A Vow of Glory

by Morgan Rice

  The commander nodded to his men, and as one, several dozen soldiers drew their swords and stepped forward to arrest Gareth.

  Lord Kultin came forward with twice as many of his own men, all drawing their swords and walking up behind Gareth.

  They stood there, facing off with the commander’s soldiers, Gareth in the middle.

  Gareth smiled triumphantly back at the commander. His men were outnumbered by Gareth’s fighting force, and he knew it.

  "I will go into no one’s custody,” Gareth sneered. “And certainly not by your hand. Take your men and leave my court—or meet the wrath of my personal fighting force."

  After several tense seconds, the commander finally turned and gestured to his men, and as one, they all retreated, walking warily backwards, swords drawn, from the room.

  "From this day forward,” the commander boomed, “let it be known that we no longer serve you! You will face the Empire's army on your own. I hope they treat you well. Better than you treated your father!”

  The soldiers all stormed from the room, in a great clang of armor.

  The dozens of councilmen and attendants and noblemen who remained all stood in the silence, whispering.

  "Leave me!” Gareth screamed. “ALL OF YOU!”

  All the people left in the chamber quickly filed out, including Gareth’s own fighting force left.

  Only one person remained, lingering behind the others.

  Lord Kultin.

  Just he and Gareth were alone in the room, and he walked up to Gareth, stopping a few feet away, and examined him, as if summing him up. As usual, his face was expressionless. It was the true face of a mercenary.

  "I don't care what you did or why,” he began, his voice gravelly and dark. “I don’t care about politics. I'm a fighter. I care only for the money you pay me, and my men.”

  He paused.

  “Yet I would like to know, for my own personal satisfaction: did you truly order those men to take the sword away?"

  Gareth stared back at the man. There was something in his eyes that he recognized in himself: they were cold, remorseless, opportunistic.

  “And if I did?” Gareth asked back.

  Lord Kultin stared back for a long time.

  “But why?” he asked.

  Gareth stared back, silent.

  Kultin’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “You couldn’t wield it, so no one could?” asked Kultin. “Is that it?”

  “Yet even so,” Kultin added, “surely you knew that sending it away would lower the shield, make us vulnerable to attack.”

  Kultin’s eyes opened wider.

  “You wanted us to be attacked, didn’t you? Something in you wanted King’s Court destroyed,” he said, suddenly realizing.

  Gareth smiled back.

  “Not all places,” Gareth said slowly, “are meant to last forever.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gwendolyn marched with the huge entourage of soldiers, advisors, attendants, councilors, Silver, Legion, and half of King’s Court, as they all made their way—one huge, walking city—away from King's Court. Gwen was overwhelmed with emotion. On the one hand, she was thrilled to finally be free from her brother Gareth, to be far from his reach, surrounded by trusted warriors who could protect her, with no fear of his treachery, of being married off to anyone. Finally, she would not have to watch her back every waking moment from fear of one of his assassins.

  Gwen also felt inspired and humbled to be chosen to rule, to lead this huge contingent of people. The huge entourage followed her as if she were some sort of prophet, all marching on the endless road to Silesia. They saw her as their ruler—she could see it in their every glance—looked to her with expectation. She felt guilty, wanting one of her brothers to have the honor—anyone but her. Yet she saw how much hope it gave the people to have a fair and just leader, and that made her happy. If she could fulfill that role for them, especially in these dark times, she would.

  Gwen thought of Thor, of their teary goodbye at the Canyon, and it broke her heart; she saw him disappearing, walking across the Canyon bridge, into the mist, on his way for a journey that would almost surely lead to his death. It was a valiant and noble quest—one she could not deny him—one she knew that had to be taken, for the sake of the kingdom, for the sake of the Ring. Yet she also kept asking herself why it had to be him. She wished it could be anyone else. Now, more than ever, she wanted him by her side. In this time of turmoil, of huge transition, as she was left all alone to rule, to carry his child, she wanted him here. More than anything, she worried for him. She could not imagine life without him; the thought of it made her want to cry.

