by Morgan Rice
The King nodded.
“You and I,” he said, “we are the same. Leaders do not sleep when their people are in danger. It is the curse—and the blessing—of responsibility.”
Gwen nodded, happy to be able to talk with someone who understood. In some ways, she wished she had never been Queen; and yet in other ways, she felt it was her destiny.
Gwen laid her hands on the stone railing and looked out at the horizon, watching Kendrick and the others ride off, hundreds of feet below, creating a cloud of dust as they went. They charged for the horizon, for the sand wall, and as she looked straight down she suddenly felt nauseous, and pulled back.
“The drop gets you every time,” the King said with a smile. “I have been coming up here for years, and now, as an old man, I can’t tolerate it as I used to.” He winked. “But don’t tell my subjects that.”
Gwendolyn smiled.
“You are hardly an old man,” she said. “You are far younger than my father was.”
The King shook his head and looked away sadly.
Gwen watched Kendrick ride off, disappearing, and her heart ached. She closed her eyes and prayed that he accomplish his quest and return safely. She could not tolerate any more loss, not after all she’d been through. He was all she had left of family.
Gwen opened her eyes and looked out, further out into the horizon, and thought of Thorgrin, of Guwayne, out there somewhere on a vast and lonely sea. She longed for them to come back to her, as she would for food or drink. The loneliness hurt her so badly, she could physically feel it, as a heaviness on her chest. It was as if a part of her was out there with them, lost somewhere.
“You miss your son, don’t you?” the King asked.
Gwendolyn turned and blushed to see him looking at her, reading her mind. She realized this King was much more intuitive than she had suspected.
Her eyes welled, and she nodded.
“I understand,” he replied. “More than you know. I miss mine, too.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Yours?” she asked. “Is your son gone away somewhere?”
“No,” the King said sadly, shaking his head. “Worse. He’s right here, in my city. But he is lost to me.”
Gwendolyn furrowed her brow, puzzled.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
He sighed.
“Two of my children,” the King replied, “are held prisoner to our religious leader, and his cult, which has spread through my city like a vine. It is a false religion, preached by a false prophet, and yet they all flock to him. Everywhere are his teachings, so much so that I can scarcely control my own people, and two of my children have fallen for it. They are as lost to me as your son is to you. Except your son might return—and my children never will.”
Gwendolyn saw the sadness in his eyes, and she felt for him. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but now, she knew, was not the time.
The King reached out and touched the stone rail, ran his hand along it, as they watched their men fade into the desert.
“These stones are ancient,” he said. “As ancient as the wall of your canyon. Have you noticed their shape?”
Gwen looked back, baffled.
“The Ring and the Ridge,” he said. “They are two sides of the same coin. They are a replica of each other, bear the exact dimensions. Your Canyon, your Ring, is precisely the same diameter as our Ridge, each of them shaped in a circle. Look around you: our Ridge is circular, and it would fit perfectly inside your Canyon.”
Gwen turned and looked and was amazed to see he was right: the vast Ridge spread out in a circle, and its width appeared to her to be about the same as that of the Canyon. She wondered what it all meant.
“How is it possible?” she asked.
“There is so much still you don’t know,” he said. “So much I have to tell you. We are two halves of the same circle, separated at birth. The Ring and the Ridge: they need each, they have always needed each other, to be complete.”
He looked long and hard at Gwendolyn.
“You think we have saved your lives,” he said, “but what you don’t understand is that there is a reason you have come here. You need us, yes—but we need you, too.”
Gwen was perplexed.
“You didn’t arrive here by chance,” he added. “You arrived by destiny. Your entire voyage—your exile, your crossing the sea, your crossing the Waste—it was all meant for this.”
Gwen stared back in wonder, trying to process it all, still not understanding the extent of it.
“But why?” she asked.
The King looked away, silent for a long time.
Finally, he said: “Can I trust you to keep a secret?”
Gwen’s heart was pounding as she wondered what he might say next. She nodded.
“I want to tell you something that no one else knows,” he said. “Not even my family. Not even my own wife.”
Gwen could feel her heart beating as the one out there as she waited, feeling that whatever it was, it would be momentous.
“The Ridge is dying.”
Gwen gasped.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Everything you see here, all of its bounty, its beauty, all of it will soon be dead.”
“But how?” she asked.
“Our lake is our source of life,” he said. “And it is drying up. It has been, slowly, for years. Soon enough, everything you see here will be barren desert, swallowed up by the Great Waste, by the suns, just like all our surrounding. Ragon foresaw it all: and that was why he left.”
“Ragon?” she asked.
He nodded back solemnly.
“Argon’s brother. Our sorcerer. He lived here for centuries. And then, he was exiled. That is the official history, anyway. But what no one knows is that he was never exiled. He left on his own.”
Gwen felt increasingly confused. She never considered that Argon had a brother, or that he was the sorcerer of the Ridge. She suddenly wondered if somehow he could help her find Thorgrin.
“But why?” she asked. “Why would he leave? Where did he go?”
“He left because he saw what was coming. And he knew he had to leave before it was too late.”
Gwen was still puzzled.
