by Morgan Rice
Mycoples raised her wings, arched back her neck and shrieked, as did the dragon beside her, and the two of them breathed a wall of fire down onto the Empire army, lighting up the sky. The cold day was suddenly warm, then hot, as walls of flames rolled and rolled towards them. Thor raised his arms to his face.
The dragons attacked from the back, so the flames did not quite reach Thor. Still, the wall of fire was close enough that Thor felt its heat, the hairs on his forearm singed.
The shouts of thousands of men rose up into the air as the Empire army, division by division, was set on fire, tens of thousands of soldiers screaming for their lives. They ran every which way—but there was nowhere to flee. The dragons were merciless. They were on a rampage, and they were filled with fury, ready to wreak vengeance on the Empire.
One division of Empire after the next stumbled to the ground, dead.
The remaining soldiers facing Thor turned in a panic and fled, trying to get away from the dragons crisscrossing the sky, breathing flame everywhere. But they only ran to their own deaths, as the dragons zeroed in on them, and finished them off one at a time.
Soon, Thor found himself facing nothing but an empty field, black clouds of smoke, the smell of burning flesh filling the air, of dragon’s breath, of sulfur. As the clouds lifted, they revealed a charred wasteland before him, not a single man left alive, all the grass and trees withered down to nothingness but black and ash. The Empire army, so indomitable just minutes ago, was now completely gone.
Thor stood there in shock, elated. He would live. They would all live. The Ring was free. Finally, they were free.
Mycoples dove down and sat before Thor, lowering her head and snorting.
Thor stepped forward, smiling as he went to his old friend, and Mycoples lowered her head all the way to the ground, purring. Thor stroked the scales on her face, and she leaned in and rubbed her nose up and down his chest, stroking her face against his body. She purred contentedly, and it was clear she was ecstatic to see Thor again, as ecstatic as he was to see her.
Thor mounted her, and turned, atop Mycoples, and faced his army, thousands of men staring back in wonder and joy, as he raised his sword.
The men raised their swords and cheered back to him. Finally, the skies were filled with the sound of victory.
CHAPTER NINE
Gwendolyn stood there, looking up at Thorgrin, atop Mycoples, and her heart soared with relief and pride. She had made her way through the thick crowd of soldiers, back to the front lines, throwing off the protection of Steffen and the others. She had pushed her way all the way into the clearing, and she stood before Thor. She burst into tears of joy, as she looked out and saw the Empire defeated, all threats finally gone, as she saw Thor, her love, alive, safe. She felt triumphant. She felt as if all the darkness and grief of the last several months had finally lifted, felt that the Ring was finally safe once again. She felt overwhelmed with joy and gratitude as Thor spotted her and looked down at her with such love, his eyes shining.
Gwen prepared to go forth and greet him, when suddenly a noise cut through the air that made her turn.
“BRONSON!” came the shriek.
Gwen and the others turned, and her heart sank with dread to see a man emerge from the ashes of the Empire side. The man had been lying face-down on the ground, covered with the bodies of Empire soldiers, and he stood and knocked them off as he rose to his full height.
McCloud.
Gwen felt a shudder. McCloud had somehow survived, having been a coward, taking refuge under the bodies of others, somehow surviving the wall of flames. He stood there with his disfigured body, his face branded, missing an eye, and now, half-burnt from flames, his clothes still smoldering. Yet he was alive, sword in hand, glaring right at his son, Bronson.
Gwen felt a supreme distaste rise up within her. There was a man she loathed with every fiber of her being, the man of her nightmares, the ones she relived every night, the man who had attacked her. There was nothing more she had wished for all these days than to see him dead.
There he stood, at his full height and breadth, which was considerable, a nightmare come to life, the sole survivor of the entire conflagration.
“BRONSON!” McCloud shrieked again, stepping forward into the clearing.
Bronson answered the call: he stepped forward from the MacGil side, his own sword in hand, prepared to greet his father in one last battle.
