A Rite of Swords

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Steffen felt his palms go raw as he stood before the huge mill, pushing on the wooden crank with all the other laborers. It was backbreaking labor, what he was used to, and it made him blot out the worries of the world. He had been given just enough grain and water to get by, sleeping on the floor like an animal with all the other indentured servants. It was not a life: it was an existence. The rest of his life, as it had been once before, would be filled with labor and pain and monotony.

But Steffen no longer cared. This was the sort of life he had led in King’s Castle, working for King MacGil in the basement, tending the fires. That had been a harsh life, too, and really an extension of his entire life, of his home life, of his parents, who had been so ashamed of him because of how he looked, who had beat him and kicked him out of the house. His entire life had been one long bout of pain and bullying and scorn.

Until he had met Gwendolyn. She had been the only person he had ever known who had looked at him as something other than a deformed creature; who had actually had faith in him, who had actually cared for him. The time he had spent protecting her he valued as the most meaningful days of his life. For the first time, it had lent his life purpose and meaning; it had made him dream, for a brief moment, that maybe he could be something more than an object of loathing, that maybe everyone in his life had been wrong, and that he did have some value after all.

When Gwen had entered the Tower of Refuge and that door had slammed shut behind her, he felt as if a door had been closed on his own life. It had sunk a dagger into his heart. He respected, and even understood, her decision; but it had been the worst day of his life. He had stood there and waited outside the Tower for he did not know how long, hoping beyond hope that Gwen might change her mind, might come back out those doors. But they had remained closed, like a coffin on his heart.

With no direction or purpose left in his life, Steffen had wandered and had come here, to this small village high on this hilltop, and he checked over his shoulder once again, as he did every hour since his arrival, at the Tower of Refuge, keeping it in sight at all times, hoping beyond all expectation that he might see Gwendolyn walk out those doors, that he might have a chance to take up his old life again.

But watch as he did, there was no activity at the tower, no one in or out, day and night.

Steffen suddenly heard the crack of a whip and felt a sharp shooting pain across his back; he realized he had been whipped again by his boss. The sting of the whip snapped him out of his thoughts and made him focus on his duty before him. He looked around and saw he had cranked out more grain than any of the other servants, and his face reddened: it was unfair that he was being whipped, while the others were passed over.

“Work harder, you creature, or I’ll throw you to the dogs!” the man barked at Steffen.

There came the rise of laughter all around him, as the other laborers turned and mocked him, mimicking his bent figure. Steffen looked away, forcing himself to stay calm. He had received much worse than these provincial villagers could dole out, and at least the pain and humiliation kept his mind off Gwendolyn, off of dreaming of a life that was too big for him.

Bells tolled, ringing loudly in the small town, and all the workers stopped, turned and looked. The bells tolled again and again, urgently, and villagers began to crowd around the town center, looking up at the bell keeper.

“News from the North!” the man yelled out. “The Empire has been driven from the Western Kingdom of the Ring! We are free again!”

A great cheer rose up among the villagers; they turned and grabbed each other and danced. They passed around wineskins and drank long and hard.

Steffen watched it all, shocked. The Empire driven out? The Western Kingdom free? It didn’t make sense. When he had left Silesia it had all been in ruins, all his people enslaved. There had seemed to be no hope for any of them.

“Thorgrin has returned, a dragon with him, and the Destiny Sword! The Shield is up! The Shield is restored!” the bell keeper announced.

There came another shout and cheer, and Steffen’s heart lifted with cautious optimism, as his thoughts turned back to Gwendolyn. Thor was back. That meant she would now have a reason to leave the Tower. A reason to return to Silesia. There might be a role for him once again.

Steffen turned and looked at the tower and saw no activity. He wondered. Had she somehow left?

“I saw him fly this way, the other day, the boy on the dragon, holding the Sword. I’m telling you!” one villager, a youth, insisted to another. “I saw him fly to that cursed tower. He landed on its roof!”

“You were seeing things!” an old, stern woman said. “Your imagination got the best of you!”

“I swear that I wasn’t!”

“You’ve been dreaming too much, lad!” mocked an old man.

There came laughter, as all the others mocked the boy; he reddened and slinked away.

But as Steffen heard his words, they made perfect sense to him: Thor’s first stop would be Gwendolyn. He loved her, and she mattered to him most. That was what these simple villagers could never understand. Steffen knew the words to be true, and his heart swelled with a sudden optimism. Of course, if he’d returned, the first place Thor would go would be to the Tower of Refuge, to see Gwendolyn—and to take her away. Likely, back to Silesia.

Steffen smiled for the first time since he had arrived here. Gwendolyn was free of that place. He smiled wider, realizing his life was about to change again. He no longer needed to be in this village, and he no longer needed these people. He no longer needed to seclude himself, to resign himself to a life of pain and labor and misery. He had a chance at life again; his fleeting dream was coming back. Maybe, after all, he was meant for a noble life.

“I said get back to work, you imp!” screamed the taskmaster, as he raised his whip high and aimed it for Steffen’s face.

This time, Steffen lunged forward, drew his sword and slashed the whip in half before it reached him. He then reached out, snatched the remnant of the whip from the taskmaster’s hand, and slashed the taskmaster himself across the face.

The taskmaster screamed, clutching his face with both hands, shouting and yelling at the pain.

Other villagers took notice and suddenly charged Steffen from every direction. But Steffen was a warrior with skills beyond what these provincial men would ever know, and he used the whip to lash them all, spinning and ducking and weaving from their blows; in moments, they were all on the ground, crying out in pain from the lashes.

Yet more men came charging, more serious men, with more serious weapons, and Steffen knew he had to get more serious as well; before they could get any closer, Steffen reached back, notched an arrow and raised his bow, aiming it at the lead man, a fat fellow wearing a shirt too small.

As he raised it up high, the fat man, wielding a club, suddenly stopped in his tracks, along with the men beside him.

A crowd gathered, everyone keeping a cautious distance from Steffen.

“Anyone comes closer to me in this dung-eating town,” Steffen called out, “and I will kill you all. I will not warn you twice.”

From the crowd there emerged three burly men, wielding swords and charging for Steffen. Without blinking, Steffen took aim and fired off three arrows, and pierced each man through the heart. They each fell to the ground, dead.

The town gasped.

Steffen notched another arrow and stood there at the ready, waiting.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

This time the villagers stood frozen, all with a new respect for Steffen. No one dared move an inch.

Steffen reached down, grabbed his sack of grain and of water, slung them over his shoulder and turned his back on them, taking the road out of the village and heading for the forest. He was on edge, listening carefully, waiting to see if anyone pursued him—but not a sound could be heard in that place.

Not a single person dared insult him now.