A Rule of Queens (Book #13 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

by Morgan Rice

  A soldier, seeing an opportunity, rushed forward with his sword and swung for Strom’s head; Strom whirled out of the way and chopped off the man’s legs at the last moment.

  The battle raged, the fighting went on and on, brutal, vicious, and Alistair, filled with a sense of foreboding, determined to keep Erec safe, stood her ground, waiting, wanting to join Strom’s men, but knowing her place was here, by Erec’s side. So far, it was quiet within the city walls. Eerily quiet. Too quiet.

  As soon as she thought it, suddenly, that all changed. Alistair heard a great battle shout, and charging around the corner of the house of the sick there poured out hundreds of Bowyer’s men, charging right for the doors.

  They stopped but feet away, as they saw Alistair there, proudly, unyielding, her dozen watchmen behind her. Alistair knew instantly that they were all well outnumbered by Bowyer’s men, and from the smug look on his face, she saw that Bowyer’s lead knight, Aknuf, knew it, too.

  A thick silence fell over them as Aknuf stepped forward and faced off against Alistair.

  “Out of the way, witch,” he said. “And I will kill you quickly. Stand there, and it will be slow and painful.”

  Alistair stood her ground, unwavering.

  “You will not pass through these doors,” she said firmly. “Unless I am dead at your feet.”

  “Very well, woman,” he replied. “Just remember: you brought this on yourself.”

  Aknuf raised his sword high, and as he did, her dozen watchmen rushed forward to protect her. They all met in battle but ten yards before her. There arose a great clash of arms, as the watchmen fought valiantly, going blow for blow with Bowyer’s men.

  But they were vastly outnumbered, and soon Bowyer’s men closed in on her. Alistair knew that in but moments they would lose the battle, and she could not stand to see these men die on her watch, protecting her and Erec.

  Alistair closed her eyes and raised her palms up high overhead, towards the sky. She used all of her might to summon her power.

  Please, God. Let it come to me.

  She slowly felt a great power rising up within her, and as she did, a brilliant white light, like a streak of lightning, burst through the dawn sky, came shooting down at her from the clouds high above. She pulled her arms down and aimed her palms at Bowyer’s men, and as she did, a great noise erupted as chaos ensued.

  Hail the size of rocks began falling from the sky; the sound of ice cracking armor filled the air. Alistair directed the hail to the other side of the battle line, missing her own men and pounding down on Bowyer’s men, one man at a time, with such force that it knocked them down, shrieking. It freed up her watchmen, one at a time, who fought back, killing them left and right.

  Bowyer’s men, terrified, unable to raise their swords, pounded by the ice, turned and ran for the city gates, her watchmen chasing after them.

  There came another great battle shout from behind her, and Alistair turned to see Strom pouring into the city with all his men. She looked up and saw the hillsides filled with dead soldiers, heard the trumpet sounding out three times for victory, and she realized Strom had won.

  Alistair looked out and saw the hundreds of Bowyer’s men, still fleeing from the house of the sick, running for the open city gates. They were trying to escape, surely to regroup on another day, on another field of battle. Alistair was determined that would not be.

  Alistair redirected her palm, and as she did, a white light shot forth and the huge iron portcullis, a foot thick, came slamming down at the city gates, stopping Bowyer’s men from leaving.

  Aknuf turned, trapped with his men, and watched, terrified, as Strom’s men closed in.

  Strom, sitting proudly on his horse, turned to her, as if to ask for her approval.

  Alistair, thinking of Erec, nodded gravely.

  With one final battle cry, Strom charged with his men, closing in on the men at the gates from all directions.

  Alistair stood there and watched, satisfied, as their shouts arose.

  Finally, it was over. Finally, the island was safe. Finally, justice had been done.

  *

  Alistair stood at Erec’s bedside in the dim chamber, watching the morning sunrise, feeling an immense sense of relief. Victory was theirs, the drama was all behind them, and all that remained was for her and Erec to be as they once were, for Erec to rise, to be well again, to be by her side.

