by Morgan Rice
But Steffen no longer cared. This was the sort of life he had led in King’s Castle, working for King MacGil in the basement, tending the fires. That had been a harsh life, too, and really an extension of his entire life, of his home life, of his parents, who had been so ashamed of him because of how he looked, who had beat him and kicked him out of the house. His entire life had been one long bout of pain and bullying and scorn.
Until he had met Gwendolyn. She had been the only person he had ever known who had looked at him as something other than a deformed creature; who had actually had faith in him, who had actually cared for him. The time he had spent protecting her he valued as the most meaningful days of his life. For the first time, it had lent his life purpose and meaning; it had made him dream, for a brief moment, that maybe he could be something more than an object of loathing, that maybe everyone in his life had been wrong, and that he did have some value after all.
When Gwen had entered the Tower of Refuge and that door had slammed shut behind her, he felt as if a door had been closed on his own life. It had sunk a dagger into his heart. He respected, and even understood, her decision; but it had been the worst day of his life. He had stood there and waited outside the Tower for he did not know how long, hoping beyond hope that Gwen might change her mind, might come back out those doors. But they had remained closed, like a coffin on his heart.
With no direction or purpose left in his life, Steffen had wandered and had come here, to this small village high on this hilltop, and he checked over his shoulder once again, as he did every hour since his arrival, at the Tower of Refuge, keeping it in sight at all times, hoping beyond all expectation that he might see Gwendolyn walk out those doors, that he might have a chance to take up his old life again.
But watch as he did, there was no activity at the tower, no one in or out, day and night.
Steffen suddenly heard the crack of a whip and felt a sharp shooting pain across his back; he realized he had been whipped again by his boss. The sting of the whip snapped him out of his thoughts and made him focus on his duty before him. He looked around and saw he had cranked out more grain than any of the other servants, and his face reddened: it was unfair that he was being whipped, while the others were passed over.
“Work harder, you creature, or I’ll throw you to the dogs!” the man barked at Steffen.
There came the rise of laughter all around him, as the other laborers turned and mocked him, mimicking his bent figure. Steffen looked away, forcing himself to stay calm. He had received much worse than these provincial villagers could dole out, and at least the pain and humiliation kept his mind off Gwendolyn, off of dreaming of a life that was too big for him.
Bells tolled, ringing loudly in the small town, and all the workers stopped, turned and looked. The bells tolled again and again, urgently, and villagers began to crowd around the town center, looking up at the bell keeper.
“News from the North!” the man yelled out. “The Empire has been driven from the Western Kingdom of the Ring! We are free again!”
A great cheer rose up among the villagers; they turned and grabbed each other and danced. They passed around wineskins and drank long and hard.
Steffen watched it all, shocked. The Empire driven out? The Western Kingdom free? It didn’t make sense. When he had left Silesia it had all been in ruins, all his people enslaved. There had seemed to be no hope for any of them.
“Thorgrin has returned, a dragon with him, and the Destiny Sword! The Shield is up! The Shield is restored!” the bell keeper announced.
There came another shout and cheer, and Steffen’s heart lifted with cautious optimism, as his thoughts turned back to Gwendolyn. Thor was back. That meant she would now have a reason to leave the Tower. A reason to return to Silesia. There might be a role for him once again.
Steffen turned and looked at the tower and saw no activity. He wondered. Had she somehow left?
“I saw him fly this way, the other day, the boy on the dragon, holding the Sword. I’m telling you!” one villager, a youth, insisted to another. “I saw him fly to that cursed tower. He landed on its roof!”
“You were seeing things!” an old, stern woman said. “Your imagination got the best of you!”
“I swear that I wasn’t!”
“You’ve been dreaming too much, lad!” mocked an old man.
There came laughter, as all the others mocked the boy; he reddened and slinked away.
But as Steffen heard his words, they made perfect sense to him: Thor’s first stop would be Gwendolyn. He loved her, and she mattered to him most. That was what these simple villagers could never understand. Steffen knew the words to be true, and his heart swelled with a sudden optimism. Of course, if he’d returned, the first place Thor would go would be to the Tower of Refuge, to see Gwendolyn—and to take her away. Likely, back to Silesia.
Steffen smiled for the first time since he had arrived here. Gwendolyn was free of that place. He smiled wider, realizing his life was about to change again. He no longer needed to be in this village, and he no longer needed these people. He no longer needed to seclude himself, to resign himself to a life of pain and labor and misery. He had a chance at life again; his fleeting dream was coming back. Maybe, after all, he was meant for a noble life.
“I said get back to work, you imp!” screamed the taskmaster, as he raised his whip high and aimed it for Steffen’s face.
This time, Steffen lunged forward, drew his sword and slashed the whip in half before it reached him. He then reached out, snatched the remnant of the whip from the taskmaster’s hand, and slashed the taskmaster himself across the face.
The taskmaster screamed, clutching his face with both hands, shouting and yelling at the pain.
