A Rite of Swords sr-7

by Morgan Rice

  “I mean you no harm,” he began.

  The group broke out laughing.

  “Harm? You? What harm could you do us?”

  “You couldn’t harm our chickens!” laughed another.

  Steffen flushed red as the laughter grew; but he would not allow himself to be provoked.

  “I need a place to stay and food to eat. I have calloused hands and a strong back for working. Set met to a task, and I will mind myself. I don’t need much. As much as the next man.”

  Steffen wanted to lose himself in menial work again, as he had all those years in the basement serving King MacGil. It would take his mind off things. He could perform hard labor and live a life of anonymity, as he had been prepared to do before he had ever met Gwendolyn.

  “You call yourself a man?” one of them called out, laughing.

  “Maybe we can find some use for him,” another called out.

  Steffen looked at him hopefully.

  “That is, fighting against our dogs or chickens!”

  They all laughed.

  “I’d pay a grand amount to see that!”

  “There’s a war out there, in case you haven’t noticed,” Steffen said back coolly. “I’m sure, even in a provincial and rudimentary town like this, you can use a hand to maintain provisions.”

  The villagers looked at each other, baffled.

  “Of course we know of the war,” one said, “but our village is too small. Armies won’t bother coming here.”

  “I don’t like the way you talk,” another said. “All fancy-like? Sounds like you had some schooling. You think you’re better than us?”

  “I’m no better than the next man,” Steffen said.

  “That much is obvious,” laughed another.

  “Enough of the banter!” cried one of the villagers in a serious tone.

  He stepped forward and pushed the others aside with a strong palm. He was older than the others and looked to be a serious man. The crowd quieted in his presence.

  “If you mean what you say,” the man said in his deep, brusque voice, “I can use an extra set of hands on my mill. Pay is a sack of grain a day and a jug of water. You sleep in the barn, with the rest of the village boys. If that’s agreeable to you, I will have you on.”

  Steffen nodded back, satisfied to finally see a serious man.

  “I ask for nothing more,” he said.

  “This way,” the man said, parting his way through the crowd.

  Steffen followed him, and was led to a huge, wooden gristmill, all around which were teenagers and men. Each of them, sweating and covered in dirt, stood in the muddy tracks and pushed a massive wooden wheel, each grabbing a spoke and walking forward with it. Steffen stood there, surveyed the work, and realized it would be back-breaking labor. It would do.

  Steffen turned to tell the man he would accept, but the man had already gone, assuming he would. The villagers, with a few final heckles, turned back to their affairs while Steffen looked ahead at the wheel, at the new life that lay ahead of him.

  For a glimmer in time, he had been weak, had allowed himself to dream. He had imagined a life of castles and royalty and rank. Had seen himself being an important person, the hand of the Queen. He should have known better than to think so high. He, of course, was not meant for that. He never had been. What had happened to him, meeting Gwendolyn, had been a fluke. Now, his life would be relegated to this. But this, at least, was a life he knew. A life he understood. A life of hardship. And without Gwendolyn in it, this life would be just as well for him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thor urged Mycoples faster as they raced through the clouds, getting ever closer to the Tower of Refuge. Thor felt with every ounce of his being that Gwen was in danger. He felt the vibration running through his fingertips, throughout his entire body, telling him, warning him. Go faster, it whispered to him.

  Faster.

  “Faster!” Thor urged Mycoples.

  Mycoples roared softly in return, flapping her great wings harder. Thor had not even needed to utter the words—Mycoples understood everything, before he even said it—but he spoke the words anyway. They made him feel better. He was feeling helpless. He sensed that something was very wrong with Gwen, and that every second counted.

  They finally broke through a patch of clouds and as they did, Thor was flooded with relief as he saw it come into view, in the distance: the Tower of Refuge. It was an ancient and eerie piece of architecture, a perfectly round, skinny tower shooting straight up into the sky, reaching nearly as high as the clouds. Built of an ancient, shining black stone, Thor could sense the power coming off it, even from here.

