Morgan Rice: 5 Beginnings (Turned, Arena one, A Quest of Heroes, Rise of the Dragons, and Slave, Warrior, Queen)

by Morgan Rice

  “Anka,” Ceres croaked, her knees trembling so she could barely stand.

  Anka ran over to Ceres and hurriedly inserted a key into the cuffs around Ceres’s ankles and wrists, freeing her.

  Hands shaking uncontrollably, Ceres pulled the fabric out of her parched mouth. Anka grabbed Ceres’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

  “Soldiers are coming. Run!” Anka said.

  “You have to come with me this time,” Ceres said.

  “No, I need to stay.”

  Anka spun around in a flash, dashed out the door, and disappeared down the dark stairwell, her rushed footsteps gradually vanishing.

  Quickly, Ceres gathered her senses, forcing herself to move even though all she felt like doing was curling up into a ball in the corner and crying. On her way out the door, she gave Lucious a swift kick in the abdomen. She had despised him before, but now her hatred would burn every time she would see him. She would remember this moment, oh, how she would remember.

  With sweaty hands, she stole down the stairwell, but just as reached the bottom, a slew of Empire soldiers approached her from the right, their swords drawn.

  She looked to the left, but just as many Empire soldiers were storming toward her from that direction.

  Then she heard footsteps behind her, but before she could turn around, she felt a hard object hit the back of her head, and everything went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Stephania sat way in the back in the throne room and brought the fan to her lips, hiding a yawn, this dreary council of old birdbrained men and women so uninspiring she thought she might pass out from boredom. For hours, they had discussed—in that same mind-numbing monotonous tone—how the council was losing money, how the court was poorly managed, and how the rebellion, if it were to continue, would cost the Empire greatly. And as if these dignitaries couldn’t grasp it, it had already been brought up three times that the rebellion had already drained half the king’s gold.

  Still, after hours of futile rambling, dozens of preposterous ideas being tossed around, they came up with no solutions. None. Stephania had sat through too many of these, and more and more, listening to these simpleminded mumbling nitwits, it just proved to her again that they were all brainless monkeys, pretending to know what they were talking about and what they were doing.

  “Are there any more matters to discuss?” the king said from his throne at the front of the room.

  Not a soul breathed a word, thank heavens, Stephania thought, dying to get out of this stuffy room, her bottom sore from having sat so long on this unpadded chair. Ever since the announcement that Thanos would wed Ceres, she had been demoted to sit in the back row by the exit door, next to the least important dignitary in the entire Empire, her seat the farthest from the king than anyone’s.

  I will climb my way back up into the king’s graces, she resolved. Soon.

  Just when she judged the meeting over, Cosmas, sitting at the front, rose and asked to stand before the king.

  Stephania rolled her eyes. Would this day never end? She knew he was the old, senile, hard-of-hearing geriatric who cared about Thanos—a little too much, Stephania thought—but what on earth would he have to say that would warrant a single second in a council meeting such as this? All the old man did day in and day out was read scrolls in the library, stare at the stars, and talk of things that didn’t really matter—not to the Empire at least.

  Stephania noticed that the other dignitaries also seemed as disinterested in the old fart as her, their eyes glazing over with boredom.

  Eying the floral pattern on her green silk dress, she listened with one ear, fanning herself as the ancient scholar held up a scroll toward the king.

  “I was asked to deliver this letter to Thanos,” Cosmas said. “It is from Ceres.”

  Stephania’s ears perked right up. Perhaps the old scholar wasn’t as much of a fool as she had thought. He had certainly misled me, Stephania thought, because she presumed the elder was more loyal to Thanos than even the king or the Empire. But perhaps she had been wrong in her assumption.

  With a giddy heart, she repressed a smile. Now that commoner, Ceres, would be put to death and Stephania would marry Thanos, making everything right again. What fortune. What luck! Perhaps the gods were smiling down on her after all.

