The Gift of Battle

  The huge, arched, golden gates opened slowly, creaking, as dozens of soldiers turned the cranks. She walked right for them, the first rays of sunlight pouring through between the gap, lighting her grotesque face.

  Volusia continued walking, out of the safety of the capital, out into the desert, feeling the cobblestone beneath her feet give way to sand, crunching beneath her boots. Alone, outside, she continued to walk, slowly, one step at a time, never looking back.

  Volusia could feel the eyes of thousands of her own soldiers upon her, watching her nervously from within the city capital—and could feel, even more so, the eyes of the millions of soldiers of the Knights of the Seven stopping and gazing at her. Still, she never stopped. She was a Goddess, after all, and she would stop for no one. She needed no one. She could take on the forces of the world all by herself.

  Horns sounded throughout the enemy camp, and Volusia watched as all of the formations broke into action. Thousands of divisions rallied, charging forward with a great battle cry, eager for her head. Eager to tear her apart.

  Still, she kept walking. She took another step, and another. Volusia closed her eyes, raised her palms to the sky, leaned back, and let out a great shriek. As she did, she willed for the world to bend to her will. She willed for the Earth to split before her, to swallow up this army. She commanded the heavens to strike down, the clouds to rush to her will, and lightning to kill their men. She willed for every power in the universe to rush to her aid. She commanded it.

  Volusia stood there, bunching her fists, willing and waiting as the men rushed closer, the galloping of their horses shaking the ground, filling her ears.

  And yet nothing happened.

  There was no lightning, no earthquake; there were no clouds.

  Instead, there was just the sound of silence.

  Sickening, awful silence.

  And she, alone, was about to be destroyed by an army.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Darius knelt at his father’s side, cradling his head in his hands, and felt overwhelmed with emotion as he watched him die. Blood poured from his chest where the elephant’s tusk had speared him, and it trickled from his mouth as he looked up at Darius with the look of a man breathing his final breaths.

  Darius felt wracked with despair as he watched his father die in his arms. Here lay this great man who had risked his life for him, who had saved his life, the greatest warrior by far Darius ever met. After his whole life of longing for him, finally, they had had a chance to meet, were reunited here, on the battlefield. And yet as kind as fate was, it was also cruel, as it had snatched this man away from him before they’d barely had a chance to know each other.

  Darius would have given anything to have a chance to get to know his father, to find out how he had become such a skilled warrior, how life had taken him here, to the capital arena. He would have loved to get to the bottom of the mystery of his life, and of his absence in his own life.

  But now, that would never be. Taking his father was the cruelest thing the Empire had ever done to him—crueler even than taking his own life.

  “Father,” Darius said, holding back tears as he held him in his arms. “You can’t leave me. Not now.”

  Darius heard a great rumble as he waited for a response, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the elephants circling the stadium, their great footsteps rocking it, as they prepared to come back for him. Darius knew he didn’t have much time. But he didn’t care about that now. He was ready to die at his father’s side.

  His father reached up and grabbed his wrist, his grip surprisingly strong even as his life force began to ebb.

  “I am proud that you’re my son,” he said, his voice raspy, fading. “So proud of all that you have done. You are a greater warrior than I could have ever been. I see it in your eyes. I live on in you. Fight for me, Darius. Fight for me.”

  His eyes closed as he went limp in his arms.

  Dead.

  “NO!” Darius shrieked, leaning back, feeling waves of grief wash over him.

  Darius wanted to take it away, to change the world, to go back and make everything happen differently. He wanted to curse at destiny, to curse at his life, which had been hard and cruel since the day he had been born. But he knew nothing could bring him back now, this man he had loved, and the only man left who had loved him.

  Darius felt hot tears pouring down his cheeks as he held his father’s head, feeling empty, feeling as if he had nothing left in the world to live for. He could feel the ground trembling as the elephants finished their circling and charged for him—but he no longer cared. Some part of him was already dead.

  As Darius knelt there, laying his father on the ground, slowly the grief within him morphed to something else.

  Rage.

  Darius looked up, cold, calculating, and as he did, he tightened his grip on his sword. He thought of what they had done to his father, of his father’s final words. They rang in his head like a mantra, like an order:

  Fight for me.

  Slowly, Darius stood. He faced off against these beasts, and he prepared to make his final stand. He burned, more than ever in his life, for vengeance. He would die trying—but he would not go down without taking somebody with him.

  The ground shook as the two elephants neared, awesome, magnificent beasts, all black, being ridden by Empire soldiers. They gained speed, as if hoping to trample him, and as they did, Darius felt all the grief within him morph into cold, hard fury. All the rage he had ever had in his life—at the Empire, at his life, at his village, at his father’s absence—it all bubbled up. It was a rage larger than the universe, a rage he could not control. A rage that turned his whole body hot.

  Here Darius stood, a boy who had become a man, a man, finally, with nothing left to live for. His friends were dead, his father was dead—everything and everyone he had ever known or loved was lost and taken from him. And now, he was about to die too. He was a man with nothing left in the world to lose.

