A Charge of Valor (Book #6 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

by Morgan Rice

  Conven finally had fear in his eyes, as he hung there high in the air, between the beasts rows of teeth, his sword bending before his eyes and the beast’s mouth closing.

  Thor was exhausted from his exertion, yet he forced himself to try again; somehow, he summoned some last part of himself, drawing on whatever energy reserves he had. He did not know if he could have done so for himself—but to see his friend in danger brought out another burst of energy in him.

  Thor screamed and raised his other palm, and another light, a yellow light, came streaming forth. Just as the beast snapped the sword in its mouth, the light struck it, and Thor used his power to force the beast to open its jaws all the way. As they kept opening, Conven, spared from death, tumbled out of the beast’s mouth and went hurling through the air, landing on the salt floor with a thud.

  The beast, enraged at losing a meal, raised its neck and shrieked, then turned and zeroed in on Thor. It plummeted down, right for him, clearly wanting to crush him.

  Thor closed his eyes and raised both palms, summoning his last bit of strength. This time, a blue light shot out, covering the beast’s entire body. Thor raised his palms higher and higher, and as he did, he hoisted the beast high into the air, higher and higher, until its entire body exited the hole. It extended to its full length, hundreds of feet long and covered in a slimy ooze that had probably not seen the light of day. It wiggled furiously in the air, like a worm pulled out from beneath its rock.

  In one last exertion of effort, Thor threw his hands forward, directing its energy with all that he had; as he did the beast, shrieking, went sailing through the air and came crashing down sideways, smashing on the ground. It shrieked an awful noise as it squirmed on its back, until finally it stopped moving.

  Dead.

  Thor dropped to his knees, collapsing from the exertion of strength. His powers were stronger than they had ever been, yet at the same time, he did not have the endurance to maintain them.

  Suddenly, there arose a tremor all around them, the same tremor they’d heard when the beast had emerged from its hole. All around them, as far as they could see, the ground began to shake. They turned and exchanged a panicked look, and realized that monsters were about to emerge from every hole in the landscape.

  Thousands of them.

  “Are you going to just stand there all day?” came a voice Thor recognized.

  Thor turned to see, with immense relief, Indra. She was galloping towards them on an orange beast that looked something like a camel, but was taller and broader, and had a wide, flat head. She led, by a rope, five more of them, stirring up dust as they charged right for them.

  “GET ON! NOW!” she screamed.

  Without hesitating Thor and the others mounted the animals, Thor grabbing Krohn with him. They all took off, together, at a gallop, racing through the salt field, narrowly avoiding the holes.

  As they went, one by one, thousands of monsters emerged from the holes, shrieking, rising into the air, aiming for them. But the creatures they rode were fast—faster than any horse Thor had ever ridden, so fast, he could barely catch his breath as they rode. And clearly they had been trained to navigate this terrain to avoid these holes, these monsters, which they did deftly. As they rode, Thor holding on for his life, the monsters snapped down all around them and just missed each time, the animals faster than they, zigzagging every which way to avoid the strikes.

  They narrowly dodged strike after strike, monster after monster, as they all charged through, taking them farther and farther from the salt fields.

  As they finally cleared the perimeter, leaving the monsters behind them, Indra turned and smiled.

  “Did you really think I would let a bunch of fools like you die in my own backyard?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sarka sat there in her cottage, cross-legged, her back against the wall in her humble living room, and watched Gareth. Bleary-eyed, she had been watching him all night, while he held his dagger to her sister’s throat. She had been waiting for her chance. She knew that at some point he would give into weakness and doze off. She, though, would not.

  Sarka adored her sister more than anything, and it sickened her to sit here, helpless, and watch this excuse of a King burst into her home and hold her kid sister hostage. It had been one of the worst feelings of her life, and she sat there, determined, whether he was king or not. She would not cower in fear and deference like her father; she would be bold and risk her life to save her sister’s.

