by Morgan Rice
Luanda looked out at these men, these McCloud scum, and she knew what she would do if she were ruler: she would have them all publicly executed. Make a display of it. She would solidify her power, once and for all, and teach all these McClouds the way they could expect to be ruled. Then no one would rebel, ever again.
But Luanda was no ruler, and the decision was not hers to make. Luanda stood there, seething, helpless, knowing it was a decision, instead, for her husband, Bronson, the one whom Gwendolyn had put in charge. Luanda loved Bronson more than anything—yet still, she despised his weakness. She despised that he was a loyal soldier to Gwendolyn, that he was set on implementing her policies. Her sister’s policies were stupid policies, Luanda knew, policies of weakness and naïveté. Pacify the enemy. Hope for peace. The same sort of thing her father might have done.
Luanda ached to be the one in charge, to have a chance to set the outcome a different way. But she knew it was never meant to be. Ever since her return here in disgrace, back to this side of the Highlands, banished once again by her sister, Luanda had been beside herself. She had cried for days, mourning her exile, her inability to ever return to King’s Court.
But Luanda had seen the look of loathing and hatred in all of her siblings’ eyes, and had finally come to realize that she was an outcast in her own family, from her own people, from her own home. They had all, she felt, been so cruel. Yes, she had made some mistakes; but did she deserve such punishment? In her eyes, she was shamed once again—this time, even worse than before.
Luanda had hardened inside, since this last trip, since her return here; something inside her had snapped, and now she had no love left for her siblings; now, she hated her family—and most of all, she hated Gwendolyn. She would kill them all if she could, as punishment for making her an outcast, for humiliating her.
The only person left in the world that Luanda truly loved was standing beside her—Bronson—and it was only out of loyalty to him that she stood there and went along with whatever his decision was as ruler.
“In the name of Gwendolyn, Queen of the Western Kingdom of the Ring, I hereby grant all of you standing here today mercy,” Bronson boomed out to the assembled McCloud soldiers. “Each and every one of you shall be set free. You shall be forgiven your past sins. You shall join with the MacGil army, leading joint patrols on both sides of the Highlands. All of you who would swear allegiance to Gwendolyn, who would swear to devote themselves to peace and harmony, kneel.”
The hundreds of McCloud warriors all took a knee, lowering their heads.
“Do you swear allegiance to Gwendolyn?” Bronson boomed out.
“WE SWEAR!” they boomed back in unison.
“Do you swear eternal allegiance and peace and harmony between the clans?”
“WE SWEAR!”
Bronson nodded to his attendants, and dozens of his men filtered through the ranks and severed the binds of all the McCloud men. The McClouds all looked to each other in wonder and surprise.
The crowd of soldiers dispersed, and as they did, Luanda turned to Bronson.
“That was the biggest mistake of your lifetime,” she said to him, in a rage. “Do you really think those men will be loyal? Will fight for Gwen’s cause?”
“They have suffered enough,” Bronson said. “All their leaders have been killed. Killing more men leads to nothing but more bloodshed. At a certain point, we need to trust, if we ever wish to obtain peace.”
Luanda scowled.
“Those are my sister’s policies. Not yours.”
“I am a subject of your sister,” Bronson said. “And so are you. I carry out her policies.”
“Her policies will get all of us killed. You’ve just made our kingdom unsafe.”
He shook his head.
“I disagree. I feel that we have made it safer.”
Bronson turned away as advisors led him to other matters.
Luanda stood there, watching him, then turned and watched the McCloud soldiers, so happy, reveling with each other as they dispersed. She felt, without a doubt, that none of this would lead to any good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thor stood before the canyon, staring out at the great divide before him, embraced in a swirl of multicolored mist, and inside, his heart was breaking. He turned and saw Gwen, standing before him, holding Guwayne, and he almost could not stand to look into her eyes. He especially could not look into Guwayne’s. As Gwen held him there, his son, wide awake, stared right back at Thor, alert. Thor sensed a power coming from him, one he did not understand.
