A Vow of Glory sr-5

by Morgan Rice

  The Shield was down. He could still hardly fathom it. That had always been everyone’s greatest fear, ever since he was a child, and now it had come true. Godfrey knew that, especially in a time like this, he shouldn’t drink, that he should stand up straight, be a man, hurry out there and join his sister and brother and all the others and confront the danger coming for the gates. He knew he should be more of a man than he was. And he knew that he had promised his sister he would never drink again.

  He was disgusted with himself. Yet still, as much as he wanted to be otherwise, he was overwhelmed with fear and inertia. He just could not get himself to get up, get out there, and do whatever it was that they needed. He was not a trained warrior, as his brothers were. He had never embraced the lessons in childhood, always refusing to obey his father. He did not actually have any real-life skill, other than knowing which pubs to frequent, and which bad company to choose.

  As he sat there sulking, he felt as if he had wasted his life. He wanted desperately to change it. But he did not know how. And he could not help feel as if it were too late. After all, what could he, a single man, do against an army like Andronicus’? And he, hardly a trained warrior, no less. It all seemed so futile. If he were going to die, he might as well enjoy it.

  One thing he could do, one thing he could control, was having one more drink, and numbing his worries as much as he could.

  “Another!” Godfrey yelled to the bartender.

  “And I!” echoed Akorth.

  “And I!” cried Fulton.

  Several patrons jostled in beside him, more and more pouring in, and Godfrey had to squeeze in ever tighter to the bar, packed shoulder to shoulder. His friends drank in despair, too, as did the other patrons in this place.

  “I’ve never seen this place so jammed,” the bartender said, as he slammed down their drinks. “War should happen more often,” he added. “It seems every damn soul in the city wants to drown out his troubles.”

  “Well if it’s our last day,” Fulton said, “I sure as hell don’t want to go down sober.”

  “Well said,” Akorth roared. “Nor do I. If I’m going to die, why not die drunk?”

  “What merit is there in being sober when being thrown into the earth?” Fulton added.

  “Well,” Godfrey said, playing devil’s advocate, “there’s one good reason to be sober: you could go out there and fight, and prevent yourself from dying.”

  “Ha!” Akorth scoffed. “I could fight just as well drunk!”

  “Ay ay!” echoed Fulton. “Don’t you know that half the soldiers out there are drunk anyway? Do you really think they fight sober?”

  “None of it matters anyway,” Akorth said. “Sober or not, do you really think one fighter can stop a million men?”

  Godfrey couldn’t help but agree with them. Yet still, he was disappointed with himself. He loved his sister Gwendolyn, and his brother Kendrick, more than he could say, and he felt as if he were abandoning them, as if he were a disappointment in their eyes. That was the one thing he did not want to be. He could be a disappointment in his father’s eyes—he had learned to live with that. But he had grown to love his siblings, especially Gwendolyn, and she had trusted in him, and he hated the idea of letting her down. Especially after she had saved him.

  “For what has she saved me?” Godfrey called out, to himself.

  Akorth and Fulton turned and looked at him, baffled.

  “What are you talking about, boy?” Fulton asked. “Are you mumbling something?”

  Godfrey felt that he was different than all these patrons in here. After all, he was the son of a King. He was made of different stock. He had something different within him. Shouldn’t he be acting differently? These people had never had a chance in life. But he’d had more than a chance—he had had it all.

  Or did he? Was all that just rubbish, all this talk of his being a MacGil, of his being the son of a king? Did it not mean anything after all? Was he, at the end of the day, just as good as everyone else, no matter who they descended from?

  As Godfrey took a deep drink of yet another beer, the answers to all these questions eluded him, swarming in his buzzing mind. He did not know if he’d ever get to the bottom of it.

  The door to the pub suddenly slammed open and all heads turned, as in marched a beautiful woman. Godfrey turned, too, and blinked several times, trying to focus, to remember who she was. And then he realized, with a start: Illepra. The healer who had saved his life.

