Reece backhanded one with his gauntlet and kicked another, while Srog head-butted one and Matus ducked as an attacker swung a mace for his head, then rose up and sliced his stomach.
Within moments the group of soldiers blocking the jetty was down, as Reece and the others blew past them like a storm.
A horn sounded, and Reece turned to see that Tirus’s other men—hundreds of them—had spotted them. There rose a great battle cry on the beach, as the men turned and began racing for them.
“The rope!” Stara shouted.
Reece ran over to the huge coil of rope nearby and hoisted it over his shoulder; it was heavier than he’d imagined. Matus rushed over and helped him, and they hoisted it together as they all ran down the jetty, the four of them running as fast as they could. Stara brought up the rear, and she stopped, turned, raised her bow, and fired six shots in procession, taking out six of the closest soldiers, the bodies piling up at the base the jetty.
They all, gasping for air, finally reached the edge of the jetty. Waves crashed all around them, foam spraying up over their feet. Reece lost his footing for a moment, and Stara reached out and steadied him. Beside them, Srog and Matus hurried to tie the rope to the end of one of Stara’s arrows.
“The warning sign first!” Reece called out, reminding Stara.
Stara took three arrows from a closed quiver wrapped around her back. These were wrapped with an oil-soaked cloth, prepared in advance, as all good archers did, in their own separate quiver. Out of the quiver she also removed the dry flint rocks and struck them together, creating sparks. She did it again and again, the sparks not catching in the rain. Reece turned to see Tirus’s men storming the jetty. He knew their time was short.
“Come on!” Reece cried.
Finally, the cloth sparked, and all three arrows lit up.
“Shoot them up high!” Reece said. “Nearly straight overhead! But angle a little toward the ships! That is the sign!”
Stara fired the three flaming arrows in quick succession, and they shot up, close to each other, perfect shots. It was the flame of the falcon’s claws, high up in the sky, the ancient sign of the MacGils, and any good commander watching the skies would see. Reece was relieved to see that the arrows stayed aflame for a good five seconds, until finally, all three fizzled out.
“The rope!” Matus said. “Fire it now!”
Stara took up the rope and arrow, aiming high, long distance for the ship.
“We’ve got one shot at this,” Reece said to her. “Do not miss.”
She turned and looked at him, and he was struck by how beautiful her face was in the rain, how proud, how noble—how fearless. He stared back at her and nodded reassuringly.
“You can do this,” he said. “I have faith in you.”
She nodded back.
Stara turned and fired, and they all watched, Reece holding his breath, as the arrow sailed up high, arching through the air. Reece knew that if it fell short, they would all be finished.
Finally, in the distance, Reece heard the satisfying thunk of arrow piercing wood, and as Reece saw the rope stiffen below, he knew she had hit: the arrow was lodged in the ship. The rope uncoiled as it sailed through the air, and there were but a few feet of it left as it finally lodged into its resting place.
Reece turned and saw hundreds of Tirus’s men shouting, too close now, drawing their swords and bows and closing in on them.
“The water’s not getting any warmer!” Matus cried out, looking down at the churning sea.
As one, the four them of them grabbed hold of the rope and jumped off the rocks and into the foaming sea.
Reece was shocked at how cold the water was; he struggled to catch his breath as he swallowed a mouthful of salty seawater, bobbing up and down in the raging ocean. He held onto the rope, not letting go no matter what, and he pulled himself up, one foot at a time, heading toward the distant boat.
Reece pulled hard and fast, along with the others, and they all began to move their way through the water, with each pull getting farther from shore and closer to the ship.
Reece heard the muted shouts of Tirus’s men on the shore behind them, and then he heard another noise which disturbed him—the noise of an arrow piercing water. The noise came again, and again, and Reece looked over to see arrows sailing through the air, piercing the water on either sides of him. He realized that Tirus’s men were firing on them.