  But Gwen breathed deep and stayed strong, knowing that all eyes were on her as they marched, an endless caravan on this dusty road, heading ever farther North, towards the distant Silesia.

  Gwen was also still in shock, torn apart for her homeland. She could hardly fathom that the ancient Shield was down, that the Canyon had been breached. Rumors had been circulating from distant spies that Andronicus had already landed on McCloud’s shores. She could not be certain what to believe. She had a hard time fathoming that it could have happened so quickly—after all, Andronicus would still have to send his entire fleet across the ocean. Unless somehow McCloud had been behind the theft of the sword, and had orchestrated the downing of the Shield. But how? How had he managed to steal it? Where was he taking it?

  Gwen could feel how dejected everyone was around her, and she could hardly blame them. There was an air of despondency among this crowd, and for good reason; without the shield, they were all defenseless. It was only a matter of time—if not today, then tomorrow or the day after—that Andronicus would invade. And when he did, there was no way they could hold back his men. Soon this place, everything she had grown to love and cherish, would be conquered and everyone she loved would be killed.

  As they marched, it was as if they were marching to their deaths. Andronicus was not here yet, but it was as if they had all already been captured in their hearts. She recalled something her father once said: conquer an army’s heart, and the battle is already won.

  Gwen knew it was up to her to inspire them all, to make them feel a sense of safety, of security—somehow, even, of optimism. She was determined to do so. She could not let her personal fears or a sense of pessimism overcome her at a time like this. And she refused to allow herself to wallow in self-pity. This was no longer just about her. It was about these people, their lives, their families. They needed her. They were all looking to her for help.

  Gwen thought of her father, and wondered what he would do. It made her smile to think of him. He would have put on a brave face, no matter what. He had always told her to hide fear with bluster, and as she thought back on it he had never seemed afraid. Not once. Perhaps it was just show; but it was a good show. As leader, he had known he was on display at all times, had known that it was the show that people needed, perhaps even more than the leadership. He was too selfless to indulge in his fears. She would learn from his example. She would not either.

  Gwen looked around and saw Godfrey marching beside her, and beside him Illepra, the healer; these two were engaged in conversation, and the two of them, she had noticed, seemed to take an ever-increasing liking to each other, ever since Illepra had saved his life. Gwen longed for her other siblings to be here, too. But Reece was gone with Thor, Gareth of course was gone from her forever, and Kendrick was still in his outpost, somewhere in the east, still helping to rebuild that remote town. She had sent a messenger for him—it had been the first thing she had done—and she prayed he would reach him in time to retrieve him, bring him to Silesia to be with her and help defend it. At least, then, two of her siblings—Kendrick and Godfrey—would take refuge in Silesia with her; that accounted for all of them. Except, of course, for her oldest sister, Luanda.

  For the first time in a long time, Gwen's thoughts turned to Luanda. She had always had a bitter rivalry with her older sister; it had not su
rprised Gwen in the least that Luanda had taken the first chance she could to flee King's Court and marry that McCloud. Luanda had always been ambitious and had always wanted to be first. Gwendolyn had loved her, and had looked up to her when she was younger; but Luanda, ever competitive, had not returned the love. And after a while, Gwen had stopped trying.

  Yet now Gwen felt bad for her; she wondered what had become of her, with the McClouds invaded by Andronicus. Would she be killed? Gwen shuddered at the thought. They were rivals, but at the end of the day, they were still sisters, and she did not want to see her dead before her time.

  Gwen thought of her mother, the only other one left in her family out there, stranded at King's Court, with Gareth, still in her state. The thought made her cold. Despite all the anger she still had for her mother, Gwen did not want her to end up like she did. What would happen if King's Court were overrun? Would her mother be slaughtered?

  Gwen could not help but feel as if her carefully built-up life was collapsing around her. It seemed like only yesterday that it was the height of summer, Luanda’s wedding, a glorious feast, King’s Court overflowing with abundance, she and her family all together, celebrating—and the Ring impregnable. It had seemed as if it would last forever.