  As they flew closer, suddenly he spotted something up high, atop the tower. It was a person. She was standing on the ledge, hands out, palms by her sides. Her eyes were closed, and she was swaying in the wind.

  Thor knew immediately who it was.

  Gwendolyn.

  His heart pounded as he saw her standing there. He knew what she was thinking. And he knew why. She thought he had given up on her, and he could not help feeling as if it were his fault.

  “FASTER!” Thor screamed.

  Mycoples flapped her wings even harder, and they flew so fast it took Thor’s breath away.

  As they neared, Thor watched Gwen step backwards, off the ledge, back onto the safety of the roof, and his heart flooded with relief. Without even seeing him, on her own, she had changed her mind and decided not to jump.

  Mycoples roared and Gwen looked up and spotted Thor for the first time. Their eyes locked, even from this great distance, and he watched the shock flood her face.

  Mycoples landed on the roof and the moment she did, Thor jumped off, barely waiting for her to set down, and ran to Gwendolyn.

  Gwen turned and stared at him, eyes open in complete surprise. She looked as if she were staring at a ghost.

  Thor ran for her, his heart pounding, flooded with excitement, and reached out his arms. They embraced and held each other tightly as Thor picked her up and squeezed her. He spun her around again and again.

  Thor heard her crying in his ear, felt her hot tears pouring down his neck, and he could hardly believe he was really here, holding her, here in the flesh. This was real. This was the dream he had seen in his mind’s eye, day after day, night after night, when he had been deep in the Empire, when he had been sure he would never return, would never set eyes on Gwendolyn again. And here he was now, holding her in his arms.

  Having been away from her for so long, everything about her felt new. It felt perfect. And he vowed he would never take another moment with her for granted again.

  “Gwendolyn,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Thorgrin,” she whispered back.

  They held each other for he did not know how long, then slowly they pulled back and kissed. It was a passionate kiss, and neither of them backed away.

  “You’re alive,” she said. “You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Mycoples snorted and Gwendolyn looked up over Thor’s shoulder, as Mycoples flapped her wings once. Gwen’s face flushed with fear.

  “Do not be afraid,” Thor said. “Her name is Mycoples. She is my friend. And she will be your friend, too. Let me show you.”

  Thor took Gwen’s hand and led her slowly across the parapet. He could feel Gwen’s fear as they approached. He understood. After all, this was a real, live dragon, and this was closer than Gwen had ever been to one in her life.

  Mycoples stared back at Gwen with her huge, red glowing eyes, snorting gently, flapping her wings and arching back her neck. Thor sensed something like jealousy. And perhaps, curiosity.

  “Mycoples, meet Gwendolyn.”

  Mycoples turned her head away, proudly.

  Then suddenly she turned back and as she did, she stared right into Gwendolyn’s eyes, as if seeing right through her. She leaned in, so close that her face was nearly touching Gwendolyn’s.

  Gwen gasped in surprise and awe—and perhaps fear. She reached up,
her hand trembling, and lay it gently on Mycoples’ long nose, touching her purple scales.

  After several tense seconds, Mycoples finally blinked and lowered her nose and rubbed it against Gwen’s stomach in a sign of affection. Mycoples kept rubbing her nose against Gwen’s stomach, as if she were fixated on it, and Thor could not understand why.

  Then, just as quickly, Mycoples turned her head away and looked off into the horizon.

  “She’s beautiful,” Gwen whispered.

  She turned and looked at Thor.

  “I gave up hope that you would return,” she said. “I did not think you would.”

  “Nor did I,” Thor said. “Thinking of you is what sustained me. It gave me reason to survive. To return.”

  They embraced again, holding each other tightly as the breeze caressed them, then finally, they pulled back.

  Gwendolyn looked down and noticed the Destiny Sword on Thor’s hip and her eyes widened. She gasped.

  “You brought back the Sword,” she said. She looked up at him in disbelief. “You are the one to wield it.”

  Thor nodded back.

