A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (3 page)

With an even greater shout,
Kendrick and his men charged after them, chasing them all the way through Lucia
and pursuing them out the rear gates.

Whoever remained of the Empire
battalion, still hundreds strong, rode for their lives in organized chaos,
racing for the horizon. There arose a great shout within Lucia from the freed
MacGil captives. Kendrick’s men slashed their ropes and liberated them as they
went, and the captives wasted no time in rushing to the horses of the fallen
Empire soldiers, mounting them, stripping the corpses’ weapons, and joining
Kendrick’s men.

Kendrick’s army swelled to nearly
double its size, and the thousands of them chased after the Empire soldiers,
riding up and down the hills as they closed in on them. O’Connor and the other
archers managed to pick some of them off, bodies falling here and there.

The chase went on, Kendrick
wondering where they were heading, when he and his men crested a particularly
high hill and he looked down to see one of the largest MacGil cities east of
Silesia—Vinesia—nestled between two mountains, sitting in the valley. It was a
substantial city, far greater than Lucia, with thick stone walls, and enforced
iron gates. It was here, Kendrick realized, that the remnants of the Empire
battalion fled, as the city stood protected by tens of thousands of Andronicus’
men.

Kendrick paused with his men atop
the hill and took in the situation. Vinesia was a major city, and they were
vastly outnumbered. He knew it would be foolhardy to try, that the safest
course would be to return to Silesia and be grateful for their victory here
today.

But Kendrick was not in the mood
for safe choices—and neither were his men. They wanted blood. They wanted
vengeance. And on a day like today, odds no longer mattered. It was time to let
the Empire men know what the MacGils were made of.

“CHARGE!” Kendrick yelled.

A shout arose, and thousands of
men rushed forward, charging recklessly down the hill, toward the great city
and the greater opponent, prepared to give up their lives, to risk it all for
honor and for valor.

Gareth coughed and wheezed as he
stumbled his way across the desolate landscape, his lips chapped from lack of
water, his eyes hollow with dark circles beneath them. It had been a harrowing
few days, and he had expected to die more than once.

Gareth had escaped by the skin of
his teeth from Andronicus’ men in Silesia, hiding in a secret passageway deep
within the wall and biding his time. He had waited, curled up like a rat inside
the blackness, waiting for an opportune moment. He felt he had been there for
days. He had witnessed everything, had watched with disbelief as Thor had
arrived on the back of that dragon, had killed all those Empire men. In the
confusion and chaos that ensued, Gareth had found his chance.

Gareth had slunk out through the
back gate of Silesia while no one was looking, and had taken the road south,
making his way along the edge of the Canyon, sticking mostly to the woods so as
not to be detected. It did not matter—the roads were deserted anyway. Everyone
was off east, fighting the great battle for the Ring. As he went, Gareth noted
the charred bodies of Andronicus’ men lining this road, and knew the battles
here, down south, had already been fought.

Gareth made his way ever farther
south, his instinct driving him back towards King’s Court—or what remained of
it. He knew it had been ravaged by Andronicus’ men, that it likely lay in ruins,
but still, he wanted to go there. He wanted to get far away from Silesia and go
to the one place he knew he could take safe harbor. The one place everyone else
had abandoned. The one place where he, Gareth, had once reigned supreme.

After days of hiking, weak and
delirious from hunger, Gareth had finally emerged from the woods and spotted
King’s Court in the distance. There it was, its walls still intact, at least
partially, though charred and crumbling. All around were the corpses of
Andronicus’ men, evidence that Thor had been here. Otherwise it sat empty, with
nothing left but the whistling of the wind.

That suited Gareth just fine. He
did not plan on entering the city anyway. He had come here for a small, hidden
structure just outside the city walls. It was a place he had frequented as a
child, a circular, marble structure, rising just a few feet above ground and
adorned with elaborately carved statues about its roof. It had always looked
ancient, sitting low like that, as if it had sprung up from the earth. And it
was. It was the crypt of the MacGils. The place where his father had been
buried—and his father before him.

The crypt was the one structure
Gareth knew would be left intact. After all, who would bother to attack a tomb?
It was the one place left where he knew no one would ever bother to look for
him, where he could seek shelter. It was a place where he could hide, be left
utterly alone. And a place where he could be with his ancestors. As much as
Gareth hated his father, oddly enough, he found himself wanting to be closer to
him these days.