  But there was one thing he still had, and he had that in abundance: a desire for vengeance. Vengeance for his father. Vengeance for his life.

  Darius faced the elephants as they thundered down on him, feeling no fear for the first time in his life. Feeling free. He looked forward to taking them on.

  As he stood there, time seemed to slow, and something happened to him he did not understand. The rage bubbled up, overtook him, became like a cancer in his body. It was so powerful, unlike anything he had ever felt. Waves of energy overwhelmed him, from head to toe, so intense he could barely feel his own skin. He felt his hair standing on end, felt as if he might explode.

  And then, it happened.

  For the second time in his life, Darius felt himself overwhelmed by a power, a power he had no control of, a power he had been terrified to acknowledge, and to embrace, up until now. It was a power he did not understand, and a power that had scared him.

  Until now.

  The power surged within him, and Darius found himself dropping his weapons. He knew instinctively he didn’t need them anymore. He knew that the power within him, at his fingertips, was greater than any power, greater than anything forged of steel.

  Instead, Darius raised his palms. As the elephants charged toward him, he raised them higher and higher in the air, aiming one at each elephant bearing down on him. They intended to kill him, Darius could see that.

  But Darius had other plans.

  As he raised his palms, Darius felt a searing ball of energy emanate from each palm. And as he raised his arms, the craziest thing happened: he felt the weight of each elephant in his palms. It was as if he were holding them.

  And as he lifted his arms higher, he saw the most shocking sight in his life: the elephants, charging at him with fury, began to rise off the ground.

  The elephants trumpeted as Darius lifted them higher and higher into the air. They rose five feet, then twenty feet, then thirty, then a hundred, their legs flailing. They hovered high in the air, helpless, at the me
rcy of Darius’s power.

  The crowd fell silent as they gasped, looking up at the sight, no one knowing what to make of it.

  Darius did not give them time to react. As the rage coursed through his arms and shoulders, he quickly and decisively lowered his arms, thinking, as he did, of his father, of all his friends he had lost on the battlefield. He felt their blood calling out from the grave. Now it was their time. Now, it was time for vengeance.

  Darius felt a power surge within them, a power that could move mountains, and he tapped that power for the first time in his life as he lowered his arms and hurled the elephants. He was amazed to watch them go flying through the air, end over end, trumpeting, flailing, as they headed, like comets, for the stone bleachers in the stadium.

  The crowd realized, too late. A few rose, tried to run, but it all happened too quickly and there was nowhere for them to go.

  The two beasts smashed into the stadium with a tremendous crash, shaking the arena as if it had been struck by a comet. The impact took out entire sections of stone, killing hundreds of people at once. The Empire cheers of cruelty and glee had now morphed into cries and shrieks of terror.

  The crowd ran, trying desperately to get away, but the elephants tumbled through the bleachers, rolling and rolling, crushing thousands more.

  The arena fell into chaos. People shrieked and ran as the weight of the elephants collapsed entire sections of stone, the avalanche killing hundreds more.

  Darius stood there, the last one left on the battlefield, shocked at his power. The world, he felt, was his.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Stara dug her heels into the horse’s ribs, spurring it on, faster and faster, tearing across the Great Waste, determined not to stop until she crossed this desert, until she crossed the world and found Reece. He was somewhere out there on the horizon, she knew, beyond the Waste, beyond the sea, out there with Thorgrin, on the search for Guwayne. She knew her chances of finding him were remote, that she may very well die out here in the Waste. But she didn’t care. As reckless as this was, she felt more joyful, more liberated, than she had in moons. She was free, finally, thrilled to be away from the Ridge, riding out under the open sky and following the desires of her own heart.

  The safety of that Ridge, every moment she had been there, had been hell for her. She did not want safety: she wanted Reece. Danger meant nothing to her, if it stood between her and the man she loved most in the world. It was love, Stara finally realized, that mattered more than anything in the world—more than pleasures and riches and safety, more than any object she could want. It was love, and the freedom to pursue that love, that mattered. And that was what she had now.

  Whether she died out here in this Waste, or somewhere at sea, none of that mattered—as long as she could be free to pursue her heart’s desires.

  Stara galloped on the horse, her skin still raw from having raced through the Sand Wall, her lips dry, her throat parched, her skin burnt from the sun, her turban having fallen off long ago. She hadn’t stopped to get it, knowing that if she stopped moving for even one minute, she would never continue on through this Waste. The horse beneath her, too, was gasping, heaving, and Stara wondered how much longer they could go on. Somehow, she sensed, it understood the urgency of her mission, and without any prodding, raced forward on its own.

  As the horse charged and charged, Stara tried to follow the general directions that Fithe had given her, going over them like a mantra again and again in her head: cross the Sand Wall, then head north. Follow the North Star, which shines by day and night. If you live, you will reach the canals. There, you may find a hidden vessel in the harbor, stowed for times of escape, hidden beneath the branches of the willows that grow on its shores. If they are even still there. Your quest will be long and hard, and you likely will not make it.

