by Morgan Rice
The room soon ran red with blood, blood spraying all over Volusia, and she smiled wide and laughed, reveling in it, cherishing each corpse which fell at her feet, the blood that ran through her toes. She especially cherished her onyx ring, filled with a poison so deadly that even touching one’s lips would send them to their death. It was a trick she had not used in many years—but had seen her mother use often.
Finally, when the room fell still, nothing left but the moaning of a few men, the sound of her men walking throughout the room and stabbing corpses to make sure they were dead, Volusia reached down and placed her palms in the pool of blood. She closed her eyes and felt the life essence of her enemies in that blood. All those that would dare oppose her were now dead.
Volusia turned and slowly walked through the set of double doors leading to the balcony, overlooking the entire Empire capital. She stepped outside, beneath the two setting suns, and she could see below her, all of her men filling the capital, slaying citizens. She looked down with great gratification as she watched a statue of Andronicus topple to the ground—and then, a statute of Romulus. They landed with a great crash, marble dust flying in the air, and her men cheered.
The crowd parted ways, and as it did there rolled forward an immense, golden statue of Volusia, a hundred feet long, lying on its back, propped up on a long wooden cart with wheels. She had had it rolled all the way from Volusia itself, knowing that one day she would be able to place it in the capital. She watched with great satisfaction the vision she had already seen many times in her mind’s eye: hundreds of her men, using ropes, slowly hoisted it, putting it into place, in the center of the capital. Her statue rose, gleaming in the suns, taller than anything in the capital. Her men let out a great cheer as it stood firmly in place.
Her people all turned and looked up at her on the balcony, and their cheer intensified.
“VOLUSIA! VOLUSIA!”
It was a cheer of ecstasy, a cheer of triumph. She held out her arms wide to them and looked down on them, her people. She was a Goddess now, and all these men she had created were her children. She felt their adulation as she held out her palms, the adulation of all her children.
Volusia looked out at the horizon, beyond the city walls, and saw all the Empire armies filling the horizon, clamoring to get inside these walls. She knew, too, that beyond them, somewhere on the horizon, a great army was coming.
A great storm was coming. And she welcomed it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gwendolyn walked slowly, still weak, leaning occasionally on Kendrick and Steffen beside her, Krohn at her side, and joined by her entourage, the last remnants of the Ring, as they were ushered into the most spectacular castle she had ever seen. Her heart beat faster in anticipation of meeting the King and Queen as she went, escorted by their knights. She tried to fathom how something so glorious could exist here, in the midst of such a wasteland: this castle was resplendent, with soaring ceilings, smooth cobblestone floors, and stained-glass windows letting in the two suns of the desert sky. In many ways, walking into this castle of the Ridge reminded her of walking into King’s Court; she found the similarities to be eerie, almost as if a replica existed elsewhere in the world.
Lit up by the soft, muted glow filtering in through the windows were hundreds of onlookers, dressed in beautiful, elegant attire, gathering around on either side of the plush carpet to watch them pass. As Gwen and the others strolled down the carpet, all of these people stared at her, as if they were objects of curiosity. Clearly word of their arrival had spread quickly in this court, and the way they gawked at them, little children pressing up against their mothers’ skirts, it was clear they never received visitors here, especially from beyond the Ridge. They looked at them as if they were aliens who had dropped out of the sky.
Gwen looked back at them, too; she took in their garb, their mannerisms, and she was incredibly impressed. This was clearly a refined, civilized society, women wearing beautiful silks and lace and the most intricate jewelry. All of them were tan, fit, healthy, and these people reminded her of the people she had seen in King’s Court. Yet the resplendence here was even greater. It not only oozed wealth, but also strength and invincibility. Clearly this land had existed here for hundreds of years. In some odd way, it was so similar to the Ring, it was like returning home.
