An Oath of Brothers

  Gwendolyn took a deep breath, seeing her people hanging on her every word, riveted.

  “I know you are scared,” she called out. “I am scared, too. We are on a mission for our very lives, for our freedom, and for the freedom of others. No one said it would be easy—freedom has never been easy. And fighting amongst ourselves will not make it any easier.

  “I promise you, a brighter future awaits us. We need to stay to the course, to be strong. I would not lead you anywhere I would not go myself—and if we are all going to die, I will be the first to fall.”

  Gwendolyn saw in the faces of her people that many of them were mollified by her words, and she turned back and resumed the march, Kendrick and Steffen falling in beside her.

  “Fine words, my lady,” Steffen said.

  “Father could not have said them better,” Kendrick said.

  “Thank you,” she said, reassured by their presence and still shaken by her people’s behavior.

  “They don’t speak for everyone,” Kendrick said. “Only the disgruntled few.”

  “And there will always be a disgruntled few,” Steffen added. “No matter how great a queen you are.”

  “I thank you both for your loyalty,” Gwen said. “But I must mind, and I understand their frustration. I fear our greatest danger may not lie ahead—but right here, amidst us.”

  “If it be so,” Steffen said, tightening his grip on his sword, “then I shall be first to kill the offenders.”

  “There are other dangers, my lady,” Aberthol chimed in weakly, marching beside them. “Chief among them, lack of food and water. We have not found a single water source, and if we do not find one soon, I fear the sun may be our worst opponent of all.”

  Gwen had been thinking the same things. She looked back to the horizon as they continued to march, hoping for a sign, anything. But there was nothing.

  She turned and looked at Aberthol, marching beside her, using his staff, looking weaker than she’d ever seen him.

  “You have studied all the histories,” she said to him quietly. “You know not only the history of the Ring but also that of the Empire. You know all the legends, all the geography. Tell me,” she said, turning to him, “is it true? Can a Second Ring exist?”

  Aberthol sighed.

  “I would say its chances of existence are as good as not,” he replied. “The Second Ring was always held out in the literature as part myth, part fact. You’ll find numerous references to it in the early histories of the Ring, but few in the later volumes. It is dropped altogether in the recent histories.”

  “Perhaps that is only because it was never found,” Gwendolyn said hopefully.

  Aberthol shrugged.

  “Perhaps,” he replied. “Or perhaps because it never existed.”

  She pondered his words as they marched in silence. Finally, he turned and looked at her.

  “Have you considered, my lady,” he questioned, looking at her meaningfully, “what you shall do if it does not exist? If this Great Waste leads us nowhere but to a hostile slave city? Or worse, to more waste?”

  “I have,” she replied. “Every moment. What choice do we have? A certain death awaits us back in the village. This is the path of hope. The toughest path is always the path of hope.”

  They fell back into a gloomy silence as they continued to march.

  As she trekked, hour after hour, the sun getting hotter and hotter, Gwen wondered how her life had come to this, how this could be all that was left of the once great and awesome Ring. These few hundred men, with a few dozen Silver, all that represented the place and nation whom she loved. She thought back to the wedding she had been planning to Thor, to the baby she once held in her arms, to the endless bounties of the Ring—and she bit back tears. How had it all come to this?

  What she wouldn’t give now to hold Guwayne again; what she wouldn’t give to see Thor again, to have him by her side. To have Ralibar and Mycoples back. She felt utterly alone, and wondered if things could get any worse.

  She contemplated her family, not long ago all together, and splintered, fractured in so many ways. Her father and mother, dead; Luanda, dead; Gareth, dead; Godfrey, entering Volusia on a dead man’s mission; Reece, with Thor halfway across the world, most likely dead; and Kendrick, her last remaining relative at her side, on a fool’s march into the desert where he would likely soon be dead. She wondered why destiny had been determined to rend everyone apart.

  A hot, dusty wind blew up in her face, and Gwen sheltered her eyes as another cloud of desert sand tore through. She choked on it, coughing with the others, trying to regain her vision.

