A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (17 page)

She studied him with a smile.

“As have you,” she said. “You
look to be twice the warrior you were.” Gwen looked at Alistair, standing
beside him. “And I see, most importantly, that your Selection Year has turned
out to be a success.”

Erec stepped back and realized.                                                             

“My lady,” he said, bowing and
clearing his throat, “may I present my bride-to-be, Alistair.”

A curious crowd gathered as
Alistair stepped forward.

Alistair smiled and curtsied to
Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn smiled back.

“It is a great pleasure, my
lady,” Alistair said. There was something about her voice that felt immediately
familiar; Gwen could not explain it, but she felt as if she had known this
woman her entire life.

Gwendolyn broke into a huge
smile, stepped forward and clasped both of Alistair’s palms.

“Erec has chosen well,” she said.
“A wife of Erec is a sister of mine.”

Gwendolyn looked at Erec.

“Erec, you are still the Champion
of my father, of the Silver, and you have saved us here on this day. We owe you
a great debt.”

Erec shook his head.

“The debt I owe your father is
far greater,” he replied. “And I intend to repay that debt by serving his
daughter with the same loyalty I have reserved for him.”

Erec turned and glanced about the
room, the commingling of both sides of the MacGil family.

“Your wisdom is on display
today,” he added. “Your father chose wisely. Any other leader would have ended
this day in bloodshed. We are fortunate to have you as ours.”

Gwen surveyed the room and saw
that her strategy was working: at first it had been an awkward commingling of
both sides of the MacGils, but now the warriors merged happily, sharing drink
and banter and battle stories. Looking at them, one could not tell the two
sides apart. What could have  been a day of bloodshed had turned into a
celebration.

Now that the men had a chance to
catch their breath and reunite, Gwen grew serious, thinking of Thor,
imprisoned. She could hardly stand to be here while he was in danger, and she
knew action had to be taken quickly.

“The time for idle talk has
passed,” she said to Kendrick and Erec, as the others crowded in and listened.
“We must turn our attention to Thorgrin.”

Her man gathered close,
listening.

“We need a strategy for rescuing
Thor,” she stated.

The men looked at each other,
grim.

“Would you expect the few
thousand of us to battle Andronicus’ half-million, my lady?” Tirus asked. “All
for one man?”

“Thorgrin is more than just one
man,” she said, her face darkening. “And yes, I do. I would risk our men for
any of our brothers and sisters.”

Their faces grew grim.

“Even with the other MacGils
here,” Brom said, “Tirus is right: we stand vastly outnumbered. No simple
attack can yield a victory, as much as I hate to say it.”

“If we attack, we have little
chance of surviving,” Srog said.

“Yet if we stay here,” Kendrick
retorted, “we shall all surely die.”

“Whether we live or die, none of
that matters,” Erec said.

All eyes fell to him, as his deep
and confident voice commanded attention.

“All that matters is that we live
and die with glory,” he added.

There came a grunt of approval
among the men. They all fell silent, contemplating, and Gwen cleared her
throat.

“Battles are lost because
missions are broad,” Gwen said. “Our mission will be a narrow one: to liberate
Thor and Mycoples. We will attack their main camp with a diversion, find out
where Thor is, and free him. Once Thor is free, with the Destiny Sword and
Mycoples on our side, the battle will turn. Do not think of this as a few
thousand men against a half million; rather, think of it as a few thousand men
liberating one man. The key will be to divide Andronicus’ men, and to create a
diversion.”

“And how will we do that, my
lady?” Brom asked.

“We will break our army into four
smaller divisions, and attack them from all sides, creating a diversion and
splitting their forces. Erec, you shall lead the Duke’s men, and half the
Silver. Kendrick, you shall lead the other half, along with half of MacGil’s
army. Tirus, you shall lead your men. And Godfrey, you shall lead the other
half of the King’s men.”

Godfrey turned and looked at her,
eyes wide in surprise.

“
Me
, my lady?” he asked.

She nodded back.

“I do not know if I’m fit for the
task,” he said, nervous. “I am not a warrior.”

“You are fit,” she said back
firmly. “After all, it is you who saved us from Andronicus here in Silesia.”

“What I did I accomplished
through wit, not through strength.”

