Morgan Rice - A Sky of Spells

Romulus strutted proudly onto the shore, heading right for Ragon, unafraid.

Ragon stood there, tall, muscular, his broad face covered in scars, and scowled back, flanked by his soldiers. Romulus walked right up to him and stopped, and in the thick silence, the two of them faced off, each determined.

“Romulus, of the first battalion of the Eastern Province of the Empire,” Ragon boomed, loud enough to be heard by his men, “You are hereby set to be imprisoned and executed for crimes against the Empire.”

All of the men, on both sides, stood there, unmoving, the air thick with tension. Ragon, wasting no time, turned and nodded to his men, and several of his soldiers took a step forward to arrest Romulus.

At the same time, without needing to be told, several of Romulus’ men stepped forward to protect him.

The soldiers froze on both sides, facing off, hands on their hilts, and awaiting commands.

“Any resistance is futile,” Ragon said. “You have tens of thousands of men—but I have hundreds of thousands, and the backing of every country in the Empire. Submit now and die a quick and easy death. Prolong this, and your men will be killed, and you tortured.”

Romulus stared back, silent, expressionless, carefully thinking through his next move.

“If I surrender,” Romulus said, “you will promise my men safe passage?”

Ragon nodded.

“You have my word.”

“Then I will surrender on one condition,” Romulus said. “If you yourself are the one to arrest me. Give me, at least, that honor.”

Ragon nodded, seeming relieved.

“Fair enough.”

Ragon took the iron shackles from his guard, and stepped forward towards Romulus.

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he commanded.

Romulus turned slowly, his heart pounding, as Ragon approached. Romulus listened carefully, focusing on the fine sound of the shackles, the sound that came as he raised it and brought it down towards his wrist. He was waiting, waiting, for just the right moment.

Romulus felt the cold metal of the shackles touch his wrist, and the time was right. He spun around in an instant, and in the process, elbowed Ragon across the face, shattering his cheek bone. In the same motion, he snatched the shackles from his hand, stood over him, and swung them down with all his might, breaking Ragon’s nose.

The two armies still faced off, each unsure how to react, it all happening so quickly. Romulus took advantage of the hesitation: he wasted no time as he reached down, grabbed Ragon by the back of the head, drew his dagger, and held it tightly to Ragon’s throat.

Ragon, gushing blood, could barely breathe as Romulus dug the blade against his throat.

“Tell them that you cede to me as Supreme Commander,” Romulus growled.

“Never,” Ragon murmured.

Romulus pushed the blade harder against his throat, until blood started to trickle. Ragon gurgled, but said nothing.

Romulus shifted the point of the blade to Ragon’s eye, and as soon as he began to apply pressure, Ragon screamed out.

“I CEDE TO ROMULUS!” he screamed.

Romulus nodded, satisfied.

“Very good,” he said.

Romulus, in one quick motion, sliced Ragon’s throat, and Ragon slumped to the ground, dead.

Romulus stood there, staring back at the thousands of Empire soldiers. They all faced him, unsure, and Romulus knew this was the moment of truth. With their leader dead, would they defer to him?

As Romulus stood there in the silence, waiting, watching, it feeling like an eternity, finally, the rows and rows of Empire soldiers all dropped to a knee, the air filled with the sound of tens of thousands of suits of armor clanking, as they all lowered their heads and bowed to him.

Romulus drew his sword and raised it high above his head, breathing in deep, taking in the moment, the entire strength of the Empire bowing to him, now, finally, under his command.

“ROMULUS!” they all chanted as one.

“ROMULUS!”

Thor charged on his horse, galloping down the main road that led from King’s Court, heading south, oddly enough, in the direction of his home town. Krohn ran at his horse’s heels, as he had been for hours, the two of them embarking together on this quest.

It was time to rebuild the Legion, time for a new Selection, and as he rode, Thor felt a surreal quality to his mission: instead of being on the receiving end, instead of being the one to stand in his village and wait hopefully for the Silver to appear, now it was he, Thor, who was doing the choosing. The roles had reversed. It was such an honor, he could scarcely believe it.

Thor also felt a tremendous responsibility on his shoulders: rebuilding the Legion was a sacred task in his eyes. He had to fill the shoes of the dead boys who had given their lives defending the Ring; he had to choose the next generation of the very best warriors. It was not something he took lightly, and he knew that he must make his choices very carefully.

Throughout his entire childhood, Thor had spent days peering over the horizon, dreaming of the great warriors that might one day pass through this town, his humble little village, of being picked and chosen. And now here he was, the one who was traveling the countryside, riding through all the towns. It was an honor beyond what he could ever imagine. It did not even feel real to him.

Thor rode and rode, until he and his horse—and Krohn—were all breathing hard, and finally he rounded a bend and in the distance, a small village came into view. He decided to make for it; he knew they could all use a break, and this village would be as good a place as any to begin the Selection.

As he approached, Thor dimly recognized the place from the large, crooked tree at its entrance, a farming village a half day’s ride north of his home town. It was a place he had traveled a few times growing up, joining his brothers as they traded for wool and weapons. He hadn’t set foot here in years, but he remembered it to be a provincial town, much like the place he had grown up in, and he did not remember the people as being especially friendly. If he recalled correctly, it had seemed to be populated back then with vulgar types, striking hard bargains, and seeming just as happy to not have visitors as to have them.

It had been many years, though, and Thor knew his memory might be distorted, and he wanted to give this village another chance. After all, it was a farming village, and there might be some good recruits here.

As Thor charged for the town, raising dust as he approached and could already see all the boys lining up, at attention, waiting nervously. He could see the parents behind them, even more nervous. Thor pondered how much had changed since he himself had waited for the Selection. Back then, the Silver had arrived in chariots, in a huge entourage of soldiers; now, it was just he, Thor, alone. These were lean times, and until the Legion and the Silver were rebuilt, it would take time to rebuild everything. Thor had been offered an entourage of soldiers to accompany him—but he had denied it. He felt he did not need anyone to accompany him; he felt that if he could not defend himself, alone, on these highways, then he was not worthy of the task.

Thor pulled into the dusty town, clouds of dust settling around him on the hot summer day, and he pulled his horse to a stop in the center of town. He sat there, looking down at the potential recruits, dozens of boys, lined up, most dressed in rags, looking nervous. He marveled that he must have looked much like these boys had, when he was on the other side of it.

Thor dismounted and slowly walked down the center of the village, Krohn at his side, going from boy to boy, looking each one over carefully. Some seemed scared; some proud; others lethargic, indifferent; and others still over-eager. He could see the same look in their eyes that he once wore: most wanted out of this place desperately. They wanted a better life, to travel to King’s Court, to train with the Legion, to achieve fame and renown, to see the Ring and the lands beyond. Thor could easily tell which of these boys had been placed here by their parents, which were not fighters. He could tell by the way they held their bodies, by a certain hardness or gleam in their eye.