Gareth hurried across the open
field, a cold gust of wind making him shiver as he wrapped his ragged cloak
tight around his shoulders. He heard the shrill cry of a winter bird, and
looked up to see the huge, awful black creature circling high overhead, surely,
with each cry, anticipating his collapse, its next meal. Gareth could hardly
blame it. He felt on his last legs, and he was sure he appeared to be a prime
meal for the bird.

Gareth finally reached the
building, grabbed the massive iron door handle with two hands, and yanked with
all his might, the world spinning, nearly delirious from exhaustion. It creaked
and took all his strength to pry it wide.

Gareth hurried into the
blackness, slamming the iron door. It echoed behind him.

He grabbed the unlit torch on the
wall, where he knew it was mounted, struck its flint and lit it, affording
himself just enough light to see by as he descended the steps, deeper and
deeper into the blackness. It became colder and draftier the deeper he went,
the wind finding its way down, whistling through small cracks. He could not
help but feel as if his ancestors were howling at him, rebuking him.

“LEAVE ME!” he screamed back.

His voice echoed again and again
off the crypt’s walls.

“YOU WILL HAVE YOUR PRIZE SOON
ENOUGH!”

Yet still the wind persisted.

Gareth, enraged, descended
deeper, until finally he reached the great marble chamber, excavated with its
ten-foot ceilings, where all his ancestors lay entombed in marble sarcophagi.
Gareth marched solemnly down the hall, his footsteps echoing on the marble,
toward the very end, where his father lay.

The old Gareth would have smashed
his father’s sarcophagus. But now, for some reason, he was beginning to feel an
affinity for him. He could hardly understand it. Perhaps it was the opium
wearing off; or perhaps it was because he knew that he himself would be dead
soon, too.

Gareth reached the tall
sarcophagus and hunched over it, leaning his head down. He surprised himself as
he began to cry.

“I miss you father,” Gareth
wailed, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

He cried and cried, tears pouring
down his face, until finally his knees grew weak and he slumped down in his
exhaustion alongside the marble, sitting on the floor, leaning against the
tomb. The wind howled as if in response, and Gareth lay down the torch, which
burned lower and lower, a tiny flame decreasing in the blackness. Gareth knew
that soon all would be blackness and that soon, he would join all those he
loved the most.

Steffen trekked somberly on the
lonely forest road, slowly making his way from the Tower of Refuge. It broke
his heart to leave Gwendolyn there like that, the woman whom he had been sworn
to protect. Without her, he was nothing. Since meeting her, he had felt that he
had finally found a purpose in life: to watch over her, to devote his life to
paying her back for allowing him, a mere servant, to rise in the ranks; and
most of all, for being the first person in his life not to detest and underestimate
him based on his appearance.

Steffen had felt a sense of pride
in helping her reach the Tower safely. But leaving her there had left him
feeling hollow inside. Where would he go now? What would he do?

Without her to protect, his life
felt aimless once again. He couldn’t go back to King’s court or to Silesia:
Andronicus had defeated them both, and he recalled the destruction he saw as
he’d fled from Silesia. The last he remembered, all his people were captives or
slaves. There would be no virtue in returning. Besides, Steffen didn’t want to
cross the Ring again and be that far from Gwendolyn.

Steffen walked aimlessly for
hours, winding through the forest trails, gathering his wits, until it had
occurred to him where to go. He followed the country road north, up to a hill,
the highest point, and from this lookout spotted a small town perched on
another hill in the distance. He headed for it, and as he reached it, he turned
back and saw this town had what he needed: a perfect view of the Tower of Refuge.
If Gwendolyn ever tried to leave it, he wanted to be close by to make sure he
was there to accompany her, to protect her. After all, his allegiance was to
her now. Not to an army or a city, but to her. She was his nation.

As Steffen arrived in the small,
humble village, he decided he would stay here, in this place, where he could
always watch the Tower, and keep an eye out for her. As he passed through its
gates, he saw it was a nondescript, poor town, another tiny village on the
farthest outskirts of the Ring, so hidden in the southern forest that
Andronicus’ men had surely not even bothered to come this way.

Steffen arrived to the gaping
stares of dozens of villagers, faces etched with ignorance and a lack of
compassion, looking at him with mouths agape and the familiar scorn and
derision he had received ever since he had been born. As they all scrutinized
his appearance, he could feel their mocking eyes.

