A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (18 page)

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.”

Darius managed to smile back.

“You will never understand,” Darius said. “My
dream on this earth is not to merely live—but to live and fight with honor,
with valor. If I were immortal, I have would have nothing to lose, and those
things would mean nothing to me. My dream is made possible precisely because I
am mortal. I have something to sacrifice, something to lose. And that is what
makes it honorable. My dream is a dream of mortals.”

Morg grimaced.

“You will die,” he said.

“Only cowards die,” Darius replied. “The
valiant live on in death.”

Morg, enraged, glared down at him. And with
nothing left to say, he turned and stormed out, slamming the iron door behind him,
leaving Darius more alone than he’d ever been.

*

Darius sat at Raj’s side, as his friend moaned
through the night, clasping his shoulder. Darius did not need to look at his
festering wound to know it was in dire shape, to know he could not live. Raj
lay there, wincing in agony, and as flies landed on his wound he did not even have
the strength to swat them away.

Darius could see the light fading in his last
friend’s eyes, and he was overwhelmed with grief. Here was Raj, the most
confident of his friends, the most daring, the one who Darius had been sure
would never die—and he, too, was going the unstoppable way of death.

“You will be fine,” Darius said, clasping his
shoulder after a bad bout of moaning.

Raj shook his head.

“You always were a bad liar,” he said.

Darius frowned.

“There is no way I will let you die.”

Raj winced.

“Even you, my friend, cannot stop that.”

Darius shrugged.

“We have one more battle left to fight. We will
fight it together. And we shall die together.”

“I cannot fight,” he said. “Not anymore. I will
be chained to you as dead weight. Leave me behind. Let me die. Spare yourself.”

Darius shook his head.

“No man left behind,” he said, insistent. “Not
now. Not ever.”

Raj sighed, clearly knowing how stubborn Darius
was.

“Look at me. I cannot even stand,” Raj said.

Darius smiled.

“Then I shall kneel by your side and we shall
fight together.”

Raj reached out and clasped his hand.

“You are my brother, Darius,” he said. “You
have proved it now, more than ever. But don’t die for me. It’s not worth it.”

Darius looked him firmly in the eye.

“You said it,” Darius said. “
Brother
. I
have always wanted to have a brother, and that is a word that has great meaning
to me. Brothers do not abandon each other; they do not leave each other behind.
That is what it means to be a brother. Brothers are forged for times like this.
And not even death can stand in the way of them.”

Raj fell silent, breathing hard for a long
time, gasping, then finally, he clasped Darius’s hand and nodded.

“Very well then, brother,” he said. “Tomorrow,
if I live, we shall kill as many as we can. And we shall go down fighting together.”

Volusia stood before the immense arched golden doors
to the capital, soaring a hundred feet high, the only thing standing between
the capital city and the hordes of Empire soldiers waiting to destroy it. She
reached up and ran her fingers lightly on the intricate carvings, admiring the
handiwork it must have taken. She remembered reading it had taken a hundred men
a hundred years to carve these doors of solid gold—doors that had never been
penetrated.

“Do not worry, Goddess,” said the commander of
her armies, Gibvin. “These gates will hold.”

She turned and faced her entourage of generals
and advisors, and marveled that they had no idea of what she was thinking. What
they could never understand was that she had seen her destiny. It had come to
her in a vision. And she was prepared, no matter what, to fulfill it.

“Do you think I fear but a million men?” she
replied, smiling.

He stared back, puzzled.

“Then why have we come out here, Goddess?”
asked another advisor.

She surveyed her men coolly, until she was
ready to issue the command.

“Open the gates,” she commanded calmly.

Her advisors stared back at her as if she were
mad.

“
Open
them!?” her commander asked.

Her icy glare was her only response, and they
knew her well enough by know not to ask twice.

She watched as panic spread across their faces.

“If we open these gates,” Gibvin said, “the army
will come rushing in. That is what they are waiting for. Our city will be lost.
All our efforts will be lost.”

She shook her head.

“Do not question me,” she replied. “And do not
fear for yourselves. After I pass through them you shall close them behind me.”

“Close them behind you?” he repeated. “That
would leave you out there alone, facing an army alone. It will mean your death.”

She smiled back ever so slightly.

“You still don’t see,” she said. “I am a
goddess—and goddesses cannot die.”

