A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (2 page)

Gwendolyn
stood alone on the upper parapets of the Tower of Refuge, dressed in the black
robes the nuns had given her, already feeling as if she had been here forever.
She had been greeted in silence, only one nun, her guide, speaking, just once,
to instruct her about the rules of this place: there was to be no speaking, no
interacting with any of the others. Each woman lived here in her own, separate
universe. Each woman wanted to be left alone. This was a tower of refuge, a
place for those seeking healing. Gwendolyn would be safe here from all the
harms of the world. But also alone. Utterly alone.

Gwendolyn
understood all too well. She wanted to be left alone, too.

She
stood there now, atop the tower, looking out at the sweeping view of the
treetops of the Southern Forest of the Ring, and felt more alone than ever
before. She knew she should be strong, that she was a fighter. A King’s
daughter, and wife—or nearly wife—to a great warrior.

But
Gwendolyn had to admit that, as much as she yearned to be strong, her heart and
her spirit were still wounded. She missed Thor dearly and feared he would never
return for her. And even if he did, once he found out what had happened to her,
she feared he would never want to be with her again.

Gwen
also felt hollowed-out knowing that Silesia had been destroyed, that Andronicus
had won, and that everyone she cared about had already been captured or killed.
Andronicus was everywhere now. He completely occupied the Ring and there was
nowhere left to turn. Gwen felt hopeless, exhausted; far too exhausted for
someone her age. Worse of all, she felt as if she had let everyone down; she
felt as if she had lived too many lifetimes already, and she did not want to
see any more.

Gwendolyn
took a step forward, up onto the ledge, on the very edge of the parapet, beyond
where one was supposed to stand. She lifted her arms slowly and held her palms
out to her side. She felt a cold gust of wind, the freezing winds of winter.
They knocked her off balance and she swayed on the edge of the precipice. She
looked down and saw the steep plummet below.

Gwendolyn
looked up to the sky, and thought of Argon. She wondered where he was, trapped
in his own universe, serving his punishment, for her sake. She would give
anything to see him now, to hear his wisdom one last time. Maybe that would
save her, make her turn around.

But
he was gone. He, too, had paid a price, and could not come back.

Gwen
closed her eyes and thought one last time of Thor. If only he were here, that
could change everything. If only she had
one
person left alive in the
world who truly loved her, maybe that would give her a reason to go on living.
She peered into the horizon, hoping beyond reason to see Thor. As she looked
into the fast-moving clouds, she thought she heard dimly, somewhere on the
horizon, the roar of a dragon. It was so distant, so soft, she must have
imagined it. It was just her mind playing tricks on her. She knew no dragon
could be here, inside the Ring. Just as she knew Thor was far away, lost
forever in the Empire, in some place from which he would never return.

Tears
rolled down Gwen’s cheeks as she thought of him, of the life they could have
had. Of how close they had once been. She pictured the look on his face, the
sound of his voice, his laughter. She had been so sure they would be
inseparable, that they would never be torn apart by anything.

“THOR!”
Gwendolyn threw back her head and cried, swaying on the ledge. She willed for
him to come back to her.

But
her voice echoed on the wind and faded. Thor was a world away.

Gwendolyn
reached down and held the amulet Thor had given her, the one that had saved her
life once. She knew that her one chance had been used. Now, there were no more
chances.

Gwendolyn
looked down over the ledge and saw her father’s face. He was surrounded by
white light, smiling at her.

She
leaned forward and hung one foot over the edge, closing her eyes to the breeze.
She hovered there, caught between two worlds, between the living and the dead.
She was balanced perfectly, and she knew the next gust of wind would decide for
her which direction she would go.

Thor
, she thought.
Forgive me.

