
“We have one more battle left to fight. We will fight it together. And we shall die together.”
“I cannot fight,” he said. “Not anymore. I will be chained to you as dead weight. Leave me behind. Let me die. Spare yourself.”
Darius shook his head.
“No man left behind,” he said, insistent. “Not now. Not ever.”
Raj sighed, clearly knowing how stubborn Darius was.
“Look at me. I cannot even stand,” Raj said.
Darius smiled.
“Then I shall kneel by your side and we shall fight together.”
Raj reached out and clasped his hand.
“You are my brother, Darius,” he said. “You have proved it now, more than ever. But don’t die for me. It’s not worth it.”
Darius looked him firmly in the eye.
“You said it,” Darius said. “Brother. I have always wanted to have a brother, and that is a word that has great meaning to me. Brothers do not abandon each other; they do not leave each other behind. That is what it means to be a brother. Brothers are forged for times like this. And not even death can stand in the way of them.”
Raj fell silent, breathing hard for a long time, gasping, then finally, he clasped Darius’s hand and nodded.
“Very well then, brother,” he said. “Tomorrow, if I live, we shall kill as many as we can. And we shall go down fighting together.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Volusia stood before the immense arched golden doors to the capital, soaring a hundred feet high, the only thing standing between the capital city and the hordes of Empire soldiers waiting to destroy it. She reached up and ran her fingers lightly on the intricate carvings, admiring the handiwork it must have taken. She remembered reading it had taken a hundred men a hundred years to carve these doors of solid gold—doors that had never been penetrated.
“Do not worry, Goddess,” said the commander of her armies, Gibvin. “These gates will hold.”
She turned and faced her entourage of generals and advisors, and marveled that they had no idea of what she was thinking. What they could never understand was that she had seen her destiny. It had come to her in a vision. And she was prepared, no matter what, to fulfill it.
“Do you think I fear but a million men?” she replied, smiling.
He stared back, puzzled.
“Then why have we come out here, Goddess?” asked another advisor.
She surveyed her men coolly, until she was ready to issue the command.
“Open the gates,” she commanded calmly.
Her advisors stared back at her as if she were mad.
“Open them!?” her commander asked.
Her icy glare was her only response, and they knew her well enough by know not to ask twice.
She watched as panic spread across their faces.
“If we open these gates,” Gibvin said, “the army will come rushing in. That is what they are waiting for. Our city will be lost. All our efforts will be lost.”
She shook her head.
“Do not question me,” she replied. “And do not fear for yourselves. After I pass through them you shall close them behind me.”
“Close them behind you?” he repeated. “That would leave you out there alone, facing an army alone. It will mean your death.”
She smiled back ever so slightly.
“You still don’t see,” she said. “I am a goddess—and goddesses cannot die.”
She turned to the men manning the gates, fixed her gaze on them, and her man, fear in their faces, rushed forward and began to turn the massive golden cranks. A creaking filled the air as slowly, the golden doors began to open, one foot at a time.
As they opened, the orange rays of the setting suns burst through, illuminating Volusia, making her look and feel like a true goddess. They were opened just two feet, just enough for her to pass through them.
She walked slowly through them, her shoulders brushing past the edge of the doors, and exited the city, leaving it behind her, stepping out barefoot on the hot sands of the open desert.
Behind her, she could feel the wind of the doors closing, and a moment later, she heard and felt a decisive slam behind her, shaking the ground, the echo of metal. She knew there was no turning back now. Now, she was out here alone for good—and that was what she wanted.
As Volusia took one step after the next, she saw before her the massive Empire army, spread out into all its legions, covering the horizon like ants, all beginning to rouse at the sight of her,
all beginning to charge her way.
They charged at full force, a great thunder rising, all bearing down right for her. Joining them were many new legions, dressed in the all-black armor of the Empire, clearly dispatched from the Knights of the Seven, surely the first of the reinforcements that had arrived to bring down the capital.
Volusia smiled. The Knights of the Seven must not have enjoyed her gift very much.
