A Land of Fire

by Morgan Rice

  Thor knelt back down, and Argon stared right at him. He nodded his head, and it seemed to be in approval.

  “Argon,” Thor said, “give me a blessing.”

  “You have it,” he whispered, laying a hand on Thor’s wrist. “But you don’t need it. You will create your own blessings.”

  “Argon, tell me,” Gwen said, “is our son alive? Will we find him? Will you bless us to find him?”

  Argon closed his eyes and shook his head, withdrawing his hand.

  “I cannot alter what is predestined,” he said.

  Gwen felt a pit in her stomach at his words, and she and Thor exchanged a concerned look.

  “Will we reach the Empire?” Gwen asked. “Will we live?”

  Argon was silent for a long time, so long, Gwen wondered if he would ever reply. Just as they were preparing to leave, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. He stared at her with such intensity, his eyes shining, that she nearly had to look away.

  “On the far side of the world, in the Empire, I see another great warrior, a young man rising up. If he lives, and if you reach him, together, you may achieve what no one else can.”

  “Who is this young man?” Gwen pressed.

  But Argon closed his eyes, and after a long while, she realized he had gone back to his state. She was left pondering, wondering. Did that mean they would make it? Did her people’s fate really depend on a single boy? And most of all: who was he?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Darius grunted as he swung the blunt ax high and brought it down in a high arc, over his shoulder, onto a large, green boulder. It smashed before him into a pile of small rocks, green dust rising up in a cloud, covering him, as it had since the sunrise. The pungent smell of athox burned his nose, and he tried to turn his head.

  Darius knew it would do him little good: he was mired in the dust from head to toe, after another long day of labor, as he had been nearly every day of his life. At fifteen years of age, his hands were raw, his clothing tattered, having spent nearly all his life in labor, in hard, backbreaking work. It was the life of a slave and, like all of his people, he hardly knew anything different.

  But Darius dreamed of a different life, even if it was a life he never knew. He looked like his people, with his brown skin, his yellow eyes, and his muscular frame; but there was something about him that set him apart. With his proud, noble jaw, glistening eyes, and broad forehead, he did not carry himself like a slave, as many of his people did; instead, he had the heart and soul of a warrior. He exuded courage and honor, pride, and a refusal to be broken. And while all of his people had short hair, Darius’s was long and curly, brown, wild, untamed, pulled back in a long ponytail and dangling behind his back. It was his mark of individuality in a subjugated world, and he refused to cut it. More than once his friends had taunted him for it—yet after too many times of Darius challenging them and proving himself a better fighter, the taunts finally stopped and they learned to live with his uniqueness.

  With not an ounce of fat on his rippling body, Darius, even though he was not as muscular as some of the others, was stronger and quicker than nearly all of them. He was, he felt—he had always felt—different from his people, destined to be a great warrior. Destined to be free.

  Yet as Darius looked around, he saw how different reality was from the destiny he imagined for himself. Day in and day out, he was a slave, like all of his people, a subject for the Empire to do with as they wished. Darius knew his people were not alone: the Empire had enslaved all peoples, of all color skin and eyes, in all the lands of the world. They had enslaved anyone who was not of their race, anyone who did not have the glowing yellow skin of the elite Empire race, who did not have the two small horns behind their ears, the long pointed ears, the extra height and breadth, the too-muscular bodies, and the glistening red eyes. Not to mention the fangs. The Empire believed themselves to be a master race, a superior race.

  But Darius did not believe it for a second. The Empire did have superior numbers, and superior arms and organization, and they had used their brutality, their strength in numbers—and most of all, their dark sorcery—to enforce it, to subjugate others to their will. Mercy did not exist in the Empire culture; they seemed to thrive on brutality, and for every slave, there seemed to be ten Empire taskmasters. They were a race of soldiers. They were better armed, better organized, and their hundred-million-man army seemed to be everywhere at once.

  It would all make sense if the Empire were barbarians—but Darius had heard of their cities, shining with gold, and had heard the Empire race was incredibly sophisticated and civilized. It was a paradox he could not reconcile in his mind, try as he did.

  Darius tried to take solace where he could; at least in his region, the Empire did not kill them. He’d heard of other regions where the Empire did not even keep people alive to be slaves, but rather sold them off to slave markets, split them from their families, or just spent the days torturing and killing them. He had heard of yet other places where they starved the slaves, feeding them once a week, and of still others where they beat the slaves so bad, all day long, that few of them even reached Darius’s age.

  At least here, in Darius’s province, outside the great Northern Empire city of Volusia, they had come to a cold agreement with the Empire, where the Empire kept them as slaves, but did not beat them often, allowed them to eat, and allowed them to live. And at least when Darius’s people retreated to their own village at night, they were far enough away from the prying eyes of the Empire to build up their own, secret resistance. When the day of labor ended, they gathered and trained; they became better warriors, and slowly but surely, they gathered weapons. They were crude weapons, not iron or steel like the Empire, but still weapons all the same. They were slowly preparing, in Darius’s mind at least, for a great uprising.

