A Sky of Spells

“Are you happy to be home?” Reece asked. “To be free?”

Conven turned and stared at him blankly.

“I’m not home. And I’m not free. My brother is dead. And I have no right to live without him.”

Reece felt a chill run through him at his words. Clearly, Conven was still overwhelmed with grief; he wore it like a badge of honor. Conven was more like the walking dead, his eyes blank. Reece recalled them once filled with joy. Reece could see that his mourning was deep, and he had the sinking feeling that it might not ever lift from him. Reece wondered what would become of Conven. For the first time, he did not think anything good.

They marched and marched, and hours passed, and they reached yet another battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with corpses. Illepra and Selese and the others fanned out, going corpse to corpse, turning them over, looking for any sign of Godfrey.

“I see a lot more MacGils on this field,” Illepra said hopefully, “and no dragon’s breath. Maybe Godfrey is here.”

Reece looked up and saw the thousands of corpses and wondered, even if he was here, if they could ever find him.

Reece spread out and went corpse to corpse, as did the others, turning each over. He saw all the faces of his people, face to face, some he recognized and some he didn’t, people he had known and fought with, people who had fought for his father. Reece marveled at the devastation that had descended on his homeland, like a plague, and he earnestly hoped that it was all finally passed. He’d seen his fill of battles and wars and corpses to last a lifetime. He was ready to settle down into a life of peace, to heal, to rebuild again.

“HERE!” shouted Indra, her voice filled with excitement. She stood over a body and stared down.

Illepra turned and came running over, and all of them gathered around. She knelt beside the body, and tears flooded her face. Reece knelt down beside her and gasped to see his brother.

Godfrey.

His big belly sticking out, unshaven, his eyes closed, too pale, his hands blue with cold, he looked dead.

Illepra leaned over and shook him, again and again; he did not respond.

“Godfrey! Please! Wake up! It’s me! Illepra! GODFREY!”

She shook him again and again, but he did not rouse. Finally, frantically, she turned to the others, scanning their belts.

“Your wine sack!” she demanded to O’Connor.

O’Connor fumbled at his waist and hastily removed it and handed it to Illepra.

She took it and held it over Godfrey’s face and squirted it on his lips. She lifted his head, opened his mouth, and squirted some on his tongue.

There came a sudden response, as Godfrey licked his lips, and swallowed.

He coughed, then sat up, grabbed the sack, eyes still closed, and squirted it, drinking more and more, until he sat all the way up. He slowly opened his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around, confused and disoriented, and belched.

Illepra cried out with joy, leaning over and giving him a big hug.

“You survived!” she exclaimed.

Reece sighed with relief as his brother looked around, confused, but very much alive.

Elden and Serna each grabbed Godfrey under the shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. Godfrey stood there, wobbly at first, and he took another long drink from the sack and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Godfrey looked around, bleary-eyed.

“Where am I?” he asked. He reached up and rubbed his head, which had a large welt, and his eyes squinted in pain.

Illepra studied the wound expertly, running her hand along it, and the dried blood in his hair.

“You’ve received a wound,” she said. “But you can be proud: you’re alive. You’re safe.”

Godfrey wobbled, and the others caught him.

“It is not serious,” she said, examining it, “but you will need to rest.”

She removed a bandage from her waist and began to wrap it around his head, again and again. Godfrey winced, and looked over at her. Then he looked about and surveyed all the corpses, eyes opening wide.

“I’m alive,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

“You made it,” Reece said, clasping his older brother’s shoulder happily. “I knew you would.”

Illepra embraced him, hugging him, and slowly, he hugged her back.

“So this is what it feels like to be a hero,” Godfrey observed, and the others laughed. “Give me more drink like this,” he added, “and maybe I’ll do it more often.”

Godfrey took another long swig, and finally he began to walk with them, leaning on Illepra, one shoulder around her, as she helped him balance.

“Where are the others?” Godfrey asked as they went.

“We don’t know,” Reece said. “Somewhere west, I hope. That’s where we’re heading. We march for King’s Court. To see who lives.”

Reece gulped as he uttered the words. He looked off into the horizon, and prayed that his countrymen had met a similar fate to Godfrey. He thought of Thor, of his sister Gwendolyn, of his brother Kendrick, of so many others that he loved. But he knew that the bulk of the Empire army still lay ahead, and judging from the number of dead and wounded he’d already seen, he had a sinking feeling that the worst was still to come.

Chapter Eight

Thorgrin, Kendrick, Erec, Srog and Bronson stood as a unified wall against the Empire army, their people behind them, weapons drawn, preparing to face the onslaught of Empire troops. Thor knew this would be his death charge, his final battle in life, yet he had no regrets. He would die here, facing the enemy, on his feet, sword in hand, his brothers in arms at his side, defending his homeland. He would be given a chance to make up for what he had done, for facing his own people in battle. There was nothing more he could ask for in life.

Thor thought of Gwendolyn, and he only wished that he had more time for her sake. He prayed that Steffen had brought her safely out and that she was safe back there, behind the lines. He felt determined to fight with all he had, to kill as many Empire as he could, just to prevent them from harming her.

As Thor stood there he could feel his brothers’ solidarity, all of them unafraid, standing there valiantly, holding their ground. These were the finest men of the kingdom, the finest knights of the Silver, MacGils, Silesians – all of them unified, none of them backing away in fear, despite the odds. All of them were prepared to give up their lives to defend their homeland. They all valued honor and freedom more than life.

Thor heard Empire horns, up and down the lines, watched their divisions of countless men line up in precise units. These were disciplined soldiers he was facing, soldiers with merciless commanders, who had fought their whole lives. It was a well-oiled machine, trained to carry on in the face of their leader’s death. A new nameless Empire commander stepped up, and led the troops. There numbers were vast, endless, and Thor knew there was no way they could defeat them with so few men. But that mattered not anymore. It did not matter if they died. All that mattered was how they died. They would die on their feet, as men, in a final clash of valor.

“Shall we wait for them to come to us?” Erec asked aloud. “Or shall we offer them the greeting of the MacGils?”

Thor smiled, along with the others. There was nothing like a smaller army charging a larger one. It was reckless, yet it was also the height of courage.

As one, Thor and his men all suddenly let out a battle cry, and they all charged. They raced on foot, hurrying to bridge the gap between the two armies, their battle cries filling the air, their men following close on their heels. Thor held his sword high, running beside his brothers, his heart thumping, a cold gust of wind brushing his face. This was what battle felt like. It reminded him what it felt like to be alive.

The two armies charged, racing as fast as they could to kill each other. In moments they met in the middle, in a tremendous clang of weapons.

Thor slashed every which way, hurling himself into the front row of Empire soldiers, who wielded long spears, pikes, lances. Thor slashed the first pike he encountered in half, then stabbed the soldier through the gut.

Thor ducked and weaved as multiple lances came his way; he swung his sword, whirling in every direction, slicing all the weapons in half with a splintering noise and kicking and elbowing each soldier out of his way. He backhanded several more with his gauntlet, kicked another in the groin, elbowed one in the jaw, head-butted another, stabbed another, and spun and slashed another. The quarters were close, and it was hand to hand, and Thor was a one-man machine, cutting his way through the vastly superior force.