by Morgan Rice
Godfrey got up, stumbling, a little bit off-balance, realizing how much he’d drunk as it rushed to his head. He needed another drink now, and the bartender was at the far end of the bar, so Godfrey stumbled across the room.
As Godfrey found a new spot on the other side of the tavern, he overheard two voices whispering behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two McCloud soldiers huddled together, talking conspiratorially.
“When do we leave?” one asked.
“Before the sun sets,” the other answered. “They are assembling now.”
“Who will join?”
The other one leaned in close.
“Who will not? It will be every McCloud man. The road leads but one way, and the MacGils are on their pilgrimage. We will stain the gates of King’s Court red.”
Godfrey felt the hairs on his arm stand up. He turned and looked straight ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.
Godfrey slowly and calmly took his new drink from the bartender and walked back across the tavern as if he had heard nothing.
He walked over to Akorth and Fulton, his hands trembling. He leaned in close between them, intent on being heard amidst their laughter.
“Follow me, now,” he said quietly and urgently, “if you want to live.”
Godfrey did not wait for their reaction but kept walking straight for the door, hoping no one was watching him. Akorth and Fulton followed close behind.
They stepped outside into the cloudy afternoon, and in the fresh air, Godfrey let himself sink into a panic as he turned and faced his friends, each wearing a puzzled expression. Before they could speak, he cut them off:
“I heard something I wish I hadn’t,” he said. “The McClouds are preparing a rebellion. No MacGil will live.”
Godfrey stood there, reeling, debating what to do, drunken, off balance. Finally, he turned and strutted toward his horse.
“Where are you going?” Akorth asked, belching.
“To do something about it,” Godfrey heard himself say, then kicked his horse and took off at a gallop, having no idea what he was doing—but knowing he had to do something.
*
Godfrey dismounted at the highest point of the Highlands, Akorth and Fulton riding up behind him and dismounting, too. He had to come this high to get the lookout he needed, to see for himself if it was all true, or just more tavern talk.
Godfrey was breathing hard as he hiked to the top, out of breath, and Akorth and Fulton stumbled beside him, heaving, barely able to catch up. Godfrey knew he was out of shape, but these two were even worse off than he. As he ran, the fresh mountain air made him lightheaded, and helped him slowly come back from his drunken stupor.
“Where are you running off to now?” Akorth yelled out, heaving behind him.
“What has gotten into you?” Fulton yelled.
Godfrey ignored them, tripping and stumbling as he ran higher and higher, until finally, gasping, he reached the top.
The sight confirmed his worst fears. There, assembling on a distant ridge of the Highlands, was a sprawling and well-organized army of McCloud soldiers, all banding together, preparing for what would clearly be an organized attack. More and more men gathered by the minute, and Godfrey’s heart fell as he realized that his worst fears had come true: all these men would launch an attack straight down into the Highlands, and right to the heart of King’s Court.
Normally, King’s Court would have nothing to fear; but given that it was Pilgrimage Day, all the knights protecting King’s Court would surely be gone. The McClouds had timed this treachery well. There would be but a handful of people left to defend the city, and his sister would be endangered, along with his new nephew.
Godfrey stood there, gasping, knowing he had to do something. He had to beat these men to King’s Court. He had to warn her. Godfrey was not a fighter. But he was not a coward, either.
Godfrey’s first thought was to send a falcon, but he saw the falconry was empty. Clearly, the McClouds had planned this well, stripping away any means to notify King’s Court. They had also been very crafty to plan it on Pilgrimage Day. It must have been a long time in the works. Godfrey wondered if they would attack Bronson, too, and had a sinking feeling they might.
“We must stop them,” Godfrey said to himself.
Akorth snorted derisively.
“Are you mad? The three of us—stop them?”
“They will come upon King’s Court unaware. My sister is there. They will kill her.”
Fulton shook his head.
“You are mad,” Fulton said. “There is no way for us to reach King’s Court—unless we ride right now and gallop through the night and pray to god to beat these men before they murder us all.”
Godfrey stood there, hands on his hips, heaving, looking out. He came to a decision inside himself.
“Then that is exactly what we must do.”
They both turned to him.
“You are mad,” Akorth said.
Godfrey knew it was crazy. And he did not understand it himself. Just a moment ago he was railing against battle, against chivalry. Yet now that he was confronted by this circumstance, he found himself reacting this way. For the first time, Godfrey was starting to understand what Illepra meant. He was thinking of others, not of himself, and it made him feel bigger than himself, as if life finally had a sense of purpose.
“Think this through,” Fulton said. “You will die on this mission. You might save your sister, and a few others. But you’ll be dead.”
“I am not asking you to join me,” Godfrey said, remounting his horse, grabbing its reins, preparing to take off.
“Godfrey, you are a fool,” Fulton said.
Fulton and Akorth looked back at Godfrey in shock and, for the first time, with a new look—something like respect. They hung their heads in shame, and it was clear they would not follow.
