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

by Morgan Rice

  They marched on and on, all of them breathing hard from exertion but more so from anxiety. Thor’s legs grew weary, and he wondered when this would ever end.

  There came a sudden fluttering of wings, and he felt something brush his face.

  “Globas!” Indra screamed. “Get down!”

  The cave was suddenly alight with thousands of small creatures glowing in the dark; they looked like bats, but were larger, and their heads were completely aglow in white. There were thousands of them, fluttering their wings in a great cacophony, and descending on them.

  Before Thor could even try to dodge them he felt his cheeks get scratched, and he cried out in pain. He drew his sword and slashed frantically at them in every direction, and the others joined in. A few of the bats fell, but more and more scratched his face and neck and hands, and Thor finally gave up and followed Indra’s lead: like her, he dropped and curved into a ball, hugging his knees, his face to the ground. The others followed, dropping beside him.

  Thor felt a million claws scratching at the chainmail on his back, on the back of his hair and neck and arms—but he stayed down low, as did Indra, and prayed. For a moment, he felt as if he’d be scratched to death.

  There came a sudden roar, echoing off the walls, and the animals suddenly flew off, the flock screeching and flying away.

  After several moments, the fluttering of their wings finally faded, the awful flapping leaving Thor’s ears, and he could hear himself think again. He heard himself breathing hard, as were the others, all in a panic. Gradually, they all stood, grateful to be alive.

  But the roar rose up again, and Thor felt a pit in his stomach, as the roar sent chill up his spine; it was a deep, dark roar, like a lion.

  “What was that?” Reece asked.

  “I have no idea,” Indra said.

  “Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound happy,” O’Connor said.

  The roar came again, louder and closer this time, now sounding like the roar of a lion. They all held their weapons out before them, sweating with fear. Thor felt the blood trickling down his neck and head from the scratches, and as he stood there, it was awful to wait, to stare into the blackness and see nothing.

  Thor felt the ground beneath them shake, and he could wait no more. He reached back, placed his glowing rock in his sling, and hurled it as far as he could. It went soaring through the air, sending a blaze of light, illuminating the tunnel. After about fifty yards, finally, it lit up what was approaching.

  Thor wished it hadn’t.

  Standing there was a huge beast, resembling a lion but three times as tall and as wide, with a trunk that hung down like an elephant’s, but with fangs on either side of it, and a horn in his forehead. It was covered in yellow fur, and it stood on two legs, two huge muscular legs, with two claws for toes. It leaned back, raising its huge biceps, its body muscular, rippling, and it roared again, lifting its trunk and baring its fangs.

  “A Cave Monger!” Indra whispered in awe.

  “I take it it’s not friendly,” O’Connor said.

  Indra shook her head.

  “Not very,” she replied.

  The Cave Monger roared again, then suddenly charged, sounding like a herd of elephants.

  They all stood there, frozen in fear, wondering what to do, when Conven suddenly rushed forward and charged the beast. Conven sprinted right for it, as if hoping to die.

  As Conven raised his sword the Cave Monger, moving with deceptive speed, reached around and swiped him, sending him flying across the cave and smashing into the wall. Conven fell, limp, to the cave floor.

  The beast ran over to him and raised a claw to finish him off, and Thor jumped into action. He knew there wasn’t time to reach him, but he thought quick; he stepped forward, raised his sword, and threw it. It sailed end over end, crossing the cave and lodging in the monster’s arm.

  The Cave Monger shrieked, then turned and set its sights on Thor. It charged and leapt into the air for Thor, aiming for his throat.

  As the beast came for him, Thor raised a palm, summoning his energy. A yellow light shot from Thor’s palm, and he was able to stop the beast in midair, right before him. But Thor wasn’t strong enough to stop it from swiping him. It reached out and smacked him across the side of his body, sending Thor flying across the cave and smashing into the other wall.

