A Rite of Swords

by Morgan Rice

  Her man gathered close, listening.

  “We need a strategy for rescuing Thor,” she stated.

  The men looked at each other, grim.

  “Would you expect the few thousand of us to battle Andronicus’ half-million, my lady?” Tirus asked. “All for one man?”

  “Thorgrin is more than just one man,” she said, her face darkening. “And yes, I do. I would risk our men for any of our brothers and sisters.”

  Their faces grew grim.

  “Even with the other MacGils here,” Brom said, “Tirus is right: we stand vastly outnumbered. No simple attack can yield a victory, as much as I hate to say it.”

  “If we attack, we have little chance of surviving,” Srog said.

  “Yet if we stay here,” Kendrick retorted, “we shall all surely die.”

  “Whether we live or die, none of that matters,” Erec said.

  All eyes fell to him, as his deep and confident voice commanded attention.

  “All that matters is that we live and die with glory,” he added.

  There came a grunt of approval among the men. They all fell silent, contemplating, and Gwen cleared her throat.

  “Battles are lost because missions are broad,” Gwen said. “Our mission will be a narrow one: to liberate Thor and Mycoples. We will attack their main camp with a diversion, find out where Thor is, and free him. Once Thor is free, with the Destiny Sword and Mycoples on our side, the battle will turn. Do not think of this as a few thousand men against a half million; rather, think of it as a few thousand men liberating one man. The key will be to divide Andronicus’ men, and to create a diversion.”

  “And how will we do that, my lady?” Brom asked.

  “We will break our army into four smaller divisions, and attack them from all sides, creating a diversion and splitting their forces. Erec, you shall lead the Duke’s men, and half the Silver. Kendrick, you shall lead the other half, along with half of MacGil’s army. Tirus, you shall lead your men. And Godfrey, you shall lead the other half of the King’s men.”

  Godfrey turned and looked at her, eyes wide in surprise.

  “Me, my lady?” he asked.

  She nodded back.

  “I do not know if I’m fit for the task,” he said, nervous. “I am not a warrior.”

  “You are fit,” she said back firmly. “After all, it is you who saved us from Andronicus here in Silesia.”

  “What I did I accomplished through wit, not through strength.”

  “And it is wit that we will need to win this battle, especially in the face of greater strength,” she answered. “You shall lead the fourth division. Do you accept it?”

  All eyes turned to Godfrey, and finally, he nodded.

  “Good,” Gwendolyn said. “These four divisions will attack Andronicus’ main camp from four different routes. We will confuse and divide his men just long enough to reach Thor.”

  “And you, my lady?” Steffen asked, turning to her. “Will you stay here?”

  All eyes turned to Gwendolyn.

  She shook her head.

  “No. I cannot stay here, not with my Thorgrin out there. I will attack, too,” she said. “But in a different way.”

  “How so, my lady?”

  “They must be holding Thorgrin by some magical means,” she said. “We will need magic to help free him. There is only one person I can turn to. I must find him. Argon.”

  “But Argon is gone from us, my lady,” Aberthol said.

  “He lives somewhere,” Gwendolyn said. “I will find him. I will release him. And he will help us save Thor.”

  Gwendolyn turned to the others.

  “Let us wait no longer,” she said loudly, “Thorgrin awaits us!”

  The crowd dispersed with a determined cheer, the men already breaking into divisions and preparing to leave.

  As the room began to quiet and the crowd to thin, Gwen called out to Aberthol.

  “Aberthol!”

  He stopped and turned.

  “You know all the ancient volumes,” she said. “They are burnt, now, but they live in your memory. I recall some of them myself. The Cycle of the Sorcerers. There was a volume, I recall, on the legends on the trapped.”

  Aberthol nodded back.

  “Your schooling serves you well,” he said. “Part myth, part fact. No one knows how much each part is. But yes, there is a legend. That those trapped by magic are held in the Netherworld.”

  “The Netherworld,” Steffen gasped, remaining by Gwen’s side.