Mycoples snarled, arched her neck, and prepared to breathe fire on McCloud.
But Thor placed a hand on her, stopping her, as he dismounted and clutched his sword, stepping forward, towards McCloud, to finish him off.
Bronson stepped forward, to Thor’s side, and laid a hand on Thor’s shoulder.
“It is my battle,” Bronson said.
“He attacked my wife,” Thor said. “I crave vengeance.”
“But he is my father,” Bronson replied. “Surely you understand. I crave it more.”
Thor stared back at Bronson, long and hard, then finally, understanding, he stepped aside.
“Both of you attack!” McCloud shouted, his voice raspy, “I shall kill you both easily!”
Bronson turned and faced him, and he rushed forward with a great cry, raising his sword high, as McCloud charged back.
Father and son met in the middle of the open field, and Bronson brought his sword down with all his might. McCloud raised his and blocked it with a clang. Sparks flew, and the fight had begun.
Bronson, in a rage, swung his sword around, slashing again and again and again, driving his father back, who nonetheless blocked every blow, and parried back with several of his own. The two of them drove each other back and forth, sparks flying in every direction as the epic fight went on and on, neither gaining an inch, both out for blood. Clearly, the enmity between them ran deep.
Finally, in one quick move, Bronson got the better of his father, knocking the sword from his grasp and stepping forward and butting him in the nose with the hilt of his sword, breaking it.
McCloud reached up and grabbed his nose, gushing blood, screaming, and Bronson kicked him back, knocking him down to the ground.
Bronson stepped forward and McCloud suddenly swept around with the back of his heel, kicking Bronson hard in the back of the knee, making him drop to the ground. McCloud then sat up, swung around, and smashed Bronson in the back of the head with his gauntlet, sending his son face-first in the dirt.
McCloud snatched the sword from Bronson’s hand, raised it and prepared to bring it down on Bronson’s exposed neck and sever his head.
Gwendolyn, horrified, stepped forward and screamed: “NO!” She could not stand to see Bronson lying there, prone, about to die, this man she had come to love and respect, who had fought so intensely for her cause.
McCloud lowered his sword and a horrific shriek cut through the air, and Gwendolyn flinched, sure it was Bronson’s death cry.
But as she opened her eyes, she was shocked to see it was not Bronson who shrieked, but McCloud. He stood there, missing an arm. Thor stood over him, sword out, having just chopped off his arm, right before he could bring down his sword on Bronson.
“That’s for Gwendolyn,” Thor said to McCloud.
As McCloud sank to his knees, grasping his arm stump, shrieking, Bronson rose and faced him, beside Thor, the two of them staring him down.
“Justice is served, father,” Bronson said. “You took my hand. Now yours is taken.”
“I would’ve taken both of your hands if I could,” McCloud snarled.
Bronson shook his head, leaned back, and kicked his father in the face, and he went flying back, his head slamming on the ground.
“You won’t be taking anyone’s hand anymore,” Bronson replied.
His father lay there, groaning, and Bronson reached down and retrieved his sword from the dirt.
“He’s mine to kill,” Bronson said to Thor.
Thor nodded in respect and stepped aside, as Bronson stood over his father, preparing to kill him.
Gwen stepped forward, past all the men, past the stares of all the soldiers, and came up beside Bronson and laid a hand on his wrist.
Bronson turned to her.
“Ask not for compassion for him, my lady,” Bronson said.
“I do not,” Gwendolyn said. “I’ve come for vengeance.”
Bronson looked back at her, surprised.
“It was my honor that he took,” Gwendolyn continued, “and I must set wrongs right. Justice must be done by my hand. Not by yours.”
Bronson looked at her long and hard, then finally understood. He nodded and stepped aside.
“Kill the man who haunts your dreams,” Bronson said. “Just as he haunted mine my entire life. Once he is dead, may both our dreams vanish.”
Gwendolyn took the sword with both hands, gripping the hilt, squeezing tight. Slowly, she raised it high overhead. Never before had she killed a man, up close, who had lay there, prone. Her hands trembled, even though she knew justice demanded it.
