A Sky of Spells

by Morgan Rice

  All of the men, on both sides, stood there, unmoving, the air thick with tension. Ragon, wasting no time, turned and nodded to his men, and several of his soldiers took a step forward to arrest Romulus.

  At the same time, without needing to be told, several of Romulus’ men stepped forward to protect him.

  The soldiers froze on both sides, facing off, hands on their hilts, and awaiting commands.

  “Any resistance is futile,” Ragon said. “You have tens of thousands of men—but I have hundreds of thousands, and the backing of every country in the Empire. Submit now and die a quick and easy death. Prolong this, and your men will be killed, and you tortured.”

  Romulus stared back, silent, expressionless, carefully thinking through his next move.

  “If I surrender,” Romulus said, “you will promise my men safe passage?”

  Ragon nodded.

  “You have my word.”

  “Then I will surrender on one condition,” Romulus said. “If you yourself are the one to arrest me. Give me, at least, that honor.”

  Ragon nodded, seeming relieved.

  “Fair enough.”

  Ragon took the iron shackles from his guard, and stepped forward towards Romulus.

  “Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he commanded.

  Romulus turned slowly, his heart pounding, as Ragon approached. Romulus listened carefully, focusing on the fine sound of the shackles, the sound that came as he raised it and brought it down towards his wrist. He was waiting, waiting, for just the right moment.

  Romulus felt the cold metal of the shackles touch his wrist, and the time was right. He spun around in an instant, and in the process, elbowed Ragon across the face, shattering his cheek bone. In the same motion, he snatched the shackles from his hand, stood over him, and swung them down with all his might, breaking Ragon’s nose.

  The two armies still faced off, each unsure how to react, it all happening so quickly. Romulus took advantage of the hesitation: he wasted no time as he reached down, grabbed Ragon by the back of the head, drew his dagger, and held it tightly to Ragon’s throat.

  Ragon, gushing blood, could barely breathe as Romulus dug the blade against his throat.

  “Tell them that you cede to me as Supreme Commander,” Romulus growled.

  “Never,” Ragon murmured.

  Romulus pushed the blade harder against his throat, until blood started to trickle. Ragon gurgled, but said nothing.

  Romulus shifted the point of the blade to Ragon’s eye, and as soon as he began to apply pressure, Ragon screamed out.

  “I CEDE TO ROMULUS!” he screamed.

  Romulus nodded, satisfied.

  “Very good,” he said.

  Romulus, in one quick motion, sliced Ragon’s throat, and Ragon slumped to the ground, dead.

  Romulus stood there, staring back at the thousands of Empire soldiers. They all faced him, unsure, and Romulus knew this was the moment of truth. With their leader dead, would they defer to him?

  As Romulus stood there in the silence, waiting, watching, it feeling like an eternity, finally, the rows and rows of Empire soldiers all dropped to a knee, the air filled with the sound of tens of thousands of suits of armor clanking, as they all lowered their heads and bowed to him.

  Romulus drew his sword and raised it high above his head, breathing in deep, taking in the moment, the entire strength of the Empire bowing to him, now, finally, under his command.

  “ROMULUS!” they all chanted as one.

  “ROMULUS!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Thor charged on his horse, galloping down the main road that led from King’s Court, heading south, oddly enough, in the direction of his home town. Krohn ran at his horse’s heels, as he had been for hours, the two of them embarking together on this quest.

  It was time to rebuild the Legion, time for a new Selection, and as he rode, Thor felt a surreal quality to his mission: instead of being on the receiving end, instead of being the one to stand in his village and wait hopefully for the Silver to appear, now it was he, Thor, who was doing the choosing. The roles had reversed. It was such an honor, he could scarcely believe it.

  Thor also felt a tremendous responsibility on his shoulders: rebuilding the Legion was a sacred task in his eyes. He had to fill the shoes of the dead boys who had given their lives defending the Ring; he had to choose the next generation of the very best warriors. It was not something he took lightly, and he knew that he must make his choices very carefully.

