The Warrior (The Rebellion) (7 page)

C H A P T E R 14

Frankly...

The small page seemed to shrink in the midst of the huge warriors. His eyes darted back and forth and his trembling voice betrayed his nervousness.

"Your team will be provided weapons in the north suiting room. The rest of your gear will also be there. A mage will be present so if anyone of you tries to end his suffering or that of another team member, the mage will inflict a slow and excruciating death upon the perpetrator and any other accomplices. Upon entering the arena, your team must remain docile and not move past the red line until the trumpets sound. This allows for last-minute bets to be placed. Failure to meet these deadlines will be reprimanded using the same punishment mentioned above. The winning team will advance to the next round, which is to be fought later that day. Any losses in the first round will not be replaced in the second round. Good Luck. Lord Barkley."

The room was quiet as the men digested the rules and the page scurried out through the heavily guarded door. Someone muttered, "Well that puts a hole in my plan," and a light ripple of laughter went through the group.

Barst turned and went back to his bed. The rules didn't really bother him. He just hoped that Force wasn’t their mage. The Legion member might just give him a slow and painful death for the enjoyment. Barst figured his main goal should be to try to get some sleep before Haddix tomorrow.

When he arrived at his bunk, he found Frank sitting on the side of his be, seeming to study his hand. Unsure of what to do, Barst decided it was best not to talk and he took an awkward seat next to Frank. The silence began to stretch on,
and Barst wondered if he should say something. Right before he opened his mouth, Frank spoke.

"You lost someone too?" Barst was knocked off guard by Frank's voice, which was slightly higher than he had expected. He recovered enough to digest Frank's question, but not enough to formulate a response.

"I lived in Lokueq," Frank continued, not waiting for a reply. "It was a small, helpless country outside your kingdom." Frank lifted his gaze and stared straight ahead. "A plague swept through and killed my parents. I was their only child, so I was taken in by my aunt who lived in a village nearby. It didn't seem so bad at the time, since all the other families were going through similar troubles, and I was very young. After I got over my loss, I began to get along with my aunt and we lived as happily as possible for many years." He exhaled loudly. "Meanwhile, the plague continued to ravish our country and because of it, the king thought he had an excuse to annex Lokueq and take the people under his "protection.” Our government agreed—they were already in shambles—but other "Nationalists" had different ideas. They attacked an army the king claimed was bringing supplies for us. A huge debate began, but it made no difference. The king's armies swept in and, before we knew it, Lokueq was formally occupied."

Barst was beginning to wonder if Frank really wanted him to talk or if he was just supposed to remain silent. No one else was around; the rest of the team was still over where the page had proclaimed the rules. Frank suddenly stood up and walked to the bunk across from Barst's. He put his hands along the sideboard of the top bed and hung his head low. Barst couldn’t help, but wonder if Frank was crying.

"I was only seventeen, yet the Nationalists came to me and tried to recruit me for their cause. When I refused, they began mocking me and I became a social outcast. My aunt was the only one in my village who would talk to me. I stayed at home most of the time, so I don’t really know the events that led up to what happened next. All I know is that more soldiers came in and Nationalists tried to drive them out of my village. I was in my house, but I could still hear the screams that were coming from outside. Some Nationalist kicked down our door and de
manded to use it as a stronghold. I was paralyzed with fear, and just hid in the corner. My aunt was complacent until they began throwing around furniture in an attempt to barricade the house. She stepped forward to protest, and one of the men lashed out, killing her instantly. This whole time I was shivering in fear, trying not to draw notice to myself. I didn’t even go to my dead aunt. I was an utter coward." Frank's voice was rising and he began to accent his words by slamming a fist against the sideboards. "I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even comment when they killed the woman who had taken care of me for nine years!"

He accented his last words with one final hit against the sideboards, then hung limp, his voice becoming more of a sob. Barst scanned the room, but no one seemed to take notice.

"After they took the city, some soldiers took me away out of pity. I tried to find any work I could, but my shame haunted me. I eventually decided that if I were to die in one last act of bravery, I would no longer be a coward. So I joined the Arena with no intention of actually living. But here I stand, not a coward, but a killer. I have become like the very men who killed my aunt."

Frank straightened himself, glanced at Barst, betraying the tears that stained his eyes and walked away. Barst watched him leave and, after realizing he had been holding his breath, fully exhaled.

