A Vow of Glory

Chapter Three

Thor rode warily on the forest trail, Reece, O'Connor, Elden and the twins on horseback beside him, Krohn at his heels, as they all emerged from the forest on the far side of the Canyon. Thor's heart beat faster in anticipation as they finally reached the perimeter of the thick wood. He raised a hand, motioning for the others to be silent, and they all froze beside him.

Thor looked out and surveyed the great expanse of beach, of open sky, and beyond it, the vast yellow sea that would take them to the distant lands of the Empire. The Tartuvian. Thor hadn't seen its waters since their journey to The Hundred. It felt odd to be back again – and this time, with a mission that held the fate of the Ring.

After crossing the Canyon bridge, their short ride through the forest in the Wilds had been uneventful. Thor had been instructed by Kolk and Brom to look for a small ship moored on the shores of the Tartuvian, carefully hidden beneath the branches of an immense tree which hung over the sea. Thor followed their directions exactly, and as they reached the wood’s perimeter, he spotted the ship, well-hidden, ready to take them where they needed to go. He was relieved.

But he then saw six Empire troops, standing on the sand before the vessel, inspecting it. Another soldier had climbed on board the ship, docked partly on the beach, rocking in the gently lapping waves. There was supposed to be no one here.

It was a stroke of bad luck. As Thor looked farther out at the horizon, he saw the distant outline of what appeared to be the entire Empire fleet, thousands of black ships flying the black flags of the Empire. Luckily they did not sail toward Thor, but in a different direction, taking the long, circular course to bring them around the Ring, to the McCloud side, where they had breached the Canyon. Luckily, their fleet was preoccupied with a different route.

Except for this one patrol. These six Empire soldiers, probably scouts on a routine mission, somehow must have stumbled upon this Legion ship. It was bad timing. If Thor and the others had just reached the shore a few minutes earlier, they probably would have already boarded it and shoved off. Now, they had a confrontation on their hands. There was no way around it.

Thor looked up and down the beach and saw no other contingents of Empire troops. At least that was in their favor. It was probably a lone patrol group.

"I thought the boat was supposed to be well-hidden," O'Connor said.

"Apparently not enough," Elden remarked.

The six of them sat on their horses, staring at the ship and the group of soldiers.

"It won't be long until they alert other Empire troops," Conven observed.

"And then we’ll have an all-out war on our hands,” added Conval.

Thor knew they were right. And that it was not a chance they could take.

"O'Connor,” Thor said, “your aim is the best of the bunch. I've seen you hit from fifty yards out. See that one on the bow? We’ve got one shot at this. Can you do it?”

O'Connor nodded gravely, his eyes fixed on the Empire soldiers. He reached deliberately over his shoulder, lifted his bow, placed an arrow, and held it at the ready.

They all were looking to Thor, and he felt ready to lead.

"O'Connor, on my signal, fire. Then we’ll charge for the ones below. Everyone else, use your throwing weapons as we get close. Try to get as close as you can first.”

Thor motioned with his hand, and suddenly, O'Connor released the string.

The arrow sailed through the air with a whooshing noise, and it was a perfect shot, its metal tip piercing the heart of the Empire soldier on the bow. The soldier stood there, his eyes opening wide for a moment, as if he did not understand what was happening, then he suddenly stretched his arms out wide and fell forward, face-first, in a swan dive, landing with a splat on the beach at the feet of his fellow soldiers, staining the sand red.

Thor and the others charged, a well-oiled machine in sync with each other. The sound of their horses’ galloping gave them away, and the six other soldiers turned and faced them. The soldiers mounted their horses and charged back, preparing to meet them in the middle.

Thor and his men still had the advantage of surprise. Thor reached back and hurled a stone with his sling and hit one of them in the temple from twenty yards away as he was in the midst of mounting his horse. He fell back off of it, dead, the reins still in his hands.

As they neared, Reece threw his ax, Elden his spear, and the twins each their daggers. The sands were uneven and the horses slipped, making throwing the weapons harder than usual. Reece's ax found its mark, killing one of them, but the others missed.

