by Morgan Rice
“Leaders must make hard decisions,” he said. “Now is the time for you. You want to stay with us, but your ship will kill us all. We invite your people ashore, but your ship cannot remain. You will have to burn it. Then we shall take you in.”
Gwendolyn stood there, facing the chief, and her heart sank at the thought. She looked at her ship, the ship which had taken them across the sea, had saved her people from halfway across the world, and her heart sank. Her mind swirled with conflicting emotions. This ship was her only way out.
But then again, her way out of what? Heading back out into an endless ocean of death? Her people could barely walk; they needed to recover. They needed shelter and harbor and refuge. And if burning this ship was the price of life, then so be it. If they decided to head back out to sea, then they would find another ship, or build another ship, do whatever they had to do. For now, they had to live. That was what mattered most.
Gwendolyn looked at him and nodded solemnly.
“So be it,” she said.
Bokbu nodded back to her with a look of great respect. Then he turned and called out a command, and all around him, his men broke into action. They spread out throughout the ship, helping all the members of the Ring, getting them to their feet one at a time, guiding them down the plank to the sandy shore below. Gwen stood and watched Godfrey, Kendrick, Brandt, Atme, Aberthol, Illepra, Sandara, and all the people she loved most in the world pass by her.
She stood there and waited until every single last person left the ship, until she was the last one standing on it, just her, Krohn at her heels, and to her side, standing quietly, the chief.
Bokbu held a flaming torch, handed to him by one of his men. He reached out to touch the ship.
“No,” Gwen said, reaching out and clasping his wrist.
He looked over at her in surprise.
“A leader must destroy her own,” she said.
Gwen gingerly took the heavy, flaming torch from his hand, then turned and, wiping back a tear, held the flame to a canvas sail bunched up on deck.
Gwen stood there and watched as the flames caught, spreading faster and faster, reaching out across the ship.
She dropped the torch, the heat rising too fast, and she turned, Krohn and Bokbu following, and walked down the plank, heading to the beach, to her new home, to the last place they had left in the world.
As she looked around at the foreign jungle, heard the strange screeches of birds and animals she did not recognize, Gwen could only wonder:
Could they build a home here?
CHAPTER FIVE
Alistair knelt on the stone, her knees trembling from the cold, and looked out as the first light of the first sun of dawn crept over the Southern Isles, illuminating the mountains and valleys with a soft glow. Her hands trembled, shackled to the wooden stocks as she knelt, on her hands and knees, her neck resting over the place where so many necks had lain before her. She looked down and could see the bloodstains on the wood, see the nicks in the cedar where the blades had come down before. She could feel the tragic energy of this wood as her neck touched it, feel the last moments, the final emotions, of all the slain who had lain here before. Her heart dropped in misery.
Alistair looked up proudly and watched her final sun, watched a new day break, having the surreal feeling that she would never live to watch it again. She cherished it this time more than she’d ever had. As she looked out on this chilly morning, a gentle breeze stirring, the Southern Isles looked more beautiful than they’d ever had, the most beautiful place she’d ever seen, trees blossoming in bursts of oranges and reds and pinks and purples as their fruit hung abundantly in this bountiful place. Purple morning birds and large, orange bees were already buzzing in the air, the sweet fragrance of flowers wafting toward her. The mist sparkled in the light, giving everything a magical feel. She had never felt such an attachment to a place; it was a land, she knew, she would have been happy to live in forever.
Alistair heard a shuffling of boots on stone, and she glanced over to see Bowyer approaching, standing over her, his oversized boots scraping the stone. He held a huge double ax in his hand, loosely at his side, and he frowned down at her.
Beyond him, Alistair could see the hundreds of Southern Islanders, all lined up, all men loyal to him, arranged in a huge circle around her in the wide stone plaza. They were all a good twenty yards away from her, a wide clearing left just for her and Bowyer alone. No one wanted to be too close when the blood sprayed.