Yet on the other hand, it was also different. The people here had a similar look to those of the Ring, yet they wore their hair so differently, the men all with their stark-bald heads and long, bright blond beards, and the women with their straight, white-blond hair, some braided and some not. The boys wore heads of stark blond hair, and it seemed to Gwen that they only shaved them as they became men.
As they continued down the carpet, Gwen saw before her an immense golden and ivory throne, raised up on a platform, with several golden steps leading up. Atop it sat a man and a woman, clearly their King and Queen. The King, perhaps in his forties, muscular, also had a shaved head, with a long, light golden beard. He wore a purple silk mantle, platinum chain mail armor, no shirt, and platinum wrist cuffs. Behind him stood a dozen warriors, hands resting on their swords.
The King stood as Gwen and her entourage got closer, and Gwen could see his rippling muscles as he rose to his full height and broadened his shoulders. He appeared to be the very emblem of strength, a man who had been named King by right, and not by inheritance. He had the body of a great warrior and he exuded an aura of power, control, and invincibility.
Yet he also smiled kindly, and Gwen could see the compassion and justice in his eyes—and immediately she felt at ease.
Gwen and the others came to a stop before him, perhaps twenty feet away, and the King slowly descended as the crowd fell completely silent. The King examined them, clearly in wonder at their presence.
“My King,” said a voice, and Gwen looked over to see one of the King’s counselors, with a long, gray beard, holding a staff, dressed in royal purple garb. “These are the strangers, my liege, that were found in the desert. These are the ones who have crossed the Ridge.”
There came a gasp from the crowd, and Gwen could feel their eyes burning through her, looking at her and the others with burning curiosity. The King, too, looked them over, his sparkling gray eyes meeting Gwen’s.
A long silence ensued, until finally the King cleared his throat. He looked at Kendrick.
“Are you the leader of this bunch?” he asked him, his voice deep, booming throughout the room, filled with authority.
Kendrick shook his head, and Gwen stepped forward.
“No,” Gwen replied, her voice still raspy. “I am their Queen.”
The King’s eyes widened in surprise, as the crowd gasped.
“Queen?” he echoed, surprise in his voice. “Queen of what? No one has ever reached us from beyond the Ridge. This situation is quite extraordinary. At first we took you for deserters, but clearly that is not the case. Have you managed to truly cross the Great Waste? Have you come from another place?”
Gwen nodded back solemnly, meeting his eyes, and with a great effort, she managed to utter her next words with a raspy voice.
“We have, my liege,” she replied. “We have come from across the sea.”
A gasp came from the crowd, and the King’s eyed widened as he examined her in wonder.
“Across the sea?” he asked, unbelieving.
Gwen nodded.
“We have fled our homeland, destroyed by the Empire. We are exiles from the Kingdom of the Ring.”
An even greater gasp spread through the crowd, as a long and astonished murmur erupted. Gwen could see shock register across the King’s face.
Finally, the crowd settled down, and the King addressed her.
“The existence of the Ring is rumored to be a myth,” he said, examining her skeptically. “A great land, in the midst of a vast ocean, protected by a canyon, shielded by a Sorcerer’s Ring. A mythical place, protected by this Ring from all danger, all harm. Is this the place from which you claim to hail?
”
Gwendolyn nodded back solemnly.
“It was free from all harm,” she said, sadly, “once. But not anymore. This is why we stand here today. The Sorcerer’s Ring has been broken; the power that was once ours is no more, destroyed by Romulus, by another magical power. Our journey ever since has been a long and hard one. We have sailed across the sea to escape the Empire.”
The King looked back at her, puzzled.
“You have come to the Empire to escape the Empire?”
Gwendolyn nodded back.
“A leader must make difficult decisions in times of crisis,” she explained, “and that was the decision I made. Outnumbered, our days few, we needed to find the best hiding place—and thought of no better place to hide than within our enemy’s lap.” Gwen looked around. “A notion, my liege, that I am sure you and your people of the Ridge grasp.”
He smiled back.
“All too well,” he replied. He examined Gwen with a new respect. “So you are their leader.”