  Krohn charged the beast and sank his fangs into its feet; the beast shrieked, then picked Krohn up high in the air, and opened its mouth to eat him.

  O’Connor took aim and fired several arrows into the beast’s open mouth, making it drop Krohn; Elden raised his axe, charged forward, and chopped off one of the beast’s claws. The beast shrieked in rage, picked up O’Connor with one hand, squeezed him, and raise him high. O’Connor hung there, his legs flailing, looking death in the face.

  Reece took his flail, swung it high, and impacted the beast’s head, making him drop O’Connor. The beast shrieked and set its sights on Reece. It opened its wide jaws, its fangs protruding, and lowered them for Reece. Thor could see that Reece was about to die.

  Thor shook off the tremendous pain in his head, and focused. He had to summon his power. He willed himself to become even stronger than he was. He saw Argon’s face; he saw his mother’s face; then he saw Gwendolyn’s. He felt her energy rushing through his body, supporting him.

  Thor stood, raised both palms, and willed for it to work.

  A blue light radiated from his palms throughout the cave, and he hit the beast square in the chest. The beast stopped and screamed. Thor raised his arms, and as he did, he was shocked to see that he was managing to actually raise the beast into the air.

  The beast screamed, flailing its arms and legs in mid-air. But it was off the ground, and there was nothing it could do.

  Thor, in one last burst of effort, swung his arms—and as he did, the beast swung through the air. Thor pulled back his arms and threw them forward, and the beast went flying like a meteor through the cave, screaming, end over end, until finally it smashed into a wall and collapsed. A boulder came rolling down and landed on top of it, crushing it.

  All was silent. It was Dead.

  The others turned and looked at Thor, with a new look of respect and wonder.

  Thor collapsed to his knees, weak from the effort. He was getting stronger, he could feel it. He could also control it more. But he still did not have the stamina he needed. That encounter had drained him. If another beast showed up right now, he would be helpless. He needed to become stronger.

  Reece and O’Connor came over, and they each picked Thor up and draped his arms over their shoulders and held him between them as they walked. All of them wounded, stung, hobbled along as the group continued to slowly trek through the cave, into the blackness, and into whatever danger lay ahead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Night fell cold and black, and Kendrick hung on the cross, in and out of consciousness, plagued by troubled dreams. He saw his father, King MacGil, surrounded by white light, smiling down at him; he saw his sister, Gwendolyn, being dragged away; he saw his little brother, Reece, on a small boat drifting out to sea. And he saw King’s Court roaring in flames.

  Kendrick opened his eyes slowly, wincing from pain and exhaustion. He was disoriented and could not tell if he was asleep or awake. He blinked and made out before him, lit by sporadic torches, the inner courtyard of Silesia, what was once a shining, proud city, now a heap of rubble, littered with corpses, its citizens turned into slaves. With most people asleep, the activity was not as frenzied as it had been during the day, yet still Kendrick could hear the distant sound of his people being whipped by Andronicus’ men, some of them driven to work even so late into the night.

  The occupying soldiers sat around the courtyard in small circles, around bonfires that punctuated the night; they leaned over, rubbed their hands, shared wine sacks and laughed with each other as they tried to get warm. They wore expensive furs, furs they had looted from Silesians; as Kendrick hung there on the cross, bracing
himself against another cold gust of wind, it made him acutely aware that he was wearing just a light shirt and pants. He, like the others, had been stripped of his best armor and furs, left to freeze to death, if the pain did not get him first. His teeth chattered, and his hands were blue—but none of that mattered anymore. He would be dead soon enough.

  Kendrick mustered enough energy to turn, and he saw beside him the stiff figure of Kolk, now a corpse, eyes open in his death pang, his body still pierced with that spear. It inflamed Kendrick. It was disgraceful, the act of an enemy without honor. They should have had the decency to take down his body and give him a proper burial. Instead, they let him hang there, this fine warrior, like a common criminal, for all to gawk at. Kendrick knew he would be next, tomorrow, but he didn’t care about that; what he cared about were his other friends up there, especially Atme, who hung just a few feet away and who he was helpless to do anything about. Kendrick looked over at them, but in the dim light he could not tell whether they were alive or dead.

