by Morgan Rice
Ever since arising from the Canyon, Reece and the others had been determined to make it home, to get back to the MacGil side of the Ring. Unable to find horses, they had marched all the way through the McCloud side, up over the Highlands, down the other side, and now, finally, they marched through MacGil territory, passing nothing but ruin and devastation. From the looks of the land, the dragons had help destroyed the Empire troops, and for that, Reece was grateful. But Reece still did not know what state he might find his own people in. Was everyone dead in the Ring? Thus far, it seemed so. Reece was aching to find out if everyone was okay.
Each time they reached a battlefield of dead and injured, the ones not seared by the dragons’ flames, Illepra and Selese went from corpse to corpse, turning them over, checking. Not only were they driven by their professions but Illepra also had another goal in mind: to find Reece’s brother. Godfrey. It was a goal Reece shared.
“He’s not here,” Illepra announced yet again, as she finally stood, having turned over the last corpse of this field, disappointment etched across her face.
Reece could tell how much Illepra cared for his brother, and he was touched. Reece, too, hoped that he was okay and among the living—but from the looks of these thousands of corpses, he had a sinking feeling he was not.
They moved on, marched over yet another rolling field, another series of hills, and as they did, they spotted another battlefield on the horizon, thousands more corpses laid out. They headed for it.
As they walked, Illepra cried quietly. Selese laid a hand on her wrist.
“He’s alive,” Selese reassured. “Do not worry.”
Reece stepped up and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, feeling compassion for her.
“If it’s one thing I know about my brother,” Reece said, “he’s a survivor. He finds a way out of everything. Even death. I promise you. Godfrey is more likely already in a tavern somewhere, getting drunk.”
Illepra laughed through her tears, and wiped them away.
“I hope so,” she said. “For the first time, I really hope so.”
They continued their somber march, silently through the wasteland, each lost in their own thoughts. Images of the Canyon flashed through Reece’s mind; he could not suppress them. He thought back to how desperate their situation had been, and was filled with gratitude to Selese; if she hadn’t appeared when he had, they would still be down there, surely all dead.
Reece reached over and took Selese’s hand and smiled as the two held hands as they walked. Reece was touched by her love and devotion for him, by her willingness to cross the entire countryside just to save him. He felt an overwhelming rush of love for her, and he could not wait until they had a moment alone so he could express it to her. He had already decided he wanted to be with her forever. He felt a loyalty to her unlike he had ever felt to anyone else, and as soon as they had a moment, he vowed to propose to her. He would give her his mother’s Ring, the one his mother had given to him to give to the love of his life, when he found her.
“I can’t believe you crossed the Ring just for me,” Reece said to her.
She smiled.
“It wasn’t that far,” she said.
“Not far?” he asked. “You put your life in danger to cross a war-ravaged country. I owe you. Beyond what I could say.”
“You owe me nothing. I am just glad you’re alive.”
“We all owe you,” Elden chimed in. “You saved all of us. We would all be stuck down there in the bowels of the Canyon, forever.”
“Speaking of debts, I have one to discuss with you,” Krog said to Reece, coming up beside him with a limp. Since Illepra had splinted his leg at the top of the Canyon, Krog had at least been able to walk on his own, if stiffly.
“You saved me down there, and more than once,” Krog continued. “It was pretty stupid of you, if you ask me. But you did it anyway. Don’t think I owe you, though.”
Reece shook his head, caught off guard by Krog’s gruffness and his awkward attempt to thank him.
“I don’t know if you are trying to insult me, or trying to thank me,” Reece said.
“I have my own way,” Krog said. “I am going to watch your back from now on. Not because I like you, but because that’s what I feel called to do.”
Reece shook his head, baffled as always by Krog.
“Don’t worry,” Reece said. “I don’t like you either.”
They all continued their march, all of them relaxed, happy to be alive, to be above ground, to be back on this side of the Ring—all except Conven, who walked quietly, apart from the others, withdrawn into himself as he had been ever since the death of his twin in the Empire. Nothing, not even an escape from death, seemed to shake him from it.
Reece thought back and recalled how, down there, Conven had thrown himself recklessly into danger, time and again, nearly killing himself to save the others. Reece could not help but wonder if it came more from a desire to kill himself than to help the others. He worried about him. Reece did not like to see him so alienated, so lost in depression.
Reece walked up beside him.
“You fought brilliantly back there,” Reece said to him.
Conven just shrugged and looked down to the ground.
Reece wracked his brain for something to say, as they marched on in silence.
“Are you happy to be home?” Reece asked. “To be free?”
Conven turned and stared at him blankly.
“I’m not home. And I’m not free. My brother is dead. And I have no right to live without him.”
Reece felt a chill run through him at his words. Clearly, Conven was still overwhelmed with grief; he wore it like a badge of honor. Conven was more like the walking dead, his eyes blank. Reece recalled them once filled with joy. Reece could see that his mourning was deep, and he had the sinking feeling that it might not ever lift from him. Reece wondered what would become of Conven. For the first time, he did not think anything good.
