by Morgan Rice
A Vow of Glory
( Sorcerer's Ring - 5 )
Morgan Rice
“A breathtaking new epic fantasy series. Morgan Rice does it again! This magical sorcery saga reminds me of the best of J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, Rick Riordan, Christopher Paolini and J.R.R. Tolkien. I couldn’t put it down!”
—Allegra Skye, bestselling author of SAVED
In A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5 in the Sorcerer’s Ring), Thor embarks with his Legion friends on an epic quest into the vast wilds of the Empire to try to find the ancient Destiny Sword and save the Ring. Thor’s friendships deepen, as they journey to new places, face unexpected monsters and fight side by side in unimaginable battle. They encounter exotic lands, creatures and peoples beyond which they could have ever imagined, each step of their journey fraught with increasing danger. They will have to summon all their skills if they are to survive as they follow the trail of the thieves, deeper and deeper into the Empire. Their quest will bring them all the way into the heart of the Underworld, one of the seven realms of hell, where the undead rule and fields are lined with bones. As Thor must summon his powers, more than ever, he struggles to understand the nature of who he is.
Back in the Ring, Gwendolyn must lead half of King’s Court to the Western stronghold of Silesia, an ancient city perched on the edge of the Canyon that has stood for one thousand years. Silesia’s fortifications have allowed it to survive every attack throughout every century—but it has never been faced with an assault by a leader like Andronicus, by an army like his million men. Gwendolyn learns what it means to be queen as she takes on a leadership role, Srog, Kolk, Brom, Steffen, Kendrick and Godfrey by her side, preparing to defend the city for the massive war to come.
Meanwhile, Gareth is descending deeper into madness, trying to fend off a coup that would have him assassinated in King’s Court, while Erec fights for his life to save his love, Alistair and the Duke’s city of Savaria as the downed shield enables the wild creatures to invade. And Godfrey, wallowing in drink, will have to decide if he is ready to cast off his past and become the man his family expects him to be.
As they all fight for their lives and as things seem as if they can’t get any worse, the story ends with two shocking twists.
Will Gwendolyn survive the assault? Will Thor survive the Empire? Will the Destiny Sword be found?
With its sophisticated world-building and characterization, A VOW OF GLORY is an epic tale of friends and lovers, of rivals and suitors, of knights and dragons, of intrigues and political machinations, of coming of age, of broken hearts, of deception, ambition and betrayal. It is a tale of honor and courage, of fate and destiny, of sorcery. It is a fantasy that brings us into a world we will never forget, and which will appeal to all ages and genders. It is 75,000 words.
Morgan Rice
A VOW OF GLORY
“Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.”
—William Shakespeare
Troilus and Cressida
CHAPTER ONE
Andronicus rode proudly down the center of McCloud’s royal city, flanked by hundreds of his generals, and dragging behind him his most prized possession: King McCloud. Stripped of his armor, half-naked, his hairy body rolling with fat, King McCloud was bound by ropes and tied to the back of Andronicus’ saddle by a long rope circling his wrists.
As Andronicus rode slowly, reveling in his triumph, he dragged McCloud through the streets, over dirt and pebbles, stirring up a cloud of dust. McCloud’s people gathered and gaped. He could hear McCloud calling out, writhing in pain as he paraded him through the streets of his own city. Andronicus beamed. The faces of McCloud’s people crumpled in fear. Here was their former king, now the lowliest of slaves. It was one of the finest days Andronicus could remember.
Andronicus was surprised at how easy it had been to take McCloud’s city. It seemed as if McCloud’s men had been demoralized before the attack had even begun. Andronicus’s men had conquered them in a blaze of lightning, his thousands of soldiers swooping in, overriding the few soldiers who dared to defend, and swarming the city in the blink of an eye. They must have realized there was no point in resisting. They had all laid down their arms assuming, if they surrendered, Andronicus would take them captive.