Kendrick rode before the vast and
growing army of MacGils, Silesians, and liberated countrymen of the Ring as
they all burst out of the main gates of Silesia and onto the wide road, heading
east, for Andronicus’ army. Beside him rode Srog, Brom, Atme and Godfrey, and
behind them, Reece, O’Connor, Conven, Elden, and Indra, amongst thousands of
warriors. As they rode, they passed the charred bodies of thousands of Empire
soldiers, black and stiff from the breath of the dragon; others lay dead from
the mark of the Destiny Sword. Thor had unleashed waves of destruction, as if a
single-man army. Kendrick took it all in, and was in awe at the scope of Thor’
destruction, the power of Mycoples and the Destiny Sword.

Kendrick marveled at the turn of
events. But days ago, they had all been imprisoned, under Andronicus’ yoke,
forced to admit defeat; Thor had been still in the Empire, the Destiny Sword
but a lost dream, and there had been little hope of their returning. Kendrick
and the others had been crucified, left to die, and it had seemed as if all
were lost.

But now they rode as free men, as
soldiers and knights once again, invigorated by Thor’s arrival, the momentum
now turned to their side. Mycoples had been a godsend, a force of destruction
raining down from the sky; Silesia now stood as a free city, and the
countryside of the Ring, instead of being filled with Empire soldiers, was
littered with Empire corpses. The road leading east was lined with Empire
bodies as far as the eye could see.

Yet as encouraging as all of this
was, Kendrick knew that a half-million of Andronicus’ men lay in waiting on the
other side of the Highlands. They had beaten them back temporarily, but they
had hardly wiped them out. And Kendrick and the others were not content to sit
on their heels and wait in Silesia for Andronicus to regroup and attack once
again—nor did they want to allow them a chance to escape and retreat back to
the Empire. The Shield was up, and as badly outnumbered as Kendrick and the
others were, at least now they had a fighting chance. Now, Andronicus’ army was
on the run, and Kendrick and the others were determined to continue the string
of victories that Thor had begun.

Kendrick glanced back over his
shoulder at the thousands of soldiers and free men riding with him and saw the
determination on their faces. They had all tasted slavery, tasted defeat, and
now he could see how much they all appreciated what it felt like to be free men
once again. Not just for themselves, but for their wives and families. Each and
every one of them was embittered, emboldened to make Andronicus pay and make
sure he did not attack again. These were an army of men ready to fight to the
death, and they rode as one. Everywhere they rode, they liberated more and more
men, releasing them from their bonds and absorbing a sprawling and ever-growing
army.

Kendrick himself was still
recovering from his time upon the cross. His body was still not as strong as it
was, and there still lingered the ever-present pain in his wrists and ankles
from where those coarse ropes had dug into him. He looked over at Srog and Brom
and Atme, his neighbors on the cross, and saw that they, too, were not as
strong as they had once been. The crucifixion had taken its toll on all of them.
Yet still they all rode proudly, emboldened. There was nothing like a chance to
fight for your life, a chance for vengeance, to make you forget your injuries.

Kendrick was overjoyed to have
his younger brother Reece and the other Legion brothers back from their quest,
riding by his side once again. It had torn him apart to watch the slaughter of
the Legion back in Silesia, and having these men back home restored some of his
grief. He had always been close to Reece growing up, protective of him, taking
the role of a second father to him during all those times when King MacGil had
been too busy. In some ways, being only his half-brother had allowed Kendrick
to become even closer to Reece; there was no burden on them to be close, and
they became close out of choice. Kendrick had never been able to be close to
his other younger brothers—Godfrey had spent his time with misfits in the
tavern, and Gareth—well, Gareth had been Gareth. Reece had been the only other
one of the siblings who had embraced the battlefield, who had wanted to take up
the life that Kendrick had chosen, too. Kendrick could not be more proud of
him.

In the past, when Kendrick had
ridden with Reece he had always been protective, keeping one eye on him; but
since his return, Kendrick could see that Reece had become a true, hardened
warrior himself, so he no longer felt the need to be so watchful of him. He
wondered what sort of travails Reece must have undergone in the Empire to have
transformed him to as hardened and skillful a warrior as he had become. He was
looking forward to sitting down with him and hearing his stories.

