coming.
Since saying goodbye to Thor they had all headed alongside the Canyon, following it North, knowing it would take them to westernmost city in the western part of the Ring – Silesia. As they went, the Canyon’s eerie mist rolled off it in waves, clinging to Gwen’s ankles.
“We are not far now, my lady," came a voice.
Gwen looked over to see Srog standing on her other side, dressed in the distinctive red armor of Silesia and flanked by several of his warriors, all dressed in their red chain mail and boots. Gwen had been touched by Srog’s kindness to her, by his loyalty to the memory of her father, by his offer of Silesia as a refuge. She did not know what she and all these people would have done otherwise. They would still, even now, be stuck in King's Court at the mercy of Gareth’s treachery.
Srog was one of the most honorable lords she had ever met. With thousands of soldiers at his disposal, with his control of the famed stronghold of the West, Srog had not needed to pay homage to anyone. But he paid homage to her father. It had always been a delicate power balance. In the times of her father’s father, Silesia had needed King’s Court; in her father’s time, less so; and in her time, not at all. In fact, with the lowering of the Shield and the chaos at King’s Court, they were the ones who needed Silesia.
Of course, the Silver and Legion were the finest warriors there were – as were the thousands of troops accompanying Gwen, that comprised half of the King's army. Yet Srog, like most other lords, could have simply lowered his gates and looked after his own.
Instead, he had sought Gwen out, had paid allegiance to her, and had insisted on hosting all of them. It had been a kindness which Gwen was determined to somehow, one day, repay. That is, if they all survived.
"You need not worry," she replied softly, laying a gentle hand on his wrist. "We would march to the ends of the earth to enter your city. We are most fortunate for your kindness in this difficult time.”
Srog smiled. A middle-aged warrior with too many lines etched into his face from battle, red-brownish hair, a strong jaw line and no beard, Srog was a man's man, not only a Lord, but a true warrior.
"For your father, I would walk through fire," he responded. "Thanks are not in order. It is a great honor to be able to repay my debt to him in service of his daughter. After all, it was his wish that you should rule. So when I answer to you, I answer to him.”
Near Gwen also marched Kolk and Brom, and behind them all was the ever-present clatter of thousands of spurs, of swords jingling in their scabbards, of shields brushing up against armor. It was a huge cacophony of noise, heading farther and farther north along the Canyon's edge.
"My lady," Kolk said, "I am burdened by guilt. We shouldn’t have let Thor, Reece, and the others head out alone into the Empire. More of us should have volunteered to go with them. It will be on my head if anything should happen to them."
“It was the quest they chose," Gwen responded. "It was a quest of honor. Whoever was meant to go has gone. Guilt does no one any good.”
"And what should happen if they don't return in time with the Sword?” Srog asked. “It won’t be long until Andronicus’ army appears at our gates.”
"Then we shall make a stand," Gwen said confidently, raising as much courage in her voice as she could, hoping to put others at ease. She noticed the other generals turn and look at her.
"We will defend until the last blow,” she added. “There will be no retreat, no surrender.”
She sensed the generals were impressed. She was impressed by her own voice, the strength rising up within her, surprising even her. It was the strength of her father, of seven generations of MacGil kings.
As they continued to march, the road curved sharply to the left, and as Gwen turned the corner she stopped in her tracks, breathless at the sight.
Silesia.
Gwen remembered her father taking her on trips here, when she was a young girl. It was a place that lingered in her dreams ever since, a place that had felt magical to her then. Now, laying her eyes on it as a grown woman, it still took her breath away.
Silesia was the most unusual city Gwen had ever seen. All the buildings, all the fortifications, all the stone – everything was built of an ancient, shining red. The upper half Silesia, tall, vertical, replete with parapets and spires, was built on the mainland, while the lower half was built down into the side of the Canyon. The swirling mists of the Canyon blew in and out, enveloping it, making the red shine and sparkle in the light – and making it seem as if it were built in the clouds.
Its fortifications rose a hundred feet, crowned in parapets and backed by an endless row of walls. The place was a fortress. Even if an army somehow breached its walls, it still would have to descend to the lower half of the city, straight down the cliffs, and fight on the edge of the Canyon. It was clearly a war no invading army would want to wage. Which was why this city had stood for a thousand years.
Her men stopped and gaped, and Gwen could feel that they were all in awe, too.
For the first time in a while, Gwen felt a sense of optimism. This was a place they could stay, away from Gareth's reach, a place they could defend. A place where she could rule. And maybe – just maybe – the MacGil kingdom could rise again.
Srog stood there, hands on his hips, taking it all in as if seeing his own city for the first time, his eyes shining with pride.
"Welcome to Silesia."
Chapter Six
Thor opened his eyes at the crack of dawn to see the gently rolling waves of the ocean, rising and falling in huge crests, blanketed by the soft light of the first sun. The light yellow water of the Tartuvian sparkled in the morning mist. The shipped bobbed silently in the water, the only sound that of the lapping waves against its hull.
Thor sat up and looked around. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion – in fact, he had never felt this tired in his life. They had been sailing for days, and everything here, on this side of the world, felt different. The air was so thick with humidity, the temperature so much warmer, it was like breathing in a constant stream of water. It made him feel sluggish, made his limbs feel heavy. He felt as if he had arrived at Summer.
Thor looked around and saw that all of his friends, normally up before dawn, were all slumped on the deck, sleeping. Even Krohn, always awake, was asleep beside him. The thick tropical weather had affected them all. None of them even bothered to man the wheel anymore – they had given that up days ago. There was no point: their sails were always at full mast with a driving westerly wind, and the magical tides of this ocean constantly pulled their ship in one direction. It was as if they were being pulled to one location, and they had tried several times to steer or change course – but it was useless. They had all become resigned to let the Tartuvian take them where it would.
It's not like they knew where in the Empire to go anyway, Thor mused. As long as the tides took them to dry land, he figured, that would be good enough.
Krohn roused, whining, then leaned forward and licked Thor’s face. Thor reached into his sack, nearly empty, and gave Krohn the last of his dried meat sticks. To Thor’s surprise, Krohn did not snatch it from his hand, as he usually did; instead, Krohn looked at it, looked at the empty sack, then looked back at Thor meaningfully. He hesitated to take the food, and Thor realized Krohn didn’t want to take the last piece from him.
Thor was touched by the gesture, but he insisted, pushing the meat into his friend’s mouth. Thor knew they would
