A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice

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,