Morgan Rice - A Vow of Glory

“We were ordered to steal the sword!”

The room broke out into an outraged murmur.

“There were nineteen of us!” the ruffian continued. “A dozen were to take it away, in the cover of darkness, across the Canyon bridge, and into the wilds. They hid it in a wagon and escorted it across the bridge, so the soldiers standing guard would have no idea what was inside. The others, the seven of us, were ordered to stay behind after the theft. We were told we would be imprisoned, as a show, and then let free. But instead, my friends were all executed. I would have been to, had I not escaped.”

The room broke out into a long, agitated murmur.

“And where were they taking the sword?” the commander pressed.

“I do not know. Somewhere deep inside the Empire.”

“And who ordered such a thing?”

“He!” the ruffian said, suddenly turning and pointing a bony finger up at Gareth. “Our King! He commanded us to do it!”

The room broke out into a horrified murmur, shouts arising, until finally a councilman slammed his iron staff several times and screamed for silence.

The room quieted, but barely.

Gareth, already shaking with fear and rage, stood slowly from his throne, and the room quieted, as all eyes fell on him.

One step at a time, Gareth descended the ivory steps, his footsteps echoing, the silence so thick one could cut it with a knife.

He crossed the chamber, until finally he reached the ruffian. He stared back at him coldly, a foot away, the man squirming in the commander’s arm, looking every which way but at him.

“Thieves and liars are dealt with only one way in my kingdom,” Gareth said softly.

Gareth suddenly pulled a dagger from his waist and plunged it in the ruffian’s heart.

The man screamed out in pain, his eyes bulging, then suddenly slumped down to the ground, dead.

The commander looked over at Gareth, scowling down at him.

“You have just murdered a witness against you,” the commander said. “Don’t you realize that that only serves to further insinuate your guilt?”

“What witness?” Gareth asked, smiling. “Dead men don’t speak.”

The commander reddened.

“Lest you forget, I am commander of the half of the King’s army. I will not be played for a fool. From your actions, I can only surmise that you are guilty of the crime he accused you of. As such, I and my army shall serve you no longer. In fact, I will take you into custody, on the grounds of treason to the Ring!”

The commander nodded to his men, and as one, several dozen soldiers drew their swords and stepped forward to arrest Gareth.

Lord Kultin came forward with twice as many of his own men, all drawing their swords and walking up behind Gareth.

They stood there, facing off with the commander’s soldiers, Gareth in the middle.

Gareth smiled triumphantly back at the commander. His men were outnumbered by Gareth’s fighting force, and he knew it.

“I will go into no one’s custody,” Gareth sneered. “And certainly not by your hand. Take your men and leave my court—or meet the wrath of my personal fighting force.”

After several tense seconds, the commander finally turned and gestured to his men, and as one, they all retreated, walking warily backwards, swords drawn, from the room.

“From this day forward,” the commander boomed, “let it be known that we no longer serve you! You will face the Empire’s army on your own. I hope they treat you well. Better than you treated your father!”

The soldiers all stormed from the room, in a great clang of armor.

The dozens of councilmen and attendants and noblemen who remained all stood in the silence, whispering.

“Leave me!” Gareth screamed. “ALL OF YOU!”

All the people left in the chamber quickly filed out, including Gareth’s own fighting force left.

Only one person remained, lingering behind the others.

Lord Kultin.

Just he and Gareth were alone in the room, and he walked up to Gareth, stopping a few feet away, and examined him, as if summing him up. As usual, his face was expressionless. It was the true face of a mercenary.

“I don’t care what you did or why,” he began, his voice gravelly and dark. “I don’t care about politics. I’m a fighter. I care only for the money you pay me, and my men.”

He paused.

“Yet I would like to know, for my own personal satisfaction: did you truly order those men to take the sword away?”

Gareth stared back at the man. There was something in his eyes that he recognized in himself: they were cold, remorseless, opportunistic.

“And if I did?” Gareth asked back.

Lord Kultin stared back for a long time.

“But why?” he asked.

Gareth stared back, silent.

Kultin’s eyes widened in recognition.

“You couldn’t wield it, so no one could?” asked Kultin. “Is that it?”

“Yet even so,” Kultin added, “surely you knew that sending it away would lower the shield, make us vulnerable to attack.”

Kultin’s eyes opened wider.

“You wanted us to be attacked, didn’t you? Something in you wanted King’s Court destroyed,” he said, suddenly realizing.

Gareth smiled back.

“Not all places,” Gareth said slowly, “are meant to last forever.”

Gwendolyn marched with the huge entourage of soldiers, advisors, attendants, councilors, Silver, Legion, and half of King’s Court, as they all made their way—one huge, walking city—away from King’s Court. Gwen was overwhelmed with emotion. On the one hand, she was thrilled to finally be free from her brother Gareth, to be far from his reach, surrounded by trusted warriors who could protect her, with no fear of his treachery, of being married off to anyone. Finally, she would not have to watch her back every waking moment from fear of one of his assassins.

Gwen also felt inspired and humbled to be chosen to rule, to lead this huge contingent of people. The huge entourage followed her as if she were some sort of prophet, all marching on the endless road to Silesia. They saw her as their ruler—she could see it in their every glance—looked to her with expectation. She felt guilty, wanting one of her brothers to have the honor—anyone but her. Yet she saw how much hope it gave the people to have a fair and just leader, and that made her happy. If she could fulfill that role for them, especially in these dark times, she would.

Gwen thought of Thor, of their teary goodbye at the Canyon, and it broke her heart; she saw him disappearing, walking across the Canyon bridge, into the mist, on his way for a journey that would almost surely lead to his death. It was a valiant and noble quest—one she could not deny him—one she knew that had to be taken, for the sake of the kingdom, for the sake of the Ring. Yet she also kept asking herself why it had to be him . She wished it could be anyone else. Now, more than ever, she wanted him by her side. In this time of turmoil, of huge transition, as she was left all alone to rule, to carry his child, she wanted him here. More than anything, she worried for him. She could not imagine life without him; the thought of it made her want to cry.

But Gwen breathed deep and stayed strong, knowing that all eyes were on her as they marched, an endless caravan on this dusty road, heading ever farther North, towards the distant Silesia.

Gwen was also still in shock, torn apart for her homeland. She could hardly fathom that the ancient Shield was down, that the Canyon had been breached. Rumors had been circulating from distant spies that Andronicus had already landed on McCloud’s shores. She could not be certain what to believe. She had a hard time fathoming that it could have happened so quickly—after all, Andronicus would still have to send his entire fleet across the ocean. Unless somehow McCloud had been behind the theft of the sword, and had orchestrated the downing of the Shield. But how? How had he managed to steal it? Where was he taking it?