Morgan Rice: A Sea of Shields

“You get out of the door,” he barked. “We’re waiting for a very important man, and you’re blocking the way. You’re going to ruin it, aren’t you, as you always ruined everything? What timing you have, to show up at a moment like this. The Queen’s own commander will be arriving here any moment, to distribute food and supplies to our village. This is our moment to petition him. And look at you,” his father sneered, “standing there, blocking our door. One sight of you, and he will pass our house over. He’d think we’re a house of freaks.”

His brothers and sisters broke into laughter.

“A house of freaks!” one of them echoed.

Steffen stood there, turning bright red himself, staring back at his father, who faced him, scowling.

Steffen, too flustered to reply, slowly turned his back, shook his head, and walked out the door.

Steffen walked out into the street, and as he did, he signaled for his men.

Suddenly, dozens of gleaming royal carriages appeared, racing through the village.

“They’re coming!” screamed Steffen’s father.

Steffen’s entire family rushed out, running past Steffen, standing there, lining up, gaping at the wagons, at the royal guard.

The royal guard all turned and looked to Steffen.

“My lord,” one of them said, “shall we distribute here or shall we carry on?”

Steffen stood there, hands on his hips, and stared back at his family.

As one, his entire family turned and, shocked beyond words, stared at Steffen. They kept looking back and forth between Steffen and the royal guard, completely flabbergasted, as if unable to comprehend what they were seeing.

Steffen walked slowly, mounted his royal horse, and sat before all the others, sitting in his gold and silver saddle, looking down on his family

“ My lord ?” his father echoed. “Is this some sort of sick joke? You? The royal commander?”

Steffen merely sat there, looking down his father, and shook his head.

“That is right, Father,” Steffen replied. “I am the royal commander.”

“It can’t be,” his father said. “It can’t be. How could a beast be chosen to the Queen’s guard?”

Suddenly, two royal guardsmen dismounted, drew their swords, and rushed for his father. They held the tips of their swords at his throat firmly, pressing hard enough that his father opened his eyes wide in fear.

“To insult the Queen’s man is to insult the Queen herself,” one of the men snarled at Steffen’s father.

His father gulped, terrified.

“My lord, shall we have this man imprisoned?” the other asked Steffen.

Steffen surveyed his family, saw the shock in all their faces, and debated.

“Steffen!” His mom came rushing forward, clasping his legs, pleading. “Please! Do not imprison your father! And please—give us provisions. We need them!”

“You owe us!” his father snapped. “For all that I gave you, your whole life. You owe us.”

“Please!” his mom pleaded. “We had no idea. We had no idea who you had become! Please don’t harm your father!”

She dropped to her knees and started to weep.

Steffen merely shook his head down at these lying, deceitful, honorless people, people who had been nothing but cruel to him his entire life. Now that they realized he was somebody, they wanted something from him.

Steffen decided they did not even deserve a response from him.

He realized something else, too: his whole life he had held his family up on a pedestal. As if they were the great ones, they were the perfect ones, the successful ones, the ones he wanted to become. But now he realized the opposite was true. It had all, his entire upbringing, been a grand delusion. These were just pathetic people. Despite his shape, he was above them all. For the first time, he realized that.

He looked down at his father, at sword-point, and a part of him wanted to hurt him. But another part of him realized one final thing: they did not deserve his vengeance, either. They would have to be somebody to deserve that. And they were nobody.

He turned to his men.

“I think this village will do just fine on their own,” he said.

He kicked his horse, and in a great cloud of dust they all rode out of town, Steffen determined to never return to this place again.

The attendants threw open the ancient oak doors, and Reece hurried out of the nasty weather, wet from the driving wind and rain of the Upper Isles, and into the dry refuge of Srog’s fort. He was immediately relieved to be dry as the doors slammed behind him, wiping water from his hair and face, and he looked up to see Srog hurrying over to give him a hug.

Reece embraced him back. He had always had a warm spot for this great warrior and leader, this man who had led Silesia so well, who had been loyal to Reece’s father, and even more loyal to his sister. Seeing Srog, with his stiff beard, broad shoulders, and friendly smile, brought back memories of his father, of the old guard.

Srog leaned back and clasped a beefy hand on Reece’s shoulder.

“You resemble your father too much as you grow older,” he said warmly.

Reece smiled.

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It is indeed,” Srog replied. “There was no finer man. I would have walked through fire for him.”

Srog turned and led Reece through the hall, all of his men falling in behind them as they wound their way through the fort.

“You are a most welcome face to see here in this miserable place,” Srog said. “I am grateful to your sister for sending you.”

“It seems I have chosen a bad day to visit,” Reece said as they passed an open-air window, rain lashing a few feet away.

Srog smirked.

“Every day is a bad day here,” he answered. “Yet it can also change on a dime. They say the Upper Islands experience all four seasons in a single day—and I have come to see that it is true.”

Reece looked outside at a small, empty castle courtyard, populated with a handful of ancient stone buildings, gray, ancient, which looked like they blended into the rain. Few people were outside, and those that were lowered their heads against the wind and hurried from one place to the next. This island seemed to be a lonely and desolate place.

“Where are all the people?” Reece asked.

Srog sighed.

“The Upper Islanders stay indoors. They keep to themselves. They are spread out. This place is not like Silesia, or King’s Court. Here, they live all over the island. They do not congregate in cities. They are an odd, reclusive people. Stubborn and hardened—like the weather.”

Srog led Reece down a corridor and they turned a corner and entered the Great Hall.

In the room sat a dozen of Srog’s men, soldiers with their boots and armor on, glumly sitting around a table near a fire. Dogs slept around the fire, and the men ate hunks of meat and threw the scraps to the dogs. They looked up at Reece and grunted.

Srog led Reece to the fire. Reece rubbed his hands before the flames, grateful for its warmth.

“I know you haven’t much time before your ship departs,” Srog said. “But I at least wanted to send you off with some warmth and dry clothes.”

An attendant approached and handed Reece a set of dry clothes and mail, exactly his size. Reece looked at Srog with surprise and gratitude as he peeled off his wet clothes and replaced them with these.

Srog smiled. “We treat our own well here,” he said. “I figured you’d need it, given this place.”

“Thank you,” Reece said, already feeling much warmer. “I’ve never needed it more.” He had been dreading sailing back in wet clothes, and this was exactly what he’d needed.

Srog began talking politics, a long monologue, and Reece nodded politely, pretending to listen. But deep down, Reece was distracted. He was still overwhelmed with thoughts of Stara, and he could not shake her from his mind. He could not stop thinking of their encounter, and every time he thought of her, his heart fluttered with excitement.