Morgan Rice: A Cry of Honor

Their army suddenly let out a great shout, louder even than the horses’ hooves, as they rounded a bend and on the horizon spotted for the first time the besieged city. Black smoke rose up in great clouds from it, and the MacGil army kicked their horses, gaining speed. Thor, too, kicked his horse harder, trying to keep up with the others as they all drew their swords, raised their weapons, and headed for the city with deadly intent.

The massive army was broken down into smaller groups, and in Thor’s group there rode ten soldiers, legion members, his friends, and a few others he did not know. At their head rode one of the senior commanders of the king’s army, a soldier the others called Forg, a tall, thin man with a wiry build, pockmarked skin, cropped, gray hair, and dark, hollow eyes. The army was breaking down into smaller groups and forking in every direction.

“This group, follow me!” he commanded, gesturing with his staff for Thor and the others to fork off and follow his lead.

Thor’s group followed orders and fell in behind Forg, forking farther away from the main army. Thor looked back and noticed that his group had separated farther than most, the army becoming more distant, and just as Thor was wondering where they were being lead, Forg shouted:

“We will take up a position on the McCloud flank!”

Thor and the others exchanged a nervous and excited look as they all charged, forking until the main army was out of sight.

Soon they were in a new terrain, and the city fell out of sight completely. Thor was on guard, but there was no sign of the McCloud army anywhere.

Finally, Forg pulled his horse to a stop before a small hill, in a grove of trees. The others came to a stop behind him.

Thor and the others looked at Forg, wondering why he had stopped.

“That keep there, that is our mission,” Forg explained. “You are young warriors still, so we want to spare you from the heat of battle. You will hold this position as our main army sweeps through the city and confronts the McCloud army. It is unlikely any McCloud soldiers will come this way, and you will be mostly safe here. Take positions around it, and stay here until we say otherwise. Now move!”

Forg kicked his horse and charged up the hill; Thor and the others did the same, following him. The small group rode across the dusty plains, kicking up a cloud, with no one in sight as far as Thor could see. He felt disappointed to be removed from the main action; why were they all being so sheltered?

The more they rode, the more something felt off to Thor. He couldn’t place it, but his sixth sense was telling him that something was wrong.

As they neared the hilltop, atop which sat a small, ancient keep – a tall, skinny tower that looked abandoned – something within Thor told him to look behind him. As he did, he saw Forg. Thor was surprised to see that Forg had gradually dropped behind the group, gaining more and more distance, and as Thor watched, Forg turned around, kicked his horse and without warning, galloped the other way.

Thor could not understand what was happening. Why had Forg left them so suddenly? Beside him, Krohn whined.

Just as Thor was beginning to process what was happening, they reached the hilltop, reached the ancient keep, expecting to see nothing but wasteland before them.

But the small group of legion members pulled their horses to an abrupt stop. They sat there, all of them, frozen at the sight before them.

There, facing them, waiting, was the entire McCloud army.

They had been led right into a trap.

Gwendolyn hurried through the winding streets of King’s Court, Akorth and Fulton carrying Godfrey behind her, pushing her way as she cut a path through the common folk. She was determined to reach the healer as soon as possible. Godfrey could not die, not after all they had been through, and certainly not like this. She could almost see Gareth’s self-satisfied smile as he received news of Godfrey’s death – and she was intent on changing the outcome. She only wished she had found him sooner.

As Gwen turned a corner and marched into the city square, the crowds became particularly thick, and she looked up and saw Firth, still swinging from a beam, the noose tight around his neck, dangling for all to gawk at. She instinctively turned away. It was an awful sight, a reminder of her brother’s villainy. She felt she could not escape his reach wherever she turned. It was odd to think that just the day before she had been talking to Firth – and now he hung here. She couldn’t help but feel that death was closing in all around her – and was coming for her, too.

As much as Gwen wanted to turn away, to choose another route, she knew that heading through the square was the most direct way, and she would not shrink from her fears; she forced herself to march right past the beam, right past the hanging body in her way. As she did, she was surprised to see the royal executioner, dressed in black robes, blocking her way.

At first she thought he was going to kill her, too – until he bowed.

“My lady,” he said humbly, lowering his head in deference. “Royal orders have not yet been given as to what to do with the body. I have not been instructed whether to give him a proper burial or throw him in a mass paupers’ grave.”

Gwen stopped, annoyed that this should fall on her shoulders; Akorth and Fulton stopped right beside her. She looked up, squinted in the sun, looking at the body dangling just feet from her, and she was about to move on and ignore the man, when something occurred to her. She wanted justice for her father.

“Throw him in a mass grave,” she said. “Unmarked. Give him no special rites of burial. I want his name forgotten from the annals of history.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and she felt a small sense of vindication. After all, this man had been the one who had actually killed her father. While she hated displays of violence, she shed no tears for Firth. She could feel her father’s spirit with her now, stronger than ever, and felt a sense of peace from him.

“And one more thing,” she added, stopping the executioner. “Take down the body now.”

“Now, my lady?” the executioner asked. “But the king gave orders for it to hang indefinitely.”

Gwen shook her head.

“Now,” she repeated. “Those are his new orders,” she lied.

The executioner bowed and hurried off to cut down the corpse.

Gwen felt another small sense of vindication. She had no doubt that Gareth was checking on Firth’s body out his window throughout the day – its removal would vex him, would serve as a reminder that things would not always go as he planned.

Gwen was about to go when she heard a distinctive screech; she stopped and turned, and up high, perched on the beam, she saw the falcon Estopheles. She raised her hand to her eye to shield the sun, trying to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Estopheles screeched again and opened her wings, then closed them.

Gwen could feel the bird bore the spirit of her father. His soul, so restless, was one step closer to peace.

Gwen suddenly had an idea; she whistled and held out one arm, and Estopheles swooped down off her perch and landed on Gwen’s wrist. The weight of the bird was heavy, and her claws dug into Gwen’s skin.

“Go to Thor,” she whispered to the bird. “Find him on the battlefield. Protect him. GO!” she shouted, lifting her arm.

She watched as Estopheles flapped her wings and soared, higher and higher into the sky. She prayed it would work. There was something mysterious about that bird, especially its connection to Thor, and Gwen knew anything was possible.

Gwen continued on, hurrying through the winding streets towards the healer’s cottage. They passed through one of several arched gates heading out of the city, and she moved as fast as she could, praying that Godfrey hung in there long enough for them to get help.