The Gift of Battle (13 page)

Volusia stood
before the open gates of the capital, palms held out uselessly before her, and
watched, horrified, as the Knights of the Seven bore down on her, hardly fifty
yards away. It was death, staring her in the face, galloping toward her, and
she felt it coming with certainty. Finally, she was about to die.

But that was not
what horrified her most. What filled her with a sense of cold dread, even more
painful than the death to come, was her sudden realization. Was she not, after
all, a goddess? She could not understand. She had tried to summon her powers
and had failed. Why had the world not answered her?

Unless, Volusia
realized, a pit in her stomach, it had all been a lie, one grand delusion. What
if she was no goddess, after all? What if she were a mere mortal, like everyone
else? What if all the statues she had erected to herself, all the services, the
prayers, the incense, the holidays, the culture she had created—what if all of
it had been false?

The idea that
she was a mere mortal, a commoner like everyone else, was the most painful of
her life. She was someone who could bleed and die. Someone who was not
all-powerful. Someone whose life was about to come to an end.

To meet death in
the face, and not be a goddess, what would that mean? Volusia considered all
the people she had tortured and killed throughout her life; she had always
thought she would not have to answer for it. But now, what if all of them were
waiting to greet her on the other side? What if the cruel life she had led
would not be waiting to face her? Would she be dragged down to the lowest
hells?

She closed her
eyes and willed one last time for the universe to answer her, willed for
lightning to strike, the earth to move.

Yet nothing
happened. With the Volks gone, she could not even move a grain of sand.

Volusia stood
there, frozen in terror and fear as the army neared, half her face melted away,
hating life, cursing that she was ever born. Flashbacks passed through her
mind, and she was flooded with images of her life. She saw the day she murdered
her mother; saw all the ways she had tortured people; saw herself as a child,
being lashed by her mother, being told she would never amount to anything. She
was sure she had proved her mother wrong, having become ruler, having taken the
capital, having become far more powerful than her mother ever was.

But now,
ultimately, she wondered if her mother was right. She had failed, as her mother
had predicted. She was, after all, just another mortal, waiting to be killed
like everyone else.

The cries of the
men grew louder as they approached, so close now. In a panic, Volusia turned
and looked back toward the city, wondering if she had time to make it back. But
as she looked she heard a groaning noise and she watched in horror as all of
her generals and advisors stood there, watching. They did not run out to save
her, to protect her—but rather they stood there, leaving her unprotected,
stranded out in the middle of the desert to face an army alone.

Worse, they
began to close the door.

Volusia was horrified:
the gates were not groaning to open, but to shut on her. To shut her out of the
capital that she had vanquished. And to seal her out forever.

It was the final
blow to her heart.

Volusia turned
back and looked ahead of her to see the Knights of the Seven bearing down her,
now hardly ten yards away, the horses thumping in her ears, the cries of men
filling the air. They came right for her, lances extended. She wondered if
maybe they would slow, take her as prisoner. Surely, someone as valuable as she
would be much more valuable as a prisoner.

But as their
faces neared, she saw them etched with bloodlust, and she realized there would
be no prisoners on this day. They were not slowing, but rather speeding up,
their sharpened lances lowered, aimed right for her chest.

A second later
she felt it: the sharpened point of a lance pierced her, and she shrieked out,
in more agony than ever in her life, as the lance went straight through,
emerging from her back. To add insult to injury, it was just a commonplace soldier
who had impaled her, and he sneered down, piercing her all the way to the hilt.

As forces closed
in all around her, Volusia felt herself falling backwards, arms outstretched,
still alive, wracked with pain, dying a cruel and merciless death as horses
began to trample her. It was the death that never ended. She prayed for death,
prayed for the pain to end, and soon, she knew, it would come. But not soon
enough. For she was just a mortal now. A mortal, just like anyone else.