  Stephania watched as the king read the letter in silence, his eyebrows sinking deeper and deeper over his fat face. When he had finished, he looked up.

  “Did you read this?” the king asked Cosmas.

  Cosmas stepped forward.

  “Yes, and that was when I knew it needed to be brought to your attention,” he said. “The girl is a lying conniving thief, a revolutionary in our very midst.”

  Gasps went through the chamber, and disorder erupted.

  “Silence! Silence!” the king said.

  “She must not marry Prince Thanos!” one advisor shouted.

  “Hang the girl for treason!” another said.

  The room exploded into commotion, some yelling for the king to imprison the imposter, others demanding she be put to death immediately.

  “Silence!” the king yelled again, and the room settled down into a low hum of whispers. “We cannot just kill her. The revolutionaries will start rioting in the streets again and we are not ready to take upon all of them.”

  “But we must do something,” an advisor said. “You do not mean to let a conspirator remain in our midst, leaking information to the revolutionary headquarters?”

  A brilliant idea popped into Stephania’s mind, and she gasped. A few heads turned toward her, and she smiled, knowing this idea would be her big chance to gain favor again. She just had to speak up.

  “May I make a suggestion, Your Excellences?” she said loud and clear, rising to her feet.

  The king’s and queen’s eyes darted to her.

  “Please, it will also help to generate money for the Empire,” she said, sensing their hesitation.

  “Very well, speak,” the king said. “But make it quick.”

  Stephania stepped onto the floor and walked toward the front of the room, her heels clicking against the marble floor, hundreds of eyes following her every step. She repressed a grin, bathing in the attention, elated that she had such a wonderful idea to present, when the supposed most powerful and intelligent men and women of the Empire had thought of no such thing. She knew that once she had shared with the king her idea, he would love it. And perhaps the king and queen would even give her more authority from now on—authority over Ceres.

  Arriving at the bottom of the steps below the thrones, Stephania curtsied deeply before the king and queen.

  “So far your excellences have done a wonderful job in using Ceres to promote and strengthen the Empire. And I see an opportunity to do it again,” Stephania said.

  “Well then, why don’t you enlighten us,” the queen said in a stiff tone.

  “Don’t throw Ceres out of our midst,” Stephania said. “And don’t execute her. Instead…use her to make the Empire wealthier than it has ever been.”

  The room grew silent, a few whispers throughout, and Stephania could just feel favor descending upon her again.

  “And how do you propose we do that?” the king asked.

  “Make her a permanent contender in the Killings,” Stephania said.

  Now the room had become so silent, Stephania could hear air moving in and out of her nostrils.

  “She’s a girl,” someone yelled.

  “No one would come see a commoner being butchered,” another said.

  Stephania was becoming impatient with these narrow-minded, short-sighted old-timers.

  “Ceres is a soon-to-be royal female, a novelty, a fierce fighter in her own right,” she said. “I have watched her fight, and she beat Lucious. I dare say people would travel from afar just to see her.”

  The king squinted, bringing a hand to his bearded chin.

  “Make the spectators pay a premium to see the princess combatlord,” Steph
ania added.

  The king glanced at the queen, and the queen lifted an eyebrow.

  “The princess combatlord,” the king said. “I will think on it, but I do believe the idea to be excellent. Well done, Stephania. Well done.”

  Stephania curtsied again and walked back to her seat, extremely proud of herself for having thought of such a genius plan. Not only would her idea bring in money for the Empire, it would serve a very personal purpose, too.

  Vengeance.

  Finally, Thanos would be hers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  What a waste of my time, Sartes thought as he sat below the willow tree in their yard, peeling potatoes for his mother, the wind pulling at his burgundy tunic in a steady stream. Sartes was too young to fight in the rebellion, Rexus had told him, and had sent him back home to sit and wait to mature, to feel useless, to ponder on Nesos’s death, to sit and think of how Ceres was trapped within the walls of the palace, being abused, used, and tortured.

  He tossed the potato into the pot and started to peel another one.

