A Dream of Mortals

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Darius felt a strong kick in the small of his back and he went stumbling forward, still shackled, the pain shooting up his spine. He kept his feet, though, and went stumbling forward out of a long, dark tunnel and into blinding sunlight, met by a roar so deafening it shook his entire being.

The arena.

Darius squinted into the light and saw the largest crowd he’d ever seen, seated in rows hundreds of feet high, all jumping to their feet, roaring, shaking the very ground. It hurt his ears, made it hard to think, as he stumbled forward, trying to keep his balance, still shackled to all the others amidst a clinking of chains.

As they were prodded by Empire kicks out into the center of the arena, Darius felt his ankle jerked by his shackles, one of the other boys off balance, and he stumbled again. He looked over and took solace in the fact that at least close by were his four friends, Raj, Desmond, Kaz, and Luzi; beside them were shackled a dozen other gladiators, boys whose faces he did not know and did not want to know. He knew that soon enough they would all be dead. Better not to remember.

The deafening roars continued, and Darius, more than ever, wanted to break free, to prepare himself. But to his dismay they were all chained together, with perhaps ten feet of chain link between them, and there was nowhere to go. He could not even maneuver freely without being at the mercy of these other boys’ movements. They stood there, in the arena, all these chained boys, and he could see the fear on some of their faces; others stared out with cold, hard looks, looks of resignation. They all knew they would soon be dead, and each looked death in the face differently.

It would be hard enough, Darius knew, to fight anything that came at him—but with his feet shackled to these other boys, he would be too compromised to even put up a fight. If one of the boys stumbled, Darius would stumble, too. He was at the mercy of the others. All he had was the measly club that had been given to him and the others before he’d entered the arena, and that he clutched for dear life.

The crowd began to quiet, and Darius looked out to see Morg enter the arena through a door on the opposite end and march dramatically into the center, savoring the attention, his stark bald head gleaming beneath the sun. As he reached the center, a cruel smile on his face, the crowd roared in delight, and he held his arms out wide, palms up, and slowly turned, until the crowd gradually quieted down.

“Fellow citizens of the Empire,” he boomed out. “I present to you today’s crop of gladiators!”

The crowd rose to its feet, stomping, out for blood, and Darius could feel the apprehension of the other boys deepen.

Morg raised his hands again, and the crowd quieted as he held them rapt with attention.

“On this day,” he boomed, “Day One of the games, the games end when the gladiators win—or when they only have left six men. If any gladiators survive, they will advance to tomorrow’s games. As always, it will be a fight to the death!”

Darius immediately did the math in his head: there were sixteen of them, so that meant that they either had to kill all the Empire opponents, or that ten of his people had to die. He thought it more likely that ten of his people would die first.

The crowd roared in violent approval, and as the Morg retreated, horns sounded, trumpets echoed throughout the stadium, and Darius watched, on edge, as at the far end of the arena two huge iron doors opened, slamming, echoing.

The crowd roared yet again, as through them there appeared two Empire soldiers on horseback, dressed in the all-black Empire armor, wielding spears and long axes, rumbling into the ring, making a dramatic entrance. The crowd went crazy as they burst in, kicking up dust as they charged right for Darius and the others.

“We must stick together!” Darius called out, turning to the others as the riders bore down on them all. “We must fight as one! If not, we will all be lost!”

The others looked back; some seemed too terrified to respond, others seemed in agreement, and others seemed defiant.

Drok, chained at the far end of the line, grimaced back at Darius.

“No one appointed you leader over us!” he snapped. “You move as you want, and we’ll move as we want. And if you end up in my way, just maybe I’ll kill you first.”

Darius clenched the club in his hand and looked up at the Empire soldiers, bedecked in armor, all charging down on him, wielding the finest swords and the longest spears and axes. Then he looked over at the lineup of boys, and he realized they were badly outmanned and outweaponed. It was an unfair match. But then again, that was what the Empire wanted: that was what made entertainment.

