A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (11 page)

Romulus strutted down the forest
trail, following the Wokable, which walked with a strange gait in its glowing
green robe, prancing through the forest so quickly that it was hard to follow.
If there was anything Romulus distrusted more than this Wokable, it was this
place, Charred Wood, which he had always avoided at all costs, given its
reputation. The trees here grew short and fat, the gnarled branches spreading
over the trails in every direction, and they were alive in ways that other
trees weren’t. They were rumored to have swallowed men whole. As Romulus looked
over warily, he saw small sets of teeth embedded in some of the trunks, opening
and closing lazily.

He quickened his pace.

Charred Wood was a place of
darkness and gloom, and as they went it grew thicker, the wood growing dense in
a thicket of tangled branches and thorns. It was a place permeated by fog and
filled with all things evil, a place you came when you wanted just the right
poison to assassinate someone, or needed just the right potion to place a
curse.

Now Romulus needed this place, as
much as he had hoped to avoid it. He had relied his whole life on strength, on
his battle skills; yet what he needed now was not strength alone. He was
battling in a new realm, a realm of politics and subtle treachery, a realm in
which the sword alone could not slay your opponent. He needed a weapon greater
than a sword. He needed an edge over all of them. And the key lay deep inside
this twisted forest.

For years, Romulus had embarked
on his own secret mission, on a hunt for the legendary weapon rumored to hold
the power to lower the Shield. Of course, keeping the Destiny Sword in the
Empire would have been the simplest option; but with that gone now, Romulus had
to turn once again to the weapon. For years he had been chasing wild rumors of
its existence, following trails here and there only to discover another false
lead.

This time, it felt different.
This time, the lead had come after the torture and assassination of a long
string of people, until the trail had finally led to this Wokable. It could not
have come at a better time; if Romulus did not find it, the Grand Council—or
Andronicus—would kill him. But if he truly held the weapon to lower the Shield,
he would be invincible. The others would rally around him, and there would be
nothing left to stop him from ruling the Empire.

They twisted and turned down yet
another trail, through a tangle of thorns, the fog growing thick. The Wokable
put on gloves, several feet long, to shield his long fingers from the thorns.
Romulus, though, tore them from his way with his bare hands. He felt the thorns
piercing his skin, drawing blood, but he did not care; he actually enjoyed the
pain.

They cut through the thorn bushes
and carved a path deeper into the forest, and just as Romulus was starting to
wonder if this Wokable was leading him astray, finally, the path opened up into
a small circular clearing.

There sat a small, circular grass
knoll, perhaps ten feet high, a mound of earth really. In its center was a low,
arched door, covered in grass, almost imperceptible. There were no windows and
was no other entryway. It looked like a dome of earth.

Romulus paused, sensing the evil
behind that door.

The Wokable turned and looked at
him, with its flat, yellow face and four eyes, making an odd purring noise of
satisfaction that set Romulus on edge. It smiled, baring its hundreds of tiny,
sharp teeth.

“Your precious weapon lies within
that knoll.”

Romulus stepped forward to go to
it, but the Wokable reached out with its long, bony fingers and laid them on
his chest, stopping him. It was surprisingly strong.

“You must wait until you are
summoned.”

Romulus sneered. He was not one
to wait for anyone.

“And if I don’t?” Romulus
demanded.

The Wokable opened its mouth
again and again, flashing its rows of teeth, expressing displeasure.

“Then your endeavor will be
cursed.”

Romulus glowered. He was not one
to cower to signs and omens; he went whenever and however he wanted, on his own
terms.

Romulus strutted across the
clearing, grabbed the small door and yanked it open with such strength that he
tore it off its hinges. He stepped fearlessly into the blackness of the
hollowed-out grassy knoll, ducking as he went.

The inside was dark, an evil
residue hanging in the air, clinging to his skin. The place was lit by a small
candle, flickering at the far end, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

As he walked into the center, he
spotted a small, circular table. Seated before it was an old man, bald, long
strands of white hair dangling down the sides of his head, wearing a green
velvet cloak, the collar pulled high. His back was to him and he hummed a
strange tune.

Romulus waited, unsure what to
make of it all. He hoped this wasn’t another dead end, as he saw no weapon in
this place.

“I have no time to waste,”
Romulus said. “Give me what I have come for.”

There came a long silence.

“You come before I summon you,”
the old man said, his ancient voice raspy.

Romulus sneered.

“I wait for no one,” he said.

“That will be your downfall,” the
man said.

Romulus glowered.

“Give me what I came for. If not,
you will suffer the wrath of the great Romulus.”

There came a low chuckle, like a
rumble, and Romulus felt he was being mocked.

In a rage, Romulus rushed
forward, knocked over the table, came around and confronted the old man. He
drew his sword and stabbed him, but he looked down and saw the sword was only
going through air, harmless.

