A Charge of Valor (Book #6 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

by Morgan Rice

  Argon turned and stared out at the desert.

  “Before you can return to the others,” Argon said, “you must further your training. You cannot go any further in this quest unless your training is deepened. The desert is vast and deep, and only a skillful spiritual warrior can cross it. Are you ready to reach the next level?”

  Thor nodded back earnestly.

  “I wish for nothing more. Tell me what I must do.”

  “Walk with me,” Argon said.

  Thor walked side-by-side with Argon, deeper into the desert, wondering where they were going. He felt an intense energy radiating through him with each step, felt as if he were slowly coming back to himself. He also felt more powerful than he ever had.

  As they were walking, Thor looked down and stopped short, shocked at what he saw. The ground fell away, and he found himself standing at the edge of the Canyon.

  He looked down, overwhelmed at the depth and scope of it. It seemed to stretch forever. Its strange mist swirled all around him, and Thor looked over to see Argon standing beside him, looking out, too.

  “How did we get here?” Thor asked. “How did we make it back to the Ring?”

  “We are everywhere and nowhere,” Argon replied. “We travel through the crack between the realms. You see, place and time are but an illusion. We now transcend these illusions. I want you to look into the Canyon, into its mist. What do you see?”

  Thor squinted into the expanse, but saw nothing but swirling mist, lit with every color.

  “I see nothing,” Thor responded.

  “That is because you look with your eyes, and not with your mind,” Argon responded. “Now close your eyes,” he said firmly, “and look.”

  Close my eyes and look? Thor wondered. He did not understand.

  But he did as he was told, closing his eyes, facing out in the direction of the Canyon, feeling the swirling mist stroke his face. The moisture felt so good in the heat.

  “In your mind’s eye, see it,” Argon said. “Allow it to come to you.”

  Thor breathed deep and centered himself, trying to understand. And as he stood there, for he did not know how long, slowly, he began to see it.

  Below him, Thor saw a red city, built on the edge of the Canyon. Its stone sparkled red, and it was divided into two cities, a lower and upper one.

  “I see a red city,” Thor said.

  “Good. What else?”

  Thor’s heart started to pound as he saw fires raging through it. Destruction. Bloodshed. People dying.

  “I see an army,” Thor said, “as fast as lightning, covering the Ring. Entering the city. Destroying it.”

  “Yes. What else?”

  Thor struggled. At first it was obscured, but then it came into focus.

  His heart plummeted as he saw one last thing. It was too horrible, and he wanted to look away. But he could not. He saw Gwendolyn, lying on a sickbed. Close to death. He saw her surrounded by several black angels of death, waiting patiently, as if ready to take her away.

  Thor opened his eyes and spun and faced Argon.

  “Is it true?” he asked. “Gwendolyn? Is she dead?”

  “There are many forms of death,” Argon said.

  “She needs me. I must return to her.”

  “No,” Argon said firmly. “Her destiny is her own.”

  “I must return to her!” Thor insisted.

  “The time is not now,” Argon said. “You must complete your quest. You must complete your training. If you returned to her now, she would die, and so would you.”

  “What must I do?” Thor asked, desperate.

  “Up until now, you have fought with your hands, sometimes, with your heart, and sometimes, with your spirit. But you are uneven. This is because you are still stuck in human nature. You still cling to this planet, to all the physical things around you, as if they are real. On one level, they are real. But on another, they are not. They are just energy forms. Until you understand that, your powers will never be complete.”

  Argon turned.

  “There,” he nodded, “do you see it?”

  Thor heard a hissing noise and spun to find himself standing back in the desert. Racing towards him was a huge snake, with three heads, raising them and sticking out its tongues. It slithered right for him.

  “Stop it!” Argon said.

  Thor reached for the hilt of his sword.

  “No!” Argon commanded. “Not with your sword! Use your mind. Draw on your inner force.”

  Thor’s heart was pounding as the beast approached, too quickly; a part of him wanted to rely on his human side, to grab his sword and chop it in half. It took all his will to force himself to let go of the hilt, to stand there, hands at his side, and reach out a single palm, directing it towards the snake.

  Thor tried to direct energy to it—but nothing happened. The snake was getting closer.

