by Morgan Rice
Yet Godfrey suspected that she was just being strong; as he looked back, he was inspired by her.
“No,” he said, something within him shifting. “I cannot leave. The men will need help guarding the gates.”
Gwen shook her head.
“You will die,” she said.
“Then I will,” Godfrey said. And for the first time, he was unafraid. Truly unafraid.
Gwen must have sensed the change in him, because for the first time in her life, she looked at him differently.
She reached out and laid an approving hand on his shoulder and looked him firmly in the eye.
“Father would be proud of what you’ve done today,” she said.
Godfrey felt himself warming with appreciation and love. It was the first time anyone in his family had ever approved of him, had ever viewed him as anything other than a drunkard.
Godfrey nodded back, his eyes glistening, and gave her one long, last look, hoping he would see his sister again one day. He feared he would not.
“Be well, my sister.”
Godfrey turned and sprinted down from the hall, determined, racing down the stairs and out the castle door, and right for the huge front gates of the city. He did not pause as he jumped in and helped a dozen soldiers struggling to close it. He came and put a shoulder into it, and it made a difference; due to him, the groaning iron gate finally closed all the way. As soon as it did, Godfrey helped the men hoist a thick iron bar and wedge it before the bars.
It was not a moment too soon. A few seconds later, the McCloud army reached the gates and slammed into them. They stopped short, unable to crash them.
Godfrey followed the other soldier, rushing up the stairs to the upper level of the fort and grabbing a bow with the others. He knelt and took a place amongst the ramparts with the others. He took aim and fired his first arrow, and it felt good.
He would defend this city. He would not win; in fact, he knew he would die on this day. But that no longer mattered to him; all that he cared about was that he go down in one great act of honor.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Gwendolyn stood on the upper ramparts of her castle, Guwayne in her arms, crying, Steffen beside her, and looked out at the horizon, facing east. Her heart ripped in two as she saw, filling the horizon, rows and rows of black banners, born by McCloud warriors, thousands and thousands of them on horseback, all charging right for King’s Court. In the distant horizon behind them, black plumes of smoke rose to the sky, clearly from villages they had already plundered.
It was a river of devastation—and it was heading right for her.
Horns sounded again and again, up and down the castle walls, and below, Gwendolyn’s people raced to evacuate King’s Court, as she had rehearsed all these moons. The evacuation was more orderly than she had imagined, no doubt because she had planned and rehearsed it so well, and as she looked below, she was satisfied to see that King’s Court was now nearly empty, all of her people flocking out through the back gates, onto the endless array of horses and carts that awaited them, to take them, as she had planned, toward the shore, toward a fleet of ships that would take them far away from here, to the Upper Isles. To safety.
There came the sounds of the McClouds slamming into her iron gates, again and again, and as the iron began to give, she looked down and realized the McClouds would destroy her city, everything that she had worked so hard to rebuild.
But they would not kill her people. While Gwen cried inside for what would happen to her city, she at least took satisfaction in knowing her people would not be harmed. The McClouds could have the city and all its riches; but her people would live another day.
“My lady, we haven’t much time,” Steffen said, beside her.
Gwendolyn scanned the skies, her stomach in knots, and wished now, more than ever, that Thor could be here, by her side, could arrive with Mycoples, and save them all.
But her husband-to-be was long gone, in some land far away, and who knew if he would ever return.
Thor, she prayed. Return to me. I need you.
Gwen closed her eyes, and silently, she willed for him to return. She also willed for Ralibar to appear. Deep down, though, she sensed he would not. Mycoples’s departure had done something to him, and she had not seen him since. It was as if he had fallen into some sort of depression; every morning he used to come to her, but now he did not come. She could not help but wonder if maybe he had abandoned her for good.
Gwen opened her eyes, hopeful—but the skies remained empty, filled only with the cries of men engaged in battle below. No Thor. No Ralibar.
She was on her own, once again. She knew, as she had always known, that she would have to rely on herself, and no one else.
“My lady?” Steffen prodded, his voice mounting with alarm.
“I commanded you to go,” she said to him.
Steffen shook his head.
“I am sorry, my lady,” he said, “but that is one command of yours which I must defy. I will not leave without you.”
Guwayne squirmed and cried in her arms, and Gwen looked down and felt all the love she possibly could for her child. She could not stand to leave her city—and yet she knew there wasn’t much time to get him to safety.
“This is my home,” Gwen said, clinging to this place, hanging on. “My father’s home.”
Gwen stood watching it all, and she could not stand to leave her city, this place where she was born. After all she had done to rebuild it, it would be at the mercy of these barbarians.
“It is time to find another home,” Steffen said.
Gwen searched the skies one last time, hoping for any sign of Thor or Ralibar. She searched the roads, hoping for any sign of the Silver. But the roads, too, were empty. She knew they could not come. They were all far away, deep into their Pilgrimage. The McClouds had timed it well.
Gwen breathed deep, and slowly let it out.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Gwen turned and, clutching Guwayne, who was now screaming, hurried with Steffen across the ramparts, down the spiral staircase. They soon reached the ground floor of the castle, hurried out the back, and they joined in with the rest of the stream of humanity, all heading out the back gates of King’s Court, toward the horses and the carts.
