A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (10 page)

“I hate him,” Thor said,
seething. “I hate my father. I don’t care who he was; I care only for who he is
now. I want to kill him. I
will
kill him.”

Aberthol laid a hand on Thor’s
shoulder.

“Whether you kill him or not, it
will not change who
you
are. You must choose to rise above all of these
feelings. You must choose to focus on what is positive. After all, your lineage
has two strains, of course. Your mother’s blood runs deep in you, and in your
case, that is more important than your father’s. You just have to see that, and
to embrace it.”

Thor studied Aberthol.

“Do you know who my mother is?”
he asked, nervously.

Aberthol nodded back.

“It is not for me to say. But
when you meet her, you will understand. As powerful as Andronicus is, she is
far more powerful. And your fate and destiny is linked with hers. Indeed, the
entire fate of our Ring is linked to hers. The power of the Destiny Sword is
nothing next to the power she can impart to you. You must find her. And you
must not delay any further.”

“I would love to meet her,” Thor
said, “but I must destroy Andronicus first.”

“You will never destroy
Andronicus,” he said. “He lives within you. But you can find your mother, and
save yourself. Until you meet her, you will never be complete.”

Aberthol suddenly turned and
strutted away, walking off the parapets, his cane echoing as he went.

Thor turned and looked out at the
blackness of Silesia. In the distance, he could hear the howling winds of the
Canyon. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the beyond, lay his father. And his
mother. Thor needed to see them both.

His mother, to embrace.

And his father, to kill.

Luanda stood inside Andronicus’
tent, alone, trembling inside and trying not to show it. She had never been
before a man so physically large and imposing, and who exuded such a sinister
feeling. She glanced about his tent and saw all the spikes protruding along its
edge, each crowned with a severed head, each with eyes open, frozen in a death
mask of agony.

Andronicus purred from somewhere
deep in his chest and smiled down at her, clearly feeling at home.

She cleared her throat and tried
to remember why she had come, tried to muster the courage to speak.

“I’ve come to make you an offer,”
she finally managed to say, trying her best to stand proud, to make her voice
sound confident. But despite herself, she could hear the tremor in her own
voice and hoped she did not give away her fear.

“
You
, make
me
an
offer?” he asked.

He threw his head back and
laughed, and the grating sound set her hairs on edge. It was the laugh of a
monster, deep and hollow and filled with cruelty.

Luanda was caught off guard; she
had expected to find Andronicus a broken and humbled man, prepared to either
flee the Ring or surrender. She had not expected to find him so confident. He
seemed more than unafraid—he seemed certain of victory. She could not
understand it.

 “Yes,” she said, clearing her
throat, “an offer. I can deliver your enemy to you, Thorgrin. In return, you
will name me Queen of the Ring, and put me in control of all that is.”

Andronicus smiled wide, surveying
her.

“Will I?” he asked.

He stared her up and down, and
there came a dark and growling noise from deep within his chest.

“You would betray your own
people, then?” he asked. “Sell them all for the right to rule?”

He paused, staring right through
her; his eyes twinkled, as if perhaps he approved of her.

“I like you,” he said. “You are a
girl after my own heart.”

“I am the best chance you have,”
she said defiantly, mustering her old confidence. “You are surrounded. And with
his dragon and his Destiny Sword, Thor is decimating your armies. If you reject
my offer, then by tomorrow Thor will have wiped out all your men. If you accept
it, then by tomorrow, Thor will be in your custody.”

He examined her.

“And just how do you propose to
deliver Thorgrin to me?” he asked.

She had been expecting this
question, and she breathed deep, prepared.

“They trust me,” she replied. “I
am a MacGil. I am family. I will send them a message telling them I have
brokered a truce. That you have agreed to surrender. That Thorgrin must come
alone to accept your surrender. When he does, you can capture him.”

Andronicus surveyed her.

“And why would they trust a traitor
like you?” Andronicus asked.

She reddened, insulted by his
words.

“They will trust me, because I’m
family. And I am
not
a traitor. The Ring is mine by right. I am
firstborn.”

Andronicus shook his head.

“Family, most of all, are least
to be trusted.”

She bunched her fists, defiant,
feeling her plan slipping away.

“They will trust me,” she said,
“because they have no reason not to. And because they are a trusting people.
And most of all, because it makes sense: they, of course, believe you will
surrender. Who would think otherwise? You are completely surrounded. Half your
men have been wiped out. Your surrender would be expected. My message should
come as no surprise to them.”

“And when Thor arrives here,” he
said, “just how do you propose I capture him? He who, as you say, has wiped out
half my men?”

Luanda shrugged.

“That is not my problem. I will
deliver the lamb to slaughter. I am sure you have your own ways of treachery.”

Andronicus looked her up and
down, and as he did, she felt her heart pounding. Luanda wanted to be queen so
bad she could taste it. Even more, she wanted to one-up her little sister;
there was a small part of her that felt bad—but there was a much bigger part of
her that felt entitled, that felt bad for herself. She could not imagine living
in a kingdom where her little sister ruled over her, and if that meant selling
out her own people, so be it. After all, they didn’t deserve it after what they
had done to her.