  This time, though, the wind did not pass through; on the contrary, the red dust felt as if it were clawing at her face, scratching it, and it became stronger and stronger. Gwen heard a sudden shriek, an odd noise that sent a chill up her spine, unlike anything she’d ever heard, and as she looked up into the dust, she was shocked to see before her, emerging from the dust cloud, a pack of creatures.

  The exotic creatures were tall and thin and twirled in the dust cloud, their bodies red, the same color of the dust, with long jaws and stretched-out ghoulish faces. There were dozens of them, carried by the wind, twirling inside the cloud of dust, and they let out a horrific wailing noise as they appeared, spinning amidst the dust, and suddenly attacking all her people.

  “Dust Walkers!” Sandara yelled out. “Defend yourselves!”

  Kendrick, Steffen, Brandt, Atme and all the others drew their swords, and Gwendolyn drew hers and spun along with them, as the Dust Walkers descended upon them from all directions. Gwen slashed and missed, and a Dust Walker scraped the side of Gwendolyn’s face, scratching her with its claw. She screamed out in pain as her face was scratched, its palm as rough as sandpaper.

  Another came at her and sliced her arm with its three claws, making her again cry out in pain.

  Another came at her—and another, Gwen feeling as if she were tumbling in a field of thorns.

  Steffen stepped forward and slashed wildly, as did Kendrick and the others—and they all missed. The Dust Walkers were just too fast.

  The Dust Walkers darted in and out of the crowd, scratching and slashing, the cries of Gwen’s people calling out as they inflicted a thousand small cuts.

  Gwen, desperate, grabbed a dagger from her waist, spun, and slashed one right in the throat. It dropped to the ground, screeching, disappearing in a pile of dust.

  “Get down!” Sandara called out. “Drop to your knees! Cover your heads!”

  Gwen heard a baby’s cry rip through the air and she looked over to see Illepra clutching the baby, both of them getting attacked. She dropped her dagger and rushed forward, protecting them, covering the baby with her body, and dropping them down to the ground.

  Gwen lay on top of them, covering up the baby with her hands and arms and elbows, feeling the scrapes and scratches all over her as the cloud continue to blow through. She felt as if she were being scratched to death, and did not know how much more she could withstand. At least, though, she was protecting the baby.

  Gwen knelt that way, as did the others, for what felt like an eternity, the horrific buzzing and howling and wailing of these creatures filling her ears.

  Finally, the cloud began to recede, blowing through the desert, right past them, until the scratches grew lighter, the noise quieted, then it all stopped.

  The desert was suddenly still, quiet, just as it had been before they’d arrived, and Gwen knelt and looked back and watched the cloud blow on through, disappearing into the horizon.

  Shaking, Gwen got to her hands and knees and surveyed her people. They were all still on the ground, scraped and cut, looking traumatized. She turned the other way and looked out at the great expanse still waiting before them, and she wondered: what other horrors lay before them?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Godfrey opened his eyes with a start, clutching his belly, as he was kicked by someone twice his size in the jail cell. Lying on the muddy ground of the
cell, he looked up to see a tall, unshaven cretin with a big belly, going prisoner to prisoner and kicking each one, apparently just for fun. As Godfrey stumbled to his feet, he did not know what was worse: this man’s elbows in his ribs, or his body odor.

  This entire jail cell, in fact, was stinking to hell, and as Godfrey looked around at its collection of losers, he could not believe he had wound up in a place like this. All about him were men of every race and color, from every corner of the Empire, all slaves to the Empire, none of the Empire race. They were all crammed into this cell, perhaps fifty feet wide, all of them sulking or pacing, knowing that nothing good lay in store for them.

  Godfrey looked over to see Akorth, Fulton, Merek, and Ario, all awake, some pacing, some sitting, none of them looking too pleased. What a quick turn their fate had taken. It had not been long ago that they were all up on the streets of Volusia, all laden with riches and about to strike a deal to save his people. Now, here they all were, common prisoners, unable to even sleep on a muddy floor without being assaulted.