As Gwen and Steffen reached the rear gate of King’s Court, Gwen was touched to see that several attendants stood before it, keeping them open, waiting for her. In fact, all of her people were waiting for her, all sitting in their carts, none of them leaving until she appeared.
Gwen was the last person to pass through the gates. As she did, the attendants pulled back the heavy iron gates, slamming them shut with an echoing bang.
Gwen climbed into a waiting carriage with Guwayne, the last carriage to leave King’s Court. The driver whipped the horse, and she, and all her people, took off at a gallop.
Gwen turned and looked back over her shoulder as they went, and she watched as King’s Court disappeared from view. The sound of those closing gates, of the reverberating metal, echoed through her mind as she watched the city she loved get smaller and smaller, soon, she knew, doomed to become a pile of rubble and ashes. Everything she loved was about to be destroyed.
They were heading for the Upper Isles, for another hostile place, and who knew what sort of life would await them there.
Life, she knew, would never be the same again.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Romulus marched, leading his army through the smoldering forests of the Wilds, the sounds of thousands of boots crunching leaves behind him, the skies filled with the sound of dragons cries above, and he smiled in triumph. Here he was, invincible, having crossed the ocean with a fleet of ships, leading his army, and the dragons, on the last leg of their march, just moments away from reaching the canyon and being able to destroy the Shield. His time for vengeance, for complete control of the world, had come.
As they went, the dragons dove down and rained fire on the Wilds, destroying miles of forest, decima
ting the creatures that lived on this side of the canyon. The dragons flushed the creatures out of the woods, and hordes of them, shrieking, charged right for Romulus and his men.
Romulus rushed forward, sword held high, and chopped off the head of one wild beast after the next, as all of his men joined in. It was a bloodbath, the men destroying everything in their path like a plague of locusts, killing whatever the dragons had left over. Romulus had not had this much fun since he was a boy.
Romulus marched and marched, feeling victorious, triumphant, prepared for the greatest victory of his life. In moments, he would destroy the Shield, invade the Ring, take King’s Court, and murder Gwendolyn. He would have what his predecessors, even Andronicus, never had: complete dominion of the world. He would enslave and torture everyone in sight.
Romulus smiled and breathed deep at the thought. He could almost taste the bloodshed now.
The sorcerer had prophesied that Romulus would destroy the Shield—but he had not specified exactly how. Romulus could only assume that, with all these dragons in his power, their joined force would ram it, destroy it, and lead the way for him to cross the canyon, into the Ring. After all, how could the strength of the Shield stand up to these dragons?
Romulus finally rounded a bend, and as he did, he breathed deep, in awe at the sight which never got old: there, before him, was the vast canyon, its mists rising up, luring him to approach. There was his destiny.
Romulus marched right up to the edge of the canyon crossing, the vast bridge spanning the two worlds, and as he did, he looked up to the skies and waited. He closed his eyes and commanded his host of dragons to race forward, right for the invisible Shield.
He opened his eyes and watched as they all flew overhead, right for the gaping canyon, his heart pounding with excitement. He braced himself for the destruction. For his moment.
But as Romulus watched, he was shocked to see all the dragons slam into the invisible wall and bounce back. The dragons shrieked in fury, circled around, and bounced into it again and again and again.
But they could not get past the Shield.
Romulus stood there, baffled, crushed with disappointment. How could the Shield possibly withstand the power of all these dragons? He was meant to enter the Ring. It had been prophesied. What had gone wrong?
Romulus, burning with frustration, knew he had to test the Shield another way. He reached over, grabbed one of his men, and hurled him into the invisible Shield.
The man flew into it face first and as he did, he shrieked as he was eviscerated, burning up, landing in a pile of ashes at their feet.
Romulus fumed. It couldn’t be. What had gone wrong? Had he been led astray? Would he have to turn back, in humiliation, once again? The thought was too much for him to bear.
It made no sense. He was lord of the dragons. There was nothing on this planet—nothing—that should be able to stop him.
Romulus stood and stared, the mainland of the Ring looking so far away. As he stared, all of his hopes and dreams began to melt. For the first time, his sense of unstoppable power began to feel shaken. What was he missing?
As Romulus stood waiting, watching, realizing with humiliation he would have to turn around, abandon his plans once and for all, suddenly, slowly, something appeared in the distance. It was a woman. She walked slowly, on the far side of the canyon, and stepped foot onto the bridge.
She moved tentatively at first, one step at a time. She held her arms out to her side, and with each step she took, she came a little bit closer. Romulus recognized her.
Could it be? Were his eyes playing tricks on him?
It made no sense. A woman was voluntarily crossing the bridge, toward his side of the Ring. A woman he recognized. The one and only woman he needed most in the world:
Luanda.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Luanda stood before the vast bridge spanning the canyon, and with a cold, hardened heart, numb to the world, she looked out at the sight before her. On the far side of the canyon, in the land of the Wilds, there were thousands of Empire soldiers, led by Romulus, standing there, hoping to cross. Above them hovered a host of dragons, screaming, flapping their wings against the invisible Shield that held them out. Romulus himself stood before the far end of the bridge, hands on his hips, watching.
