A Rule of Queens (Book #13 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (3 page)

She stood there and waited until every single
last person left the ship, until she was the last one standing on it, just her,
Krohn at her heels, and to her side, standing quietly, the chief.

Bokbu held a flaming torch, handed to him by
one of his men. He reached out to touch the ship.

“No,” Gwen said, reaching out and clasping his
wrist.

He looked over at her in surprise.

“A leader must destroy her own,” she said.

Gwen gingerly took the heavy, flaming torch
from his hand, then turned and, wiping back a tear, held the flame to a canvas
sail bunched up on deck.

Gwen stood there and watched as the flames
caught, spreading faster and faster, reaching out across the ship.

She dropped the torch, the heat rising too
fast, and she turned, Krohn and Bokbu following, and walked down the plank, heading
to the beach, to her new home, to the last place they had left in the world.

As she looked around at the foreign jungle,
heard the strange screeches of birds and animals she did not recognize, Gwen
could only wonder:

Could they build a home here?

Alistair knelt on the stone, her knees
trembling from the cold, and looked out as the first light of the first sun of
dawn crept over the Southern Isles, illuminating the mountains and valleys with
a soft glow. Her hands trembled, shackled to the wooden stocks as she knelt, on
her hands and knees, her neck resting over the place where so many necks had lain
before her. She looked down and could see the bloodstains on the wood, see the
nicks in the cedar where the blades had come down before. She could feel the
tragic energy of this wood as her neck touched it, feel the last moments, the
final emotions, of all the slain who had lain here before. Her heart dropped in
misery.

Alistair looked up proudly and watched her
final sun, watched a new day break, having the surreal feeling that she would
never live to watch it again. She cherished it this time more than she’d ever
had. As she looked out on this chilly morning, a gentle breeze stirring, the Southern
Isles looked more beautiful than they’d ever had, the most beautiful place she’d
ever seen, trees blossoming in bursts of oranges and reds and pinks and purples
as their fruit hung abundantly in this bountiful place. Purple morning birds
and large, orange bees were already buzzing in the air, the sweet fragrance of
flowers wafting toward her. The mist sparkled in the light, giving everything a
magical feel. She had never felt such an attachment to a place; it was a land,
she knew, she would have been happy to live in forever.

Alistair heard a shuffling of boots on stone, and
she glanced over to see Bowyer approaching, standing over her, his oversized
boots scraping the stone. He held a huge double ax in his hand, loosely at his
side, and he frowned down at her.

Beyond him, Alistair could see the hundreds of Southern
Islanders, all lined up, all men loyal to him, arranged in a huge circle around
her in the wide stone plaza. They were all a good twenty yards away from her, a
wide clearing left just for her and Bowyer alone. No one wanted to be too close
when the blood sprayed.

Bowyer held the ax with itchy fingers, clearly
anxious to finish the business. She could see in his eyes how badly he wanted
to be King.

Alistair took satisfaction in at least one
thing: however unjust this was, her sacrifice would allow Erec to live. That
meant more to her than her own life.

Bowyer stepped forward, leaned in close, and
whispered to her, low enough that no one else could hear:

“Rest assured your death stroke will be a clean
one,” he said, his stale breath on her neck. “And so will Erec’s.”

Alistair looked up at him in alarm and
confusion.

He smiled down at her, a small smile reserved
just for her, that no one else could see.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “It may not
happen today; it may not happen for many moons. But one day, when he least
expects it, your husband will find my knife in his back. I want you know,
before I ship you off to hell.”

Bowyer took two steps back, squeezed his hands
tight around the shaft of the ax, and cracked his neck, preparing to strike the
blow.

Alistair’s heart pounded as she knelt there, realizing
the full depth of evil in this man. He was not only ambitious, but a coward and
a liar.

“Set her free!” demanded a sudden voice, piercing
the morning stillness.

Alistair turned as well as she could and saw
the chaos as two figures suddenly came bursting through the crowd, to the edge
of the clearing, until the beefy hands of Bowyer’s guards held them back. Alistair
was shocked and grateful to see Erec’s mother and sister standing there,
frantic looks across their faces.

“She’s innocent!” Erec’s mother yelled out. “You
must not kill her!”

“Would you kill a woman!?” Dauphine cried out.
“She’s a foreigner. Let her go. Send her back to her land. She need not be
involved in our affairs.”

Bowyer turned to them and boomed:

“She is a foreigner who aspired to be our Queen.
To murder our former King.”

