Morgan Rice - A Reign of Steel

Reece scanned the shores. He looked out at the ships, bobbing in the rough waters, anchored perhaps a hundred yards offshore; the sailors surely had no idea what had happened on shore, no idea of what was about to happen to them. He could not let them get hurt. And he also needed to reach them for their own escape. Reece surveyed the landscape, wondering how they could do it.

“We can swim,” Reece said.

Srog shook his head.

“I’d never make it,” he replied.

“None of us would,” Matus added. “Those waters are rougher than they look. You are not from here; you do not understand. The tides are fierce in the open sea. We would all drown. I’d rather die on dry land than at sea.”

“What about those rocks?” Stara suddenly said.

They all turned and followed her finger. As he peered into the rain, wiping water from his eyes, Reece saw a jetty of rocks, jutting out into the ocean perhaps thirty yards.

“If we can make it to the edge of those rocks, my arrows can reach,” Stara said, lifting her bow.

“Can reach what?” Matus asked.

“The closest ship,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Reece looked at her, confused.

“And why would you fire on our own ships?”

Stara shook her head, impatient.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “We can attach a rope to the arrow. If the arrow lodges in the deck, it will give us a line. It can guide us through the waters. We can pull ourselves as we swim to the ship.”

Reece looked at her, impressed by her bold plan. The idea was crazy enough that it just might work.

“And what are the Queen’s men going to do when they see an arrow with a rope lodging into their ship in the black of night?” Srog asked. “They will cut it off. Or they will kill us. How should they know it is us?”

Reece thought quickly.

“The MacGil sign,” he said. “The falcon’s claws. Any MacGil of the Ring will recognize it. Three arrows shot straight into the sky, all of them aflame. If we shoot them off first, they’ll know it’s us, not the enemy.”

Srog looked at Reece skeptically.

“And how are you going to get flaming arrows to last in weather like this?”

“They don’t need to last,” Reece replied. “They just need to stay aflight for a few seconds, just long enough for the sailors to see them, before the rains will put them out.”

Srog shook his head.

“It all sounds like craziness to me,” he said.

“Do you have any better ideas?” Reece asked.

Srog shook his head.

“Then it’s settled,” Reece said.

“That rope there,” said Stara, pointing. “The long one, coiled up, on the beach, near Tirus’s men. It is just long enough. That’s what we need. We can tie it to the arrow and make it work.”

“And if your brother’s men spot us?” Srog asked.

Stara shrugged.

“Then we shall be killed by our own men.”

“And what of those ten men there, blocking the entrance to the jetty?” Srog asked.

Reece looked out and saw six soldiers standing before it. He turned, snatched Stara’s bow, grabbed an arrow, raised it high, and fired.

The arrow sailed through the air, sailing down forty yards, and pierced one of the soldiers through the throat. He dropped dead.

“I count nine,” Reece said, then took off at a sprint.

The others followed Reece as he sprinted down the hill, slipping and sliding, scrambling for the jetty. It took Tirus’s men a few moments to realize that one of their own had fallen; yet soon enough they did, and they all drew their weapons, on guard, peering out into the night for the enemy.

Reece and the others raced recklessly for the chokepoint leading out to the jetty, Reece feeling that if they got their fast enough, just maybe they could kill the soldiers guarding it before they knew what hit them. More importantly, maybe they could get past them.

“Attack them, but no matter what, don’t stop running!” Reece yelled to the others. “We’re not here to fight them all—we just need to make it past them, to the end of the jetty.”

The blackness of early morning was beginning to lift as they all ran, swords drawn, Reece gasping for air as his feet hit the sand, stumbling, realizing this might be the last run of his life. The group of soldiers blocking the jetty did not see them either, their attention on their soldier who had fallen, all of them baffled as to who had killed him. Three of the soldiers sat hunched over him, trying to revive him.

That was their fatal mistake. Reece and Matus lunged forward as they reached them, Srog hobbling just behind them, swords drawn, and before the three soldiers, their sides exposed, realized, they stabbed each one through the heart. That left six of them.

Stara, right behind them, drew her dagger and backhanded one, slicing his throat, dropping him to the ground; then she turned seamlessly and stabbed another through the heart. That left four.

Reece backhanded one with his gauntlet and kicked another, while Srog head-butted one and Matus ducked as an attacker swung a mace for his head, then rose up and sliced his stomach.

Within moments the group of soldiers blocking the jetty was down, as Reece and the others blew past them like a storm.

A horn sounded, and Reece turned to see that Tirus’s other men—hundreds of them—had spotted them. There rose a great battle cry on the beach, as the men turned and began racing for them.

“The rope!” Stara shouted.

Reece ran over to the huge coil of rope nearby and hoisted it over his shoulder; it was heavier than he’d imagined. Matus rushed over and helped him, and they hoisted it together as they all ran down the jetty, the four of them running as fast as they could. Stara brought up the rear, and she stopped, turned, raised her bow, and fired six shots in procession, taking out six of the closest soldiers, the bodies piling up at the base the jetty.

They all, gasping for air, finally reached the edge of the jetty. Waves crashed all around them, foam spraying up over their feet. Reece lost his footing for a moment, and Stara reached out and steadied him. Beside them, Srog and Matus hurried to tie the rope to the end of one of Stara’s arrows.

“The warning sign first!” Reece called out, reminding Stara.

Stara took three arrows from a closed quiver wrapped around her back. These were wrapped with an oil-soaked cloth, prepared in advance, as all good archers did, in their own separate quiver. Out of the quiver she also removed the dry flint rocks and struck them together, creating sparks. She did it again and again, the sparks not catching in the rain. Reece turned to see Tirus’s men storming the jetty. He knew their time was short.

“Come on!” Reece cried.

Finally, the cloth sparked, and all three arrows lit up.

“Shoot them up high!” Reece said. “Nearly straight overhead! But angle a little toward the ships! That is the sign!”

Stara fired the three flaming arrows in quick succession, and they shot up, close to each other, perfect shots. It was the flame of the falcon’s claws, high up in the sky, the ancient sign of the MacGils, and any good commander watching the skies would see. Reece was relieved to see that the arrows stayed aflame for a good five seconds, until finally, all three fizzled out.

“The rope!” Matus said. “Fire it now!”

Stara took up the rope and arrow, aiming high, long distance for the ship.

“We’ve got one shot at this,” Reece said to her. “Do not miss.”

She turned and looked at him, and he was struck by how beautiful her face was in the rain, how proud, how noble—how fearless. He stared back at her and nodded reassuringly.

“You can do this,” he said. “I have faith in you.”