A Land Of Fire (Book 12) (10 page)

“Go then!” she shouted.

Stara turned on her heel and stormed
away. She weaved in and out of the crowd on the ship, and Reece lost sight of
her, before he could even attempt to console her.

But he knew there was no consoling her.
Their relationship was what it was. Reece didn’t fully understand it—but then
again, he was not sure that he ever would.

*

Gwendolyn stood in the center of the
ship amidst all of her advisors, the entire ship huddled together as they all
debated where to sail next. The conversation was exhausting and intense, going
around in circles, each with his own strong opinion. Gwen had asked Thorgrin to
stay for it before he embarked, and he stood beside her, with the Legion,
listening in. She was grateful that he was still here and hadn’t left yet. This
decision was too important; she wanted him by her side. And most of all, she
wanted to savor every moment with him before he left her side again.

“We cannot return to the Ring,” Kendrick
said, arguing with one of the people in the crowd. “It is destroyed. It would
take generations to rebuild. And it is occupied.”

“Nor can we return to the Upper Isles,” Aberthol
chimed in. “There was little there for us before the dragons destroyed it, and
now there is nothing there for us.”

The group grumbled with discontent, and
there came a long, agitated murmur.

“Where else, then?” someone else yelled
out. “Where else can we go?”

“Our provisions run too low!” another
yelled. “And our maps show no isles, no land, nothing anywhere near us!”

“We shall die here on these ships!”
another yelled.

Again, there came a long murmur, her
people ever more agitated.

Gwendolyn shared their frustration, and
she sympathized with them; she looked out to the horizon and was wondering the
same thing. An endless sea lay before them, and she had no idea where to lead
her people.

Suddenly, Sandara stepped forward, into
the center of the crowd, so tall and beautiful and noble and exotic, with her
dark skin and glowing yellow eyes and her commanding presence; she was a proud
and graceful woman who commanded attention, and all eyes turned to her. The
crowd grew silent as she faced Gwendolyn.

“You can go to my people,” she said.

Gwen stared back at her in shock, and
the silence deepened.

“Your people?” Gwen asked.

Sandara nodded.

“They will take you in. I will see to
it.”

Gwen looked back, confused.

“And where are your people?” she asked.

“They inhabit a remote province. Outside
the city of Volusia. The capital of the Northern region of the Empire.”

“The Empire?” someone in the crowd yelled
out in outrage, and there came a long, upset murmur from the crowd.

“Would you have us all sail into the
heart of the Empire?” a man called out.

“Would you lead a lamb to slaughter?”
another yelled.

“Why not just surrender us to Romulus?
Why not just kill us all right here?” another called out.

Increasing murmurs of discontent arose from
the crowd, until Kendrick finally stepped up to Sandara’s side, and protective
of her, yelled out for silence, banging a staff on the deck.

The crowd finally quieted, and
Gwendolyn, not sure what to make of it all, faced Sandara. She knew her options
were dim, but this seemed insane.

“Explain yourself,” Gwen commanded.

“You do not understand the Empire,”
Sandara said, “because you have never been there. It is my homeland. The Empire
is more vast than you can imagine, and it is fractured. Not all provinces think
alike. There is inner conflict amongst them. It is a fragile alliance. The
Empire was formed by the conquering of one people after the next, and the
discontent amongst the conquered runs deep.

“The Empire’s lands are so vast, there are
places that remain hidden. Separatist regions. Yes, they have subjugated all of
our free people, have made us all slaves. But there are still places, if you
know where to look, where you can hide. My people will hide you. They have food
and shelter. You can make land there, hide there, recover there, and then decide
where you should go next.”

A long silence fell over the ship.

“What we need is a new home, not a place
for shelter,” Aberthol pointed out, his voice old, strained.

“Perhaps it shall become a home,”
Godfrey said.

“A home? In the Empire? In the lap of
our enemy?” Srog said.

“What other choice do we have?” Brandt
said. “The Ring was the last unoccupied territory of the Empire. Anywhere we go
will be Empire.”

“And what of the Southern Isles?” Atme
called out. “And Erec?”

Kendrick shook his head.

