An Oath of Brothers

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Darius stood in the desert night, his face lit up by the torchlight, and looked out proudly at the sea of faces. There, spread out before him, stood thousands of former slaves, now free men, not just from his own village but from all the neighboring villages. In every direction, surrounding him, there were more faces than he could count, all looking back at him with hope. His revolution had spread like wildfire, from one slave village to the next, now out of his hands and spreading on its own. Now he could not even control it if he wanted to. Slaves freed slaves, villages freed villages, and these, in turn, freed others. They slaughtered taskmasters, rose up for their freedom, rallying more and more people to his cause They all sought him out, congregated before him, all forming a single army. They were short on weapons and short on armor—they had only what they managed to salvage from the Empire—yet they had spirit. All of their deep-seated resentment had finally been unleashed, something deep within their hearts and souls let loose, and Darius was elated that others felt as he did.

Darius stood there, Dray at his feet, close to him as always, chewing contentedly on a bone Darius had found for him—and snarling at anyone who came too close to Darius—and he studied the sea of new and unfamiliar faces. All of them had one thing in common: hope brimmed in their eyes. And they all had another thing in common: they all looked to him. They clearly all looked up to him as a leader, and he felt the weight of it on his shoulders, taking it very seriously. He did not want to make the wrong move.

“Zambuti,” said a slave as he passed, bowing his head at Darius. It was a familiar refrain that Darius was hearing everywhere he turned these days, men gathering by the thousands just to see him. Some reached out and touched him, as if not believing he were real. Darius hardly knew what to make of it all. It was like a strange dream.

His people, Darius was thrilled to see, no longer had the fearful, cringing attitude they once did. Now they walked out in the open, proudly, chest out, shoulders back, as free men, as men with dignity. The entire desert night was filled with their torches, Darius turning and seeing torches as far as he could see, and more arriving by the second. Momentum was turning, Darius felt, perhaps even shifting to their side. There was a feeling in the air he’d never felt before, as if great, momentous things were happening, that all of their lives were about to change, and that he was right in the middle of it.

“You’ve started something big, my friend,” Desmond said, coming up beside him, Raj on his other side, the three of them standing and looking out as the cool desert winds blew through the night. “Something that I believe not even you can control.”

“Something that has become even bigger than you,” Raj added proudly, looking out.

Darius nodded.

“That is good,” he replied. “They are free men now. They should not be controlled by anyone. Free man should control themselves and their own destiny.”

“And yet they look to you,” Kaz added, joining them, “and all men must have a leader. What destiny will you lead them to?”

Darius stood there, looking out into the night, wondering the same thing. Leading men, he felt, was a sacred responsibility. He looked about him and saw an inner circle was forming around him, including Raj and Desmond and Kaz and Luzi and a dozen other boys he had trained with back in his village. They all crowded in close, along with many others, who looked intently at Darius, hanging on his every word.

“Name our next conquest!” called out a brave warrior from another village, “and we shall follow you anywhere!”

There came a cheer of approval.

“There is another village waiting to be liberated,” one of them called out. “It is a day’s ride north of here. We can reach it by sunrise, if we rise all night, and free several hundred more men!”

There came another small cheer of approval, and Darius looked off into the desert night, and pondered. There were so many villages out there to liberate; it was a task that could occupy a lifetime.

Darius took his sword and stepped forward into the group of men and began to draw on the sand. They quickly formed a circle around him, giving him space to draw and crowding around to see what he was doing.

“We are here,” he said, marking the spot, scratching a line in the hard desert floor with the tip of his sword. He drew a broad circle around it, and from it he drew several paths, forking off in all different directions.

“We must forget all these directions,” he said, his voice filled with authority. “We have already freed enough villages, rallied enough men. The longer we do, the longer it gives the Empire to summon the entire power of their army and counterattack. We can free a few hundred more men—perhaps even a few thousand—but it still will never give us greater numbers than they.”

He took a deep breath.

“What we need now is not strength in numbers. What we need is speed. Surprise. I say that the time for liberating, the time for rallying, are through. Now, it is time to attack.”

They all stared down at the desert floor, then looked back up at him, confused.

“Attack where, Zambuti?” one of them asked.

Darius met their gaze.

“Volkara,” he said.

They all gasped at the words, and he was not surprised.

“Volkara!” one men called out. “The Volusian stronghold?”

Darius nodded back.

