A Rule of Queens

Gwen heard a shuffling of feet on the deck, and she looked over and saw Sandara, faint from hunger but standing proudly at the rail and holding up a large golden relic, shaped in a bull’s horns, and tilting it so that it caught the sun. Gwen watched the light catch it, again and again, and watched it flashing as it cast an unusual signal to the far shoreline. Sandara did not aim it toward the city, but rather north, toward what appeared to be an isolated copse of trees on the shoreline.

As Gwen’s eyes, so heavy, began to close, drifting in and out of consciousness, as she began to feel herself slumping down toward the deck, images flashed through her mind. She was not sure anymore what was real and what was her food-starved consciousness. Gwen saw canoes, dozens of them, emerging from the dense jungle canopy and heading out, on the rolling sea, toward their ship. She caught a glimpse of them as they approached, and she was surprised to see not the Empire race, not massive warriors with horns and red skin, but rather a different race. She saw proud muscular men and women, with chocolate skin and glowing yellow eyes, with compassionate, intelligent faces, all rowing to greet her. Gwen saw Sandara looking at them in recognition, and she realized that these were Sandara’s people.

Gwen heard a hollow thumping noise on the ship, and she saw grappling hooks on deck, ropes being cast, locking to the ship. She felt her ship change direction, and she looked down and saw the fleet of kayaks towing their boat, guiding it on the currents in the opposite direction of the Empire city. Gwen slowly realized that Sandara’s people were coming to help them. To guide their ship toward another harbor, away from that of the Empire.

Gwen felt their ship veering sharply north, toward the dense canopy, toward a small, hidden harbor. She closed her eyes, filled with relief.

Soon Gwen opened her eyes to find herself standing, leaning over the rail, watching her ship getting towed. Overcome with exhaustion, Gwendolyn felt herself leaning too far forward, losing her grip and slipping; her eyes widened in panic as she realized that she was about to fall overboard. Gwen grasped at the rail, but it was too late, her momentum already carrying her over the edge.

Gwen’s heart pounded in a panic; she could not believe that after all she’d been through, she would die this way, plunging silently into the sea when they were so close to land.

As she felt herself falling, Gwen heard a sudden snarling, and suddenly, she felt strong teeth biting into the back of her shirt, and she heard a whining noise as she felt herself being yanked backwards by her shirt, pulled back, away from the abyss, and finally back onto the deck. She landed on the wooden deck with a thump, on her back, safe and sound.

She looked up to see Krohn standing over her, and her heart lifted with joy. Krohn was alive, she was overjoyed to see. He looked so much thinner than the last time she’d seen him, emaciated, and she realized she had lost track of him in all the chaos. The last time she’d seen him was when he had descended below deck in a particularly bad storm. She realized now that he must have hidden somewhere below deck, starved himself so that others could eat. That was Krohn. Always so selfless. And now that they were nearing land again, he was resurfacing.

Krohn whined and licked her face, and Gwen hugged him with her last bit of strength. She lay back down, Krohn lying by her side, whining, laying his head on her chest, snuggling with her as if he had no other place left in the world.

* * *

Gwendolyn felt a liquid, sweet and cold, trickling on her lips, on her tongue, down her cheeks and neck. She opened her mouth and drank, swallowing eagerly, and as she did, the sensation woke her from her dreams.

Gwen opened her eyes, drinking greedily, unfamiliar faces hovering over her, and she drank and drank until she coughed.

Someone pulled her up, and she sat up, coughing uncontrollably, someone patting her on her back.

“Shhhh,” came a voice. “Drink slowly.”

It was a gentle voice, the voice of a healer. Gwen looked over to see an old man with a lined face, his entire face bunching up into wrinkles as he smiled.

Gwen looked out to see dozens of unfamiliar faces, Sandara’s people, staring back at her quietly, examining her as if she were an oddity. Gwendolyn, overcome with thirst and hunger, reached out, and like a crazy woman, grabbed the sack of whatever it was and poured the sweet liquid into her mouth, drinking and drinking, biting down on the tip of it as if she would never drink again.

“Slowly now,” came the man’s voice. “Or you’ll get sick.”

