A Dream of Mortals

  She turned and looked up, and a hundred feet above them, she saw the parapets, her vision obscured by the sun, and the knights looking down, getting closer with each yank of the cords.

  Gwen immediately turned and scanned the platform, and was flooded with relief to see all of her people were still with her: Kendrick, Sandara, Steffen, Arliss, Aberthol, Illepra, the baby Krea, Stara, Brant, Atme, and several of the Silver. They all lay on the platform, all being tended to by nomads who poured water into their mouths and on their faces. Gwen felt a rush of gratitude toward these strange nomadic creatures who had saved their lives.

  Gwen closed her eyes again, lay her head back on the hard wood, as Krohn curled up beside her, and her head felt as if it weighed a million pounds. All was comfortably silent, no sound up here but that of the wind, and of the ropes creaking. She had traveled so far, for so long, and wondered when it all wound end. Soon they would be at the top, and she only prayed that the knights, whoever they were, were as hospitable as these nomads from the desert.

  With each yank, the suns grew stronger, hotter, no shade under which to hide. She felt as if she were burning to a crisp, as if she were being hoisted to the center of the sun itself.

  Gwendolyn opened her eyes as she felt a final jolt, and realized she’d fallen back asleep. She felt movement and she realized she was being carried gingerly by the nomads, all placing her and her people back on the canvas tarps and carrying them off the platform and onto the parapets. Gwendolyn felt herself finally placed down, gently, onto a stone floor, and she looked up and blinked several times into the sun. She was too exhausted to lift her neck, not sure whether she was still awake or dreaming.

  Coming into view were dozens of knights, approaching her, dressed in immaculate shiny plate and chain mail, crowding around her and looking down at her in curiosity. Gwen could not understand how knights could be out here in this great desert, in this vast waste in the middle of nowhere, how they could be standing guard at the top of this immense ridge, beneath these suns. How did they survive out here? What were they guarding? Where did they get such regal armor? Was this all a dream?

  Even the Ring, with its ancient tradition of grandeur, had little armor to match what these men wore. It was the most intricate armor she’d ever laid eye upon, forged of silver and platinum and some other metal she could not recognize, etched with intricate markings, and with weaponry to match. These men were clearly professional soldiers. It reminded her of the days when she was a young girl and accompanied her father onto the field; he would show her the soldiers, and she would look up and see them lined up with such splendor. Gwen had wondered how such beauty could exist, how it could even be possible. Perhaps she had died and this was her version of heaven.

  But then she heard one of them step forward, out in front of the others, remove his helmet and look down at, his bright blue eyes filled with wisdom and compassion. Perhaps in his thirties, he had a startling appearance, his head stark bald, and wearing a light blond beard. Clearly, he was the officer in charge.

  The knight turned his attention to the nomads.

  “Are they alive?” he asked.

  One of the nomads, in response, reached out with his long staff and gently prodded Gwendolyn, who shifted as he did. She wanted more than anything to sit up, to talk to them, to find out who they were—but she was too exhausted, her throat too dry, to respond.

  “Incredible,” said another knight, stepping forward, his spurs jingling, as more and more knights stepped forward and crowded all around them. Clearly, they were all objects of curiosity.

  “It’s not possible,” said one. “How could they have survived the Great Waste?”

  “They couldn’t,” said another. “They must be deserters. They must have somehow breached the Ridge, got lost in the desert, and decided to come back.”

  Gwendolyn tried to answer, to tell them everything that happened, but she was too exhausted to get the words out.

  After a short silence, the leader stepped forward.

  “No,” said, confidently. “Look at the markings on his armor,” he said, prodding Kendrick with his foot. “This is not our armor. It’s not Empire armor, either.”

  All the knights crowded around, stunned.

  “Then where are they from?” one asked, clearly baffled.

  “And how did they know where to find us?” asked another.

  The leader turned to the nomads.

  “Where did you find them?” he asked.

