Morgan Rice - A Vow of Glory

Gareth started to feel better at the thought.

With a supreme effort, he struggled to his feet and stumbled through the room, knocking over an end table as he went. As he neared the door, he spotted an alabaster bust of his father, a sculpture his father had loved, and he reached down, grabbed it by its head and threw it at the wall.

It smashed into a thousand pieces, and for the first time that day, Gareth smiled. Maybe this day would not be so bad after all.

Gareth strutted into the council room flanked by several attendants, slamming open the huge oak doors with his palm, making everyone in the crowded room jump at his presence. They all quickly stood at attention.

While normally this would give Gareth some satisfaction, on this day, he was beyond caring. He was plagued by the ghost of his father, and infused with rage that his sister had left. His emotions swirled within him, and he had to take it out on the world.

Gareth stumbled through the vast chamber in his opium-infused haze, walking down the center of the aisle towards his throne, dozens of councilmen standing aside as he went. His court had grown, and today the energy was frantic, as more and more people seemed to filter in with the news of the departure of half of King’s Court, and of the shield’s being down. It was as if whomever remained of King’s Court was pouring into Gareth’s court for answers.

And of course, Gareth had none.

As Gareth strutted up the ivory steps to his father’s throne, he saw, standing patiently behind it, Lord Kultin, the mercenary leader of his private fighting force, the one man left in the court who he could trust. Alongside him stood dozens of his fighters, standing there silently, hands on their swords, ready to fight to the death for Gareth. It was the one thing left that gave Gareth comfort.

Gareth sat in his throne, and surveyed the room. There were so many faces, a few he recognized and many he didn’t. He trusted none of them. Every day he purged more from his court; he had already sent so many to the dungeons, and even more to the executioner. Not a day passed when he didn’t kill at least a handful of men. He thought it good policy: it kept the men on their toes, and prevented a coup from forming.

The room sat silent, staring at him in a daze. They all looked terrified to speak. Which was exactly what he wanted. Nothing thrilled him more than infusing fear in his subjects.

Finally, Aberthol stepped forward, his cane echoing off the stone, and cleared his throat.

“My liege,” he began, his voice ancient, “we stand at a moment of great disarray in King’s Court. I do not know what news has yet reached you: the Shield is down; Gwendolyn has left King’s Court and has taken Kolk, Brom, Kendrick, Atme, the Silver, the Legion, and half of your army—along with half of King’s Court. Those that remain here look to you for guidance, and to know what our next move will be. The people want answers, my liege.”

“What’s more,” said another Council member whom Gareth dimly recognized, “word has spread that the Canyon has already been breached. Rumor has it that Andronicus has invaded the McCloud side of the Ring with his million man army.”

An outraged gasp spread throughout the room; dozens of brave warriors whispered to each other, flooded with fear, and a state of panic spread like wildfire.

“It can’t be true!” exclaimed one of the soldiers.

“It is!” insisted the councilmember.

“Then all hope is lost!” yelled out another soldier. “If the McClouds are overrun, the Empire will come for King’s Court next. There’s no way we can keep them back.”

“We must discuss terms of surrender, my liege,” Aberthol said to Gareth.

“Surrender!?” another man yelled. “We shall never surrender!”

“If we don’t,” yelled another soldier, “we will be crushed. How can we stand up to one million men?”

The room broke out into an outraged murmur, the soldiers and counselors arguing with each other, all in complete disarray.

The Council leader slammed his iron rod into the stone floor and screamed:

“ORDER!”

Gradually, the room quieted, all the men turned and looked at him.

“These are all decisions for a king, not for us,” one of the council men said. “Gareth is lawful King, and it is not for us to discuss terms of surrender—or whether to surrender at all.”

They all turned to Gareth.

“My liege,” Aberthol said, exhaustion in his voice, “how do you propose we deal with the Empire’s army?”

The room grew deathly silent.

Gareth sat there, staring down at the men, and he wanted to respond. But it was getting harder and harder for him to keep his thoughts clear. He kept hearing his father’s voice in his head, yelling at him, as when he was a child. It was driving him crazy, and the voice would not go away.

Gareth reached out and scratched the wooden arm of the throne, again and again, and the sound of his fingernails clawing were the only sound in the room.

The council members exchanged a worried glance.

“My liege,” another councilman prompted, “if you choose not to surrender, then we must fortify King’s Court at once. We must secure all the entrances, all the roads, all the gates. We must call up all the soldiers, prepare defenses. We must prepare for a siege, ration food, protect our citizens. There is much to be done. Please, my Liege. Give us a command. Tell us what to do.”

Once again the room fell silent, as all eyes fixed on Gareth.

Finally, Gareth lifted his chin and stared out.

“We will not fight the Empire,” he declared. “Nor will we surrender.”

Everyone in the room looked at each other, confused.

“Then what shall we do, my liege?” Aberthol asked.

Gareth cleared his throat.

“We shall kill Gwendolyn!” he declared. “That is all that matters now.”

There followed a shocked silence.

“Gwendolyn?” a councilman called out in surprise, as the room broke out into another surprised murmur.

“We will send all of our forces after her, to slaughter her and those with her before they reach Silesia,” Gareth announced.

“But, my Liege, how shall this help us?” a councilman called out. “If we venture out to attack her, that will only leave our forces exposed. They would all be surrounded and slaughtered by the Empire.”

“It would also leave King’s Court open for attack!” called out another. “If we are not going to surrender, we must fortify King’s Court at once!”

A group of men shouted in agreement.

Gareth turned and looked at the councilman, his eyes cold.

“We will use every man we have to kill my sister!” he said darkly. “We will not spare even one!”

The room fell silent as a councilman pushed back his chair, scraping against the stone, and stood.

“I will not see King’s Court ruined for your personal obsession. I, for one, am not with you!”

“Nor I!” echoed half the men in the room.

Gareth felt himself fuming with rage, and was about to stand when suddenly the doors to the chamber burst open and in rushed the commander of what remained of the army. All eyes were on him. He dragged a man in his arms, a ruffian with greasy hair, unshaven, bound by his wrists. He dragged the man all the way to the center of the room, and stopped before the king.

“My liege,” the commander said coldly. “Of the six thieves executed for the theft of the Destiny Sword, this man was the seventh, the one who escaped. He tells the most fantastical tale of what happened.

“Speak!” the commander prodded, shaking the ruffian.

The ruffian looked nervously in every direction, his greasy hair clinging to his cheeks, looking unsure. Finally, he yelled out: