Alistair took satisfaction in at least one thing: however unjust this was, her sacrifice would allow Erec to live. That meant more to her than her own life.

Bowyer stepped forward, leaned in close, and whispered to her, low enough that no one else could hear: "Rest a.s.sured your death stroke will be a clean one," he said, his stale breath on her neck. "And so will Erec's."

Alistair looked up at him in alarm and confusion.

He smiled down at her, a small smile reserved just for her, that no one else could see.

"That's right," he whispered. "It may not happen today; it may not happen for many moons. But one day, when he least expects it, your husband will find my knife in his back. I want you know, before I ship you off to h.e.l.l."

Bowyer took two steps back, squeezed his hands tight around the shaft of the ax, and cracked his neck, preparing to strike the blow.

Alistair's heart pounded as she knelt there, realizing the full depth of evil in this man. He was not only ambitious, but a coward and a liar.

"Set her free!" demanded a sudden voice, piercing the morning stillness.

Alistair turned as well as she could and saw the chaos as two figures suddenly came bursting through the crowd, to the edge of the clearing, until the beefy hands of Bowyer's guards held them back. Alistair was shocked and grateful to see Erec's mother and sister standing there, frantic looks across their faces.

"She's innocent!" Erec's mother yelled out. "You must not kill her!"

"Would you kill a woman!?" Dauphine cried out. "She's a foreigner. Let her go. Send her back to her land. She need not be involved in our affairs."

Bowyer turned to them and boomed: "She is a foreigner who aspired to be our Queen. To murder our former King."

"You are a liar!" Erec's mother yelled. "You would not drink from the fountain of truth!"

Bowyer scanned the faces of the crowd.

"Is there anyone here who dares defy my claim?" he shouted, turning, meeting everyone's gaze, defiant.

Alistair looked about, hopeful; but one by one, all the men, all brave warriors, mostly from Bowyer's tribe, looked down, not one of them willing to challenge him in combat.

"I am your champion," Bowyer boomed. "I defeated all opponents on tournament day. There is no one here who could beat me. Not one. If there is, I challenge you to step forward."

"No one, save Erec!" Dauphine called out.

Bowyer turned and scowled at her.

"And where is he now? He lies dying. We Southern Islanders shall not have a cripple for a King. I am your King. I am your next best champion. By the laws of this land. As my father's father was King before Erec's father."

Erec's mother and Dauphine both lunged forward to stop him; but his men grabbed them and pulled them back, detaining them. Alistair saw beside them, Erec's brother, Strom, wrists bound behind his back; he struggled, too, but could not break free.

"You shall pay for this, Bowyer!" Strom called out.

But Bowyer ignored him. Instead, he turned back to Alistair, and she could see from his eyes he was determined to proceed. Her time had come.

"Time is dangerous when deceit is on your side," Alistair said to him.

He frowned down at her; clearly, she had struck a nerve.

"And those words will be your last," he said.

Bowyer suddenly hoisted the ax, raising it high overhead.

Alistair closed her eyes, knowing that in but a moment, she would be gone from this world.

Eyes closed, Alistair felt time slow down. Images flashed before her. She saw the first time she had met Erec, back in the Ring, at the Duke's castle, when she had been a serving girl and had fallen in love with him at first sight. She felt her love for him, a love she still felt to this day, burning inside her. She saw her brother, Thorgrin, saw his face, and for some reason, she did not see him in the Ring, in King's Court, but rather in a distant land, on a distant ocean, exiled from the Ring. Most of all, she saw her mother. She saw her standing at the edge of a cliff, before her castle, high above an ocean, before a skywalk. She saw her holding out her arms and smiling sweetly at her.

"My daughter," she said.

"Mother," Alistair said, "I will come to join you."

But to her surprise, her mother slowly shook her head.

"Your time is not now," she said. "Your destiny on this earth is not yet complete. You still have a great destiny before you."

"But how, Mother?" she asked. "How can I survive?"

"You are bigger than this earth," her mother replied. "That blade, that metal of death, is of this earth. Your shackles are of this earth. Those are earthly limitations. They are only limitations if you believe in them, if you allow them to have authority over you. You are spirit and light and energy. That is where your real power is. You are above it all. You are allowing yourself to be held back by physical constraints. Your problem is not one of strength; it is one of faith. Faith in yourself. How strong is your faith?"