Gwen looked over to see dozens of warriors, Sandara’s people, occupying her ship. She saw her own people, the survivors of the Ring, lying or kneeling or sitting, each attended to by one of Sandara’s people, each given a sack to drink. They were all coming back from the brink. Among them she saw Illepra, holding the baby Gwen had rescued on the Upper Isles, feeding her. Gwen was relieved to hear the baby’s cries; she had passed her off to Illepra when she was too weak to hold her, and seeing her alive made Gwen think of Guwayne. Gwen was determined that this baby girl should live.

Gwen was feeling more restored with each passing moment, and she sat up and drank more of the liquid, wondering what was inside, her heart filled with gratitude toward these people. They had saved all of their lives.

Beside Gwen there came a whining, and she looked down and saw Krohn, still lying there, his head in her lap; she reached down and gave him drink from her sack, and he lapped at it thankfully. She stroked his head lovingly; she owed him her life, once again. And seeing him made her think of Thor.

Gwen looked up at all of Sandara’s people, not knowing how to thank them.

“You have saved us,” she said. “We owe you our lives.”

Gwen turned and looked at Sandara, coming over and kneeling beside her, and Sandara shook her head.

“My people don’t believe in debts,” she said. “They believe it is an honor to save someone in distress.”

The crowd parted ways and Gwen looked over to see a stern man, who appeared to be their leader, perhaps in his fifties, with a set jaw and thin lips, approach. He squatted before her, wearing a large turquoise necklace made of shells that flashed in the sun, and bowed his head, his yellow eyes filled with compassion as he surveyed her.

“I am Bokbu,” he said, his voice deep and authoritative. “We answered Sandara’s call because she is one of us. We have taken you in at the risk of our lives. If the Empire should see us here now, with you, they would kill us all.”

Bokbu rose to his feet, hands on his hips, and Gwen herself slowly stood, helped by Sandara and their healer, and faced him. Bokbu sighed as he looked around at all the people, at the sorry state of her ship.

“Now they are better, now they must go,” came a voice.

Gwen turned and saw a muscular warrior holding a spear and wearing no shirt, as the others, coming over beside Bokbu, looking at him coldly.

“Send these foreigners back across the sea,” he added. “Why shall we shed blood for them?”

“I am of your blood,” Sandara said, stepping forward, sternly facing the warrior.

“Which is why you should have never brought these people here and endangered us all,” he snapped.

“You bring disgrace on our nation,” Sandara said. “Have you forgotten the laws of hospitality?”

“Your bringing them here is the disgrace,” he retorted.

Bokbu raised his palms at both sides, and they quieted.

Bokbu stood there, expressionless, and he seemed to be thinking. Gwendolyn stood there, watching it all, and realized the precarious situation they were in. Setting back out on the sea, she knew, would mean instant death; yet she did not want to endanger these people who had helped her.

“We meant you no harm,” Gwen said, turning to Bokbu. “I do not wish to endanger you. We can embark now.”

Bokbu shook his head.

“No,” he said. Then he looked at Gwen, studying her with what seemed to be wonder. “Why did you bring your people here?” he asked.

Gwen sighed.

“We fled a great army,” she said. “They destroyed our homeland. We came here to find a new home.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place,” said the warrior. “This will not be your home.”

“Silence!” Bokbu said to him, giving him a harsh look, and finally, the warrior fell silent.

Bokbu turned to look at Gwendolyn, his eyes locking with hers.

“You are a proud and noble woman,” he said. “I can see you are a leader. You have guided your people well. If I turn you back to the sea, you will surely die. Maybe not today, but certainly within a few days.”

Gwendolyn looked back at him, unyielding.

“Then we shall die,” she replied. “I will not have your people killed so that we should live.”

She stared at him firmly, expressionless, emboldened by her nobility and her pride. She could see that Bokbu studied her with a new respect. A tense silence filled the air.

“I can see the warrior blood runs in you,” he said. “You will stay with us. Your people will recover here until they are well and strong. However many moons it takes.”

“But my chief – ” the warrior began.

Bokbu turned and gave him a stern look.

“My decision is made.”

“But their ship!” he protested. “If it stays here in our harbor, the Empire will see it. We will all die before the moon has waned!”

The chief looked up at the mast, then at the ship, taking it all in. Gwen looked about and studied the landscape and saw they had been towed deep into a hidden harbor, surrounded by a dense canopy. She turned and saw behind them the open sea, and she knew the man was right.

