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Authors: Jordan Magera
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killers, but people. We would make a statement and meet the same fate. And,” Frank accentuated these last words by driving his finger into Bart’s chest, “we would die with honor."
Barst sighed heavily. "Okay, let’s say that we somehow get everyone to cooperate, even the other team. Lord Barkley isn't just going to have our heads chopped off. He's still going to give the crowd entertainment and make our deaths a lot more painful than if we died in the arena."
"But isn't it better to die with honor rather than in shame? Why not let our last act be our best?" Frank said, his eyes filling up with passion.
"But we don’t want to die. We still hold onto hope. I hold onto hope. If you want to die, fine. But please just consider this: I want to live, and your dying may kill all of us."
Frank looked at Barst quizzically, "Why do you want to live?"
Barst looked away and scanned the room. "'Cause She may be alive," he muttered, a hand scratching the back of his neck.
"But you said she was dead."
"I know. I know she's dead. I saw it, so it must be true. But I believe she may be alive. My mind and heart are contradicting each other."
Frank locked his eyes on Bart's. "Are you willing to kill for a feeling?"
"No," Barst stated, his voice filling with confidence. "But I will. Just as I have for the past years."
Frank’s voice grew louder and began to crack. "And don't you want to break free? Prove to yourself that you can change. Show the world that you're better than they think."
Barst looked at Frank, a small smile playing on his lips. "No. The world doesn't deserve that."
Barst briskly turned and left a dumbfounded Frank staring at his back, thoughts running deep.
C H A P T E R 16
The Rage
Barst walked at the front of the team. Brian, Rudy and Horst walked beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Behind them strode thirt y-six of some of the best warriors ever to exist, and they were about to meet their match. Barst's mind was clearly focused on the fight ahead. Take it one step at a time. I'm gonna leave alive.
Barst drew his sword from the sheath that hung on his back and gave it an expert twirl. The tunnel's exit was coming up and he would get his first glimpse at the arena. Or it was going to get their first real glimpse of him. He was going to give it his all. Something he hadn't done for years. He could feel the heat welling up inside him, coursing through every vein of his body, and collecting in his chest.
When he stepped into the arena the crowd seemed silent. His focus was locked on the team emerging from the other exit. He moved to the right side of the arena, not even checking to see if the team was following him. This was his show.
When the trumpet finally went off, it seemed as if time snapped forward, but no sound could be heard. He felt his feet slap the ground and felt a roar come out of his mouth, but heard nothing. He picked his target—a spearman with a large shield who was cautiously jogging toward him. Barst reacted rather than moved.
Grabbing the spear shaft, he twisted, causing the man to release his grip with a brief yell of pain. Barst's sword went straight into the man’s face, but Barst didn't even see the result. He was ducking under a two-handed sword, and swinging his sword along the ground. It caught the swordsman in the legs and sliced straight through. As the man tumbled backwards, Barst drove the spear through him, while simultaneously slicing his sword into another man's neck. A dagger of pain sliced down his leg, and Barst released a silent bellow as he turned to smash the offender’s face with the butt of his sword. A mist of blood surrounded Barst, as he continued in a blur of destruction.
Occasionally he felt—like when a sword slapped against his bracer, or when a pike sliced his forearm. But for the most part, he was numb. The world
Barst sighed heavily. "Okay, let’s say that we somehow get everyone to cooperate, even the other team. Lord Barkley isn't just going to have our heads chopped off. He's still going to give the crowd entertainment and make our deaths a lot more painful than if we died in the arena."
"But isn't it better to die with honor rather than in shame? Why not let our last act be our best?" Frank said, his eyes filling up with passion.
"But we don’t want to die. We still hold onto hope. I hold onto hope. If you want to die, fine. But please just consider this: I want to live, and your dying may kill all of us."
Frank looked at Barst quizzically, "Why do you want to live?"
Barst looked away and scanned the room. "'Cause She may be alive," he muttered, a hand scratching the back of his neck.
"But you said she was dead."
"I know. I know she's dead. I saw it, so it must be true. But I believe she may be alive. My mind and heart are contradicting each other."
Frank locked his eyes on Bart's. "Are you willing to kill for a feeling?"
"No," Barst stated, his voice filling with confidence. "But I will. Just as I have for the past years."
Frank’s voice grew louder and began to crack. "And don't you want to break free? Prove to yourself that you can change. Show the world that you're better than they think."
Barst looked at Frank, a small smile playing on his lips. "No. The world doesn't deserve that."
Barst briskly turned and left a dumbfounded Frank staring at his back, thoughts running deep.
C H A P T E R 16
The Rage
Barst walked at the front of the team. Brian, Rudy and Horst walked beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Behind them strode thirt y-six of some of the best warriors ever to exist, and they were about to meet their match. Barst's mind was clearly focused on the fight ahead. Take it one step at a time. I'm gonna leave alive.
Barst drew his sword from the sheath that hung on his back and gave it an expert twirl. The tunnel's exit was coming up and he would get his first glimpse at the arena. Or it was going to get their first real glimpse of him. He was going to give it his all. Something he hadn't done for years. He could feel the heat welling up inside him, coursing through every vein of his body, and collecting in his chest.
When he stepped into the arena the crowd seemed silent. His focus was locked on the team emerging from the other exit. He moved to the right side of the arena, not even checking to see if the team was following him. This was his show.
When the trumpet finally went off, it seemed as if time snapped forward, but no sound could be heard. He felt his feet slap the ground and felt a roar come out of his mouth, but heard nothing. He picked his target—a spearman with a large shield who was cautiously jogging toward him. Barst reacted rather than moved.
Grabbing the spear shaft, he twisted, causing the man to release his grip with a brief yell of pain. Barst's sword went straight into the man’s face, but Barst didn't even see the result. He was ducking under a two-handed sword, and swinging his sword along the ground. It caught the swordsman in the legs and sliced straight through. As the man tumbled backwards, Barst drove the spear through him, while simultaneously slicing his sword into another man's neck. A dagger of pain sliced down his leg, and Barst released a silent bellow as he turned to smash the offender’s face with the butt of his sword. A mist of blood surrounded Barst, as he continued in a blur of destruction.
Occasionally he felt—like when a sword slapped against his bracer, or when a pike sliced his forearm. But for the most part, he was numb. The world
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