A Charge of Valor

CHAPTER TEN

Andronicus rode triumphantly through the sacked city of Silesia, reveling in his victory. Sprawled out on either side of him were the hundreds of corpses of MacGil’s army, of Silesian soldiers, piled in heaps where they had been slain. Amidst these were thousands more Silesian captives, bound to each other in long lines, being whipped and led throughout the city. There was the omnipresent sound of hammers striking pegs, and all around him, he saw enormous crosses being erected, tall enough to hold even the largest Silesian warriors. They were getting ready to crucify the leaders.

Already several soldiers screamed out, as pegs were driven through their wrists and ankles, nailing them to the crosses. Already many had died. Those who survived, screamed and moaned. Andronicus smiled. This was always his favorite part: basking in the suffering of those he crushed and making them learn the sting of the long arm of the Great Andronicus.

Some captors learned the lesson quickly; for others, it took longer. The Silesians were proud, hardheaded people, and they had surprised Andronicus, holding out much longer than other peoples he had subdued. For that, he admired them; yet for that, he would also have to make them pay.

These were a people who did not seem to want to be broken. No matter how much he enslaved them, tortured them, none of them would pledge allegiance to him. Ever since their ruse, since that initial, fake pledge, they had remained silent, even in the face of torture and death. But everyone had a weak spot, and he would find a way to break them, no matter what, or how long, it took.

As he rode through the town, a cold winter gale rushing through, Andronicus breathed deep, finally satisfied, finally having conquered all of the Ring. All of the Empire. Finally, there was not a place left on the globe his foot had not touched. Finally, he was supreme master of the universe.

Andronicus passed rows of women and children, chained to each other, already being led to the new camps being erected all around them. Already they were setting them to work on rebuilding the city’s rubble, shaping the city in a new way. Andronicus’ way. Already dozens of slaves were hard at work erecting the emblem of Andronicus’ kingdom, a lion with a bird in its mouth. And another group was hard at work on erecting a statue of Andronicus himself. It would be a tall and wide statue, right in the center of the city square, fifty feet at its base, and rising one hundred feet into the air. It would be coated in gold when they were done, a gleaming reminder to all who they now served.

Andronicus reveled as he saw prisoner after prisoner led past him, so many Silesian officers, so many MacGils. He would find out who was who, one at a time, and torture each one himself. On all sides of him the city was ablaze, fires being lit to the remaining dwellings, setting the rest of the city ablaze. All that once was would be destroyed, replaced with the new.

The most pressing and final piece of business would be his descent to the lower city, to deal personally with that MacGil girl. Gwendolyn. His people had already flushed out nearly all of the lower Silesians, had taken them onto captivity; there remained only that Gwendolyn girl to find, who was well-hidden. His men had identified where she was, hidden inside a castle in the wall, and in a matter of hours, they would find her and bring her to him. This time, she would not escape. This time, he would make a public spectacle of her, make sure that all the men had their way with her, and that everyone was made to watch. And then, when he was done with her, he would kill her himself.

Andronicus smiled and breathed deep at the thought.

His horse marched towards the outer gate, towards the open expanse of the Canyon, the descent to Lower Silesia just feet away. He was getting closer with every step to finding Gwendolyn, to making his victory complete. This was one of the great moments of his life, and torturing her was all he needed to make it complete.

Kendrick’s eyes, heavy from exhaustion, injury and loss of blood, struggled to open. He felt heavy ropes binding his arms tightly behind his back, wrenching his shoulders to the point of agony. He felt himself being dragged, grabbed by the back of the hair, and as he went, he felt every ache and pain in his body from the battle.

Kendrick had killed many Empire soldiers, but had sustained countless kicks and punches and elbows all over his body, a sword slash on one arm and on one thigh, and welts on his face and head. His hair hung over his face, matted with blood—he wasn’t sure whose. One of his eyes was swollen halfway shut, and it was an effort to see. But see he did. And he wished he hadn’t.

All around him he saw comrades, members of MacGil’s army, dead. Members of the Silver, people he had grown up with, fought with through countless battles, dead. And what hurt the most, what made him close his eyes and try to shake it away was the sight of hundreds of Legion members. Dead. They had been killed in their first rush of glory, boys, taken before their time.

At the sight, Kendrick wished that he had died with them. It was a curse that he been left to live.

As Kendrick was led, one of countless prisoners dragged across the courtyard, he saw the fires, the women being attacked. Even children were bound. Empire soldiers were everywhere, and the city had been thoroughly sacked. Already, they were beginning to rebuild it as a slave city, as another monument to the conquests of the Great Andronicus. Already slavemasters were whipping prisoners, setting them to work on piles of rubble. The cracks of whips filled the city.

