A Land of Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Darius felt every muscle in his body burning as he swung ten feet off the ground, hanging by his hands from a bamboo pole. Every muscle in his body cried for him to just let go, to hit the ground, to give in to the sweet release—but he would not allow himself to. He was determined to pass the test.

Groaning, Darius looked around and saw dozens of his brothers in arms already collapsed on the mud, having dropped from their poles, unable to take the pain of hanging. He was determined to outlast them. It was one of the rites of their training, to see which boy could last the longest before dropping, one of the ways to gain respect of the others. Only four other boys remained hanging, and he was determined to outwait them; as the youngest and smallest of the lot, he needed to prove his toughness.

Filling Darius’s ears were the cheers of the others, encouraging them to hang or to fall. Another boy beside him slipped, and Darius heard him hit the mud. There came another cheer.

Now there were three of them. Darius’s palms burned as he hung from the bamboo, the branch sagging, his shoulders feeling as if they would come loose from their sockets. Down below he saw the disapproving eyes of his instructors, watching over him, and Darius was intent on proving them wrong. He knew that they expected him to fail—and he knew what he did not have in size and age he could make up for in spirit.

Another boy dropped, there came another cheer, and now there were just Darius and one other boy left hanging. Darius glanced over and saw who it was—Desmond—a boy twice as large and tall as he, one of the most respected of all the boys. They were slaves by day, but they considered themselves warriors by night, and as they trained together at night, they had a hierarchy, a fierce code of honor and respect. If they could not get respect from the Empire, they could get it from themselves, and these boys lived and died for this respect. If they could not fight against the Empire, at least they could train and compete amongst themselves.

As Darius’s limbs ached with an unspeakable pain, he closed his eyes and willed himself to hang on. He wondered how much pain Desmond could endure, how much longer it would take him to drop. This contest meant more to Darius than he could say, and a reflex was prompting him to use his hidden powers.

But Darius shook the thought from his mind, forcing himself not to use magic, not to have any unfair advantage; he wanted to beat the others with force of will alone.

His sweaty palms slipping from the bamboo, one inch at a time, he was beginning to slide. He was seeing stars as his ears were filled with the shouts and cries of the boys below, sounding a hundred miles away. He wanted more than anything to hold on, but as he slipped, soon he was hanging on by just his fingertips.

Darius grunted as he closed his eyes and felt himself about to pass out. He knew in another second he would have to release.

Just before he let go, Darius heard a sudden slip, heard a body fall through the air and land in the mud, and heard a loud cheer. He opened his eyes to see Desmond on the ground, collapsed in exhaustion. The boys cheered, and Darius somehow summoned the strength to hang on for a few more seconds, basking in his victory. He did not just want to win; he wanted a clear and firm victory, wanted the others to see and to know that he was the strongest.

Finally, he let himself go, his shoulders giving on him as he fell through the air and landed in the mud.

Darius rolled to his side, his shoulders on fire, and before he could nurse his exhaustion, he felt a dozen boys jumping on him in congratulations, cheering, yanking him to his feet. Covered in mud, Darius struggled to catch his breath as the crowd parted ways and his commander, Zirk, a true warrior, wide as a tree trunk, with no shirt and rippling muscles, stepped forward.

The crowd quieted as Zirk looked down on him, expressionless.

“Next time you win,” Zirk said, his voice deep, “hold on longer. It is not enough to win: you must crush your opponents.”

Zirk turned and walked away, and Darius watched him go, disappointed he had not received any praise. Then again, he knew that was the way of the instructors. Any attention, any words from them, should be considered approval.

“Choose a partner!” Zirk boomed, facing the others. “It is time for wrestling!”

“But our shoulders have not even recovered yet!” protested one of the boys.

Zirk turned to him.

“That is exactly why we must wrestle now. Do you think your opponent in battle will give you time to recover? You must learn to fight at your weakest, and learn at that moment to fight your best.”

The boys began to break off into positions, and as they did, Desmond came up beside Darius.

“Nice job back there,” Desmond said, extending a hand.

