Morgan Rice - An Oath of Brothers

The men all realized it, too. They suddenly broke out into a cheer of victory, raising their fists and torches high in the air.

They rushed forward and embraced Darius, hoisting him on their shoulders. Darius reveled in it, cheered with them, hardly believing it had really happened.

An Empire city was in their hands.

They had won. They had truly won.

Gwendolyn marched through the Great Waste, weak with hunger, her legs shaking, her skin burnt under the relentless heat of the morning suns. It had been yet another day, somehow, of marching for hours, somehow clinging to life. Krohn limped along at her heels, too exhausted to whine, and those closest to her—Kendrick, Sandara, Steffen, Arliss, Brandt and Atme carrying Argon, Aberthol, Illepra, and Stara—all still marched, too. Yet many of her people—too many—had dropped along the way, their carcasses littering the desert floor, Gwen and the others too weak to bury them—too weak to even stop. Gwen flinched every time another one dropped, and the insects suddenly appeared, scurrying from who knew where, and covered the body within moments, devouring it down to the bone. It was as if this entire desert were just waiting for them all to drop.

Gwen looked up at the horizon, seeing the perpetual red dust lingering there, searching in every direction for any sign of anything.

There was nothing.

The most remorseless, cruelest thing in the world, she realized, was not the sight of an enemy, or a monster, or anything else—but the sight of nothing. Emptiness. Lack of life.

It was unforgiving. For her, it signified death. Death not just for her, but for all of her people, all of whom she had led here.

Gwendolyn kept marching, somehow forcing one foot after the next. She summoned a strength deeper than she ever knew she had and forced herself to march on, to be strong, out in front, leading her people, like a shepherd of a flock that she knew would never find a home. Their provisions had long ago vanished, their water skins dried up, and her throat was so parched, she could barely breathe. With nothing left on the horizon, she knew there remained no alternative to death.

Gwen knew that if she were alone out here, she may have long ago lay down and allowed herself to die. It would have been more merciful than this. But pride forced her to go on. She thought of the others, she thought of her father, and she forced herself to be strong. She thought of what her father would have done. What he would have expected of her.

As she marched and marched, she began to have visions. She had flashbacks to other times, other places. She blinked and came out of them confused, not even knowing what was real anymore, where she was. The images in her mind were beginning to become more real than what lay before her.

Gwen had a flashback of her father. She saw him sitting so proudly at the head of the dining table, young, at the height of his power, wearing his crown, his mantle, his beard still without gray, laughing that hearty laugh that always put her at ease. Around the table sat also her mother, at his right, healthy and happy, as Gwendolyn remembered her long before her sickness. Sitting there, also, were her brothers and sisters—Kendrick, Gareth, Godfrey, Reece, and Luanda—the six of them all still young, all still managing to get along, all around the table with their parents looking down at them.

“Here’s to your beloved mother!” her father said, raising a cup, laughing, drinking his wine, her mother smiling, leaning in to kiss him.

“And here’s to our six wonderful children—each and every one of them fit to rule the kingdom,” her mother added.

“When will I be Queen?” Luanda asked.

Her father looked at Luanda, still a child, and he laughed.

“Just wait, my child. One day you will be Queen. You needn’t rush!”

He then turned to Gwendolyn.

“And you, Gwendolyn?” he asked, looking at her.

Gwendolyn looked at him and blushed.

“I do not wish to be Queen, Father. I only wish to be your daughter.”

Her father slowly lowered his cup as he looked back at her, and she could see in his eyes a look that she would never forget. She could see how touched he was, how much her words had meant to him, how they had gone right into his heart. He looked back at her with such love, loyalty, and admiration, and that look went right through her. It had sustained her, all her life.

“You have already accomplished that, my child. That and far more.”

A hot blast of wind whipped Gwendolyn in the face and she blinked, snapping out of it, coughing, dust in her eyes and mouth. Her breathing raspy, she rubbed the dust from her eyes as it nearly sealed them shut, trying to pry it out. The wind brought no relief—but only more heat, if possible. Enough heat even to snap her out of a nicer place.

Gwen did not even want to look up, too afraid to see nothing, to be disappointed once again. But she forced herself to, hoping this time it would be different, that perhaps somehow a distant something would be on the horizon, a lake to drink from, a tree to shade them, even a cave.

She looked up, bracing herself, and wished she hadn’t: there was nothing. Merciless, cruel nothing.

Yet something else caught her eye: she looked up, and saw a sudden shadow crossing overhead. It seemed to be the only cloud in a cloudless sky, and at first she was confused by it. Was she seeing things?

But she watched it pass by overhead, and was sure it was real, and she was even more confused. It was not a cloud, but a black shadow, flying through the air. It went by so fast, she could hardly tell its shape, but it swooped down toward her, then swooped up just as quickly, and as she blinked into the sun, she could have sworn it looked like a demon.

Like a demon released from hell.

Gwen turned to follow it with her eyes, but just as quickly, it flew away, disappearing quickly from sight.

Gwen felt a chill, felt it was an omen of something terrible to come. As it had flown close to her, she had the most awful feeling, as if she had been cursed by the creature.

“ENOUGH!” suddenly shouted a voice.

It was a violent shriek, a shriek of desperation. Gwen recognized it immediately as the shriek of a man who had lost his mind, who had nothing left to lose.

Gwendolyn turned, Krohn at her side, snarling protectively, and saw Aslin, leading a small mob of her people, and charging toward her, looking mad, delusional, touched by the sun.

“Better to have died in the Ring, in peace with our fathers, and be buried in good soil. Now we shall die here, and be buried nowhere. We shall become nothing but food for the scorpions and the spiders. If I am to die here, it won’t be before I kill her first! Blood calls for blood!”

He drew his sword, the sound cutting into the air, raised it high.

“Kill the Queen!” he yelled, and let out a great shout.

To Gwendolyn’s shock and horror, behind him several hundred of her people followed, drawing their swords, shouting in approval, joining him. More than half of her people rallied behind him, and all began to charge her.

Gwen didn’t have the energy left to resist. She stood there and awaited her fate. If her people all wanted her dead, then so be it. She would give them what they wanted. Even this.

Gwendolyn was not so surprised that he wanted to kill her; she was more surprised that he still had that much energy left in him, could run so fast and reserve so much energy to hate her. He was hardly ten yards away and he moved so fast that the others, so lethargic, had no time to react. She could see in his eyes how much he hated her, how much he wanted her dead. It was like a knife in her heart to see that anyone could hate her that much in the world. What had she done so wrong? Hadn’t she tried to be the best person to everyone that she could?