Bowyer held the ax with itchy fingers, clearly anxious to finish the business. She could see in his eyes how badly he wanted to be King.
Alistair took satisfaction in at least one thing: however unjust this was, her sacrifice would allow Erec to live. That meant more to her than her own life.
Bowyer stepped forward, leaned in close, and whispered to her, low enough that no one else could hear:
“Rest assured your death stroke will be a clean one,” he said, his stale breath on her neck. “And so will Erec’s.”
Alistair looked up at him in alarm and confusion.
He smiled down at her, a small smile reserved just for her, that no one else could see.
“That’s right,” he whispered. “It may not happen today; it may not happen for many moons. But one day, when he least expects it, your husband will find my knife in his back. I want you know, before I ship you off to hell.”
Bowyer took two steps back, squeezed his hands tight around the shaft of the ax, and cracked his neck, preparing to strike the blow.
Alistair’s heart pounded as she knelt there, realizing the full depth of evil in this man. He was not only ambitious, but a coward and a liar.
“Set her free!” demanded a sudden voice, piercing the morning stillness.
Alistair turned as well as she could and saw the chaos as two figures suddenly came bursting through the crowd, to the edge of the clearing, until the beefy hands of Bowyer’s guards held them back. Alistair was shocked and grateful to see Erec’s mother and sister standing there, frantic looks across their faces.
“She’s innocent!” Erec’s mother yelled out. “You must not kill her!”
“Would you kill a woman!?” Dauphine cried out. “She’s a foreigner. Let her go. Send her back to her land. She need not be involved in our affairs.”
Bowyer turned to them and boomed:
“She is a foreigner who aspired to be our Queen. To murder our former King.”
“You are a liar!” Erec’s mother yelled. “You would not drink from the fountain of truth!”
Bowyer scanned the faces of the crowd.
“Is there anyone here who dares defy my claim?” he shouted, turning, meeting everyone’s gaze, defiant.
Alistair looked about, hopeful; but one by one, all the men, all brave warriors, mostly from Bowyer’s tribe, looked down, not one of them willing to challenge him in combat.
“I am your champion,” Bowyer boomed. “I defeated all opponents on tournament day. There is no one here who could beat me. Not one. If there is, I challenge you to step forward.”
“No one, save Erec!” Dauphine called out.
Bowyer turned and scowled at her.
“And where is he now? He lies dying. We Southern Islanders shall not have a cripple for a King. I am your King. I am your next best champion. By the laws of this land. As my father’s father was King before Erec’s father.”
Erec’s mother and Dauphine both lunged forward to stop him; but his men grabbed them and pulled them back, detaining them. Alistair saw beside them, Erec’s brother, Strom, wrists bound behind his back; he struggled, too, but could not break free.
“You shall pay for this, Bowyer!” Strom called out.
But Bowyer ignored him. Instead, he turned back to Alistair, and she could see from his eyes he was determined to proceed. Her time had come.
“Time is dangerous when deceit is on your side,” Alistair said to him.
He frowned down at her; clearly, she had struck a nerve.
/> “And those words will be your last,” he said.
Bowyer suddenly hoisted the ax, raising it high overhead.
Alistair closed her eyes, knowing that in but a moment, she would be gone from this world.
Eyes closed, Alistair felt time slow down. Images flashed before her. She saw the first time she had met Erec, back in the Ring, at the Duke’s castle, when she had been a serving girl and had fallen in love with him at first sight. She felt her love for him, a love she still felt to this day, burning inside her. She saw her brother, Thorgrin, saw his face, and for some reason, she did not see him in the Ring, in King’s Court, but rather in a distant land, on a distant ocean, exiled from the Ring. Most of all, she saw her mother. She saw her standing at the edge of a cliff, before her castle, high above an ocean, before a skywalk. She saw her holding out her arms and smiling sweetly at her.
“My daughter,” she said.