  Illepra looked more beautiful than ever, wearing her brown leather outfit, her hair tasseled and long, her green eyes gleaming. Her eyes locked on his as she marched his way, cutting through the pub, oblivious to all the patrons crowding around her.

  They parted ways, making room for her, all the drunk men seeming surprised at the touch of beauty entering this place.

  “I was told I could find you here,” Illepra said accusingly to Godfrey as she marched up close to him, frowning. The room grew quiet, watching the confrontation.

  Godfrey could hardly believe that she had sought him out, here in this place. They had talked the whole way on their march from King’s Court to Silesia. He had felt a bond with her from the first time they’d met, and during their walk, their connection deepened. He had promised her that he would change, that he would give up drink and take up arms with his siblings.

  And yet here he was. His face reddened, as he felt an ever deeper sense of shame.

  “You disgrace your family,” she added harshly. “Is this why I saved you? So you could hide here, at our darkest hour, and drink life away? To laugh with your friends? Is that what’s important to you now, while your siblings are out there, preparing to fight for our lives?”

  Godfrey looked down in shame. He had no answer. He had been thinking the same exact thing himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You are right. I don’t deserve to be up there with him. I never did. I’m sorry. I do not mean to let you down.”

  “Then answer me this,” she insisted, her eyes flashing, “for what reason did I save your life, if you will not even take up arms to defend it?”

  Illepra turned, angry, examining all the faces in the bar.

  “I speak to all of you,” she said, raising her voice. “All of you hide in here, while your countrymen are out preparing. Not one of you is willing to go out there and take up arms to save your life. Forget about your life—what about the lives of others? Your people need you. Are you all that selfish? Is that what they are fighting for? To save the likes of you?”

  All the patrons stared back, silent.

  “If we fight or not, miss,” one patron yelled out, “it ain’t make any difference. A million men won’t hardly be stopped by a few thousand.”

  There came a grunt of approval throughout the room.

  “No, maybe they can’t,” Illepra reasoned. “But that doesn’t mean that we do not try. One day, we will all die. It is not about who lives and who dies. It is about how we live. And how we die.”

  She turned and stared at Godfrey.

  “I thought you were different,” she said softly. “I thought you had the potential to be something greater. But now I see I was wrong. You are just another drunk. As the whole kingdom says you are.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that miss!” Akorth called out in his defense, raising his mug. “You can die in here or you can die out there. But at least my friend will die happy!”

  The crowd cheered in approval, raising their mugs.

  Illepra reddened, turned on her heel, and stormed from the pub.

  As the patrons slowly went back to their business, Godfrey watched her go, burning up inside. Fulton reached over and patted him on the back.

  “Women are that way,” he said consolingly. “They don’t know what’s important. You’re doing the right thing—have another!” he said, sliding another mug his way.

  As Godfrey looked down at the mug, something rose up within him. It was a new feeling, something he had never experience
d before. It was a sense of pride. A sense of something bigger than himself. For the first time in his life, he did not think of himself. He did not think of the next drink.

  Instead, he thought of the Ring. Of Silesians. Of putting others first.

  The more he thought of it, the more his fears began to dissipate. The more he pondered helping others, the less he afraid he became for himself.

  Godfrey had enough. Suddenly he threw down his mug, jumped up from the bar and began to hurry through the crowd, towards the door.

  “Where are you going?” Akorth called after him.

  Godfrey turned and looked at his friends one last time, before heading out the door.

  “I’m going to don armor, take up arms, and help my sister!” he announced gravely.

  His friends laughed at him.

  “You’ve never taken up arms in your life!” Fulton yelled.

  Godfrey stared back, reddening, undeterred.

