by Morgan Rice
“Bring him to me at once,” she commanded firmly.
Her chief attendant’s eyes opened wide in surprise, “You know him, my lady?”
“As well as I know myself. His name is Steffen, and you are to treat him with the highest honor and respect. If it were not for him, I would be dead today. He is my right hand, and he shall be afforded every privilege this kingdom has to offer. Go to him at once!” she said, her voice rising.
His eyes opened wide in surprise and he bowed and turn and ran back inside.
Gwen heard his footsteps echo and knew from the fear in his eyes that he would obey her orders right away.
She looked below and watched him run across the courtyard, to the group of servants, saw him stop them all, and watched as they looked at him in confusion, then fear. They bowed towards Steffen apologetically, and she watched with satisfaction as Steffen stood up a little straighter. He was led to the castle.
Moments later Steffen appeared at the roof, and without pausing, she ran towards him, bent over, and gave him a hug.
Steffen stood there, awkwardly, as if afraid to hug back someone in a position of royalty. But finally, hesitantly, he did. He pulled back and bowed low.
“My lady,” he said. “When I heard you left the Tower, I came at once. If you decide to give me a position with the other servants, of course I will accept wherever it is you wish. But if you wish to have me once again by your side, I will fight to the death to protect you from any and all harm.”
Gwen smiled back.
“Steffen, you are my right hand, and one of the few people I would trust with my life. You shall be afforded every honor this kingdom has to offer. Speak not of being a servant ever again.”
Steffen’s eyes opened wide and he broke into a smile as he stared back, then bowed his head low again.
“Yes, my lady.”
“You’ve come just in time,” she said. “Tomorrow, we face attack from my uncle. Believe it or not, Silesia is preparing for a siege once again.”
“My lady,” Steffen said, “whatever happens, I shall stay by your side.”
Gwen turned and faced her men, determined.
“Let us go over our defenses again,” she said. “Where are we most vulnerable?”
Srog cleared his throat.
“My lady, defending the outer wall will be a challenge,” Srog said. “The damage Andronicus did was too extensive. Even if we were to hold one gate, there are too many other gates to secure. We just don’t have the manpower. Tirus’ men are veteran warriors—they will know that. They also have the manpower to test every gate.”
“They probably scouted it all out before they approached,” Kendrick added.
“What do you recommend then?” Gwendolyn asked.
Kendrick rubbed his chin.
“What they will expect,” Kendrick began, “is for us to defend at the gates. I suggest that we surprise them. Let them overrun the gates. We can place our men at the inner wall, at the very edge of the Canyon, blocking the entrance to Lower Silesia. They will enter to find a vacant city courtyard, with no resistance, and they will be confused. Then we can attack them from all sides.”
“It is a good plan,” Srog said. He turned and faced the city courtyard. “We can place archers there,” he added, pointing to various spots throughout the city walls. “And spears down below. We can take out the first thousand before they regroup.”
“And after that?” Gwen asked.
Srog and the others exchanged a worried glance.
“After that, they will overrun our defenses. There is no way around it,” Srog said. “But we can retreat to Lower Silesia, and hold out there as long as we can.”
Gwen sighed.
“And if we retreat below,” she asked, “how long until we all perish?”
They shook their heads, and Gwen saw the fear on their faces.
“With our current provisions, perhaps we can outlast them a week. Perhaps two.” Srog cleared his throat. “I wish I had a better strategy, my lady. But we are vastly outnumbered, and our men are weakened and our provisions low.”
Gwendolyn looked all around the city as she mulled over everything they’d said. She breathed deeply, hands on her hips, and examined the city walls, her warriors. She mulled over all her options and she didn’t like any of them. Some inflicted damage, but none led to victory.
“There is another option,” she said, “that none of you are considering.”
They all watched her as she took several steps forward, and surveyed the walls and beyond.
“We can vacate the city altogether, and attack them beyond the walls, in the open field.”
They all stood there, speechless, and looked at her as if she had gone mad.
“Vacate the city, my lady?”
Gwen nodded, feeling more confident in the plan the more she thought about it.
“In the morning, they will come for a decision. We will go out to greet them with an envoy, while our main forces will circle around them and flank their sides. We will surprise them with an attack in the open field.”
“My lady,” Brom said, “that would be suicide. Without the protection of these walls, we would all die.”
She turned to Brom and felt a new strength course through her. She was hardening, becoming a queen, with no fears and no regrets.
“We will die anyway,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “And if we’re going to die, I’d rather die killing more of Tirus’ men. I’d rather die now, with honor, than have our people suffer slowly.”
They all looked at her, and she saw a new sense of awe and respect in their eyes.
“So it is decided, then,” she said. “We will attack at first light. Prepare yourselves.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Erec led the Duke’s army, thousands of men and growing, as they picked up men everywhere they went, freed men of the Ring eager to avenge themselves on the Empire. They had been marching for days, making the long trek from Savaria in the south to Silesia in the north, passing groups of armed survivors, hidden forts, groups of Silver that had outlasted the invasion. These men joined with the Duke’s, and the size of their force had nearly doubled, now swelling to ten thousand men strong, all of them motivated, happy to be free, to have a cause, and to have a leader like Erec.