That left four of them. The lead one broke out from the group, charging right for Reece, who was weaponless; he had cast his ax but not had time to draw his sword yet. Reece braced himself, and at the last second Krohn leapt forward, bit the soldier’s horse in the leg, and the horse collapsed, its rider falling down to the ground and sparing Reece at the last moment.

Reece drew his sword and stabbed the soldier, killing him before he could regain his feet.

That left three. One of them came for Elden with an ax, swinging for his head; Elden blocked it with his shield and in the same motion swung his sword and chopped the ax handle in half. Elden then swung around with his shield and smashed the attacker in the side of the head, knocking him from his horse.

Another soldier pulled a flail from his waist and swung its long chain, the spiked end suddenly coming down for O'Connor. It happened too fast, and there was no time for O'Connor to react.

Thor saw it coming and charged forward to his friend’s side, raising his sword and slashing the chain of the flail, before it hit O'Connor. There came the sound of sword cutting through iron, Thor marveling at how sharp his new sword was. The spiked ball went flying down harmlessly to the ground and lodged in the sand, saving O’Connor’s life. Conval then rode up and stabbed the soldier with a spear, killing him.

The final Empire soldier saw he was badly outnumbered; fear in his eyes, he suddenly turned and took off, racing down shore, his horse’s prints leaving deep impressions in the sand.

They all set their sights on the retreating soldier: Thor hurled a stone with his sling, O’Connor raised his bow and fired, and Reece hurled a spear. But the soldier rode too erratically, the horse dipping in the sand, and they all missed.

Elden drew his sword and Thor could see that he was about to charge after him. Thor held out a hand and motioned for him to stay put.

"Don't!" Thor screamed.

Elden turned and looked at him.

"If he lives, he will send others after us!" Elden protested.

Thor turned and looked back at the boat, and knew it would take precious time to hunt him down – time they could not afford.

"The Empire will come after us no matter what,” Thor said. “We haven't time to lose. What is most important now is that we get far from here. To the ship!”

They dismounted as they reached the ship and Thor reached into his saddle and began to empty it of all its provisions as the others did the same, loading up on weapons and on sacks of food and water. Who knew how long the voyage would take, how long it would be until they saw land again – if they saw land again. Thor also loaded up on food for Krohn.

They threw the sacks up high over the railing of the boat; they landed on the deck above with a thump.

Thor grabbed the thick, knotted rope hanging over the side, the coarse rope cutting into his hands, and tested it. He draped Krohn over his shoulder, the weight of them both testing his muscles, and pulled up towards the deck. Krohn whined in his ear, hugging his chest with his sharp claws, clinging to him.

Soon Thor was over the railing, Krohn leaping off of him onto the deck – and the others followed close behind. Thor leaned over and looked down at the horses on the beach, looking up as if awaiting a command.

"And what of them?" Reece asked, coming up beside him.

Thor turned and surveyed the ship: it was maybe twenty feet long and half as wide. It was big enough for the seven of them – but not for their horses. If they tried to take them, the horses might trample the wood, damage the boat. They had to leave them behind.

"We have no choice," Thor said, looking down longingly at them. “We'll have to find new ones.”

O'Connor leaned over the rail.

"They're smart horses," O'Connor said. "I trained them well. They will return home upon my command.”

O'Connor whistled sharply.

As one, the horses turned and bolted, racing across the sand and disappearing into the forest, heading back towards the Ring.

Thor turned and looked at his brothers, at the ship, at the sea before them. Now they were stranded, with no horses, with no choice but to move forward. Reality was sinking in. They were truly alone, with nothing but this boat, and about to part from the shores of the Ring for good. Now there was no turning back.

"And how are we supposed to get this boat into the water?" Conval asked, as they all looked down, fifteen feet below, at the hull. A small portion of it was in the lapping waves of the Tartuvian, but most of it was lodged firmly in the sand.

