The Gift of Battle

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Alistair stood at the rail of the ship, joined by Erec, Strom, and their men, and looked over all their new companions with a sense of joy: there stood Godfrey, Dray at his heels, a sight for sore eyes, one of the only familiar sights from the Ring, along with Akorth, Fulton, Merek, Ario, Loti and Loc, and her men, all those they had rescued from Volusia, joined by their dog, Dray. While they had not yet found Gwendolyn, seeing these people filled her with a sense of optimism, made her feel like, despite the staggering odds against them, they might actually find Gwendolyn and achieve their goal. For the first time, Alistair felt they were getting closer to finding all the others, whatever was left of the exiles of the Ring, and liberating them from wherever they might be in the Empire.

Alistair realized how lucky they were, too, to have found Godfrey and Silis; after all, she had helped navigate them out of Volusia, had shown them the back way out, and had led them where they were now, back on the open ocean, sailing north along the Empire coast. As Alistair reflected, the ocean breezes caressing her face, she realized their journey had been epic; at many points it had seemed they would not survive upriver, would never shake off the Empire fleet, would never reach Volusia. Yet they had made it, had managed to rescue Godfrey, and to escape—and to dam up the pursuit of the Empire fleet behind them.

Now, as she watched the ever-changing coastline, she saw it shift—the ocean turned into a deep harbor, and that harbor split into many waterways, all leading back into the Empire. She felt her ship slow and saw the men lowering the sails as they all came to a stop before the crossroads. Alistair peered out into the sun glaring on the water, concerned. Each of these waterways could take them anywhere—and if they chose the wrong one, they would never find Gwendolyn.

She could see the puzzled looks on all of their faces; none of them knew which way to go.

They all turned to Silis.

“And now which way?” Erec asked her.

She examined the waterways and shook her head.

“I wish I knew, my lord,” she finally said to Erec. “I do not know which way Gwendolyn and the others went. I do not know if the famed Ridge even exists. These tributaries all will bring you deep into the Great Waste, and yet each in a different direction. The Waste, remember, is vast. Choose the wrong path, and you shall be a thousand miles from Gwendolyn.”

Erec stood there, looking baffled as he stared out at the waters. A long silence fell over them, the only sound that of the waters rippling against the hull, the wind passing through.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she added. “This is as far as I know. I brought us here, and out of Volusia—but from this point on, the decision is as much yours as mine.”

Erec stared for a long time, then finally turned to Alistair.

Alistair looked out at the water, wondering herself. Inside her, she could feel her baby girl, turning and kicking, and she felt comforted by her presence. She felt as if she were telling her something, urging her which way to go.

Alistair closed her eyes and searched deep within herself, summoning her own powers. She tried to visualize her brother Thorgrin, Gwendolyn, out there, somewhere.

Please, God, she prayed. Send me the answer.

Alistair heard a screech, high above, and she opened her eyes and searched the skies. High up, circling so high that she barely saw her, dipping in and out of clouds, she spotted Estopheles, Thorgrin’s falcon, screeching. She swooped down, then up, and as she circled, Alistair felt the bird was trying to give her a message.

“Alistair?” Erec asked, breaking the silence.

Alistair knew that giving him advice was a sacred responsibility. The fate of this ship, of all these people with her, of all the exiles of the Ring, depended on her choosing correctly.

Alistair closed her eyes, feeling hundreds of eyes upon her, and stepped forward and placed both palms on the rail, feeling the energy. She breathed deeply and focused.

The world about her became very still; she heard the lapping waters against the ship’s hull, the slight breeze in the air, the screech of Estopheles.

Gwendolyn, she thought, where are you?

As she stood there, Alistair began to feel her palms give off a warmth, and she slowly opened her eyes, looked at all the tributaries, and focused on one in particular: a winding river heading west, between three others.

Estopheles, she thought. If this is the river, if this is our path, swoop down. Show me.

Suddenly, Estopheles swooped down, to Alistair’s shock, right over the same river she was staring at.

“There,” Alistair said, pointing. “That shall lead us to Gwendolyn.”

Erec studied her, his brow furrowed.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

Alistair nodded, feeling the certainty in every part of her body.

“That river shall lead us to what remains of the Ring. They need us now. More than ever. I can sense it. There is a terrific danger coming.”

She turned to Erec, ashen, trying to blot out the hell she just saw.

“I do not know if they shall be alive by the time we reach them,” she said.