  The nomads squeaked back in return, and Gwen saw the leader’s eyes widen.

  “On the other side of the sand wall?” he asked them. “Are you certain?”

  The nomads squeaked back.

  The commander turned to his people.

  “I don’t think they knew we were here. I think they got lucky—the nomads found them and wanted their price and brought them here, mistaking them for one of us.”

  The knights looked at each other, and it was clear they’d never encountered a situation like this before.

  “We can’t take them in,” said one of the knights. “You know the rules. You let them in and we leave a trail. No trails. Ever. We have to send them back, into the Great Waste.”

  A long silence ensued, interrupted by nothing but the howling of the wind, and Gwen could sense that they were debating what to do with them. She did not like how long the pause was.

  Gwen tried to sit up in protest, to tell them that they couldn’t send them back out there, they just couldn’t. Not after all they’d been through.

  “If we did,” the leader said, “it would mean their deaths. And our code of honor demands we help the helpless.”

  “And yet if we take them in,” a knight countered, “then we could all die. The Empire will follow their trail. They will discover our hiding place. We would be endangering all of our people. Would you rather a few strangers die, or all of our people?”

  Gwen could see their leader thinking, torn with anguish, facing a hard decision. She understood what it felt like to face hard decisions. She was too weak to resign herself to anything but to allow herself to be at the mercy of other people’s kindness.

  “It may be so,” their leader finally said, resignation in his voice, “but I shall not turn away innocent people to die. They are coming in.”

  He turned to his men.

  “Bring them down on the other side,” he commanded, his voice firm with authority. “We shall bring them to our King, and he shall decide for himself.”

  The men listened and began to break into action, preparing the platform on the other side for the descent, and one of his men stared back at their leader, uncertain.

  “You are violating the King’s laws,” the knight said. “No outsiders are allowed into the Ridge. Ever.”

  The leader stared back firmly.

  “No outsiders have ever reached our gates,” he replied.

  “The King may imprison you for this,” the knight said.

  The leader did not waver.

  “That is a chance I’m prepared to take.”

  “For strangers? Worthless desert nomads?” the knight said, surprised. “Who knows who these people even are.”

  “Every life is precious,” the leader countered, “and my honor is worth a thousand lifetimes in prison.”

  The leader nodded to his men, who all stood there waiting, and Gwen suddenly felt herself lifted into the arms of a knight, his metal armor against her back. He picked her up effortlessly, as if she were a feather, and carried her, as the knights carried all the others. Gwen saw they were walking across a wide, flat stone landing atop the mountain ridge, spanning perhaps a hundred yards wide. They walked and walked, and she felt at ease in the arms of this knight, more at ease than she had in a long time. She wanted more than anything to say thank you, but she was too exhausted to even open her mouth.

  They reached the other side of the parapets and as the knights prepared to place them on a new platform and lower them down the other side of the rid
ge, Gwen looked out and caught a glimpse of where they were going. It was a sight she would never, ever forget, a sight that took her breath away. The mountain ridge, rising out of the desert like a sphinx, was, she saw, shaped in a huge circle, so wide it disappeared from view in the midst of the clouds. It was a protective wall, she realized, and on its other side, down below, Gwen saw a glistening blue lake as wide as an ocean, sparkly in the desert suns. The richness of the blue, the sight of all that water, took her breath away.

  And beyond that, on the horizon, she saw a vast land, a land so vast she could not see where it ended, and to her shock, it was a fertile, fertile green, a green glowing with life. As far as she could see there stretched farms and fruit trees and forests and vineyards and orchards in abundance, a land overflowing with life. It was the most idyllic and beautiful sight she had ever seen.

