by Morgan Rice
Godfrey chugged his, drinking greedily, realizing how badly he’d craved it. He savored every sip, realizing as he drank how different this ale tasted from the ale he knew back in the Ring; it was brownish in color, had a nutty, spicy aftertaste to it, tasting something of earth and ashes and fire. It also had a kick, an aftertaste which burned the back of his throat.
At first Godfrey did not know if he liked it or not; but as he finished it off and set it down, as he gave it a few moments to kick in, he decided it was the best ale he’d ever had. He didn’t know if it just because he was parched, or nervous, or homesick—but he was sure he’d never had anything like it. He also, very quickly, realized it was the strongest ale he’d ever had, feeling light-headed after just one.
He turned and noticed the delighted eyes of Akorth and Fulton, and realized they loved it, too.
“Now I can die,” Fulton said.
“I can live in this city,” Akorth said.
“You won’t ever get me to leave,” Fulton added. “The Ring? Where’s that?”
“Who cares?” Akorth said. “Give me a supply of this and I’ll convert. I’ll grow horns.”
They turned and eyed the sixth and final mug of ale, sitting there on the bar untouched, waiting for Ario. Akorth reached out and slid it over to him.
“Drink while you can,” Akorth said. “You may not get a second chance. A terrible thing, to die never having had a drink.”
“And be quick about it,” Fulton added. “You don’t leave a full glass before me and think I won’t drink it.”
Ario, unsure, tentatively reached out and took the mug. He drank slowly, tasting it, and made a face.
“Uggh,” he said. “This is awful.”
Akorth laughed, reached out and snatched it from his hands, the foam spilling over the edge and onto his wrist.
“I won’t ask you twice,” he said, “and I won’t let it go to waste. Try it again when you have hairs on your chest.”
Akorth raised the pint to his mouth, but suddenly, unexpectedly, Ario reached out and snatched it from Akorth’s hand. Akorth looked back at him, shocked, as Ario calmly lifted the pint and slowly and steadily drank the entire thing, his throat gulping as he did.
He didn’t even wince as he gently put it back down, staring Akorth right in the eye.
Akorth and Fulton looked back at him, clearly shocked. Godfrey was, too.
“Where did you learn to drink like that, boy?” Godfrey asked, impressed.
“I thought you’d never had a drink?” Fulton pressed.
“I didn’t,” Ario answered calmly.
Godfrey examined him and wondered even more about this boy, so calm, so expressionless, yet always surprising him. He was a boy of few words, yet much action; he was so understated that one underestimated him—and that was his great advantage.
Godfrey ordered another round, and as it came, he took another long sip and, keeping his head low, he discreetly turned and surveyed his surroundings. Scores of Empire soldiers occupied the room, and he scanned the crowd, looking for any signs of an officer, of someone important. Someone who could be bought. He searched for a face that exuded corruption, greed—an expression that Godfrey, in all his years in the taverns, had come to recognize well.
Suddenly, Godfrey was jostled, a shoulder bumping him hard on his back. He stumbled forward, spilling the rest of his beer.
Annoyed, Godfrey turned to see who the offender was, and he saw a large Empire soldier, a foot taller than he, shoulders as wide as he, glaring down at him. His yellow skin turned orange, and Godfrey wondered if this was what happened when they were drunk—or mad.
“Don’t get in my way again,” he seethed to Godfrey, “or it will be the last time you do.”
“I’m sorry—” Godfrey began, wanting to draw attention away, about to turn around—but suddenly Merek stepped forward.
“He wasn’t in your way,” Merek snapped, scowling at the man fearlessly. “You bumped him.”
Godfrey’s heart dropped as he watched Merek confronting the man. Merek, Godfrey was beginning to realize, was way too hotheaded. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring him. He was too unpredictable, too volatile—and he carried way too big of a chip on his shoulder.
“In fact,” Merek added, “I think you owe my friend an apology.”
The Empire soldier, after getting over his initial shock, grinned down at Merek, as he loosened his neck and cracked his knuckles. It was an ominous sound.
