A Land Of Fire (Book 12) (16 page)

Yet Darius knew that they would do
nothing. It was the way of his people, the way it had always been. His people
would all die, either directly by the taskmasters, or indirectly through labor,
and it had become their lot, their way of life. No one ever seemed willing to
change it.

This time, though, the deaths affected Darius
more than usual; it seemed there were more names, more grief. Darius wondered
if it was worse, or if he was just growing older, becoming less able to
tolerate the status quo he had always lived with.

Without thinking, Darius stepped forward
into the village center, without even asking permission from the elders. Before
he could even think of what he was doing, he found himself yelling out, his
voice piercing the air:

“And how long shall we suffer these
indignities?” he cried out.

The crowd froze, and all eyes turned to
him as there came a heavy silence.

“We are dying here, each day. When will
enough be enough?”

There came a murmur from the crowd, and Darius
felt a hand on the back of the shoulder. He turned to see his grandfather
looking down sternly at him, trying to yank him away.

Darius knew he was in trouble; he knew
it was a sign of great insolence to show anything but respect toward the
elders, and to speak without permission. But on this day, Darius didn’t care;
on this day, he’d had enough.

He brushed off his grandfather’s hand
and stood his ground, facing the elders.

“They outnumber us more than the sands
of the sea,” an elder said back. “If we rise up, by day’s end we would be gone.
Better to be alive than to be dead.”

“Is it?” Darius called out. “I say it’s
better to be dead than to live as dead men.”

A long murmur came from the crowd, none
of his villagers used to hearing any defiance of the elders. His grandfather
yanked on his shirt again, but Darius would not move.

Salmak stepped forward and glared down
at him.

“You speak without permission,” he said
slowly, gravely. “We will forgive your words as those of a hasty youth. But if
you continue to incite our people, if you continue to show disrespect to your
elders, you will be lashed in the town square. We shall not warn you again.”

“This meeting is finished!” another
elder yelled out.

The crowd began to slowly disperse all
around Darius, and his cheeks burned with the indignity of it all. He loved his
people, but he disrespected them at the same time. They all seemed so
complacent to him, and he did not feel he was cut from the same cloth as they.
He was terrified of becoming like them, of growing old enough here to think as
they did, to see the world as they did. Darius felt he was still young enough
and strong enough to have independent thought. He knew he needed to act on that
while he still could, before he became old and complacent. Before he became
like the town elders, trying to silence anyone who held a dissenting view,
anyone with passion.

“You are really looking to get a
beating, aren’t you?” came a voice.

Darius turned to see Raj come up beside
him with a smile, clasping him on the shoulder.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Raj
added. “I’m getting to like you more and more. I think you might just be as
crazy as I.”

Before Darius could respond, he turned
to find one of his commanders, Zirk, standing over him, a disapproving look
across his face.

“It is not your place to propose action,”
he said. “It is ours. A true warrior knows not only how to fight, but when to.
That is something you have yet to learn.”

Darius faced him, determined, not
willing to back down this time.

“And when is the time to fight?” he
asked.

Zirk’s eyes burned back with fury,
clearly unhappy at being questioned.

“The time is when we say it is.”

Darius grimaced.

“I’ve lived in this village my entire
life,” Darius said, “and that time has never come. And I sense it never will.
You are all so intent on protecting what we have, that you won’t see that we
have nothing.”

Zirk shook his head disapprovingly.

“These are the words of a youth,” he
said. “You would rush into battle, into a sure death, just to relieve your
passion. You, who are so small that you cannot even beat your brethren in
battle. What makes you think you can beat the Empire? You, with no weapons,
unarmed?”

“We have weapons,” Darius countered.

Desmond came up beside them, along with
several of his brothers. They all crowded around, and as they did, Kaz stepped
forward and laughed derisively.