They marched and marched, and hours passed, and they reached yet another battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with corpses. Illepra and Selese and the others fanned out, going corpse to corpse, turning them over, looking for any sign of Godfrey.
“I see a lot more MacGils on this field,” Illepra said hopefully, “and no dragon’s breath. Maybe Godfrey is here.”
Reece looked up and saw the thousands of corpses and wondered, even if he was here, if they could ever find him.
Reece spread out and went corpse to corpse, as did the others, turning each over. He saw all the faces of his people, face to face, some he recognized and some he didn’t, people he had known and fought with, people who had fought for his father. Reece marveled at the devastation that had descended on his homeland, like a plague, and he earnestly hoped that it was all finally passed. He’d seen his fill of battles and wars and corpses to last a lifetime. He was ready to settle down into a life of peace, to heal, to rebuild again.
“HERE!” shouted Indra, her voice filled with excitement. She stood over a body and stared down.
Illepra turned and came running over, and all of them gathered around. She knelt beside the body, and tears flooded her face. Reece knelt down beside her and gasped to see his brother.
Godfrey.
His big belly sticking out, unshaven, his eyes closed, too pale, his hands blue with cold, he looked dead.
Illepra leaned over and shook him, again and again; he did not respond.
“Godfrey! Please! Wake up! It’s me! Illepra! GODFREY!”
She shook him again and again, but he did not rouse. Finally, frantically, she turned to the others, scanning their belts.
“Your wine sack!” she demanded to O’Connor.
O’Connor fumbled at his waist and hastily removed it and handed it to Illepra.
She took it and held it over Godfrey’s face and squirted it on his lips. She lifted his head, opened his mouth, and squirted some on his tongue.
There came a sudden response, as Godfrey licked h
is lips, and swallowed.
He coughed, then sat up, grabbed the sack, eyes still closed, and squirted it, drinking more and more, until he sat all the way up. He slowly opened his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around, confused and disoriented, and belched.
Illepra cried out with joy, leaning over and giving him a big hug.
“You survived!” she exclaimed.
Reece sighed with relief as his brother looked around, confused, but very much alive.
Elden and Serna each grabbed Godfrey under the shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. Godfrey stood there, wobbly at first, and he took another long drink from the sack and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Godfrey looked around, bleary-eyed.
“Where am I?” he asked. He reached up and rubbed his head, which had a large welt, and his eyes squinted in pain.
Illepra studied the wound expertly, running her hand along it, and the dried blood in his hair.
“You’ve received a wound,” she said. “But you can be proud: you’re alive. You’re safe.”
Godfrey wobbled, and the others caught him.
“It is not serious,” she said, examining it, “but you will need to rest.”
She removed a bandage from her waist and began to wrap it around his head, again and again. Godfrey winced, and looked over at her. Then he looked about and surveyed all the corpses, eyes opening wide.
“I’m alive,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”
“You made it,” Reece said, clasping his older brother’s shoulder happily. “I knew you would.”
Illepra embraced him, hugging him, and slowly, he hugged her back.
“So this is what it feels like to be a hero,” Godfrey observed, and the others laughed. “Give me more drink like this,” he added, “and maybe I’ll do it more often.”
Godfrey took another long swig, and finally he began to walk with them, leaning on Illepra, one shoulder around her, as she helped him balance.
“Where are the others?” Godfrey asked as they went.
“We don’t know,” Reece said. “Somewhere west, I hope. That’s where we’re heading. We march for King’s Court. To see who lives.”
Reece gulped as he uttered the words. He looked off into the horizon, and prayed that his countrymen had met a similar fate to Godfrey. He thought of Thor, of his sister Gwendolyn, of his brother Kendrick, of so many others that he loved. But he knew that the bulk of the Empire army still lay ahead, and judging from the number of dead and wounded he’d already seen, he had a sinking feeling that the worst was still to come.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thorgrin, Kendrick, Erec, Srog and Bronson stood as a unified wall against the Empire army, their people behind them, weapons drawn, preparing to face the onslaught of Empire troops. Thor knew this would be his death charge, his final battle in life, yet he had no regrets. He would die here, facing the enemy, on his feet, sword in hand, his brothers in arms at his side, defending his homeland. He would be given a chance to make up for what he had done, for facing his own people in battle. There was nothing more he could ask for in life.
Thor thought of Gwendolyn, and he only wished that he had more time for her sake. He prayed that Steffen had brought her safely out and that she was safe back there, behind the lines. He felt determined to fight with all he had, to kill as many Empire as he could, just to prevent them from harming her.
As Thor stood there he could feel his brothers’ solidarity, all of them unafraid, standing there valiantly, holding their ground. These were the finest men of the kingdom, the finest knights of the Silver, MacGils, Silesians—all of them unified, none of them backing away in fear, despite the odds. All of them were prepared to give up their lives to defend their homeland. They all valued honor and freedom more than life.
