A Sky of Spells (Book #9 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (21 page)

Srog raised the goblet to
his lips, prepared to drink, when suddenly, Matus leapt forward and swung
around, and knocked the goblet from his hand. It went flying, landing on the floor,
echoing as it rolled across the stone.

Srog stared back at him,
shocked, not understanding.

Matus crossed the room,
picked up the goblet, and held it up for Srog to see.

Srog came closer, and
noticed a black lining at the bottom of it.

Matus reached down, ran his
finger along it, held it up, and rubbed his fingers together. As he did, a fine
black dust drifted down to the ground.

“Blackroot,” he said. “One
sip, and you’re dead.”

Srog stood there, frozen,
looking at it in horror, his blood running cold.

“How did you know?” he asked
in a whisper.

“The color of your wine,”
Matus answered. “It seemed too dark to me.”

As Srog stood there, frozen
in horror, not knowing what to say, Matus looked both ways, then leaned in
close.

“Trust no one.
No one
.”

Romulus stood at the helm of
his new ship, hands on his hips, huge, rolling waves sending the ship rising
and falling, smashing into the foam, as he watched the coastline of the Empire’s
capitol come into view. Behind him sailed his fleet, thousands of Empire ships,
all returning home from their defeat. Romulus peered into the horizon, as the
mist began to lift, and spotted the host of soldiers waiting to greet him on
shore, as he suspected he would. His stomach tightened, as he prepared for the
confrontation to come.

Ragon, clearly, had received
word of his return, and assembled all his men. The number two general beneath Romulus,
Ragon had surely heard, by now, of Andronicus’ death, of Romulus’ assassination
of the former council, and of Romulus’ seizing position as Supreme Commander. If
Romulus had been victorious, Ragon would be awaiting him with parades and
accolades—he would have no choice.

But because Romulus was
returning in disgrace, Ragon was waiting to greet him in a very different way. Ragon,
Romulus knew, was waiting to imprison him, to make it clear to all the armies
that Romulus was stripped of power, and that Ragon was the new Supreme
Commander. Romulus knew how we thought, because Romulus would do the same thing
in his shoes.

But Romulus did not plan on ceding
power so easily. His men, he knew, would be watching their exchange closely to
see which commander would come out victorious. Romulus had not fought his entire
life to capitulate, and no matter how many soldiers he faced, it was time to
rule with an iron fist. He squeezed the hilt of his sword until his knuckles
turned white, preparing.

Romulus’ ship soon touched shore,
and as it did, he waited patiently, as his men lowered the long plank from
their ship down to the beach. They lined it, standing at attention, and he
walked between them, taking all the time in the world. His men followed behind
him, and he made a show of appearing calm and confident for all the world to
see.

Tens of thousands of Empire
soldiers, lined up in neat formations, awaited him below, all behind Ragon.
Romulus knew that his men could not win the battle; there were too many of
them, the entire main body of the Empire army, awaiting. He would have to win
another way.

Romulus strutted proudly
onto the shore, heading right for Ragon, unafraid.

Ragon stood there, tall,
muscular, his broad face covered in scars, and scowled back, flanked by his
soldiers. Romulus walked right up to him and stopped, and in the thick silence,
the two of them faced off, each determined.

“Romulus, of the first
battalion of the Eastern Province of the Empire,” Ragon boomed, loud enough to
be heard by his men, “You are hereby set to be imprisoned and executed for
crimes against the Empire.”

All of the men, on both
sides, stood there, unmoving, the air thick with tension. Ragon, wasting no
time, turned and nodded to his men, and several of his soldiers took a step
forward to arrest Romulus.

At the same time, without
needing to be told, several of Romulus’ men stepped forward to protect him.

The soldiers froze on both
sides, facing off, hands on their hilts, and awaiting commands.

“Any resistance is futile,” Ragon
said. “You have tens of thousands of men—but I have
hundreds
of
thousands, and the backing of every country in the Empire. Submit now and die a
quick and easy death. Prolong this, and your men will be killed, and you
tortured.”

Romulus stared back, silent,
expressionless, carefully thinking through his next move.

“If I surrender,” Romulus
said, “you will promise my men safe passage?”

Ragon nodded.

“You have my word.”

“Then I will surrender on
one condition,” Romulus said. “If you yourself are the one to arrest me. Give
me, at least, that honor.”

Ragon nodded, seeming
relieved.

“Fair enough.”

Ragon took the iron shackles
from his guard, and stepped forward towards Romulus.