  Her father, an oaf of a man who had never been too bright and who had always been too hard on her, had always insisted that he knew the right way and that she did not. He had chastised her earlier, after Gareth had taken her sister hostage, warning her that she better not do something rash. He had argued that if she made a wrong move her sister could die—and so could she. Plus, her father had argued, it was sacrilegious to raise a hand against the King—whether he was corrupt or not.

  Sarka, as usual, disregarded her father’s logic, and his threats. He’d been wrong one too many times in her life, and even though she was just a peasant, she still had her pride and she was not about to sit by passively, waiting for Gareth to make up his mind. After all, waiting was risky, too—Gareth might break his word and kill her sister. It might be a chance her father was willing to take, her stupid father who had always trusted everyone; but it was not a chance that she would take. He had taken her sister hostage by the blade, and he would pay for it. She would not give him a chance to make a decision.

  The first light of dawn crept through the window, and as it did, Sarka could see clearly that Gareth’s eyes were shut, that the dagger which she had been watching all night, was slipping. She held secretly the hemp rope which she had taken from her father’s stables in the middle of the night, just enough to do the trick. She was young, and perhaps not as strong as this man, and perhaps naïve to believe she could bring down a King, a man who had evaded every sort of assassination attempt—yet she was determined. And she would have the element of surprise on her side.

  Sarka sat there, heart pounding in her chest, and knew her moment had come. It was now or never.

  “Pssst!” she hissed at her sister.

  There came no response.

  “Pssst!” she hissed again.

  Larka finally opened her eyes, and looked up at her. There was fear and terror in them as she sat there in Gareth’s lap.

  Sarka motioned for her to stay calm and not move. She slowly held up the rope, and gestured what she was about to do. She hoped she understood. Her younger sister cried, tears rolling down her cheeks, but she slowly nodded, seeming to understand.

  The time had come.

  Sarka leapt to her feet, her limbs more stiff than she had anticipated, not working as quickly as she would have liked, and she felt as if she were moving in slow motion as she bounded across the simple cottage, rope held out in front of her. She moved quickly, and as she ran across the cottage, her sister took her cue and leapt forward, out of Gareth’s arms.

  Gareth’s eyes opened wide, startled, but before he could reach out and grab her, Sarka was already on top of him, not giving him time to react. She kicked the dagger from his limp hand, and it went flying across the cottage floor; as Gareth turned to grab it, she descended on him with the rope, wrapping it tightly around his upper body, again and again, tying it tight.

  Gareth struggled and squirmed, his weight nearly too much for her, but she managed to hold on, the coarse hemp rope digging into her palms, as she pinned him down face first. His legs buckled beneath her, and it was all she could do to hold him in place.

  “Help me!” Sarka yelled out.

  Her mother and father came running over, standing over her, her father looking down wide-eyed in fear, shaking his head.

  “What have you done?” he asked her. “You know better than to lay a hand on the King!”

  “Shut up and help me!” she yelled.

  His father just stood there, though, hands on his hips, shaking
his head, cowering to authority as he had always done.

  “I cannot lay a hand on the King. Nor should you.”

  Sarka flushed with rage, but luckily Larka came running over and helped her, grabbing the other end of the rope and helping her secure it. Sarka immediately made a tight knot, binding Gareth’s arms behind his back. Then she took her other piece of rope and handed it to her sister, who ran it around Gareth’s ankles and crafted a knot no man could undo. He moaned and whined and began cursing them, and she reached around and tied another piece of rope in his mouth, muffling his noise.

  The two of them leaned back, breathing hard, surveying their handiwork: Gareth was secure.

  Sarka was thrilled. She had succeeded. Here was Gareth, her King, bound by her hand, in her control. And her sister was free—and safe. She was elated.

  Her sister turned and hugged her, weeping, and Sarka hugged her back, rocking her, not wanting to let her go.

  “I was so scared,” Larka said, again and again.

  “You’re okay now,” Sarka said.

