Divided Lands

Chapter 6

Jon stared in expectation at the old, gray bearded man, his eyes growing wider as the seconds of silence ticked by. 

    "So, what's your plan for kicking those soldiers square in the jewels and escaping?" he asked, giving the back of his head a quick, nervous rub. "You know...some tactics you might have thought of while you were escaping?"

    "I think they were much more concerned with running away from the soldiers with torches." Nalza rolled his eyes. Hew as the epitome of boredom, with the entirety of his weight slumped onto his elbow and the bottom half of his reclining body concealed in the darkness outside of the orange circle of firelight.

    Jon simply waved a nonchalant hand in Nalza's general direction and marched toward the semicircle of people sitting around the fire behind the old man.

    "Don't listen to him; he's just a buzzkill. Now come on, how are we going to get out of this?" he smiled, reached out, and grabbed the old man's rusty dagger straight from his hands with such unexpected swiftness that Jon was turning it over in his palms before the old fellow even noticed it was gone. "This is pretty good. It's a little smaller than mine, but it'll work."

    Jon whipped his own long, slender, silver dagger out of the little hilt on his belt and held it next to the smaller, withered, rusty one for comparison. He gave a quick nod of approval, stuffed his own dagger back into its hiding place, and tossed the rustier one back to the old man, who made no attempt to catch it and let it fall to the stoney temple floor.

    "We don't have a plan." the old man said in a flat voice. He turned around and plopped back down in the empty place in the middle of the semicircle where he sat moments ago, his face as blank as the darkness behind him. 

    "To be completely honest, we decided once we were in here that we were just going to wait to die." the voice of the woman sitting on the other side of him floated through blackishness like the soft fingertips of a summer breeze. 

    "Why?" Jon squeaked, his voice quivering as if all of the breath had been sucked out of him. 

    "Because," Nalza's sharp voice sliced the air with startling suddenness, "some people know when they've been beaten and they're better off left alone."

    Jon spun around on the spot and locked his own bewildered expression onto Nalza's bored and aloof face. "But...they just can't give up! They've got nothing to lose."

    "Um, their lives?" Nalza scoffed. He shuffled to his feet with an annoyed grunt and stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his weight shifted to one foot. "People tend to hang on to those, you know, even if it's only for a couple of extra seconds."

    "But they're going to lose their lives anyway." Jon wailed. "You, sir. What's your name?"

    He pointed a shaking finger at the old, grey bearded man, who froze on the spot with eyes as large as gold coins. Finally, stumbling over his words, the old timer managed to stammer out, "Josaieh."

    "Josaieh, don't you have a family?" Jon pleaded, his arms reaching out to the old man as if doing so would make an answer come faster.

    "Yes, these seven you see here, the children and the adults." Josaieh said with a bowed head. "They are all that's left of my children, grandchildren, and nephews."

    "And you're telling me you would rather your children, grandchildren, and nephews die with their backs to wall like dogs instead of go down fighting?" Jon asked. He stepped around the fire and pulled Josaieh to his feet with force that was almost rude. "At least that way they might even stand a chance of living. What's the point in trying so hard to avoid death when it's going to come anyway?"