He looked at the man’s face and
he stood back, aghast. The man’s cheeks were long and bony, his face drawn, and
in place of eyes were two empty sockets.

The old man smiled, his face
crinkling into a million lines, and Romulus, despite himself, shivered.

“You look death in the face,” the
old man said. “How does it look?”

Romulus stood there, speechless.
Finally, he gathered enough courage to say: “I come for the weapon. The weapon
that will lower the Shield.”

The old man smiled.

“It can only be wielded by the
worthy. Are you worthy?”

“I am second only to Andronicus
in the entire Empire. I am the Great Romulus.”

“Yes…” the man said slowly. “For
now, anyway. Soon, you will be first.”

Romulus’ heart soared at the
words.

“Tell me more,” he demanded.

“Your fate has yet to be
determined. The weapon may change it. But the price will be great.”

“I will pay your price,” Romulus
said hastily. “Give it to me!”

The man rose and walked past
Romulus, crossing the room to the far wall as he reached into the blackness.
Romulus’s heart pounded as he waited in anticipation to see what the weapon
could be. Was it a sword? A javelin? Some other weapon?

Romulus was confused as the man
returned holding a simple, black velvet cloak. He held it up, and lay it in
Romulus’ hands.

“What is this?” Romulus asked,
annoyed.

“Your sacred weapon,” came the
reply.

Romulus looked at it, confused,
wondering if he were being mocked.

“This is no weapon,” he said. “It
is a cloak.”

“Not all weapons have blades,”
the old man said. “This weapon is more powerful than any you have ever known.”

“I will try it on,” Romulus said,
preparing to wear it.

The old man reached out and
grabbed his arm. Romulus was surprised by the strength of his grip, his bony
hand so strong he could not even free himself of it. He realized this encounter
was magical, of a strength he did not understand, and for the first time in his
life, he felt afraid.

“Put that cloak on now, and you
will die,” the old man said.

Romulus examined it in wonder.

“Wear it only when you cross the
bridge to the Canyon. It will make you invisible and allow you to penetrate the
Shield, to enter the Ring. You must cross by yourself. In order to destroy the
Shield for good, you will need to bring a MacGil with you back across the
Canyon, while wearing the cloak. When a MacGil sets foot on land outside the
Canyon, together with you, wearing this cloak, then the Shield will come down
for good.”

Romulus surveyed the cloak in
awe. He sensed it was the truth.

Finally, after all these years,
he held in his hand the key to bringing down the Shield, to taking the Ring.
There was no obstacle left in his path. Finally, power would be his.

Thor sat on the upper parapets of
the castle, the Destiny Sword in his lap, twisting and turning it, examining it
in the early morning light. The Sword sparkled, illuminated in all different
colors, long and smooth, nearly translucent, made of a metal he could not
understand. The hilt, solid gold, felt like butter in his palm, making his hand
mold to it completely, as if he had always held it, as if he and the Sword were
one. Along the edge of the hilt were embedded small rubies, and the blade was
engraved with an ancient inscription he did not understand.

As he studied it, Thor wondered.
The Sword felt positively ancient, and he wondered who had forged it, who had
wielded it in the past, how it had gotten here. He wondered about its history.
He wondered about its future. He wondered about his own future. He reflected on
all they had gone through to get the Sword, on their quest, crossing the
Canyon, crossing the Tartuvian, the hostile Empire, its jungles and deserts and
mountains and slave cities and dragons…

All for this. This blade, this
piece of metal that he held in his hand. He thought of the lives lost, and saw
the faces of his friends, floating in the water. He thought of all the dead in
the Ring, of Andronicus’ invasion…all for this Sword. What was it about this
singular weapon?

Thor thought of all the Empire
warriors he had killed with it since his return. As he had wielded it, it had
felt more like it had been wielding him. He did not understand it. And Thor
feared things he did not understand.

Most of all, he contemplated
Aberthol’s ominous words, which rang in his head, which had kept him up all
night, which had drawn him back up here, to these parapets, before dawn, to
find solace, time to reflect: the legend that the wielding of the Sword would
be short-lived.

Did that mean he would be
defeated? That he would die soon? Without the Sword, who would he be? What
would become of the Shield? Of the Ring?

Thor knew he had powers in his
own right. Yet none of his powers matched those of the Sword. Already, he felt
one and the same with it. He felt invincible now. What could possibly bring him
down?

Thor felt the ring in his pocket,
determined to propose to Gwendolyn as soon as she woke. First, though, he
needed to tell her. The time had come. Before he embarked on a mission to kill
his father, Gwendolyn must know who he was.

How would she react? Badly, he
feared. Would that mean the end of their relationship?