Thor felt rooted to the spot, as if he could never leave this place. He had a strange foreboding, a sense of danger coming to the Ring; he knew it made no sense, with the Shield restored, with Ralibar staying behind, and with the Ring stronger than ever. Yet still, he worried again if his leaving could somehow endanger them.
Yet at the same time, Thor felt an urgency to seek out his mother, felt her summoning him. He felt that there was something momentous awaiting him in the Land of the Druids, some powers or weapons that would greatly strengthen the Ring. He also felt that was what he needed to complete his training, and to find out who he was.
Thor met Gwen’s eyes, glistening, yet not crying, Gwen staying strong, especially in front of all her people, the thousands of soldiers who had gathered to see Thor off. Having already said his goodbyes to the people, to his brothers in arms, Thor now faced only Gwendolyn. At Thor’s feet was Krohn, and behind him, waiting impatiently, sat Mycoples, and beside her, Ralibar, who lowered his head mournfully, rubbing it against Mycoples’s neck. It was out of character; he must have known they were all leaving.
Ralibar then suddenly arched back his neck and shrieked; it was a ferocious sound, shocking them all, so out of character. Gwen had thought she’d known him, but in that moment, she realized she did not; his face was ferocious, as if anguished, and he suddenly flapped his wings, turned his back on them all, and flew off into the horizon.
Gwen watched him go with dread, wondering where he was going. Wondering if he would return.
They all watched him go, then Thor finally turned to her.
“I do not wish to leave you, my love,” Thor said to Gwendolyn, doing his best to hold back his own tears. “Nor do I wish to leave Guwayne.”
“You will find your mother,” Gwen replied, staying strong, “and you will be back before a moon has passed. You’ll come back stronger. Go. It has been foretold in all the books, this journey of yours. The Ring needs you. Your mother needs you.”
“And yet,” Thor replied, “you need me, too.”
Gwen nodded.
“True. But most of all, I need you strong. I would not put myself before the Ring.”
Thor reached out and clasped Gwen’s hand.
“I’m sorry we did not marry, my love,” he said.
Gwen’s eyes moistened, just a bit, just enough for Thor to notice.
“The time was never right for us,” she answered, “not with a funeral in the air.”
“When I return,” Thor said, “we shall have a lifetime together.”
Gwen nodded.
“When you return,” she said.
Thorgrin bent over, laid both hands on Guwayne’s forehead, and kissed him. He felt a tremendous energy coursing through him, and he did not want to leave his child’s side.
Thor then reached up, held Gwen’s face in both his palms, and leaned in and kissed her. He held the kiss for as long as he could.
“Protect our child,” Thor said. “Protect our Ring. You have Ralibar, and the Shield at its strongest, and the finest warriors known to man. And you have Krohn. I should return, I expect, before a moon has passed.”
“There is nothing to fear,” Gwen replied.
Despite her show of strength, Thor could see Gwen’s lower lip trembling, could see that she was trying not to cry.
She quickly brushed back the formation of a tear.
“Go,” she said, clearly afraid to speak anymore for fear of
bursting into tears.
It broke Thor’s heart. He wanted to change his mind, to stay here.
But he knew he could not. Thor turned and looked out at the horizon, at Mycoples waiting beside him, and knew his destiny was out there. The time had come for him to journey.
Krohn whined, and Thor leaned down and patted him, stroking his hair, kissing his face as Krohn licked him back.
“Watch over them,” Thor exhorted.
Krohn whined, as if in response.
Without another word, Thor turned, mounted Mycoples, and took one last look at his countrymen. Thousands of them stood there, watching, waiting to see him off, among them many members of the Silver. Thor’s heart filled with love for all these people who loved him so much.
“THORGRINSON!” they all yelled at once, raising their fists in a salute of respect.