Reece heard a scream in his ear. Stara. He looked over and saw her leg pierced by an arrow, the arrow protruding from her thigh. He looked back and saw a host of arrows airborne, whizzing by their head.
Srog cried out next, and Reece saw that he, too, was pierced by an arrow.
Reece knew he had to do something fast. He reached out and grabbed Stara, draping one arm around her as she flailed.
“Hang on to me tight,” he said.
He positioned his body over hers so that he was between her and the shore, putting himself in the path of the fire. Then, as she hung on, he pulled the rope for them both.
Reece shrieked as he suddenly felt an arrow pierce the side of his thigh. The pain was excruciating. But at least he took comfort in knowing that had he not been in its path, it would have hit Stara.
More and more arrows sailed by their heads, and Reece wondered how much longer they could keep this up, how much longer it would be until one of the arrows was fatal. He pulled for dear life, doubling his speed. Reece knew their situation was desperate; if they didn’t have help soon, they would all be dead.
Reece heard another noise, that of an arrow sailing over his head—but this time, from another direction. He looked up in surprise to see arrows flying overhead toward shore, launching from the Queen’s ship. At first Reece braced himself, thinking the Queen’s men were firing upon him. But then, as he saw more and more of them fly overhead, and as he heard the cries of Tirus’s men, he realized: the Queen’s men were coming to their aid.
Hundreds of arrows suddenly flew overhead from the Queen’s ship, killing Tirus’s men firing at them. Soon, the arrows from the shore stopped landing beside them.
Out of danger’s path, they pulled harder and harder in the churning sea—and soon, Reece felt a tug, and realized he was being pulled in by the Queen’s men. Dozens of sailors grabbed the ropes and yanked hard, and soon they were being pulled, faster and faster, right for the ship.
Bobbing desperately in the waves, gasping for air, all of them, wounded, reached the edge of the ship. A hand reached down for Reece, and as he grabbed it he looked up and saw one of his own, a MacGil from the mainland, eager to help.
The sailor looked down and smiled.
“Good to have you on board,” he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Romulus led the way, marching before his million-man army as they crested the final hill on the approach to King’s Court. As his horse reached the top, Luanda bound behind him, the vista opened up before him, and his heart soared with anticipation.
But Romulus was puzzled by what he saw. He had expected to see the city packed with people, had expected to catch his nemesis, Gwendolyn, unaware. He had expected to see all of her men, the Silver, the last bastion of strength of the Ring, conveniently assembled in one place for him to wipe out with his dragons. He had been looking forward to this moment, reliving it in his head, preparing to revel in this peak moment of his victory.
But Romulus was dumbfounded at what he saw before him. From here, he could see through the gates, into King’s Court, and he could not reconcile the image: it was empty.
Gwendolyn had fled. Somehow, she had known he was coming, he did not know how. She had outsmarted him once again.
“It cannot be,” Romulus said out loud, not understanding. Where could she have gone? How could she have known he was coming? Romulus had been meticulous about destroying everyone in his path—there was no way a messenger could have reached her. He had even made a point of keeping back his dragons, so that they would not hear their cries, not see the devasta
tion they had wrought.
Yet despite all of his preparations, all of his careful planning, somehow Gwendolyn had found out. How could she have evacuated this entire city so quickly?
His face flushed in rage. She had robbed him of his victory.
And most confusing of all: where could they have gone? The Ring was a finite space, he knew, and there was only so far they could go to hide.
Romulus, enraged, kicked his horse with a cry, and charged down the well-maintained road, right for the wide-open gates of King’s Court—left open as if to tantalize him. All of his men joined him, racing behind him, Luanda still bound behind him on his horse, as they rode right into the great city.
Romulus could barely contain his rage; his greatest moment of satisfaction had been stripped from him. He had been dreaming of destroying these gates himself, of murdering everyone in his path, of setting fire to the place and enjoying the screams of pain.
Now there was nothing for him to do but walk inside.
It did not feel like a victory at all. It felt like a defeat. Half the fun of taking a city was inflicting pain, torture, devastation. No, this was not a victory at all.
