by Morgan Rice
Krov turned and waved to the next arched gate, and slowly a massive portcullis was raised, revealing a city courtyard behind it.
“Welcome, my friends, to Boulder Isle!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Darius galloped through the desert, racing beneath the suns, joined by Raj, Desmond, Kaz, Luzi and dozens more of his brothers in arms, the sound of their zertas rumbling in the midday silence. They tore across the barren landscape, using the zertas they had plundered from the Empire battle, wielding weapons they had scavenged from the Empire soldiers, and led hundreds of villagers, who ran behind them on foot. It was a chaotic group of warriors, all brought together in common cause, all out for blood, for freedom, and all united only by Darius’s leadership, his sacrifice, his example. Darius was determined not to sit back anymore, but to bring the fight to the Empire’s doorstep—and his people were determined to follow.
Darius did not know if he had energized them all by his leadership or if his people simply had nothing left to lose. Perhaps it had finally hit home that the Empire would surround and destroy them; perhaps they finally realized that they could no longer wait passively, to be slaughtered or maimed. Backed into a corner, they were forced to attack. Finally, Darius and his people saw eye to eye: finally, they were, like he, ready and happy to go down on their feet, fighting.
Lead by Darius’s example, finally, they had all taken back their manhood, had claimed it for themselves. Finally they had all come to see that your manhood could not be taken from you—but neither could it be given. It was something that had to be claimed, that had to be insisted upon, that had to be demanded, and that had to be taken with your own two hands.
Each of them were emboldened and empowered, too, to have real weapons of steel, to hold the cold steel in their hands for the first time in their lives, to feel what real weight felt like—not the weight of bamboo. They were emboldened, too, by the thunder and speed of the zertas, magnificent war animals that made one feel as a true warrior should. They charged and they charged, following Darius blindly into the desert. Darius felt he could lead them anywhere.
But not all of them. There was still a faction of his village, led by Zirk, who blamed Darius, envied him, and did not approve of his course of action. These people, too, followed him now, having no choice, as they did not want to be left behind. As much as they might disagree with him, or be immersed in a power struggle with him, nonetheless, they had been slaves, too, and they, like all of them, were enjoying their first taste of freedom.
Darius kicked his zerta and they all charged faster, sweat running down Darius’s back, stinging his wounds, as he held on for dear life, squinting into the horizon. It felt so liberating just to be out there, on his own, free to do whatever he wished, to go wherever he wished, during the daytime, that he barely felt his injuries. Every other day of his life, Darius had had to report to duty, had only had free time after the sun had fallen. And every other day, he certainly would not have dared venture outside of his village limits.
He was free—truly free. That word would have been unimaginable just days ago.
Darius charged and charged until finally he spotted, in the distance, what he’d been waiting for. It was his first objective: the slave fields of their neighboring village, perhaps a dozen miles away. All of the surrounding slave villages, separated by desert, were interconnected dots on the landscape, all under the thumb of the Empire, all circling the perimeter of Volusia. None of them, of course, were allowed to gather, to unite, to see each other. That was all about to change.
Darius sensed that other slaves would feel as he did. He sensed that when other slaves saw him and his people, free, liberated, attacking, they, too, would join the cause. And village to village, one man at a time, he could build an army.
Darius also knew he could not attack Volusia directly, not with his small numbers and their great army and vast fortifications. He knew, if he had any chance of winning, he had to attack the Empire army at its weakest, most vulnerable, points, where they least expected it: out in the fields, piecemeal, one village a time, where the taskmasters were scarce, spread out, unaware. Each slave field, Darius knew, had but a few dozen taskmasters to watch over hundreds of slaves. In the past, they had been kept down in their place, and no one had dared revolt, and so a few men could watch over many.
But that, if Darius could help it, was all about to change. Now these brutal taskmasters were about to learn the power of the common man.
Darius knew they could win—especially if they came upon them quickly, unaware, and if they liberated slaves and converted them into their growing ragtag army.
As they approached, Darius let out a loud cry, kicked his zerta, and charged faster, closing in on the slave fields. He could see from here, dotting the landscape, hundreds of slaves, all shackled, smashing rock, none of them expecting their arrival. Standing over them, interspersed throughout, walking up and down the rows, were Empire taskmasters, raising their whips, lashing them beneath the morning sun. Darius winced at the sight, the pain still fresh in his own back from the lashing, the sight bringing up fresh memories, a fresh desire for vengeance,
Darius scowled and kicked and charged even faster. All around him his men did the same, seeing the same view, feeling as he, needing no prodding to set wrongs right.
As Darius reached them, he saw the first row of slaves turn and look up at him, bearing down on his zerta, and he watched as their eyes widened in shock. Clearly, these slaves had never seen freed slaves riding zertas, wielding weapons of steel—had never seen anyone like them, with their color skin, riding, riding free, triumphant, beneath the sun.
Darius focused in on one particularly large taskmaster, who was whipping a young boy, and he raised a short spear he’d salvaged from the Empire, took aim, and hurled it.
The taskmaster finally turned at the sound of the zertas thundering toward them, and Darius watched in satisfaction as his eyes, too, widened in surprise—and then in agony, as the spear pierced his heart.