He stared down at Merek as if he were food or prey that had walked right into a trap.
“How about I tear out your heart and feed it to your friend. Would that work as an apology?”
Merek, fearless, sneered back, determined, even though the man was twice his size. Godfrey did not know what he was possibly thinking.
“You can try,” Merek replied, stealthily reaching down and resting a hand on his dagger. “But your hands better be a lot quicker than your mind.”
The Empire soldier now looked unamused; his face darkened.
“Merek, it’s OK,” Godfrey said, reaching out and placing a palm on his chest. Godfrey heard his own words slurring, and wondered just how strong that ale was. Now he regretted it; how he wished his mind was sharper.
“Should have had that drink,” Akorth said, shaking his head. “That’s what happens when you don’t have any drink. You look for a fight.”
“Well, you look for a fight when you drink, too,” Fulton added.
The Empire soldier, annoyed, looked from Merek to Akorth to Fulton, and as he did, narrowed his eyes, as if realizing something. He reached up and abruptly lowered Godfrey’s hood, revealing his face.
“First Finian I’ve seen without red hair,” the soldier observed. He looked Godfrey up and down, suspiciously—then he looked them all over. “In fact, those cloaks don’t fit at all, do they? And your skin: it’s not half as pale as it should be.”
The Empire soldier, realizing, grinned wide, and Godfrey gulped, the situation going from bad to worse.
“You’re not Finians at all, are you?” he continued. Then he turned and yelled out over his shoulder. “Hey, fellas!”
The tavern quieted as a dozen Empire soldiers ambled their way over. Godfrey noticed with horror that, if possible, they were all even bigger than he.
They came up beside him.
“Now look what you’ve done with your big mouth,” Godfrey hissed to Merek.
“Rather have a big mouth than cower in fear,” Merek snapped back.
“Look what we have here!” the Empire soldier said loudly, as they all looked. “A bunch of humans in disguise!”
Godfrey swallowed hard, sweat pouring down the back of his neck, as another dozen soldiers crowded around. Godfrey looked for the exit, but the soldiers all crammed in so tight that they were completely surrounded.
Merek suddenly reached for his dagger, but two soldiers stepped up, grabbed his wrist, and yanked it away before he could do anything. Then they grabbed his arms, and he struggled uselessly to break free.
Godfrey was too scared to move. The Empire soldier leaned in close, just a few inches away, grinning down at Godfrey.
“Now what is a fat little white boy like you doing in our tavern? Disguised as a Finian?”
“I have gold!” Godfrey blurted out, knowing it was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time, but feeling desperate and not knowing what else to say.
The Empire soldier’s eyes opened wide in amusement.
“He has gold, has he!?” he called out, laughing, and all the other soldiers broke into laughter. “I’m sure you do, fat boy. I’m sure you do.”
“Wait, I can explain—” Godfrey began.
But before he could finish his words, Godfrey caught a glimpse of a fist, coming straight up, so fast, out of nowhere. The next thing he knew he felt it smashing into his chin, felt his teeth hitting each other, felt the reverberation throughout his skull, and he knew he was finished, that his life was over. He felt himself falling stra
ight back, and as he did, he looked up and saw the ceiling of this dingy tavern, warped, spotted, and he had one final thought: if only I could have had one more pint of ale.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Erec stood at the bow of the ship, Alistair beside him, Strom at his other side, hundreds of his men behind him, working the ship, lowering the sails, and beside them his fleet, a half dozen ships, all sailing together for Boulder Isle. Erec looked out, straight ahead, at the fast approaching isle, the sound of ocean waves crashing all around him, and he wondered.
It was a sheer wall of rock, this island, like a giant boulder dropped down into the sea, rising a hundred feet high and a good mile in diameter. There was no shore of any sort, no way to land, to disembark. To the casual passerby it might not even seem like an isle—just a giant rock in the sea. But Erec knew better. As he looked closely he saw the entrance, camouflaged in the rock, a single, huge arch, carved right into the rock, and behind it an iron portcullis. It was like an island built into a carved-out mountain.