The similarities between Frank’s past and Barst’s own were obvious. In fact, the more Barst thought about it, the more similar they seemed. A terrible mixture of fear and hope had kept them both alive, and now only one real difference remained. Barst had true hope. He had hope that not only would he get out of this tournament alive, but that he would meet Her on the other side, and eventually, he would become Jonathan. A hope that Frank was sadly missing.

Barst lay down on top of his covers.
So much for a good sleep.
His thoughts were going to keep him up for hours.

C H A P T E R 15

Extravagance for the Dead

Unlike all the others Barst had been to, Lord Barkley's suiting room had a pleasant aroma. Marble floors and granite benches gave the room a luxurious and relaxing feel. There was even a huge tapestry, depicting two overly muscular warriors in mid-battle. The mage, who wasn’t Force much to Barst's relief, had guided them there, and told them that many guests toured the arena, and Lord Barkley loved to show off his wealth.

Barst swung his sword expertly, and began shifting his feet in an effort to warm-up. All around him his fellow team members were doing the same. All conversation had stopped as the team became mentally prepared for a fight that may take all their lives. Some men were kneeling, saying silent prayers to the heavens, while others were fingering luck charms. All were solemn and determined. Barst noticed Frank sitting on the bench, pensively staring off at a wall. Barst hoped he hadn't lost his will to fight after last night's one-sided conversation. Frank stood up and Barst looked away, concentrating on a cramped thigh.

Barst was in the process of stretching his thigh out when Frank's voice surprised him from behind. "Barst, can I talk to you?"

Barst nodded and headed off to a corner of the room. A bad feeling rose into Barst’s gut, and he suspected Frank had given up. Frank looked into Barst’s eyes and began, "I was thinking last night. You know, Lord Barkley has controlled every part of our lives since he made that decree. We have either two choices, obey or be punished. We can't even take our own lives. There's only one time when we can say no. That’s in the arena."

He glanced over Barst’s shoulder, checking to see if the mage was coming their way. "What if we just refused to fight? What could they do? We’re all dead anyway. We would make a statement—show them were not mindless killers, but people. We would make a statement and meet the
same fate. And,” Frank accentuated these last words by driving his finger into Bart’s chest, “we would die with honor."

Barst sighed heavily. "Okay, let’s say that we somehow get everyone to cooperate, even the other team. Lord Barkley isn't just going to have our heads chopped off. He's still going to give the crowd entertainment and make our deaths a lot more painful than if we died in the arena."

"But isn't it better to die with honor rather than in shame? Why not let our last act be our best?" Frank said, his eyes filling up with passion.

"But we don’t want to die. We still hold onto hope. I hold onto hope. If you want to die, fine. But please just consider this: I want to live, and your dying may kill all of us."

Frank looked at Barst quizzically, "Why do you want to live?"

Barst looked away and scanned the room. "'Cause She may be alive," he muttered, a hand scratching the back of his neck.

"But you said she was dead."

"I know. I know she's dead. I saw it, so it must be true. But I believe she may be alive. My mind and heart are contradicting each other."

Frank locked his eyes on Bart's. "Are you willing to kill for a feeling?"

"No," Barst stated, his voice filling with confidence. "But I will. Just as I have for the past years."

Frank’s voice grew louder and began to crack. "And don't you want to break free? Prove to yourself that you can change. Show the world that you're better than they think."

Barst looked at Frank, a small smile playing on his lips. "No. The world doesn't deserve that."

Barst briskly turned and left a dumbfounded Frank staring at his back, thoughts running deep.

C H A P T E R 16

The Rage

Barst walked at the front of the team. Brian, Rudy and Horst walked beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Behind them strode thirt
y-six of some of the best warriors ever to exist, and they were about to meet their match. Barst's mind was clearly focused on the fight ahead.
Take it one step at a time. I'm gonna leave alive.

Barst drew his sword from the sheath that hung on his back and gave it an expert twirl. The tunnel's exit was coming up and he would get his first glimpse at the arena. Or it was going to get their first real glimpse of him. He was going to give it his all. Something he hadn't done for years. He could feel the heat welling up inside him, coursing through every vein of his body, and collecting in his chest.

When he stepped into the arena the crowd seemed silent. His focus was locked on the team emerging from the other exit. He moved to the right side of the arena, not even checking to see if the team was following him. This was his show.

When the trumpet finally went off, it seemed as if time snapped forward, but no sound could be heard. He felt his feet slap the ground and felt a roar come out of his mouth, but heard nothing. He picked his target—a spearman with a large shield who was cautiously jogging toward him. Barst reacted rather than moved.