“And it is wit that we will need
to win this battle, especially in the face of greater strength,” she answered.
“You shall lead the fourth division. Do you accept it?”

All eyes turned to Godfrey, and
finally, he nodded.

“Good,” Gwendolyn said. “These
four divisions will attack Andronicus’ main camp from four different routes. We
will confuse and divide his men just long enough to reach Thor.”

“And you, my lady?” Steffen
asked, turning to her. “Will you stay here?”

All eyes turned to Gwendolyn.

She shook her head.

“No. I cannot stay here, not with
my Thorgrin out there. I will attack, too,” she said. “But in a different way.”

“How so, my lady?”

“They must be holding Thorgrin by
some magical means,” she said. “We will need magic to help free him. There is
only one person I can turn to. I must find him. Argon.”

“But Argon is gone from us, my
lady,” Aberthol said.

“He lives somewhere,” Gwendolyn
said. “I will find him. I will release him. And he will help us save Thor.”

Gwendolyn turned to the others.

“Let us wait no longer,” she said
loudly, “Thorgrin awaits us!”

The crowd dispersed with a
determined cheer, the men already breaking into divisions and preparing to
leave.

As the room began to quiet and
the crowd to thin, Gwen called out to Aberthol.

“Aberthol!”

He stopped and turned.

“You know all the ancient
volumes,” she said. “They are burnt, now, but they live in your memory. I
recall some of them myself. The Cycle of the Sorcerers. There was a volume, I
recall, on the legends on the trapped.”

Aberthol nodded back.

“Your schooling serves you well,”
he said. “Part myth, part fact. No one knows how much each part is. But yes,
there is a legend. That those trapped by magic are held in the Netherworld.”

“The Netherworld,” Steffen
gasped, remaining by Gwen’s side.

“Do you know of it?” Gwen asked.

Steffen nodded.

“It is a place rumored to make
men’s souls run cold. A place of ice and fog. One of the rings of the deepest
hells.”

“It is a place no humans are
allowed,” Aberthol added, “unless guided by a Druid. And since we have no Druid
among us, I am afraid, even if it were true, we could not enter. Our journey
would be for naught.”

“I can lead you,” came a voice.

Gwen, Steffen and Aberthol turned
to see Alistair step forward. She looked back at Gwen with an earnest
expression.

Krohn stepped forward and licked
her hand. It was clear to Gwen that Krohn liked her—and Krohn rarely took a
liking to people, especially strangers.

“But how can you?” Gwen asked.
“Unless you are…”

Alistair nodded.

“You are correct,” she said. “I
am a Druid.”

They looked back at her in
wonder, and she lowered her head to the ground.

“I have never told anyone,” she
said. “But for you, I would do it. You mean the world to Erec. And for my lord,
there is not a thing I would not do.”

Gwendolyn stepped forward, close
to her, smiling, feeling herself well with hope for the first time. If she
could find Argon and free him, perhaps she could save Thor.

“From this day forward,”
Gwendolyn said to Alistair, “you are my sister.”

Alistair smiled back.

“There is nothing I would like
more.”

Thor braced himself as best he
could, as yet another blow rained down on him. He tried to resist with all his
might, but with his wrists bound behind him in Akdon shackles, there was little
he could do. His energy had been sapped by this magical metal, and he found
himself unable to fight back as a large group of Empire soldiers punched him in
the face, the chest, the back, and finally knocked him face-first onto the
ground.

The mob pounced on him, kicking
him, blow after blow landing on his ribs, his back, his legs, his head. Thor
tried to protect his face as best he could, but he already felt one eye
starting to swell, to shut on him.

Not far away, Andronicus watched
it all with a smile, clearly pleased to see his own son abused in this way.

What kind of father would allow
something like this to happen to his son? Thor wondered. If Thor had had any
confusion of whether he had any affection for his father, or whether his father
had any for him, these blows certainly wiped them out.

The blows continued for so long
that Thor lost count. Finally, Andronicus yelled:

“Enough!”

The soldiers parted as Andronicus
walked forward. For a moment, Thor thought he would be getting a respite from
the abuse—but instead, more soldiers approached and began to strip him of his
clothing.

Thor felt the freezing winter
winds cut into his raw skin. He tried again to resist with all he had, but he
could not.