The taskmaster grabbed it with both hands, as if trying to pull it out, and looked up at Darius in confusion, before collapsing down on his back. Dead.
Darius and the others let out a great cheer, and their battle cry rose to the heavens as they thundered into the fields, row to row, a great wall of destruction kicking up a spreading wave of dust. Villagers stood there, frozen in fear, rooted to place, as Darius and his men raced by them, killing taskmasters left and right.
Darius and the others stopped before a group of slaves, who stood there, cowering.
The slaves looked up at them in wonder, still not moving. A large slave with dark skin and eyes wide with fear, sweat pouring down his forehead, set down his hammer and looked down at Darius.
“What have you done?” the man asked, panic in his eyes. “You have killed the masters! Now we will all die! All of us slaves shall die!”
Darius shook his head, came forward and raised his sword, and the slave cringed. Darius swung it down and severed the slave’s shackles.
The slave looked down in shock. One a time, all of Darius’s brothers in arms, Raj, Desmond, Kaz, Luzi and others came forward, raised their swords, and slashed away the slaves’ shackles. The satisfying clink of broken chains hitting the desert floor rose up all around them.
They all looked up at Darius in amazement, too shocked to move.
“Do not call yourself slaves again,” Darius replied.
“But our chains!” another slave cried. “You must put them back, quickly! We will all die for this!”
Darius shook his head, hardly believing how conditioned these poor men had become.
“You don’t understand,” Raj replied. “The days of fearing the Empire are over. It is we who now are bringing the fear to them.”
“You can die fighting with us,” Darius called out, to the growing crowd of freed slaves, “or you can die here in the fields, cowering as cowards! Who among you wishes to die a slave—and who among you wishes to die a
free man?”
There came a cheer amongst the crowd of slaves, as they all began to realize that freedom had arrived.
“I cannot give you your freedom, my brothers!” Darius called out. “You must fight for it! Each and every one of you—join us now!”
A horn sounded, and Darius turned to see the dozens of Empire soldiers rallying, charging them. Suddenly, there came another shout from behind Darius, and he glanced back to see hundreds of his villagers, on foot, appearing over the horizon, charging to back him up, catching up.
The Empire soldiers suddenly spotted them, too, and as they did, they stopped in their tracks. No longer were they facing a dozen freed slaves—now they were facing several hundred. They stared at the horizon with shock and fear—and suddenly, for the first time in his life, Darius saw the Empire men turn and flee.
Darius let out a battle cry and led the charge, and this time, all of the freed slaves, as one, joined in. He led his growing army, charging through the fields, chasing after the Empire soldiers. They soon caught up to them as they fled, slashing down, slaughtering them left and right. Darius felt particular satisfaction as he watched a taskmaster drop his whip to run faster, as Raj hurled a spear right through his back.
Darius remounted his zerta and charged, rushing to meet the half dozen taskmasters who had regrouped and charged toward him. His brothers in arms remounted beside him. Behind them, all the slaves fell in line, rushing to join them.
The freed slaves joined in the fight, pouncing on the taskmasters, tackling them to the ground, piling on top of them and pummeling them to their deaths.
“That is for my boy!” one of them yelled out.
More slaves rushed forward and, using their shackles, still dangling from their wrists, jumped on soldiers from behind and wrapped their dangling chains around their necks, again and again, choking them to their deaths.
Finally, a group of a dozen Empire soldiers, realizing they were outnumbered and would die if they continued to flee, stopped, turned, banded together in a professional wall, and made a stand. They were an imposing bunch, large warriors, towering over the slaves, with thick, professional armor and weapons and with a brutal mindset to kill anything in their path.
Darius threw a spear down at them, and they blocked it easily with their shields, fighting as one, and he knew this would not be easy.
Darius rode up to them and dismounted, Raj, Desmond, Kaz, and Luzi following, along with several of his brothers in arms. He leapt down wildly, raising his sword high, and as he did, brought it down on a soldier’s shoulder, finding the kinks in his armor, felling him.
The other soldiers immediately attacked.
Darius went blow for blow with them, surprised at their speed and strength, their swords clanging and sparking beneath the midday sun as they fought, pushing each other back and forth. Beside him, Raj and Desmond were immersed in heated battles, too, none of them able to gain an advantage. His other men and villagers began to catch up, to join them, and Darius heard their cries as they were cut down by these professional soldiers.
Darius went blow for blow with a skilled soldier, swords clanging, most of his blows defected by his massive, copper shield. Another Empire soldier rushed over and smashed Darius in the side of the head with his shield, dropping him to one knee.
Darius, not missing a beat, spun around, even with his head ringing, and slashed the Empire soldier at the knee; with a cry he fell forward to the ground.
Darius rolled out of the way as the other soldier slashed down for his back, trying to chop him in half.
Darius regained his feet and blocked a blow—but he could not turn in time as he saw another sword slash coming for his back.
Darius heard the sudden sound of shackles swinging through the air and saw one of the freed slaves reaching up, wrapping his shackle around the soldier’s wrist and yanking it back, saving Darius from the deadly blow.