Luanda shivered as Andronicus
stepped closer, reached out and lay his long claws on her shoulder. She felt
his slimy palms run over her bare skin, run up and down her throat.

“King MacGil should be proud of
his issue,” he said. “Yes, very proud indeed.”

He sighed.

“I will accept your offer. And
you will have your queenship.”

Luanda’s heart was pounding so
fast, it was all a blur as she was ushered out of the tent, two guards coming
up behind her and herding her out. The next thing she knew she was back
outside, in the cold night, Bronson coming up beside her as they walked quickly
away, back through the camp and towards their horses.

“What happened!?” Bronson asked
impatiently.

Luanda walked quickly, her heart
thumping, trying to gather her thoughts—and trying to figure out how best to
word it to Bronson. She knew she had to say the right things if she were going
to manipulate Bronson successfully.

“It went very well,” she said,
choosing her words carefully. “Andronicus has agreed to surrender.”

Bronson looked at her, puzzled.

“I have a hard time believing
that,” he replied. “He agreed to surrender? As easily as that?”

Luanda wheeled on Bronson and put
on her fiercest face and voice, desperate to convince him.

“Andronicus is outnumbered,” she
said coldly. “In another day he will be dead. He was grateful for the chance. I
was right. You were wrong. He has conditions: his army must be allowed to leave
the Ring unharmed. He will forfeit himself as a prisoner. And he will surrender
only to Thor, and to Thor alone. He has asked us to bring our offer to Thor at
once, before the attack at dawn. This is our chance to make peace, to save
lives, and to oust his men once and for all.”

Bronson stared back at her, and
she could see his mind working, see him thinking it through. He was smart, but
not nearly as smart as her, and his gullible streak worked in her favor.

“Well,” he said, “I guess that
sounds like a fair offer. All he’s asking for is for his men to leave safely.
As you say, it will spare a lot of lives on both sides, and liberate the Ring.
It sounds reasonable. I can’t imagine that Thor and Gwendolyn would not want to
agree to this. You have done well to serve the Ring as you have. What you have
done here is selfless. You have saved many lives, and your family will be
proud. You were right, and I was wrong.”

Inside, Luanda smiled. She had
deceived him.

“Go then,” she urged. “Be our
messenger. Deliver the message to Thor and the others. I will await you here.
Ride throughout the night and don’t stop until you deliver them the good news.
The fate of the Ring now rests on your shoulders.”

She waited, hopeful. She knew,
being the chivalrous fool that he was, that if she appealed to his sense of
honor and duty, he would be blind to reason.

Bronson nodded solemnly, mounted
his horse, and took off at a gallop, racing through the night.

She watched his horse disappear
into the blackness, and she smiled openly at the night.

Finally, she would be Queen.

Steffen felt his palms go raw as
he stood before the huge mill, pushing on the wooden crank with all the other
laborers. It was backbreaking labor, what he was used to, and it made him blot
out the worries of the world. He had been given just enough grain and water to
get by, sleeping on the floor like an animal with all the other indentured
servants. It was not a life: it was an existence. The rest of his life, as it
had been once before, would be filled with labor and pain and monotony.

But Steffen no longer cared. This
was the sort of life he had led in King’s Castle, working for King MacGil in
the basement, tending the fires. That had been a harsh life, too, and really an
extension of his entire life, of his home life, of his parents, who had been so
ashamed of him because of how he looked, who had beat him and kicked him out of
the house. His entire life had been one long bout of pain and bullying and
scorn.

Until he had met Gwendolyn. She
had been the only person he had ever known who had looked at him as something
other than a deformed creature; who had actually had faith in him, who had
actually cared for him. The time he had spent protecting her he valued as the
most meaningful days of his life. For the first time, it had lent his life
purpose and meaning; it had made him dream, for a brief moment, that maybe he
could be something more than an object of loathing, that maybe everyone in his
life had been wrong, and that he did have some value after all.

When Gwen had entered the Tower
of Refuge and that door had slammed shut behind her, he felt as if a door had
been closed on his own life. It had sunk a dagger into his heart. He respected,
and even understood, her decision; but it had been the worst day of his life.
He had stood there and waited outside the Tower for he did not know how long,
hoping beyond hope that Gwen might change her mind, might come back out those doors.
But they had remained closed, like a coffin on his heart.

With no direction or purpose left
in his life, Steffen had wandered and had come here, to this small village high
on this hilltop, and he checked over his shoulder once again, as he did every hour
since his arrival, at the Tower of Refuge, keeping it in sight at all times,
hoping beyond all expectation that he might see Gwendolyn walk out those doors,
that he might have a chance to take up his old life again.

But watch as he did, there was no
activity at the tower, no one in or out, day and night.