Volusia had watched this morning as all the armies had gathered, as the men of the Seven had joined them. She had seen all of the siege equipment being brought by the Knights of the Seven—the catapults, the battering rams, the entire horizon filled with devices of war meant to destroy the city—and Volusia knew it would only be a matter of time until they did. She was not about to sit back and wait. No, she was never one to defend. She was always one to attack.
Attack she would—even if she had to do it by herself.
Volusia walked fearlessly, one woman—one goddess—against an army. With every step she took, she knew she was walking into her destiny. She felt invincible. She truly felt herself to be a goddess. No one in the world had been able to stop her, just as she’d known from the day she was born. Not even her own mother. She had marched all the way to the Empire capital, and she wasn’t about to stop now. She knew that to have power, one had to seize it—and even more importantly, one had to hold onto it. She did not need other men to fight her wars. She had, she knew, all the power she needed, on her own.
Volusia heard the tremendous thunder, felt the dust already reaching her, as the army bore down on her, now but a few hundred yards away. They charged, the horizon filled with men on massive horses, Razifs, zertas, elephants, carrying every sort of weapon imaginable, emitting fierce battle cries as they raced for their prize. She could see their faces already, see them salivating at the sight, at having a chance to kill the leader out in the open, all by herself. As if it were too good to be true. They all must have, she imagined, assumed she had given up, had come to talk terms, or was committing suicide.
But Volusia had other plans. Better plans.
The army bore down on her, closer and closer, now a hundred yards away, and gaining speed. She heard the great clanking of armor, smelled the sweat, and saw the bloodlust in men’s faces. Some faces showed fear, even though they marched, an entire army, against a woman alone. They, the wise ones, must have known something was different about her, something to be feared, if she were willing to face an army on her own.
Volusia was ready to show them.
She closed her eyes and raised her arms up to the heavens, and slowly raised them higher and higher.
As she did, there came a tremendous humming noise, like a million locusts rising from the earth. It grew louder and louder and louder, and all around Volusia, the desert floor began to crack and burst. First one claw appeared, pulling itself up through a fissure in the earth. Then another.
Then another.
Thousands of small creatures—gargoyles with black wings sprouting behind them—began to pull themselves up from the earth. They had slimy back scales and long sharp fangs and wings that buzzed in a way that would strike terror even in the bravest warrior’s heart. They blinked, summoned from the dead, with their large, glowing orange eyes, eyes filled with a desire for blood.
Volusia raised her hands higher, and her army of undead creatures emerged from the earth and rose into the sky, blackening it as the second suns fell. She directed them, and they rushed forward, and descended, as one, for the army racing to kill her.
The first gargoyle reached the first soldier, opening its jaws, revealing its razor-sharp fangs, and sinking them into the man’s throat, killing him instantly. The first cry of death rose out.
Then another struck.
Then another.
Soon the sky was filled with the screeching of a million black gargoyles, with an endless lust for blood, mixed with the cries of men, falling where they stood. Volusia laughed as she watched. This was the destiny she had seen for herself.
How foolish they had been to think that they alone could kill her. After all, they were only an army.
And she—she was a goddess.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Kendrick stood atop the Ridge joined by dozens of other knights, among them Brandt, Atme, the half-dozen Silver, and two dozen knights from the Ridge, all of them looking out at the desert countryside that lay before them. They all stood on the platform, and as the great cranks were turned and the ropes groaned, they were all slowly being lowered, one notch at a time, down the other side, down to the Great Waste.
Kendrick could hardly believe he was back here, but a day later, this place that had almost killed him, this place he had barely escaped with his life. He could hardly believe he was back in armor again, beneath the desert suns, his men by his side and joined by new knights, men whose faces and names he still barely recognized. He was not still fully recovered, he knew, still a bit weak from his ordeal; yet he felt compelled to go on this mission to cover up their trail for the safety of the Ridge. His honor compelled him, and when honor was at stake, he never said no.
