Morgan Rice: A Sea of Shields

“Our ship,” he said. “It is not here.”

Erec sat on his horse, wondering what had happened, how this could be. There was no way home without it. Would they have to turn around?

He knew there was only one way to find out: they’d have to ride down below and see for themselves.

Erec kicked his horse, and they galloped down the steep cliffs, taking winding pathways cut into the rock, weaving around and around until finally they reached the shore line below.

They rode on the sand all the way to the water’s edge, and Erec looked left and right, searching for any sign of them. In the distance, to his left, he did see another ship. But it flew different color sails, black and green, which he did not recognize. It was not his.

“I don’t understand,” Erec said. “It was the ship my father sent. They were supposed to meet us here. I don’t know what could have happened.”

“Gone!” boomed out a voice.

Erec turned to see a large man with a stubbly chin and a receding hairline, who looked like he was once a warrior, but was now past his prime. He marched out from behind a cliff, flanked by several men in ragged clothes, sailors, and they all headed right toward Erec.

“They left three days ago!” the man boomed again, as he got closer. “They waited, then must have decided you weren’t coming. They went back to wherever it was they came from. Apparently, you’re late.”

“Because we took a different route,” one of the knights said to Erec. “Back at that fork.”

Erec shook his head.

“We are only three days late,” he said. “They should have waited.”

“Another group arrived yesterday,” the man said, “and they paid more. They had a customer. And they took it.”

Erec reddened.

“They gave my father their word. Is there no honor anymore?” he asked aloud, to himself.

“Where are you going?” the man asked, walking closer, lighting a pipe. “That is my ship,” he added, gesturing over his shoulder to the other ship on the shore. “Maybe I can take you there.”

Erec looked the man up and down suspiciously. He did not get a good feeling. He then looked out to the man’s ship. It was clearly past its prime. It looked dirty, worn out, and even from here, seemed to be peopled with crude types.

“I depart for the Southern Isles,” Erec said. “My homeland, my father, the King, awaits us.”

“For the right price, I’ll take you,” the man said.

“For the right price?” one of Erec’s knights said, stepping forward on his horse. “Do you not know to whom you speak? This is Erec, the champion of the Silver. You will speak to him with the greatest respect.”

The man looked back, expressionless, unfazed, as he sucked calmly on his pipe.

“Silver or not, everyone has a price,” the man said calmly. “I am a businessman. And chivalry earns me nothing.”

Erec looked back out at the ship, wondering. He sighed, realizing his options were few. He had to see his dying father.

“Money is not an issue,” Erec said. “What I care about is the safety of your ship. I will not endanger my wife upon a leaky ship.”

The man grinned and gave Alistair a look which Erec did not like.

“My ship is the safest at sea. Don’t let its appearance fool you. One sack of gold, and the voyage is yours. If not,” he said, tipping his hat, “a pleasure doing business with you.”

“An entire sack!” one of Erec’s knights called out. “That is exorbitant!”

Erec looked the man up and down, and thought hard. This was not what he wanted. But there was no other option. He had to see his father before he died.

Erec reached into his waist, grabbed a sack of gold, and threw it to the man. It hit the man in the chest, and he caught it, opened it, and grinned.

“There is your fee, and more,” Erec said. “Get us there quickly. And safely.”

The man bowed low, grinning wide.

Erec turned, dismounted, helped Alistair down, and embraced his brothers.

“Protect the Ring,” Erec said.

They embraced him back.

“We shall see you again soon, my lord,” they answered.

“Yes, you shall.”

Erec took Alistair’s hand, and together they walked off down the shore, following the raggedy group of men. Deep in his gut, Erec knew that something was awry, but he could not figure out what. As he walked to the ship, holding Alistair’s hand firmly, he turned and looked back and saw his men had already ridden off. He looked back up to the huge ship before them, looming ever closer, and wondered if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Luanda immersed herself in the cold spring, alone, high up in the mountains of the Highlands, as was her habit every morning. She ran the cold water through her hair, now grown back fully, and the icy feel on her scalp made her feel alive, awake. It reminded her of where she was. She was not home; she was in a foreign land. On the wrong side of the Highlands. An exile. And she would never return home. The cold water reminded her, as it did every morning, and in some ways, she had come to enjoy it. It was her way of reminding herself of what her life had become.

It was empty up here in these mountain springs, surrounded by thick summer woods and leaves, and covered in a morning mist. And despite hating everything about this side of the Highlands, Luanda had to admit that she’d actually grown to like it here, in this spot that no one else knew about. She had discovered it accidentally one day, on one of her long hikes, and had come here every day since.

As Luanda slowly emerged from the water, she dried herself with the thin wool towel she had brought, and then, as was her habit every morning, she took the long branch of herbs the apothecary had given her, and relieved herself on it. She placed the herbs on a rock in the sunlight, beside the water, and waited. She closely watched their green color, as she had every day for moons, waiting and hoping they would turn white. If they did, the apothecary told her, it meant she was with child.

Every morning Luanda had stood there, drying off, and had watched the long, curved leaves—and every morning she had been disappointed. She had now given up hope; now, it was just a matter of routine.

Luanda was beginning to realize that she would never get pregnant. Her sister would beat her in this, too. Life would be cruel to her in this way, too, as it had in every other way.

Luanda leaned over the water and stared at her reflection. The perfectly still waters reflected the summer sky, the clouds, the two suns, and Luanda reflected on the twists and turns life had thrown her. Had anyone ever really loved her in her life? She wasn’t certain anymore. She knew she loved Bronson, though, and that he loved her back. Perhaps that should be enough, with or without child.

Luanda gathered her things and prepared to leave, and as an afterthought, she glanced at the branch lying on the rock.

She stopped cold as she did, holding her breath.

She could not believe it: there, in the sun, the branch had turned white.

Luanda gasped. She raised her hand to her mouth, afraid to reach out for it. She lifted it with shaking hands, examined it every which way. It was white. Snow white. As it had never been before.

Luanda, despite herself, started crying. She gushed with tears, overwhelmed with emotion. She reached down and held her stomach, and felt reborn, felt overwhelmed with joy and happiness. Finally, life had taken a turn in her favor. Finally, she would have everything that Gwendolyn had.

Luanda turned and raced from the spring, through the forest, back down the ridge. In the distance she could already see the fort that held her husband. She ran at full speed, tears streaming down her face, tears of joy. She could hardly wait to tell him the news. For the first time she could remember, she was happy.