Darius felt his legs being pulled out from him, as the others shifted nervously in every direction. He was so compromised, he did not see how he could possibly win, much less survive for three rounds.

Darius forced himself to overcome his fears, to be strong. As the horses bore down on them, Darius clenched his club, braced himself, and prepared as best he could, feeling all his muscles tensing.

The first rider reached the first of their line, a boy Darius did not recognize, and the boy tried to leap out of the way. But the boy underestimated how short the length of chain was connecting him to the other boy, and as he tried to leap, he went nowhere. The soldier’s lance came down and pierced the boy through his rib cage.

The crowd cheered in ecstasy, as the soldier galloped past them, preparing to circle around again.

On his heels, the other soldier came charging, taking aim for Raj. Darius saw that Raj was stuck, unable to move, his feet shackled to a boy who did not react in time.

“Move!” Raj shouted, but the boy too frozen with fear. Darius knew that if he did not react soon, his friend would be dead.

Darius stepped forward, took aim, and with all his might, threw his club.

As the soldier neared Raj and raised his long battle-ax, the club, spinning end over end, hit his wrist and knocked the ax from his hand. It landed on the dust with a thud, just sparing Raj as the soldier rode past.

The crowd oohed at the close miss, and Raj looked back at him with a look of gratitude; Darius knew he got lucky, but it was unlikely he’d be lucky again.

Darius wasted no time. He lunged forward, trying to reach the fallen ax. Yet as he neared it, but a few feet away, his shackles tightened. He looked back to see the boy he was shackled to resisting, trying to run the other way in fear of the other soldier who was charging down on them again. Darius reached out but fell flat on his face, just short of the battle-ax.

Darius heard a rumbling and looked up, helpless, as the first soldier charged down right for him. He knew he was about to be trampled.

Desmond rushed forward, blocking the way between Darius and the horse, swung his club, and brought it down right for the horse’s nose. It was a perfect strike. The horse reared back, and it was diverted from Darius at the last second, saving his life.

Darius reached out and tried once again to reach battle-ax, but it was still out of reach. At the same time, he suddenly felt himself yanked backwards by the shackles, pulled back several feet. He looked over to see Drok come up behind one of the other boys, wrap his shackles around the boy’s throat, and squeeze. Darius could not believe what was happening: why, he wondered, would Drok attack one of his own?

Then he realized: once they had won—or there were only six of them left—the day’s games would be called off. This boy, mercenary that he was, wanted to take a shortcut: to kill off the other gladiators.

Darius watched in horror as Drok choked the other boy to death, it all happening so quickly, the boy collapsing simply in his arms, eyes open wide, dead. The crowd cheered.

Drok wasted no time. He pounced for Luzi, clearly intent on killing as many as he could. Darius realized he must have sensed an opportunity in Luzi, he being one of the smallest boys. Or perhaps he just held a grudge.

Drok jumped on him, wrapped his chains around his neck, and as he began to squeeze, Darius saw Luzi’s eyes bulge wide open. He knew that if he didn’t so something, then soon Luzi would be dead.

Darius broke into action. Ignoring the riders bearing down on them, ignoring the ax left in the dust, he instead turned, lunged forward, reached back, then swung his elbow into Drok’s face.

There came a cracking noise as Darius broke Drok’s nose and he fell backwards, onto the ground. Luzi broke free of his grip, gasping, and Raj stepped forward and kicked Drok clean across the jaw, knocking him out.

“Are you okay?” Darius asked Luzi.

Luzi nodded back, shaken.

Darius heard a rumble and turned to see the second rider circling, bearing down on them again. One of the other gladiators managed to reach the forgotten battle-ax lying on the ground, and he heaved it up and swung it down, aiming to sever the shackles connecting him to the others. But it was a wild, reckless swing, and as he brought it down the boy beside him shifted, and he accidentally took off the boy’s foot.

The boy shrieked out in pain, grasping for his severed foot, blood squirting everywhere. The boy holding the ax looked back at him, horrified, frozen in shock, and as the other soldier bore down on them, he reached out, snatched the ax from his hands, and in one motion swung around and chopped off the boy’s head.

