A Grant of Arms. Morgan RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
life in captivity. She didn’t care what became of her. She just wanted Thor to be okay. And she wanted a chance, just one last chance, for vengeance on her attackers.
“There she is! Slipped halfway across the deck!” one of the Empire soldiers yelled out.
Mycoples felt a sudden jabbing pain on the sensitive scales of her face, and she saw two Empire soldiers, with spears thirty feet long, prodding her at a safe distance through the net. She tried to lunge forward for them, but her constraints held her down. She snarled as they poked her again and again, laughing, clearly having fun.
“She’s not so scary now, is she?” one asked the other.
The other laughed, jabbing his spear close to her eye. Mycoples moved away at the last second, sparing herself blindness.
“She’s harmless as a fly,” said one.
“I hear they’re going to put her on display in the new Empire capitol.”
“That’s not what I heard,” said the other. “I heard they’re going to pry off her wings and torture her for all the harm she did our men.”
“I wish I’d be there to see that.”
“Do we really need to deliver her intact?” one asked.
“Orders.”
“But I don’t see why we can’t at least maim her a little. After all, she doesn’t really need both eyes, does she?”
The other laughed.
“Well now that you put it that way, I guess not,” he answered. “Go for it. Have fun.”
One of the men came closer and raised a spear high.
“Hold still now, little girl,” the soldier said.
Mycoples flinched, helpless as the soldier came charging forward, preparing to plunge his long spear into her eye.
Suddenly, another wave crashed over the bow; the water took out the legs of the soldier, and he went sliding right for her face, eyes open wide in terror. In a huge burst of effort, Mycoples managed to lift one claw just high enough to allow the soldier to slip beneath her; as he did, she brought it down on him and pinned it through his throat.
He shrieked and blood spilled everywhere, mixing with water, as he died beneath her. Mycoples felt some small satisfaction.
The remaining Empire soldier turned and ran, screaming for help. Within moments, a dozen Empire soldiers approached, all bearing long spears.
“Kill the beast!” one of them screamed.
They all approached to kill her, and Mycoples felt certain that they would.
Mycoples felt a sudden rage burn through her, unlike anything she’d ever felt. She closed her eyes and prayed to God to give her one final burst of strength.
Slowly, she felt a great heat rise within her belly and travel down her throat. She lifted her mouth and let out a roar. To her surprise, a slew of flames poured out.
The flames traveled through the net, and though not destroying the Akron, still a wall of fire engulfed the dozen men coming at her.
They all shrieked as their bodies went up in flames; most collapsed on deck, and those that didn’t die instantly ran and jumped overboard into the sea. Mycoples smiled.
Dozens more soldiers appeared, these wielding clubs, and Mycoples tried to summon the fire again.
But this time it did not work. God had answered her prayers, and had given her a one-time grace. But now, there was no more she could do. She was grateful, at least, for what she’d had.
Dozens of soldiers descended on her, beating her with clubs, and slowly, Mycoples felt herself sinking down, lower and lower, eyes closing. She curled herself up tight, resigned, wondering if her time on this world had come to an end.
Soon, her world was filled with blackness.
Chapter Seven
Romulus stood at the helm of his massive ship, the hull painted black and gold and waving the flag of the Empire, a lion with an eagle in its mouth, flapping boldly in the wind. He stood there with hands on hips, his wide muscular frame even wider, as if rooted to the deck, and stared out at the rolling, luminescent waves of the Ambrek. In the distance, just coming into view, was the shore of the Ring.
Finally.
Romulus’ heart soared with anticipation as he laid eyes on the Ring for the first time. On his ship sailed his finest hand-picked men, several dozen of them, and behind them sailed thousands of the finest Empire ships there were. A vast armada, filling the sea, all sailing the banner of the Empire. They had sailed a long way, circling the Ring, determined to land on the McCloud side. Romulus planned to enter the Ring by himself, sneak up on his old boss, Andronicus, and assassinate him when he was least expecting it.
He smiled at the thought. Andronicus had no idea of the might or cunning of his number two in command, and he was about to learn the hard way. He never should have underestimated him.
Huge waves rolled past, and Romulus reveled in the cold spray on his face. In his arm he clutched the magical cloak he had obtained in the forest, and he felt it was going to work, was going to get him across the Canyon. He knew that when he put it on, he would be invisible, able to penetrate the shield, to cross into the Ring alone. His mission would require stealth and cunning and surprise. His men couldn’t follow, of course, but he didn’t need any of them: once he was in, he would find Andronicus’s men – Empire men – and rally them to his cause. He would divide them and create his own army, his own civil war. After all, the Empire soldiers loved Romulus as much as they did Andronicus. He would use Andronicus’ own men against him.
Romulus would then find a MacGil, bring him back across the Canyon, as the cloak demanded, and if the legend was true, the Shield would be destroyed. With the Shield down, he would summon all of his men, and his entire fleet would pour inside and they would all crush the Ring for good. Then, finally, Romulus would be sole ruler of the universe.
He breathed deep. He could almost taste it now. He had been fighting his entire life for this moment.
Romulus gazed up at the blood-red sky, the second sun setting, a huge ball on the horizon, glowing a light blue this time of day. It was the time of day that Romulus prayed to his gods, the God of the Land, the God of the Sea, the God of the Sky, the God of the Wind – and most of all, the God of War. He knew he needed to appease them all. He was prepared: he had brought many slaves to sacrifice, knowing their spilled blood would lend him power.
The waves crashed all around him as they neared shore. Romulus did not wait for the others to lower the ropes but rather leapt off the hull as soon as the bow touched sand, falling a good twenty feet, and landing on his feet, up to his waist in the water. He didn’t even flinch.
Romulus sauntered onto the shore as if he owned it, his footprints heavy in the sand. Behind him, his men lowered the ropes and all began to filter off the ship, as one boat after another landed.
Romulus surveyed all of his work, and he smiled. The sky was growing dark, and he had reached shore at the perfect moment to present a sacrifice. He knew he had the gods to thank for this.
He turned and faced his men.
“FIRE!” Romulus screamed out.
His men scurried to build a huge bonfire, fifteen feet high, a massive pile of wood ready, waiting to be lit, spread out and shaped in the form a three-pointed star.
Romulus nodded, and his men dragged forward a dozen slaves, bound to each other. They were tied up along the wood of the bonfire, their ropes secured to it. They stared back, wide-eyed with panic. They screamed and thrashed, terrified, seeing the torches at the ready and realizing they were about to be burned alive.
“NO!” one of them screamed. “Please! I beg you! Not this. Anything but this!”
Romulus ignored them. Instead, he turned his back on everyone, took several steps forward, opened his arms wide, and craned his neck up to the skies.
“OMARUS!”