A Rite of Swords. Morgan Rice

Destiny Sword.

      Kendrick marveled at the turn of events. But days ago, they had all been imprisoned, under Andronicus’ yoke, forced to admit defeat; Thor had been still in the Empire, the Destiny Sword but a lost dream, and there had been little hope of their returning. Kendrick and the others had been crucified, left to die, and it had seemed as if all were lost.

      But now they rode as free men, as soldiers and knights once again, invigorated by Thor’s arrival, the momentum now turned to their side. Mycoples had been a godsend, a force of destruction raining down from the sky; Silesia now stood as a free city, and the countryside of the Ring, instead of being filled with Empire soldiers, was littered with Empire corpses. The road leading east was lined with Empire bodies as far as the eye could see.

      Yet as encouraging as all of this was, Kendrick knew that a half-million of Andronicus’ men lay in waiting on the other side of the Highlands. They had beaten them back temporarily, but they had hardly wiped them out. And Kendrick and the others were not content to sit on their heels and wait in Silesia for Andronicus to regroup and attack once again – nor did they want to allow them a chance to escape and retreat back to the Empire. The Shield was up, and as badly outnumbered as Kendrick and the others were, at least now they had a fighting chance. Now, Andronicus’ army was on the run, and Kendrick and the others were determined to continue the string of victories that Thor had begun.

      Kendrick glanced back over his shoulder at the thousands of soldiers and free men riding with him and saw the determination on their faces. They had all tasted slavery, tasted defeat, and now he could see how much they all appreciated what it felt like to be free men once again. Not just for themselves, but for their wives and families. Each and every one of them was embittered, emboldened to make Andronicus pay and make sure he did not attack again. These were an army of men ready to fight to the death, and they rode as one. Everywhere they rode, they liberated more and more men, releasing them from their bonds and absorbing a sprawling and ever-growing army.

      Kendrick himself was still recovering from his time upon the cross. His body was still not as strong as it was, and there still lingered the ever-present pain in his wrists and ankles from where those coarse ropes had dug into him. He looked over at Srog and Brom and Atme, his neighbors on the cross, and saw that they, too, were not as strong as they had once been. The crucifixion had taken its toll on all of them. Yet still they all rode proudly, emboldened. There was nothing like a chance to fight for your life, a chance for vengeance, to make you forget your injuries.

      Kendrick was overjoyed to have his younger brother Reece and the other Legion brothers back from their quest, riding by his side once again. It had torn him apart to watch the slaughter of the Legion back in Silesia, and having these men back home restored some of his grief. He had always been close to Reece growing up, protective of him, taking the role of a second father to him during all those times when King MacGil had been too busy. In some ways, being only his half-brother had allowed Kendrick to become even closer to Reece; there was no burden on them to be close, and they became close out of choice. Kendrick had never been able to be close to his other younger brothers – Godfrey had spent his time with misfits in the tavern, and Gareth – well, Gareth had been Gareth. Reece had been the only other one of the siblings who had embraced the battlefield, who had wanted to take up the life that Kendrick had chosen, too. Kendrick could not be more proud of him.

      In the past, when Kendrick had ridden with Reece he had always been protective, keeping one eye on him; but since his return, Kendrick could see that Reece had become a true, hardened warrior himself, so he no longer felt the need to be so watchful of him. He wondered what sort of travails Reece must have undergone in the Empire to have transformed him to as hardened and skillful a warrior as he had become. He was looking forward to sitting down with him and hearing his stories.

      Kendrick was overjoyed that Thor was back, too, and not just because Thor had liberated them, but also because he liked and respected Thor immensely and cared about him as he would a brother. Kendrick still replayed in his mind the image of Thor returning and wielding the Sword. He could not get over it. It was a vision he had never expected to see in his lifetime; indeed, he had never expected to see anyone wield the Destiny Sword, much less Thor, his own squire, a small, humble boy from a farming village on the periphery of the ring. An outsider. And not even a MacGil.

      Or was he?

      Kendrick wondered. He kept turning over in his mind the legend: only a MacGil could wield the Sword. Deep in his own heart, Kendrick had to admit that he’d always hoped that he himself would be the one to wield it. He’d hoped it would be the ultimate stamp on his legitimacy as a true MacGil, as the firstborn son. He had always dreamed that somehow, one day, circumstances would allow him to try.

      But he had never been afforded that chance, and he did not begrudge Thor his achievement. Kendrick was not covetous; on the contrary, he marveled at Thor’s destiny. He could not understand it, though. Was the legend false? Or was Thor a MacGil? How could he be? Unless Thor, too, was King MacGil’s son. Kendrick wondered. His father had been known to sleep with many women outside of his marriage – which was indeed how he himself had been sired.

      Was that why Thor had rushed out in Silesia, after speaking to his mother? What had they discussed, exactly? His mother wouldn’t say. It was the first time she had kept a secret from him, from all of them. Why now? What secret was she withholding? What could she have said that had made Thor run off like that, leaving them all without a word?

      It made Kendrick think of his own father, his own lineage. As much as he wished otherwise, he burned at the idea that he was illegitimate, and for the millionth time he wondered who his true mother was. He had heard various rumors throughout his life of different women that his father, King MaGil, had slept with, but he had never known for certain. When everything settled down – if it ever did – and the Ring returned to normal, Kendrick resolved to find out who his mother was for sure. He would confront her. He would ask her why she had let him go, why she had never been a part of his life. How she had met his father. He really just wanted to meet her, to see her face; to see if she looked like him; and to have her tell him that he was indeed legitimate, as legitimate as anyone else.

      Kendrick was pleased that Thor had flown off to retrieve Gwendolyn, yet a part of him also wished Thor had stayed. Charging into battle, vastly outnumbered against tens of thousands of Andronicus’ men, Kendrick knew they could use Thor and Mycoples now more than ever.

      But Kendrick was born and bred a warrior, and he was not one to sit back and wait for others to fight his battles for him. Instead, he did what his instinct commanded him to do: ride out and conquer as much of the Empire army as he could, with his own men. He did not have special weapons like Mycoples or the Destiny Sword, but he had his own two hands, the same he had used since he was a boy. And that had always been enough.

      They ascended a hill and as they reached its crest, Kendrick looked out over the horizon and saw in the distance a small MacGil city, Lucia, the first city east of Silesia. Empire corpses lined the road, and clearly Thor’s wave of destruction had ended here. On the distant horizon, Kendrick could see a battalion of Andronicus’ army retreating, riding east. He presumed they were heading back to Andronicus’ main camp, to the safety of the other side of the Highlands. The main body of the army was retreating – but they had left behind a smaller division to hold Lucia. Several thousand of Andronicus’ men were stationed in the city, standing guard before it. Also visible were its citizens, enslaved by the soldiers.

      Kendrick remembered what had happened to them back in Silesia, how they had been treated, and his face reddened with a desire for vengeance.

      “ATTACK!” Kendrick screamed.

      He raised his sword high and behind him came the invigorated shouts of thousands of soldiers.

      Kendrick kicked his horse, and all of them raced as one down the hill, heading for Lucia. The two armies were preparing to face off, and though they were equally matched in terms of numbers, they were not, Kendrick knew, matched in terms of heart. This remnant division of Andronicus’ army were invaders on the run, while Kendrick and his men were ready to fight for their very lives to protect their homeland.

      His battle cry rose to the heavens as they charged for the gates of Lucia. They came so fast and quick that several