Morgan Rice - A Dream of Mortals

Darius stood there, waiting, his heart pounding with adrenaline as he scanned the foreign crowd, but this time more resigned than nervous. He knew death was coming for him, and he no longer feared it—as long as he died honorably.

A horn sounded and the crowd suddenly cheered as an iron gate was opened at the far end of the arena. Strutting out of it came Morg, raising his arms out wide, catering to the crowd, removing his hat with a bow, waving and turning in each direction until they slowly quieted. Morg was just megalomaniacal enough, Darius knew, to think that all these people were cheering for him.

“Fellow citizens of the Empire!” Morg boomed. “I present to you today the third and final battle of the gladiators!”

The crowd shouted, stomping their feet, shaking the place, and Morg waited a long time until they finally quieted again.

“Today,” he boomed, “three gladiators remain. On this day, they shall die a gladiator’s death!”

The crowd cheered.

“No gladiator has ever survived this final match,” Morg continued, “but if one of them should, then the victor will earn the right to fight in the grandest arena of all: the Capital Arena.”

The crowd cheered and Morg turned, grinned cruelly at Darius, then turned his back and strutted out of the stadium, the cell slamming behind him. A series of trumpets sounded. The spectators roared, and Darius wondered what they would throw at him this time.

Darius felt a tug at his ankle, and he looked over to see Drok scowling at him.

“Don’t think you’re going to survive this,” Drok snarled. “If whatever comes out of those gates doesn’t kill you, I will.”

Darius had had enough of this boy, and he yanked his leg, snapping the chains, jerking him back in the other direction.

“I might not survive,” Darius said, “but if I go down, you’re coming with me.”

Drok scowled and began to walk menacingly toward him; Darius, unafraid, walked forward to meet him—when he felt a tug on his other ankle and saw Raj, kneeling on the ground and shaking his head.

“Don’t,” Raj said. “That’s what he wants. Conserve your energy.”

Another chorus of horns sounded and Darius turned to see six cell doors open and six Empire soldiers, huge, dressed in black armor and faceplates, riding black horses, and wielding long halberds, come charging out toward them, to the delight of the crowd.

Darius braced himself and realized that it was not nearly as bad as it could be; after all, there were no exotic beasts or weaponry, no other Empire tricks, as he had expected. Of course, they were still facing men on horses, still outnumbered two to one—and with Raj wounded, more like three to one—and with Drok at his back, that made the odds even worse. Darius wondered if Drok would even fight or just use the opportunity to kill him. Did Drok even care about living?

“Stay close to me!” Darius yelled to Raj. “Stay low, and raise your shield!”

Darius clenched and unclenched the hilt of the sword they had given him, barely sharp enough to meet men in battle, and certainly not sharp enough to sever these shackles binding him to the others. There came the familiar sound of horses clomping as the first of the soldiers reached him, and Darius rushed forward to greet him.

Darius raised his shield and the soldier’s halberd met it with a great clang, the superior weaponry, the soldier’s superior size, and his momentum from riding all rocking Darius, sending him stumbling backward. It felt like an explosion; his ears rang and he felt the vibrations in his hand run up his arm.

But Darius did not let go.

In the same motion, Darius managed to swing around and chop the legs of the horse out from under it; he flinched, hating to hurt the animals. But it was life or death, and he knew he had no choice.

The crowd cheered as the horse neighed and fell straight down, face-first in the dirt, and the rider fell off.

Wasting no time, Darius charged and reached him just as he was turning, and stabbed and killed him before he could arise.

Just as Darius stripped the soldier’s superior sword, another soldier arrived, this one leaping from his horse and landing on Darius, tackling him. The crowd roared as the two went tumbling in the dirt.

Darius broke free and threw him off, and he got up and lunged for the soldier, seeing an opening, prepared to finish him off—when suddenly, his chain tightened. He turned and realized that Raj’s dead weight was chaining him back. Darius swung, but missed the soldier by a few inches.

The soldier rebounded and leapt to his feet, bearing down on Darius and swinging for his head. Darius blocked with his shield and swung, and the soldier blocked. Back and forth they went, swords and shields and armor clanging.

Darius heard the galloping and knew the other soldiers were getting closer and that he didn’t have much time. He was well-matched with his opponent, and he knew he had to do something quickly, before he was outnumbered.

Suddenly there came the sound of dirt, and his opponent cried out and grabbed at his visor as a cloud of it entered his eyes, blinding him. Darius, puzzled looked over his shoulder to see Raj on his knees, breathing hard, and realized he had just thrown a fistful of sand.

The soldier dropped his sword, and Darius charged and stabbed him, killing him.

Darius looked back at Raj gratefully.

“You still have some fight left in you yet,” Darius said.

Raj just smiled back, too weak to talk.

Darius heard the horses and he turned and looked over to see Drok bracing himself as soldiers targeted him for a change. They charged right for him, and Drok waited until the last moment, then dove to the ground and stretched out his legs. As he did, he used his feet to lift the shackles, until the chains were taut. Darius felt the tug on his own ankles.

Darius went flying as the shackles tripped up the horses. The horses, entangled, went down, rolling, their riders falling off, one of them crying out as he was crushed beneath his horse. Drok set his sights on the other, rolled over and, wasting no time, wrapped his chain around one’s neck and squeezed. He then pulled a dagger from the soldier’s waist, reached around, and stabbed him in the chest.

The crowd cheered in pleasure.

Darius regained his feet and stood there, unsteady, yanked back and forth by the chains. He could not freely choose his direction, and he knew he had to get Drok to work with him—it was the only way.

“We can work together and save ourselves,” Darius called out to Drok, “or we can oppose each other and lose!”

Drok turned, and to Darius’s surprise, nodded back in agreement.

Darius looked up to see two more soldiers bearing down on them.

“You take the one on the left, and I’ll take the one on the right!” Darius called out, as they both stood there, side by side, facing them.

Drok scowled as he examined the oncoming opponents. To Darius surprise, for the first time, he seemed to be in agreement.

“Separate as far as you can,” Drok yelled. “We shall divide them!”

Darius liked the idea; he ran in one direction while Drok ran in the other, forcing the oncoming horses to split apart.

Darius braced himself as one of the soldiers veered for him and swung his long halberd for his head. He raised his shield, and the blow knocked him back, the sound of smashing metal echoing in his ear. He stumbled backwards and his arm stung, but he had avoided its deadly edge.

The crowd oohed as the soldier circled wide and bore down on him again. This time, though, the soldier veered for Raj, clearly going after the easier victim.

Darius, realizing what he was doing, stepped out in front of Raj, blocking his path, and bracing himself as the halberd came down. He knew a bold move was required if he was to come out of this encounter unscathed, and he waited until the last moment, then raised his sword and charged, catching the soldier off guard. Darius aimed not for the horse, or for the rider—but rather, for the long, exposed shaft of the halberd.