Morgan Rice - A Dream of Mortals

They reached the other side of the parapets and as the knights prepared to place them on a new platform and lower them down the other side of the ridge, Gwen looked out and caught a glimpse of where they were going. It was a sight she would never, ever forget, a sight that took her breath away. The mountain ridge, rising out of the desert like a sphinx, was, she saw, shaped in a huge circle, so wide it disappeared from view in the midst of the clouds. It was a protective wall, she realized, and on its other side, down below, Gwen saw a glistening blue lake as wide as an ocean, sparkly in the desert suns. The richness of the blue, the sight of all that water, took her breath away.

And beyond that, on the horizon, she saw a vast land, a land so vast she could not see where it ended, and to her shock, it was a fertile, fertile green, a green glowing with life. As far as she could see there stretched farms and fruit trees and forests and vineyards and orchards in abundance, a land overflowing with life. It was the most idyllic and beautiful sight she had ever seen.

“Welcome, my lady,” their leader said, “to the land beyond the ridge.”

Godfrey, curled up in a ball, was awakened by a steady, persistent moaning interfering with his dreams. He woke slowly, unsure if he was really awake or still stuck in his endless nightmare. He blinked in the dim light, trying to shake off his dream. He had dreamt of himself as a puppet on a string, dangling over the walls of Volusia, being held by the Finians, who’d yanked the strings up and down, moving Godfrey’s arms and legs as he dangled over the entrance to the city. Godfrey had been made to watch as below him thousands of his countrymen were butchered before his eyes, the streets of Volusia running red with blood. Each time he thought it was over, the Finian yanked on his strings again, pulling him up and down, over and over and over….

Finally, mercifully, Godfrey was awakened by this moaning, and he rolled over, his head splitting, to see it was coming from a few feet away, from Akorth and Fulton, the two of them curled up on the floor beside him, each moaning, covered in black and blue marks. Nearby were Merek and Ario, sprawled out unmoving on the stone floor, too—which Godfrey immediately recognized as the floor of a prison cell. All looked badly beaten—yet at least they were all here, and from what Godfrey could tell, they were all breathing.

Godfrey was once at once relieved and distraught. He was amazed to be alive, after the ambush he’d witnessed, amazed he had not been slaughtered by the Finians back there. Yet at the same time, he felt hollow, oppressed by guilt, knowing it was all his fault that Darius and the others had fallen into the trap inside the gates of Volusia. It was all because of his naïveté. How could he have been so stupid as to trust the Finians?

Godfrey closed his eyes and shook his head, willing for the memory to go away, for the night to have gone differently. He had led Darius and the others into the city unwittingly, like lambs to slaughter. Again and again in his mind he heard the screams of those men, trying to fight for their lives, trying to escape, echoing in his brain and leaving him no peace.

Godfrey clutched his ears and tried to make it go away, and trying to drown out Akorth and Fulton’s moaning, both of them clearly in pain from all their bruises and from a night sleeping on a hard stone floor.

Godfrey sat up, his head feeling like a million pounds, and took in all his surroundings, a small prison cell containing just him and his friends and a few others he did not know, and he took some solace in the fact that, given how grim this cell looked, death might be coming for them sooner rather than later. This jail was clearly different from the last one, feeling more like a holding cell for those about to die.

Godfrey heard, somewhere far away, the screams of a prisoner being dragged away down a hall, and he realized: this place really was a holding pen—for executions. He had heard of other executions in Volusia, and he knew that he and the others would be dragged outside at first light and become sport for the arena, so that its good citizens could watch them get torn to death by the Razifs, before the real gladiator games began. That was why they’d kept them alive this long. At least now it all made sense.

Godfrey scrambled to his hands and knees, reaching out and prodding each of his friends, trying to rouse them. His head was spinning, he ached from every corner of his body, covered in lumps and bruises, and it hurt to move. His last memory was of a soldier knocking him out, and he realized he must have been pummeled by them after he was down. The Finians, those treacherous cowards, clearly didn’t have it in them to kill him themselves.

Godfrey clutched his forehead, amazed that it could hurt so much without even having a drink. He gained his feet unsteadily, knees wobbling, and looked about the dark cell. A single guard stood outside the bars, his back to him, barely watching. And yet these cells were made with substantial locks and thick iron bars, and Godfrey knew there would be no easy escape this time. This time, they were in until the death.

Slowly, beside him, Akorth, Fulton, Ario, and Merek gained their feet and they all studied their surroundings, too. He could see the puzzlement and fear in their eyes—and then the regret, as they began to remember.

“Did they all die?” Ario asked, looking at Godfrey.

Godfrey felt a pain in his stomach as he slowly nodded back.

“It’s our fault,” Merek said. “We let them down.”

“Yes, it is,” Godfrey replied, his voice breaking.

“I told you not to trust the Finians,” Akorth said.

“The question is not whose fault it is,” Ario said, “but what we are going to do about it. Are we going to let all of our brothers and sisters die in vain? Or are we going to gain vengeance?”

Godfrey could see the seriousness in young Ario’s face and he was impressed by his steely determination, even while imprisoned and about to be killed.

“Vengeance?” Akorth asked. “Are you mad? We are locked beneath the earth, guarded by iron bars and Empire guards. All of our men are dead. We’re in the midst of a hostile city and a hostile army. All of our gold is gone. Our plans are ruined. What possible vengeance can we take?”

“There’s always a way,” Ario said, determined. He turned to Merek.

All eyes turned to Merek, and he furrowed his brow.

“I am no expert on vengeance,” Merek said. “I kill men as they bother me. I do not wait.”

“But you are a master thief,” Ario said. “You’ve spent your whole life in a prison cell, as you admit. Surely you can get us out of this?”

Merek turned and surveyed the cell, the bars, the windows, keys, the guards—all of it—with an expert’s keen eye. He took it all in, then looked back at them grimly.

“This is no common prison cell,” he said. “It must be a Finian cell. Very expensive craftsmanship. I see no weak points, no way out, as much as I would wish to tell you otherwise.”

Godfrey, feeling overwhelmed, trying to shut out the screams of the other prisoners down the hall, walked to the prison cell door, pressed his forehead against the cool and heavy iron, and closed his eyes.

“Bring him here!” boomed a voice from down the stone hall.

Godfrey opened his eyes, turned his head, and looked down the hall to see several Empire guards dragging a prisoner. This prisoner wore a red sash over his shoulder, across his chest, and he hung limply in their arms, not even trying to resist. In fact, as he got closer, Godfrey saw that they had to drag him, as he was unconscious. Something was clearly wrong with him.

“Bringing me another plague victim?” the guard yelled back derisively. “What do you expect me to do with him?”