Thor looked up at the breaking
light of dawn, the Sword glistening, making his grey eyes sparkle, and he
thought of the day’s battle ahead. Today was the day he would destroy the
remainder of Andronicus’ army—and Andronicus himself. His own father. He did
not know how he felt about that. He wanted him dead, more than anything in the
world. But he also, he had to admit, wanted a father in this world. A part of
him felt conflicted about murdering his own father. Why was this destiny thrust
upon him?

Thor knew that when the time
came, he would not hesitate. He would kill him. But he wished it could be
otherwise, wished he could have a different sort of father. He wished he had a
father he could meet for the first time in a fatherly embrace—not in an act of
violence.

“There you are,” came a voice.

Thor wheeled to see Gwendolyn
standing at the entrance to the parapets, smiling, sleepy, her hair tousled,
Krohn by her side, looking at him with love. Gwen approached and Krohn hurried
over and jumped on him, licking him.

Thor smiled, re-sheathed the
Sword, walked over, and met Gwendolyn in an embrace, happy to have this welcome
distraction from his dark thoughts.

“Dawn breaks,” she said, “and all
our men await you down below, in the Great Hall. It is a big day of battle and
they want to convene with you before you begin your attack.”

Thor nodded. He had expected as
much, and he turned and walked with Gwendolyn.

The two of them left the
parapets, re-entered the castle and marched down the halls, Krohn beside them.
They held hands silently as they walked, Thor’s heart thumping in his chest,
with so many things he wanted to tell her. He needed to tell her that he wanted
to be with her forever. That he wanted her to have his mother’s ring. And who
his true father was.

But his heart pounded more and
more, and he found himself unable to say any of these things. Their time was
too rushed.

Finally, as they descended a
flights of steps and turned a corridor, Thor mustered the courage. It was now
or never.

“Gwendolyn, there is something I
must tell you,” he said, his voice shaking.

She looked at him with a worried
glance.

He opened his mouth to speak, and
as he was about to utter the words, suddenly, two huge doors opened. Thor and
Gwendolyn turned and saw before them the Great Hall, a huge chamber, a hundred
feet wide and high, lined with the arms and banners of all the great warriors.
In its center sat a long, rectangular table, and around this, there sat and
stood hundreds of warriors. All of them looked to Thor expectantly.

Thor paused at the door, as
Gwendolyn looked at him, waiting.

Now, he knew, was not the right
time.

“We shall talk afterwards,” he
said.

He turned and took her hand, and
the two of them entered the hall together. As they did, the men stood and
banged the hilts of their swords on the table, a cacophony of noise, and a sign
of respect.

“Thorgrinson!” they chanted.

As Thor approached, finally they
quieted down. He was embraced by Kendrick, Srog, Godfrey, Reece, Elden,
O’Connor, and Conven, along with several other brave warriors. The new Legion
members were there too, Serna and Krog, as well as dozens of members of the
Silver and of MacGil’s army. It was a large and formidable force.

“Thorgrinson,” Srog said as the
crowd quieted. “Silesia’s soldiers await your disposal. And thousands more
await us outside this hall.”

“And all of the Silver, and all
of MacGil’s army,” Kendrick added. “You are the army’s leader now.”

Thor shook his head, as he
clasped Kendrick’s shoulder.

“You are their leader,” he said.
“I am but a simple boy with a dragon and a sword, and I shall do whatever I can
in service to the Ring.”

Kendrick smiled.

“We will accompany you, when you
attack Andronicus,” Kendrick said, “we will ride alongside, on the ground below
you. You will be faster, with your dragon, but we will ride hard, and will not
be far behind. As you have Andronicus’ men on the run, we will pursue on the
ground, and finish off whatever men you cannot kill. As powerful as you are,
even with your dragon and your sword, there are too many places—caves and nooks
and crannies—where Andronicus’ men can hide.”

Thor nodded.

“I shall be honored to have you
join me in battle. You are right: even with all the might in the world, I
cannot do it alone. And I can think of no greater honor than to fight alongside
this army.”

“After today,” Srog said,
“Andronicus and his men will be no more. At the end of this day’s battle, the
Ring will be free and the Empire driven back to the sea!”

“HEAR, HEAR!” came the huge shout
of approval from the knights in the room.

Thor surveyed their faces, all
battle-hardened men, men he had grown up hearing of and respecting, and he felt
honored to be in their presence.

Thor was about to respond when,
suddenly, the doors to the room burst open, and in rushed a man Thor dimly
recognized. All heads turned as he strutted into the room, out of breath,
marching right up to the table.

It was Bronson. Luanda’s husband.

“Forgive me, great soldiers, for
intruding,” Bronson announced, gasping, trying to catch his breath. He stood
there, wearing an eye patch.