They clasped forearms, and Darius was surprised. It was the first time Desmond had paid him any attention.

“I underestimated you,” Desmond said. “You’re not as weak as you look.” He smiled.

Darius smiled back.

“Is that a compliment?”

They were separated in the chaos, as boys got between them, hurrying every which way to pair up with each other for wrestling. Beside him, the one boy in the group that Darius did not like—Kaz, a bulky boy with a square jaw and narrow, mean eyes—ran over to Luzi, the smallest boy of the group, and grabbed him by the shirt. Luzi had initially paired off with someone close to his size, but Kaz yanked him away and made him face him.

“You will wrestle with me,” Kaz said.

Luzi looked up at him, terrified.

“It won’t be a match,” Luzi said. “You are three times my size.”

Kaz smiled casually back, a cruel look to his face.

“I can wrestle with anyone I choose to,” he said. “Maybe you will learn something. Or maybe, after your beating, you will leave our group.”

Darius felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he felt the indignity of it. Darius could not stand to see injustice anywhere, and he could not allow himself to sit idly by.

Without thinking, Darius suddenly stepped between them, facing Kaz. He looked up at Kaz, taller than him by a head and twice as wide, and he forced himself not to look away, and not to feel fear.

“Why don’t you wrestle with me?” Darius said to him.

Kaz’s expression darkened as he stared back at Darius.

“You can hang from a branch, boy,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you can fight. Now get out of my way, or I’ll pummel you, too.”

Kaz reached out to shove him away, but Darius did not move; instead, he stood there, resolute, and smiled back.

“Then pummel me,” he said. “You might—but I will fight back. I might lose, but I will not back down.”

Kaz, furious, reached out to grab Darius and throw him out of his way. But as soon as Kaz’s hand reached his shirt, Darius used a trick he’d learned from one of the teachers: he waited until the last moment, then grabbed Kaz’s wrist in a lock and spun it around, twisting his arm behind his back. Darius threw him face down to the mud, sending him sliding across the clearing, then jumped on top of him, beginning the wrestling match.

All the boys in the forest clearing took notice, and they all crowded around them, cheering, as Darius felt himself spinning, being thrown by Kaz’s great bulk as he wheeled around. Darius slid across the mud, and before he could react, Kaz was on top of him. Kaz’s weight and strength were too much for him, and soon Kaz pinned him down.

“You little rat,” Kaz seethed. “You’re going to pay for this.”

Kaz spun around, and Darius felt his arm being yanked behind his back; the pain was excruciating, and it felt as if it were about to be broken off.

Darius felt his face buried in the mud, as Kaz leaned in close behind him, his hot breath on the back of his neck. The pain in his arm was indescribable as Kaz yanked it back even further.

“I can break your arm right now if I choose to,” Kaz hissed in his ear.

“Then do it,” Darius groaned back. “It still won’t change who you are: a coward.”

Kaz pulled his arm back harder, and Darius groaned, feeling that Kaz was about to break it.

Suddenly, Darius heard footsteps running across the mud, and he saw, from the corner of his eye, Luzi appear and jump on Kaz’s back.

Kaz, enraged, let go of Darius’s arm, stood up, and threw Luzi, who went flying through the air.

Darius spun around, nursing his aching arm, to see Kaz turn back around for him. Darius braced himself for another blow—when suddenly Desmond arrived, blocking Kaz’s way.

“Enough,” Desmond said to Kaz, his voice filled with authority. “You’ve had your fun.”

Kaz stared Desmond back, and Darius could see the hesitation, then uncertainty in his eyes. Clearly, he was afraid of Desmond.

“I’m not done,” Kaz said.

“I said you are,” Desmond repeated, expressionless, unmoving.

Kaz stared him down for several seconds, then finally, he must have realized it wasn’t worth it; slowly, he backed away.

The tension dissipated, the boys going back to their lines, Darius looked up and saw Desmond reach down a hand for him. He took it and was pulled back up to his feet.

“That was brave of you,” Desmond said. “Stupid. But brave.”

Darius smiled.

