Morgan Rice - The Gift of Battle

They continued marching in silence, the only sound that of their boots crunching beneath the rock. Finally, Loc inched closer beside her.

“It’s not what you see,” he whispered, “but what you don’t see. Look closely. Up there, on the ridge.”

She studied the landscape, but saw nothing.

“There is but one taskmaster up there. One. For two dozen slaves. Look back, over the valley, and see how many there are.”

Loti glanced furtively back over her shoulder, and in the valley spread out below, she saw dozens of taskmasters overseeing slaves, who broke rock and tilled the land. She turned and looked back up at the ridge, and she understood for the first time what her brother had in mind. Not only was there only one taskmaster, but even better, there was a zerta beside him. A means of escape.

She was impressed.

He nodded in understanding.

“The ridgetop is the most dangerous job post,” he whispered. “The hottest, the least desired, by slave and taskmaster alike. But that, my sister, is an opportunity.”

Loti was suddenly kicked in the back, and she stumbled forward along with Loc. The two of them righted themselves and continued up the ridge, Loti gasping for air, trying to catch her breath beneath the rising heat as they ascended. But this time, when she looked back up, her heart swelled with optimism, beating faster in her throat: finally, they had a plan.

Loti had never considered her brother to be bold, so willing to take such risk, to confront the Empire. But now as she looked at him, she could see the desperation in his eyes, could see that he was finally thinking as she was. She saw him in a new light, and she admired him greatly for it. It was exactly the type of plan she would have come up with herself.

“And what of our shackles?” she whispered back, as she made sure the taskmasters were not looking.

Loc gestured with his head.

“His saddle,” Loc replied. “Look closely.”

Loti looked and saw the long sword dangling in it; she realized they could use it to cut the shackles. They could make a break from there.

Feeling a sense of optimism for the first time since being captured, Loti perused the other slaves atop the peak. They were all broken men and women, hunched mindlessly over their tasks, none with any defiance left in their eyes; she knew at once that none of them would be of any help to their cause. That was fine by her—they did not need their help. They needed but one chance, and for all these other slaves to serve as a distraction.

Loti felt one final hard kick in the small of her back, and she stumbled forward and landed face-first in the dirt as they reached the peak of the ridge. She felt rough hands drag her back up to her feet, and she turned to see the taskmaster shove her roughly before turning and heading back down the ridge, leaving them there.

“Get in line!” yelled a new taskmaster, the sole one atop the ridge.

Loti felt his calloused hands grab the back of her neck and shove her; her chains rattled as she hurried forward, stumbling into the work field of slaves. She was handed a long hoe with an iron end, then given one last shove as the Empire taskmaster expected her to start tilling with all the others.

Loti turned, saw Loc give her a meaningful nod, and she felt the fire burning in her veins; she knew it was now or never.

Loti let out a cry, raised the hoe, swung it around, and with all her might brought it down. She was shocked to feel the thud, to see it lodged into the back of the taskmaster’s head.

Loti had swung around so quickly, so decisively, clearly he had never expected it. He had not even time to react. Clearly no slave here, surrounded by all these taskmasters and with nowhere to run, would ever dare such a move.

Loti felt the buzz of the hoe throughout her hands and arms, and she watched in shock, then satisfaction, as the guard stumbled forward and fell. With her back still burning from the lashes, it felt like vindication.

Her brother stepped forward, raised his own hoe high, and as the taskmaster began to writhe, he brought it straight down on the back of his head.

Finally, the taskmaster lay still.

Breathing hard, covered in sweat, her heart still pounding, Loti dropped the hoe in disbelief, sprayed with the man’s blood, and exchanged a glance with her brother. They had done it.

Loti could feel the curious stares of all the other slaves around her, and she turned and saw that they were all watching, mouths agape. They all leaned on their hoes, stopping work, and gave them a horrified look of disbelief.

Loti knew she had no time to waste. She ran, Loc beside her, shackled together, to the zerta, lifted the longsword from its saddle with both hands, raising it high, and turned.

“Watch out!” she yelled to Loc.

He braced himself as she lowered it with all her might and slashed their chains. It sparked, and she felt the satisfying freedom of their chains being severed.

She turned to go when she heard a shout.

“And what of us!?” shouted a voice.

Loti turned to see the other slaves come running over, holding out their shackles. She turned and saw the waiting zerta, and she knew time was precious. She wanted to head east as soon as she could, to head to Volusia, the last place she had knew Darius was heading. Perhaps she would find him there. Yet at the same time, she could not stand to see her brothers and sisters shackled.

Loti raced forward, through the crowd of slaves, slashing shackles left and right, until all of them were free. She did not know where they would go now that they were—but at least freedom was theirs to do with as they wished.

Loti turned, mounted the zerta, and held out a hand for Loc. He gave her his one good hand and she pulled him up—then gave the zerta a fierce kick in its ribs.

As they took off, Loti exhilarated at her freedom, in the distance, she could already hear the shouts of the Empire taskmasters, all spotting her. But she did not wait. She turned and directed the zerta down the ridge, down the opposite slope, she and her brother bursting out into the desert, away from the taskmasters—and on the other side of freedom.

Darius looked up in shock, staring back at the eyes of the mysterious man kneeling over him.

His father.

As Darius stared into the man’s eyes, all sense of time and space fell away, his entire life freezing in that moment. It all suddenly fell into place: that feeling Darius had had from the moment he had laid eyes upon him. That familiar look, that certain something that had been tugging away at his consciousness, that had been bothering him ever since they’d met.

His father .

The word did not even seem real.

There he was, kneeling over him, having just saved Darius’s life, having blocked a deadly blow from the Empire soldier, one which surely would have killed Darius. He had risked his life to venture out here, alone, into the arena, at the moment Darius had been about to die.

He had risked it all for him. His son. But why?

“Father,” Darius said back, more of a whisper, in awe.

Darius felt a rush of pride to realize he was related to this man, this fine warrior, the finest warrior he had ever met. It made him feel that perhaps he could be a great warrior, too.

His father reached down and grabbed Darius’s hand, and it was a firm, muscular grip. He yanked Darius to his feet, and as he did, Darius felt renewed. He felt as if he had a reason to fight, a reason to go on.

Darius immediately reached down, grabbed his dropped sword off the floor, then turned, together with his father, and they faced the oncoming horde of Empire soldiers together. With those hideous creatures now dead, his father having killed them all, horns had sounded, and the Empire had sent out a fresh wave of soldiers.