A Rule of Queens (Book #13 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page A

looked into their eyes and saw their
seriousness, saw that there would be no changing their minds. They were
standing there with him, at his side, brothers in arms, prepared to march
through the gates of hell with him.
    Thor nodded back, more grateful than he could
say. He had found his true brothers. His true family.
    As one, they all turned and began to walk, Thor
leading the way as they marched through the gates and through the entrance to
another world, a world from which, Thor knew, they were never coming back.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
    Alistair stood guard before the vast doors to
the royal house of the sick, standing before the building as war raged all
around her, determined not to let anyone in to kill Erec. Shouts pierced the
air alongside the clang of metal, as the Southern Islanders fought furiously
against each other. It had become a civil war. Half the island, led by Erec’s
brother, Strom, fought the other half, led by Bowyer’s men.
    As dawn began to break over the hillside, Alistair
recalled what an intense night of fighting it had been. The battle had broken
out as soon as she had killed Bowyer, and it had not stopped since. All over
the Southern Isles, men raged against each other, fighting on foot, on
horseback, up and down the steep mountain slopes, killing each other
face-to-face, hand to hand, throwing each other off of horses and cliffs, all
fighting to see who would hold the crown.
    As soon as the fighting broke out, Alistair
rounded up two dozen of Erec’s most loyal watchmen, and headed with them for
the House of the Sick. She knew that no matter where the battle raged,
eventually Bowyer’s men would attempt to come here to kill Erec, so that they
could end the fighting and claim the throne for themselves. She was determined
that, in all the chaos that ensued, no matter who won, Erec would not be harmed.
    Alistair had watched the fighting from her
vantage point here all throughout the night, and had seen thousands of dead
bodies piling up, up and down the hillsides, littering the city grounds. It was
an island made up of great warriors, and great warriors fought against great warriors,
needlessly killing each other. As hour blended into hour during the horrible
night, Alistair didn’t even know who or what they fought for anymore. The tide
of battle was impossible to gauge, as it had been all throughout the night, the
tug-of-war going back and forth as one group battled the next.
    As dawn broke, Alistair looked up and saw that
the cliffs were filled with Bowyer’s men and that the battle was now much
closer to the city walls, raging just outside of it. Momentum was giving way,
and she sensed that soon they would be through the gates, overriding the city. After
all, this city was the center of power on the island, and whoever was
victorious would want to claim it first, to raise the banner high and proclaim himself
the next King.
    Alistair looked up and down the mountainside
and watched Strom’s men, holding their ground, using long pikes, waiting
patiently, disciplined, behind rocks. As Bowyer’s men charged down on
horseback, Strom’s men, on foot, jumped up and thrust them up. One at a time,
the horses reared and neighed, impaled with pikes. Bowyer’s men swung back, but
the pikes were too long, the distance too far for the swords to reach.
    Horses reared and fell, and men tumbled off them,
rolling down the cliffs and rocks.
    Alistair watched Strom, out in front of his
men, rush forward, grab a man, and throw him off his horse headfirst, sending
him falling, shrieking, down the steep mountainside. Yet at the same moment,
Strom was kicked in the back of the head by a horse, and he fell onto his side.
    A soldier, seeing an opportunity, rushed
forward with his sword and swung for Strom’s head; Strom whirled out of the way
and chopped off the man’s legs at the last moment.
    The battle raged, the fighting went on and on,
brutal, vicious, and Alistair, filled with a sense of foreboding,