A Cry of Honor by Morgan Rice
“It could have been anyone,” Fulton said.
Gwen slowly lowered her dagger.
“Bring me to him. Now!” she ordered.
The barkeep lowered his head in humility this time, and turned and hurried through a side door behind the bar. Gwen followed on his heels, Akorth and Fulton joining her.
Gwen entered the small back room of the tavern and heard herself gasp as she saw her brother, Godfrey, laid out on the floor, supine. He looked more pale than she had ever seen him. He looked a step away from death. It was all true.
Gwen rushed to his side, grasped his hand and felt how cold and clammy it was. He did not respond, his head lying on the floor, unshaven, greasy hair clinging to his forehead. But she felt his pulse, and while weak, it was still beating; she also saw his chest rise with each breath. He was alive.
She felt a sudden rage well up within her.
“How you could leave him here like this?” she screamed, wheeling to the barkeep. “My brother, a member of the royal family, left alone to lie like a dog on the floor while he’s dying?”
The barkeep gulped, looking nervous.
“And what else was I supposed to do, my lady?” he asked, sounding unsure. “This is not a hospital. Everyone said he was basically dead and—”
“He is not dead!” she screamed. “And you two,” she said, turning to Akorth and Fulton, “what kind of friends are you? Would he have left you like this?”
Akorth and Fulton exchanged a meekish glance.
“Forgive me,” Akorth said. “The doctor came last night and looked at him and said he was dying—and that all that was left was for time to take him. I didn’t think anything could be done.”
“We stayed with him most the night, my lady,” Fulton added, “at his side. We just took a quick break, had a drink to pass our sorrows, and then you came in and—”
Gwen reached up and in a rage swatted both of their mugs from their hands, sending their cups of ale flying to the floor, the liquid spilling everywhere. They looked up at her, shocked.
“Each of you, grab one end of him,” she ordered coldly, standing, feeling a new strength rise within her. “You will carry him from this place. You will follow me across all of King’s Court until we reach the Royal Healer. My brother will be given a chance for real recovery, and will not be left to die based on the proclamation of some dim-witted doctor.
“And you,” she added, turning to the barkeep. “If my brother should live, and if he should ever return to this place and you agree to serve him a drink, I shall see to it firsthand that you are thrown in the dungeon never to come out.”
The barkeep shifted in place and lowered his head.
“Now move!” she screamed.
Akorth and Fulton flinched, and jumped into action. Gwen hurried from the room, the two of them right behind her, carrying her brother, following her out the bar and into daylight.
They began to hurry down the crowded back streets of King’s Court, towards the healer, and Gwen only prayed that it was not too late.
CHAPTER THREE
Thor galloped across the dusty terrain of the outer reaches of King’s Court, Reece, O’Connor, Elden and the twins by his side, Krohn racing beside him, Kendrick, Kolk, Brom and scores of Legion and Silver riding with them, a great army heading west to meet the McClouds. They rode as one, heading east to liberate the city, and the sound of hooves was deafening, rumbling like thunder. They had been riding all day, and already the second sun was long in the sky. Thor could hardly believe he was riding with these great warriors, on his first real military mission. He felt that they had accepted him as one of theirs. Indeed, the entire Legion had been called up as reserves, and his brothers in arms rode all around him. The Legion members were dwarfed by the thousands of members of the king’s army, and Thor, for the first time in his life, felt a part of something greater than himself.
Thor also felt a driving sense of purpose. He felt needed. His fellow citizens were under siege by the McClouds, and it was left to them to liberate them, to save his people from a horrible fate. The importance of what they were doing weighed on him like a living thing—and it made him feel alive.
Thor felt security in the presence of all these men, but he also felt a sense of worry, too: this was an army of real men, but that also meant that they were about to face an army of real men. Real, hardened warriors. It was life and death this time, and there was far more at stake here than he had ever encountered. As he rode, he reached down instinctively and felt reassured by the presence of his trusted sling, by the presence of his new sword. He wondered if by the day’s end it would be stained with blood. Or if he himself would be wounded.
Their army suddenly let out a great shout, louder even than the horses’ hooves, as they rounded a bend and on the horizon spotted for the first time the besieged city. Black smoke rose up in great clouds from it, and the MacGil army kicked their horses, gaining speed. Thor, too, kicked his horse harder, trying to keep up with the others as they all drew their swords, raised their weapons, and headed for the city with deadly intent.
The massive army was broken down into smaller groups, and in Thor’s group their rode ten soldiers, legion members, his friends and a few others he did not know. At their head rode one of the king’s army’s senior commanders, a soldier the others called Forg, a tall, thin man with a wiry build, pockmarked skin, cropped, gray hair and dark, hollow eyes. The army was breaking down into smaller groups and forking in every direction.
“This group, follow me!” he commanded, gesturing with his staff for Thor and the others to fork off and follow his lead.
Thor’s group followed orders and fell in behind him; as they went, he found they were forking farther away from the main army. Thor looked back and noticed that his group forked farther than most, the army becoming more distant, and just as Thor was wondering where they were being lead, Forg shouted:
“We will take up a position on the McCloud flank!”
