The Sorcerer's Ring: Book 05 - A Vow of Glory (20 page)

The Shield
was down. He could still hardly fathom it. That had always been everyone's
greatest fear, ever since he was a child, and now it had come true. Godfrey
knew that, especially in a time like this, he shouldn’t drink, that he should stand
up straight, be a man, hurry out there and join his sister and brother and all
the others and confront the danger coming for the gates. He knew he should be
more of a man than he was. And he knew that he had promised his sister he would
never drink again.

He was
disgusted with himself. Yet still, as much as he wanted to be otherwise, he was
overwhelmed with fear and inertia. He just could not get himself to get up, get
out there, and do whatever it was that they needed. He was not a trained
warrior, as his brothers were. He had never embraced the lessons in childhood,
always refusing to obey his father. He did not actually have any real-life
skill, other than knowing which pubs to frequent, and which bad company to
choose.

As he
sat there sulking, he felt as if he had wasted his life. He wanted desperately
to change it. But he did not know how. And he could not help feel as if it were
too late. After all, what could he, a single man, do against an army like
Andronicus’? And he, hardly a trained warrior, no less. It all seemed so
futile. If he were going to die, he might as well enjoy it.

One
thing he could do, one thing he could control, was having one more drink, and
numbing his worries as much as he could.

"Another!"
Godfrey yelled to the bartender.

"And
I!” echoed Akorth.

"And
I!" cried Fulton.

Several
patrons jostled in beside him, more and more pouring in, and Godfrey had to
squeeze in ever tighter to the bar, packed shoulder to shoulder. His friends drank
in despair, too, as did the other patrons in this place.

"I've
never seen this place so jammed," the bartender said, as he slammed down
their drinks. "War should happen more often,” he added. “It seems every
damn soul in the city wants to drown out his troubles.”

"Well
if it’s our last day,” Fulton said, “I sure as hell don't want to go down sober."

"Well
said," Akorth roared. "Nor do I. If I'm going to die, why not die
drunk?”

“What merit
is there in being sober when being thrown into the earth?” Fulton added.

"Well,”
Godfrey said, playing devil’s advocate, “there’s one good reason to be sober:
you could go out there and fight, and prevent yourself from dying.”

“Ha!”
Akorth scoffed. “I could fight just as well drunk!"

"Ay
ay!” echoed Fulton. “Don’t you know that half the soldiers out there are drunk
anyway? Do you really think they fight sober?”

“None
of it matters anyway,” Akorth said. “Sober or not, do you really think one
fighter can stop a million men?"

Godfrey
couldn’t help but agree with them. Yet still, he was disappointed with himself.
He loved his sister Gwendolyn, and his brother Kendrick, more than he could
say, and he felt as if he were abandoning them, as if he were a disappointment
in their eyes. That was the one thing he did not want to be. He could be a
disappointment in his father's eyes—he had learned to live with that. But he had
grown to love his siblings, especially Gwendolyn, and she had trusted in him,
and he hated the idea of letting her down. Especially after she had saved him.

"For
what has she saved me?" Godfrey called out, to himself.

Akorth
and Fulton turned and looked at him, baffled.

"What
are you talking about, boy?” Fulton asked. “Are you mumbling something?”

Godfrey
felt that he was different than all these patrons in here. After all, he was
the son of a King. He was made of different stock. He had something different
within him. Shouldn’t he be acting differently? These people had never had a
chance in life. But he’d had more than a chance—he had had it all.

Or did
he? Was all that just rubbish, all this talk of his being a MacGil, of his
being the son of a king? Did it not mean anything after all? Was he, at the end
of the day, just as good as everyone else, no matter who they descended from?

As Godfrey
took a deep drink of yet another beer, the answers to all these questions eluded
him, swarming in his buzzing mind. He did not know if he'd ever get to the
bottom of it.

The
door to the pub suddenly slammed open and all heads turned, as in marched a
beautiful woman. Godfrey turned, too, and blinked several times, trying to
focus, to remember who she was. And then he realized, with a start: Illepra.
The healer who had saved his life.

Illepra
looked more beautiful than ever, wearing her brown leather outfit, her hair
tasseled and long, her green eyes gleaming. Her eyes locked on his as she marched
his way, cutting through the pub, oblivious to all the patrons crowding around
her.

They
parted ways, making room for her, all the drunk men seeming surprised at the
touch of beauty entering this place.

"I
was told I could find you here," Illepra said accusingly to Godfrey as she
marched up close to him, frowning. The room grew quiet, watching the
confrontation.

Godfrey
could hardly believe that she had sought him out, here in this place. They had
talked the whole way on their march from King’s Court to Silesia. He had felt a
bond with her from the first time they’d met, and during their walk, their
connection deepened. He had promised her that he would change, that he would
give up drink and take up arms with his siblings.

And
yet here he was. His face reddened, as he felt an ever deeper sense of shame.

"You
disgrace your family," she added harshly. "Is this why I saved you?
So you could hide here, at our darkest hour, and drink life away? To laugh with
your friends? Is that what's important to you now, while your siblings are out
there, preparing to fight for our lives?”

Godfrey
looked down in shame. He had no answer. He had been thinking the same exact
thing himself.

"I'm
sorry," he said. "You are right. I don't deserve to be up there with
him. I never did. I'm sorry. I do not mean to let you down.”

"Then
answer me this,” she insisted, her eyes flashing, “for what reason did I save
your life, if you will not even take up arms to defend it?”

Illepra
turned, angry, examining all the faces in the bar.

