The Greatest Gift
Dirty sunlight trickled through a crack in the wall, startling the rats that had grown fat. They scurried over rotten straw and bare stone, eyes glinting red as they ran. Their claws were small but sharp, and scratched into the boy’s legs as he sat hunched against the wall, chains biting into his wrists, staring into space with eyes that were dead. His hair was matted with blood, his body bloodied and broken. And yet he lived. He lived to look into the cold oblivion of Their eyes. He lived to feel the unrelenting blows of Their fists against his skin, and the soft crunch as his bones flared with hot pain and were broken again. And again. And again.
Yes, the boy who sat slumped, shivering in the darkness, his hair matted with blood, lived as the rats hurried over him and the door creaked open as They walked in. He could already feel their strikes as they towered over him.
Screams echoed into the morning.
He clasped the rocks tightly, knuckles white and bleeding. High above, the eagles cried, and far below the Ghumna River wound a path through the barren wasteland. To continue was agony; to let go was certain death.
“When I find you,” he murmured, forcing his fingers into another handhold. He never finished.
Rocks crumbled beneath his feet, plunging into oblivion. Fiery pain tore through his shoulders. Mustering a desperate strength, Jurda hauled himself up onto a ledge and leapt upwards. His hands scrabbled furiously for a grip, found one, and brought the boy out of danger. He lifted himself over the row of boulders, and collapsed in the dirt of the sun-baked plateau. He lay, gasping, in the shadow of the boulders, out of the harsh glare of the sun. Bloodied, exhausted, he slipped into unconsciousness.
When he awoke the celestial eye had passed. A chill breeze stirred his ragged clothing. The night sky was sprayed with stars. Rolling his head to the side, he was able to see the fortress of Pyrithia, standing proud in the moonlight. Were it not for the tortured souls and spilled blood that raised its many towers into the night, the city was almost beautiful. But, as Jurda well knew, even the prettiest rose has dark thorns. With a heavy heart he got to his aching feet and set off into the silence.
Daybreak arrived without splendour. The cruel sun began to scythe a scarlet arc through the heavens, casting its ugly face over the land. Jurda felt the blistering heat on his back as the heavy doors of Pyrithia swung open. The guards, shrugging him off as a traveller seeking refuge, let him enter. The Emperor was not known for his generosity.
Though the day was still young the streets were alive with activity. Stalls ripe with breads and sweetmeats bustled for space, their bounty absurdly priced but reluctantly bought simply to survive. However, it was not the stalls or the drably robed denizens that caught Jurda’s eye. It was the tower with slitted windows and reinforced doors. The tower with his brother imprisoned within.
Entry into the tower was simple. The lone guard crumpled without a sound. His keys unlocked the door; his rapier glittered at Jurda’s waist. Two others met him on the staircase. They fell before the cold steel. And then, suddenly, there it was. An iron grid locked four times. Behind it something shifted in the gloom. The keys fitted.
“Jurda?” a soft voice asked. Metal chinked.
“Yes.” Although his face was pale and filthy, his limbs thin and frail, Dagho’s eyes burned with unearthly fire. His manacles were easily prised open. He stood, rubbing his wrists tenderly.
“You spent nine years searching for me?” he asked.
“No. I spent nine years figuring out how to kill you when I found you,” Jurda grinned. Dagho grinned back.
Soldiers shouted at the foot of the stairs. Jurda, feet planted apart in a battle stance, brandished the rapier fiercely. Dagho unsheathed his brother’s knife.
“You’re too weak to fight,” Jurda insisted. “I’ll take them.”
“Our blood is as one, brother. But if I do fall, promise me this.” Dagho’s eyes darkened. “Burn this city to the ground.”
The brothers embraced. The soldiers burst in. Steel clashed against steel.
Both boys fought like men, courage in their hearts and fire in their spirits. Jurda, the younger of the two, had spent nine years of his fourteen pitted against the wrath of the elements to find his brother. They fell side-by-side, Pyrithia’s finest warriors at their feet. Soon after their death, however, a mysterious blaze engulfed the city, reducing it to ruins in a single night. Nobody ever found out how it started, but some say they heard children’s laughter as the flames licked the sky.
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