Morgan Rice - A Joust of Knights

The sound of a whip cracked through the air, as an Empire soldier came at them from behind and lashed them with his long whip, catching Erec and Strom by surprise as he lashed the hilt of Erec’s sword and yanked it from his hands. Erec reacted quickly, turning and throwing his shield sideways; it went spinning through the air and hit the soldier in the throat, knocking him down. Defenseless, another soldier brought his sword down for his face—but Strom stepped up and blocked the blow for his brother, then stabbed and killed the man.

Erec charged forward, ankles splashing in the water, grabbed his sword, extricated the whip, and kicked the taskmaster back, then stabbed him in the chest.

The fighting continued, on and on, thick and heavy, the waters running red with blood, men dying in every direction—until finally, it slowed. The clanging became less persistent, the smashing of shields dropped away, the sound of armor clinking died, as did the shouts and cries of men. Soon all that could be heard was the running of the river, thick in the air of silence.

Standing there, breathing hard, sweat running down the back of his neck, Erec looked about and surveyed the battlefield, and slowly, inwardly, he rejoiced as he saw his men standing over hundreds of Empire corpses, victorious. They all looked to him proudly, these great warriors of the Southern Isles, men he could not possibly be more proud to lead.

Slowly, like rabbits emerging from their holes, the villagers crept out of their houses, out of the village, coming forward in disbelief at the sight. They seemed hardly able to fathom that all the Empire taskmasters, these people who had oppressed them so badly, were dead.

Erec stepped forward and raised his sword and walked through the ranks of villagers, slicing the shackles holding them together—and all around him, his men did the same. He saw the villagers’ eyes fill with tears as they dropped to their knees, liberated.

He looked down as one of them grabbed his leg, knelt, and cried.

“Thank you,” he wept. “Thank you.”

Darius was rudely awakened, his head smashed into the iron bars of the carriage as it came to a grinding halt. He barely had time to process what was happening when keys jingled in the lock, the iron door slid open, and several rough hands grabbed him by the chest and yanked him out into harsh daylight.

He landed on the hard dirt ground, tumbling, dust rising all around him, squinting his eyes into the sun as he held up his hands. His ankles and wrists shackled, he couldn’t resist even if he wanted to. The Empire taskmaster knew that, yet he placed his boot on Darius’s throat anyway, enjoying inflicting pain on him. Darius could barely breathe, feeling his windpipe being crushed.

More rough hands grabbed him and yanked him to his feet and Darius shut his eyes again, every muscle in his body aching, feeling so stiff and sore, every movement hurting him.

“Move it, slave!” yelled a taskmaster, and Darius felt a rough shove as he stumbled forward through the streets.

Darius slowly opened his eyes into the glaring sun, trying to get his bearings and figure out where he was. At least that carriage had stopped; he could not stand another minute of its jolting his head.

Darius heard shouting all around him, and he realized he was in a crowded city, people bustling everywhere, slaves like him, chained by wrists and ankles, being ushered by Empire handlers in every direction. He was marched with a long group of slaves, dozens of them, all of them being ushered through a tall, arched stone opening, leading into a stone tunnel and toward what appeared to be a training barracks.

Darius heard a thunderous roar, and he glanced up and saw beyond that, a coliseum twice the size of the one in Volusia. It was the most glorious and terrifying thing he’d ever seen. And then he realized, without a doubt, where he was: he had arrived in the Empire capital.

Darius barely had time to consider it when he felt a club on his back.

“Move it, slave!” the man yelled out.

Darius went stumbling with the group into the darkened tunnel, and as he lost his balance and rushed forward, he felt a sharp sting as he was elbowed in his face.

“Don’t bump me, boy!” snarled another slave in the darkness.

Darius, furious that a fellow slave would catch him off guard like that, would strike him for what was clearly an accident, reacted. He shoved the slave back, sending him stumbling backwards into a stone wall. He was so pent up with aggression that he had to let it out on someone.

The slave rushed forward to tackle Darius, but at that moment a new throng of slaves marched in, and it was so dark in here, the boy pounced on another slave, mistaking him for Darius. Darius heard the boys all shout out, as the two strangers wrestled on the ground. It went on for a few seconds before the taskmasters appeared with clubs and beat them both.

Darius kept moving with the others, and a moment later, he emerged into sunlight again and found himself in the dusty courtyard of a square, stone training barracks, its walls lined with arches all around. Lined up were hundreds of slaves, mostly boys his age, chained to each other by long shackles. Darius felt a rough hand on his wrist and he looked over as an Empire taskmaster clamped his shackles to another boy’s

Darius continued shuffling into the courtyard in the long line of boys, hundreds of them lining the walls, until finally he felt a yank on his chain, and all the boys came to a stop, in a great clanging of chains.

Darius stood there in the tense silence, looking out with the others, wondering what to expect now. What agony awaited them next? he wondered.

A dozen Empire soldiers emerged from one of the arches, marching into the silent courtyard, a huge Empire soldier leading the way, clearly their leader. He paced up and down the line of boys, examining them one at a time.

Finally, scowling, he cleared his throat.

“You have all been brought here, to me, because you are the best of the best,” he called out, his voice dark and malevolent. “You each hail from villages and towns and cities all over the Empire, from all four horns and both spikes. Every day, hundreds more of you are brought to me—yet only the best of you will fight in our coliseum.”

All the boys remained silent, a thick tension in the air, as the taskmaster paced, his boots crunching on the ground.

“You might all be the best from wherever you are,” he finally continued, “but that means nothing to me here. This is the greatest coliseum in the greatest capital in the world. Here you will find foes that will make your skills seem worthless. Most of you will die like dogs.”

The taskmaster continued pacing and then, without warning, he drew his sword, stepped forward, and stabbed one of the boys in the heart.

The boy gasped and dropped to his knees, dead, yanking on the others’ chains—and the other boys gasped. Darius, too, was shocked.

“That boy was weak,” the taskmaster explained. “I could see it in his eyes. He did not stand tall enough.”

Darius felt sickened as the taskmaster continued walking the line; he wanted to reach out and kill him—but he was chained, and weaponless.

A moment later, the taskmaster reached out and sliced a boy’s throat, and the boy collapsed at his feet.

“That boy was too frail,” he explained, as he continued walking.

Darius felt his heart pounding as the taskmaster neared him. Hardly twenty feet down from Darius, he swung his sword and cut off a boy’s head.

Darius saw his head roll on the ground, and he looked up at the man, shocked that anyone could love killing so much.

“That boy,” the taskmaster said, grinning a cruel grin and staring right at Darius, “I killed just for fun.”