Морган Райс
A Rite of Swords

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Chapter Seven

Erec opened his eyes to find himself lying in Alistair’s arms, looking up at her crystal-blue eyes, which shone down with love and warmth. She wore a small smile at the corner of her lips, and he felt the warmth radiating off her hands, and through his body. As he checked himself, he felt entirely healed, reborn, as if he had never been injured. She had brought him back from the dead.

Erec sat up and looked into Alistair’s eyes with surprise, finding himself wondering once again who she really was, how she could have such powers.

As Erec sat up and rubbed his head, he immediately remembered: Andronicus’ men. The attack. The defense of the gulch. The boulder.

Erec jumped to his feet and saw his men all looking back towards him, as if awaiting his resurrection – and his command. Their faces were filled with relief.

“How long have I been unconscious?” he turned and asked Alistair, frantic. He felt guilty he had abandoned his men for so long.

But she smiled back at him sweetly.

“But for one second,” she said.

Erec could not comprehend how that could be. He felt so restored, as if he had slept for years. He felt a new bounce in his step as he jumped to his feet and turned and ran for the entrance to the gulch and saw his handiwork: the huge boulder which he had smashed now stopped it up, and Andronicus’ men could no longer get through. They had achieved the impossible and had fended off the much larger army. At least for now.

Before he could celebrate, Erec heard a sudden scream come from up above and looked up: there, atop the cliff, one of his men screamed, then tumbled backwards, end over end, and landed on the ground, dead.

Erec looked down and saw a spear impaled in the man’s body, then looked back up to see a host of activity, shouts and screams erupting everywhere. Before his eyes, dozens of Andronicus’ men appeared at the top, fighting hand-to-hand with the Duke’s men, going blow for blow, and Erec realized what had happened: the Empire commander had split his forces, sending some through the gulch, and sending others straight up the mountain face.

“TO THE TOP!” Erec commanded. “CLIMB!”

The Duke’s men followed him as he ran straight up the mountain face, sword in hand, scrambling up the steep ascent of rock and dust. Every several feet he slipped and reached out with his palm, scraping it against the stone, grabbing hold, doing his best not to fall backwards. He ran, but the face was so steep it was more climb than run; each step was hard fought, armor clanging all around him as his men huffed and puffed their way, like mountain goats, straight up the cliff.

“ARCHERS!” Erec screamed.

Down below, several dozen of the Duke’s archers, scaling the mountain, stopped and took aim straight up the cliff. They unleashed a volley of arrows and several Empire soldiers screamed and hurled backwards, tumbling down along the side of the cliff. One body came hurling down at Erec; he dodged and barely avoided it. One of the Duke’s men was not so lucky, though – a corpse hit him and sent him flying backwards to the ground, screaming, dead beneath its weight.

The Duke’s archers dug in and stationed themselves up and down the mountain, firing every time an Empire soldier popped his head over the edge of the cliff to keep them at bay.

But the fighting up there was tight, hand-to-hand, and not all of the arrows hit their mark: one arrow missed, accidentally lodging into the back of one of the Duke’s own men. The soldier screamed and arched his back, and an Empire soldier took advantage and stabbed him, knocking him backwards, screaming down the cliff. But as the Empire soldier was exposed, another archer landed an arrow in his gut, taking him out, too, his corpse falling face-first over the edge.

Erec redoubled his efforts, as did those around him, sprinting with all he had straight up the cliff. As he neared the top, just feet away, he slipped and began to fall; he flailed, reached out, and grabbed hold of a thick root emerging from the stone. He held on for his life, dangling from it, then pulled himself up, regained his footing, and continued to the top.

Erec reached the top before the others and raced forward with a battle cry, sword raised high, eager to help defend his men, who were holding their positions at the top but getting pushed back. There were but a few dozen of his men up here, and each was embroiled in hand-to-hand combat with Empire soldiers, outnumbered two to one. With each passing second, more and more Empire soldiers kept appearing at the top.

