A Grant of Arms

by Morgan Rice

  A huge wave crashed on deck, and the foaming waters of the Tartuvian slipped beneath her net, making her slide and bang her head on the wooden hull. She cowered and snarled, not having the spirit or strength that she used to. She was resigned to her new fate, knowing she was being taken away to be killed, or worse, to live a life in captivity. She didn’t care what became of her. She just wanted Thor to be okay. And she wanted a chance, just one last chance, for vengeance on her attackers.

  “There she is! Slipped halfway across the deck!” one of the Empire soldiers yelled out.

  Mycoples felt a sudden jabbing pain on the sensitive scales of her face, and she saw two Empire soldiers, with spears thirty feet long, prodding her at a safe distance through the net. She tried to lunge forward for them, but her constraints held her down. She snarled as they poked her again and again, laughing, clearly having fun.

  “She’s not so scary now, is she?” one asked the other.

  The other laughed, jabbing his spear close to her eye. Mycoples moved away at the last second, sparing herself blindness.

  “She’s harmless as a fly,” said one.

  “I hear they’re going to put her on display in the new Empire capitol.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” said the other. “I heard they’re going to pry off her wings and torture her for all the harm she did our men.”

  “I wish I’d be there to see that.”

  “Do we really need to deliver her intact?” one asked.

  “Orders.”

  “But I don’t see why we can’t at least maim her a little. After all, she doesn’t really need both eyes, does she?”

  The other laughed.

  “Well now that you put it that way, I guess not,” he answered. “Go for it. Have fun.”

  One of the men came closer and raised a spear high.

  “Hold still now, little girl,” the soldier said.

  Mycoples flinched, helpless as the soldier came charging forward, preparing to plunge his long spear into her eye.

  Suddenly, another wave crashed over the bow; the water took out the legs of the soldier, and he went sliding right for her face, eyes open wide in terror. In a huge burst of effort, Mycoples managed to lift one claw just high enough to allow the soldier to slip beneath her; as he did, she brought it down on him and pinned it through his throat.

  He shrieked and blood spilled everywhere, mixing with water, as he died beneath her. Mycoples felt some small satisfaction.

  The remaining Empire soldier turned and ran, screaming for help. Within moments, a dozen Empire soldiers approached, all bearing long spears.

  “Kill the beast!” one of them screamed.

  They all approached to kill her, and Mycoples felt certain that they would.

  Mycoples felt a sudden rage burn through her, unlike anything she’d ever felt. She closed her eyes and prayed to God to give her one final burst of strength.

  Slowly, she felt a great heat rise within her belly and travel down her throat. She lifted her mouth and let out a roar. To her surprise, a slew of flames poured out.

  The flames traveled through the net, and though not destroying the Akron, still a wall of fire engulfed the dozen men coming at her.

  They all shrieked as their bodies went up in flames; most collapsed on deck, and those that didn’t die instantly ran and jumped overboard into the sea. Mycoples smiled.

  Dozens more soldiers appeared, these wielding clubs, and Mycoples tried to summon the fire again.

  But this time it did not work. God had answered her prayers, and had given her a one-time grace. But now, there was no more she could do. She was grateful, at least, for what she’d had.

  Dozens of soldiers descended on her, beating her with clubs, and slowly, Mycoples felt herself sinking down, lower and lower, eyes closing. She curled herself up tight, resigned, wondering if her time on this world had come to an end.

  Soon, her world was filled with blackness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Romulus stood at the helm of his massive ship, the hull painted black and gold and waving the flag of the Empire, a lion with an eagle in its mouth, flapping boldly in the wind. He stood there with hands on hips, his wide muscular frame even wider, as if rooted to the deck, and stared out at the rolling, luminescent waves of the Ambrek. In the distance, just coming into view, was the shore of the Ring.

  Finally.

  Romulus’ heart soared with anticipation as he laid eyes on the Ring for the first time. On his ship sailed his finest hand-picked men, several dozen of them, and behind them sailed thousands of the finest Empire ships there were. A vast armada, filling the sea, all sailing the banner of the Empire. They had sailed a long way, circling the Ring, determined to land on the McCloud side. Romulus planned to enter the Ring by himself, sneak up on his old boss, Andronicus, and assassinate him when he was least expecting it.

  He smiled at the thought. Andronicus had no idea of the might or cunning of his number two in command, and he was about to learn the hard way. He never should have underestimated him.

  Huge waves rolled past, and Romulus reveled in the cold spray on his face. In his arm he clutched the magical cloak he had obtained in the forest, and he felt it was going to work, was going to get him across the Canyon. He knew that when he put it on, he would be invisible, able to penetrate the shield, to cross into the Ring alone. His mission would require stealth and cunning and surprise. His men couldn’t follow, of course, but he didn’t need any of them: once he was in, he would find Andronicus’s men—Empire men—and rally them to his cause. He would divide them and create his own army, his own civil war. After all, the Empire soldiers loved Romulus as much as they did Andronicus. He would use Andronicus’ own men against him.