  “Argon!” Thor screamed, frightened.

  “Stop trying to direct your force,” Argon said calmly. “You must understand that the force to stop this creature does not come from within you; it comes from within the creature itself. Let go of you. Become one with the creature. Feel its muscles, its three heads, its tail, its tongue, its venom. Feel how it moves on the floor. Feel how much it wants to kill you. Feel its hate. Appreciate its hate.”

  Thor closed his eyes and lowered his hand, and tried to do everything Argon said. As he focused, as the hissing grew louder and the animal closer, Thor began to feel something; it was slow at first, but then he felt it more and more strongly. It was the energy of this beast. Fast and slick, filled with venom and hate. It was intent on destroying Thor. Thor felt it clearly, as if he were the beast itself.

  “Very good,” Argon said. “Now you are the snake, too. Change your nature. Change the nature of the snake.”

  In his mind, Thor commanded the snake to stop.

  Thor opened his eyes, and looked down to see the snake, twenty feet long, stopped before him, its three heads hissing but unable to reach him, as if frozen. Each of the three heads snapped towards Thor.

  “You have stopped the beast,” Argon said. “But you have not changed its nature.”

  Thor could feel the energy of the animal coursing through him, and as much as he tried to will it to turn around, it would not. He was stopping it, but nothing more, and it was taking a tremendous effort. His whole body shook from it, and he didn’t feel he could hold it back much longer.

  Suddenly, one of the beast’s three heads extended and sank its fangs into Thor’s arm.

  Thor screamed out in pain as the venom shot through him; its two long fangs remained lodged in his forearm, burning, and it was the most painful thing he’d ever experienced. He felt as if his whole arm were on fire.

  “Your power is wavering,” Argon said.

  “Help me!” Thor gasped, in agony.

  “Not until you send away the beast,” Argon said. “Stop opposing it. You are still opposing it, even while it is biting you.”

  Thor closed his eyes, in extreme pain, covered in sweat, and did everything he could to focus on Argon’s words. He tried to center himself, to calm himself, even in the midst of such pain, even in the midst of being attacked.

  Finally, something within him shifted; he stopped resisting the creature. He allowed it to be what it was. And then he willed the beast to lift its teeth from his skin.

  The beast listened, and as it did, Thor felt the awful pain of the fangs leaving his skin, then the release of the burning. And then, suddenly, the beast turned and darted away, across the desert floor, as Thor collapsed.

  Suddenly, Thor understood. He had been resisting the beast. Resisting all the forces around him. He had failed to see that they were all one. One huge life force. He had only been seeing the separation between them; and it was the separation that was making him weak.

  “Excellent,” Argon said.

  Thor opened his eyes and saw Argon standing over him, reaching out his staff, and touching the golden end of it to Tho
r’s wound. A moment later the wound healed, his flesh returning to normal, as if he had never been bit.

  “You are a fast learner,” Argon said. “Like your father.”

  “My father?” Thor asked. “You know him? Who is he?”

  “Of course I know him,” Argon said. “I trained him.”

  “Trained him?” Thor asked. “Tell me,” he pleaded, “who is he?”

  Argon shook his head.

  “All will be revealed when the time is right. The question you must ask yourself now is if you want to live. Do you choose to fulfill this quest? To save Gwendolyn?”

  “I do!” Thor yelled back enthusiastically.

  “Your destiny is a great one,” Argon said, “but it is also a dark one. With anything great comes light, and darkness. You must be prepared to accept both.”

  “I am!” Thor yelled back.

  Argon stared at him for a long time, as if summing him up, then finally he nodded back in approval.

  “Arise, brave warrior,” Argon said. “It is time to live.”

  Thor blinked several times, opening his eyes to find himself lying face-first in the desert floor. All around him were his Legion brothers, lying near him, just as he had left them. They all lay there as the second sun grew long, the heat of the day beginning to cool, exactly as they had been.

  Thor slowly rose to his hands and knees, feeling a new energy, a new strength, course through him. He felt different, in every fiber of his being. He rubbed his head and wondered. Had it all been a dream? How much of it had been real? His mother? Argon?

  And who was his father?

  Thor rose to his hands and knees, and he realized he was the only one awake. All the others were either unconscious or dead, he was not sure which.

