A Vow of Glory

CHAPTER FOUR

Gareth paced the stone floors of his father’s study, a small chamber on the top floor of the castle that his father had cherished, and bit by bit, he tore it apart.

Gareth went from bookcase to bookcase, yanking down precious volumes, ancient leather books that had been in the family for centuries, and tearing the bindings and shredding the pages in small bits. As he threw them in the air, they fell down over his head like snowflakes, clinging to his body and to the drool running down his cheeks. He was determined to tear apart every last thing in this place that his father loved, one book at a time.

Gareth hurried over to a corner table, grabbed what was left of his opium pipe, and with shaking hands sucked hard, needing his hit now more than ever. He was addicted, smoking it every minute he could, determined to block out the images of his father that haunted him in his dreams, and now even when he was awake.

As Gareth put down the pipe, he saw his father standing there, before him, a decaying corpse. Each time the corpse was more decayed, more skeleton than flesh; Gareth turned from the awful site.

Gareth used to try to attack the image—but he’d learned that it did no good. So now he just turned his head, constantly, always looking away. Always it was the same: his father wearing a rusted crown, his mouth open, his eyes gazing at him with contempt, reaching out a single finger, pointing accusingly at him. In that awful stare, Gareth felt his own days numbered, felt that it was only a matter of time until he joined him. He hated seeing him more than anything. If there was one saving grace in murdering his father, it was that he would not need to see his face again. But now, ironically, he saw it more than ever.

Gareth turned and hurled the opium pipe at the apparition, hoping that if he threw it quickly enough it might actually hit.

But the pipe merely flew through the air and smashed against the wall, shattering. His father still stood there, and glared down at him.

“Those drugs won’t help you now,” his father scolded.

Gareth could stand it no longer. He charged for the apparition, hands out, lunging to scratch his father’s face; but as always, he sailed through nothing but air, and this time he went stumbling across the room and landed hard on his father’s wooden desk, sending it crashing down to the floor with him.

Gareth rolled on the ground, winded, and looked up and saw that he had gashed his arm. Blood was dripping down his shirt, and he looked down and noticed he still wore the undershirt he had slept in for days; in fact, he had not changed for weeks now. He glanced over at a reflection of himself, and saw that his hair was wild; he looked like a common ruffian. A part of him could hardly believe he had sank so low. But another part of him no longer cared. The only thing left inside of him was a burning desire to destroy—to destroy any remnant of his father that once was. He would like to have this castle razed, and King’s Court with it. It would be vengeance for the treatment he bore as a child. The memories were stuck inside him, like a thorn he could not pull out.

The door to his father’s study opened wide, and in rushed one of Gareth’s attendants, looking down in fear.

“My liege,” the attendant said. “I heard a crash. Are you okay? My liege, you are bleeding!”

Gareth looked up at the boy with hatred. Gareth tried to get to his feet, to lash out at him, but he slipped on something, and fell back down to the ground, disoriented from the last hit of opium.

“My liege, I will help you!”

The boy rushed forward and grabbed Gareth’s arm, which was too thin, barely flesh and bone.

But Gareth still had a reserve of strength and as the boy touched his arm, he shoved him off, sending him across the room.

“Touch me again and I will cut off your hands,” Gareth seethed.

The boy backed up in fear, and as he did, another attendant entered the room, accompanied by an older man whom Gareth vaguely recognized. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew him—but he could not place him.

“My liege,” came an old, gravelly voice, “we have been waiting for you in the council chamber for half the day. The council members cannot wait much longer. They have urgent news, and must share it with you before the day is up. Will you come?”

Gareth narrowed his eyes at the man, trying to make him out. He dimly remembered that he had served his father. The council chamber… The meeting… It all swirled in his mind.

“Who are you?” Gareth asked.

“My liege, I am Aberthol. Your father’s trusted advisor,” he said, stepping closer.