Kendrick was overjoyed that Thor
was back, too, and not just because Thor had liberated them, but also because
he liked and respected Thor immensely and cared about him as he would a
brother. Kendrick still replayed in his mind the image of Thor returning and
wielding the Sword. He could not get over it. It was a vision he had never
expected to see in his lifetime; indeed, he had never expected to see
anyone
wield the Destiny Sword, much less Thor, his own squire, a small, humble boy
from a farming village on the periphery of the ring. An outsider. And not even
a MacGil.

Or was he?

Kendrick wondered. He kept
turning over in his mind the legend: only a MacGil could wield the Sword. Deep
in his own heart, Kendrick had to admit that he’d always hoped that he himself
would be the one to wield it. He’d hoped it would be the ultimate stamp on his
legitimacy as a true MacGil, as the firstborn son. He had always dreamed that
somehow, one day, circumstances would allow him to try.

But he had never been afforded
that chance, and he did not begrudge Thor his achievement. Kendrick was not
covetous; on the contrary, he marveled at Thor’s destiny. He could not
understand it, though. Was the legend false? Or was Thor a MacGil? How could he
be? Unless Thor, too, was King MacGil’s son. Kendrick wondered. His father had
been known to sleep with many women outside of his marriage—which was indeed
how he himself had been sired.

Was that why Thor had rushed out
in Silesia, after speaking to his mother? What had they discussed, exactly? His
mother wouldn’t say. It was the first time she had kept a secret from him, from
all of them. Why now? What secret was she withholding? What could she have said
that had made Thor run off like that, leaving them all without a word?

It made Kendrick think of his own
father, his own lineage. As much as he wished otherwise, he burned at the idea
that he was illegitimate, and for the millionth time he wondered who his true
mother was. He had heard various rumors throughout his life of different women
that his father, King MaGil, had slept with, but he had never known for
certain. When everything settled down—if it ever did—and the Ring returned to
normal, Kendrick resolved to find out who his mother was for sure. He would
confront her. He would ask her why she had let him go, why she had never been a
part of his life. How she had met his father. He really just wanted to meet
her, to see her face; to see if she looked like him; and to have her tell him
that he was indeed legitimate, as legitimate as anyone else.

Kendrick was pleased that Thor
had flown off to retrieve Gwendolyn, yet a part of him also wished Thor had
stayed. Charging into battle, vastly outnumbered against tens of thousands of
Andronicus’ men, Kendrick knew they could use Thor and Mycoples now more than
ever.

But Kendrick was born and bred a
warrior, and he was not one to sit back and wait for others to fight his
battles for him. Instead, he did what his instinct commanded him to do: ride
out and conquer as much of the Empire army as he could, with his own men. He
did not have special weapons like Mycoples or the Destiny Sword, but he had his
own two hands, the same he had used since he was a boy. And that had always
been enough.

They ascended a hill and as they
reached its crest, Kendrick looked out over the horizon and saw in the distance
a small MacGil city, Lucia, the first city east of Silesia. Empire corpses
lined the road, and clearly Thor’s wave of destruction had ended here. On the
distant horizon, Kendrick could see a battalion of Andronicus’ army retreating,
riding east. He presumed they were heading back to Andronicus’ main camp, to
the safety of the other side of the Highlands. The main body of the army was
retreating—but they had left behind a smaller division to hold Lucia. Several
thousand of Andronicus’ men were stationed in the city, standing guard before
it. Also visible were its citizens, enslaved by the soldiers.

Kendrick remembered what had happened
to them back in Silesia, how they had been treated, and his face reddened with
a desire for vengeance.

“ATTACK!” Kendrick screamed.

He raised his sword high and
behind him came the invigorated shouts of thousands of soldiers.