As Alistair knelt there, trembling, eyes shut, her mother's question rang in her head.

How strong is your faith?

Alistair let herself go, forgot her shackles, put herself in the hands of her faith. She began to let go of her faith in the physical constraints of this planet, and instead shifted her faith to the supreme power, the one and only supreme power over everything else in the world. A power had created this world, she knew. A power had created all of this. That was the power she needed to align herself with.

As she did, all within a fraction of a second, Alistair felt a sudden warmth coursing through her body. She felt on fire, invincible, bigger than everything. She felt flames emanating from her palms, felt her mind buzzing and swarming, and felt a great heat rising up in her forehead, between her eyes. She felt herself stronger than everything, stronger than her shackles, stronger than all things material.

Alistair opened her eyes, and as time began to speed again, she looked up and saw Bowyer coming down with the ax, a scowl on his face.

In one motion, Alistair turned and raised her arms, and as she did, this time her shackles snapped as if they were twigs. In the same motion, lightning fast, she rose to her feet, raised one palm toward Bowyer, and as his ax came down, the most incredible thing happened: the ax dissolved. It turned to ashes and dust and fell at a heap at her feet.

Bowyer swung down, nothing in his hand, and he went stumbling, falling to his knees.

Alistair wheeled and her eyes were drawn to a sword on the far side of the clearing, in a soldier's belt. She reached out her other palm and commanded it come to her; as she did, it lifted from his scabbard and flew through the air, right into her outstretched palm.

In a single motion, Alistair grabbed hold of it, spun around, raised it high, and brought it down on the back of Bowyer's exposed neck.

The crowd gasped in shock as there came the sound of steel cutting through flesh and Bowyer, beheaded, collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

He lay there, dead, in the exact spot where, just moments before, he had wanted Alistair dead.

There came a cry from the crowd, and Alistair looked out to watch Dauphine break free of the soldier's grip, then grab the soldier's dagger from his belt and slice his throat. In the same motion, she spun around and cut loose Strom's ropes. Strom immediately reached back, grabbed a sword from a soldier's waist, spun and slashed, killing three of Bowyer's men before they could even react.

With Bowyer dead, there was a moment of hesitation, as the crowd clearly didn't know what to do next. Shouts rose up all amongst the crowd, as his death clearly emboldened all those who had been allied with him reluctantly. They were re-examining their alliance, especially as dozens of men loyal to Erec broke through the ranks and came charging forward to Strom's side, fighting with him, hand-to-hand, against those loyal to Bowyer.

The momentum quickly shifted in the favor of Erec's men, as man by man, row by row, alliances formed; Bowyer's men, caught off guard, turned and fled across the plateau to the rocky mountainside. Strom and his men chased closed behind.

Alistair stood there, sword still in hand, and watched as a great battle rose up, up and down the countryside, shouts and horns echoing as the entire island seemed to rally, to spill out to war on both sides. The sound of clanging armor, of the death cries of men, filled the morning, and Alistair knew a civil war had broken out.

Alistair held up her sword, the sun shining down on it, and knew she had been saved by the grace of G.o.d. She felt reborn, more powerful than she'd ever had, and she felt her destiny calling to her. She welled with optimism. Bowyer's men would be killed, she knew. Justice would prevail. Erec would rise. They would wed. And soon, she would be Queen of the Southern Isles.

CHAPTER SIX.

Darius ran down the dirt trail leading from his village, following the footprints toward Volusia, a determination in his heart to save Loti and murder the men who took her. He ran with a sword in his hand-a real sword, made of real metal-the first time he'd ever wielded real metal in his life. That alone, he knew, would be enough to have him, and his entire village, killed. Steel was taboo-even his father and his father's father feared to possess it-and Darius knew he had crossed a line in which there was now no turning back.

But Darius no longer cared. The injustice of his life had been too much. With Loti gone, he cared about nothing but retrieving her. He had hardly had a chance to know her, and yet paradoxically, he felt as if she were his whole life. It was one thing for he himself to be taken away as a slave; but for her to be taken away-that was too much. He could not allow her to go and still consider himself a man. He was a boy, he knew, and yet he was becoming a man. And it was these very decisions, he realized, these hard decisions that no one else was willing to make, that were the very things that made one a man.