Thorgrin raised his fist back.
Then Mycoples shrieked, flashed her great wings, and lifted off into the sky, turning her back on Thor’s people, on the Ring, on everything Thor knew, as they flew into the mists, above the canyon, and headed for a world that Thor had never known.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Godfrey sat in the small, foreign tavern in the McCloud city, Akorth and Fulton on either side of him, deep in drink. Godfrey needed a drink today more than usual, trying to immerse himself, to shake from his mind the images of his mother’s funeral. He took a look another long swig, finished yet another mug, and immediately began on another one, determined to drown himself in drink.
It had been a rough go. First, his efforts at uniting the MacGils and McClouds had culminated in that tavern brawl, blowing up in his face, all his schemes at peace resulting in failure. Then, he had been summoned back to King’s Court for his mother’s funeral, and had to stand there and watch as they lowered her body into the ground. It brought up old feelings, feelings Godfrey wished had remained buried.
Godfrey’s relationship with his mother had always been troubled at best, not much different, really, than his relationship with his father. Both had viewed him with disappointment, both had made it obvious that he was the opposite of the royal son they’d always dreamed of. Godfrey had thought he’d suppressed all his feelings for his mother years ago; but watching her be buried had brought it all back up again. He had never gained her approval in life, and while he had thought he didn’t care, watching her buried made him realize that he did, indeed, care. He had not realized how much there was still unresolved between them. He had found himself weeping and sobbing at the funeral, like an idiot, he felt; why, he did not truly understand. Perhaps he was crying for the relationship he wished he could have had.
He did not want to analyze it further. Godfrey much preferred to lose himself in drink, to exorcise it all, his entire, awful, royal upbringing, and to make it all as distant a memory as possible.
Godfrey was jostled by a McCloud soldier, and he snapped out of it and looked around. Now that Bronson had set all those McCloud captors free, the taverns were filled with McClouds again, the mood here in this city once again jovial, restless. Godfrey had been around taverns his entire life, had been around reckless and tactless men, and none of it had phased him. Yet here, in this city, with these men, he sensed something different in the air. Something he did not trust. He felt as if at any moment any one of these men might just as likely stab him in the back as pat him on it.
His sister had decided that this gesture, releasing the McCloud men, would create goodwill and peace with the McClouds, and would get things get back to normal. And on the surface it had. But Godfrey could not help but detect something else in the air, some general sense of unease, and he could not ignore his sense of foreboding.
Godfrey knew nothing of politics, and was a poor soldier. But he knew men. He knew, most of all, the common man. And he knew resentment among the masses when he spotted it. He sensed something brewing, as much as he would wish otherwise, and he could not help but wonder if his sister had made a bad decision. Perhaps, after all, she should abandon this place and merely patrol the border, as their father had done. Let the McClouds focus on their own side of the kingdom.
Yet as long as her policy remained to make peace between them, Godfrey would stay here, trying to abet her cause in whatever way he could, as he had promised when she’d dispatched him.
There came a sudden cheer from the other side of the room, and Godfrey looked over to see several McCloud men tackle several others to the ground, and to see that half of the room erupt into a brawl.
Godfrey turned and looked back at his drink, not wanting to get involved. It was already the second one here this evening.
“Some lions can’t be tamed,” Akorth observed quietly to Godfrey and Fulton.
“Even strong drink can’t cure everyone,” Fulton added.
Godfrey shrugged.
“It is no business of ours,” Akorth said. “As long as their drink is good and strong, I’ll gladly drink it.”
“And what of the day when their drink stops?” Fulton asked.
“Then we go someplace else!” Akorth replied with a laugh.
Godfrey tried to drown his friends out. He was tired of their endless banter, which always filled his ears, their juvenile ways. In the past he had always gone along with it; but these days, some change was stirring within Godfrey, especially since his mother’s funeral. For the first time, he was starting to view his friends as juvenile, and it was actually bothering him; for the first time, despite himself, he found himself wanting to rebuke them for not being more mature. Mature. It was a scary word for Godfrey, and he did not entirely understand why he was starting to view it differently. He shuddered, hoping he was not becoming like the man he hated most—his father.
