by Morgan Rice
Suddenly, Darius heard footsteps running across the mud, and he saw, from the corner of his eye, Luzi appear and jump on Kaz’s back.
Kaz, enraged, let go of Darius’s arm, stood up, and threw Luzi, who went flying through the air.
Darius spun around, nursing his aching arm, to see Kaz turn back around for him. Darius braced himself for another blow—when suddenly Desmond arrived, blocking Kaz’s way.
“Enough,” Desmond said to Kaz, his voice filled with authority. “You’ve had your fun.”
Kaz stared Desmond back, and Darius could see the hesitation, then uncertainty in his eyes. Clearly, he was afraid of Desmond.
“I’m not done,” Kaz said.
“I said you are,” Desmond repeated, expressionless, unmoving.
Kaz stared him down for several seconds, then finally, he must have realized it wasn’t worth it; slowly, he backed away.
The tension dissipated, the boys going back to their lines, Darius looked up and saw Desmond reach down a hand for him. He took it and was pulled back up to his feet.
“That was brave of you,” Desmond said. “Stupid. But brave.”
Darius smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. “You spared me a lot worse.”
Desmond shook his head.
“I admire bravery,” he said. “However foolish.”
Suddenly, a distinct sound cut through the clearing; it was the sound of a horn, a low, somber horn, vibrating through the trees.
The boys all froze and looked at each other, their faces grave. That horn only meant one thing: it was the horn of death. It could only mean that one of their own had been killed.
“Everyone to the village at once!” commanded Zirk, and Darius fell in with the others, Desmond, Luzi, and Raj falling in by his side, as they made their way for the village. Darius braced himself, knowing it could not be good.
*
Darius hurried with his brothers in arms straight into the chaotic center of their small village, people filtering into the packed center as the horn of death blew again and again. Darius walked on the narrow dirt road, filled with chickens and dogs running about, and he passed small brown homes built of clay and mud, with thatched roofs that let in too much rain. The homes in this village were too close to each other, and Darius often wondered why he and his people could not live someplace else.
The soft, low horn blew again, the sound rising up, reverberating throughout the hills, and more and more villagers streamed in. Darius had not seen so many of his people in one place in as long as he could remember, and he felt people bumping him on all sides, shoulder to shoulder, as he reached the village center.
The crowd fell silent as the village elders appeared, taking their seats around the stone well in the center of town. Salmak, the leader of the elders, stood solemnly, and as he did, all were silent. He faced them all, with his long white beard and fraying robes, and raised a single palm high in the air, and the horn stopped. The tension in the silence hung over them all like a blanket.
“The collapse on the mountainside,” he said slowly, his voice grave, “brought the death of twenty-four of our brethren.”
Moans and cries arose from the crowd, and Darius felt his stomach drop. As always, he braced himself for the list of names, hoping and praying that none of his cousins or aunts or uncles were on it.
“Gialot, son of Oltevo,” Salmak called out in his somber voice, and as he did, a mother’s cry ripped through the air. Darius turned and saw a woman weeping, tearing her clothes, dropping to her knees and putting dirt on her head.
“Onaso, son of Palza,” the chief continued.
Darius closed his eyes and shook his head as all around him came the sound of wailing and crying, as name after name filled the air. Each name felt like a nail in his coffin, like a hole in his heart; Darius felt like it would never end. He knew most of the names, some distant acquaintances.
“Omaso, son of Liutre.”
Darius froze: that was a name he really knew, the name of one of his brothers in arms. At the announcement, his brothers all gasped. Darius closed his eyes and imagined his friend’s death, imagined him being crushed by all that rock and dirt, and he felt sick. He also knew that it could easily have been him instead; just last week, Darius had been assigned to work those cliffs.
Finally, the names stopped, and there came a long silence. The crowd began to slowly disperse, the air somber, and Darius and the other boys stood there, staring at each other. They all looked indignant, as if knowing that something needed to be done.
Yet Darius knew that they would do nothing. It was the way of his people, the way it had always been. His people would all die, either directly by the taskmasters, or indirectly through labor, and it had become their lot, their way of life. No one ever seemed willing to change it.
This time, though, the deaths affected Darius more than usual; it seemed there were more names, more grief. Darius wondered if it was worse, or if he was just growing older, becoming less able to tolerate the status quo he had always lived with.
Without thinking, Darius stepped forward into the village center, without even asking permission from the elders. Before he could even think of what he was doing, he found himself yelling out, his voice piercing the air:
“And how long shall we suffer these indignities?” he cried out.
The crowd froze, and all eyes turned to him as there came a heavy silence.
“We are dying here, each day. When will enough be enough?”
There came a murmur from the crowd, and Darius felt a hand on the back of the shoulder. He turned to see his grandfather looking down sternly at him, trying to yank him away.
Darius knew he was in trouble; he knew it was a sign of great insolence to show anything but respect toward the elders, and to speak without permission. But on this day, Darius didn’t care; on this day, he’d had enough.
