Morgan Rice - A Grant of Arms

Before Erec could make sense of it all, he watched the figure creep out of the darkness, slip up to the entrance of the gate, remove a dagger from his belt, and slice the throats of the two Empire soldiers standing guard. Two quick grunts cut through the night, as the Empire soldiers slumped to the floor, lifeless.

The figure cut the ropes, pulled back the fence, looked both ways furtively, making sure no one was watching, and then rushed forward right towards Erec, bloody dagger still in hand. Erec hissed, and Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog turned and looked, too. Erec watched him approach, transfixed by the figure, wondering who he was and why he was here. Who had just killed those Empire soldiers? Why was he racing towards them? Was he coming to kill them, too?

The figure slipped behind him and suddenly sliced the ropes binding his feet and hands. Erec stumbled forward, grabbing his wrists, massaging them where the ropes had dug into them. Erec turned, amazed, as the man sliced through the ropes binding Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog, too.

The four of them turned and faced him, as he raised his face plate.

The boy, hardly older than 16, stared back with piercing hazel eyes, his curly brown hair spilling out past his ears. He looked like Tirus. He had just risked his life to set them free and murder two Empire soldiers, and Erec could not understand why.

“Who are you?” Erec asked.

“I am Matus,” he replied. “The youngest of four sons of the house of Tirus.”

“Why have you freed us?” Kendrick asked.

Matus shook his head earnestly.

“I disagree with what my father has done,” he replied. “It is okay for us MacGils to have our differences—but as warriors and as knights, we must honor our word. Honor is all we have, and despite what my father may do, I live and die by my word. My father gave you his word. And if he will not honor it, then I will. He promised to keep you as captives, not to have you killed, and I will rectify his wrongs. You are free. Take your men and go. Go quickly, before the light of dawn.”

Erec watched, mouth open in disbelief.

“When your father wakes and finds us gone, he will surely blame you,” Erec said.

Matus shrugged.

“I want you all to live. I remember you fondly,” he said to Kendrick, “from our days as youths. I would like to see the Empire ousted, and the MacGils reunited once again, as they once were. I would like to see the Upper Isles retake their place within the Ring. I do not share my father’s desire for the throne. Politics disgust me.”

Erec nodded back with great respect.

“You are a warrior beyond your years,” Erec said. “You have done yourself a great honor on this night.”

“We will never forget this,” Kendrick said.

“No debt is necessary,” Matus said. “Just take your men and go far from here. Go to the Upper Isles. Our castle sits empty now. You will be safe there from Andronicus’ reach.”

Kendrick was touched by his offer, but he shook his head slowly.

“You are of a true and noble blood,” Kendrick said. “I do remember you, very well. You were different than the others, different than your father. The blood of my father runs in you. We cannot accept your offer, however.”

“Why not?” Matus asked.

“Your isles may mean safety for us,” Erec explained, “but that is not what we were born to do. We were born to fight, not to hide, and fight we shall.”

“But you cannot win,” Matus said.

“Perhaps not here,” Kendrick said, “and perhaps not on this night. True, we stand outnumbered. But we will regroup, in some other place, on some other day, and fight then. Come, join our ranks.”

Matus hesitated.

“Join us,” Bronson added. “There can be no safe harbor for you here anymore.”

Matus shook his head.

“I have done what I’ve done,” he said. “I have no regrets. I will face my father, and whatever punishment he decides, I will accept. That is my way. I do not run from anything, either. Now go.”

Erec, greatly impressed by this young warrior, stepped forward, looked him earnestly in the eye, and clasped forearms.

Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog did the same.

“I hope to see you one day again, my cousin,” Kendrick said.

Quickly, Erec, Kendrick, Bronson, and Srog turned and fled through the night, grabbing the weapons of the felled soldiers, racing across the blackness, and towards their men. Erec was elated, his prayers answered. They would free their men, take their army, and live to fight another day.

Andronicus galloped across the plains, his son Thornicus at his side, his sorcerer Rafi on his other side, and McCloud behind him. Behind them followed tens of thousands of loyal Empire soldiers, all of them riding with enthusiasm for one destination: Highlandia, the highest city, built on the very peak of the Highlands. Andronicus could see it before him, sitting there on the horizon, shining in the early morning sun, the highest city in the Ring, striding the two sides of the Highlands, and the last stronghold of the McClouds. McCloud soldiers poured out of it, daring to face him. He could not wait to crush it.

Andronicus had expected the McClouds to all surrender when McCloud had; they would have, too, if it were not for that rabble-rouser, Bronson. He had swept through the McCloud side of the Ring and agitated his people, and now thousands of them were rallying once again against the Empire invasion. Andronicus had received numerous reports of their killing his men, and now he was determined to take Highlandia and crush the McCloud resistance once and for all.

Taking Highlandia also served another purpose for him: once he had the high ground, he would have a strategic point at the top of the Highlands; from there it would be a straight shot down the other side, right across to the Western Kingdom of the Ring and back again to Silesia, where he could wipe out anyone left of the MacGils and crush the Ring for good. He smiled at the thought. He would take great delight in doing it—even more so, this time, with his own, Thornicus, leading the charge and slaughtering his own people. There was nothing Andronicus loved more than watching people murder their own. Which was why he was having McCloud lead this charge.

As much as Andronicus disliked him, he had to have Rafi ride upfront with them, too; he needed Rafi’s dark energy close, needed Rafi to keep up his spells and to keep Thor under his mind control. He had also promised Rafi a reward: after the battle, Rafi would be allowed to gorge on the dead. Rafi loved to drink corpses’ blood, and as much as it sickened Andronicus, he had to let Rafi have his way from time to time.

The group let out a great battle cry as they neared their target. They all galloped straight up the hill, rising into the sky as the McCloud army charged down to meet them. As Andronicus watched, he was surprised to see his son, Thornicus, charge out in front, farther than all the others, leading the pack. He rode and rode, faster, fearless, the first in battle by a good hundred yards. It looked as if Thornicus was going to challenge the entire McCloud army by himself. Thornicus was a thing of beauty to watch, all warrior, one hundred percent heart. He looked mythical, like a god on a horse, as if nothing in the world could stop him.

From out of Highlandia there came a great cry, as thousands of McCloud soldiers poured out, racing on their horses downhill, coming to meet the Empire army. They must have known they were outnumbered, yet still, these McClouds could do a lot of damage; given their strategic position, they could take out thousands of Empire men. They were probably gambling that Andronicus would not want to risk the loss of life.

But they did not know the Great Andronicus. He cared not for loss of life. In fact, he loved bloodshed and did not care how many of his men died. They were all just pawns to him anyway.