  “But how…” she began, then trailed off. Clearly, she was overwhelmed.

  “I do not know,” Thor said. “I was just able to.”

  Her eyes opened with hope as she realized something else.

  “Then the Shield is up again,” she said hopefully.

  Thor nodded back solemnly.

  “Andronicus is trapped,” he said. “We have already liberated King’s Court and Silesia.”

  Gwendolyn’s face rose in relief and joy.

  “It was you,” she said, realizing. “You freed our cities.”

  Thor shrugged modestly.

  “It was Mycoples, mostly. And the Sword. I just went along for the ride.”

  Gwen beamed.

  “And our people? Are they safe? Did any survive?”

  Thor nodded.

  “They are mostly alive and well.”

  She beamed, looking younger again.

  “Kendrick awaits you in Silesia,” Thor said, “as do Godfrey, Reece, Srog, and many, many others. They are all alive and well, and the city is free.”

  Gwendolyn rushed forward and hugged Thor, holding him tight. He could feel the relief flooding through her.

  “I thought it was all gone,” she said, crying softly, “lost forever.”

  Thor shook his head.

  “The Ring has survived,” he said. “Andronicus is on the run. We will return, and we will wipe him out for good. And then we will rebuild.”

  Gwendolyn suddenly turned her back to him and looked away, staring out at the sky, wiping away a tear. She wrapped her cloak tight around her shoulders, and her face filled with apprehension.

  “I don’t know if I can return,” she said, hesitantly. “Something happened to me. While you were away.”

  Thor turned and faced her, holding her shoulders.

  “I know what happened to you,” he said. “Your mother told me. There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he said.

  Gwendolyn looking at him, her eyes filling with surprise and wonder.

  “You know?” she asked, shocked.

  Thor nodded.

  “It means nothing,” he said. “I love you as much as ever. Even more. Our love—that is what matters. That is what is unbreakable. I shall avenge you. I shall kill Andronicus myself. And our love, it will never die.”

  Gwen rushed forward and hugged Thor tight, her tears pouring down his neck. He could feel how relieved she was.

  “I love you,” Gwen said in his ear.

  “I love you, too,” he answered.

  As Thor stood there, holding her, his heart pounded with trepidation. He wanted now, at this moment, more than ever, to ask her. To propose. But he felt he could not until he had first told her his secret, until he told her who his father was.

  The thought of it filled him with shame and humiliation. Here he was, having just vowed to kill the very man they both hated most. And with his very next words, how could he announce that Andronicus was his father?

  Thor felt sure that if he did, Gwendolyn would hate him forever. And he could not risk losing her. Not after all that happened. He loved her too much.

  So instead, his hands trembling, Thor reached into his shirt and pulled out the necklace, the one he’d found among the dragon’s treasures, with a rope made of gold and a shining golden heart, laden with diamonds and rubies. He held it up to the light, and Gwen gasped at the sight.

  Thor came up behind her, and clasped it around her neck.

  “A small token of my love and affection,” he said.

  It hung beautifully on her, the gold shining in the light, reflecting everything.

  The ring burned in his pocket, and Thor vowed to give it to her when the time was right. When he could muster the courage to tell her the truth. But now was not that time, as much as he hoped that it could be.

  “So you see, you can return,” Thor said, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “You must return. Your people need you. They need a leader. The Ring, without a leader, is nothing. They look to you for guidance. Andronicus still inhabits half the Ring. Our cities still need to be rebuilt.”

  He looked into her eyes and could see her thinking.

  “Say yes,” Thor urged. “Return with me. This Tower is no place for a young woman to live out the rest of her days. The Ring needs you. I need you.”

  Thor held out a hand and waited.

  Gwendolyn looked down, wavering.

  Then finally, she reached out and placed a hand in his. Her eyes turned lighter and lighter, glowing with love and warmth. He could see her slowly coming back to the old Gwendolyn he once knew, filled with life and love and joy. It was as if she were a flower, being restored before his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said softly, smiling.

