“My father was a hard man,” Matus said slowly. “A competitive man. A jealous man. Not the type of father who took joy in his son’s success. Rather, he was the type of father that felt threatened by it. He had to outdo me—in everything. Which was ironic, because I wanted nothing more than to love him my whole life, to be close to him. Yet anytime I tried, he pushed me away. He found a way to create a conflict, to keep me at a distance. It was a long time until I learned that it wasn’t me he hated, but himself.”
Matus took a deep breath, staring into the flames, focusing, lost in another world. Thor could relate to his words; he had felt the same way about the man who had raised him.
“I felt as if I was born into the wrong family,” Matus continued. “Like I didn’t quite fit in, at least not to the image of who we wanted me to be. The thing is, I was never quite sure who that person who he wanted was.
“I knew I didn’t fit in with the rest of the Upper Isle MacGils. I felt a kinship with the MacGils of the Ring,” he said, glancing at Reece. “I envied you all, and I wanted to escape the Isles, to come to the mainland and join the Legion.
“But I could not. I was doomed to be there. My brothers hated me. My father hated me. The only one that loved me was my sister, Stara…. And my mother.”
On that final word, Thor detected anguish in Matus’s voice. A long silence followed, and Matus finally got the courage to speak again, his voice heavy with exhaustion, as if he were traveling through emotional realms.
“One day,” Matus finally said, clearing his throat, “when I was perhaps thirteen, my father called for a hunt. It was a hunt meant for my older brothers, but he challenged me to come along. Not because he thought I would kill anything, but because he wanted to outdo me, to see my brothers outdo me, and to make me look stupid. He wanted to keep me in my place.”
Matus sighed.
“Late into the hunt, when the day was nearly through, we encountered the largest boar I have ever seen. My father charged, all bravado and aggression, and lacking the fine technique he claimed to have. He threw his spear and missed, enraging it. My two brothers, helpless, missed, too.
“The enraged bore charged my father and was about to kill him. I should have let it.
“Instead, I reacted. My father did not know, but I had spent many nights, long after the others were asleep, practicing with my bow. I fired two perfect shots and landed them in the boar’s head. It dropped down right before it had a chance to reach my father.”
Matus sighed and fell silent for a long time.
“Was he grateful?” Reece asked.
Matus shook his head.
“He gave me a look I can remember to this day. A look of rage, humiliation, jealousy. Here he was, alive because his youngest managed to fell a bore he himself could not. He hated me even more since that day.”
A long silence fell over them, punctuated only by the crackling fire. Thor pondered it, and realized he had similarities with his own father.
Thor was transported by the story, and he thought it was over, when Matus suddenly continued.
“The next day,” Matus continued, “my mother died. The storms of the Upper Isles had never agreed with her. She was a frail, delicate woman, transported to those barren isles by my father and his appetite for ambition. She caught a cold and never recovered—though I think what really killed her was the heartbreak of leaving the mainland.
“I loved my mother enough to justify my existence, and when she died, I felt that there was nothing left for me in that place. I attended her funeral with the others at the top of Mount Eleusis. Do you know it?” he asked, looking to Reece.
Reece nodded.
“The first capital,” he replied.
Matus nodded back.
“You know your history, cousin.”
“I was schooled in it since I was a boy,” Reece said. “Long before King’s Court, the Upper Isles held the seat of power. Five hundred years before, that was where kings ruled. Before the Great Divide.”
Matus nodded, and Thor looked at the two and wondered at the extent of their royal education, wondered how much he didn’t know about the history of the Ring. He had a desire to learn more, to learn about the ancient kings, the ancient warriors. He wanted to learn the stories of how the Ring had been centuries before, of old wars and battles and heroes and warriors, of old capitals and old seats of power….But now was not the time. Someday he would sit down and learn it all. Someday, he promised himself.
“Anyway,” Matus said, “on that day, I sat there by my mother’s grave and wept; it was too much for me. Long after the others left, I sat there all night long, atop that mount, in the presence of death, and that’s when I learned what death felt like. I blamed my father for her death, my father, who would not even attend the funeral. I would never forgive him for that night. He was a selfish man to the last.”
Matus sighed.
“Here, in this place, I feel that feeling again, for the first time. A feeling I thought I would never feel again: the feeling of death. My mother is here somewhere. I both dread seeing her, and look forward to it.”
His story concluded, they all sat there in the silence, and as they did, Thor looked at Matus with a new respect. The story had transported him indeed, had transported all of them, out of this dungeon and into another place. Would Matus find his mother here? Thor wondered.
And most of all, would Thor find Guwayne?
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Darius was awakened from fast, troubled dreams at the first light of dawn by the sound of the village horn—a low, wailing sound that hurt his ears—and he knew immediately that there was trouble. That horn was never sounded except in dire emergencies, and he had only heard it sounded once in his lifetime, when he was a young boy. It was when one of the villagers had tried to escape, and was caught by the Empire, tortured and executed in front of them all.
