An Oath of Brothers

  Erec was pleased and yet he was not a man to waste idle time, and he still hadn’t achieved his main purpose in coming here: to enlist Krov and his armies to his cause, to convince them to join them in crossing the sea and liberating Gwendolyn and the others from the Empire’s grip. Erec had tried to broach the topic many times, but Krov had been too busy feasting in this increasingly noisy hall. Indeed, while Erec wanted his men to blow off steam, he was becoming anxious that this hall was becoming too rowdy, too drunk; he could detect that special tension in the air that came as men went from one sack of wine to one too many. It left bored, idle men looking for some way to vent, and too often that meant violence.

  There came another shout, and Erec turned to see several of Krov’s men wrestling good-naturedly in the center of the stone hall, grappling left and right on the floor between the tables. All the men turned and watched, egging them on, slamming their mugs on the wood, cheering. As Erec surveyed their faces, he could see that Krov’s men were less refined than his own; most were unshaven, missing too many teeth, with small bellies, and had drunk far too much wine. They were elbowed each other too roughly, laughed too loud, and every other man had a naked woman on his lap. Most also wore jewels—no doubt loot they had stolen on the seas—draped around their necks.

  These men were no knights, no professional warriors that stuck to a strict code of ethics, as his men were. They were mercenaries. Erec knew he should not be surprised: after all, these Bouldermen were pirates, and had been for generations.

  “I don’t like them,” Alistair whispered into Erec’s ear, reaching down and squeezing his hand beneath the table.

  He glanced at her and could see the worry in her face.

  “Nobody likes them,” he whispered back, “but everyone deals with them at one time or another. They have men and they have ships, and they know these seas like no one else. There is a reason the Empire has not been able to contain them in a thousand years. They were crucial allies to our father when he needed them.”

  “They are a means to an end,” Strom chimed in softly, leaning over. “Our father called upon the many times.”

  “It is true,” Erec said “Our father called upon them many times, but our father never trusted them.”

  “How could you partner with someone you do not trust?” Alistair asked back. “What if they betray you?”

  Erec looked carefully around the room, looked across at Krov, laughing, watching the wrestling match, a naked girl in each arm, a sack of wine in both hands.

  “Trust is a strong word,” he replied. “Sometimes those you don’t trust help you most—and sometimes those you do betray you. In my experience, a man content with food and wine and riches has much to lose, and little to gain by treachery.”

  A group of musicians passed by, filling the hall with the music of harps, lyres, and drums, to the cheers of the men, who broke out into a song Erec didn’t recognize—then passed just as quickly.

  As they could hear themselves again, Erec noticed Krov turn and face him.

  “Erec!” Krov called out, turning his full attention to him. “Why no drink?”

  “I do drink, my lord,” Erec replied, raising a wine sack.

  Krov broke out into coarse laughter.

  “Lord!” he called out. “I am no lord! Unlike yourself, I am lord of nothing. God forbid I should be a lord! I’d lose what little class I had left!”

  Krov’s men laughed along with him, until Krov finally turned his attention back to Erec.

  “Yet why no drink?” he asked again. “You drink from one hand only. Both hands should be full!”

  Erec smiled back.

  “One hand will suffice, my lord,” he called back. “I like to keep one hand free. After all, you never know when one of your men might cut my throat.”

  Krov stared back, then broke into hysterical laughter, slapping the table with his palm.

  “You’re good,” he said. “You haven’t lost your edge. I like what I saw here today—just like the boy I remember. Except, you’re too serious. Far too much time wasted on the battlefield. You should drink more, enjoy the women.”

  “He has a woman,” Alistair corrected sharply, glaring at him, clearly displeased.

  Krov chuckled and nodded to her and raised his sack.

  “As you say, my lady,” he said. “But I have a woman, too. And here I am!” he said, grabbing the breasts of each of the naked women on his lap.

  “Then I am so sorry for you,” Alistair replied, “and sorry for your wife. Those are base pleasures. You will never know the true pleasure of loyalty and devotion.”