“I still don’t understand.”
“We need you, Gwendolyn,” he said. “I need you.”
He reached out and clasped her shoulders, and he stared back at her with such intensity that it scared her. She suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here; she did not want to hear whatever it was he had to say next.
“The Ridge is dying, Gwendolyn—and I am, too.”
As she looked back at him, she suddenly saw what had been bothering her, in the back of her mind, this whole time: the frail look in his eyes, the pallor of his skin. She sensed that what he said was true. He was dying. Everything here, in this beautiful place, was about to change.
And she suddenly knew from that look in his eye, the same look her father had given her before his death, that he would want her to be the next Queen.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Darius squinted into the light as he exited the long, stone tunnel and entered into the roar of the arena. The crowd, more packed than ever, all here for the grand finale, stomped and cheered, the sound deafening. Darius was unable to even hear his own shackles rattling as they dug into his bloody and bruised ankles, Drok on one side and on the other Raj, limping heavily, Darius holding him up.
They moved slowly, as fast as Raj could go, until they reached the center of the arena, Darius all the while on guard for Drok to jump him from behind. But Drok, for some reason, was biding his time—perhaps, Darius guessed, to attack him at a more opportune time. Or perhaps to wait to learn the rules of this final match first.
Darius stood there, waiting, his heart pounding with adrenaline as he scanned the foreign crowd, but this time more resigned than nervous. He knew death was coming for him, and he no longer feared it—as long as he died h
onorably.
A horn sounded and the crowd suddenly cheered as an iron gate was opened at the far end of the arena. Strutting out of it came Morg, raising his arms out wide, catering to the crowd, removing his hat with a bow, waving and turning in each direction until they slowly quieted. Morg was just megalomaniacal enough, Darius knew, to think that all these people were cheering for him.
“Fellow citizens of the Empire!” Morg boomed. “I present to you today the third and final battle of the gladiators!”
The crowd shouted, stomping their feet, shaking the place, and Morg waited a long time until they finally quieted again.
“Today,” he boomed, “three gladiators remain. On this day, they shall die a gladiator’s death!”
The crowd cheered.
“No gladiator has ever survived this final match,” Morg continued, “but if one of them should, then the victor will earn the right to fight in the grandest arena of all: the Capital Arena.”
The crowd cheered and Morg turned, grinned cruelly at Darius, then turned his back and strutted out of the stadium, the cell slamming behind him. A series of trumpets sounded. The spectators roared, and Darius wondered what they would throw at him this time.
Darius felt a tug at his ankle, and he looked over to see Drok scowling at him.
“Don’t think you’re going to survive this,” Drok snarled. “If whatever comes out of those gates doesn’t kill you, I will.”
Darius had had enough of this boy, and he yanked his leg, snapping the chains, jerking him back in the other direction.
“I might not survive,” Darius said, “but if I go down, you’re coming with me.”
Drok scowled and began to walk menacingly toward him; Darius, unafraid, walked forward to meet him—when he felt a tug on his other ankle and saw Raj, kneeling on the ground and shaking his head.
“Don’t,” Raj said. “That’s what he wants. Conserve your energy.”
Another chorus of horns sounded and Darius turned to see six cell doors open and six Empire soldiers, huge, dressed in black armor and faceplates, riding black horses, and wielding long halberds, come charging out toward them, to the delight of the crowd.
Darius braced himself and realized that it was not nearly as bad as it could be; after all, there were no exotic beasts or weaponry, no other Empire tricks, as he had expected. Of course, they were still facing men on horses, still outnumbered two to one—and with Raj wounded, more like three to one—and with Drok at his back, that made the odds even worse. Darius wondered if Drok would even fight or just use the opportunity to kill him. Did Drok even care about living?
“Stay close to me!” Darius yelled to Raj. “Stay low, and raise your shield!”
Darius clenched and unclenched the hilt of the sword they had given him, barely sharp enough to meet men in battle, and certainly not sharp enough to sever these shackles binding him to the others. There came the familiar sound of horses clomping as the first of the soldiers reached him, and Darius rushed forward to greet him.
Darius raised his shield and the soldier’s halberd met it with a great clang, the superior weaponry, the soldier’s superior size, and his momentum from riding all rocking Darius, sending him stumbling backward. It felt like an explosion; his ears rang and he felt the vibrations in his hand run up his arm.
But Darius did not let go.
In the same motion, Darius managed to swing around and chop the legs of the horse out from under it; he flinched, hating to hurt the animals. But it was life or death, and he knew he had no choice.
The crowd cheered as the horse neighed and fell straight down, face-first in the dirt, and the rider fell off.
Wasting no time, Darius charged and reached him just as he was turning, and stabbed and killed him before he could arise.
Just as Darius stripped the soldier’s superior sword, another soldier arrived, this one leaping from his horse and landing on Darius, tackling him. The crowd roared as the two went tumbling in the dirt.
Darius broke free and threw him off, and he got up and lunged for the soldier, seeing an opening, prepared to finish him off—when suddenly, his chain tightened. He turned and realized that Raj’s dead weight was chaining him back. Darius swung, but missed the soldier by a few inches.