In these men’s eyes there was no one better to follow than Erec, the most famed knight, the leader of the Silver, the champion of the Ring, the knight who had never been defeated by anyone. He drew people to him like a magnet, a natural leader, standing tall and proud, with a strong jaw and light gray eyes. He commanded respect wherever he went. Erec had become even more legendary since his single-handed defense at the gulch, his heroic smashing of the boulder to hold back the Empire.
They had marched steadily ever since Thor had flown over with Mycoples and saved them on the cliff. Erec knew they were heading north and had been determined to follow, to help. He followed the trail of charred Empire bodies, the path of destruction Thor had left, and knew he would catch up to them. It was a long and circuitous path, heading ever north, alongside the Canyon. Erec had thought it would end in King’s Court and he would find them all there.
But when they had reached King’s Court, the sight of it had gutted Erec. This place that had once been so dear to him, had once been the bastion of strength of the Ring, was now destroyed by the Empire, a remnant of what it once was. The trail of destruction continued north, through its gates, and Erec continued marching. He did not know where it ended, but he assumed it would lead them to the next northern city: Silesia. Perhaps they had all retreated there. Militarily, it would make sense.
Mounted on Erec’s horse behind him, her arms wrapped tight around his chest, was his bride to be: Alistair. The warmth of her touch filled him with hope, with life, especially on this cold, snowy evening; she gave him purpose to live. He was filled with gratitude towards her, having been saved by her so many times, and he vowed to one day repay her.
They all rode at a
slow pace to accommodate those on foot, more of a fast walk, heading slowly ever farther north as night began to fall. Near Erec rode his close friend, Brandt, and the Duke near him. They were a unified force, all determined to join Gwendolyn and the King’s men. Erec did not know how he could be of service, given Thor’s strength, yet he would offer he and his men in whatever way Gwendolyn needed them. After all, he owed that much to her father.
King MacGil had been like a father to Erec, too, and in some ways, Erec felt as if he were one of the MacGil siblings. He’d been like a brother to Kendrick and Gwendolyn and Reece and Godfrey. He had never been close to Gareth or Luanda, but certainly to the others. There had been many times when King MacGil had told him he wished he was his son, too, and he had seen it in his eyes.
Alistair squeezed him tight, and Erec was ecstatic with his choice of a bride; he only wished he could show her more gratitude, and he was determined to find a way. The mystery around her also persisted and deepened in his mind. Who was this woman, so unlike any woman he had ever met? How had she been able to save him—twice? He was dying to ask her, but he had promised not to pry, and he never broke his vows.
“You are wondering about me,” Alistair whispered softly in his ear, out of earshot of the other men. “I can feel it.”
Erec was amazed, as always, at her ability to read his thoughts.
“I would be lying, my lady, if I said I was not,” he responded. “You saved my life too many times for me not to wonder how. You have a power I have never seen in battle, a power I do not understand.”
“Does it make you love me less?” she asked.
“Even more, if possible,” he said.
There came a long silence as they continued to ride, each comfortable in each other’s silence. Erec thought they would continue that way for hours, when Alistair surprised him by speaking again.
“I’ve never told anyone of my lineage,” she said. “I made a vow to myself.”
“I understand,” he replied.
“Yet I feel comfortable to share it with you.”
They fell back into silence as they continued to ride, Erec’s heart pounding as he waited for her to say more. But Alistair fell silent once again, and he wondered if she had changed her mind.
Then, she cleared her throat.
“My father was a monster. My mother, the most beautiful woman in the world. And the most powerful. All the powers I received, I received from her. There were many times when I did not want to go on living, when I discovered who my father was. I indentured myself as a servant to that innkeeper, when you found me, to blot out the pain of life. Yet now that I’ve met you, I feel ready to live again. Ready to face who I am.”
Erec wanted to ask her a million questions, but forced himself not to pry, to be respectful of however much she wanted to share, whenever she felt comfortable.
“There is another reason I secluded myself,” she said. “I was told of a powerful prophecy around my birth. It states that I would bring about both great healing and great destruction to those around me. I did not want to subject you—or anyone—to my destiny.”
“Not all prophecies come true, my lady,” Erec said, touched that she had shared so much and understanding the guilt she lived under. “Prophets see through a glass darkly. The entire vision is often obscured. You must not carry around this guilt. You are a beautiful soul. It does not matter who your father is. And any prophet who speaks otherwise is wrong.”
She squeezed him tight, and Erec felt that, given what she shared, he should reciprocate. He had never told anyone much of his past, but he felt ready to share it with her, too.
“I know a little something about prophecies,” he said.
She leaned forward and looked at him.
“You see, I hail from the Southern Isles of the Ring. Few people know this, but I am the son of a King myself.”
Alistair gasped.
“You never said anything,” she said.
Erec shrugged.
“I do not judge myself on who I come from, but on what I have done myself. When I was young, my father sent me to the Ring proper, to King MacGil, to be apprenticed in his service. The MacGils became an adopted family to me, and I so loved being with the Silver, that I have never returned home, nor seen my father or my people since.”