Steffen wanted to turn and run,
but he forced himself not to. He needed to be close to the Tower, and for
Gwendolyn’s sake, he would put up with anything.

One villager, a burly man in his
forties, dressed in rags as the others, turned and headed meanly toward him.

“What have we here, some sort of
deformed man?”

The others laughed, turning and
approaching.

Steffen kept calm, expecting this
sort of greeting, which he had received his entire life. He’d found that the
more provincial people were, the more joy they took in ridiculing him.

Steffen leaned back and assured
himself that his bow was at the ready over his shoulder, in case these
villagers were not just cruel, but violent. He knew, if he had to, he could
take out several of them in the blink of an eye. But he wasn’t here for
violence. He was here to find shelter.

“He might be more than just a
regular freak, is he?” asked another, as a large and growing group of menacing
villagers began to surround him.

“From his markings I’d say he
is,” said another. “That looks like royal armor.”

“And that bow—it’s a fine
leather.”

“Not to mention the arrows. Gold-tipped,
are they?”

They stopped but a few feet away,
scowling down threateningly. They reminded him of the bullies who tormented him
as a child.

“So, who are you, freak?” one of
them said down to him.

Steffen breathed deeply,
determined to stay calm.

“I mean you no harm,” he began.

The group broke out laughing.

“Harm? You? What harm could you
do us?”

“You couldn’t harm our chickens!”
laughed another.

Steffen flushed red as the
laughter grew; but he would not allow himself to be provoked.

“I need a place to stay and food
to eat. I have calloused hands and a strong back for working. Set met to a
task, and I will mind myself. I don’t need much. As much as the next man.”

Steffen wanted to lose himself in
menial work again, as he had all those years in the basement serving King
MacGil. It would take his mind off things. He could perform hard labor and live
a life of anonymity, as he had been prepared to do before he had ever met
Gwendolyn.

“You call yourself a man?” one of
them called out, laughing.

“Maybe we can find some use for
him,” another called out.

Steffen looked at him hopefully.

“That is, fighting against our
dogs or chickens!”

They all laughed.

“I’d pay a grand amount to see
that!”

“There’s a war out there, in case
you haven’t noticed,” Steffen said back coolly. “I’m sure, even in a provincial
and rudimentary town like this, you can use a hand to maintain provisions.”

The villagers looked at each
other, baffled.

“Of course we know of the war,”
one said, “but our village is too small. Armies won’t bother coming here.”

“I don’t like the way you talk,”
another said. “All fancy-like? Sounds like you had some schooling. You think
you’re better than us?”

“I’m no better than the next
man,” Steffen said.

“That much is obvious,” laughed
another.

“Enough of the banter!” cried one
of the villagers in a serious tone.

He stepped forward and pushed the
others aside with a strong palm. He was older than the others and looked to be
a serious man. The crowd quieted in his presence.

“If you mean what you say,” the
man said in his deep, brusque voice, “I can use an extra set of hands on my
mill. Pay is a sack of grain a day and a jug of water. You sleep in the barn,
with the rest of the village boys. If that’s agreeable to you, I will have you
on.”

Steffen nodded back, satisfied to
finally see a serious man.

“I ask for nothing more,” he
said.

“This way,” the man said, parting
his way through the crowd.

Steffen followed him, and was led
to a huge, wooden gristmill, all around which were teenagers and men. Each of
them, sweating and covered in dirt, stood in the muddy tracks and pushed a
massive wooden wheel, each grabbing a spoke and walking forward with it.
Steffen stood there, surveyed the work, and realized it would be back-breaking
labor. It would do.

Steffen turned to tell the man he
would accept, but the man had already gone, assuming he would. The villagers,
with a few final heckles, turned back to their affairs while Steffen looked
ahead at the wheel, at the new life that lay ahead of him.

For a glimmer in time, he had been
weak, had allowed himself to dream. He had imagined a life of castles and
royalty and rank. Had seen himself being an important person, the hand of the
Queen. He should have known better than to think so high. He, of course, was
not meant for that. He never had been. What had happened to him, meeting
Gwendolyn, had been a fluke. Now, his life would be relegated to this. But
this, at least, was a life he knew. A life he understood. A life of hardship.
And without Gwendolyn in it, this life would be just as well for him.