by Morgan Rice
When Thor got thirsty, he bit into another waterfruit, slowly this time, and was so grateful for the liquid, which he shared with Krohn. All around him, his brothers were doing the same. Unlike their first desert trek, this fruit gave him the energy to keep him going. At first, when he had gathered them, he had resented the extra weight—but now he was so glad he had them. He actually feared how light he was getting, as he ate more and more of them.
“Hey, more fruits!” O’Connor yelled.
Thor turned and saw, to their side, a sole swaying palm tree in the middle of the desert, filled with low hanging red fruits. O’Connor headed towards it, when suddenly a desert-dweller grabbed him roughly by the shirt, and yanked him back.
Thor and the others exchanged looks of wonder, not understanding.
“Let me go!” O’Connor yelled.
But then, suddenly, the earth opened up beneath a tree, into a massive and spreading sinkhole, swallowing the tree and everything around it.
O’Connor stood there and stared at it, wide-eyed; if he had taken just one more step, he would be dead.
“The desert is filled with its own seductresses,” the desert dweller said to O’Connor. “As I said, stick closely to our trail.”
They continued trekking, O’Connor shaken, all of them with a new respect for this place, following the trail of the desert dwellers as closely as they could.
They marched and marched, silently, deeper and deeper into the desert, until their legs and feet grew weary. It was feeling more and more like a pilgrimage.
Hours passed, and Thor needed a break in the monotony; he ambled up and fell in beside the lead desert dweller.
“Why do you dwell here?” Thor asked.
“Like you, we want to be free. Free from Andronicus’ long reach. Our freedom is more dear to us than where we live.”
It seemed to be a recurring theme that Thor was hearing throughout the Empire.
“If you can defeat Andronicus, you would free not only yourselves, but all of us,” he added.
“But this desert seems like such a hostile and unforgiving place,” Thor said.
The man smiled.
“The Empire is filled with hostile and unforgiving places,” he replied. “It is also filled with places of unimaginable beauty, abundance, prosperity. Ocean cities. Cities made of gold. Stretches of green, of farmland, as far as the eye can see. Waterfalls that have no bottom. Rivers packed with fish. These are the places Andronicus’ has claimed. One day, still, they may be ours again.”
They trekked and trekked, Thor’s feet throbbing, until the second sun already fell low in the sky. Their waterfruits were long ago exhausted, and Thor did not know if he could make it any longer. Just as he was going to speak, up ahead, in the rippling waves of heat he saw the outline of something. He blinked several times, wondering if it was another mirage. But as they neared, he realized it wasn’t.
“Neversink,” Indra called out.
Thor’s heart soared with relief.
“Yes,” the leader said, “the Lake borders the desert. It is where one terrain ends and another begins.”
Rejuvenated, they marched until the sand gradually gave way to grass, until they reached the edge of the desert, the grass becoming thicker and greener. There, perhaps a hundred yards in the distance, surrounded by grass, sat Neversink. On one side it was framed by a tall wood, and on the other, rolling green hills.
“This is where we leave you,” the lead desert-dweller said, stopping and facing Thor.
“I don’t know how we shall ever repay you,” Thor said.
“Find your Sword,” he answered. “Defeat Andronicus. That is repayment enough.”
He leaned forward and embraced Thor, and Thor embraced him back.
“Remember us,” the man said.
With that, the desert dwellers all turned, covered their faces with their hoods, and headed back into the desert. Thor and the others watched them go; they had not gone far when a desert storm kicked up sand, enveloping them, making them disappear.
Thor and the others exchanged a look of wonder, then all turned and surveyed the bottomless lake before them. Neversink. It was larger than Thor had imagined, seeming to stretch miles in each direction. It glowed a light blue, and Thor could sense an intense energy coming off of it. It did not seem like a normal lake.
Thor looked every which way for any sign of the Sword, of the thieves. He was on guard, as were the others, grasping the hilts of their swords, bracing for a confrontation. If they had beat the thieves here, they could arrive at any moment.
But as much as Thor scoured the shorelines, he could not see a thing, no evidence that they were here. He only prayed that they had not been too late.
“Maybe we were too late,” O’Connor said. “Maybe they already cast the Sword and left.”
“Or maybe they haven’t arrived yet,” Reece said.
“If they did come and cast the Sword, there’s no way we can check the waters,” Elden said.
“If the Sword is in there,” Indra said, “then it has sunk to the bowels of the earth. Your only hope is if you have arrived here before they and can stop them before they cast it.”
“We must find out if they were here,” Thor said. “If they were here, they left a trail. We must find it. We must know for sure what has happened. Let’s check the shoreline.”
As one, they all set off, trekking along the white, sandy shores of the lake, scouring the shoreline for any tracks, any sign of disruption. Thor took off his shoes and walked with bare feet in the grass, then along the sand, dipping his feet into the icy waters; it felt good, cooling him, especially beneath the shade of the towering trees. The others did the same.
They walked for hours, nearing the far shore of the lake, its waters glistening, when Reece called out: “Over here!”
They all turned excitedly and followed Reece as he pointed to footprints in the sand; they were the prints of a large group of people. They all stood there, studying them.
