The Sorcerer's Ring: Book 05 - A Vow of Glory (2 page)

Andronicus
rode up the dozens of marble steps, McCloud's body thumping behind him, calling
out and groaning with each step, then he continued to ride, right up through
the marble entrance. Andronicus' men were already standing guard at the doors,
at their feet the bloody corpses of McCloud's former guards. Andronicus grinned
with satisfaction to see that already, every corner of the city was his.

Andronicus
continued riding, right through the vast castle doors, inside a corridor of soaring
arched ceilings, all made of marble. He marveled at the excess of this McCloud king.
He clearly had spared no expense in indulging himself.

Now
his day had come. Andronicus continue to ride with his men down the wide
corridors, the horses’ hooves echoing off the walls, to what was clearly
McCloud's throne room. He burst through the oak doors and rode right to the
center of the room, to an obscene throne, carved of gold, sitting in the center
of the chamber.

Andronicus
dismounted, climbed the golden steps slowly, and sat in it.

He
breathed deeply as he turned and surveyed his men, his dozens of generals
seated on horseback awaiting his command. He looked over at the bloody McCloud,
still tied to his horse, groaning. He surveyed this room, examined the walls,
the banners, the armor, the weaponry. He looked down at the workmanship of this
throne, and he admired it. He considered melting it down, or perhaps bringing
it back for himself. Maybe he would give it to one of his lesser generals. Of
course, this throne was still nothing next to Andronicus’ own throne, the most
massive throne of all the kingdoms, one which had taken twenty laborers forty
years to build. The building of it had begun in his father’s lifetime, and had
been completed on the day Andronicus had murdered his own father. It had been
perfect timing.

Andronicus
looked down at McCloud, this pathetic little human, and wondered how best to
make him suffer. He examined the shape and size of his skull, and decided that
he would like to shrink it and wear it on his necklace, with the other shrunken
heads around his neck. Yet Andronicus realized that before he killed him, he
would need some time to thin out his face, his cheekbones, so that it looked
better around his neck. He did not want a fat, plump face ruining the aesthetic
of his necklace. He would let him live a while, and torture him in the
meantime. He smiled to himself. Yes, it was a very good plan.

"Bring
him to me," Andronicus commanded one of his generals, in his ancient, deep
snarl.

He
jumped down without a moment’s hesitation, hurried over to McCloud, cut the
rope, and dragged the bloody body across the floor, staining it red as he went.
He dropped it at the base of Andronicus’ feet.

"You
can't get away with this!" McCloud mumbled weakly.

Andronicus
shook his head; this human would never learn.

"Here
I am, seated on your throne," Andronicus said. "And there you are,
lying at my feet. I should think it is safe to say that I can get away with
anything I want. And that I already have.”

McCloud
lay there, moaning and writhing.

"My
first order of business," Andronicus said, "will be to have you pay
the proper respect to your new king and master. Come to me now, and have the
honor of being the first to kneel before me in my new kingdom, the first to
kiss my hand and call me King of what was once the McCloud side of the Ring.”

McCloud
looked up, got to his hands and knees, and sneered at Andronicus

"Never!"
he said, and turned and spat on the floor.

Andronicus
leaned back and laughed. He was heartily enjoying this. He had not met a human this
willful for quite some time.

Andronicus
turned and nodded, and one of his men grabbed McCloud from behind, while
another came forward and held his head still. A third came forward with a long razor.
As he approached, McCloud buckled in fear.

"What
are you doing?" McCloud asked in panic, his voice several octaves higher.

The
man reached down and quickly shaved off half of McCloud's beard. McCloud looked
up in bewilderment, clearly baffled that the man had not hurt him.

Andronicus
nodded, and another man stepped forward with a long poker, at the end of which was
carved in iron the emblem of Andronicus’ kingdom—a lion with a bird in its
mouth. It glowed orange, steaming hot, and as the others held McCloud down, the
man lowered the poker for his now-bare cheek.

"NO!"
McCloud shrieked, realizing.

But
it was too late.

A
horrific shriek cut through the air, accompanied by a hissing noise and the
smell of burnt flesh. Andronicus watched with glee as the poker burned deeper
and deeper into McCloud's cheek. The hissing grew louder, the screams almost
intolerable.

Finally,
after a good ten seconds, they dropped McCloud.

McCloud
slumped to the ground, unconscious, drooling, as smoke rose up from half of his
face. It now bore the emblem of Andronicus, burned into his flesh.

Andronicus
leaned forward, looked down at the unconscious McCloud, and admired the
handiwork.

"Welcome
to the Empire."

Erec
stood atop the hill at the forest’s edge and watched the small army approach, and
his heart filled with fire. He was born for a day like this. In some battles,
the line blurred between just and unjust—but not on this day. The Lord from Baluster
had stolen his bride unashamedly, and had been boastful and unapologetic. He
had been made aware of his crime, had been given a chance to make wrongs right,
and he had refused to rectify his errors. He had brought his woes upon himself.
His men should have let it alone—especially now that he was dead.

But
there they rode, hundreds of them, paid mercenaries to this lesser lord—all
bent on killing Erec solely because they had been paid by this man. They charged
towards them in their shiny green armor, and as they neared they let out a
battle cry. As if that might scare him.

Erec
was unafraid. He had seen too many battles like this. If he had learned anything
in all his years of training, it was to never fear when he fought on the side
of the just. Justice, he was taught, may not always prevail—but it gave its
bearer the strength of ten men.

It
was not fear Erec felt as he saw the hundreds of men approach, and knew he
would likely die on this day. It was expectation. He had been given a chance to
meet his death in the most honorable way, and that was a gift. He had taken a
vow of glory, and today, his vow was demanding its due.

