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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.
    Darius let out a guttural cry and lunged
forward, embracing battle this time instead of shying away from it. No longer
fearing being wounded, Darius raised his sword with a cry, and slashed down at
his opponent. The man blocked it, but Darius did not give up, swinging again and
again and again, driving the taskmaster back, despite his greater size and
strength.
    Darius fought for his life, fought for Loti,
fought for all of his people, his brothers in arms, and, slashing left and
right, faster than he’d ever had, not letting the weight of the steel slow him
down any longer, he finally found an opening. The taskmaster screamed out in
pain as Darius slashed his side.
    He turned and scowled at Darius, first
surprise, then vengeance in his eyes.
    He shrieked like a wounded animal, and charged Darius.
The taskmaster threw down his sword, raced forward, and embraced Darius in a
bear hug. He heaved Darius up off the ground, squeezing him so tight, Darius
dropped his sword. It all happened so fast, and it was such an unexpected move,
that Darius could not react in time. He had expected his foe to use his sword
in battle,