Morgan Rice - A Land of Fire

“And when is the time to fight?” he asked.

Zirk’s eyes burned back with fury, clearly unhappy at being questioned.

“The time is when we say it is.”

Darius grimaced.

“I’ve lived in this village my entire life,” Darius said, “and that time has never come. And I sense it never will. You are all so intent on protecting what we have, that you won’t see that we have nothing.”

Zirk shook his head disapprovingly.

“These are the words of a youth,” he said. “You would rush into battle, into a sure death, just to relieve your passion. You, who are so small that you cannot even beat your brethren in battle. What makes you think you can beat the Empire? You, with no weapons, unarmed?”

“We have weapons,” Darius countered.

Desmond came up beside them, along with several of his brothers. They all crowded around, and as they did, Kaz stepped forward and laughed derisively.

“We have bows and slings and weapons made of bamboo,” he said. “Those are not weapons. We have no steel. And you expect to battle against the finest armor and weaponry and horses of the Empire? You will incite others and get them all killed. You should stay in our village and keep your mouth shut.”

“Then what do we train for?” Darius challenged. “For wrestling matches in the forest? For an enemy we are too afraid to face?”

Zirk stepped forward and pointed a finger in Darius’s face.

“If you’re unhappy, you can leave us,” he said. “Joining our force is a privilege.”

Zirk turned his back on him and walked away, and the other boys, too, began to leave.

Raj looked at him and shook his head in admiration.

“Upsetting everyone today, aren’t you?” Raj asked with a smile.

“I am with you,” came a voice.

Darius turned to see Desmond standing there. “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my back.”

Before Darius could reply, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see a small man wearing a cloak and hood, and gesturing for him to follow. Darius looked all around, then back at the man, wondering who he was.

The man turned and walked away quickly, and Darius, intrigued, followed after him through the crowd, weaving his way in every direction.

The man weaved his way in and out, between houses, to the far side of the village before he finally stopped before a small clay home. He pushed back his hood as he faced him, and Darius saw his large, darting eyes that looked about cautiously.

“If your words are not empty words,” the man said in a whisper, “I have steel. I have weapons. Real weapons.”

Darius stared at him, eyes widening in awe. He had never met anyone who had possessed steel before, as owning it was on pain of death, and he wondered where he’d gotten it.

“When you are ready, find me,” the man added. “The last clay house by the river. Speak to no one of this. If anyone asks, I will deny it.”

The man turned and hurried off into the crowd, and Darius watched him, wondering, his mind swarming with questions. Before he could call out after him, Darius felt yet another strong hand on his shoulder, spinning him around.

Darius saw the face of his disapproving grandfather, his face lined with age, framed by his short, gray hair, scowling down at him. He was, though, surprisingly strong and vibrant for his age.

“That man leads to death,” his grandfather warned sternly. “Not just for you, but for all of your kin. Do you understand me? We have survived for generations, unlike other slaves in other provinces, because we have never embraced steel. If the Empire catches you with it, they will raze our village to the ground, and will kill every single one of us,” he said, jabbing his finger in his chest to drive home his point. “If I catch you seeking out that man, you will be banished from our family. You will not be welcome in our home. I shall not say this again.”

“Papa—” Darius began.

But his grandfather had already turned and stormed back into the village.

Darius watched him go, upset. He loved his grandfather, who had practically raised him since the disappearance of his own father years ago. Darius respected him, too. But he did not share his view on complacency. He never would. His grandfather was of another generation. And he would never understand. Never.

Darius turned back to the crowd, and one face caught his attention. Standing there, about twenty feet away, was the girl, the one he had seen in the Alluvian Forest. People passed by in front of her, yet she kept her eyes fixed upon Darius, as if no one else in the world existed.

Darius’s heart pounded at the sight of her, and the rest of the world melted away. This girl had captivated his thoughts since he had laid eyes upon her, and seeing her now, here, felt surreal. He had wondered if he would ever see her again.

Darius pushed his way through the crowd, heading toward her. He was afraid she might turn away, but she stood there, proudly, staring back, and it was unmistakable that she was looking at him. Her face was expressionless. She did not smile—but she did not frown either.

Darius looked into her soulful yellow eyes, and below them he could see the small welt on her cheek where the taskmaster had struck her. He felt a fresh wave of indignity, and more than anything, he felt a connection with her, something stronger than he’d ever felt.

He broke through the crowd and stood a few feet away from her. He did not know what to say, and they both stood there, facing each other, in the silence.

“I heard your words, in the village,” she said. Her voice was deep and strong, the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard. “Are they hollow?” she asked.

Darius flushed.

“They are not hollow,” he replied.

“So what action do you plan on taking?” she asked.

He stood there, not sure how to respond. He had never met anyone as direct as her.

“I…don’t know,” he said.

She studied him.

“I have four brothers,” she said. “They are warriors. They think the same way as you. And I have already lost one of my brothers because of it.”

Darius looked at her, surprised.

“How?” he asked.

“He went off by himself, one night, to wage war with the Empire. He killed a few taskmasters. But they caught him, and they killed him horribly. Cruelly. He had stripped himself of all his markings, so they couldn’t track him back to us, or they would have killed us all, too.”

She looked at Darius as if debating something.

“I don’t want to be with a man who is like my brother,” she finally said. “There is room for pride among boys—but not among men. Because men must back up pride with action. And action for us means death.”

Darius looked at her, taken aback by her words, her eyes so strong, so powerful, never wavering from his. He was in awe of her. She spoke with the strength and wisdom of a queen, and he could hardly understand how he was looking back at a girl his own age.

More than anything, as he stood there, his heart pounding, he wondered why she was talking to him. He wondered if she liked him, if she had the same feelings for him that he had for her. Did she like him? Or was she just trying to help him?

“So tell me, then,” she finally said, after a long silence. “Are you a you a man? Or a hero?”

Darius did not know how to respond.

“I am neither,” he said. “I am just myself.”

She stared at him long and hard, as if summing him up, as if trying to decide.

Finally, she turned and began to walk away. Darius’s heart was falling, as he assumed he’d given her the wrong answer, that she changed her mind.

But as she walked away, she turned her head to him, and for the first time, and said: