Morgan Rice - A Dream of Mortals

Godfrey looked back, surprised, all of this beginning to make more sense.

“We didn’t do it because we are murderers,” Godfrey said. “We did it for vengeance, for what they did to our people.”

Silis sighed.

“Yes, I know all about that. It is quite the shame. I despise those who go back on their word, and my cousins were quite the experts at that. What they did was dishonorable, and dishonor hurts the Finian name. We can’t have that. No, not at all.”

Silis paused, examining them all, as if debating. She watched them for a long time, reclining in her chair, and Godfrey could see her mind working. Finally, she leaned forward.

“The Finians are a great race; we have survived here, in the Empire, for thousands of years, the only non-Empire race to do so. We have survived yes, sometimes through guile; but mostly through honor.”

Godfrey summed her up and could see the authenticity in her eyes.

“I believe you,” he said. “Despite your cousins. You certainly redeem them. What I don’t understand is what you want from us—aside from congratulating us for doing your dirty work.”

“If you really want to thank us, then you would let us go,” Merek chimed in.

Silis smiled and gestured to her men: they stepped aside from their positions guarding the door.

“Then go,” she stated calmly. “You are free.”

Godfrey and the others looked back at her skeptically.

“Just like that?” Ario asked.

She nodded.

“Just behind our palace lie the city gates,” she said. “Walk right through them: I promise, I will not stop you.”

“We’ve heard that before,” Merek said. “You won’t stop us—but you’ll put a knife in our back when we’re halfway through.”

She laughed.

“Look around you,” she said. “You are surrounded by two dozen men with daggers and swords. You, on the other hand, are unarmed—and, I dare say,” she added, looking at Akorth and Fulton, stuffing their faces, with amusement, “hardly fit for battle. Why would I go through all the trouble of waiting if I wanted you dead? It’s much easier to do it here.”

A heavy silence hung in the air and Godfrey, unsure, looked at her, wondering if she were telling the truth.

“We’re really free to go?” he asked.

Silis smiled.

“As free as can be,” she said.

Godfrey and the others shared a puzzled look; he believed her. And, strangely enough, having his freedom made him uncertain what to do.

“If you want to go through those gates,” she continued, “be my guest. But, so you know, there is no warm home outside awaiting you. The desert is a wasteland. Your people are dead. You have no village to return to. Go out there, and you’ll be dead by high noon—or caught by a slaver.”

Godfrey looked at her, narrowing his eyes.

“Then what do you suggest?” he asked.

Silis smiled.

“I am offering you a place here, with me, in my castle. Consider it my thank you.”

“But why would you do that?” he asked.

She sighed.

“I can trust you all,” she said. “It’s not every day I meet someone who I can. You’re not Empire, you’re not Finian, and we have a shared interest. Together, we can subvert the other Finians and I can reclaim the rightful rule of our branch of the family. I, too, wish to be free; I no longer wish to answer to my cousins. Nor do I wish to answer to the Empire. We share a common goal: to free Volusia. To spark a revolution. It is what your people died for. And I am prepared to carry on the cause.”

Silis sighed, sizing them up.

“You have shown an uncanny ability to survive,” she said, “a craftiness and resourcefulness that greatly impresses me. You don’t look the part, which is an even greater asset. I believe I can use you to advance the cause.”

Godfrey looked at the others, and he saw Merek and Ario nod back approvingly. He leaned forward.

“What would you have us do?” he asked.

She smiled.

“The list is quite long,” she replied. “It takes a lot of work to overthrow a city. The more pressing issue, I presume, is to rectify the injustice that is being done to your friends, the slave survivors.”

Godfrey’s heart stopped.

“Survivors?” he asked.

Silis looked at him, puzzled.

“You didn’t know?” she asked. “Your friend, the leader—Darius. He lives, along with a few of his people. Though I’m afraid he won’t be alive very long. They’ve sentenced him to the arena, to fight as a gladiator. That is a fight no one can win. Unless we change the outcome.”

Godfrey’s heart welled with optimism; here, finally, was a chance to set wrongs right, to make up for what he had done to Darius and the others. He suddenly felt alive with a renewed sense of purpose.

“How?” Godfrey asked.

Silis smiled wide.

“There are many ways, my friend,” she said, “to win a war.”

Darius, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, sat in the small stone cell of the gladiators’ holding pen, devastated. He had never felt so alone, so dejected. It was definitely, he realized, the low point of his life.

Every muscle in his body ached, but that wasn’t what troubled him most; he closed his eyes and shook his head and tried to shake the awful images of the day’s battle from his mind. He saw, again and again, Desmond and Luzi being killed, the other boys dying, Raj being injured. He could not see the victory, but only the deaths, the suffering. Two of his close friends, boys he felt sure would live forever, killed on one day—and a third, mortally wounded. The images, so deeply embedded in his mind, would not go away.

Darius looked up, bleary-eyed, into the small holding pen, and saw the two other boys who remained here with him: Raj, lying on his side, nursing his wounds, and, ironically, Drok, the boy who just would not die. Darius knew that, somehow, they would be forced to fight again, and he knew that the next day of combat would be the worst of all. All three of them would be dead. He wanted it to be over now.

But Darius was so beat up, like the others, he barely had the strength to move, much less to fight again. Morg, he realized, had spoken the truth on that first day, when he’d said they would all die, and to prepare themselves. But how could one really prepare oneself for death?

Darius looked over, exhausted, at the sound of an iron door swinging open, and he saw Morg strut in, alone, this time not needing any guards. He knew they were too beat up, too wounded, to resist.

He stood there, staring down at them, hands on hips and with a self-satisfied smile.

“You cannot win, you know,” he said, examining Darius.

Darius lowered his head back into his hands, trying to nurse the pain, trying to make Morg and everything else go away.

“You should have accepted my offer,” he added.

Darius, head down, ignored him, too tired to respond.

“None of my gladiators have survived the final day of matches. Not one. Not in all the years I’ve been here.”

Finally, Darius looked up.

“I feat not death,” he said, his voice cold and hard, parched from lack of water. “I fear only a dishonorable life.”

Morg, realizing it was a dig at him, smirked back.

“And yet, you can still avoid this,” he replied. “All you have to do is agree. Agree to end the fight in your own arena, where you will be spared. Agree to let the others die. Drok, you hate anyway. And look at your friend Raj: he is dying as we speak.”

Darius grimaced back.

“But he is not dead yet,” he replied. “And as long as he lives, I shall remain by his side.”

Morg scowled.

“You are a fool,” he said. “You will be swallowed alive by your honor and go down to the grave with it.”