“I come carrying great news,”
Bronson said. “Urgent news. News that will affect this day’s events. I’ve
ridden all the way from the far side of the Highlands. I was sent here by
Luanda. She has spoken to Andronicus, and he has offered his surrender!”

A surprised murmur broke out
amongst the room, as the knights turned and murmured amongst themselves.

“Of course he wants to
surrender,” one shouted. “He’s outnumbered! And a day from death!”

“I don’t believe Andronicus would
ever surrender!” another shouted.

“What choice does he have?”
another called out.

“Silence!” Srog yelled, and
eventually the hall quieted down enough for all eyes to focus back on Bronson.

“He said he will surrender
personally,” Bronson said.

“Under what conditions?” Kendrick
asked.

“He said he will surrender to
Thorgrin and to Thorgrin alone. And that his armies must be allowed to leave
the Ring unharmed.”

An agitated murmur broke out
amongst the knights, as they looked at each other, puzzled.

“That sounds like a fair offer,”
Brom said. “He wants to save his men.”

“That doesn’t sound like
Andronicus,” said another.

“What choice does he have?” asked
another. “He is probably being pressured by his generals. He has a half-million
men and there is but one of him, and they have seen the damage Thor can do.”

“Why should we agree?” called out
another. “What do we gain by letting them go free? Now is the time to kill them
all!”

“With Andronicus our prisoner,
and the Shield up, we have nothing to fear from his men. We would save
bloodshed, ours, too. No lives will be lost today. After all, he still has half
a million men next to our ten thousand.”

Arguing broke out amongst the
men, as Thor stood there, listening, taking it all in.

“Even if we agree,” said
Kendrick, “for Thor to go alone, it doesn’t seem right.”

“And how do we know you are not
lying?” Godfrey asked Bronson.

All eyes turned back to Bronson.

 “Yes, how do we know we can
trust you?” Reece asked. “After all, you are a McCloud.”

“I am a MacGil now,” Bronson insisted.
“I reject the McClouds. I reject my father. After all, he is the one who has
maimed me. I fought for you valiantly during the siege of Silesia, and I have
no reason to stain my honor. I vow with every ounce of my being that I tell the
truth. I am a knight, as are you. We may have fought on other sides of battle,
but we all adhere to the same code of honor.”

Bronson spoke with the utmost
sincerity and Thor could see he was not lying.

“What could Thor have to fear
anyway?” Elden asked. “With Mycoples by his side and the Destiny Sword in hand,
all of Andronicus’ men could do him no harm.”

“I say we accept his surrender,”
Srog said.

Kendrick slammed his fist on the
table and the room quieted.

“The offer is Thor’s and Thor’s
alone to accept or reject. It is his life that is risked for us all.”

Thor stood there, listening,
wondering. On the one hand, he would gladly risk his life for the Ring; on the
other, something felt wrong to him. He was not sure what. Then again, as they’d
said, what could Andronicus possibly do to him? With Mycoples and the Sword, he
felt invincible.

“I would rather kill Andronicus
than accept his surrender,” Thor replied. “But if that is your wish, then I
will honor it. I will go.”

There came a cheer from the group
of knights.

“I will accept his surrender,”
Thor said, “and I will make sure that every last one of his soldiers leaves the
Ring.”

“No!” Gwendolyn called out.

The room grew silent as they
turned and looked at her.

“You must not go,” she said to
Thor. “It is not fair that you and you alone should risk your life.”

Thor turned to her, touched by
her concern.

“My lady,” Srog said, “we do not
wish to endanger Thorgrin, either. But how can he possibly be hurt?”

Gwendolyn shook her head.

“Send somebody else. Thorgrin had
just returned from risking his life for the Ring. He has done enough.”

The room fell silent, and Thor
looked at Gwendolyn, overcome with love for her. But she still did not
understand. For Thor, this was more than just about confronting an enemy: it
was about confronting his
father
. And that was something she would never
understand until he told her. The time had come.

He took Gwendolyn’s hand, leaned
over and kissed her fingers, and said softly:

“There’s something I need to tell
you. Let us talk alone.”

*

Thor took Gwen’s hand and guided
her from the room, to the puzzled stares of hundreds. They walked down a
corridor, until they came to the privacy of a small chamber. They stepped
inside, and the attendants closed the door behind them.

“You can’t trust him,” she insisted,
turning to him, impassioned. “Fight him. Kill him. But do not go alone to
accept his surrender. Perhaps I’m being selfish. But I have had you taken away
from me once already, and I did not think you would ever come back. My life
felt like it was over. Now that you are here, I feel reborn again, and I can’t
have you risk your life again. I’m sorry. But let someone else go. Andronicus
needn’t only to surrender to you. He could surrender to anyone. I don’t know
what his fixation is with you. Please. Let anyone go but you.”