  “Welcome, my lady,” their leader said, “to the land beyond the ridge.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Godfrey, curled up in a ball, was awakened by a steady, persistent moaning interfering with his dreams. He woke slowly, unsure if he was really awake or still stuck in his endless nightmare. He blinked in the dim light, trying to shake off his dream. He had dreamt of himself as a puppet on a string, dangling over the walls of Volusia, being held by the Finians, who’d yanked the strings up and down, moving Godfrey’s arms and legs as he dangled over the entrance to the city. Godfrey had been made to watch as below him thousands of his countrymen were butchered before his eyes, the streets of Volusia running red with blood. Each time he thought it was over, the Finian yanked on his strings again, pulling him up and down, over and over and over….

  Finally, mercifully, Godfrey was awakened by this moaning, and he rolled over, his head splitting, to see it was coming from a few feet away, from Akorth and Fulton, the two of them curled up on the floor beside him, each moaning, covered in black and blue marks. Nearby were Merek and Ario, sprawled out unmoving on the stone floor, too—which Godfrey immediately recognized as the floor of a prison cell. All looked badly beaten—yet at least they were all here, and from what Godfrey could tell, they were all breathing.

  Godfrey was once at once relieved and distraught. He was amazed to be alive, after the ambush he’d witnessed, amazed he had not been slaughtered by the Finians back there. Yet at the same time, he felt hollow, oppressed by guilt, knowing it was all his fault that Darius and the others had fallen into the trap inside the gates of Volusia. It was all because of his naïveté. How could he have been so stupid as to trust the Finians?

  Godfrey closed his eyes and shook his head, willing for the memory to go away, for the night to have gone differently. He had led Darius and the others into the city unwittingly, like lambs to slaughter. Again and again in his mind he heard the screams of those men, trying to fight for their lives, trying to escape, echoing in his brain and leaving him no peace.

  Godfrey clutched his ears and tried to make it go away, and trying to drown out Akorth and Fulton’s moaning, both of them clearly in pain from all their bruises and from a night sleeping on a hard stone floor.

  Godfrey sat up, his head feeling like a million pounds, and took in all his surroundings, a small prison cell containing just him and his friends and a few others he did not know, and he took some solace in the fact that, given how grim this cell looked, death might be coming for them sooner rather than later. This jail was clearly different from the last one, feeling more like a holding cell for those about to die.

  Godfrey heard, somewhere far away, the screams of a prisoner being dragged away down a hall, and he realized: this place really was a holding pen—for executions. He had heard of other executions in Volusia, and he knew that he and the others would be dragged outside at first light and become sport for the arena, so that its good citizens could watch them get torn to death by the Razifs, before the real gladiator games began. That was why they’d kept them alive this long. At least now it all made sense.

  Godfrey scrambled to his hands and knees, reaching out and prodding each of his friends, trying to rouse them. His head was spinning, he ached from every corner of his body, covered in lumps and bruises, and it hurt to move. His last memory was of a soldier knocking him out, and he realized he must have been pummeled by them after he was down. The Finians, those treacherous cowards, clearly didn’t have it in them to kill him themselves.

  Godfrey clutched his forehead, amazed that it could hurt so much without even having a drink. He gained his feet unsteadily, knees wobbling, and looked about the dark cell. A single guard stood outside the bars, his back to him, barely watching. And yet these cells were made with substantial locks and thick iron bars, and Godfrey knew there would be no easy escape this time. This time, they were in until the death.

  Slowly, beside him, Akorth, Fulton, Ario, and Merek gained their feet and they all studied their surroundings, too. He could see the puzzlement and fear in their eyes—and then the regret, as they began to remember.

  “Did they all die?” Ario asked, looking at Godfrey.

  Godfrey felt a pain in his stomach as he slowly nodded back.

  “It’s our fault,” Merek said. “We let them down.”

  “Yes, it is,” Godfrey replied, his voice breaking.

  “I told you not to trust the Finians,” Akorth said.

  “The question is not whose fault it is,” Ario said, “but what we are going to do about it. Are we going to let all of our brothers and sisters die in vain? Or are we going to gain vengeance?”

  Godfrey could see the seriousness in young Ario’s face and he was impressed by his steely determination, even while imprisoned and about to be killed.

