Darius stood there, arms trembling, holding out his steel sword before him and determined not to show fear as he stood between them and Loti.
“She does not belong to you,” Darius called out, his voice shaky. “She is a free woman. We are all free!”
The soldiers looked up to the taskmaster.
“Boy,” he called out to Darius, “you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.”
He nodded down to his soldiers, and they raised their swords and charged Darius.
Darius stood his ground, holding his sword in trembling hands, and as he did, he felt his ancestors looking down on him. He felt all the slaves who had ever been killed looking down on him, supporting him. And he began to feel a great heat rising up within him.
Darius felt his hidden power deep within beginning to stir, itching to be summoned. But he would not allow himself to go there. He wanted to fight them man to man, to beat them as any man would, to apply all of his training with his brothers in arms. He wanted to win as a man, fight like a man with real metal weapons, and defeat them on their own terms. He had always been faster than all of the older boys, with their long wooden swords and muscular frames, even boys twice his size. He dug in, and braced himself as they charged.
“Loti!” he called out, not turning, “RUN! Go back to the village!”
“NO!” she yelled back.
Darius knew he had to do something; he could not stand there and wait for them to reach him. He knew he had to surprise them, to do something they would not expect.
Darius suddenly charged, choosing one of the two soldiers and racing right for him. They met in the middle of the dirt clearing, Darius letting out a great battle cry. The soldier slashed his sword at Darius’s head, but Darius raised his sword and blocked it, their swords sparking, the impact of metal on metal the first Darius had ever felt. The blade was heavier than he thought, the soldier’s blow stronger, and he felt a great vibration, felt his entire arm shaking, up to his elbow and into his shoulder. It caught him off guard.
The soldier swung around quickly, aiming to strike Darius from the side, and Darius spun and blocked. This did not feel like sparring with his brothers; Darius felt himself moving slower than usual, the blade so heavy. It was taking some getting used to. It felt as if the other soldier were moving twice as fast as he.
The soldier swung again, and Darius realized he could not beat him blow for blow; he had to draw on his other skills.
Darius stepped sideways, ducking the blow instead of meeting it, and he then threw an elbow into the soldier’s throat. He caught it perfectly. The man gagged and stumbled back, hunched over, grasping his throat. Darius raised the butt of his sword and brought it down on his exposed back, sending him face down into the dirt.
At the same time the other soldier charged, and Darius spun, raised his sword, and blocked a mighty blow as it came down for his face. The soldier kept charging, though, driving Darius back and down to the ground, hard.
Darius felt his rib cage being crushed as the soldier lay on top of him, both of them landing on the hard dirt in a big cloud of dust. The soldier dropped his sword and reached out with his hands, trying to gouge out Darius’s eyes with his fingers.
Darius grabbed his wrists, holding them back with shaking hands, but losing ground. He knew he needed to do something fast.
Darius raised a knee and turned, managing to spin the man onto his side. In the same motion, Darius reached down and extracted the long dagger he spotted in the man’s belt—and in the same motion, raised it high and plunged it into the man’s chest, as they rolled on the ground,
The soldier cried out, and Darius lay there on top of him, and watched him die before his eyes. Darius lay there, frozen, shocked. It was the first time he had killed a man. It was a surreal experience. He felt victorious yet saddened at the same time.
Darius heard a cry from behind, snapping him out of it, and he turned to see the other soldier, the one he had knocked out, back on his feet, racing for him. He raised his sword and swung it for his head.
Darius waited, focused, then ducked at the last second; the soldier went stumbling past him.
Darius reached down and drew the dagger from the dead man’s chest and spun around, and as the soldier turned back and charged again, Darius, on his knees, leaned forward and threw it.
He watched the blade spin end over end, then finally lodge itself into the soldier’s heart, piercing his armor. The Empire’s own steel, second to none, used against them. Perhaps, Darius thought, they should have crafted weapons less sharp.
The soldier sank to his knees, eyes bulging, and he fell sideways, dead.
Darius heard a great cry behind him, and he jumped to his feet and wheeled to see the taskmaster dismounting from his zerta. He scowled and drew his sword and bore down on Darius with a great cry.
“Now I shall have to kill you myself,” he said. “But not only will I kill you, I shall torture you and your family and your entire village slowly!”
He charged for Darius.
This Empire taskmaster was obviously a greater soldier than the others, taller and broader, with greater armor. He was a hardened warrior, the greatest warrior Darius had ever fought. Darius had to admit he felt fear at this formidable foe—but he refused to show it. Instead, he was determined to fight through his fear, to refuse to allow himself to be intimidated. He was just a man, Darius told himself. And all men can fall.
All men can fall.
Darius raised his sword as the taskmaster bore down on him, swinging his great sword, flashing in the light, with both hands. Darius shifted and blocked; the man swung again.
Left and right, left and right, the soldier slashed and Darius blocked, the great clang of metal ringing in his ears, sparks flying everywhere. The man drove him back, further and further, and it took all of Darius’s might just to block the blows. The man was strong and quick, and Darius was preoccupied with just staying alive.
Darius blocked one blow just a bit too slowly, and he cried out in pain as the taskmaster found an opening and slashed his bicep. It was a shallow wound, but a painful one, and Darius felt the blood, his first wound in battle, and was stunned by it.
It was a mistake. The taskmaster took advantage of his hesitation, and he backhanded him with his gauntlet. Darius felt a great pain in his cheek and jaw as the metal met his face, and as the blow knocked him backwards, sent him stumbling several feet, Darius took a mental note to never stop and check a wound anytime in battle.
As Darius tasted blood on his lips, a fury washed over him. The taskmaster, charging him again, bearing down on him, was big and strong, but this time, with pain ringing in his cheek and blood on his tongue, Darius didn’t let that intimidate him. The first blows of battle had been struck, and Darius realized, as painful as they were, they were not that bad. He was still standing, still breathing, still living.
And that meant he still could fight. He could take blows, and he could still go on. Getting wounded was not as bad as he had feared. He might be smaller, less experienced, but he realized his skill was as sharp as any other man’s—and it could be just as deadly.
Darius let out a guttural cry and lunged forward, embracing battle this time instead of shying away from it. No longer fearing being wounded, Darius raised his sword with a cry, and slashed down at his opponent. The man blocked it, but Darius did not give up, swinging again and again and again, driving the taskmaster back, despite his greater size and strength.
Darius fought for his life, fought for Loti, fought for all of his people, his brothers in arms, and, slashing left and right, faster than he’d ever had, not letting the weight of the steel slow him down any longer, he finally found an opening. The taskmaster screamed out in pain as Darius slashed his side.