  How was it Rexus expected him to sit here and do nothing, to suffer the consequences of the war, but to not help in any way? He wasn’t too young, he knew, but the revolutionaries didn’t see that. Just because he was small of build didn’t mean he didn’t have skills and abilities that were useful in the war against the Empire.

  But no matter how much he insisted to Rexus on staying, Sartes was sent home to be with his mother to peel vegetables and wait on her hand and foot.

  When he heard wheels crunching against the gravel road, Sartes looked up. The Empire’s blue and gold banner waved above an enclosed wagon, dozens of Empire soldiers marching behind it in two perfectly straight rows.

  The front door to the house creaked open, and Sartes’s mother stepped out onto the front porch, squinting toward the cart, a hand shading her eyes, a generous frown on her face.

  “Get inside the house, Sartes,” she said.

  “Mother—”

  “Get inside the house now!” she screamed.

  Sartes huffed and threw the knife into the bucket of water and potatoes. Heading toward the house, he fumed about how unfair it was that everyone treated him like a helpless child.

  “And don’t come out until I tell you to, do you hear?” his mother snapped.

  Sartes slammed the door shut behind him and sat by the kitchen table, peering out through the partially opened shutter, seeing the Empire wagon slow to a halt right in front of their yard.

  An Empire soldier hopped down from the driver’s seat and approached, a scroll carrying the Empire seal in his hand.

  “We are here to recruit your firstborn son for the royal army,” the Empire soldier said, holding the scroll toward Sartes’s mother.

  Sartes saw that his mother glanced down at the scroll, but did not accept it.

  “Ceres is my daughter, and as you know, she is to be wed to Prince Thanos,” she said.

  Sartes stood up and tiptoed to the shutter, listening intently.

  “It has been ruled by the king that we recruit all firstborn males,” the Empire soldier said.

  “My eldest son is dead,” she said, a tremble in her voice.

  “And what of your other sons?” the Empire soldier asked.

  “How dare you ask that of me?” Sartes’s mother said.

  “The king has not excused you or your family from serving him or the Empire. So I ask of you again, have you any other sons?” the Empire soldier continued.

  “Even if I did have other sons, which I do not, he would soon be the prince’s brother-in-law, and the royal army would not have claim upon him.”

  The Empire soldier took a threatening step toward her, and Sartes thought that he might strike his mother. He almost stormed outside, but he knew if he did, he would have to deal with his mother later, or he would be recruited to the royal army, and neither one of those options sounded tempting in the least.

  “Might I assume you are with the rebellion then?” the Empire soldier growled.

  “Why in heaven’s name would you assume such a thing?” Sartes’s mother asked.

  “Because you are resisting the king’s commands.”

  “I am not with the rebellion,” she said.

  “Will you obey the king’s orders, then?”

  “I will and I do.”

  “Then step aside so I can search your house.”

  “You have no right to search my home,” she snapped.

  “I have orders to kill anyone who resists!” the soldier roared. “Now stand out of my way, wench!”

  Sartes gasped, realizing if he didn’t get away, the soldiers would seize him and he would be forced to fight for the royal army. He started toward the back room, but as he did, he bumped into a chair, causing it to tip over with a crash. Stumbling forward, he just made it into the back room when he heard the Empire soldier kicking the front door in.

  But before Sartes could escape through the window, the Empire soldier was upon him. The brute clutched Sartes’s arm, pulling him out into the main room again, but Sartes grabbed a chair and swung it at the soldier, hitting him in the head so blood oozed from his brow.

  The soldier cried out and fell to the floor, releasing Sartes’s arm, and Sartes dashed into the back room again.

  He tore open the shutters and hopped out the window, his heart pounding like a wild beast against his sternum, nothing on his mind other than getting to the field. He passed the shack, the meadow so close, but then he heard his mother screaming.

  Unable to continue on, he turned around, and to his horror, he saw the Empire soldier holding a dagger up to his mother’s throat.

