Thor was overwhelmed with gratitude for his friend’s support.
“You are right, my friend,” Thor replied. “A warrior’s mind must always be clear.”
Reece sighed.
“When I was young,” Reece continued, after a long while, “all I wanted was to be a member of the Legion. I wanted it so badly, I could taste it. I would stay up all night, night after night, pining for it. I imagined myself in the armor, imagined myself wielding its weapons…. But my father, the King, told me I could not join—unless I earned it.”
Thor looked back at his friend in wonder; he had never heard this story before.
“But I always assumed you were just given a position in the Legion,” Thor replied. “After all, you are the son of a King.”
Reece shook his head.
“That is why I was not,” Reece replied. “He wanted me to earn it, like everybody else—but more than that, he demanded I excel, beyond a normal Legion member. The trials I was given were twice as hard as the others. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him.”
Reece sighed.
“I resented it at the time, and I hated my father. I could understand equality—but what he put me through was unjust. At the time, I viewed him as a tyrant, intent on keeping me from when I wanted most.”
Reece looked out at the horizon long time, clearly thinking.
“And now?” Thor finally asked, curious.
“And now,” Reece finally continued, “looking back, I understand why he did what he did. Now I finally realize that he was not training me for the Legion: he was training me for life. He wanted me to experience something unfair, because life can be unfair. He wanted me to excel and rise above what was merely necessary, because in life, often we need to excel beyond what is needed from us. He wanted me to experience adversity and perseverance because it is often through them that we reach our goals. And he wanted to withhold for me what I wanted most in life because he wanted me, above all, to fight for it.
“Above all,” Reece continued, “he wanted me to achieve it on my own because, if he had just given it to me, it would’ve been valueless to me. I would have resented him for it my whole life. As much as I hated him then, I love him for it now. It was something he didn’t give me—and that, ironically, was the greatest gift of all.”
Reece looked at Thor meaningfully.
“That, after all,” Reece continued, “is what it means to be a warrior. Nothing is given to him, nothing is handed to him. What is his, he takes, earns by his own hands, his own merit. Not by our fathers’ hands, and not by our family name. But by our own name, by the name we are forced to forge for ourselves.”
Thorgrin thought about what Reece said, and the words resonated with him more, than he knew.
“The world is filled with people telling us what we cannot achieve,” Reece said. “It is up to us to prove them wrong.”
Thorgrin, inspired, reached out and clasped Reece’s forearm.
“We are brothers,” he said. “And we shall be until the day we die.”
“Brothers,” Reece replied solemnly.
These men here, on this ship, Thor realized, were all brothers to him now, more so any family he’d ever had.
“Up ahead!” called a voice.
Thor jumped to his feet and ran to the bow as Indra stood there, pointing at something on the horizon. Thor looked out and saw the land mass on the horizon narrowing, the blackened shores and cliffs visible, and he saw that they were being funneled into a long channel, steep black cliffs on either side.
Indra gasped quietly.
Thor looked at her, concerned.
“What is it?” he asked.
Indra shook her head
“The Straits of Madness,” she said, fear in her voice.
She turned and looked at the others, and for the first time, Thor saw hesitation in her face.
“It is a place no human must go. We must turn the ship around.”
Thor looked straight ahead at the churning red waters, becoming more violent in the straits, the sharp cliffs framing it, and while at first he felt hesitation, he then remembered Reece’s story. He knew he must forge on.
Thor grabbed the rail and held on, as others did the same.
“Shall we turn back?” Indra called out, panic in her voice.
Thor shook his head.
“We never turn back,” he replied. “Never again!”
Everyone braced themselves as the ship caught the wind, and it took them right into the Straits of Madness, and into the jaws of a likely death.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Darius stood at the entrance to the Capital arena, the roar deafening as he looked up at the thousands of Empire citizens in the coliseum, shaking the ground as they all screamed out for blood. Darius was chained to dozens of other gladiators, faces he did not even look at this time, faces he did not even want to recognize: he knew that soon they, like he, would all be dead.
Darius tried to drown out the noise, this arena so vast, so overwhelming, dwarfing the other arena in size. He had never seen anything like it—it was a spectacle beyond the imagination. So many people, he thought, so devoted to bloodshed and cruelty.
Standing beside him, in his brown robes, was Deklan, holding his staff and looking out serenely, as if he had seen it a thousand times before.
There came a roar of approval from the crowd, and Darius looked out. He tried not to look, but he couldn’t help it: there, in the center of the arena, were dozens more gladiators, chained to each other, looking in every direction nervously. A horn sounded, and Empire soldiers, donning armor and wielding fine weaponry, attacked the defenseless gladiators.
It was a slaughter. Some tried to fight back bravely with the crude weapons they had been given, their swords blunted steel and practically useless. Those that survived were pushed backwards until they stumbled into giant pits which opened up in the floor. They cried out as they landed in sharpened spears, before the pits closed up again.