Darius turned and stabbed the soldier just before he could free himself and attack the slave.
Two more soldiers rushed Darius, and Darius ducked out of the way as his zerta rushed forward, stomping them, knocking them down.
More and more freed slaves joined them, charging forward, swinging their chains, lashing the Empire soldiers, retaliating for being whipped themselves. Indeed some slaves salvaged the whips from the desert floor and used them as fierce weapons, lashing Empire soldiers left and right. Many blows were blocked by the shields, but over time, as enough villagers arrived and enough chains and whips descended, enough blows got through. The Empire line began to weaken.
Soon there remained but one Empire soldier standing, who threw down his weapons, his shield, his helmet, and faced them, raising his hands.
“Mercy!” he called out, as all the villagers surrounded him. “Let me live, and I will speak to the Empire for you! I will ask for mercy on your account!”
The crowd grew quiet as Darius stepped forward, breathing hard, gripping the hilt of his sword as he approached, scowling.
“What you fail to understand,” Darius seethed back, “is that we don’t need to ask for mercy. We are not slaves anymore. What we need, we take by force.”
Darius stepped forward and stabbed the soldier in the heart, watching him die as he collapsed at his feet, staining the desert floor red.
“There is your mercy,” Darius said. “The same mercy you extended to all of us.”
All around Darius the air suddenly filled with the joyful, victorious shouts of his people, freed slaves, all of them jubilant, rallying to him, hundreds of them, his army already doubled. Darius raised his sword high, turning and facing them all, and they all, as one, cheered and chanted his name.
“Darius!” they called out. “Darius! Darius!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Indra sat with the others inside Ragon’s golden castle, in awe at her surroundings, wondering if all of this were real. They all sat on piles of luxurious furs, on a floor which was smooth and shiny, nearly translucent, before an enormous, ornate fireplace, its mantle made of shiny white marble, rising twenty feet high, framing a roaring fire. Beside her sat Elden on one side and Selese on the other, beside her Reece, then Thorgrin, O’Connor, and Matus. They all sat in a semicircle, spread out before the fire, all relaxed with each other’s company, a comfortable silence falling over them.
Indra stared into the flames, losing track of time as night fell outside. She looked out through the open-aired arched windows and through them she could see twilight spreading, see the stars high up in the sky, twinkling red. She felt the gentle ocean breezes, heard the crashing of the waves in the distance, and she knew the ocean lay somewhere below.
Indra looked about and saw her friends were the most relaxed she’d ever seen them; for the first time in as long as she could remember, they kept their guard down, and she felt she could do the same. She gently released her grip on her new spear, not even realizing she was still clutching it out of reflex, and laid it down beside her, a part of her not wanting to let it go, the weapon already feeling like an extension of her. She leaned back into the furs, beside Elden, and looked into the flames. Elden tried to drape an arm around her, to come in close, but she pushed him away; she did not like people too close to her.
“Is it heavy?” came a voice.
Indra turned and saw Selese sitting beside her, eyeing her spear. She did not know what to think of Selese. On the one hand, she was the only other girl in this group, on this journey with them, and in that sense, they had bonded; yet at the same time, Indra had to admit that she was a bit wary of Selese, given that she had just emerged from the land of the dead, from the other side of death. She did not quite know what to make of her. Was she alive? Was she still dead? She seemed real to her, as real as anyone else. And in a way, Indra had to admit, that creeped her out.
Additionally, Indra did not really understand Selese, and never had. The two of them were such different people, cut from such different cloths. Indra was a warrior, and Selese was a healer
, and more feminine than Indra would ever want to be. Indra could not understand any woman who did not want to wield a weapon.
“No,” Indra finally replied. “It is surprisingly light.”
They fell into a silence, and Indra felt she should return the courtesy; after all, Selese had tried to start a conversation.
“And your sand?” Indra asked. “Do you like having it?”
Selese smiled sweetly and nodded.
“I like anything that can help me heal others,” she replied. “I could want no better gift.”
“Then you are a better person than I,” Indra replied. “I enjoy killing people—not healing them.”
“There is a time for both,” Selese replied, “and I consider myself no better than anyone. In fact, I admire you.”
“Me!?” Indra asked, surprised. It was the last thing she had expected to come from Selese’s mouth.
Selese nodded.
“Yes. I can hardly believe that you can wield a weapon like that. Any weapon really.”
Indra, defensive as always, at first wondered if Selese were mocking her. But then she studied her soft, compassionate eyes, and she softened, realizing she was genuine. She realized that she had been judging Selese too harshly, just because she was unlike her. She had been cold, keeping her at a distance, not welcoming her into her back. She realized now, seeing what a good, genuine person Selese was, that she had been wrong. That was just her way, she knew, the way she had always been, too defensive with everyone. It was a defense mechanism, she realized, to help her survive in a cruel and taunting world—especially as a woman wielding arms.
“It’s not so hard, really,” Indra replied. “I could teach you.”
Selese smiled and raised a hand.
“I thank you,” she said, “but I am content with my healing potions.”
“You are good at healing men,” Indra observed. “And I am good at killing them.”