She felt the blood coursing through her veins. The blood of the MacGils; of seven generations of kings; the blood of a ruler of a great people; the blood of someone charged to set wrongs right. She felt an overriding need to rid the world of an evil that never should have existed in the first place.
“You won’t do it,” McCloud snarled up at her. “You’re just like my boy. You don’t have the nerve.”
Gwendolyn breathed deep and thrust the sword down, straight down, into McCloud’s heart, piercing it. The sword continued, through his body, into the frozen ground.
McCloud’s eyes bulged open with a look of shock, as he stared up at her in agony and surprise. He remained that way for several seconds, frozen.
Then finally he fell backwards, limp. Dead.
Gwendolyn extracted the bloody sword and held it out before her, as she turned and faced her people. She raised it high.
As one, her entire army, all of her people, knelt before her, and shouted:
“GWENDOLYN!”
CHAPTER TEN
Thor rode on the back of Mycoples, Gwen behind him, clutching his waist. The two of them soared high above the Ring, circling through all the territories, taking it all in from above. They cut through the cool winter air, through parting clouds, but Thor did not feel the cold. All he felt was Gwen, her hands clutching him from behind, holding him tight, and moment by moment, he felt himself restored. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt at peace again. He felt that all was right in the world, and he never wanted this moment to end. Gwendolyn behind him, riding Mycoples, Andronicus dead, Thor felt a sense of completeness that he had always hoped for.
They dove down low, nearly skimming the tops of the trees, taking in all the devastation of the Ring, entire lands covered with the charred corpses of Empire. Thor could see how hard at work Mycoples and Ralibar had been, unleashing a wave of destruction unlike any the Ring had ever known.
They flew over ravaged towns and cities, torn apart from the Empire’s invasion, fields of MacGil corpses, those brave souls who had lost their lives trying to fend off the invasion. Thor felt overwhelmed with guilt that he had fought on the wrong side for a time. He wished he could make it better, could go back, could make things play out differently. He thought back to the day when he had flown to accept Andronicus’ surrender; he had felt in his stomach that something was wrong. He remembered Mycoples’ foreboding, her reluctance to land, all the signs that pointed to danger. He realized now that he should have listened. He wished that he never would have been caught, never would have been brainwashed, that none of his men would have had to suffer and die.
But it was meant to be. He realized that now. No matter how much he may want things to be different, the world had its own destiny. That was the cruelty of the world. Yet it could also, sometimes, be the kindness of the world, too.
Thor flashed back to the moment before they had flown off, when he and Gwendolyn had embraced all of their people. Many tears of joy had been shed, as Thor, wracked with guilt, had begged their forgiveness. They had been all too happy to grant it: after all, he had not killed any of them, and he had, in fact, done more to kill the Empire than any of them. But he still felt he needed Gwen’s forgiveness most of all: he still could not believe he had raised a sword to her. Just the thought of it made him want to kill himself.
Gwendolyn had been gracious. She had not been hurt by him, nor had anyone else, and she was willing to forgive him. She even understood, and recognized that he had been under a spell, one not of his control. Thor had apologized to Krohn, too, who had been all too quick to accept his apology, licking him and jumping into his arms as Thor hugged him back. Thor apologized to Erec, too, for facing off with him, and to Kendrick, and to all the men he’d known and fought with, asking for forgiveness. They had all been quick to oblige, knowing he had been under a spell. Their kindness made Thor feel even more guilty.
Thor had mounted Mycoples, eager to fly her again; the men had agreed they would all rendezvous at King’s Court. It had been their original capitol, and now, with the Empire gone, they all concurred there was no more fitting place for them to return to.
Thor had mounted Mycoples, Gwen behind him, and had flown off. Ralibar had taken a liking to Gwen, and for a moment, it seemed that he might even let her ride him; but then he’d suddenly, unpredictably, leapt into the air and taken off, heading in his own direction. Gwen was happy he had: she wanted to ride with Thor, to be close again.
