A Grant of Arms sr-8

by Morgan Rice

“Leave him here, if he wants,” she said coldly. “I, for one, can do without him.”

  “No one gets left behind,” Reece repeated.

  “Do you forget how he has acted? He has defied us at every turn,” she said. “Not to mention he will slow us down and get in our way.”

  “No one,” Reece repeated emphatically. “I don’t care who they are or what they’ve done. It is not about them; it is about us. Our code of honor. If we lose that, we lose all.”

  Indra relented as the group fell silent, looking down at Krog.

  “Well, I won’t go on,” Krog said, writhing. “I can’t.”

  “It’s a nasty wound, is it?” Centra asked, coming over.

  He pushed Reece aside and kneeled before Krog. He pulled back the cloth on Krog’s calf, revealing a deep, black, festering wound, left from the impact of the tree. He recoiled.

  “Nasty indeed,” Centra said. “He’ll be dead in a day at this rate. You should have told me. All he needs is Sulfur Mud. It won’t heal him entirely, but it will take away the pain and will make it much better. Get him to his feet, and follow me.”

  “Is it out of the way?” Indra asked.

  “Not by much,” Centra said, looking back and forth between Reece and Indra, unsure.

  “Take us there,” Reece ordered.

  They followed Centra as he changed direction, weaving in and out of the trees, up and down rolling hills, until finally they arrived at a large mound of bubbling mud. It was hissing, and a mist was rising from it.

  Centra stepped close, reached over, grabbed a scoop of mud, and applied it as a balm on Krog’s leg.

  Krog immediately perked up. His eyes opened wide in surprise, and within moments, he went from being slumped over between the others to standing upright on his own. He even took a step on his own. Then another. He was limping, but he was walking. And judging from the smile on his face, he was no longer in pain.

  “How did you do that?” Krog asked.

  “The mud won’t last long,” Centra said. “But long enough to get you out of here. When its effects wear off, you’ll be worse than before. Let’s just hope we can find this Sword and get you all out of here quickly.”

  They all turned and followed Centra as he weaved back in and out of the mud hills, picking up his old trail.

  As Reece walked, Krog walked up beside him, limping.

  “You helped me,” Krog said. “Why?”

  “Why?” Reece asked. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You’re a strange one,” Krog said. “I’m not sure if I like you or not. I wish you would have left me back there. Then it would have been easier to hate you.”

  Reece furrowed his brow, confused.

  “Are you trying to thank me?” Reece asked.

  “I guess in my own way, I am,” Krog said. “But that doesn’t mean I like you.”

  Reece shook his head, not understanding Krog’s way of thought at all.

  “Well, you’re welcome,” Reece said, ending their odd conversation.

  Reece saw the darkening sky all around them and began to worry. What would happen if they had to make camp down here? Would they be able to track down the Faws in the dark?

  “It’s just beyond that hill!” Centra called out excitedly.

  They all turned and looked.

  “You can hear the buzzing from here,” Centra continued. “That’s the main camp of the Faws. And that’s where they took the Sword. See the trail?”

  They all crowded around, and Reece indeed saw the trail, rising up the hill of mud. He heard the buzzing, too. It sounded like an endless swarm of bees.

  “But I tell you, it makes no sense to try to breach their territory,” Centra continued. “They have many tricks. They don’t fight fairly. You cannot win.”

  “We will fight any foe who stands in our way,” Reece said confidently. “If you are concerned, you can leave us now. And we thank you for your help.”

  Centra shook his head.

  “Foolish to the last,” he said. He smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. Finally, someone as crazy as me. Follow me.”

  They all followed Centra up the large hill, each of them slipping and sliding as they went, Reece’s palms covered in mud. Just as they were out of breath, Reece’s stomach aching from the effort and from lack of food, they reached the top.

