Morgan Rice - A Grant of Arms

Andronicus, ignoring Tirus, stepped forward and examined each one. He saw something special in the piercing hazel eyes of the youngest; he detected the spirit of a warrior in him.

“You have taken something precious from me,” Andronicus said to Tirus. “So I will take something precious from you. One of your sons will do.”

Tirus looked up in shock and fear.

“My liege?” he muttered.

“Choose which one of your sons will die today,” Andronicus ordered Tirus.

There came the ring of metal as Tirus drew his sword and began to charge for Andronicus, to defend his boys.

But Andronicus was much faster; he lunged forward, grabbed Tirus by the throat, and held him high overhead with a single hand. Tirus was not a small man, and yet Andronicus handled him like a rag doll.

Tirus dangled there, red-faced, gasping, as Andronicus held him up, dangling for all to see.

“If one of us is to die, then kill me my Lord!” cried out one of Tirus’ sons.

Andronicus turned to see one of his sons, the one with the hazel eyes and curly hair, stepping forward and standing there proudly.

Andronicus dropped Tirus to the ground, and Tirus, gagging and coughing, curled up in a ball, clutching his throat.

“No, kill me , my Lord!” said another son.

“Take my life!” said the other.

The three brothers all stood forward, each asking to be killed over the other. Andronicus smiled as he debated which one he wanted to kill.

“You offered first,” Andronicus said, as he approached the boy with the eyes.

Andronicus suddenly drew his sword, took a step forward and in a single motion, chopped off the head of Tirus’ other son, the one standing next to the one with the eyes.

The other sons shrieked in dismay and Andronicus smiled.

“But you should know that I never kill the man who offers first.”

Romulus charged down the dusty road as the sun rose, a dozen of his soldiers following, making his way across the desert, riding for the Canyon. He clutched his cloak as they rode, anxious to put it to the test.

The sacrifice of the night before had been a successful one, and Romulus felt satisfied that he’d appeased the God of War. He would cross the Canyon, that much he knew. His heart thumped with excitement as he imagined Andronicus’ expression when he would see Romulus, inside the Ring, putting a sword through his spine.

The Eastern Crossing finally came into view, a bridge spanning a vast canyon, a great divide in the earth, greater than anything Romulus had ever seen. Swirling mist rose up all around it, lit up different colors by the early morning sun.

Romulus and his men dismounted as they reached the edge, and he walked to the precipice and stared down, hands on his hips, breathing hard from the ride. He knew that only he could cross with the cloak, but just in case somehow the Shield was down, he wanted these men to accompany him. The main body of his army he had left back at the shore. His plan was to enter the Ring, to find a MacGil, to get him back across the Canyon, to lower the Shield, and then to have his entire army invade.

In the meantime, he had these few men with him as a test, to see if by some chance the Shield was down. He knew it would risk their lives to try, but he cared not for the value of life. He would gladly sacrifice any of his men to fulfill his experiment.

“You,” Romulus said, pointing to one of his men.

The soldier’s eyes opened wide in fear as he realized. Still, he was quick to obey. He dismounted from his horse and walked alongside Romulus, and the two of them walked out in front of all the others, approaching the entrance to the Canyon bridge.

As they reached the threshold, Romulus stopped.

The soldier stopped, turned and looked at Romulus with a look of fear. He swallowed hard, then closed his eyes and braced himself, raising his arms to protect his face as he walked toward the bridge.

Suddenly, the soldier let out a horrific scream as his body melted, then turned to ashes, dropping in a pile at Romulus’ feet.

The other men all gasped.

So, the Shield was still up.

Romulus draped the cloak about his shoulders and clutched it tight. He prayed that it worked. If it did not, he would end up like that pile at his feet.

Romulus breathed deep and took one big step onto the Canyon bridge. He braced himself, flinching.

His foot set down on the bridge, and Romulus was shocked: it worked. He had made it. He was standing safely on the bridge, wearing the cloak.

He continued to walk, farther and farther from his men, crossing ever deeper onto the bridge, alone. Soon, he would be inside the Ring.

Romulus rode on an Empire horse he’d found roaming the McCloud countryside, realizing it must have belonged to a slain Empire soldier left somewhere along the way. He been quick to find the horse once safely across the bridge and on the McCloud side of the Ring, and he’d ridden hard ever since, charging ever west, toward where Andronicus’ main camp must be.

Romulus’ first order of business was to ambush and kill his former boss, Andronicus—and for that he needed men.

He was not worried. The Empire’s vast army feared and respected him as they did Andronicus—perhaps even more. Romulus was known to be an equally ruthless commander. He was also known to have the voice of Andronicus: anything Romulus commanded, the Empire men would assume came from the high commander himself.

Romulus was betting on his ability to convince the Empire men he encountered to follow him and join his cause. He would trick them, tell them that he had orders—from the Grand Council itself—to oust Andronicus. He would form a small army of his own, right here, inside the Ring, and would turn Andronicus’ own men against him.

Romulus rode and rode, seeing the destruction all around him and realizing how many battles must have been fought up and down this land. It felt strange to actually be here, inside the Ring, this place he had heard of his entire life. He was so close, finally, to taking what was his, the rulership of the Empire forces. He felt as if he were riding into destiny.

Romulus crested the top of a ridge and looked down and saw below, a division of Empire, several thousand men milling about. This division was too small to be Andronicus’ main camp; it must have been a vanguard, left to guard the rear. Andronicus saw the Empire banners waving, and his heart quickened as he recognized their commander.

Romulus kicked his horse and galloped across the countryside, riding down the gentle slope, not even slowing as he rode past the astonished looks of all the Empire soldiers, who stopped what they were doing, stiffened to attention, and saluted him up and down the ranks.

They parted ways, and Romulus charged right for the commander. He knew he would have to project his best authority to convince them to join his cause and kill Andronicus.

As Romulus came to a stop, the commander wheeled, startled, fear in his eyes, and jumped down from his horse, along with all his men around, and took a knee before Romulus.

“Sir, I had no idea you were coming,” he said. “I would have arranged a parade in your honor.”

Romulus dismounted, scowling, and strutted over to him. Romulus’ reputation was well-known for killing commanders randomly, with no rhyme or reason, and this general trembled at the sight of him.

Romulus stopped but a foot away and boomed: “I’ve been sent by the Grand Council. A decree has been set. Andronicus is to be killed and I have been named the new Supreme Commander of the Empire forces.”

The general stared back, his mouth dropped open in shock. Romulus would not give him time to process it.