“Thanks,” he said. “You spared me a lot worse.”

Desmond shook his head.

“I admire bravery,” he said. “However foolish.”

Suddenly, a distinct sound cut through the clearing; it was the sound of a horn, a low, somber horn, vibrating through the trees.

The boys all froze and looked at each other, their faces grave. That horn only meant one thing: it was the horn of death. It could only mean that one of their own had been killed.

“Everyone to the village at once!” commanded Zirk, and Darius fell in with the others, Desmond, Luzi, and Raj falling in by his side, as they made their way for the village. Darius braced himself, knowing it could not be good.

Darius hurried with his brothers in arms straight into the chaotic center of their small village, people filtering into the packed center as the horn of death blew again and again. Darius walked on the narrow dirt road, filled with chickens and dogs running about, and he passed small brown homes built of clay and mud, with thatched roofs that let in too much rain. The homes in this village were too close to each other, and Darius often wondered why he and his people could not live someplace else.

The soft, low horn blew again, the sound rising up, reverberating throughout the hills, and more and more villagers streamed in. Darius had not seen so many of his people in one place in as long as he could remember, and he felt people bumping him on all sides, shoulder to shoulder, as he reached the village center.

The crowd fell silent as the village elders appeared, taking their seats around the stone well in the center of town. Salmak, the leader of the elders, stood solemnly, and as he did, all were silent. He faced them all, with his long white beard and fraying robes, and raised a single palm high in the air, and the horn stopped. The tension in the silence hung over them all like a blanket.

“The collapse on the mountainside,” he said slowly, his voice grave, “brought the death of twenty-four of our brethren.”

Moans and cries arose from the crowd, and Darius felt his stomach drop. As always, he braced himself for the list of names, hoping and praying that none of his cousins or aunts or uncles were on it.

“Gialot, son of Oltevo,” Salmak called out in his somber voice, and as he did, a mother’s cry ripped through the air. Darius turned and saw a woman weeping, tearing her clothes, dropping to her knees and putting dirt on her head.

“Onaso, son of Palza,” the chief continued.

Darius closed his eyes and shook his head as all around him came the sound of wailing and crying, as name after name filled the air. Each name felt like a nail in his coffin, like a hole in his heart; Darius felt like it would never end. He knew most of the names, some distant acquaintances.

“Omaso, son of Liutre.”

Darius froze: that was a name he really knew, the name of one of his brothers in arms. At the announcement, his brothers all gasped. Darius closed his eyes and imagined his friend’s death, imagined him being crushed by all that rock and dirt, and he felt sick. He also knew that it could easily have been him instead; just last week, Darius had been assigned to work those cliffs.

Finally, the names stopped, and there came a long silence. The crowd began to slowly disperse, the air somber, and Darius and the other boys stood there, staring at each other. They all looked indignant, as if knowing that something needed to be done.

Yet Darius knew that they would do nothing. It was the way of his people, the way it had always been. His people would all die, either directly by the taskmasters, or indirectly through labor, and it had become their lot, their way of life. No one ever seemed willing to change it.

This time, though, the deaths affected Darius more than usual; it seemed there were more names, more grief. Darius wondered if it was worse, or if he was just growing older, becoming less able to tolerate the status quo he had always lived with.

Without thinking, Darius stepped forward into the village center, without even asking permission from the elders. Before he could even think of what he was doing, he found himself yelling out, his voice piercing the air:

“And how long shall we suffer these indignities?” he cried out.

The crowd froze, and all eyes turned to him as there came a heavy silence.

“We are dying here, each day. When will enough be enough?”

There came a murmur from the crowd, and Darius felt a hand on the back of the shoulder. He turned to see his grandfather looking down sternly at him, trying to yank him away.

Darius knew he was in trouble; he knew it was a sign of great insolence to show anything but respect toward the elders, and to speak without permission. But on this day, Darius didn’t care; on this day, he’d had enough.

He brushed off his grandfather’s hand and stood his ground, facing the elders.

“They outnumber us more than the sands of the sea,” an elder said back. “If we rise up, by day’s end we would be gone. Better to be alive than to be dead.”

