Morgan Rice: A Sea of Shields

Srog heard another cheer, this one now coming from inside the fort, and he suddenly realized something was very, very wrong—and much closer than he thought.

“It is Tirus’s men!” the messenger replied. “There has been a revolt on the island. Tirus is freed! They come to kill you now!”

Srog stared back, shocked.

“A revolt?” he asked. “Sparked by what? And what about our men?”

The messenger shook his head, trying to catch his breath.

“They have slaughtered all of our men! There is no one left to stand guard for you. Haven’t you heard? A boat arrived with a dead body in it. Tirus’s son. Falus. Killed by Reece’s hand. It has sparked a revolution. The entire isle is up in arms. My lord, you must understand. You have no time—”

Suddenly, the messenger clutched Srog with both his hands on his shoulders, stared at him, wide-eyed, and leaned forward into his arms, as if to hug him.

Srog stared back, confused, until he saw blood gush from his mouth. The man slumped dead in his arms, and as he slid to the ground, Srog saw a throwing knife lodged in his back.

Srog looked up to see, charging into the room, five of Tirus’s soldiers—all charging right for him.

Srog, heart pounding furiously, knew he couldn’t flee. He was backed into a corner. Ambushed. Srog thought of the hidden chamber in the room, the back exit he could escape from, built into the stone wall for precisely times like this. But that was not who he was. He was a knight, and he did not flee. If he was going to meet death, he would meet it head-on, with sword in hand, facing his enemy. He would fight his way out or die.

And those were just the kind of odds he liked.

Srog let out a great battle cry, not waiting for them to reach him, and charged the men. He drew his sword and raised it high, and as the lead soldier grabbed another throwing dagger from his belt, Srog rushed forward and slashed his sword down, chopping off the man’s wrist before he could throw it. The soldier dropped to the ground, screaming.

Srog did not pause, swinging his sword again and again, faster than all of them, decapitating one, stabbing another through the heart. Years of combat had made him unafraid of ambush, had taught him to never hesitate, and Srog brought down three men in the blink of an eye.

The other two men came at him from the side and from behind, and Srog wheeled and blocked their blows with his sword, sparks flying as he fended them off, fighting both at a time. Srog was doing a masterful job of fighting off two attackers at once, even as they pushed him back across the room. The clang of metal echoed off the stone walls, the men grunting, fighting for their lives.

Srog finally found an opening, lifted his foot, and kicked one in the chest. The man stumbled backwards and fell, and Srog wheeled and elbowed the other across the jaw, dropping him to his knees.

Srog was satisfied to see his five attackers all sprawled out on the floor, but before he could finish surveying the damage, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his back.

Srog, exposed while fighting the others, had not seen the sixth soldier sneak into the room behind him, and stab him in the back. Groaning in pain, Srog nonetheless summoned some reserve of inner strength. He turned, grabbed the man, pulled him in tight, and headbutted him, breaking his nose and making him drop to the floor.

Srog then reached around behind his back with one arm, grabbed the hilt of the short sword lodged in his spine, and yanked it out.

Srog shrieked, the pain excruciating, and dropped to his knees. But at least he removed the sword, and now he gripped its hilt, his knuckles white, stood, and plunged it into the heart of his attacker.

Srog, badly wounded, dropped to one knee, coughed, and spit up blood. There was a momentary lull in the battle, yet now he realized, with this injury, that his time was short.

There came the sound of another soldier rushing into the room, and Srog forced himself to stand and face him, despite the pain. He did not know if he’d have the strength to raise his sword again.

But Srog was greatly relieved to see who it was. It was Matus, the King’s youngest son, rushing toward him. Matus ran into the room, turned, and slammed shut the doors, barring them in.

“My lord,” Matus said, turning and rushing toward him. “You are wounded.”

Srog nodded, dropping to one knee again, the pain excruciating, feeling weak.

Matus ran over and grabbed his arm.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Matus said in a rush. “Everyone else in the castle is dead. I’m alive only because I’m an Upper Islander. They will kill you. You must get to safety!”

“What are you doing here, Matus?” Srog said, weak. “They will murder you if they find you helping me. Go. Save yourself.”

Matus shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I will not leave you.”

Suddenly, there came a thumping at the door, the sound of men trying to break in.

Matus turned and looked at Srog, fear in his eyes.

“We have no time. We must get out! Now!”

“I will stand and fight,” Srog said.

Matus shook his head.

“There are too many outside that door. You will be a dead man. Live, and fight another day. Follow me.”

Srog finally conceded, for Matus’s sake, wanting the boy to live and knowing he could not fight himself.

They ran across the room to the secret passage hidden in the stone wall, Matus feeling the wall with his hands. He finally found one stone slightly looser than the others, pulled at it, and as he did, a narrow opening appeared in the stone, just wide enough for the men to enter.

The banging grew louder on the door, and Matus grabbed Srog, as Srog hesitated.

“You’ll do no good to Gwendolyn dead,” Matus said.

Srog relented and allowed Matus to drag him inside, both of them concealed in the blackness, as the stone wall closed behind them. As it did, there came a crash behind them, the sound of the door bursting open, of dozens of men rushing into the room. They continued on, deeper into the passageway, Matus leading them to safety, Srog limping along, not knowing how much longer he would live—and knowing that the Upper Islands, and the Ring, would never be the same again.

Gwendolyn sat in her father’s former study, scrolling through yet another pile of scrolls, wading her way through kingdom business. Gwen loved to spend her time here in her father’s study, where she felt connected to him. She would spend countless days in here as a young girl, its dark walls lined with ancient, precious books he had gathered from all corners of the kingdom, as if keeping her company. Indeed, when she’d rebuilt King’s Court, she had made sure to make this study a focal point, and had it restored to its former splendor. It was more beautiful now than it had ever been, and Gwen would have loved to see her father’s face after she had restored it. She knew he would have been thrilled.

Gwen looked back at the scrolls, and she tried to get back to the work of running her kingdom, tried to force things back to normal. Yet she knew that things were nowhere near normal. She could hardly concentrate, she felt shaky inside and overwhelmed with grief, images of Thor’s departure, or Selese’s death, flashing through her mind.

Gwen finally set the scrolls down. She rubbed her eyes and massaged her temples, sighing, eyes blurred from so much reading. The business of the Ring was endless, and no matter how many scrolls she waded through, there were always more yet to come. It was late in the day, she had been up all night with Guwayne, and she felt more alone than ever with Thor gone. She was not thinking clearly these days, and she needed a break.