The Gift of Battle

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Volusia stood before the open gates of the capital, palms held out uselessly before her, and watched, horrified, as the Knights of the Seven bore down on her, hardly fifty yards away. It was death, staring her in the face, galloping toward her, and she felt it coming with certainty. Finally, she was about to die.

But that was not what horrified her most. What filled her with a sense of cold dread, even more painful than the death to come, was her sudden realization. Was she not, after all, a goddess? She could not understand. She had tried to summon her powers and had failed. Why had the world not answered her?

Unless, Volusia realized, a pit in her stomach, it had all been a lie, one grand delusion. What if she was no goddess, after all? What if she were a mere mortal, like everyone else? What if all the statues she had erected to herself, all the services, the prayers, the incense, the holidays, the culture she had created—what if all of it had been false?

The idea that she was a mere mortal, a commoner like everyone else, was the most painful of her life. She was someone who could bleed and die. Someone who was not all-powerful. Someone whose life was about to come to an end.

To meet death in the face, and not be a goddess, what would that mean? Volusia considered all the people she had tortured and killed throughout her life; she had always thought she would not have to answer for it. But now, what if all of them were waiting to greet her on the other side? What if the cruel life she had led would not be waiting to face her? Would she be dragged down to the lowest hells?

She closed her eyes and willed one last time for the universe to answer her, willed for lightning to strike, the earth to move.

Yet nothing happened. With the Volks gone, she could not even move a grain of sand.

Volusia stood there, frozen in terror and fear as the army neared, half her face melted away, hating life, cursing that she was ever born. Flashbacks passed through her mind, and she was flooded with images of her life. She saw the day she murdered her mother; saw all the ways she had tortured people; saw herself as a child, being lashed by her mother, being told she would never amount to anything. She was sure she had proved her mother wrong, having become ruler, having taken the capital, having become far more powerful than her mother ever was.

But now, ultimately, she wondered if her mother was right. She had failed, as her mother had predicted. She was, after all, just another mortal, waiting to be killed like everyone else.

The cries of the men grew louder as they approached, so close now. In a panic, Volusia turned and looked back toward the city, wondering if she had time to make it back. But as she looked she heard a groaning noise and she watched in horror as all of her generals and advisors stood there, watching. They did not run out to save her, to protect her—but rather they stood there, leaving her unprotected, stranded out in the middle of the desert to face an army alone.

Worse, they began to close the door.

Volusia was horrified: the gates were not groaning to open, but to shut on her. To shut her out of the capital that she had vanquished. And to seal her out forever.

It was the final blow to her heart.

Volusia turned back and looked ahead of her to see the Knights of the Seven bearing down her, now hardly ten yards away, the horses thumping in her ears, the cries of men filling the air. They came right for her, lances extended. She wondered if maybe they would slow, take her as prisoner. Surely, someone as valuable as she would be much more valuable as a prisoner.

But as their faces neared, she saw them etched with bloodlust, and she realized there would be no prisoners on this day. They were not slowing, but rather speeding up, their sharpened lances lowered, aimed right for her chest.

A second later she felt it: the sharpened point of a lance pierced her, and she shrieked out, in more agony than ever in her life, as the lance went straight through, emerging from her back. To add insult to injury, it was just a commonplace soldier who had impaled her, and he sneered down, piercing her all the way to the hilt.

As forces closed in all around her, Volusia felt herself falling backwards, arms outstretched, still alive, wracked with pain, dying a cruel and merciless death as horses began to trample her. It was the death that never ended. She prayed for death, prayed for the pain to end, and soon, she knew, it would come. But not soon enough. For she was just a mortal now. A mortal, just like anyone else.

Darius stood in the center of the arena, watching the chaos unfold all around him, and wondered what he had just done. He stood there, feeling the heat still throbbing in his palms, feeling his veins throbbing with an unfamiliar power, and he wondered about himself. He looked out at the destruction all around him—the two elephants, dead, smashed into the bleachers, the thousands of Empire spectators dead, the arena cracked into pieces, people fleeing for their lives in every direction—and he could hardly believe he had just done all this.

Darius looked down, at the corpse of his father, and he felt a fresh wave of grief. This time, though, he felt spent. Summoning that energy had taken a great toll on him, and he sensed he needed time to recover. His arms and shoulders felt weak, and he did not feel he could summon it again.

He was just a normal human now, like any other soldier, and as he looked around at all the chaos, he knew time was of the essence. He reached down, snatched a sword off the corpse of an Empire soldier, and slashed his chains, freeing himself. It was now or never if he wanted to escape.

Darius disappeared into the chaos, melting into the fleeing crowd, weaving this way and that, no one paying attention as they were all running for their lives. He sprinted through the crowd and as he looked up ahead, he spotted a fissure in the stadium, a crack leading out to the Empire city, to freedom. He ran for it, merging with the throngs, getting bumped left and right and not caring.

