A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (7 page)

Erec squeezed his ship between the boats, all
his ships single file behind him, all of them firing back at the Empire
soldiers in the greater fleet who were now closer and firing down on them. Some
Empire soldiers even managed to jump from their ships onto Erec’s fleet, and Erec’s
men rushed forward and killed them, one at a time. They were being harassed on
all sides.

Yet they pushed forward and soon, with one
final satisfying thunk, Erec broke through the blockade, past the last of the
burning ships, and out to open seas.

Erec looked out and saw open seas before him, and
for the first time, he felt relief. The entire Empire fleet might be rallying
behind him, but at least now he had open seas, a chance to outrun them. For
once, he felt like he could really make it.

And then, suddenly, Erec’s heart froze as an
awful sight appeared before him: there, coming around the bend, blocking their
way again, were two of the largest Empire ships he’d ever seen, five times the
size of the others, come from out of nowhere, and creating another definitive
blockade.

Their exit was completely sealed.

And this time, they had no way out.

Darius stood in the circular dirt courtyard
enclosed by high stone walls, its periphery lined with Empire guards, and he
fought against his training partner until sweat stung his eyes. Back and forth
they went, Darius swinging heavy clubs with both arms as his opponent, a slave
of a race he did not recognize, with green skin and yellow pointy ears, twice
as muscular as he and about his age, defended himself, wielding two shields.
Darius brought down blow after blow of the clubs and his opponent blocked each
one, the clanging of his shield ringing in the air as Darius drove him back
across the ring.

All around the courtyard stood dozens of other
slaves, among them Desmond, Raj, Kaz, and Luzi, all of them watching, egging
them on.

Darius, breathing hard, was exhausted. He’d
been sparring, as had the others, all day under the burning suns, each taking
turns under the watchful eyes of the taskmasters. His shoulders ached from the
effort, his entire body was drenched in sweat, and he did not know how much
longer he could go on. If anyone dared to escape, as one unfortunate soul had
tried earlier in the morning, the Empire soldiers were only too eager to step
forward with their weapons forged of real steel, and put a sword through his
heart.

Darius knew there was no escape—not now,
anyway. The only way out was to do as they were told, to spar, to train, and to
prepare for the arena.

There came another rumble and roar in the
distance, from the direction of the arena, and Darius knew it was the crowd, eager
for more gladiators, for more entertainment. Their bloodlust was insatiable.

There came on its heels an even louder shout,
followed by a horn, and Darius knew what that meant: another gladiator had died
somewhere beyond those walls. The crowd went crazy, but Darius and his men all
slumped their shoulders, depressed at the thought. That was their fate,
awaiting them soon enough.

He would face death soon enough—all of them would—and
he tried not to think of it as he sparred fruitlessly beneath the sun. A part
of him had tuned out, and no longer cared. After all, nearly everyone he had
known and loved in the world was now dead, thanks to him. He felt absorbed by
guilt, and a part of him wanted to die with them all, too. The only ones he did
not know the fates of were his sister, Sandara, and his dog, Dray. He wondered
if they were still alive, out there somewhere, if somehow they had survived. The
last he had seen of his sister was when she’s departed for the Great Waste, and
the last he’d seen his dog was when he was sticking his teeth into a soldier’s
throat. Darius closed his eyes, recalling the terrific blow the dog received by
a soldier’s club, remembering his whine as he fell to the ground, and praying
that he somehow survived.

Darius felt a sudden jolt on the side of his
head, the sound of metal ringing in his ears, and he went stumbling backwards, and
realized his opponent had swung around with his shields and smashed him on the
head.

Morg stepped between them, and the boys
quieted.

“You lost your focus,” Morg chided Darius. “When
you do that in the arena, it won’t be a shield on the side of your head but the
blade of an ax.”

Darius stood there, breathing hard, realizing
he was right.

Morg faced the others.