Erec fought like a madman, charging and stabbing two soldiers at once, freeing up his men. There was no one faster in battle than he, not in the whole Ring, and with two swords in hand, slashing every which way, Erec drew on his unique skills as champion of the Silver to fight back the Empire. He was a one-man wave of destruction as he spun and ducked and slashed, heading ever deeper right into the thick of Empire soldiers. He dodged and head-butted and parried, and went so fast that he opted not to use his shield.

Erec tore through them like a wind, downing a dozen soldiers before they barely had a chance to defend themselves. And the Duke’s men, all around him, rallied.

Behind him, the rest of the Duke’s men also reached the top, Brandt and the Duke leading the way, fighting by Erec’s side. Soon, the momentum turned, and they found themselves pushing back the Empire men, corpses piling up all around them.

Erec squared off with the final Empire soldier left at the top, and he drove him backward then leaned back and kicked him, sending him off the Empire side, screaming as he tumbled backwards.

Erec and his men all stood there, catching their breath; Erec walked forward, across the broad landing, to the very edge of the Empire side of the cliff. He wanted to see what lay below. The Empire had stopped sending men up here, wisely, but Erec had a sinking feeling that they might still have some in reserve. His men came up beside him and looked down, too.

Nothing in Erec’s wildest imagination prepared him for what he saw below. His heart sank. Despite the hundreds of men they had managed to kill, despite the fact that they had successfully sealed off the gulch and taken the high ground, there still remained below tens of thousands of Empire soldiers.

Erec could scarcely believe it. It had taken everything they had to get this far, and all the damage they had done had not even put a dent in the endless armor of the Empire. The Empire would just send more and more men up here. Erec and his men could kill dozens more, perhaps even hundreds. But eventually, the thousands would get through.

Erec stood there, feeling hopeless. For the first time in his life, he knew he was about to die, here, on this ground, on this day. There was no way around it. He did not regret it. He had put up a heroic defense, and if he were to die, there was no better way, or place. He gripped his sword and steeled himself, and his only hesitation was that Alistair should be safe.

Maybe he thought, in the next lifetime he would have more time with her.

“Well, we had a good run,” came a voice.

Erec turned to see Brandt standing beside him, his hand on the hilt of his sword, also resigned. The two of them had fought countless battles together, had been outnumbered many times – and yet Erec had need never seen the expression on his friend’s face that he saw now. It must have mirrored his own: it signaled that death was here.

“At least we shall go down with swords in our hands,” said the Duke.

He echoed Erec’s thoughts exactly.

Down below, the Empire’s men, as if realizing, looked up. Thousands of them began to rally, to march in unison, heading for the cliff, weapons drawn. Hundreds of Empire archers began to kneel, and Erec knew it would only be moments until the bloodshed began. He braced himself and breathed deep.

Suddenly there came a screeching noise from somewhere in the sky, off on the horizon. Erec looked up and searched the skies, wondering if he was hearing things. Once, he had heard the cry of a dragon, and he thought perhaps it sounded like that. It had been a sound he had never forgotten, one he had heard during his training, during The Hundred. It was a cry he had never thought to hear again. It couldn’t be possible. A dragon? Here in the Ring?

Erec craned his neck and, in the distance, through the parting clouds, he saw a vision that would be burned into his mind for the rest of his life: flying toward them, its great wings flapping, was a huge purple dragon with large, glowing red eyes. The sight filled Erec with dread, more so than any army could.

But as he looked closer, his expression turned to one of confusion. He thought he could see two people riding on the back of the dragon. As Erec narrowed his eyes, he recognized them. Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

There, on the back of the dragon, sat Thorgrin and behind him, gripping his waist, was King MacGil’s daughter. Gwendolyn.

Before Erec could begin to process what he was seeing, the dragon dove down, plunging toward the ground like an eagle. It opened its mouth and screeched an awful sound, a sound so sharp that a boulder beside Erec began to split. The entire ground shook as the dragon plunged, opened its mouth, and breathed a fire unlike anything Erec had ever seen.

The valley filled with the shouts and cries of thousands of Empire soldiers, as wave after wave of fire engulfed them, the whole valley becoming lit with flames. Thor directed the dragon up and down the ranks of Andronicus’ men, wiping out scores of them in the blink of an eye.