  Yet it frustrated Darius to no end that others did not see it that way. Darius smashed another boulder, wiping sweat from his brow, and grimaced. His fellow villagers, especially the older ones, were all too safe, too conservative. They had talked of uprising Darius’s entire life, and yet no one ever took any action. All they did was train and train to become better warriors—and yet no one ever acted on it.

  Darius was reaching a breaking point inside. He’d allowed himself to maintain his pride, despite his situation, all his life, because he lived for the day of uprising, for the day of asserting his freedom. And yet, increasingly, as he watched others settle into a life of apathy, his fears grew that that day would never come. Darius smashed yet another rock, wondering if all this training might just be a way for the elders to keep them down, to keep them occupied, to give them hope. And to keep them in their place.

  Yes, perhaps they had it better than most, but even so, this still was not a life. He had seen too many of his cousins die from random acts of cruelty, had been lashed himself one too many times, to ever forgive or forget. Darius loathed the Empire with everything he had. He wouldn’t just lie down like the elders and accept life for what it was. Darius felt that he was different from the others, that he had less of a tolerance for it, less willingness to accept it. He knew deep down inside that he could not continue to wait for the elders much longer. Eventually, if no one else acted, he would, even if it led to his own death. Better to die struggling to be a free man, Darius felt, than to live a long life as a slave to someone else.

  Darius looked around him at the hundred or so boys in this field of green dust, all of them smashing rocks, all of them covered in the dust that had come to mark their identities. Some of them were his close friends, others were family members; still others were boys that he trained with, muscular boys, most of them larger and bigger than he, and older, some sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and some even in their twenties. Darius was one of the youngest and smallest of the bunch—and yet he held his own, fought as hard as any of them. They respected his skills, and they accepted him, though they tested him often.

  Darius also had something else that none of the others had�
��something he had kept a secret his entire life, determined to never let anyone else know of. It was a power, a power he did not understand. His people scorned sorcery and magic of all sorts; it was strictly forbidden, and it had been ingrained into him since he was a child. It was ironic, Darius thought, because his village was rife with seers and prophets and healers who used mystical arts. Yet when it came to sorcery in battle, it was considered a disgrace. They would all rather die as slaves at the hand of the Empire.

  So Darius had kept it close to himself, knowing he would be an outcast if it was discovered. He also, he had to admit, was afraid of it himself. He had been shocked the day he had stumbled upon it, just recently, and he still was unsure if his power was real, or if it had just been a fluke. He had been pushing back a rock, preparing to smash it with his ax, and he had unearthed a nest of scorpions. One of them had made for his ankle, a jumping scorpion, black with yellow stripes, the most lethal of all, and Darius knew that the second it touched his skin, he’d be dead.

  Darius had not even thought—he had just reacted. He had pointed his finger toward it, and a light, so fast, like a flash, had shot forth. The insect had flown backwards, several feet, landing on its back, dead.

  Darius had been more scared of the discovery of his power than he had been of the scorpion. He had looked all around to make sure no one had seen him, and luckily no one had. He did not know what they would think of him if they had. Would they consider him a freak?

  Darius suspected that, deep down, his people did not really scorn magic; he guessed that the real fear of the elders was that the Empire would find out. The Empire had a scorched-earth policy for anyone discovered with any sort of magic powers. When people from other towns were discovered or suspected to have powers, the Empire had come in and devastated the entire town, murdered every last single man, woman, and child. Perhaps, Darius thought, the elders frowned upon it so much out of self-preservation. Secretly, of course, they would love to have powers that could topple the Empire. How could they not?

  Darius tried to focus on his work, smashing rock twice as hard, trying to block these thoughts from his mind. He knew they were not useful. This was his lot, at least for now. Until he was prepared to do something about it, he had to suppress his feelings.

  There came a sudden rumbling, followed by distant screams. Darius stopped and turned with all the others, the air falling silent for the first time that day, as they all examined the horizon. It was a familiar sound: the sound of a collapse. Darius looked to the red mountains looming over them in the distance, where thousands of his people worked, those less fortunate, who had been assigned to till underneath the earth, mining inside the caves. It was hot here, even for Darius, and they all worked with no shirts under the beating sun of the Empire, on these hard red sands; but up there, on the mountain ridges, underneath the earth, it was even hotter. Too hot. Hot enough to cause the weak soil of the ridges to give way. Darius’s heart fell as he watched the final crumbling of a mountain ridge, and saw dozens of Empire guards shouting as they plummeted into the earth.

  The two Empire taskmasters watching over Darius’s group, donned in the finest armor and weaponry of the sharpest steel, both turned to the horizon with alarm. They broke into a run, as the Empire often did when one of their own was injured or killed. They left them alone—yet, of course, they knew that the slaves would not dare run. They had nowhere to go, and if they tried, they would be hunted down and killed—and their entire families killed as retribution.

  Darius saw his friends shake their heads grimly at the sight, all pausing from their work, studying the horizon with grave concern. Darius knew they were all thinking the same thing: they were lucky they hadn’t been the ones picked to mine underground today. They looked weighed down by guilt, and Darius wondered how many of them had friends of family trapped or dying up there. It had somehow become a way of life, being immune to the deaths that happened here every day, as if all of this was normal. Death tainted the air here in these arid lands, in these rolling deserts and mountains swept by heat and dust. A land of fire, his grandfather called it.