  As Stara rode, she looked up time and again, looking for the North Star, knowing it was somewhere high overhead. Wispy clouds came in and out, and she no longer even knew if she was staying the course. She reached down instinctively and raised the sack of water to her mouth and squeezed—yet it was empty, dried out long ago. She chucked it, realizing she had nothing left.

  Stara rode and rode, her legs aching, her back aching, her head beginning to droop, too tired to hang on. She felt herself slouching, felt that at any moment she might fall off her horse. She knew once she did, she would be finished. Reece, she thought, I love you.

  Finally, when she thought she could not go no more, when she felt certain she might die out here, she felt the horse slowing, and she looked up. She felt them mounting a ridge, and as she looked up, she squinted, wondering if she were seeing things. She shook her head, realizing she was not, and her heart leapt within her: there, against the setting sun, was a shimmering body of water. The small rivers snaked every which way, ending in the desert.

  The canals.

  It was a startling sight, and as it came close into view, Stara was overcome with euphoria. Finally, the monotony of the Great Waste, the monotony she had never expected to finish, had come to an end.

  Streams converged from a hundred rivers into a pool of water at the edge of the Waste, surrounded by a grove of willow trees, their branches hanging low, just as Fithe had said. Her heart beat faster at the sight. There was water. There was a path out, to the rivers, to the sea. There was the road to Reece. There was freedom.

  Stara did not even need to kick the horse, which saw it, too, and increased its pace, racing down the ridge, not slowing until it reached the grove of trees at the edge of the water. Stara was so grateful for the shade, despite the sunset, and she dismounted as the horse bent over gratefully to lap the water. She fell down on her hands and knees beside it and began drinking, too.

  Stara gulped the water, gasping; as she caught her breath, she splashed the cold water on her face, down her neck, in her hair, getting the dust of the desert off her. She knelt there for a moment, too tired to move, reveling in the sound of the willow branches as they stirred in the breeze off the water.

  Finally the horse leaned over and licked her face, prodding her back up.

  Stara regained her composure and as she sat up, she scanned the water, the branches, looking to see if there were any vessels still hidden. As she squinted, she thought she saw something hidden behind a clump of trees, as their branches swayed in the wind, and she hurried over and pushed back the branches.

  There, she was elated to see, was a small vessel, rocking in the water, tied to shore, just large enough to hold her and one small sail. It had been well hidden beneath the trees and she thanked God for it, knowing that without it, she would die here.

  Stara was about to get inside, to push off, when she remembered the horse. She turned, walked over to it, and stroked its face, looking into its eyes. It made a gesture as if to follow her into the boat, but she shook her head.

  “It is a journey for me alone, my friend,” she said.

  It made a soft neighing sound.

  “I shall never be able to thank you,” she said. “You are free now. Roam the Waste, find a new home, answer to no man. You are free!”

  The horse leaned in and licked her face and she kissed its head. It turned and ran off, never looking back.

  Stara turned herself and slipped onto the boat. She extracted her small silver dagger, which she had carried with her from the Ring, and in one quick, decisive move, she severed the rope.

  The currents caught her vessel, and as she raised her sail, she began to move into the widening river, gaining speed, into the sunset, out toward the open sea, and somewhere, she prayed, toward Reece.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Gwendolyn marched down the endless parapets of the castle, Krohn at her side and Steffen beside her, looking everywhere for Argon. She had been anxious to find him ever since she’d left the tower, since Eldof had told her what he knew. She was seeking Argon out even before reporting back to the King, as she felt a sense of urgency and desperation. Eldof, after all, had declared that the end
of the Ridge was coming soon, and that there was nothing she could do to stop it. She felt in her heart that the only one who would truly understand, who might have any way of stopping it, would be Argon.

  More importantly, Eldof’s words hung in her ears, and she thought again and again about what he’d said, about Argon knowing how to find Thor, and about Argon’s master. Why had Argon hidden these secrets from her? What was he hiding? Who was his master?

  Gwendolyn burned with resolve to confront Argon, to not let him off the hook until he told her the truth. She had to know whatever he was hiding.

  “Argon!” she yelled, calling out to the skies. “You cannot hide from me!”

  She had been already to his chamber, to the spiral tower, and all throughout the castle, and he remained nowhere to be found. Had he left?

  “My lady,” Steffen said, after a long silence, Gwen leaning dejectedly on a rampart. “I checked everywhere, too. He’s nowhere to be found. And no one has seen or heard anything of him.”

  Gwen turned and walked even faster, marching down the narrow stone walkways, scanning down below, across the city, her heart pounding with worry. Had he left for good this time? Could he really leave now, at this pivotal time, with all her unanswered questions?

  Bells suddenly tolled, clanging throughout the city again and again, loud enough to drown out all else, and startling Gwen. She stopped and turned, hearing the collective gasp down below, and saw all the members of the Ridge stop and stare up, horrified, at the incessantly tolling bells. They rang again and again, ominously, and Gwen sensed right away that something was wrong.