  Kendrick closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on making the pain go away. The pain would not listen. Sometimes it shifted in and out, so that he forgot for a few moments how much his limbs hurt. But mostly it was intense and ever-present. He had had small bouts of sleep, yet even in the sleep he had felt the pain. As he closed his eyes, he tried to will himself to go back to sleep, to shut out the horrors of the world, to numb the pain, even if for just a little while.

  As he closed his eyes, Kendrick’s mind raced with images. He saw himself as a boy, with his best friend Atme, the two of them sparring in the Legion; he saw himself with a girl he had loved, he could no longer remember her name, on a rowboat when he was younger; he saw his first battle, his first victory, his own surprise at his skills; he saw himself sitting around the table with his father, King MacGil, Gwendolyn, Godfrey, Reece, and even Gareth, all of them young, all of them happy. He saw King’s court shining, majestic, impregnable.

  And then Kendrick saw his father, standing before him, surrounded by white light. His father reached out a hand. He looked young and healthy, a bold and brave warrior, as Kendrick had remembered him. He smiled down.

  “My son,” he said, proudly.

  The words filled Kendrick’s heart with warmth. Kendrick had always, more than anything, wanted to be thought of MacGil’s son.

  “You are my firstborn,” he said. “My true son.”

  Kendrick reached out to touch his dad’s hand, but his fingers were just out of reach.

  “We’ll be together again soon,” MacGil said. “But your time is not now. You must fight. You are a warrior. Do not give up. Never give up. Fight. Fight for me!”

  Kendrick felt a hand on his wrist, and at first he thought it was MacGil’s.

  But then he opened his eyes and looked down, and saw that indeed there was a hand on his wrist. He was surprised to see a young, beautiful woman standing there, perhaps in her early twenties, laying a gentle palm on his wrist. She was studying Kendrick’s pulse, and closing her eyes as if listening. She then opened her eyes and looked up at him. She had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Almond shaped, they were a light shade of hazel and they complemented her face. Her skin was light brown, the coloring of the Empire race.

  An Empire woman, he realized. He wondered what she was doing. Had Andronicus sent her? Was she about to kill him? From her smile and her kind touch, he could not imagine that she was. But what was she doing here, standing beside him, holding his wrist? He wondered if he were still dreaming.

  “You’re alive,” she said to him, sounding surprised. She had the sweetest voice he’d ever heard; he ached to hear that voice again. He wanted her to keep speaking, and to never stop.

  “Who are you?” he tried to ask, but the words came jumbled, his voice cracked, his throat dry.

  “Sandara,” she replied.

  She looked up at him with hope, as if happy to see him alive. She reached up, and in her hand she held a black, fur cloak. She managed to climb up on the cross and drape it over his shaking shoulders. It was the smoothest, most luxurious fur he’d ever felt, and he had never cherished a piece of clothing more. He felt immediately warmed around his shoulders and chest.

  “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

  “Healing the sick is my calling,” she said.

  “But you work for the Empire,” he said.

  She looked around warily.

  “I do,” she said. “But not at night. They don’t see all that I do. I do not like to see anyone sick. Empire or not. Regardless of whether their skin is the same color as mine.”

  Kendrick looked down at her, his heart melting with gratitude and appreciation. She extracted a sack filled with liquid, raised it to his lips, and he drank greedily as he felt water filling his mouth. He drank and drank, like a man crossing a desert who hadn’t seen water in ages. He realized how dehydrated he was.

  Finally, she pulled it away.

  “Not too much at once,” she said, “your body must get used to it.”

  Then she pulled out another small sack, put it to his mouth, and he tasted sweet wine. It was stronger than any wine he’d had, and it went right to his head. He felt lighter, tingly, and his pain lessened.

