Godfrey looked down in shame. He had no answer. He had been thinking the same exact thing himself.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You are right. I don't deserve to be up there with him. I never did. I'm sorry. I do not mean to let you down.”
"Then answer me this,” she insisted, her eyes flashing, “for what reason did I save your life, if you will not even take up arms to defend it?”
Illepra turned, angry, examining all the faces in the bar.
"I speak to all of you,” she said, raising her voice. “All of you hide in here, while your countrymen are out preparing. Not one of you is willing to go out there and take up arms to save your life. Forget about your life—what about the lives of others? Your people need you. Are you all that selfish? Is that what they are fighting for? To save the likes of you?”
All the patrons stared back, silent.
"If we fight or not, miss," one patron yelled out, "it ain’t make any difference. A million men won’t hardly be stopped by a few thousand.”
There came a grunt of approval throughout the room.
"No, maybe they can't," Illepra reasoned. "But that doesn’t mean that we do not try. One day, we will all die. It is not about who lives and who dies. It is about how we live. And how we die.”
She turned and stared at Godfrey.
"I thought you were different," she said softly. "I thought you had the potential to be something greater. But now I see I was wrong. You are just another drunk. As the whole kingdom says you are.”
"There's nothing wrong with that miss!" Akorth called out in his defense, raising his mug. "You can die in here or you can die out there. But at least my friend will die happy!”
The crowd cheered in approval, raising their mugs.
Illepra reddened, turned on her heel, and stormed from the pub.
As the patrons slowly went back to their business, Godfrey watched her go, burning up inside. Fulton reached over and patted him on the back.
"Women are that way,” he said consolingly. “They don’t know what’s important. You’re doing the right thing—have another!" he said, sliding another mug his way.
As Godfrey looked down at the mug, something rose up within him. It was a new feeling, something he had never experienced before. It was a sense of pride. A sense of something bigger than himself. For the first time in his life, he did not think of himself. He did not think of the next drink.
Instead, he thought of the Ring. Of Silesians. Of putting others first.
The more he thought of it, the more his fears began to dissipate. The more he pondered helping others, the less he afraid he became for himself.
Godfrey had enough. Suddenly he threw down his mug, jumped up from the bar and began to hurry through the crowd, towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Akorth called after him.
Godfrey turned and looked at his friends one last time, before heading out the door.
"I'm going to don armor, take up arms, and help my sister!” he announced gravely.
His friends laughed at him.
"You've never taken up arms in your life!” Fulton yelled.
Godfrey stared back, reddening, undeterred.
"No, I haven't,” he admitted. “But I shall learn. Or I shall die trying!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gwendolyn stood atop the highest parapet in Silesia, her generals around her, watching the horizon. They had just finished a tour of all the inner and outer rings of defenses, and one by one, Srog, Kendrick, Brom, Kolk and the generals had discussed with Gwendolyn how best to fortify each one, what to expect when the army arrived, how to defend attacks from multiple fronts, and how long it would take until their defenses collapsed. They had talked about food and provisions and water, had talked about contingency plans, about retreating to the lower city. They had covered nearly everything, and they were all exhausted.
What none of them had discussed was what they would do in case of a defeat. It was unspoken amongst them that surrender was not an option, but none had discussed the inevitable: what to do if all their men were killed. It was unspoken amongst them that they would all fight to the death. In some ways, it felt as if they were all settling in for what would be a mass suicide.
Hours had passed, and with all their men in position, all the plans thought through, there was nothing left to discuss. Now they all stood there, comfortable in each other’s silence, watching the horizon, the dark storm clouds forming, waiting for the inevitable. As Gwen looked out, it seemed so peaceful, so calm; it seemed as if Andronicus' men would never come.
Yet she knew they were coming. All day long, reports had come in from messengers from all over the Ring updating her on the invasion. There even arrived a report that King's Court had been attacked—and that was the report that hurt the most. She tried to blot the image from her mind.
Now, more than ever, Gwen wished Thor were here. Argon's fateful words rang in her head, and she did not understand what they meant. She knew she would have to die a little death to make up for saving Thor's life. Did that mean she would actually die? Here, in this place? She closed her eyes and thought of the baby in her belly and tried not to think of death. Not because she feared her own death. But because she feared for her baby’s life; and she feared a life without Thor.
There was a stir, and Gwendolyn turned and looked over the men’s shoulders to see a small entourage of soldiers coming their way—and her eyes opened wide in surprise as she saw who they were accompanying. There, marching towards her, was a woman she thought she’d never lay eyes upon again: her sister.
Luanda walked hand-in-hand with her new husband, Bronson, who, Gwen was saddened to see, was missing a hand. They both looked tattered, broken, and beyond exhausted; they looked as if they had been riding all night.
Gwen could not understand what they were doing here. She was relieved to see them, but also confused. Wasn't Bronson a McCloud, and shouldn’t he be on the McCloud side of the Ring? And Luanda with him?
Gwen was so relieved to see her sister alive, safe, her first impulse was to step forward and give her a hug. But growing up, their relationship had always been at arm’s length, formal; it was Luanda’s doing—she got that from their mother. Gwendolyn had tried one too many times to get close to her, and after enough rebuffs, she had learned her lesson. So Gwen simply stood there, facing her older sister, and nodded back gravely.