“You are a liar!” Erec’s mother yelled. “You
would not drink from the fountain of truth!”

Bowyer scanned the faces of the crowd.

“Is there anyone here who dares defy my claim?”
he shouted, turning, meeting everyone’s gaze, defiant.

Alistair looked about, hopeful; but one by one,
all the men, all brave warriors, mostly from Bowyer’s tribe, looked down, not one
of them willing to challenge him in combat.

“I am your champion,” Bowyer boomed. “I
defeated all opponents on tournament day. There is no one here who could beat
me. Not one. If there is, I challenge you to step forward.”

“No one, save Erec!” Dauphine called out.

Bowyer turned and scowled at her.

“And where is he now? He lies dying. We Southern
Islanders shall not have a cripple for a King.
I
am your King. I am your
next best champion. By the laws of this land. As my father’s father was King
before Erec’s father.”

Erec’s mother and Dauphine both lunged forward to
stop him; but his men grabbed them and pulled them back, detaining them.
Alistair saw beside them, Erec’s brother, Strom, wrists bound behind his back;
he struggled, too, but could not break free.

“You shall pay for this, Bowyer!” Strom called
out.

But Bowyer ignored him. Instead, he turned back
to Alistair, and she could see from his eyes he was determined to proceed. Her
time had come.

“Time is dangerous when deceit is on your side,”
Alistair said to him.

He frowned down at her; clearly, she had struck
a nerve.

“And those words will be your last,” he said.

Bowyer suddenly hoisted the ax, raising it high
overhead.

Alistair closed her eyes, knowing that in but a
moment, she would be gone from this world.

Eyes closed, Alistair felt time slow down.
Images flashed before her. She saw the first time she had met Erec, back in the
Ring, at the Duke’s castle, when she had been a serving girl and had fallen in
love with him at first sight. She felt her love for him, a love she still felt
to this day, burning inside her. She saw her brother, Thorgrin, saw his face,
and for some reason, she did not see him in the Ring, in King’s Court, but
rather in a distant land, on a distant ocean, exiled from the Ring. Most of
all, she saw her mother. She saw her standing at the edge of a cliff, before
her castle, high above an ocean, before a skywalk. She saw her holding out her
arms and smiling sweetly at her.

“My daughter,” she said.

“Mother,” Alistair said, “I will come to join
you.”

But to her surprise, her mother slowly shook
her head.

“Your time is not now,” she said. “Your destiny
on this earth is not yet complete. You still have a great destiny before you.”

“But how, Mother?” she asked. “How can I
survive?”

“You are bigger than this earth,” her mother
replied. “That blade, that metal of death, is of this earth. Your shackles are
of this earth. Those are earthly limitations. They are only limitations if you
believe in them, if you allow them to have authority over you. You are spirit
and light and energy. That is where your real power is. You are above it all.
You are allowing yourself to be held back by physical constraints. Your problem
is not one of strength; it is one of faith. Faith in yourself. How strong is
your faith?”

As Alistair knelt there, trembling, eyes shut,
her mother’s question rang in her head.

How strong is your faith?

Alistair let herself go, forgot her shackles,
put herself in the hands of her faith. She began to let go of her faith in the physical
constraints of this planet, and instead shifted her faith to the supreme power,
the one and only supreme power over everything else in the world. A power had
created this world, she knew. A power had created all of this. That was the
power she needed to align herself with.

As she did, all within a fraction of a second, Alistair
felt a sudden warmth coursing through her body. She felt on fire, invincible,
bigger than everything. She felt flames emanating from her palms, felt her mind
buzzing and swarming, and felt a great heat rising up in her forehead, between
her eyes. She felt herself stronger than everything, stronger than her shackles,
stronger than all things material.

Alistair opened her eyes, and as time began to
speed again, she looked up and saw Bowyer coming down with the ax, a scowl on
his face.

In one motion, Alistair turned and raised her
arms, and as she did, this time her shackles snapped as if they were twigs. In
the same motion, lightning fast, she rose to her feet, raised one palm toward Bowyer,
and as his ax came down, the most incredible thing happened: the ax dissolved.
It turned to ashes and dust and fell at a heap at her feet.

Bowyer swung down, nothing in his hand, and he
went stumbling, falling to his knees.

Alistair wheeled and her eyes were drawn to a sword
on the far side of the clearing, in a soldier’s belt. She reached out her other
palm and commanded it come to her; as she did, it lifted from his scabbard and
flew through the air, right into her outstretched palm.