Romulus’s men cheered as they rode into the city, and the sound of their cries inflamed him even more; stupid idiots, celebrating a victory that they didn’t even achieve. Romulus could not stand it anymore.
Romulus jumped down from his horse, yanking Luanda down with him, stormed up to the first soldier he found, drew his sword, and chopped off his head. He then charged forward and chopped off another head; then another; then another.
Finally, his soldiers got the point. They all stopped their revelry and grew quiet as they made way for him. They lined up at attention, awaiting his command, trembling in fear. The courtyard of the city, just moments before so filled with glee, now had a pallor of death.
Romulus stood in the center of his men as they cleared a circle around him, and boomed out:
“There is no victory to celebrate, fools! On the contrary, you should be ashamed. You have all been outsmarted by a girl queen. She has evaded us, has rescued her people from our grasp. Is this cause to celebrate?”
His men stood still, not moving a muscle, as Romulus strode up and down the ranks, debating whether to kill some more of them. He had to vent his rage somehow. Not one of them stirred; they knew him too well.
Romulus, hands on his hips, turned and scanned the walls, scanned everywhere, hoping for a sign of somebody, of any life at all. But there was none. Where could they have gone?
A shrill cry pierced the air, followed by a flapping of wings; it grew louder, and soon over Romulus’s head there appeared his host of dragons. They circled furiously, they too enraged, their great talons hanging below them as they swooped down, then up, circling again and again, as if wanting to breathe fire on them all. Romulus could feel their rage at the lack of bloodshed. It was a rage he shared.
What sort of a victory would this be without death and destruction? What sort of a victory would it be without knowing that Gwendolyn was dead, crushed beneath his feet, and that all of her people were annihilated?
As Romulus wondered where Gwendolyn could be, suddenly he had an idea. Who else would know where that crafty girl would have gone, except one of her own?
Romulus looked over at Luanda; she stood several feet away, gagged, squirming against her ropes, her wrists and ankles still bound behind her back. Romulus rushed forward, raised his knife, and her eyes opened wide with fear as he came close.
But he reached out and sliced her binds, including her gag.
“Where is your sister?” Romulus demanded.
Luanda, free from her binds, rubbing her wrists, glared back.
“How should I know?” she said. “You’ve got me tied up like an animal. You filthy pig.”
Luanda reached back and smacked her palm across his face, a smack that echoed in front of all of his men. Romulus’s first impulse was to punch her back, and to hit her harder than she hit him. But he restrained himself. The smack actually felt good, shook him from his dark thoughts, and he admired her fiery spirit, the way she looked back at him with such venom. It actually made him smile: he loved seeing someone as filled with rage as himself.
“Tell me where she is,” he repeated slowly. “You know her. You know this place. Why did she leave? Where did she go?”
Luanda put her hands on her hips, looking all about King’s Court, as if debating.
“And if I did know,” she said, “why would I tell you?”
Romulus stared at her, his expression darkening. But he knew he needed her, and forced himself to use his most seductive voice.
He took a step closer to her and smiled, raising one hand and stroking her hair.
“Because I will make you my queen,” he said softly, his voice guttural. “You will be the most powerful woman in the Empire.”
He had expected her to gush in awe and gratitude; and yet instead, she surprised him: she scoffed.
“There is nothing I would rather less,” she spat. “I’d rather die first.”
He scowled.
“Then I will give you death,” he said. “Or whatever it is you want. If you do not wish to be my queen, then just tell me what you want—anything—and you shall have it.”
Luanda looked long and hard at him, as if summing him up, as if thinking. Finally, her eyes narrowed.
“What I want,” she said slowly, “is to be the one to kill my sister. I want her captured alive. I want her brought to me—to me personally—to beg for mercy.”
Romulus looked her up and down, shocked at her response. She was more like him than he’d thought. For the first time, he admired her.
