A Vow of Glory

Thor turned and looked back at the boat, and knew it would take precious time to hunt him down – time they could not afford.

"The Empire will come after us no matter what,” Thor said. “We haven't time to lose. What is most important now is that we get far from here. To the ship!”

They dismounted as they reached the ship and Thor reached into his saddle and began to empty it of all its provisions as the others did the same, loading up on weapons and on sacks of food and water. Who knew how long the voyage would take, how long it would be until they saw land again – if they saw land again. Thor also loaded up on food for Krohn.

They threw the sacks up high over the railing of the boat; they landed on the deck above with a thump.

Thor grabbed the thick, knotted rope hanging over the side, the coarse rope cutting into his hands, and tested it. He draped Krohn over his shoulder, the weight of them both testing his muscles, and pulled up towards the deck. Krohn whined in his ear, hugging his chest with his sharp claws, clinging to him.

Soon Thor was over the railing, Krohn leaping off of him onto the deck – and the others followed close behind. Thor leaned over and looked down at the horses on the beach, looking up as if awaiting a command.

"And what of them?" Reece asked, coming up beside him.

Thor turned and surveyed the ship: it was maybe twenty feet long and half as wide. It was big enough for the seven of them – but not for their horses. If they tried to take them, the horses might trample the wood, damage the boat. They had to leave them behind.

"We have no choice," Thor said, looking down longingly at them. “We'll have to find new ones.”

O'Connor leaned over the rail.

"They're smart horses," O'Connor said. "I trained them well. They will return home upon my command.”

O'Connor whistled sharply.

As one, the horses turned and bolted, racing across the sand and disappearing into the forest, heading back towards the Ring.

Thor turned and looked at his brothers, at the ship, at the sea before them. Now they were stranded, with no horses, with no choice but to move forward. Reality was sinking in. They were truly alone, with nothing but this boat, and about to part from the shores of the Ring for good. Now there was no turning back.

"And how are we supposed to get this boat into the water?" Conval asked, as they all looked down, fifteen feet below, at the hull. A small portion of it was in the lapping waves of the Tartuvian, but most of it was lodged firmly in the sand.

"Over here!" Conven said.

They hurried to the other side where a thick iron chain dangled over the edge, at the bottom of which was an immense iron ball, sitting on the sand.

Conven reached down and yanked on the chain. He groaned and struggled, but could not lift it.

“It’s too heavy,” he grunted.

Conval and Thor hurried over and helped, and as the three of them grabbed the chain and pulled, Thor was shocked by its weight: even with the three of them pulling, they could only lift it a few feet. Finally, they all dropped it, and it fell back down to the sand.

"Let me help," Elden said, stepping forward.

With his huge bulk, Elden towered over them, and he reached down by himself and yanked on the chain, and managed to lift the ball into the air alone. Thor was amazed. The others jumped in and they all pulled, as one, yanking the anchor up one foot at a time, and finally over the railing and onto the deck.

The boat started to move, rocking a little bit in the waves, but it remained lodged in the sand.

"The poles!" Reece said.

Thor turned and saw two wooden poles, nearly twenty feet long, mounted along the sides of the boat, and realized what they were for. He ran over with Reece and grabbed one while Conval and Conven grabbed the other.

“When we shove off,” Thor screamed out, “you all raise the sails!”

They leaned over, jabbed the poles into the sand, and pushed with all their might; Thor groaned from the effort. Slowly, the boat began to move, just the tiniest bit. At the same time, Elden and O'Connor ran to the middle of the boat and pulled the ropes to raise the canvas sails, raising them with effort, one foot at a time. Luckily there was a strong breeze, and as Thor and the others shoved and shoved against the shore, struggling with all they had to get this surprisingly heavy boat out of the sand, the sails raised higher, and began to catch the wind.

Finally, the boat rocked beneath them as it glided out onto the water, bobbing, weightless, Thor's shoulders shaking from the effort. Elden and O'Connor raised the sails to full mast, and soon they were drifting out to sea.

They all let out a cheer of triumph, as they put the poles back in place and ran over and helped Elden and O'Connor secure the lines. Krohn yelped beside them, excited by it all.

The boat was drifting aimlessly and Thor hurried to the wheel, O’Connor beside him.

"Want to take the wheel?" Thor asked O’Connor.

O’Connor grinned wide.

"Would love to.”

They began to gain real speed, cruising out on the yellow waters of the Tartuvian, the wind at their backs. Finally, they were moving, and Thor took a deep breath. They were off.

Thor headed out to the bow, Reece beside him, while Krohn came up between them and leaned into Thor's leg, while Thor reached down and stroked his soft white fur. Krohn leaned over and licked Thor; Thor reached into a small sack and pulled out a piece of meat for Krohn, who snatched it up.

Thor looked out at the vast sea before them. The distant horizon was dotted with black Empire ships, surely on their way to the McCloud side of the Ring. Luckily, they were distracted, and could not possibly be on the lookout for a lone boat heading into their territory. The skies were clear, there was a strong wind at their backs, and they continued to gain speed.

Thor looked out and wondered what lay before them. He wondered how long it would be until they reached Empire land, what might be waiting to greet them. He wondered how they would find the sword, how all this would end. He knew the odds were against them, yet still he felt exhilarated to finally be on the journey, thrilled that they'd made it this far, and eager to do retrieve the Sword.

"What if it's not there?" Reece asked.

Thor turned and looked at him.

"The sword," Reece added. "What if it's not there? Or if it’s lost? Or destroyed? Or if we just never find it? The Empire is vast, after all.”

"Or what if the Empire's figured out how to wield it?" Elden asked in his deep voice, coming up beside them.

"What if we find it but can't bring it back?" Conven asked.

The group of them stood there, oppressed by what lay before them, by the sea of unanswered questions. This journey was madness, Thor knew.

Madness.

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, tore it apart.

Gareth went from bookcase to bookcase, yanking down precious volumes, ancient leather books that had been in the family for centuries, tearing the bindings and shredding the pages into 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 had 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 sight.

Gareth used to try to attack the image – but he’d learned that 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 it was only a matter of time until he joined him. He hated seeing him more than anything. If there had been 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.