In a single motion, Alistair grabbed hold of
it, spun around, raised it high, and brought it down on the back of Bowyer’s
exposed neck.

The crowd gasped in shock as there came the
sound of steel cutting through flesh and Bowyer, beheaded, collapsed to the
ground, lifeless.

He lay there, dead, in the exact spot where,
just moments before, he had wanted Alistair dead.

There came a cry from the crowd, and Alistair
looked out to watch Dauphine break free of the soldier’s grip, then grab the
soldier’s dagger from his belt and slice his throat. In the same motion, she
spun around and cut loose Strom’s ropes. Strom immediately reached back,
grabbed a sword from a soldier’s waist, spun and slashed, killing three of
Bowyer’s men before they could even react.

With Bowyer dead, there was a moment of
hesitation, as the crowd clearly didn’t know what to do next. Shouts rose up
all amongst the crowd, as his death clearly emboldened all those who had been
allied with him reluctantly. They were re-examining their alliance, especially
as dozens of men loyal to Erec broke through the ranks and came charging
forward to Strom’s side, fighting with him, hand-to-hand, against those loyal to
Bowyer.

The momentum quickly shifted in the favor of
Erec’s men, as man by man, row by row, alliances formed; Bowyer’s men, caught
off guard, turned and fled across the plateau to the rocky mountainside. Strom
and his men chased closed behind.

Alistair stood there, sword still in hand, and
watched as a great battle rose up, up and down the countryside, shouts and
horns echoing as the entire island seemed to rally, to spill out to war on both
sides. The sound of clanging armor, of the death cries of men, filled the
morning, and Alistair knew a civil war had broken out.

Alistair held up her sword, the sun shining
down on it, and knew she had been saved by the grace of God. She felt reborn,
more powerful than she’d ever had, and she felt her destiny calling to her. She
welled with optimism. Bowyer’s men would be killed, she knew. Justice would
prevail. Erec would rise. They would wed. And soon, she would be Queen of the
Southern Isles.

Darius ran down the dirt trail leading from his
village, following the footprints toward Volusia, a determination in his heart to
save Loti and murder the men who took her. He ran with a sword in his hand—a
real
sword, made of
real
metal—the first time he’d ever wielded real metal in
his life. That alone, he knew, would be enough to have him, and his entire
village, killed. Steel was taboo—even his father and his father’s father feared
to possess it—and Darius knew he had crossed a line in which there was now no
turning back.

But Darius no longer cared. The injustice of
his life had been too much. With Loti gone, he cared about nothing but
retrieving her. He had hardly had a chance to know her, and yet paradoxically,
he felt as if she were his whole life. It was one thing for he himself to be
taken away as a slave; but for
her
to be taken away—that was too much.
He could not allow her to go and still consider himself a man. He was a boy, he
knew, and yet he was becoming a man. And it was these very decisions, he
realized, these hard decisions that no one else was willing to make, that were
the very things that made one a man.

Darius charged down the road alone, sweat
blurring his eyes, breathing hard, one man ready to face an army, a city. There
was no alternative. He needed to find Loti and bring her back, or die trying.
He knew that if he failed—or even if he succeeded—it would bring vengeance on
his entire village, his family, all his people. If he stopped to think about that,
he might have even turned around.

But he was driven by something stronger than
his own self-preservation, his family’s and people’s preservation. He was
driven by a desire for justice. For freedom. By a desire to cast off his
oppressor and to be free, even if for just one moment in his life. If not for
himself, than for Loti. For her freedom.

Darius was driven by passion, not by logical
thought. It was the love of his life out there, and he had suffered one time
too many at the hands of the Empire. Whatever the consequences, he no longer
cared. He needed to show them that there was one man amongst his people, even
if it was just one man, even if just a boy, who would not suffer their
treatment.

Darius ran and ran, twisting and turning his
way out past the familiar fields, and into the outskirts of Volusian territory.
He knew that just being found here, this close to Volusia, would alone merit
his death. He followed the tracks, doubling his speed, seeing the zerta prints
close together, and knowing they were moving slowly. If he went fast enough, he
knew, he could catch them.

Darius rounded a hill, gasping, and finally, in
the distance, he spotted what he was looking for: there, perhaps a hundred
yards off, stood Loti, chained by her neck with thick iron shackles, from which
led a long chain, a good twenty feet, to the back harness of a zerta. On the zerta
rode the Empire taskmaster, the one who had taken her away, his back to her, and
by his side, walking beside them, two more Empire soldiers, wearing the thick
black and gold armor of the empire, glistening in the sun. They were nearly
twice the size of Darius, formidable warriors, men with the finest weapons, and
a zerta at their command. It would, Darius knew, take a host of slaves to
overcome these men.