“Mother,” Alistair said, “I will come to join you.”
But to her surprise, her mother slowly shook her head.
“Your time is not now,” she said. “Your destiny on this earth is not yet complete. You still have a great destiny before you.”
“But how, Mother?” she asked. “How can I survive?”
“You are bigger than this earth,” her mother replied. “That blade, that metal of death, is of this earth. Your shackles are of this earth. Those are earthly limitations. They are only limitations if you believe in them, if you allow them to have authority over you. You are spirit and light and energy. That is where your real power is. You are above it all. You are allowing yourself to be held back by physical constraints. Your problem is not one of strength; it is one of faith. Faith in yourself. How strong is your faith?”
As Alistair knelt there, trembling, eyes shut, her mother’s question rang in her head.
How strong is your faith?
Alistair let herself go, forgot her shackles, put herself in the hands of her faith. She began to let go of her faith in the physical constraints of this planet, and instead shifted her faith to the supreme power, the one and only supreme power over everything else in the world. A power had created this world, she knew. A power had created all of this. That was the power she needed to align herself with.
As she did, all within a fraction of a second, Alistair felt a sudden warmth coursing through her body. She felt on fire, invincible, bigger than everything. She felt flames emanating from her palms, felt her mind buzzing and swarming, and felt a great heat rising up in her forehead, between her eyes. She felt herself stronger than everything, stronger than her shackles, stronger than all things material.
Alistair opened her eyes, and as time began to speed again, she looked up and saw Bowyer coming down with the ax, a scowl on his face.
In one motion, Alistair turned and raised her arms, and as she did, this time her shackles snapped as if they were twigs. In the same motion, lightning fast, she rose to her feet, raised one palm toward Bowyer, and as his ax came down, the most incredible thing happened: the ax dissolved. It turned to ashes and dust and fell at a heap at her feet.
Bowyer swung down, nothing in his hand, and he went stumbling, falling to his knees.
Alistair wheeled and her eyes were drawn to a sword on the far side of the clearing, in a soldier’s belt. She reached out her other palm and commanded it come to her; as she did, it lifted from his scabbard and flew through the air, right into her outstretched palm.
In a single motion, Alistair grabbed hold of it, spun around, raised it high, and brought it down on the back of Bowyer’s exposed neck.
The crowd gasped in shock as there came the sound of steel cutting through flesh and Bowyer, beheaded, collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
He lay there, dead, in the exact spot where, just moments before, he had wanted Alistair dead.
There came a cry from the crowd, and Alistair looked out to watch Dauphine break free of the soldier’s grip, then grab the soldier’s dagger from his belt and slice his throat. In the same motion, she spun around and cut loose Strom’s ropes. Strom immediately reached back, grabbed a sword from a soldier’s waist, spun and slashed, killing three of Bowyer’s men before they could even react.
With Bowyer dead, there was a moment of hesitation, as the crowd clearly didn’t know what to do next. Shouts rose up all amongst the crowd, as his death clearly emboldened all those who had been allied with him reluctantly. They were re-examining their alliance, especially as dozens of men loyal to Erec broke through the ranks and came charging forward to Strom’s side, fighting with him, hand-to-hand, against those loyal to Bowyer.
The momentum quickly shifted in the favor of Erec’s men, as man by man, row by row, alliances formed; Bowyer’s men, caught off guard, turned and fled across the plateau to the rocky mountainside. Strom and his men chased closed behind.
Alistair stood there, sword still in hand, and watched as a great battle rose up, up and down the countryside, shouts and horns echoing as the entire island seemed to rally, to spill out to war on both sides. The sound of clanging armor, of the death cries of men, filled the morning, and Alistair knew a civil war had broken out.
Alistair held up her sword, the sun shining down on it, and knew she had been saved by the grace of God. She felt reborn, more powerful than she’d ever had, and she felt her destiny calling to her. She welled with optimism. Bowyer’s men would be killed, she knew. Justice would prevail. Erec would rise. They would wed. And soon, she would be Queen of the Southern Isles.
