by Morgan Rice
Gwendolyn studied Matus, who looked different than the other two: he did not have the dark eyes and features of his brothers, and he had more of a proud, noble spirit to him. He did not look like an Upper Islander; he appeared to look more like one of her own people. He even looked as if he could belong to her own family. She remembered all of these boys from her childhood, these distant cousins they would visit once a year, when their father visited the Upper Isles. She remembered Matus’ always being apart from the others, kinder; and she recalled the other three as mean-spirited and cold. Like their father.
“Release his binds,” she commanded, and an attendant rushed forward and severed the ropes binding Matus’ wrists.
“The MacGil blood flows strongly in you,” she said approvingly to Matus, “I thank you. Clearly, we owe you a great debt. Ask anything of us.”
Matus stepped forward and lowered his head humbly.
“It was an honor, my lady,” he said. “You owe me nothing. But if you ask me, then I shall ask you to release my brothers. They were swept up in my father’s cause, and they did you no harm.”
Gwen nodded approvingly.
“A noble request,” she said. “You ask not for yourself but for others.”
Gwen turned to her attendants: “Release them,” she commanded.
As attendants rushed forward and released them, the two other sons watched with surprise and relief.
Aberthol stepped forward in outrage.
“You make a mistake, my lady!” he insisted.
“Then it is mine to make,” she replied. “I shall not punish sons for the sins of the fathers.”
She turned to them.
“You may return to the Upper Isles. But do not follow in your father’s footsteps, or I will not be so kind the next time, cousins or not.”
The three brothers turned and walked quickly from the hall. As they were leaving, Gwen called out: “Matus!”
Matus stopped at the doorway, with the others.
“Stay behind.”
The other brothers looked at him, then frowned and walked out without him, closing the doors.
“I need people I can trust. My new kingdom is fragile, and has many positions to fill. Name yours.”
Matus shook his head.
“You do me too great an honor, my lady,” he said. “Whatever actions I took were out of love—not out of a desire for position. I did what I did because it was the right thing to do, and because what my father did, I am ashamed to say, was wrong.”
“Noble blood runs in your veins,” she said. “The Upper Isles will need a new lord now that your father is imprisoned. I would like you to take his place and be my regent.”
“Me, my lady?” Matus asked, voice rising in shock. “Lord of the Upper Isles? I could not. I am but a boy.”
“You are a man, who was fought and killed and saved other men. And you have shown more honor and integrity than men twice your age.”
Matus shook his head.
“I could not take the position my father held—especially before my older brothers.”
“But I ask you to,” she said.
He shook his head firmly.
“It would sully the honor of what I did. I did not do what I did to gain position, or power. Only because it was the right thing to do. I am indebted to you and humbled for the offer. But it is an offer I cannot accept.”
She nodded, studying him.
“I understand,” she said. “You are a true warrior and you do the MacGils much honor. I hope that you will at least stay close to court.”
Matus smiled.
“I thank you, my lady, but I must return to the Upper Isles. I may not agree with all the people there, but nonetheless it is my home. I feel it is where I am needed, especially in these tumultuous times.”
Matus bowed, turned, and walked out the council doors, an attendant closing them gently behind him. As Gwen watched him go, she had a feeling they would meet again; he almost felt like another brother to her.
“Srog, step forward,” Gwen said.
Srog stood before her.
“The Upper Isles still need a lord. If you are willing, there are few men I trust more. I need someone who can tame these Upper Islanders. You have ruled a great city in Silesia, and I have no doubt you can keep them in order.”
Srog bowed.
“My lady, truth be told, after all these wars, I dearly miss Silesia. I ache to return, to rebuild. But for you, I would do anything. If the Upper Isles is where I am needed, then it is to the Upper Isles that I shall go. I shall rule in your name.”
Gwen nodded back, satisfied.
“Excellent. I know you shall do a fine job of it. Keep Tirus imprisoned. Keep an eye on the sons. And get these stubborn people to like us, will you?”
Everyone in the room laughed.
Gwen sighed, exhausted. Matters of court never seemed to end.
“Well, if that is all, then I would like to go and participate—”
Before she could finish the words, the doors to the hall opened yet again, and Gwen was shocked to see two young girls enter, perhaps twelve and ten, followed by Steffen, who nodded to them with encouragement. They were beautiful, simple, proud, and they walked right into the hall of men and stood before Gwen.
“My lady,” Steffen said. “Our men were approached by these two young women, who insist they have an urgent message for you.”
Gwen was impatient, baffled, feeling pain in her stomach and wanting to leave this throne.
“We haven’t time for young girls’ games,” she said, exasperated.
Steffen nodded.
“I understand, my lady,” he said. “Yet they seem very serious. They claim it is a matter of the utmost urgency, and that the entire kingdom is at stake.”
Gwendolyn raised one eyebrow, wondering what it could be. The expressions on their faces did indeed seem earnest.
She sighed.
“I do not know what matter could be of such vital importance, that it cannot wait, coming from the mouths of two young girls. But they have survived this war, and that says something. I am sure they know the consequences of wasting the Queen’s time. If they remain determined, let them come forth.”
