by Morgan Rice
Darius reached up, chains rattling, and felt a huge welt on the side of his head, coming all the way down to the swelling in his eye. That had been no dream. That was real.
As it all came back, Darius was flooded with anguish, with regret. His men, all the people he had loved, had been killed. All because of him.
He looked around frantically in the dim light, looking for any sign of any of his men, any sign of survivors. Perhaps many had lived, and had, like him, been taken prisoner.
“Move on!” came a harsh command in the blackness.
Darius felt rough hands pick up him up from beneath his arms, drag him to his feet, then felt a boot kick him in the back of his spine.
He groaned in pain as he stumbled forward, chains rattling, feeling himself go flying into the back of a boy before him. The boy reached back and elbowed Darius in the face, sending him stumbling backwards.
“Don’t touch me again,” the boy snarled.
There stared back a desperate-looking boy, in shackles like he, and Darius realized he was shackled to a long line of boys, in both directions, long links of heavy iron connecting their wrists and ankles, all of them being herded down a dim stone tunnel. Empire taskmasters kicked and elbowed them along.
Darius scanned the faces as best he could, but recognized no one.
“Darius!” whispered an urgent voice. “Don’t collapse again! They’ll kill you!”
Darius’s heart leapt at the sound of a familiar voice, and he turned to see a few men behind him on the line, Desmond, Raj, Kaz, and Luzi, his old friends, the four of them all chained, all looking as badly beaten as he must have looked. They all looked at him with relief, clearly happy to see that he was alive.
“Talk again,” a taskmaster seethed to Raj, “and I’ll take your tongue.”
Darius, as relieved as he was to see his friends, wondered about the countless others who had fought and served with him, who had followed him into the streets of Volusia.
The taskmaster moved further down the line, and when he was out of sight, Darius turned and whispered back.
“What of the others? Did anyone else survive?”
He prayed secretly that hundreds of his men had made it, that they were somewhere waiting, prisoners maybe.
“No,” came the decisive answer from behind them. “We’re the only ones. All the others are dead.”
Darius felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He felt he had let everyone down, and despite himself, he felt a tear roll down his cheek.
He felt like sobbing. A part of him wanted to die. He could hardly conceive it: all those warriors from all those slave villages…. It had been the beginning of what was going to be the greatest revolution of all time, one that would change the face of the Empire forever.
And it had ended abruptly in a mass slaughter.
Now any chance of freedom they’d had was destroyed.
As Darius marched, in agony from the wounds and the bruises, from the iron shackles digging into his skin, he looked around and began to wonder where he was. He wondered who these other prisoners were, and where they were all being led. As he looked them over, he realized that they were all about his age, and they all seemed extraordinarily fit. As if they were all fighters.
They rounded a bend in the dark stone tunnel, and sunlight suddenly met them, streaming through iron cell bars up ahead, at the end of the tunnel. Darius was shoved roughly, jabbed in the ribs with a club, and he surged forward with the others until the bars were opened and he was given one final kick, out into daylight.
Darius stumbled with the others and they all fell down as a group onto the dirt. Darius spit dirt from his mouth and raised his hands to protect himself from the harsh sunlight. Others rolled on top of him, all of them tangled up in the shackles.
“On your feet!” shouted a taskmaster.
They walked from boy to boy, jabbing them with clubs, until finally Darius scrambled with the others to his feet. He stumbled as the other boys, chained to him, tried to gain their balance.
They stood and faced the center of a circular dirt courtyard, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, framed by high stone walls, cell bars around its openings. Facing them, standing in the center, scowling back, stood one Empire taskmaster, clearly their commander. He loomed large, taller than the others, with his yellow horns and skin, and his glistening red eyes, wearing no shirt, his muscles bulging. He wore black armor on his legs, boots, and studded leather on his wrists. He wore the rankings of an Empire officer, and he paced up and down, examining them all with disapproval.
“I am Morg,” he said, his voice dark, booming with authority. “You will address me as sir. I am your new warden. I am your whole life now.”
He breathed as he paced, sounding more like a snarl.
“Welcome to your new home,” he continued. “Your temporary home, that is. Because before the moon is up, you will all be dead. I will take great pleasure in watching you all die, in fact.”
He smiled.
“But for as long as you are here,” he added, “you will live. You will live to please me. You will live to please the others. You will live to please the Empire. You are our objects of entertainment now. Our show things. Our entertainment means your death. And you will execute it well.”
He smiled a cruel smile as he continued pacing, surveying them. There came a great shout somewhere off in the distance, and the entire ground trembled beneath Darius’s feet. It sounded like the shout of a hundred thousand citizens filled with bloodlust.
“Do you hear that cry?” he asked. “That is the cry of death. A thirst for death. Out there, behind those walls, lies the great arena. In that arena, you will fight others, you will fight yourselves, until none of you are left.”
He sighed.
“There will be three rounds of battle,” he added. “In the final around, if any of you survive, you will be granted your freedom, granted a chance to fight in the greatest arena of all. But don’t get your hopes up: no one has ever survived that long.
