A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (7 page)

Erec stood at the stern of his ship,
taking up the rear of his fleet as they all continued to sail upriver, and he
looked out behind them, downriver, watching the twisting river for any sign of
the Empire. On the horizon, he could still see the faint outline of black smoke
from where they had created a blockade and had set the ships on fire, and judging
by the smoke, it was still burning strongly. Given how tightly wedged those
ships were in such a narrow area—and given the fires keeping them at bay—Erec felt
confident that the Empire could not break through quickly. Erec imagined they
might have to resort to ropes and grappling hooks to pull away the debris. It
would be a slow and tedious process. It had bought Erec and his fleet the
precious lead they needed.

Erec turned and looked back upriver, saw
his ships sailing before him, and felt relieved that he was at the rear; if the
Empire did catch up with them, Erec would be the first to defend his people.

“You need no longer worry, my lord,”
came a soft voice.

Erec felt a gentle, reassuring hand on
his arm and he turned to see Alistair, coming up beside him and smiling
graciously back.

“Our ships are faster than theirs,” she
said, “and there has been so sign of them all day. As long as we keep sailing,
they shall not catch us.”

Erec smiled back and kissed her,
reassured by her presence, as always.

“There is always something a leader must
worry about,” he replied. “If it’s not what’s behind us, then it’s what lies
ahead.”

“Of course,” she replied. “All security
is an illusion. As soon as we stepped foot on this ship and set sail from the Southern
Isles, safety did not exist. But that’s what ships are meant for, is it not?
That is what makes us who we are.”

Erec was impressed by her wisdom, her
courage, and he knew that royal blood flowed through her. As he studied her, he
noticed her beautiful blue eyes glistening, and he sensed something was different
about her—he was not quite sure what. He felt as if she were withholding
something from him.

She looked back at him questioningly.

“What is it, my lord?” she finally asked.

He hesitated.

“You seem…different these past days,” he
said. “I’m not sure how. I feel you are perhaps…withholding some secret from me.”

Alistair blushed and looked away, and he
felt sure that she was.

“It is… nothing, my lord,” she said. “I
am just distracted by the departure of my brother. I worry for Thorgrin, for Guwayne.
And I wish to be reunited with our people again.”

Erec nodded, and understood—though he
was still not quite convinced.

“Erec!” suddenly shouted a voice, and
Erec turned to see Strom beckoning him at the bow of the ship, agitated.

There was a sudden commotion as men
rushed forward for the front of the ship, and Erec broke into action and raced
across the deck, Alistair beside him.

Erec weaved his way between men until he
finally reached the bow. Waiting for him was Strom, who handed him a long
looking glass and pointed upriver.

“There,” Strom said urgently, “to your
right. That small speck.”

Erec looked closely through the glass,
holding it to his eye, the world moving up and down as they sailed through the
current, and slowly, it came into view. It appeared to be a small Empire
village, perched at the river’s edge.

“It will be the first village we’ve
encountered since entering this land,” Strom said beside him. “They could be
hostile.”

Erec continued looking through the
glass, taking it all in as they got neared, the wind carrying them closer with
each passing moment. It was a quaint village, comprised of one-story clay houses,
smoke rising from chimneys, children and dogs running about. Erec spotted women
walking about casually, unafraid, and in the distance, men farming and a few
fishing. From their dark skin and small stature, they appeared to be not of the
Empire race; they seemed a peaceful people, perhaps under the Empire’s
subjugation.

Indeed, as Erec waited patiently for the
current to carry them closer, he was surprised to see these people were of the
human race—and as he looked closely, he spotted Empire taskmasters positioned throughout
the village, holding whips. He watched a woman scream out as a taskmaster lashed
her across the back, forcing her to drop her child.

Erec grew hot with indignation. He did a
quick tally and counted perhaps a hundred Empire taskmasters spread throughout
this village of several hundred peaceful folk.

He lowered the glass and handed it back
to Strom, determined.

“Prepare your bows!” he shouted back to
his men. “We sail into battle!”