"Over here!" Conven said.

They hurried to the other side where a thick iron chain dangled over the edge, at the bottom of which was an immense iron ball, sitting on the sand.

Conven reached down and yanked on the chain. He groaned and struggled, but could not lift it.

“It’s too heavy,” he grunted.

Conval and Thor hurried over and helped, and as the three of them grabbed the chain and pulled, Thor was shocked by its weight: even with the three of them pulling, they could only lift it a few feet. Finally, they all dropped it, and it fell back down to the sand.

"Let me help," Elden said, stepping forward.

With his huge bulk, Elden towered over them, and he reached down by himself and yanked on the chain, and managed to lift the ball into the air alone. Thor was amazed. The others jumped in and they all pulled, as one, yanking the anchor up one foot at a time, and finally over the railing and onto the deck.

The boat started to move, rocking a little bit in the waves, but it remained lodged in the sand.

"The poles!" Reece said.

Thor turned and saw two wooden poles, nearly twenty feet long, mounted along the sides of the boat, and realized what they were for. He ran over with Reece and grabbed one while Conval and Conven grabbed the other.

“When we shove off,” Thor screamed out, “you all raise the sails!”

They leaned over, jabbed the poles into the sand, and pushed with all their might; Thor groaned from the effort. Slowly, the boat began to move, just the tiniest bit. At the same time, Elden and O'Connor ran to the middle of the boat and pulled the ropes to raise the canvas sails, raising them with effort, one foot at a time. Luckily there was a strong breeze, and as Thor and the others shoved and shoved against the shore, struggling with all they had to get this surprisingly heavy boat out of the sand, the sails raised higher, and began to catch the wind.

Finally, the boat rocked beneath them as it glided out onto the water, bobbing, weightless, Thor's shoulders shaking from the effort. Elden and O'Connor raised the sails to full mast, and soon they were drifting out to sea.

They all let out a cheer of triumph, as they put the poles back in place and ran over and helped Elden and O'Connor secure the lines. Krohn yelped beside them, excited by it all.

The boat was drifting aimlessly and Thor hurried to the wheel, O’Connor beside him.

"Want to take the wheel?" Thor asked O’Connor.

O’Connor grinned wide.

"Would love to.”

They began to gain real speed, cruising out on the yellow waters of the Tartuvian, the wind at their backs. Finally, they were moving, and Thor took a deep breath. They were off.

Thor headed out to the bow, Reece beside him, while Krohn came up between them and leaned into Thor's leg, while Thor reached down and stroked his soft white fur. Krohn leaned over and licked Thor; Thor reached into a small sack and pulled out a piece of meat for Krohn, who snatched it up.

Thor looked out at the vast sea before them. The distant horizon was dotted with black Empire ships, surely on their way to the McCloud side of the Ring. Luckily, they were distracted, and could not possibly be on the lookout for a lone boat heading into their territory. The skies were clear, there was a strong wind at their backs, and they continued to gain speed.

Thor looked out and wondered what lay before them. He wondered how long it would be until they reached Empire land, what might be waiting to greet them. He wondered how they would find the sword, how all this would end. He knew the odds were against them, yet still he felt exhilarated to finally be on the journey, thrilled that they'd made it this far, and eager to do retrieve the Sword.

"What if it's not there?" Reece asked.

Thor turned and looked at him.

"The sword," Reece added. "What if it's not there? Or if it’s lost? Or destroyed? Or if we just never find it? The Empire is vast, after all.”

"Or what if the Empire's figured out how to wield it?" Elden asked in his deep voice, coming up beside them.

"What if we find it but can't bring it back?" Conven asked.

The group of them stood there, oppressed by what lay before them, by the sea of unanswered questions. This journey was madness, Thor knew.

Madness.

Chapter Four

Gareth paced the stone floors of his father's study – a small chamber on the top floor of the castle that his father had cherished – and, bit by bit, tore it apart.