“They came from the wood,” Reece said.
“That means they have beat us here,” Elden said.
Thor’s heart dropped as he looked up and saw the trail of prints in the sand. It did not bode well.
They all followed the prints along the white sands, following the contours of the lake. Suddenly, abruptly, they ended.
They all stood there, scratching their heads, looking down at the sand, then out at the waters.
“The water is darker here,” Reece said.
“This must be the deepest part of the lake,” O’Connor said.
“It is,” Indra said, stepping forward, peering into the water. “If they were to cast the Sword anywhere, it would be here.”
Thor gulped. She was right. Could the Sword be lost forever?
“But why do their footsteps end?” Thor asked.
They all looked out at the still waters, wondering. The only sound was that of the whipping wind off the water, as they all watched. Thor felt a sinking feeling.
“Have we come all this way then,” O’Connor asked, “to find a Sword that is lost forever?”
They scanned the waters, but they were impenetrable.
“If it is in there, there is no way to retrieve it,” Elden said.
“So then what now?” Reece asked. “Return to the Ring as failures?”
Indra turned her backs on them and meandered over to the edge of the wood.
“I’m not so sure,” she finally said.
They all turned and looked at her; she was kneeling, examining branches.
“Do you see those trees?” she said. “Look at the branches. The angle of them. It looks like maybe somebody had retreated from this spot, back into the wood.”
Thor turned with the others and followed Indra, walking away from the lake, into the towering pines. They had all learned enough not to doubt her, and they followed her without question as she led them into the wood. As they continued further, Thor began to see it, too; at first it was faint,
but then it came into view. There was a subtle trail, a series of broken branches. A pattern. It was beginning to look like a trail. She had been right.
The trail wound its way through the forest, then finally, it opened up, back onto the sandy shores at a different part of the lake. This part of the shore was obscured, covered in shade, long, heavy branches of pine curving over it. Thor had to look closely to see that there was something on the sand, hidden in the shade.
As they got closer, Thor suddenly stopped and stood frozen in place, as did the others, shocked at the sight before them.
There, lying on the sand, at the edge of the lake, where the bodies of the thieves who had stolen the Sword from the Ring. The whole group of them, all lying in the sand, dead.
Blood trickled from their bodies, onto the sand, still wet, staining it red, and lying amidst them, were the bodies of several dozen Empire soldiers, all dead.
Thor and the others stood there, baffled, trying to make sense of the sight. Clearly a great conflict had happened here. But why? How? And what had happened to the Sword? There was no sign of it anywhere. Had the thieves cast the Sword into the water before they were killed? Had any Empire soldiers survived and ran off with the Sword after the conflict?
“It looks like they all killed each other,” Elden said.
They all began to walk slowly through the carnage, trying to understand.
“No,” said Indra, finally, kneeling and examining the marks on their bodies. “They were attacked. All of them. By something else.”
“Attacked?” Elden asked. “By what?”
Indra ran her hand along the chest of one of the soldiers, then looked up ominously:
“Dragons.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Godfrey slowly peeled open his eyes, his head throbbing. He hurt more than he could remember, his body feeling as if it bore the weight of the earth. Every muscle ached and throbbed, and as he lay there, face first in the grass, he slowly tested his limbs, trying to move each one. He felt as if he had rigor mortis settling in.
He shook his head, and tried to remember. Where was he? What had happened?
Godfrey looked out and saw not far from him, the dead face of a corpse staring back, eyes wide open as if looking right at him. He opened his eyes with a start, leaned back, and looked all around: there were hundreds of corpses sprawled out on the battlefield all around him. He turned his neck, and saw the same view in every direction.
Then he remembered. The battle against Andronicus. At first, the victory; then, the defeat. The slaughter.
Godfrey was amazed to see he was alive. He also could not help but feel proud of himself that he had actually had the courage to fight, to stand side-by-side with his brother Kendrick and the others. He did not have their skills, but ironically, perhaps that was what had saved him. He had thrown himself clumsily into the thick of battle and embarrassingly, he did not have their agility either—as he had charged, Godfrey had slipped on the slick blood of a soldier, and had slipped before he could wield his sword. He remembered lying face down on the ground and trying to get up, but being trampled by soldiers and horses.
Godfrey recalled receiving a solid kick to the head from a horse that had knocked him out. After that, all had been blackness.
Godfrey raised a hand to the side of his side, and felt a huge welt where the horse had kicked him. He was embarrassed to have been taken down by a horse and not to have gone down with his sword raised high, by another knight. But at least, unlike the others all around him, it had spared his life.
It was the next morning and as a cold mist blew in off the Canyon, Godfrey shivered, realizing he had been out all night. He sat up amidst the sea of dead bodies, a stark scene in the first light of morning. In the distance he spotted Andronicus’ troops, patrolling. There came the distinctive noise of a sword cutting through air and impaling flesh; Godfrey craned his neck to see an Empire soldier, about fifty yards off, walking from one body to the next, raising his sword and plunging it through each corpse to make sure it was dead. He was methodical, going from corpse to corpse—and he was heading in Godfrey’s direction.
Godfrey swallowed hard, eyes opening wide, realizing that he had escaped death once—but was not about to escape it again. He had to think quick, or he would end up truly dead.
What Godfrey lacked in fighting skills, he made up for in wit. He did not have the training of his brothers, but he had a unique ability to survive. Growing up, he had always found a way out of everything, and now, more than ever, it was time to draw on his skills.
Godfrey quickly scanned the corpses around him and spotted a dead Empire soldier about his size and height. He checked back over his shoulder, making sure the patrolling soldier was not looking, then crawled forward on his hands and knees to the corpse. He quickly stripped it of all its armor, moving as discreetly as he could, praying he was not detected.
Godfrey removed his own armor, his body freezing as it was exposed to the winter air, and reached over and dressed himself in the enemy’s armor from head to toe, even taking his belt, which had a short sword and a dagger on it; he then reached over and grabbed his shield. He even reached over and took his helmet, which luckily concealed half of his face in its semi-circular shape. He managed to do all of this as quickly as he could, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to see if the other Empire soldier was getting closer. Luckily, while he made his way closer, he was not looking his way.
Godfrey quickly turned and lay on his back, holding the shield of the Empire soldier above him so that the crest—a lion with a bird in its mouth—was clearly visible. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep. And prayed.
The patrolling soldier approached him, and stopped. Godfrey, eyes closed, prayed that he bought it. He knew the next second would define whether he lived or not. If he heard the sound of steel slicing through the air, he knew he would be killed, his ploy discovered. But if he felt the soldier nudge him in some other way, he knew his ruse had worked.
Godfrey waited for what seemed like forever, as the soldier stood over him, debating.
Finally, he felt the tip of a boot, nudging him on the shoulder.
Inwardly, Godfrey sighed with relief; outwardly he feigned being awakened, opening his eyes, fluttering them slowly, pretending to be disoriented.
“You’re alive,” the Empire soldier said. “Good. Are you wounded? Can you walk?”
Godfrey sat up slowly, and it wasn’t too hard to feign pain, since his pain was real; he reached up and felt the welt on his face, and allowed the Empire soldier to drag him to his feet. His legs were stiff, as was the rest of his body, but he could walk.
“I am sorry, sir, I did not see your stripes,” the soldier said in awe, suddenly stiffening at attention.
Godfrey looked back in surprise, not understanding. Then he realized: the uniform he stole. The soldier he raided must have been an officer.
Godfrey immediately fell into the role, for fear of being discovered.
“I will forgive you this time,” he said, “but next time you will address your superior appropriately. Do you understand?” Godfrey said, mustering as harsh and authoritative tone as he could.
“Yes, sir!” the soldier replied.
Godfrey stood there, staring back, and had to think quick. He knew he had to continue playing the role well; one false move and he would be discovered.
“Shall we get a nurse for you, sir?” the soldier asked.
“No. I have no need of one. I am an officer, lest you forget. We suffer minor wounds.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said.
Godfrey thought quick. He could not just walk away. It would be too risky. What if something he did gave up his ruse?
“There you are,” came a voice.
Godfrey turned to see several Empire officers approaching. With his helmet low and his visor lowered, they must not have recognized him.
“Officer’s meeting,” came a voice.
The group of Empire officers approa
ched, and one put a hand on his back and led him along with the others.
Godfrey found himself walking with the group of Empire officers, making their way through the field of corpses, towards the outer gate of Silesia, towards Andronicus’ camp. He was afraid to check back over his shoulder, to check and see if that soldier was watching him, giving him a second glance, wondering if he made a mistake. So instead, he doubled his pace and went with these men, marveling at this odd turn of fate. He wondered how long he could keep this up. A part of him wanted to turn and run—but if he did, he knew he’d never make it. Besides, where was there to run to? The entire city was enslaved. There appeared to be no safe place anywhere.
They soon passed through the outer gate, away from Silesia, and as they did, before them there was revealed the huge expanse of Andronicus’ million-man army, camped out in tents. Godfrey swallowed hard, in awe at the sight. He was led deeper and deeper behind enemy lines, blending in with the others, and as he headed deeper and deeper into the heart of Andronicus’ camp, no one seemed to look twice.
He had survived. He had tricked them all. He was maintaining the ruse.
But how long could he keep it up?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Erec rode with Brandt and scores of the Duke’s men, all of them charging out the gates of Savaria, the portcullis slamming down behind them, the city left secured only by the few soldiers remaining to stand guard. They all charged down the road heading east, hundreds of them, raising up dust in a great noise as they began the journey for the Eastern Gulch.
They rode as one, a fearless, determined group, riding for their very lives in the light of dawn. They all knew what was at stake, and were all fully prepared to throw themselves into the impossible: to try, with but a few hundred men, to defend their homeland against Andronicus’ million man army. Erec knew they were all likely riding to their deaths. But that was what they had all been born and bred to do: risk their lives, every day, to protect and defend those left behind. In Erec’s mind, it was a privilege. It was what he—what all of them—had lived their lives for: valor.