  Godfrey scratched his arms and saw the red marks and realized he’d been bitten up by some sort of insect on the muddy floor. He scratched and scratched, annoyed. Probably fleas, he thought. Or perhaps bedbugs.

  Akorth and Fulton looked even more disconcerted than he, their hair a mess, unshaven, dark rings beneath their eyes, both of them looking as if they could badly use a drink. Merek and Ario, though, despite their smaller size and younger age, despite being surrounded by such hardened criminals, appeared calm and fearless, resolute, as if they were taking it all in stride and preparing their next move. In fact, they looked much more composed than Akorth and Fulton.

  “Don’t get in my way again, boy,” suddenly came a harsh, guttural voice.

  Godfrey turned to see that same cretin, having finished his rounds, now facing him, with the largest belly he’d ever seen, getting close and scowling down at him.

  “I wasn’t in your way!” Godfrey protested. “I was sleeping! You are the one who kicked me!”

  “What did you say?” The man glowered and began to walk threateningly toward him.

  Godfrey began to back up, and as he did, he slipped on the mud and landed on his rear—to the laughter of all the other prisoners in the cell.

  “Kill him!” one yelled out, egging on the cretin.

  Godfrey’s heart pounded wildly as he saw the cretin grinning and getting closer, as if ready to devour his prey. He knew that if he did not do something soon the man would crush him with his weight alone.

  Godfrey scooted back on the mud, sliding, breathing hard, trying to distance himself from him.

  But the cretin suddenly groaned and charged, and Godfrey could see he was going to pounce on him, land on him, and crush him with all his weight. Godfrey tried to back up more, but bumped his head into a stone wall. There was nowhere left to go.

  Suddenly, Ario stepped forward, stuck out a foot, and tripped the cretin.

  The man fell flat on his face in the mud, and Godfrey spun out of the way before he did, sparing himself from being crushed.

  All the prisoners in the room now turned and watched, hollering, laughing uproariously. The cretin spun around, wiped the mud from his face, and locked eyes on Ario with a look of death.

  Ario stood there, staring back, unflinching, calm and fearless. Godfrey, incredibly grateful to Ario, could not believe how calm he was, given that the cretin was five times his size and that he had nowhere to run.

  “You little punk,” the cretin said. “You’re finished. Before I kill you, I’m going to tear you apart limb from limb. I’m going to teach you what it means to be in a prison!”

  The cretin began to regain his feet and charge Ario, when Merek suddenly took two steps forward, raised his elbow and cracked him across the jawline, catching him perfectly just as he was rising, and sending him down to the ground, unconscious.

  “I spent most my life in a prison,” Merek said to the unconscious man, “and I don’t need you to teach me. Where I come from, they call that a hatchet job. It shuts up a big fat mouth like yours.”

  Merek spoke loudly enough for all the other prisoners to hear, and he looked around slowly at all of them, challenging them, daring them to come close.

  “The Empire took away my dagger,” he continued. “But I don’t need it. I got my hands. With these thumbs and fingers I can do a lot more damage. Anyone else want to test it out?” he called out loudly.

  He turned slowly, meeting each and every person’s gaze, until finally, the others looked away and the tension dissipated. Clearly, they all got the idea: Merek and his friends were not to be messed with.

  Ario walked up to Merek.

  “I had him right where I wanted him,” Ario said proudly. “I didn’t need your help. Next time, don’t get in my way.”

  Merek smirked and shook his head.

  “I’m sure you did,” he replied.

  Godfrey looked up, watching it all unfold in astonishment, as Merek came over to him and held out a hand and helped him up.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Godfrey asked.

  “Not the King’s Legion,” Merek said, smirking, “and not in some fancy knight’s barracks. I fight dirty. I fight to hurt, to maim or to kill. I fight to win, not for honor. And I learned what I learned in the back alleys of King’s Court.”