  Throughout his entire childhood, Thor had spent days peering over the horizon, dreaming of the great warriors that might one day pass through this town, his humble little village, of being picked and chosen. And now here he was, the one who was traveling the countryside, riding through all the towns. It was an honor beyond what he could ever imagine. It did not even feel real to him.

  Thor rode and rode, until he and his horse—and Krohn—were all breathing hard, and finally he rounded a bend and in the distance, a small village came into view. He decided to make for it; he knew they could all use a break, and this village would be as good a place as any to begin the Selection.

  As he approached, Thor dimly recognized the place from the large, crooked tree at its entrance, a farming village a half day’s ride north of his home town. It was a place he had traveled a few times growing up, joining his brothers as they traded for wool and weapons. He hadn’t set foot here in years, but he remembered it to be a provincial town, much like the place he had grown up in, and he did not remember the people as being especially friendly. If he recalled correctly, it had seemed to be populated back then with vulgar types, striking hard bargains, and seeming just as happy to not have visitors as to have them.

  It had been many years, though, and Thor knew his memory might be distorted, and he wanted to give this village another chance. After all, it was a farming village, and there might be some good recruits here.

  As Thor charged for the town, raising dust as he approached and could already see all the boys lining up, at attention, waiting nervously. He could see the parents behind them, even more nervous. Thor pondered how much had changed since he himself had waited for the Selection. Back then, the Silver had arrived in chariots, in a huge entourage of soldiers; now, it was just he, Thor, alone. These were lean times, and until the Legion and the Silver were rebuilt, it would take time to rebuild everything. Thor had been offered an entourage of soldiers to accompany him—but he had denied it. He felt he did not need anyone to accompany him; he felt that if he could not defend himself, alone, on these highways, then he was not worthy of the task.

  Thor pulled into the dusty town, clouds of dust settling around him on the hot summer day, and he pulled his horse to a stop in the center of town. He sat there, looking down at the potential recruits, dozens of boys, lined up, most dressed in rags, looking nervous. He marveled that he must have looked much like these boys had, when he was on the other side of it.

  Thor dismounted and slowly walked down the center of the village, Krohn at his side, going from boy to boy, looking each one over carefully. Some seemed scared; some proud; others lethargic, indifferent; and others still over-eager. He could see the same look in their eyes that he once wore: most wanted out of this place desperately. They wanted a better life, to travel to King’s Court, to train with the Legion, to achieve fame and renown, to see the Ring and the lands beyond. Thor could easily tell which of these boys had been placed here by their parents, which were not fighters. He could tell by the way they held their bodies, by a certain hardness or gleam in their eye.

  As Thor reached the end of the line, he saw several older boys who were a head taller than the others, with broad shoulders. One of them glared at Thor, looking him up and down reproachfully. Thor could hardly believe his insolence: he would have never done that to a member of the Silver.

  “They sent you to choose us?” the boy asked Thor derisively. He was a large, farming boy, twice the size of Thor, and a few yea
rs older.

  “How old are you?” the boy added, stepping out of the line and staring at Thor, hands on his hips.

  “He looks younger than us all,” said the boy beside him, equally derisive. “Who are you to pick us? Maybe we should pick you.”

  The other boys chimed in with laughter, and Thor reddened.

  “To insult a member of the Legion is to insult the queen herself,” Thor said firmly, calmly, walking towards the boy. Thor knew he had to face this conflict head-on; he could not tolerate such a public insult.

  “Then I insult the queen,” the boy sneered back. “If she is sending you out for the Selection, then the Selection must really be hurting.”

  “Are you a fool?” one of the boys hissed to the insolent boy. “Do you not know to whom you speak? That is Thorgrinson. The most famed warrior of the Ring.”

  The large boy squinted his eyes at Thor skeptically.

  “Thorgrinson?” he repeated. “I should think not. Thorgrinson is a great warrior, twice the size of any man. The wielder of the Destiny Sword. This boy here is but a boy, another common boy sent on a Queen’s errand.”