Gwen nodded.
“You see before you what remains of the Ring,” she replied. “My father was King before me and his father before him. We descend from a long line of MacGil Kings.”
The King himself gasped this time, as did the entire crowd with him. He stared back at her in shock.
“MacGil, did you say?” he asked.
Gwen nodded.
“We are MacGils,” the King said.
The crowd broke into an agitated murmur, as Gwen exchanged a shocked look with Kendrick and the others. She looked back at the King, startled, and for the first time, as she studied his face, his jawline, she began to see something subtle there that resembled her people.
“Centuries ago, we were one,” Aberthol said, stepping forward, his old voice gravelly. “The MacGils hail from the same family, on opposite sides of the sea.”
As the crowd murmured, the King examined her, rubbing his beard, processing it all.
“My King,” came a voice.
The King turned, and Gwen saw standing beside him a fearsome warrior, lines of worry etched across his forehead, the only among them wearing a long, black beard. He looked at Gwen and the others with disapproval.
“I sympathize with these strangers’ plight,” he said, as the room quieted, “yet you must not accept them here. Never before have we allowed strangers into the Ridge—surely they have left a conspicuous trail in the desert. That trail will lead to us. The Ridge has remained a secret, has never been discovered, because of our ancestors’ caution. If the Empire follows their trail, it could lead to our downfall. We must send them back from where they came, back out into the Great Waste, and let the Empire find them in the desert. The future of our land is a stake.”
There followed a long, tense silence, as the King’s expression darkened. He studied Gwen and the others, rubbing his beard, clearly disturbed by the decision before him.
Finally, he sighed, and as he began to speak, the room grew silent.
“We share the same bloodline,” the King said, looking at Gwendolyn. “The same ancestors. And even the same name. Hospitality is a sacred responsibility. I shall not send you back out into the desert. Whatever the risks.”
Gwen breathed a sigh of relief, and felt a rush of gratitude for this kind and brave King. She knew any other decision would mean her death sentence.
“You are welcome here,” the King added. “You will stay here. You will live with us, and become a part of our people. You will tell us your story, all about your lives, what led you are, your travails, your battles, your people—and we shall tell you of ours.
“But now is not the time. Now you will rest and recuperate, and when sun falls, we shall have a royal feast. I shall summon all of our families, and you shall tell us everything. In the meantime, our castle is yours, my friends.”
The King stepped forward, stopped before Gwen, placed both hands on her shoulders, leaned in, and kissed her forehead, then smiled as he leaned down and stroked Krohn. He turned to Kendrick, clasped his forearm, then went down the line, clasping each and every man’s forearm, looking each solemnly in the eye.
“My King,” Gwen said, “we graciously accept. But before I can rest and recover, I must tell you that we have come here on a dire mission.”
He looked back at her, curious, as the room fell silent once again.
“When we arrived in the Empire,” Gwen continued, “we were taken in with the greatest hospitality by a slave people on the outskirts of Volusia. Now led by Darius, they are in the midst of a great revolt, and face the Empire in battle. We have come all this way, have crossed the desert, on a solemn vow to find help, to ask that your armies to return with us, join Darius, and help ensure their freedom and destroy the Empire.”
The crowd murmured, long and agitated, and the King looked grimly back. He nodded to one of his councilors, who soon approached and held out a scroll to Gwendolyn.
“My Queen,” he said, as she took the piece of parchment. “This arrived on this morning’s eagle. News from Volusia: the people of whom you speak have all been ambushed, slaughtered. Not one remains.”
Gwendolyn read the scroll with shaking hands, and her heart started to break inside. She could not believe it. Dead. All of them. She immediately felt it was her fault, as if she had abandoned all of them. She felt like dying inside. Her driving sense of mission collapsed before her eyes.
“No!” cried a voice, and Gwen turned to see Sandara, weeping in Kendrick’s arms. “My brother!”
“I’m sorry, my Queen,” the King said. “But your home is here now. With us.”