Standing before the entrance, on a narrow stone ledge, stood a dozen archers with crossbows at the ready, aimed at the ship, faces serious, visors down. In their center stood their commander, a hardened man Erec knew well: Krov. He stood there proudly, a stocky man with a stark bald head, covered in battle scars, a face weathered from the sun and salt air, and a too-long beard, and he stared sternly down at Erec as if he had never met him once in his life.
Erec’s ship approached the entrance, and Erec stood there and looked up at Krov, wondering at the hostile reception.
Both armies faced each other in the tense silence, the only sound that of the crashing of the waves into the boulders.
“Would you aim arrows at a friend?” Erec called out, over the crashing of the ocean.
Krov smirked back.
“And since when are you a friend to me?” Krov answered coldly, hands on hips.
Erec was caught off guard by his response.
“Do you know who I am? I am Erec, son of the late King of the Southern Isles, friend and allies to you and your fathers for four generations.”
“Aye, I know who you are,” he replied coldly. “All too well. Allies is a stretch.”
Erec stared back, puzzled.
“You fought with my father, you shed blood for my father,” Erec called out. “Our cause has always been your cause. I fought beside you myself in one too many battles at sea. And we have saved you more than once from capture by the Empire. Why do you keep your arrows trained at us?”
Krov reached up and scratched his bald head.
“Those are all half-truths,” he called back. “My father helped yours more than once. And I think you have received the better end of the bargain.”
He glanced over Erec’s ships.
“You don’t arrive here as a friend,” Krov called out. “You arrive with combat ships. Perhaps you are coming to take the island.”
Erec shook his head.
“And why would I want this hunk of garbage you call an island?”
Krov stared back, seeming shocked, then slowly, he broke into a wide grin.
Suddenly, Krov threw back his head in robust laughter, and the tension broke on both sides. His men lowered their arrows, and Erec’s men lowered theirs.
“Erec, you old bastard!” Krov called out, jovial. “It warms my heart to see you again!”
Krov reached out, threw a huge metal grappling hook through the air, and the cord unraveled as it sailed in an arc and landed aboard Erec’s stern.
“What are you waiting for?” Krov scolded his men. “You heard the man! He’s a friend! Pull them in!”
Krov’s men dropped their crossbows and they all rushed forward, yanking the ropes hand over hand, pulling Erec’s ship in. Krov then jumped down onto the stone ledge, and as Erec disembarked, he rushed forward and embraced him in a great bear hug. Erec, as always, was caught off guard by Krov’s unpredictable ways; he seemed as if he would just as easily kill you as hug you. Part pirate, part mercenary and part soldier—Erec, as his father, never quite knew where to place Krov and his isle of Boulder men.
Krov leaned back and studied Erec’s face.
“I have seen your father rarely and you less,” Krov said. “You have aged. You are a man now. You and your brother,” Krov said, nodding to Strom as he disembarked, too, and nodded back. “Why haven’t you come to see me sooner?”
Erec studied him, too, and saw he’d aged over the years. His beard was now streaked with gray, his cheeks had reddened, his bald head was lined, and he had grown a small belly. Yet he was still as strong as Erec remembered, his grip like iron with his calloused sea hands.
“Our father is dead,” Strom announced.
Krov looked to Erec for confirmation, and Erec nodded. Krov’s eyes glazed over with sadness.
“A shame,” he said. “He was a good man. A good king. Hard as a rock, but fair. I loved the old bastard.”
“Thank you,” Erec said. “So did we.”
“And who is this?” Krov asked.
Erec followed his gaze and he turned and saw Alistair approaching, and they all stepped aside for her as Erec took her hand and helped her step up to the stone ledge.
“My beloved,” Erec replied. “My wife. Alistair.”
Krov took her hand and kissed it.
“You have good taste,” Krov said, then turned to her. “But what are you doing with an ugly old bastard like this?” he asked her with a wink and a smile.
Alistair smiled.