“Attack Volkara?” Zirk asked, indignant, stepping forward as he pushed his way through the crowd. He entered the circle, stepping on Darius’s etching, and, hands on his hips, glared back at him. “Are you mad? Volkara is not some village, boy—it is an Empire stronghold. It is the main city guarding the outskirts of Volusia, and the only city between us and them. It is not a clay village but a real fort, with real walls, made of thick stone, and real soldiers, with real weapons. It is a city in and of itself, with at least two thousand slaves inside. Even if our army were three times the size, we could not take it.”

Darius glared back at Zirk, infuriated that he would show up here and defy him at every turn. Before he could respond, others chimed in.

“Volkara is a cruel place,” Desmond said. “It is well known that it is where they bring slaves to torture them.”

“It is also very well-manned,” Raj added. “At least a thousand Empire soldiers guard its walls. And those walls are so impregnable, they don’t even have to put up a defense.”

Darius looked out into the night, past the sparkling torches, into the blackness of the desert, knowing Volkara was somewhere out there.

“And that is exactly why we will attack it,” he said, confidence rising within him even as he spoke the words.

All the men looked to him, baffled.

“They will never expect an attack,” he continued. “They are not on guard for it. And even more important: if we win, we will show the Empire that they are vulnerable. We will rock their very foundation of confidence. They will begin to doubt themselves. They will began to fear us.”

Darius looked about.

“And our men, in turn, will begin to believe in themselves—to know that anything is possible.”

All the others looked at him in reverence, a thick silence in the air, even Zirk not responding.

“When, Zambuti?” one of them asked.

Darius turned and looked at him.

“Now,” he replied.

“Now!?” Zirk asked.

“No one attacks at night!” one of the men called out. “It is not done!”

Darius nodded.

“Which is exactly why we’re going to do it. Prepare yourselves,” Darius commanded, turning to the others. “We attack tonight. By the time they know what happened, Volkara will be ours. And from there, we will be at the footsteps of Volusia, and ready to attack the city itself.”

“Attack Volusia?” Zirk cried out. “You really are mad. This is a suicide mission, devoid of all reason.”

“Wars are always one by men who ignored reason,” Darius replied.

Zirk, in a huff, turned and faced the other men.

“Ignore what this boy says and follow me instead!” he called out. “I will lead you on a safer path. We will not take such risks!”

Darius braced himself as all the other villagers turned and looked at Zirk, a tense silence in the air; but without hesitation, they all suddenly ignored him, instead turning back to Darius.

“Zambuti is our leader now,” one of them said, “and it is Zambuti we shall follow. Wherever he shall lead us.”

Zirk, red-faced, turned and stormed off into the night.

The men were all silent, all looking at each other, and Darius could spot fear, uncertainty in their eyes.

“How will we get through those gates, past those walls?” Desmond asked. “We have no siege equipment of any kind.”

“We won’t get through the walls,” Darius replied as the others crowded around and listed. “We will get over them.”

“Over them?”

Darius nodded.

“We can climb,” he said. “We will fashion our spear tips into grappling hooks, and fasten those to ropes. We will sneak up to the rear of the city, where nobody will be looking for us, and grapple our way over the wall. Once we slip inside, we will creep up on them and assassinate all of them. Silence and speed will be our friends, not strength. Sometimes surprise is more powerful than force.”

Darius saw the uncertain look in the men’s eyes, these brave men who had suffered their entire lives, who had watched relatives die, whose very lives depended on his strategy. He would understand if they said no.

Yet to his surprise, each man, one at a time, stepped forward, and clasped his hand.

“Our lives are yours now,” one of them said. “It is you who have saved us. You who have given them to us.”

“We would follow you anywhere,” one of them said, “even to the very gates of death.”

Darius sprinted through the night, hundreds of men behind him, Dray at his side, all of them following closely as they ran barefoot on the desert floor. Darius tried to be as silent as he could—all of them did—and they ran through the night, a silent, lethal army. All that could be heard was the light pitter patter of their feet as they glided across the desert floor, hundreds of men throwing their lives to the wind as they fought for their freedom in the blackness.

Darius’s heart pounded in his throat as they approached the stronghold of Volkara, his palms sweating as he clutched his grappling hook and the bunch of rope draped over his shoulder. He ran for all he had, knees high in the air, his lungs about to burst, determined to make it there before they were discovered. Luckily there was no moon tonight and they had the cover of darkness on their side.