Luanda felt ready to end it all as she took her first step onto the bridge, all alone, with nothing left to live for. A gust of wind met her in the face, icy despite the summer day, matching her mood. With Bronson dead, Luanda was cold, embittered, her heart dead inside. She knew there was a baby in her stomach, but now it was a cruel joke, a baby without a father, a baby doomed by fate. What other cruel tricks would life have for her? Would it take her baby from her, too?
It was time, she felt, to leave this world. To leave this Ring. To leave this planet.
But before she did, she first, more than anything, felt a burning desire for vengeance on Gwendolyn. She felt a need to wreak destruction on Gwendolyn and the MacGils, on her former family, on King’s Court, and everything good left in the Ring. She wanted them all to suffer, to know what suffering felt like, as she had. She wanted them to know what it felt like to be an outcast, an exile.
Luanda, numb, took another step onto the bridge. Then another.
She knew that Romulus wanted her to cross. She knew she was the key. She knew that when she crossed to the other side, the Shield would lower. Romulus would enter the Ring with his men and his dragons, and he would crush it forever. And that was exactly what she wanted. It was the only thing left that she wanted.
Luanda took another step, then another. Halfway across the bridge, she closed her eyes and held her arms out wide, held her palms out to her side. She continued to walk, eyes closed, leaning her head back, up to the heavens.
Luanda thought of her dead father, her dead mother. Her dead husband. She thought of all that she had once loved, and how far away all of it was for her now.
She felt the world move beneath her feet, heard the cry of the dragons, smelled the cool moisture of the swirling mists, and she knew that in just moments, she would be across, in Romulus’s arms. Surely, he would kill her. But that no longer mattered.
All that mattered was that she had not been there in time to spare her husband from death.
Please, Bronson, she prayed. Forgive me.
Forgive me.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Reece, on the Upper Isles, in Tirus’s castle, walked slowly down the long, red carpeted aisle leading to a massive throne—atop which sat Tirus. Inside, Reece was burning up with emotion, hardly able to believe he was here. The vast chamber was packed with hundreds of Tirus’s loyal subjects, his men in arms lined up on either side of the room, along with hundreds of Upper Islanders, all packed into the hall to witness the moment. To witness Reece’s apology.
Reece walked slowly, feeling hundreds of eyes on him, taking each step deliberately. He looked in the distance and saw Tirus staring down at him triumphantly, clearly relishing the moment. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife. With each step Reece took, his spurs jingled, the only sound in a room completely frozen in silence.
Gwendolyn had sent Reece here on this humiliating mission, to bring a truce between the two MacGils, to unite the Upper Isles, to fulfill her greater agenda, whatever that was. He loved and respected his sister more than anything, and he knew that she needed this. She needed this for her whole kingdom, for the Ring, for her loyal subject, Srog, who was injured, and whom Reece could see even now, bound beside Tirus, along with his cousin, Matus. Reece’s apology would free them both. It would bring a truce between the kingdoms. It would help Gwendolyn’s greater plan, would unite the Upper Isles. And it would free the other half of Gwendolyn’s fleet held hostage in the rocks below, and the thousands of sailors aboard, surrounded by Tirus’s men. Reece knew what had to be done, however much his pride told him otherwise.
With every step Reece took, he thought of Selese. He thought of the vengeance h
e had carried out on Falus. It was satisfying. But it would never bring Selese back to him. It would never change what had happened to her. For Reece, it was just the beginning. He wanted to kill them all, every single Upper Islander in this room. And Tirus, most of all. The very man he was being forced to apologize to.
Reece came closer, ever closer, to Tirus, still seated on his throne. Reece began to mount the ivory steps leading up to it, one at a time, ascending higher and higher, closer to him. He felt everyone watching, all the arrogant and smug Upper Islanders relishing this historic moment, the moment that a true and honest warrior would be forced to kneel and apologize to a traitorous, lying pig.
Reece burned at the thought of how politics forced one to act; to betray one’s morals; to betray one’s sense of right. It forced one to compromise principles, even integrity, for the sake of the greater good. But weren’t principles and integrity in and of themselves the greater good? What did one have without them?
Reece understood Gwen’s decisions. They were the decisions of a wise and tempered ruler. But being a ruler, if that’s what it meant, was something Reece wanted nothing to do with. He would rather be a warrior than a ruler any day. He would rather have limited power and live his life to the highest integrity, than have the greatest power and have to compromise who he was.
Reece finished ascending, taking the final step and standing before Tirus, staring back defiantly as Tirus stared at him.
The tension was so thick in the room, so palpable in the air, Reece could almost feel it.
“You have taken one of my sons from me,” Tirus said, his voice cold, hard. “Murdered him in cold blood.”
“And he had taken my wife from me,” Reece countered, equally somber.
Tirus frowned.
“She was not your wife,” he replied. “Not yet, anyway. And he did not murder her. She killed herself.”