  Romulus would then find a MacGil, bring him back across the Canyon, as the cloak demanded, and if the legend was true, the Shield would be destroyed. With the Shield down, he would summon all of his men, and his entire fleet would pour inside and they would all crush the Ring for good. Then, finally, Romulus would be sole ruler of the universe.

  He breathed deep. He could almost taste it now. He had been fighting his entire life for this moment.

  Romulus gazed up at the blood-red sky, the second sun setting, a huge ball on the horizon, glowing a light blue this time of day. It was the time of day that Romulus prayed to his gods, the God of the Land, the God of the Sea, the God of the Sky, the God of the Wind—and most of all, the God of War. He knew he needed to appease them all. He was prepared: he had brought many slaves to sacrifice, knowing their spilled blood would lend him power.

  The waves crashed all around him as they neared shore. Romulus did not wait for the others to lower the ropes but rather leapt off the hull as soon as the bow touched sand, falling a good twenty feet, and landing on his feet, up to his waist in the water. He didn’t even flinch.

  Romulus sauntered onto the shore as if he owned it, his footprints heavy in the sand. Behind him, his men lowered the ropes and all began to filter off the ship, as one boat after another landed.

  Romulus surveyed all of his work, and he smiled. The sky was growing dark, and he had reached shore at the perfect moment to present a sacrifice. He knew he had the gods to thank for this.

  He turned and faced his men.

  “FIRE!” Romulus screamed out.

  His men scurried to build a huge bonfire, fifteen feet high, a massive pile of wood ready, waiting to be lit, spread out and shaped in the form a three-pointed star.

  Romulus nodded, and his men dragged forward a dozen slaves, bound to each other. They were tied up along the wood of the bonfire, their ropes secured to it. They stared back, wide-eyed with panic. They screamed and thrashed, terrified, seeing the torches at the ready and realizing they were about to be burned alive.

  “NO!” one of them screamed. “Please! I beg you! Not this. Anything but this!”

  Romulus ignored them. Instead, he turned his back on everyone, took several steps forward, opened his arms wide, and craned hi
s neck up to the skies.

  “OMARUS!” he cried out. “Give us the light to see! Accept my sacrifice tonight. Be with me on my journey into the Ring. Give me a sign. Let me know if I will succeed!”

  Romulus lowered his hands, and as he did, his men rushed forward and threw their torches onto the wood.

  Horrific screams rose up, as all the slaves were burned alive. Sparks flew out everywhere, as Romulus stood there, face aglow, watching the spectacle.

  Romulus nodded, and his men brought forward an old woman, her eyes missing, her face wrinkled, her body curled up. Several men carried her forward in a chariot, and she leaned forward towards the flames. Romulus watched her, patient, awaiting her prophecy.

  “You will succeed,” she said. “Unless you see the suns converge.”

  Romulus smiled wide. Suns converge? That hadn’t happened in a thousand years.

  He was elated, a warm feeling flooding his chest. That was all he needed to hear. The gods were with him.

  Romulus grabbed his cloak, mounted his horse, and kicked it hard, beginning to gallop alone, across the sand, for the road that would lead to the Eastern Crossing, across the Canyon, and soon, into the very heart of the Ring itself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Selese walked through the remnants of the battlefield, Illepra by her side, each of them going body to body, checking for signs of life. It had been a long, hard trek from Silesia, as the two of them stuck together, following the main body of the army and tending to the wounded and the dead. They forked off from the other healers and had become close friends, bonding through adversity. They naturally gravitated towards each other, each close in age, each resembling the other, and perhaps most importantly, each in love with a MacGil boy. Selese loved Reece, and Illepra, while she was loath to admit it, loved Godfrey.

  They had done their best to keep up with the main body of the army, weaving in and out of fields and forests and muddy roads, constantly combing for MacGil wounded. Unfortunately, finding them did not prove hard; they filled with landscape in abundance. In some cases, Selese was able to heal them; but in too many cases, the best she and Illepra could do was patch their wounds, put them out of pain with their elixirs, and allow them a peaceful passing.

  It was heartbreaking for Selese. Having been a healer in a small town her whole life, she had never dealt with anything on this scale or severity. She was used to handling minor scrapes, cuts, and wounds, or maybe the occasional Forsyth bite. But she was not used to such massive bloodshed and death, such severity of wounds and wounded. It saddened her profoundly.

  In her profession, Selese yearned to heal people, and to see them well; yet ever since she had embarked from Silesia, she had seen nothing but an endless trail of blood. How could men do this to each other? These wounded were all sons to someone; fathers, husbands. How could mankind be so cruel?

  Selese was even more heartbroken by her lack of ability to help each person she encountered. Her supplies were limited to what they could carry, and given their long trek, that wasn’t much. The other healers of the kingdom were spread out, all over the Ring; they were an army in and of themselves, but they were stretched too thin, and supplies were too low. Without adequate wagons, horses, and a team of helpers, there was only so much she could transport.

  Selese closed her eyes and breathed deeply as she walked, seeing the faces of the wounded flash before her. Too many times she had tended a mortally wounded soldier crying out in pain, had watched his eyes glaze over, and given him Blatox. It was an effective painkiller, and an effective tranquilizer. But it would not heal a festering wound, nor stop infection. Without all of her supplies, it was the best she could do. It made her want to cry and scream at the same time.