  “No, I haven’t,” he admitted. “But I shall learn. Or I shall die trying!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Gwendolyn stood atop the highest parapet in Silesia, her generals around her, watching the horizon. They had just finished a tour of all the inner and outer rings of defenses, and one by one, Srog, Kendrick, Brom, Kolk and the generals had discussed with Gwendolyn how best to fortify each one, what to expect when the army arrived, how to defend attacks from multiple fronts, and how long it would take until their defenses collapsed. They had talked about food and provisions and water, had talked about contingency plans, about retreating to the lower city. They had covered nearly everything, and they were all exhausted.

  What none of them had discussed was what they would do in case of a defeat. It was unspoken amongst them that surrender was not an option, but none had discussed the inevitable: what to do if all their men were killed. It was unspoken amongst them that they would all fight to the death. In some ways, it felt as if they were all settling in for what would be a mass suicide.

  Hours had passed, and with all their men in position, all the plans thought through, there was nothing left to discuss. Now they all stood there, comfortable in each other’s silence, watching the horizon, the dark storm clouds forming, waiting for the inevitable. As Gwen looked out, it seemed so peaceful, so calm; it seemed as if Andronicus’ men would never come.

  Yet she knew they were coming. All day long, reports had come in from messengers from all over the Ring updating her on the invasion. There even arrived a report that King’s Court had been attacked—and that was the report that hurt the most. She tried to blot the image from her mind.

  Now, more than ever, Gwen wished Thor were here. Argon’s fateful words rang in her head, and she did not understand what they meant. She knew she would have to die a little death to make up for saving Thor’s life. Did that mean she would actually die? Here, in this place? She closed her eyes and thought of the baby in her belly and tried not to think of death. Not because she feared her own death. But because she feared for her baby’s life; and she feared a life without Thor.

  There was a stir, and Gwendolyn turned and looked over the men’s shoulders to see a small entourage of soldiers coming their way—and her eyes opened wide in surprise as she saw who they were accompanying. There, marching towards her, was a woman she thought she’d never lay eyes upon again: her sister.

  Luanda walked hand-in-hand with her new husband, Bronson, who, Gwen was saddened to see, was missing a hand. They both looked tattered, broken, and beyond exhausted; they looked as if they had been riding all night.

  Gwen could not understand what they were doing here. She was relieved to see them, but also confused. Wasn’t Bronson a McCloud, and shouldn’t he be on the McCloud side of the Ring? And Luanda with him?

  Gwen was so relieved to see her sister alive, safe, her first impulse was to step forward and give her a hug. But growing up, their relationship had always been at arm’s length, formal; it was Luanda’s doing—she got that from their mother. Gwendolyn had tried one too many times to get close to her, and after enough rebuffs, she had learned her lesson. So Gwen simply stood there, facing her older sister, and nodded back gravely.

  “My sister,” Luanda said, as Bronson bowed his head.

  Gwendolyn nodded back.

  “Brother,” Luanda added, turning and nodding to Kendrick, who nodded back, silent, probably as confused as Gwendolyn was. He seemed to tense up at the sight of a McCloud near him, as did the other soldiers.

  “What are you doing here?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “I made a grave mistake,” Luanda said, “in going to the McCloud side of the Ring. Not a mistake in marrying Bronson, who I love dearly, and who is nothing like the others. The other McClouds are brutal, savage people. His father tried to kill both myself and his own son.”

  There came a surprised gasp from amongst Gwen’s people, and she examined Bronson and saw the severed hand, the scars; she could tell he had been through hell, yet he stood there proudly. There was something about him that she liked; he seemed nothing like his father, who was a real brute, who Gwendolyn remembered with distaste.

  “The McClouds don’t change,” Kendrick piped in. “They are who they are. They always have been.”

  “You are lucky to have escaped with your life,” Brom added.

  “We have come to ask you for help,” Luanda said, looking from Kendrick to Srog to Brom—to anyone but Gwendolyn. “We ask you to take us in. We were told that the worthy half of King’s Court had fled here. We want to defect from the McCloud side of the Ring. We want to be with the MacGils.”