It was slowly coming back. Aberthol. The council. The meeting. Gareth’s mind spun, his head crushing him. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Leave me,” he snapped. “I will come.”

Aberthol nodded and hurried from the room with the attendant, closing the door behind them.

Gareth knelt there, head in his hands, trying to think, to remember. It was all so much. It started to come back to him in bits. The shield was down; the Empire was attacking; half his court had left; his sister had led them away; to Silesia…Gwendolyn…That was it. That was what he had been trying to remember.

Gwendolyn. He hated her with a passion he could not describe. Now, more than ever, he wanted to kill her. He needed to kill her. All of his troubles in this world—they were all a result of her. He would find a way to get back at her, even if he had to die trying. And he would kill his other siblings next.

Gareth started to feel better at the thought.

With a supreme effort, he struggled to his feet and stumbled through the room, knocking over an end table as he went. As he neared the door, he spotted an alabaster bust of his father, a sculpture his father had loved, and he reached down, grabbed it by its head and threw it at the wall.

It smashed into a thousand pieces, and for the first time that day, Gareth smiled. Maybe this day would not be so bad after all.

Gareth strutted into the council room flanked by several attendants, slamming open the huge oak doors with his palm, making everyone in the crowded room jump at his presence. They all quickly stood at attention.

While normally this would give Gareth some satisfaction, on this day, he was beyond caring. He was plagued by the ghost of his father, and infused with rage that his sister had left. His emotions swirled within him, and he had to take it out on the world.

Gareth stumbled through the vast chamber in his opium-infused haze, walking down the center of the aisle towards his throne, dozens of councilmen standing aside as he went. His court had grown, and today the energy was frantic, as more and more people seemed to filter in with the news of the departure of half of King’s Court, and of the shield’s being down. It was as if whomever remained of King’s Court was pouring into Gareth’s court for answers.

And of course, Gareth had none.

As Gareth strutted up the ivory steps to his father’s throne, he saw, standing patiently behind it, Lord Kultin, the mercenary leader of his private fighting force, the one man left in the court who he could trust. Alongside him stood dozens of his fighters, standing there silently, hands on their swords, ready to fight to the death for Gareth. It was the one thing left that gave Gareth comfort.

Gareth sat in his throne, and surveyed the room. There were so many faces, a few he recognized and many he didn’t. He trusted none of them. Every day he purged more from his court; he had already sent so many to the dungeons, and even more to the executioner. Not a day passed when he didn’t kill at least a handful of men. He thought it good policy: it kept the men on their toes, and prevented a coup from forming.

The room sat silent, staring at him in a daze. They all looked terrified to speak. Which was exactly what he wanted. Nothing thrilled him more than infusing fear in his subjects.

Finally, Aberthol stepped forward, his cane echoing off the stone, and cleared his throat.

“My liege,” he began, his voice ancient, “we stand at a moment of great disarray in King’s Court. I do not know what news has yet reached you: the Shield is down; Gwendolyn has left King’s Court and has taken Kolk, Brom, Kendrick, Atme, the Silver, the Legion, and half of your army—along with half of King’s Court. Those that remain here look to you for guidance, and to know what our next move will be. The people want answers, my liege.”

“What’s more,” said another Council member whom Gareth dimly recognized, “word has spread that the Canyon has already been breached. Rumor has it that Andronicus has invaded the McCloud side of the Ring with his million man army.”

An outraged gasp spread throughout the room; dozens of brave warriors whispered to each other, flooded with fear, and a state of panic spread like wildfire.

“It can’t be true!” exclaimed one of the soldiers.

“It is!” insisted the councilmember.

“Then all hope is lost!” yelled out another soldier. “If the McClouds are overrun, the Empire will come for King’s Court next. There’s no way we can keep them back.”

“We must discuss terms of surrender, my liege,” Aberthol said to Gareth.

“Surrender!?” another man yelled. “We shall never surrender!”

