by Morgan Rice
All around him, his fellow Legion followed his example, jumping down off the last few feet of wall and landing beside him.
Reece hurried to Krog’s side. As he approached, a flash of anger burst through Reece: Krog had been a thorn in his side the whole time. Yet despite that, Reece was determined not to treat Krog the same way he had been treated by him. He had to rise above that, and regardless of what Krog deserved, it was not leader-like to sink to his level. Petty revenge might be a way for boys—but not for men. And it was time for him to leave boyhood behind, to become a man.
Reece knelt beside Krog and surveyed him, determined to help.
Krog groaned, squinting his eyes, writhing in pain.
“My knee,” Krog gasped.
Reece looked down and winced as he saw a large, purple branch impaled through Krog’s knee, through one side and out the other. Reece’s stomach churned at the site; it looked beyond painful.
“How does it look?” Krog asked.
Reece forced himself to look back at Krog with a steady expression of calm and cool confidence, not wanting Krog to panic.
“I’ve seen worse,” Reece responded. “You will be fine.”
Krog, though, didn’t seem to buy it. He was sweating, and looked up at him with panic-stricken eyes. His breathing was rapid and shallow.
“Listen to me,” Reece insisted, grabbing his cheeks. “Do you hear me? Your knee will be fine. Do you trust me?”
Slowly, Krog’s breathing slowed, and he nodded back.
All the others appeared beside Reece, and they stopped short in their tracks, looking down. Reece was sure that they were looking down at Krog’s knee with the same shock he had experienced.
“You’re lucky you’re alive,” Serna said to him. “I was sure you were dead.”
“The branches cushioned my fall,” Krog said. “I think I broke half the tree.”
Reece looked up and saw indeed that half the tree was missing its branches.
Krog tried to move, but winced and shook his head.
“I can’t bend my leg. I can’t walk.” Krog breathed sharply. “Leave me here,” he said. “I’m useless to you now.”
Reece shook his head.
“Do you remember our motto?” he reminded. “No man left behind. Those aren’t empty words. We live by them. And we aren’t leaving you anywhere.”
Reece thought quick, and turned to the others.
“Elden, O’Connor, hold him down,” he commanded, using the voice of authority.
They each knelt down and grabbed a shoulder, pinning Krog down.
“What are you doing?” Krog asked.
Reece didn’t hesitate; he had to get it over with. He reached down, grabbed the branch protruding through Krog’s knee, snapped off one end of it, and then, as Krog let out a horrific scream, yanked it straight through the other side, until it was clear of his leg. Blood gushed, and Reece reached down and stopped it up with his palm.
Krog flailed, moaning, while Indra rushed down beside him, tore a strip of cloth off the end of her shirt, and wrapped his wound.
“Son of a bitch!” Krog screamed, writhing in agony, digging his hands into Reece’s forearm.
“You are going to be all right,” Reece said. “Conven—your wine.”
Conven rushed forward, lowered his wineskin left over from Silesia, grabbed Krog’s cheeks and squirted some down his throat. Krog struggled at first, but Conven held him firmly, forcing him to drink. Eventually Krog’s eyes started to glaze over, his screaming quieted, and Reece knew the strong drink was kicking in.
“Get him to his feet,” Reece said, rising.
Elden and O’Connor dragged him to his feet, each draping an arm around one shoulder.
“I hate you,” Krog, half-delirious, moaned to Reece, glaring at him.
Reece shrugged. He never expected Krog to like him; he didn’t help him for that reason.
“Hate me all you want,” he said. “At least your leg will be saved.”
Reece turned and surveyed his surroundings, taking it all in. He was surprised and disoriented to actually be down here. Everything felt so foreign, so exotic, as if he were worlds away from the Ring. They stood in the midst of a brightly-colored forest, the swirling mists rushing through. Large mounds of mud rose up here and there, dotting the landscape, looking like large disfigured boulders rising up from the earth. Springs of steam rose in various pockets from the bottom of the floor, hissing as they shot up into the air, stopping and starting abruptly with no rhyme or reason.
Everywhere the air was filled with strange noises, caws and coos and snarls and shrieks; it sounded as if they had been dropped in the center of an animal kingdom. Reece peered into the midst, trying to get a glance, but the persistent mist made it impossible to see past twenty feet, making the noises even more ominous.
He turned to the others, who all looked back at him in wonder.
“Where to now?” Serna asked.
They all looked to Reece, and it was clear they considered him their leader now. Reece was beginning to feel more like a leader himself, too.
“We must find the Sword,” Reece answered, “and get out.”
“But it could be anywhere,” Elden said.
“We can’t see more than a few feet in front of us,” O’Connor added. “There are no trails, no markers. How are we to find it?”
Reece turned and surveyed the landscape, and realized they were all right. But that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.
“Well, one thing I know for sure,” he said. “We won’t find it by standing here. Let’s move.”
“But where?” Indra asked.
Reece picked a direction and began to walk, and he heard the others falling in behind, drawing their swords, all panicky.