“Is it?” Darius called out. “I say it’s better to be dead than to live as dead men.”

A long murmur came from the crowd, none of his villagers used to hearing any defiance of the elders. His grandfather yanked on his shirt again, but Darius would not move.

Salmak stepped forward and glared down at him.

“You speak without permission,” he said slowly, gravely. “We will forgive your words as those of a hasty youth. But if you continue to incite our people, if you continue to show disrespect to your elders, you will be lashed in the town square. We shall not warn you again.”

“This meeting is finished!” another elder yelled out.

The crowd began to slowly disperse all around Darius, and his cheeks burned with the indignity of it all. He loved his people, but he disrespected them at the same time. They all seemed so complacent to him, and he did not feel he was cut from the same cloth as they. He was terrified of becoming like them, of growing old enough here to think as they did, to see the world as they did. Darius felt he was still young enough and strong enough to have independent thought. He knew he needed to act on that while he still could, before he became old and complacent. Before he became like the town elders, trying to silence anyone who held a dissenting view, anyone with passion.

“You are really looking to get a beating, aren’t you?” came a voice.

Darius turned to see Raj come up beside him with a smile, clasping him on the shoulder.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Raj added. “I’m getting to like you more and more. I think you might just be as crazy as I.”

Before Darius could respond, he turned to find one of his commanders, Zirk, standing over him, a disapproving look across his face.

“It is not your place to propose action,” he said. “It is ours. A true warrior knows not only how to fight, but when to. That is something you have yet to learn.”

Darius faced him, determined, not willing to back down this time.

“And when is the time to fight?” he asked.

Zirk’s eyes burned back with fury, clearly unhappy at being questioned.

“The time is when we say it is.”

Darius grimaced.

“I’ve lived in this village my entire life,” Darius said, “and that time has never come. And I sense it never will. You are all so intent on protecting what we have, that you won’t see that we have nothing.”

Zirk shook his head disapprovingly.

“These are the words of a youth,” he said. “You would rush into battle, into a sure death, just to relieve your passion. You, who are so small that you cannot even beat your brethren in battle. What makes you think you can beat the Empire? You, with no weapons, unarmed?”

“We have weapons,” Darius countered.

Desmond came up beside them, along with several of his brothers. They all crowded around, and as they did, Kaz stepped forward and laughed derisively.

“We have bows and slings and weapons made of bamboo,” he said. “Those are not weapons. We have no steel. And you expect to battle against the finest armor and weaponry and horses of the Empire? You will incite others and get them all killed. You should stay in our village and keep your mouth shut.”

“Then what do we train for?” Darius challenged. “For wrestling matches in the forest? For an enemy we are too afraid to face?”

Zirk stepped forward and pointed a finger in Darius’s face.

“If you’re unhappy, you can leave us,” he said. “Joining our force is a privilege.”

Zirk turned his back on him and walked away, and the other boys, too, began to leave.

Raj looked at him and shook his head in admiration.

“Upsetting everyone today, aren’t you?” Raj asked with a smile.

“I am with you,” came a voice.

Darius turned to see Desmond standing there. “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my back.”

Before Darius could reply, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see a small man wearing a cloak and hood, and gesturing for him to follow. Darius looked all around, then back at the man, wondering who he was.

The man turned and walked away quickly, and Darius, intrigued, followed after him through the crowd, weaving his way in every direction.

The man weaved his way in and out, between houses, to the far side of the village before he finally stopped before a small clay home. He pushed back his hood as he faced him, and Darius saw his large, darting eyes that looked about cautiously.

“If your words are not empty words,” the man said in a whisper, “I have steel. I have weapons. Real weapons.”

Darius stared at him, eyes widening in awe. He had never met anyone who had possessed steel before, as owning it was on pain of death, and he wondered where he’d gotten it.

“When you are ready, find me,” the man added. “The last clay house by the river. Speak to no one of this. If anyone asks, I will deny it.”