Darius charged down the road alone, sweat blurring his eyes, breathing hard, one man ready to face an army, a city. There was no alternative. He needed to find Loti and bring her back, or die trying. He knew that if he failed-or even if he succeeded-it would bring vengeance on his entire village, his family, all his people. If he stopped to think about that, he might have even turned around.

But he was driven by something stronger than his own self-preservation, his family's and people's preservation. He was driven by a desire for justice. For freedom. By a desire to cast off his oppressor and to be free, even if for just one moment in his life. If not for himself, than for Loti. For her freedom.

Darius was driven by pa.s.sion, not by logical thought. It was the love of his life out there, and he had suffered one time too many at the hands of the Empire. Whatever the consequences, he no longer cared. He needed to show them that there was one man amongst his people, even if it was just one man, even if just a boy, who would not suffer their treatment.

Darius ran and ran, twisting and turning his way out past the familiar fields, and into the outskirts of Volusian territory. He knew that just being found here, this close to Volusia, would alone merit his death. He followed the tracks, doubling his speed, seeing the zerta prints close together, and knowing they were moving slowly. If he went fast enough, he knew, he could catch them.

Darius rounded a hill, gasping, and finally, in the distance, he spotted what he was looking for: there, perhaps a hundred yards off, stood Loti, chained by her neck with thick iron shackles, from which led a long chain, a good twenty feet, to the back harness of a zerta. On the zerta rode the Empire taskmaster, the one who had taken her away, his back to her, and by his side, walking beside them, two more Empire soldiers, wearing the thick black and gold armor of the empire, glistening in the sun. They were nearly twice the size of Darius, formidable warriors, men with the finest weapons, and a zerta at their command. It would, Darius knew, take a host of slaves to overcome these men.

But Darius did not let fear get in his way. All he had to carry him was the strength of his spirit, and his fierce determination, and he knew he would have to find a way to make that be enough.

Darius ran and ran, catching up from behind on the unsuspecting caravan, and he soon caught up to them, racing up to Loti from behind, raising his sword high, and as she looked over at him with a startled expression, slashing down on the chain affixing her to the zerta.

Loti cried out and jumped back, shocked, as Darius severed her chains, freeing her, the distinctive ring of metal cutting through the air. Loti stood there, free, the shackles still around her neck, the chain dangling at her chest.

Darius turned and saw equal looks of astonishment on the face of the Empire taskmaster, looking down from his seat on the zerta. The soldiers walking on the ground beside him stopped, too, all of them stunned at the sight of Darius.

Darius stood there, arms trembling, holding out his steel sword before him and determined not to show fear as he stood between them and Loti.

"She does not belong to you," Darius called out, his voice shaky. "She is a free woman. We are all free!"

The soldiers looked up to the taskmaster.

"Boy," he called out to Darius, "you've just made the biggest mistake of your life."

He nodded down to his soldiers, and they raised their swords and charged Darius.

Darius stood his ground, holding his sword in trembling hands, and as he did, he felt his ancestors looking down on him. He felt all the slaves who had ever been killed looking down on him, supporting him. And he began to feel a great heat rising up within him.

Darius felt his hidden power deep within beginning to stir, itching to be summoned. But he would not allow himself to go there. He wanted to fight them man to man, to beat them as any man would, to apply all of his training with his brothers in arms. He wanted to win as a man, fight like a man with real metal weapons, and defeat them on their own terms. He had always been faster than all of the older boys, with their long wooden swords and muscular frames, even boys twice his size. He dug in, and braced himself as they charged.

"Loti!" he called out, not turning, "RUN! Go back to the village!"

"NO!" she yelled back.

Darius knew he had to do something; he could not stand there and wait for them to reach him. He knew he had to surprise them, to do something they would not expect.

Darius suddenly charged, choosing one of the two soldiers and racing right for him. They met in the middle of the dirt clearing, Darius letting out a great battle cry. The soldier slashed his sword at Darius's head, but Darius raised his sword and blocked it, their swords sparking, the impact of metal on metal the first Darius had ever felt. The blade was heavier than he thought, the soldier's blow stronger, and he felt a great vibration, felt his entire arm shaking, up to his elbow and into his shoulder. It caught him off guard.