  Krov shook his head, laughing.

  “Don’t be sorry for me,” he said. “Or for her. At least she’s protected here—not free to be sold like all these other women.”

  His men laughed as they grabbed hold of the women on their laps, and Alistair looked away, disgusted.

  Krov settled his gaze on Erec, and finally Erec could see his expression grow serious, if clouded by his red-rimmed eyes, overflowing with drink.

  “I suppose you have not come all this way just to see me,” Krov said to Erec, “or to discuss women!”

  Erec shook his head.

  “Alas, my friend,” he replied, “I have not.”

  Krov nodded.

  “I understand. No one ever comes to see Krov casually, as a friend. Krov, King of the Bouldermen, the man no one cares for, the man no one wants to consort with, the man everyone thinks they are too good for—until they need him. I do wish I had friends who would care to stop by and see me just for the sake of our friendship. But my friendships always seem to have a purpose. It is sad, yet it is my fate.”

  Erec reddened, realizing Krov’s sensitivity and wanting to tread carefully.

  “You were friends with our father,” Strom chimed in.

  Krov turned to him.

  “Your father,” Krov replied. “Now there was a good man. A fine man. An even better King. All of the Southern Islands loved him. I don’t know if I loved him,” he said, scratching his beard, seeming to contemplate it. “I respected him. He was a good warrior, had a fine mind. But again, he was no friend to me. Just like my other friends, he called upon me only when he needed me. How many times was I invited to one of your glorious weddings in the Southern Isles? To any of your royal feasts? To any of your holidays? You Southern Islanders always thought you were too good for us. That is not being a friend.”

  Erec blushed, realizing he spoke some truth. He also wished Strom would be silent, and he gestured to him to stop, but Strom continued.

  “Our father paid you well,” Strom added.

  Krov’s expression darkened.

  “Yes, he paid me well,” he replied. “But it was not money that I wanted or needed. He never paid me with friendship. Like everyone else, he wanted me at a distance, at arm’s length.”

  “He let you patrol our waters,” Strom said. “Fish from our seas.”

  “Aye, he did. But he never invited me into his banquet hall. Why do you think that is?”

  Erec remained silent. He knew the reason. It was because Krov was a pirate, a murdering and thieving and raping pirate with no loyalty and no morals. He knew his father did not respect him. He’d use him when he needed to, and that was all.

  Suddenly, Krov, his mood changing like a lightning storm, unexpectedly slammed his palm down on the wooden table. His face glowered, and as it did, the music in the hall fell silent.

  A thick tension fell over the room as all eyes fell to him.

  “I said why do you think that is?” he shouted, throwing the naked women off his lap, standing in place, his voice rising, glaring down at Erec. “ANSWER ME!”

  Everyone in the room stopped and stared, watching the heated exchange, on edge.

  Erec met Krov’s eyes firmly, remaining calm, not showing his emotions, as his father had always taught him, and realizing fully just how unpredictable Krov was.

  “My father,” Erec said back calmly, “never spoke
an ill word of you.”

  “Nor did he speak a kind word of me, either.”

  “My father held no hard feelings toward you,” Erec repeated. “He considered you a partner.”

  “A partner but not a friend. I ask again: why was that?”

  Krov’s anger seemed to deepen, as did the tension in the room, and Erec knew that he needed to make a quick decision on how to respond. If he did not respond correctly, he sensed the room would soon erupt into bloodshed.

  “Do you want the honest answer?” Erec asked, deciding.

  “I won’t ask for it again,” Krov said, his voice hard and cold, now clutching the hilt of his sword. As he did, Erec noticed several of his men did, too.

  Erec cleared his throat, let go of Alistair’s hand, and slowly stood and faced Krov, standing proud and erect, unflinching.