In the distance there finally began to emerge a faint glow, punctuating the desert night, and as they got closer, Darius saw a series of torches flickering, lighting up the entrance to the city. It was an imposing entrance, framed by an arched gate, fifty feet high—and it had the most unusual entrance Darius had ever seen. There was no road leading into the city, not even a door—instead, there was a waterway, beginning a hundred yards out into the desert. and flowing right through the main entranceway. There was no way to enter the city on foot or by horse—one had to travel this canal. Darius could see at once that this would make the city impregnable.

Additionally, rows of Empire soldiers stood outside it, and rows more inside.

Yet Darius was undeterred. He hadn’t planned on entering through the front door to the city anyway, or even trying to enter on foot. They could have their canal. He would find his own way in, a way they could have never possibly anticipated.

Darius began to circle the city broadly, far enough to be out of sight of the guards, and this was the signal: behind him, his men forked, half following him and the other half skirting the city along the other side.

Darius ran right up alongside the city wall, staying in the deepest darkest shadows, and kept running right alongside it.

Darius eventually turned the corner sharply, running alongside the rear wall of the city. Built to withstand any attack, the rear wall of this city had no back windows or doors of any kind, which was perfect for Darius’s purposes.

Still, as Darius turned a corner and ran, he saw guards standing there, looming up ahead.

“Go Dray!” Darius commanded.

Dray needed no prodding: he raced forward, ahead of the army, and made the first kill of the night, leaping up on a guard just as he turned around and clamping down on his throat with his mighty jaws.

Darius was close behind; without missing a beat, Darius drew a dagger from his waist and never slowed as he slashed the first guard’s throat and stabbed the second in the heart. Beside him, Desmond and Raj each stabbed the other two, thus killing all four silently.

On the far side of the castle, Darius could see his men turning the other corner and slashing the other guards’ throats, all of them falling quickly, before they realized what was happening. Both sides convened in the middle, as was the plan. Darius was encouraged: so far, so good. They had all made it undetected to the rear walls of the city, all the guards dead and no horns sounding to announce their arrival.

Darius immediately gave the signal, and without wasting any time all of his men grabbed their hooks, reached back, and hurled them up for the top of the city walls.

Darius watched all the ropes unfurling, rising a good fifty feet in a high arc, then wrapping around to the other side of the stone wall. He yanked his rope and felt his hook catch on the other side of the stone wall, as he had hoped. He looked up and down his ranks of men, and saw them doing the same.

Darius immediately pulled himself up, grabbing the rope with both hands and climbing, his feet flush against the wall, his heart pounding as he went as fast as his hands and feet could take him and prayed that they remained undetected. If Empire soldiers appeared at the top, there would be no way to defend.

The coarse rope burned his palms as Darius scaled the wall quickly, breathing hard, his bare feet scraping against the stone, knowing that his life depended on speed. All around him his men did the same, all scaling the walls for their lives, like a thousand ants scaling a city.

Dray remained behind, snarling, guarding the rear wall for them.

Finally, lungs burning, palms on fire, Darius reached the top with a final pull and collapsed on the wide stone landing. As he did he shook his rope, signaling the coast was clear and for the others to all climb up—as all his men did up and down the ranks. Down below his men, lined up, all grabbed the ropes and climbed, just a few feet behind one another, dozens using one rope at once.

Darius knelt and turned and looked out, looking down at Volkara, having a bird’s eye view from here. He could see the entire fort spread out below him, lit dimly by torches lining the walls. It was an incredibly well-armed fort, hundreds of soldiers patrolling it.

And yet, as he looked carefully, Darius saw that the mood here was relaxed—too relaxed. Half of the soldiers appeared to be asleep on their shifts, while the rest lounged about and spoke to each other, or played games. And all of them faced the front of the city. None faced the rear. Clearly, none of these men, helmets and armor off, weapons a few feet away from them, expected any attack on this night. After all, why would they? What foe was there who was crazy enough to attack the Empire? None.

Darius knew the time was right to give the signal. He took his spare grappling hook, leaned back, lit its rope aflame, and threw it high in the air, a good thirty feet overhead, letting it sail in an arc backwards, back into the desert, its fire apparent in the sky.

Immediately, on the horizon, he saw his men light a torch in return, the one he had commanded them to light.

“MOVE!” Darius whispered harshly.

As one, all of his men reversed their grapples and ropes and quickly rappelled down the other side of the walls. Darius wrapped a cloth around his palm and slid down so fast, he could feel it burning his palm even through the cloth. The world rushed by him as he nearly free-fell down to the ground, and within just seconds, he was touching down lightly, quietly on the ground, his bare feet hitting.

