The Gift of Battle (8 page)

Mardig strutted
down the castle corridors with determination, his heart pounding as he
contemplated in his mind’s eye what he was about to do. He reached down and
with a sweaty palm clutched the dagger deep hidden in his waist. He walked the
same path he had a million times before—on his way to see his father.

The King’s
chamber was not far now, and Mardig twisted and turned down the familiar
corridors, past all the guards who bowed reverentially at the sight of the
King’s son. Mardig knew he had little to fear from them. No one had any idea
what he was about to do, and no one would know what had happened until long
after the deed was done—and the kingdom was his.

Mardig felt a
whirlwind of conflicting emotions as he forced himself to put one foot in front
of the other, his knees trembling, forced himself to stay resolved as he
prepared to do the deed he had contemplated his entire life. His father had
always been an oppressor to him, had always disapproved of him, while he had
approved of his other, warrior, sons. He even approved of his daughter more
than he. All because he, Mardig, had chosen not to participate in this culture
of chivalry; all because he preferred to drink wine and chase women—instead of
killing other men.

In his father’s
eyes, that made him a failure. His father had frowned upon everything Mardig
did, his disapproving eyes following him at every corner, and Mardig had always
dreamt of a day of reckoning. And at the same time, Mardig could seize power
for himself. Everyone had expected the kingship to fall to one of his brothers,
to the eldest, Koldo, or if not he, then to Mardig’s twin, Ludvig. But Mardig
had other plans.

As Mardig turned
the corner, the soldiers guarding it reverentially bowed, and they turned to
open it for him without even asking him why.

But suddenly,
one of them stopped, unexpectedly, and turned to look at him.

“My lord,” he
said, “the King did not make us aware of any visitors this morning.”

Mardig’s heart
started pounding, but he forced himself to appear bold and confident; he turned
and stared back at the soldier, a stare of entitlement, until finally he could
see the soldier looking unsure of himself.

“And am I a mere
visitor?” Mardig answered coldly, doing his best to seem unafraid.

The guard slowly
backed away quickly and Mardig marched through the open door, the guards closing
it behind him.

Mardig strutted
into the room, and as he did, he saw the surprised eyes of his father, who had
been standing at the window and looking out looking pensively at his kingdom.
He faced him, confused.

“Mardig,” his
father said, “to what do I owe the privilege? I did not summon you. Nor have
you bothered to visit me any of these past moons—unless there was something you
want.”

Mardig’s heart
slammed in his chest.

“I’ve not come
to ask anything of you, Father,” he replied. “I have come to take.”

His father
looked confused.

“To take?” he
asked.

“To take what is
mine,” Mardig replied.

Mardig took a
few long strides across the chamber, steeling himself, as his father looked
back at him, baffled.

“What is it that
is yours?” he asked.

Mardig felt his
palms sweating, the dagger in his hand, and did not know if he could go through
with it.

“Why, the
kingdom,” he said.

Mardig slowly
released the dagger in his palm, wanting his father to see it before he stabbed
him, wanting his father to see firsthand how much he hated him. He wanted to
see his father’s expression of fear, of shock, of rage.

But as his
father looked down, it was not the moment Mardig had expected. He had expected
his father to resist, to fight back; but instead he looked up at him with sadness
and compassion.

“My boy,” he
said. “You are still my son, despite all, and I love you. I know, deep in your
heart, you don’t mean this.”

Mardig narrowed
his eyes, confused.

“I am sick, my
son,” the King continued. “Soon enough, I will be dead. When I am, the Kingdom
will pass to your brothers, not you. Even if you were to kill me now, you would
gain nothing from it. You would still be third in line. So put down your weapon
and embrace me. I still love you, as any father would.”

Mardig, in a
sudden rush of rage, hands shaking, leapt forward and plunged the dagger deep
into his father’s heart.

His father stood
there, eyes bulging in disbelief, as Mardig held him tight and looked into his
eyes.

“Your sickness
has made you weak, Father,” he said. “Five years ago I could never have done
this. And a kingdom does not deserve a weak king. I know you will die soon—but
that is not soon enough for me.”

His father
finally collapsed to the floor, motionless.

Dead.

Mardig looked
down, breathing hard, still in shock at what he had just done. He wiped his
hand on his robe, threw down the knife, and it landed with a clang on the
floor.

Mardig scowled
down at his father.

“Don’t you worry
about my brothers, Father,” he added. “I have a plan for them, too.”