A horn sounded and the Empire soldiers fell to the ground—as they did, blades flew and spun through the air, decapitating any gladiators left alive.
The crowd roared in delight as another horn sounded and the Empire soldiers stood. Dozens of bloody corpses littered the stadium floor, and Empire servants rushed out and began to drag them away, cleaning the floor, preparing it for the next wave.
Darius felt a fresh wave of anxiety as he stood there. He knew he was up next.
Deklan turned to him.
“Forget everything you know,” Deklan said urgently. “This arena is like nothing you’re used to. The Empire fights neither clean nor fair. There is no common enemy: the enemy is on all sides of you. The dangers are everywhere. This is not an honorable match between two knights. This is a spectacle of death.”
“And this is what you’ve trained me for?” Darius asked. “Then what was the point of it all?”
Deklan’s face fell, and Darius sensed a break in his calm façade in a new look of sorrow.
“I wanted you to have a chance,” he replied.
“A chance?” Darius repeated. “What chance could I possibly have?”
Deklan remained silent.
“You think you are better,” Darius continued. “Better than them. Not of the Empire. But you are one of them. You think that if you train us, it puts you above them. You are still on their side, not ours. And when I die today, my blood will be on your hands, as much as any of theirs.”
Deklan frowned.
“I have no choice,” he replied. “I am held captive by them, just as you. I do not enjoy what I do. But at least I use whatever life I have to help keep you alive.”
Darius shook his head.
“You are wrong,” he replied. “You do have a choice. There is always a choice. It just depends on how much you want to sacrifice for it.”
Darius looked meaningfully into this man’s eyes and he sensed some great war going on inside him, some failed lifetime; he sensed a once-great and hono
rable warrior deep down inside. He wanted to appeal to the man’s chivalry, his code of honor, and he felt that it was there—but just out of reach, suppressed just a bit too deep after all these years.
Deklan stared back, unable to respond, and Darius could see the haunted look in his eyes.
A horn sounded, the crowd erupted, and Darius felt himself shoved into the arena, shackled to all the other gladiators, squinting into the blazing sun as the crowd went wild. The earth shook beneath them as they went, prodded deeper and deeper into the arena.
Darius coughed at the great clouds of dust, and as he felt the heat of the two suns beating down on him, he clutched at the dinky little sword he had been given, its blade not sharp enough to even cut his own shackles. Finally, his group stopped in the middle, the crowd on its feet, and Darius looked all about with the others nervously, wondering from which direction danger would strike.
A low horn sounded, and Darius felt the hairs rise on his spine as he suddenly heard a horrific roar, one he did not recognize. The crowd cheered, as if familiar with it, and Darius knew this could not be good.
Darius was shocked as he saw concealed doors open on all sides of the arena, and animals that looked like pumas—except twice the size, with glowing yellow eyes—come running out toward them. The gladiators wheeled and looked in every direction, petrified.
They ran faster than anything Darius had ever seen, and one of them set its sights on Darius. It locked on him and ran right for him, snarling, preparing to pounce.
Darius braced himself as the animal leapt into the air, fangs extended for his throat. Darius raised his sword, but the creature merely swatted it from his grip.
It landed atop Darius, the first of the gladiators to be attacked, and the crowd roared as they wrestled down to the ground. The animal slashed his arm, drawing blood with its three sharp claws, and Darius shouted out in pain.
It then spun atop him and the beast opened its huge jaws to clamp down on his face.
Darius grabbed its throat, all muscle, barely holding it at bay as the beast dripped saliva onto his face. Hands shaking, Darius knew he had to move fast.
Darius finally managed to dodge to the side, and the beast’s fangs went into the dirt. He then rolled around, grabbing it from behind, wrapped his arm around its neck, and twisted with all his might.
There came a crack—then the beast went limp in his arms. Dead.
The crowd roared, and all around Darius he heard the shouts of other gladiators, shouting as they fought off the animals, most of them dying and a few, like Darius, wrestling.
Darius sensed motion, saw another leap for him, and he rolled, grabbed his sword, held it high, and let the weight of the beast impale itself on it, falling right atop him, dead.
Darius pushed it off of him and rolled over, breathing hard, the pain from the scratches killing his arm, and he braced himself as more came bounding his way. Darius scrambled to his knees, his heart pounding, wondering what he was going to do as several more beasts ran for him at once. He looked side to side as he heard the moans, and noticed that already many gladiators were dead, the beasts standing on their chests, biting them.
Suddenly a horn sounded, and all the beasts, as suddenly as they had appeared, turned and ran off, disappeared back into the concealed doors all around the arena. At first, Darius breathed a deep sigh of relief—but then he realized: the Empire was only setting the stage for something far worse to come.
Darius suddenly heard a whistling noise cutting through the air, too loud, and coming way too fast. He couldn’t figure out what it was, and when he turned, he could not believe the sight before him: metal chains swung through the air, suspended from the highest point of the arena, and at the end of them were immense spiked iron balls, nearly as large as Darius. There were dozens of these balls, suddenly swinging across the stadium, crisscrossing in every direction—and aimed right for the center of the arena.
