A Sea of Shields (Book #10 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (17 page)

Matus, annoyed, marched into his father’s former castle, clenching his jaw as he prepared to confront his two brothers. He marched through the corridors of this place, a place that used to be filled with his father’s presence, used to be the gathering place of the Upper Isles, but was now used by Matus’s two brothers, Karus and Falus, as a gathering hall, a place to foment revolution and rebellion since their father’s imprisonment.

Matus just did not see the world the way his brothers did. He never had. He was cut from a different cloth than Karus and Falus, who were nearly clones of his father in every way—even physically, tall and lean, with the same intense, shining black eyes and straight hair. Matus, by contrast, was shorter, with the brown eyes and curly hair he inherited from his deceased mother. Being the youngest, he’d always been somewhat apart from them, and ever since his father was in prison, he’d never been more estranged from them than he was now.

Matus had never agreed with his father’s actions, with his duplicitous betrayal of Gwendolyn. If his father had disagreements, Matus felt, he should have aired them openly—and if he could not come to terms, then he should have taken his cause openly to the field of battle—not in a sneaky way, not in an act of betrayal. It was wrong for his father to violate the code of honor, for any reason. In his family’s eyes, the end justified the means. In Matus’s eyes, it never did. Honor was more sacred.

In Matus’s eyes, his father deserved to be imprisoned, which was a generous act on Gwendolyn’s part.

His brothers, though, could not feel more differently—and as Matus marched into the room, he was met by the hostile glare of Karus, who sat around their long, wooden table, scowling, debating with several other soldiers sitting with them. Scheming, as usual. Matus wondered where Falus was. Surely, he assumed, up to no good.

“Why did you attempt to poison Srog?” Matus demanded.

“Why are you loyal to that fool?” Karus shot back.

Matus grimaced.

“He is the Queen’s regent.”

“Not our Queen,” Karus countered. “Your judgment has become clouded. You do not know where your loyalties lie. Your task is to defend your brothers. Your father.”

“Our father rules no more,” Matus said. “It is past time you faced the times. Change is here. Srog is our ruler now, and he answers to Gwendolyn. Our father sits in prison, and he will never rise again.”

“Oh, he will,” Karus said, determined, standing, pacing, as he walked over and tossed another log on the fire. He threw it with such anger that he just missed a dog, who jumped up and ran out of the way as sparks flew all over the stone floor.

“If you think he’s going to sit there, rotting in jail for the rest of his life, you’re entirely wrong.”

Matus looked back in shock. His brothers never stopped.

“What are you scheming, exactly?” Matus asked.

Karus turned and looked knowingly at the other soldiers in the room, crude men, mercenaries who were loyal to his father. Karus hesitated, as if withholding some secret and debating whether or not to let Matus in on it, too.

“I have plans,” he answered, cryptically.

“What sort of plans?” Matus pressed. “You’d be foolish to risk any sort of rebellion. Gwendolyn’s army, the Silver, the MacGils, are far more powerful than we. Have you not learned your lesson?”

“Are you with us or against us?” Karus demanded, slamming his fist on the table, stepping forward. “I need to know.”

“If you advocate defying the crown, I am against you,” Matus replied proudly.

Karus stepped forward and smacked Matus hard across the face.

Matus, stunned, stared back at him.

“You are a traitor to our father,” Karus said. “You choose the Queen over your family, strangers over us. You’d let your father rot in jail for the rest of his life for trying to advance our cause, for trying to instill
us
as rulers of the Ring, for trying to give us a better future. If you love the mainland MacGils so much, go live with them. You are no longer part of this family.”

Matus was stunned from the words as much as from the blow.

“You are not loyal to our father, either,” Matus replied, his voice dark, steel. “Don’t pretend you are. You are loyal only to yourself. To treachery. To betrayal. You disgust me. I am for honor, whatever the cost. If that makes me against my father, against you, then I am.”

Karus sneered.

“You are young and naïve. You always have been. You and your chivalry and your honor. Where has it gotten you? You’re no better than any of us.”