Steffen suddenly heard the crack
of a whip and felt a sharp shooting pain across his back; he realized he had
been whipped again by his boss. The sting of the whip snapped him out of his
thoughts and made him focus on his duty before him. He looked around and saw he
had cranked out more grain than any of the other servants, and his face
reddened: it was unfair that he was being whipped, while the others were passed
over.

“Work harder, you creature, or I’ll
throw you to the dogs!” the man barked at Steffen.

There came the rise of laughter
all around him, as the other laborers turned and mocked him, mimicking his bent
figure. Steffen looked away, forcing himself to stay calm. He had received much
worse than these provincial villagers could dole out, and at least the pain and
humiliation kept his mind off Gwendolyn, off of dreaming of a life that was too
big for him.

Bells tolled, ringing loudly in
the small town, and all the workers stopped, turned and looked. The bells
tolled again and again, urgently, and villagers began to crowd around the town
center, looking up at the bell keeper.

“News from the North!” the man
yelled out. “The Empire has been driven from the Western Kingdom of the Ring!
We are free again!”

A great cheer rose up among the
villagers; they turned and grabbed each other and danced. They passed around
wineskins and drank long and hard.

Steffen watched it all, shocked.
The Empire driven out? The Western Kingdom free? It didn’t make sense. When he
had left Silesia it had all been in ruins, all his people enslaved. There had
seemed to be no hope for any of them.

“Thorgrin has returned, a dragon
with him, and the Destiny Sword! The Shield is up! The Shield is restored!” the
bell keeper announced.

There came another shout and
cheer, and Steffen’s heart lifted with cautious optimism, as his thoughts
turned back to Gwendolyn. Thor was back. That meant she would now have a reason
to leave the Tower. A reason to return to Silesia. There might be a role for
him once again.

Steffen turned and looked at the
tower and saw no activity. He wondered. Had she somehow left?

“I saw him fly this way, the
other day, the boy on the dragon, holding the Sword. I’m telling you!” one
villager, a youth, insisted to another. “I saw him fly to that cursed tower. He
landed on its roof!”

“You were seeing things!” an old,
stern woman said. “Your imagination got the best of you!”

“I swear that I wasn’t!”

“You’ve been dreaming too much,
lad!” mocked an old man.

There came laughter, as all the
others mocked the boy; he reddened and slinked away.

But as Steffen heard his words,
they made perfect sense to him: Thor’s first stop
would
be Gwendolyn. He
loved her, and she mattered to him most. That was what these simple villagers
could never understand. Steffen knew the words to be true, and his heart
swelled with a sudden optimism. Of course, if he’d returned, the first place
Thor would go would be to the Tower of Refuge, to see Gwendolyn—and to take her
away. Likely, back to Silesia.

Steffen smiled for the first time
since he had arrived here. Gwendolyn was free of that place. He smiled wider,
realizing his life was about to change again. He no longer needed to be in this
village, and he no longer needed these people. He no longer needed to seclude
himself, to resign himself to a life of pain and labor and misery. He had a
chance at life again; his fleeting dream was coming back. Maybe, after all, he
was meant for a noble life.

“I said get back to work, you
imp!” screamed the taskmaster, as he raised his whip high and aimed it for
Steffen’s face.

This time, Steffen lunged
forward, drew his sword and slashed the whip in half before it reached him. He
then reached out, snatched the remnant of the whip from the taskmaster’s hand,
and slashed the taskmaster himself across the face.

The taskmaster screamed,
clutching his face with both hands, shouting and yelling at the pain.

Other villagers took notice and
suddenly charged Steffen from every direction. But Steffen was a warrior with
skills beyond what these provincial men would ever know, and he used the whip
to lash them all, spinning and ducking and weaving from their blows; in
moments, they were all on the ground, crying out in pain from the lashes.

Yet more men came charging, more
serious men, with more serious weapons, and Steffen knew he had to get more
serious as well; before they could get any closer, Steffen reached back,
notched an arrow and raised his bow, aiming it at the lead man, a fat fellow
wearing a shirt too small.

As he raised it up high, the fat
man, wielding a club, suddenly stopped in his tracks, along with the men beside
him.

A crowd gathered, everyone
keeping a cautious distance from Steffen.

“Anyone comes closer to me in
this dung-eating town,” Steffen called out, “and I will kill you all. I will
not warn you twice.”

From the crowd there emerged
three burly men, wielding swords and charging for Steffen. Without blinking,
Steffen took aim and fired off three arrows, and pierced each man through the
heart. They each fell to the ground, dead.

The town gasped.

Steffen notched another arrow and
stood there at the ready, waiting.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

This time the villagers stood
frozen, all with a new respect for Steffen. No one dared move an inch.

Steffen reached down, grabbed his
sack of grain and of water, slung them over his shoulder and turned his back on
them, taking the road out of the village and heading for the forest. He was on
edge, listening carefully, waiting to see if anyone pursued him—but not a sound
could be heard in that place.

Not a single person dared insult
him now.