  Alistair held her hand to his forehead and prayed silently, as she had since the battle had ended.

  Please, God. Allow Erec to waken. Allow this all to be over.

  Alistair felt a subtle shift in the air, and she watched, elated, as Erec opened his eyes, slowly. His eyes were bright, a bright blue in the early morning, and he smiled as he looked up at her. The color had returned to his face, and he looked more alert than he’d ever had. She could see that he was finally healed, back to himself.

  Erec sat up and embraced her, and she leaned forward and rushed into his arms, tears falling from her eyes as she held him tight. It felt so good to be in his arms again, so good to have him back to life.

  “Where am I?” he asked. “What has happened?”

  “Shhh,” she said, smiling, putting a finger to his lips. “All is well now.”

  He blinked, alarmed, as if remembering.

  “Our wedding day,” he said. “I was…stabbed. Are you safe? Is the kingdom safe?”

  “I am fine, my lord,” she answered calmly. “And your kingdom is ready for your ascent.”

  He hugged her, and she hugged him back, and she wept, not thinking this day would ever come, overwhelmed with joy to have him back at her side. She wanted to tell him everything. How she had sacrificed herself for him. Her imprisonment. How she had almost died. How he had almost died. The battles that had raged. Everything that happened.

  But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was that he was alive, safe, that they would be back together again. Words could not explain how she felt. So instead, she held him tight, and let her embrace speak for her.

  Their life was just beginning, she knew. And nothing—nothing—would ever keep her away from him again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Darius raised his sledgehammer with both hands and brought it down hard, smashing a boulder to bits under the sun of another bright, hot Empire morning. Surrounded by all his friends in the dusty working fields, he felt the sweat on his brow rolling down into his eyes, but he did not bother to wipe it away. Instead he raised his sledgehammer and grunted as he smashed another rock. And another.

  Darius relived in his mind, again and again, the events of the day before, images flashing through his head. He was confused and frustrated as he thought of Loti. Why had she reacted the way she had? Was there no part of her that was grateful? How had she managed to turn his heroic acts into something he should be ashamed of? Did she really never want to see him again?

  And after the way she’d reacted, did he ever really even want to see her?

  Darius set down his hammer and caught his breath, the green dust rising up and settling in his face and hair and nose. He thought also about what he had done, killing those Empire soldiers, drawing upon his powers, and he wondered if the dead men would be found on that remote field. Surely, eventually, they would, even if it took one moon cycle or two. Perhaps when the rains came and washed away that avalanche. What would happen then? Would the Empire then come for retribution, as Loti said? Had he just signed a death sentence for them all?

  Or was it possible, buried as deep beneath that avalanche as they were, that they would never be found? That the wild animals, notorious for roaming that area, would eat their corpses before they were discovered?

  As Darius picked up his hammer and smashed rock under the watchful eyes of the Empire taskmasters, his thoughts drifted to the arrival of his sister, Sandara, and of the new people she had brought with her. The arrival of those people from the Ring had been a day unlike any other for his village. He thought of Sandara’s new people hiding
out in the caves, and he wondered if they would all be seen by the Empire. Surely, it was only a matter of time until they were, when conflict with the Empire would be inevitable. Unless they fled beforehand.

  But to where?

  To Darius’s continued frustration, the village elders—indeed, the entire village—seemed to hold firm in their belief that confrontation with the Empire was not inevitable, that life could keep marching on the way it was. Darius saw it differently. He felt that things were changing. Wasn’t this a sign from the gods, the arrival of all these warriors from across the sea, who too had cause to fight the Empire? Shouldn’t they be harnessed, shouldn’t they all fight together, to overthrow Volusia? Wasn’t this the gift they’d all been waiting for?

  The others didn’t see it that way. Instead, they wanted to turn them away, to send them off. They saw it as another reason to keep a low profile in the Empire, to do everything they could to keep their pathetic little lives as steady as they were now.