But they did not know the great Andronicus. He despised surrender. He took no captives, and their lowering their weapons just made it all the easier for him.
The streets of McCloud’s city ran with blood, as Andronicus’ men swept every alley, every side street, butchering every man they could find. The women and children he had taken as slaves, as he always did. The houses they looted, one at a time.
As Andronicus rode now, slowly through the streets, surveying his triumph, he saw the corpses everywhere, the heaps of loot, the destroyed homes. He turned and nodded to one of his generals, and immediately the general raised a torch high, motioned to his men, and hundreds of them fanned throughout the city and set fire to the thatched roofs. Flames rose up all around them, reaching for the sky, and Andronicus could already begin to feel the heat from here.
“NO!” McCloud screamed, flailing on the ground behind him.
Andronicus grinned wider and picked up his pace, aiming for a particularly large rock; there came a satisfying thump, and he knew McCloud’s body had ridden over it.
Andronicus took great satisfaction in watching this city burn. As he had in every conquered city in his Empire, he would first raze the city to the ground, then build it up again, with his own men, his own generals, his own Empire. That was his way. He wanted no trace of the old. He was building a new world. The world of Andronicus.
The Ring, the sacred Ring which had eluded all of his ancestors, was now his territory. He could hardly conceive it. He breathed deeply, wondering just how great he was. Soon enough, he would cross the Highlands, and conquer the other half of the Ring, too. Then there would be no place left on the planet upon which his foot had not tread.
Andronicus rode up to the towering statue of McCloud, in the city square, and stopped before it. It stood there like a shrine, rising fifty feet, made of marble. It showed a version of McCloud that Andronicus did not recognize, a young, fit, muscular McCloud, wielding a sword proudly. It was egomaniacal. For that, Andronicus admired him. A part of him wanted to take it back home, install it in his palace as a trophy.
But another part of him was too disgusted by it. Without thinking, he reached down, took out his sling, a sling three times larger than that of any human, large enough to hold a rock the size of a small boulder, and he reached back and hurled it with all that he had.
The small boulder flew through the air and connected with the head of the statue. McCloud’s marble head shattered in pieces, exploding off the body. Andronicus then let out a shout, raised his two-handed flail, charged and swung with all he had.
Andronicus smashed the statue’s torso and the marble toppled, then crashed to the ground, shattering with a great noise. Andronicus turned his horse and made sure, as he rode, that McCloud’s body was scraped up over the shards.
“You will pay for that!” an agonized McCloud cried weakly.
Andronicus laughed. He had encountered many humans in his lifetime, but this one might just be the most pathetic of them all.
“Will I?” Andronicus yelled.
This McCloud was too thick-headed; he still did not appreciate the might of the great Andronicus. He would have to be taught, once and for all.
Andronicus scanned the city, and his eyes fell on what was surely McCloud’s castle. He kicked his horse and took off at a gallop, his men falling in behind him, as he dragged McCloud across the dusty courtyard.
Andronicus rode up the dozens of marble steps
, McCloud’s body thumping behind him, calling out and groaning with each step, then he continued to ride, right up through the marble entrance. Andronicus’ men were already standing guard at the doors, at their feet the bloody corpses of McCloud’s former guards. Andronicus grinned with satisfaction to see that already, every corner of the city was his.
Andronicus continued riding, right through the vast castle doors, inside a corridor of soaring arched ceilings, all made of marble. He marveled at the excess of this McCloud king. He clearly had spared no expense in indulging himself.
Now his day had come. Andronicus continue to ride with his men down the wide corridors, the horses’ hooves echoing off the walls, to what was clearly McCloud’s throne room. He burst through the oak doors and rode right to the center of the room, to an obscene throne, carved of gold, sitting in the center of the chamber.
Andronicus dismounted, climbed the golden steps slowly, and sat in it.