The girls turned and looked to Steffen, afraid, and he nodded back with encouragement. They turned back to Gwen and stepped forward.
They looked exhausted from the war, wearing soiled clothing, emaciated, clearly starved from rationing. Gwen could see from the looks on their faces that they were serious girls and bore serious news. As they came close, she also took an immediate liking to them. They reminded her of herself as a young girl.
“My lady,” the eldest said respectfully, curtsying and prodding the other to curtsy with her. “Forgive us, but we bear news which cannot wait.”
“Well, out with it then,” Gwen said, impatient, exhausted, sounding more curt than she’d wanted.
“I am Sarka and my sister is Larka. We live in a small cottage outside the city, with our mother. Some time ago, a man crashed into our home and held us hostage, until we captured him and my father brought him to the authorities. The Empire killed my father, though, and took the prisoner.”
The girl took a deep breath, clearly nervous, as if reliving the trauma.
“Some time later, while playing in the fields, I spotted this same man. I would recognize him from anywhere. I am sure it was your brother, my lady. Gareth.”
Gwendolyn’s heart stopped at the word, and her eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Gareth?” she repeated.
“Yes, my lady.”
“My brother? Gareth? The former King?” she asked, in shock, trying to process it all. She had not expected this. Gareth’s name had been so far form her consciousness, with everything else going on, that she had nearly forgotten about him. If she had thought of him, she merely assumed he’d been killed in the war.
“We know where he is,” Sarka said.
Gwendolyn stood, her body electrified.
; Gareth. Her father’s assassin. The man who had tried to kill her; who had thrown her brother Kendrick in jail. The man who had escaped justice for far too long, who her father’s spirit cried out for vengeance. The man who had stolen the Sword, lowered the Shield, who had set the entire Ring in a tailspin. The man whom they owed all this calamity to.
It was time for vengeance.
“Show me.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Romulus stood at the helm of the ship, looking out into the foaming waves of the open sea before him, grabbing onto the wooden rail and squeezing so hard that he snapped it in half. Splinters flew all around him and he grimaced at the open sea, cursing the gods of the land, of the wind, of the sea—and most of all, of war. Cursing his bad fate. Cursing his defeat, the first defeat of in his life.
Romulus replayed in his head, again and again, what had happened, how everything had gone so wrong. He could hardly fathom it. It felt like just moments ago when he’d had that girl, the MacGil girl, in his arms, was across the bridge, had succeeded in lowering the Shield, had watched his men stampede into the Ring. The Ring had been his.
Then it had all gone so wrong, so quickly. Those two dragons had appeared, like a vision from hell, and he’d had to watch all his men set to flame, all his carefully laid plans brought to ruin. Worst of all, that sneaky girl had escaped from his grasp, had crossed the bridge and had reached the other side just a moment before his men could catch her. As she’d landed he’d watched with horror as the Shield came back up, and as all his dreams fell apart.
He had lost. He had to admit it. He’d been forced to retreat, to regroup for another day. He still had the cloak, but with those dragons inside the Ring, with the Empire crushed, and with Luanda on alert, he could not risk going back in to hunt for her. As a good commander, he knew when to attack and when to retreat.
As Romulus sailed, heading back for the Empire, he thought and thought. He needed a new strategy. He needed to gather his men, to solidify his position back home, in the Empire. He had been gone too long, and he could not allow himself to be left vulnerable, as Andronicus had.
There was no room for mistakes now. Romulus had to take control of what he could. He had to forget the Ring. He could not allow it to become an obsession and to become his ruin, as Andronicus had. He needed to learn from Androncius’ mistakes.
The Ring was miniscule in relation to the Empire: after all, the Empire still dominated ninety nine percent of the world. And once he solidified his position at home, he could always find a way back in, on another day, to crush the Ring.
As Romulus sailed, huge rolling waves sending the bow up and down, foam spraying all around him, he pondered what sort of traps might be awaiting back home, in the Empire. It would be a tricky path to maneuver, the path to solidify a nervous Empire, to take over Andronicus’ spot, to unify all the various armies and worlds, to fill that power vacuum. Others, surely, would be vying for it. But none as ruthless as Romulus. Anyone who stood in his way, he would crush quickly and definitively.
As he stood there pondering, Romulus was momentarily confused; he thought he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and at the last second he turned and spotted several soldiers coming up behind them. One held a wire in both hands, and before Romulus could react, he leaned forward, looped it around Romulus’ throat, and yanked with all his might.
Romulus gasped for air, eyes bulging from his head, his breathing stopped. The wire was wrapped around twice, and the soldier behind him yanked with all he had. Romulus realized he was being choked to death, by his own people.
Romulus saw his entire ship, dozens of officers, rushing forward. But not to save him, as he thought; rather, to help kill him. It was a mutiny.
Romulus’ life flashed before his eyes, flailing, gasping as the soldier squeezed tighter and tighter. He felt that in another moment, he would be dead. He saw his whole life flashing before his eyes, all his victories, and now his defeat. He saw all his conquests, and all the conquests yet to come, and one overriding thought coursed through his mind: he was not ready to die.