But Darius did not let fear get in his way. All
he had to carry him was the strength of his spirit, and his fierce
determination, and he knew he would have to find a way to make that be enough.

Darius ran and ran, catching up from behind on
the unsuspecting caravan, and he soon caught up to them, racing up to Loti from
behind, raising his sword high, and as she looked over at him with a startled
expression, slashing down on the chain affixing her to the zerta.

Loti cried out and jumped back, shocked, as
Darius severed her chains, freeing her, the distinctive ring of metal cutting
through the air. Loti stood there, free, the shackles still around her neck,
the chain dangling at her chest.

Darius turned and saw equal looks of
astonishment on the face of the Empire taskmaster, looking down from his seat
on the zerta. The soldiers walking on the ground beside him stopped, too, all
of them stunned at the sight of Darius.

Darius stood there, arms trembling, holding out
his steel sword before him and determined not to show fear as he stood between
them and Loti.

“She does not belong to you,” Darius called out,
his voice shaky. “She is a free woman. We are all free!”

The soldiers looked up to the taskmaster.

“Boy,” he called out to Darius, “you’ve just
made the biggest mistake of your life.”

He nodded down to his soldiers, and they raised
their swords and charged Darius.

Darius stood his ground, holding his sword in
trembling hands, and as he did, he felt his ancestors looking down on him. He
felt all the slaves who had ever been killed looking down on him, supporting
him. And he began to feel a great heat rising up within him.

Darius felt his hidden power deep within beginning
to stir, itching to be summoned. But he would not allow himself to go there. He
wanted to fight them man to man, to beat them as any man would, to apply all of
his training with his brothers in arms. He wanted to win as a man, fight like a
man with real metal weapons, and defeat them on their own terms. He had always
been faster than all of the older boys, with their long wooden swords and
muscular frames, even boys twice his size. He dug in, and braced himself as
they charged.

“Loti!” he called out, not turning, “RUN! Go
back to the village!”

“NO!” she yelled back.

Darius knew he had to do something; he could
not stand there and wait for them to reach him. He knew he had to surprise
them, to do something they would not expect.

Darius suddenly charged, choosing one of the
two soldiers and racing right for him. They met in the middle of the dirt
clearing, Darius letting out a great battle cry. The soldier slashed his sword
at Darius’s head, but Darius raised his sword and blocked it, their swords
sparking, the impact of metal on metal the first Darius had ever felt. The blade
was heavier than he thought, the soldier’s blow stronger, and he felt a great
vibration, felt his entire arm shaking, up to his elbow and into his shoulder. It
caught him off guard.

The soldier swung around quickly, aiming to
strike Darius from the side, and Darius spun and blocked. This did not feel
like sparring with his brothers; Darius felt himself moving slower than usual,
the blade so heavy. It was taking some getting used to. It felt as if the other
soldier were moving twice as fast as he.

The soldier swung again, and Darius realized he
could not beat him blow for blow; he had to draw on his other skills.

Darius stepped sideways, ducking the blow
instead of meeting it, and he then threw an elbow into the soldier’s throat. He
caught it perfectly. The man gagged and stumbled back, hunched over, grasping
his throat. Darius raised the butt of his sword and brought it down on his
exposed back, sending him face down into the dirt.

At the same time the other soldier charged, and
Darius spun, raised his sword, and blocked a mighty blow as it came down for
his face. The soldier kept charging, though, driving Darius back and down to
the ground, hard.

Darius felt his rib cage being crushed as the
soldier lay on top of him, both of them landing on the hard dirt in a big cloud
of dust. The soldier dropped his sword and reached out with his hands, trying
to gouge out Darius’s eyes with his fingers.

Darius grabbed his wrists, holding them back
with shaking hands, but losing ground. He knew he needed to do something fast.

Darius raised a knee and turned, managing to
spin the man onto his side. In the same motion, Darius reached down and
extracted the long dagger he spotted in the man’s belt—and in the same motion,
raised it high and plunged it into the man’s chest, as they rolled on the
ground,

The soldier cried out, and Darius lay there on
top of him, and watched him die before his eyes.  Darius lay there, frozen, shocked.
It was the first time he had killed a man. It was a surreal experience. He felt
victorious yet saddened at the same time.