Kendrick was kicked from behind, and he shuffled forward with the others. He wanted to just close his eyes and collapse. But he saw another prisoner collapse, a few feet away, and as soon as he hit the ground, an Empire soldier raised a sword and stabbed him through his heart. The prisoner was too tired—or didn’t even care enough—to cry out, as he met his death in silence, another nameless corpse.

Kendrick wanted to die. But he was determined not to. That was not his creed. He was a fighter to the last, and he would live, in whatever form that took.

Kendrick was led to a huge cross along with several others, falling in and out of consciousness. He felt himself lifted and opened his eyes to see Empire soldiers lifting him up high overhead, holding him up against a crooked wooden cross. Beside him he heard a horrific scream, and he looked over to see a member of the Silver being crucified, an Empire soldier nailing a peg through his wrists and ankles. Kendrick struggled, wanting to help his friend, but he couldn’t budge.

Kendrick looked to his other side, and his heart fell to see on the other cross beside him, one of his beloved comrades. Kolk. Crucified long ago, his head hung low, barely clinging to life.

On the cross beside Kolk hung Atme. Kendrick was relieved to see he was still alive, and close by, though Atme looked as if he were clinging to life, his body covered in bruises and wounds.

As Kendrick was hoisted, he braced himself for the same awful fate. But the Empire soldiers began arguing with each other. He felt himself tied and bound to the cross, but he could tell from the soldiers’ arguing that they had run out of pegs. Luckily for him, they could not hammer a peg through his skin.

Instead, they tied his ropes tighter as they bound him to the cross. It was still horrifically painful, as he felt all of his limbs stretching, about to burst.

Kendrick closed his eyes and thought of all he held dear in life. He thought of those closest to him. He prayed silently that each had made it. Most of all, he shook his head as he shut his eyes tight and prayed for his younger sister. Gwendolyn.

Please God, he prayed. Of all of us, let her live.

Gwendolyn paced the floor of her dim chamber, walking to the window for the millionth time that day and watching the unfolding chaos in lower Silesia. From her hidden spot she could look down on the lower plaza and witness the devastation being wrought by the Empire soldiers. They were descending like goats down the side of the cliff, hundreds of them, terrorizing her people. There were few people left now, most of them already bound together as captives and led away by the Empire to the upper city.

All that remained in the emptying streets were the vacant echoes of their screams, echoing off the Canyon walls, carried by the howling wind. The Empire had made it down here, and that could only mean one thing: Kendrick’s final stand had failed. There was no one left to fight Andronicus. This was what defeat looked like. The defeat they had all known was inevitable.

Gwendolyn watched the Empire troops canvassing the lower city, and she knew they were looking for her. She was lodged in a secret hiding place in this secret castle, built into the cliffs, yet she knew it was only a matter of time until they found it. Until they brought her back up there, back into Andronicus’ arms. She shuddered at the thought.

Gwen knew that Argon would not be here to save her, would not mettle in human affairs a second time—nor would her amulet be able to save her again. She knew that this was it. Thor was gone from her, far away in a land she did not know where, and she had no one else left to help her now. Now, she would be facing death all alone.

Gwen watched a group of Empire head her way, and she knew she had even less time than she thought.

As she looked out, Gwen felt sorry not for herself, but for all the people she had let down. She closed her eyes and a tear fell, as she pondered what tragedies must have befallen them. Kendrick, Godfrey, Srog, Brom, Kolk, Atme and the others, all up there, probably all dead by now. It left a pain in her chest.

She thought of Thor and her heart sank. She loved him more than she could ever express, and she could not imagine life without him. A part of her didn’t want to live without him. Nor could she imagine life as Andronicus’ slave, as his play thing. She felt that if she were going to die, better to die with dignity.

Gwen came to a decision.

She turned and called out to the attendant standing by her door.

“Bring me Illepra—now!” she called

“Yes, my lady,” he said and ran from the room. She heard his footsteps echoing the distance.

Gwen paced and paced, her heart thumping in her chest, and in moments the door opened and Illepra burst in, holding her basket in her arms.

“My lady, I am glad to see you up and walking about! The color has returned your cheeks. You are healing well.”

“Too well, I’m afraid,” Gwendolyn replied.

“My lady?”

“I need a special vial,” Gwen said. “It is a vial that no person should wish to take. But that some must take when no other herbs suffice.”

Illepra looked at her carefully, and her perceptive eyes widened.

Slowly, she shook her head.

“You ask for poison,” she said.

Gwen nodded.

“The vial of choice for Kings and Queens,” she said.

Illepra shook her head vigorously.

“I will not do it, my lady. I practice the healing arts, and I took a vow.”

Gwendolyn was determined.

