The Gift of Battle by Morgan Rice

soldier neared to tackle him, Darius
smashed him on his temple with the hilt of his sword, knocking him to the
ground. Darius ducked as another soldier swung a sword at his head, then lunged
forward and stabbed him in the gut.
    Another soldier
charged from the side, his spear aiming for Darius’s ribs, moving too fast for
Darius to react; yet he heard the sound of wood smashing metal, and he turned
gratefully to see his father appear and use his staff to block the spear before
it hit Darius. He then stepped forward and jabbed the staff between the
soldier’s eyes, knocking him to the ground.
    His father spun
with his staff and faced the group of attackers, the click-clack of his staff
filling the air as he swatted away one spear thrust after the next. His father
danced between the soldiers, like a gazelle weaving through men, and he wielded
his staff like a thing of beauty, spinning and striking soldiers expertly, with
well-placed jabs in the throat, between the eyes, in the diaphragm, felling men
in every direction. He was like lightning.
    Darius,
inspired, fought like a man possessed beside his father, drawing energy off of
him; he slashed and ducked and jabbed, his sword clanging against other
soldiers’ swords, sparks flying as he advanced fearlessly into the group of
soldiers. They were larger than he, but Darius had more spirit, and he, unlike
they, was fighting for his life—and for his father. He deflected more than one
blow meant for his father, saving him from an unforeseen death. Darius dropped
soldiers left and right.
    The last Empire
soldier rushed for Darius, raising a sword high overhead with both hands—and as
he did, Darius lunged forward and stabbed him in the heart. The man’s eyes
opened wide, as he slowly froze and fell to the ground, dead.
    Darius stood
beside his father, the two of them back to back, breathing hard, surveying
their handiwork. All around them, Empire soldiers lay dead. They had been
victorious.
    Darius felt that
here, beside his father, he could face whatever the world threw at him; he felt
that together, they were an unstoppable force. And it felt surreal to actually
be fighting at his father’s side. His father, whom he had always dreamt was a
great warrior. His father was not, after all, just any ordinary person.
    There came a
chorus of horns, and the crowd cheered. At first Darius hoped they were
cheering for his victory, but then huge iron doors opened at the far side of
the arena, and he knew that the worst of it was just beginning.
    There came the
sound of a trumpet, louder than any Darius had ever heard, and it took him a
moment to realize it was not the trumpet of a man—but rather, of an elephant.
As he watched the gate, his heart pounding with anticipation, there suddenly
appeared, to his shock, two elephants, all black, with long gleaming white
tusks, faces contorted with rage as they leaned back and trumpeted.
    The noise shook
the very air. They lifted their front legs then brought them down with a crash,
stamping the ground so hard that it shook, throwing Darius and his father off
balance. Atop them rode Empire soldiers, wielding spears and swords, dressed
head to toe in armor.
    As Darius
surveyed them, looking up at these beasts, larger than anything he had
encountered in his life, he knew there was no way he and his father could win.
He turned and saw his father standing there, fearlessly, not backing down as he
stoically stared death in the face. It gave Darius strength.
    “We cannot win,
Father,” Darius said, stating the obvious as the elephants began their charge.
    “We already
have, my son,” his father said. “By standing here and facing them, by not
turning and running, we have defeated them. Our bodies might die here today,
but our memory lives on—and it shall be one of valor!”
    Without another
word, his father let out a cry and began to charge, and Darius, inspired, cried
out and charged beside him. The two of them raced out to meet the