A Cry of Honor

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 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 and 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 gaze 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 wider, 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; 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. It is incredible he did not die. This one must be stronger than we think.”

“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.”

“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.

Kendrick galloped, leaning low into the wind, his close friend Atme at his side, so grateful for the chance to fight with his brothers, to not miss this battle, and eager to liberate his home city from the McClouds – and to make them pay for invading. He rode with an urge for bloodshed, though even as he rode he knew that the real target of his wrath was not the McClouds but his brother, Gareth. He would never forgive him for imprisoning him, for accusing him of his father’s murder, for taking him away in front of his men – and for attempting to execute him. Kendrick wanted vengeance on Gareth – but since he could not have it, at least not today, he would take it out on the McClouds.

When Kendrick returned to King’s Court, though, he would settle things. He would do whatever he could to oust his brother and instill his sister Gwendolyn as the new ruler.

They neared the sacked city and huge, billowing black clouds rolled towards them, filling Kendrick’s nostrils with acrid smoke. It pained him to see a MacGil city like this. If his father had still been alive, this would have never happened; if Gareth had not succeeded him, this would have never have happened either. It was a disgrace, a stain on the honor of the MacGils and The Silver. Kendrick prayed they were not too late to rescue these people, that the McClouds had not been here too long, and that not too many people had been injured or killed.

He kicked his horse harder, riding out in front of the others, as they all charged, like a swarm of bees, towards the open-gate entrance to the city. They stormed through, Kendrick drawing his sword, preparing to encounter a host of the McCloud enemy as they charged into the city. He let out a great shout, as did all the men around him, steeling himself for impact.

But as he passed through the gate and into the dusty square of the city, he was stumped by what he saw: nothing. All around him were the telltale signs of an invasion – destruction, fires, looted homes, corpses piled, women crawling. There were animals killed, blood on the walls. It had been a massacre. The McClouds had ravaged these innocent folk. The thought of it made Kendrick sick. They were cowards.

But what stumped Kendrick as he rode was that the McClouds were nowhere in sight. He could not understand it. It was as if the entire army had evacuated deliberately, as if they had known they were coming. Fires were still alight, and it was clear that they had been lit with a purpose.

It was beginning to dawn on Kendrick that this was all a decoy. That the McClouds had wanted to lure the MacGil army to this place.

But why?

Kendrick suddenly spun, looked around, desperate to see if any of his men were missing, if any contingent had been lured away, to another spot. His mind was flooding with a new sense, a sense that this had all been arranged to cordon off a group of his men, to ambush them. He looked everywhere, wondering who was missing.

And then it hit him. One person was missing. His squire.

Thor.

Chapter Six

Thor sat on his horse, atop the hill, the group of Legion members and Krohn beside him, and looked out at the startling sight before him: as far as the eye could see were McCloud troops, sitting on horseback, a vast and sprawling army, awaiting them. They had been set up. Forg must have led them here on purpose, must have betrayed them. But why?

Thor swallowed, looking out at what appeared to be their sure death.

A great battle cry rose up as the McCloud army suddenly charged them. They were but a few hundred yards away, and closing in fast. Thor glanced back over his shoulder, but there were no reinforcements as far as he could see. They were completely alone.

Thor knew they had no other choice but to make a last stand here, on this small hill, beside this deserted keep. They were impossible odds, and there was no way they could win. But if he was going to go down, he would go down bravely and face them all like a man. The Legion had taught him that much. Running was not an option; Thor prepared himself to face his death.

Thor turned and looked at his friends’ faces, and he could see they, too, were pale with fear; he saw death in their eyes. But to all of their credit, they remained brave. Not one of them flinched, even though their horses pranced, or made a move to turn and run. The Legion was one unit now. They were more than friends: the Hundred had forged them into one team of brothers. Not one of them would leave the other. They had all taken a vow, and their honor was at stake. And to the Legion, honor was more sacred than blood.

“Gentlemen, I do believe we have a fight before us,” Reece announced slowly, as he reached over and drew his sword.