  Sarka leaned forward, dug a knee into Gareth’s back, and scowled down at him. She retrieved the dagger from the floor and raised it. The time had come for him to pay, and she was determined to put an end to him for good.

  “You dare hold a blade to my sister,” she hissed down at him. “Now you see what it feels like,” she said, digging the blade into the back of his neck. Gareth grunted, his cries muffled by the rope.

  Sarka raised her hand to finish him off when suddenly she felt a strong beefy palm grab her wrist; she looked over to see her father standing there, scowling down.

  “You are a foolish girl,” he said. “The former King is worth much more to us alive than dead. I can sell him for ransom to Andronicus’ army. They would pay a hearty price for it. The money I earn can keep us all clothed and fed for years. You almost ruined a glorious future for all of us.”

  Sarka’s heart pounded in anger.

  “You don’t know what you are talking about,” she said. “Andronicus will not pay anything for him. They will either kill him or let him free. We have him now. This is our chance. We must kill him before he wreaks any more havoc.”

  But her father yanked her back roughly, so hard that he yanked the dagger from her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “You are too young to understand the affairs of men,” he scolded.

  Then her father reached down, grabbed Gareth by his ropes, and yanked him to his feet. He looked Gareth up and down, as if he were an item for sale.

  “You shall fetch a hefty price,” he said.

  “No Papa!” Sarka screamed, in a rage, as she watched them cross the cottage, leading Gareth out the door. “Don’t let him go!”

  Sarka ran to the door and watched her father walk out, leading Gareth proudly to the closest group of Empire soldiers, on patrol.

  The soldiers all stopped at the sight, then turned and looked Gareth up and down.

  “I’ve caught the former MacGil King,” her father announced proudly. “Give me one hundred dinars of gold, and he is yours.”

  The soldiers turned and looked at each other, then broke out into a grin. Finally, the lead soldier stepped forward, pulled back his sword, grabbed Gareth, pulled him close and inspected him. Satisfied, he turned and threw him to the others, who caught him.

  The soldier turned and smiled at her father.

  “Why don’t I pay you a fistful of steel instead,” the man said.

  Before her father could react, the man stepped forward, and plunged his sword through his heart.

  “Papa no!” the girls screamed in horror, as they watched their father’s face contort in shock, then blood pour from his chest as he sank to his knees.

  “But thanks for the gift,” the soldier added. “I can’t wait to tell Andronicus who I just caught.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Godfrey, dressed in the enemy’s ill-fitting armor, walked awkwardly, feeling conspicuous, trying to look natural. He realized, too late, that the corpse he had stripped was his same height, but thinner than he; he cursed himself for drinking one too many cups of ale in his life as he felt his belly and shoulders bulge against the armor. He only hoped it did not give him away.

  Other than that, Godfrey looked at himself and at the others, and was amazed at how much he resembled an Empire soldier. Especially with his face plate pulled down, he couldn’t even tell the difference between himself and one of Andronicus’s men. The weapons on his belt were of fine quality, too, a long and short sword, a dagger, a short spear and a flail, all a glossy black and yellow, bearing the markings of the Empire. As he marched, at first he’d braced himself to be discovered; but the farther they went, the more he realized that no one looked twice—and the more he began to relax. He was sweating inside, despite the cold, and he had no idea where he was going, but at least he was still alive and succeeding in his ruse.

  If anything, soldiers looked at Godfrey with a sign of respect, several stiffening to attention as he passed and they saw his officer’s stripes. As he went, he could not help but feel more and more inflated, and he actually started to relish the idea of being paid respected. He actually began to get swept up in it and to feel like an officer himself. It was a fun role to play, and it never took much for Godfrey to get into character. He wasn’t a good warrior, but he had always been a great actor; one too many tavern plays had taught him well. In fact, he had always wished he had been born the son of actor instead the son of a King.