“I am your Queen and I command you!” she said firmly.

Illepra stared back, unmoving, and Gwendolyn took a step forward and clutched her hands.

“I beg you,” she added. “Give me the vial.”

Gwendolyn felt tears running down her cheeks.

“Andronicus’s men will come for me,” she added. “Do you imagine a life for me with them? Everyone and everything we know and love is dead. I don’t want to live like this.”

Illepra stared back long and hard, silent, then finally lowered her chin, a tear rolling from her cheek, and reached deep into her basket, past all the herbs, and rifled around until she brought out a single small vial of black liquid. She held it up to the light.

“Blackroot,” she said. “Sip this, and you will be no more. Be careful, my lady. Do not touch it to your lips unless you want it to be the last time you sip again.”

Illepra turned her back and hurried from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Gwendolyn watched her go, then raised the vial, examining its liquid in the light. She watched its viscous, black liquid move as she turned the hour-glass shaped vial. It was both sinister and beautiful. Gwen recalled her history books, all the stories she’d read of kings and queens taking it. She had never imagined holding one herself.

“The drink of kings and queens,” came a voice.

Gwendolyn’s heart raced as she recognized the voice.

She spun to see Argon standing there, staring back at her, his eyes shining. He seemed to see right through her, to penetrate her darkest thoughts. She felt ashamed, and immediately hid the vial in her pocket.

She lowered her head and blushed.

“You saved my life today,” she said. “On the battlefield. I don’t know how to thank you.”

He remained expressionless.

“Though it appears, from the vial you hold, you will be dead soon enough,” he responded coolly, disapproval in his voice. “Was it all for nothing then?”

Gwendolyn blushed, feeling guilty.

“It is never for nothing,” she said. “Whether in this life, or the next, I owe you a great debt.”

“The debt you owe me is to live,” he answered.

Gwen furrowed her brow.

“I still do not understand,” she said. “How did you do it? I thought you can never intervene in human affairs? That sorcerers are forbidden?”

“You are correct,” he said, walking slowly to the far window. He looked weary as he went. “What I did was forbidden. I broke the sacred sorcerer’s vow. It was the first and only time I have ever done so, the first and only time in a thousand years that I have interfered in human affairs. I violated our code, and for that I must pay a very dear price. What I did sapped my powers, and I will have to sleep a long time. You will not see me again for quite a while. At least not in the way you once did.”

Gwendolyn felt overcome with emotion.

“I am sorry that you did that on my account,” she said. “And touched that you would do such a thing for me, of all the kings and queens you’ve ever known.”

“You are different than all of them,” he said. “You have a bigger heart. You are more pure. More courageous. You are noble. You are a leader. And that his how I know you will not drink from that vial in your pocket.”

Gwen flushed.

“Would you leave me at the mercy of Andronicus, then?” she asked, indignant.

“Even in death, you must set an example,” he said. “It is not about whether or not you die. It is about how you die. That is what lives on for others.”

“How can I live after what he has done to me?” she asked, pained. “Even if nothing more happened?”

“You can live just as easily as anyone else,” he said. “There is no shame in what happened to you. There is only shame in being too much of a coward to carry on. In not realizing that what happened to you is not you. What happened is not the same as who you are. Your body and spirit and soul are distinct from the events in this world that happen to you. You are looking at the world now through a very narrow, physical lens. But the world is not only physical—it is also spiritual. Looking at things physically is the lowest form of all.

“Do you think you entered this world through the physical alone? You were also conceived spiritually. That is the highest level in which we all live. And that is why physical occurrences to the body do not mean a thing. They do not touch, and cannot reach, our spirit, our essence. It would be the same if you scraped an elbow, or lost a finger. You, Gwendolyn, have not changed.”

She flushed, embarrassed. She knew there was truth to what he was saying, but it was hard to take it in right now. She was finding herself feeling defensive.

“I am not a coward,” she said, bunching her fists.

“I know you’re not,” he said. “And I also know that you pay your debts.”

“Debts?” she asked, confused.

“Don’t you remember, that day, when you begged me to save Thor’s life? I told you it was not meant to be, yet you insisted, you said you would give anything. I told you you would pay a debt, you would die a small death. You have now paid that debt. That was your small death. A small death of the spirit. But not of the body. And not of the soul.”

Gwen remembered it all, and hearing his words gave her comfort. It gave meaning to the horrors she had endured. Now it all made sense, at least.

“You should be grateful,” Argon continued. “You are still alive. You have your health. You have Thor’s child, within you. Would you sacrifice the child to kill yourself? Just out of cowardice? Are you that selfish?”

“I am not selfish,” she said defiantly, knowing he was right.