Karus pointed a threatening finger.

“Interfere in our affairs again, and Srog won’t be the only one who will have to watch his drink.”

Several of the nobles stood darkly, supporting Karus.

Matus, disgusted by all of them, feeling betrayed, like an alien in his own family, amongst his own people, turned and began to march out of the chamber.

But more soldiers suddenly moved before the door, blocking his way.

“I am not through with you yet, brother,” Karus called out.

Matus, indignant, bunched his fists and slowly turned.

“Open this door,” he snarled.

Karus smiled.

“I will. When I’m ready. But before you go, there is something I wish for you to know.”

Karus paced, his smile broadening, and Matus felt a sinking sense of foreboding in that look. He sensed that, whatever it was, the news would be very, very bad.

*

Stara ascended the spiral stone staircase, heading to the castle roof, eager to watch for any falcons, to see if any new scrolls arrived from the mainland. She was desperate to know what had happened with Reece, if he had already broken the news to Selese—and when he would return for her.

Stara took the steps three at a time, then suddenly stopped, halfway up, as she heard a muffled shouting coming from one of the castle’s chambers.

She turned from the stairwell and hurried to see what it was about.

Stara passed several soldiers until she reached her brother’s chamber. Two guards stood before the door, barring her way.

“My lady, your brothers are in a heated exchange. I would not advise entering.”

Stara could hear the shouting behind the door, and she wondered what on earth was happening.

She shot the soldier a dark look.

“Open the door for me at once,” she commanded.

The soldier stepped aside and opened the door, and Stara entered a room filled with shouting.

She was surprised to see Matus and Karus arguing, heated, face to face, neither giving an inch. They were so engrossed, neither even turned to acknowledge her.

“It is the stupidest thing you could have done!” Matus yelled, red-faced.

Karus, on the other hand, looked smug, self-satisfied.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. They are Father’s orders. Everything is about to change. The way is cleared for their marriage.”

Matus shook his head.

“It will be considered an act of treachery,” he said. “Our country will now have to brace itself for war.”

Karus scoffed.

“What is going on here?” Stara finally interjected, confused, and having a sinking feeling, upon hearing the word “marriage,” that this all had something to do with her.

They both turned and looked at her, startled at her presence, and both fell silent. They stood there, breathing hard, each flush with anger.

“We have accomplished your goal for you, my dear sister.” Karus smiled, holding out a scroll. “From today’s falcon.”

Stara felt a vague sense of catastrophe as she grabbed the scroll, quickly opened it, and scanned it. She read the words, but the lines blurred, and she felt as if she were spinning.

“Selese is dead?” she asked aloud, reading from it, hardly believing the words. “Taken by her own hand…a royal funeral.”

“Exactly what you hoped for, isn’t it?” Karus asked with a satisfied smile. “Your rival is cleared from your path. Reece is yours now to wed.”

Stara’s hands began to shake, and her entire body went cold as she dropped the scroll with disbelief. She looked up at Karus.

“That’s right,” he said. “Falus paid her a visit on the mainland and delivered the news of your and Reece’s courtship. He did his job quite effectively, apparently. She took her life before Reece could even reach her.”

Stara felt her whole world shaking. She could not believe what she was hearing. She loved Reece. But she would never want her rival dead. Especially due to her.

Worse, as she thought of the implications of it all, she realized that this would only harm her relationship with Reece. A royal funeral…Reece would be overwhelmed with guilt…the entire kingdom would blame him. Blame her…. It would drive them apart.

Stara felt like crying inside. This would all force Reece
never
to marry her. He would have no choice now.

“You FOOL!” she shrieked, hurling the scroll back into Karus’s face. “You have ruined everything!”

Karus stared back, uncomprehending.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Do you really think Reece will want to marry me after his beloved’s life has been taken by her own hand? Due to our family’s treachery? You have just made me, have made our love, the enemy of the Ring. You have destroyed our chance at marriage!”

“What are you talking about?” Karus said. “You should be happy. This was what you wanted. This was what Father wanted. He said it would assure your marriage.”