“Look out!” Darius shouted to the gladiator beside him, shoving him out of the way while at the same time dropping down face-first to the ground.
As Darius hit the ground he looked up and watched the gladiator on the other side of him turn around to see what was happening—but too late. The metal ball smashed him, impaled him and continued to rise with him up on it, as the crowd cheered like crazy.
Darius kept his head low to the ground as the metal balls swung in every direction, impaling many of the gladiators, killing them on the spot. This arena, he realized, was vastly different from the one in Volusia: it was built for sport. It was cruel and unpredictable. Merciless, lacking honor. At least in Volusia, others were brave enough to stand before him.
As the swinging chains and balls receded, finally another horn sounded, and as the chains were withdrawn, Darius found himself standing there, one of but a half-dozen gladiators left, facing the great iron doors in the center of the arena wall. Darius felt his heart pounding in anticipation, as a great groaning of metal filled the air and the doors slowly opened wide.
The crowd roared, standing to see as immense creatures were brought forth, shackled to each other, hulking one step at a time. They looked like humans, but were three times the size, standing perhaps twenty feet tall, broad, muscles bulging, with three huge eyes in their head, no nose, and a mouth made of jagged teeth. They walked with a sickening sound, and with each step they took, the crowd went crazy.
An Empire soldier rushed forward and cut their chains, and as he did, the creatures were let loose. They leaned back and roared, a sickening sound, and then set their sights on Darius and the others. Darius felt a chill run up his spine: he knew these would be the most formidable foes he’d ever met.
The creatures rushed forward, running faster than Darius could imagine, with huge strides, reaching them in no time. As one thundered down upon him wielding an immense battle-ax, Darius raised his sword and blocked. It was the most intense blow he had ever received, and it shook his body to its core, sending him to the ground and shattering his sword in two.
Darius saw stars as he lay there, looking side to side as heard the screams; he saw fellow gladiators being crushed by these creatures, battle-axes chopping them in half, and others being stampeded. These creatures were just too big, too fast, too powerful, to oppose.
As Darius blinked, in but a moment all the others lay dead. Darius was the only one left alive.
Darius rolled out of the way as an ax swept down for his head; it lodged in the ground beside him, just missing his head, and as Darius rolled out of the way, he used his chains to trip the creature.
The creature, caught off guard, landed on its back, its legs swept out from under it. The crowd roared, shocked by the development, clearly not expecting one of the creatures to fall.
Darius wasted no time: he rolled, raised his word high, and plunged it into the creature’s throat as he lay prone, killing it.
The crowd jumped to its feet and went wild, its applause thunderous.
Darius, emboldened, breathing hard, gained his feet, snatching the creature’s dropped sword, and faced the rest. It felt good to hold real steel.
Immediately another came at him with an ax. Darius suddenly recalled what Deklan had taught him: stay calm, stay centered, be in the moment. Do not let your emotions cloud you.
Darius, focused, waited until the right moment, then he ducked. The creature’s ax swung sideways just over his head; as Darius ducked, he raised his new sword and sliced the creature’s stomach, sending it to its knees. Dead.
The crowd again went wild.
Darius turned as more of these creatures charged him. Furious, they converged on him, roaring ferociously, their sharpened fangs showing. Darius did not back down, steeling himself for the confrontation, knowing he could do this, knowing he was stronger than he thought, however scary the foe.
As they reached him, Darius held his ground. He raised his sword and blocked the blows of the great axes, one after another after another, turning side to side, dodging and weaving, fending
off the creatures. Exhausted, it was all he could do to just stay on his feet. But he didn’t turn and run.
Finally one of them kicked him, and Darius went flying back. He landed flat on his stomach on the ground, losing his sword. He rolled and looked up at the sky, and as he did, he saw a hatchet coming down for his head.
It was too late. With nothing left to do, Darius braced himself to finally meet his end.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Stara strolled through the gardens in the royal court of the Ridge, twisting her way through them, smelling the flowers but not really seeing them, so lost in thought, memories, and depression. Stara could not shake the past from her mind, could not shake images of Reece, of her love for him—of their love for each other. She kept reliving in her mind that last moment she had seen him, disembarking from Gwen’s ship to join Thorgrin on his search for his son.
It tore her up inside. She had begged him not to go, but there had been little she could do to change his mind. It was infuriating and made her feel helpless at the same time.
Stara could not forget the argument they’d had the night before, in the hold of the ship, each trying to get away from the other, yet each unable to get away from one another. They blamed each other for Selese’s death, and it tainted every glance they took.
Yet deep down, Stara knew that Reece loved her. She could feel it, even if he could not express it. And she loved him back, as she had always had, ever since she was a child. She had always loved him, and she could never let go.
Just as she could not let go now. Stara knew that he was a world away now, that she should let him go, assume he was dead. After all, how could he have possibly survived out there? And if he had, how would he ever find her?