With that, the King turned away and a horn was sounded. The crowd began to disperse, and Gwen stood there, feeling hollowed out, torn with mixed emotions. Would she ever find Thorgrin again? Guwayne?
And what, she wondered, would their future look like now?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Godfrey, awake, bleary-eyed, up all night long, slowly removed the red sash, holding his breath so as not to get infected by plague, lifting it over his head as he took in his surroundings in the dim pre-dawn light. All was finally quiet and still in the prison cell, the only sound that could be heard the breathing of the guard, steady and regular, and the gentle snoring of the prisoners. The time had come.
It had been one of the most harrowing nights of his life, reclining in a plague-infected pit, breathing into the red sash and trying his best to avert his mouth so as not to catch it. Godfrey sat up slowly, his muscles stiff, eagerly awaiting this moment all night. It had been a torturous night, one of the prisoners he’d been lying beside dying sometime during the night. Godfrey remembered the exact moment he had died, his face up against his, letting out one final gasp, his body quivering, then becoming stiff as a board. Godfrey had barely stopped himself from vomiting.
Godfrey had done his best to breathe in the opposite direction, and prayed to God with all his might that he didn’t catch whatever plague this fellow had. Godfrey figured there wasn’t much to lose: if he didn’t manage to escape, he’d be executed within hours anyway.
Godfrey, thanks to his overbearing King father, had been thrown into dungeon cells one too many times, even if only for a few days, his father always trying to impart to him a lesson he could never quite learn. Alert to the rhythms inside a prison cell, Godfrey took in all the sounds and senses of the prison environment, making sure all was ready before he pounced. A prison, Godfrey knew, had its own unique sounds and rhythms: he knew the sound a prison made right before prisoners were about to riot; he knew the sounds that preceded a guard beating someone down; he knew the sound of a new prisoner entering a block, and he knew the sound of someone about to be dragged away.
And most importantly, he knew the sound of a guard falling asleep.
Godfrey turned and trained his eyes on the Empire guard, standing beside the prison cell, his head drooping down, chin meeting his chest, shoulders slumped and relaxed. Just the way Godfrey wanted them. His eyes focused on the keys, a small set o
f silver keys on the guard’s waistband, and he knew the time was now.
Godfrey sat up stealthily, his body too heavy, wishing he’d lost fifty pounds. One of these days he’d quit drinking—but definitely not today. Godfrey slowly lowered the red sash and wrapped it instead around his waist; he knew it would come in handy later.
Godfrey slowly pushed himself up off the dead body, pushing off the plague-infested prisoner as he had been dying to do all night, elated to finally have his weight off of him, and then he slowly made his way to his knees. From there, he got to his feet, crouching. His legs had fallen asleep, and he gave them a moment to come back to life before he made his move.
Godfrey looked up and down the corridor, and saw no sign of any guards patrolling the halls. Of course, it made sense: it was the middle of the night, and one guard standing before a locked cell should have been sufficient—especially with prisoners as pathetic as Godfrey and his crew and the few other lost souls in there with them. Indeed, as Godfrey looked beyond the cell bars, he saw Akorth and Fulton fast asleep, even though he’d told them to stay awake, snoring so loudly that it gave him cover. For once, he was happy for their snoring.
Ario and Merek, though, thank God, had listened and they sat there, each to his corner, staring back with their haunted eyes, watching him, wide awake. Then again, Godfrey wondered if those two ever slept.
Godfrey darted across the prison corridor, arching his feet like a cat, moving as quietly as he could, impressed by his own silence. He made right for the guard’s keys, and with shaking hands, he crouched down beside him and fumbled with the clip on his belt. He managed to unclip them, and as he did, he held the bunch of keys tightly together, so that they would not jingle. He quickly scanned them, figured out which was the right one, inserted it gingerly in the lock, and turned as quietly and softly as he could.
With the soft sound of a latch turning, the cell door opened, and Godfrey stared back, shocked, amazed it had all actually worked.