A Vow of Glory. Morgan Rice

It now bore the emblem of Andronicus, burned into his flesh.

      Andronicus leaned forward, looked down at the unconscious McCloud, and admired the handiwork.

      "Welcome to the Empire."

      Chapter Two

      Erec stood atop the hill at the forest’s edge and watched the small army approach, and his heart filled with fire. He was born for a day like this. In some battles, the line blurred between just and unjust – but not on this day. The Lord from Baluster had stolen his bride unashamedly, and had been boastful and unapologetic. He had been made aware of his crime, had been given a chance to make wrongs right, and had refused to rectify his errors. He had brought his woes upon himself. His men should have let it alone – especially now that he was dead.

      But there they rode, hundreds of them, paid mercenaries to this lesser lord – all bent on killing Erec solely because they had been paid by this man. They charged toward him in their shiny green armor, and as they neared they let out a battle cry. As if that might scare him.

      Erec was unafraid. He had seen too many battles like this. If he had learned anything in all his years of training, it was to never fear when he fought on the side of the just. Justice, he was taught, may not always prevail – but it gave its bearer the strength of ten men.

      It was not fear Erec felt as he saw the hundreds of men approach, knowing he would likely die on this day. It was expectation. He had been given a chance to meet his death in the most honorable way, and that was a gift. He had taken a vow of glory, and today, his vow was demanding its due.

      Erec drew his sword and charged down the slope on foot, sprinting for the army as it charged him. At this moment he wished more than ever that he had his trusted horse, Warkfin, to ride with into battle – but he felt a sense of peace knowing Warfkin was bringing Alistair back to Savaria, to the safety of the Duke's court.

      As he neared the soldiers, hardly fifty yards away, Erec picked up speed, sprinting for the lead knight in the center. They did not slow, and neither did he, and he braced himself for the clash to come.

      Erec knew he had one advantage: three hundred men could not physically fit close enough to all attack one man at the same time; he knew from his training that at most six men on horseback could get close enough to attack a man at once. The way Erec saw it, that meant his odds were not three hundred to one – but only six to one. As long as he could kill the six men in front of him at all times, he had a chance to win. It was just a matter of whether he had the stamina to make it through.

      As Erec charged down the hill, he drew from his waist the one weapon he knew would be best: a flail with a chain ten yards long, at the end of which was a spiked, metal ball. It was a weapon meant for laying a trap on the road – or for a situation just like this.

      Erec waited until the last moment, until the army did not have time to react, then spun the flail high overhead and hurled it across the battlefield. He aimed for a small tree, and the spiked chain spread out across the battlefield; as the ball wrapped around it, Erec tucked into a roll and hit the ground, avoiding the spears about to be hurled at him, and held on to the shaft with all his might.

      He timed it perfectly: there was no time for the army to react. They saw it at the last second and tried to pull up on their horses – but they were going too fast, and there wasn’t time.

      The entire front line ran into it, the spiked chain cutting through all the horses’ legs, sending the riders falling face-first down to the ground, the horses landing on top of them. Dozens of them were crushed in the chaos.

      Erec had no time to be proud of the damage he had done: another flank of the army turned and bore down on him, charging with a battle cry, and Erec rolled to his feet to meet them.

      As the lead knight raised a javelin, Erec took advantage of what he had: he did not have a horse, and could not meet these men at their height, but since he was low, he could use the ground beneath him. Erec suddenly dove down to the ground, tucked into a roll, raised his sword, and sliced off the legs of the man's horse. The horse buckled and the soldier did a face plant before he had a chance to let go of his weapon.

      Erec continued to roll, and managed to miss the stampeding feet of the horses around him, who had to part ways to avoid running into the downed horse. Many did not succeed, tripping over the dead animal, and dozens more horses crashed down to the ground, raising a cloud of dust and causing a logjam amongst the army.

      It was exactly what Erec had hoped for: dust and confusion, dozens more falling to the ground.

      Erec jumped to his feet, raised his sword and blocked a sword coming down for his head. He spun and blocked a javelin, then a lance, then an ax. He defended the blows that rained down on him from all sides, but knew he could not keep this up forever. He had to be on the attack if he were to stand any chance.

      Erec tucked into a roll, came out of it, took a knee, and hurled his sword as if it were a spear. It flew through the air and into the chest of his closest attacker; his eyes opened wide and he fell sideways, dead, off his horse.

      Erec took the opportunity to jump onto the man's horse, snatching his flail from his hands before he died. It was a fine flail, and Erec had singled him out for this reason; it had a long, studded silver shaft and a four-foot chain, with three spiked balls at the end of it. Erec pulled back and swung it high overhead, smashing the weapons from the hands of several opponents at once; then he swung again and knocked them from their horses.

      Erec surveyed the battlefield and saw that he had done considerable damage, with nearly a hundred knights downed. But the others, at least two hundred of them, were regrouping and charging him now – and they were all determined.

      Erec rode out to meet them, one man charging two hundred, and raised a great battle cry of his own, raising his flail ever higher, and praying to God that his strength would only hold.

* * *

      Alistair cried as she held onto Warkfin with all her might, the horse galloping, taking her down the too-familiar road to Savaria. She had been screaming and kicking at the beast the whole way, trying with everything she had to get it to turn around, to ride back to Erec. But it would not listen. She had never encountered any horse like this one before – it listened unwaveringly to its master's command and would not waver. Clearly, it was set on bringing her exactly where Erec had commanded it to – and she finally resigned herself to the fact that there was nothing she could do about it.

      Alistair had mixed feelings as she rode back through the city gates, a city in which she had lived so long as an indentured servant. On the one hand, it felt familiar – but on the other, it brought back memories of the innkeeper who had oppressed her, of everything that was wrong about this place. She had so looked forward to moving on, to moving out of here with Erec and beginning a new life over with him. While she felt safe within its gates, she also felt an increasing foreboding for Erec, out there alone, facing that army. The thought of it made her sick.

      Realizing that Warkfin would not turn around, she knew her next best bet was to get help for Erec. Erec had asked her to stay here, within the safety of these gates – but that was the last thing she would ever do. She was a king's daughter, after all, and she was not one to run from fear or from confrontation. Erec had found his match in her: she was as noble and as determined as he. And there was no way she would ever live with herself if anything happened to him back there.

      Knowing this royal city well, Alistair directed Warkfin to the Duke's castle – and now that they were within the gates, the animal listened. She rode to the castle entrance, dismounted, and ran past the attendants who tried to stop her. She brushed off their grasp and raced down the marble corridors she had learned so well as a servant.

      Alistair put her shoulders into the large royal doors to the chamber hall, crashed them open, and barged into the Duke’s private chamber.

      Several council members turned to look at her, all wearing royal robes, the Duke seated in the center with several knights around him. They all wore astonished expressions; she had clearly interrupted some important business.

      "Who are you, woman?” one called out.

      “Who dares interrupt the Duke’s official