All around him, his men touched down, too.

Without missing a beat, Darius turned and sprinted into the city, all his men running with him, racing right for the closest group of soldiers. Darius ran up to an unsuspecting soldier and just as the soldier turned, just beginning to realize, Darius stabbed him in the heart with his dagger.

Darius went to another, held his mouth, and sliced his throat. Then another. And another.

They all spread out, weaving in and out, each choosing one man, as Darius had instructed. His men blanketed the city like ants, killing guards left and right, bodies piling up silently as the Empire didn’t know what hit them. They still didn’t even know they had an intruder in their midst.

Darius sprinted throughout the city, aiming for the front entrance, wanting to take control of it from rear to front. He signaled his men, and they all stopped and took hiding positions behind massive stone pillars, all awaiting his command before attacking the front.

Darius knelt there, breathing hard, looking out toward the front of the city. Hundreds of soldiers were spread out between here and there, and he wanted them all to be congregated, to be easier to kill, and to have their backs to him. He knelt there and watched, hoping, waiting for the sign, the final act of his plan.

Finally, Darius felt a rush of relief as he saw exactly what he’d hoped to: a small, floating vessel suddenly appeared floating down the waterway, through the city gates, aflame.

Darius watched all the guards rouse from their slumber, all of them gathering around, congregating near the front of the city, all watching it in wonder. They all convened on the entrance, and looked out curiously into the desert night, clearly wondering who was out there. He waited and waited, until the crowd was at its thickest.

“CHARGE!” Darius yelled.

As one, he and all his people charged, swords drawn, and attacked the unsuspecting Empire soldiers from behind, all of them distracted by the burning boat. They attacked from behind, slashing and stabbing them as they turned. They managed to kill dozens of them before they were alerted.

The remaining Empire soldiers all turned around, finally catching on to the invasion. Horns sounded throughout the city, and Darius’s apprehension deepened as he knew the real battle had begun.

Hundreds of Empire soldiers, in full armor and professional weaponry, turned and fought back. Darius’s men began to fall.

Darius ducked a sword slash, and another grazed his arm, and he cried out in pain, his sword knocked from his hand. But he quickly pulled out his dagger and stabbed the soldier in the throat as the man charged in to kill him.

Darius bent down and recovered his swords, and as he did, he spun around and slashed another soldier’s throat. Two Empire soldiers attacked him, and Darius used his shield to block one blow after the next. Finally, Desmond arrived and killed one of his attackers—and Darius used the shift in momentum to lunge forward, smash the other soldier in the head wish his shield, then stab him in the heart. He thought of all of his brethren the Empire had killed as he did it.

Many of Darius’s people fell—yet Empire soldiers fell, too, and with bodies piling up on both sides, Darius felt as if he were gaining momentum. At least they were managing to truly attack an Empire city, and to hold their own with their forces—and that alone, he knew, was an amazing feat.

With the front of the city exposed, all of the Empire soldiers turned to fight Darius. Darius’s third and final group of soldiers finally appeared, as planned, and attacked in the front. They all waded through the waters of the canal, splashing wildly, as they pulled themselves up to dry ground inside the city walls and attacked Empire soldiers from behind.

Now Empire soldiers found themselves sandwiched between Darius’s forces on both sides—and as they did, the momentum shifted. Empire soldiers fell rapidly in all directions as Darius’s men overwhelmed them with their speed and swiftness.

The fighting went on, swords clanging in Darius’s ears, sparks lighting up the night, the sound of men crying piercing the fort. All around him, men fell. Yet still they fought and fought, constantly closing the gap.

Finally, Darius killed one Empire soldier, after a particularly brutal give and take of swords and shields, and as he did, he raised his sword and shield to kill the next one.

But to his shock, there was no one left behind him: the Empire soldiers were all dead.

Darius could hardly believe it as he stood near the front gates and turned and looked back, surveying the city. He saw all his men milling about, standing over the Empire bodies. He saw a city filled with fresh corpses, both his own people’s and the Empire’s, glistening beneath the moonlight. A city that had finally fallen silent.

The men all realized it, too. They suddenly broke out into a cheer of victory, raising their fists and torches high in the air.

They rushed forward and embraced Darius, hoisting him on their shoulders. Darius reveled in it, cheered with them, hardly believing it had really happened.

An Empire city was in their hands.

They had won. They had truly won.