He breathed deeply as he turned and surveyed his men, his dozens of generals seated on horseback awaiting his command. He looked over at the bloody McCloud, still tied to his horse, groaning. He surveyed this room, examined the walls, the banners, the armor, the weaponry. He looked down at the workmanship of this throne, and he admired it. He considered melting it down, or perhaps bringing it back for himself. Maybe he would give it to one of his lesser generals. Of course, this throne was still nothing next to Andronicus’ own throne, the most massive throne of all the kingdoms, one which had taken twenty laborers forty years to build. The building of it had begun in his father’s lifetime, and had been completed on the day Andronicus had murdered his own father. It had been perfect timing.
Andronicus looked down at McCloud, this pathetic little human, and wondered how best to make him suffer. He examined the shape and size of his skull, and decided that he would like to shrink it and wear it on his necklace, with the other shrunken heads around his neck. Yet Andronicus realized that before he killed him, he would need some time to thin out his face, his cheekbones, so that it looked better around his neck. He did not want a fat, plump face ruining the aesthetic of his necklace. He would let him live a while, and torture him in the meantime. He smiled to himself. Yes, it was a very good plan.
“Bring him to me,” Andronicus commanded one of his generals, in his ancient, deep snarl.
He jumped down without a moment’s hesitation, hurried over to McCloud, cut the rope, and dragged the bloody body across the floor, staining it red as he went. He dropped it at the base of Andronicus’ feet.
“You can’t get away with this!” McCloud mumbled weakly.
Andronicus shook his head; this human would never learn.
“Here I am, seated on your throne,” Andronicus said. “And there you are, lying at my feet. I should think it is safe to say that I can get away with anything I want. And that I already have.”
McCloud lay there, moaning and writhing.
“My first order of business,” Andronicus said, “will be to have you pay the proper respect to your new king and master. Come to me now, and have the honor of being the first to kneel before me in my new kingdom, the first to kiss my hand and call me King of what was once the McCloud side of the Ring.”
McCloud looked up, got to his hands and knees, and sneered at Andronicus
“Never!” he said, and turned and spat on the floor.
Andronicus leaned back and laughed. He was heartily enjoying this. He had not met a human this willful for quite some time.
Andronicus turned and nodded, and one of his men grabbed McCloud from behind, while another came forward and held his head still. A third came forward with a long razor. As he approached, McCloud buckled in fear.
“What are you doing?” McCloud asked in panic, his voice several octaves higher.
The man reached down and quickly shaved off half of McCloud’s beard. McCloud looked up in bewilderment, clearly baffled that the man had not hurt him.
Andronicus nodded, and another man stepped forward with a long poker, at the end of which was carved in iron the emblem of Andronicus’ kingdom—a lion with a bird in its mouth. It glowed orange, steaming hot, and as the others held McCloud down, the man lowered the poker for his now-bare cheek.
“NO!” McCloud shrieked, realizing.
But it was too late.
A horrific shriek cut through the air, accompanied by a hissing noise and the smell of burnt flesh. Andronicus watched with glee as the poker burned deeper and deeper into McCloud’s cheek. The hissing grew louder, the screams almost intolerable.
Finally, after a good ten seconds, they dropped McCloud.
McCloud slumped to the ground, unconscious, drooling, as smoke rose up from half of his face. It now bore the emblem of Andronicus, burned into his flesh.
Andronicus leaned forward, looked down at the unconscious McCloud, and admired the handiwork.
“Welcome to the Empire.”
CHAPTER TWO
Erec stood atop the hill at the forest’s edge and watched the small army approach, and his heart filled with fire. He was born for a day like this. In some battles, the line blurred between just and unjust—but not on this day. The Lord from Baluster had stolen his bride unashamedly, and had been boastful and unapologetic. He had been made aware of his crime, had been given a chance to make wrongs right, and he had refused to rectify his errors. He had brought his woes upon himself. His men should have let it alone—especially now that he was dead.
But there they rode, hundreds of them, paid mercenaries to this lesser lord—all bent on killing Erec solely because they had been paid by this man. They charged towards them in their shiny green armor, and as they neared they let out a battle cry. As if that might scare him.