“Do you see the mistake Darius made here today?
If any of you lose concentration, if any of you go to some other place, it will
be the last time you do. Not that I care if you all die—in fact, I look forward
to it. But I don’t want you dying early on me. That will make
me
look
bad. People need entertainment, and if you fall early, I will pay for it. And I
don’t plan on paying for anything.”

He surveyed the boys as a tense silence fell
over them.

“If there are any of you unable or unwilling to
fight, tell me now,” he added, scanning their faces.

Darius looked over at the lineup of dozens of boys,
and they all looked lost, forlorn, to him, faces fill with hardship, boys who
had suffered, as he, had lived a life of labor and pain. They were faces that
should not have looked as pained as they did at such a young age.

“I do not wish to fight!” one boy called out.

All eyes turned to him, a boy surprisingly
larger and more muscular than the others, as he stepped forward and lowered his
head.

“I wish to kill no one,” the boy said. “I am a
simple man. A farmer. I’ve never harmed anyone. And I do not wish to now.”

Morg turned to him, grinning wide, and walked
slowly over to him, his boots crunching in the courtyard. Morg, shirtless, legs
covered in black armor, was an imposing figure, bigger even than this boy, and
he stopped before him and looked him up and down as if he were nothing.

“You are very brave to admit your fears,” Morg said,
“to tell me how you feel. I thank you for it. I understand you do not wish to
fight—and I can help you.”

The boy looked up at him hopefully and Morg stepped
forward, reached down, and pulled a small dagger from his belt. Darius noticed
it too late, and he tried to cry out, to lunge forward.

But there was no time. In one quick motion, he
stepped forward, grabbed the boy by the back of his neck, and plunged it into
his heart, holding him tight.

The boy cried out in agony, but Morg held him
tight, squeezing the knife into his chest, holding him face-to-face, staring him
down. The boy’s eyes froze wide open, until he finally froze and slumped down.

Morg dropped him limply to the ground, at his
feet. He lay there, his red blood staining the sand red.

“See?” Morg said down to the dead boy. “Now you
need not fight!”

Morg looked up and slowly scanned the faces of
the others boys; they all looked down at the dead boy, terror in their eyes. Darius
himself felt a burning rage, felt like killing Morg.

“NO!” Darius shouted, unable to help himself.

He lunged forward, prepared to pummel the man
to death, but he hardly got a few feet when several soldiers stepped forward,
in full armor, and blocked his path with their halberds.

Morg merely grinned. He turned and looked over
all the other boys, who now stared back at him, this time in fear.

“Are there any other of you who do not wish to
fight?” he asked. “Any others who do not wish to inflict harm on others? Any
others who are afraid?”

All the boys stood there, silent this time,
none willing to step forward or say a word.

Morg nodded with satisfaction.

“The arena is not for the meek and the fearful;
it is not for those who are unsure if they can fight, or who are not prepared
to kill others. I will not have my gladiators embarrass me before the Empire. You,
step forward,” he said, pointing to one of the smaller captives.

The small boy stepped forward, and Morg turned
and nodded to another boy, a muscular brute with reddish skin, and evil-looking,
narrow eyes, a pockmarked face, and long braided hair down his back.

“Drok,” Morg said. “Come forward.”

Drok, narrowing his eyes in meanness, stepped forward
and gazed on the smaller boy like a lion wanting to devour its prey. Darius
could see the darkness in Drok’s narrow eyes as he stared down at the small
boy. He could sense that he was a hardened killer.

Morg nodded and one of his soldiers threw a club
to Drok, and another to the boy. The boy fumbled and dropped his, while Drok caught
his effortlessly and spun around to face the boy with relish.

Drok charged, not waiting, and as the smaller
boy fumbled to grasp his club, Drok brought his own club down with such force
that he snapped the small boy’s club in half.

In the same motion Drok swung backwards and smashed
the boy across the jaw, spinning his head way around and sending him to the
ground, face-first in the dirt.

The boy lay there, unmoving, blood pouring from
his mouth.

Morg stepped forward over the boy and stared
down disapprovingly.

