by Morgan Rice
Erec checked his sails, pleased to see them at full ballast, his ship moving quickly as they took the tides upriver. He looked ahead, and as he did, he saw looming quickly, a huge fork in the river. To the right, he knew, the river wound its way to Volusia; to the left, as the villagers had told him, it twisted its way to their sister village, to the Empire fort, to the place they had begged him to go. Erec knew if he forked right and skipped the fort, the villagers back there would surely be dead; and yet if he forked left, it would risk his men’s lives, give the Empire a chance to catch up, and delay his entering Volusia, if at all. He would be imperiling his men for a battle not their own, and on a river filled with monsters. Indeed, even from here, as Erec looked left, he saw the waters in that direction swirling with snakes, even in the daylight.
“What will you decide, my brother?” came a voice.
Erec turned to see Strom standing beside him, hands on hips, looking out at the fork, a concerned expression on his face.
“I know what you are thinking, my brother,” Strom continued. “Even though we were separated from childhood, I still know you better than you know yourself. You’re thinking you want to go save these villagers. Whatever the cost. Whatever the odds. I know you are, because that is who you are.”
Erec looked back at him, realizing he was right.
“And you, my brother?” he asked. “Could you do any differently?”
After a long, somber silence, Strom shook his head.
“You and I,” he replied, “are the same. Driven by honor. Whatever the cost. It is not only what we do—it is how we live.”
Erec studied the waters, the fork looming, and knew he was right.
“Though I am the better fighter, of course,” Strom added with a smile.
“It would not be a wise decision, my lord.”
Erec turned to see one of his trusted commanders, coming up on his other side. He knew he was right.
“Wisdom is important,” Erec replied. “But sometimes it must defer to honor. Life is sacred—but honor is more sacred than life.”
“Many men will die,” the commander added.
Erec nodded.
“All of us will die,” Erec replied. “At one time or another. What you still fail to understand is that I do not fear a mission into danger when honor is at stake. Rather I embrace it, with joy, from the bottom of my heart. The challenge, the insurmountable odds of that river, that is what we live for.”
Erec looked in front of him, studying the river in the morning silence, the only sound that of the water lapping against the hull, the tides becoming rougher as they neared the fork. Erec glanced back and saw the Empire fleet, much closer already. And he knew what he had to do.
“Full sail ahead!” he yelled, stepping forward, turning the wheel, and directing the ship left, toward the village, away from Volusia.
Erec looked over and saw Alistair’s approving face by his side, saw Strom smiling back, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, and he looked back out at the looming fork. As their boat turned away, toward waters unknown, he knew, he just knew, that this was where he was meant to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The small group of Empire soldiers charged through the Great Waste, galloping at full speed on their zertas, faster than any horse, and stirring up a massive cloud of dust in their wake. At their head rode their commander, the cruel, merciless Empire veteran who had taken great pleasure in torturing Boku before his last breath—and discovering exactly where Gwendolyn and her crew had departed into the Great Waste.
Now the commander led the small group of Empire trackers deeper and deeper into the Waste, following Gwendolyn’s people’s trail as it led away from the Empire village, tracking it as they had been for days, determined to discover where she went. The order had trickled down from Volusia herself, and the commander knew that if he did not succeed, it would mean his death. He would have to find her, no matter what, dead or alive. If he could find bring her back to Volusia as a trophy, it would mean his promotion, his rise to commander of one of her armies. For that, he would give anything.
The commander raised his whip and lashed his zerta again across the face, making it scream and not caring. He had driven his men mercilessly, too, not allowing them to sleep, or even stop, for an entire day. They tore through the desert, following the trail that the commander was determined not to allow to go cold. After all, it might not just be Gwen at the end of it; it could even be the famed Ridge, the one that had eluded Empire commanders for centuries. If Gwendolyn’s trail lead to that—if it even existed—then he would come back as the greatest hero in modern times. Volusia might then even make him her Supreme Commander.
The commander watched the hard-baked soil as they went, using his keen eyes to look for any variations, any movements. He had already noticed where, miles back, many of Gwendolyn’s men had dropped dead. A good tracker knew that a trail was not static, but a living thing, always subject to change—and always telling a story, if one knew how to look.
The commander slowed his zerta as he noticed another change in the trail. It narrowed dramatically up ahead, indicating fewer people, and immersed in the sand, he also saw the remnants of corpses. Up ahead, he saw some bones scattered about, and he brought his zerta to a stop.
His men all came to an abrupt stop beside him.
The commander dismounted, walked over to the bones, long-dried, and knelt beside them. He ran his hand along them, and as he did, he drew on his expertise to look for the signs. The Empire—Volusia herself—had chosen him for this very purpose. In addition to being an expert torturer, he was known as the Empire army’s greatest tracker, able to find anyone, anywhere—without fail.
As he fell silent, studying them, his men came up and knelt beside him.
“They are dried,” his men said. “These people died moons ago.”
The commander studied them, though, and shook his head.
Finally, he replied: “No, not weeks ago. You are deceived. The bones are clean, but not due to time. They have been picked clean by insects. They are actually quite fresh.”