His men cheered, clearly thrilled to be
back into action, and they lined up along the rail and took positions high in
the masts, bows and arrows at the ready.

“This is not our battle, my lord,” said
one of his commanders, coming up beside him. “Our battle awaits us far on the
horizon. Should we not press on, and leave this village alone?”

Erec stood, hands on his hips, and shook
his head.

“To sail onwards,” he replied, “would be
to turn our back on justice. That would make us less of who we are.”

“But there is injustice everywhere, my
lord,” his commander countered. “Are we to be the knights for the world?”

Erec remained determined.

“Whatever is put before our eyes is put
before there for a reason,” he replied. “If we do not make an attempt to rectify
it, then who are we?”

Erec turned to his men.

“Do not show yourselves until my command!”
Erec yelled out.

His men quickly knelt, concealing
themselves beneath the rail, preparing for the confrontation to come.

As their fleet of ships neared the
village, rocking in the river’s current, Erec sailed out in front, taking the
lead—and soon, the villagers caught sight of him. The villagers began to stop
what they were doing, farmers stood where they were, fishers began to pull back
nets, all staring in surprise.

The Empire began to notice, too: one by
one, Empire soldiers began to turn from their tasks and watch the river, looking
curiously at Erec’s ships. Clearly they had never seen their like before, and
had no idea what to expect. Perhaps they assumed they were Empire ships?

Erec knew he had but a brief window of surprise
until the Empire soldiers realized they were under attack—and he was determined
to take advantage of it.

“Archers!” Erec shouted. “Introduce
these Empire men to the strength of the Southern Isles!”

There arose a great cheer as Erec’s men rose,
as one, up from behind the rails, took aim, and sent a volley of arrows towards
the shore.

The Empire soldiers turned to run—but they
were not quick enough. The sky blackened with hundreds of arrows, arching high
and descending, piercing the taskmasters one at a time.

They cried out, dropping their whips and
swords where they stood, collapsing to the dirt, while terrified women and children
screamed and fled.

“Anchors!” Erec cried out.

His fleet dropped their anchors, and
they all followed Erec’s lead as he jumped over the rail, flying through the
air a good ten feet, landing in the water, up to his knees, then drawing his
sword and charging on the sand.

As Erec led the charge to the village, Strom
a foot behind him, dozens of Empire soldiers rushed forward to meet him, swords
and shields at the ready.

The first sword slash came down, right
for Erec’s head. Erec blocked the blow with his shield, then swung around and
slashed the soldier in the stomach. At the same moment he was attacked from the
side, and he turned and slashed the other soldier before he could lower his
sword, then turned the other way and kicked one back in the chest, sending him
back, splashing in the water. He head-butted a fourth, breaking his nose,
smashed another with his shield, and stabbed another in the chest.

Erec spun in every direction, a
whirlwind, cutting through the ranks of hundreds of Empire soldiers. His men
were close behind, and Strom, at his side, fought like a man possessed, felling
soldiers left and right. Cries ran out in the morning air, and Erec lost more
than one soldier, as more and more of these vicious Empire fighters seem to
pour out of nowhere.

But Erec was filled with indignation at
how these cruel taskmasters had treated the defenseless women and children, and
he was determined to set things right and liberate this place, whatever the
cost. He had also been eager, for far too long at sea, to let loose his
aggression on the Empire, hand to hand, man to man, on dry land. It felt good
to wield his sword again.

The sound of a whip cracked through the
air, as an Empire soldier came at them from behind and lashed them with his
long whip, catching Erec and Strom by surprise as he lashed the hilt of Erec’s
sword and yanked it from his hands. Erec reacted quickly, turning and throwing
his shield sideways; it went spinning through the air and hit the soldier in
the throat, knocking him down. Defenseless, another soldier brought his sword
down for his face—but Strom stepped up and blocked the blow for his brother,
then stabbed and killed the man.

Erec charged forward, ankles splashing
in the water, grabbed his sword, extricated the whip, and kicked the taskmaster
back, then stabbed him in the chest.