Thor screamed in protest as he
felt his shirt being torn off his body and watched his mother’s ring fall out,
tumbling to the ground. He watched as a soldier grabbed it, holding it up and
examining it.

“NO!” Thor screamed out, as he
watched the ring he had reserved for Gwendolyn sink into the greedy palm of an
Empire soldier. His face was distinctly recognizable, with a crooked nose,
bulging eyes, and a scar running along his chin. The soldier put the ring on
his pinky finger and held it up, laughing. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

More blows rained down on him as
Thor felt his shirt stripped, then his boots. But all Thor could think of was
his mother’s ring, disappearing into the hands of that cretin, and his heart
broke.

How could the fates be so cruel?
Thor wondered. How can his mother allow this to happen to him? Couldn’t she
intercede somehow?

“Mother!” Thor screamed out,
wishing she were here to help.

There came a deep, sinister laugh
from above. He looked up to see Andronicus standing over him.

“Your mother won’t help you now,
boy,” Andronicus said, glowering down.

He nodded, and another man
stepped forward carrying a thick, coarse rope. Two soldiers went to work tying
the rope around Thor’s ankles. It cut into his skin, and just as Thor wondered
what they were doing, suddenly, he heard a whip, a horse’s neigh, and felt
himself being dragged backwards.

Thor’s body was dragged along the
frozen winter ground, along the dirt and small pebbles; it tore at the bare
skin of his back, as Empire soldiers jeered him. The horse gained speed, and he
was paraded in circles around the Empire camp.

His body covered in bruises,
exhausted, with no energy left, Thor began to lose consciousness. He tried to
make this all go away, to imagine himself somewhere else, anywhere but here.

The dragging through the camp went
on for he did not know how long, until finally he came to a stop, dust settling
all around him. He lay there, face first on the ground, groaning, one eye
swollen shut. With an effort, he opened his one good eye and saw he had been
deposited a few feet away, ironically, from the Destiny Sword. Clearly, this
had been done to rub it in. The Sword sat there, where he had left it, lodged
inside the huge boulder.

“Here it is, this weapon that has
plagued our Empire for centuries,” Andronicus yelled out to a crowd of
transfixed soldiers. “Thor may be the Chosen One—or the Chosen One might just
be one of us. Who is to say that only a MacGil, only a member of the Ring, can
wield it? Who is to say that is not a myth they have created to keep us down?”

The crowd cheered in approval.

“Whoever wields the sword,”
Andronicus yelled, “whoever can pull it from this boulder, will be named a
general. Who will step forward and try?”

There came a cheer, followed by a
rush of men, as one soldier after the next rushed forward, grabbed the Sword’s
hilt and yanked with all his might, trying desperately to get it out of the
stone. Thor’s could not bear to watch the Destiny Sword in the hands of these
cretins. He did not know what he would do if one of them could wield it. That would
mean that the legend had been wrong and that he, Thor, was not special after
all.

But one at a time, the men tried
and failed, one soldier after the next, pushing and shoving each other to get a
try. Some tried two or three times.

But it was the same for all of
them: nothing.

Finally, Andronicus himself
approached the Sword, and the crowd parted ways. He knelt before it, then
stood, wrapped his huge hands around its hilt, and with a great scream, he
yanked the Sword with all he had. Thor worried for a moment. After all,
Andronicus was his father, and a MacGil. Might that enable him to wield the
Sword?

But though Andronicus’ scream
rose, higher and higher, eventually he collapsed, unable to make the Sword
budge.

Thor felt a great sense of
relief, as he realized that none of the Empire, even his father, could wield
it. It also made him feel special.

Andronicus glowered down at the
weapon, and Thor could see his face turning purple with rage.

“Bring me a hammer!” he
commanded. “NOW!”

Several men rushed to his side
with a two-handed war hammer. Andronicus snatched it, raised it high overhead,
and with a scream, he brought it down on the rock.

Try as he did, the rock would not
shatter. It would not even chip. Andronicus tried again and again, with always
the same result: it was like hammering steel.

Finally, with a great groan of
frustration, Andronicus turned and swung the hammer sideways, smashing in the
heads of two soldiers and killing them on the spot. Then he spun the hammer
again, and threw it into the crowd, killing another soldier as it hit him in
mid-air.