The commander picked one up, to demonstrate, and tried to break it in his hand—it did not break.
“It is not as brittle as it seems,” he replied.
“But what killed them?” one of his men asked.
He studied the sand around the bones, running his hand through it.
“There was a scuffle here,” he finally said. “A fight between men.”
His men surveyed the desert floor.
“It looks like they were all killed,” one observed.
But the commander was unconvinced: he looked out into the desert, studied the floor, and saw a glimpse of the trail up ahead, however faint it was.
He shook his head and stood to his full height.
“No,” he replied decisively. “Some of them survived. The group has splintered. They are weak now. They are hurt—and they are mine.”
He jumped onto his zerta, lashed it across the face, and broke off at a gallop, following the trail, eyes locked on it, determined to hunt them down, wherever they were, and kill whoever had survived this group.
*
The commander charged into the afternoon sky, the two suns hanging low as great balls on the horizon, heading ever deeper into the Great Waste. His zerta gasped and his soldiers heaved behind him, all of them on the verge of collapse. The commander did not care. They could all drop dead out here in the desert for all he cared. He wanted only one thing, and he would not stop until he had it: to find Gwendolyn.
The commander fantasized as he rode; he imagined himself finding Gwendolyn alive, torturing her for days on end, then tying her to his zerta and riding back the entire way that way. It would be fun to see how long it would take until it killed her. No, he realized—he could not do that. He would lose his prize. Maybe he would just torture her a little bit.
Or maybe, just maybe, her trail would lead him to the fabled Ridge, the holy grail of th
e Empire quests. If he found it, he would sneak back and report it to the Empire, and lead an army out here personally to return and destroy it. He smiled wide—he would be famous for generations.
They charged and charged, every bone in his body aching, his throat so dry he could barely breathe, and not caring. The suns began to dip below the horizon and he knew that night would soon fall out here. He wouldn’t slow for that either, but ride all night if he had to. Nothing would stop him.
Finally, up ahead, the commander spotted something in the distance, some break in the monotony of this flat landscape. They bore down on it, and as they did, he recognized what it was: a tree. A huge, twisted tree, by itself in the middle of nowhere.
He followed the trail until it ended, right beneath the tree. Of course it would end here, he thought: they would seek shade, shelter. He could use it himself.
He came to a stop beneath the tree and his men all followed, all of them gasping as they dismounted, beyond exhausted. He was, too, but he did not pay attention. Instead, he was too focused on the trail. He looked down and studied it, baffled. The trail seemed to disappear into thin air. It did not proceed in any direction once they reached it.
“They must have died beneath the tree,” said one of his men.
The commander frowned, annoyed by their stupidity.
“Then where are their bones?” he demanded.
“They must have been eaten,” another added. “Bones and all. Look there!”
There came a rustling noise, and the commander followed his men’s worried glance as they pointed to the tree branches, way up high, hiding scores of tree clingers. The beasts watched them carefully, as if debating whether to pounce.
His men hurried out from beneath the tree, but the Commander stayed put, unafraid. If they killed him, so be it—he was not concerned. He was more concerned with losing the tracks, with reporting back to Volusia as a failure.
“Let us go,” said one of his men, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Night falls. I am sorry. Our search is over. We must return now. They died here, and that is what we must tell Volusia.”
“And bring back no proof?” the commander asked. “Are you as stupid as you look? Do you now know that she would kill us?”
The commander ignored his men and instead stood there and looked out, peering into the desert, hands on hips. He listened for a long time, to the sound of the blowing wind, of the rustling branches, listening for all the signs, the faintest clues. He closed his eyes and smelled the dusty air, using all of his senses.
When he opened his eyes, he looked down and studied the ground, his nose telling him something—and this time, he spotted a tiny dot of red.
He knelt beside it and tasted the dirt.
“Blood,” he reported. “Fresh blood.” He looked up and studied the horizon, feeling a new certainty rise within him. “Someone died here recently.”
He smiled as he stood and looked down and began to realize.
“Ingenious,” he said.
“What, Commander?” one of his men asked.
“Someone tried to cover it up,” he said. It was indeed ingenious, he realized, and he knew it would have fooled any other tracker—but not him.
“Gwendolyn is alive,” he said. “She went that way—and she’s not alone. There are new people with her. And I would bet anything, anything in the world, that she will lead us right into the lap of the Ridge.”
The commander mounted his zerta and took off, not waiting for the others, following his instincts, which were leading him, he knew, toward a new horizon—and toward his ultimate glory.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kendrick woke to a cool breeze on his face, his head on the hard desert floor, and knew immediately that something was wrong.
He sat up quickly and looked all around him, on alert. The warrior within had always told him when danger lurked, when something had imperceptibly shifted in the air. He saw Brandt and Atme, Koldo and Ludvig and all the others lying about the fire, now just embers, as the first of the two suns began to rise, lighting the sky a scarlet red. Everything was still, and at first glance everyone seemed to be here and all seemed to be well. He squinted into the horizon and saw no threat, no monsters of any kind.