Gareth went from bookcase to bookcase, yanking down precious volumes, ancient leather books that had been in the family for centuries, tearing the bindings and shredding the pages into small bits. As he threw them in the air, they fell down over his head like snowflakes, clinging to his body and to the drool running down his cheeks. He was determined to tear apart every last thing in this place that his father had loved, one book at a time.

Gareth hurried over to a corner table, grabbed what was left of his opium pipe, and with shaking hands sucked hard, needing his hit now more than ever. He was addicted, smoking it every minute he could, determined to block out the images of his father that haunted him in his dreams, and now even when he was awake.

As Gareth put down the pipe, he saw his father standing there, before him, a decaying corpse. Each time the corpse was more decayed, more skeleton than flesh; Gareth turned from the awful sight.

Gareth used to try to attack the image – but he’d learned that did no good. So now he just turned his head, constantly, always looking away. Always it was the same: his father wearing a rusted crown, his mouth open, his eyes gazing at him with contempt, reaching out a single finger, pointing accusingly at him. In that awful stare, Gareth felt his own days numbered, felt it was only a matter of time until he joined him. He hated seeing him more than anything. If there had been one saving grace in murdering his father, it was that he would not need to see his face again. But now, ironically, he saw it more than ever.

Gareth turned and hurled the opium pipe at the apparition, hoping that if he threw it quickly enough it might actually hit.

But the pipe merely flew through the air and smashed against the wall, shattering. His father still stood there, and glared down at him.

"Those drugs won’t help you now," his father scolded.

Gareth could stand it no longer. He charged for the apparition, hands out, lunging to scratch his father’s face; but as always, he sailed through nothing but air, and this time went stumbling across the room and landing hard on his father's wooden desk, sending it crashing down to the floor with him.

Gareth rolled on the ground, winded, and looked up and saw he had gashed his arm. Blood was dripping down his shirt, and he looked down and noticed he still wore the undershirt he had slept in for days; in fact, he had not changed for weeks now. He glanced over at a reflection of himself and saw his hair was wild; he looked like a common ruffian. A part of him could hardly believe he had sunk so low. But another part of him no longer cared. The only thing left inside of him was a burning desire to destroy – to destroy any remnant of his father that once was. He would like to have this castle razed, and King’s Court with it. It would be vengeance for the treatment he bore as a child. The memories were stuck inside him, like a thorn he could not pull out.

The door to his father’s study opened wide, and in rushed one of Gareth's attendants, looking down in fear.

"My liege," the attendant said. "I heard a crash. Are you okay? My liege, you are bleeding!”

Gareth looked up at the boy with hatred. Gareth tried to get to his feet, to lash out at him, but he slipped on something, and fell back down to the ground, disoriented from the last hit of opium.

"My liege, I will help you!”

The boy rushed forward and grabbed Gareth’s arm, which was too thin, barely flesh and bone.

But Gareth still had a reserve of strength and as the boy touched his arm, he shoved him off, sending him across the room.

"Touch me again and I will cut off your hands,” Gareth seethed.

The boy backed up in fear, and as he did, another attendant entered the room, accompanied by an older man whom Gareth vaguely recognized. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew him – but he could not place him.

"My liege,” came an old, gravelly voice, "we have been waiting for you in the council chamber for half the day. The council members cannot wait much longer. They have urgent news, and must share it with you before the day is up. Will you come?”

Gareth narrowed his eyes at the man, trying to make him out. He dimly remembered he had served his father. The council chamber… The meeting… It all swirled in his mind.

“Who are you?” Gareth asked.

"My liege, I am Aberthol. Your father's trusted advisor," he said, stepping closer.

It was slowly coming back. Aberthol. The council. The meeting. Gareth's mind spun, his head crushing him. He just wanted to be left alone.

"Leave me," he snapped. "I will come.”

Aberthol nodded and hurried from the room with the attendant, closing the door behind them.

Gareth knelt there, head in his hands, trying to think, to remember. It was all so much. It started to come back to him in bits. The shield was down; the Empire was attacking; half his court had left; his sister had led them away; to Silesia… Gwendolyn… That was it. That was what he had been trying to remember.

