Morgan Rice: A Clash of Honor

Thor opened his eyes to hear a tremendous buzzing overhead, and watched in surprise as a massive swarm of bees materialized from the sky. They poured in from all corners, and as he raised his hands, he felt that he was directing them. He did not know how he was doing it, but he knew that he was.

Thor moved his hands in the direction of the giant, and as he did, he watched as a swarm of bees darkened the sky, dove down and completely covered the giant. The giant raised his hands and flailed, then shrieked, as they all devoured him, stinging him a thousand times until he collapsed to his knees, then to his face, dead. The ground shook with the impact of his body.

Thor then directed his hand towards the McCloud army, who sat on their horses, staring back at him, watching the scene, in shock. They began to turn to flee-but there was no time to react. Thor swung his palm in their direction, and the swarm of bees left the giant and began to attack the soldiers.

The McCloud army let out a shout of fear, and as one they turned and rode, stung countless times by the swarm. Soon the battlefield was emptying of them, as they disappeared as fast as they could. Some of them could not manage to ride away in time, and soldier after soldier fell, filling the field with corpses.

As the survivors kept galloping, the swarm chased them all the way across the field, into the horizon, the great sound of buzzing blending with the thunder of horses’ hooves and of men’s shouts of fear.

Thor was astounded: within minutes, the battlefield was vacant, still. All that remained was the moaning of the McCloud wounded, lying in heaps. Thor looked around and saw his friends, exhausted, breathing hard; they seemed to be badly bruised, covered in light wounds, but okay. Aside, of course, from the three legion members he did not know, who lay there, dead.

There came a great rumbling on the horizon, and Thor turned in the other direction and saw the King’s army charging over the hill, racing towards them, Kendrick leading the way. They galloped for them, and within moments they came to a stop before Thor and his friends, the lone survivors on this bloody field.

Thor stood there, in shock, staring back, as Kendrick, Kolk, Brom and the others dismounted and walked slowly towards Thor. They were accompanied by dozens of Silver, all the great warriors of the King’s Army. They saw that Thor and the others stood there alone, victorious, in the bloody battlefield, riddled with the corpses of hundreds of McClouds. He could see their looks of wonder, of respect, of awe. He could see it in their eyes. It was what he had wanted his entire life long.

He was a hero.

Erec galloped on his horse, racing down the Southern Lane, charging faster than he ever had, doing his best to avoid the holes on the road in the black of night. He had not stopped riding since he had received news of Alistair’s kidnapping, of her being sold into slavery and taken to Baluster. He could not stop reprimanding himself. He’d been stupid and naive to trust that innkeeper, to assume that he would be good to his word, would keep up his end of the deal and release Alistair to him after he had won the tournament. Erec’s word was his honor, and he assumed that others’ word was sacred, too. It was a foolish mistake. And Alistair had paid the price for it.

Erec’s heart broke at the thought of her, and he kicked his horse harder. Such a beautiful and refined lady, first having to suffer the indignity of working for that innkeeper-and now, being sold into slavery, and to the sex trade no less. The thought of it infuriated him, and he could not help but feel that he was somehow responsible: if he had never showed up in her life, had never offered to take her away, perhaps the innkeeper never would have considered this.

Erec charged through the night, the sound of his horse’s hooves ever-present, filling his ears, along with the sounds of his horse’s breathing. The horse was beyond exhausted, and Erec feared he might ride him to the ground. Erec had gone right to the innkeeper after the tournament, had not stopped to take a break, and he was so weary with exhaustion, he felt as if he might just slump and fall off his horse. But he forced his eyes to stay open, forced himself to stay awake, as he rode beneath the last vestiges of the full moon, heading ever south for Baluster.

Erec had heard stories of Baluster throughout his life, though it was a place he had never been; from the rumors, it was known to be a place of gambling, of opium, of sex, of every imaginable vice in the kingdom. It was where the disgruntled poured in, from all four corners of the Ring, to exploit every sort of dark festivity known to man. The place was the opposite of who he was. He never gambled, and rarely drank, and preferred to spend his free time alone, training, sharpening his skills. He could not understand the types of people who embraced sloth and revelry, the way the frequenters of Baluster did. It did not bode well, his being brought there. Nothing good could come of it. The very thought of her in such a place made his heart sink. He knew he had to rescue her quickly, and get her far from here, before any damage was done.

As the moon fell in the sky, as the road grew wider, more well-traveled, Erec caught his first glimpse of the city: the endless number of torches lighting its walls made the city appear like a bonfire in the night. Erec was not surprised: its inhabitants were rumored to stay up all hours of the night.

Erec rode harder and the city neared, and finally he rode over a small wooden bridge, torches on either side, a sleepy sentry nodding off at its base, who jumped up as Erec stormed past. The guard called out after him: “HEY!”

But Erec didn’t even slow. If the man mustered up the confidence to chase after Erec-which Erec doubted very much-then Erec would make sure it was the last thing he did.

Erec charged through the large, open entranceway to this city which was laid out in a square, surrounded by low, ancient stone walls. As he entered, he charged down the narrow streets, so bright, all lined with torches. The buildings were built close together, giving the city a narrow, claustrophobic feeling. The streets were absolutely mobbed with people, and nearly all of them seemed drunk, stumbling to and fro, screaming loudly, jostling each other. It was like a huge party. And every other establishment was a tavern or gambling den.

Erec knew this was the right place. He could sense Alistair here, somewhere. He swallowed hard, hoping it was not too late.

He rode up to what appeared to be a particularly large tavern in the center of the city, throngs of people milling outside, and figured it would be a good place to start.

Erec dismounted and hurried inside, elbowing his way past the people rowdy with drink, and making his way up to the innkeeper, who stood in the back, in the center of the room, writing down people’s names as he took their coins and directed them to rooms. He was a slimy looking fellow, wearing a fake smile, sweating, and he rubbed his hands together as he counted their coins. He looked up at Erec, a plastic smile on his face.

“A room, sir?” he asked. “Or is it women you want?”

Erec shook his head and came in close to the man, wanting to be heard above the din.

“I’m looking for a trader,” Erec said. “A slave trader. He rode this way from Savaria, but a day or so ago. He brought precious cargo. Human cargo.”

The man licked his lips.

“What you seek is valuable information,” the man said. “I can provide that, just as easily as I can provide a room.”

The man reached forward and rubbed his fingers together, and held out a palm. He looked up at Erec and smiled, sweat forming on his upper lip.