A Vow of Glory

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Godfrey sat hunched over a bar, in a seedy pub in a forgotten corner of Silesia, flanked by Akorth and Fulton, as he took a deep drink and admired the strong ale of this city. He emptied it, setting down his fourth mug of foaming red ale, and it went right to his head. He was feeling overwhelmed by the colors of this place: everything in this city was red, from the bartender’s red outfit, to the tables and chairs—even his ale. It was starting to make him dizzy. Either that, or the beer.

But that was hardly foremost in Godfrey’s mind: as he buried his head over the bar with his compatriots, he tried to forget his woes, to forget the imminent war. Most of all, Godfrey hated himself. He knew he should be out there, supporting his sister, his brother, out with the others, trying his best to help defend the city. But he just couldn’t bring himself to. That was the way he had always been, since his youth: when hard times came, he was unable to face them. Instead, he would retreat to the bar and drown his sorrows.

Godfrey was just not wired like the others, as much as he wished he could be. When he found himself feeling overwhelmed, instead of being brave, like Kendrick or Reece or Gwendolyn, he became too frozen with panic to take action; instead of confronting his troubles, he would avoid them, and hope they would go away. Time after time, after a few strong drinks, he had been able to convince himself that everything would be okay, that he need not mettle in the troubles of the world—that he could leave that to others.

But this time, Godfrey sensed that things were different; this time, he knew, everything would not be okay. Here he was, in this foreign city, in this foreign bar, everything changed forever, and everything about to be changed forever. His old stomping grounds, King’s Court, the old alleyways he had known, the old neighborhood, the old pubs—everything he knew would be wiped away. Soon nothing would ever be the same; soon, death would be coming for them, here, in this place.

The Shield was down. He could still hardly fathom it. That had always been everyone’s greatest fear, ever since he was a child, and now it had come true. Godfrey knew that, especially in a time like this, he shouldn’t drink, that he should stand up straight, be a man, hurry out there and join his sister and brother and all the others and confront the danger coming for the gates. He knew he should be more of a man than he was. And he knew that he had promised his sister he would never drink again.

He was disgusted with himself. Yet still, as much as he wanted to be otherwise, he was overwhelmed with fear and inertia. He just could not get himself to get up, get out there, and do whatever it was that they needed. He was not a trained warrior, as his brothers were. He had never embraced the lessons in childhood, always refusing to obey his father. He did not actually have any real-life skill, other than knowing which pubs to frequent, and which bad company to choose.

As he sat there sulking, he felt as if he had wasted his life. He wanted desperately to change it. But he did not know how. And he could not help feel as if it were too late. After all, what could he, a single man, do against an army like Andronicus’? And he, hardly a trained warrior, no less. It all seemed so futile. If he were going to die, he might as well enjoy it.

One thing he could do, one thing he could control, was having one more drink, and numbing his worries as much as he could.

“Another!” Godfrey yelled to the bartender.

“And I!” echoed Akorth.

“And I!” cried Fulton.

Several patrons jostled in beside him, more and more pouring in, and Godfrey had to squeeze in ever tighter to the bar, packed shoulder to shoulder. His friends drank in despair, too, as did the other patrons in this place.

“I’ve never seen this place so jammed,” the bartender said, as he slammed down their drinks. “War should happen more often,” he added. “It seems every damn soul in the city wants to drown out his troubles.”

“Well if it’s our last day,” Fulton said, “I sure as hell don’t want to go down sober.”

“Well said,” Akorth roared. “Nor do I. If I’m going to die, why not die drunk?”

“What merit is there in being sober when being thrown into the earth?” Fulton added.

“Well,” Godfrey said, playing devil’s advocate, “there’s one good reason to be sober: you could go out there and fight, and prevent yourself from dying.”

“Ha!” Akorth scoffed. “I could fight just as well drunk!”

“Ay ay!” echoed Fulton. “Don’t you know that half the soldiers out there are drunk anyway? Do you really think they fight sober?”

“None of it matters anyway,” Akorth said. “Sober or not, do you really think one fighter can stop a million men?”

Godfrey couldn’t help but agree with them. Yet still, he was disappointed with himself. He loved his sister Gwendolyn, and his brother Kendrick, more than he could say, and he felt as if he were abandoning them, as if he were a disappointment in their eyes. That was the one thing he did not want to be. He could be a disappointment in his father’s eyes—he had learned to live with that. But he had grown to love his siblings, especially Gwendolyn, and she had trusted in him, and he hated the idea of letting her down. Especially after she had saved him.

“For what has she saved me?” Godfrey called out, to himself.

