Morgan Rice - A Dream of Mortals

But Volusia had other plans. Better plans.

The army bore down on her, closer and closer, now a hundred yards away, and gaining speed. She heard the great clanking of armor, smelled the sweat, and saw the bloodlust in men’s faces. Some faces showed fear, even though they marched, an entire army, against a woman alone. They, the wise ones, must have known something was different about her, something to be feared, if she were willing to face an army on her own.

Volusia was ready to show them.

She closed her eyes and raised her arms up to the heavens, and slowly raised them higher and higher.

As she did, there came a tremendous humming noise, like a million locusts rising from the earth. It grew louder and louder and louder, and all around Volusia, the desert floor began to crack and burst. First one claw appeared, pulling itself up through a fissure in the earth. Then another.

Then another.

Thousands of small creatures—gargoyles with black wings sprouting behind them—began to pull themselves up from the earth. They had slimy back scales and long sharp fangs and wings that buzzed in a way that would strike terror even in the bravest warrior’s heart. They blinked, summoned from the dead, with their large, glowing orange eyes, eyes filled with a desire for blood.

Volusia raised her hands higher, and her army of undead creatures emerged from the earth and rose into the sky, blackening it as the second suns fell. She directed them, and they rushed forward, and descended, as one, for the army racing to kill her.

The first gargoyle reached the first soldier, opening its jaws, revealing its razor-sharp fangs, and sinking them into the man’s throat, killing him instantly. The first cry of death rose out.

Then another struck.

Then another.

Soon the sky was filled with the screeching of a million black gargoyles, with an endless lust for blood, mixed with the cries of men, falling where they stood. Volusia laughed as she watched. This was the destiny she had seen for herself.

How foolish they had been to think that they alone could kill her. After all, they were only an army.

And she—she was a goddess.

Kendrick stood atop the Ridge joined by dozens of other knights, among them Brandt, Atme, the half-dozen Silver, and two dozen knights from the Ridge, all of them looking out at the desert countryside that lay before them. They all stood on the platform, and as the great cranks were turned and the ropes groaned, they were all slowly being lowered, one notch at a time, down the other side, down to the Great Waste.

Kendrick could hardly believe he was back here, but a day later, this place that had almost killed him, this place he had barely escaped with his life. He could hardly believe he was back in armor again, beneath the desert suns, his men by his side and joined by new knights, men whose faces and names he still barely recognized. He was not still fully recovered, he knew, still a bit weak from his ordeal; yet he felt compelled to go on this mission to cover up their trail for the safety of the Ridge. His honor compelled him, and when honor was at stake, he never said no.

Kendrick studied the barren landscape as they were lowered, the suns already increasing in intensity, saw the huge sand wall, swirling in the distance, and knew that once they rode past it, they would be embraced in a hostile world of nothingness. He tightened his grip on his new sword and hoped they would be able to find a way back. He did not look forward to a prolonged stay in this desert once again.

Kendrick looked over at his new command, these knights of the Ridge, a dozen of them now answering to him, with a professional warrior’s eye. They all seemed to be fine knights, their armor and weapons resplendent and well cared for, all with a hardened look that he had come to know well, the look of men who feared little. These knights, he could see, had an intimate banter with one another, having already forged their friendships over a lifetime. Kendrick could not help feeling like an outsider, a funny feeling for him, as he had always been at the center of a brotherhood of warriors he had known his whole life. It didn’t help that they were all giving Kendrick the cold shoulder, barely acknowledging him; clearly, they resented the fact that an outside was allowed to join their group—much less appointed commander over them. They all stood side by side, hands on hips, looking out at the desert, their backs to him, ignoring Kendrick and his men.

Kendrick could understand—he would have resented a foreign soldier commanding him, too, and he had not requested the position. All he had done was volunteer to help the King erase the trail.

As they were lowered, further and further, Kendrick figured it was best to break the ice now, to get any hard feelings out in the open and clear the air before they had a chance to harden.

He stepped forward and addressed the men.

“I understand your reluctance to have a foreign commander over you,” Kendrick said to the men, their backs to him, and they slowly turned and looked his way. “I did not come here to take the place of your commanders. I come only to serve with you, to aid and assist you in your mission.”

One of them, a tall knight with a shaved head and a long, braided beard, looked hard at Kendrick.

“I have been commander of these men from the time I could walk,” he said, his voice icy cold. “Then you show up and take my position. I have no respect for you—none of us do. To gain respect in the Ridge, one has to earn it. All of us have earned it. And until you do, you are nothing to us.”

The knight turned his back abruptly, and the platform, all the way lowered, touched the ground, shaking with a loud thud. The wooden gates opened, and one at a time, the men filtered out, immediately mounting the horses that had been lowered and were awaiting them.

Kendrick, stung by the exchange, looked over at Brandt and Atme, who looked back at him with the same sense of apprehension and bitterness as the knights of the Ridge mounted their horses and took off, into the desert, leaving a cloud of dust, not even waiting for them—not even waiting for their new commander.

Kendrick mounted his horse, Brandt and Atme and the others by his side, and prepared to follow. It would be a long journey, he knew, to earn these men’s respect. But as he kicked his horse and they all took off, into the dust, Kendrick did not care. He was not driven by a need for these men’s respect or approval; he was compelled by honor, by sacred duty.

And as he charged into the desert, the sound of horses filling his ears, he vowed to perform that duty, whether these men wanted him here or not, regardless of whatever dangers lay out there for him beyond that wall of dust.

Gwendolyn walked alongside King MacGil as they strolled the peak of the Ridge, just the two of them, taking in the magnificent views as the King gave her his tour. They had been followed by his entire entourage as they had crossed the capital, crossed the lake, and had taken the platform up here so that they could watch Kendrick and the others depart on their mission. Once they’d reached the top the King had left his men behind and just the two of them strolled now, the wind blowing in Gwen’s hair.

They finally came to a stop and looked out at the horizon; Gwen felt a pit in her stomach at the sight of the Great Waste, hoping to never lay eyes on it again.

They stood there in silence, side by side, looking out for a long time, until finally the King spoke.

“I was impressed with your request,” the King said to her.

“My request?” Gwen asked.

He nodded.

“I offered you the choice of touring any part of my kingdom—and your only request was to watch your brother depart. You could have asked to see my jewels, my treasures, the vaults, the armory, the ballrooms, the vineyards, the gardens…. Instead, you ask to come to this desolate place, to tour our fortifications and to see your men off. That is the request of a true leader, a selfless leader.”