  “Do you know of it?” Gwen asked.

  Steffen nodded.

  “It is a place rumored to make men’s souls run cold. A place of ice and fog. One of the rings of the deepest hells.”

  “It is a place no humans are allowed,” Aberthol added, “unless guided by a Druid. And since we have no Druid among us, I am afraid, even if it were true, we could not enter. Our journey would be for naught.”

  “I can lead you,” came a voice.

  Gwen, Steffen and Aberthol turned to see Alistair step forward. She looked back at Gwen with an earnest expression.

  Krohn stepped forward and licked her hand. It was clear to Gwen that Krohn liked her—and Krohn rarely took a liking to people, especially strangers.

  “But how can you?” Gwen asked. “Unless you are…”

  Alistair nodded.

  “You are correct,” she said. “I am a Druid.”

  They looked back at her in wonder, and she lowered her head to the ground.

  “I have never told anyone,” she said. “But for you, I would do it. You mean the world to Erec. And for my lord, there is not a thing I would not do.”

  Gwendolyn stepped forward, close to her, smiling, feeling herself well with hope for the first time. If she could find Argon and free him, perhaps she could save Thor.

  “From this day forward,” Gwendolyn said to Alistair, “you are my sister.”

  Alistair smiled back.

  “There is nothing I would like more.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Thor braced himself as best he could, as yet another blow rained down on him. He tried to resist with all his might, but with his wrists bound behind him in Akdon shackles, there was little he could do. His energy had been sapped by this magical metal, and he found himself unable to fight back as a large group of Empire soldiers punched him in the face, the chest, the back, and finally knocked him face-first onto the ground.

  The mob pounced on him, kicking him, blow after blow landing on his ribs, his back, his legs, his head. Thor tried to protect his face as best he could, but he already felt one eye starting to swell, to shut on him.

  Not far away, Andronicus watched it all with a smile, clearly pleased to see his own son abused in this way.

  What kind of father would allow something like this to happen to his son? Thor wondered. If Thor had had any confusion of whether he had any affection for his father, or whether his father had any for him, these blows certainly wiped them out.

  The blows continued for so long that Thor lost count. Finally, Andronicus yelled:

  “Enough!”

  The soldiers parted as Andronicus walked forward. For a moment, Thor thought he would be getting a respite from the abuse—but instead, more soldiers approached and began to strip him of his clothing.

  Thor felt the freezing winter winds cut into his raw skin. He tried again to resist with all he had, but he could not.

  Thor screamed in protest as he felt his shirt being torn off his body and watched his mother’s ring fall out, tumbling to the ground. He watched as a soldier grabbed it, holding it up and examining it.

  “NO!” Thor screamed out, as he watched the ring he had reserved for Gwendolyn sink into the greedy palm of an Empire soldier. His face was distinctly recognizable, with a crooked nose, bulging eyes, and a scar running along his chin. The soldier put the ring on his pinky finger and held it up, laughing. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

  More blows rained down on him as Thor fel
t his shirt stripped, then his boots. But all Thor could think of was his mother’s ring, disappearing into the hands of that cretin, and his heart broke.

  How could the fates be so cruel? Thor wondered. How can his mother allow this to happen to him? Couldn’t she intercede somehow?

  “Mother!” Thor screamed out, wishing she were here to help.

  There came a deep, sinister laugh from above. He looked up to see Andronicus standing over him.

  “Your mother won’t help you now, boy,” Andronicus said, glowering down.

  He nodded, and another man stepped forward carrying a thick, coarse rope. Two soldiers went to work tying the rope around Thor’s ankles. It cut into his skin, and just as Thor wondered what they were doing, suddenly, he heard a whip, a horse’s neigh, and felt himself being dragged backwards.

  Thor’s body was dragged along the frozen winter ground, along the dirt and small pebbles; it tore at the bare skin of his back, as Empire soldiers jeered him. The horse gained speed, and he was paraded in circles around the Empire camp.