Mardig stepped
over his father’s corpse, approached the window, and looked down at the capital
city below. His city.

Now it was all
his
.

Kendrick raised
his sword and blocked the blow as a Sand Walker brought its razor-sharp claw
down for his face. It stopped it with a clang, sparks flying out, and Kendrick
dodged out of the way, as the creature slid its claws down off the blade and
swiped for his head.

Kendrick spun
around and slashed, but the creature was surprisingly quick. It backed away,
Kendrick’s sword just missing. It then lunged forward, leaping high into the
air and coming straight down for Kendrick—and this time, he was prepared. He
had underestimated its speed, but would not do so a second time. Kendrick
squatted down low and raised his sword high—and he let the beast impale itself,
falling right through the blade.

Kendrick rose to
his knees and swung his sword low, slashing off the legs of two Sand Walkers as
they came for him. He then turned and thrust his sword backwards, stabbing one
in the gut right before it landed on his back.

The beasts
descended on him from all directions, and Kendrick found himself in the midst
of a heated battle, Brandt and Atme by his side and Koldo and Ludvig by his
other. The five of them instinctually backed up to each other, forming a tight
circle, back to back, slashing and jabbing and kicking, keeping the creatures
at bay as they watched each other’s backs.

They fought and
fought and fought beneath the blazing suns, with nowhere to retreat to in the
vast, open space. Kendrick’s shoulders ached, and he was up to his elbows in
blood, exhausted from his long trek, from the endless battle. They had no
reserves, and nowhere to go, and they all fought for their lives. The enraged
screeches of these beasts filled the air, as they dropped left and right.
Kendrick knew that they had to be careful; it was a long trek back, and if any
of them were wounded, it would be a dire situation.

As he fought, in
the distance, Kendrick caught a glimpse of the boy, Kaden, and he was relieved
to see he was still alive. He struggled, his hands and arms bound behind his
back and held back by several creatures. The sight of him motivated Kendrick,
reminded him why he had come out here to begin with. He fought furiously,
doubling his efforts, trying to cut through all these beasts and make his way
to the boy. He did not like the way they were handling him, and he knew he had
to reach him before these creatures did anything rash.

Kendrick groaned
in pain as he suddenly felt a slash across his arm. He turned to see a creature
swinging again, coming down with his razor-sharp claws, right for his face. He
could not react in time, and he braced himself for the blow, expecting it to
tear his face in two—when suddenly Brandt lunged forward and pierced the
creature through its chest with his sword, saving Kendrick at the last moment.

At the same
time, Atme stepped forward and slashed a creature right before it could sink
its fangs into Brandt’s throat.

Kendrick then
spun, slashing two creatures before they descended on Atme.

Around and
around he went, spinning and slashing, fighting each and every creature to the
last. The creatures fell at their feet, piling on the sand, and the sand turned
red with blood.

Kendrick
spotted, out of the corner of his eye, several creatures grabbing Kaden and
beginning to run off with him. Kendrick’s heart pounded; he knew it was a dire
situation. If he lost sight of them, they would disappear in the desert and
they’d never find Kaden again.

Kendrick knew he
had to make a run for it. He broke free from the fight, elbowing several
creatures out of his way, and chased after the boy, leaving the others to fight
the creatures. Several creatures pursued him, and Kendrick turned, kicking and
slashing to deter them as he went. Kendrick felt himself scratched on all
sides, but no matter what, he didn’t stop. He had to reach Kaden in time.

Kendrick,
spotting Kaden, knew he had to stop him; he knew he only had one shot at this.

Kendrick reached
into his waist, grabbed a knife, and threw it. It landed on a creature’s neck,
killing it right before it could sink its claws into Kaden’s throat. Kendrick
burst through the crowd, closing the gap, running all the way to Kaden and
stabbing another right before it could finish him off.

Kendrick took a
defensive position over Kaden, who lay on the ground, bound, as Kendrick killed
off his captors. As more creatures closed in on him, Kendrick blocked their
claws in each direction. He found himself surrounded, slashing in every
direction, but determined to save Kaden. The others, he could see, were too
immersed in battle to rush to Kaden’s side.

Kendrick raised
his sword high and slashed the boy’s ropes, freeing him.

“Take my sword!”
Kendrick implored.