“You will not die quickly,” he added. “I am here to make sure of it. I want you dying slowly. I want you to be great objects of entertainment. You will learn to fight, and learn it well, to prolong our pleasure. Because you are not men anymore. You are not slaves. You are lower than slaves: you are gladiators now. Welcome to your new, and final, role. It won’t last long.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Volusia marched through the desert, her hundreds of thousands of men behind her, the sound of their marching boots filling the sky. It was a sweet sound to her ears, a sound of progress, of victory. She looked out as she went, and she was satisfied to see corpses lining the horizon, everywhere on the dried hard sands outlying the Empire capital. Thousands of them, sprawled out, all perfectly still, lying on their backs and looking up to the sky in agony, as if they had been flattened by a giant tidal wave.
Volusia knew it was no tidal wave. It was her sorcerers, the Voks. They had cast a very powerful spell, and had killed all those who thought they could ambush and kill her.
Volusia smirked as she marched, seeing her handiwork, relishing in this day of victory, in once again outsmarting those who meant to kill her. These were all Empire leaders, all great men, men who had never been defeated before, and the only thing standing between her and the capital. Now here they were, all these Empire leaders, all the men who had dared to defy Volusia, all the men who had thought they were smarter than her—all of them dead.
Volusia marched between them, sometimes avoiding the bodies, sometimes stepping over them, and sometimes, when she felt like it, stepping right on them. She took great satisfaction in feeling the enemy’s flesh beneath her boots. It made her feel like a kid again.
Volusia looked up and saw the capital up ahead, its huge golden dome shining unmistakably in the distance, saw the massive walls surrounding it, a hundred feet high, noted its entrance, framed by soaring, arched golden doors, and felt the thrill of her destiny unfolding before her. Now, nothing lay bet
ween her and her final seat of power. No more politicians or leaders or commanders could stand in her way with any claim to rule the Empire but she. The long march, her taking one city after the next all these moons, her amassing her army one city at a time—finally, it all came to this. Just beyond those walls, just beyond those shining golden doors, stood her final conquest. Soon, she would be inside, she would assume the throne of power, and when she did, there would be no one and nothing left to stop her. She would take command of all the Empire’s armies, of all its provinces and regions, the four horns and two spikes, and finally, every last creature of the Empire would have to declare her—a human—their supreme commander.
Even more so, they would have to call her Goddess.
The thought of it made her smile. She would erect statues of herself in every city, before every hall of power; she would name holidays after herself, make people salute each other by her name, and the Empire would soon know no name but hers.
Volusia marched before her army beneath the early morning suns, examining those golden doors and realizing this would be one of the greatest moments of her life. Leading the way before her men, she felt invincible—especially now that all the traitors within her ranks were dead. How foolish they had been, she thought, to assume she was naïve, to assume she would fall into their trap, just because she was young. So much for their old age—so far that had gotten them. It had gained them only an early death, an early death for underestimating her wisdom—a wisdom even greater than theirs.
And yet, as Volusia marched, as she studied the Empire bodies in the desert, she began to feel a growing sense of concern. There weren’t as many bodies, she realized, as there should have been. There were perhaps a few thousand bodies, yet not the hundreds of thousands she had expected, not the main body of the Empire army. Had those leaders not brought all their men? And if not, where could they be?
She started to wonder: with its leaders dead, would the Empire capital still defend itself?
As Volusia neared the capital gates, she motioned for Vokin to step forward and for her army to stop.
As one, they all came to a stop behind her and finally there came a stillness in the morning desert, nothing but the sound of the wind passing through, the dust rising in the air, a thorn bush tumbling. Volusia studied the massive sealed doors, the gold carved in ornate patterns and signs and symbols, telling stories of the ancient battles of the Empire lands. These doors were famous throughout the Empire, were said to have taken a hundred years to carve, and to be twelve feet thick. It was a sign of strength representing all the Empire lands.
Volusia, standing hardly fifty feet away, had never been so close to the capital entrance before, and was in awe of them—and of what they represented. Not only was it a symbol of strength and stability, it was also a masterpiece, an ancient work of art. She ached to reach out and touch those golden doors, to run her hands along the carved images.
But she knew now was not the time. She studied them, and a sense of foreboding began to arise within her. Something was wrong. They were unguarded. And it was all too quiet.
Volusia looked straight up, and atop the walls, manning the parapets, she saw thousands of Empire soldiers slowly come into view, lined up, looking down, bows and spears at the ready.
An Empire general stood in their midst, looking down at them.
“You are foolish to come so close,” he boomed out, his voice echoing. “You stand in range of our bows and spears. With the twitch of my finger, I can have you all killed in an instant.
“But I will grant you mercy,” added. “Tell your armies to lay down their arms, and I will allow you to live.”
Volusia looked up at the general, his face obscured against the sun, this lone commander left behind to defend the capital, and she looked across the ramparts at his men, all their eyes trained on her, bows in their hands. She knew he meant what he’d said.
“I will give you one chance to lay down your arms,” she called back, “before I kill all of your men, and burn this capital down to rubble.”