Erec looked back in horror, then he turned and called out fresh orders, and his men burst into action, their ship immediately picking up speed, and the entire fleet falling in line.

Alistair turned and stared out at the looming river, and as she did, she prayed.

Please, Gwendolyn. Live. We’re coming.

Godfrey sat at the stern of Erec’s huge ship, leaning against the rail, legs dangling over the edge as they sailed, Dray lying beside him, his second sack of wine in his hand, and finally feeling good. Beside him sat Akorth and Fulton, already on their fourth sacks, Merek on his first, and Ario, who only stared out into the waters. All of them, finally, were relaxed, all of them, after the chaos, the whirlwind, with a chance to breathe.

Godfrey reflected as he looked out at the waters, trying to process it all. He could not believe they had escaped the horrors of Volusia, a city in which he was sure he was going to die—nor could he believe that he had run into Erec and Alistair—or that he had managed to help them escape, too. The fact that he was even sitting on their ship now, on the way to find Gwendolyn, was surreal. It was as if he had been given a second chance at life.

Finally, for the first time since arriving in the Empire, Godfrey was optimistic. He was back in motion, with an army of his own people—and an army of freed slaves—and on his way to save Gwendolyn and the others. He took another swig of ale, letting it all go to his head, not having realized how much he had missed it.

Yet on the other hand, as he looked out, Godfrey also felt trepidation; he knew they were still far from home, were sailing into even greater dangers, heading deeper into the Waste in their quest to find his sister, if she were even still alive. Surely they would soon be engulfed by hostile Empire armies, and the deeper they went, the harder it would be to get out. He did not know what the future held.

Yet for the first time in a while, he did not care. He was part of something greater than himself now, and he felt a driving sense of mission, of purpose. He would go wherever he had to, risk whatever he had to, to save his sister.

As Godfrey took another swig, he speculated on the future. What if they all made it back, safe, together again? What would he do with his life then? There was a part of himself, stirring deep inside, that he did not understand, that was giving him some sense of unrest. He felt himself changing. If they survived all this, would he go back to spending his days in a tavern? Or would he do something else? Would he become the responsible son his father had always wanted him to be?

It was an awful, boring sense of responsibility that was creeping over him, a sense that his life should be devoted to something greater, that he hated. He felt that perhaps, after all he had been through, he was changing, becoming someone else, someone who, as a boy in the taverns, he would make fun of. Someone too serious. Someone who did not want to devote his life to drink and games.

“If we ever find this Ridge, what do you think their taverns will be like?” came a drunken voice.

Godfrey turned to see Akorth seated beside him, staring back, eyes glazed from wine.

“I suspect, very much like ours,” Fulton said.

“The taverns in Volusia were first rate,” Akorth said.

“And their ale,” Fulton added. “It was enough to make me want to stay and die there.”

“Perhaps we should have,” Akorth said. “We would have died, but at least we’d have a smile on our faces. Now we sail to who knows where?”

Godfrey stared out at the waters as they sailed, trying to shut out their voices; instead, he tried to reflect back on all the places he had been, all he had seen. What was it all for? He recalled the early days, when they’d all been in King’s Court together, he and Gwendolyn, Kendrick and Gareth, Reece and Luanda. His father had seemed so invincible then, so almighty. How could such times of strength and glory, such an impermeable kingdom, have been reduced to this?

Godfrey felt the strong wine going to his head, and began to feel lightheaded. He knew there would be battles up ahead. Surely, there would be a battle to save Gwendolyn, wherever she was, and a battle to escape from this place. Battles in which he might very well die. The chances were still overwhelmingly against them; they were still a small fleet in the midst of a vast Empire.

A part of Godfrey, the old Godfrey, wanted to drink himself into oblivion, to forget all this. He wanted to be so drunk that, when battle came, it wouldn’t even matter because he’d be so lost.

But the new Godfrey, the one he didn’t understand, bubbling up inside him, was beginning to feel otherwise. It was prodding him to face his troubles, whatever lay ahead, clear-headed, with courage. With valor.

Slowly, Godfrey stood until he reached his full height. He stared out at the waters, reached back, and threw his still-full sack of wine.

He watched it land in the river with a satisfying splash and float away.

“What have you done?” asked an outraged Akorth, as if he had just killed a man.

“Are you mad?” cried Fulton. “I would have drunk that!”

But Godfrey turned to him, a smile on his face, feeling clarity for the first time in his life. There were troubles ahead—and he was going to face them.

“No,” he replied. “I am not mad. I am awake. For the first time in my life, I am awake.”