The chief looked at her and nodded.

“You want to save your people?” he asked.

Gwen nodded back firmly.

“Yes.”

He nodded back at her.

“Leaders must make hard decisions,” he said. “Now is the time for you. You want to stay with us, but your ship will kill us all. We invite your people ashore, but your ship cannot remain. You will have to burn it. Then we shall take you in.”

Gwendolyn stood there, facing the chief, and her heart sank at the thought. She looked at her ship, the ship which had taken them across the sea, had saved her people from halfway across the world, and her heart sank. Her mind swirled with conflicting emotions. This ship was her only way out.

But then again, her way out of what? Heading back out into an endless ocean of death? Her people could barely walk; they needed to recover. They needed shelter and harbor and refuge. And if burning this ship was the price of life, then so be it. If they decided to head back out to sea, then they would find another ship, or build another ship, do whatever they had to do. For now, they had to live. That was what mattered most.

Gwendolyn looked at him and nodded solemnly.

“So be it,” she said.

Bokbu nodded back to her with a look of great respect. Then he turned and called out a command, and all around him, his men broke into action. They spread out throughout the ship, helping all the members of the Ring, getting them to their feet one at a time, guiding them down the plank to the sandy shore below. Gwen stood and watched Godfrey, Kendrick, Brandt, Atme, Aberthol, Illepra, Sandara, and all the people she loved most in the world pass by her.

She stood there and waited until every single last person left the ship, until she was the last one standing on it, just her, Krohn at her heels, and to her side, standing quietly, the chief.

Bokbu held a flaming torch, handed to him by one of his men. He reached out to touch the ship.

“No,” Gwen said, reaching out and clasping his wrist.

He looked over at her in surprise.

“A leader must destroy her own,” she said.

Gwen gingerly took the heavy, flaming torch from his hand, then turned and, wiping back a tear, held the flame to a canvas sail bunched up on deck.

Gwen stood there and watched as the flames caught, spreading faster and faster, reaching out across the ship.

She dropped the torch, the heat rising too fast, and she turned, Krohn and Bokbu following, and walked down the plank, heading to the beach, to her new home, to the last place they had left in the world.

As she looked around at the foreign jungle, heard the strange screeches of birds and animals she did not recognize, Gwen could only wonder:

Could they build a home here?

Chapter Five

Alistair knelt on the stone, her knees trembling from the cold, and looked out as the first light of the first sun of dawn crept over the Southern Isles, illuminating the mountains and valleys with a soft glow. Her hands trembled, shackled to the wooden stocks as she knelt, on her hands and knees, her neck resting over the place where so many necks had lain before her. She looked down and could see the bloodstains on the wood, see the nicks in the cedar where the blades had come down before. She could feel the tragic energy of this wood as her neck touched it, feel the last moments, the final emotions, of all the slain who had lain here before. Her heart dropped in misery.

Alistair looked up proudly and watched her final sun, watched a new day break, having the surreal feeling that she would never live to watch it again. She cherished it this time more than she’d ever had. As she looked out on this chilly morning, a gentle breeze stirring, the Southern Isles looked more beautiful than they’d ever had, the most beautiful place she’d ever seen, trees blossoming in bursts of oranges and reds and pinks and purples as their fruit hung abundantly in this bountiful place. Purple morning birds and large, orange bees were already buzzing in the air, the sweet fragrance of flowers wafting toward her. The mist sparkled in the light, giving everything a magical feel. She had never felt such an attachment to a place; it was a land, she knew, she would have been happy to live in forever.

Alistair heard a shuffling of boots on stone, and she glanced over to see Bowyer approaching, standing over her, his oversized boots scraping the stone. He held a huge double ax in his hand, loosely at his side, and he frowned down at her.

Beyond him, Alistair could see the hundreds of Southern Islanders, all lined up, all men loyal to him, arranged in a huge circle around her in the wide stone plaza. They were all a good twenty yards away from her, a wide clearing left just for her and Bowyer alone. No one wanted to be too close when the blood sprayed.

Bowyer held the ax with itchy fingers, clearly anxious to finish the business. She could see in his eyes how badly he wanted to be King.

Alistair took satisfaction in at least one thing: however unjust this was, her sacrifice would allow Erec to live. That meant more to her than her own life.