Yet still, some sense within him told him something was not right. Kendrick wondered if it was just the nightmares he’d had, plaguing him all night as he tossed on the hard desert floor, swatting away bugs. Yet he knew better.
Kendrick slowly rose to his feet as the sun rose higher, the sky lightening just a bit, and as he surveyed the camp once again, suddenly he saw it: there, in the distance, were tracks, leading away from his camp. Footprints.
Kendrick looked back and itemized all the bodies lying about the fire and he suddenly realized, his heart skipping a beat, that one was missing:
Kaden.
There came a quiet clanging of armor, and Kendrick turned to see the men slowly, one by one, rising in the desert morning, all looking at him, standing there in wonder. They saw Kendrick looking cautiously out into the desert, and they lay their hands on the hilt of their swords, on guard, too.
Koldo came up beside him.
“There,” Kendrick said.
Koldo followed his glance, down to the desert floor, and as he saw the footprints, his eyes widened. He immediately turned and scanned the camp.
“Kaden,” Koldo said, alarm in his voice. “He is missing.”
All the others rose to their feet and began to walk to the footprints, examining them, while Ludvig knelt down beside them, ran his finger in them, and looked up to the horizon.
“Kaden was the last on patrol last night,” said a young soldier, who stood there, looking panicked. “I gave him the torch before I fell asleep. He was on dawn patrol. I remembered, he ventured out there by himself.”
“Why?” Koldo demanded.
The soldier looked up, nervous, unsure.
“He said he wanted to go further. He wanted to prove to the others that he was unafraid.”
Kendrick looked down at the footsteps, and it all suddenly made sense. This fine young man, going out there alone, wanting to prove himself after Naten made fun of him in front of the others. It made Kendrick hate Naten even more.
They all set out, as one, wordlessly following the trail, and after about twenty paces, Kendrick looked down and was surprised to see the trail changed dramatically. In place of one set of footprints, there were dozens of other prints. Unusually shaped creatures’ prints. They trailed off into the horizon.
They all studied it with grave concern.
Ludvig knelt, examining the prints, rubbing the sand between his fingers. He then looked up and watched the trail lead off into the flat, merciless desert horizon, in the opposite direction of the sand wall.
“Sand Walkers,” Ludvig announced grimly. “They’ve taken him.”
A heavy silence fell over all of them as the reality of the situation sank in: Kaden, the King’s youngest son, their crown jewel, had been abducted. The silence was so heavy and the tension so thick, Kendrick could cut it with a knife.
“Those tracks lead away from the Ridge,” Naten stepped up and said, frowning accusingly at Kendrick, as if this were all his fault. “If we go after him, we will all die out there.”
Koldo scowled at him.
“If you’re so concerned with your life, turn back and head for the Ridge.”
Koldo held his scowl until Naten looked away, shamed.
“In fact,” Koldo said, raising his voice, “I want all of you to go back. What we don’t need are all of us, on foot, heading out into the Waste. We need horses. And speed, to catch them. All of you go back, carry back our dead, and return to me with horses.”
“And you?” Naten asked. “You will travel alone, on foot, away from the Ridge, against a tribe of Sand Walkers? You will die.”
Koldo stared back firmly.
“There is no shame in death,” he replied. “Only in turning our backs on our brothers.”
&nbs
p; Kendrick felt his heart swell, and at that moment, he knew exactly what was the right thing to do.
“I shall go with you,” Kendrick said.
“And I,” said Brandt and Atme, and all the members of the Silver.
“And I, my brother,” Ludvig said, laying a hand on Koldo’s shoulder. “After all, he is my brother, too.”
Kendrick could see the look of gratitude and mutual admiration in Koldo’s eyes.
“Far be it from me to turn away someone else’s valor,” Koldo replied.
Kendrick, resigned, turned to his men.
“Brandt and Atme, you may join us,” Kendrick said, “but the rest of you Silver, return with the men of the Ridge. If we should die, some Silver must live, to pass on our history to future generations. Return to us with horses.”
The other Silver grudgingly nodded and backed down.
Kendrick watched as the men of the Ridge, along with the remaining Silver, turned and began walking quickly away, back in the direction of the Ridge. He turned and faced Koldo, Ludvig, Brandt, and Atme. Now there were but five of them, alone, out here in the Waste, and about to head even deeper into it.
They exchanged a look of honor, of fearlessness, of resignation, of mutual respect. Nothing more need be said: Kaden was out there somewhere, and all of them, each one of them, would risk their lives to get him back.
The five of them, together, turned fearlessly and marched out into the Waste, into the rising suns, one step at a time, on their ultimate quest of honor.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Volusia sat on her terrace overlooking the coliseum, relieved to be back here, without distraction, after having killed Romulus’s men, and to be able to immerse herself in the games. She was especially excited to watch this fight which, for the first time, kept her on the edge of her seat—it was the one they called “Darius” who fought. He was unlike any of the other gladiators, a brilliant fighter, one who actually survived. She admired his courage—but she admired bloodlust more, and looked forward to watching him getting carved to pieces.
