The Gift of Battle

by Morgan Rice

  “But we must sail south to reach the Southern Isles by morning,” Strom added.

  Erec nodded.

  “I know, my brother. But we are not turning to the Southern Isles just yet.”

  Strom blinked, confused, and Erec looked out at to the waters ahead. In the distance, he saw the Dragon’s Spine. It brought back memories he’d rather forget.

  “Then where do we sail?” Strom asked.

  Erec gestured to the horizon.

  “An injustice was performed here that must be rectified,” Erec said.

  Erec gestured to a remote outcropping of rocks on the horizon, shooting out from the ocean, with dozens of ships anchored in its harbor. He could slowly see the look of recognition in his brother’s face.

  Krov’s isle.

  “Those ships once had to cower in the cover of darkness,” Erec said. “Now Krov anchors them openly, with impunity, with no fear from anyone. That is because of the deal he struck with the Empire.”

  Erec raised a looking glass to his eye and could see the ships, even from here, overflowing with treasure. He handed the glass to Alistair, who looked, then handed it to Strom, who peered through and whistled.

  “Krov’s reward,” Erec said, “for selling us out. Not only does he have Empire protection, but he now has more riches than he could ever dream.”

  Strom looked through the glass, his mouth open in shock.

  “And to think we trusted him,” Strom said.

  Erec sighed.

  “All wrongs come back to you, eventually,” he said. “The time has come for him to pay for his betrayal. I never forget a friend—and I never forget an enemy.”

  Strom’s look changed to one of admiration, and slowly his smile broadened. He stepped up and clasped Erec on the shoulder.

  “I’m beginning to remember why I like you, brother.”

  Erec turned to Alistair, whom he now consulted on all things.

  “I know it takes us out of our way,” he said, “and I know our time is short. But I feel strongly,” he said.

  He expected her to try to dissuade him, to talk him into abandoning the idea, to going straight to the Southern Isles, then to the Ring, to leave vengeance alone.

  But instead, she turned to him with a look of determination, a look of agreement that surprised him.

  “We live in an unjust world, my lord,” she said. “And every wrong you set right, every small piece of justice, can help set the world right.”

  “Then you agree?” he asked, surprised.

  She nodded.

  “You would be wrong to turn away.”

  He looked at her, loving her more in that moment than he ever had, and he knew he had married the right woman. A warrior, like he.

  Erec nodded, satisfied.

  “We shall wait for the cover of darkness,” he said. “Tonight, we attack.”

  *

  Erec sailed in the dark ocean, lit only by the full moon, leading his fleet in stealth as they cut silently through the water. His entire fleet disciplined, silent as he’d commanded, the only sound that hung in the air was that of the lapping waves against his boat, the wind at night, the occasional cry of a gull. And, of course, of the waves crashing against the sharp rocks of Krov’s isle, looming closer and closer as Erec approached it.

  As Erec approached Krov’s fleet, anchored in the harbor, his heart beat quicker and he had the familiar feeling he had before entering battle. His senses were heightened; he grew more focused, more intense. He blocked out all else but the strategy before him.

  As Erec neared Krov’s half-dozen ships, bobbing unsuspectingly, he got a good glimpse: sailors lounged on deck, asleep, drunk, feet up, as undisciplined as their commander. Sailors sat slumped against the deck, empty sacks of wine in their hands, not suspecting anything. The decks themselves were filled to overflowing with loot and ransom, and no one bothered standing guard. They had no reason to; they had the protection of the Empire now.

  Erec burned with indignation. These men had sold him and his people into captivity, had left them all for dead—and all for a few piles of gold.

  Erec directed his ships right alongside Krov’s, his heart pounding as he stayed silent, hoping they weren’t discovered. Each gust of wind brought them closer, and as they neared, he could feel his men, feel his brother Strom beside him, getting antsy.

  “Not yet,” Erec whispered.

  His men obeyed, waiting, getting so close they could see the whites of the sailors’ eyes, the tension so thick one could cut it with a knife.