He was nearly at the exit when an Empire soldier turned and looked his way, and his face fell in recognition.

“THE SLAVE!” he yelled, pointing at Darius. “He’s—”

Darius didn’t let him finish his sentence. He drew his sword, ran forward, and stabbed him before he could say another word.

Others began to turn and look at Darius, but he didn’t wait. He rushed forward, entering the darkened tunnel, but thirty yards away from freedom, seeing the light at the end of it. He ran as fast as he could, shaking with adrenaline, and finally he burst through the opening, out into the open air and the bright light of the city.

Darius expected to see the orderly, open courtyards of the capital, but as he looked ahead, he saw something instead that was confusing. It appeared that people in the city were turning and running in panic. Soldiers ran every which way, crisscrossing the streets as if running from an enemy. It made no sense. Why would anyone be in a panic in the midst of the Empire capital, the most secure city in the world?

Darius heard a great commotion beyond the city walls, almost as if there were an army just beyond them, clamoring to get in. It all made no sense.

At the massive golden gates to the capital, Darius saw hundreds of soldiers lined up, as if bracing themselves from attack. Darius was puzzled. What force out there could be attacking the Empire capital itself? And where was Volusia?

Whoever it was, they clearly wanted all of these Empire soldiers within the capital destroyed—and ironically, that was a mission Darius shared. Whoever it was beyond those gates, Darius wanted to help them get in, to lay waste to this place. After all, there would be no better vengeance for his father, for his people. Darius knew at once that those gates were the key: he had to help open them, whatever the cost, even if it meant his life.

Darius rushed forward, sword held high, and set his sights on the group of Empire soldiers huddled before the great crank to the gates. There were a half-dozen of them, their backs to him, guarding the crank—and none expecting an attack from behind.

Darius let out a great battle cry as he charged and threw himself into the group. Darius slashed one, stabbed another, bashed another across the face with the hilt of his sword, kicked another, and elbowed another in the throat. A few tried to defend—but it was too little, too late. Darius was like a man on fire, throwing his life to the wind, a whirlwind, no longer caring. This crank was the key to opening the gates, to having this city destroyed. And for that, Darius, a man with nothing left to lose, would give anything.

As he finished off the last of the group of soldiers, Darius raised his sword high and slashed the heavy rope affixing the crank to the gate. He slashed again and again, but it was so thick, it took time.

Nearly done severing it, he was suddenly grabbed from behind by an Empire soldier. Darius reared back and elbowed him in the face, knocking him off. The soldier reached back and smashed Darius across the face with his shield, and Darius stumbled back and fell.

The soldier jumped on top of him, and soon Darius found himself wrestling with him. The soldier reached out and began to choke Darius. Darius, eyes bulging, felt himself losing air quickly.

Darius flailed about, grasping for anything, felt an object on the man’s belt—then grabbed it, realizing it was a dagger. He pulled it back and stabbed the man in the ribs.

The soldier cried out and rolled off him, and Darius got to his knees and stabbed him in the heart.

Darius, breathing hard, wiped blood from his lip, and as he heard a great cry, he looked over to see that the other Empire soldiers had spotted him. They all began to turn and make for him, and given that they were only fifty yards away, Darius knew he had little time. It was now or never.

Darius leapt to his feet, reached up with his sword, and hacked at the rope again—and again. The soldiers neared, now but feet away, all with swords raised, ready to kill him.

Finally, there came a great snapping noise and the rope was severed. It went flying over the edge of the wall, and as it did, the crank went spinning, and the gates began to slowly open.

The gates opened wider and wider, and there rose up a huge cry—the cry of an army—from the other side. The Empire soldiers running for Darius stopped in their tracks and turned toward it, too, faces etched in panic.

There suddenly flooded through the open gates thousands of the Knights of the Seven, waving their black banners, donning their glistening black armor, coming in with a vengeance, as if they had been waiting to get in forever, like a thousand bats released from hell. They charged right for the Empire soldiers, never slowing, raising their flails and spears and lances and halberds, and cut their way through the ranks of men in one great clash of armor.

It was a wave of brute force and destruction, killing everything in its path, and the Empire did not stand a chance. Men fell left and right, their cries filling the air, and Darius felt a great sense of relief, of vindication. He had done it. He had helped topple the Empire capital. He felt his father looking down on him, smiling.

Darius, in the path of destruction, knew he had to turn and run. But just as he prepared to do so, suddenly, he looked up to see something coming for him, and he felt a tremendous pain in the side of his head. He heard a clang of metal, and he realized it was a club, and that he had been smashed in the side of the head by one of the Seven.

Darius went flying to the ground, and as he lay there, his world spinning, he felt himself beginning to lose consciousness. He felt several rough hands grabbing him from behind, and he was helpless to resist as he felt himself shackled, wrists and ankles bound behind his back. Before he lost consciousness all together, he heard a singular, dark voice call out through the crowd, and he knew his fate had been decided for him.

“Bring this slave to the ships.”