  Now everything had splintered apart. Nothing was as it once had been.

  A cold autumn breeze picked up, and Gwen pulled her blue wool sweater tight over her shoulders. Fall had been too short this year, and winter was already coming. She could feel the icy breezes, getting heavier with moisture as they header farther North along the Canyon. The sky was growing darker sooner, and the air was filled with a new sound--the cry of the Winter Birds, the red and black vultures that circled low when the temperature dropped. They cawed incessantly, and the sound sometimes grated on Gwen. It was like the sound of death coming.

  Since saying goodbye to Thor they had all headed alongside the Canyon, following it North, knowing it would take them to western-most city in the western part of the Ring—Silesia. As they went, the Canyon’s eerie mist rolled off it in waves, clinging to Gwen’s ankles.

  “We are not far now, my lady," came the voice.

  Gwen looked over to see Srog standing on her other side, dressed in the distinctive red armor of Silesia and flanked by several of his warriors, all dressed in their red chain mail and boots. Gwen had been touched by Srog’s kindness to her, by his loyalty to the memory of her father, by his offering Silesia as a refuge. She did not know what she, and all of these people, would have done otherwise. They would still, even now, be stuck in King's Court, at the mercy of Gareth’s treachery.

  Srog was one of the most honorable lords she had ever met. With thousands of soldiers at his disposal, with his control of the famed stronghold of the West, Silesia, Srog had not needed to pay homage to anyone. But he paid homage to her father. It had always been a delicate power balance. In the times of her father’s father, Silesia had needed King’s Court; in her father’s times, less so; and in her time, not at all. In fact, with the lowering of the Shield and the chaos at King’s Court, they were the ones who needed Silesia. Of course, the Silver and Legion were the finest warriors there were—as were the thousands of troops accompanying Gwen, that comprised half of the King's army. Yet Srog, like most other lords, could have simply lowered his gates and looked after his own.

  Instead, he had sought Gwen out, had paid allegiance to her, and had insisted on hosting all of them. It had been a kindness which Gwen was determined to somehow, one day, repay. That is, if they all survived.

  "You need not worry," she replied softly, laying a gentle hand on his wrist. "We would march to the ends of the earth to enter your city. We are most fortunate for your kindness in this difficult time.”

  Srog smiled. A middle-aged warrior with too many lines etched into his face from battle, red-brownish hair, a strong jaw line and no beard, Srog was a man's man, not only a Lord, but a true warrior.

  "For your father, I would walk through fire," he responded. "Thanks are not in order. It is a great honor to be able to repay my debt to him in service of his daughter. After all, it was his wish that you should rule. So when I answer to you, I answer to him.”

  Near Gwen also marched Kolk and Brom, and behind them all was the ever-present clatter of thousands of spurs, of swords jingling in their scabbards, of shields brushing up against armor. It was a huge cacophony of noise, heading farther and farther north along the Canyon's edge.

  "My lady," Kolk said, "I am burdened by guilt. We shouldn’t have let Thor, Reece and the others head out alone into the Empire. More of us should have volunteered to go with them. It will be on my head if anything should happen to them."

  “It was the quest they chose," Gwen responded. "It was a quest of honor. Whoever was meant to go, has gone. Guilt does no one any good.”

  "And what should happen if they don't return in time with the Sword?” Srog asked. “It won’t be long until Andronicus’ army appears at our gates.”

  "Then we shall make a stand," Gwen said confidently, raising as much courage in her voice as she could, hoping to put others at ease. She noticed the other generals turn and look at her.

  "We will defend until the last blow,” she added. “There will be no retreat, no surrender.”

  She sensed the generals were impressed. She was impressed by her own voice, the strength rising up within her, surprising even her. It was the strength of her father, of seven generations of MacGil kings.

  As they continued to march, the road curved sharply to the left, and as Gwen turned the corner she stopped in her tracks, breathless at the site.

