A Rule of Queens (Book #13 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (22 page)
Read A Rule of Queens (Book #13 in the Sorcerer's Ring) Online
Authors: Morgan Rice
Guwayne looked up at the sky as he flew through
the air, through the clouds, feeling himself grasped in the gentle claws of a
baby dragon, a baby like himself. The dragon’s screeching somehow comforted Guwayne,
as it had for days. He felt he could fly like this forever.
Guwayne had lost all sense of time and place,
his entire world this dragon, looking up at its belly, its chin, its jaws,
mesmerized by its flapping wings, by the way its scales shimmered in the light.
He felt he could soar with it forever, wherever it should take them.
Guwayne felt the dragon gradually diving
downward, lower and lower, for the first time since he had lifted him up into
the air. As they turned slightly, Guwayne saw the endless ocean spread out
below.
The dragon flew lower and lower, through the
clouds, and for the first time since they set out, Guwayne saw land: a lone
small, circular island, surrounded by nothingness as far as the eye could see.
The island rose out of the ocean, straight up, tall and vertical, surrounded by
straight cliffs, like a geyser shooting up from the seas. At its top was a wide
plateau of land, to which they dove.
The dragon screeched as they went lower and
lower, and then finally, it slowed, flapping its wings as their speed reduced.
As the dragon nearly came to a stop, Guwayne
looked down and cried as he saw the face of a stranger, a lone man standing
there, in bright yellow robes, with a long, yellow beard, holding a gleaming,
golden staff, a single diamond sparkling in its center. Guwayne did not cry out
of fear—but out of love. Already, just seeing the man, he felt comforted.
The dragon came to a stop, flapping its wings,
holding them still, as the man reached out and the dragon placed Guwayne gingerly
in his arms.
The man held Guwayne gently in his arms,
wrapping him in his cloak, and slowly, Guwayne stopped crying. He felt safe in
this man’s arms, felt a tremendous power radiating off of him, and he sensed
that he was more than just a man. The man had sparkling red eyes, and he stood
up straight, and raised his staff to the heavens.
As he did, the world thundered.
The mysterious man held Guwayne tight, and as
Guwayne looked into his eyes, he had a feeling that he would be here for a
very, very long time.
Gwendolyn marched at the head of her huge
convoy of people as dawn broke over the desert, leading them away from the
village, toward the Great Waste. Kendrick, Steffen, Aberthol, Brandt, and Atme marched
behind her, Krohn at her heels, as they all slowly wound their way out of the
caves, up to the top of the mountains, and looked out west and north, toward a
vast, empty desert.
As they reached the top, Gwendolyn paused for a
moment and looked out at the purple and red sky, the first sun rising, the
endless trek that lay ahead of them to a place that might not exist. She turned
and glanced back at the village down below, in the opposite direction, all
quiet and still in the early morning. Soon, she knew, the Empire would come. The
village would be surrounded. They would all be wiped out.
Gwen turned and looked at her people, all that
she had left of the Ring, these people who she loved so much. Not far from her
stood Illepra, holding the baby girl Gwen had rescued from the dragon’s breath.
The baby cried in the morning air, shattering the silence, and Gwen wondered:
what
have I saved this child’s life for if I do not protect it now
? Yet a
conflicting thought arose immediately after:
what is the purpose of this
child’s life if it cannot be a life of valor?
Gwen had remained awake all night, tormented by
her decision. The villagers had encouraged her to move on; her own people
wanted her to move on. The time had come. She could not, in good conscience,
lead her people to a sure death. That was not what Queens did.
Yet as Gwendolyn stood atop the cliff, looking
out, something stirred inside her. Something was calling her. It was, she felt,
her lineage, her ancestors, their blood pumping through her veins. The seven
generations of MacGil Kings, she knew, were with her, whispering down into her
ear. They would not let her walk away.
She had a duty and an obligation to her people,
to guide them to safety. That was what it meant to rule as a Queen.
Yet a Queen, she realized, also had another
obligation. For honor. For valor. To bring out the best in her people. To
define who her people were. Even in the face of death—perhaps
most of all
in
the face of death. That, after all, was when it mattered most.
Gwendolyn heard her father’s voice ringing in
her ears:
One day you will be faced with a choice that
torments you. Every part of your rational mind will pull you one way; yet your
ideals will tug you another. That torment, that is what it is all about. That
is when you will know what it means to rule as a Queen.
Gwen turned back and looked down, seeing the
small village in the vast countryside below, watching all the villagers beginning
to rise, to face the dawn, to face a certain death. They rose proudly.
Fearlessly.
She looked up, and in the distance, on the
horizon, like a storm brewing, she could already detect the Empire forces,
stretched as far as the eye could see.