Erec was unafraid. He had seen too many battles like this. If he had learned anything in all his years of training, it was to never fear when he fought on the side of the just. Justice, he was taught, may not always prevail—but it gave its bearer the strength of ten men.
It was not fear Erec felt as he saw the hundreds of men approach, and knew he would likely die on this day. It was expectation. He had been given a chance to meet his death in the most honorable way, and that was a gift. He had taken a vow of glory, and today, his vow was demanding its due.
Erec drew his sword and charged down the slope on foot, sprinting for the army as it charged him. At this moment he wished more than ever that he had his trusted horse, Warkfin, to ride with into battle—but he felt a sense of peace knowing that he was brining Alistair back to Savaria, to the safety of the Duke’s court.
As he neared the soldiers, hardly fifty yards away, Erec picked up speed, sprinting for the lead knight in the center. They did not slow, and neither did he, and he braced himself for the clash to come.
Erec knew he had one advantage: three hundred men could not physically fit close enough to all attack one man at the same time; he knew from his training that at most six men on horseback could get close enough to attack a man at once. The way Erec saw it, that meant his odds were not three hundred to one—but only six to one. As long as he could kill the six men in front of him at all times, he had a chance to win. It was just a matter of whether he had the stamina to make it through.
As Erec charged down the hill, he drew from his waist the one weapon he knew would be best: a flail with a chain twenty yards long, at the end of which sat a spiked, metal ball. It was a weapon meant for laying a trap on the road—or for a situation just like this.
Erec waited until the last moment, until the army did not have time to react, then spun the flail high overhead and hurled it across the battlefield. He aimed for a small tree, and the spiked chain spread out across the battlefield; as the ball wrapped around it, Erec tucked into a role and hit the ground, avoiding the spears about to be hurled at him, and held on to the shaft with all his might.
He timed it perfectly: there was no time for the army to react. They saw it at the last second and tried to pull up on their horses—but they were going too fast,
and there wasn’t time.
The entire front line ran into it, the spiked chain cutting through all the horses’ legs, sending the riders falling face-first down to the ground, the horses landing on top of them. Dozens of them were crushed in the chaos.
Erec had no time to be proud of the damage he had done: another flank of the army turned and bore down on him, charging with a battle cry, and Erec rolled to his feet to meet them.
As the lead knight raised a javelin, Erec took advantage of what he had: he did not have a horse, and could not meet these men at their height, but since he was low, he could use the ground beneath him. Erec suddenly dove down to the ground, tucked into a role, and raised his sword and sliced off the legs of the man’s horse. The horse buckled and the soldier did a face plant before he had a chance to let go of his weapon.
Erec continued to roll, and managed to miss the stampeding feet of the horses around him, who had to part ways to avoid running into the downed horse. Many did not succeed, tripping over the dead animal, and dozens more horses crashed down to the ground, raising a cloud of dust and causing a logjam amongst the army.
It was exactly what Erec had hoped for: there was dust and confusion, dozens more falling to the ground.
Erec jumped to his feet, raised his sword and blocked a sword coming down for his head. He spun and blocked a javelin, then a lance, then an axe. He defended the blows that poured down on him from all sides, but knew he could not keep this up forever. He had to be on the attack if he were to stand any chance.
Erec tucked into a role, came out of it, took a knee, and hurled his sword as if it were a spear. It flew through the air and into the chest of his closest attacker; his eyes opened wide and he fell sideways, dead, off his horse.
Erec took the opportunity to jump onto the man’s horse, snatching his flail from his hands before he died. It was a fine flail, and Erec had singled him out for this reason; it had a long, studded silver shaft and a four-foot chain, with three spiked balls at the end of it. Erec pulled back and swung it high overhead, and smashed the weapons from the hands of several opponents at once; then he swung again and knocked them from their horses.