“You would waste our time in the arena,” he
said to the unmoving boy. “The arena is not for the weak—or the clumsy.”

Morg nodded to Drok, and he stepped forward, raised
the club high overhead, and began to bring it down for the boy’s skull.

Darius realized, again too late, what was
happening.

“NO!”

Darius brushed aside his captors and rushed forward.

But not in time. Drok brought his club down,
smashing the boy’s skull, killing him on the spot.

Darius felt sick to his stomach as he looked
down at the boy lying in a pool of blood.

Darius, enraged, let out a guttural cry, charged
forward, and tackled Drok, driving him back and landing hard on the ground.

The other boys gathered around and cheered for
a fight, as Darius tumbled with him in a cloud of dust. Drok was nearly twice
Darius’s size, wiry, all-muscle, not an ounce of fat on him, and he was slick,
covered in sweat. It was hard for Darius to grab hold of him as they rolled
around, caked in dirt and blood.

Drok managed to get atop Darius and he brought
his thumbs down to gouge out Darius’s eyes. Darius caught them midair and held
them back—but then Drok pulled back and tried to bite off Darius’s fingers.
Darius yanked his hands away, and Drok brought his forehead down and
head-butted Darius in the face.

Darius fell back to the ground, his world
spinning, and saw Drok reaching down to gouge out his eyes again. Darius leaned
back, wheeled his elbow around, and connected with Drok’s jaw.

Drok spun off him, landing in the dirt beside
him, and Darius, enraged on behalf of those other boys, punched him in the
face, again and again—until finally he felt several strong hands pulling him
back.

On his feet, yanked back by several Empire
soldiers, Darius watched Morg approach. He examined Darius, seeming impressed.

“Your instincts are strong,” he said. “You
would make a fine fighter indeed—except for your pity. Hold onto that pity, and
it will be the death of you. Have no compassion for those weaker than you, for
those killed unfairly. There is no room for pity in the arena. There is room
only for victory.”

Morg turned back to the group of boys, as if
looking for more to weed out, and this time, his eyes stopped on Luzi. Darius could
see what he was thinking: Luzi was smaller than all the others, and he wanted
to weed him out, too.

“You two,” he said to two large boys, “fight
that boy.”

Luzi looked out at Darius, nervous, as he stepped
forward and was forced to face the two large boys, each given clubs. He looked
terrified.

Darius shook off the soldier’s grip and ran between
Luzi and the boys.

“If you want to fight him, you have to go
through me,” Darius said to them.

They both looked at each other nervously after
seeing his last performance, clearly neither wanting to fight him.

“Fight him,” Morg urged. “Or I will kill you myself.”

The two boys rushed forward for Darius, who was
unarmed, and as the first boy swung a club for his head, Darius ducked, reached
around, and punched him in the kidney. He keeled over, immobile.

The other boy swung for Darius’s side, but Darius
rolled out of the way and at the same time, he swept the boy’s legs out from
under him, knocking him to his back, then spun around and elbowed him in the
face, keeping him down.

The two boys lay on the ground, unmoving, and Darius
regained his feet and stared defiantly back at Morg.

Morg stared back, enraged.

“Send anyone else against Luzi,” Darius
seethed, “and they will have to go through me. I will kill them with my own
hands if I have to.”

Morg stood there, clearly enraged, debating
what to do, looking back and forth between Darius and Luzi.

Finally, he spit on the floor.

“Let him die out there then,” he snapped. “It’s
one more death for the spectators. And the killing time has come.”

With that, Morg turned and strutted across the
courtyard, his men falling in behind him, and Darius and the others soon felt
themselves shackled, back in a chain gang, led across the dusty courtyard. Up
ahead a massive iron cell door opened, leading into a narrow stone tunnel, and
as it did, Darius heard the cheers. It was the sound of a crowd, the largest
crowd he’d ever heard, out for blood, and getting louder and louder.

The time had come, he knew, to enter the arena.