The soldier swung around quickly, aiming to strike Darius from the side, and Darius spun and blocked. This did not feel like sparring with his brothers; Darius felt himself moving slower than usual, the blade so heavy. It was taking some getting used to. It felt as if the other soldier were moving twice as fast as he.

The soldier swung again, and Darius realized he could not beat him blow for blow; he had to draw on his other skills.

Darius stepped sideways, ducking the blow instead of meeting it, and he then threw an elbow into the soldier's throat. He caught it perfectly. The man gagged and stumbled back, hunched over, grasping his throat. Darius raised the b.u.t.t of his sword and brought it down on his exposed back, sending him face down into the dirt.

At the same time the other soldier charged, and Darius spun, raised his sword, and blocked a mighty blow as it came down for his face. The soldier kept charging, though, driving Darius back and down to the ground, hard.

Darius felt his rib cage being crushed as the soldier lay on top of him, both of them landing on the hard dirt in a big cloud of dust. The soldier dropped his sword and reached out with his hands, trying to gouge out Darius's eyes with his fingers.

Darius grabbed his wrists, holding them back with shaking hands, but losing ground. He knew he needed to do something fast.

Darius raised a knee and turned, managing to spin the man onto his side. In the same motion, Darius reached down and extracted the long dagger he spotted in the man's belt-and in the same motion, raised it high and plunged it into the man's chest, as they rolled on the ground, The soldier cried out, and Darius lay there on top of him, and watched him die before his eyes. Darius lay there, frozen, shocked. It was the first time he had killed a man. It was a surreal experience. He felt victorious yet saddened at the same time.

Darius heard a cry from behind, snapping him out of it, and he turned to see the other soldier, the one he had knocked out, back on his feet, racing for him. He raised his sword and swung it for his head.

Darius waited, focused, then ducked at the last second; the soldier went stumbling past him.

Darius reached down and drew the dagger from the dead man's chest and spun around, and as the soldier turned back and charged again, Darius, on his knees, leaned forward and threw it.

He watched the blade spin end over end, then finally lodge itself into the soldier's heart, piercing his armor. The Empire's own steel, second to none, used against them. Perhaps, Darius thought, they should have crafted weapons less sharp.

The soldier sank to his knees, eyes bulging, and he fell sideways, dead.

Darius heard a great cry behind him, and he jumped to his feet and wheeled to see the taskmaster dismounting from his zerta. He scowled and drew his sword and bore down on Darius with a great cry.

"Now I shall have to kill you myself," he said. "But not only will I kill you, I shall torture you and your family and your entire village slowly!"

He charged for Darius.

This Empire taskmaster was obviously a greater soldier than the others, taller and broader, with greater armor. He was a hardened warrior, the greatest warrior Darius had ever fought. Darius had to admit he felt fear at this formidable foe-but he refused to show it. Instead, he was determined to fight through his fear, to refuse to allow himself to be intimidated. He was just a man, Darius told himself. And all men can fall.

All men can fall.

Darius raised his sword as the taskmaster bore down on him, swinging his great sword, flashing in the light, with both hands. Darius shifted and blocked; the man swung again.

Left and right, left and right, the soldier slashed and Darius blocked, the great clang of metal ringing in his ears, sparks flying everywhere. The man drove him back, further and further, and it took all of Darius's might just to block the blows. The man was strong and quick, and Darius was preoccupied with just staying alive.

Darius blocked one blow just a bit too slowly, and he cried out in pain as the taskmaster found an opening and slashed his bicep. It was a shallow wound, but a painful one, and Darius felt the blood, his first wound in battle, and was stunned by it.

It was a mistake. The taskmaster took advantage of his hesitation, and he backhanded him with his gauntlet. Darius felt a great pain in his cheek and jaw as the metal met his face, and as the blow knocked him backwards, sent him stumbling several feet, Darius took a mental note to never stop and check a wound anytime in battle.

As Darius tasted blood on his lips, a fury washed over him. The taskmaster, charging him again, bearing down on him, was big and strong, but this time, with pain ringing in his cheek and blood on his tongue, Darius didn't let that intimidate him. The first blows of battle had been struck, and Darius realized, as painful as they were, they were not that bad. He was still standing, still breathing, still living.

And that meant he still could fight. He could take blows, and he could still go on. Getting wounded was not as bad as he had feared. He might be smaller, less experienced, but he realized his skill was as sharp as any other man's-and it could be just as deadly.