Godfrey was about to get up, walk outside, and get some fresh air, when suddenly, he recognized a familiar face—a woman—as she came up beside him.
“And what are you doing here drinking?” she asked, standing over him, disapproving.
Godfrey was shocked she had tracked him down here, and he looked away, ashamed. He had promised her not to drink, and now he was caught red-handed.
“I’m just having a quick drink,” Godfrey replied, looking away.
Illepra shook her head and snatched the drink from his hand.
“You are wasting your life in here, don’t you see that? Your mother was just buried. Don’t you see how precious life is?”
Godfrey glowered.
“I don’t need reminding of it,” he retorted.
“Then why are you here?” she demanded.
“Where else would you have me be?” he asked.
“Where else?” she asked, puzzled. “Anywhere but here. You should be out there with your brothers and sisters, helping to rebuild the Ring. To defend our kingdom. To do any of a myriad of things except for the nothing you achieve by sitting here.”
“Maybe I’m achieving great things by sitting here,” Godfrey countered, sitting up straighter, defiant.
“Like what?” she asked.
“I am enjoying myself,” he said. “That’s great in its own way, isn’t it? Look how many great men spend their whole lives building and bossing and killing—yet they never enjoy a single moment of life.”
Illepra shook her head in disgust.
“I believed in you,” she said. “I know you can be more than you appear to be. But you’re never going to be a great man by immersing yourself in drink. Never.”
She had finally gotten to him, had pushed all his buttons, and had reminded Godfrey of his father. Now, finally, he was upset, and he flushed with anger.
“And then tell me,” he demanded, “what is it about killing each other that makes men so great? What is it about raising a sword and taking someone’s life that makes a man someone to emulate? Yours is a narrow definition of greatness. I don’t see the virtue in killing other men, and I don’t see how that makes one a man. For me, virtue means enjoying life. Why is it so much greater to stab and kill a man than it is to sit back, la
ugh, and enjoy a drink with him?”
Illepra, hands on her hips, shook her head.
“Yours are the self-justifying words of a drunkard,” she said. “Not of a King’s son.”
Godfrey would not give in.
“You are wrong,” he said. “Do you really want to know what I think? I think that most men in this kingdom—including your precious knights—are so obsessed with killing each other that they’ve forgotten what it means to live. I think they kill each other for the very reason that they do not know how to live—how to truly live. Then they cover it up further with their grand terms and titles, chivalry, honor, glory, valor. Knights, commanders…. It is all an escape. After all, it is much easier to embrace death than it is to embrace life.”
Illepra, red-faced, fumed.
“And you’ve figured out how to really live?” she countered. “This is life? Getting lost in drink? Drowning out life?”
Godfrey stood there, flustered, unable to come up with a good response.
She shook her head.
“You exhaust me,” she said. “I’m not going to seek you out anymore. I like you. There’s something special about you. But I cannot abide by this anymore. If you ever grow up and become a man, then find me. Otherwise, I wish you well.”
Illepra turned, stormed out of the tavern, and slammed the door behind her.
Akorth and Fulton turned and looked at Godfrey, whistling and rolling their eyes.
“Sounds like she likes you,” Akorth said.
“Maybe you should just invite her back in for a drink!” Fulton said.
They both broke into laughter, delighted with themselves.
But Godfrey sat there, frowning, mulling over her words. They had cut him deeply. Partly because she had said the same exact words he’d been mulling over himself. What, after all, was the purpose of life? Godfrey did not feel, as many others did, that the be-all and end-all of life was to kill others in the battlefield. And yet at the same time he knew his current path held no virtue in it, either. So what was it? What made one’s life the most worthy?