“If we don’t,” yelled another soldier, “we will be crushed. How can we stand up to one million men?”

The room broke out into an outraged murmur, the soldiers and counselors arguing with each other, all in complete disarray.

The Council leader slammed his iron rod into the stone floor and screamed:

“ORDER!”

Gradually, the room quieted, all the men turned and looked at him.

“These are all decisions for a king, not for us,” one of the council men said. “Gareth is lawful King, and it is not for us to discuss terms of surrender—or whether to surrender at all.”

They all turned to Gareth.

“My liege,” Aberthol said, exhaustion in his voice, “how do you propose we deal with the Empire’s army?”

The room grew deathly silent.

Gareth sat there, staring down at the men, and he wanted to respond. But it was getting harder and harder for him to keep his thoughts clear. He kept hearing his father’s voice in his head, yelling at him, as when he was a child. It was driving him crazy, and the voice would not go away.

Gareth reached out and scratched the wooden arm of the throne, again and again, and the sound of his fingernails clawing were the only sound in the room.

The council members exchanged a worried glance.

“My liege,” another councilman prompted, “if you choose not to surrender, then we must fortify King’s Court at once. We must secure all the entrances, all the roads, all the gates. We must call up all the soldiers, prepare defenses. We must prepare for a siege, ration food, protect our citizens. There is much to be done. Please, my Liege. Give us a command. Tell us what to do.”

Once again the room fell silent, as all eyes fixed on Gareth.

Finally, Gareth lifted his chin and stared out.

“We will not fight the Empire,” he declared. “Nor will we surrender.”

Everyone in the room looked at each other, confused.

“Then what shall we do, my liege?” Aberthol asked.

Gareth cleared his throat.

“We shall kill Gwendolyn!” he declared. “That is all that matters now.”

There followed a shocked silence.

“Gwendolyn?” a councilman called out in surprise, as the room broke out into another surprised murmur.

“We will send all of our forces after her, to slaughter her and those with her before they reach Silesia,” Gareth announced.

“But, my Liege, how shall this help us?” a councilman called out. “If we venture out to attack her, that will only leave our forces exposed. They would all be surrounded and slaughtered by the Empire.”

“It would also leave King’s Court open for attack!” called out another. “If we are not going to surrender, we must fortify King’s Court at once!”

A group of men shouted in agreement.

Gareth turned and looked at the councilman, his eyes cold.

“We will use every man we have to kill my sister!” he said darkly. “We will not spare even one!”

The room fell silent as a councilman pushed back his chair, scraping against the stone, and stood.

“I will not see King’s Court ruined for your personal obsession. I, for one, am not with you!”

“Nor I!” echoed half the men in the room.

Gareth felt himself fuming with rage, and was about to stand when suddenly the doors to the chamber burst open and in rushed the commander of what remained of the army. All eyes were on him. He dragged a man in his arms, a ruffian with greasy hair, unshaven, bound by his wrists. He dragged the man all the way to the center of the room, and stopped before the king.

“My liege,” the commander said coldly. “Of the six thieves executed for the theft of the Destiny Sword, this man was the seventh, the one who escaped. He tells the most fantastical tale of what happened.

“Speak!” the commander prodded, shaking the ruffian.

The ruffian looked nervously in every direction, his greasy hair clinging to his cheeks, looking unsure. Finally, he yelled out:

“We were ordered to steal the sword!”

The room broke out into an outraged murmur.

“There were nineteen of us!” the ruffian continued. “A dozen were to take it away, in the cover of darkness, across the Canyon bridge, and into the wilds. They hid it in a wagon and escorted it across the bridge, so the soldiers standing guard would have no idea what was inside. The others, the seven of us, were ordered to stay behind after the theft. We were told we would be imprisoned, as a show, and then let free. But instead, my friends were all executed. I would have been to, had I not escaped.”

The room broke out into a long, agitated murmur.

“And where were they taking the sword?” the commander pressed.