“But are you then not heir to the throne of the Southern Isles?” she asked.
“Yes,” he admitted. “They are a proud and great people, and they await my return. One day, perhaps, I shall. It would mean the world to my father and to my people. I delay, because I know that the day I return home, it will be hard to ever return to the Ring. I am an outsider here, but in many ways, the Ring has become my home. And loyalty is something I take very seriously, with all my heart.”
They continued riding in a comfortable silence, when something occurred to him.
“If I ever do return there, would you come with me?” Erec asked, worried she might say no.
Alistair leaned forward and smiled.
“I would accompany you to the ends of the earth,” she said. “Whether you are a prince or no, a decorated knight or a common soldier. I love you with everything that I am.”
Erec’s heart welled with a love stronger than he had ever felt, and he turned and leaned back, and the two of them kissed as they continued riding in the night.
The army suddenly came to a stop as they reached the top of a ridge, and Erec stopped with them. He looked out, following the Duke’s finger as he pointed.
Erec saw it, too: before them lay a city made of a shining red stone, built right into the edge of the Canyon.
If they rode all night, by morning they would reach it.
Silesia.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Thorgrin rode on the back of Mycoples, lifting off from the top peak of the Highlands and finally flying again, diving down, heading east for Andronicus’ camp. The second sun now sat low in the sky, as it had taken all day for Thor to convince Mycoples to stir, rise up, and fly again.
Mycoples flew reluctantly, flying in giant circles, getting a little closer, then circling back, farther away, screeching as she went. Thor could not understand her behavior. He had never seen her like this. He could feel her deep ambivalence to go forward, and he could not help but feel a sense of foreboding. Was she seeing some future he failed to see?
Thor looked below, and against the dramatic sunset sweeping over the Ring, casting a reddish pall over everything, he saw the endless soldiers of Andronicus’ camp. As he managed to get Mycoples to fly ever closer to the center, he spotted what could only be Andronicus’ tent, ten times the size of the others, with a wide clearing around it. They flew above it, circling low.
As they did, Thor could see the fear on all the faces of the Empire soldiers, looking up at the sky, watching him. They were right to be afraid: if Thor chose, he could dive down and have Mycoples burn them all alive, as she had their comrades. He could kill them all in one clean sweep, including his father. There was nothing he wanted more.
But he was obliged by duty, and he vowed to carry out orders and accept Andronicus’ surrender.
As Thor circled, the clearing grew wider, Andronicus’ men creating space for him and for Mycoples. Mycoples bucked and screamed as they neared the ground, lifting her head as if refusing to land. Thor looked at her, puzzled. He could feel her wanting to breathe fire, and it took all his will to get her to refrain.
“Do not be afraid, Mycoples,” he said.
I fear not for myself, but for you, Thor could hear her thoughts.
“Do not fear for me,” Thor said. “You are by my side, and the Destiny Sword lies in my hand. No one and nothing can harm us.”
Mycoples grudgingly lowered her great talons down to the ground.
They set down in the midst of the hostile and foreign camp, and there came a dead silence. Not a soul stirred, all the Empire soldiers frozen in fear, as Mycoples landed on the dusty ground, and Thor dismounted before Andronicus’ tent.
All the Empire soldiers, faces etched in fear, kept a healthy distance.
Thor stood there, clutching the Sword, the tension thick in the air, and he looked all around, his heart pounding in anticipation. He was nervous to lay eyes upon his father, to speak to him for the first time. Mycoples, beside him, let out a noise, like a snarl or a growl, from deep within her throat. Clearly, she was very unhappy here; Thor could feel how on edge she was. Thor felt it himself. Something felt off to him.
Finally, there came a stir, and as Thor watched, the flap opened, and out came a figure.
His father.
Thor’s heart pounded as he stood there, facing him. His whole world froze.
Andronicus walked out slowly and stepped towards him. Thor was taken aback by his father’s height and breadth and size. He was a huge man, looked to be eight feet tall, as broad as a tree trunk, with muscles rippling on his red skin, long fangs, and curled yellow horns coming from his bald heads, glowing yellow eyes, and wearing a necklace that, Thor was horrified to see, was laced with shrunken heads.
Andronicus reached up and fingered the heads with his long talons, smiling back at Thor as he stopped but a few feet away from him. A deep purring noise came from deep within his chest.
Thor felt revolted at the sight of him. He felt ashamed. And he felt hatred. Looking at him, knowing what he had done to Gwendolyn, Thor felt, most of all, a burning desire for vengeance. Thor felt the Destiny Sword throbbing in his palm, and if his honor had not bound him, he would have lunged forward and killed him now.
But he could not. He had agreed to accept a surrender, and he had to honor his word.
“My son,” Andronicus said. “Finally, we meet.”
Thor did not know how to respond. He hated hearing the word “son” from this man. Thor felt nothing like a son to him; on the contrary, he was supremely disappointed in him, in having to meet his father for the first time, and to have him be a father such as this. He wanted more than anything to change it, to change who he came from, but he knew he could not.