He snickered, and she watched as he and all his men lowered their face plates, preparing for battle.
As quick as lightning, Volusia suddenly heard the sound of a thousand arrows releasing, of a thousand spears being thrown, and as she looked up, she watched the sky blacken, thick with weaponry, all firing down right for her.
Volusia stood there, rooted to her spot, fearless, not even flinching. She knew that none of these weapons could harm her. After all, she was a goddess.
Beside her, the Vok raised a single long, green palm, and as he did, a green orb left his hand and floated up in the air before her, casting a shield of green light a few feet above Volusia’s head. A moment later, the arrows and spears bounced off it harmlessly and landed down on the ground beside her in a huge heap.
Volusia looked over in satisfaction at the growing pile of spears and arrows, and looked back up to see the stunned faces of all the empire soldiers.
“I will give you one more chance to lay down your arms!” she called back.
The empire commander stood there sternly, clearly frustrated and debating his options, but he did not budge. Instead he motioned to his men, and she could see them preparing another volley.
Volusia nodded to Vokin, and he gestured to his men. Dozens of Voks stepped forward and they all lined up and raised their hands high above their heads, aiming their palms. A moment later, dozens of green orbs filled the sky, heading for the capital walls.
Volusia watched in great expectation, expecting the walls to crumble, expecting to see all the men come crashing down at her feet, expecting the capital to be hers. She was anxious to sit on the throne already.
But Volusia watched in surprise and dismay as the green orbs of light bounced off the capital walls harmlessly, then disappeared in bright flashes of light. She could not understand: they were ineffectual.
Volusia looked over at Vokin, and he looked baffled, too.
The Empire commander, high above, snickered down.
“You are not the only one with sorcery,” he said. “These capital walls can be toppled by no magic—they have stood the test of time for thousands of years, have warded off barbarians, entire armies greater than yours. There is no magic than can topple them—only human hands.”
He grinned wide.
“So you see,” he added, “you’ve walked into the same mistake as so many other would-be conquerors before you. You’ve relied on sorcery in approaching this capital—and now you will pay the price.”
Up and down the parapets horns sounded, and Volusia looked over and was shocked to see an army of soldiers lining the horizon. They filled the skyline with black, hundreds of thousands of them, a vast army, greater even than the men she had behind her. They clearly had all been waiting beyond the wall, on the far side of the capital city, in the desert, for the command of the Empire commander. She had not just walked into another battle—this would be an outright war.
Another horn sounded, and suddenly, the massive golden doors before her began to open. They open wider and wider, and as they did there came a great battle cry, as thousands more Empire soldiers emerged, charging right for them.
At the same time, the hundreds of thousands of soldiers on the horizon charged, too, splitting their forces around the Empire city and charging them from both sides.
Volusia stood her ground, raised a single fist high, then brought it down.
Behind her, her army let out a great battle cry as they rushed forward to meet the Empire men.
Volusia knew this would be the battle that decided the fate of the capital—the very fate of the Empire. Her sorcerers had let her down—but her soldiers would not. After all, she could be more brutal than any other man, and she did not need sorcery for that.
She saw the men coming at her, and she stood her ground, relishing the chance to kill or be killed.
CHAPTER SIX
Gwendolyn opened her eyes as she felt a jolt and a bump on
her head, and she looked all about, disoriented. She saw she was lying on her side, on a hard wooden platform, and the world was moving about her. There came a whining, and she felt something wet on her cheek. She looked over to see Krohn, curling up beside her, licking her—and her heart leapt with joy. Krohn looked sickly, famished, exhausted—yet he was alive. That was all that mattered. He, too, had survived.
Gwen licked her lips and realized they were not as dry as before; she was relieved she could even lick them, as before her tongue had been too swollen to even move. She felt a trickle of cold water enter her mouth, and she looked up out of the corner of her eye to see one of those desert nomads standing over her, holding a sack over her. She licked at it greedily, again and again, until he pulled it away.
As he pulled his hand away, Gwen reached up and grabbed his wrist, and she pulled it toward Krohn. At first the nomad seemed baffled, but then he realized, and he reached over and poured some of the water into Krohn’s mouth. Gwen felt relieved as she watched Krohn lap up the water, drinking as he lay there, panting, beside her.
Gwen felt another jolt on her head, another bump as the platform shook, and she looked out at the world, turned sideways, and saw nothing but sky before her, clouds passing by. She felt her body rising up, higher and higher into the air with each and every jolt, and she could not understand what was happening, where she was. She did not have the strength to sit up, but she was able to crane her neck enough to see that she was lying on a broad wooden platform, being hoisted by ropes at either end of it. Someone high above was yanking on the ropes, squeaking with age, and with each yank, the platform rose a bit higher. She was being raised up alongside steep, endless cliffs, the same cliffs she recognized from before she’d passed out. The cliffs which had been crowned by parapets and gleaming knights.
Remembering, Gwen turned and craned her neck, and she looked down and immediately felt dizzy. They were hundreds of feet above the desert floor, and rising.