“Turn around and place your
hands behind your back,” he commanded.

Romulus turned slowly, his
heart pounding, as Ragon approached. Romulus listened carefully, focusing on
the fine sound of the shackles, the sound that came as he raised it and brought
it down towards his wrist. He was waiting, waiting, for just the right moment.

Romulus felt the cold metal
of the shackles touch his wrist, and the time was right. He spun around in an
instant, and in the process, elbowed Ragon across the face, shattering his
cheek bone. In the same motion, he snatched the shackles from his hand, stood
over him, and swung them down with all his might, breaking Ragon’s nose.

The two armies still faced
off, each unsure how to react, it all happening so quickly. Romulus took
advantage of the hesitation: he wasted no time as he reached down, grabbed Ragon
by the back of the head, drew his dagger, and held it tightly to Ragon’s
throat.

Ragon, gushing blood, could
barely breathe as Romulus dug the blade against his throat.

“Tell them that you cede to
me as Supreme Commander,” Romulus growled.

“Never,” Ragon murmured.

Romulus pushed the blade
harder against his throat, until blood started to trickle. Ragon gurgled, but
said nothing.

Romulus shifted the point of
the blade to Ragon’s eye, and as soon as he began to apply pressure, Ragon
screamed out.

“I CEDE TO ROMULUS!” he
screamed.

Romulus nodded, satisfied.

“Very good,” he said.

Romulus, in one quick motion,
sliced Ragon’s throat, and Ragon slumped to the ground, dead.

Romulus stood there, staring
back at the thousands of Empire soldiers. They all faced him, unsure, and
Romulus knew this was the moment of truth. With their leader dead, would they
defer to him?

As Romulus stood there in
the silence, waiting, watching, it feeling like an eternity, finally, the rows
and rows of Empire soldiers all dropped to a knee, the air filled with the sound
of tens of thousands of suits of armor clanking, as they all lowered their
heads and bowed to him.

Romulus drew his sword and
raised it high above his head, breathing in deep, taking in the moment, the
entire strength of the Empire bowing to him, now, finally, under his command.

“ROMULUS!” they all chanted
as one.

“ROMULUS!”

Thor charged on his horse,
galloping down the main road that led from King’s Court, heading south, oddly
enough, in the direction of his home town. Krohn ran at his horse’s heels, as
he had been for hours, the two of them embarking together on this quest.

It was time to rebuild the
Legion, time for a new Selection, and as he rode, Thor felt a surreal quality
to his mission: instead of being on the receiving end, instead of being the one
to stand in his village and wait hopefully for the Silver to appear, now it was
he, Thor, who was doing the choosing. The roles had reversed. It was such an
honor, he could scarcely believe it.

Thor also felt a tremendous
responsibility on his shoulders: rebuilding the Legion was a sacred task in his
eyes. He had to fill the shoes of the dead boys who had given their lives
defending the Ring; he had to choose the next generation of the very best
warriors. It was not something he took lightly, and he knew that he must make
his choices very carefully.

Throughout his entire childhood,
Thor had spent days peering over the horizon, dreaming of the great warriors that
might one day pass through this town, his humble little village, of being
picked and chosen. And now here he was, the one who was traveling the countryside,
riding through all the towns. It was an honor beyond what he could ever
imagine. It did not even feel real to him.

Thor rode and rode, until he
and his horse—and Krohn—were all breathing hard, and finally he rounded a bend
and in the distance, a small village came into view. He decided to make for it;
he knew they could all use a break, and this village would be as good a place as
any to begin the Selection.

As he approached, Thor dimly
recognized the place from the large, crooked tree at its entrance, a farming
village a half day’s ride north of his home town. It was a place he had traveled
a few times growing up, joining his brothers as they traded for wool and
weapons. He hadn’t set foot here in years, but he remembered it to be a
provincial town, much like the place he had grown up in, and he did not
remember the people as being especially friendly. If he recalled correctly, it
had seemed to be populated back then with vulgar types, striking hard bargains,
and seeming just as happy to not have visitors as to have them.

It had been many years,
though, and Thor knew his memory might be distorted, and he wanted to give this
village another chance. After all, it was a farming village, and there might be
some good recruits here.

As Thor charged for the
town, raising dust as he approached and could already see all the boys lining
up, at attention, waiting nervously. He could see the parents behind them, even
more nervous. Thor pondered how much had changed since he himself had waited for
the Selection. Back then, the Silver had arrived in chariots, in a huge entourage
of soldiers; now, it was just he, Thor, alone. These were lean times, and until
the Legion and the Silver were rebuilt, it would take time to rebuild
everything. Thor had been offered an entourage of soldiers to accompany him—but
he had denied it. He felt he did not need anyone to accompany him; he felt that
if he could not defend himself, alone, on these highways, then he was not
worthy of the task.