She turned to the men manning the gates, fixed
her gaze on them, and her man, fear in their faces, rushed forward and began to
turn the massive golden cranks. A creaking filled the air as slowly, the golden
doors began to open, one foot at a time.

As they opened, the orange rays of the setting
suns burst through, illuminating Volusia, making her look and feel like a true
goddess. They were opened just two feet, just enough for her to pass through
them.

She walked slowly through them, her shoulders
brushing past the edge of the doors, and exited the city, leaving it behind
her, stepping out barefoot on the hot sands of the open desert.

Behind her, she could feel the wind of the
doors closing, and a moment later, she heard and felt a decisive slam behind
her, shaking the ground, the echo of metal. She knew there was no turning back
now. Now, she was out here alone for good—and that was what she wanted.

As Volusia took one step after the next, she
saw before her the massive Empire army, spread out into all its legions,
covering the horizon like ants, all beginning to rouse at the sight of her, all
beginning to charge her way.

They charged at full force, a great thunder
rising, all bearing down right for her. Joining them were many new legions, dressed
in the all-black armor of the Empire, clearly dispatched from the Knights of
the Seven, surely the first of the reinforcements that had arrived to bring
down the capital.

Volusia smiled. The Knights of the Seven must
not have enjoyed her gift very much.

Volusia had watched this morning as all the
armies had gathered, as the men of the Seven had joined them. She had seen all
of the siege equipment being brought by the Knights of the Seven—the catapults,
the battering rams, the entire horizon filled with devices of war meant to destroy
the city—and Volusia knew it would only be a matter of time until they did. She
was not about to sit back and wait. No, she was never one to defend. She was always
one to attack.

Attack she would—even if she had to do it by
herself.

Volusia walked fearlessly, one woman—one
goddess—against an army. With every step she took, she knew she was walking
into her destiny. She felt invincible. She truly felt herself to be a goddess. No
one in the world had been able to stop her, just as she’d known from the day
she was born. Not even her own mother. She had marched all the way to the
Empire capital, and she wasn’t about to stop now. She knew that to have power,
one had to seize it—and even more importantly, one had to hold onto it. She did
not need other men to fight her wars. She had, she knew, all the power she needed,
on her own.

Volusia heard the tremendous thunder, felt the
dust already reaching her, as the army bore down on her, now but a few hundred
yards away. They charged, the horizon filled with men on massive horses, Razifs,
zertas, elephants, carrying every sort of weapon imaginable, emitting fierce
battle cries as they raced for their prize. She could see their faces already, see
them salivating at the sight, at having a chance to kill the leader out in the
open, all by herself. As if it were too good to be true. They all must have,
she imagined, assumed she had given up, had come to talk terms, or was committing
suicide.

But Volusia had other plans. Better plans.

The army bore down on her, closer and closer,
now a hundred yards away, and gaining speed. She heard the great clanking of
armor, smelled the sweat, and saw the bloodlust in men’s faces. Some faces
showed fear, even though they marched, an entire army, against a woman alone.
They, the wise ones, must have known something was different about her, something
to be feared, if she were willing to face an army on her own.

Volusia was ready to show them.

She closed her eyes and raised her arms up to
the heavens, and slowly raised them higher and higher.

As she did, there came a tremendous humming
noise, like a million locusts rising from the earth. It grew louder and louder
and louder, and all around Volusia, the desert floor began to crack and burst.
First one claw appeared, pulling itself up through a fissure in the earth. Then
another.

Then another.

Thousands of small creatures—gargoyles with
black wings sprouting behind them—began to pull themselves up from the earth.
They had slimy back scales and long sharp fangs and wings that buzzed in a way
that would strike terror even in the bravest warrior’s heart. They blinked,
summoned from the dead, with their large, glowing orange eyes, eyes filled with
a desire for blood.

Volusia raised her hands higher, and her army
of undead creatures emerged from the earth and rose into the sky, blackening it
as the second suns fell. She directed them, and they rushed forward, and
descended, as one, for the army racing to kill her.

The first gargoyle reached the first soldier, opening
its jaws, revealing its razor-sharp fangs, and sinking them into the man’s
throat, killing him instantly. The first cry of death rose out.

Then another struck.

Then another.

Soon the sky was filled with the screeching of a
million black gargoyles, with an endless lust for blood, mixed with the cries
of men, falling where they stood. Volusia laughed as she watched. This was the
destiny she had seen for herself.

How foolish they had been to think that they alone
could kill her. After all, they were only an army.

And she—she was a goddess.