Thor and the others exchanged a nervous and excited look as they all charged, forking until the main army was out of sight.
Soon they were in a new terrain, and the city fell out of sight completely. Thor was on guard, but there was no sign of the McCloud army anywhere.
Finally, Forg pulled his horse to a stop before a small hill, in a grove of trees. The others came to a stop behind him.
Thor and the others looked at Forg, wondering why he had stopped.
“That keep there, that is our mission,” Forg explained. “You are young warriors still, so we want to spare you from the heat of battle. You will hold this position as our main army sweeps through the city and confronts the army. It is unlikely any McCloud soldiers will come this way, and you will be mostly safe here. Take positions around it, and stay here until we say otherwise. Now move!”
Forg kicked his horse and charged up the hill, and Thor and the others did the same, following him. The small group rode across the dusty plains, kicking up a cloud, with no one in site as far as Thor could see. He felt disappointed to be removed from the main action; why were they all being so sheltered?
The more they rode, the more something felt off to Thor. He couldn’t place it, but his sixth sense was telling him that something was wrong.
As they neared the hilltop, atop which sat a small, ancient keep, a tall, skinny tower that looked abandoned, something within Thor told him to look behind him. As he did, he saw Forg. Thor was surprised to see that Forg had gradually dropped behind the group, gaining more and more distance, and as Thor watched, Forg turned around, kicked his horse and without warning, galloped the other way.
Thor could not understand what was happening. Why had Forg left them so suddenly? Beside him, Krohn whined.
Just as Thor was beginning to process what was happening, they reached the hilltop, reached the ancient keep, expecting to see nothing but wasteland before them.
But the small group of legion members pulled their horses to an abrupt stop. They sat there, all o
There, facing them, waiting, was the entire McCloud army.
They had need led right into a trap.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gwendolyn hurried through the winding streets of King’s Court, Akorth and Fulton carrying Godfrey behind her, pushing her way as she cut a path through the common folk. She was determined to reach the healer as soon as possible. Godfrey could not die, not after all they had been through, and not like this. She could almost see Gareth’s self-satisfied smile as he received news of Godfrey’s death—and she was intent on changing the outcome. She only wished she had found him sooner.
As Gwen turned a corner and marched into the city square, the crowds became particularly thick, and she looked up and saw Firth, still swinging from a beam, the noose tight around his neck, dangling for all to gawk at. She instinctively turned away. It was an awful site, a reminder of her brother’s villainy. She felt she could not escape his reach, wherever she turned. It was odd to think that just the day before she had been talking to Firth—and now he hung here. She couldn’t help but feel that death was closing in all around her, and was coming for her, too.
As much as Gwen wanted to turn away, to choose another route, she knew that heading through the square was the most direct way, and she would not shirk from her fears; she forced herself to march right past the beam, right past the hanging body in her way. As she did, she was surprised to see the royal executioner, dressed in black robes, blocking her way.
At first she thought he was going to kill her, too—until he bowed.
“My lady,” he said humbly, lowering his head in deference. “Royal orders have not yet been given as to what to do with the body. I have not been instructed whether to give him a proper burial or throw him in a mass pauper’s grave.”
Gwen stopped, annoyed that this should fall on her shoulders; Akorth and Fulton stopped right beside her. She looked up, squinted in the sun, looking at the body dangling just feet from her, and she was about to move on and ignore the man, when something occurred to her. She wanted justice for her father.
“Throw him in a mass grave,” she said. “Unmarked. Give him no special rites of burial. I want his name forgotten from the annals of history.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and she felt a small sense of vindication. After all, this man had been the one who had actually killed her father. While she hated displays of violence, she shed no tears for Firth. She could feel her father’s spirit with her now, stronger than ever, and felt a sense of peace from him.
“And one more thing,” she added, stopping the executioner. “Take down the body now.”
“Now, my lady?” the executioner asked. “But the king gave orders for it to hang indefinitely.”
Gwen shook her head.
“Now,” she repeated. “Those are his new orders,” she lied.
The executioner bowed and hurried off to cut down the corpse.
Gwen felt another small sense of vindication. She had no doubt that Gareth was checking on Firth’s body out his window throughout the day—its removal would vex him, would serve as a reminder that things would not always go as he planned.
Gwen was about to go when she heard a distinctive screech; she stopped and turned, and up high, perched on the beam, she saw Estopheles. She raised her hand to her eye to shield the sun, trying to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Estopheles screeched again and opened her wings, then closed them.
Gwen could feel the bird bore the spirit of her father. His soul, so restless, was one step closer to peace.
Gwen suddenly had an idea; she whistled and held out one arm, and Estopheles swooped down off her perch and landed on Gwen’s wrist. The weight of the bird was heavy, and her claws dug into Gwen’s skin.
“Go to Thor,” she whispered to the bird. “Find him on the battlefield. Protect him. GO!” she screamed, lifting her arm.