With a deepening sense of foreboding, Darius jumped out of bed, dressed quickly, and burst out the door of his cottage, Dray beside him, at his heels the entire time. Immediately, he thought of Loti, and of the town meeting the day before. The villagers had all argued endlessly with one another, none agreeing on a clear course of action. They were all bracing themselves for the worst, for an impending doom, the inevitable vengeance the Empire must exact, and as usual, none was willing to attack, to take any decisive action. Darius was hardly surprised.
Yet still, Darius did not expect the Empire to arrive so quickly, the very next morning. He should have known better: the Empire never waited for vengeance.
Darius raced along the dirt path toward the village center, joining a growing crowd emerging from their cottages, men and women, children, brothers, cousins, friends, all swarming the main road for the village center. It grew thicker by the moment.
At his feet, Darius heard Dray following him, nipping playfully at his heels, always game for whatever excitement the town would bring. Darius wanted to explain to him that this was not a game, but Dray, he knew, would not understand.
As Darius went he scanned the faces desperately for Loti, having a sinking feeling this all had something to do with her, with the Empire, and knowing that she needed him now more than ever. They had made an agreement the day before that if something should happen—anything—the two of them would meet by the large tree before town. As all the villagers ran for the village center, Darius turned off and ran toward the tree, hoping she would be there.
Darius was relieved to see that she was. There she stood, scanning the crowd, clearly looking for him, too, panic written on her face.
He reached her and she rushed into his arms, her eyes red from crying. He could only imagine what a long night she’d had, especially in her disapproving household.
“Darius,” she whispered in his ear, with an intake of breath, and he could hear the relief and the fear in her voice.
“Don’t worry,” he said back. “It’s okay. Whatever is going to happen, it’s okay.”
Trembling, she leaned back and s
hook her head as she looked into his eyes.
“It is not okay,” she said. “Nothing will ever be okay again. The Empire wants to kill me. They want vengeance. Our own people want to kill me. A price must be paid.”
“Listen to me,” Darius said firmly, taking hold of her shoulders. “Whatever happens today, under any circumstance, do not tell them it was you. Do you understand me? Do not volunteer that you did it.”
She looked at him, unsure.
“But what if—” she began.
He shook his head firmly.
“No,” he said, mustering all the gravity he could. “Vow to me.”
She looked into his eyes, and as she did, Darius could see them strengthening, slowly gaining resolve. She nodded, and began to stand a bit straighter.
“I vow,” she said softly.
Darius nodded, satisfied, took her hand, and he led her quickly along the path and to the main village.
They rounded the bend, and as they did, Darius saw that his entire village had amassed in the center, as the horn blew once again. As Darius looked up, past their faces, into the breaking light of dawn, his heart dropped at the sight. There, on the horizon, blocking the village road, was a massive Empire force, hundreds of soldiers in full armor. There were rows of zertas, squadrons of soldiers standing before them, wielding all manner of steel weaponry, well-disciplined, standing erect, awaiting the order to kill.
Nothing more needed to be said. Darius looked to his people, and he could see the tension and the fear. His villagers had no real weapons with which to fight back. And it wouldn’t be a real fight anyway, not against this professional army.
Darius braced himself for the inevitable attack that would follow, waiting for the Empire to charge. Instead, there came, oddly, a long, awkward silence. The Empire just stood there, facing them, their banners rippling in the morning wind, as if wanting them to sweat it out.
Finally, an Empire commander stepped forward, out in front of his men, flanked by a dozen soldiers, and faced the villagers.
“Blood has been taken,” he boomed out, “and blood will be paid. Your people have taken one of ours. You have broken the cardinal rule. Our two peoples have lived in harmony with one another, because you, and the generations before you, have lived by the rules. You knew the price for breaking them.”
He paused.
“Blood for blood,” he called out. “Our great Empress, Volusia, the greatest of the Volusia Queens, the God of the East and supreme ruler of the sea and all its ships, has, in her abundant mercy, decided not to kill you all. Instead, she will just have us torture and kill one of you, the perpetrator of this unholy act. She’s giving you this great grace only once, and only because yesterday was the festival of our gods.”
There came a long pause, the only sound that of the rippling of their banners, as the commander let his words sink in.
“Now,” he boomed, “the one who did it, you will step forward, admit your crimes, and you will suffer death on behalf of your people. This generous offer will not be made twice. Step forth now.”
All the villagers stood there, and Darius looked them over, seeing the panic in all their faces. Some of them turned and looked at Loti, as if debating whether to give her up. Darius saw Loti begin to cry, and he could feel her hand trembling in his. He could sense that she was unsure what to do. He could feel her about to step forward, to confess.
And he knew then and there that, whatever the price, it was something his honor would never allow.
Darius turned to her.
“Remember your vow,” he said softly.
Darius, resolved, suddenly stepped forward, taking several paces out before all the others. There came a gasp from his people as he did.
“It was I, Commander!” Darius yelled out, his voice booming in the still morning air.
Darius felt himself trembling inside, but he refused to show it. He was determined to be bigger than his fear, to overcome it. He stood there, chin up, chest out, staring back proudly, defiantly, at the Empire.
“It was I who killed the taskmaster.”