  “Sir,” said a soldier, hurrying up to him, “now that the siege has been won, all the officers are being shipped out. The carts are being loaded as we speak, and I’ve been ordered to round up the remaining officers. Right this way, sir.”

  Godfrey gulped behind his faceplate, realizing he had no choice but to go along or else blow his cover. He turned and marched with the soldier, weaving his way in and out of the busy camp, thousands of soldiers milling about in every direction, wondering with each step what to do.

  Godfrey found himself led to the back of a long troop cart, open in the back, drawn by several horses. In the back there sat dozens of officers, all jostling and bantering with each other, in high spirits. Godfrey hesitated at the base of it, as the soldier gestured for him to board. As he stood there, slowly the banter subsided and all eyes fell on him. He knew that if he did not make a move soon he would be discovered.

  He turned to the soldier.

  “And where is this cart going exactly?” he asked the soldier.

  “To take us home, finally,” one of the officers said. “Back to the ships, and back to the Empire. We’re finally done with this horse dump.”

  Godfrey gulped. He couldn’t get on that cart, couldn’t allow himself to be taken across the sea, to the Empire. The thought of it left a pit in his stomach. He had to think quick.

  As he stood there, immobilized in panic, an officer leaned down from the cart with an open palm, grabbed Godfrey’s forearm and yanked him hard, hoisting him up three steps and onto the back of the cart. The officer smiled back and patted him on the back.

  The rear door of the carriage was slammed behind him, there came the sound of a horse whipped, and soon they were off, their cart moving and bumping along the dirt road.

  As Godfrey was swept away, he began to panic; it had all happened so quickly, he hardly knew what was happening. He sat there at the edge of the cart, sweating, looking about at the other soldiers, who all seemed to be ignoring him, passing around a sack of wine, drinking long and hard and laughing with each other. All around him, the Empire camp was flying by.

  Godfrey had to think quick. He had to get off this cart. It was taking him farther and farther away from Silesia, with every bump.

  They passed two Empire soldiers dragging a Silesian captive, and Godfrey was struck with a plan. It was risky, but he had no other choice. It was now or never.

  Godfrey suddenly stood, leapt off the moving cart, landed in the mud beside it, rolling, then jumping to hi
s feet. The cart stopped, all the officers staring, and Godfrey made a show of hurrying over to the two soldiers and, in his most authoritative voice, he screamed at them, loud enough for the others to hear:

  “And just where do you think you’re bringing this slave!?” he screamed.

  Behind him he could feel all the officer’s eyes digging into his back. He knew he had better play this well; if not, it would be his head.

  The two Empire soldiers turned and looked back at him, confused.

  “We have orders to bring him to the slave mill, sir,” they said.

  “Nonsense!” Godfrey screamed. “That is no ordinary slave. I captured this one myself! He’s a Silesian officer. Can’t you tell by his markings?”

  The two soldiers looked at the captive, confused.

  “What markings?”

  Godfrey stepped forward, grabbed the captive roughly, spun him and pointed at a small spot on his back.

  Then, before the soldiers could examine it too closely, Godfrey reached back and smacked the soldiers across the face.

  “Didn’t they teach you anything in training?” he yelled. “This slave was supposed to be brought inside Silesia, for interrogation. Must I do everything myself?”

  Godfrey felt the stares of the officers behind him, on the cart, and prayed this worked. He turned to them, peremptorily, and he waved his hand, and in an annoyed voice, he said:

  “Move on without me. I’ll take the next one. I must return my captive to his proper place and rectify the errors of these ignorant soldiers, or else it will be on my head.”

  Godfrey didn’t wait for a response: instead he turned, grabbed the two soldiers by the arms, along with the slave, and led them all, marching firmly back towards the gates of Silesia.

  Godfrey’s heart pounded in his chest as he took the first several steps, hoping and praying he had played it off well, that he didn’t hear the soldiers chase after him. He also hoped that the two soldiers didn’t fight him, that they were stupid and intimidated enough to go along with it.