Morgan Rice - A Land of Fire

Filling Darius’s ears were the cheers of the others, encouraging them to hang or to fall. Another boy beside him slipped, and Darius heard him hit the mud. There came another cheer.

Now there were three of them. Darius’s palms burned as he hung from the bamboo, the branch sagging, his shoulders feeling as if they would come loose from their sockets. Down below he saw the disapproving eyes of his instructors, watching over him, and Darius was intent on proving them wrong. He knew that they expected him to fail—and he knew what he did not have in size and age he could make up for in spirit.

Another boy dropped, there came another cheer, and now there were just Darius and one other boy left hanging. Darius glanced over and saw who it was—Desmond—a boy twice as large and tall as he, one of the most respected of all the boys. They were slaves by day, but they considered themselves warriors by night, and as they trained together at night, they had a hierarchy, a fierce code of honor and respect. If they could not get respect from the Empire, they could get it from themselves, and these boys lived and died for this respect. If they could not fight against the Empire, at least they could train and compete amongst themselves.

As Darius’s limbs ached with an unspeakable pain, he closed his eyes and willed himself to hang on. He wondered how much pain Desmond could endure, how much longer it would take him to drop. This contest meant more to Darius than he could say, and a reflex was prompting him to use his hidden powers.

But Darius shook the thought from his mind, forcing himself not to use magic, not to have any unfair advantage; he wanted to beat the others with force of will alone.

His sweaty palms slipping from the bamboo, one inch at a time, he was beginning to slide. He was seeing stars as his ears were filled with the shouts and cries of the boys below, sounding a hundred miles away. He wanted more than anything to hold on, but as he slipped, soon he was hanging on by just his fingertips.

Darius grunted as he closed his eyes and felt himself about to pass out. He knew in another second he would have to release.

Just before he let go, Darius heard a sudden slip, heard a body fall through the air and land in the mud, and heard a loud cheer. He opened his eyes to see Desmond on the ground, collapsed in exhaustion. The boys cheered, and Darius somehow summoned the strength to hang on for a few more seconds, basking in his victory. He did not just want to win; he wanted a clear and firm victory, wanted the others to see and to know that he was the strongest.

Finally, he let himself go, his shoulders giving on him as he fell through the air and landed in the mud.

Darius rolled to his side, his shoulders on fire, and before he could nurse his exhaustion, he felt a dozen boys jumping on him in congratulations, cheering, yanking him to his feet. Covered in mud, Darius struggled to catch his breath as the crowd parted ways and his commander, Zirk, a true warrior, wide as a tree trunk, with no shirt and rippling muscles, stepped forward.

The crowd quieted as Zirk looked down on him, expressionless.

“Next time you win,” Zirk said, his voice deep, “hold on longer. It is not enough to win: you must crush your opponents.”

Zirk turned and walked away, and Darius watched him go, disappointed he had not received any praise. Then again, he knew that was the way of the instructors. Any attention, any words from them, should be considered approval.

“Choose a partner!” Zirk boomed, facing the others. “It is time for wrestling!”

“But our shoulders have not even recovered yet!” protested one of the boys.

Zirk turned to him.

“That is exactly why we must wrestle now. Do you think your opponent in battle will give you time to recover? You must learn to fight at your weakest, and learn at that moment to fight your best.”

The boys began to break off into positions, and as they did, Desmond came up beside Darius.

“Nice job back there,” Desmond said, extending a hand.

They clasped forearms, and Darius was surprised. It was the first time Desmond had paid him any attention.

“I underestimated you,” Desmond said. “You’re not as weak as you look.” He smiled.

Darius smiled back.

“Is that a compliment?”

They were separated in the chaos, as boys got between them, hurrying every which way to pair up with each other for wrestling. Beside him, the one boy in the group that Darius did not like—Kaz, a bulky boy with a square jaw and narrow, mean eyes—ran over to Luzi, the smallest boy of the group, and grabbed him by the shirt. Luzi had initially paired off with someone close to his size, but Kaz yanked him away and made him face him.

“You will wrestle with me,” Kaz said.

Luzi looked up at him, terrified.

“It won’t be a match,” Luzi said. “You are three times my size.”

Kaz smiled casually back, a cruel look to his face.

“I can wrestle with anyone I choose to,” he said. “Maybe you will learn something. Or maybe, after your beating, you will leave our group.”

Darius felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he felt the indignity of it. Darius could not stand to see injustice anywhere, and he could not allow himself to sit idly by.

Without thinking, Darius suddenly stepped between them, facing Kaz. He looked up at Kaz, taller than him by a head and twice as wide, and he forced himself not to look away, and not to feel fear.

“Why don’t you wrestle with me ?” Darius said to him.

Kaz’s expression darkened as he stared back at Darius.

“You can hang from a branch, boy,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you can fight. Now get out of my way, or I’ll pummel you, too.”

Kaz reached out to shove him away, but Darius did not move; instead, he stood there, resolute, and smiled back.

“Then pummel me,” he said. “You might—but I will fight back. I might lose, but I will not back down.”

Kaz, furious, reached out to grab Darius and throw him out of his way. But as soon as Kaz’s hand reached his shirt, Darius used a trick he’d learned from one of the teachers: he waited until the last moment, then grabbed Kaz’s wrist in a lock and spun it around, twisting his arm behind his back. Darius threw him face down to the mud, sending him sliding across the clearing, then jumped on top of him, beginning the wrestling match.

All the boys in the forest clearing took notice, and they all crowded around them, cheering, as Darius felt himself spinning, being thrown by Kaz’s great bulk as he wheeled around. Darius slid across the mud, and before he could react, Kaz was on top of him. Kaz’s weight and strength were too much for him, and soon Kaz pinned him down.

“You little rat,” Kaz seethed. “You’re going to pay for this.”

Kaz spun around, and Darius felt his arm being yanked behind his back; the pain was excruciating, and it felt as if it were about to be broken off.

Darius felt his face buried in the mud, as Kaz leaned in close behind him, his hot breath on the back of his neck. The pain in his arm was indescribable as Kaz yanked it back even further.

“I can break your arm right now if I choose to,” Kaz hissed in his ear.

“Then do it,” Darius groaned back. “It still won’t change who you are: a coward.”

Kaz pulled his arm back harder, and Darius groaned, feeling that Kaz was about to break it.

Suddenly, Darius heard footsteps running across the mud, and he saw, from the corner of his eye, Luzi appear and jump on Kaz’s back.

Kaz, enraged, let go of Darius’s arm, stood up, and threw Luzi, who went flying through the air.

Darius spun around, nursing his aching arm, to see Kaz turn back around for him. Darius braced himself for another blow—when suddenly Desmond arrived, blocking Kaz’s way.