The remaining soldiers turned and fled, racing for the horizon. Thor hunted these down, too, directing his dragon to breathe more and more fire.

Within moments, all the men below Erec – the men he had been so sure would lead to his death, were themselves dead. There remained nothing of them but charred corpses, fire and flames, souls that once were. The entire Empire battalion was gone.

Erec looked up, mouth open in shock, and watched as the dragon rose high into the air, flapped its great wings, and flew past them. It headed north. His men erupted into a great cheer as it passed them.

Erec was speechless in admiration of Thor’s heroics, his fearlessness, his control of this beast – and of the beast’s power. Erec had been given a second chance at life – he and all of his men – and for the first time in a while, he was feeling optimistic. Now they could win. Even against Andronicus’ million men, with a beast like that, they could actually win.

“Men, march!” Erec commanded.

He was determined to follow the trail of the dragon, the smell of sulfur, the blaze in the sky, wherever it led them. Thorgrin had returned, and it was time to join him.

Chapter Eight

Kendrick charged on his horse, surrounded by his men, the thousands of them massed outside Vinesia, the major city that Andronicus’ battalion had retreated to. A tall, iron portcullis barred the city gates, its stone walls were thick, and thousands of Andronicus’ men teemed inside and out, vastly outnumbering Kendrick’s army. The element of surprise was no longer on his side.

Worse, coming into view from behind the city were thousands more of Andronicus’ men, reinforcements, flooding the plains. Just when Kendrick thought they had them on the run, the situation had been quickly reversed. In fact, now the army marched towards Kendrick, orderly, disciplined, one massive wave of destruction.

The only alternative now was to retreat to Silesia, to hold it temporarily until the Empire took it once again, until they were all slaves once again. And that could never be.

Kendrick had never been one to retreat from a confrontation, even when outnumbered, and neither were any of the other brave warriors here of MacGil’s army, of Silesia, of the Silver. They would all, Kendrick knew, fight with him to the death. And as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, he knew that was precisely what he would have to do on this day.

The Empire men let out a battle cry, and Kendrick’s men met it with a louder one of their own.

As Kendrick and his men raced down the slope to meet the oncoming army, knowing it was a battle they could not win but determined to wage it anyway, Andronicus’ men picked up speed and raced towards them too. Kendrick felt the air rushing through his hair, felt the vibration of the sword hilt in his hand, and knew it was a matter of time until he found himself lost in that great clang of metal, in that great, familiar rite of swords.

Kendrick was surprised to hear something like a screech high above; he craned his neck to look up into the sky and saw something bursting through the clouds that made him look twice. He had seen it once before – Thor appearing on the back of Mycoples – yet still the sight took his breath away. Especially because this time, Gwendolyn rode on the back, too.

Kendrick’s heart swelled as he watched them dive and realized what was about to happen. He grinned wide, raised his sword higher, and charged faster, realizing for the first time that victory on this day would, after all, be theirs.

* * *

Thor and Gwen flew on the back of Mycoples, weaving in and out of the clouds, her great wings flapping faster and faster as he urged her on. He sensed danger below for Kendrick and the others, dove down low, and broke through the clouds. Before him there opened up a bird’s eye view of the landscape: amidst the rolling hills of the Ring he saw the vast expanse of Andronicus’ division, racing for Kendrick’s men on the open plains.

Thor urged Mycoples down.

“Dive!” he whispered.

She dove low, so close to the ground that Thor could nearly jump off, then opened her mouth and breathed fire, the heat of it nearly singing Thor. Waves and waves of fire rolled through the plains, and there came the terrified shouts of Empire men. Mycoples wreaked destruction unlike anything the men had ever seen, setting miles of the countryside alight, and thousands of Andronicus’ men fell.

Whoever survived turned and fled. Thor would leave the rest of them for Kendrick to take care of.