“He is neither,” she replied, “and even if he were ugly and old, I would still love him dearly.”
Krov smiled.
“A classy woman,” he said to Erec with a smile. “I am surprised she is with you.”
“And why wouldn’t she be?” Strom asked. “Erec is King now.”
Krov raised his eyebrows.
“King, are you?” he said. “I suppose you would be,” he said. “And a fine king you shall make,” he said, clasping his shoulder firmly.
Krov suddenly wheeled and yelled to his men.
“Well, what are you waiting for!?” he scolded. “Open the gate! You heard the man—a King has arrived!”
The heavy iron portcullis was raised, with a loud creaking noise, revealing the city behind it, a massive city that looked like a stadium.
They all followed Krov as he led them beneath the arc and across the threshold to the city, and as they did, Krov stepped up, took Alistair’s hand, and led her off to the side.
“My lady, stand here if you would.”
“But why?” she asked, confused.
“Because I don’t want you to get killed, too.”
Erec, confused, suddenly looked up as he crossed the threshold into the city, and out of the corner of his eye spotted a knight on horseback, wielding a lance, charging down at him.
Erec, his reflexes kicking in, jumped out of the way at the last second, and the lance cut through the air, barely missing him. At the same moment, a knight charged Strom from the other direction, and Strom, too, reacted, rolling and jumping out of the way just before he was struck.
Erec was shocked to find himself standing in the courtyard entrance to the city, a stadium of sorts, several knights in armor on horseback, all charging for him.
He looked over at Krov, who stood several feet away, grinning back devilishly.
“How soon you forget the ways of Bouldermen,” he said. “No one enters here unless they earn it. This is no isle of pansies, like your Southern Isles. It is an isle of warriors! You fight for entry here.”
“And what of a horse and a lance?” Strom called out, indignant.
Krov grinned.
“This is Boulder Isle,” he said. “Here, you must earn those, too.”
Erec jumped out of the way as yet another knight came charging for him, barely missing, and he rolled on the hard dirt. A dozen more knights charged and Erec looked at Strom and the two of them silently decided on a course of action.
As the next knight barreled down, Erec dodged, grabbed his lance, and in one smooth motion yanked it from his hands, sending the knight jerking forward and flying off his horse.
Erec immediately grabbed the reins and mounted the knight’s horse and, wielding his lance, kicked and raced off at a gallop.
Erec rode at full speed, aiming for a knight about to catch Strom unaware from the side. Erec reached him in time, jabbed him in his ribs with the blunt-edged lance, clearly used for sparring. The knight flew off and Strom, wasting no time, mounted his horse, snatching the knight’s lance.
Finally on equal footing, Erec did what he knew best, lowering his lance and preparing to joust with the opposing knights. He raced right for them, not waiting, weaving in and out and taking down one after the other, leaving a trail of clanging armor behind them as each of them hit the ground. These Bouldermen might all be hardened warriors, but none had the skill to match Erec, the champion of the Southern Islanders and a knight with no peer in the kingdoms.
Beside him, Strom was doing equal damage, leaving his own trail in his wake.
Erec heard a sudden rumbling behind him, and he glanced back to see another knight charging him from behind, wielding a wooden flail, about to strike him in the head; before Erec could react, Strom charged sideways, wielding his lance and knocking the knight backwards off his horse before he could finish swinging the flail.
“Now we are even!” Strom called out to Erec.
Erec and Strom raced past each other, turning in broad circles, and then charged together, heading toward the remaining knights charging their way. Erec lowered his visor and lance, and knocked a knight off his horse at the same time Strom did. Together they parted the group, picking them off one at a time, circling again and again until they finished them off.
The growing crowd surrounding the courtyard roared in delight. Erec and Strom faced them all, raising their visors and lances in a final lap, victorious.
Krov stepped forward to greet them, a broad smile on his face, and Erec did not know whether to thank him or kill him.
“That’s the Erec I remember!” Krov called out, and the crowd cheered again. “You’ve earned your stay here—both of you.”