  “Vengeance?” Akorth asked. “Are you mad? We are locked beneath the earth, guarded by iron bars and Empire guards. All of our men are dead. We’re in the midst of a hostile city and a hostile army. All of our gold is gone. Our plans are ruined. What possible vengeance can we take?”

  “There’s always a way,” Ario said, determined. He turned to Merek.

  All eyes turned to Merek, and he furrowed his brow.

  “I am no expert on vengeance,” Merek said. “I kill men as they bother me. I do not wait.”

  “But you are a master thief,” Ario said. “You’ve spent your whole life in a prison cell, as you admit. Surely you can get us out of this?”

  Merek turned and surveyed the cell, the bars, the windows, keys, the guards—all of it—with an expert’s keen eye. He took it all in, then looked back at them grimly.

  “This is no common prison cell,” he said. “It must be a Finian cell. Very expensive craftsmanship. I see no weak points, no way out, as much as I would wish to tell you otherwise.”

  Godfrey, feeling overwhelmed, trying to shut out the screams of the other prisoners down the hall, walked to the prison cell door, pressed his forehead against the cool and heavy iron, and closed his eyes.

  “Bring him here!” boomed a voice from down the stone hall.

  Godfrey opened his eyes, turned his head, and looked down the hall to see several Empire guards dragging a prisoner. This prisoner wore a red sash over his shoulder, across his chest, and he hung limply in their arms, not even trying to resist. In fact, as he got closer, Godfrey saw that they had to drag him, as he was unconscious. Something was clearly wrong with him.

  “Bringing me another plague victim?” the guard yelled back derisively. “What do you expect me to do with him?”

  “Not our problem!” called back the others.

  The guard on duty had a fearful look as he held up his hands.

  “I’m not touching him!” he said. “Put him over there—in the pit, with the other plague victims.”

  The guards looked at him questioningly.

  “But he’s not dead yet,” they replied.

  The guard on duty scowled.

  “You think I care?”

  The guards exchanged a look then did as they were told, dragging him across the prison corridor and throwing him into a large pit. Godfrey could see
now that the pit was filled with bodies, all of them covered with the same red sash.

  “And what if he tries to run?” the guards asked before turning away.

  The commanding guard smiled a cruel smile.

  “Do you not know what the plague does to a man?” he asked. “He’ll be dead by morning.”

  The two guards turned and walked away, and Godfrey looked at the plague victim, lying there all alone in that unguarded pit, and he suddenly had an idea. It was crazy enough that it might just work.

  Godfrey turned to Akorth and Fulton.

  “Punch me,” he said.

  They exchanged a puzzled look.

  “I said punch me!” Godfrey said.

  They shook their heads.

  “Are you mad?” Akorth asked.

  “I’m not going to punch you,” Fulton chimed in, “as much as you may deserve it.”

  “I’m telling you to punch me!” Godfrey demanded. “Hard. In the face. Break my nose! NOW!”

  But Akorth and Fulton turned away.

  “You’ve lost it,” they said.

  Godfrey turned to Merek and Ario, but they, too, backed away.

  “Whatever this is about,” Merek said, “I want no part of it.”

  Suddenly, one of the other prisoners in the cell waltzed up to Godfrey.

  “Couldn’t help overhearing,” he said, grinning a gap-toothed grin, breathing stale breath all over him. “I’m more than happy to punch you, just to shut you the hell up! You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  The prisoner swung, connected right on Godfrey’s nose with his bony knuckles, and Godfrey felt a sharp pain shooting through his skull as he cried out and grabbed his nose. Blood squirted out all over his face and down his shirt. The pain stung his eyes, clouding his vision.

  “Now I need that sash,” Godfrey said, turning to Merek. “Can you get it for me?”

  Merek, puzzled, followed his line of vision across the hall, to the prisoner lying unconscious in the pit.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Just do it,” Godfrey said.