“We have bows and slings and weapons
made of bamboo,” he said. “Those are not weapons. We have no steel. And you
expect to battle against the finest armor and weaponry and horses of the
Empire? You will incite others and get them all killed. You should stay in our
village and keep your mouth shut.”

“Then what do we train for?” Darius
challenged. “For wrestling matches in the forest? For an enemy we are too
afraid to face?”

Zirk stepped forward and pointed a
finger in Darius’s face.

“If you’re unhappy, you can leave us,”
he said. “Joining our force is a privilege.”

Zirk turned his back on him and walked
away, and the other boys, too, began to leave.

Raj looked at him and shook his head in
admiration.

“Upsetting everyone today, aren’t you?”
Raj asked with a smile.

“I am with you,” came a voice.

Darius turned to see Desmond standing
there. “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my back.”

Before Darius could reply, he felt a
hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see a small man wearing a cloak and
hood, and gesturing for him to follow. Darius looked all around, then back at
the man, wondering who he was.

The man turned and walked away quickly,
and Darius, intrigued, followed after him through the crowd, weaving his way in
every direction.

The man weaved his way in and out,
between houses, to the far side of the village before he finally stopped before
a small clay home. He pushed back his hood as he faced him, and Darius saw his
large, darting eyes that looked about cautiously.

“If your words are not empty words,” the
man said in a whisper, “I have steel. I have weapons. Real weapons.”

Darius stared at him, eyes widening in
awe. He had never met anyone who had possessed steel before, as owning it was
on pain of death, and he wondered where he’d gotten it.

“When you are ready, find me,” the man
added. “The last clay house by the river. Speak to no one of this. If anyone
asks, I will deny it.”

The man turned and hurried off into the
crowd, and Darius watched him, wondering, his mind swarming with questions.
Before he could call out after him, Darius felt yet another strong hand on his
shoulder, spinning him around.

Darius saw the face of his disapproving
grandfather, his face lined with age, framed by his short, gray hair, scowling down
at him. He was, though, surprisingly strong and vibrant for his age.

“That man leads to death,” his
grandfather warned sternly. “Not just for you, but for all of your kin. Do you
understand me? We have survived for generations, unlike other slaves in other
provinces, because we have never embraced steel. If the Empire catches you with
it, they will raze our village to the ground, and will kill every single one of
us,” he said, jabbing his finger in his chest to drive home his point. “If I
catch you seeking out that man, you will be banished from our family. You will
not be welcome in our home. I shall not say this again.”

“Papa—” Darius began.

But his grandfather had already turned
and stormed back into the village.

Darius watched him go, upset. He loved
his grandfather, who had practically raised him since the disappearance of his
own father years ago. Darius respected him, too. But he did not share his view
on complacency. He never would. His grandfather was of another generation. And
he would never understand.
Never.

Darius turned back to the crowd, and one
face caught his attention. Standing there, about twenty feet away, was the
girl, the one he had seen in the Alluvian Forest. People passed by in front of
her, yet she kept her eyes fixed upon Darius, as if no one else in the world
existed.

Darius’s heart pounded at the sight of
her, and the rest of the world melted away. This girl had captivated his
thoughts since he had laid eyes upon her, and seeing her now, here, felt
surreal. He had wondered if he would ever see her again.

Darius pushed his way through the crowd,
heading toward her. He was afraid she might turn away, but she stood there,
proudly, staring back, and it was unmistakable that she was looking at him. Her
face was expressionless. She did not smile—but she did not frown either.

Darius looked into her soulful yellow eyes,
and below them he could see the small welt on her cheek where the taskmaster
had struck her. He felt a fresh wave of indignity, and more than anything, he
felt a connection with her, something stronger than he’d ever felt.

He broke through the crowd and stood a
few feet away from her. He did not know what to say, and they both stood there,
facing each other, in the silence.

“I heard your words, in the village,”
she said. Her voice was deep and strong, the most beautiful voice he’d ever
heard. “Are they hollow?” she asked.

Darius flushed.