“We could never reach them. We are too
far north. We don’t have provisions enough. And even if we did, we’d have to
pass too close to the currents of the Ring, and we’d have to fight Romulus’s
men.”

“There must be some other place for us!”
a man called out.

The crowd broke into more shouts of discontent,
arguing with each other.

Gwendolyn stood there, holding Thor’s
hand, and she pondered Sandara’s words. The more she considered it, as crazy as
it was, the more she liked the idea.

She raised a palm, and slowly, the crowd
quieted.

“The Empire will be combing the seas,
searching for us,” Gwen said. “It will only be a matter of time until they hunt
us down. But the last place they would look for us would be within the Empire,
within their very own regions, and close to one of their capitals. Romulus has
millions of men, and they will search the earth for us, and eventually they
will find us. We need a new home, that is true, but right now, what we need
above all, is a safe harbor. Fresh provisions. Shelter. And sailing right into
the Empire would be the most counterintuitive move they could expect. Perhaps,
paradoxically, we would be safest there.”

The crowd quieted, looking back at
Gwendolyn with respect, and she turned to Sandara. Gwen saw honesty and
intelligence in her beautiful face, and she felt comfortable with her. Her
brother loved her, and that was enough for Gwendolyn.

“You may lead us to your home,”
Gwendolyn said. “It is a sacred task, leading a people. We are putting
ourselves at your mercy.”

Sandara nodded solemnly.

“And lead you there, I shall,” she
replied. “I vow it. If I have to die trying.”

Gwendolyn nodded back, satisfied.

“It is done!” Gwen called out. “To the
Empire we sail!”

There came more agitated mumbling on
deck, but also many shouts of excitement and approval, as her people immediately
began to set sails for a new course.

An angry citizen came up to Gwendolyn.

“You better hope your plan works,” he
scowled. “We have three ships, remember, and those of us who don’t agree can
take one and leave you anytime we wish.”

Gwen reddened, indignant.

“You speak treason,” Thor growled,
stepping forward, close to the man, hand on his sword.

Gwen reached out and laid a reassuring
hand on his, and Thor softened.

“And where will you go?” Gwen asked the
man calmly.

The citizen glared.

“Anywhere that is a place of common
sense,” he snapped, and turned and stormed off.

Gwen turned and exchanged a look with
Thor. She was so happy he was still here, taking solace in his presence.

Thor shook his head.

“That was a bold decision,” he said. “I
admire it greatly. And your father would have, too.”

Thor prepared to embark, his Legion
members standing near the small boat waiting to be lowered, and Gwen reached
out and laid a hand on his wrist.

He turned to her.

“Before you go,” she said, I want you to
meet someone.

Gwen nodded, and Illepra stepped forward
and handed her the baby she had rescued on the Upper Isles.

Gwen held the child up to Thor, who
looked back, eyes wide in surprise.

“You saved her life,” Gwen said softly.
“You appeared just in time. Your fate is linked with hers; as is mine. Her
parents are dead; we are all she has. She is Guwayne’s age. Their fates are
linked, too. I can feel it.”

Thor’s eyes welled up as he examined
her.

“She is beautiful,” he said.

“I cannot let her go,” Gwen said.

“Nor should you,” Thor replied.

Gwen nodded, satisfied that Thor felt as
she.

“I know you must go,” Gwen said. “But
before you do, you must get a blessing. From Argon.”

Thor looked back at her in surprise.

“Argon?” he said. “Has he awoken?”

Gwendolyn shook her head.

“He has not spoken since the Upper Isles.
He’s not dead, but he’s not alive either. Maybe for you, he would come back.”

They walked across the ship, to the very
end, until they came to Argon. He lay there, surrounded by her guards, on a
stack of furs, hands across his chest, eyes closed.

Gwen and Thor knelt by his side, and it
broke Gwen’s heart to see him in this state—especially since his sacrifice for
all of them had led him here.

They each rested a hand on Argon’s
shoulder as they knelt there, watching him patiently.

“Argon?” Gwen asked softly.

They waited, feeling the rocking of the
waves. Gwen knew they could not wait much longer; Guwayne was out there, after
all.

Finally, after what seemed like an
eternity, Thor turned to her.

“I cannot wait,” he said.

