The silence was shattered by a wild dog’s manic barking, and Godfrey looked down to see Dray emerging from a city alley, barking and snarling like mad, charging across the courtyard after his master. He, too, was desperate to save Darius, and as he reached the great iron gates, he leapt up and threw himself on them, tearing at them, fruitlessly, with his teeth.
Godfrey watched with horror as the Empire soldiers standing guard caught sight of Dray and signaled to each other. One drew his sword and approached the dog, clearly preparing to slaughter him.
Godfrey did not know what overcame him, but something inside him snapped. It was just too much for him, too much injustice for him to bear. If he could not save Darius, at least he must save his beloved dog.
Godfrey heard himself shout, felt himself running, as if he were outside of himself. With a surreal feeling, he felt himself draw his short sword and rush forward for the unsuspecting guard, and as the guard turned, he watched himself plunge it into the guard’s heart.
The huge Empire soldier looked down at Godfrey with disbelief, his eyes open wide, as he stood there, frozen. Then he dropped down to the ground, dead.
Godfrey heard a cry and saw the two other Empire guards bear down on him. They raised their menacing weapons, and he knew he was no match for them. He would die here, at this gate, but at least he would die with a noble effort.
A snarl ripped through the air, and Godfrey saw, out of the corner of his eye, Dray turn and bound forward, and leap onto the guard looming over Godfrey. He sank his fangs into his throat, and pinned him down to the ground, tearing at him until the man stopped moving.
At the same time, Merek and Ario rushed forward and each used their short swords to stab the other guard at Godfrey’s back, killing him together before he could finish Godfrey off.
They all stood there, in the silence, Godfrey looking at all the carnage, shocked at what he had just done, shocked that he had that sort of bravery, as Dray rushed over and licked the back of his hand.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Merek said, admiringly.
Godfrey stood there, stunned.
“I’m not even sure what I just did,” he said, meaning it, the events all a blur. He had not meant to act—he just had. Did that still make him brave? he wondered.
Akorth and Fulton looked every which way, in terror, for any sign of Empire soldiers.
“We must get out of here!” Akorth yelled. “Now!”
Godfrey felt hands on him and felt himself ushered away. He turned and ran with the others, Dray at their side, all of them leaving the gate, running back to Volusia, and to God knew what the fates had in store for them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Darius sat back against the iron bars, his wrists shackled to his ankles, a long, heavy chain between them, his body covered in wounds and bruises, and he felt like he weighed a million pounds. As he went, the carriage bouncing on the rough road, he looked out and watched the desert sky between the bars, feeling forlorn. His carriage passed through an endless, barren landscape, nothing but desolation as far as the eye could see. It looked as if the world had ended.
His carriage was shaded, but streaks of sunlight streamed through the bars, and he felt the oppressive desert heat rising up in waves, making him sweat even in the shade, adding to his discomfort.
But Darius did not care. His entire body burned and ached from his head to his toes, covered in lumps, his limbs hard to move, worn out from the endless days of fighting in the arena. Unable to sleep, he closed his eyes and tried to make the memories go away, but each time he did, he saw all of his friends dying alongside him, Desmond, Raj, Luzi and Kaz, each in terrible ways. All of them dead so that he could survive.
He was the victor, had achieved the impossible—and yet that meant little to him now. He knew death was coming; his reward, after all, was to be shipped off for the Empire capital, to become a spectacle in a greater arena, with even worse foes. The reward for it all, for all his acts of valor, was death.
Darius would rather die right now than go through it all again. But he could not even control that; he was shackled here, helpless. How much longer would this torture have to go on? Would he have to witness every last thing he loved in the world die before he could die himself?
Darius closed his eyes again, desperately trying to blot out the memories, and as he did there came to him an early childhood memory. He was playing before his grandfather’s hut, in the dirt, wielding a staff. He hit a tree again and again, until finally his grandfather snatched it from him.
“Do not play with sticks,” his grandfather scolded. “Do you wish to catch the Empire’s attention? Do you wish for them to think of you as a warrior?”
His grandfather broke the stick over his knee, and Darius had bristled with outrage. That was more than a stick: that was his all-powerful staff, the only weapon he’d had. That staff had meant everything to him.
Yes, I want them to know me as a warrior. I want to be known as nothing else in life, Darius had thought.
But as his grandfather turned his back and stormed away, he had been too scared to say it aloud.
Darius had picked up the broken stick and held the pieces in his hands, tears rolling down his cheek. One day, he vowed, he would take revenge on all of them—his life, his village, their situation, the Empire, anything and everything he could not control.
He would crush them all. And he would be known as nothing other than a warrior.
Darius did not know how much time had passed when he awoke, but he noticed immediately that the bright morning sun of the desert had shifted to the dim orange sun of afternoon, heading to sunset. The air was much cooler, too, and his wounds had stiffened, making it harder for him to move, to even shift himself in the uncomfortable carriage. The horses jostled endlessly on the hard rock of the desert, the endless feeling of metal banging against his head making him feel as if it were shattering his skull. He rubbed his eyes, pulling the caked dirt from his lashes, and wondered how far this capital was. He felt as if he he’d traveled already to the ends of the earth.
He blinked several times and looked out, expecting, as always to see an empty horizon, a desert of waste. Yet this time as he looked out, he was startled to see something else. He sat up straighter for the first time.
The carriage began to slow, the thundering of the horses quieted a bit, the roads became smoother, and as he studied the new landscape, Darius saw a sight he would never forget: there, rising out of the desert like some lost civilization, was a massive city wall, seeming to rise to the heavens and stretching as far as the eye could see. It was marked by huge, shining golden doors, its walls and parapets lined with Empire soldiers, and Darius knew at once that they had made it: the capital.
The sound of the road changed, a hollow, wooden sound, and Darius looked down and saw the carriage being driven over an arched drawbridge. They passed hundreds more soldiers lining the bridge, all of whom snapped to attention as they went.
A great groaning filled the sky, and Darius looked ahead and watched the golden doors, impossibly tall, open wide, as if to embrace him. He saw a glimmer beyond them, of the most magnificent city he’d ever seen, and he knew, without a doubt, that this was a place from which there would be no escape. As if to confirm his thoughts, Darius heard a distant thunder, one he recognized immediately: it was the roar of an arena, a new arena, of men out for blood, and of what would surely be his final resting place. He did not fear it; he just prayed to god that he die on his feet, a sword in his hand, in one final act of valor.