The fighting continued, on and on, thick
and heavy, the waters running red with blood, men dying in every
direction—until finally, it slowed. The clanging became less persistent, the
smashing of shields dropped away, the sound of armor clinking died, as did the
shouts and cries of men. Soon all that could be heard was the running of the
river, thick in the air of silence.

Standing there, breathing hard, sweat
running down the back of his neck, Erec looked about and surveyed the
battlefield, and slowly, inwardly, he rejoiced as he saw his men standing over
hundreds of Empire corpses, victorious. They all looked to him proudly, these
great warriors of the Southern Isles, men he could not possibly be more proud
to lead.

Slowly, like rabbits emerging from their
holes, the villagers crept out of their houses, out of the village, coming
forward in disbelief at the sight. They seemed hardly able to fathom that all
the Empire taskmasters, these people who had oppressed them so badly, were
dead.

Erec stepped forward and raised his
sword and walked through the ranks of villagers, slicing the shackles holding
them together—and all around him, his men did the same. He saw the villagers’
eyes fill with tears as they dropped to their knees, liberated.

He looked down as one of them grabbed
his leg, knelt, and cried.

“Thank you,” he wept. “Thank you.”

Darius was rudely awakened, his head
smashed into the iron bars of the carriage as it came to a grinding halt. He
barely had time to process what was happening when keys jingled in the lock,
the iron door slid open, and several rough hands grabbed him by the chest and
yanked him out into harsh daylight.

He landed on the hard dirt ground, tumbling,
dust rising all around him, squinting his eyes into the sun as he held up his
hands. His ankles and wrists shackled, he couldn’t resist even if he wanted to.
The Empire taskmaster knew that, yet he placed his boot on Darius’s throat
anyway, enjoying inflicting pain on him. Darius could barely breathe, feeling
his windpipe being crushed.

More rough hands grabbed him and yanked him
to his feet and Darius shut his eyes again, every muscle in his body aching,
feeling so stiff and sore, every movement hurting him.

“Move it, slave!” yelled a taskmaster,
and Darius felt a rough shove as he stumbled forward through the streets.

Darius slowly opened his eyes into the
glaring sun, trying to get his bearings and figure out where he was. At least
that carriage had stopped; he could not stand another minute of its jolting his
head.

Darius heard shouting all around him,
and he realized he was in a crowded city, people bustling everywhere, slaves
like him, chained by wrists and ankles, being ushered by Empire handlers in
every direction. He was marched with a long group of slaves, dozens of them,
all of them being ushered through a tall, arched stone opening, leading into a
stone tunnel and toward what appeared to be a training barracks.

Darius heard a thunderous roar, and he glanced
up and saw beyond that, a coliseum twice the size of the one in Volusia. It was
the most glorious and terrifying thing he’d ever seen. And then he realized,
without a doubt, where he was: he had arrived in the Empire capital.

Darius barely had time to consider it
when he felt a club on his back.

“Move it, slave!” the man yelled out.

Darius went stumbling with the group
into the darkened tunnel, and as he lost his balance and rushed forward, he
felt a sharp sting as he was elbowed in his face.

“Don’t bump me, boy!” snarled another
slave in the darkness.

Darius, furious that a fellow slave
would catch him off guard like that, would strike him for what was clearly an
accident, reacted. He shoved the slave back, sending him stumbling backwards into
a stone wall. He was so pent up with aggression that he had to let it out on someone.

The slave rushed forward to tackle
Darius, but at that moment a new throng of slaves marched in, and it was so
dark in here, the boy pounced on another slave, mistaking him for Darius.
Darius heard the boys all shout out, as the two strangers wrestled on the
ground. It went on for a few seconds before the taskmasters appeared with clubs
and beat them both.