Gwendolyn. He hated her with a passion he could not describe. Now, more than ever, he wanted to kill her. He needed to kill her. All his troubles in this world – they were all a result of her. He would find a way to get back at her, even if he had to die trying. And he would kill his other siblings next.

Gareth started to feel better at the thought.

With a supreme effort, he struggled to his feet and stumbled through the room, knocking over an end table as he went. As he neared the door, he spotted an alabaster bust of his father, a sculpture his father had loved, and he reached down, grabbed it by its head and threw it at the wall.

It smashed into a thousand pieces, and for the first time that day, Gareth smiled. Maybe this day would not be so bad after all.

Gareth strutted into the council room flanked by several attendants, slamming open the huge oak doors with his palm, making everyone in the crowded room jump at his presence. They all quickly stood at attention.

While normally this would give Gareth some satisfaction, on this day, he was beyond caring. He was plagued by the ghost of his father, and infused with rage that his sister had left. His emotions swirled within him, and he had to take it out on the world.

Gareth stumbled through the vast chamber in his opium-induced haze, walking down the center of the aisle toward his throne, dozens of councilmen standing aside as he went. His court had grown, and today the energy was frantic, as more and more people seemed to filter in with the news of the departure of half of King's Court, and of the shield being down. It was as if whomever remained of King’s Court was pouring in for answers.

And of course, Gareth had none.

As Gareth strutted up the ivory steps to his father's throne, he saw, standing patiently behind it, Lord Kultin, the mercenary leader of his private fighting force, the one man left in the court who he could trust. Alongside him stood dozens of his fighters, standing there silently, hands on their swords, ready to fight to the death for Gareth. It was the one thing left that gave Gareth comfort.

Gareth sat in his throne and surveyed the room. There were so many faces, a few he recognized and many he didn't. He trusted none of them. Every day he purged more from his court; he had already sent so many to the dungeons, and even more to the executioner. Not a day passed when he didn't kill at least a handful of men. He thought it good policy: it kept the men on their toes, and prevented a coup from forming.

The room sat silent, staring at him in a daze. They all looked terrified to speak. Which was exactly what he wanted. Nothing thrilled him more than infusing fear in his subjects.

Finally, Aberthol stepped forward, his cane echoing off the stone, and cleared his throat.

"My liege," he began, his voice ancient, "we stand at a moment of great disarray in King's Court. I do not know what news has yet reached you: the Shield is down; Gwendolyn has left King's Court and has taken Kolk, Brom, Kendrick, Atme, the Silver, the Legion, and half of your army – along with half of King’s Court. Those that remain here look to you for guidance, and to know what our next move will be. The people want answers, my liege.”

“What's more," said another council member whom Gareth dimly recognized, "word has spread that the Canyon has already been breached. Rumor has it that Andronicus has invaded the McCloud side of the Ring with his million-man army.”

An outraged gasp spread throughout the room; dozens of brave warriors whispered to each other, flooded with fear, and a state of panic spread like wildfire.

"It can't be true!" exclaimed one of the soldiers.

"It is!" insisted the councilmember.

"Then all hope is lost!" yelled out another soldier. "If the McClouds are overrun, the Empire will come for King’s Court next. There's no way we can keep them back.”

"We must discuss terms of surrender, my liege," Aberthol said to Gareth.

"Surrender!?" another man yelled. "We shall never surrender!”

"If we don't,” yelled another soldier, “we will be crushed. How can we stand up to one million men?”

The room broke out into an outraged murmur, the soldiers and counselors arguing with each other, all in complete disarray.

The Council leader slammed his iron rod on the stone floor and screamed:

"ORDER!”

Gradually, the room quieted. All the men turned and looked at him.

"These are all decisions for a king, not for us,” one of the council men said. “Gareth is lawful King, and it is not for us to discuss terms of surrender – or whether to surrender at all."