As she looked down one more time at the
villagers, pondering her choice, feeling her people behind her, waiting here at
this crossroads, she realized: yes, it is the duty of a Queen to shepherd her
people; yet it is also her duty to shepherd their spirit. To embody their
spirit. And the spirit of her people was to never run. To never back down. To
never turn your back on those in need.
Safety meant nothing when it came at the price
of someone else’s harm.
Gwendolyn faced the village, the horizon, the
gathering Empire army, and she knew there was but one choice she could make:
“Turn our people around,” she commanded
Kendrick.
Gwen turned and marched forward in the opposite
direction, heading down the slope toward the village, toward the Empire army. She
led her people, and she knew, as a shepherd knows its flock, that they would
follow.
She knew they were marching to their deaths. Yet
that mattered little now. Everyone died—but not everyone really lived.
What mattered most, she knew, was that they
were marching to glory.
Darius stood with all his brothers and
villagers as dawn broke over the village, Loti at his side, Dray at his heels, all
the elders around him, and he looked out at the sight before him: there was the
strength of the Empire, hundreds of soldiers returning, line up on zertas, facing
them. The day of retribution had come.
Darius stood there, his back still raw, killing
him, feeling hollowed out. Knowing what his village demanded of him, he hadn’t
slept all night, tormented. He stood there now, bleary-eyed, knowing they
demanded he give up Loti so his people could go on living.
But Darius knew that if he did that, if he did
what they asked, then he himself could not go on living. Something inside him
would be dead; something inside all of them would be dead. This, this
self-preservation, might be the way of his elders, but it was not his way. It would
never
be his way.
The Empire commander came forth on his zerta, leading
an entourage of a dozen soldiers, his hundreds of soldiers lined up in rows
behind him in the early morning light, and he stopped but fifty feet away from Darius.
He dismounted and walked forward in the dirt, his spurs jingling, heading right
for Darius.
Dray began to snarl, and Darius lay a hand on
his head, and turned, squatted and looked him in the eye.
“Dray,” he commanded urgently. “Remember what
we talked about. You are to stay here. Do you understand?”
Finally, Dray fell quiet, and as he looked into
Darius’ eyes, Darius felt that he did indeed understand.
Darius turned and glanced at Loti, and he could
see the fear in her face as she looked back at him. She nodded at him, squeezed
his hand with a firm grip.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Give me up to them. I
wish to die. For you. For all of you.”
He shook his head quickly, and leaned down and
kissed her hand.
Then he turned and walked off, alone, one man
to face the Empire.
The commander stopped, waiting, as Darius walked
up to him and stopped before him. Darius glared back at him with hatred,
feeling the lashes on his back, feeling the cold breeze on the back of his neck
where his hair had been chopped off. He felt hatred. Yet he also felt like a
new man, reborn.
He stood a few feet away from the Empire
commander, who glared down at him mercilessly.
“It is a new day,” he boomed to Darius and the
villagers. “You have one chance now. You will name the victim of this crime, we
will maim you all, and you all shall live.”
The commander paused.
“Or,” the commander boomed, “you can remain
silent, and we will kill you all, torturing each one of you slowly, beginning
with you.”
Darius stood there, staring back, resolute. He
felt the gentle wind of the desert as his world narrowed, came into focus, his
heart thumping in his ears. As all grew silent, in the distance he saw a small thorn
bush roll along the desert floor. He heard its rattle, a strangely soothing
sound. Time slowed as he sensed every detail in the world. Every detail which he
knew could be his last.
Darius nodded slowly back at the commander.
“I am going to give you exactly what you came
for,” he said.
Darius knew that if he did not hand Loti over, if
he defied them, it would be a battle they could not win. He would give up his
life for loyalty, for honor. For justice. He would defy the law of his elders. He
would defy them all.
The Empire commander smiled wide, bracing
himself.
“So who among you was it?” he demanded. “Which
one of you killed our taskmaster?”
Darius stared back, his heart pounding,
expressionless, yet shaking inside.
“Come close, Commander, and I will tell you his
name.”
The commander took a step closer, and in that
moment, Darius’s entire world froze. With trembling hands, he reached down,
pulled a dagger from his belt, a steel dagger, real steel, which the smith had
given him and he had hidden away. He lunged forward, and he could hear the
horrified gasp of his elders, his people, as he plunged the knife, up to the hilt,
deep into the commander’s chest.
The commander, wide-eyed with shock, dropped to
his knees, as if unbelieving that such a thing could happen.
“The offender’s name is a name you shall never,
ever forget,” Darius said, sneering down. “His name is Darius.”
COMING SOON!
BOOK #14 IN THE SORCERER’S RING
