A Sky of Spells

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Romulus stood at the helm of the ship, looking out into the foaming waves of the open sea before him, grabbing onto the wooden rail and squeezing so hard that he snapped it in half. Splinters flew all around him and he grimaced at the open sea, cursing the gods of the land, of the wind, of the sea—and most of all, of war. Cursing his bad fate. Cursing his defeat, the first defeat of in his life.

Romulus replayed in his head, again and again, what had happened, how everything had gone so wrong. He could hardly fathom it. It felt like just moments ago when he’d had that girl, the MacGil girl, in his arms, was across the bridge, had succeeded in lowering the Shield, had watched his men stampede into the Ring. The Ring had been his.

Then it had all gone so wrong, so quickly. Those two dragons had appeared, like a vision from hell, and he’d had to watch all his men set to flame, all his carefully laid plans brought to ruin. Worst of all, that sneaky girl had escaped from his grasp, had crossed the bridge and had reached the other side just a moment before his men could catch her. As she’d landed he’d watched with horror as the Shield came back up, and as all his dreams fell apart.

He had lost. He had to admit it. He’d been forced to retreat, to regroup for another day. He still had the cloak, but with those dragons inside the Ring, with the Empire crushed, and with Luanda on alert, he could not risk going back in to hunt for her. As a good commander, he knew when to attack and when to retreat.

As Romulus sailed, heading back for the Empire, he thought and thought. He needed a new strategy. He needed to gather his men, to solidify his position back home, in the Empire. He had been gone too long, and he could not allow himself to be left vulnerable, as Andronicus had.

There was no room for mistakes now. Romulus had to take control of what he could. He had to forget the Ring. He could not allow it to become an obsession and to become his ruin, as Andronicus had. He needed to learn from Androncius’ mistakes.

The Ring was miniscule in relation to the Empire: after all, the Empire still dominated ninety nine percent of the world. And once he solidified his position at home, he could always find a way back in, on another day, to crush the Ring.

As Romulus sailed, huge rolling waves sending the bow up and down, foam spraying all around him, he pondered what sort of traps might be awaiting back home, in the Empire. It would be a tricky path to maneuver, the path to solidify a nervous Empire, to take over Andronicus’ spot, to unify all the various armies and worlds, to fill that power vacuum. Others, surely, would be vying for it. But none as ruthless as Romulus. Anyone who stood in his way, he would crush quickly and definitively.

As he stood there pondering, Romulus was momentarily confused; he thought he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and at the last second he turned and spotted several soldiers coming up behind them. One held a wire in both hands, and before Romulus could react, he leaned forward, looped it around Romulus’ throat, and yanked with all his might.

Romulus gasped for air, eyes bulging from his head, his breathing stopped. The wire was wrapped around twice, and the soldier behind him yanked with all he had. Romulus realized he was being choked to death, by his own people.

Romulus saw his entire ship, dozens of officers, rushing forward. But not to save him, as he thought; rather, to help kill him. It was a mutiny.

Romulus’ life flashed before his eyes, flailing, gasping as the soldier squeezed tighter and tighter. He felt that in another moment, he would be dead. He saw his whole life flashing before his eyes, all his victories, and now his defeat. He saw all his conquests, and all the conquests yet to come, and one overriding thought coursed through his mind: he was not ready to die.

Romulus summoned some deep part of himself, and somehow mustered one last burst of strength. He leaned forward then threw his head back, impacting his assailant with the back of his skull, on the bridge of his nose, breaking it.

The soldier dropped to his knees, and Romulus quickly unraveled the wire from his throat, blood dripping as it left a deep scar, his throat bleeding. Because of all of his muscle, the wire had not yet gone deep enough to sever his arteries. Romulus had always been told he had the widest and thickest neck in the Empire—and this proved it.

Romulus did not hesitate: he reached down, grabbed a flail from his waist, spun it high overhead and smashed the soldier in the face before him. He then continued to swing it, the spiked metal ball soaring through the air, and connected with a half-dozen soldiers in a broad circle, knocking them all to the ground as they neared. The others, charging for him, stopped in their tracks.

But he would not let them go. Now Romulus was in a rage, and he charged them. He swung the flail over his head, again and again, taking out soldier after soldier, and within moments, took down a dozen more. Many tried to turn and run, but he hunted these down, and they had nowhere to go, smashing them in the backs, their cries filling the air.

A horn was sounded, and hundreds of men came rushing up from below deck. Romulus was relieved; finally, his loyal soldiers would rush to his aide and help put down the mutiny.

But as he saw them all charging right for him, wild-eyed, wielding swords and spears and axes, as he saw the look in their eyes, he realized they were not coming to protect him: they, too, were coming to kill him. This was a well-planned mutiny. Every single man on his ship had turned against him.

Romulus was in a panic. He turned and looked out at the sea, at his vast flotilla of ships filling the horizon, and looked to see if any of the other ships were watching, waiting, were part of the mutiny. He was relieved to see they were not. They were unaware. This was an isolated mutiny, on his ship alone, not spread throughout his fleet.

Romulus thought quick, as the men bore down on him. He could not kill all of these men alone. He would have to do something else. Something drastic.

Romulus heard the crash of the waves against the rocks as they passed a lone group of rocks jutting out in the midst of the ocean, and an idea came to him.

There were no men between he and the wheel, and Romulus sprinted for it, a lead of a good twenty yards on the others. He grabbed hold of it and spun it frantically, again and again, clockwise—right for the rocks.

The ship lurched, turning hard right, and all the men went flying, across the deck, smashing into the side rail. Romulus grabbed on tight to prevent himself from falling, and finally, as the ship was on course for the most jagged rocks, he straightened it out. The men were thrown the other way.

Romulus looked out and saw he had achieved what he had wanted: the ship was now on course for the rocks, only feet away. Too close to change course.

As the hundreds of soldiers regained their footing and began charging him again, Romulus turned, ran for the side rail, jumped up on it and dove headfirst for the water. He soared through the air and landed headfirst in the icy cold waters, plunging deep. He used his momentum to continue swimming underwater, as far as he could, to get away from the spears being hurled after him.

Romulus held his breath a good sixty seconds, as he swam farther and farther away from the ship. He forced himself to stay down below even longer, pushing himself until his lungs were at the point of bursting, until finally the spears stopped and in their stead he heard a faint, distant rumble, the sound of wood smashing against rock.

Romulus finally surfaced, gasping for air, far from the ship, and turned and watched. His former ship was destroyed, impaled by the rocks, waves crashing all around it, smashing it into them again and again. The ship soon took on water and within moments sank vertically; his men shrieked and flailed as they sank into the water, to a cold and frigid death, the waves smashing them against the rocks.

Romulus turned and looked to the horizon. His other, loyal, ships were but a few hundred yards away, and he already set off swimming.

It would take more than a mutiny to kill him.