  “My father honored chivalry above all else,” he said, his voice loud and clear, dignified, honest. “He honored honor, and all those who strived for it. He did not condone thievery, or taking women who did not choose to be with you, or killing men for a price or for what their ship contained below. My father lived for honor. If you want the honest answer, I will give it to you: in his eyes, you lacked honor. And he did not want to associate with those who lacked honor.”

  Krov stared him, his eyes flaring, cold and dark, staring right through him, and Erec could see them shifting, see the restlessness behind them, see that he was debating whether to kill him.

  Erec reached down casually, and slowly rested his own hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case Krov lunged for him.

  Suddenly, to Erec’s surprise, Krov’s face relaxed, and then broke into a smile.

  “Honor!” he called out, and laughed. “And what is honor? Where has all your honor gotten you? Look at all the honor that they had in the Ring. Where has it gotten them? Where did it get the Ring? Now it is destroyed. Now it is no more. All by a dishonorable army. Sold out by those without honor. I would choose life over honor any day—and I would choose wine and women over your dour faces, your solemn life, your code of chivalry.”

  Krov suddenly reached down and grabbed a mug, smiling.

  “You gave me an honest answer,” he said. “No other man would be brave enough to. That, sir, is honor!”

  He raised his mug.

  “TO HONOR!”

  All his men in the hall stood and raised their mugs and cheered with him.

  “TO HONOR!” they cheered.

  Krov laughed, as did the others, as he took a long swig of his sack, and all the tension in the room dissipated.

  Erec, still on edge, still wary, nodded slowly back, drank from his mug, and sat down, too.

  “You are a fearless man,” Krov said to Erec, “and that is what I love about you. I might even love you more than your father. It remains to be seen if we shall be friends, but I think we just might.”

  “I can always use new friends,” Erec said, nodding back respectfully.

  “Now tell me,” Krov, said, serious, getting down to business, “why have you come here?”

  Erec sighed.

  “I need your help. We need your help. What remains of my people, the exiles from the Ring, led by Gwendolyn, have found refuge in the Empire.”

  “The Empire!?” Krov asked, clearly shocked. “Why would they flee there?”

  Erec shrugged.

  “Perhaps it seemed the most counterintuitive place to go. After all, would your enemy seek you in their own backyard?”

  Krov nodded, slowly warming to it.

  “That Gwendolyn,” he said. “Always too smart for her own good. Like her father. I’m amazed to hear she’s still alive—that any of them are still alive—after what Romulus did to them. She must be a better Queen than anyone expected.”

  Erec nodded.

  “I received a falcon,” he said. “They need our help, and I wish to liberate them. My fleet, as you know, will be up against far greater numbers. No one knows these waters better than you. I need you to join us, help us in our war against the Empire.”

  Krov shook his head.

  “Always the idealist,” he said. “Just like your father. I’ve spent my entire life dodging the Empire, and now you would ask me to battle them head on.” He slowly shook his head. “Mad. To battle the Empire would be suicide.”

  “You need not battle them,” Erec said. “Just navigate for us, help us get to where we need to go. Accompany us through these waters, and through the Dragon’s Spine.”

  Krov looked up at him, and Erec could see his face frozen in fear at the words.

  “The Dragon’s Spine?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you mean to pass through it,” he said, real fear in his voice.

  Erec nodded back calmly.

  “It is the most direct route,” Erec said, “and the least likely for detection. We haven’t time for any other alternative.”

  Krov shook his head.

  “Better to go around the Horn of Azul,” Krov said.

  “That would add moons to our journey,” Erec said. “Like I said, there isn’t time.”

  “Isn’t time to die, you mean?” Krov said. “Better to take moons and be alive than take days and be dead. No one passes through the Dragon’s Spine and lives.”

  “You have,” Erec said, looking at him meaningfully.

  Krov met his look and slowly sighed, his eyes glazing over in memory.

  “That was years ago, when I was young and my hair was thick and blond,” Krov said. “Now it is thin and bald, I have a belly, and I am not nearly as foolish I had once been. Now I like my life. I vowed I would never pass through it again—and I won’t.”