  “To fight with the MacGils,” Bronson added proudly. “I will swear my loyalty to you. I will fight to the death for you. Especially against my father and his men.”

  Gwendolyn and the others exchanged a glance, and she could see the hesitation in their eyes.

  “And how do we know we can trust you?” Brom asked, stepping forward and staring McCloud down coldly. “Your father killed more of my men then I can count. And all in a brutal and cowardly way. How do we know the son is not like the father? How do we know this is not all a trap, that you are not merely waiting to betray us?”

  Bronson slowly raised his arm, displaying the stump where his hand once was.

  “This is my father’s work,” he said grimly. “What was once between us is no longer. I would gladly be first to kill him in battle.”

  Brom stared back, as if summing him up, and finally seemed to believe him.

  Gwendolyn believed him, too. He seemed to be an honest and sincere man.

  “You are family,” Gwen said to Luanda, breaking the silence. She turned to Bronson. “And that means you are family now, too. If she loves you, that is good enough for me. We accept you with open arms.”

  Bronson nodded back, his eyes flooding with appreciation.

  “Andronicus will soon attack, and we will be in for a siege,” Gwendolyn warned. “We will need every hand we can get.”

  “I am honored to fight for your cause, my lady,” Bronson said.

  Luanda gave Gwendolyn a puzzled look.

  “Who is in charge here?” Luanda asked, looking from face to face. “With Gareth in King’s Court, I presume that leaves you, Kendrick? Or is it you, Srog?”

  All the others exchanged confused glances; Gwen realized that no one had told Luanda yet.

  “Our sister is now ruler of the Western Kingdom of the Ring,” Kendrick answered.

  “Gwendolyn?” Luanda said derisively, disbelieving. She looked Gwen up and down, shocked. “You? Ruler?”

  “It was our father’s dying wish,” Kendrick said firmly.

  “But…but,” Luanda began flustered. “You are a woman. And my younger sister, besides. If one of us should rule, then why would it not be me?”

  Gwen felt the old childhood rush of anger towards Luanda rise up within her. Her entire life, as long as she could remember, her sister had been deathly jealous of her. Clearly, nothing had changed.

  “My Lady,” Steff
en interjected.

  Luanda looked down at Steffen with surprise and condescension.

  “Pardon me?” she said.

  Steffen stepped forward, frowning.

  “You will address Gwendolyn, who is now our queen, as ‘my lady,’” he said, defensive.

  Luanda looked down at him in surprise, then looked at the set faces of the others and realized he was serious. She looked at Gwen with consternation.

  “You don’t seriously expect me to have to answer to my younger sister?” Luanda asked, turning to Kendrick.

  “You will answer to her,” Kendrick said darkly, “if you wish to stay here. Or, if you wish, you can leave the gates of Silesia, and be at the mercy of the enemy. You will respect our late father’s wish, as the rest of us do.”

  Bronson reached over and laid a hand on Luanda’s wrist.

  “Luanda,” he said softly, “your sister has been most kind and generous to accept us here. I see no reason why we should not answer to her.”

  But Luanda’s eyes flashed with defiance and ambition, as they always had.

  “Father always made bad decisions,” Luanda seethed. “This is how we got into this mess to begin with. Do you really think that you, of all people, are capable of ruling this people?” she asked Gwendolyn. “Don’t you feel ashamed to even try? Won’t you feel terribly guilty if you fail, if you lead them all to their deaths?”

  “We are all heading towards our deaths anyway, Luanda,” Gwendolyn said calmly. “The question is not if we die. It’s how we live. And yes, to answer your question, I am capable of leading this people,” she said, a new strength rise within her, actually feeling capable for the first time, now that she was defending herself. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. As Kendrick said, if you don’t like it, our gates are open for you to leave.”

  Luanda flushed, turned, and stormed away.

  Bronson stood there, shifting, clearly embarrassed.