"I
speak to all of you,” she said, raising her voice. “All of you hide in here,
while your countrymen are out preparing. Not one of you is willing to go out
there and take up arms to save your life. Forget about your life—what about the
lives of others? Your people need you. Are you all that selfish? Is that what they
are fighting for? To save the likes of you?”

All
the patrons stared back, silent.

"If
we fight or not, miss," one patron yelled out, "it ain’t make any
difference. A million men won’t hardly be stopped by a few thousand.”

There
came a grunt of approval throughout the room.

"No,
maybe they can't," Illepra reasoned. "But that doesn’t mean that we
do not try. One day, we will all die. It is not about who lives and who dies. It
is about
how
we live. And
how
we die.”

She
turned and stared at Godfrey.

"I
thought you were different," she said softly. "I thought you had the
potential to be something greater. But now I see I was wrong. You are just
another drunk. As the whole kingdom says you are.”

"There's
nothing wrong with that miss!" Akorth called out in his defense, raising
his mug. "You can die in here or you can die out there. But at least my
friend will die happy!”

The
crowd cheered in approval, raising their mugs.

Illepra
reddened, turned on her heel, and stormed from the pub.

As the
patrons slowly went back to their business, Godfrey watched her go, burning up
inside. Fulton reached over and patted him on the back.

"Women
are that way,” he said consolingly. “They don’t know what’s important. You’re
doing the right thing—have another!" he said, sliding another mug his way.

As
Godfrey looked down at the mug, something rose up within him. It was a new
feeling, something he had never experienced before. It was a sense of pride. A
sense of something bigger than himself. For the first time in his life, he did
not think of himself. He did not think of the next drink.

Instead,
he thought of the Ring. Of Silesians. Of putting others first.

The
more he thought of it, the more his fears began to dissipate. The more he pondered
helping others, the less he afraid he became for himself.

Godfrey
had enough. Suddenly he threw down his mug, jumped up from the bar and began to
hurry through the crowd, towards the door.

"Where
are you going?" Akorth called after him.

Godfrey
turned and looked at his friends one last time, before heading out the door.

"I'm
going to don armor, take up arms, and help my sister!” he announced gravely.

His
friends laughed at him.

"You've
never taken up arms in your life!” Fulton yelled.

Godfrey
stared back, reddening, undeterred.

"No,
I haven't,” he admitted. “But I shall learn. Or I shall die trying!”

Gwendolyn
stood atop the highest parapet in Silesia, her generals around her, watching
the horizon. They had just finished a tour of all the inner and outer rings of defenses,
and one by one, Srog, Kendrick, Brom, Kolk and the generals had discussed with
Gwendolyn how best to fortify each one, what to expect when the army arrived,
how to defend attacks from multiple fronts, and how long it would take until
their defenses collapsed. They had talked about food and provisions and water,
had talked about contingency plans, about retreating to the lower city. They
had covered nearly everything, and they were all exhausted.

What
none of them had discussed was what they would do in case of a defeat. It was
unspoken amongst them that surrender was not an option, but none had discussed
the inevitable: what to do if all their men were killed. It was unspoken amongst
them that they would all fight to the death. In some ways, it felt as if they
were all settling in for what would be a mass suicide.

Hours
had passed, and with all their men in position, all the plans thought through,
there was nothing left to discuss. Now they all stood there, comfortable in
each other’s silence, watching the horizon, the dark storm clouds forming,
waiting for the inevitable. As Gwen looked out, it seemed so peaceful, so calm;
it seemed as if Andronicus' men would never come.

Yet
she knew they were coming. All day long, reports had come in from messengers from
all over the Ring updating her on the invasion. There even arrived a report
that King's Court had been attacked—and that was the report that hurt the most.
She tried to blot the image from her mind.

Now,
more than ever, Gwen wished Thor were here. Argon's fateful words rang in her
head, and she did not understand what they meant. She knew she would have to
die a little death to make up for saving Thor's life. Did that mean she would actually
die? Here, in this place? She closed her eyes and thought of the baby in her
belly and tried not to think of death. Not because she feared her own death. But
because she feared for her baby’s life; and she feared a life without Thor.

There was
a stir, and Gwendolyn turned and looked over the men’s shoulders to see a small
entourage of soldiers coming their way—and her eyes opened wide in surprise as
she saw who they were accompanying. There, marching towards her, was a woman
she thought she’d never lay eyes upon again: her sister.

Luanda
walked hand-in-hand with her new husband, Bronson, who, Gwen was saddened to
see, was missing a hand. They both looked tattered, broken, and beyond
exhausted; they looked as if they had been riding all night.

Gwen
could not understand what they were doing here. She was relieved to see them,
but also confused. Wasn't Bronson a McCloud, and shouldn’t he be on the McCloud
side of the Ring? And Luanda with him?

Gwen
was so relieved to see her sister alive, safe, her first impulse was to step
forward and give her a hug. But growing up, their relationship had always been at
arm’s length, formal; it was Luanda’s doing—she got that from their mother.
Gwendolyn had tried one too many times to get close to her, and after enough
rebuffs, she had learned her lesson. So Gwen simply stood there, facing her
older sister, and nodded back gravely.

"My
sister," Luanda said, as Bronson bowed his head.

Gwendolyn
nodded back.

“Brother,"
Luanda added, turning and nodding to Kendrick, who nodded back, silent,
probably as confused as Gwendolyn was. He seemed to tense up at the sight of a
McCloud near him, as did the other soldiers.

"What
are you doing here?” Gwendolyn asked.

"I
made a grave mistake,” Luanda said, “in going to the McCloud side of the Ring.
Not a mistake in marrying Bronson, who I love dearly, and who is nothing like
the others. The other McClouds are brutal, savage people. His father tried to
kill both myself and his own son.”