A Land Of Fire (Book 12) (15 page)

Darius felt every muscle in his body burning
as he swung ten feet off the ground, hanging by his hands from a bamboo pole.
Every muscle in his body cried for him to just let go, to hit the ground, to
give in to the sweet release—but he would not allow himself to. He was
determined to pass the test.

Groaning, Darius looked around and saw
dozens of his brothers in arms already collapsed on the mud, having dropped
from their poles, unable to take the pain of hanging. He was determined to
outlast them. It was one of the rites of their training, to see which boy could
last the longest before dropping, one of the ways to gain respect of the
others. Only four other boys remained hanging, and he was determined to outwait
them; as the youngest and smallest of the lot, he needed to prove his
toughness.

Filling Darius’s ears were the cheers of
the others, encouraging them to hang or to fall. Another boy beside him
slipped, and Darius heard him hit the mud. There came another cheer.

Now there were three of them. Darius’s palms
burned as he hung from the bamboo, the branch sagging, his shoulders feeling as
if they would come loose from their sockets. Down below he saw the disapproving
eyes of his instructors, watching over him, and Darius was intent on proving
them wrong. He knew that they expected him to fail—and he knew what he did not
have in size and age he could make up for in spirit.

Another boy dropped, there came another
cheer, and now there were just Darius and one other boy left hanging. Darius
glanced over and saw who it was—Desmond—a boy twice as large and tall as he, one
of the most respected of all the boys. They were slaves by day, but they considered
themselves warriors by night, and as they trained together at night, they had a
hierarchy, a fierce code of honor and respect. If they could not get respect
from the Empire, they could get it from themselves, and these boys lived and
died for this respect. If they could not fight against the Empire, at least
they could train and compete amongst themselves.

As Darius’s limbs ached with an
unspeakable pain, he closed his eyes and willed himself to hang on. He wondered
how much pain Desmond could endure, how much longer it would take him to drop. This
contest meant more to Darius than he could say, and a reflex was prompting him
to use his hidden powers.

But Darius shook the thought from his
mind, forcing himself not to use magic, not to have any unfair advantage; he
wanted to beat the others with force of will alone.

His sweaty palms slipping from the
bamboo, one inch at a time, he was beginning to slide. He was seeing stars as
his ears were filled with the shouts and cries of the boys below, sounding a
hundred miles away. He wanted more than anything to hold on, but as he slipped,
soon he was hanging on by just his fingertips.

Darius grunted as he closed his eyes and
felt himself about to pass out. He knew in another second he would have to
release.

Just before he let go, Darius heard a
sudden slip, heard a body fall through the air and land in the mud, and heard a
loud cheer. He opened his eyes to see Desmond on the ground, collapsed in
exhaustion. The boys cheered, and Darius somehow summoned the strength to hang
on for a few more seconds, basking in his victory. He did not just want to win;
he wanted a clear and firm victory, wanted the others to see and to know that
he was the strongest.

Finally, he let himself go, his
shoulders giving on him as he fell through the air and landed in the mud.

Darius rolled to his side, his shoulders
on fire, and before he could nurse his exhaustion, he felt a dozen boys jumping
on him in congratulations, cheering, yanking him to his feet. Covered in mud, Darius
struggled to catch his breath as the crowd parted ways and his commander, Zirk,
a true warrior, wide as a tree trunk, with no shirt and rippling muscles, stepped
forward.

The crowd quieted as Zirk looked down on
him, expressionless.

“Next time you win,” Zirk said, his
voice deep, “hold on longer. It is not enough to win: you must crush your
opponents.”

Zirk turned and walked away, and Darius
watched him go, disappointed he had not received any praise. Then again, he
knew that was the way of the instructors. Any attention, any words from them,
should be considered approval.

 “Choose a partner!” Zirk boomed, facing
the others. “It is time for wrestling!”

“But our shoulders have not even
recovered yet!” protested one of the boys.

Zirk turned to him.

“That is exactly why we must wrestle
now. Do you think your opponent in battle will give you time to recover? You must
learn to fight at your weakest, and learn at that moment to fight your best.”

The boys began to break off into
positions, and as they did, Desmond came up beside Darius.

“Nice job back there,” Desmond said,
extending a hand.

They clasped forearms, and Darius was
surprised. It was the first time Desmond had paid him any attention.

“I underestimated you,” Desmond said.
“You’re not as weak as you look.” He smiled.

Darius smiled back.

“Is that a compliment?”

They were separated in the chaos, as
boys got between them, hurrying every which way to pair up with each other for
wrestling. Beside him, the one boy in the group that Darius did not like—Kaz, a
bulky boy with a square jaw and narrow, mean eyes—ran over to Luzi, the
smallest boy of the group, and grabbed him by the shirt. Luzi had initially paired
off with someone close to his size, but Kaz yanked him away and made him face
him.

“You will wrestle with me,” Kaz said.

Luzi looked up at him, terrified.

“It won’t be a match,” Luzi said. “You
are three times my size.”

Kaz smiled casually back, a cruel look
to his face.

“I can wrestle with anyone I choose to,”
he said. “Maybe you will learn something. Or maybe, after your beating, you
will leave our group.”

Darius felt the heat rise to his cheeks
as he felt the indignity of it. Darius could not stand to see injustice
anywhere, and he could not allow himself to sit idly by.

Without thinking, Darius suddenly stepped
between them, facing Kaz. He looked up at Kaz, taller than him by a head and twice
as wide, and he forced himself not to look away, and not to feel fear.

“Why don’t you wrestle with
me
?” Darius
said to him.

Kaz’s expression darkened as he stared
back at Darius.