“Father is a fool!” she yelled. “A shortsighted fool! He knows nothing of affairs of the heart. He has ruined everything. He’s an idiot. And that is why he is where he is today.”

“Do not speak against our father,” Karus warned.

“She is right,” Matus said. “You have created an enemy not only in Reece, but in the entire mainland of the Ring. All hopes we had for any union will now be crushed.”

Stara felt her entire world collapsing around her as she thought of the implications. She burst into tears, realizing that whatever she’d had with Reece was over. It could never survive this. They—her brothers, her father—with all of their ridiculous scheming—had destroyed her only real love in life.

Even worse, Stara felt the guilt of this poor woman’s blood on her hands.

Stara’s eyes darkened as she set her sights on Karus.

“I HATE you!” she yelled.

She sprinted forward and raised her hands and clawed at his face, scratching him. Caught off guard, he raised his hands to his face, but too late, as she sent him flying backwards across the table and collapsing onto a chair with a crash.

Stara then turned and sprinted from the room, opening the door and slamming it behind her, running through the castle corridors, never stopping, weeping, knowing that all she cared for in the world had been taken away from her for good.

Thor stood in the center of the Legion training grounds, watching recruit after recruit race past him, galloping on their horses, holding out their lances as they tried to pierce the center of a small hoop. As Thor stood there in his new, shining Silver armor, his new dagger at his belt, he replayed in his mind again and again his initiation into the Silver. Being recognized amongst all those men. It was surreal. It was the greatest honor he could have ever hoped for, one he would not even dare to dream of his entire life. Now, wearing this armor, he felt like a different man. He looked down, saw himself gleaming in the afternoon suns, and he felt invincible.

Thor heard galloping horses and looked up to see several Legion recruits galloping past him, charging earnestly for the hoop, but missing. One after the next missed, and Thor shook his head, worried at the sorry state of some of these boys.

As he watched, a few managed to pierce the larger hoop with their lance, collecting the metal rings on the tip; but as they kept charging on to the next hoop, even smaller, they missed. Only one recruit, Ario, the small boy from the Empire, managed to pierce one hoop after the next with his lance. Thor watched in surprise as he finished the entire course in a broad circle, triumphantly holding up his lance, filled with small metal rings.

They all dismounted, and the other boys, breathing hard, looked over at him, envious.

Thor walked up and down the lines, examining them. After many days of trials, he was starting to see some of the recruits excelling at certain exercises, and failing at others. It was a mixed crop. Thor saw promise in many of them; but for some others, it was already clear they would not make the cut.

Thor felt bad sending anyone away, but he knew there was no point prolonging the inevitable.

“You, you, and you,” Thor said, signaling out three recruits. “I’m sorry. But it’s best if you leave now.”

A tense silence filled the air as the three recruits came forward and walked, dejected, for the gates. One of them stopped and turned to Thor.

“But Thorgrin, sir, I do not understand,” he said. “I hooped the rings. Many of the other boys did not. Why would you choose to send me home?”

Thor shook his head.

“You do not understand,” Thor replied. “This exercise was not about hooping the rings. That was incidental.”

The boy looked at him, puzzled.

“Then what was it about?” he asked.

“Your lance,” Thor said. “Is it yours?”

The boy looked over at the lance he’d left behind, and seemed flustered.

“It is. I retrieved it as we all rushed for the weapons.”

Thor stared back at him, evenly, calmly, waiting for the proper response. A different response.

Finally, the boy seemed to realize what Thor knew, and he looked to the ground, ashamed.

“I grabbed it from a boy’s hands,” he admitted.

Thor nodded, satisfied.

“Being a member of the Legion is not just about being a skilled warrior,” Thor explained. “It is about looking after your brothers. When you’re in battle, what makes you strong is each other. The finest warrior is he who thinks of his brothers first. Only by thinking of others will you save yourself. That is valor. That is what we strive for here. I don’t want only the best warriors; I want the best band of brothers.”

The boy finally walked away, head down, realizing.

Thor turned to the others. They all looked back at Thor with fear and respect.

