The Sorcerer's Ring: Book 05 - A Vow of Glory (4 page)

“When
we shove off,” Thor screamed out, “you all raise the sails!”

They
leaned over and jabbed the poles into the sand and pushed with all their might;
Thor groaned from the effort. Slowly, the boat began to move, just the tiniest
bit. At the same time, Elden and O'Connor ran to the middle of the boat and
pulled the ropes to raise the canvas sails, raising them with effort, one foot
at a time. Luckily there was a strong breeze, and as Thor and the others shoved
and shoved against the shore, struggling with all they had to get this surprisingly
heavy boat out of the sand, the sails raised higher, and began to catch the
wind.

Finally,
the boat rocked beneath them as it glided out onto the water, bobbing,
weightless, Thor's shoulders shaking from the effort. Elden and O'Connor raised
the sails to full mast, and soon they were drifting out to sea.

They
all let out a cheer of triumph, as they put the polls back in place and ran
over and helped Elden and O'Connor secure the lines. Krohn yelped beside them,
excited by it all.

The
boat was drifting aimlessly and Thor hurried to the wheel, O’Connor beside him.

"Want
to take the wheel?" Thor asked O’Connor.

O’Connor
grinned wide.

"Would
love to.”

They
began to gain real speed, cruising out on the yellow waters of the Tartuvian,
the wind at their backs. Finally, they were moving, and Thor took a deep
breath. They were off.

Thor headed
out to the bow, Reece beside him, and Krohn came up between them, and leaned
into Thor's leg, while Thor reached down and stroked his soft white fur. Krohn
leaned over and licked Thor, and Thor reached into a small sack and pulled out
a piece of meat for Krohn, who snatched it up.

Thor
looked out at the vast sea before them. The distant horizon was dotted with
black Empire ships, surely on their way to the McCloud side of the Ring.
Luckily, they were distracted, and could not possibly be on the lookout for a
lone boat heading into their territory. The skies were clear, there was a
strong wind at their backs, and they continued to gain speed.

Thor
looked out and wondered what lay before them. He wondered how long it would be
until they reached Empire land, what might be waiting to greet them. He
wondered how they would find the sword, how all this would end. He knew the
odds were against them, yet still he felt exhilarated to finally be on the
journey, thrilled that they'd made it this far, and felt eager to do retrieve
the Sword.

"What
if it's not there?" Reece asked.

Thor
turned and looked at him.

"The
sword," Reece added. "What if it's not there? Or if it’s lost? Or destroyed?
Or if we just never find it? The Empire is vast, after all.”

"Or
what if the Empire's figured out how to wield it?" Elden asked in his deep
voice, coming up beside them.

"What
if we find it but can't bring it back?" Conven asked.

The
group of them stood there, oppressed by what lay before them, by the sea of
unanswered questions. This journey was madness, Thor knew.

Madness.

Gareth
paced the stone floors of his father's study, a small chamber on the top floor
of the castle that his father had cherished, and bit by bit, he tore it apart.

Gareth
went from bookcase to bookcase, yanking down precious volumes, ancient leather
books that had been in the family for centuries, and tearing the bindings and
shredding the pages in small bits. As he threw them in the air, they fell down
over his head like snowflakes, clinging to his body and to the drool running
down his cheeks. He was determined to tear apart every last thing in this place
that his father loved, one book at a time.

Gareth
hurried over to a corner table, grabbed what was left of his opium pipe, and with
shaking hands sucked hard, needing his hit now more than ever. He was addicted,
smoking it every minute he could, determined to block out the images of his
father that haunted him in his dreams, and now even when he was awake.

As
Gareth put down the pipe, he saw his father standing there, before him, a
decaying corpse. Each time the corpse was more decayed, more skeleton than
flesh; Gareth turned from the awful site.

Gareth
used to try to attack the image—but he’d learned that it did no good. So now he
just turned his head, constantly, always looking away. Always it was the same:
his father wearing a rusted crown, his mouth open, his eyes gazing at him with
contempt, reaching out a single finger, pointing accusingly at him. In that
awful stare, Gareth felt his own days numbered, felt that it was only a matter
of time until he joined him. He hated seeing him more than anything. If there
was one saving grace in murdering his father, it was that he would not need to see
his face again. But now, ironically, he saw it more than ever.

Gareth
turned and hurled the opium pipe at the apparition, hoping that if he threw it quickly
enough it might actually hit.

But the
pipe merely flew through the air and smashed against the wall, shattering. His
father still stood there, and glared down at him.

"Those
drugs won’t help you now," his father scolded.

Gareth
could stand it no longer. He charged for the apparition, hands out, lunging to
scratch his father’s face; but as always, he sailed through nothing but air, and
this time he went stumbling across the room and landed hard on his father's
wooden desk, sending it crashing down to the floor with him.

Gareth
rolled on the ground, winded, and looked up and saw that he had gashed his arm.
Blood was dripping down his shirt, and he looked down and noticed he still wore
the undershirt he had slept in for days; in fact, he had not changed for weeks
now. He glanced over at a reflection of himself, and saw that his hair was wild;
he looked like a common ruffian. A part of him could hardly believe he had sank
so low. But another part of him no longer cared. The only thing left inside of
him was a burning desire to destroy—to destroy any remnant of his father that once
was. He would like to have this castle razed, and King’s Court with it. It
would be vengeance for the treatment he bore as a child. The memories were
stuck inside him, like a thorn he could not pull out.

The
door to his father’s study opened wide, and in rushed one of Gareth's attendants,
looking down in fear.