Thor turned towards the city and saw thousands more Empire soldiers within. He knew Mycoples could not maneuver in such a confined area, with its steep, narrow walls, and that it would be too risky to set her down there. Thor saw hundreds of soldiers aiming at the sky with arrows and spears, and he feared the damage they might do to Mycoples at such short range. He didn’t like it at all. He felt the Destiny Sword throbbing in his hand and knew this was a battle he would have to wage himself.

Thor directed Mycoples down to the front of the city, outside the huge iron portcullis.

As she set down, he leaned over and whispered into Mycoples’ ear: “The gate. Burn it down and I will take it from there.”

Mycoples sat there and squawked back at him, flapping her wings in defiance. Clearly, she wanted to stay with Thor, to fight by his side inside the city. But Thor would not give her the chance.

“This is my battle,” he insisted. “And I need you to take Gwen to safety.”

Mycoples seemed to concede. Suddenly, she leaned back and breathed fire on the iron gate, until finally it melted away to nothing.

Thor leaned over to Mycoples.

“Go!” he whispered to her. “Take Gwendolyn to safety.”

Thor jumped off her back and as he did he felt the Destiny Sword throbbing in his hand.

“Thor!” Gwen called out.

But Thor was already racing to the melted gates. He heard Mycoples take off and knew she was taking Gwen to safety.

Thor sprinted through the open gates and into the courtyard, right into the heart of the city, into the mass of thousands of men. The Destiny Sword vibrated in Thor’s hand like a living thing, bearing him as if he were lighter than air. All he had to do was hold on.

Thor felt his arm and wrist and body moving, slashing and attacking in every direction, the sword ringing through the air as it cut through men like butter, killing dozens in a single stroke. Thor spun and unleashed damage in every direction. At first, the Empire tried to attack him back; but after Thor cut through shields, through armor, through other weapons as if they were not even there, after he killed row after row of men, they realized what they were up against: a magical, unstoppable whirlwind of destruction.

The city broke into chaos. The thousands of Empire soldiers turned and tried to flee the city, to get away from Thor. But there was nowhere to go. Led by the sword, Thor was too fast, like lightning spreading through the city. The soldiers, panic-stricken, ran into the city walls, into each other, stampeding to get out.

Thor did not let them escape. He sprinted through every corner of the city, the sword bearing him with a speed unlike any he had ever known, and, as he thought of Gwendolyn, and what Andronicus had done to her, he killed soldier after soldier, exacting vengeance. It was time to rectify the wrongs that Andronicus had beset upon the Ring.

Andronicus. His father. The thought burned through him like a fire. With each sword slash, Thor imagined killing him, wiping out his ancestry. Thor wanted to be someone else, from someone else. He wanted a father he could be proud of. Anyone but Andronicus. And if he killed enough of these men, maybe, just maybe, he could be free of him.

Thor fought in a daze, wheeling in every direction, until finally he realized he was slashing at nothing. He looked around, and saw that every soldier, every single one of Andronicus’ thousands, lay on the ground, dead. The city was filled with bodies. There was no one left to kill.

Thor stood alone in the city square, breathing hard, the Sword glowing in his hand, and not a soul stirred.

Thor heard a distant cheer; he snapped out of it, ran out the city gate and saw, in the distance, Kendrick’s men, charging, pursuing the remnants of the army, pushing them back.

As Thor sprinted out the city gate, Mycoples saw him and descended, waiting for his return, Gwen still on her back. Thor mounted the dragon, and they rose once again up into the air.

They flew over Kendrick’s army and Thor saw them from above, like ants below him. They cheered in victory as he flew over them. Finally they were in front of Kendrick’s army, in front of the great mass of men and horses and dust. Up ahead were the scattered remnants of Andronicus’ legions.

“Down,” Thor whispered.

They dove and came upon the rear of Andronicus’ men, and as they did Mycoples breathed fire, wiping out one row after the next, the great wall of fire going ever faster. Screams arose, and soon Thor wiped out the entire rear guard.

Finally, there was no one left to kill.

They continued flying, crossing the expansive plains, Thor wanting to be sure there was no one left. In the distance Thor saw the great mountain range, the Highlands, dividing east the East from the West. Between here and the Highlands there was not a single Empire soldier alive. Thor was satisfied.