Gwen nodded, understanding.

As Thor began to rise, suddenly Gwen
reached out and grabbed his wrist and pointed: Argon had opened his eyes.

Thor knelt back down, and Argon stared
right at him. He nodded his head, and it seemed to be in approval.

“Argon,” Thor said, “give me a blessing.”

 “You have it,” he whispered, laying a
hand on Thor’s wrist. “But you don’t need it. You will create your own
blessings.”

“Argon, tell me,” Gwen said, “is our son
alive? Will we find him? Will you bless us to find him?”

Argon closed his eyes and shook his
head, withdrawing his hand.

“I cannot alter what is predestined,” he
said.

Gwen felt a pit in her stomach at his
words, and she and Thor exchanged a concerned look.

“Will we reach the Empire?” Gwen asked.
“Will we live?”

Argon was silent for a long time, so
long, Gwen wondered if he would ever reply. Just as they were preparing to
leave, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. He stared at her with such
intensity, his eyes shining, that she nearly had to look away.

“On the far side of the world, in the
Empire, I see another great warrior, a young man rising up. If he lives, and if
you reach him, together, you may achieve what no one else can.”

“Who is this young man?” Gwen pressed.

But Argon closed his eyes, and after a
long while, she realized he had gone back to his state. She was left pondering,
wondering. Did that mean they would make it? Did her people’s fate really
depend on a single boy? And most of all: who was he?

Darius grunted as he swung the blunt ax
high and brought it down in a high arc, over his shoulder, onto a large, green
boulder. It smashed before him into a pile of small rocks, green dust rising up
in a cloud, covering him, as it had since the sunrise. The pungent smell of
athox burned his nose, and he tried to turn his head.

Darius knew it would do him little good:
he was mired in the dust from head to toe, after another long day of labor, as
he had been nearly every day of his life. At fifteen years of age, his hands
were raw, his clothing tattered, having spent nearly all his life in labor, in
hard, backbreaking work. It was the life of a slave and, like all of his
people, he hardly knew anything different.

But Darius dreamed of a different life,
even if it was a life he never knew. He looked like his people, with his brown
skin, his yellow eyes, and his muscular frame; but there was something about
him that set him apart. With his proud, noble jaw, glistening eyes, and broad
forehead, he did not carry himself like a slave, as many of his people did;
instead, he had the heart and soul of a warrior. He exuded courage and honor,
pride, and a refusal to be broken. And while all of his people had short hair, Darius’s
was long and curly, brown, wild, untamed, pulled back in a long ponytail and
dangling behind his back. It was his mark of individuality in a subjugated
world, and he refused to cut it. More than once his friends had taunted him for
it—yet after too many times of Darius challenging them and proving himself a
better fighter, the taunts finally stopped and they learned to live with his
uniqueness.

With not an ounce of fat on his rippling
body, Darius, even though he was not as muscular as some of the others, was
stronger and quicker than nearly all of them. He was, he felt—he had always
felt—different from his people, destined to be a great warrior. Destined to be
free.

Yet as Darius looked around, he saw how
different reality was from the destiny he imagined for himself. Day in and day
out, he was a slave, like all of his people, a subject for the Empire to do with
as they wished. Darius knew his people were not alone: the Empire had enslaved
all peoples, of all color skin and eyes, in all the lands of the world. They
had enslaved anyone who was not of their race, anyone who did not have the
glowing yellow skin of the elite Empire race, who did not have the two small
horns behind their ears, the long pointed ears, the extra height and breadth,
the too-muscular bodies, and the glistening red eyes. Not to mention the fangs.
The Empire believed themselves to be a master race, a superior race.

But Darius did not believe it for a second.
The Empire did have superior numbers, and superior arms and organization, and
they had used their brutality, their strength in numbers—and most of all, their
dark sorcery—to enforce it, to subjugate others to their will. Mercy did not
exist in the Empire culture; they seemed to thrive on brutality, and for every
slave, there seemed to be ten Empire taskmasters. They were a race of soldiers.
They were better armed, better organized, and their hundred-million-man army
seemed to be everywhere at once.