  Selese and Illepra each knelt over a wounded soldier, a few feet away from each other, each busy suturing a wound with a needle and thread. Selese had been forced to use this needle one too many times, and she wished she had a clean one. But she had no choice. The soldier cried out in pain as she stitched a long vertical wound in his bicep that did not seem to want to stay closed, continually seeping. Selese pressed one palm down, trying to staunch the blood flow.

  But it was a losing battle. If only she had gotten to this soldier a day go, all would have been fine. But now his arm was green. She was staving off the inevitable.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” Selese said down to him.

  “No I’m not,” he said, staring up at her with a look of death. Selese had seen that look one too many times already. “Tell me. Will I die?”

  Selese took a deep breath and held it. She did not know how to reply. She hated to be dishonest. But she could not bear to tell him.

  “Our fates are in our makers’ hands,” she said. “It is never too late for any of us. Drink,” she said, taking a small vial of Blatox from the satchel of potions at her waist, putting it to his lips and stroking his forehead.

  His eyes rolled back, and he sighed, peaceful for the first time.

  “I feel good,” he said.

  Moments later, his eyes closed.

  Selese felt a tear roll down her cheek, and quickly wiped it away.

  Illepra finished with her wounded, and they each got up, weary, and continued walking down the endless trail together, passing corpse after corpse. They headed, inevitably, east, following the main body of the army.

  “Are we even doing anything here?” Selese finally asked, after a long silence.

  “Of course,” Illepra answered.

  “It doesn’t seem that way,” Selese said. “We have saved so few, and lost so many.”

  “And what of those few?” Illepra countered. “Are they not worth anything?”

  Selese thought.

  “Of course they are,” she said. “But what about the others?”

  Selese closed her eyes and tried to imagine them; but they were just a blur faces now.

  Illepra shook her head.

  “You think in the wrong way. You are a dreamer. Too naive. You cannot save everyone. We did not start this war. We only pick up after it.”

  They continued to walk in silence, trekking ever further east, past fields of bodies. Selese was happy, at least, for Illepra’s company. They had provided each other company and solace, and had shared expertise and remedies along the way. Selese was astounded by Illepra’s wide range of herbs, ones she had never encountered; Illepra, in turn, was continually surprised by the unique salves Selese had discovered in her small village. They complemented each other well.

  As they marched, scanning the dead once again, Selese’s thoughts drifted to Reece. Despite everything all around her, she could not get him from her mind. She had traveled all the way to Silesia just to find him, to be with him. But the fates had split them apart too soon, this stupid war pulling them in two different directions. She wondered with every passing moment if Reece was safe. She wondered where, exactly, in the battlefield he was. And with each corpse she passed, she quickly glanced at the face with a sense of dread, hoping and praying it was not Reece. Her stomach clenched with each body she approached, until she turned it over and saw the face and saw it was not him. With each one, she sighed with relief.

  Yet with every step she took she was on edge, always feared she would find him with the wounded—or worse, the dead. She did not know she could go on if she did.

  She was determined to find him, dead or alive. She had journeyed this far, and she would not turn back until she knew his fate.

  “I haven’t seen any signs of Godfrey,” Illepra said, kicking rocks as they went.

  Illepra had spoken of Godfrey intermittently ever since they’d left, and it was obvious she was smitten by him, too.

  “Nor have I,” Selese said.

  It was a constant dialogue between the two of them, each smitten by the two brothers, Reece and Godfrey, two brothers who could not be more different from each other. Selese could not understand what Illepra saw in Godfrey, personally. He seemed to be just a drunkard to her, a silly man, not
to be taken seriously. He was fun, and funny, and certainly witty. But he was not the vision of the man Selese wanted. Selese wanted a man who was sincere, earnest, intense. She yearned for a man who exhibited chivalry, honor. Reece was the one for her.

  “I just don’t know how he could have survived all this,” Illepra said sadly.

  “You love him, don’t you?” Selese asked.

  Illepra reddened and turned away.

  “I never said anything about love,” she said defensively. “I’m just concerned for him. He’s just a friend.”

  Selese smiled.

  “Is he? Then why do you not stop speaking of him?”

  “Do I?” Illepra asked, surprised. “I hadn’t realized it.”

  “Yes, constantly.”

  Illepra shrugged and grew silent.

  “I guess he got under my skin somehow. He makes me so mad sometimes. I’m constantly dragging him from the taverns. He promises me, every time, that he will never return. But he always does. It’s maddening, really. I’d thrash him if I could.”

  “Is that why you’re so anxious to find him?” Selese asked. “To thrash him?”

  Now it was Illepra’s turn to smile.

  “Perhaps not,” she said. “Perhaps I want to give him a hug, too.”

  They rounded a hill and came upon a soldier, a Silesian. He lay beneath a tree, moaning, his leg clearly broken. Selese could see it from here, with her expert eye. Nearby, tied to the tree, were two horses.

  They rushed to his side.

  As Selese set to tending his wounds, a deep gash in his thigh, she could not help but ask what she had asked every soldier she had encountered: