An Oath of Brothers. Morgan Rice

forward and kick another soldier in the groin and head-butt him, knocking him out. Atme swung his flail and took out two soldiers in one blow.

      “Darius!” cried the voice.

      Gwen looked over to see Sandara standing beside her, pointing to the battlefield.

      “My brother!” she cried.

      Gwen spotted Darius on the ground, on his back, and surrounded by Empire, closing in. Her heart leapt with concern, but she watched with great satisfaction as Kendrick rushed forward and held out his shield, saving Darius from an axe blow right before it hit his face.

      Sandara cried out, and Gwen could see her relief, could see how much she loved her brother.

      Gwendolyn reached over and took a bow from one of the soldiers standing guard beside her. She placed an arrow, pulling it back and taking aim.

      “ARCHERS!” she yelled.

      All around her a dozen of her archers took aim, pulling back their bows, awaiting her command.

      “FIRE!”

      Gwen shot her arrow high into the sky, over her men, and as she did, her dozen archers fired, too.

      The volley landed on the thicket of remaining Empire soldiers, and cries rang out as a dozen soldiers dropped to their knees.

      “FIRE!” she yelled again.

      There came yet another volley; then another.

      Kendrick and his men rushed in, killing all those men who had dropped to their knees from the arrows.

      The Empire soldiers were forced to abandon attacking the villagers and instead turn their army around and confront Kendrick’s men.

      This gave the villagers an opportunity. They let out a loud cry as they charged forward, stabbing in the back the Empire soldiers, who were now getting slaughtered from both sides.

      The Empire soldiers, squeezed between two hostile forces, their numbers dwindling quickly, finally began to realize they were outmaneuvered. Their ranks of hundreds soon dwindled to dozens, and those who remained turned and tried to flee on foot, their zertas either killed or taken hostage.

      They did not make it very far before they were hunted down and killed.

      There arose a great shout of triumph from both the villagers and Gwendolyn’s men. They all gathered together, cheering, embracing each other as brothers, and Gwendolyn hurried down the slope and joined them, Krohn at her heels, bursting into the thick of it, men all around her, the smell of sweat and fear strong in the air, blood running fresh on the desert floor. Here, on this day, despite everything that had happened back in the Ring, Gwen felt a moment of triumph. It was a glorious victory here in the desert, the villagers and the exiles of the Ring joined together, united in defiance of the enemy.

      The villagers had lost many good men, and Gwen had lost some of hers. But Darius, at least, Gwen was relieved to see, was alive, helped unsteadily to his feet.

      Gwen knew the Empire had millions more men. She knew a day of reckoning would come.

      But that day was not today. Today she had not made the wisest decision – but she had made the bravest one. The right one. She felt it was a decision her father would have made. She had chosen the hardest path. The path of what was right. The path of justice. The path of valor. And regardless of what might come, on this day she had lived.

      She had really lived.

      Chapter Three

      Volusia stood on the stone balcony looking down, the cobblestone courtyard of Maltolis spread out below her, and far below she saw the sprawled out body of the Prince, lying there, unmoving, his limbs spread out in grotesque position. He seemed so far away from up here, so minuscule, so powerless, and Volusia marveled how, just moments before, he had been one of the most powerful rulers in the Empire. It struck home how frail life was, what an illusion power was – and most of all, how she, of infinite power, a true goddess now, wielded the power of life and death over anyone. Now, no one, not even a great prince, could stop her.

      As she stood there, looking out, there arose all throughout the city the cries of his thousands of people, the touched citizens of Maltolis, moaning, their sound filling the courtyard and rising up like a plague of locusts. They wailed and screamed and slammed their heads against the stone walls; they leapt to the floor, like irate children, and tore the hair from their scalps. From the sight of them, Volusia mused, one would think that Maltolis had been a benevolent leader.

      “OUR PRINCE!” one of them screamed, a scream echoed by many others as they all rushed forward, leaping onto the mad Prince’s body, sobbing and convulsing as they clutched it.

      “OUR DEAR FATHER!”

      Bells suddenly tolled all throughout the city, a long succession of ringing, echoing each other. Volusia heard a commotion and she raised her eyes and watched as hundreds of Maltolis’s troops marched hurriedly through the city gates, into the city courtyard, in rows of two, the portcullis rising to let them all in. They all aimed for Maltolis’s castle.

      Volusia knew she had set in motion an event that would forever alter this city.

      There came a sudden, insistent booming at the thick oak door to her chamber, making her jump. It was an incessant slamming, the sound of dozens of soldiers, armor clanging, slamming a battering ram into the thick oak door of the Prince’s chamber. Volusia, of course, had barred it, and the door, a foot thick, meant to withstand a siege, nonetheless buckled on its hinges, as the shouts of men came from the other side. With each slam it bent more.

      Slam slam slam.

      The stone chamber shook, and the ancient metal chandelier, hanging high above from a wooden beam, swayed wildly before it came crashing down to the floor.

      Volusia stood there and watched it all calmly, expecting it all. She knew, of course, that they would come for her. They wanted vengeance – and they would never let her escape.

      “Open the door!” shouted one of his generals.

      She recognized his voice – the leader of Maltolis’s forces, a humorless man she had met briefly, with a low, raspy voice – an inept man but a professional soldier, and with two hundred thousand men at his disposal.

      And yet Volusia stood there and faced the door calmly, unfazed, watching it patiently, waiting for them to crash it down. She could of course have opened it for them, but she would not give them the satisfaction.

      Finally there came a tremendous crash, and the wooden door gave way, bursting off its hinges, and dozens of soldiers, armor clanging, rushed the room. Maltolis’ commander, donning his ornamental armor, and carrying the golden scepter that entitled him to command Maltolis’ army, led the way.

      They slowed to a quick walk as they saw her standing there, alone, not trying to run. The commander, a deep scowl set on his face, marched right up to her and stopped abruptly a few feet away.

      He glared down at her with hatred, and behind him, all his men stopped, well-disciplined, and awaited his command.

      Volusia stood there calmly, staring back with a slight smile, and she realized her poise must have thrown them off, as he seemed flustered.

      “What have you done, woman?” he demanded, clutching his sword. “You have come into our city as a guest and you have killed our ruler. The chosen one. The one who could not be killed.”

      Volusia smiled back, and replied calmly:

      “You are quite wrong, General,” she said. “I am the one who cannot be killed. As I have just proved here today.”

      He shook his head in fury.

      “How could you be so stupid?” he said. “Surely you must have known we would kill you and your men, that there is nowhere to run, no way to escape this place. Here, your few are surrounded by hundreds of thousands of ours. Surely you must have known that your act here today would amount to your death sentence – worse, your imprisonment and torture. We do not treat our enemies kindly, in case you haven’t noticed.”

      “I have