Thor surveyed the training ground, looking over all the weapons, wanting to test the boys with something they had not yet tried. His exercises and trials were winnowing the boys out, one at a time.

“Heavy swords!” Thor commanded.

As one, they all ran to a rack lined up with long swords, twice as long and thick as the others, so heavy, they needed to be wielded with two hands. Thor watched as each struggled to hold one.

“They are heavy,” Thor called out, watching them hold these swords with effort, wobbling. “They are designed to be. They are training swords, heavier than anything you’ll wield in battle. Now, I want each of you to hoist a second sword, and hold these two swords together.”

They all turned and looked at Thor as if he were crazy.

“Two swords, my liege?” one boy asked. “It will be too heavy.”

Thor stared back, unwavering, until they all did as he commanded, each grabbing two heavy swords and struggling to lift them.

“These two swords you hold are heavier than any sword you will wield. These are the swords that will make you strong. Each of you will turn to the man beside him, and with those ropes you see lying there, you will bind his two swords together, and make them one.”

The boys broke into action, binding each other’s swords. When they were done, each boy held up two swords, bound together, struggling with both hands to raise it into the air, twice as thick as any sword.

Thor nodded with satisfaction.

“Each of you raise your swords high, and hold them still before you.”

As Thor watched, each boy raised the double swords, arms trembling, struggling to keep them steady. They wavered in the wind, some boys dropping them down with a grunt. Only a handful of boys were able to hold them. Thor took note.

“But it is too heavy, sire!” one boy, sweating, shaking, called out. “No one will ever be able to wield a sword like this!” His sword crashed to the ground. “What is the point?”

Thor turned and marched over to him, staring him down.

“That is exactly the point,” Thor said. “In battle, you must be able to wield weapons twice as heavy as your opponent. You must become faster than them, stronger than them. You must be able to wield a sword heavier than one you’ll ever wield. Only then will you be able to outfight your opponent. It is speed, even a second, that will save you from life and death.”

Thor turned and surveyed the line, and he saw that only a dozen boys remained still holding their swords, groaning and struggling. The boys that remained were all the biggest, tallest, broadest-shouldered boys, clearly stronger than the others.

All except for one: Merek. The thief. He was not as big as these others, and yet he proved himself to be even stronger than most. He managed to hold the sword steadier, and higher, than boys twice his size. Thor was impressed.

“Good!” Thor called out.

The remaining boys dropped their swords with relief, all breathing hard, exhausted.

“We lasted longer than the others,” one boy said. “Does that mean that we get into the Legion?” he asked hopefully.

Thor shook his head and smiled.

“That means only that you get to fight each other. Everyone, form a circle around them!”

The dozen boys turned to Thor in wonder as the others gathered around them.

“You are now going to spar with each other,” Thor said, “using your double swords! Pair off, and let’s see what you can do!”

The boys rushed to formation, pairing off with each other. Their swords were so heavy they could barely lift them, and when they did manage to lift them high overhead, some fell backwards, while others slashed in such a slow and clumsy way that they did not come anywhere near their opponent.

Their opponent, though, was equally slow, barely able to lift his own sword to block or parry.

Thor walked between the sparring boys, shaking his head in disgust.

“You are so slow,” he called out, “I can walk between you!”

As one boy raised his sword high, Thor leaned back and used his foot to shove him in the chest, sending him backwards. Thor bumped another boy with his shoulder as he raised his sword, knocking him down.

One at a time, Thor knocked each of them down onto their butts, each dropping with their heavy swords. Soon, they were all collapsed on the ground, gasping, exhausted.

“And could you do any better?” one of the recruits, sitting there red-faced, barked out to Thor.

All boys turned, aghast at the show of disrespect to Thor. It was a large, pockmarked kid from a northwestern province, a kid Thor did not like. He had kept him on because of his size, but he was not surprised by his disrespect.

“Let’s find out,” Thor said. “Take a single sword, and hand me a double.”

The boy lit up at the idea; he rushed and grabbed a single light sword and faced off with Thor with an arrogant smile, certain of victory.

