A Dream of Mortals

CHAPTER TEN

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.