A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Gareth coughed and wheezed as he stumbled his way across the desolate landscape, his lips chapped from lack of water, his eyes hollow with dark circles beneath them. It had been a harrowing few days, and he had expected to die more than once.

Gareth had escaped by the skin of his teeth from Andronicus’ men in Silesia, hiding in a secret passageway deep within the wall and biding his time. He had waited, curled up like a rat inside the blackness, waiting for an opportune moment. He felt he had been there for days. He had witnessed everything, had watched with disbelief as Thor had arrived on the back of that dragon, had killed all those Empire men. In the confusion and chaos that ensued, Gareth had found his chance.

Gareth had slunk out through the back gate of Silesia while no one was looking, and had taken the road south, making his way along the edge of the Canyon, sticking mostly to the woods so as not to be detected. It did not matter—the roads were deserted anyway. Everyone was off east, fighting the great battle for the Ring. As he went, Gareth noted the charred bodies of Andronicus’ men lining this road, and knew the battles here, down south, had already been fought.

Gareth made his way ever farther south, his instinct driving him back towards King’s Court—or what remained of it. He knew it had been ravaged by Andronicus’ men, that it likely lay in ruins, but still, he wanted to go there. He wanted to get far away from Silesia and go to the one place he knew he could take safe harbor. The one place everyone else had abandoned. The one place where he, Gareth, had once reigned supreme.

After days of hiking, weak and delirious from hunger, Gareth had finally emerged from the woods and spotted King’s Court in the distance. There it was, its walls still intact, at least partially, though charred and crumbling. All around were the corpses of Andronicus’ men, evidence that Thor had been here. Otherwise it sat empty, with nothing left but the whistling of the wind.

That suited Gareth just fine. He did not plan on entering the city anyway. He had come here for a small, hidden structure just outside the city walls. It was a place he had frequented as a child, a circular, marble structure, rising just a few feet above ground and adorned with elaborately carved statues about its roof. It had always looked ancient, sitting low like that, as if it had sprung up from the earth. And it was. It was the crypt of the MacGils. The place where his father had been buried—and his father before him.

The crypt was the one structure Gareth knew would be left intact. After all, who would bother to attack a tomb? It was the one place left where he knew no one would ever bother to look for him, where he could seek shelter. It was a place where he could hide, be left utterly alone. And a place where he could be with his ancestors. As much as Gareth hated his father, oddly enough, he found himself wanting to be closer to him these days.

Gareth hurried across the open field, a cold gust of wind making him shiver as he wrapped his ragged cloak tight around his shoulders. He heard the shrill cry of a winter bird, and looked up to see the huge, awful black creature circling high overhead, surely, with each cry, anticipating his collapse, its next meal. Gareth could hardly blame it. He felt on his last legs, and he was sure he appeared to be a prime meal for the bird.

Gareth finally reached the building, grabbed the massive iron door handle with two hands, and yanked with all his might, the world spinning, nearly delirious from exhaustion. It creaked and took all his strength to pry it wide.

Gareth hurried into the blackness, slamming the iron door. It echoed behind him.

He grabbed the unlit torch on the wall, where he knew it was mounted, struck its flint and lit it, affording himself just enough light to see by as he descended the steps, deeper and deeper into the blackness. It became colder and draftier the deeper he went, the wind finding its way down, whistling through small cracks. He could not help but feel as if his ancestors were howling at him, rebuking him.

“LEAVE ME!” he screamed back.

His voice echoed again and again off the crypt’s walls.

“YOU WILL HAVE YOUR PRIZE SOON ENOUGH!”

Yet still the wind persisted.

Gareth, enraged, descended deeper, until finally he reached the great marble chamber, excavated with its ten-foot ceilings, where all his ancestors lay entombed in marble sarcophagi. Gareth marched solemnly down the hall, his footsteps echoing on the marble, toward the very end, where his father lay.

The old Gareth would have smashed his father’s sarcophagus. But now, for some reason, he was beginning to feel an affinity for him. He could hardly understand it. Perhaps it was the opium wearing off; or perhaps it was because he knew that he himself would be dead soon, too.

Gareth reached the tall sarcophagus and hunched over it, leaning his head down. He surprised himself as he began to cry.

“I miss you father,” Gareth wailed, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

He cried and cried, tears pouring down his face, until finally his knees grew weak and he slumped down in his exhaustion alongside the marble, sitting on the floor, leaning against the tomb. The wind howled as if in response, and Gareth lay down the torch, which burned lower and lower, a tiny flame decreasing in the blackness. Gareth knew that soon all would be blackness and that soon, he would join all those he loved the most.