  They sailed closer and closer still, until they were but feet away, all awaiting Erec’s command.

  “Now!” Erec called out in a harsh whisper.

  Erec’s men threw their ropes, hooks at the end, quickly and expertly over the rails of the other ships, and as their hooks latched onto the rails of the other ships, they all yanked, pulling their ships next to each other. When they were close enough, Erec led the way, leaping over the railing and onto Krov’s ship.

  As they ran through the deck, slowly, Krov’s men roused, seeing the invaders, but Erec did not give them time to react. The moment they did, he raced for them and bashed them with the hilt of his dagger, smashing them on the skull and knocking them out. He did not want them to tip them off to his presence—and he did not want them dead, either, even if these traitors were deserving of death. His men did the same, as Erec had instructed, knocking out men left and right.

  Erec’s men, led by Strom, fanned throughout the other ships in the fleet, striking other men, knocking them out quickly and silently, overwhelming the ships before they knew what had hit them.

  Erec had chosen the ship which he knew to be Krov’s, and sure enough, he found him where he knew he would—sleeping by the bow next to an empty cask of wine, two naked women lying asleep in his arms.

  With all Krov’s sailors contained, Erec walked slowly, confidently, right for Krov, his boots echoing across the deck, until he stood over him.

  Erec drew his sword and lowered it until the tip was touching the base of his throat. He stood there, waiting, smiling down with great satisfaction, as Krov suddenly opened his eyes, feeling the tip of the metal at his throat—and looked up at Erec in panic.

  Erec smiled down with great satisfaction, finally feeling vindicated.

  “We meet again, old friend,” Erec said.

  Krov tried to sit up, to reach for his sword, but Erec pushed the blade harder and stepped on his wrist, and Krov lay back down. He raised his hands, trembling, while the two women woke, cried out, and ran off.

  “How did you get free?” Krov asked. “I was certain you were dead.”

  Erec smiled wider.

  “That has always been your downfall,” Erec replied. “You’re too certain of everything. The valiant do not die, my friend. Only traitors do.”

  Krov gulped, terror in his face. He licked his lips.

  “Don’t kill me!” he called out, his voice shaking. “I’ll give you everything I have!”

  Erec grinned.

  “Will you?” he replied. “We’ve already taken all of your gold, your weapons, all that is yours. What is there left for you to give?”

  Krov gulped, at a loss for words.

  “As far as killing you,” Erec continued, “I believe that would be too civil. I have quite something else in mind. On your feet, old friend.”

  Krov rose to his feet, self-conscious, wearing only shorts, shivering in the cold, his fat, hairy belly exposed.

  “Please!” Krov whined, whimpering, looking pathetic in the moonlight.

  “You are spared,” Erec said. “You can return to your home. You and all your men. We’ll be taking your ships, though. Now go!”

  Erec prodded him with the sword, and Krov, up against the rail, looked out at the sea, shocked.

  “You want me to swim?” Krov asked, terrified.

  He turned and looked out at his isle, hundreds of yards away, the ocean black and cold.

  “I have no cloth
es,” Krov said. “Those waters are freezing. I would freeze to death. So will my men. And there are sharks! We won’t make it back.”

  Erec grinned.

  “I’d say you’re right,” Erec said. “The chances of your making it are remote. Practically none. Just about the same chances you gave us when you sold us out. Now go!”

  Erec stepped forward and kicked Krov as he turned, and Krov went flying over the side of ship, shrieking, splashing into the icy water, wearing just shorts and boots. All up and down his ship, Erec’s men shoved Krov’s men overboard, stripping them of their arms first, and their splashes filled the sea all around them.

  Erec watched with great satisfaction as Krov and his men started to swim clumsily, heading back toward their isle, already shivering, barely able to catch their breath in the huge rolling waves. Justice had been served.

  Erec turned and surveyed with pride all the new ships he had taken captive, all the loot, the gold, the weapons, the armor…. He knew it would serve the Ring, their new army, their new homeland, well. Very well indeed.