  The boy stepped forward towards Thor threateningly.

  “You tell the Queen to send us a real man to choose us, or else to come here for us herself,” he said. He then stepped forward and raised his hands towards Thor’s chest, as if preparing to shove him backwards.

  But this boy did not realize who he was provoking. Thor was now a hardened warrior, having been through life and death, in the Ring and in the Empire, and as a warrior, he was highly attuned to any and all potential enemy movements. As the boy came close and raised his hands, Thor was already in motion.

  Thor stepped aside, grabbed the boy’s wrist, twisted it behind his back until the boy screamed out in pain, then he shoved the boy hard, and sent him stumbling to the ground, landing face-first.

  The other boys watched in shock; they weren’t laughing now. They stood there, silent.

  Thor turned his back and walked down to the opposite end of the line, looking over the other boys. He heard a sudden snarl, and he turned and saw Krohn, snarling at Thor’s attacker, who was rising from the ground and preparing to charge Thor from behind.

  But the boy looked down, saw Krohn, and thought better of it.

  Thor turned and faced them.

  “You are not joining the Legion,” Thor said to the boy and to his friends. “None of you.”

  The other boys looked at each other, suddenly upset.

  “But you have to pick us!” one said. “Our parents will give us a beating!”

  “We are twice the size of any boy here!” cried another. “You can’t turn us down. You need us!”

  Thor turned, sneered, and walked right up to them.

  “I don’t need any of you,” he said. “And size does not matter. Honor does. And respect. That is what builds a warrior. Both of which you lack.”

  Thor turned his back on them and began to walk away and as he did, he heard a scream. The largest one broke free from them the line and charged Thor’s back, swinging his fist for the back of Thor’s head.

  Thor, though, sensed it coming with his lightning-fast reflexes; he swung around, backhanded him with his gauntlet, connecting with the boy’s jaw and sending him spinning down to the ground.

  Another boy rushed for Thor, but before he could come close, Krohn charged, leapt onto him and sank his fangs into the boy’s face. The boy shrieked, trying to get Krohn off, as Krohn thrashed left and right.

  “I YIELD!” the boy screamed, frantic.

  “Krohn!” Thor commanded.

  Krohn let go, and the boy lay there, bloody, moaning.

  Thor glanced at the other boys one last time, and they looked like a sorry lot. This village was, after all, exactly as he remembered, and he felt he had wasted his time to come here.

  Thor turned to leave, when one boy stepped out from the line at the far end.

  “SIR!” the boy called, standing proudly at attention. “Thorgrinson, please forgive me for speaking. But we have heard far and wide of your reputation. You are a great warrior. I wish to be a warrior, too. I yearn to be one. Please, allow me to join the Legion. It is all I have ever dreamed of. I promise I shall be loyal and serve the Legion with everything I have.”

  Thor looked the boy over doubtfully. He was young, and skinny, and he looked somewhat frail. Yet he also had something in his eyes, a hollowed-out look, a look of desperation. Thor could see that he really wanted it, more so than any of the others. There was a hunger in his eyes that made Thor overlook his size, that made him think twice.

  “You don’t seem the fighter,” Thor said. “What can you do?”

  “I can throw a spear as good as any man,” the boy said.

  Thor went to his horse, drew a short spear from the saddle, and handed it to the boy.

  “Show me,” Thor said.

  The boy looked down in awe at the weapon’s fine quality, its gold and silver shaft, feeling its weight. Thor could see that he was impressed. This was no easy spear to wield; if the boy could throw this, he was indeed as good as he claimed.

  “That tree there,” Thor said, pointing to a large, crooked tree about thirty yards off. “Let’s see if you can hit it.”

  “How about the one beyond it?” the boy asked.

  Thor looked out and saw, a good thirty yards past that tree, a small, narrow tree. Thor looked back at the boy in surprise.

  “I know of no Legion or even Silver who could hit that tree from here,” Thor said. “You are a dreamer. And I have no time to waste for dreamers.”