CHAPTER SIX
Darius ran down the dirt trail leading from his village, following the footprints toward Volusia, a determination in his heart to save Loti and murder the men who took her. He ran with a sword in his hand—a real sword, made of real metal—the first time he’d ever wielded real metal in his life. That alone, he knew, would be enough to have him, and his entire village, killed. Steel was taboo—even his father and his father’s father feared to possess it—and Darius knew he had crossed a line in which there was now no turning back.
But Darius no longer cared. The injustice of his life had been too much. With Loti gone, he cared about nothing but retrieving her. He had hardly had a chance to know her, and yet paradoxically, he felt as if she were his whole life. It was one thing for he himself to be taken away as a slave; but for her to be taken away—that was too much. He could not allow her to go and still consider himself a man. He was a boy, he knew, and yet he was becoming a man. And it was these very decisions, he realized, these hard decisions that no one else was willing to make, that were the very things that made one a man.
Darius charged down the road alone, sweat blurring his eyes, breathing hard, one man ready to face an army, a city. There was no alternative. He needed to find Loti and bring her back, or die trying. He knew that if he failed—or even if he succeeded—it would bring vengeance on his entire village, his family, all his people. If he stopped to think about that, he might have even turned around.
But he was driven by something stronger than his own self-preservation, his family’s and people’s preservation. He was driven by a desire for justice. For freedom. By a desire to cast off his oppressor and to be free, even if for just one moment in his life. If not for himself, than for Loti. For her freedom.
Darius was driven by passion, not by logical thought. It was the love of his life out there, and he had suffered one time too many at the hands of the Empire. Whatever the consequences, he no longer cared. He needed to show them that there was one man amongst his people, even if it was just one man, even if just a boy, who would not suffer their treatment.
Darius ran and ran, twisting and turning his way out past the familiar fields, and into the outskirts of Volusian territory. He knew that just being found here, this close to Volusia, would alone merit his death. He followed the tracks, doubling his speed, seeing the zerta prints close together, and knowing they were moving slowly. If he went fast enough, he knew, he could catch them.
Darius rounded a hill, ga
sping, and finally, in the distance, he spotted what he was looking for: there, perhaps a hundred yards off, stood Loti, chained by her neck with thick iron shackles, from which led a long chain, a good twenty feet, to the back harness of a zerta. On the zerta rode the Empire taskmaster, the one who had taken her away, his back to her, and by his side, walking beside them, two more Empire soldiers, wearing the thick black and gold armor of the empire, glistening in the sun. They were nearly twice the size of Darius, formidable warriors, men with the finest weapons, and a zerta at their command. It would, Darius knew, take a host of slaves to overcome these men.
But Darius did not let fear get in his way. All he had to carry him was the strength of his spirit, and his fierce determination, and he knew he would have to find a way to make that be enough.
Darius ran and ran, catching up from behind on the unsuspecting caravan, and he soon caught up to them, racing up to Loti from behind, raising his sword high, and as she looked over at him with a startled expression, slashing down on the chain affixing her to the zerta.
Loti cried out and jumped back, shocked, as Darius severed her chains, freeing her, the distinctive ring of metal cutting through the air. Loti stood there, free, the shackles still around her neck, the chain dangling at her chest.
Darius turned and saw equal looks of astonishment on the face of the Empire taskmaster, looking down from his seat on the zerta. The soldiers walking on the ground beside him stopped, too, all of them stunned at the sight of Darius.
Darius stood there, arms trembling, holding out his steel sword before him and determined not to show fear as he stood between them and Loti.
“She does not belong to you,” Darius called out, his voice shaky. “She is a free woman. We are all free!”
The soldiers looked up to the taskmaster.
“Boy,” he called out to Darius, “you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.”
He nodded down to his soldiers, and they raised their swords and charged Darius.