  Reece stood there with the others and looked down at the sight before him in wonder. Below, in a broad valley of mud, was the camp of the Faws. There were thousands of them, short and skinny orange creatures, perhaps three feet high, with three long, skinny fingers and bright green eyes. Their faces were shaped in wide smiles, their jagged teeth showing. They milled about quickly, all busy, carrying things with their hands, like a worker mill of ants.

  Their village was populated with small, primitive huts, made of the leaves of these strange trees, orange and turquoise. In the center of their village was a hole in the earth, perhaps ten yards in diameter, and inside it, bubbling up, was molten fire. It hissed and bubbled ominously, illuminating the whole village. Clearly their entire village revolved around this strange hole of molten fire.

  “What is it?” Reece asked.

  “They worship it,” Centra said. “They are the people of the lava. They believe that is why their skin is orange. They pray to the lava as if it were a god. Every day they sacrifice another person in it. It’s their favorite way to kill their enemies.”

  Reece looked closely, and there, atop a large mound, near the lava, sat the boulder. Dozens of Faws knelt around it, humming and praying, bowing to it. They hummed and worshipped it, as if it were a god. And there sat the Sword, lodged in it, shining.

  Reece’s heart quickened as he saw it.

  “Our Sword,” he gasped.

  “You waste your energy to look at it,” Centra said. “It’s as gone from you as if it were in another world. You’ll never get it back. Once the Faws have something, it is theirs.”

  Centra turned to Reece and grasped his wrist, his expression earnest.

  “I tell you, turn back now.”

  There came the sudden ring of a sword being drawn, and Reece turned to see Conven, standing there, sword in hand, staring down at the village defiantly.

  Reece turned and looked at Centra.

  “We turn back for no one, my friend.”

  Reece drew his sword, too, and as soon as he did, suddenly, everything changed.

  There came the sound of gushing water, and Reece felt his feet wobble, as he looked down.

  “MUDSLIDE!” Centra yelled, the first to react, diving to jump out of the way.

  But he was not quick enough.

  Reece felt his legs being knocked out from under him, and he screamed, as did all the others, as they were suddenly caught up in a great gushing river of mud, sending them flying down the hill, straight down into the village, faster than he could react—and right toward the Faws.

  As Reece looked straight ahead, he saw dozens of Faws appear, carrying a huge net. It was then that Reece realized that they had started the mudslide, that they had been watching them the whole time, that he had walked right into a trap. And that he had underestimated the enemy. He should have listened to Centra all along.

  It was too late now. He went sliding at full speed with the others, right into the center of the camp, and braced himself as the huge net swallowed them all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Thor lunged for Andronicus, sword drawn, aiming to kill him.

  Andronicus’ eyes opened wide in surprise; clearly he had not been expecting this from his son. Yet his reflexes kicked in, and as Thor charged, Andronicus dodged, stepping out of the way right before the sword could impale him.

  Thorgrin continued charging, right into the crowd of unsuspecting Empire soldiers, killing them left and right with a great battle cry. He slashed and stabbed one after the other, and soon, the bodies piled up, and soldiers ran to get out of his way.

  Chaos ensued in the camp. Empire soldiers, confused, rushed
to grab weapons, to don armor, to counter-attack. But they were no match for Thor. Thor was a thing of beauty, a one-man killing machine.

  “KILL HIM!” Rafi screamed to Andronicus. “Why do you just stand there?”

  But Andronicus stood there, frozen, loath to kill his son. For the first time in his life, he was unsure what to do.

  Rafi, grunting in frustration, stepped forward himself. He threw back his hood, reached out, and raised both palms for Thorgrin.

  A scarlet light shot from his hand and swirled around Thor, embracing him. Rafi screamed, shaking his hands violently, and the light grew thicker and thicker.

  Finally, Thor, immersed in the circle of light, slowed down his killing, then stopped and sank to his knees. He reached up for his head, screaming, then slumped down and lay there, unconscious.

  Andronicus came and stood over him, Rafi beside him. Despite everything, it pained him to see his son lying there.

  “You kept him alive?” Andronicus asked. It was more of a warning than a question.