Kaden grabbed
the extra short sword from Kendrick’s scabbard, and spun and faced the rest of
the creatures, at Kendrick’s side. Although he was young, Kendrick could see
the boy was quick and brave and bold, and Kendrick was pleased to have him by
his side, fighting the creatures.

They fought well
together, felling creatures left and right. But, fight as they did, there were
just too many of them, and Kendrick and Kaden were soon completely surrounded.

Kendrick was
losing strength, his shoulders tiring, when suddenly, he saw the creatures
begin to fall and heard a great battle cry from behind them. Kendrick was
elated to see Koldo, Ludvig, Brandt, and Atme break through the lines, killing
creatures in every direction. Encouraged, Kendrick fought back, making one last
push, Kaden by his side. The six of them, fighting together, were unstoppable,
felling all of the creatures.

Kendrick stood
there in the silence, breathing hard on the desert sand, taking stock; he could
hardly believe what they had just done. All around them were the piled up
carcasses of the beasts, sprawled out in various directions, the sand red with
blood. He and the others were covered in wounds, scratched up—but they all
stood there, alive. And Kaden, grinning from ear to ear, was free.

Kaden reached
out and embraced each one of them, one by one, starting with Kendrick, looking
at him meaningfully. He saved his final embrace for Koldo, his eldest brother,
and Koldo hugged him back, his black skin rippling in the sky.

“I can’t believe
you came for me,” Kaden said.

“You’re my
brother,” Koldo said. “Where else would I be?”

Kendrick heard a
sound and looked over and saw the six horses these creatures had kidnapped, all
tied to a rope together—and he and the others exchanged knowing glances.

As one, they all
rushed over and mounted the beasts, each barely seated before they dug in their
heels and prodded the beasts onward, back into the Waste, all heading back to
the Ridge, back, finally, to home.

Erec stood at
the stern of his ship, taking up the rear of his fleet, and checked back over
his shoulder once again with anxiety. On the one hand, he was relieved that
they had managed to wipe out that Empire village, to fork back up the river
toward Volusia, toward Gwendolyn; on the other hand, he had paid a dear price,
not just in lost men, but in lost time—he had wiped out whatever lead they’d
had on the remainder of the Empire fleet. As he glanced back, he saw them
following, way too close, snaking their way upriver, but a few hundred yards
away, sailing the black and gold banners of the Empire. He had lost his day’s
lead on them, and they now followed him furiously, like a hornet chasing its
prey, their superior ships, better manned, getting ever closer with each gust
of wind.

Erec turned back
and checked the horizon. He knew from his scouts that Volusia lay just beyond
the bend somewhere—yet, at the rate at which the Empire was closing the gap, he
wondered if his small fleet would reach it in time. He was starting to realize
that if they did not make it in time, they would have to turn around and make a
stand—and that was a stand, so vastly outnumbered, they could not win.

Erec heard a
sound that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he turned and looked
up to see a sight which left him with a cold dread: a wave of Empire arrows had
been unleashed, and they now sailed through the air, blackening the sky,
heading, in a high arc, for his fleet. Erec braced himself and watched with
relief as the first volley landed in the water all around him, perhaps twenty
yards from his ship, the sound of arrows hitting water sounding like heavy
raindrops.

“ARROWS!” Erec
yelled, warning his men to take cover.

Most of them
did, and not a moment too soon. Another volley soon followed, these shot by
crossbows with a further range, and Erec watched, horrified, as one reached the
deck of his ship and one of his soldiers yelled out. Erec turned to see it
sticking through his leg, pierced by a random arrow, the only one with a range
just far enough to hit.

Erec felt a
flush of indignation—and of urgency. The Empire was within range; too soon they
would be overtaken, and with the Empire’s fleet of thousands of ships, there
was simply no way Erec’s men could outfight them. Erec knew he had to think
quickly.

“Shall we turn
and fight, my brother?” asked Strom, coming up beside him.

Alistair looked
back, too, standing calmly beside him.

“You will
prevail, my love,” she said. “I have seen it.”

Erec felt
encouraged by her words, as always, and as he stared and studied the landscape,
an idea came to him.

“Sometimes,” he
said, “we must sacrifice to achieve something greater.”

Erec turned to
his brother, confident.

“Board the ship
beside us. Evacuate it, then take up the rear,” he commanded. He then took
Strom’s arm and looked him in the eye.

“When you’re
done,” he added, “set that ship aflame, and sail it right for their fleet. You
will jump on my ship before the flames overtake it.”