The two of them had been flying now for what felt like hours, taking stock of all the landscapes of the Ring, realizing the immensity of the work that lay ahead of them, of all the rebuilding that needed to be done. Finally, down below, through the clouds, there appeared the vestige of King’s Court, and Thor directed Mycoples to dive down low.
Mycoples obliged, breaking through the clouds, flying so low to King’s Court that Thor and Gwen could nearly touch its remaining parapets. Thor saw the outlines of the vast complex, of King’s Castle, of the Legion training grounds, the halls of the Silver, the Hall of Arms, dozens of buildings, the moats and ramparts and endless dwellings of the extended city—and it broke his heart. Here was a place that had once been so dear to him, so resplendent, the very backbone of the kingdom, the bastion of strength, of everything that Thor knew to be power. Here was the place he had always aspired to, the place he had first met and trained with the Legion. It was the place that had once loomed so indomitable in his mind.
And now here it lay: in ruin, a fragment of what it once was. Thor could hardly conceive that anything so powerful could be reduced to this. The foundations remained, the remnants of stone walls, the outline of the greater city; there was certainly a foundation left to build on. But most of its great, ancient stones and statues were toppled in heaps of rubble. Only half of King’s Castle stood.
“Seven generations of MacGils,” Gwendolyn said, shaking her head, “all wiped out because the Shield had been lowered, because the Sword had been stolen. It all started with her brother, Gareth. And now there lies my father’s kingdom. Gareth always wanted to destroy our father: and now, somehow, he has.”
Thor could feel her tears down the back of his neck.
“We will rebuild it,” Thor said.
“Yes, we will,” she replied confidently.
As they dove down lower, circling again and again, this place brought back so many memories for Thor. Here was a place he had been afraid and intimidated to enter as a boy, its gates and powerful sentries looming larger than life. And yet now here he was, no longer a boy, but a man, riding on the back of a dragon, the head of the Legion and already one of the Kingdom’s famed warriors. It was hard for Thor to process all that had happened in his life, and so quickly: it was surreal. Was anything in life, he wondered, stable? Was everything always changing, shifting? Was there ever anything that one could really hold onto?
The sight below brought Thor great sadness—yet it also brought him great hope. Here was a place they could b
uild again, a place they could make even more resplendent. With the Empire finally gone, the Ring finally secure, Thor felt every cause for hope. They were all alive and safe, and that was all that mattered. The stones, they could all go back to the way they were. And with Gwendolyn at his side, Thor felt that anything was possible.
Thor felt his mother’s ring, bulging inside his pocket, and he knew the time had come to propose. The time had come for them to be together, forever. He did not want to wait another moment. He opened his mouth to speak.
“Set down there,” Gwendolyn suddenly called aloud to Mycoples. “I see the knights approaching.”
Thor looked down and saw the men traveling down the road, beginning to filter in through the gates of King’s Court. Mycoples dove down, as Gwen had requested.
They landed right before the incoming army, Mycoples setting down in the center of the courtyard, the men rushing out to greet them. Thor knew that his moment to propose was gone. But it would come again. He’d be sure of it. Before the day had passed, he would find a way to make Gwendolyn his wife.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Luanda marched and marched, exhausted, weak from hunger, freezing, feeling as if her trek would never end. She couldn’t allow herself to stop. She had to make it back, to her homeland, to Bronson. She was still reeling as she thought how lucky she had been to escape, what a close call it had been. She had been looking over her shoulder the entire march back, still fearing that somehow, maybe, Romulus would find a way to take down the Shield, to follow her, to grab her and bring her back.
But he was never there. He was gone now, the Shield was truly up, and Luanda had been safe marching, all this way, through the wasteland of the Ring, determined to make it home. She was relieved, yet she also felt a sense of dread. Would her people take her back in, after all she had done? Would they want to kill her? She could hardly blame them. She was embarrassed by her own actions.