The crowd went wild.

The two horses, both armed now, circled around again and charged the remaining boys. Darius knew it did not look good. That ax was their best chance, and now it was lost.

Darius felt himself suddenly pulled backward several feet, and he turned to see some of the other boys were running, trying to get out of the way of the soldiers bearing down on them; Darius, at their mercy, found himself pulled back by the chains. He went stumbling back several feet, now exposes in the middle of the arena as the soldier came charging right for him, lance held out, aiming for his back. Darius knew he would not be able to get out of the way in time.

Darius braced himself for the death blow—when suddenly, Kaz rushed forward and tackled him, bumping him out of the way with his shoulder and getting him out of the way of the oncoming horse.

Darius, knocked to the ground, rolled and turned; he looked back to see Kaz standing where he just was a moment ago, and his heart stopped as he saw his friend suddenly get punctured by the lance, right through his chest.

Kaz cried out, pinned to the ground, as the crowd went wild, the lance still inside him, the weapon so deeply lodged the soldier could not get it out. The soldier continued riding, taking a victory lap around the stadium without his lance, the crowd cheering like crazy.

Darius looked over at his friend, lying there, dead. He could scarcely believe it. He had died for him; were it not for Kaz, he would not be alive right now. He felt the weight of guilt and responsibility sitting heavily on his shoulders.

And a burning desire, like he’d never felt, for vengeance.

Something snapped inside Darius; he knew the time had come. His friend had thrown his life to the wind, and it was time for him to do the same.

Darius ran to Kaz, who lay dead, and extracted the Empire soldier’s lance from his body. He stood, turned, and faced the other soldier who charged for him, his long ax out at his side, aiming it for his head.

Darius took aim, stepped forward, and threw the lance. It whizzed through the air with perfect aim and went right through the soldier’s armor, piercing his heart.

The crowd cried out in shock as the Empire soldier fell from his horse. He landed on the ground, rolling to a stop just feet from Darius, dead, his ax at his side.

Darius wasted no time. He rushed forward, his chains allowing him just enough room, grabbed hold of the ax, and brought it down on his chains. He then severed another boy’s chains; then another.

The remaining Empire soldier, in the midst of his victory lap, turned and charged. As the soldier now faced freed gladiators, some of them armed, Darius could detect uncertainty in his eyes. After all, his friend was now dead; the Empire were no longer untouchable.

The soldier drew his sword as he rode, held it high, and bore down right for Darius. Darius stood there, holding the long battle-ax before him with both hands, unflinching, waiting. As the soldier reached him, Darius stepped aside, now free to do so with his chains severed, raised the ax, and swung. He axed the man’s sword, and there came a great clang and a shower of sparks, as he severed the sword in two. The blow, though, also shattered the ax head, leaving Darius with just a long, studded staff.

The soldier rode past him, shocked, as the crowd cheered, and in a rage, he circled back again.

Darius, shackles free, no longer waited. He charged across the arena, not waiting to meet him.

The soldier seemed surprised to see Darius charging. He was unprepared. He reached down to draw his other sword, but Darius was already upon him, and in one quick motion, while sprinting, Darius pulled back his staff and swung, aiming at the horse’s legs. The blow took out the horse’s legs, and the soldier went flying face-first into the dirt.

The crowd cheered.

Darius wasted no time. He leapt upon the soldier’s back, reached around and wrapped his chains about his neck. He squeezed, holding on with all his might as the solider bucked.

“This is for Kaz,” Darius said.

The crowd jumped to their feet, shouting like mad, as Darius held on with all he had, strangling the huge Empire soldier, twice his size. Darius, palms bleeding, would not let go, not for his life. He owed Kaz that much, at least.

Finally, the soldier stopped moving.

Darius lost all sense of reality as a horn blew somewhere, the crowd went wild, and he felt hands beneath his arms, the hands of his brothers, raising him to his feet.

The world spun around him, and it took him a moment to realize it was all over.

To realize that he, Darius, had done the impossible.

He had won.