  His body covered in bruises, exhausted, with no energy left, Thor began to lose consciousness. He tried to make this all go away, to imagine himself somewhere else, anywhere but here.

  The dragging through the camp went on for he did not know how long, until finally he came to a stop, dust settling all around him. He lay there, face first on the ground, groaning, one eye swollen shut. With an effort, he opened his one good eye and saw he had been deposited a few feet away, ironically, from the Destiny Sword. Clearly, this had been done to rub it in. The Sword sat there, where he had left it, lodged inside the huge boulder.

  “Here it is, this weapon that has plagued our Empire for centuries,” Andronicus yelled out to a crowd of transfixed soldiers. “Thor may be the Chosen One—or the Chosen One might just be one of us. Who is to say that only a MacGil, only a member of the Ring, can wield it? Who is to say that is not a myth they have created to keep us down?”

  The crowd cheered in approval.

  “Whoever wields the sword,” Andronicus yelled, “whoever can pull it from this boulder, will be named a general. Who will step forward and try?”

  There came a cheer, followed by a rush of men, as one soldier after the next rushed forward, grabbed the Sword’s hilt and yanked with all his might, trying desperately to get it out of the stone. Thor’s could not bear to watch the Destiny Sword in the hands of these cretins. He did not know what he would do if one of them could wield it. That would mean that the legend had been wrong and that he, Thor, was not special after all.

  But one at a time, the men tried and failed, one soldier after the next, pushing and shoving each other to get a try. Some tried two or three times.

  But it was the same for all of them: nothing.

  Finally, Andronicus himself approached the Sword, and the crowd parted ways. He knelt before it, then stood, wrapped his huge hands around its hilt, and with a great scream, he yanked the Sword with all he had. Thor worried for a moment. After all, Andronicus was his father, and a MacGil. Might that enable him to wield the Sword?

  But though Andronicus’ scream rose, higher and higher, eventually he collapsed, unable to make the Sword budge.

  Thor felt a great sense of relief, as he realized that none of the Empire, even his father, could wield it. It also made him feel special.

  Andronicus glowered down at the weapon, and Thor could see his face turning purple with rage.

  “Bring me a hammer!” he commanded. “NOW!”

  Several men rushed to his side with a two-handed war hammer. Andronicus snatched it, raised it high overhead, and with a scream, he brought it down on the rock.

  Try as he did, the rock would not shatter. It would not even chip. Andronicus tried again and again, with always the same result: it was like hammering steel.

  Finally, with a great groan of frustration, Andronicus turned and swung the hammer sideways, smashing in the heads of two soldiers and killing them on the spot. Then he spun the hammer again, and threw it into the crowd, killing another soldier as it hit him in mid-air.

  “If the Sword cannot be wielded by myself, or any of my men,” Andronicus called out, “then we have no use for it. It does us only harm while here in the Ring. It only keeps the Shield up, and keeps our men from reinforcing us. I command for the Sword to be removed from the Ring at once, taken back across the Canyon and destroyed for good. I want a dozen men to hoist this boulder on their shoulders and carry it back across the Canyon, to our ships. MOVE!” he screamed.

  A dozen men rushed forward, jumping into action, heading to the boulder. They all tried to lift it, but it would barely budge.

  More and more soldiers joined in, until finally, with two dozen men, they managed to get the boulder up high, on their shoulders. They all began to march, carrying the sword away.

  Thor’s heart was breaking inside.

  “NO!” Thor screamed.

  It was like watching a piece of himself being taken away.

  As Thor watched it disappear from view, he did everything in his power to try to break free. But he could not. The Akdon shackles on his wrists would not allow him.

  Andronicus turned towards Thor and stood over him.

  “There is no weapon that you can wield than I cannot wield myself,” Andronicus insisted.

  Thor realized that it burned his father up that he was able to wield a weapon that his father could not.

  “I am stronger than you, father,” Thor said. “That is why you fear me.”

  Andronicus screamed, stepped forward, and kicked Thor so hard in the side he felt one of his ribs crack. Thor turned and coughed, lying on the ground, gasping for air.

