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

must have something to drink
around here,” Fulton said.
    Godfrey rubbed his aching head, wondering the
same thing. If ever he needed a drink, it was now. This last voyage across the
sea was the worst he could remember, so many days without food or ale, so often
on the brink of starvation…. He had been sure, too many times, that he had
died. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the awful pictures, his memories
of his fellow Ring members turning to stone and falling over the rail.
    It had been an endless voyage, a voyage through
hell and back, and Godfrey was surprised that it had not led to any sort of
epiphany or enlightenment for him. It had not led him to change his ways. It
had merely led him to want to drink more, to want to blot it all out. Was there
something wrong with him? he wondered. Did it make him less profound than the
others? He hoped not.
    Now here they were, in the Empire no less,
surrounded by a hostile army that wanted them dead. How long, he wondered, before
they were discovered? Before Romulus’s million men hunted them down? Godfrey
had a sinking feeling that their days were numbered.
    “I see a sight for sore eyes,” Akorth said.
    Godfrey looked up.
    “There,” Fulton said, elbowing him in the ribs.
    Godfrey looked over and saw the villagers passing
around a bowl filled with a clear liquid. Each took it carefully in his palms,
took a sip, and passed it on.
    “That doesn’t exactly look like the Queen’s ale,”
Akorth commented.
    “And do you want to wait for a better vintage
to come around?” Fulton replied.
    Fulton leaned forward and took the bowl before Akorth
could grab it, and took a long drink himself, the liquid pouring down his
cheeks. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and groaned in delight.
    “That burns,” he said. “You’re right. Sure isn’t
the Queen’s ale. It’s a hell of a lot stronger.”
    Akorth snatched it, took a long drink, and then
nodded in agreement. He began coughing as he handed it to Godfrey.
    “My God,” Akorth said. “It’s like drinking
fire.”
    Godfrey leaned over and smelled it, and he
recoiled.
    “What is it?” he asked one of the villagers, a
tough-looking warrior with broad shoulders wearing no shirt, sitting next to
him, looking serious and wearing a necklace of black stones.
    “We call it the heart of the cactus,” he said. “It
is a drink for men. Are you a man?”
    “I doubt it,” Godfrey said. “Depends who you
ask. But I’ll be whatever I have to be to drown out my sorrows.”
    Godfrey raised the bowl to his lips and drank,
and he felt the liquid going down his throat like fire, burning his belly. He
coughed, too, and the villagers laughed as the next one took the bowl from him.
    “Not a man,” they observed.
    “So my father used to say,” Godfrey agreed,
laughing with them.
    Godfrey felt good as the drink went to his head,
and as the villager who insulted him began to drink from the bowl, Godfrey
reached out and snatched it from his hands.
    “Wait a minute,” Godfrey said.
    Godfrey drank, this time in several long gulps,
taking it without coughing.
    The villagers all looked at him in surprise.
Godfrey turned to them in satisfaction, a smile returning to his face.
    “I may not be a man,” he said, “and you might
be better with your weapons. But don’t challenge me to drink.”
    They all laughed, the villagers passed the
bowl, and Godfrey sat back on his elbows in the dirt, already feeling
lightheaded, feeling good for the first time. It was a strong drink, and he
felt dizzy, never having had anything like it before.
     “I see you’ve turned over a new leaf,” came a
woman’s disapproving voice.
    Godfrey turned and looked up to see Illepra
standing over him, hands on her hips, looking down, frowning.
    “You know, I spent the afternoon healing our
people,” she said, disapprovingly. “Many still suffer the effects of
starvation. And what have you done to help? Here you are, sitting by the fire
and