by Morgan Rice
They rounded a bend, and suddenly, Selese and Illepra stopped short. There, before them, blocking the road, was a huge, felled tree. She wondered how it could be there, in the middle of nowhere.
She heard a noise, and before she even spun around, she knew: they had been ambushed.
Behind them stood four soldiers, emerging from behind a boulder, all large and broad, unshaven, passing around a wineskin and drinking. She saw from their armor that they were Silesians. Her own kind. She knew she should feel relief.
Yet she did not: they were drunk, and they looked them over with lust in their eyes. They seemed far from the main army, and as she looked more carefully at their ragged armor, at the stripes torn from their uniforms, she realized: these were deserters. Spineless, rogue soldiers, betrayers to their own people. The worst of the worst.
“And where might you two fine ladies be off to now?” their leader asked, as the four of them made their way closer to them.
Selese’s horse pranced, boxed in with nowhere to go. Her heart pounded in her throat, as she wondered how to handle this. She saw Illepra glancing at her nervously, and saw that Illepra was uncertain, too.
“We are Silesians, just as you,” Illepra called out. “We serve the royal army. We are healers. So please let us pass. We have important business we must attend to.”
“Do you?” he asked, stepping forward and grabbing the horse’s reigns as another grabbed Selese’s.
“We are from Silesia, as are you,” Illepra repeated, her voice trembling.
“Ah, Silesia,” he said, mocking. “And such eternal love we have for our people.”
“You are deserters,” Selese called out, her voice darker, more authoritative, less afraid, condemning the people before her. “The lowest of the low.”
The others scowled, but the leader laughed and shook his head, surveying her.
“I’d say we are the smartest of the smart. We are the ones who survive, the ones who live for another day. We do not fight for some fake thing called chivalry, which we can neither see, nor touch, nor feel. Why should we fight someone else’s war?”
“It is your Ring,” Selese responded, undeterred. “It is your war.”
“My war is to stay alive—or to fight for anyone who pays the highest price. But I’ve heard enough out of you.”
He reached up and in one quick motion, grabbed Selese by her shirt and yanked her down.
Selese screamed as she went flying off her horse, landing hard on the ground, tumbling. She saw Illepra being yanked off her horse, too.
A soldier grabbed each of them and pulled them to their feet while the other two soldiers surrounded them. The leader leaned in, his face inches away from Selese’s, so close she could see the pockmarks in his face and smell his bad breath. The rough stubble of his chin rubbed up against her cheek.
“This is our lucky day,” he said. “We get two fine horses, and two fine girls to have our way with.”
“Don’t worry about your famed Silesia,” another said, “you won’t be seeing it for a long time.”
He laughed, and the others joined in.
“You are making a great mistake,” Selese said, her voice booming with confidence. “I’m on a journey to find Reece, the youngest son of King MacGil. The MacGils are a fierce and noble clan. If you harm us, and they find out what you’ve done, they will kill you all.”
“And who says they will find out what we’ve done?” he asked back, grinning.
The leader pulled a dagger, and began to raise it towards Selese.
Selese knew she had to do something, and quick. Clearly, these men would not listen to reason. They were out for blood, and she had no weapons at her disposal.
Suddenly, Selese had an idea. It was risky, but it just might work.
Selese quietly slipped her hand to her side satchel and ran her finger inside until she found a small vial of liquid, feeling it by touch. She closed her fingers around it and held it in her palm.
She suddenly changed her expression, smiling at the leader, and said, in a sweet and sexy voice: “I will do whatever you say. In fact, I would like to. I find you quite attractive.”
The leader leaned back and looked at her, surprised.
“All I ask is one thing,” she added. “Just kiss me first. I want to feel your lips on mine. The lips of a real man. A real warrior.”
The soldier looked back, confused and happily surprised. One of the others stepped up and patted him on the back.
“See, they listen to reason,” he said. “They always do.”
The leader grinned wide and brushed his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, tidying his appearance.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
“Selese, what are you doing?” Illepra asked, confused.
But Selese ignored her. She had a plan.
Selese pretended to yawn, raising her hand to her mouth, and placed the vial inside.
She leaned forward, grabbed the soldier’s face, and kissed him, putting her lips on his.
As she did, she spat the vial into his open mouth. She then reached up and clamped his mouth shut.
He stared back at her, wide-eyed, and tried to resist.
But it was too late. She raised both hands and clamped his mouth firmly shut, forcing him to bite the vial in his mouth. She watched as his face turned bright red, the veins popping in his throat; he reached up and grabbed for his throat, gasping, and a second later he dropped to his knees, then collapsed.
Dead.
Of course he would be. That vial contained Blackox—the deadliest poison she carried.
The other three soldiers looked on, confused—and Selese did not give them a chance to figure it out.
Selese reached into her satchel and searched for Apoth, a yellow powder which was an effective salve when mixed with water—but deadly if it entered the eyes in powder form. She grabbed two handfuls.
“You little wench!” one screamed out, as he drew his dagger and charged.
She threw a handful into his eyes, and he shrieked. Selese then stepped forward and threw the other handful into the other two soldiers’ eyes.