  Darius recalled the last time he had seen Sandara, as she had departed for the Ring. He had not thought he would ever see her again. Seeing her again now had both surprised and inspired him. Sandara had managed to cross the great sea, to survive amongst the Empire army, and to come back. Partly it was because she was a great healer—and yet, in her heart, she was also a warrior. After all, they shared the same father. It made Darius feel that anything was possible. It made him feel that he, too, could one day get out of this place.

  Darius thought back warmly to the night before, during the festivities, when he had spent half the night catching up with his sister, talking to her around the fires. He had witnessed firsthand her love for Kendrick, that fine warrior. They had taken an instant liking to each other, each recognizing the warrior spirit in one another, and he seemed to Darius to be a leader of men. Darius had encouraged his big sister to follow her passion, to be with Kendrick, regardless of whatever the elders had to say. He did not understand how she, so fearless in every other part of our life, could be so afraid to declare her love for him, to spur tradition, to spur the taboo of marrying another race. Was she like everyone else here, so afraid of the elders, of others’ opinions? Why did it matter so much what they all thought?

  Darius blinked sweat from his eyes as he smashed another rock, and another. He could feel the eyes of all of his friends on him on this day. Since the day before, when he had arrived with Loti, he felt the entire village looked upon him differently. They had all watched him run off to bring Loti back, had all witnessed him run off to face the Empire, alone, without fear of consequence. And they had seen him return, with her. He had gained great respect in their eyes.

  He also seemed to have gained their skepticism: no one seemed to believe their story, to believe that Loti had gotten lost, that they had merely found each other and walked back. Perhaps they all knew Darius too well. They looked on him with different eyes, as if they knew that something had happened, knew he was holding a great secret. He wanted to tell them, but he knew that he could not. If he did, he would have to explain how he did it, how he, the youngest and smallest of the bunch, the one no one thought would amount to anything, had alone killed three Empire warriors with superior weapons and armor—and a zerta. It would come out that he used his power. And he would be an outcast. They would exile him. As they had, Darius suspected, his father.

  “So are you going to tell me?” came a voice.

  Darius looked over to see Raj standing beside him, a mischievous smile on his face. Nearby, also looking his way, were Desmond and Luzi, each smashing rock, glancing over at Darius.

  “Tell you what?” Darius asked.

  “How you did it,” Raj said. “Come on. You didn’t find Loti wandering alone. You did something. Did you kill the soldiers? Did she?”

  Darius looked over and saw the other boys coming over, looking at him, and he could see they all had this question burning in their minds. Darius raised his hammer, took aim at a rock, and smashed it again.

  “Come on,” Raj said. “I gave you a zerta ride. You owe me.”

  Darius laughed.

  “You didn’t give it to me,” he replied. “I chose to go with you.”

  “Okay,” Raj conceded, “but tell me all the same. I need a story. I live for stories of valor. And this day is going on way too long.”

  “The day has barely begun,” Luzi said.

  “Precisely,” Raj said. “Too long. Like every other day.”

  “Why don’t you tell us a story of valor?” Luzi said to Raj, seeing that Darius would not reply.

  “Me?” Raj replied. “I don’t think you shall find one amongst our people.”

  “You are quite wrong about that,” Desmond said. “There are always stories of valor, even amongst the oppressed.”

  “Especially amongst the oppressed,” Luzi added.

  They all turned to him, his deep, commanding voice filled with confidence.

  “Do you have one, then?” Raj pressed, leaning on his hammer, breathing hard.

  Desmond raised his hammer and smashed rock, and was silent for so long, Darius was sure he would not reply. They all settled back into the rhythm of smashing rock, when finally Desmond surprised them all by speaking up, looking down and smashing rock all the while.

  “My father,” Desmond said. “The elders will tell you he died in a mine. That is the story they would like you to believe. To know otherwise would cause too much dissent, foment too much revolution. I will tell you: he died in no mine.”

