Morgan Rice - A Dream of Mortals

Erec sat on the wooden deck of his own ship, his back against a pole, his hands bound behind him, and looked out with dismay at the sight before him. The remaining ships of his fleet were spread out before him in the calm ocean waters, all held captive in the night, blockaded by the fleet of a thousand Empire ships. They were all anchored in place, lit up beneath the two full moons, his ships flying the banners of his homeland and Empire ships flying the black-and-gold banners of the Empire. It was a disheartening sight. He had surrendered to spare his men from a certain death—and yet now they were at the mercy of the Empire, common prisoners with no way out.

Erec could see the Empire soldiers occupying each of his ships, as they occupied his, a dozen Empire soldiers standing guard per ship, staring lackadaisically at the ocean. On the decks of his ships Erec could see a hundred men on each, all lined up, bound with their wrists behind their back. On each ship they outnumbered the Empire guards, but clearly the Empire guards were not concerned. With all the men bound, they did not really need any men to watch over them, much less a dozen. Erec’s men had surrendered, and clearly, with their fleet blockaded, there was nowhere for them to go.

As Erec looked out at the sight before him, he was racked with guilt. He had never surrendered before in his life, and to have to do so now pained him to no end. He had to remind himself he was a commander now, not a mere foot soldier, and he had a responsibility to all of his men. As outnumbered as they’d been, he could not have allowed them to all be killed. Clearly, they’d walked into a trap, thanks to Krov, and fighting at that moment would have been futile. His father had taught him that the first law of being a commander was to know when to fight and when to lay down your arms and choose to fight another day, another way. It was bravado and pride, he’d said, that led to most men’s deaths. It was sound advice, but hard advice to follow.

“I myself would have fought,” came a voice beside him, sounding like the voice of his conscience.

Erec looked over to see his brother, Strom, bound to a post beside him, looking as unflappable and confident as ever, despite the circumstances.

Erec frowned.

“You would have fought, and all of our men would be dead,” Erec replied.

Strom shrugged.

“We will go down either way, my brother,” he replied. “The Empire has nothing but cruelty. At least, my way, we would have gone down with glory. Now we will be killed by these men, but it won’t be on our feet—it will be on our backs, their swords at our throats.”

“Or worse,” said one of Erec’s commanders, bound to a post beside Strom, “we will be taken as slaves and never live as free men again. Is this what we followed you for?”

“You don’t know any of that,” Erec said. “No one knows what the Empire will do. At least we are alive. At least we have a chance. The other way would have guaranteed death.”

Strom looked at Erec with disappointment.

“It is not a decision our father would have made.”

Erec reddened.

“You don’t know what our father would have done.”

“Don’t I?” Strom countered. “I lived with him, grew up with him on the Isles all my life, while you cavorted about the Ring. You barely knew him. And I say our father would have fought.”

Erec shook his head.

“These are easy words for a soldier,” he countered. “If you were a commander, your words might be quite different. I knew enough about our father to know that he would have saved his men, at any cost. He was not rash, and not impetuous. He was proud, but not overflowing with pride. Our father the foot soldier , in his youth, as you, might have fought; but our father the King would have been prudent and lived to fight another day. There are things you will understand, Strom, as you grow up to become a man.”

Strom reddened.

“I am more man than you.”

Erec sighed.

“You don’t really understand what battle means,” he said. “Not until you lose. Not until you watch your men die before you. You have never lost. You have been sheltered on that Isle all your life. And that has formed your hubris. I love you as a brother—but not as a commander.”

They fell into a tense silence, a truce of sorts, as Erec looked up into the night, looking at the endless stars, and took stock of the situation. He truly loved his brother, but so often in life they argued about everything; they just didn’t see two things the same way. Erec gave himself time to cool off, took a deep breath, then finally turned back to Strom.

“I don’t mean for us to surrender,” he added, more calmly. “Not as prisoners, and not as slaves. You must take a broader view: surrendering is sometimes just the first step in battle. You don’t always encounter an enemy with your sword drawn: sometimes the best way to fight him is with open arms. You can always swing the sword later.”

Strom looked at him, puzzled.

“And then how do you plan to get us out of this?” he asked. “We have forfeited our arms. We are captives, bound, unable to move. We are surrounded by a fleet of a thousand ships. We stand no chance.”

Erec shook his head.

“You don’t see the whole picture,” he said. “None of our men are dead. We still have our ships. We may be prisoners, but I see few Empire guards on each of our ships—which means we outnumber them greatly. All that’s needed is a spark to light the fire. We can take them by surprise—and we can escape.”

Strom shook his head.

“We cannot overcome them,” he said. “We are bound, helpless, so the numbers mean nothing. And even if we did, we’d be crushed by the fleet which surrounds us.”

Erec turned, ignoring his brother, not interested in his pessimism. He instead looked over at Alistair, sitting several feet away, bound to a post on his other side. His heart broke as he examined her; she sat there, captive, all thanks to him. For himself, he did not mind being prisoner—that was the price of war. But for her, it broke his heart. He would give anything not to see her like this.

Erec felt so indebted to her; after all, she had saved their lives yet again, back in the Dragon’s Spine, against that sea monster. He knew she was still spent from the effort, knew she was unable to muster any energy. Yet Erec knew that she was their only hope.

“Alistair,” he called out again, as he had all night long, every few minutes. He leaned over and with his foot, he brushed her foot, gently nudging her. He would give anything to undo his binds, to be able to go over to her, to hug her, to free her. It was the most helpless feeling to lay beside her, and to be unable to do anything about it.

“Alistair,” he called out. “Please. It’s Erec. Wake up. I beg you. I need you— we need you.”

Erec waited, as he had all night long, losing hope. He did not know if she would ever return to him after her last exertion.

“ Alistair ,” he pleaded, again and again. “Please. Wake up for me.”

Erec waited, watching her, but she did not move. She lay so still, unconscious, as beautiful as ever in the moonlight. Erec willed for her to come to life.

Erec looked away, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. Perhaps all was lost, after all. There was simply nothing else he could do at this point.

“I’m here,” came a soft voice, ringing through the night.

Erec looked up with hope and turned to see Alistair staring back at him, and his heart beat faster, overwhelmed with love and joy. She looked exhausted, her eyes barely open, as she sleepily stared back at him.

“Alistair, my love,” he said urgently. “I need you. Just this one last time. I can’t do this without you.”