“If the Sword cannot be wielded
by myself, or any of my men,” Andronicus called out, “then we have no use for
it. It does us only harm while here in the Ring. It only keeps the Shield up,
and keeps our men from reinforcing us. I command for the Sword to be removed
from the Ring at once, taken back across the Canyon and destroyed for good. I
want a dozen men to hoist this boulder on their shoulders and carry it back
across the Canyon, to our ships. MOVE!” he screamed.

A dozen men rushed forward,
jumping into action, heading to the boulder. They all tried to lift it, but it
would barely budge.

More and more soldiers joined in,
until finally, with two dozen men, they managed to get the boulder up high, on
their shoulders. They all began to march, carrying the sword away.

Thor’s heart was breaking inside.

“NO!” Thor screamed.

It was like watching a piece of
himself being taken away.

As Thor watched it disappear from
view, he did everything in his power to try to break free. But he could not.
The Akdon shackles on his wrists would not allow him.

Andronicus turned towards Thor
and stood over him.

“There is no weapon that you can
wield than I cannot wield myself,” Andronicus insisted.

Thor realized that it burned his
father up that he was able to wield a weapon that his father could not.

“I am stronger than you, father,”
Thor said. “That is why you fear me.”

Andronicus screamed, stepped
forward, and kicked Thor so hard in the side he felt one of his ribs crack. Thor
turned and coughed, lying on the ground, gasping for air.

“McCloud!” Andronicus yelled.

Thor looked up to see the former
King McCloud step forward, missing on eye and with a huge burn on the side of
his disfigured face, where he had been branded with the emblem of the Empire.
He looked like a monster.

“I think it is time we teach our
young Thorgrin what it feels like to be branded. Maybe we shall brand his face,
the same way I did yours.”

Thor’s heart pounded at his
words. McCloud’s eyes opened wide with a smile of delight.

“It would be great pleasure, my
master,” McCloud said.

McCloud turned, grabbed a hot
poker handed to him by an attendant, and examined the end of it, affixed with
the large square emblem of the Empire, burning white-hot with fire.

“NO!” Thor screamed out, as
McCloud reached down, the hot poker coming close to his face. Thor knew that
within moments his face would be disfigured, just like McCloud’s, branded with
the Emblem of Andronicus. The thought tore him apart; he could think of nothing
worse.

McCloud sneered in delight as he
lowered the poker for Thor’s exposed face.

Thor heard a screech, high in the
sky. He looked up to see Estopheles; she dove down, her talons out, and McCloud
looked up—but not in time. Estopheles clawed his face, leaving deep cuts across
his nose and forehead and cheeks and lips. McCloud shrieked, dropping the iron,
which landed on his foot, scalding it, and made him scream again. His face a
bloody mess, he finally turned and ran, Estopheles chasing him across the camp.

Andronicus stepped forward and
picked up the iron himself, holding it over Thor, sneering down.

“This is your last chance,”
Andronicus said. “Stop defying me, and accept my offer. Embrace me. Half the
Empire will be yours. I am the only true father you have in this world. Embrace
me and find relief.”

Thor mustered just enough energy
to lift his head, and spit at Andronicus.

“I would rather die a bastard
than live as your son.”

Andronicus grimaced, and with a
grunt of supreme rage and frustration, he lowered the iron.

Thor turned, and at the last
second, the poker missed his face and instead sunk into his shoulder. Thor
shrieked, as the burning iron sunk into his shoulder and he experienced the
worst pain of his life. The searing iron branded his flesh, leaving the emblem
of the Empire on it. Smoke sizzled from his arm and filled his nostrils with
the awful smell of burning flesh. Thor screamed until he could scream no more.

Finally, Andronicus stopped. Thor
lay there weakly, limp, barely able to catch his breath. He couldn’t take any
more of this.

“Take him to the pit,” Andronicus
ordered.

Please God, let me die
, Thor thought, drifting in and
out of consciousness.

Thor felt himself being dragged
by the rope binding his feet, paraded back through the camp. In the distance,
he saw a round black pit coming into view, and he felt himself going over the
edge, hurling down, sinking into the blackness.