The man turned and hurried off into the crowd, and Darius watched him, wondering, his mind swarming with questions. Before he could call out after him, Darius felt yet another strong hand on his shoulder, spinning him around.

Darius saw the face of his disapproving grandfather, his face lined with age, framed by his short, gray hair, scowling down at him. He was, though, surprisingly strong and vibrant for his age.

“That man leads to death,” his grandfather warned sternly. “Not just for you, but for all of your kin. Do you understand me? We have survived for generations, unlike other slaves in other provinces, because we have never embraced steel. If the Empire catches you with it, they will raze our village to the ground, and will kill every single one of us,” he said, jabbing his finger in his chest to drive home his point. “If I catch you seeking out that man, you will be banished from our family. You will not be welcome in our home. I shall not say this again.”

“Papa—” Darius began.

But his grandfather had already turned and stormed back into the village.

Darius watched him go, upset. He loved his grandfather, who had practically raised him since the disappearance of his own father years ago. Darius respected him, too. But he did not share his view on complacency. He never would. His grandfather was of another generation. And he would never understand. Never.

Darius turned back to the crowd, and one face caught his attention. Standing there, about twenty feet away, was the girl, the one he had seen in the Alluvian Forest. People passed by in front of her, yet she kept her eyes fixed upon Darius, as if no one else in the world existed.

Darius’s heart pounded at the sight of her, and the rest of the world melted away. This girl had captivated his thoughts since he had laid eyes upon her, and seeing her now, here, felt surreal. He had wondered if he would ever see her again.

Darius pushed his way through the crowd, heading toward her. He was afraid she might turn away, but she stood there, proudly, staring back, and it was unmistakable that she was looking at him. Her face was expressionless. She did not smile—but she did not frown either.

Darius looked into her soulful yellow eyes, and below them he could see the small welt on her cheek where the taskmaster had struck her. He felt a fresh wave of indignity, and more than anything, he felt a connection with her, something stronger than he’d ever felt.

He broke through the crowd and stood a few feet away from her. He did not know what to say, and they both stood there, facing each other, in the silence.

“I heard your words, in the village,” she said. Her voice was deep and strong, the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard. “Are they hollow?” she asked.

Darius flushed.

“They are not hollow,” he replied.

“So what action do you plan on taking?” she asked.

He stood there, not sure how to respond. He had never met anyone as direct as her.

“I…don’t know,” he said.

She studied him.

“I have four brothers,” she said. “They are warriors. They think the same way as you. And I have already lost one of my brothers because of it.”

Darius looked at her, surprised.

“How?” he asked.

“He went off by himself, one night, to wage war with the Empire. He killed a few taskmasters. But they caught him, and they killed him horribly. Cruelly. He had stripped himself of all his markings, so they couldn’t track him back to us, or they would have killed us all, too.”

She looked at Darius as if debating something.

“I don’t want to be with a man who is like my brother,” she finally said. “There is room for pride among boys—but not among men. Because men must back up pride with action. And action for us means death.”

Darius looked at her, taken aback by her words, her eyes so strong, so powerful, never wavering from his. He was in awe of her. She spoke with the strength and wisdom of a queen, and he could hardly understand how he was looking back at a girl his own age.

More than anything, as he stood there, his heart pounding, he wondered why she was talking to him. He wondered if she liked him, if she had the same feelings for him that he had for her. Did she like him? Or was she just trying to help him?

“So tell me, then,” she finally said, after a long silence. “Are you a you a man? Or a hero?”

Darius did not know how to respond.

“I am neither,” he said. “I am just myself.”

She stared at him long and hard, as if summing him up, as if trying to decide.

Finally, she turned and began to walk away. Darius’s heart was falling, as he assumed he’d given her the wrong answer, that she changed her mind.

But as she walked away, she turned her head to him, and for the first time, and said:

“Meet me at the river, beneath the weeping tree, as the sun sets,” she said. “And don’t keep me waiting.”

She disappeared into the crowd, and Darius’s heart pounded as he watched her go. He had never encountered anyone like her, and he had a feeling that he never would. For the first time ever, a girl had taken a liking to him.

Or had she?