Thor raised the double sword easily; then he switched hands, throwing it back and forth between them, holding it with just one hand, to the shocked stares of all the boys.

“A third sword!” Thor called out.

The boys looked on in wonder as one rushed forward, took a third sword, and bound it with ropes to Thor’s two.

The boys watched, mouths agape, as Thor wielded three swords with both hands, red-faced from the effort of it.

The boy opposite Thor looked back, now looking very unsure—and very afraid.

Thor did not wait; he charged the boy, raising his triple sword high and swinging it down with such speed that, as the boy raised his single sword, Thor chopped it in half, the sound cutting through the air.

Thor then plunged his sword down into the earth and used it as a pole, grabbing the hilt and pushing himself up and over it, and kicking the boy in the chest, sending him flying back down to the ground, onto his butt.

Thor stood over him as the boy looked up at him, shocked.

“You can go home now, too,” Thorgrin said. “You may return if you learn to speak to your superiors with respect.”

The boy turned and crawled off, running at a jog to get away from the Legion training grounds. All the other recruits turned and looked at Thor with awe.

“Only three swords then?” called out a gleeful voice.

Thor turned, elated at the sound of the familiar voice, and was thrilled to see his closest friends, his Legion brothers Elden and O’Connor, approaching.

Elden walked right to the double swords, picked one up, and held it high overhead with a single hand.

“It seems the standard for Legion training is slipping then, from what I remember,” he said with a smile.

Elden rushed forward, holding the swords high, and with a battle cry sliced a log hanging in the training ground. With a great splitting noise, the thick log slice in half.

All of the boys stared at Elden in wonder.

Elden dropped the swords, came over to Thor, and embraced him, as did O’Connor. Thor was thrilled to see his old Legion members again. All this training, every day, had kept them close to his thoughts.

“It seems you have a sorry group of recruits here,” Elden said out loud, so all the boys could hear. “I wonder if any shall make the cut?”

“Perhaps a few,” Thor replied loudly, so the boys could hear.

“What is next on the day’s training?” O’Connor asked with a smile.

“Well, funny you should ask—it’s time for bows.”

Thor had an idea, and he turned and faced the group.

“Is there anyone here who thinks they could fire an arrow better than my friend O’Connor? If anyone can, they will be granted an immediate spot in the Legion.”

They all looked O’Connor up and down, and apparently decided, given his frail frame and his boyish smile, red hair, and freckles, that he was not a worthy opponent.

They all raced forward, grabbed one of the bows lined up along the edge of the field, and took aim at the large stacks of hay about thirty yards out. Only a handful of them hit the target, only a few came close to the inner circle, and only one of them hit a bull’s-eye. He was a tall, thin boy, twice as tall as the others, with long straggly brown hair that he wore in a ponytail. He stood there, satisfied with himself, clearly the best shot of the bunch. Thor took note.

O’Connor, smiling wide, raised his bow off his back, took a step forward, licked his finger, and held it up to the wind. He looked up, as if examining the sky, then lowered his head, raised his bow, and fired three quick arrows.

The three arrows sailed through the air in a high arc, and went flying past the target. They continued to sail, and they all landed in the farthest target, fifty yards away. All dead center.

The boys watched, mouths agape—yet O’Connor was not done. He placed one more arrow, took aim, and fired. The arrow sailed, and it hit the arrow of the boy who had landed a bull’s eye, the shot so precise that it split the boy’s arrow down the middle.

The boys all stood there in awe at O’Connor’s skills, and Thor smiled wide.

“O’Connor is the product of years of Legion training,” Thor called out. “If you have what it takes, and train hard enough, you will be fighting with us. And this is what we will demand of you. Think about this as you sleep tonight, and decide if you want to come back in the morning. Now off with you!”

The boys slowly turned and began to walk off the training grounds, each slumped over, exhausted from the grueling day.

Thor turned and looked at Elden and O’Connor. Seeing them brought back memories, and he missed them dearly.

They looked Thor’s new armor up and down, eyes aglow.