It would all make sense if the Empire
were barbarians—but Darius had heard of their cities, shining with gold, and
had heard the Empire race was incredibly sophisticated and civilized. It was a
paradox he could not reconcile in his mind, try as he did.

Darius tried to take solace where he
could; at least in his region, the Empire did not kill them. He’d heard of
other regions where the Empire did not even keep people alive to be slaves, but
rather sold them off to slave markets, split them from their families, or just spent
the days torturing and killing them. He had heard of yet other places where
they starved the slaves, feeding them once a week, and of still others where
they beat the slaves so bad, all day long, that few of them even reached Darius’s
age.

At least here, in Darius’s province,
outside the great Northern Empire city of Volusia, they had come to a cold
agreement with the Empire, where the Empire kept them as slaves, but did not
beat them often, allowed them to eat, and allowed them to live. And at least
when Darius’s people retreated to their own village at night, they were far
enough away from the prying eyes of the Empire to build up their own, secret
resistance. When the day of labor ended, they gathered and trained; they became
better warriors, and slowly but surely, they gathered weapons. They were crude
weapons, not iron or steel like the Empire, but still weapons all the same.
They were slowly preparing, in Darius’s mind at least, for a great uprising.

Yet it frustrated Darius to no end that
others did not see it that way. Darius smashed another boulder, wiping sweat
from his brow, and grimaced. His fellow villagers, especially the older ones, were
all too safe, too conservative. They had talked of uprising Darius’s entire
life, and yet no one ever took any action. All they did was train and train to
become better warriors—and yet no one ever acted on it.

Darius was reaching a breaking point
inside. He’d allowed himself to maintain his pride, despite his situation, all
his life, because he lived for the day of uprising, for the day of asserting
his freedom. And yet, increasingly, as he watched others settle into a life of
apathy, his fears grew that that day would never come. Darius smashed yet
another rock, wondering if all this training might just be a way for the elders
to keep them down, to keep them occupied, to give them hope. And to keep them
in their place.

Yes, perhaps they had it better than
most, but even so, this still was not a life. He had seen too many of his
cousins die from random acts of cruelty, had been lashed himself one too many
times, to ever forgive or forget. Darius loathed the Empire with everything he
had. He wouldn’t just lie down like the elders and accept life for what it was.
Darius felt that he was different from the others, that he had less of a
tolerance for it, less willingness to accept it. He knew deep down inside that
he could not continue to wait for the elders much longer. Eventually, if no one
else acted, he would, even if it led to his own death. Better to die struggling
to be a free man, Darius felt, than to live a long life as a slave to someone
else.

Darius looked around him at the hundred
or so boys in this field of green dust, all of them smashing rocks, all of them
covered in the dust that had come to mark their identities. Some of them were
his close friends, others were family members; still others were boys that he
trained with, muscular boys, most of them larger and bigger than he, and older,
some sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and some even in their twenties. Darius was
one of the youngest and smallest of the bunch—and yet he held his own, fought
as hard as any of them. They respected his skills, and they accepted him,
though they tested him often.

Darius also had something else that none
of the others had—something he had kept a secret his entire life, determined to
never let anyone else know of. It was a power, a power he did not understand.
His people scorned sorcery and magic of all sorts; it was strictly forbidden,
and it had been ingrained into him since he was a child. It was ironic, Darius
thought, because his village was rife with seers and prophets and healers who
used mystical arts. Yet when it came to sorcery in battle, it was considered a
disgrace. They would all rather die as slaves at the hand of the Empire.

So Darius had kept it close to himself, knowing
he would be an outcast if it was discovered. He also, he had to admit, was
afraid of it himself. He had been shocked the day he had stumbled upon it, just
recently, and he still was unsure if his power was real, or if it had just been
a fluke. He had been pushing back a rock, preparing to smash it with his ax, and
he had unearthed a nest of scorpions. One of them had made for his ankle, a
jumping scorpion, black with yellow stripes, the most lethal of all, and Darius
knew that the second it touched his skin, he’d be dead.

Darius had not even thought—he had just
reacted. He had pointed his finger toward it, and a light, so fast, like a
flash, had shot forth. The insect had flown backwards, several feet, landing on
its back, dead.