“I do not know. Somewhere deep inside the Empire.”

“And who ordered such a thing?”

“He!” the ruffian said, suddenly turning and pointing a bony finger up at Gareth. “Our King! He commanded us to do it!”

The room broke out into a horrified murmur, shouts arising, until finally a councilman slammed his iron staff several times and screamed for silence.

The room quieted, but barely.

Gareth, already shaking with fear and rage, stood slowly from his throne, and the room quieted, as all eyes fell on him.

One step at a time, Gareth descended the ivory steps, his footsteps echoing, the silence so thick one could cut it with a knife.

He crossed the chamber, until finally he reached the ruffian. He stared back at him coldly, a foot away, the man squirming in the commander’s arm, looking every which way but at him.

“Thieves and liars are dealt with only one way in my kingdom,” Gareth said softly.

Gareth suddenly pulled a dagger from his waist and plunged it in the ruffian’s heart.

The man screamed out in pain, his eyes bulging, then suddenly slumped down to the ground, dead.

The commander looked over at Gareth, scowling down at him.

“You have just murdered a witness against you,” the commander said. “Don’t you realize that that only serves to further insinuate your guilt?”

“What witness?” Gareth asked, smiling. “Dead men don’t speak.”

The commander reddened.

“Lest you forget, I am commander of the half of the King’s army. I will not be played for a fool. From your actions, I can only surmise that you are guilty of the crime he accused you of. As such, I and my army shall serve you no longer. In fact, I will take you into custody, on the grounds of treason to the Ring!”

The commander nodded to his men, and as one, several dozen soldiers drew their swords and stepped forward to arrest Gareth.

Lord Kultin came forward with twice as many of his own men, all drawing their swords and walking up behind Gareth.

They stood there, facing off with the commander’s soldiers, Gareth in the middle.

Gareth smiled triumphantly back at the commander. His men were outnumbered by Gareth’s fighting force, and he knew it.

“I will go into no one’s custody,” Gareth sneered. “And certainly not by your hand. Take your men and leave my court—or meet the wrath of my personal fighting force.”

After several tense seconds, the commander finally turned and gestured to his men, and as one, they all retreated, walking warily backwards, swords drawn, from the room.

“From this day forward,” the commander boomed, “let it be known that we no longer serve you! You will face the Empire’s army on your own. I hope they treat you well. Better than you treated your father!”

The soldiers all stormed from the room, in a great clang of armor.

The dozens of councilmen and attendants and noblemen who remained all stood in the silence, whispering.

“Leave me!” Gareth screamed. “ALL OF YOU!”

All the people left in the chamber quickly filed out, including Gareth’s own fighting force left.

Only one person remained, lingering behind the others.

Lord Kultin.

Just he and Gareth were alone in the room, and he walked up to Gareth, stopping a few feet away, and examined him, as if summing him up. As usual, his face was expressionless. It was the true face of a mercenary.

“I don’t care what you did or why,” he began, his voice gravelly and dark. “I don’t care about politics. I’m a fighter. I care only for the money you pay me, and my men.”

He paused.

“Yet I would like to know, for my own personal satisfaction: did you truly order those men to take the sword away?”

Gareth stared back at the man. There was something in his eyes that he recognized in himself: they were cold, remorseless, opportunistic.

“And if I did?” Gareth asked back.

Lord Kultin stared back for a long time.

“But why?” he asked.

Gareth stared back, silent.

Kultin’s eyes widened in recognition.

“You couldn’t wield it, so no one could?” asked Kultin. “Is that it?”

“Yet even so,” Kultin added, “surely you knew that sending it away would lower the shield, make us vulnerable to attack.”

Kultin’s eyes opened wider.

“You wanted us to be attacked, didn’t you? Something in you wanted King’s Court destroyed,” he said, suddenly realizing.

Gareth smiled back.

“Not all places,” Gareth said slowly, “are meant to last forever.”