Morgan Rice - A Vow of Glory

Finally, the boat rocked beneath them as it glided out onto the water, bobbing, weightless, Thor’s shoulders shaking from the effort. Elden and O’Connor raised the sails to full mast, and soon they were drifting out to sea.

They all let out a cheer of triumph, as they put the polls back in place and ran over and helped Elden and O’Connor secure the lines. Krohn yelped beside them, excited by it all.

The boat was drifting aimlessly and Thor hurried to the wheel, O’Connor beside him.

“Want to take the wheel?” Thor asked O’Connor.

O’Connor grinned wide.

“Would love to.”

They began to gain real speed, cruising out on the yellow waters of the Tartuvian, the wind at their backs. Finally, they were moving, and Thor took a deep breath. They were off.

Thor headed out to the bow, Reece beside him, and Krohn came up between them, and leaned into Thor’s leg, while Thor reached down and stroked his soft white fur. Krohn leaned over and licked Thor, and Thor reached into a small sack and pulled out a piece of meat for Krohn, who snatched it up.

Thor looked out at the vast sea before them. The distant horizon was dotted with black Empire ships, surely on their way to the McCloud side of the Ring. Luckily, they were distracted, and could not possibly be on the lookout for a lone boat heading into their territory. The skies were clear, there was a strong wind at their backs, and they continued to gain speed.

Thor looked out and wondered what lay before them. He wondered how long it would be until they reached Empire land, what might be waiting to greet them. He wondered how they would find the sword, how all this would end. He knew the odds were against them, yet still he felt exhilarated to finally be on the journey, thrilled that they’d made it this far, and felt eager to do retrieve the Sword.

“What if it’s not there?” Reece asked.

Thor turned and looked at him.

“The sword,” Reece added. “What if it’s not there? Or if it’s lost? Or destroyed? Or if we just never find it? The Empire is vast, after all.”

“Or what if the Empire’s figured out how to wield it?” Elden asked in his deep voice, coming up beside them.

“What if we find it but can’t bring it back?” Conven asked.

The group of them stood there, oppressed by what lay before them, by the sea of unanswered questions. This journey was madness, Thor knew.

Madness.

Gareth paced the stone floors of his father’s study, a small chamber on the top floor of the castle that his father had cherished, and bit by bit, he tore it apart.

Gareth went from bookcase to bookcase, yanking down precious volumes, ancient leather books that had been in the family for centuries, and tearing the bindings and shredding the pages in small bits. As he threw them in the air, they fell down over his head like snowflakes, clinging to his body and to the drool running down his cheeks. He was determined to tear apart every last thing in this place that his father loved, one book at a time.

Gareth hurried over to a corner table, grabbed what was left of his opium pipe, and with shaking hands sucked hard, needing his hit now more than ever. He was addicted, smoking it every minute he could, determined to block out the images of his father that haunted him in his dreams, and now even when he was awake.

As Gareth put down the pipe, he saw his father standing there, before him, a decaying corpse. Each time the corpse was more decayed, more skeleton than flesh; Gareth turned from the awful site.

Gareth used to try to attack the image—but he’d learned that it did no good. So now he just turned his head, constantly, always looking away. Always it was the same: his father wearing a rusted crown, his mouth open, his eyes gazing at him with contempt, reaching out a single finger, pointing accusingly at him. In that awful stare, Gareth felt his own days numbered, felt that it was only a matter of time until he joined him. He hated seeing him more than anything. If there was one saving grace in murdering his father, it was that he would not need to see his face again. But now, ironically, he saw it more than ever.

Gareth turned and hurled the opium pipe at the apparition, hoping that if he threw it quickly enough it might actually hit.

But the pipe merely flew through the air and smashed against the wall, shattering. His father still stood there, and glared down at him.

“Those drugs won’t help you now,” his father scolded.

Gareth could stand it no longer. He charged for the apparition, hands out, lunging to scratch his father’s face; but as always, he sailed through nothing but air, and this time he went stumbling across the room and landed hard on his father’s wooden desk, sending it crashing down to the floor with him.

Gareth rolled on the ground, winded, and looked up and saw that he had gashed his arm. Blood was dripping down his shirt, and he looked down and noticed he still wore the undershirt he had slept in for days; in fact, he had not changed for weeks now. He glanced over at a reflection of himself, and saw that his hair was wild; he looked like a common ruffian. A part of him could hardly believe he had sank so low. But another part of him no longer cared. The only thing left inside of him was a burning desire to destroy—to destroy any remnant of his father that once was. He would like to have this castle razed, and King’s Court with it. It would be vengeance for the treatment he bore as a child. The memories were stuck inside him, like a thorn he could not pull out.

The door to his father’s study opened wide, and in rushed one of Gareth’s attendants, looking down in fear.

“My liege,” the attendant said. “I heard a crash. Are you okay? My liege, you are bleeding!”

Gareth looked up at the boy with hatred. Gareth tried to get to his feet, to lash out at him, but he slipped on something, and fell back down to the ground, disoriented from the last hit of opium.

“My liege, I will help you!”

The boy rushed forward and grabbed Gareth’s arm, which was too thin, barely flesh and bone.

But Gareth still had a reserve of strength and as the boy touched his arm, he shoved him off, sending him across the room.

“Touch me again and I will cut off your hands,” Gareth seethed.

The boy backed up in fear, and as he did, another attendant entered the room, accompanied by an older man whom Gareth vaguely recognized. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew him—but he could not place him.

“My liege,” came an old, gravelly voice, “we have been waiting for you in the council chamber for half the day. The council members cannot wait much longer. They have urgent news, and must share it with you before the day is up. Will you come?”

Gareth narrowed his eyes at the man, trying to make him out. He dimly remembered that he had served his father. The council chamber… The meeting… It all swirled in his mind.

“Who are you?” Gareth asked.

“My liege, I am Aberthol. Your father’s trusted advisor,” he said, stepping closer.

It was slowly coming back. Aberthol. The council. The meeting. Gareth’s mind spun, his head crushing him. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Leave me,” he snapped. “I will come.”

Aberthol nodded and hurried from the room with the attendant, closing the door behind them.

Gareth knelt there, head in his hands, trying to think, to remember. It was all so much. It started to come back to him in bits. The shield was down; the Empire was attacking; half his court had left; his sister had led them away; to Silesia…Gwendolyn…That was it. That was what he had been trying to remember.

Gwendolyn. He hated her with a passion he could not describe. Now, more than ever, he wanted to kill her. He needed to kill her. All of his troubles in this world—they were all a result of her. He would find a way to get back at her, even if he had to die trying. And he would kill his other siblings next.