Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

Gwendolyn rejoined Thor by his side, and as they all stood there in the silence, staring into the flames with thousands of others, Aberthol, using his cane, stepped forward and emerged from the crowd. He turned and faced them, clearing his throat against the crackling of the immense flames.

“Tonight is the Winter Solstice. From this day forward, each day grows a little lighter, a little longer. We have turned the corner, and it is no coincidence that our salvation has come on this day. It was written in the stars. We are on the road to renewal, to rebirth. We will build all that once was, once again. But we must always remember the destruction. For only from the ashes can there grow the strongest tree.

“The Ring has suffered under the weight of hundreds of years of battle,” he said. “This is not the first funeral for brave warriors. Nor will it be the last. But these brave young souls here today died fending off an invasion on a scale unlike any other their forefathers had known. Their deeds shall be recorded in the Annals of the MacGils, and shall be remembered for all time.”

“HEAR, HEAR!” shouted the crowd.

Aberthol paused.

“Remember that you carry a piece of them with you now,” he continued. “Do not think your life is permanent. The greatest illusion we all live under is the permanence of life. You are mortal, like they. Do not hesitate to meet your enemy, to live a life of valor. Let us transform our grief. Let us take up their cause, seek justice, and transform these funeral rites into a rite of swords.”

“HEAR, HEAR!” shouted the crowd.

Bells tolled, Aberthol retreated, and as he did, the crowd began to disperse. Thor and the others slowly turned and followed. Small bonfires were erected all throughout the city square, as people broke off into smaller groups, the mood of the night’s festivities having turned somber as they remembered their dead at midnight.

The crowd broke off into small groups, and people huddled on the ground before their bonfires, passed around wineskins, roasted desserts, and told stories. Others fell asleep where they sat or lay, exhausted from the day of battle, from the heat of the fires, and from bellies filled with food and wine.

Thor broke off into a small group with Gwendolyn, Kendrick, Godfrey, Reece, Elden, O’Connor, and Conven. Reece was accompanied by Selese, and Elden by Indra. Thor was happy to see Reece with the girl he had not stopped talking about throughout their quest.

The group settled comfortably on the ground, around the flames of a small fire. Gwen sat next to Thor and he draped an arm around her, pulling her in close, her fur mantle soft on his palm. Krohn came up close and lay his head in Gwen’s lap and Thor stroked his head and handed him another piece of meat. Krohn ate happily. Thor had forgotten how attached Krohn was to Gwen, and he did not know if Krohn was happier to see him or her.

As they all sat around the fire, a drink was passed around which Thor had never seen. Thor looked down as a cup of foaming white liquid, warm to the touch, was placed in his hands. It was welcome in the cold night.

“Koonta,” Srog explained to the curious group. “The drink of the Silesians.”

Thor held it in both his hands and raised it to his lips. It was spicy and warm, frothing at the top, and it tasted like vanilla mixed with rum. It was delicious, and as Thor drank, it warmed his throat and chest. It also went right to his head, and he immediately realized he’d drunk too much. Everyone around him did the same.

Thor looked up to see two of the surviving Legion members approach and stand over their group.

“Can we join you?” one of them asked.

Thor had remembered meeting these Legion members once, briefly, when he had first joined: Serna and Krog. Serna, the one who addressed them, was a tall, broad soldier, about Thor’s age, with long brown hair and piercing brown eyes, wide and narrowly shaped. He looked prematurely aged, hollow circles under his eyes, and Thor knew that if he had been one of the few who had survived, he must be a good warrior indeed. The other, Krog, was several years older, short, with darker skin, a shaved head and a large hoop earring in his left ear. He wore a vest with no sleeves, even in the cold, and his muscles were visibly bulging through it. He was unsmiling, and Thor could see that he was a man who lived for war.

They both looked down at Thor with respect, and indeed, Thor noticed everyone looking at him differently since his return.

“Please do,” Thor said, always one to be gracious and hospitable. He slid over and made room; they came and sat beside him.

They nodded in greeting at the other Legion in the circle, who nodded back. After so much time spent together with Reece, Elden, O’Connor, and Conven, it felt a bit odd to see their group expand, especially after the loss of Conval. But it felt good, too. After all, they were all Legion, and they all needed to stick together—especially until the Legion could be replenished with a new crop of warriors.

Serna and Krog’s eyes fell to the Destiny Sword at his belt, and they looked at Thor as if he were a god.

“Is it heavy?” Serna asked.

The others all turned and looked at Thor, as all eyes fell to the Destiny Sword. It was the first time he had been asked about it, and he was not quite sure how to respond. He hadn’t really thought about it that much—it had just felt natural.

Thor shook his head.

“Actually, it is lighter than my other swords,” Thor replied. “It feels weightless.”

“But twenty men could not wield it,” Krog said. “It is heavy. It is just not heavy in your hands.”

“That is because you are the one meant to wield it,” Kendrick added.

Thor shrugged.

“I don’t know why,” Thor answered humbly. “It is as much a mystery to me as to anyone else.”

“It is because you carry a great destiny,” Aberthol said, leaning forward from across the fire, face aglow in the flames.

“What destiny is that?” Thor asked, eager to understand more.

Aberthol shook his head.

“No one knows,” he said. “The Sword has been written and sung about for seven generations of MacGil Kings, but the truth is, no one really knows its origin, or what it means. All that is known is that it maintains the Shield. And that you’re the only one in recorded history, of all the generations, of all the kings, to have wielded it.”

The group stared at Thor in awe, and he felt self-conscious. He did not savor all the attention.

“All I have done is try to serve the Ring,” Thor replied.

“And you have served it well, indeed, my friend,” Kendrick said, reaching over and clasping a hand on his shoulder.

“I am not done yet,” Thor said. “Not while Andronicus remains. Tomorrow, as the sun breaks, I shall fly Mycoples and wield the Sword, and battle whatever remains of Andronicus’ army. I shall not give him time to regroup and escape on his ships.”

“And we shall join you,” Kendrick chimed in.

“We may not be as fast as you,” Atme added, “or as powerful as Mycoples. But we have men, and we have swords, and we will kill whomever we can.”

Thor nodded.

“Then I shall welcome your accompaniment,” Thor said.

“And when it’s done?” O’Connor chimed in. “What shall we do when there are no more wars left to wage?”

“Rebuild,” Gwendolyn said.

They all looked to her with respect.

“King’s Court will be resurrected,” she added. “It will stand and shine once again.”

“And Silesia,” Srog chimed in.

“We shall rebuild the Legion, too,” Brom said.

“I, for one, shall welcome a rest from battle,” Elden said. “We have not stopped battling since we crossed the Canyon. I will return to my hometown and see if my father is alive. Maybe help rebuild his home there.”