  It was time now to retrieve his men, to turn to the Ring, and to prepare for the greatest battle of his life.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  Darius cried out in pain as yet another whip lashed him across his back, feeling as if it were tearing off his skin. He gripped the oar before him until his knuckles turned white, trying to reach around and fight back, but stopped by his shackles. He sucked in his breath, trying to control his pain—while the whip cracked again, aimed at the slave chained beside him. Darius expected the slave to cry out, and was shocked that he was silent. He did not know how a man could withstand such pain silently.

  Until he looked over at him and saw the man slumped beside him. Dead.

  Darius looked on either side of him and saw all the other slaves chained, all of them now dead. He had somehow outlasted them all, and hadn’t realized that they had all long ago stopped moving, making his rowing even harder. Whether the heat killed them, or the sun, or the labor, or the whip, or the lack of food and, water, or the exhaustion, Darius would never know. But dying, in these conditions, would be a relief.

  Darius, however, was determined not to die. He thought of where this Empire fleet was sailing—east, for the Ring, to kill Gwendolyn and the others—and he was determined to stay alive. He would stay alive long enough, he decided, to do whatever he could to sabotage the Empire’s efforts.

  As Darius pulled at the oar, his palms chafed, his back covered in sweat and blood, an Empire taskmaster lifted his whip to lash him again. Darius braced himself, not knowing how many more lashes he could endure—when suddenly, the taskmaster stopped in mid-lash, holding the whip high overhead, frozen. The soldier stared out onto the horizon, as if surprised by the sight, and Darius turned, too, and looked out.

  Darius squinted into the sun, sweat stinging his eyes, and in the distance he was shocked to make out a small fleet of ships on the horizon. As he looked more closely, he was even more surprised to see them flying a banner not of the Empire. It flew proudly, flapping in the wind, and Darius’s heart lifted with pride to it was Gwendolyn’s banner. The colors of the Ring.

  Empire horns suddenly sounded up and down the fleet, and the ship broke out in commotion as Empire soldiers barked commands and soldiers took positions up and down the decks. The sails rose higher, the ship gained speed, and Darius’s heart pounded as he saw them closing in on Gwendolyn’s unsuspecting fleet.

  With perhaps a hundred yards to go, Darius’s ship suddenly shook with the sound of cannon fire; Darius looked over to see a huge cannon, manned by soldiers near the bow of his ship, was smoking, having just fired. He watched with trepidation as the cannonball flew through the air, right for Gwendolyn’s ship, and was relieved to see it land short, splashing in the water.

  But they adjusted the cannons, and he knew the next time Gwen might not be so lucky.

  “This is your lucky day, slave!” snapped a taskmaster.

  Darius felt rough Empire soldier hands grab him from behind, yank back his wrists, and unlock the shackles on his wrists and ankles.

  “To the cannons!” he yelled.

  The soldier shoved Darius, sending him flying forward until he landed face-first on the deck, painfully.

  He then picked him up and shoved him again, merging him with a group of other slaves all being rushed to different battle stations. Darius was shuffled down the deck, and the next thing he knew, he was shoved into a cannon station.

  At the station were several Empire soldiers and one other slave, all of them kneeling, looking out. One of the soldiers grabbed him roughly and made him kneel before the cannon.

  “Try anything, slave,” he seethed, “and you’ll feel my sword through your heart.”

  Another soldier leaned forward.

  “See those balls, slave?” the soldier demanded. “You will stock the cannon with them. Now move!”

  He smacked Darius on the side of the head, and Darius reached down and hoisted a cannonball with shaking arms. It was so heavy, and his palms so sweaty, he could barely hold it, especially in his weakened state—and the other slave, seeing him struggling, leaned over and helped him. This slave had pale, white skin, and he looked back at Darius with eyes filled with fear.

  As the Empire soldiers turned back to scanning the sea, Darius, kneeling there, looked surreptitiously out at his ship, at the Empire fleet, and he began to formulate an idea. He knew this was his chance—it was now or never.

