The Iron Empire

One of the soldiers lowered a wooden ladder into the pit, steadied it, then climbed down, followed by two others. Dak shifted around to fully face them, sitting on his rear end, feeling like a lassoed pig. The three guards were armed, and one of them actually had his sword in hand, using only the other as he descended. Though Dak held on to the hope that they had come down for some other purpose, it was quickly dashed. They headed straight for Riq.

Riq noticed them at the last second, jolting and squirming as he tried to get away from them. Useless effort, of course. They snatched him under the arms and hauled him to his feet, then dragged him to the closest wall of the pit, where they — very ungently — threw him back down into the dirt. He landed with a heavy thump and a grunt. Next, they came for Dak, who didn’t resist when they did the same thing to him. A few seconds later, he was sitting next to Riq, his backside a little sorer than it had been.

Not surprisingly, Aristotle was their last target, picked up and dragged along to join the two boys with whom he’d arrived at the camp. The soldiers treated him just as roughly, and Dak wanted to hit somebody. Really hard.

Once the three of them were all lined up, the guard who’d come down the ladder brandishing his sword stepped right in front of them. He looked at one of his partners and gave a curt nod. That man came forward and yanked the cloth gags out of each prisoner’s mouth. Dak coughed and spat when his came out, feeling the sweet rush of air — which only made him thirstier. The soldier threw the wet, slightly bloody pieces of cloth onto the ground and took a place behind the guy in charge.

“Listen to me well,” the man said. “You’re the first people to wander into our camps since we heard of . . . ill tidings toward our king and hegemon. On the cusp of the greatest period in Greek history, we have neither the time nor patience to ask who you are or what you want. We’ve been ordered to take the utmost of precautions, and not to trouble our great leader.”

This dude is good at speaking a lot of words without saying anything, Dak thought.

“Do you know who I am?” Aristotle asked, his voice a scratchy rasp.

The soldier’s face showed no emotion. “I don’t care. If you were anyone of importance, you’d know to stay clear of these lands.”

“I’m Aristotle!” the philosopher yelled, as loudly as his weakened condition would allow. “I practically raised the son of the great king of whom you speak! I demand you take me to him so we can clear up all this nonsense. I demand you free my friends!”

“Aristotle?” the soldier barked, looking around at his comrades. “Look, men. The greatest philosopher in all the world sprouted wings and flew here from Corinth. His powers are even mightier than I thought.”

“I can explain, you fool! The hegemon and his son are in great danger!”

The soldier dropped to one knee and leaned toward them so quickly that Dak recoiled, knocking the back of his head against the hard dirt of the wall.

“I know,” the man said. “We know all too well. Which is why we’ve been ordered to . . . deal with lunatics like yourself who come marching into our camp.” He stood back up, brushing dust from his knee. “You have two choices, prisoners. And consider yourselves lucky that it’s not only one. Circumstances allow for a little leniency, when war is on the morrow.”

“What are you talking about?” Dak asked.

The soldier gave him a nasty look, like he didn’t care for interruptions. “Your choices are these: death at sunrise, by the gallows, or fight for your redemption on the front line of the king’s army when we attack our first foe. We’ll need all the bodies we can get up there, and yours will serve justly.”

“Either choice is death!” Aristotle yelled.

The soldier shrugged. “People have survived the front line before. Others . . . have not. The choice is yours. Certain death, or death uncertain. Choose.”

Dak had his decision before the words even finished coming out of the guy’s mouth. His parents. If the magistrate report Aristotle had read to them was true, Dak’s parents were on the front line! This was his easiest and best route at reuniting with them. As for how they’d survive the ordeal . . . well, they’d think of something.

“You,” the soldier said, pointing at Riq. “Speak. What’s your choice?”

“The front line.” He answered so quickly that Dak didn’t know what to think of it. Riq had been brooding and distant — but Dak had figured you got that way when captured and thrown into a pit. He wished so badly they could just have a few minutes to talk.

“A wise choice,” the soldier responded, motioning for someone to come and take Riq away. A guard walked over and cut the ropes binding his wrists, then helped him to his feet. “You may take the spear or sword wound that was meant for our real soldiers, or for the hegemon himself. The gods will never forget. Go. Arm him and send him to the front.”

“Wait!” Dak yelled. “I’m going with him! That’s my choice.”

The soldier grunted. “You’re barely the size of a rat. But your flesh can capture a spear as well as any other. Fine, take him as well.” As the subordinate moved to obey, slashing at the ropes around Dak’s wrists, the soldier in charge stepped in front of Aristotle and looked down at him.

“And you, old man? The glorious philosopher who can fly? What say you?”

Aristotle glanced over at Dak with sad, haunted eyes, then at Riq. He answered in a grave, resigned voice.

“I choose death.”

SERA HAD waited a solid hour, hiding in the darkness under a canvas sheet with a bunch of crates and vegetables. It smelled of olives and mildew, and she could barely breathe, but at least it had been a while since she’d heard any sign of pursuit. Maybe she’d done it after all. Escaped the pit and its soldiers. But the hardest part still lay ahead.

Somehow, she had to find the tent of King Philip. She just hoped the man didn’t order her killed on the spot once she got there.

Sera poked her head out of the hiding spot and looked around. People walked about everywhere — soldiers, servants, even a few children, doubtless tagging along with parents working on behalf of the army. If she could find some new clothes maybe she could search for the king without drawing too much attention.

Scampering from one hiding place to another, shadow to shadow, she spent the next half an hour or so trying to do just that. She finally hit the jackpot behind a grimy old tent, where a pile of clothing and rags had been thrown out the back, perhaps for washing later. Sera quickly rummaged through it until she found a shirt and pants — ratty, torn, filthy. Luckily, the satchel containing the Infinity Ring was brown and rustic and didn’t seem out of place.