He brushed off his grandfather’s hand and stood his ground, facing the elders.
“They outnumber us more than the sands of the sea,” an elder said back. “If we rise up, by day’s end we would be gone. Better to be alive than to be dead.”
“Is it?” Darius called out. “I say it’s better to be dead than to live as dead men.”
A long murmur came from the crowd, none of his villagers used to hearing any defiance of the elders. His grandfather yanked on his shirt again, but Darius would not move.
Salmak stepped forward and glared down at him.
“You speak without permission,” he said slowly, gravely. “We will forgive your words as those of a hasty youth. But if you continue to incite our people, if you continue to show disrespect to your elders, you will be lashed in the town square. We shall not warn you again.”
“This meeting is finished!” another elder yelled out.
The crowd began to slowly disperse all around Darius, and his cheeks burned with the indignity of it all. He loved his people, but he disrespected them at the same time. They all seemed so complacent to him, and he did not feel he was cut from the same cloth as they. He was terrified of becoming like them, of growing old enough here to think as they did, to see the world as they did. Darius felt he was still young enough and strong enough to have independent thought. He knew he needed to act on that while he still could, before he became old and complacent. Before he became like the town elders, trying to silence anyone who held a dissenting view, anyone with passion.
“You are really looking to get a beating, aren’t you?” came a voice.
Darius turned to see Raj come up beside him with a smile, clasping him on the shoulder.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Raj added. “I’m getting to like you more and more. I think you might just be as crazy as I.”
Before Darius could respond, he turned to find one of his commanders, Zirk, standing over him, a disapproving look across his face.
“It is not your place to propose action,” he said. “It is ours. A true warrior knows not only how to fight, but whe
n to. That is something you have yet to learn.”
Darius faced him, determined, not willing to back down this time.
“And when is the time to fight?” he asked.
Zirk’s eyes burned back with fury, clearly unhappy at being questioned.
“The time is when we say it is.”
Darius grimaced.
“I’ve lived in this village my entire life,” Darius said, “and that time has never come. And I sense it never will. You are all so intent on protecting what we have, that you won’t see that we have nothing.”
Zirk shook his head disapprovingly.
“These are the words of a youth,” he said. “You would rush into battle, into a sure death, just to relieve your passion. You, who are so small that you cannot even beat your brethren in battle. What makes you think you can beat the Empire? You, with no weapons, unarmed?”
“We have weapons,” Darius countered.
Desmond came up beside them, along with several of his brothers. They all crowded around, and as they did, Kaz stepped forward and laughed derisively.
“We have bows and slings and weapons made of bamboo,” he said. “Those are not weapons. We have no steel. And you expect to battle against the finest armor and weaponry and horses of the Empire? You will incite others and get them all killed. You should stay in our village and keep your mouth shut.”
“Then what do we train for?” Darius challenged. “For wrestling matches in the forest? For an enemy we are too afraid to face?”
Zirk stepped forward and pointed a finger in Darius’s face.
“If you’re unhappy, you can leave us,” he said. “Joining our force is a privilege.”
Zirk turned his back on him and walked away, and the other boys, too, began to leave.
Raj looked at him and shook his head in admiration.
“Upsetting everyone today, aren’t you?” Raj asked with a smile.
“I am with you,” came a voice.
Darius turned to see Desmond standing there. “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my back.”
Before Darius could reply, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see a small man wearing a cloak and hood, and gesturing for him to follow. Darius looked all around, then back at the man, wondering who he was.
The man turned and walked away quickly, and Darius, intrigued, followed after him through the crowd, weaving his way in every direction.
The man weaved his way in and out, between houses, to the far side of the village before he finally stopped before a small clay home. He pushed back his hood as he faced him, and Darius saw his large, darting eyes that looked about cautiously.
“If your words are not empty words,” the man said in a whisper, “I have steel. I have weapons. Real weapons.”
Darius stared at him, eyes widening in awe. He had never met anyone who had possessed steel before, as owning it was on pain of death, and he wondered where he’d gotten it.
“When you are ready, find me,” the man added. “The last clay house by the river. Speak to no one of this. If anyone asks, I will deny it.”
The man turned and hurried off into the crowd, and Darius watched him, wondering, his mind swarming with questions. Before he could call out after him, Darius felt yet another strong hand on his shoulder, spinning him around.
Darius saw the face of his disapproving grandfather, his face lined with age, framed by his short, gray hair, scowling down at him. He was, though, surprisingly strong and vibrant for his age.
“That man leads to death,” his grandfather warned sternly. “Not just for you, but for all of your kin. Do you understand me? We have survived for generations, unlike other slaves in other provinces, because we have never embraced steel. If the Empire catches you with it, they will raze our village to the ground, and will kill every single one of us,” he said, jabbing his finger in his chest to drive home his point. “If I catch you seeking out that man, you will be banished from our family. You will not be welcome in our home. I shall not say this again.”
“Papa—” Darius began.