Erec
drew his sword and charged down the slope on foot, sprinting for the army as it
charged him. At this moment he wished more than ever that he had his trusted
horse, Warkfin, to ride with into battle—but he felt a sense of peace knowing
that he was brining Alistair back to Savaria, to the safety of the Duke's
court.

As
he neared the soldiers, hardly fifty yards away, Erec picked up speed,
sprinting for the lead knight in the center. They did not slow, and neither did
he, and he braced himself for the clash to come.

Erec
knew he had one advantage: three hundred men could not physically fit close
enough to all attack one man at the same time; he knew from his training that
at most six men on horseback could get close enough to attack a man at once. The
way Erec saw it, that meant his odds were not three hundred to one—but only six
to one. As long as he could kill the six men in front of him at all times, he
had a chance to win. It was just a matter of whether he had the stamina to make
it through.

As
Erec charged down the hill, he drew from his waist the one weapon he knew would
be best: a flail with a chain twenty yards long, at the end of which sat a
spiked, metal ball. It was a weapon meant for laying a trap on the road—or for
a situation just like this.

Erec
waited until the last moment, until the army did not have time to react, then
spun the flail high overhead and hurled it across the battlefield. He aimed for
a small tree, and the spiked chain spread out across the battlefield; as the
ball wrapped around it, Erec tucked into a role and hit the ground, avoiding
the spears about to be hurled at him, and held on to the shaft with all his
might.

He
timed it perfectly: there was no time for the army to react. They saw it at the
last second and tried to pull up on their horses—but they were going too fast,
and there wasn’t time.

The
entire front line ran into it, the spiked chain cutting through all the horses’
legs, sending the riders falling face-first down to the ground, the horses landing
on top of them. Dozens of them were crushed in the chaos.

Erec
had no time to be proud of the damage he had done: another flank of the army
turned and bore down on him, charging with a battle cry, and Erec rolled to his
feet to meet them.

As
the lead knight raised a javelin, Erec took advantage of what he had: he did
not have a horse, and could not meet these men at their height, but since he
was low, he could use the ground beneath him. Erec suddenly dove down to the
ground, tucked into a role, and raised his sword and sliced off the legs of the
man's horse. The horse buckled and the soldier did a face plant before he had a
chance to let go of his weapon.

Erec
continued to roll, and managed to miss the stampeding feet of the horses around
him, who had to part ways to avoid running into the downed horse. Many did not
succeed, tripping over the dead animal, and dozens more horses crashed down to
the ground, raising a cloud of dust and causing a logjam amongst the army.

It
was exactly what Erec had hoped for: there was dust and confusion, dozens more falling
to the ground.

Erec
jumped to his feet, raised his sword and blocked a sword coming down for his
head. He spun and blocked a javelin, then a lance, then an axe. He defended the
blows that poured down on him from all sides, but knew he could not keep this
up forever. He had to be on the attack if he were to stand any chance.

Erec
tucked into a role, came out of it, took a knee, and hurled his sword as if it
were a spear. It flew through the air and into the chest of his closest attacker;
his eyes opened wide and he fell sideways, dead, off his horse.

Erec
took the opportunity to jump onto the man's horse, snatching his flail from his
hands before he died. It was a fine flail, and Erec had singled him out for
this reason; it had a long, studded silver shaft and a four-foot chain, with
three spiked balls at the end of it. Erec pulled back and swung it high overhead,
and smashed the weapons from the hands of several opponents at once; then he
swung again and knocked them from their horses.

Erec
surveyed the battlefield and saw that he had done considerable damage, with
nearly a hundred knights downed. But the others, at least two hundred of them, were
regrouping and charging him now—and they were all determined.

Erec
rode out to meet them, one man charging two hundred, and raised a great battle
cry of his own, raising his flail ever higher, and praying to God that his
strength would only hold.

*

Alistair
cried as she held onto Warkfin with all her might, the horse galloping, taking
her down the too-familiar road to Savaria. She had been screaming and kicking
at the beast the whole way, trying with everything she had to get it to turn
around, to ride back to Erec. But it would not listen. She had never
encountered any horse like this one before—it listened unwaveringly to its
master's command, and would not waver. Clearly, it was set on bringing her
exactly where Erec had commanded it to—and she finally resigned herself to the
fact that there was nothing she could do about it.

Alistair
had mixed feelings as she rode back through the city gates, a city in which she
had lived so long as an indentured servant. On the one hand, it felt familiar—but
on the other, it brought back memories of the innkeeper who had oppressed her, of
everything that was wrong about this place. She had so looked forward to moving
on, to moving out of here with Erec and beginning a new life over with him.
While she felt safe within its gates, she also felt an increasing foreboding
for Erec, out there alone, facing that army. The thought of it made her sick.

Realizing
that Warkfin would not turn around, she knew her next best bet was to get help
for Erec. Erec had asked her to stay here, within the safety of these gates—but
that was the last thing she would ever do. She was a king's daughter, after
all, and she was not one to run from fear or from confrontation. Erec had found
his match in her: she was as noble and as determined as he. And there was no
way she would ever live with herself if anything happened to him back there.

Knowing
this royal city well, Alistair directed Warkfin to the Duke's castle—and now that
they were within the gates, the animal listened. She rode to the castle
entrance, dismounted, and ran past the attendants who tried to stop her. She
brushed off their arms and raced down the marble corridors she had learned so
well as a servant.

Alistair
put her shoulders into the large royal doors to the chamber hall, crashed them
open, and barged into the Duke’s private chamber.