*

Darius stood in
the center of the arena, watching the chaos unfold all around him, and wondered
what he had just done. He stood there, feeling the heat still throbbing in his
palms, feeling his veins throbbing with an unfamiliar power, and he wondered
about himself. He looked out at the destruction all around him—the two
elephants, dead, smashed into the bleachers, the thousands of Empire spectators
dead, the arena cracked into pieces, people fleeing for their lives in every
direction—and he could hardly believe he had just done all this.

Darius looked
down, at the corpse of his father, and he felt a fresh wave of grief. This
time, though, he felt spent. Summoning that energy had taken a great toll on
him, and he sensed he needed time to recover. His arms and shoulders felt weak,
and he did not feel he could summon it again.

He was just a
normal human now, like any other soldier, and as he looked around at all the
chaos, he knew time was of the essence. He reached down, snatched a sword off
the corpse of an Empire soldier, and slashed his chains, freeing himself. It
was now or never if he wanted to escape.

Darius
disappeared into the chaos, melting into the fleeing crowd, weaving this way
and that, no one paying attention as they were all running for their lives. He
sprinted through the crowd and as he looked up ahead, he spotted a fissure in
the stadium, a crack leading out to the Empire city, to freedom. He ran for it,
merging with the throngs, getting bumped left and right and not caring.

He was nearly at
the exit when an Empire soldier turned and looked his way, and his face fell in
recognition.

“THE SLAVE!” he
yelled, pointing at Darius. “He’s—”

Darius didn’t
let him finish his sentence. He drew his sword, ran forward, and stabbed him
before he could say another word.

Others began to
turn and look at Darius, but he didn’t wait. He rushed forward, entering the
darkened tunnel, but thirty yards away from freedom, seeing the light at the
end of it. He ran as fast as he could, shaking with adrenaline, and finally he
burst through the opening, out into the open air and the bright light of the
city.

Darius expected
to see the orderly, open courtyards of the capital, but as he looked ahead, he
saw something instead that was confusing. It appeared that people in the city
were turning and running in panic. Soldiers ran every which way, crisscrossing
the streets as if running from an enemy. It made no sense. Why would anyone be
in a panic in the midst of the Empire capital, the most secure city in the
world?

Darius heard a
great commotion beyond the city walls, almost as if there were an army just
beyond them, clamoring to get in. It all made no sense.

At the massive
golden gates to the capital, Darius saw hundreds of soldiers lined up, as if
bracing themselves from attack. Darius was puzzled. What force out there could
be attacking the Empire capital itself? And where was Volusia?

Whoever it was,
they clearly wanted all of these Empire soldiers within the capital
destroyed—and ironically, that was a mission Darius shared. Whoever it was
beyond those gates, Darius wanted to help them get in, to lay waste to this
place. After all, there would be no better vengeance for his father, for his
people. Darius knew at once that those gates were the key: he had to help open
them, whatever the cost, even if it meant his life.

Darius rushed
forward, sword held high, and set his sights on the group of Empire soldiers
huddled before the great crank to the gates. There were a half-dozen of them,
their backs to him, guarding the crank—and none expecting an attack from
behind.

Darius let out a
great battle cry as he charged and threw himself into the group. Darius slashed
one, stabbed another, bashed another across the face with the hilt of his
sword, kicked another, and elbowed another in the throat. A few tried to
defend—but it was too little, too late. Darius was like a man on fire, throwing
his life to the wind, a whirlwind, no longer caring. This crank was the key to
opening the gates, to having this city destroyed. And for that, Darius, a man
with nothing left to lose, would give anything.

As he finished
off the last of the group of soldiers, Darius raised his sword high and slashed
the heavy rope affixing the crank to the gate. He slashed again and again, but
it was so thick, it took time.

Nearly done
severing it, he was suddenly grabbed from behind by an Empire soldier. Darius
reared back and elbowed him in the face, knocking him off. The soldier reached
back and smashed Darius across the face with his shield, and Darius stumbled
back and fell.

The soldier jumped
on top of him, and soon Darius found himself wrestling with him. The soldier
reached out and began to choke Darius. Darius, eyes bulging, felt himself
losing air quickly.