Akorth and Fulton turned and looked at him, baffled.

“What are you talking about, boy?” Fulton asked. “Are you mumbling something?”

Godfrey felt that he was different than all these patrons in here. After all, he was the son of a King. He was made of different stock. He had something different within him. Shouldn’t he be acting differently? These people had never had a chance in life. But he’d had more than a chance—he had had it all.

Or did he? Was all that just rubbish, all this talk of his being a MacGil, of his being the son of a king? Did it not mean anything after all? Was he, at the end of the day, just as good as everyone else, no matter who they descended from?

As Godfrey took a deep drink of yet another beer, the answers to all these questions eluded him, swarming in his buzzing mind. He did not know if he’d ever get to the bottom of it.

The door to the pub suddenly slammed open and all heads turned, as in marched a beautiful woman. Godfrey turned, too, and blinked several times, trying to focus, to remember who she was. And then he realized, with a start: Illepra. The healer who had saved his life.

Illepra looked more beautiful than ever, wearing her brown leather outfit, her hair tasseled and long, her green eyes gleaming. Her eyes locked on his as she marched his way, cutting through the pub, oblivious to all the patrons crowding around her.

They parted ways, making room for her, all the drunk men seeming surprised at the touch of beauty entering this place.

“I was told I could find you here,” Illepra said accusingly to Godfrey as she marched up close to him, frowning. The room grew quiet, watching the confrontation.

Godfrey could hardly believe that she had sought him out, here in this place. They had talked the whole way on their march from King’s Court to Silesia. He had felt a bond with her from the first time they’d met, and during their walk, their connection deepened. He had promised her that he would change, that he would give up drink and take up arms with his siblings.

And yet here he was. His face reddened, as he felt an ever deeper sense of shame.

“You disgrace your family,” she added harshly. “Is this why I saved you? So you could hide here, at our darkest hour, and drink life away? To laugh with your friends? Is that what’s important to you now, while your siblings are out there, preparing to fight for our lives?”

Godfrey looked down in shame. He had no answer. He had been thinking the same exact thing himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You are right. I don’t deserve to be up there with him. I never did. I’m sorry. I do not mean to let you down.”

“Then answer me this,” she insisted, her eyes flashing, “for what reason did I save your life, if you will not even take up arms to defend it?”

Illepra turned, angry, examining all the faces in the bar.

“I speak to all of you,” she said, raising her voice. “All of you hide in here, while your countrymen are out preparing. Not one of you is willing to go out there and take up arms to save your life. Forget about your life—what about the lives of others? Your people need you. Are you all that selfish? Is that what they are fighting for? To save the likes of you?”

All the patrons stared back, silent.

“If we fight or not, miss,” one patron yelled out, “it ain’t make any difference. A million men won’t hardly be stopped by a few thousand.”

There came a grunt of approval throughout the room.

“No, maybe they can’t,” Illepra reasoned. “But that doesn’t mean that we do not try. One day, we will all die. It is not about who lives and who dies. It is about how we live. And how we die.”

She turned and stared at Godfrey.

“I thought you were different,” she said softly. “I thought you had the potential to be something greater. But now I see I was wrong. You are just another drunk. As the whole kingdom says you are.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that miss!” Akorth called out in his defense, raising his mug. “You can die in here or you can die out there. But at least my friend will die happy!”

The crowd cheered in approval, raising their mugs.

Illepra reddened, turned on her heel, and stormed from the pub.

As the patrons slowly went back to their business, Godfrey watched her go, burning up inside. Fulton reached over and patted him on the back.

“Women are that way,” he said consolingly. “They don’t know what’s important. You’re doing the right thing—have another!” he said, sliding another mug his way.

As Godfrey looked down at the mug, something rose up within him. It was a new feeling, something he had never experienced before. It was a sense of pride. A sense of something bigger than himself. For the first time in his life, he did not think of himself. He did not think of the next drink.

Instead, he thought of the Ring. Of Silesians. Of putting others first.

The more he thought of it, the more his fears began to dissipate. The more he pondered helping others, the less he afraid he became for himself.

Godfrey had enough. Suddenly he threw down his mug, jumped up from the bar and began to hurry through the crowd, towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Akorth called after him.

Godfrey turned and looked at his friends one last time, before heading out the door.

“I’m going to don armor, take up arms, and help my sister!” he announced gravely.

His friends laughed at him.

“You’ve never taken up arms in your life!” Fulton yelled.

Godfrey stared back, reddening, undeterred.

“No, I haven’t,” he admitted. “But I shall learn. Or I shall die trying!”