Strom’s eyes
widened in appreciation for the plan. He jumped into action, running and
leaping from the deck to the ship beside him, executing his brother’s orders.
He began barking orders, and the men fell in all around him, jumping into
action and beginning to abandon ship, jumping onto the deck of Erec’s ship.
Erec could feel the weight of his ship growing heavier.

“More oars!”
Erec cried, feeling them slowing.

He doubled the
number of oarsmen on board, and they all pulled, heaving, as Erec’s ship began
to pick up speed.

“Spread out!”
Erec commanded, realizing his ship was going too slow. “Jump to the other
ships!”

His men did as
commanded, jumping from his ship to several others in his fleet, distributing
their weight evenly amongst the ships. Finally, Erec’s ship righted and gained
speed.

Erec turned to
watch the last of the men jump from Strom’s ship. Strom raised a torch and ran
up and down the ship, setting flame to everything, then threw it with all his
might. The torch landed on the mast, lighting it, setting the whole ship in a
huge conflagration, and Strom turned, leapt back onto his brother’s ship, and
stood there, watching, as the ghost ship, aflame, drifted down current—right
for the Empire fleet.

“Row!” Erec
yelled, wanting to gain more distance from the flaming ship, from the Empire.

They gained more
and more distance, speeding upriver.

The Empire fleet
tried to turn out of the way—but there was nowhere to navigate in the tiny
river. The flaming ship caused chaos. They attacked it, not realizing it was
unmanned, wasting precious arrows and spears. The ship was pummeled from all
directions—but nothing could stop the flow of it.

Within moments,
the ship, a burning wreck, floated right to the center of the Empire fleet,
parting it down the middle. And they had no way to stop it.

The ship struck
the others, and as men shrieked and jumped out of the way, flames began to
lick, spreading left and right, causing chaos in this Empire fleet. Soon,
several other ships were on fire, with their soldiers scrambling to put them
out.

“SIR!” Erec
heard someone call out.

Erec turned to
see one of his men pointing, and as he looked back upriver, he was struck by an
awe-inspiring sight: a majestic city that could be no other than Volusia.

“Volusia,”
Alistair said, confidence in her voice, and Erec felt it to be so.

He glanced back,
saw they had gained precious time—perhaps hours—and he knew they had a chance,
albeit slim, to enter the city and get out before the Empire could catch them.

He turned and
nodded to his men.

“Full sail
ahead,” he commanded.

*

Erec’s fleet,
sailing steadily upriver for most of the day, finally reached a turn in the bend,
the current picking up, and as they did, Erec looked out, in awe at the sight.
Spreading out before them was what could only be Volusia. A magnificent city,
the most luxurious he had ever laid eyes upon, it was built of gold, shining
even from here, its buildings and streets more orderly and meticulous than
anything he had ever seen. Everywhere were statues, shaped as a woman who
appeared to be a goddess, dazzling in the sun, and he could not help but wonder
who she was, and what cult worshipped her. Most of all, Erec was taken aback by
its glistening harbor, filled with every manner of ship and vessel, many
golden, sparkling in the sun, so bright he nearly had to look away. The ocean
crashed on its shores, and Erec could see right away that this was a city of
tremendous wealth and strength.

As he studied
it, Erec was also surprised by something else he saw: black plumes of smoke.
They wafted over the city, covering it like a blanket in every direction. He
could not understand why. Was the city on fire? In the midst of an uprising?
Under attack?

It was baffling
to him. How could such a city, such a bastion of strength, be under attack?
What force was there in the Empire strong enough to attack an Empire city?

And what
concerned him most of all: was Gwendolyn involved?

Erec squinted,
wondering if he were seeing things; but as they neared, as he heard the
distinct sound of men crying out their death cries, he realized he was correct.
And as he looked closer, he blinked in confusion. It appeared that Empire was
attacking Empire. But why?

Everywhere, men
were falling, thousands of soldiers pouring through the streets, through the
open gates to the city, sacking it. These invaders wore the armor of the
Empire, but it was a different color—all black. He saw they also flew a
distinctive banner, and as he looked closer, he recognized it from his history
books:

The Knights of
the Seven.

Erec was even
more perplexed. The Knights of the Seven, if he recalled, represented the
entire Empire horns and spikes, all the provinces. What were they doing here?
Why were they attacking an Empire city? Was a civil war breaking out?

Or worse, he
pondered with dread: were they all here to kill Gwendolyn?