“They are not hollow,” he replied.

“So what action do you plan on taking?”
she asked.

He stood there, not sure how to respond.
He had never met anyone as direct as her.

“I…don’t know,” he said.

She studied him.

“I have four brothers,” she said. “They
are warriors. They think the same way as you. And I have already lost one of my
brothers because of it.”

Darius looked at her, surprised.

“How?” he asked.

“He went off by himself, one night, to
wage war with the Empire. He killed a few taskmasters. But they caught him, and
they killed him horribly. Cruelly. He had stripped himself of all his markings,
so they couldn’t track him back to us, or they would have killed us all, too.”

She looked at Darius as if debating
something.

“I don’t want to be with a man who is
like my brother,” she finally said. “There is room for pride among boys—but not
among men. Because men must back up pride with action. And action for us means
death.”

Darius looked at her, taken aback by her
words, her eyes so strong, so powerful, never wavering from his. He was in awe
of her. She spoke with the strength and wisdom of a queen, and he could hardly
understand how he was looking back at a girl his own age.

More than anything, as he stood there,
his heart pounding, he wondered why she was talking to him. He wondered if she
liked him, if she had the same feelings for him that he had for her. Did she
like him? Or was she just trying to help him?

“So tell me, then,” she finally said,
after a long silence. “Are you a you a man? Or a hero?”

Darius did not know how to respond.

“I am neither,” he said. “I am just
myself.”

She stared at him long and hard, as if
summing him up, as if trying to decide.

Finally, she turned and began to walk
away. Darius’s heart was falling, as he assumed he’d given her the wrong
answer, that she changed her mind.

But as she walked away, she turned her
head to him, and for the first time, and said:

“Meet me at the river, beneath the
weeping tree, as the sun sets,” she said. “And don’t keep me waiting.”

She disappeared into the crowd, and Darius’s
heart pounded as he watched her go. He had never encountered anyone like her,
and he had a feeling that he never would. For the first time ever, a girl had
taken a liking to him.

Or had she?

Alistair stood on the stone plaza in the
breaking light of dawn, high up on the cliffs, joined by Erec’s mother and all
her advisors, and looked out over the sweeping vistas of the Southern Isles.
Down below, she could see the battle raging, as it had been all night since her
encounter with Bowyer. Alistair looked out at this beautiful isle, draped by a
morning mist, wafting with the smell of lemon blossoms, now erupted in war—and
she felt guilty that she had been the one to spark this civil war.

Yet at the same time she felt
vindicated, relieved that these people finally realized she was innocent—and
that Bowyer was the assassin. She knew that Bowyer needed to be stopped before
he stole the kingship—after all, the kingship belonged to Erec—and Alistair was
determined to see that Erec recovered, and claimed what was rightfully his. Not
because she wanted to be Queen—she did not care for title or rank—but because
she wanted her husband-to-be to receive what he deserved.

Erec’s mother, beside her, watched the
battles with concern, and Alistair reached over and laid a hand on her wrist.
Alistair felt overwhelmed with gratitude towards her, for standing by her side
the entire time.

“I owe you a great deal of thanks,”
Alistair said. “If it were not for you, I would be sitting in that dungeon—or
dead—right now.”

Erec’s mother smiled back, although her
smile was weak, as she looked back at the battle below, grave with concern.

“And I owe you as much,” she said. “You
saved my son’s life.”

She studied the cliffs below and her
brow furrowed.

“And yet, if this battle does not go
well, I fear it may all be for nothing,” she added.

Alistair looked at her in surprise.

“Are you concerned?” she asked. “I
thought Bowyer rules but one of the twelve provinces. What danger could there
be when there are eleven united against one?”

Alistair’s mother watched the battle,
expressionless.

“My former husband was always wary of
the Alzacs,” she said. “They do not only produce the best warriors on the
island, but they are also crafty, and not to be trusted. They are also power
hungry. I will not rest easy until I see every one of them involved in the
rebellion slaughtered.”