Romulus summoned some deep part of himself, and somehow mustered one last burst of strength. He leaned forward then threw his head back, impacting his assailant with the back of his skull, on the bridge of his nose, breaking it.
The soldier dropped to his knees, and Romulus quickly unraveled the wire from his throat, blood dripping as it left a deep scar, his throat bleeding. Because of all of his muscle, the wire had not yet gone deep enough to sever his arteries. Romulus had always been told he had the widest and thickest neck in the Empire—and this proved it.
Romulus did not hesitate: he reached down, grabbed a flail from his waist, spun it high overhead and smashed the soldier in the face before him. He then continued to swing it, the spiked metal ball soaring through the air, and connected with a half-dozen soldiers in a broad circle, knocking them all to the ground as they neared. The others, charging for him, stopped in their tracks.
But he would not let them go. Now Romulus was in a rage, and he charged them. He swung the flail over his head, again and again, taking out soldier after soldier, and within moments, took down a dozen more. Many tried to turn and run, but he hunted these down, and they had nowhere to go, smashing them in the backs, their cries filling the air.
A horn was sounded, and hundreds of men came rushing up from below deck. Romulus was relieved; finally, his loyal soldiers would rush to his aide and help put down the mutiny.
But as he saw them all charging right for him, wild-eyed, wielding swords and spears and axes, as he saw the look in their eyes, he realized they were not coming to protect him: they, too, were coming to kill him. This was a well-planned mutiny. Every single man on his ship had turned against him.
Romulus was in a panic. He turned and looked out at the sea, at his vast flotilla of ships filling the horizon, and looked to see if any of the other ships were watching, waiting, were part of the mutiny. He was relieved to see they were not. They were unaware. This was an isolated mutiny, on his ship alone, not spread throughout his fleet.
Romulus thought quick, as the men bore down on him. He could not kill all of these men alone. He would have to do something else. Something drastic.
Romulus heard the crash of the waves against the rocks as they passed a lone group of rocks jutting out in the midst of the ocean, and an idea came to him.
There were no men between he and the wheel, and Romulus sprinted for it, a lead of a good twenty yards on the others. He grabbed hold of it and spun it frantically, again and again, clockwise—right for the rocks.
The ship lurched, turning hard right, and all the men went flying, across the deck, smashing into the side rail. Romulus grabbed on tight to prevent himself from falling, and finally, as the ship was on course for the most jagged rocks, he straightened it out. The men were thrown the other way.
Romulus looked out and saw he had achieved what he had wanted: the ship was now on course for the rocks, only feet away. Too close to change course.
As the hundreds of soldiers regained their footing and began charging him again, Romulus turned, ran for the side rail, jumped up on it and dove headfirst for the water. He soared through the air and landed headfirst in the icy cold waters, plunging deep. He used his momentum to continue swimming underwater, as far as he could, to get away from the spears being hurled after him.
Romulus held his breath a good sixty seconds, as he swam farther and farther away from the ship. He forced himself to stay down below even longer, pushing himself until his lungs were at the point of bursting, until finally the spears stopped and in their stead he heard a faint, distant rumble, the sound of wood smashing against rock.
Romulus finally surfaced, gasping for air, far from the ship, and turned and watched. His former ship was destroyed, impaled by the rocks, waves crashing all around it, smashing it into them again and again. The ship soon took on water and within moments sank vertically; his men shrieked and flailed as they sank i
nto the water, to a cold and frigid death, the waves smashing them against the rocks.
Romulus turned and looked to the horizon. His other, loyal, ships were but a few hundred yards away, and he already set off swimming.
It would take more than a mutiny to kill him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gwendolyn marched with her entourage of advisors, all of them following the two girls as they led them twisting and turning through the burnt-out back streets of King’s Court and finally through the rear gates of the city.
They continued along a narrow path, leading them just outside the city walls, and Gwen was beginning to wonder where they were going, if this were all just a fantasy. Suddenly, they stopped before a structure which Gwen recognized: the crypt of the MacGils.
Ironically, of all the things that were destroyed, this ancient and beautiful crypt, carved of marble, dating back seven centuries, still stood perfectly intact. Somehow, it had escaped the ravages of war. It sat there, built into the hill, half-submerged beneath the earth, its roof covered in grass, rising up in a semi-circular shape. Her father’s body had been transferred here after the funeral, and he lay inside, with all of his ancestors.
But why had the girls led them here?
The eldest girl, Sarka, stopped and pointed.
“He’s in there, my lady. I saw him enter. And he never came out.”
Gwendolyn peered at the entrance of the crypt, disappearing in blackness, baffled.
“Are you sure you are not mistaken?” she asked, doubtful.
“Yes,” Sarka answered.
“That is a crypt, young girl,” Aberthol said. “That is where bodies are brought to be buried. Why would Gareth come here?”
Sarka shrugged, and began to look nervous as she turned to Gwen.
“I do not know, my lady. But I am certain of what I saw. He went in there and he never came out.”