The entire Western Kingdom of the Ring had been liberated. It had been enough killing for one day. The sun began to set, and whatever lay ahead, on the Eastern side of the Highlands, could lay there for now.

Thor circled and flew back towards Kendrick. The countryside raced below him and soon he heard the shouts and cheers of the men, looking up at the sky, cheering his name.

He set down before the army, dismounting and helping Gwendolyn down.

They were embraced by the huge group, all of them rushing forward, a great cheer of victory rising up as the soldiers pressed in from all sides. Kendrick, Godfrey, Reece and his other legion brothers, the Silver – everyone Thor had ever known and cared about rushed forward to embrace him and Gwendolyn.

They were all, finally, united. Finally, they were free.

Chapter Nine

Andronicus stormed through his camp and in an impulsive fit of rage, reached out with his long claws and severed the head of the young soldier who happened, to his great misfortune, to be standing nearby. As he marched, Andronicus decapitated one soldier after the next, until finally his men got the idea, and ran to stay clear of him. They should have known better than to be near him when he was in a mood like this.

Soldiers parted ways as Andronicus stormed through his camp of tens of thousands, all keeping a healthy distance. Even his generals stayed safely away, trailing behind him, knowing better than to get anywhere near him when he was this upset.

Defeat was one thing. But a defeat like this – it was unprecedented in the history of the Empire. Andronicus had never experienced defeat before. His life had been one long string of victories, each more brutal and satisfying than the next. He did not know what defeat felt like. Now he did. And he did not like it.

Andronicus ran over and over in his mind what had happened, how things had gone so wrong. Only yesterday it had seemed as if his victory was complete, as if the Ring were his. He had destroyed King’s Court and had conquered Silesia; he had subjugated all the MacGils and humiliated their leader, Gwendolyn; he had tortured their greatest soldiers high up on the crosses, had already murdered Kolk, and had been about to execute Kendrick and the others. Argon had meddled in his affairs, had snatched Gwendolyn away before he could kill her, and Andronicus had been about to rectify that, to get her back and execute her, along with all the others. He had been a day away from complete victory and greatness.

And then everything had changed, so quickly, for the worse. Thor and that dragon had appeared on the horizon like a bad apparition, had descended like a cloud, and with their great flames and Destiny Sword had managed to wipe out entire divisions of men. Andronicus had witnessed it all at a safe distance; he’d had the good battle sense to retreat here, to this side of the Highlands, while his scouts continued to bring him back reports throughout the day of the damage Thor and the dragon had done. Down south, near Savaria, an entire battalion was wiped out; in King’s Court and Silesia it was just as bad. Now the entire Western Kingdom of the Ring, once under his control, was liberated. It was inconceivable.

He stewed as he thought of the Destiny Sword. He had gone to such lengths to get it away from the Ring, and now it had returned here and with it, the Shield was back up. That meant he was trapped in here with the men he had; he could leave, of course, but he could not get any more reinforcements inside. He estimated he still had a half-million soldiers here, on this side of the Highlands, more than enough to outnumber the MacGils; but against Thor, the Destiny Sword and that dragon, numbers no longer mattered. Now the odds, ironically, were against him. It was a position he had never been in before.

As if things could not get even worse, his spies had also brought him reports of unrest back at home, in the Empire’s capitol, of Romulus conniving to take his throne away from him.

Andronicus growled with rage as he stormed through his camp, debating his options, looking for someone, anyone to blame. He knew as a commander that the wisest thing to do, tactically, would be retreat and leave the Ring now, before Thor and his dragon found them, to salvage whatever forces he had left, board his ships, and sail back to the Empire in disgrace to retain his throne. After all, the Ring was but a speck in the huge expanse of the Empire, and every great commander was entitled to at least one defeat. He would still rule ninety-nine percent of the world, and he knew he should be more than satisfied with that.

But that was not the way of the Great Andronicus. Andronicus was not one to be prudent or content. He had always followed his passions, and though he knew it was risky, he was not ready to leave this place, to admit defeat, to allow the Ring to slip from his grasp. Even if he had to sacrifice his entire Empire, he would find a way to crush and dominate this place. No matter what it took.