  “You know the Spine better than anyone,” Erec said. “Where the rocks lie, where the waves break, which way the currents run, where the Empire patrols—and where the monsters lurk. We are going through the Spine,” he said, determined, strength and authority in his voice. “You can stay here and cower in fear and be poor, or you can join us and be rich.”

  Krov met his glance, his face serious, in business mode.

  “How rich?” he asked.

  Erec smiled, expecting this.

  “A ship full of the finest gold,” Strom chimed in. “And a renewed pact of our isles’ loyalty.”

  Erec reddened, wishing Strom would not have interrupted. His younger brother was always speaking when he should listen.

  “Loyalty!?” Krov repeated, his face souring. “And what am I to do with loyalty? Will it buy me whores? Will it buy me wine?”

  “If you are attacked, we will come to your aid,” Strom said. “That is worth your life.”

  Krov darkened, shaking his head.

  “I don’t need your aid, or your protection, boy,” he said to Strom. “In case you haven’t noticed, our people do just fine. Indeed, as I see it now, it seems to be you who needs our aid.”

  Strom reddened, and Erec finally held out a hand and gestured for him to be silent.

  Erec looked at Krov.

  “It is fine gold,” he said to him softly, smiling, man to man, “and a bold mission. Just reckless enough for you to be unable to pass by.”

  Krov leaned back and rubbed his beard, turning his attention back to Erec. Finally, after a long silence, he chugged the rest of his sack of wine, wiped the back of his mouth, and threw it on the floor. He stood and faced Erec.

  “Make it two ships of gold,” he said. “And we set sail at first light, while I’m still stupid enough to say yes.”

  Erec stood, and smiled slowly.

  “I had a feeling you’d say that,” he said. “Which is why the two ships are already waiting.”

  Krov stared back at him, then slowly broke into a huge smile.

  He came around the table, and embraced Erec.

  He leaned back, held his shoulders, and looked him in the eye.

  “You will make a fine King, Erec son of Nor,” he said. “A fine King, indeed.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Darius walked through the camp of his growing
army, joined by Raj, Desmond, Kaz and Luzi as he went from man to man in the sprawl of villagers, checking on the wounded, meeting each new man face-to-face, helping to remove shackles, looking into their eyes and shaking their hand. He saw hope welling in each of their eyes as they looked to him, each shaking his head and not wanting to let go, each looking to him as if he were their savior.

  No one had ever looked at Darius this way in his life, and it felt surreal. In his eyes, he was just a boy, just a boy who strived to be a warrior, just a boy who had a hidden power which he could never use, didn’t want to use, and which he could never reveal to the others. That was all. Darius had never expected to become a leader of men, to become someone that others looked up to, someone whom they turned to for leadership and direction. His entire life, he had been told by others that he was going to amount to nothing, that he was the least important of the bunch; his grandfather had always kept him down, had told him he was not worth much, that that was why his father had left him. All of the village elders, all of his trainers, particularly Zirk, the commander of the boys’ troop, had told him his skills were average, at best, and that his size was too small. They told him to never dream too big.

  Darius had always known he was not the largest of the bunch, or the strongest. He knew he was not the best looking, that he didn’t have any wealth, and that he didn’t come from a noble and illustrious family. And yet Darius had always had heart, conviction, passion, and a determination, one which he felt was stronger than others. Somehow, he always felt that that would carry him through, and even enable him to rise above other boys and other men, even those supposedly better than he. He felt things more deeply, and he refused to see himself as others saw him. He had insisted in his mind on painting a strong mental image of himself, as a hero, as a leader of men, and on clinging to it, regardless of how others tried to keep him down. They could crush his body, but they could never crush his spirit—and they could never touch his imagination. And his imagination, he felt, was what was most precious of all. It was the ability to see himself as someone else, to see him rising above his position. And it was that very sight—not size, not strength, not wealth, not power—that enabled him to do it.