  “Reluctantly,” Rafi answered.

  “Is he back on our side?” Andronicus asked, hopefully.

  “For now,” Rafi said. “There was a lapse in his will. He has a very strong will, stronger than I have ever encountered. I don’t know how long I can control him. It is dangerous to keep him alive. I have told you this already. You must kill him now.”

  Andronicus shook his head.

  “He is back to our side,” he said, “he will not lapse again.”

  Rafi scowled.

  “Your weakness for your son is going to get us all killed. I warn you: if you do not kill him yourself, then someday, I will.”

  Andronicus turned to Rafi and reddened.

  “I care not what power you wield,” he said. “Speak to me this way again, and I myself will cast you down to the lowest ring of hell.”

  Rafi turned and stormed off.

  Andronicus, riled, stood over his son, looked down at him and wondered. Was Thor’s love for him real? Or was it due to Rafi’s spell?

  “Shall we shackle him, my lord?” an Empire general asked, coming up, holding shackles.

  Andronicus shoved the general hard in the chest, knocking him back.

  “Kill him,” Andronicus ordered, pointing to the general.

  Several Empire soldiers came running over and dragged away the Empire general, who stared back, confused.

  Andronicus knelt down, picked up his son, and carried him gently in his arms.

  “It is okay, Thornicus,” he said softly, as he carried him off. “You are with your father again now.”

  Andronicus would carry him to the finest tent and give him the finest sleeping quarters. He was certain Rafi’s spell would hold this time. Tomorrow would be the final battle with Thor’s people, and Andronicus needed him. Once Thor had killed his own, Andronicus was certain, there would be no turning back.

  Thor would be his forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Kendrick raised his shield and dropped to one knee, as blow after blow rained down upon him. He stood in the thick of the battle, completely surrounded by Empire men, three of them, large brutes, charging at him, and slamming down at his shield with their battle axes and hammers. The ring of metal reverberated in his ears, and his wrists were bruised as he held back the blows, pouring down, one after the other. They were fierce, and his arms shook.

  Kendrick defeated many combatants here today, but his men were too outnumbered by the fresh Empire reinforcements. At this point, he was just holding on for dear life; he barely had the strength to parry. He knew he would not be able to last much longer.

  Not far away, Erec, Bronson, and Srog fought brilliantly, too, yet they were in the same predicament: all of them were getting tired, increasingly surrounded by Empire men, unable to gather momentum and fight back. They were now all just defending, fighting for survival.

  All around Kendrick men were beginning to fall, their screams ringing out, MacGils, Silver, Silesians, and McClouds. The tide of battle had turned against them, and Kendrick momentarily closed his eyes, sweat dripping into them, and felt his moments were numbered. He knew he should be grateful: he had, at least, got his wish: he would die fighting, on his feet, as a true warrior, defending his homeland. It would be a noble death, one that any warrior would wish for.

  As Kendrick held back the blows, he thought he heard a distant noise; at first he thought he was imagining it. It sounded like a distant rumbling, like a herd of horses charging.

  Soon, it grew more intense. The ground began to tremble, then to shake. And then, there came the screams of men. But not his men—Empire men. All around him, Empire soldiers began to turn and flee. Soon, the blows stopped raining down on Kendrick, as the men fighting him turned and ran.

  Kendrick was confused. He turned to see what the commotion was, and as he looked up at the mountainside, he saw a sight that he would never forget for as long as he lived. He blinked several times, trying to comprehend it.

  There, charging down the steep mountainside, were at least a thousand bulls, huge red animals, racing down, livid with rage, and heading right into the thick of Empire soldiers. They gored men left and right with their horns, and the battlefield turned red with blood. All of the Empire soldiers on the outskirts of the battlefield, to their bad fortune, were killed by the animals.

  Yet still more animals charged down, a never-ending stream, trampling men, rushing deeper and deeper into the field of battle, trampling as many soldiers as they could. Some of his own men fell, too, but, being so outnumbered, it was mostly Empire.

