Morgan Rice - A Clash of Honor

“I was promised a bride by your King!” the man snarled, gripping and releasing the hilt of his sword, as his soldiers pranced anxiously behind him.

“He has promised you something you cannot have,” Thor answered. “Your fight is with our King, not with us. And not with Gwendolyn.”

“My fight is with no one!” he yelled. “Because that bride is mine. And I am taking her! Now out of my way, little one!”

The Nevarun took several steps towards Thor, raised his sword high, as he did, Thor felt a burst of rage flash through him, unlike any he had ever felt. As the man came close, Thor raised his left palm and thrust it towards him, and Thor watched as a yellow ball of energy went flying from his palm, struck the man in the chest, and sent him flying back, dozens of feet, landing hard on the ground.

The crowd froze, watching.

Slowly, the Nevarun shook his head and got back to his feet. He turned and looked down at Thor with surprise. And with hatred. But this time, he did not dare come near.

“You are a demon!” the Nevarun said.

“Call me what you will,” Thor said, no longer embarrassed of who or what he was. He was beginning to feel more at home with himself. “You will not touch Gwendolyn.”

The Nevarun stood there, unsure, grabbing and releasing his sword, as he snarled with each breath.

After what felt like an eternity, finally, he turned to his men, muttered something in a language that Thor did not understand, then jumped up and remounted his horse.

“You have insulted the honor of the Nevaruns. We do not forgive. One day, you will pay-you will all pay-by blood. And when we take your bride, which we will, we will return her as a corpse!”

The Nevarun spat, then he and his contingent turned and rode off, speeding back down the main road out of King’s Court.

Thor slowly lowered his sword, shaking inside but not wanting to show it. Reece came up and patted him on the shoulder, as did several others.

Gwen came up beside him. She laid a hand on his cheek, leaned in and kissed him. And with that kiss, all felt right again in the world. He would never let her go. Never.

Erec galloped on Warkfin, kicking him with all he had, racing against time as images of Alistair flashed through his mind. He galloped from Baluster late into the night, charging and charging across the outskirts of the city, heading west, until finally the first sun began to break in the sky and in the distance he spotted the outline of a small castle, high up on a hill, surrounded by a formidable moat, a drawbridge, stone walls, and guarded by dozens of soldiers. They wore a distinctive armor, different than the armor of the north-a green, shiny armor, covered in scales, and helmets with noses that came to a point. There were probably two dozen knights guarding the entrance, unusual for a lord. Erec realized that the slave trader had been telling the truth: this was indeed a powerful man.

Erec raced down the road in the early morning, right for the drawbridge, and as he neared the large spiked gate was slowly lowered, as several knights stepped forward, holding their javelins high, wary of Erec’s approach. Erec could see at a glance that he was vastly outmanned, yet still felt confident that he could find a way through if need be. But he not did not want to begin with a confrontation. He still had faith in his fellow man, and being the noble fellow that he was, he wanted to give this Lord the benefit of the doubt and believe that he had made an honest mistake; perhaps, when he had purchased Alistair, he had not realized she had been stolen from him. He wanted to give him a chance to make wrongs right before he resorted to an armed confrontation.

As Erec charged up to the bridge, several soldiers blocked his path. He could have killed each of them with the four throwing weapons on his belt; but instead he stopped before them, trying to hold his patience.

“Announce yourself!” one of the soldiers yelled out.

“I am Erec, son of Arosen, champion to King MacGil of the Western kingdom of the Ring,” Erec announced, sitting erect, using his authoritative voice. “I demand an audience with your Lord.”

“And who is it that wishes to speak to me?” came a booming voice.

Erec looked up, and above the drawbridge, in the upper tower of the castle, standing on a small balcony, he saw the lord of the castle, a man dressed in red and white silks and high green boots that stretched up to his knees, wearing a cape and a small crown. It was obvious from his appearance that this man thought that he was more than he was. He seemed to imagine himself a king; yet he was but a lesser lord, one of thousands that answered to King MacGil and the King’s Army. From his bearing, he did not seem to realize it.

“You might know me as the King’s right-hand man and as the champion of the Silver,” Erec announced. “My brothers in arms number in the thousands, and upon my calling, they will come from all corners of the Ring to take up my cause. I have never summoned them, because I take it upon myself to resolve my own differences. I say this not to threaten you, but merely to make my point that it would be best to resolve our differences without confrontation.”

“And what differences might I have with you?” called out the Lord. “I know who you are. And your armor belies you.”

Erec cleared his throat, encouraged. Perhaps this lord could be reasoned with, after all.

“There is a woman you bought from a slave trader but a day ago,” Erec said, the words nearly catching in his throat as he thought of Alistair. “I have no doubt that you did not realize who it was that you were purchasing. But she is a very special woman. She was kidnapped, taken against her will, from Savaria, and brought here illegally.”

“And how do you know all of this?” asked the lord.

“Because she is my wife,” Erec answered.

There came a surprised gasp among his men, as the lord looked down in silence.

“I will give you the benefit of the doubt,” Erec continued, “and assume that you could not know this when you bought her. Now that you do, I ask that you release her, so that I can take her away from here, and we can avoid confrontation. Whatever money you paid to the slave trader, I will pay it back to you, and double.”

“Will you?” called out the lord. “And if I refuse?”

Erec was shocked at his response; it was one he had not expected. He glowered, his heart sinking in anger.

“Why would you refuse?” Erec called out, surprised.

“I will refuse,” the lord yelled back, “because I choose to. Because no one tells me what to do. Perhaps your wife was taken illegally. But then again, perhaps you should have been more careful as her husband. It hardly speaks well of the King’s best knight if he cannot prevent his very own wife to be taken before his eyes.”

The lord laughed, and his men laughed with him, and Erec began to feel a flush of rage rising through his body.

“While MacGil may have thousands of warriors-so do I,” the lord called out. “There is no lord that matches me in wealth, and I’ve used it wisely. I’ve paid off warriors from every neighboring province from here to the Canyon. And I’ve paid them handsomely. Anyone who confronts me will face an army unlike any they have ever known. Even a fighter such as you would be crushed in an instant.

“So let this stand as a lesson to you,” the lord continued. “Next time be more vigilant for those you care for. You are a pathetic excuse for a knight, to come here and expect me to make up for your mistakes. I may have bought her illegally, but now she is mine. And I will never let her out of these gates. Not if you asked, and not if the king himself asked. She is my property now, to do with as I wish. And so you know, your timing is fortuitous: I have her being cleaned up right now by the servant girls, and she will be brought to my bedchamber momentarily for the first time. Knowing who you are, and knowing who she is, I will now look forward to it much more.”