  Thor turned to head back for his horse, but he heard a cry, and turned to see the boy take several steps forward, raise the spear, and hurl it.

  The spear soared through the air, past the first tree, and on to the second. Thor watched in awe as the spear lodged into the center of the skinny tree, shaking it so that its small apples fell to the ground.

  Thor looked back at the boy, in shock. It was the most masterful throw he had ever seen.

  “What is your name, boy?” he demanded.

  “Archibald,” the boy said proudly, earnest.

  “Where did you learn to throw like that?”

  “Many long days in the open plains, tending cattle, with nothing else to do. I swear to you, sir, joining the Legion is all I’ve ever wanted from life. Please. Allow me to join your ranks.”

  Thor nodded, satisfied.

  “Okay, Archibald,” he said. “Make your way to King’s Court. Seek out the training ground for the Legion. I will meet you back there in a few days’ time. You will be given a chance to try out.”

  Archibald beamed, and clasped Thor’s hand.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much!” he said, clasping both Thor’s hands.

  Thor mounted his horse, Krohn following, and kicked, preparing for the next town. Despite the rocky start, he felt encouraged. Perhaps this Selection would not be a waste of time after all.

  *

  Thor rode and rode, until the second sun began to set, making his way ever south, on the lookout for the next village. Finally, as the second sun hung sat as a red ball on the horizon, Thor reached a crossroads atop a small hill, and he stopped. His horse, and Krohn, needed a break.

  Thor sat there, all of them breathing hard, and looked down at the vista of rolling hills before him. The road forked, and if he took it to the right, he knew, it would ironically lead him to his home village, just a few miles around the bend. To the left, the road forked east and south, towards other villages.

  Thor sat there and thought for a moment. How ironic it would be to return to his old village, to see his former peers, to be the one to decide if they would join the Legion. He knew there were good boys back there, and he knew that’s where he should go. That’s where his duties demanded he be.

  Yet somehow, deep down, he just couldn’t bring himself to return there. He had vowed never to lay eyes on his hometown again. Surely, his father was still there, his dis
paraging, sour father, and he didn’t want to see him. Surely most of those boys were still there, too, the ones who had been so scornful of him growing up, who had viewed him, and treated him, as a cattle herder’s son. He had never been taken seriously by any of them.

  Thor did not want to see them. He did not want to go back and have his petty revenge. He did not want to go back at all. He just wanted to wipe that village from his memory, even if it meant shirking his duty.

  Thor finally kicked his horse and turned away from the road that led to his village, forking instead, to parts unknown.

  *

  Hours passed as Thor rode through wooded, unfamiliar territory, searching for a new village, venturing deeper into a part of the Ring he had never been. Night began to fall, the second sun disappearing below the horizon, and it was getting darker. Thick clouds gathered around him, soon the sky turned black, and thundered clapped overhead, as it began to pour.

  Thor was getting soaked, as was Krohn and his horse, and he knew they couldn’t continue on like this; they’d have to find shelter for the night. He peered into the thick woods on either side of the narrow road, and he decided to turn off and seek shelter beneath a canopy of trees.

  The forest was wet and dank, thick with trees, and Thor dismounted, not wanting his horse to get hurt in the darkness. He walked alongside it, tripping on gnarled roots, Krohn beside him, as they all ventured deeper and deeper into the dark forest.

  Thor wiped rainwater from his eyes, wiped the hair from his face, trying to see where he was going. There was no sign of shelter anywhere, and the rain poured through the trees.

  Finally, up ahead, Thor spotted a cave, a huge rock emerging from the earth, black inside. As the rain poured down harder, he lead the others to it.

  They entered, Thor relieved to finally be dry, quieter in here, the only sound that of the rain pouring outside. Krohn shook his hair and the horse neighed, all of them clearly happy to be out from the wet.

  Thor walked to the end of the cave, on guard, making sure they were not sharing it with anyone, then finally stopped about twenty feet in, satisfied. It was a shallow cave, but dry, and large enough for them to take shelter from the storm.