  Darius studied Desmond with the others as a heavy silence fell over them, and he could see his furrowed brow, the seriousness in his face, as if he were struggling with something internally.

  “And how should you know?” Desmond asked.

  “Because I was there,” Desmond replied, looking him in the eyes, cold and hard, defiant. With his commanding presence, several other boys began crowding around, too. They all wanted to hear his tale, which commanded attention. The air of truth was ringing out, such a rare thing amongst his villagers.

  “One day,” Desmond continued, “the taskmaster whipped him too hard. My father snatched the whip from the man’s hands and choked him to death with it. I remember watching, being so young, so proud of him.

  “When it was done, when we were both standing there looking down at the lifeless body, I asked my father what was next. Was it time to revolt? But he had no answer. I could see it in his eyes: he did not know what was next. He had given in to a moment of passion, a moment of justice, of freedom, and in that moment he had risen above it all. But after that, he did not know what to do. Where does life go from there?”

  Desmond paused, smashing several rocks, wiping sweat from his brow, until he continued again.

  “That moment passed. Life went on. Within the hour, horns of warning sounded, and I was with my father as he was surrounded by a dozen taskmasters. He had urged me to hide in the woods, but I would not leave his side. Until he smacked me so hard with the whip across my mouth, that finally, I did.

  “I hid behind a tree, not far, and I watched it all. The taskmasters…they did not kill him quickly,” Desmond said, his voice choked with emotion as he stopped hammering and looked away. “He fought back valiantly. He even managed to whip several of them. He left marks on them which I am sure are still there to this day.

  “But he was one man with a big heart and a whip. They were dozens of professional soldiers, with steel weapons, in armor. And they enjoyed to kill.”

  Desmond shook his head, quiet for several minutes, the boys riveted, all silent, all stopping their work.

  “I can still hear my father’s screams, to this day,” Desmond said. “When I go to sleep at night, I hear them. I see him struggling. In my dreams, I wish I was older, armed, and try to see myself fighting back, killing them all, saving him. But I was too young. There was nothing I could do.”

  He finally stopped, the work fields completely silent. Finally, he raised a hammer and brought it down with all his might, s
mashing a large boulder into pieces.

  “He died in no mine,” he concluded softly. And then he fell silent, going back to work.

  Darius’s heart was heavy as he contemplated the tale, all the boys quiet now, a somber air over all of them. Raj’s smile had long faded, and Darius wondered if that was the tale of valor he’d hoped to hear.

  After a long while of smashing rock, Raj came up beside Darius.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Raj said to him quietly, out of earshot of the others. “What happened out there?”

  Darius continued smashing rock, shaking his head, silent.

  “They changed their mind,” Darius insisted. “They let her go.”

  “And the soldiers who changed their mind,” Raj said, a mischievous smile on his face, “would they be back in Volusia now? Or shall we never be seeing them again?”

  Darius turned to see Raj smiling back at him knowingly, admiringly.

  “It’s a long road back to Volusia,” Darius said. “Stronger men have been known to get lost themselves.”

  *

  Darius stood in the small dirt field behind his cottage, the click-clacks of his wooden sword filling the air as he attacked the well-worn wooden target. It was a large cross he had made out of layers of bamboo, tied together and stuck into the ground, one which he had been swinging at since the time he could walk. In the dirt, his footprints were well-worn, embedded in the ground before it.

  The cross was crooked by now, nearly falling over, but Darius didn’t care. It served its purpose. He slashed at it again and again, left and right, ducking an imaginary enemy, spinning around, slashing its stomach. He lunged forward, jabbed, turned his sword sideways and blocked an imaginary blow. In his mind, he saw a great many enemies coming at him, an entire army approaching, and he fought and fought in the sunset, at the end of his day shift, until he was dripping with sweat.

  The persistent sounds of his swordplay filled the air, and while his neighbors yelled out to complain, he didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He would slash away the day’s memories, every day’s memories, until he was spent with exhaustion.