  Thor heard a shuffling of feet, and he looked up to see a person standing over him. He wore a brown and yellow robe, with a large white sash, and he looked down at Thor with curious and gentle eyes. This man was of a race Thor had never encountered before: he had green skin, a very narrow nose, wide lips, and huge eyes, disproportionately large for his face.

  He pulled back his hood and peered down at Thor, as if examining a curiosity. From behind him, there appeared several more, just like him. They were short people, and they each held a long ruby staff.

  “Help them,” said the leader.

  The men scrambled, each running to one of the Legion and to Indra and Krohn and picking them up. Thor felt his arms draped over two of their shoulders, and allowed himself to be dragged.

  “Who are you?” Thor asked.

  “Desert dwellers,” the man responded. Thor sensed a positive energy from him, and he did not resist.

  “Where are we going?” he inquired.

  “Young warrior,” the man said. “It is time for you to recover.”

  Thor felt himself dragged along for he did not know how long, in and out of consciousness as they went. The sun grew darker, until finally the ground beneath him, to his amazement, turned to a soft, lush grass.

  There came the sound of gurgling water, of a flowing spring, and Thor opened his eyes fully, to his utter delight, to see that they were in a desert oasis. For a large perimeter, perhaps a hundred yards, there was a circle of the most lush grass and palm trees and fruits that he had ever seen. In its center was a crystal blue lake, and Thor stumbled towards it, sinking to his knees with his brothers and falling face first at the edge of the water.

  They all drank and drank, and with each sip, Thor felt his life force returning.

  When he drank until he could drink no more, he rolled onto his back, the water cooling the back of his neck. He looked up at the sky, the palms swaying above him, casting shade, and wondered if he’d arrived in paradise.

  “Who are you?” Thor asked again, as the man smiled down.

  “We have been watching you for a long time, brave warrior,” he said. “And we have decided we are not going to let you die.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Andronicus rode triumphantly through the sacked city of Silesia, reveling in his victory. Sprawled out on either side of him were the hundreds of corpses of MacGil’s army, of Silesian soldiers, piled in heaps where they had been slain. Amidst these were thousands more Silesian captives, bound to each other in long lines, being whipped and led throughout the city. There was the omnipresent sound of hammers striking pegs, and all around him, he saw enormous crosses being erected, tall enough to hold even the largest Silesian warriors. They were getting ready to crucify the leaders.

  Already several soldiers screamed out, as pegs were driven through their wrists and ankles, nailing them to the crosses. Already many had died. Those who survived, screamed and moaned. Andronicus smiled. This was always his favorite part: basking in the suffering of those he crushed and making them learn the sting of the long arm of the Great Andronicus.

  Some captors learned the lesson quickly; for others, it took longer. The Silesians were proud, hardheaded people, and they had surprised Andronicus, holding out much longer than other peoples he had subdued. For that, he admired them; yet for that, he would also have to make them pay.

  These were a people who did not seem to want to be broken. No matter how much he enslaved them, tortured them, none of them would pledge allegiance to him. Ever since their ruse, since that initial, fake pledge, they had remained silent, even in the face of torture and death. But everyone had a weak spot, and he would find a way to break them, no matter what, or how long, it took.

  As he rode through the town, a cold winter gale rushing through, Andronicus breathed deep, finally satisfied, finally having conquered all of the Ring. All of the Empire. Finally, there was not a place left on the globe his foot had not touched. Finally, he was supreme master of the universe.

  Andronicus passed rows of women and children, chained to each other, already being led to the new camps being erected all around them. Already they were setting them to work on rebuilding the city’s rubble, shaping the city in a new way. Andronicus’ way. Already dozens of slaves were hard at work erecting the emblem of Andronicus’ kingdom, a lion with a bird in its mouth. And another group was hard at work on erecting a statue of Andronicus himself. It would be a tall and wide statue, right in the center of the city square, fifty feet at its base, and rising one hundred feet into the air. It would be coated in gold when they were done, 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 looked over to see a member of the Silver being crucified, an Empire soldier nailing a peg through his wrists and ankles. Kendrick struggled, wanting to help his friend, but he couldn’t budge.