Godfrey kicked his horse, turned, and galloped straight down the steep mountain slope, charging alone, ahead of the gathering McCloud army, prepared to gallop all the way to King’s Court, and to save his sister’s life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Srog sat behind the ancient oak writing desk in Tirus’s former fort, trying to concentrate as he penned a missive to Gwendolyn. It was yet another gloomy afternoon here on the Upper Isles, a fog hanging thick in the sky outside his windows, the gloom ever-present. Srog could not stand to be in this place for one more day.
Srog held his head in his hand, trying to focus. He had been unable to, though, because for quite a while now, his writing had been punctuated by noises, disruptive shouts, sounding like cheers, coming from some distant place below. Srog had gone to the window several times to try to look out and see what was happening—but his view had always been obscured by the fog.
Srog tried to block it out. It was probably just another clan dispute, or another vendor dispute down in the courtyard below. Perhaps it came from one of the taverns, its rowdy patrons spilling out to the street in yet another tavern fight.
But as Srog tried to write, to put into words the depth of his misery here, the jeers of the crowd continued, escalating in strength, until finally, Srog was just too distracted to think.
He slammed his quill down in frustration, stood, and crossed the room again, going to the open-air window, sticking his head out, determined to figure out the source of it all. Clearly, something was going on below. Was it some sort of celebration? Some sort of protest? In this isle of malcontents, one never knew.
Suddenly, the huge wooden door to Srog’s chamber slammed open, startling him, the first time it had ever been opened unannounced, the ancient door slamming into the stone. Srog wheeled, shocked, as he saw running toward him a messenger, one of his men, eyes wide in panic.
“My lord, you must leave here at once! They’ve stormed the fort! We’re surrounded!”
Srog stared back at the man, confused, trying to understand what he was saying. Surrounded?
The messenger rushed forward and clutched Srog�
��s wrist.
“Speak clearly, man,” Srog exhorted. “I must leave? Why? Who has surrounded us?”
Srog heard another cheer, this one now coming from inside the fort, and he suddenly realized something was very, very wrong—and much closer than he thought.
“It is Tirus’s men!” the messenger replied. “There has been a revolt on the island. Tirus is freed! They come to kill you now!”
Srog stared back, shocked.
“A revolt?” he asked. “Sparked by what? And what about our men?”
The messenger shook his head, trying to catch his breath.
“They have slaughtered all of our men! There is no one left to stand guard for you. Haven’t you heard? A boat arrived with a dead body in it. Tirus’s son. Falus. Killed by Reece’s hand. It has sparked a revolution. The entire isle is up in arms. My lord, you must understand. You have no time—”
Suddenly, the messenger clutched Srog with both his hands on his shoulders, stared at him, wide-eyed, and leaned forward into his arms, as if to hug him.
Srog stared back, confused, until he saw blood gush from his mouth. The man slumped dead in his arms, and as he slid to the ground, Srog saw a throwing knife lodged in his back.
Srog looked up to see, charging into the room, five of Tirus’s soldiers—all charging right for him.
Srog, heart pounding furiously, knew he couldn’t flee. He was backed into a corner. Ambushed. Srog thought of the hidden chamber in the room, the back exit he could escape from, built into the stone wall for precisely times like this. But that was not who he was. He was a knight, and he did not flee. If he was going to meet death, he would meet it head-on, with sword in hand, facing his enemy. He would fight his way out or die.
And those were just the kind of odds he liked.
Srog let out a great battle cry, not waiting for them to reach him, and charged the men. He drew his sword and raised it high, and as the lead soldier grabbed another throwing dagger from his belt, Srog rushed forward and slashed his sword down, chopping off the man’s wrist before he could throw it. The soldier dropped to the ground, screaming.
Srog did not pause, swinging his sword again and again, faster than all of them, decapitating one, stabbing another through the heart. Years of combat had made him unafraid of ambush, had taught him to never hesitate, and Srog brought down three men in the blink of an eye.
The other two men came at him from the side and from behind, and Srog wheeled and blocked their blows with his sword, sparks flying as he fended them off, fighting both at a time. Srog was doing a masterful job of fighting off two attackers at once, even as they pushed him back across the room. The clang of metal echoed off the stone walls, the men grunting, fighting for their lives.
Srog finally found an opening, lifted his foot, and kicked one in the chest. The man stumbled backwards and fell, and Srog wheeled and elbowed the other across the jaw, dropping him to his knees.
Srog was satisfied to see his five attackers all sprawled out on the floor, but before he could finish surveying the damage, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his back.
Srog, exposed while fighting the others, had not seen the sixth soldier sneak into the room behind him, and stab him in the back. Groaning in pain, Srog nonetheless summoned some reserve of inner strength. He turned, grabbed the man, pulled him in tight, and headbutted him, breaking his nose and making him drop to the floor.
Srog then reached around behind his back with one arm, grabbed the hilt of the short sword lodged in his spine, and yanked it out.
Srog shrieked, the pain excruciating, and dropped to his knees. But at least he removed the sword, and now he gripped its hilt, his knuckles white, stood, and plunged it into the heart of his attacker.
Srog, badly wounded, dropped to one knee, coughed, and spit up blood. There was a momentary lull in the battle, yet now he realized, with this injury, that his time was short.