As they neared,
Erec felt a sense of relief, but also of dread. Relief, because he knew the
soldiers of Volusia would be distracted, would have their hands full, and that
they would have no time to mount a defense as he entered their harbor. Yet he
also felt dread as he sized up the strength and breadth of the invaders,
wondering if he would have to fight them, too.

Either way, he
would have to prepare for war.

Erec checked
back over his shoulder and saw the remainder of the Empire fleet, having
rebounded from his burning ship, beginning to close the gap again. There was
not much time; if he was going to invade Volusia, to find Gwendolyn, he had to
do it now—civil war raging or not.

“Are we walking
into somebody else’s fight?” Strom asked, looking out, beside him.

Erec examined
the horizon, wondering.

“Only one way to
find out,” he replied.

His men, he
could see, were all equally confused by the sight and all looked to him for
direction.

“ROW!” Erec
yelled out to his men. “FASTER!”

They gained
speed, and as they neared the docks, Erec spotted something that made his blood
cold: iron bars, as thick as trees, blocked the harbor, their spikes lowered
down and disappearing into the waters. This iron portcullis, in the water, was
a gate to the city’s waterways, perhaps built to keep out invaders in times of
trouble. But there was no other way in. If they did not find a way through it,
Erec realized at once, they would be trapped—and at the mercy of the
approaching Empire.

“Can we ram it?”
Strom asked.

Erec shook his
head.

“Our ships would
shatter,” he replied.

Erec stood there
examining it, looking for some way out—when suddenly, he saw a curious sight,
one which made him furrow his brow as he peered into the sun. It was an
overweight man, running, heaving through the streets, looking very out of
shape; beside him were several companions, looking as bad off as he. They all
appeared to be drunk, and did not fit in here. They were clearly not soldiers.
And from their dress, they did not appear to be from here.

And as Erec
stared more closely, he realized with a shock that he recognized the man: the King’s
son. Godfrey.

Erec’s confusion
deepened. Godfrey? What was he doing here, in the midst of a civil war, running
for his life toward the harbor, his big beer belly leading the way?

Yet as Erec
watched him approach, squinting into the sun, he knew it was true. Godfrey was
here. He had seen many strange things in his lifetime—but none as strange as
this.

*

Godfrey stumbled
and ran for the harbor, gasping and heaving, not knowing his body could move
this fast. He trailed the others, Merek and Ario, and Silis and her men,
gasping, wondering how they could run that fast. The only ones slower than he
were Akorth and Fulton—and that didn’t mean much. As sweat poured down his
eyes, down his back, Godfrey cursed himself once again for drinking too many
mugs of ale. If he ever survived this ordeal, he vowed to get back into shape.

Godfrey heard a
shout behind him, and he turned and looked back to see the Volusian soldiers
getting hacked to death by the invading armies of the Knights of the Seven. He
gulped as he turned back and looked forward, in the distance, at the gleaming harbor of Volusia, feeling like a million miles away. He did not know if he could make it.

His lungs burned
so badly that he finally had to stop, gasping. Immediately, Silis turned back
and looked at him.

“Go without me!”
he heaved. “I cannot run so fast.”

But Silis
stopped and turned.

“No,” she
insisted. “You once came back for me, and I shall for you.”

She ran to him,
draped an arm over his shoulder, joined by her men, who also went back for Akorth
and Fulton, and began dragging him. His ribs ached as they ran with him through
the streets, all of them hobbling along toward the harbor of Volusia.

Godfrey heard a
rush of footsteps behind him, and suddenly she let go of him, turned, and drew
her dagger.

There came a
shout, and Godfrey turned to see she had stabbed a soldier in the throat, right
before he could stab Godfrey in the back. He looked at her in awe; she had
saved his life.

“I owe you,” he
said to her, in gratitude.

She smiled back.

“No you don’t,”
she replied.

They continued
to run, sprinting across the wide open courtyard, through all the chaos, always
keeping their eyes on the harbor before them, packed with glistening ships.

As they neared
it, there came another shout, and Godfrey turned to see a side gate collapse in
the courtyard, and watched as hundreds more Knight of the Seven burst through.
Volusian soldiers fell as their city was overrun, the Knights cruel and
merciless, attacking and murdering all who stood in their path—even defenseless
slaves. They raised torches and set everything to fire, and Godfrey realized
they would not stop until they had razed this city to the ground. He did not
understand why, but clearly they had some vendetta against Volusia herself.