Grabbing the spear shaft, he twisted, causing the man to release his grip with a brief yell of pain. Barst's sword went straight into the man’s face, but Barst didn't even see the result. He was ducking under a two-handed sword, and swinging his sword along the ground. It caught the swordsman in the legs and sliced straight through. As the man tumbled backwards, Barst drove the spear through
him, while simultaneously slicing his sword into another man's neck. A dagger of pain sliced down his leg, and Barst released a silent bellow as he turned to smash the offender’s face with the butt of his sword. A mist of blood surrounded Barst, as he continued in a blur of destruction.

Occasionally he felt—like when a sword slapped against his bracer, or when a pike sliced his forearm. But for the most part, he was numb. The world around him felt like a dream. It seemed as if he was living in a mirage. Time began to move slowly, and all thoughts left his mind. Soon, he wasn’t aware of anything, just death.

Finely, feeling entered his limbs, and exhaustion weighed him down. His vision became clear and he found himself alone, surrounded by the dead. Silence filled the arena and Barst realized he could hear. He turned around to see his team staring at him with expressions ranging from fear to awe.

The spell broke, and a roar arose from the audience, yet his team still gaped at him as if he was a stranger. Barst, panting, wiped his sword off on a nearby body, and threw his weapon back into the sheath. He walked to his team, and they parted to let him pass. It wasn’t until half way through the tunnel that Brian caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder, only to retract his hand, now slimy with blood.

"What was that?" Brian asked incredulously, wiping his bloody hand off on the wall of the tunnel.

"I was about to ask you that myself."

Brian quickened his steps until he came up alongside Barst. "Well, you took care of almost half their team. The rest of us did practically nothing. Why didn’t you tell us you were so good? We could have put you on a squad all by yourself."

Barst faintly smiled, "I wanted to live, that’s all."

Brian scoffed. "Well, I wished that happened to me when I wanted to live. Gee, I would be famous. Did you see how the whole crowd shut up? That was the best part. I'm pretty sure I saw Lord Barkley start sweating. You could upset the whole tournament."

They were now in the suiting room and Barst was pulling off his chain mail. He winced when the chains dragged against the cut on his arm. "Well I hope I do. Though Lord Barkley might want revenge."

"But he won't be able to touch you. You'll have become legend. People will be demanding your presence in every tournament all over the kingdom."

" And they won't get it." Barst said, wiping the blood from the wound on his leg "I'm done after this."

Brian nodded, and began to remove his bracers. The rest of the team was coming in, and they couldn’t resist throwing Barst some glances. "Do well, then get out. That’s a good idea. You have enough money saved up?"

Barst shook his head, "No, but I'll find a way to make more. I would rather die on the streets free, than live and be a prisoner in this arena.”

Brian nodded, and was about to reply, when Rudy's voice rang out over the din that had developed in the suiting room.

"Well done! We won, and now just have one fight between us and freedom. Leaders, collect your groups and count the losses."

Barst raised his hand and his group collected around him. Barst tried to ignore them, but he could feel Frank's eyes locked on him. They hadn't lost a man.

"So," said one of his spearmen, "wanna do that again?"

Barst couldn’t hold back a smile, yet it retreated off his face as quickly as it came. Slaughtering people was not a feat to take lightly. Yet he had trouble suppressing the giddy joy of being alive that was bubbling up inside of him. "No, that was a one-time deal. You're gonna have to actually do something next time."

"Hey I did something." The man replied with mock defensiveness. "I watched you."

Some of the men laughed, but they turned to Rudy as he began talking again. "Only four losses," he said, looking as if he barely believed it himself. "Well Barst, keep it up and the rest of you, way to spectate." Laughter filled the room and some people cheered. "All right we don't have to fight again until evening so if
you’re hurt, go to a healer. Rest up, and the next battle will be in an hour. I know you will all watch it. Our survival may depend on it. We’ll get new uniforms on the way to the mess hall. They don't want us looking like slobs for the final battle."

Barst finished taking off his gear and, after being instructed to by the mage, Barst put the equipment into one of the lockers against the wall. As he went to stand in line for the mage to heal him, all the fighters moved to the side to let him go first. He nodded his thanks and began showing the Legion his wounds.