Thor pulled into the dusty town,
clouds of dust settling around him on the hot summer day, and he pulled his
horse to a stop in the center of town. He sat there, looking down at the
potential recruits, dozens of boys, lined up, most dressed in rags, looking
nervous. He marveled that he must have looked much like these boys had, when he
was on the other side of it.

Thor dismounted and slowly walked
down the center of the village, Krohn at his side, going from boy to boy,
looking each one over carefully. Some seemed scared; some proud; others
lethargic, indifferent; and others still over-eager. He could see the same look
in their eyes that he once wore: most wanted out of this place desperately. They
wanted a better life, to travel to King’s Court, to train with the Legion, to
achieve fame and renown, to see the Ring and the lands beyond. Thor could easily
tell which of these boys had been placed here by their parents, which were not
fighters. He could tell by the way they held their bodies, by a certain
hardness or gleam in their eye.

As Thor reached the end of
the line, he saw several older boys who were a head taller than the others,
with broad shoulders. One of them glared at Thor, looking him up and down reproachfully.
Thor could hardly believe his insolence: he would have never done that to a member
of the Silver.

“They sent
you
to
choose
us
?” the boy asked Thor derisively. He was a large, farming boy,
twice the size of Thor, and a few years older.

“How old are you?” the boy added,
stepping out of the line and staring at Thor, hands on his hips.

“He looks younger than us
all,” said the boy beside him, equally derisive. “Who are you to pick us? Maybe
we should pick you.”

The other boys chimed in
with laughter, and Thor reddened.

“To insult a member of the
Legion is to insult the queen herself,” Thor said firmly, calmly, walking
towards the boy. Thor knew he had to face this conflict head-on; he could not
tolerate such a public insult.

“Then I insult the queen,”
the boy sneered back. “If she is sending
you
out for the Selection, then
the Selection must really be hurting.”

“Are you a fool?” one of the
boys hissed to the insolent boy. “Do you not know to whom you speak? That is
Thorgrinson. The most famed warrior of the Ring.”

The large boy squinted his
eyes at Thor skeptically.

“Thorgrinson?” he repeated. “I
should think not. Thorgrinson is a great warrior, twice the size of any man.
The wielder of the Destiny Sword. This boy here is but a boy, another common
boy sent on a Queen’s errand.”

The boy stepped forward
towards Thor threateningly.

“You tell the Queen to send
us a
real
man to choose us, or else to come here for us herself,” he
said. He then stepped forward and raised his hands towards Thor’s chest, as if
preparing to shove him backwards.

But this boy did not realize
who he was provoking. Thor was now a hardened warrior, having been through life
and death, in the Ring and in the Empire, and as a warrior, he was highly attuned
to any and all potential enemy movements. As the boy came close and raised his
hands, Thor was already in motion.

Thor stepped aside, grabbed
the boy’s wrist, twisted it behind his back until the boy screamed out in pain,
then he shoved the boy hard, and sent him stumbling to the ground, landing
face-first.

The other boys watched in
shock; they weren’t laughing now. They stood there, silent.

Thor turned his back and
walked down to the opposite end of the line, looking over the other boys. He
heard a sudden snarl, and he turned and saw Krohn, snarling at Thor’s attacker,
who was rising from the ground and preparing to charge Thor from behind.

But the boy looked down, saw
Krohn, and thought better of it.

Thor turned and faced them.

“You are not joining the
Legion,” Thor said to the boy and to his friends. “None of you.”

The other boys looked at
each other, suddenly upset.

“But you
have
to pick
us!” one said. “Our parents will give us a beating!”

“We are twice the size of
any boy here!” cried another. “You can’t turn us down. You need us!”

Thor turned, sneered, and walked
right up to them.

“I don’t need any of you,” he
said. “And size does not matter. Honor does. And respect. That is what builds a
warrior. Both of which you lack.”

Thor turned his back on them
and began to walk away and as he did, he heard a scream. The largest one broke
free from them the line and charged Thor’s back, swinging his fist for the back
of Thor’s head.

Thor, though, sensed it
coming with his lightning-fast reflexes; he swung around, backhanded him with
his gauntlet, connecting with the boy’s jaw and sending him spinning down to
the ground.

