Morgan Rice - A Grant of Arms

Reece knelt beside Krog and surveyed him, determined to help.

Krog groaned, squinting his eyes, writhing in pain.

“My knee,” Krog gasped.

Reece looked down and winced as he saw a large, purple branch impaled through Krog’s knee, through one side and out the other. Reece’s stomach churned at the site; it looked beyond painful.

“How does it look?” Krog asked.

Reece forced himself to look back at Krog with a steady expression of calm and cool confidence, not wanting Krog to panic.

“I’ve seen worse,” Reece responded. “You will be fine.”

Krog, though, didn’t seem to buy it. He was sweating, and looked up at him with panic-stricken eyes. His breathing was rapid and shallow.

“Listen to me,” Reece insisted, grabbing his cheeks. “Do you hear me? Your knee will be fine. Do you trust me?”

Slowly, Krog’s breathing slowed, and he nodded back.

All the others appeared beside Reece, and they stopped short in their tracks, looking down. Reece was sure that they were looking down at Krog’s knee with the same shock he had experienced.

“You’re lucky you’re alive,” Serna said to him. “I was sure you were dead.”

“The branches cushioned my fall,” Krog said. “I think I broke half the tree.”

Reece looked up and saw indeed that half the tree was missing its branches.

Krog tried to move, but winced and shook his head.

“I can’t bend my leg. I can’t walk.” Krog breathed sharply. “Leave me here,” he said. “I’m useless to you now.”

Reece shook his head.

“Do you remember our motto?” he reminded. “ No man left behind . Those aren’t empty words. We live by them. And we aren’t leaving you anywhere.”

Reece thought quick, and turned to the others.

“Elden, O’Connor, hold him down,” he commanded, using the voice of authority.

They each knelt down and grabbed a shoulder, pinning Krog down.

“What are you doing?” Krog asked.

Reece didn’t hesitate; he had to get it over with. He reached down, grabbed the branch protruding through Krog’s knee, snapped off one end of it, and then, as Krog let out a horrific scream, yanked it straight through the other side, until it was clear of his leg. Blood gushed, and Reece reached down and stopped it up with his palm.

Krog flailed, moaning, while Indra rushed down beside him, tore a strip of cloth off the end of her shirt, and wrapped his wound.

“Son of a bitch!” Krog screamed, writhing in agony, digging his hands into Reece’s forearm.

“You are going to be all right,” Reece said. “Conven—your wine.”

Conven rushed forward, lowered his wineskin left over from Silesia, grabbed Krog’s cheeks and squirted some down his throat. Krog struggled at first, but Conven held him firmly, forcing him to drink. Eventually Krog’s eyes started to glaze over, his screaming quieted, and Reece knew the strong drink was kicking in.

“Get him to his feet,” Reece said, rising.

Elden and O’Connor dragged him to his feet, each draping an arm around one shoulder.

“I hate you,” Krog, half-delirious, moaned to Reece, glaring at him.

Reece shrugged. He never expected Krog to like him; he didn’t help him for that reason.

“Hate me all you want,” he said. “At least your leg will be saved.”

Reece turned and surveyed his surroundings, taking it all in. He was surprised and disoriented to actually be down here. Everything felt so foreign, so exotic, as if he were worlds away from the Ring. They stood in the midst of a brightly-colored forest, the swirling mists rushing through. Large mounds of mud rose up here and there, dotting the landscape, looking like large disfigured boulders rising up from the earth. Springs of steam rose in various pockets from the bottom of the floor, hissing as they shot up into the air, stopping and starting abruptly with no rhyme or reason.

Everywhere the air was filled with strange noises, caws and coos and snarls and shrieks; it sounded as if they had been dropped in the center of an animal kingdom. Reece peered into the midst, trying to get a glance, but the persistent mist made it impossible to see past twenty feet, making the noises even more ominous.

He turned to the others, who all looked back at him in wonder.

“Where to now?” Serna asked.

They all looked to Reece, and it was clear they considered him their leader now. Reece was beginning to feel more like a leader himself, too.

“We must find the Sword,” Reece answered, “and get out.”

“But it could be anywhere,” Elden said.

“We can’t see more than a few feet in front of us,” O’Connor added. “There are no trails, no markers. How are we to find it?”

Reece turned and surveyed the landscape, and realized they were all right. But that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

“Well, one thing I know for sure,” he said. “We won’t find it by standing here. Let’s move.”

“But where?” Indra asked.

Reece picked a direction and began to walk, and he heard the others falling in behind, drawing their swords, all panicky.

He wished he could tell them he knew where they were going. But the truth was, he had absolutely no idea.

Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog, wrists bound, led by ropes by their Empire captors, marched before their thousands of soldiers, all of them prisoners of war now. Kendrick seethed with rage and humiliation, and looked up at Tirus, who rode smugly side by side with the Empire commander. He vowed vengeance. Tirus had outwitted them, but he had done so through betrayal and treachery. Such a victory, in Kendrick’s eyes, was no victory at all. He lacked honor. And Kendrick would rather have death than a stain on his honor.

Yet still, here they all were, MacGil’s finest warriors, along with Bronson’s McClouds, all of them now at this traitor’s mercy, this lesser brother of Kendrick’s father, who had aspired his whole life to bring down his family and usurp the throne. Tirus had found his opportunity with Andronicus’ invasion. Knowing Andronicus, Kendrick knew this would only end badly for Tirus. If only Tirus knew that, if only he could see the short-sightedness of his treachery.

Kendrick hated to surrender. Yet in Kendrick’s view, this was not surrendering, but merely delaying. They would find another way, one day, somehow, to defeat them. Tirus had promised to treat them all with honor, as prisoners of war. Kendrick trusted him on this point; he did not imagine Tirus would sink so low as to sully whatever shred of honor he had left. If the war settled down, and Andronicus indeed allowed Tirus to control a portion of the Ring, Kendrick believed that Tirus would treat them fairly. Perhaps he would press them into his service. And one day, when Tirus least expected it, Kendrick would rally his men to rise up and defeat him.

Then again, if Andronicus betrayed Tirus, then anything could happen to Kendrick and his men. He remembered Silesia, their treatment at Andronicus’ hand, all too well. Which is why Kendrick had his eyes open, alert to any possible moment for escape.

They had been marching for hours, and Kendrick had quietly discussed it more than once with Erec, Bronson, and Srog, and they all agreed: they would escape, as long as they could free all their men.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Bronson asked, beside Kendrick.

Kendrick looked out at the cold, desolate landscape before them. He saw in the distance a massive camp of Empire men, and in the center, a vast, empty area, fenced off. It looked like a holding pen. Kendrick realized this was where they being brought.

“They will hold us here until Andronicus decides otherwise,” Kendrick replied. “We are his trophies now.”