Kendrick kicked his horse, and
all of them raced as one down the hill, heading for  Lucia. The two armies were
preparing to face off, and though they were equally matched in terms of
numbers, they were not, Kendrick knew, matched in terms of heart. This remnant
division of Andronicus’ army were invaders on the run, while Kendrick and his
men were ready to fight for their very lives to protect their homeland.

His battle cry rose to the
heavens as they charged for the gates of Lucia. They came so fast and quick
that several dozen Empire soldiers standing guard turned and looked at each
other in confusion, clearly not expecting this attack. The Empire soldiers
turned, ran inside the gates, and furiously turned the cranks to lower the
portcullis.

But not fast enough. Several of
Kendrick’s archers, leading the way, fired and killed them, their arrows
landing expertly through their chests and backs, finding the joints in their
armor. Kendrick himself hurled a spear, as did Reece beside him. Kendrick found
his target—a large warrior taking aim with a bow—and was impressed to see Reece
found his effortlessly, piercing a soldier through his heart. The gate remained
open and Kendrick’s men did not hesitate. With a great battle cry, they charged
through, aiming for the heart of the city, not pausing to shy from
confrontation.

There arose a great clang of
metal as Kendrick and the others raised swords and axes and spears and
halberds, and met the thousands of Empire soldiers who raced out to greet them
on horseback. The first to make impact, Kendrick raised his shield and blocked
a blow, at the same time swinging his sword and killing two soldiers. Without
hesitating, he wheeled around and blocked another sword slash, then thrust his
sword into an Empire soldier’s gut. As the man died, Kendrick thought of
vengeance; he thought of Gwendolyn, of his people, of all the people of the
Ring who had suffered.

Reece, beside him, swung his mace
and impacted a soldier on the side of his head, knocking him off his horse,
then raised his shield and blocked a blow coming at him from his side. He swung
his mace around and took out his attacker. Elden, beside him, rushed forward
with his great axe and brought it down on a soldier aiming for Reece, cutting
straight through his shield and into his chest.

O’Connor fired several arrows
with deadly precision, even at such close distance, while Conven threw himself
into the battle and fought recklessly, lunging forward beyond all the other
men, not even bothering to raise his shield. He instead swung with two swords, heading
into the thick of the Empire soldiers, as if he wanted to die. But amazingly,
he did not. Instead, he took out men to the left and right.

Indra followed not far behind.
She was fearless, more so than most of the men. She used her dagger with skill
and cunning, cutting like a fish through the ranks and stabbing Empire soldiers
in the throat. As she did, she thought of her homeland, of how much her own
people had suffered under the boot of the Empire.

An Empire soldier brought his axe
down for Kendrick’s head before he could dodge it, and he braced himself for
the blow; but he heard a great clang, and saw his friend Atme beside him,
stopping the blow with his shield. Atme then jabbed his short spear and stabbed
the attacker in the gut. Kendrick knew he owed him his life, once again.

As another soldier charged
forward with a bow and arrow aimed right for Atme, Kendrick charged in front
and slashed his sword upwards, knocked the bow up high into the sky, the arrow
sailing aimlessly over Atme’s head. Kendrick then butted the soldier on the
bridge of the nose with his sword hilt, knocking him off his horse, where he
was trampled to death. Now they were even.

And so the battle went, on and
on, each army going blow for blow, men falling on both sides, but more on the
Empire side, as Kendrick’s men, fueled with rage, pressed farther and farther
into the city. Eventually, their momentum swept them through like a tide. The
Empire men were strong warriors, but they were the ones who were used to
attacking and were caught off guard; soon, they were unable to organize and
hold back the swell of Kendrick’s army. They were pushed back and fell in
greater numbers.

After nearly an hour of intense
fighting, the Empire losses became a full scale retreat. Someone on their side
sounded a horn, and one by one, they began to turn and gallop away, trying to
make it out of the city.