Thor heard Empire horns, up and down the lines, watched their divisions of countless men line up in precise units. These were disciplined soldiers he was facing, soldiers with merciless commanders, who had fought their whole lives. It was a well-oiled machine, trained to carry on in the face of their leader’s death. A new nameless Empire commander stepped up, and led the troops. There numbers were vast, endless, and Thor knew there was no way they could defeat them with so few men. But that mattered not anymore. It did not matter if they died. All that mattered was how they died. They would die on their feet, as men, in a final clash of valor.
“Shall we wait for them to come to us?” Erec asked aloud. “Or shall we offer them the greeting of the MacGils?”
Thor smiled, along with the others. There was nothing like a smaller army charging a larger one. It was reckless, yet it was also the height of courage.
As one, Thor and his men all suddenly let out a battle cry, and they all charged. They raced on foot, hurrying to bridge the gap between the two armies, their battle cries filling the air, their men following close on their heels. Thor held his sword high, running beside his brothers, his heart thumping, a cold gust of wind brushing his face. This was what battle felt like. It reminded him what it felt like to be alive.
The two armies charged, racing as fast as they could to kill each other. In moments they met in the middle, in a tremendous clang of weapons.
Thor slashed every which way, hurling himself into the front row of Empire soldiers, who wielded long spears, pikes, lances. Thor slashed the first pike he encountered in half, then stabbed the soldier through the gut.
Thor ducked and weaved as multiple lances came his way; he swung his sword, whirling in every direction, slicing all the weapons in half with a splintering noise and kicking and elbowing each soldier out of his way. He backhanded several more with his gauntlet, kicked another in the groin, elbowed one in the jaw, head-butted another, stabbed another, and spun and slashed another. The quarters were close, and it was hand to hand, and Thor was a one-man machine, cutting his way through the vastly superior force.
All around him, his brothers were doing the same, fighting with incredible speed and power and strength and spirit, even though they were outnumbered, throwing themselves into the much larger army and cutting through the rows of Empire men which seemed to have no end. None hesitated, and none retreated.
All around Thor, thousands of men met thousands of others, men screaming and grunting as they fought hand-to-hand in the huge vicious battle, the determining battle for the fate of the Ring. And despite the vastly superior forces, the men of the Ring were gaining momentum, holding the Empire at bay and even pushing them back.
Thor snatched a flail from an Empire soldier’s hands, kicked him back, then swung it around and smashed him in the side of the helmet. Thor then swung it high overhead in a broad circle and knocked down several more. He threw it into the crowd and took down even more.
Thor then raised his sword and went back to hand-to-hand fighting, slashing every which way until his arms and shoulders grew tired. At one point he was a touch too slow, and a soldier came down at him with a raised sword; Thor turned to face him, too late, and braced himself for the blow and injury to come.
Thor heard a snarling noise, and Krohn whizzed by, leaping into the air and locking his jaws on the soldier’s throat, driving him down, saving Thor.
Hours of close fighting passed. While Thor was at first encouraged by all their gains, it soon became apparent that this battle was an act of futility, prolonging the inevitable. No matter how many of them they killed, the horizon continued to be filled with an endless array of men. And while Thor and the others were growing weary, the Empire men were fresh, more and more pouring in.
Thor, losing momentum, not defending as quickly as he had been, suddenly received a sword slash on the shoulder; he cried out in pain, as blood gushed from his arm. Thor then received an elbow in the ribs, and a battle axe descended for him, which he just barely blocked with his shield. He had nearly raised the shield a second too late.
Thor was losing ground, and as he glanced around, he saw that the others around him were, too. The tide
was beginning to turn yet again; Thor’s ears were filled with the death cries of too many of his men, beginning to fall. After hours of fighting, they were losing. Soon, they would all be finished. He thought of Gwendolyn, and he refused to accept it.
Thor threw his head back to the heavens, desperately trying to summon whatever powers he had left. But his Druid power was not responding. Too much of it, he sensed, had been drained from his time with Andronicus, and he needed time to heal. He noticed Argon on the battlefield, not as powerful as he had been either, his powers, too, drained fighting Rafi. And Alistair was weakened, too, her powers drained reviving Argon. They had no other backup. Just their strength of arms.
Thor threw his head back to the heavens and let out a great battle cry of desperation, willing for something to be different, for something to change.
Please God, he prayed. I beg of you. Save us all on this day. I turn to you. Not to man, not to my powers, but to you. Give me a sign of your power.
Suddenly, to Thor’s shock, the air was filled with the noise of a great roar, one so loud it seemed to split the very heavens.
Thor’s heart quickened as he immediately recognized the sound. He looked at the horizon and saw bursting out of the clouds his old friend, Mycoples. Thor was shocked, elated to see that she was alive, that she was free, and that she was back here, in the Ring, flying towards him. It was like a part of himself had been restored.
Even more surprising, beside her saw Thor a second dragon. A male dragon, with ancient, faded red scales, and huge, glowing green eyes, fiercer-looking even than Mycoples. Thor watched the two of them soaring through the air, weaving in and out, and then plunging down, right for Thor. He realized then that his prayers had been answered.