He wished he could tell them he knew where they were going. But the truth was, he had absolutely no idea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog, wrists bound, led by ropes by their Empire captors, marched before their thousands of soldiers, all of them prisoners of war now. Kendrick seethed with rage and humiliation, and looked up at Tirus, who rode smugly side by side with the Empire commander. He vowed vengeance. Tirus had outwitted them, but he had done so through betrayal and treachery. Such a victory, in Kendrick’s eyes, was no victory at all. He lacked honor. And Kendrick would rather have death than a stain on his honor.
Yet still, here they all were, MacGil’s finest warriors, along with Bronson’s McClouds, all of them now at this traitor’s mercy, this lesser brother of Kendrick’s father, who had aspired his whole life to bring down his family and usurp the throne. Tirus had found his opportunity with Andronicus’ invasion. Knowing Andronicus, Kendrick knew this would only end badly for Tirus. If only Tirus knew that, if only he could see the short-sightedness of his treachery.
Kendrick hated to surrender. Yet in Kendrick’s view, this was not surrendering, but merely delaying. They would find another way, one day, somehow, to defeat them. Tirus had promised to treat them all with honor, as prisoners of war. Kendrick trusted him on this point; he did not imagine Tirus would sink so low as to sully whatever shred of honor he had left. If the war settled down, and Andronicus indeed allowed Tirus to control a portion of the Ring, Kendrick believed that Tirus would treat them fairly. Perhaps he would press them into his service. And one day, when Tirus least expected it, Kendrick would rally his men to rise up and defeat him.
Then again, if Andronicus betrayed Tirus, then anything could happen to Kendrick and his men. He remembered Silesia, their treatment at Andronicus’ hand, all too well. Which is why Kendrick had his eyes open, alert to any possible moment for escape.
They had been marching for hours, and Kendrick had quietly discussed it more than once with Erec, Bronson, and Srog, and they all agreed: they would escape, as long as they could free all their men.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Bronson asked, beside Kendrick.
Kendrick looked out at the col
d, desolate landscape before them. He saw in the distance a massive camp of Empire men, and in the center, a vast, empty area, fenced off. It looked like a holding pen. Kendrick realized this was where they being brought.
“They will hold us here until Andronicus decides otherwise,” Kendrick replied. “We are his trophies now.”
“Unless Andronicus decides to have us killed,” Erec added.
“But Tirus gave us his word,” Bronson said.
“Tirus’ word is not worth much,” Srog chimed in.
“Did we make a mistake to surrender then?” Bronson asked.
Kendrick wondered the same thing.
“To fight while ambushed would have meant a certain death. At least now we have a chance.”
Kendrick was yanked hard by an Empire soldier, and they all continued marching forward, heading towards the distant prison camp.
“Your wife sold us all out,” Kendrick said to Bronson. “She is the one who tricked Thor into being captured at Andronicus’ hand.”
Bronson grimaced.
“You are right,” he said, “she did. But Luanda is your sister, too. You know her nature as well as I.”
Kendrick shook his head.
“My half-sister,” he corrected. “Yet still, I recall her nature. Too ambitious. What did you see in her?”
Bronson shrugged.
“Our marriage was arranged—by our fathers. Your father. Nonetheless, I have to admit, I fell in love with her. Despite everything, she has a good side. Deep down, there is a good person in there. I guess, despite everything, I have to admit I still love her. I still have hope for her redemption.”
“Love her?” Srog asked, mortified. “After her betrayal of us all?”
Bronson shrugged. He wished he could answer otherwise, but that was how he felt.
“I know she has done terrible things,” he said. “But deep down, I also know there is a part of her that is redeemable. She is too ambitious, and she has become the victim of her own flaws. But she can change.”
Erec shook his head.
“And until she changes, how many of our men have to die?”
Bronson fell silent. Of course, they were right, and a part of him agreed with them. He wished he hated Luanda, wished he could just turn off his love for her. But he had to admit, a part of him still loved her, despite everything. He wondered if he would ever see her again, if she even cared for him anymore. He looked down and studied his missing hand, the stump that was there, and remembered he’d lost it defending her, saving her from his father’s wrath.
Had he lost if for nothing?
Finally, the huge group came to a stop as the Empire soldiers shepherded them into the fenced-off holding area. The Empire commander, high on his horse, Tirus beside him, looked down and faced off with Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog. The camp fell silent as all the troops stopped and watched.
Kendrick and the others stood there and looked up, humbled, like common prisoners.
“Tonight, you and your men will stay in this prison camp,” the general announced, his voice booming. “At dawn, you will be executed.”
An outraged gasp spread throughout the MacGil camp, and Kendrick found himself gasping, too, shocked.
Tirus turned and looked at the Empire commander, looking surprised himself, his four sons beside him, prancing on their horses, looking equally disturbed.
“But my liege, that was not the deal we struck,” Tirus said to the Empire commander. “These men were supposed to be my prisoners of war to do with as I wished. You promised no harm would come to them.”
The Empire commander turned and looked back at him.
“There are no deals to be struck with the Empire. I speak for Andronicus himself. You are lucky we have kept you alive. Unless you have changed your mind and you and your men would like to be killed along with them?”