All of them shrieked, collapsing to their backs, writhing and foaming at the mouth.
Within seconds, they were all dead.
In the silence, Illepra looked at her, mouth open in shock, hardly able to conceive what had just happened.
Selese turned and looked back at her, hands shaking but feeling strong, determined. She didn’t know if she could have done that if it was for herself; but thinking of Reece had made her stronger.
“Let’s go,” she said, mounting her horse. “It’s past time we found Reece.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kendrick charged across the landscape, Erec, Bronson, and Srog at his side and thousands of liberated troops riding behind them, all of them free once again. They had been riding all night long, ever since they’d escaped the Empire camp, and had never slowed, putting as much distance between them as they could.
Now, finally, dawn was breaking. It had been a long and harrowing night, ever since Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog had freed thousands of their men, had massacred their captors, and had ridden off while the bulk of the Empire soldiers were still asleep. They had not wanted to get embroiled in a full-scale encounter with the vast Empire forces in the middle of the night; rather, they moved quickly and stealthily, killing any troops who stood in their way. They reclaimed their horses and arms, and took off. They wanted to fight another day, on their own terms.
Here, on the McCloud side of the kingdom, Bronson knew the terrain, and he led them expertly. Kendrick knew they were lucky to have him, as he was proving an invaluable guide to help hide them from the Empire. Kendrick and Erec had asked Bronson to lead them to a terrain where they could be well-hidden from the Empire, yet also from which they could attack a smaller division. They would have to switch tactics, and it was time for a new strategy now: instead of facing off with the entire Empire army, they would
have to find smaller divisions—just a few thousand men, to match their own few thousand—and wage smaller battles, before retreating again. Being so outnumbered, the only way to success would be to wage a prolonged, guerilla war. They could stick to the mountains, stay well-hidden in the Highlands, and be a lethal fighting force, attacking strategically, like a snake, then retreating. They may not have the same numbers and strength, but they had the willpower to outwait the Empire.
They rode and rode, following Bronson’s lead as he turned off a steep trail, leading them right up one side of the Highlands. They had been following an old trail of the Empire, taking them past waves of destruction, from one McCloud town to the next. Finally, the trail stopped here, at the top of a particular peak.
They all slowed their horses and came to a stop.
“Highlandia,” Bronson called out, pointing.
From this vantage point, at a distant peak, Kendrick saw, across the mountain range, Highlandia, the small McCloud city, perched high up, on the very edge of the Highlands, straddling the Eastern and Western kingdoms of the Ring. Even in the dawn, he could see that Andronicus’ forces occupied it. He saw their fires still smoldering, noted the heads of prisoners on pikes throughout the city, and could tell that they had recently massacred the McClouds here.
There appeared to be several thousand men encamped about the city, and it was hard to tell how many more lay within. He could not tell if this was the bulk of the Empire army, or just a lone division.
“This might be a prime city for us to attack,” Kendrick said.
“Highlandia is a small city, but a strategic point at the peak of the Highlands,” Bronson said. “It makes sense that Andronicus would take it. From here, is a straight ride down to the Western kingdom, the roads branching in all directions. It would be his first stop to crush the McCloud resistance and launch a final attack on the Western Kingdom and dominate the Ring.”
“But is Andronicus himself inside?” Srog asked. “And how many men with him?”
They all surveyed it. It was hard to tell.
“It could be risky,” Bronson said. “‘Perhaps it would be better to hide out here in the mountains, and wait for a smaller group to attack, or a smaller city.”
Kendrick shook his head.
“No more waiting,” he said. “Any day could be our last. Never again will I subject myself to imprisonment by anyone. If we are to die, we will die on our feet. We attack now!”
“I am with you!” Erec said, drawing his sword.
“And I!” Bronson said.
“So be it!” Srog said.
They all kicked their horses and charged along the edge of the Highlands, weaving in and out of the steep mountain trails, racing towards Highlandia. In the breaking dawn, with most Empire troops still sleeping, perhaps they would have the advantage of surprise, Kendrick thought. Perhaps they could take this city, and make it a stronghold of their own. Maybe, if they could wait long enough, Gwendolyn would return, with Argon. And maybe, just maybe, the tide could turn in their favor.
Even if not, this was what they were born to do: to attack against the odds, to never cower from the enemy, to fight for the right cause, even when the odds seemed impossible. Kendrick had been given a great privilege in his life: he had been given a grant of arms. They all had. And he intended to use it, as long as he was still alive.
An Empire horn sounded, then another, then another, all along the parapets of the small castle of Highlandia. Suddenly, the tall, iron portcullis opened, and hundreds of Empire soldiers appeared, charging right for them. They were not sleeping: they had been ready and waiting.
Nonetheless, Kendrick let out a great battle cry of his own and charged harder, prepared to fight, to kill anyone who dared stand in his way.
But as he got closer, as the Empire soldiers came into view, he saw a face charge through the gate, a face that made his blood run cold. It was the only face that could make him lower his sword, make his mouth drop open in shock, and make him nearly fall off his mount.
There, facing him, riding out to meet him, sword raised high, was a man he loved like a brother.