Andronicus could not control the dragon or the Destiny Sword. But Thorgrin… that was a different matter. His son.

Andronicus stopped and sighed at the thought. How ironic: his very own son, the last remaining obstacle to his domination of the world. Somehow, it seemed fitting. Inevitable. It was always, he knew, the people closest to you that hurt you the most.

He recalled the prophecy. It had been a mistake, of course, to let his son live. His great mistake in life. But he’d had a weak spot for him, even though he knew the prophecy declared it might lead to his very own demise. He had let Thor live, and now the time had come to suffer the price.

Andronicus continued storming through the camp, trailed by his generals, until finally he reached the periphery and came across a tent smaller than the others, the one scarlet tent in a sea of black and gold. There was only one person who had the audacity to have a different color tent, the only one his men feared.

Rafi.

Andronicus’ personal sorcerer, the most sinister creature he had ever encountered, Rafi had counseled Andronicus every step of the way, had protected him with his malevolent energy, had been more responsible for his rise than any other. Andronicus hated to turn to him now, to admit how much he needed him. But when he encountered an obstacle not of this world, a thing of magic, it was always Rafi who he turned to.

As Andronicus approached the tent, two evil beings, tall and thin, hidden in scarlet cloaks, glowing yellow eyes protruding from behind their hoods, stared back. They were the only creatures in this entire camp who would dare not to bow their heads in his presence.

“I summon Rafi,” Andronicus declared.

The two creatures, without turning, each reached over with a single hand and pulled back the flaps of the tent.

As they did, a horrible odor came out at Andronicus, making him recoil.

There was a long wait. All the generals stopped behind Andronicus and watched in anticipation, as did the entire camp, who all turned to see. The camp grew thick with silence.

Finally, out of the scarlet tent emerged a tall and skinny creature, twice as tall as Andronicus, as skinny as a branch from an olive tree, dressed in the darkest of scarlet robes, with a face that was invisible, hidden somewhere in the blackness behind its hood.

Rafi stood there and stared back, and Andronicus was able to see only his unblinking yellow eyes looking back, embedded in his too-pale flesh.

A tense silence ensued.

Finally, Andronicus stepped forward.

“I want Thorgrin dead,” Andronicus said.

After a long silence, Rafi chuckled. It was a deep, disturbing sound.

“Fathers and sons,” he said. “Always the same.”

Andronicus burned inside, impatient.

“Can you help?” he pressed.

Rafi stood there silently, for too long, long enough that Andronicus considered killing him. But he knew that would be frivolous. Once, in a rage, Andronicus had tried to impetuously stab him, and in mid-air, the sword had melted in his hand. The hilt had burned his hand, too; it had taken months to recover from the pain.

So Andronicus just stood there, gritting his teeth and bearing the silence.

Finally, beneath his hood, Rafi purred.

“The energies that surround the boy are very strong,” Rafi said slowly. “But everyone has a weakness. He has been elevated by magic. He can be brought down by magic, too.”

Andronicus, intrigued, took a step forward.

“Of what magic do you speak?”

Rafi paused.

“A kind you have never encountered,” he answered. “A kind reserved only for a being like Thor. He is your issue, but he is more than that. He is more powerful even than you. If he lives to see the day.”

Andronicus fumed.

“Tell me how to capture him,” he demanded.

Rafi shook his head.

“That was always your weakness,” he said. “You choose to capture, not to kill him.”

“I will capture him first,” Andronicus countered. “Then kill him. Is there a way or not?”

There came another long silence.

“There is a way to strip him of his power, yes,” Rafi said. “With his precious Sword gone, and his dragon gone, he will be just like any other boy.”

“Show me how,” Andronicus demanded.

There was a long silence.

“For a price,” Rafi finally replied.

“Anything,” Andronicus said. “I’ll give you anything”

There came a long, dark chuckle.

“I think one day you will come to regret that,” Rafi answered. “Very, very much.”