Morgan Rice - An Oath of Brothers

Suddenly, Godfrey was jostled, a shoulder bumping him hard on his back. He stumbled forward, spilling the rest of his beer.

Annoyed, Godfrey turned to see who the offender was, and he saw a large Empire soldier, a foot taller than he, shoulders as wide as he, glaring down at him. His yellow skin turned orange, and Godfrey wondered if this was what happened when they were drunk—or mad.

“Don’t get in my way again,” he seethed to Godfrey, “or it will be the last time you do.”

“I’m sorry—” Godfrey began, wanting to draw attention away, about to turn around—but suddenly Merek stepped forward.

“He wasn’t in your way,” Merek snapped, scowling at the man fearlessly. “You bumped him.”

Godfrey’s heart dropped as he watched Merek confronting the man. Merek, Godfrey was beginning to realize, was way too hotheaded. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring him. He was too unpredictable, too volatile—and he carried way too big of a chip on his shoulder.

“In fact,” Merek added, “I think you owe my friend an apology.”

The Empire soldier, after getting over his initial shock, grinned down at Merek, as he loosened his neck and cracked his knuckles. It was an ominous sound.

He stared down at Merek as if he were food or prey that had walked right into a trap.

“How about I tear out your heart and feed it to your friend. Would that work as an apology?”

Merek, fearless, sneered back, determined, even though the man was twice his size. Godfrey did not know what he was possibly thinking.

“You can try,” Merek replied, stealthily reaching down and resting a hand on his dagger. “But your hands better be a lot quicker than your mind.”

The Empire soldier now looked unamused; his face darkened.

“Merek, it’s OK,” Godfrey said, reaching out and placing a palm on his chest. Godfrey heard his own words slurring, and wondered just how strong that ale was. Now he regretted it; how he wished his mind was sharper.

“Should have had that drink,” Akorth said, shaking his head. “That’s what happens when you don’t have any drink. You look for a fight.”

“Well, you look for a fight when you drink, too,” Fulton added.

The Empire soldier, annoyed, looked from Merek to Akorth to Fulton, and as he did, narrowed his eyes, as if realizing something. He reached up and abruptly lowered Godfrey’s hood, revealing his face.

“First Finian I’ve seen without red hair,” the soldier observed. He looked Godfrey up and down, suspiciously—then he looked them all over. “In fact, those cloaks don’t fit at all, do they? And your skin: it’s not half as pale as it should be.”

The Empire soldier, realizing, grinned wide, and Godfrey gulped, the situation going from bad to worse.

“You’re not Finians at all, are you?” he continued. Then he turned and yelled out over his shoulder. “Hey, fellas!”

The tavern quieted as a dozen Empire soldiers ambled their way over. Godfrey noticed with horror that, if possible, they were all even bigger than he.

They came up beside him.

“Now look what you’ve done with your big mouth,” Godfrey hissed to Merek.

“Rather have a big mouth than cower in fear,” Merek snapped back.

“Look what we have here!” the Empire soldier said loudly, as they all looked. “A bunch of humans in disguise!”

Godfrey swallowed hard, sweat pouring down the back of his neck, as another dozen soldiers crowded around. Godfrey looked for the exit, but the soldiers all crammed in so tight that they were completely surrounded.

Merek suddenly reached for his dagger, but two soldiers stepped up, grabbed his wrist, and yanked it away before he could do anything. Then they grabbed his arms, and he struggled uselessly to break free.

Godfrey was too scared to move. The Empire soldier leaned in close, just a few inches away, grinning down at Godfrey.

“Now what is a fat little white boy like you doing in our tavern? Disguised as a Finian?”

“I have gold!” Godfrey blurted out, knowing it was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time, but feeling desperate and not knowing what else to say.

The Empire soldier’s eyes opened wide in amusement.

“He has gold , has he!?” he called out, laughing, and all the other soldiers broke into laughter. “I’m sure you do, fat boy. I’m sure you do.”

“Wait, I can explain—” Godfrey began.

But before he could finish his words, Godfrey caught a glimpse of a fist, coming straight up, so fast, out of nowhere. The next thing he knew he felt it smashing into his chin, felt his teeth hitting each other, felt the reverberation throughout his skull, and he knew he was finished, that his life was over. He felt himself falling straight back, and as he did, he looked up and saw the ceiling of this dingy tavern, warped, spotted, and he had one final thought: if only I could have had one more pint of ale.

Erec stood at the bow of the ship, Alistair beside him, Strom at his other side, hundreds of his men behind him, working the ship, lowering the sails, and beside them his fleet, a half dozen ships, all sailing together for Boulder Isle. Erec looked out, straight ahead, at the fast approaching isle, the sound of ocean waves crashing all around him, and he wondered.

It was a sheer wall of rock, this island, like a giant boulder dropped down into the sea, rising a hundred feet high and a good mile in diameter. There was no shore of any sort, no way to land, to disembark. To the casual passerby it might not even seem like an isle—just a giant rock in the sea. But Erec knew better. As he looked closely he saw the entrance, camouflaged in the rock, a single, huge arch, carved right into the rock, and behind it an iron portcullis. It was like an island built into a carved-out mountain.

Standing before the entrance, on a narrow stone ledge, stood a dozen archers with crossbows at the ready, aimed at the ship, faces serious, visors down. In their center stood their commander, a hardened man Erec knew well: Krov. He stood there proudly, a stocky man with a stark bald head, covered in battle scars, a face weathered from the sun and salt air, and a too-long beard, and he stared sternly down at Erec as if he had never met him once in his life.

Erec’s ship approached the entrance, and Erec stood there and looked up at Krov, wondering at the hostile reception.

Both armies faced each other in the tense silence, the only sound that of the crashing of the waves into the boulders.

“Would you aim arrows at a friend?” Erec called out, over the crashing of the ocean.

Krov smirked back.

“And since when are you a friend to me?” Krov answered coldly, hands on hips.

Erec was caught off guard by his response.

“Do you know who I am? I am Erec, son of the late King of the Southern Isles, friend and allies to you and your fathers for four generations.”

“Aye, I know who you are,” he replied coldly. “All too well. Allies is a stretch.”

Erec stared back, puzzled.

“You fought with my father, you shed blood for my father,” Erec called out. “Our cause has always been your cause. I fought beside you myself in one too many battles at sea. And we have saved you more than once from capture by the Empire. Why do you keep your arrows trained at us?”

Krov reached up and scratched his bald head.

“Those are all half-truths,” he called back. “My father helped yours more than once. And I think you have received the better end of the bargain.”

He glanced over Erec’s ships.

“You don’t arrive here as a friend,” Krov called out. “You arrive with combat ships. Perhaps you are coming to take the island.”

Erec shook his head.