The soldier rebounded and leapt to his feet, bearing down on Darius and swinging for his head. Darius blocked with his shield and swung, and the soldier blocked. Back and forth they went, swords and shields and armor clanging.
Darius heard the galloping and knew the other soldiers were getting closer and that he didn’t have much time. He was well-matched with his opponent, and he knew he had to do something quickly, before he was outnumbered.
Suddenly there came the sound of dirt, and his opponent cried out and grabbed at his visor as a cloud of it entered his eyes, blinding him. Darius, puzzled looked over his shoulder to see Raj on his knees, breathing hard, and realized he had just thrown a fistful of sand.
The soldier dropped his sword, and Darius charged and stabbed him, killing him.
Darius looked back at Raj gratefully.
“You still have some fight left in you yet,” Darius said.
Raj just smiled back, too weak to talk.
Darius heard the horses and he turned and looked over to see Drok bracing himself as soldiers targeted him for a change. They charged right for him, and Drok waited until the last moment, then dove to the ground and stretched out his legs. As he did, he used his feet to lift the shackles, until the chains were taut. Darius felt the tug on his own ankles.
Darius went flying as the shackles tripped up the horses. The horses, entangled, went down, rolling, their riders falling off, one of them crying out as he was crushed beneath his horse. Drok set his sights on the other, rolled over and, wasting no time, wrapped his chain around one’s neck and squeezed. He then pulled a dagger from the soldier’s waist, reached around, and stabbed him in the chest.
The crowd cheered in pleasure.
Darius regained his feet and stood there, unsteady, yanked back and forth by the chains. He could not freely choose his direction, and he knew he had to get Drok to work with him—it was the only way.
“We can work together and save ourselves,” Darius called out to Drok, “or we can oppose each other and lose!”
Drok turned, and to Darius’s surprise, nodded back in agreement.
Darius looked up to see two more soldiers bearing down on them.
“You take the one on the left, and I’ll take the one on the right!” Darius called out, as they both stood there, side by side, facing them.
Drok scowled as he examined the oncoming opponents. To Darius surprise, for the first time, he seemed to be in agreement.
“Separate as far as you can,” Drok yelled. “We shall divide them!”
Darius liked the idea; he ran in one direction while Drok ran in the other, forcing the oncoming horses to split apart.
Darius braced himself as one of the soldiers veered for him and swung his long halberd for his head. He raised his shield, and the blow knocked him back, the sound of smashing metal echoing in his ear. He stumbled backwards and his arm stung, but he had avoided its deadly edge.
The crowd oohed as the soldier circled wide and bore down on him again. This time, though, the soldier veered for Raj, clearly going after the easier victim.
Darius, realizing what he was doing, stepped out in front of Raj, blocking his path, and bracing himself as the halberd came down. He knew a bold move was required if he was to come out of this encounter unscathed, and he waited until the last moment, then raised his sword and charged, catching the soldier off guard. Darius aimed not for the horse, or for the rider—but rather, for the long, exposed shaft of the halberd.
It was a perfect strike. He chopped the shaft in half, and its shaft and head severed and went tumbling down to the ground.
The soldier rode past him harmlessly, swinging with a broken shaft and missing—and Darius wasted no time. He ran for the severed shaft, the bl
ade at its end, snatched it from the ground, raised it high, turned, and hurled it.
Darius watched as the blade tumbled end over end through the air and lodged itself in the soldier’s back as he rode away. The crowd shouted in delight as the soldier cried out, arched his back, then fell sideways off his horse.
Drok, meanwhile, faced down a soldier as he swung with his halberd; Drok waited for the last moment, then jumped to the side, in a counterintuitive move, landing right in the horse’s path instead of away from it—and as he did so, he turned and ran his sword up underneath the horse’s throat, right up through his skull.
The horse collapsed down, just missing Drok, and its rider fell face first over its head, tumbling to the ground. The crowd oohed, and Drok scrambled to his hands and knees, ran forward, grabbed the dropped halberd, and brought it down on the back of the soldier’s head, just as he tried to get up.
The crowd screamed, jumping to their feet, going crazy, as Drok, Darius, and Raj all stood there, breathing hard. Darius looked around in amazement. He could not believe it. It was a scene of carnage all around them—and somehow, they had won.
After a long bout of applause and cheers, Darius began to wonder if the day’s match was over—when suddenly, more horns sounded. Darius felt a pit in his stomach, and he braced himself, wondering what it could be.
There came a sudden rumbling, and Darius did not like the way it sounded—or felt beneath his feet. The entire ground shook.
The crowd was whipped into a frenzy as a huge iron cell door opened and there came a trumpet call. Darius’s heart fell: he did not need the doors to open to know what was coming next.
Bursting out of the doors, on the opposite end of the arena, there suddenly came two of the largest elephants Darius had ever seen, one black and one white, with long curving ivory tusks that reached up twenty feet. The crowd went mad as the elephants, each ridden by a knight in black armor, charged right for them.
Darius looked up at the elephants, blocking the sky, casting a long shadow, and he knew he was looking death in the face. There was no way they could survive this.
