Morgan Rice - A Sea of Shields

“When do we leave?” one asked.

“Before the sun sets,” the other answered. “They are assembling now.”

“Who will join?”

The other one leaned in close.

“Who will not? It will be every McCloud man. The road leads but one way, and the MacGils are on their pilgrimage. We will stain the gates of King’s Court red.”

Godfrey felt the hairs on his arm stand up. He turned and looked straight ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.

Godfrey slowly and calmly took his new drink from the bartender and walked back across the tavern as if he had heard nothing.

He walked over to Akorth and Fulton, his hands trembling. He leaned in close between them, intent on being heard amidst their laughter.

“Follow me, now ,” he said quietly and urgently, “if you want to live.”

Godfrey did not wait for their reaction but kept walking straight for the door, hoping no one was watching him. Akorth and Fulton followed close behind.

They stepped outside into the cloudy afternoon, and in the fresh air, Godfrey let himself sink into a panic as he turned and faced his friends, each wearing a puzzled expression. Before they could speak, he cut them off:

“I heard something I wish I hadn’t,” he said. “The McClouds are preparing a rebellion. No MacGil will live.”

Godfrey stood there, reeling, debating what to do, drunken, off balance. Finally, he turned and strutted toward his horse.

“Where are you going?” Akorth asked, belching.

“To do something about it,” Godfrey heard himself say, then kicked his horse and took off at a gallop, having no idea what he was doing—but knowing he had to do something.

Godfrey dismounted at the highest point of the Highlands, Akorth and Fulton riding up behind him and dismounting, too. He had to come this high to get the lookout he needed, to see for himself if it was all true, or just more tavern talk.

Godfrey was breathing hard as he hiked to the top, out of breath, and Akorth and Fulton stumbled beside him, heaving, barely able to catch up. Godfrey knew he was out of shape, but these two were even worse off than he. As he ran, the fresh mountain air made him lightheaded, and helped him slowly come back from his drunken stupor.

“Where are you running off to now?” Akorth yelled out, heaving behind him.

“What has gotten into you?” Fulton yelled.

Godfrey ignored them, tripping and stumbling as he ran higher and higher, until finally, gasping, he reached the top.

The sight confirmed his worst fears. There, assembling on a distant ridge of the Highlands, was a sprawling and well-organized army of McCloud soldiers, all banding together, preparing for what would clearly be an organized attack. More and more men gathered by the minute, and Godfrey’s heart fell as he realized that his worst fears had come true: all these men would launch an attack straight down into the Highlands, and right to the heart of King’s Court.

Normally, King’s Court would have nothing to fear; but given that it was Pilgrimage Day, all the knights protecting King’s Court would surely be gone. The McClouds had timed this treachery well. There would be but a handful of people left to defend the city, and his sister would be endangered, along with his new nephew.

Godfrey stood there, gasping, knowing he had to do something. He had to beat these men to King’s Court. He had to warn her. Godfrey was not a fighter. But he was not a coward, either.

Godfrey’s first thought was to send a falcon, but he saw the falconry was empty. Clearly, the McClouds had planned this well, stripping away any means to notify King’s Court. They had also been very crafty to plan it on Pilgrimage Day. It must have been a long time in the works. Godfrey wondered if they would attack Bronson, too, and had a sinking feeling they might.

“We must stop them,” Godfrey said to himself.

Akorth snorted derisively.

“Are you mad? The three of us—stop them ?”

“They will come upon King’s Court unaware. My sister is there. They will kill her.”

Fulton shook his head.

“You are mad,” Fulton said. “There is no way for us to reach King’s Court—unless we ride right now and gallop through the night and pray to god to beat these men before they murder us all.”

Godfrey stood there, hands on his hips, heaving, looking out. He came to a decision inside himself.

“Then that is exactly what we must do.”

They both turned to him.

“You are mad,” Akorth said.

Godfrey knew it was crazy. And he did not understand it himself. Just a moment ago he was railing against battle, against chivalry. Yet now that he was confronted by this circumstance, he found himself reacting this way. For the first time, Godfrey was starting to understand what Illepra meant. He was thinking of others, not of himself, and it made him feel bigger than himself, as if life finally had a sense of purpose.

“Think this through,” Fulton said. “You will die on this mission. You might save your sister, and a few others. But you’ll be dead.”

“I am not asking you to join me,” Godfrey said, remounting his horse, grabbing its reins, preparing to take off.

“Godfrey, you are a fool,” Fulton said.

Fulton and Akorth looked back at Godfrey in shock and, for the first time, with a new look—something like respect. They hung their heads in shame, and it was clear they would not follow.

Godfrey kicked his horse, turned, and galloped straight down the steep mountain slope, charging alone, ahead of the gathering McCloud army, prepared to gallop all the way to King’s Court, and to save his sister’s life.

Srog sat behind the ancient oak writing desk in Tirus’s former fort, trying to concentrate as he penned a missive to Gwendolyn. It was yet another gloomy afternoon here on the Upper Isles, a fog hanging thick in the sky outside his windows, the gloom ever-present. Srog could not stand to be in this place for one more day.

Srog held his head in his hand, trying to focus. He had been unable to, though, because for quite a while now, his writing had been punctuated by noises, disruptive shouts, sounding like cheers, coming from some distant place below. Srog had gone to the window several times to try to look out and see what was happening—but his view had always been obscured by the fog.

Srog tried to block it out. It was probably just another clan dispute, or another vendor dispute down in the courtyard below. Perhaps it came from one of the taverns, its rowdy patrons spilling out to the street in yet another tavern fight.

But as Srog tried to write, to put into words the depth of his misery here, the jeers of the crowd continued, escalating in strength, until finally, Srog was just too distracted to think.

He slammed his quill down in frustration, stood, and crossed the room again, going to the open-air window, sticking his head out, determined to figure out the source of it all. Clearly, something was going on below. Was it some sort of celebration? Some sort of protest? In this isle of malcontents, one never knew.

Suddenly, the huge wooden door to Srog’s chamber slammed open, startling him, the first time it had ever been opened unannounced, the ancient door slamming into the stone. Srog wheeled, shocked, as he saw running toward him a messenger, one of his men, eyes wide in panic.

“My lord, you must leave here at once! They’ve stormed the fort! We’re surrounded!”

Srog stared back at the man, confused, trying to understand what he was saying. Surrounded?

The messenger rushed forward and clutched Srog’s wrist.

“Speak clearly, man,” Srog exhorted. “I must leave? Why? Who has surrounded us?”