Bowyer stepped forward, leaned in close, and whispered to her, low enough that no one else could hear:

“Rest assured your death stroke will be a clean one,” he said, his stale breath on her neck. “And so will Erec’s.”

Alistair looked up at him in alarm and confusion.

He smiled down at her, a small smile reserved just for her, that no one else could see.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “It may not happen today; it may not happen for many moons. But one day, when he least expects it, your husband will find my knife in his back. I want you know, before I ship you off to hell.”

Bowyer took two steps back, squeezed his hands tight around the shaft of the ax, and cracked his neck, preparing to strike the blow.

Alistair’s heart pounded as she knelt there, realizing the full depth of evil in this man. He was not only ambitious, but a coward and a liar.

“Set her free!” demanded a sudden voice, piercing the morning stillness.

Alistair turned as well as she could and saw the chaos as two figures suddenly came bursting through the crowd, to the edge of the clearing, until the beefy hands of Bowyer’s guards held them back. Alistair was shocked and grateful to see Erec’s mother and sister standing there, frantic looks across their faces.

“She’s innocent!” Erec’s mother yelled out. “You must not kill her!”

“Would you kill a woman!?” Dauphine cried out. “She’s a foreigner. Let her go. Send her back to her land. She need not be involved in our affairs.”

Bowyer turned to them and boomed:

“She is a foreigner who aspired to be our Queen. To murder our former King.”

“You are a liar!” Erec’s mother yelled. “You would not drink from the fountain of truth!”

Bowyer scanned the faces of the crowd.

“Is there anyone here who dares defy my claim?” he shouted, turning, meeting everyone’s gaze, defiant.

Alistair looked about, hopeful; but one by one, all the men, all brave warriors, mostly from Bowyer’s tribe, looked down, not one of them willing to challenge him in combat.

“I am your champion,” Bowyer boomed. “I defeated all opponents on tournament day. There is no one here who could beat me. Not one. If there is, I challenge you to step forward.”

“No one, save Erec!” Dauphine called out.

Bowyer turned and scowled at her.

“And where is he now? He lies dying. We Southern Islanders shall not have a cripple for a King. I am your King. I am your next best champion. By the laws of this land. As my father’s father was King before Erec’s father.”

Erec’s mother and Dauphine both lunged forward to stop him; but his men grabbed them and pulled them back, detaining them. Alistair saw beside them, Erec’s brother, Strom, wrists bound behind his back; he struggled, too, but could not break free.

“You shall pay for this, Bowyer!” Strom called out.

But Bowyer ignored him. Instead, he turned back to Alistair, and she could see from his eyes he was determined to proceed. Her time had come.

“Time is dangerous when deceit is on your side,” Alistair said to him.

He frowned down at her; clearly, she had struck a nerve.

“And those words will be your last,” he said.

Bowyer suddenly hoisted the ax, raising it high overhead.

Alistair closed her eyes, knowing that in but a moment, she would be gone from this world.

Eyes closed, Alistair felt time slow down. Images flashed before her. She saw the first time she had met Erec, back in the Ring, at the Duke’s castle, when she had been a serving girl and had fallen in love with him at first sight. She felt her love for him, a love she still felt to this day, burning inside her. She saw her brother, Thorgrin, saw his face, and for some reason, she did not see him in the Ring, in King’s Court, but rather in a distant land, on a distant ocean, exiled from the Ring. Most of all, she saw her mother. She saw her standing at the edge of a cliff, before her castle, high above an ocean, before a skywalk. She saw her holding out her arms and smiling sweetly at her.

“My daughter,” she said.

“Mother,” Alistair said, “I will come to join you.”

But to her surprise, her mother slowly shook her head.

“Your time is not now,” she said. “Your destiny on this earth is not yet complete. You still have a great destiny before you.”

“But how, Mother?” she asked. “How can I survive?”

“You are bigger than this earth,” her mother replied. “That blade, that metal of death, is of this earth. Your shackles are of this earth. Those are earthly limitations. They are only limitations if you believe in them, if you allow them to have authority over you. You are spirit and light and energy. That is where your real power is. You are above it all. You are allowing yourself to be held back by physical constraints. Your problem is not one of strength; it is one of faith. Faith in yourself. How strong is your faith?”