  They embraced and he held her tight and vowed never to let her go again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Erec opened his eyes to find himself lying in Alistair’s arms, looking up at her crystal-blue eyes, which shone down with love and warmth. She wore a small smile at the corner of her lips, and he felt the warmth radiating off her hands, and through his body. As he checked himself, he felt entirely healed, reborn, as if he had never been injured. She had brought him back from the dead.

  Erec sat up and looked into Alistair’s eyes with surprise, finding himself wondering once again who she really was, how she could have such powers.

  As Erec sat up and rubbed his head, he immediately remembered: Andronicus’ men. The attack. The defense of the gulch. The boulder.

  Erec jumped to his feet and saw his men all looking back towards him, as if awaiting his resurrection—and his command. Their faces were filled with relief.

  “How long have I been unconscious?” he turned and asked Alistair, frantic. He felt guilty he had abandoned his men for so long.

  But she smiled back at him sweetly.

  “But for one second,” she said.

  Erec could not comprehend how that could be. He felt so restored, as if he had slept for years. He felt a new bounce in his step as he jumped to his feet and turned and ran for the entrance to the gulch and saw his handiwork: the huge boulder which he had smashed now stopped it up, and Andronicus’ men could no longer get through. They had achieved the impossible and had fended off the much larger army. At least for now.

  Before he could celebrate, Erec heard a sudden scream come from up above and looked up: there, atop the cliff, one of his men screamed, then tumbled backwards, end over end, and landed on the ground, dead.

  Erec looked down and saw a spear impaled in the man’s body, then looked back up to see a host of activity, shouts and screams erupting everywhere. Before his eyes, dozens of Andronicus’ men appeared at the top, fighting hand-to-hand with the Duke’s men, going blow for blow, and Erec realized what had happened: the Empire commander had split his forces, sending some through the gulch, and sending others straight up the mountain face.


  “TO THE TOP!” Erec commanded. “CLIMB!”

  The Duke’s men followed him as he ran straight up the mountain face, sword in hand, scrambling up the steep ascent of rock and dust. Every several feet he slipped and reached out with his palm, scraping it against the stone, grabbing hold, doing his best not to fall backwards. He ran, but the face was so steep it was more climb than run; each step was hard fought, armor clanging all around him as his men huffed and puffed their way, like mountain goats, straight up the cliff.

  “ARCHERS!” Erec screamed.

  Down below, several dozen of the Duke’s archers, scaling the mountain, stopped and took aim straight up the cliff. They unleashed a volley of arrows and several Empire soldiers screamed and hurled backwards, tumbling down along the side of the cliff. One body came hurling down at Erec; he dodged and barely avoided it. One of the Duke’s men was not so lucky, though—a corpse hit him and sent him flying backwards to the ground, screaming, dead beneath its weight.

  The Duke’s archers dug in and stationed themselves up and down the mountain, firing every time an Empire soldier popped his head over the edge of the cliff to keep them at bay.

  But the fighting up there was tight, hand-to-hand, and not all of the arrows hit their mark: one arrow missed, accidentally lodging into the back of one of the Duke’s own men. The soldier screamed and arched his back, and an Empire soldier took advantage and stabbed him, knocking him backwards, screaming down the cliff. But as the Empire soldier was exposed, another archer landed an arrow in his gut, taking him out, too, his corpse falling face-first over the edge.

  Erec redoubled his efforts, as did those around him, sprinting with all he had straight up the cliff. As he neared the top, just feet away, he slipped and began to fall; he flailed, reached out, and grabbed hold of a thick root emerging from the stone. He held on for his life, dangling from it, then pulled himself up, regained his footing, and continued to the top.

  Erec reached the top before the others and raced forward with a battle cry, sword raised high, eager to help defend his men, who were holding their positions at the top but getting pushed back. There were but a few dozen of his men up here, and each was embroiled in hand-to-hand combat with Empire soldiers, outnumbered two to one. With each passing second, more and more Empire soldiers kept appearing at the top.