There came the sound of another soldier rushing into the room, and Srog forced himself to stand and face him, despite the pain. He did not know if he’d have the strength to raise his sword again.
But Srog was greatly relieved to see who it was. It was Matus, the King’s youngest son, rushing toward him. Matus ran into the room, turned, and slammed shut the doors, barring them in.
“My lord,” Matus said, turning and rushing toward him. “You are wounded.”
Srog nodded, dropping to one knee again, the pain excruciating, feeling weak.
Matus ran over and grabbed his arm.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Matus said in a rush. “Everyone else in the castle is dead. I’m alive only because I’m an Upper Islander. They will kill you. You must get to safety!”
“What are you doing here, Matus?” Srog said, weak. “They will murder you if they find you helping me. Go. Save yourself.”
Matus shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I will not leave you.”
Suddenly, there came a thumping at the door, the sound of men trying to break in.
Matus turned and looked at Srog, fear in his eyes.
“We have no time. We must get out! Now!”
“I will stand and fight,” Srog said.
Matus shook his head.
“There are too many outside that door. You will be a dead man. Live, and fight another day. Follow me.”
Srog finally conceded, for Matus’s sake, wanting the boy to live and knowing he could not fight himself.
They ran across the room to the secret passage hidden in the stone wall, Matus feeling the wall with his hands. He finally found one stone slightly looser than the others, pulled at it, and as he did, a narrow opening appeared in the stone, just wide enough for the men to enter.
The banging grew louder on the door, and Matus grabbed Srog, as Srog hesitated.
“You’ll do no good to Gwendolyn dead,” Matus said.
Srog relented and allowed Matus to drag him inside, both of them concealed in the blackness, as the stone wall closed behind them. As it did, there came a crash behind them, the sound of the door bursting open, of dozens of men rushing into the room. They continued on, deeper into the passageway, Matus leading them to safety, Srog limping along, not knowing how much longer he would live—and knowing that the Upper Islands, and the Ring, would never be the same again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Gwendolyn sat in her father’s former study, scrolling through yet another pile of scrolls, wading her way through kingdom business. Gwen loved to spend her time here in her father’s study, where she felt connected to him. She would spend countless days in here as a young girl, its dark walls lined with ancient, precious books he had gathered from all corners of the kingdom, as if keeping her company. Indeed, when she’d rebuilt King’s Court, she had made sure to make this study a focal point, and had it restored to its former splendor. It was more beautiful now than it had ever been, and Gwen would have loved to see her father’s face after she had restored it. She knew he would have been thrilled.
Gwen looked back at the scrolls, and she tried to get back to the work of running her kingdom, tried to force things back to normal. Yet she knew that things were nowhere near normal. She could hardly concentrate, she felt shaky inside and overwhelmed with grief, images of Thor’s departure, or Selese’s death, flashing through her mind.
Gwen finally set the scrolls down. She rubbed her eyes and massaged her temples, sighing, eyes blurred from so much reading. The business of the Ring was endless, and no matter how many scrolls she waded through, there were always more yet to come. It was late in the day, she had been up all night with Guwayne, and she felt more alone than ever with Thor gone. She was not thinking clearly these days, and she needed a break.
Gwen rose from her father’s desk and walked through the tall, open-air arched doorway leading out onto the stone balcony. It was a beautiful summer day, and it felt great to be outdoors as a gentle breeze wafted through, and she breathed deep. She looked down over King’s Court, at all the people milling con
tentedly below. On the surface, all looked well; but inside, Gwen was trembling.
Gwen looked at the huge banners flapping lightly in the wind, which she had ordered to be hung at half-mast in honor of Selese. The funeral still hung heavily in Gwen’s mind—as did the cancellation of her own wedding. She felt so shaken from her new friend’s death, from her day of joy, which she had been preparing for for moons, being transformed so suddenly into one of grief. Gwen was starting to wonder if anyone would ever stay in her life permanently. She also wondered if she and Thor would ever get married; a part of her wondered if they should just run off and get married alone, somewhere in seclusion, away from the eyes of everyone. She didn’t care about the pomp and circumstance; all she wanted was to be married to him.
Gwen herself did not feel like celebrating. She felt sick, hollowed out, from what had happened to Selese. From her brother’s grief. From the whole tragic misunderstanding. She could already tell that Reece would never be the same, and that frightened her. A part of her felt that she had lost a brother. She had been close to Reece her whole life, had always appreciated his happy, joyous, carefree manner—and she had never seen him so happy as he had been with Selese.
And yet now, she could see in Reece’s eyes that he would never be the same. He blamed himself.
Gwen could not help but feel as if, one by one, people she was close to were being stripped away. She looked into the skies and thought of Thor. She wondered where he was right now. When he would come back for her. If he would ever come back.
Thankfully, at least, Gwen had Guwayne. She spent nearly every waking hour with him, holding him close, valuing so much the precious gift of life. She found herself crying for no reason, feeling how fragile life was. She prayed to every god she knew that nothing bad should ever come to him.