Darius kept moving with the others, and
a moment later, he emerged into sunlight again and found himself in the dusty
courtyard of a square, stone training barracks, its walls lined with arches all
around. Lined up were hundreds of slaves, mostly boys his age, chained to each
other by long shackles. Darius felt a rough hand on his wrist and he looked over
as an Empire taskmaster clamped his shackles to another boy’s

Darius continued shuffling into the
courtyard in the long line of boys, hundreds of them lining the walls, until
finally he felt a yank on his chain, and all the boys came to a stop, in a
great clanging of chains.

Darius stood there in the tense silence,
looking out with the others, wondering what to expect now. What agony awaited
them next? he wondered.

A dozen Empire soldiers emerged from one
of the arches, marching into the silent courtyard, a huge Empire soldier
leading the way, clearly their leader. He paced up and down the line of boys,
examining them one at a time.

Finally, scowling, he cleared his
throat.

“You have all been brought here, to me,
because you are the best of the best,” he called out, his voice dark and
malevolent. “You each hail from villages and towns and cities all over the
Empire, from all four horns and both spikes. Every day, hundreds more of you are
brought to me—yet only the best of you will fight in our coliseum.”

All the boys remained silent, a thick tension
in the air, as the taskmaster paced, his boots crunching on the ground.

“You might all be the best from wherever
you are,” he finally continued, “but that means nothing to me here. This is the
greatest coliseum in the greatest capital in the world. Here you will find foes
that will make your skills seem worthless. Most of you will die like dogs.”

The taskmaster continued pacing and
then, without warning, he drew his sword, stepped forward, and stabbed one of
the boys in the heart.

The boy gasped and dropped to his knees,
dead, yanking on the others’ chains—and the other boys gasped. Darius, too, was
shocked.

“That boy was weak,” the taskmaster explained.
“I could see it in his eyes. He did not stand tall enough.”

Darius felt sickened as the taskmaster
continued walking the line; he wanted to reach out and kill him—but he was
chained, and weaponless.

A moment later, the taskmaster reached
out and sliced a boy’s throat, and the boy collapsed at his feet.

“That boy was too frail,” he explained,
as he continued walking.

Darius felt his heart pounding as the
taskmaster neared him. Hardly twenty feet down from Darius, he swung his sword
and cut off a boy’s head.

Darius saw his head roll on the ground,
and he looked up at the man, shocked that anyone could love killing so much.

“That boy,” the taskmaster said,
grinning a cruel grin and staring right at Darius, “I killed just for fun.”

Darius reddened, enraged, feeling
helpless.

The taskmaster turned to the others, and
his voice boomed out:

“You are all nothing to me,” he said.
“Killing you is one of my great joys. There will be many more to take your
place in the morning. You are truly worthless now.”

Down the line the taskmaster went, trailed
by his entourage, killing nearly every other boy, all in brutal ways. The boys,
shackled, were defenseless; one tried to turn and run, but the taskmaster
stabbed him in the back.

As they approached, Darius, sweating, no
longer caring, filled with fury, forced himself to stand tall and strong. He
stuck his chin up and stood as straight as he could, despite his wounds, staring
defiantly straight ahead. If they would kill him then so be it; at least he
would die proudly, not cowering like some of the others.

The taskmaster stopped before him and
examined him as if he were an insect, sneering.

“You’re not as big as the others,” he
said. “Or as muscular. I think we can do just fine without you.”

He raised his sword and suddenly lunged
at Darius, aiming to stab him in the heart.

Darius reacted. He had been prepared to
stand there and die—indeed, would have welcome it—but something inside him took
over, some warrior reflex that would just not let him die.

Darius sidestepped, raised his wrists,
wrapped with shackles, and used his chains to catch the blade. He wrapped them
up in it, then stepped aside and yanked hard, pulling the taskmaster toward
him. He then leaned back and kicked the taskmaster in the solar plexus, sending
him stumbling backwards, gasping and weaponless.

Darius sneered back and dropped his sword
at his feet. It landed with a clang.

“You’re going to have come at me with a
lot better than that toothpick,” Darius said, reveling in the moment.

The taskmaster stared back, shocked, and
turned apoplectic. He grabbed a spare sword from the scabbard of the soldier
beside him, then began to charge once again for Darius.

“I’m going to carve you into pieces,” he
said, “and leave your corpse for the dogs.”

The man charged, but then stopped
abruptly.

“No you’re not,” came a voice.

Darius was shocked to see a long staff suddenly
drop down between him and the taskmaster, against the taskmaster’s chest,
holding him back.

The taskmaster scowled as he turned and
looked over, and Darius was shocked to see a man standing there—a human—about his
size and build, perhaps in his forties, his light-brown skin the same color as
his, wearing only a simple brown robe and hood, and wielding only a staff. Even
more amazing was that he held the Empire soldier back. Darius had no idea what
a free human was doing here.

The man looked back at the taskmaster steadily,
fearlessly, calmly, standing there proudly. His sleeves cut off, he was wiry
and muscular, like Darius, but not overly so. He wore sandals, the laces
wrapped up his shins to his knees, and he bore the proud face, square jaw, and
noble look of a warrior.

“You will let this one be,” the man
ordered the taskmaster, his voice low and full of confidence.

The taskmaster sneered.

“Get that stick away from me,” he
replied, “or I will kill you along with him.”

The taskmaster raised his sword and
slashed at the staff, to cut it in two.

But the man moved quicker than any
warrior Darius had never seen before, moving so quickly that he was able to
move his staff out of the way and bring it down in a circle on the Empire
soldier’s wrists, smacking them so hard that he knocked the sword from his
grip. It fell to the ground, and the man then held the tip of his staff to the stunned
taskmaster’s throat.

“I said, this boy will live,” the man
repeated firmly.

The taskmaster frowned.

“You may train them,” the taskmaster
said, “but it is I who decides who lives and who dies. You might be able to
outfight me, but look around—here are dozens of my men, all with fine weaponry
and armor. Are you going to stop all of them with that stick of yours?”

The man, to Darius’s surprise, smiled
and lowered his staff.

“We shall make a deal,” he said. “If
your dozen soldiers can disarm me, then the boy is yours. If I, however, can
disarm all of them, then the boy is mine to train.”

The taskmaster grinned back.

“They will do more than disarm you,” he
said. “They will kill you. And I’m going to enjoy watching you die.”

The taskmaster nodded to his men, and
with a shout they all raised their swords and charged the man.

Darius watched, riveted, his heart
pounding for the man, desperate for him to live, as the man stood in the center
of them all with only his long staff. He spun every which way as the men
approached from all sides.

The man, as quick as lightning, swatted
the sword from one soldier’s hand after another. Darius had never seen anyone
move that quickly, and he was a thing of beauty to watch, spinning and turning,
ducking and tumbling, wielding his staff as if it were alive. He deflected one
soldier’s blow, then jabbed another soldier in the gut, disarming him. He swung
around and smashed one in the temple, knocking him down; he poked another straight
on, breaking his nose, while with another he swung upwards, knocking the sword
from his hand—and with another, he swung low, sweeping his feet out from under
him.

As other soldiers ran and swung for him,
he jumped high in the air, missing one sword slash, then brought his staff
straight down, jabbing the man in the back of the neck and felling him.

On and on he went, spinning and slashing
and jabbing and ducking, a whirlwind, creating havoc in every direction and disarming
one after the next, and then felling each one.

As he knocked down the last of them, he
stepped forward and held the tip of his staff at the man’s throat, pinning him
to the ground. He slowly surveyed the battlefield, the dozen soldiers all disarmed,
on their backs or hands and knees, groaning, and he looked over at the Empire taskmaster
and grinned.

“I believe the boy is mine,” he said.

The taskmaster turned and stormed away,
and the man turned and met Darius’s gaze. He was the most noble and skilled
warrior Darius had ever laid eyes upon, and he felt in awe to be in his
presence. It was the first time a man had ever risked his life for him, and he
hardly knew what to say.

He didn’t have time, though, because the
mysterious man turned abruptly and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Darius
baffled. Who was this man? And why would he risk his life for him?