Kendrick studied the barren landscape as they were lowered, the suns already increasing in intensity, saw the huge sand wall, swirling in the distance, and knew that once they rode past it, they would be embraced in a hostile world of nothingness. He tightened his grip on his new sword and hoped they would be able to find a way back. He did not look forward to a prolonged stay in this desert once again.
Kendrick looked over at his new command, these knights of the Ridge, a dozen of them now answering to him, with a professional warrior’s eye. They all seemed to be fine knights, their armor and weapons resplendent and well cared for, all with a hardened look that he had come to know well, the look of men who feared little. These knights, he could see, had an intimate banter with one another, having already forged their friendships over a lifetime. Kendrick could not help feeling like an outsider, a funny feeling for him, as he had always been at the center of a brotherhood of warriors he had known his whole life. It didn’t help that they were all giving Kendrick the cold shoulder, barely acknowledging him; clearly, they resented the fact that an outside was allowed to join their group—much less appointed commander over them. They all stood side by side, hands on hips, looking out at the desert, their backs to him, ignoring Kendrick and his men.
Kendrick could understand—he would have resented a foreign soldier commanding him, too, and he had not requested the position. All he had done was volunteer to help the King erase the trail.
As they were lowered, further and further, Kendrick figured it was best to break the ice now, to get any hard feelings out in the open and clear the air before they had a chance to harden.
He stepped forward and addressed the men.
“I understand your reluctance to have a foreign commander over you,” Kendrick said to the men, their backs to him, and they slowly turned and looked his way. “I did not come here to take the place of your commanders. I come only to serve with you, to aid and assist you in your mission.”
One of them, a tall knight with a shaved head and a long, braided beard, looked hard at Kendrick.
“I have been commander of these men from the time I could walk,” he said, his voice icy cold. “Then you show up and take my position. I have no respect for you—none of us do. To gain respect in the Ridge, one has to earn it. All of us have earned it. And until you do, you are nothing to us.”
The knight turned his back abruptly, and the platform, all the way lowered, touched the ground, shaking with a loud thud. The wooden gates opened, and one at a time, the men filtered out, immediately mounting the horses that had been lowered and were awaiting them.
Kendrick, stung by the exchange, looked over at Brandt and Atme, who looked back at him with the same sense of apprehension and bitterness as the knights of the Ridge mounted their horses and took off, into the desert, leaving a cloud of dust, not even waiting for them—not even waiting for the
ir new commander.
Kendrick mounted his horse, Brandt and Atme and the others by his side, and prepared to follow. It would be a long journey, he knew, to earn these men’s respect. But as he kicked his horse and they all took off, into the dust, Kendrick did not care. He was not driven by a need for these men’s respect or approval; he was compelled by honor, by sacred duty.
And as he charged into the desert, the sound of horses filling his ears, he vowed to perform that duty, whether these men wanted him here or not, regardless of whatever dangers lay out there for him beyond that wall of dust.
*
Gwendolyn walked alongside King MacGil as they strolled the peak of the Ridge, just the two of them, taking in the magnificent views as the King gave her his tour. They had been followed by his entire entourage as they had crossed the capital, crossed the lake, and had taken the platform up here so that they could watch Kendrick and the others depart on their mission. Once they’d reached the top the King had left his men behind and just the two of them strolled now, the wind blowing in Gwen’s hair.
They finally came to a stop and looked out at the horizon; Gwen felt a pit in her stomach at the sight of the Great Waste, hoping to never lay eyes on it again.
They stood there in silence, side by side, looking out for a long time, until finally the King spoke.
“I was impressed with your request,” the King said to her.
“My request?” Gwen asked.
He nodded.
“I offered you the choice of touring any part of my kingdom—and your only request was to watch your brother depart. You could have asked to see my jewels, my treasures, the vaults, the armory, the ballrooms, the vineyards, the gardens…. Instead, you ask to come to this desolate place, to tour our fortifications and to see your men off. That is the request of a true leader, a selfless leader.”
Gwen smiled back.
“My men are my jewels,” she said. “They mean more to me than anything. And when they are in danger, there is nowhere else I could be except by their side.”