Other villagers took notice and suddenly charged Steffen from every direction. But Steffen was a warrior with skills beyond what these provincial men would ever know, and he used the whip to lash them all, spinning and ducking and weaving from their blows; in moments, they were all on the ground, crying out in pain from the lashes.
Yet more men came charging, more serious men, with more serious weapons, and Steffen knew he had to get more serious as well; before they could get any closer, Steffen reached back, notched an arrow and raised his bow, aiming it at the lead man, a fat fellow wearing a shirt too small.
As he raised it up high, the fat man, wielding a club, suddenly stopped in his tracks, along with the men beside him.
A crowd gathered, everyone keeping a cautious distance from Steffen.
“Anyone comes closer to me in this dung-eating town,” Steffen called out, “and I will kill you all. I will not warn you twice.”
From the crowd there emerged three burly men, wielding swords and charging for Steffen. Without blinking, Steffen took aim and fired off three arrows, and pierced each man through the heart. They each fell to the ground, dead.
The town gasped.
Steffen notched another arrow and stood there at the ready, waiting.
“Anyone else?” he asked.
This time the villagers stood frozen, all with a new respect for Steffen. No one dared move an inch.
Steffen reached down, grabbed his sack of grain and of water, slung them over his shoulder and turned his back on them, taking the road out of the village and heading for the forest. He was on edge, listening carefully, waiting to see if anyone pursued him—but not a sound could be heard in that place.
Not a single person dared insult him now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Romulus strutted down the forest trail, following the Wokable, which walked with a strange gait in its glowing green robe, prancing through the forest so quickly that it was hard to follow. If there was anything Romulus distrusted more than this Wokable, it was this place, Charred Wood, which he had always avoided at all costs, given its reputation. The trees here grew short and fat, the gnarled branches spreading over the trails in every direction, and they were alive in ways that other trees weren’t. They were rumored to hav
e swallowed men whole. As Romulus looked over warily, he saw small sets of teeth embedded in some of the trunks, opening and closing lazily.
He quickened his pace.
Charred Wood was a place of darkness and gloom, and as they went it grew thicker, the wood growing dense in a thicket of tangled branches and thorns. It was a place permeated by fog and filled with all things evil, a place you came when you wanted just the right poison to assassinate someone, or needed just the right potion to place a curse.
Now Romulus needed this place, as much as he had hoped to avoid it. He had relied his whole life on strength, on his battle skills; yet what he needed now was not strength alone. He was battling in a new realm, a realm of politics and subtle treachery, a realm in which the sword alone could not slay your opponent. He needed a weapon greater than a sword. He needed an edge over all of them. And the key lay deep inside this twisted forest.
For years, Romulus had embarked on his own secret mission, on a hunt for the legendary weapon rumored to hold the power to lower the Shield. Of course, keeping the Destiny Sword in the Empire would have been the simplest option; but with that gone now, Romulus had to turn once again to the weapon. For years he had been chasing wild rumors of its existence, following trails here and there only to discover another false lead.
This time, it felt different. This time, the lead had come after the torture and assassination of a long string of people, until the trail had finally led to this Wokable. It could not have come at a better time; if Romulus did not find it, the Grand Council—or Andronicus—would kill him. But if he truly held the weapon to lower the Shield, he would be invincible. The others would rally around him, and there would be nothing left to stop him from ruling the Empire.
They twisted and turned down yet another trail, through a tangle of thorns, the fog growing thick. The Wokable put on gloves, several feet long, to shield his long fingers from the thorns. Romulus, though, tore them from his way with his bare hands. He felt the thorns piercing his skin, drawing blood, but he did not care; he actually enjoyed the pain.
They cut through the thorn bushes and carved a path deeper into the forest, and just as Romulus was starting to wonder if this Wokable was leading him astray, finally, the path opened up into a small circular clearing.
There sat a small, circular grass knoll, perhaps ten feet high, a mound of earth really. In its center was a low, arched door, covered in grass, almost imperceptible. There were no windows and was no other entryway. It looked like a dome of earth.
Romulus paused, sensing the evil behind that door.
The Wokable turned and looked at him, with its flat, yellow face and four eyes, making an odd purring noise of satisfaction that set Romulus on edge. It smiled, baring its hundreds of tiny, sharp teeth.
“Your precious weapon lies within that knoll.”
Romulus stepped forward to go to it, but the Wokable reached out with its long, bony fingers and laid them on his chest, stopping him. It was surprisingly strong.
“You must wait until you are summoned.”
Romulus sneered. He was not one to wait for anyone.
“And if I don’t?” Romulus demanded.
The Wokable opened its mouth again and again, flashing its rows of teeth, expressing displeasure.
“Then your endeavor will be cursed.”
Romulus glowered. He was not one to cower to signs and omens; he went whenever and however he wanted, on his own terms.
Romulus strutted across the clearing, grabbed the small door and yanked it open with such strength that he tore it off its hinges. He stepped fearlessly into the blackness of the hollowed-out grassy knoll, ducking as he went.
The inside was dark, an evil residue hanging in the air, clinging to his skin. The place was lit by a small candle, flickering at the far end, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.