  “I owe you one,” Godfrey said. He turned and looked at the big fat cretin, unconscious, unmoving, face-first in the dirt. “I hate to think what would have happened if he’d got me.”

  “You’d be a mud sandwich,” Akorth chimed in, coming over with Fulton.

  “Get us out of this city and back to our camp,” Merek said, “and that’s payment enough.”

  “Wishful thinking,” Fulton said ominously.

  Godfrey turned and saw the formidable Empire guards lined up outside the cell, saw the thick iron bars, and he knew they were right. They weren’t going anywhere.

  “Looks like your plan’s going from bad to worse,” Merek said. “Not that it was that great to begin with.”

  “I, for one, don’t plan on ending my life in this cell,” Ario said.

  “Who said anything about ending your life?” Godfrey asked.

  “I was watching them while you were passed out,” Ario said. “They’ve taken three of them already. They open the cells every hour, take another one. They don’t come back. And they’re not taking them for tea.”

  Suddenly, a horn sounded and three Empire men strutted forward, keys rattling, unlocked the door, walked into the cell, and looked all around menacingly, as if trying to decide who to take. They wore imposing armor, visors down over their faces, and looked like messengers of death.

  They settled on a prisoner slumped against the wall, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him out of the cell.

  “No!” the man screamed, resisting. “All I did was steal a cabbage. I had nothing to eat. I don’t deserve this!”

  “Tell that to her goddess Volusia,” the guard muttered darkly. “I’m sure she would love to hear that.”

  “No!” he yelled, his voice fading as the cell door slammed behind him and they dragged him away.

  Godfrey and his men exchanged a nervous look.

  “We haven’t much time,” Merek said.

  “What’s your plan now?” he asked Godfrey. “You got us into this mess—now you get us out of it.”

  Godfrey stood there, pulling his hair, trying to collect his thoughts. It was all too much at once, had all been too fast for him to process. Even he, who always had found a way out of everything, was stumped. He looked at the iron bars, at the solid stone walls, and he did not see any way out. He decided to try what he knew he was best at: talking his way out of it.

  Godfrey walked up to the cell bars and motioned for a guard, standing close by, to come close. He whispered loud enough to be heard.

  “You want to be rich?” Godfrey asked, heart pounding, praying that he would go for it.

  But the
guard continued to stand there with his back to him, ignoring him.

  “Not just rich,” Godfrey added, “but rich beyond your wildest dreams. I have gold—more than you can dream. Get myself and my friends out of here, and you’ll be rich enough to be King yourself.”

  The guard sneered back at him through his visor.

  “And why would a criminal like you have so much gold?”

  Godfrey reached into his waist pocket, and from deep inside, where it was hidden, he pulled out a small gold coin. It glistened in the light. It was the last coin he had on him, one he’d kept for emergency purposes. If this was not an emergency, he did not know what was.

  Godfrey placed the coin in the guard’s yellow, meaty palm.

  The guard held it up and examined it, looking impressed.

  “I’m not your typical prisoner,” Godfrey said. “I am the son of a King. I have enough gold to make you a rich man. All you have to do is let me and my friends out of here.”

  The guard suddenly lifted his visor, turned and smiled at Godfrey.

  “So you have more gold?” he asked, his greedy smile more like a sneer on his grotesque face.

  Godfrey nodded enthusiastically.

  “Will you lead me to it?” the guard asked.

  Godfrey nodded.

  “Yes! Just let us out of here.”

  The guard nodded, satisfied.

  “Okay, turn around.”

  Godfrey turned around, heart pounding with excitement, expecting the guard to release him from the cell.

  Suddenly, Godfrey felt a hand on the back of his shirt, felt the guard grabbing him roughly, then, in one quick motion, yanking him back with all his might.

  Godfrey felt the back of his head slam into the iron bars, heard a loud thud, and suddenly, his whole world went spinning. He felt light-headed and dropped to his knees.

  Before he collapsed on the mud floor, he saw the guard, looking down, laughing a cruel, guttural laugh.

  “Thanks for the gold,” he said. “Now piss off.”