Thanks to his career, he had been healed many times in the past and the feeling wasn't a new one. Ice seemed to shift through his veins, congregating around the area of his wounds. The chill became more intense, until it vanished along with Bart's wounds

After being healed and receiving a new uniform, Barst walked to the mess hall where the rest of the team was sitting around tables talking. They all looked up when he entered, wondering where he would choose to sit. Ignoring their gazes, Barst scanned the room until he found Frank sitting alone in the corner. He felt the eyes of all the men follow him as he walked through the table and sat across from Frank.

"I didn’t know hope was such a strong feeling." Frank murmured, focused on picking at the edge of the table with his fingernail.

Barst smiled "Neither did I, but it does feel good."

"Don't you feel terrible for killing all those men? Every time I kill I usually have to throw up. I hate myself every time."

Barst focused himself on Frank "I do feel bad, but this time it's different. I saved dozens of lives and that helps me manage what I did."

"Not even the faintest tinge of guilt?" Frank was now looking in Barst’s eyes, searching for truth.

Barst focused inward and weighed his answer, "I didn't like killing, but for once I felt that I did it for a purpose."

Frank looked back down, "I don’t have one of those.”

"What?"

"A purpose."

Barst nodded "The
n maybe its time to find one."

While Frank thought about that, Barst scanned the room. A few workers were putting up some sort of plank against the wall, and delicious smells were beginning to spread from the kitchen. Some of the team was beginning to congregate to the window that looked over the arena. It was almost time to see how good the Eronde's team really was.

Barst pushed his chair away from the table and went to an empty window. A few glances were thrown his way, but for the most part the men were focused on the arena. The two teams weren't out yet so Barst used the time to take his first look at the crowd.

Unlike normal arena seats, there were no bleachers for the casual spectator. Instead, there were rows of plush chairs that provided the viewers with optimum comfort. The whole crowd barely exceeded four hundred people, but that was probably because all the spectators were here by Lord Barkley's personal invitation.

The lord himself wasn't hard to find. A small balcony extended over the arena. In the middle of this balcony sat a robed man reclining in an immensely cushioned chair. Barst couldn't discern the man's details from where he stood, but he looked fairly muscled and well built. To the man's left sat what Barst believed to be his wife who had a shade over her chair. The man, who could be no other than Lord Barkley, kept leaning to his right, where another man sat, and talking into that man's ear. The man would either nod or laugh at Lord Barkley's comments, which gave Barst the impression he was either the Lord's advisor or friend.

Two lines of servants stood behind the Lord attending to his and his wife's whims. Barst studied this scene for a while, observing the stark contrast between the lord's and his own lifestyle, until the crowd began to applaud at the entrance of the two teams.

Barst's eyes sifted through
Moren's team first, trying to get an overall impression. They all seemed rather competent, but, like his team, they all seemed to have either to little experience or too much. Barst then moved on to Eronde's team, who all seemed to be in their prime. He recognized the insolent big man, Throun if he recalled correctly, who he had seen fight in the arena not one week ago. Just like last time, the man was already pointing at the audience and twirling his spear impudently.

Another man donned in red caught Bart's eye. He wielded a long staff that had two curved blades on either side. The staff itself seemed to be made of some sturdy material and was inlaid with strange runes and designs. Barst had never seen a weapon like it, and the owner also seemed to be an oddity. The man had shoulder length brown hair and an unusual skinny build for a fighter. His skin was a glowing pale, and his stance seemed to betray an attitude of confidence that bordered on mockery.

"That's Orane," a man a window across shouted, pointing toward Eronde's team.

"The one with the long hair?" Barst asked.

The man shot Barst a surprised glance and nodded his assent "Aye, his blood is supposed to be a quarter elf. I saw him fight before. He made twenty Class-two warriors look like an insult."

"A quarter elf?" Barst murmured to himself. The elves had become an extinct race about a hundred years ago. According to fable, elves had always been aloof so no one really knew much about them except rumors. It was said that the strongest human could not lift more than the weakest elf and that the elf's speed could only be matched with members of their own race. They were a race said to be born into magic, which gave them an aura of power. Their lifelines were rumored to last for human generations.

Yet for all their advantages, the elves had one weakness. Their longevity made them unwilling to act. Slowly their race had died out as disasters and enemies took their land and lives while they refused to respond. No one really knew if the elves
had actually died out, but none had been seen for decades so it had been the leading theory for their absence.

There were supposed to be men who were part elf, but Barst had never seen one, and he had doubted their existence. If Orane was a quarter elf, he should have no problem dispatching all his opponents.