As he walked into the center, he spotted a small, circular table. Seated before it was an old man, bald, long strands of white hair dangling down the sides of his head, wearing a green velvet cloak, the collar pulled high. His back was to him and he hummed a strange tune.
Romulus waited, unsure what to make of it all. He hoped this wasn’t another dead end, as he saw no weapon in this place.
“I have no time to waste,” Romulus said. “Give me what I have come for.”
There came a long silence.
“You come before I summon you,” the old man said, his ancient voice raspy.
Romulus sneered.
“I wait for no one,” he said.
“That will be your downfall,” the man said.
Romulus glowered.
“Give me what I came for. If not, you will suffer the wrath of the great Romulus.”
There came a low chuckle, like a rumble, and Romulus felt he was being mocked.
In a rage, Romulus rushed forward, knocked over the table, came around and confronted the old man. He drew his sword and stabbed him, but he looked down and saw the sword was only going through air, harmless.
He looked at the man’s face and he stood back, aghast. The man’s cheeks were long and bony, his face drawn, and in place of eyes were two empty sockets.
The old man smiled, his face crinkling into a million lines, and Romulus, despite himself, shivered.
“You look death in the face,” the old man said. “How does it look?”
Romulus stood there, speechless. Finally, he gathered enough courage to say: “I come for the weapon. The weapon that will lower the Shield.”
The old man smiled.
“It can only be wielded by the worthy. Are you worthy?”
“I am second only to Andronicus in the entire Empire. I am the Great Romulus.”
“Yes…” the man said slowly. “For now, anyway. Soon, you will be first.”
Romulus’ heart soared at the words.
“Tell me more,” he demanded.
“Your fate has yet to be determined. The weapon may change it. But the price will be great.”
“I will pay your price,” Romulus said hastily. “Give it to me!”
The man rose and walked past Romulus, crossing the room to the far wall as he reached into the blackness. Romulus’s heart pounded as he waited in anticipation to see what the weapon could be. Was it a sword? A javelin? Some other weapon?
Romulus was confused as the man returned holding a simple, black velvet cloak. He held it up, and lay it in Romulus’ hands.
“What is this?” Romulus asked, annoyed.
“Your sacred weapon,” came the reply.
Romulus looked at it, confused, wondering if he were being mocked.
“This is no weapon,” he said. “It is a cloak.”
“Not all weapons have blades,” the old man said. “This weapon is more powerful than any you have ever known.”
“I will try it on,” Romulus said, preparing to wear it.
The old man reached out and grabbed his arm. Romulus was surprised by the strength of his grip, his bony hand so strong he could not even free himself of it. He realized this encounter was magical, of a strength he did not understand, and for the first time in his life, he felt afraid.
“Put that cloak on now, and you will die,” the old man said.
Romulus examined it in wonder.
“Wear it only when you cross the bridge to the Canyon. It will make you invisible and allow you to penetrate the Shield, to enter the Ring. You must cross by yourself. In order to destroy the Shield for good, you will need to bring a MacGil with you back across the Canyon, while wearing the cloak. When a MacGil sets foot on land outside the Canyon, together with you, wearing this cloak, then the Shield will come down for good.”
Romulus surveyed the cloak in awe. He sensed it was the truth.
Finally, after all these years, he held in his hand the key to bringing down the Shield, to taking the Ring. There was no obstacle left in his path. Finally, power would be his.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thor sat on the upper parapets of the cas
tle, the Destiny Sword in his lap, twisting and turning it, examining it in the early morning light. The Sword sparkled, illuminated in all different colors, long and smooth, nearly translucent, made of a metal he could not understand. The hilt, solid gold, felt like butter in his palm, making his hand mold to it completely, as if he had always held it, as if he and the Sword were one. Along the edge of the hilt were embedded small rubies, and the blade was engraved with an ancient inscription he did not understand.
As he studied it, Thor wondered. The Sword felt positively ancient, and he wondered who had forged it, who had wielded it in the past, how it had gotten here. He wondered about its history. He wondered about its future. He wondered about his own future. He reflected on all they had gone through to get the Sword, on their quest, crossing the Canyon, crossing the Tartuvian, the hostile Empire, its jungles and deserts and mountains and slave cities and dragons…
All for this. This blade, this piece of metal that he held in his hand. He thought of the lives lost, and saw the faces of his friends, floating in the water. He thought of all the dead in the Ring, of Andronicus’ invasion…all for this Sword. What was it about this singular weapon?
Thor thought of all the Empire warriors he had killed with it since his return. As he had wielded it, it had felt more like it had been wielding him. He did not understand it. And Thor feared things he did not understand.
Most of all, he contemplated Aberthol’s ominous words, which rang in his head, which had kept him up all night, which had drawn him back up here, to these parapets, before dawn, to find solace, time to reflect: the legend that the wielding of the Sword would be short-lived.
Did that mean he would be defeated? That he would die soon? Without the Sword, who would he be? What would become of the Shield? Of the Ring?