  Silesia.

  Gwen remembered her father taking her on trips here, when she was a young girl. It was a place that lingred in her dreams ever since, a place that had felt magic magical to her then. Now, laying her eyes on it as a grown woman, it still felt magical. It took her breath away.

  Silesia was the most unusual city Gwen had ever seen. All of the buildings, all of the fortifications, all of the stone—everything was built of an ancient, shining red. The upper half Silesia, tall, vertical, replete with parapets and spires, was built on the mainland, while the lower half was built down below, into the side of the Canyon. The swirling mists of the Canyon blew in and out, enveloping it, making the red shine and sparkle in the light—and making it seem as if it were built in the clouds.

  Its fortifications rose a hundred feet, crowned in parapets and backed by an endless row of walls. The place was a fortress. Even if an army somehow breached its walls, it still would have to descend to the lower half of the city, straight down the cliffs, and fight on the edge of the Canyon. It was clearly a war that no invading army would want to wage. Which was why this city had stood for a thousand years.

  Her men stopped and gaped, and Gwen could feel that they were all in awe, too.

  For the first time in a while, Gwen felt a sense of optimism. This was a place they could stay, away from Gareth's reach, a place they could defend. A place where she could rule. And maybe—just maybe—the MacGil kingdom could rise again.

  Srog stood there, hands on his hips, taking it all in as if seeing his own city for the first time, his eyes shining with pride.

  "Welcome to Silesia."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thor opened his eyes at the crack of dawn to see the gently rolling waves of the ocean, rising and falling in huge crests, blanketed by the soft light of the first sun. The light yellow water of the Tartuvian sparkled in the morning mist. The shipped bobbed silently in the water, the only sound that of the lapping of the waves against its hull.

  Thor sat up and looked around. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion—in fact, he had never felt this tired in his life. They had been sailing for days, and everything here, on this side of the world, felt different. The air was so thick with humidity, the temperature so much warmer, it was like breathing in a constant stream of water. It made him feel sluggish, made his limbs feel heavy. He felt as if he had arrived at Summer.

&nb
sp; Thor looked around and saw that all of his friends, normally up before dawn, were all slumped on the deck, sleeping. Even Krohn, always awake, was asleep beside him. The thick tropical weather had affected them all. None of them even bothered to man the wheel anymore—they had given that up days ago. There was no point: their sails were always at full mast with a driving westerly wind, and the magical tides of this ocean constantly pulled their ship in one direction. It was as if they were being pulled to one location, and they had tried several times to steer or change course—but it was useless. They had all become resigned to let the Tartuvian take them where it would.

  It's not like they knew where in the Empire to go anyway, Thor mused. As long as the tides took them to dry land, he figured, that would be good enough.

  Krohn roused, whining, and leaned up and licked Thor’s face. Thor reached into his sack, nearly empty, and gave Thor the last of his dried meat sticks. To Thor’s surprise, Krohn did not snatch it from his hand, as he usually did; instead, Krohn looked at it, looked at the empty sack, then looked back at Thor meaningfully. He hesitated to take the food, and Thor realized that Krohn didn’t want to take the last piece from him.

  Thor was touched by the gesture, but he insisted, pushing the meat into his friend’s mouth. Thor knew they would be out of food soon, and prayed that they reached land. He had no idea how much longer the journey could take; what if it took months? How would they eat?

  The sun rose quickly here, growing bright and strong too quickly, and Thor stood as the mist began to burn off of the water and he went to the bow.

  Thor stood there and looked out, the deck rocking gently beneath him, and watched as the mist rose. He blinked, wondering if he were seeing things, as the outline of a distant land appeared on the horizon. His pulse quickened. It was land. Real land!

  The land appeared in a most unusual shape: two long, narrow peninsulas stuck out into the sea, like two ends of a pitchfork, and as the mist lifted, Thor looked to his left and right and was amazed to see two strips of land on either side of them, each about fifty yards off. They were being sucked right down the middle of a long inlet.