Darius heard a cry from behind, snapping him
out of it, and he turned to see the other soldier, the one he had knocked out,
back on his feet, racing for him. He raised his sword and swung it for his
head.

Darius waited, focused, then ducked at the last
second; the soldier went stumbling past him.

Darius reached down and drew the dagger from
the dead man’s chest and spun around, and as the soldier turned back and
charged again, Darius, on his knees, leaned forward and threw it.

He watched the blade spin end over end, then
finally lodge itself into the soldier’s heart, piercing his armor. The Empire’s
own steel, second to none, used against them. Perhaps, Darius thought, they
should have crafted weapons less sharp.

The soldier sank to his knees, eyes bulging, and
he fell sideways, dead.

Darius heard a great cry behind him, and he jumped
to his feet and wheeled to see the taskmaster dismounting from his zerta. He
scowled and drew his sword and bore down on Darius with a great cry.

“Now I shall have to kill you myself,” he said.
“But not only will I kill you, I shall torture you and your family and your entire
village slowly!”

He charged for Darius.

This Empire taskmaster was obviously a greater
soldier than the others, taller and broader, with greater armor. He was a hardened
warrior, the greatest warrior Darius had ever fought. Darius had to admit he felt
fear at this formidable foe—but he refused to show it. Instead, he was
determined to fight through his fear, to refuse to allow himself to be
intimidated. He was just a man, Darius told himself. And all men can fall.

All men can fall.

Darius raised his sword as the taskmaster bore
down on him, swinging his great sword, flashing in the light, with both hands. Darius
shifted and blocked; the man swung again.

Left and right, left and right, the soldier
slashed and Darius blocked, the great clang of metal ringing in his ears,
sparks flying everywhere. The man drove him back, further and further, and it
took all of Darius’s might just to block the blows. The man was strong and
quick, and Darius was preoccupied with just staying alive.

Darius blocked one blow just a bit too slowly,
and he cried out in pain as the taskmaster found an opening and slashed his
bicep. It was a shallow wound, but a painful one, and Darius felt the blood,
his first wound in battle, and was stunned by it.

It was a mistake. The taskmaster took advantage
of his hesitation, and he backhanded him with his gauntlet. Darius felt a great
pain in his cheek and jaw as the metal met his face, and as the blow knocked
him backwards, sent him stumbling several feet, Darius took a mental note to
never stop and check a wound anytime in battle.

As Darius tasted blood on his lips, a fury washed
over him. The taskmaster, charging him again, bearing down on him, was big and
strong, but this time, with pain ringing in his cheek and blood on his tongue,
Darius didn’t let that intimidate him. The first blows of battle had been
struck, and Darius realized, as painful as they were, they were not that bad.
He was still standing, still breathing, still living.

And that meant he still could fight. He could
take blows, and he could still go on. Getting wounded was not as bad as he had
feared. He might be smaller, less experienced, but he realized his skill was as
sharp as any other man’s—and it could be just as deadly.

Darius let out a guttural cry and lunged
forward, embracing battle this time instead of shying away from it. No longer
fearing being wounded, Darius raised his sword with a cry, and slashed down at
his opponent. The man blocked it, but Darius did not give up, swinging again and
again and again, driving the taskmaster back, despite his greater size and
strength.

Darius fought for his life, fought for Loti,
fought for all of his people, his brothers in arms, and, slashing left and
right, faster than he’d ever had, not letting the weight of the steel slow him
down any longer, he finally found an opening. The taskmaster screamed out in
pain as Darius slashed his side.

He turned and scowled at Darius, first
surprise, then vengeance in his eyes.

He shrieked like a wounded animal, and charged Darius.
The taskmaster threw down his sword, raced forward, and embraced Darius in a
bear hug. He heaved Darius up off the ground, squeezing him so tight, Darius
dropped his sword. It all happened so fast, and it was such an unexpected move,
that Darius could not react in time. He had expected his foe to use his sword
in battle, not his fists.

Darius, dangling off the ground, groaning, felt
as if every bone in his body was going to crack. He cried out in pain.

The taskmaster squeezed him harder, so hard
Darius was sure he was going to die. He then leaned back and head-butted Darius,
smashing his forehead into Darius’s nose.

Darius felt blood gushing out, felt a horrible
pain shoot through his face and eyes, stinging him, blinding him. It was a move
he had not expected, and as the taskmaster leaned back to head-butt him again,
Darius, defenseless, was certain he would be killed.