  “McCloud!” Andronicus yelled.

  Thor looked up to see the former King McCloud step forward, missing on eye and with a huge burn on the side of his disfigured face, where he had been branded with the emblem of the Empire. He looked like a monster.

  “I think it is time we teach our young Thorgrin what it feels like to be branded. Maybe we shall brand his face, the same way I did yours.”

  Thor’s heart pounded at his words. McCloud’s eyes opened wide with a smile of delight.

  “It would be great pleasure, my master,” McCloud said.

  McCloud turned, grabbed a hot poker handed to him by an attendant, and examined the end of it, affixed with the large square emblem of the Empire, burning white-hot with fire.

  “NO!” Thor screamed out, as McCloud reached down, the hot poker coming close to his face. Thor knew that within moments his face would be disfigured, just like McCloud’s, branded with the Emblem of Andronicus. The thought tore him apart; he could think of nothing worse.

  McCloud sneered in delight as he lowered the poker for Thor’s exposed face.

  Thor heard a screech, high in the sky. He looked up to see Estopheles; she dove down, her talons out, and McCloud looked up—but not in time. Estopheles clawed his face, leaving deep cuts across his nose and forehead and cheeks and lips. McCloud shrieked, dropping the iron, which landed on his foot, scalding it, and made him scream again. His face a bloody mess, he finally turned and ran, Estopheles chasing him across the camp.

  Andronicus stepped forward and picked up the iron himself, holding it over Thor, sneering down.

  “This is your last chance,” Andronicus said. “Stop defying me, and accept my offer. Embrace me. Half the Empire will be yours. I am the only true father you have in this world. Embrace me and find relief.”

  Thor mustered just enough energy to lift his head, and spit at Andronicus.

  “I would rather die a bastard than live as your son.”

  Andronicus grimaced, and with a grunt of supreme rage and frustration, he lowered the iron.

  Thor turned, and at the last second, the poker missed his face and instead sunk into his shoulder. Thor shrieked, as the burning iron sunk into his shoulder and he experienced the worst pain of his life. The searing iron branded his flesh, leaving the emblem of the Empire on it. Smo
ke sizzled from his arm and filled his nostrils with the awful smell of burning flesh. Thor screamed until he could scream no more.

  Finally, Andronicus stopped. Thor lay there weakly, limp, barely able to catch his breath. He couldn’t take any more of this.

  “Take him to the pit,” Andronicus ordered.

  Please God, let me die, Thor thought, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Thor felt himself being dragged by the rope binding his feet, paraded back through the camp. In the distance, he saw a round black pit coming into view, and he felt himself going over the edge, hurling down, sinking into the blackness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Silesia was awash in activity as Reece hurried through the courtyard, Elden, O’Connor and Conven at his side, all of them merging with the others, making their way from the hall of arms towards the main army in the city square. All around them thousands of knights were mobilizing, breaking up into four camps, one lead by Kendrick, one by Erec, one by Tirus and one by Godfrey. Reece and Conven and O’Connor and Elden stuck together, as they always had, and they were joined by the two other Legion members—Serna and Krog—along with Indra, who stayed by Elden’s side. They decided to join Kendrick’s division, as Reece wanted to be close to his eldest brother when battle came.

  After so many months battling enemies alone in the Empire, with just their small group to rely on, it felt good to have the support of this vast army and to be fighting back home in the Ring. Even if the odds were worse, Reece felt more protected now than ever. He also felt more determined. Reece was devastated to hear that his best friend had been captured, and he had no reservations about riding into battle, whatever the odds. He would happily give his life for Thor’s. He knew they were vastly outnumbered, but he felt as if that had always been the case, ever since he had joined the Legion. Battle was not easy. Nor was glory. But it was precisely these odds which made battle glorious.

  The crowd swelled as they all reached the main gate of Silesia. They all began to funnel their way through, beneath the soaring arches, and hundreds of Silesian citizens stood there, waving banners, cheering them on.