Darius had been more scared of the
discovery of his power than he had been of the scorpion. He had looked all
around to make sure no one had seen him, and luckily no one had. He did not
know what they would think of him if they had. Would they consider him a freak?

Darius suspected that, deep down, his people
did not really scorn magic; he guessed that the real fear of the elders was that
the Empire would find out. The Empire had a scorched-earth policy for anyone discovered
with any sort of magic powers. When people from other towns were discovered or
suspected to have powers, the Empire had come in and devastated the entire
town, murdered every last single man, woman, and child. Perhaps, Darius
thought, the elders frowned upon it so much out of self-preservation. Secretly,
of course, they would love to have powers that could topple the Empire. How
could they not?

Darius tried to focus on his work,
smashing rock twice as hard, trying to block these thoughts from his mind. He
knew they were not useful. This was his lot, at least for now. Until he was
prepared to do something about it, he had to suppress his feelings.

There came a sudden rumbling, followed
by distant screams. Darius stopped and turned with all the others, the air falling
silent for the first time that day, as they all examined the horizon. It was a
familiar sound: the sound of a collapse. Darius looked to the red mountains
looming over them in the distance, where thousands of his people worked, those
less fortunate, who had been assigned to till underneath the earth, mining
inside the caves. It was hot here, even for Darius, and they all worked with no
shirts under the beating sun of the Empire, on these hard red sands; but up
there, on the mountain ridges, underneath the earth, it was even hotter. Too
hot. Hot enough to cause the weak soil of the ridges to give way. Darius’s
heart fell as he watched the final crumbling of a mountain ridge, and saw dozens
of Empire guards shouting as they plummeted into the earth.

The two Empire taskmasters watching over
Darius’s group, donned in the finest armor and weaponry of the sharpest steel, both
turned to the horizon with alarm. They broke into a run, as the Empire often
did when one of their own was injured or killed. They left them alone—yet, of
course, they knew that the slaves would not dare run. They had nowhere to go, and
if they tried, they would be hunted down and killed—and their entire families killed
as retribution.

Darius saw his friends shake their heads
grimly at the sight, all pausing from their work, studying the horizon with
grave concern. Darius knew they were all thinking the same thing: they were
lucky they hadn’t been the ones picked to mine underground today. They looked
weighed down by guilt, and Darius wondered how many of them had friends of
family trapped or dying up there. It had somehow become a way of life, being
immune to the deaths that happened here every day, as if all of this was normal.
Death tainted the air here in these arid lands, in these rolling deserts and
mountains swept by heat and dust.
A land of fire
, his grandfather called
it.

“I hope it took out more Empire than us,”
one of the boys called out.

They all leaned on their axes, and if
nothing else, Darius thought, at least this would give them a break. After all,
the taskmasters would not return for several hours, given how far away those
mountain ridges were.

“I don’t know about you,” came a deep voice,
“but I think those are two fine-looking zertas.”

Darius recognized his friend Raj’s voice,
and he turned and followed his glance and saw what he was looking at: there sat
two Empire zertas, large, proud, beautiful animals, all white, twice the size
of horses, looking much like horses, but taller, wider, with thick skin, almost
like armor, and instead of a mane, having long, sloping yellow horns that began
behind their ears. They were glorious animals, and these two, tied up beneath a
tree in the shade, chewing on the grass, were the most beautiful Darius had
ever seen.

Darius could see mischief in Raj’s eyes
as he examined them.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Raj
added, “but I don’t intend to stand here all day and wait for their return. I want
a break—and I think those zertas can use a ride.”

“Are you crazy?” one of the other boys said.
“Those belong to the Empire. They catch you leaving here, they’ll kill you.
They catch you on their zertas, they’ll probably torture your entire family, after
they torture you first.”

Raj shrugged, leaned back, and wiped his
palms on his pants.

“They might,” he said, then grinned,
“but then again, they might not. And like you said, they have to catch me.”

Raj turned and studied the horizon.

“I doubt they’ll beat me back. They’ll
never even know their precious animals were gone. Any of you want to come?”

Darius was hardly surprised; Raj had
always been the daredevil of the bunch, fearless, proud, boastful, and the
first to incite others. All qualities Darius admired, except Raj was reckless,
too, and lacked good judgment.