desert heat rising up in waves, making him sweat even in the shade, adding to his discomfort.
But Darius did not care. His entire body burned and ached from his head to his toes, covered in lumps, his limbs hard to move, worn out from the endless days of fighting in the arena. Unable to sleep, he closed his eyes and tried to make the memories go away, but each time he did, he saw all of his friends dying alongside him, Desmond, Raj, Luzi and Kaz, each in terrible ways. All of them dead so that he could survive.
He was the victor, had achieved the impossible – and yet that meant little to him now. He knew death was coming; his reward, after all, was to be shipped off for the Empire capital, to become a spectacle in a greater arena, with even worse foes. The reward for it all, for all his acts of valor, was death.
Darius would rather die right now than go through it all again. But he could not even control that; he was shackled here, helpless. How much longer would this torture have to go on? Would he have to witness every last thing he loved in the world die before he could die himself?
Darius closed his eyes again, desperately trying to blot out the memories, and as he did there came to him an early childhood memory. He was playing before his grandfather’s hut, in the dirt, wielding a staff. He hit a tree again and again, until finally his grandfather snatched it from him.
“Do not play with sticks,” his grandfather scolded. “Do you wish to catch the Empire’s attention? Do you wish for them to think of you as a warrior?”
His grandfather broke the stick over his knee, and Darius had bristled with outrage. That was more than a stick: that was his all-powerful staff, the only weapon he’d had. That staff had meant everything to him.
Yes, I want them to know me as a warrior. I want to be known as nothing else in life, Darius had thought.
But as his grandfather turned his back and stormed away, he had been too scared to say it aloud.
Darius had picked up the broken stick and held the pieces in his hands, tears rolling down his cheek. One day, he vowed, he would take revenge on all of them – his life, his village, their situation, the Empire, anything and everything he could not control.
He would crush them all. And he would be known as nothing other than a warrior.
Darius did not know how much time had passed when he awoke, but he noticed immediately that the bright morning sun of the desert had shifted to the dim orange sun of afternoon, heading to sunset. The air was much cooler, too, and his wounds had stiffened, making it harder for him to move, to even shift himself in the uncomfortable carriage. The horses jostled endlessly on the hard rock of the desert, the endless feeling of metal banging against his head making him feel as if it were shattering his skull. He rubbed his eyes, pulling the caked dirt from his lashes, and wondered how far this capital was. He felt as if he he’d traveled already to the ends of the earth.
He blinked several times and looked out, expecting, as always to see an empty horizon, a desert of waste. Yet this time as he looked out, he was startled to see something else. He sat up straighter for the first time.
The carriage began to slow, the thundering of the horses quieted a bit, the roads became smoother, and as he studied the new landscape, Darius saw a sight he would never forget: there, rising out of the desert like some lost civilization, was a massive city wall, seeming to rise to the heavens and stretching as far as the eye could see. It was marked by huge, shining golden doors, its walls and parapets lined with Empire soldiers, and Darius knew at once that they had made it: the capital.
The sound of the road changed, a hollow, wooden sound, and Darius looked down and saw the carriage being driven over an arched drawbridge. They passed hundreds more soldiers lining the bridge, all of whom snapped to attention as they went.
A great groaning filled the sky, and Darius looked ahead and watched the golden doors, impossibly tall, open wide, as if to embrace him. He saw a glimmer beyond them, of the most magnificent city he’d ever seen, and he knew, without a doubt, that this was a place from which there would be no escape. As if to confirm his thoughts, Darius heard a distant thunder, one he recognized immediately: it was the roar of an arena, a new arena, of men out for blood, and of what would surely be his final resting place. He did not fear it; he just prayed to god that he die on his feet, a sword in his hand, in one final act of valor.
Chapter Eight
Thorgrin pulled one last time on the golden rope, hands shaking, Angel on his back, sweat pouring down his face, and he finally cleared the cliff, his knees touching down on soil, catching his breath. He turned and looked back and saw, hundreds of feet below, straight down the steep cliffs, the crashing ocean waves, their ship on the beach, looking so small, and he was amazed at how far he’d climbed. He heard groans all around him, and turned to see Reece and Selese, Elden and Indra, O’Connor and Matus all finishing the climb, all hoisting themselves up and onto the Isle of Light.
Thor knelt there, muscles exhausted, and looked up at the Isle of Light spread out before him – and his heart sank with a fresh sense of foreboding. Before he even saw the awful sight, he could smell the burning ash, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. He could also feel the heat, the smoldering fires, the damage that remained from whatever creatures had destroyed this place. The island was black, burned, destroyed, everything that had once been so idyllic about it, that had seemed so invincible, now turned to ash.
Thorgrin gained his feet and wasted no time. He began to venture out into the isle, his heart pounding as he looked everywhere for Guwayne. As he took in the state of this place, he hated to think of what he might find.
“GUWAYNE!” Thorgrin shouted as he jogged across the smoldering hills, raising both hands to his mouth.
His voice was echoed back to him against the rolling hills, as if to mock him. And then nothing but silence.
There came a lonely screech from somewhere high above, and Thor looked up to see Lycoples, still circling. Lycoples screeched again, dove low, and flew off toward the center of the isle. Thor sensed at once that she was leading him to his son.
Thor broke off into a jog, the others beside him, running through the charred wasteland, searching everywhere.
“GUWAYNE!” he shouted again. “RAGON!”
As Thor took in the devastation of the blackened landscape, he felt increasingly certain that nothing could have survived here. These rolling hills, once so lush with grass and trees, were now but a scarred landscape. Thor wondered what sort of creatures, aside from dragons, could wreak this sort of havoc – and more importantly, who controlled them, who had sent them here, and why. Why was his son so important that someone would send an army for him?
Thor looked to the horizon, hoping for a sign of them, but his heart sank as he saw nothing. Instead he saw only smoldering flames littering the hills.
He wanted to believe Guwayne had somehow survived all this. But he did not see how. If a sorcerer as powerful as Ragon could not stop whatever forces had been here, how could he possibly save his son?
For the first time since he had set out on this quest, Thor was beginning to lose all hope.
They ran and ran, ascending and descending hills, and as they crested a particularly large hill, suddenly O’Connor, leading the way, pointed excitedly.
“There!” he called out.
O’Connor pointed to the side, to the remains of an ancient tree, now charred, its branches gnarled. And as Thor looked closely, he spotted, lying beneath it, motionless,