But his grandfather had already turned and stormed back into the village.
Darius watched him go, upset. He loved his grandfather, who had practically raised him since the disappearance of his own father years ago. Darius respected him, too. But he did not share his view on complacency. He never would. His grandfather was of another generation. And he would never understand. Never.
Darius turned back to the crowd, and one face caught his attention. Standing there, about twenty feet away, was the girl, the one he had seen in the Alluvian Forest. People passed by in front of her, yet she kept her eyes fixed upon Darius, as if no one else in the world existed.
Darius’s heart pounded at the sight of her, and the rest of the world melted away. This girl had captivated his thoughts since he had laid eyes upon her, and seeing her now, here, felt surreal. He had wondered if he would ever see her again.
Darius pushed his way through the crowd, heading toward her. He was afraid she might turn away, but she stood there, proudly, staring back, and it was unmistakable that she was looking at him. Her face was expressionless. She did not smile—but she did not frown either.
Darius looked into her soulful yellow eyes, and below them he could see the small welt on her cheek where the taskmaster had struck her. He felt a fresh wave of indignity, and more than anything, he felt a connection with her, something stronger than he’d ever felt.
He broke through the crowd and stood a few feet away from her. He did not know what to say, and they both stood there, facing each other, in the silence.
“I heard your words, in the village,” she said. Her voice was deep and strong, the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard. “Are they hollow?” she asked.
Darius flushed.
“They are not hollow,” he replied.
“So what action do you plan on taking?” she asked.
He stood there, not sure how to respond. He had never met anyone as direct as her.
“I…don’t know,” he said.
She studied him.
“I have four brothers,” she said. “They are warriors. They think the same way as you. And I have already lost one of my brothers because of it.”
Darius looked at her, surprised.
“How?” he asked.
“He went off by himself, one night, to wage war with the Empire. He killed a few taskmasters. But they caught him, and they killed him horribly. Cruelly. He had stripped himself of all his markings, so they couldn’t track him back to us, or they would have killed us all, too.”
She looked at Darius as if debating something.
“I don’t want to be with a man who is like my brother,” she finally said. “There is room for pride among boys—but not among men. Because men must back up pride with action. And action for us means death.”
Darius looked at her, taken aback by her words, her eyes so strong, so powerful, never wavering from his. He was in awe of her. She spoke with the strength and wisdom of a queen, and he could hardly understand how he was looking back at a girl his own age.
More than anything, as he stood there, his heart pounding, he wondered why she was talking to him. He wondered if she liked him, if she had the same feelings for him that he had for her. Did she like him? Or was she just trying to help him?
“So tell me, then,” she finally said, after a long silence. “Are you a you a man? Or a hero?”
Darius did not know how to respond.
“I am neither,” he said. “I am just myself.”
She stared at him long and hard, as if summing him up, as if trying to decide.
Finally, she turned and began to walk away. Darius’s heart was falling, as he assumed he’d given her the wrong answer, that she changed her mind.
But as she walked away, she turned her head to him, and for the first time, and said:
“Meet me at the river, beneath the weeping tree, as the sun sets,” she said. “And don’t keep me wai
ting.”
She disappeared into the crowd, and Darius’s heart pounded as he watched her go. He had never encountered anyone like her, and he had a feeling that he never would. For the first time ever, a girl had taken a liking to him.
Or had she?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Alistair stood on the stone plaza in the breaking light of dawn, high up on the cliffs, joined by Erec’s mother and all her advisors, and looked out over the sweeping vistas of the Southern Isles. Down below, she could see the battle raging, as it had been all night since her encounter with Bowyer. Alistair looked out at this beautiful isle, draped by a morning mist, wafting with the smell of lemon blossoms, now erupted in war—and she felt guilty that she had been the one to spark this civil war.
Yet at the same time she felt vindicated, relieved that these people finally realized she was innocent—and that Bowyer was the assassin. She knew that Bowyer needed to be stopped before he stole the kingship—after all, the kingship belonged to Erec—and Alistair was determined to see that Erec recovered, and claimed what was rightfully his. Not because she wanted to be Queen—she did not care for title or rank—but because she wanted her husband-to-be to receive what he deserved.
Erec’s mother, beside her, watched the battles with concern, and Alistair reached over and laid a hand on her wrist. Alistair felt overwhelmed with gratitude towards her, for standing by her side the entire time.
“I owe you a great deal of thanks,” Alistair said. “If it were not for you, I would be sitting in that dungeon—or dead—right now.”
Erec’s mother smiled back, although her smile was weak, as she looked back at the battle below, grave with concern.
“And I owe you as much,” she said. “You saved my son’s life.”
She studied the cliffs below and her brow furrowed.
“And yet, if this battle does not go well, I fear it may all be for nothing,” she added.
Alistair looked at her in surprise.
“Are you concerned?” she asked. “I thought Bowyer rules but one of the twelve provinces. What danger could there be when there are eleven united against one?”
Alistair’s mother watched the battle, expressionless.