  “Mother!” he yelled, horrified.

  “Please don’t kill me,” his mother croaked. “Sartes, you wouldn’t let your mother die, would you?”

  For a split second Sartes was conflicted. If he went back, he would be forced to fight against his friends, against all he believed in, freedom, prosperity, fairness. He would kill those he loved. He would be compelled to destroy all he knew in his bones and blood was the truth. But if he kept running, the Empire soldiers might catch up with him still, and his mother would be dead.

  He couldn’t live with himself knowing he was the reason his mother’s throat had been slit by the enemy.

  As three Empire soldiers ran toward him, he lifted his hands in surrender, his gaze on his mother, the relief in her eyes as the dagger was removed from her throat somewhat comforting. But also bitter.

  The soldiers forced Sartes to the ground, jerking his arms behind his back, binding his wrists with rope. They pulled him up and dragged him past his mother, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Sartes,” she cried. “My baby.”

  She started after him toward the wagon, her arms longingly reaching for him, fingers straining at his shirt.

  A soldier hit her across the face and she fell to the parched grass with a yelp.

  The soldiers threw Sartes into the cart with three other young men and locked the door.

  “I will never forgive myself for this,” his mother cried. “Never!”

  The driver whipped the horses and the wagon moved forward with a sudden jerk. Sartes’s mother staggered to her feet and clamped her hands around the bars, eyes filled with desperation.

  “Come back to me, Sartes, promise me this!”

  But Sartes looked away and would not promise his mother anything. Because of her, he knew, his life was over. Because of her, he would have to fight on the side of the war that killed Nesos, on the side that stole Ceres from him, and on the side that had torn his family apart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  The wind tugged at Rexus’s hair as he feverishly galloped toward the palace beneath a blanket of stars, Anka sitting behind him holding on for dear life. August and Crates rode after them, their horses heavily loaded with weapons and gear hidden beneath wool throws.

  Rexus hadn’t been able to sleep a wink since he found out Ceres was engaged to Prince
Thanos, the thoughts of them together an inescapable torment. He had judged Ceres a liar and a traitor, and had never wanted to see her again. He had never even wanted to think of her again either, but every thought that had occupied his mind these past days and nights had only been of her.

  However, after Anka had approached Rexus in Harbor Cave earlier, everything had changed. When she had informed him that Ceres was shackled in the tower and had nearly been raped the night before last, and that Ceres had refused to marry Prince Thanos, he had felt sick to his stomach. But when Anka had told him Ceres loved him—Rexus—and that Ceres spoke of no one other than him, Rexus’s heart had stopped, and he had realized with great remorse that Ceres had been nothing but loyal to the rebellion. And to him. And he had been a fool.

  He swore, the pain too much to contain on the inside. He had been so hard on Ceres, had turned her away when she had begged to join the rebellion. And here she was doing nothing but supporting the revolution, fulfilling her job. He vowed that as soon as he saw Ceres again, he would beg for her forgiveness. This was entirely his fault, that she had been imprisoned. His pride had gotten in the way. He should have listened to her when she came to Harbor Cave, but like always, he was too quick to judge and was too much of a hothead.

  He glanced back, seeing his friends were still right behind him. He had considered bringing twice as many men, but he figured if he brought more than two strapping young revolutionaries, the group might cause suspicion amongst the Empire soldiers who patrolled the streets of Delos at night. If he brought fewer, they wouldn’t be able to ward off any potential Empire soldiers guarding Ceres’s tower and the rescue mission would be a failure.

  August was a new friend, young, happy, and built like a combatlord. He had joined the rebellion a mere month ago, and had told Rexus that he left his father—an advisor to the king—because of the way his father mistreated their slaves. Crates was one of August’s father’s slaves, and the night August left, August took him with him, making Crates a free man.

  Crates was tall and lanky, but exceptional with the bow and arrow, and having lived in lack his entire life, he had a fire about him that Rexus loved, the young man embodying the spirit of the revolution.