Tirus reddened, then lowered his gaze down to the ground, looking embarrassed and caught off-guard. He fell silent, though, clearly realizing the Empire had the upper hand.
Kendrick fumed. He had been so stupid to trust Tirus again, to agree to surrender. Looking back, he should have fought to the death back there. They would have all died, but at least they would have all died with honor, as warriors, on their feet.
“I will give you a choice,” the Empire commander boomed, looking at Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog. “We can either execute you—the leaders—or execute a hundred of your men instead, and let you live. Who dies? You or your men?”
Without hesitating, Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog all, in unison, said proudly:
“We will die.”
They all stood there proudly in the silence, staring back defiantly, not a moment of hesitation running through any of their minds.
The Empire commander nodded back at them with a look of respect.
“True warriors. I expected no less. Tonight, ponder your last night on earth. Tomorrow, be prepared to meet your maker.”
*
Erec, Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog stood outside in the darkness of night in their own small holding pen, apart from the other prisoners, each bound to a post, hands and feet tied behind their backs, a few feet away from each other. The four of them were set apart from the others, set to be executed, while the main body of prisoners stood behind a massive fenced-in area, perhaps a hundred yards away. As Erec looked out at them, he took solace in the fact that at least his men would live.
Before they had been set apart, all throughout the night, thousands of their men had come up to them, imploring them to decline the offer, not to be executed on their behalf. Of course, Erec and the others, while touched by their offers, would not listen. They were men of honor, and if anyone had to die, they would sacrifice themselves. Erec had no regrets about that. His only regret was not having a chance to be unbound, to have his weapons drawn, to go down in a great clash of battle, as he had always dreamed he would.
But the series of betrayals had led him to this: Luanda had betrayed Thor; and Tirus had betrayed them. They had all been too trusting and now they would pay the price for it. It always astounded Erec that others did not share the same sense of honor as he. He, personally, would rather die than betray someone; for him, honor was more precious than life.
Erec stood there, bound to a post, Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog close by, and stared up at the starlit night. Erec had never spent any time on the McCloud side of the highlands, and the stars appeared different from here. It was cold here, the ground hard and the temperature dropping, and a gale swept across the landscape and entered his bones. But he did not shiver. He looked up at the night, and contemplating his time on earth being over, he wondered about his one true love: Alistair. Would he ever see her again?
Erec was so proud when Alistair had told him she would accompany Gwendolyn to the Netherworld, to protect her. It was an honor befitting his wife-to-be, and it made him love her even more. But he also worried for her. Would she make it back from the Netherworld?
Knowing he would be executed in the morning, Erec realized he would never lay eyes on her again, and the thought pained him. It was his only regret; he would give anything for a chance to see her one last time.
Erec looked around and saw that the holding area was lightly guarded, with only two Empire soldiers standing guard. It made perfect sense: the Empire had no need for guards, given that the four of them were bound to posts, stripped of their arms, and their army was in its own separate prison. In the morning, they would all be dead anyway.
Erec struggled against his ropes again, trying to break free; but he had no room to wiggle, not even an inch. As he looked out at the night, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye, moving quickly. At first he thought he was seeing things, but as he looked more closely he made out a lone figure moving in the blackness, slinking around the periphery of their fence.
Erec was confused, trying to figure out who he was and what he was doing. He peered into the blackness and caught a better glimpse as the figure mo
ved for a moment beneath the torchlight. He saw the armor of Tirus’ men, the royal crest of Tirus’ family emblazoned on the breastplate.
Before Erec could make sense of it all, he watched the figure creep out of the darkness, slip up to the entrance of the gate, remove a dagger from his belt, and slice the throats of the two Empire soldiers standing guard. Two quick grunts cut through the night, as the Empire soldiers slumped to the floor, lifeless.
The figure cut the ropes, pulled back the fence, looked both ways furtively, making sure no one was watching, and then rushed forward right towards Erec, bloody dagger still in hand. Erec hissed, and Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog turned and looked, too. Erec watched him approach, transfixed by the figure, wondering who he was and why he was here. Who had just killed those Empire soldiers? Why was he racing towards them? Was he coming to kill them, too?
The figure slipped behind him and suddenly sliced the ropes binding his feet and hands. Erec stumbled forward, grabbing his wrists, massaging them where the ropes had dug into them. Erec turned, amazed, as the man sliced through the ropes binding Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog, too.
The four of them turned and faced him, as he raised his face plate.
The boy, hardly older than 16, stared back with piercing hazel eyes, his curly brown hair spilling out past his ears. He looked like Tirus. He had just risked his life to set them free and murder two Empire soldiers, and Erec could not understand why.
“Who are you?” Erec asked.
“I am Matus,” he replied. “The youngest of four sons of the house of Tirus.”
“Why have you freed us?” Kendrick asked.
Matus shook his head earnestly.
“I disagree with what my father has done,” he replied. “It is okay for us MacGils to have our differences—but as warriors and as knights, we must honor our word. Honor is all we have, and despite what my father may do, I live and die by my word. My father gave you his word. And if he will not honor it, then I will. He promised to keep you as captives, not to have you killed, and I will rectify his wrongs. You are free. Take your men and go. Go quickly, before the light of dawn.”