Free A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page B

would—and
he tried not to think of it as he sparred fruitlessly beneath the sun. A part
of him had tuned out, and no longer cared. After all, nearly everyone he had
known and loved in the world was now dead, thanks to him. He felt absorbed by
guilt, and a part of him wanted to die with them all, too. The only ones he did
not know the fates of were his sister, Sandara, and his dog, Dray. He wondered
if they were still alive, out there somewhere, if somehow they had survived. The
last he had seen of his sister was when she’s departed for the Great Waste, and
the last he’d seen his dog was when he was sticking his teeth into a soldier’s
throat. Darius closed his eyes, recalling the terrific blow the dog received by
a soldier’s club, remembering his whine as he fell to the ground, and praying
that he somehow survived.
    Darius felt a sudden jolt on the side of his
head, the sound of metal ringing in his ears, and he went stumbling backwards, and
realized his opponent had swung around with his shields and smashed him on the
head.
    Morg stepped between them, and the boys
quieted.
    “You lost your focus,” Morg chided Darius. “When
you do that in the arena, it won’t be a shield on the side of your head but the
blade of an ax.”
    Darius stood there, breathing hard, realizing
he was right.
    Morg faced the others.
    “Do you see the mistake Darius made here today?
If any of you lose concentration, if any of you go to some other place, it will
be the last time you do. Not that I care if you all die—in fact, I look forward
to it. But I don’t want you dying early on me. That will make me look
bad. People need entertainment, and if you fall early, I will pay for it. And I
don’t plan on paying for anything.”
    He surveyed the boys as a tense silence fell
over them.
    “If there are any of you unable or unwilling to
fight, tell me now,” he added, scanning their faces.
    Darius looked over at the lineup of dozens of boys,
and they all looked lost, forlorn, to him, faces fill with hardship, boys who
had suffered, as he, had lived a life of labor and pain. They were faces that
should not have looked as pained as they did at such a young age.
    “I do not wish to fight!” one boy called out.
    All eyes turned to him, a boy surprisingly
larger and more muscular than the others, as he stepped forward and lowered his
head.
    “I wish to kill no one,” the boy said. “I am a
simple man. A farmer. I’ve never harmed anyone. And I do not wish to now.”
    Morg turned to him, grinning wide, and walked
slowly over to him, his boots crunching in the courtyard. Morg, shirtless, legs
covered in black armor, was an imposing figure, bigger even than this boy, and
he stopped before him and looked him up and down as if he were nothing.
    “You are very brave to admit your fears,” Morg said,
“to tell me how you feel. I thank you for it. I understand you do not wish to
fight—and I can help you.”
    The boy looked up at him hopefully and Morg stepped
forward, reached down, and pulled a small dagger from his belt. Darius noticed
it too late, and he tried to cry out, to lunge forward.
    But there was no time. In one quick motion, he
stepped forward, grabbed the boy by the back of his neck, and plunged it into
his heart, holding him tight.
    The boy cried out in agony, but Morg held him
tight, squeezing the knife into his chest, holding him face-to-face, staring him
down. The boy’s eyes froze wide open, until he finally froze and slumped down.
    Morg dropped him limply to the ground, at his
feet. He lay there, his red blood staining the sand red.
    “See?” Morg said down to the dead boy. “Now you
need not fight!”
    Morg looked up and slowly scanned the faces of
the others boys; they all looked down at the dead boy, terror in their eyes. Darius
himself felt a burning rage, felt like killing Morg.
    “NO!” Darius shouted, unable to help himself.
    He lunged forward, prepared to pummel the man
to death, but he hardly got a few feet