"My
liege," the attendant said. "I heard a crash. Are you okay? My liege,
you are bleeding!”

Gareth
looked up at the boy with hatred. Gareth tried to get to his feet, to lash out
at him, but he slipped on something, and fell back down to the ground,
disoriented from the last hit of opium.

"My
liege, I will help you!”

The boy
rushed forward and grabbed Gareth’s arm, which was too thin, barely flesh and
bone.

But
Gareth still had a reserve of strength and as the boy touched his arm, he shoved
him off, sending him across the room.

"Touch
me again and I will cut off your hands,” Gareth seethed.

The
boy backed up in fear, and as he did, another attendant entered the room,
accompanied by an older man whom Gareth vaguely recognized. Somewhere in the
back of his mind he knew him—but he could not place him.

"My
liege,” came an old, gravelly voice, "we have been waiting for you in the council
chamber for half the day. The council members cannot wait much longer. They
have urgent news, and must share it with you before the day is up. Will you
come?”

Gareth
narrowed his eyes at the man, trying to make him out. He dimly remembered that
he had served his father. The council chamber… The meeting… It all swirled in
his mind.

“Who
are you?” Gareth asked.

"My
liege, I am Aberthol. Your father's trusted advisor," he said, stepping
closer.

It was
slowly coming back. Aberthol. The council. The meeting. Gareth's mind spun, his
head crushing him. He just wanted to be left alone.

"Leave
me," he snapped. "I will come.”

Aberthol
nodded and hurried from the room with the attendant, closing the door behind
them.

Gareth
knelt there, head in his hands, trying to think, to remember. It was all so
much. It started to come back to him in bits. The shield was down; the Empire
was attacking; half his court had left; his sister had led them away; to
Silesia…Gwendolyn…That was it. That was what he had been trying to remember.

Gwendolyn.
He hated her with a passion he could not describe. Now, more than ever, he
wanted to kill her. He
needed
to kill
her. All of his troubles in this world—they were all a result of her. He would
find a way to get back at her, even if he had to die trying. And he would kill
his other siblings next.

Gareth
started to feel better at the thought.

With a
supreme effort, he struggled to his feet and stumbled through the room,
knocking over an end table as he went. As he neared the door, he spotted an
alabaster bust of his father, a sculpture his father had loved, and he reached
down, grabbed it by its head and threw it at the wall.

It
smashed into a thousand pieces, and for the first time that day, Gareth smiled.
Maybe this day would not be so bad after all.

*

Gareth
strutted into the council room flanked by several attendants, slamming open the
huge oak doors with his palm, making everyone in the crowded room jump at his
presence. They all quickly stood at attention.

While
normally this would give Gareth some satisfaction, on this day, he was beyond
caring. He was plagued by the ghost of his father, and infused with rage that
his sister had left. His emotions swirled within him, and he had to take it out
on the world.

Gareth
stumbled through the vast chamber in his opium-infused haze, walking down the
center of the aisle towards his throne, dozens of councilmen standing aside as
he went. His court had grown, and today the energy was frantic, as more and
more people seemed to filter in with the news of the departure of half of King's
Court, and of the shield’s being down. It was as if whomever remained of King’s
Court was pouring into Gareth’s court for answers.

And of
course, Gareth had none.

As Gareth
strutted up the ivory steps to his father's throne, he saw, standing patiently
behind it, Lord Kultin, the mercenary leader of his private fighting force, the
one man left in the court who he could trust. Alongside him stood dozens of his
fighters, standing there silently, hands on their swords, ready to fight to the
death for Gareth. It was the one thing left that gave Gareth comfort.

Gareth
sat in his throne, and surveyed the room. There were so many faces, a few he
recognized and many he didn't. He trusted none of them. Every day he purged
more from his court; he had already sent so many to the dungeons, and even more
to the executioner. Not a day passed when he didn't kill at least a handful of
men. He thought it good policy: it kept the men on their toes, and prevented a
coup from forming.

The
room sat silent, staring at him in a daze. They all looked terrified to speak.
Which was exactly what he wanted. Nothing thrilled him more than infusing fear
in his subjects.

Finally,
Aberthol stepped forward, his cane echoing off the stone, and cleared his
throat.

"My
liege," he began, his voice ancient, "we stand at a moment of great
disarray in King's Court. I do not know what news has yet reached you: the Shield
is down; Gwendolyn has left King's Court and has taken Kolk, Brom, Kendrick, Atme,
the Silver, the Legion, and half of your army—along with half of King’s Court. Those
that remain here look to you for guidance, and to know what our next move will
be. The people want answers, my liege.”

“What's
more," said another Council member whom Gareth dimly recognized,
"word has spread that the Canyon has already been breached. Rumor has it
that Andronicus has invaded the McCloud side of the Ring with his million man army.”

An
outraged gasp spread throughout the room; dozens of brave warriors whispered to
each other, flooded with fear, and a state of panic spread like wildfire.

"It
can't be true!" exclaimed one of the soldiers.

"It
is!" insisted the councilmember.

"Then
all hope is lost!" yelled out another soldier. "If the McClouds are overrun,
the Empire will come for King’s Court next. There's no way we can keep them back.”

"We
must discuss terms of surrender, my liege," Aberthol said to Gareth.

"Surrender!?"
another man yelled. "We shall never surrender!”

"If
we don't,” yelled another soldier, “we will be crushed. How can we stand up to one
million men?”

The
room broke out into an outraged murmur, the soldiers and counselors arguing
with each other, all in complete disarray.

The
Council leader slammed his iron rod into the stone floor and screamed:

"ORDER!”