  He turned to the other slave and gave him a look of confidence.

  “On my signal, do as I say,” he whispered.

  The other slave’s eyes widened, and he shook his head frantically.

  “They’ll kill us,” he said.

  Darius grabbed the man’s wrist hard, realizing he needed to assure him.

  “We will die otherwise,” he said. “Do you want to die coward? Or a warrior?”

  He held the man’s wrist until finally he relaxed. His eyes gradually narrowed, and Darius could see a growing confidence emerging in him—and then he nodded back quickly.

  “Get moving, slave!” yelled a soldier, smacking Darius on the back of the head.

  Darius, with the help of the other slave, reached up and placed the ball into the open cannon, and as they did, an Empire soldier quickly slammed closed the lid. Another soldier lit a torch and began to lower it for the long fuse.

  Darius felt the other slave looking at him for direction, and he shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he whispered.

  The torch came closer, and Darius knew he could not allow the fuse to be lit.

  Finally Darius nodded.

  “Now!”

  Darius reached out and snatched the dagger hanging from the belt of the Empire soldier, then thrust it into his heart. He then spun and slashed the throat of the other Empire soldier behind him, before he could react, and he collapsed, dropping the torch.

  As the other Empire soldier lunged for him, the other slave, Darius was proud to see, jumped in his way, wrestling him down, and as they rolled, Darius leaned over and stabbed the soldier in the heart.

  Another Empire soldier appeared, raising a whip, and the other slave snatched it from his hands, wrestled him down, and jumped on top of him, putting his hand over his mouth, strangling him.

  The Empire soldier was strong, though, and as he writhed, Darius came over and helped—until finally the man stopped moving.

  Darius spun and grabbed the torch, then he turned and looked everywhere, hiding in the shelter of the cannon station, making sure no one had seen them. The other slave huddled close, frantically, and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “Hold the torch,” Darius said.

  The slave took the torch with a shaking hand, and as he did, Darius, with all his might, turned the heavy cannon. He put his shoulder into it, groaning with the effort, until finally he managed to turn it away from Gwendolyn’s ship, now but twenty yards away; instead, he managed to point it inward, toward
his own ship.

  The slave’s eyes widened as he realized.

  “Do you want to live forever!?” Darius called out, with a crazed grin.

  “Hey you!” shouted a voice.

  Darius turned to see a group of Empire soldiers had spotted them, and were charging for them as they held the torch.

  “Do it!” Darius yelled.

  The slave lowered the torch with shaking hands and lit the fuse, as the Empire soldiers bore down on them.

  “STOP THEM!” the soldier cried.

  But it was too late—a huge explosion rocked the ship, Darius flying back as the cannon roared beside him, smashing into the rail. The cannonball fired straight down into the deck, the sound of splintering wood filling the air as the ball went through one side and out the other, splashing into the water.

  The ship lurched and began to list immediately, dozens of its soldiers killed from the impact of the ball and the wood shrapnel.

  As the ship delved into chaos, the soldiers bearing down on them slowly set their sights on them again, and began to charge. Darius knew this was his final chance.

  “Come on!” he yelled to the slave, and without waiting, he turned, ran across the deck, and jumped onto the rail. He paused, seeing the twenty-foot drop below into the rolling waves.

  But then the other slave joined him, and he felt a renewed sense of courage.

  “Do you want to live forever?” the slave echoed, and with a crazed grin of his own, he leapt overboard, grabbing Darius’s arm and bringing him with him.

  As they landed in the freezing waters, Darius bobbing beside the slave, gasping for air, Darius looked up and saw Gwen’s ship ahead—and he swam for his life. It lay perhaps twenty yards away now, and Darius only prayed that Gwen spotted them, and realized they were friendly.

  “Stop those slaves!” yelled an Empire soldier from behind.

  Darius glanced back to see several Empire soldiers huddling on the deck of the sinking ship, raising their bows and firing. Several arrows landed close to Darius in the water, and he flinched as they grew closer.