Romulus smiled broadly. Maybe after all, he would indeed make her his queen—whether she liked it or not.
“Agreed,” he said.
Luanda took several steps forward, her back to him, and scanned the gates, the courtyard, the dusty ground, seeming to think it all over.
“If I know my sister,” she said, “she’s planned an escape route. She always plans ahead. She plans for everything. And she’s way too smart for you. If she wanted to save her people, she would not just plan to go elsewhere in the Ring—she would assume that eventually you would find her. So wherever it is she went, it would be outside the Ring. Across the Canyon. Probably across a sea. Likely her ships are setting sail right now.”
Romulus’s mind spun as he pondered her words. As she spoke them, instantly, he knew that she was right. Gwendolyn would do something like that. She wouldn’t just evacuate her people only to be found inside the Ring. How stupid he had been.
He looked at Luanda with a whole new respect. And he realized, if he was to stop Gwendolyn, there was little time left.
Romulus leaned back, craned his neck up to the heavens, and raised his palms.
“DRAGONS!” he shrieked. “TO THE CANYON!”
The dragons screeched in unison as Romulus commanded them. His men could not reach the Canyon crossing in time to stop her, or the sea—but his dragons could. They could fly out in front for him, a flying army, and eviscerate Gwendolyn before he reached her.
It would rob him of some satisfaction.
But it was better than none at all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Erec opened his eyes as the gentle rocking motion shook him from his sleep. He looked about, disoriented, trying to figure out where he was. In all his years as a warrior, he had never allowed himself to fall asleep, especially in a strange environment. It was a profoundly disorienting feeling for him to now awake and have no sense at all of where he was.
Erec blinked and realized he was lying on his back in a small boat, perhaps twenty feet long, a crude canvas sail attached to a mast. The boat rocked gently in the huge, rolling ocean waves, lifting them up and down, as if lulling them to sleep.
Erec looked up at the sky above them, in awe at its beauty. He looked up and saw open sky as far as the eye could see, the entire world coming alive in the su
nrise, one vast stretch of violet and pink and purple. A warm breeze stirred, and Erec breathed deep, comforted by the ocean air, and by the soft colors of the universe. It was the most peaceful scene he’d ever encountered, and Erec realized why he’d fallen asleep.
Erec looked down at the figure lying in his arms, and realized there was an even greater reason for his sense of peace: Alistair. Erec felt her body before he saw her, and he looked at her long blonde hair, spilling down to her waist, her beautiful profile, her perfectly sculpted face, her eyes closed as she slept gently, like an angel, on his chest. Lying on his back, with Alistair in his arms and the universe spread out before him, Erec had never felt more at ease. It was as if the entire universe had been created just for the two of them.
Erec thought back and remembered the events of the night before, and his heart pounded as he recalled his capture at the hands of those mercenaries, and Alistair’s nearly being attacked. He felt overwhelmed with guilt for being surprised like that, for not being able to defend her. He remembered Alistair’s powers, her summoning the storm, that monster, and his thoughts switched from fear to wonder. He gazed upon her angelic face, feeling the intense energy radiating off of her, and he knew she was not entirely of this earth. She was other-worldly. He wondered at the depth of the powers that coursed through her. He knew they were immense. Yet also, perhaps, unpredictable.
Though Erec was in awe of her, he was also perhaps, he had to admit, slightly afraid for her. What would her powers mean for their relationship? For their life together? For their children yet to come? Erec thought of how powerful Thorgrin was. Would Erec’s sons then be equally as powerful? His daughters? And would Alistair be able to love and respect him, even though he did not have the same powers as she?
And the most troubling thought of all: what if her powers somehow led to her demise? Did she have a shorter time to live?
Erec studied her face, and he felt overwhelmed with love for her, and gratitude toward her, and he prayed that she would live forever. He was looking forward to showing her off to his people, to their wedding to come. His joy at being with her, and his excitement to introduce her to his family, overshadowed even his grief for his father’s pending death.