There was Thorgrin.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Thornicus rode beside his father, Rafi and McCloud behind them, as they led thousands of Empire soldiers out the gates of Highlandia, prepared to crush the enemy. Thor looked out and saw riding towards them thousands of soldiers, dressed in an armor and waving a banner that he dimly recognized. As they neared, a part of him recognized it as the armor he once knew, the armor of the Western Kingdom of the ring, of the Silver, of the MacGils. Thor was momentarily confused; he wondered why he was attacking these people he had once fought with side-by-side.
But his mind just as quickly became clouded, and another part of him, a stronger part, reminded him that he was riding to crush the enemies of his father, riding to kill those who would kill his father first. Thornicus felt infused with a new energy, determined to kill them all, to prevent anyone from harming Andronicus, or the Empire.
He charged towards the MacGil soldiers, still perhaps a half-mile away, drawing his sword, leading the army, getting ready to attack with all he had.
But suddenly, a chorus of horns sounded out behind him, and Andronicus and the others turned and checked back over their shoulders. Thor did, too. It was a sound of distress, and as Thor turned, he was confused by what he saw: hundreds of Empire soldiers were turning around, and charging in the reverse direction. Beyond them, in the distance, thousands of Empire soldiers, of a different division, charged up the ridge for Highlandia, torches in hand, and began to set fire to the city.
“What’s happening, my master?” McCloud called out to Andronicus, as confused as the rest of them.
Andronicus looked confused himself; but then, as he watched the horizon, his eyes narrowed in recognition.
“Romulus,” he said knowingly. “My general has come to betray me.”
Thousands of Empire troops attacked them from the rear, flooding the city. Now they were sandwiched between two armies, Romulus’ men behind them and the MacGil soldiers before them.
Andronicus screamed out in frustration, debating, then finally turned his horse around.
“We must save Highlandia!” Andronicus shouted. “Abandon the MacGils! Attack Romulus!”
Andronicus kicked his horse, turning around sharply, and Thornicus and the others followed, preparing to engage the Empire soldiers in a civil war.
As he turned around, Thornicus glanced back over his shoulder, and in the distance, he saw the MacGils continue to charge, for Highlandia. But that was no longer Thor’s concern; he had to do his father’s bidding. They could fight the MacGils another day.
Thor rode with his father, and he held his sword high. He and Andronicus rode side-by-side, and it felt good to ride with him. They were in unison, together in battle, prepared to face the world together, as father and son should.
The two of them charged down the slope, aiming for Romulus’ men, and they all met halfway, in a great clash of arms. Thousands of warriors rushed headlong into each other; leading the fray, the first into battle, was Andronicus. He raised his great battle axe, swung it in the air, and met Romulus as he charged for his former leader. Romulus swung his axe, too, and the two of them locked, like rams, each as powerful as the other, each wanting to kill the other with all his heart.
Thor aimed for Romulus’ commander, and the commander raised his shield, but it did little good: Thor’s blow was so strong, it sliced the shield in half. The commander raised his sword to slash back, but Thor was too fast. He kept charging, and with another blow, slashed the man across the stomach, making him slump forward, face-first into the dirt.
The sound of clashing metal filled Thor’s ears as all around them, thousands of soldiers fought hand to hand. None fought so deftly as Thor. He slashed and parried and ducked and weaved in every direction, taking down dozens of men before they could move quickly enough to react to him. He cut through the men li
ke a one-man army, felling soldiers left and right, and pushing the stalemate in favor of Andronicus.
Due to Thor’s efforts, the tide began to turn between the two equally matched divisions. Romulus initially had the advantage of surprise and momentum, since no Empire men had expected to be fighting each other on this day. But Thor tipped the odds, single-handedly pushing back more and more of Romulus’ men as they poured in to try to take Highlandia.
Romulus and Andronicus went blow for blow, cracking their great battle axes into each other with a shrill clang of metal, like two old rams battling for power. Andronicus was much taller than Romulus, but Romulus was wide and had strength unlike any Thor had ever seen. They were a spectacle to watch, like two mountains, neither seeming able to give into the other.
A wounded soldier fell onto the back on Andronicus’ horse, and Andronicus’ horse pranced, off-balance; the loss of balance was just enough to give Romulus a slight advantage. Andronicus’ axe lowered momentarily, just enough for Romulus to land a blow, slicing him hard on the shoulder, and knocking Andronicus off his horse.
Romulus wasted no time: he dismounted, raised his axe high with both hands and prepared to bring it down on Andronicus’ exposed head.
Thor’s heart fell; he dove off his horse face-first, and tackled Romulus down to the ground, right before Romulus could land the deadly blow. They stumbled back several feet, and the two fell and wrestled in the mud, rolling again and again, soldiers dying all around them.
Finally, Romulus gained the upper hand, rolling and throwing Thor off him. He pulled a dagger from his waist, and aimed it for Thor’s throat; it all happened too quickly for Thor to react.
Andronicus appeared and knocked the blade from Romulus’ hand before it could hurt Thor, saving his life.
Andronicus then swung for Romulus’ head with his axe; but Romulus rolled out of the way, and the axe lodged instead in the mud.