The Empire commander stared back at Darius sternly for a long time, a tall man, with the typical glowing yellow skin, two small horns and red eyes of the Empire race, with the horns, the massive body structure. Darius could see in his eyes a look of respect.
“You have admitted your crimes,” he called out. “That is good. As a gift, I will torture you quickly before I kill you.”
The commander nodded to his men, and there came sound of armor and spurs, as half a dozen soldiers marched forward, surrounding Darius, each grabbing him roughly by the arm and dragging him toward the commander.
Dray snarled and leapt up and sunk his teeth into the calf of one of them, and the soldier cried out as he released his grip on Darius. Dray let out a vicious sound as he tugged, drawing blood, the solider unable to shake his grip.
The soldier reached for his sword, and Darius knew he had to act quick if he wanted to save Dray’s life.
“Dray!” Darius yelled sharply. “Go home! NOW!”
Darius used his fiercest voice, praying Dray would listen, and Dray suddenly released, turned and sprinted off into the crowd.
He just escaped the slash of the soldier, who swung at nothing but air. They all turned and continued dragging Darius away.
“No!” cried a voice.
They all stopped and turned as Loti stepping forth, crying.
“He did not do it! He’s innocent. I did it,” she cried out.
The commander, confused, looked back and forth from her to Darius, wondering whom to believe.
“The words of a woman trying to save her husband,” Darius called out. “Do not believe her!”
The Empire commander looked back and forth, Darius’s heart pounding, hoping, praying the taskmaster would believe him.
“Do you really believe a frail woman could strangle an all-powerful taskmaster?” Darius added.
Finally, the commander broke into a tight smile.
“You insult us,” the commander said to Loti, “if you think our men could be killed by a weak woman such as yourself. If that were the case, then I would kill them myself. Silence your tongue, woman, before I cut it out with my sword.”
“No,” Loti screamed.
Darius saw men step forward and restrain her, yanking her back as she flailed. He was overwhelmed by her loyalty to him, and it touched him deeply, gave him solace before what he knew would be his death.
Darius felt himself yanked forward, and soon he was tied him to a pole, his face against it, his hands and ankles tied to it. He felt rough hands tear the shirt off his back, heard a ripping noise cut through the air, and felt his back exposed to the morning sun and the cool wind.
“Because I am in the mood for mercy,” the commander boomed, “we shall begin with just one hundred lashes!”
Darius swallowed, and refused to allow anyone to see the fear on his face as his wrists were clamped down to the wood. He braced himself for the terrible pain that would come.
Before he could finish a thought, Darius heard the crack of a whip, and suddenly every nerve in his body screamed out as he felt an awful pain across his back. He felt his skin rip from his flesh, felt his blood exposed to the air. It was the worst pain of his life. He did not know how he’d recover from it, much less take ninety-nine more.
The whip cracked through the air again, and Darius felt another lash, this one worse than the last, and he groaned out again and clutched the wood, refusing to allow himself to scream.
The lashes came again, and again, and Darius felt himself getting lost in another place, a place of honor and glory and valor. A place of sacrifice. A place of sacrificing for someone else whom he loved. He thought of Loti, of the pain that she would have suffered for this; he thought of her lame brother, a man Darius loved and respected too, and of how she had sacrificed for him. He took the next lash, and the next one, knowing he was taking it for them.
Darius retreated de
eper and deeper into himself, into a place of escape, and as he did, he felt a familiar feeling rising within him, felt a heat coursing through his palms. He felt his body willing him to summon his power. It was aching to be summoned. He knew that if he did, he could break free of this. He could overcome them all.
But Darius would not allow it; he stopped himself, preventing it from welling up. He feared to use it. As much as he wanted to, he did not want to be an exile among his people. He would rather die a martyr than be remembered as a magician they reviled.
Another lash came, then another, and Darius struggled to hang on. He gasped for air, and would do anything for water. He was starting to wonder if he would survive this—when suddenly, a voice cut through the air.
“Enough!” came the booming voice. “You have the wrong man.”
The crack of the whip stopped and Darius turned weakly, and saw surprised to see Loc, Loti’s lame brother, stepping forward out in front of the others.
“It was I who killed the taskmaster,” Loc said.
The Empire commander stared back, confused.
“You?” he called out, looking him up and down in disbelief.
Suddenly, Raj stepped forward, standing beside Loc.
“No,” Raj called out. “It was I who killed him.”
Desmond stepped forward, beside Raj.
“No, it was I!” Luzi called out.
There came a long, tense silence amongst the crowd, until finally, one at a time, all of Darius’s friends stepped forward.
“No, it was I!” echoed one voice after the other.
Darius felt so deeply grateful to his brothers, so moved by their loyalty; it made him feel willing to die a million deaths on their behalf. They all stood there, proudly facing off against the Empire, dozens of them stepping forward, all wanting to take the punishment for him.
The Empire commander snarled at all of them and let out a groan of frustration. He marched over to Darius, and Darius felt rough hands behind his back, as the Commander grabbed him tight and leaned in and whispered in his ear, his hot breath on the back of his neck.