“You can hang from a branch, boy,” he
said, “but that doesn’t mean you can fight. Now get out of my way, or I’ll pummel
you, too.”

Kaz reached out to shove him away, but Darius
did not move; instead, he stood there, resolute, and smiled back.

“Then pummel me,” he said. “You
might—but I will fight back. I might lose, but I will not back down.”

Kaz, furious, reached out to grab Darius
and throw him out of his way. But as soon as Kaz’s hand reached his shirt, Darius
used a trick he’d learned from one of the teachers: he waited until the last
moment, then grabbed Kaz’s wrist in a lock and spun it around, twisting his arm
behind his back. Darius threw him face down to the mud, sending him sliding
across the clearing, then jumped on top of him, beginning the wrestling match.

All the boys in the forest clearing took
notice, and they all crowded around them, cheering, as Darius felt himself
spinning, being thrown by Kaz’s great bulk as he wheeled around. Darius slid
across the mud, and before he could react, Kaz was on top of him. Kaz’s weight
and strength were too much for him, and soon Kaz pinned him down.

“You little rat,” Kaz seethed. “You’re
going to pay for this.”

Kaz spun around, and Darius felt his arm
being yanked behind his back; the pain was excruciating, and it felt as if it
were about to be broken off.

Darius felt his face buried in the mud,
as Kaz leaned in close behind him, his hot breath on the back of his neck. The
pain in his arm was indescribable as Kaz yanked it back even further.

“I can break your arm right now if I
choose to,” Kaz hissed in his ear.

“Then do it,” Darius groaned back. “It
still won’t change who you are: a coward.”

Kaz pulled his arm back harder, and Darius
groaned, feeling that Kaz was about to break it.

Suddenly, Darius heard footsteps running
across the mud, and he saw, from the corner of his eye, Luzi appear and jump on
Kaz’s back.

Kaz, enraged, let go of Darius’s arm,
stood up, and threw Luzi, who went flying through the air.

Darius spun around, nursing his aching
arm, to see Kaz turn back around for him. Darius braced himself for another
blow—when suddenly Desmond arrived, blocking Kaz’s way.

“Enough,” Desmond said to Kaz, his voice
filled with authority. “You’ve had your fun.”

Kaz stared Desmond back, and Darius
could see the hesitation, then uncertainty in his eyes. Clearly, he was afraid
of Desmond.

“I’m not done,” Kaz said.

“I said you are,” Desmond repeated,
expressionless, unmoving.

Kaz stared him down for several seconds,
then finally, he must have realized it wasn’t worth it; slowly, he backed away.

The tension dissipated, the boys going
back to their lines, Darius looked up and saw Desmond reach down a hand for
him. He took it and was pulled back up to his feet.

“That was brave of you,” Desmond said.
“Stupid. But brave.”

Darius smiled.

“Thanks,” he said. “You spared me a lot
worse.”

Desmond shook his head.

“I admire bravery,” he said. “However
foolish.”

Suddenly, a distinct sound cut through
the clearing; it was the sound of a horn, a low, somber horn, vibrating through
the trees.

The boys all froze and looked at each
other, their faces grave. That horn only meant one thing: it was the horn of
death. It could only mean that one of their own had been killed.

“Everyone to the village at once!”
commanded Zirk, and Darius fell in with the others, Desmond, Luzi, and Raj
falling in by his side, as they made their way for the village. Darius braced
himself, knowing it could not be good.

*

Darius hurried with his brothers in arms
straight into the chaotic center of their small village, people filtering into
the packed center as the horn of death blew again and again. Darius walked on
the narrow dirt road, filled with chickens and dogs running about, and he
passed small brown homes built of clay and mud, with thatched roofs that let in
too much rain. The homes in this village were too close to each other, and Darius
often wondered why he and his people could not live someplace else.

The soft, low horn blew again, the sound
rising up, reverberating throughout the hills, and more and more villagers
streamed in. Darius had not seen so many of his people in one place in as long
as he could remember, and he felt people bumping him on all sides, shoulder to
shoulder, as he reached the village center.

The crowd fell silent as the village
elders appeared, taking their seats around the stone well in the center of
town. Salmak, the leader of the elders, stood solemnly, and as he did, all were
silent. He faced them all, with his long white beard and fraying robes, and
raised a single palm high in the air, and the horn stopped. The tension in the
silence hung over them all like a blanket.

“The collapse on the mountainside,” he
said slowly, his voice grave, “brought the death of twenty-four of our
brethren.”

Moans and cries arose from the crowd,
and Darius felt his stomach drop. As always, he braced himself for the list of
names, hoping and praying that none of his cousins or aunts or uncles were on
it.

“Gialot, son of Oltevo,” Salmak called
out in his somber voice, and as he did, a mother’s cry ripped through the air. Darius
turned and saw a woman weeping, tearing her clothes, dropping to her knees and
putting dirt on her head.

“Onaso, son of Palza,” the chief
continued.

Darius closed his eyes and shook his
head as all around him came the sound of wailing and crying, as name after name
filled the air. Each name felt like a nail in his coffin, like a hole in his
heart; Darius felt like it would never end. He knew most of the names, some
distant acquaintances.

“Omaso, son of Liutre.”

Darius froze: that was a name he really
knew, the name of one of his brothers in arms. At the announcement, his
brothers all gasped. Darius closed his eyes and imagined his friend’s death,
imagined him being crushed by all that rock and dirt, and he felt sick. He also
knew that it could easily have been him instead; just last week, Darius had
been assigned to work those cliffs.

Finally, the names stopped, and there
came a long silence. The crowd began to slowly disperse, the air somber, and Darius
and the other boys stood there, staring at each other. They all looked
indignant, as if knowing that something needed to be done.