Darius flailed
about, grasping for anything, felt an object on the man’s belt—then grabbed it,
realizing it was a dagger. He pulled it back and stabbed the man in the ribs.

The soldier
cried out and rolled off him, and Darius got to his knees and stabbed him in
the heart.

Darius,
breathing hard, wiped blood from his lip, and as he heard a great cry, he
looked over to see that the other Empire soldiers had spotted him. They all
began to turn and make for him, and given that they were only fifty yards away,
Darius knew he had little time. It was now or never.

Darius leapt to
his feet, reached up with his sword, and hacked at the rope again—and again.
The soldiers neared, now but feet away, all with swords raised, ready to kill
him.

Finally, there
came a great snapping noise and the rope was severed. It went flying over the
edge of the wall, and as it did, the crank went spinning, and the gates began
to slowly open.

The gates opened
wider and wider, and there rose up a huge cry—the cry of an army—from the other
side. The Empire soldiers running for Darius stopped in their tracks and turned
toward it, too, faces etched in panic.

There suddenly
flooded through the open gates thousands of the Knights of the Seven, waving
their black banners, donning their glistening black armor, coming in with a
vengeance, as if they had been waiting to get in forever, like a thousand bats
released from hell. They charged right for the Empire soldiers, never slowing,
raising their flails and spears and lances and halberds, and cut their way
through the ranks of men in one great clash of armor.

It was a wave of
brute force and destruction, killing everything in its path, and the Empire did
not stand a chance. Men fell left and right, their cries filling the air, and
Darius felt a great sense of relief, of vindication. He had done it. He had
helped topple the Empire capital. He felt his father looking down on him,
smiling.

Darius, in the
path of destruction, knew he had to turn and run. But just as he prepared to do
so, suddenly, he looked up to see something coming for him, and he felt a
tremendous pain in the side of his head. He heard a clang of metal, and he
realized it was a club, and that he had been smashed in the side of the head by
one of the Seven.

Darius went
flying to the ground, and as he lay there, his world spinning, he felt himself
beginning to lose consciousness. He felt several rough hands grabbing him from
behind, and he was helpless to resist as he felt himself shackled, wrists and
ankles bound behind his back. Before he lost consciousness all together, he
heard a singular, dark voice call out through the crowd, and he knew his fate
had been decided for him.

“Bring this
slave to the ships.”

The Supreme
Lords of the Knights of the Seven stood in their chamber, standing over the
roundtable, lit up by the oculus high above that cast stark shadows on their
faces as they emerged from the gloom. They entered the small circle of light in
the otherwise blackened tower, something they would not do unless it was a
momentous time.

Now was one of
those times. The men stepped forward, aging faces pale and wrinkled, slowly
removing the hoods from their faces, each face more hideous than the next as
they revealed their cruel grins. They had each stared at each other’s faces for
a thousand years, and they each knew what the other was thinking. And on this
day, they each knew that something had happened that would change the fate of
the Empire forever.

“The blood moon
has risen,” said their leader, his ancient voice crackly, like a fire with no
end. “The time that has been prophesied has come. Now is the time to end all
times, the time when the Empire can be complete. Volusia has been destroyed.
The Capital has been taken again. The exiles of the Ring have been found and
are about to be obliterated. And, the biggest news of all.”

A long silence descended
on the group, as they waited anxiously.

“The Ridge has
been discovered.”

A gasp came from
the others.

“The last
bastion of rebellion in all the Empire has been found,” he added. “And now it
will be ours. We must send an army at once, the greatest army we can muster—and
then the Empire will have complete control for all time.”

The lord stepped
back out of the circle, and as he did, another one of the lords stepped
forward.

“The four horns
and two spikes are behind you,” he said. “We act as one.”

The Master of
Lords could feel them all looking to him, waiting for his final word. He stood
there for a long time, breathing, feeling the ancient ones with him, urging him
onto ultimate power. Soon, he knew, the Empire would have no foes left.

He smiled wide.

“It is time, my
lords,” he said slowly, his smile growing, “to obliterate the Ridge and
everything in it. It is time for them to learn the true power of the Empire.”