A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page B

man leaned forward.
    “But you did not retrieve
it, did you?”
    Romulus reddened. He would kill
this man if he could.
    “I nearly did,” he finally
answered.
    “ Nearly doesn’t mean a
thing.”
    “We encountered unexpected
obstacles.”
    “Dragons?” remarked another
councilman.
    Romulus turned to face him.
    “How foolhardy could you be?” the
councilman said. “Did you really think you could win?”
    Romulus cleared his throat, his
anger rising.
    “I did not. My goal was not to
kill the dragons. It was to retrieve the Sword.”
    “But again, you did not.”
    “Even worse,” another said, “you
have now unleashed the dragons against us. Reports are coming in of their
attacks, all throughout the Empire. You have started a war we cannot win. It is
a great loss for the Empire.”
    Romulus stopped trying to
respond; he knew it would only lead to more accusations and recriminations.
After all, these were Andronicus’ men, and they all had an agenda.
    “It is a pity that the Great
Andronicus himself is not here to chastise you,” said another councilmember. “I
feel sure that he would not let you live the day.”
    He cleared his throat and leaned
back.
    “But in his absence, we must
await his return. For now, you will command the army to send legions of ships
to reinforce the Great Andronicus in the Ring. As for you, you will be demoted,
stripped of your arms and your rank. Stay in the barracks and await further
orders from us.”
    Romulus stared, disbelieving.
    “Be glad that we don’t execute
you on the spot. Now leave us,” said another councilman.
    Romulus bunched his fists, his
face turning purple, and stared down each of the councilmen. He vowed to kill
each and every one of them. But he forced himself to refrain, telling himself
that now was not the time. He might get some satisfaction out of killing them
now, but it would not yield his ultimate goal.
    Romulus turned and stormed from
the room, his boots echoing, walking through the door as the servants opened it
then slammed it shut behind him.
    Romulus marched out of the
capitol building, down the hundred golden steps and to his group of waiting
men. He addressed his second-in-command.
    “Sir,” the general said, bowing
down low, “what is your command?”
    Romulus stared back, thinking. Of
course he could not obey the Council’s orders; on the contrary, now was the
time to defy them.
    “It is the command of the Council
that all Empire ships at sea return home to our shores at once.”
    The general’s eyes opened wide.
    “But sir, that would leave the
Great Andronicus abandoned inside the Ring, with no way of returning home.”
    Romulus turned stared at him, his
eyes going cold.
    “Never question me,” he replied,
steel in his voice.
    The general bowed his head.
    “Of course, sir. Forgive me.”
    His commander turned and rushed
off, and Romulus knew he would execute his orders. He was a faithful soldier.
    Romulus smiled inwardly to
himself. How foolish the Council had been to think that he would defer to them,
would carry out their orders. They had vastly underestimated him. After all,
they had no one to enforce his demotion, and until they got around to figuring
that out, Romulus, while he had power, would execute enough commands to prevent
them from gaining power over him. Andronicus was great, but Romulus was
greater.
    A man stood on the periphery of
the plaza, wearing a glowing green robe, his hood pulled down, revealing a
wide, flat yellow face with four eyes. The man had long skinny hands, fingers
as long as Romulus’ arm, and stood patiently. He was a Wokable. Romulus did not
like to deal with this race, but in certain circumstances he was compelled—and
this was one of those times.
    Romulus walked over to the
Wokable, feeling its creepiness from several feet away as the creature stared
back with its four eyes. It reached out with one of its long fingers and
touched his chest. Romulus stopped cold at the contact from the slimy