Another boy rushed for Thor,
but before he could come close, Krohn charged, leapt onto him and sank his
fangs into the boy’s face. The boy shrieked, trying to get Krohn off, as Krohn
thrashed left and right.

“I YIELD!” the boy screamed,
frantic.

“Krohn!” Thor commanded.

Krohn let go, and the boy
lay there, bloody, moaning.

Thor glanced at the other
boys one last time, and they looked like a sorry lot. This village was, after
all, exactly as he remembered, and he felt he had wasted his time to come here.

Thor turned to leave, when one
boy stepped out from the line at the far end.

“SIR!” the boy called, standing
proudly at attention. “Thorgrinson, please forgive me for speaking. But we have
heard far and wide of your reputation. You are a great warrior. I wish to be a
warrior, too. I
yearn
to be one. Please, allow me to join the Legion. It
is all I have ever dreamed of. I promise I shall be loyal and serve the Legion
with everything I have.”

Thor looked the boy over
doubtfully. He was young, and skinny, and he looked somewhat frail. Yet he also
had something in his eyes, a hollowed-out look, a look of desperation. Thor
could see that he really wanted it, more so than any of the others. There was a
hunger in his eyes that made Thor overlook his size, that made him think twice.

“You don’t seem the fighter,”
Thor said. “What can you do?”

“I can throw a spear as good
as any man,” the boy said.

Thor went to his horse, drew
a short spear from the saddle, and handed it to the boy.

“Show me,” Thor said.

The boy looked down in awe at
the weapon’s fine quality, its gold and silver shaft, feeling its weight. Thor
could see that he was impressed. This was no easy spear to wield; if the boy
could throw this, he was indeed as good as he claimed.

“That tree there,” Thor
said, pointing to a large, crooked tree about thirty yards off. “Let’s see if
you can hit it.”

“How about the one beyond
it?” the boy asked.

Thor looked out and saw, a
good thirty yards past that tree, a small, narrow tree. Thor looked back at the
boy in surprise.

“I know of no Legion or even
Silver who could hit that tree from here,” Thor said. “You are a dreamer. And I
have no time to waste for dreamers.”

Thor turned to head back for
his horse, but he heard a cry, and turned to see the boy take several steps
forward, raise the spear, and hurl it.

The spear soared through the
air, past the first tree, and on to the second. Thor watched in awe as the
spear lodged into the center of the skinny tree, shaking it so that its small
apples fell to the ground.

Thor looked back at the boy,
in shock. It was the most masterful throw he had ever seen.

“What is your name, boy?” he
demanded.

“Archibald,” the boy said
proudly, earnest.

“Where did you learn to
throw like that?”

“Many long days in the open
plains, tending cattle, with nothing else to do. I swear to you, sir, joining
the Legion is all I’ve ever wanted from life. Please. Allow me to join your
ranks.”

Thor nodded, satisfied.

“Okay, Archibald,” he said. “Make
your way to King’s Court. Seek out the training ground for the Legion. I will
meet you back there in a few days’ time. You will be given a chance to try out.”

Archibald beamed, and
clasped Thor’s hand.

“Thank you. Thank you so
much!” he said, clasping both Thor’s hands.

Thor mounted his horse, Krohn
following, and kicked, preparing for the next town. Despite the rocky start, he
felt encouraged. Perhaps this Selection would not be a waste of time after all.

*

Thor rode and rode, until
the second sun began to set, making his way ever south, on the lookout for the
next village. Finally, as the second sun hung sat as a red ball on the horizon,
Thor reached a crossroads atop a small hill, and he stopped. His horse, and
Krohn, needed a break.

Thor sat there, all of them
breathing hard, and looked down at the vista of rolling hills before him. The
road forked, and if he took it to the right, he knew, it would ironically lead
him to his home village, just a few miles around the bend. To the left, the
road forked east and south, towards other villages.

Thor sat there and thought
for a moment. How ironic it would be to return to his old village, to see his
former peers, to be the one to decide if they would join the Legion. He knew
there were good boys back there, and he knew that’s where he should go. That’s
where his duties demanded he be.

Yet somehow, deep down, he just
couldn’t bring himself to return there. He had vowed never to lay eyes on his hometown
again. Surely, his father was still there, his disparaging, sour father, and he
didn’t want to see him. Surely most of those boys were still there, too, the
ones who had been so scornful of him growing up, who had viewed him, and
treated him, as a cattle herder’s son. He had never been taken seriously by any
of them.