She watched as Estopheles flapped her wings and soared, higher and higher into the sky. She prayed it would work. There was something mysterious about that bird, especially its connection to Thor, and Gwen knew that anything was possible.
Gwen continued on, hurrying through the winding streets towards the healer’s cottage. They passed through one of several arched gates heading out of the city, and she moved as fast as she could, praying that Godfrey hung in there long enough for them to get help.
The second sun dipped lower in the sky by the time they climbed a small hill on the outskirts of King’s Court and the healer’s cottage came into view. It was a simple, one-room cottage, its white walls made of clay, with one small window on each side and a small, arched oak door in front. Hanging from its roof were plants of every color and variety, framing the cottage—which was also surrounded by a sprawling herb garden, flowers of every color and size making the cottage look as if it were dropped into the midst of a greenhouse.
Gwen ran to the door, slammed the knocker several times. The door opened, and before her appeared the startled face of the healer.
Illepra. She had been healer to the royal family her entire life, and had been a presence in Gwen’s life ever since she could walk. Yet still, Illepra managed to look young—in fact, she barely looked older than Gwen. Her skin positively glowed, radiant, framing her kind, green eyes and making her seem to be hardly more than 18 years. Gwen knew she was a good deal older than that, knew that her appearance was deceiving, and she also knew that Illepra was one of the smartest and most talented people she had ever met.
Illepra’s eyes shifted to Godfrey as she took in the scene at once. She did away with pleasantries as her eyes opened wide with concern, realizing the urgency. She brushed past Gwen and hurried to Godfrey’s side, laying a palm of his forehead. She frowned.
“Bring him in,” she ordered the two men, hastily, “and be quick about it.”
Illepra went back inside, opening the door further, and they followed on her heels as they rushed into the cottage. Gwen followed them in, ducking at the low entrance, and closed the door behind them.
It was dim in here, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust; when they did, she saw the cottage exactly as she had remembered it as a young girl: small, light, clean, and overflowing with plants, herbs and potions of every variety.
“Set him down there,” Illepra ordered the men, as serious as Gwen had ever heard her. “On that bed, in the corner. Remove his shirt and shoes. Then leave us.”
Akorth and Fulton did as they were told. As they were hurrying out the door, Gwen grabbed Akorth’s arm.
“Stand guard outside the door,” she ordered. “Whoever came after Godfrey might want a chance at him still. Or at me.”
Akorth nodded and he and Fulton exited, closing the door behind them.
“How long has he been like this?” Illepra asked urgently, not looking at Gwen as she knelt at Godfrey’s side and began to feel his wrist, his stomach, his throat.
“Since last night,” Gwen answered.
“Last night!” Illepra echoed, shaking her head in concern. She examined him for a long time in silence, her expression darkening.
“It’s not good,” she said finally.
She placed a palm on his forehead again and this time closed her eyes, breathing for a very long time. A thick silence pervaded the room, and Gwen was beginning to lose her sense of time.
“Poison,” Illepra finally whispered, her eyes still closed, as if reading his condition through osmosis.
Gwen always marveled at her skill; she had never been wrong once, not in her lifetime. And she had saved more lives than the army had taken. She wondered if it was a learned skill or if it was inherited; she knew that Illepra’s mother had been a healer, and her mother before her. Yet at the same time, Illepra had spent every waking minute of her life studying potions and the healing arts.
“A very powerful poison,” Illepra added, more confident. “One I encounter rarely. A very expensive one. Whoever was trying to kill him knew what he was doing.
“He gets it from my father,” Gwen said. “He had the constitution of a bull. All the MacGil kings did.”
Illepra crossed the room and mixed several herbs on a wooden block, chopping and grinding them and adding a liquid as she did. The finished product was a thick, green salve, and she filled her palm, hurried back to Godfrey’s side, and applied it up and down his throat, under his arms, on his forehead. When she finished, she crossed the room again, took a glass and poured several liquids, one red, one brown and one purple. As they blended, the potion hissed and bubbled. She stirred it with a long, wooden spoon, then hurried back to Godfrey and applied it to his lips.
Godfrey did not budge; Illepra reached behind his head and lifted it with her palm, and forced the liquid into his mouth. Most of it spilled down the side of his cheeks, but some of it went down his throat.
Illepra dabbed the liquid from his mouth and jaw, then finally leaned back and sighed.
“Will he live?” Gwen asked, frantic.
“He might,” she said, somber. “I have given him everything I have, but it won’t be enough. His life is in the hand of the fates. Only the gods can say now.”
“What can I do?” Gwen asked.
She turned and stared at Gwen.
“Pray for him. It will be a long night indeed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Kendrick had never appreciated what freedom was like—true freedom—until this day. The time he had spent locked away in the dungeon had shifted his view on life. Now he appreciated every little thing—the feel of the sun, the wind in his hair, just being outside. Charging on a horse, feeling the earth speeding by beneath him, being back in armor, having his weaponry back, and riding alongside his brothers in arms made him feel as if he had been shot out of a cannon, made him feel a recklessness which he had never experienced before.