“Right now, from where you are standing, it seems in your eyes that the future will only bring you more pain, more sadness,” Argon said. “It seems in your eyes that you have suffered a humiliation from which you can never recover. But your vision is limited; you look at time from only one perspective, and it is a very narrow one. This is the lens of all who have been through suffering. And it is a distorted lens. The future will surprise you; it may just be bright, brighter than you ever imagined. And what happened to you today will fade in your mind, fade so much that you may never even remember it, as if it never was. Life is not just one life: it is many lives. And your new lives will wash away whatever pain and regret there was in the old ones. When we have tragedy in life, we get stuck, like getting stuck in the mud. When we are in the mud it feels as if we can never get out. But these come to us as great life lessons: it is up to us to pull ourselves out of the mud. Not just once, but time and time again. This is your moment to pull yourself out. To show life that you are bigger than your fears. Unless you are too afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” she answered, determined.

Argon smiled back, the first time she had ever seen him smile.

“It is not me you must convince,” he said. “It is yourself.”

Gwen turned and paced herself, walking slowly back to the window, breathing deep, feeling better. She felt that maybe everything he said was right. But there was still one thing bothering her.

“But what about Thor?” she asked. “After what has happened to me, Thor won’t love me anymore. I will be lowered in his eyes.”

“Do you think so little of Thorgrin?” Argon asked. “He may love you even more.”

Gwen hadn’t considered that.

“He may,” she said, “but deep inside he might feel differently. I don’t want to put that burden on him. I don’t want him to feel that he has to be with me. I want him to want to be with me.”

Argon slowly shook his head.

“You vastly underestimate our friend Thor,” he said. “His love for you is as for himself.”

Gwendolyn lowered her face and felt a tear roll down her cheek. As he spoke the words, she felt them to be true.

“So what now?” she asked. “I can’t stay here. I will be captured. Do I just surrender?”

Argon sighed.

“You are well-read,” he said. “Do you remember what women would do in times of old if they were attacked? Where they would go?”

“Go?” she asked, puzzled. As he said it, she was dimly aware, and it began to come back to her.

“The Tower of Refuge,” Argon said.

As he said it, she began to recall.

“At the southern end of the Ring,” she said, remembering. “A place where women go to heal. A monastery. They take a vow of silence. Some return to society, some don’t.”

“It is a sacred place,” Argon added, “a place where you cannot be touched by anyone. Not even Andronicus. Take time to heal, to reflect. And then make a decision. Better to go there, and retreat from the world, than to die.”

As Gwendolyn pondered it, she looked out of the window and watched Andronicus’ troops closing in. It slowly came back to her, stories she had read of the Tower of Refuge, the place where women fled in ancient times, to regroup and heal themselves. The more she thought about it, the more it felt like the right thing to do. Her people did not need her now. What they needed was for her to survive.

“But what if—” Gwen turned to talk to Argon, but he was already gone.

She searched the room, baffled. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Gwen knew it was only a matter of minutes now. She took out the vial and examined it once again, struggling with herself.

Suddenly, she came to a decision. Argon was right: she was stronger than that. She would never give in to cowardice. Never.

Gwen reached back and hurled the vial, smashing it into the wall. The liquid stuck to the wall with a hissing noise, then dripped slowly down it like tar.

“Steffen!” Gwen called, hurrying towards the door.

In moments Steffen arrived, rushing into the room, looking at her with panic in his eyes.

“The secret tunnels you told me of. Do you know them?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said in a rush. “Srog instructed me. He commanded me to stay by your side, and if you ever needed them, to show you the way.”

“Show me now,” she said.

His eyes lit in excitement.

“But my lady, where will you go?”

“I will cross the Ring, to the South, to the Tower of Refuge.”

“My lady, I must accompany you. It is not a journey you should make alone.”

She shook her head, anxious, hearing the footsteps of the soldiers outside the gates.

“You are a true friend,” she said, “but it will be a perilous journey and I will not endanger you.”

He shook his head, adamant.

“I will not show you the way unless you allow me to accompany. My honor forbids it.”

Gwendolyn heard the distant footsteps of the approaching men, and she knew she had no choice. And she was, as ever, grateful for Steffen’s loyalty.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s go.”

Steffen turned and fled the room and she followed him down corridor after corridor, twisting and turning, until they came to a hidden door at the end of a hall, camouflaged in the stone. Steffen opened it, and she knelt down beside him and peered in.

It was a tunnel of blackness, cold and dank, insects crawling inside, a chill running through her at the feel of the draft. They exchanged a worried look, and she gulped at the thought. But she had no choice. It was that, or death.

As the soldiers’ footsteps grew ever louder, the two of them hurried inside and began the long, hard crawl towards freedom.