Alistair watched the battle, and saw
thousands of Southern Islanders pushing back Bowyer’s tribe, the battle raging
up and down steep mountain slopes, spread out all over the Southern Isles, men
fighting men on steep angles, the distant sound of metal clashing against metal
and horses neighing punctuation the morning air. They were all brilliant
warriors, their copper armor and weaponry shining in the sun, and they
blanketed the mountains like goats, fighting each other to the death.

She watched and flinched as one soldier
off his horse and off the side of the cliff, shrieking as he went hurtling to
his death.

As far as Alistair could tell, the
Southern Islanders had the advantage over Bowyer’s tribe, which appeared to be
on the run, and she could not see what there was to fear. Perhaps the former
Queen was being overly cautious. Soon, she felt, this would all be over, Erec
would be back in his seat as King, and they could start over again.

Alistair heard a shuffling of feet, and
she turned and saw Dauphine walking toward her from the far side of the plaza. Dauphine
had, in the past, always approached her with a look of disapproval or
indifference—yet this time, Alistair noticed she wore a different expression.
It seemed to be one of remorse—and of a new respect.

Dauphine came up to her.

“I must apologize,” she said earnestly.
“You stood falsely accused. I was misinformed, and for that I am sorry.”

Alistair nodded back.

“I never held any ill feelings toward
you,” Alistair said, “and I do not harbor them now. I am happy to have you as
my sister-in-law, assuming you are happy to have me.”

Dauphine smiled widely, for the first
time. She stepped up, hugged Alistair, and Alistair, surprised, hugged her
back.

Dauphine finally pulled back and studied
her with intensity.

“I hate my enemies with a great
passion,” Dauphine explained, “and I love my friends with equal fervor. You
shall become a friend and a sister to me. A true sister. Anyone as devoted to
Erec as you has won my heart. You shall find a loyal friend in me, I promise.
And my word is greater than my bond.”

Alistair felt that she meant it, and it
felt so good to have a sister, to finally have the tension between them
resolved. She could see that Dauphine was someone who felt deeply, and was not
always able to control her passions.

“Will they give up?” Alistair asked,
watching Bowyer’s men.

Erec’s mother shrugged.

“The Alzacs have always been
separatists. They’ve always coveted the crown, and they are sore losers. My
father and his father before him tried to eradicate them from the islands—now
is the time. Without them, we shall be one nation, unified under Erec.”

There came the sudden sound of a chorus
of horns, and they all turned in alarm, looking up at the cliffs behind them.
The mountaintops suddenly filled with soldiers on horseback, appearing all over
the ridge, covering the horizon from all directions. Alistair saw them bearing
all different color banners, and she looked up in confusion, not understanding
what was happening.

“I don’t understand,” Alistair said.
“The battle lies before us. Why do they approach from behind?”

Erec’s mother’s face fell with dread,
and she looked as if she were watching the arrival of death itself.

“They are not for us,” she said, her
voice barely above a whisper. “Those banners—they have turned half the island
against us. They are following Bowyer in his bid to be King. It’s a revolt!”

“It is finished,” Dauphine said, her
voice filled with despondency. “We have been ambushed. Deceived.”

“They head for the house of the sick,”
his mother observed, as the forces began to steer down the slope. “They’re
going to kill Erec—so that Bowyer can be King.”

“We must stop them!” Alistair said.

Erec’s mother grabbed Alistair’s wrist.

“If you head forward, to Erec, you head
to a certain death. If you wish to survive, head back to our forces, regroup,
and live to fight another day.”

Alistair shook her head.

“You don’t understand,” she replied.
“Without Erec, I am not alive anyway.”

Alistair tore her hand from her grip,
and she turned and ran headlong into the oncoming army, toward certain death,
ready to do whatever she had to to reach Erec first. If he was going to die,
she would die at his side.