  Kendrick could hardly believe it: of all the crazy things he had seen in battle, this had to be the craziest. They had all been given a second chance.

  As Kendrick looked up into the rising second sun, he saw another sight which astounded him, even more so: there, leading the charge of thousands of soldiers, was none other than his younger brother, Godfrey, flanked by Akorth and Fulton. They rode clumsily, like warriors unused to battle, yet still they rode, racing down the slope, following the bulls, and bringing thousands of men with them.

  Kendrick smiled wide. His brother had arrived after all.

  This was the opportunity Kendrick had been waiting for, and he was determined to seize it. Kendrick, along with Erec, Bronson, and Srog, turned and charged for the Empire, reinvigorated, screaming a great battle cry.

  Behind him his men rallied, the tide of battle changing yet again, as they all rushed forward into the thick of the fleeing Empire soldiers and fought back, killing hundreds, while doing their best to dodge the bulls. Godfrey’s men joined the fray, and they all fought together, pushing back the Empire men.

  They chased them all the way through the valley, slaughtering men left and right. Soon, they had managed to even the odds, no longer so outnumbered as they were before. Before long they were clearly winning, outnumbering even the remaining Empire men.

  Kendrick’s heart pounded with joy as he realized they were going to win this battle after all, thanks to Godfrey and his bulls. He shook his head as he fought, smiling to himself. Leave it up to his younger brother to find some crafty way to win this war.

  As they chased the Empire men around a bend, finishing off the remnants, a new vista opened up, and Kendrick suddenly stopped short, along with all the others, at what he saw.

  There, on the horizon, riding to face them in battle, was yet another division of Empire men. Many thousands more than Kendrick had.

  Yet that was not what deterred him. What made him stop, made him freeze in his tracks, was the person leading the charge.

  There, riding out front, sword held high, was one of the men he cared for most in the world: Thorgrin.

  Kendrick’s greatest fear had come true: their time to meet in battle had come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Gwendolyn walked in awe through the Valley of Trapped Souls, the endless maze of frozen bodies, Alistair, Steffen, and Aberthol beside her, Krohn at her feet, snarli
ng. They were all on edge. It was the most eerie and desolate landscape that Gwen had ever entered. Every twenty feet or so another ice capsule protruded from the earth, each perhaps ten feet high, and just wide enough to contain a body. They were translucent, and inside each Gwen saw a frozen body, staring out with an expression of agony.

  “What is this place?” Steffen asked.

  “They are all trapped souls,” Aberthol remarked. “Destined to live out the rest of their days here.” Aberthol’s voice shook with exhaustion as he walked, leaning on his staff, the sound of it clicking on the ice floor the only thing to break the silence. “It appears in many of the ancient books. I never knew it really existed. And I never thought to lay eyes upon it in my lifetime. Then again, I never thought I’d take a journey such as this at my age.”

  “But who are these people?” Steffen pressed.

  “This place is a sort of purgatory,” Aberthol said, “a place where those of the magic race are brought to be trapped. Punished. To serve out their sentence.”

  “For how long?” Alistair asked, looking up in wonder. She examined one face, of a young girl, trapped behind the ice, face pressed up against it in an expression of sadness.

  “For some, it could be centuries,” Aberthol replied. “Their experience of time is different than ours.”

  “What did Argon do to deserve such a sentence?” Steffen asked.

  Gwendolyn felt overwhelmed by guilt as she pondered the question. She had been thinking the same exact thing, thinking how guilty she felt that Argon was here on her account. And how humbled with gratitude she was to imagine that he would risk all of it, would risk being put in this place, to save her life.

  “He violated the sacred law,” Gwen said softly to the others. “He interfered in human affairs to help me. He saved my life. Seeing this, I wish he hadn’t. I would have rather died on the battlefield that day than to see him suffer this way.”

  “Do not blame yourself,” Alistair said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Remember, Argon had his own destiny, too. Maybe it was his destiny to help you.”