  “I hope it took out more Empire than us,” one of the boys called out.

  They all leaned on their axes, and if nothing else, Darius thought, at least this would give them a break. After all, the taskmasters would not return for several hours, given how far away those mountain ridges were.

  “I don’t know about you,” came a deep voice, “but I think those are two fine-looking zertas.”

  Darius recognized his friend Raj’s voice, and he turned and followed his glance and saw what he was looking at: there sat two Empire zertas, large, proud, beautiful animals, all white, twice the size of horses, looking much like horses, but taller, wider, with thick skin, almost like armor, and instead of a mane, having long, sloping yellow horns that began behind their ears. They were glorious animals, and these two, tied up beneath a tree in the shade, chewing on the grass, were the most beautiful Darius had ever seen.

  Darius could see mischief in Raj’s eyes as he examined them.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” Raj added, “but I don’t intend to stand here all day and wait for their return. I want a break—and I think those zertas can use a ride.”

  “Are you crazy?” one of the other boys said. “Those belong to the Empire. They catch you leaving here, they’ll kill you. They catch you on their zertas, they’ll probably torture your entire family, after they torture you first.”

  Raj shrugged, leaned back, and wiped his palms on his pants.

  “They might,” he said, then grinned, “but then again, they might not. And like you said, they have to catch me.”

  Raj turned and studied the horizon.

  “I doubt they’ll beat me back. They’ll never even know their precious animals were gone. Any of you want to come?”

  Darius was hardly surprised; Raj had always been the daredevil of the bunch, fearless, proud, boastful, and the first to incite others. All qualities Darius admired, except Raj was reckless, too, and lacked good judgment.

  But Darius shared his restlessness, and he could hardly blame him. Indeed, at Raj’s words, there welled up within Darius a fierce desire to go, to let loose, to stop being so cautious as he had always been. He, too, wanted to stop laboring, wanted to get out of this place. He would love to go on a ride, to take an adventure on that zerta, and see where it took him. To have fun for one day in his life. To have just a small taste of freedom.

  “Is there not one of you who has the courage to join me?” Raj asked. He was taller than the other boys, older, with broader shoulders, and he slowly scanned the crowd, looking at all of them with disdain. All the boys turned away, shook their heads, looked down to the ground.

  “It’s not worth it,” one boy said. “I have a family. I have a life.”

  “Maybe this moment is your life,” Raj countered.

  But all the boys looked away, not saying a word.

  “I’ll join you,” Darius heard himself say, his voice deep, distinct, powerful beyond his fifteen years, reverberating in his chest.

  All the boys in the group turned and looked at Darius in shock, and Raj stared at him too, clearly surprised. Slowly, a smile crossed his face, along with a look of admiration. His smile broadened to one of mischief.

  “I knew there was something about you that I liked,” Raj said.

  *

  Darius and Raj rode side by side on the zertas, laughing aloud as the beasts galloped through the winding paths of the Alluvian Forest, the wind in Darius’s hair, blowing back his ponytail, taking the heat off his neck, cooling down the hot day and making him feel free for the first time in years. This was reckless, he knew, and might even get him killed—but a part of him no longer cared. At least for now, in this moment, he was free.

  Darius hadn’t ventured into the Alluvian Forest in years, yet he had never forgotten it. A broad dirt path cut down its center, and above them a canopy of trees arched low overhead, so low
that sometimes they had to duck. The forest was famous for its light green leaves, so light they were nearly translucent, glistening and shimmering in the sun above and casting a beautiful light down on the path. It was a sight that Darius had never forgotten, and even seeing it again now took his breath away. The trees, too, were unique, their bark nearly translucent, expanding and contracting all the time, as if they were breathing, and the forest had a unique sound, a soft rustling sound as the leaves swayed, almost like a grove of bamboo.

  It was a magical place, Darius felt, a place of true beauty in the midst of this arid landscape. As he raced, he felt the sweat perpetually caked on his brow beginning to dissipate.

  “Not as fast as your elders, are you?” Raj called out, teasing, and suddenly took the lead, heading out several feet in front of Darius.

  Darius kicked his zerta, catching up to him. Then Darius took the lead and leapt boldly over a felled trunk of an ancient tree. Now it was his turn to laugh.

  Soon enough the two were back to riding side-by-side, and as they galloped deeper into the forest, Darius had never felt so free, so liberated. It was unlike him, he who had been so cautious his whole life, who had always planned everything perfectly; for once, he let himself go. For once, he gave into the recklessness, not knowing where they were going, and not caring. As long as they were out from under the taskmasters’ eyes, and as long as they were choosing their own path.

  “You know if we get caught we’ll get flogged for this, don’t you?” Darius called out.

  Raj smiled back.

  “And what is life without a good flogging every now and again?” he called back.

  Darius grinned as Raj galloped out front and took the lead. Darius then caught up and took the lead himself.

  “I’ll race you!” Raj called out.

  “Race me to where!?” Darius replied.

  Raj laughed. “Who cares! Nowhere! As long as I am first!”