  “It is not the best remedy,” she said, “but it will do for now, to take your pain away.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said, feeling renewed for the first time in days. With the pain lessened, he was finally able to think clearly. “I owe you a great debt.”

  She looked down to the ground, sad.

  “I fear you will not live to repay that debt,” she said. “I hear the Great Andronicus will have you all executed tomorrow.”

  Kendrick felt a pit in his stomach, yet he sensed that it was true.

  “Then why bother helping me?” he asked.

  “Everyone is worth helping,” she answered. “Every moment of life is precious.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears, and he was touched to see how much she cared for him, a stranger. He felt a connection to her stronger than he could express, and he wished more than anything that he was free from this cross, to embrace her. He was sad to think that, in but hours, he wouldn’t be alive to see her face again.

  “Your kindness means a great deal to me,” he said. “From these rags you can’t tell, but I was once an important person,” he said. “It is a shame you do not know me for who I am.”

  She smiled up at him.

  “I don’t care who you are,” she said. “You are an important person to me now.”

  Kendrick looked at her and wondered.

  “Why did you choose me to help?” he asked. “You gave me your only fur cloak.”

  She reddened in the night. She looked down and did not reply.

  “I do not know,” she answered.

  “What would Andronicus’s men do to you if they caught you healing the enemy?”

  Sandara turned and looked warily over her shoulder; luckily, the Empire soldiers were distracted, huddled around bonfires, not paying attention to her.

  “Death,” she answered.

  Kendrick’s heart swelled.

  “If I ever get free from here, I will find you. I will repay you.”

  “There is nothing to repay,” she said.

  She turned to go. Kendrick could not stand to see her go; he had to think quick to keep her here, and he blurted out the first thing that popped into his mind.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  She looked at him, then looked down, and even in the dim light, he could sense her blushing.

  Kendrick hated to be so forward, so tactless. But he knew these might be his last moments on earth, and he had no time for proper etiquette. He had to know.

  “I am not, my Lord,” she finally answered. She looked up at him meaningfully. “But even if you were a free man, it would be forbidden for someone of my race to marry someone of yours. It would result in death.”

  “I care for rules and penal
ties,” Kendrick said. “My lady, if I am ever free from here, I will find you. Do not go far. Stay in the Ring.”

  She lowered her head.

  “I must go wherever the Great Andronicus commands me,” she said.

  She suddenly turned and hurried, back into the darkness.

  Kendrick watched her go until she disappeared, then he closed his eyes, seeing her face, her eyes, the color of her skin, the curve of her lips.

  Sandara. Sandara. Sandara.

  He repeated her name over and over in his mind, like a mantra. It gave him a reason to survive.

  He would survive, he decided. No matter what, he would survive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Just as Thor thought the journey through the Great Tunnel would never end, they all, exhausted, weary, exited into the flat gray somber light of day. They squinted at the light, raising their hands to their eyes, even against the thick rolling gray clouds. They had been so used to blackness that this felt like stepping out onto the sun.

  Thor was thrilled to be free from that cave. They had been marching all day and all night, through an endless cacophony of noise, harassed ever since that monster by small animals which they fought off all the way until the exit. As they emerged out the other end, it felt as if they had emerged to freedom.

  A cold gust of wind smacked them in the face, and Thor leaned back and breathed deep, feeling like a rat emerging from a hole. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he blinked several times, in awe at the sight before him.

  The cave had let them out onto a meandering path, glowing white, which wound its way up a high mountain range. As far as the eye could see were mountain peaks, seeming to stretch to the end of the earth, many of them capped with red. In the distance Thor saw a great burst of lava shoot up into the air, saw a cloud of black ash rise up, and knew the trail led off in the distance, beyond the top of the mountain ranges.

  “The Mountains of Fire,” Indra said. “The famed path to the Land of the Dragons. They say it is a path carved of bones.”