A Charge of Valor by Morgan Rice

a gleaming reminder to all who they now served.
    Andronicus reveled as he saw prisoner after prisoner led past him, so many Silesian officers, so many MacGils. He would find out who was who, one at a time, and torture each one himself. On all sides of him the city was ablaze, fires being lit to the remaining dwellings, setting the rest of the city ablaze. All that once was would be destroyed, replaced with the new.
    The most pressing and final piece of business would be his descent to the lower city, to deal personally with that MacGil girl. Gwendolyn. His people had already flushed out nearly all of the lower Silesians, had taken them onto captivity; there remained only that Gwendolyn girl to find, who was well-hidden. His men had identified where she was, hidden inside a castle in the wall, and in a matter of hours, they would find her and bring her to him. This time, she would not escape. This time, he would make a public spectacle of her, make sure that all the men had their way with her, and that everyone was made to watch. And then, when he was done with her, he would kill her himself.
    Andronicus smiled and breathed deep at the thought.
    His horse marched towards the outer gate, towards the open expanse of the Canyon, the descent to Lower Silesia just feet away. He was getting closer with every step to finding Gwendolyn, to making his victory complete. This was one of the great moments of his life, and torturing her was all he needed to make it complete.
    *
    Kendrick’s eyes, heavy from exhaustion, injury and loss of blood, struggled to open. He felt heavy ropes binding his arms tightly behind his back, wrenching his shoulders to the point of agony. He felt himself being dragged, grabbed by the back of the hair, and as he went, he felt every ache and pain in his body from the battle.
    Kendrick had killed many Empire soldiers, but had sustained countless kicks and punches and elbows all over his body, a sword slash on one arm and on one thigh, and welts on his face and head. His hair hung over his face, matted with blood—he wasn’t sure whose. One of his eyes was swollen halfway shut, and it was an effort to see. But see he did. And he wished he hadn’t.
    All around him he saw comrades, members of MacGil’s army, dead. Members of the Silver, people he had grown up with, fought with through countless battles, dead. And what hurt the most, what made him close his eyes and try to shake it away was the sight of hundreds of Legion members. Dead. They had been killed in their first rush of glory, boys, taken before their time.
    At the sight, Kendrick wished that he had died with them. It was a curse that he been left to live.
    As Kendrick was led, one of countless prisoners dragged across the courtyard, he saw the fires, the women being attacked. Even children were bound. Empire soldiers were everywhere, and the city had been thoroughly sacked. Already, they were beginning to rebuild it as a slave city, as another monument to the conquests of the Great Andronicus. Already slavemasters were whipping prisoners, setting them to work on piles of rubble. The cracks of whips filled the city.
    Kendrick was kicked from behind, and he shuffled forward with the others. He wanted to just close his eyes and collapse. But he saw another prisoner collapse, a few feet away, and as soon as he hit the ground, an Empire soldier raised a sword and stabbed him through his heart. The prisoner was too tired—or didn’t even care enough—to cry out, as he met his death in silence, another nameless corpse.
    Kendrick wanted to die. But he was determined not to. That was not his creed. He was a fighter to the last, and he would live, in whatever form that took.
    Kendrick was led to a huge cross along with several others, falling in and out of consciousness. He felt himself lifted and opened his eyes to see Empire soldiers lifting him up high overhead, holding him up against a crooked wooden cross. Beside him he heard a horrific scream, and he