Morgan Rice - An Oath of Brothers

Darius did not know if he had energized them all by his leadership or if his people simply had nothing left to lose. Perhaps it had finally hit home that the Empire would surround and destroy them; perhaps they finally realized that they could no longer wait passively, to be slaughtered or maimed. Backed into a corner, they were forced to attack. Finally, Darius and his people saw eye to eye: finally, they were, like he, ready and happy to go down on their feet, fighting.

Lead by Darius’s example, finally, they had all taken back their manhood, had claimed it for themselves. Finally they had all come to see that your manhood could not be taken from you—but neither could it be given. It was something that had to be claimed, that had to be insisted upon, that had to be demanded, and that had to be taken with your own two hands.

Each of them were emboldened and empowered, too, to have real weapons of steel, to hold the cold steel in their hands for the first time in their lives, to feel what real weight felt like—not the weight of bamboo. They were emboldened, too, by the thunder and speed of the zertas, magnificent war animals that made one feel as a true warrior should. They charged and they charged, following Darius blindly into the desert. Darius felt he could lead them anywhere.

But not all of them. There was still a faction of his village, led by Zirk, who blamed Darius, envied him, and did not approve of his course of action. These people, too, followed him now, having no choice, as they did not want to be left behind. As much as they might disagree with him, or be immersed in a power struggle with him, nonetheless, they had been slaves, too, and they, like all of them, were enjoying their first taste of freedom.

Darius kicked his zerta and they all charged faster, sweat running down Darius’s back, stinging his wounds, as he held on for dear life, squinting into the horizon. It felt so liberating just to be out there, on his own, free to do whatever he wished, to go wherever he wished, during the daytime, that he barely felt his injuries. Every other day of his life, Darius had had to report to duty, had only had free time after the sun had fallen. And every other day, he certainly would not have dared venture outside of his village limits.

He was free —truly free. That word would have been unimaginable just days ago.

Darius charged and charged until finally he spotted, in the distance, what he’d been waiting for. It was his first objective: the slave fields of their neighboring village, perhaps a dozen miles away. All of the surrounding slave villages, separated by desert, were interconnected dots on the landscape, all under the thumb of the Empire, all circling the perimeter of Volusia. None of them, of course, were allowed to gather, to unite, to see each other. That was all about to change.

Darius sensed that other slaves would feel as he did. He sensed that when other slaves saw him and his people, free, liberated, attacking, they, too, would join the cause. And village to village, one man at a time, he could build an army.

Darius also knew he could not attack Volusia directly, not with his small numbers and their great army and vast fortifications. He knew, if he had any chance of winning, he had to attack the Empire army at its weakest, most vulnerable, points, where they least expected it: out in the fields, piecemeal, one village a time, where the taskmasters were scarce, spread out, unaware. Each slave field, Darius knew, had but a few dozen taskmasters to watch over hundreds of slaves. In the past, they had been kept down in their place, and no one had dared revolt, and so a few men could watch over many.

But that, if Darius could help it, was all about to change. Now these brutal taskmasters were about to learn the power of the common man.

Darius knew they could win—especially if they came upon them quickly, unaware, and if they liberated slaves and converted them into their growing ragtag army.

As they approached, Darius let out a loud cry, kicked his zerta, and charged faster, closing in on the slave fields. He could see from here, dotting the landscape, hundreds of slaves, all shackled, smashing rock, none of them expecting their arrival. Standing over them, interspersed throughout, walking up and down the rows, were Empire taskmasters, raising their whips, lashing them beneath the morning sun. Darius winced at the sight, the pain still fresh in his own back from the lashing, the sight bringing up fresh memories, a fresh desire for vengeance,

Darius scowled and kicked and charged even faster. All around him his men did the same, seeing the same view, feeling as he, needing no prodding to set wrongs right.

As Darius reached them, he saw the first row of slaves turn and look up at him, bearing down on his zerta, and he watched as their eyes widened in shock. Clearly, these slaves had never seen freed slaves riding zertas, wielding weapons of steel—had never seen anyone like them, with their color skin, riding, riding free, triumphant, beneath the sun.

Darius focused in on one particularly large taskmaster, who was whipping a young boy, and he raised a short spear he’d salvaged from the Empire, took aim, and hurled it.

The taskmaster finally turned at the sound of the zertas thundering toward them, and Darius watched in satisfaction as his eyes, too, widened in surprise—and then in agony, as the spear pierced his heart.

The taskmaster grabbed it with both hands, as if trying to pull it out, and looked up at Darius in confusion, before collapsing down on his back. Dead.

Darius and the others let out a great cheer, and their battle cry rose to the heavens as they thundered into the fields, row to row, a great wall of destruction kicking up a spreading wave of dust. Villagers stood there, frozen in fear, rooted to place, as Darius and his men raced by them, killing taskmasters left and right.

Darius and the others stopped before a group of slaves, who stood there, cowering.

The slaves looked up at them in wonder, still not moving. A large slave with dark skin and eyes wide with fear, sweat pouring down his forehead, set down his hammer and looked down at Darius.

“What have you done?” the man asked, panic in his eyes. “You have killed the masters! Now we will all die! All of us slaves shall die!”

Darius shook his head, came forward and raised his sword, and the slave cringed. Darius swung it down and severed the slave’s shackles.

The slave looked down in shock. One a time, all of Darius’s brothers in arms, Raj, Desmond, Kaz, Luzi and others came forward, raised their swords, and slashed away the slaves’ shackles. The satisfying clink of broken chains hitting the desert floor rose up all around them.

They all looked up at Darius in amazement, too shocked to move.

“Do not call yourself slaves again,” Darius replied.

“But our chains!” another slave cried. “You must put them back, quickly! We will all die for this!”

Darius shook his head, hardly believing how conditioned these poor men had become.

“You don’t understand,” Raj replied. “The days of fearing the Empire are over. It is we who now are bringing the fear to them.”

“You can die fighting with us,” Darius called out, to the growing crowd of freed slaves, “or you can die here in the fields, cowering as cowards! Who among you wishes to die a slave—and who among you wishes to die a free man?”

There came a cheer amongst the crowd of slaves, as they all began to realize that freedom had arrived.

“I cannot give you your freedom, my brothers!” Darius called out. “You must fight for it! Each and every one of you—join us now!”

A horn sounded, and Darius turned to see the dozens of Empire soldiers rallying, charging them. Suddenly, there came another shout from behind Darius, and he glanced back to see hundreds of his villagers, on foot, appearing over the horizon, charging to back him up, catching up.