As Alistair knelt there, trembling, eyes shut, her mother’s question rang in her head.

How strong is your faith?

Alistair let herself go, forgot her shackles, put herself in the hands of her faith. She began to let go of her faith in the physical constraints of this planet, and instead shifted her faith to the supreme power, the one and only supreme power over everything else in the world. A power had created this world, she knew. A power had created all of this. That was the power she needed to align herself with.

As she did, all within a fraction of a second, Alistair felt a sudden warmth coursing through her body. She felt on fire, invincible, bigger than everything. She felt flames emanating from her palms, felt her mind buzzing and swarming, and felt a great heat rising up in her forehead, between her eyes. She felt herself stronger than everything, stronger than her shackles, stronger than all things material.

Alistair opened her eyes, and as time began to speed again, she looked up and saw Bowyer coming down with the ax, a scowl on his face.

In one motion, Alistair turned and raised her arms, and as she did, this time her shackles snapped as if they were twigs. In the same motion, lightning fast, she rose to her feet, raised one palm toward Bowyer, and as his ax came down, the most incredible thing happened: the ax dissolved. It turned to ashes and dust and fell at a heap at her feet.

Bowyer swung down, nothing in his hand, and he went stumbling, falling to his knees.

Alistair wheeled and her eyes were drawn to a sword on the far side of the clearing, in a soldier’s belt. She reached out her other palm and commanded it come to her; as she did, it lifted from his scabbard and flew through the air, right into her outstretched palm.

In a single motion, Alistair grabbed hold of it, spun around, raised it high, and brought it down on the back of Bowyer’s exposed neck.

The crowd gasped in shock as there came the sound of steel cutting through flesh and Bowyer, beheaded, collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

He lay there, dead, in the exact spot where, just moments before, he had wanted Alistair dead.

There came a cry from the crowd, and Alistair looked out to watch Dauphine break free of the soldier’s grip, then grab the soldier’s dagger from his belt and slice his throat. In the same motion, she spun around and cut loose Strom’s ropes. Strom immediately reached back, grabbed a sword from a soldier’s waist, spun and slashed, killing three of Bowyer’s men before they could even react.

With Bowyer dead, there was a moment of hesitation, as the crowd clearly didn’t know what to do next. Shouts rose up all amongst the crowd, as his death clearly emboldened all those who had been allied with him reluctantly. They were re-examining their alliance, especially as dozens of men loyal to Erec broke through the ranks and came charging forward to Strom’s side, fighting with him, hand-to-hand, against those loyal to Bowyer.

The momentum quickly shifted in the favor of Erec’s men, as man by man, row by row, alliances formed; Bowyer’s men, caught off guard, turned and fled across the plateau to the rocky mountainside. Strom and his men chased closed behind.

Alistair stood there, sword still in hand, and watched as a great battle rose up, up and down the countryside, shouts and horns echoing as the entire island seemed to rally, to spill out to war on both sides. The sound of clanging armor, of the death cries of men, filled the morning, and Alistair knew a civil war had broken out.

Alistair held up her sword, the sun shining down on it, and knew she had been saved by the grace of God. She felt reborn, more powerful than she’d ever had, and she felt her destiny calling to her. She welled with optimism. Bowyer’s men would be killed, she knew. Justice would prevail. Erec would rise. They would wed. And soon, she would be Queen of the Southern Isles.

Chapter Six

Darius ran down the dirt trail leading from his village, following the footprints toward Volusia, a determination in his heart to save Loti and murder the men who took her. He ran with a sword in his hand – a real sword, made of real metal – the first time he’d ever wielded real metal in his life. That alone, he knew, would be enough to have him, and his entire village, killed. Steel was taboo – even his father and his father’s father feared to possess it – and Darius knew he had crossed a line in which there was now no turning back.

But Darius no longer cared. The injustice of his life had been too much. With Loti gone, he cared about nothing but retrieving her. He had hardly had a chance to know her, and yet paradoxically, he felt as if she were his whole life. It was one thing for he himself to be taken away as a slave; but for her to be taken away – that was too much. He could not allow her to go and still consider himself a man. He was a boy, he knew, and yet he was becoming a man. And it was these very decisions, he realized, these hard decisions that no one else was willing to make, that were the very things that made one a man.