by Morgan Rice
“Return home to us!”
“Save the Ring!”
“Kill Andronicus!”
“Free Thorgrin!”
“Silesia awaits your return.”
These citizens were brave: they cheered the soldiers, knowing full well that their departure would leave them unprotected and that Silesia would be vulnerable to attack once again.
Reece, fully dressed in his ring mail, prepared himself, feeling that nervous excitement and anticipation of battle in his gut, checking and tightening his weapons around his belt, testing his long sword, his short sword, making sure his daggers were there, feeling the shaft of his flail. He had more weapons on his horse, up ahead, and felt ready for every contingency.
“Were you just going to leave without saying goodbye then?” came a voice.
Reece turned to Selese standing there, in the midst of the crowd, but a few feet away, looking back at him sadly.
He forked away from his friends and went to her, lowering his head, ashamed. He hadn’t known what to say to her. He felt bad leaving her, especially as they had grown close over these last two days and nights together. Reece was falling in love with her. He did not know what to make of his feelings. They had been inseparable, relaxing together by the bonfires, taking in the feasts and celebrations. He had hoped it would stay like that forever.
But once again he found his life upended, found himself back on the road to battle. Once again, he found himself leaving her, and hoping he would see her before long. Before, her love had been a fantasy; but now it was real, and that made it even more painful to leave her.
“I am sorry,” he said to her. “I didn’t know what to say. Or if I’d be coming back.”
She looked into his eyes.
“All you had to say was that you cared about me.”
Reece met her gaze.
“More than you shall ever know, my lady.”
She smiled back, and her whole face lit up, covered in freckles.
“If I return,” Reece added, “we shall marry.”
Her eyes opened wide in surprise.
“When you return,” she said, reaching out and fixing his breastplate, adjusting it, running her hands over. He saw a tear roll down her cheek.
“You have no choice,” she said. “Return to me. We’re not married, but if you die, I shall be a widow.”
She looked up and met his eyes, and Reece met hers, and he felt his world melt. It meant the world to him to hear that she cared for him as much as he did for her. It was painful for him to leave, looking at that face, knowing she would be left here alone, unprotected. He felt more of a burden than ever to be victorious on this day, and he resolved that he would.
She grabbed his breastplate, leaned in and kissed him, and he held the kiss for as long as he possibly could.
Finally, jostled by his men, he turned and melted back into the parade of humanity heading out the gates. He turned back and watched her, and she him, for as long as he was able, until finally she receded from sight.
Reece saw he was not alone in saying goodbye to someone he loved: up ahead, Kendrick walked hand-in-hand with Sandara, and he watched them saying their goodbyes. She was tall, with broad shoulders, had a proud bearing, and the dark skin of the Empire. Reece could see that she and Kendrick were well-matched.
As he got closer, he overheard their conversation.
“I wish for you to stay here, behind the safety of these walls,” Kendrick said to her.
“It is not my way, my lord,” she replied. “I go with the men, as I’ve done my entire life. When the wounded fall, I shall be there to heal them. The same way I was there to heal you. It is what I do. It is who I am.”
“I will be with my men, at the front of battle,” Kendrick said. “I will not be able to protect you.”
“I do not seek your protection,” she said. “I have fended for myself my entire life.”
They continued walking in silence. Kendrick turned to join his men, and she stopped and said to him:
“I don’t know where we shall find each other. But promise me one thing.”
Kendrick turned to her.
“You will not be among the wounded.”
He smiled.
“That is one promise I cannot make.”
They kissed.
As Reece rejoined his legion brothers, he found Elden embroiled in a similar conversation with Indra, who stood proudly by his side and who shook off his hand as he tried to hold hers. She was too masculine, too much of a warrior for that.
“You cannot fight with us,” Elden insisted. “It is not safe.”
“You are a woman,” Krog said. “You should know your place.”
She turned and have him a look of death.
“I am as good of warrior as you,” she replied defiantly. “I carry weapons as fine as yours, my daggers are just as quick, and my arrows as fast. I can slice any man’s throat as well as you. I may just slice yours. In fact, perhaps it is you who should stay behind.”
Krog stared back, red-faced.
Indra turned back to Elden.
“I will fight by your side, or you will not see my face again. The decision is yours.”
Elden sighed, and eventually shrugged. Indra was as strong-willed as they came, and there was no use trying to convince her. Besides, after all this time together with her in the Empire, after all the times she had saved their lives, she had become like a member of the legion. Indra was a survivor, and he had no worries about her.
Reece came up beside Conven, who looked as morose as ever; he blended in well, with all the somber faces around him, the men mentally preparing for battle. Reece could see in his eyes that he had nothing to lose, that he was ready to throw down his life, and Reece seriously wondered if Conven would survive this battle. He could sense that he did not want to. Not without his twin brother.
O’Connor oiled his new long bow and wore his ever present smile, in his chipper mood, as always. Whether he was in the Empire or back in the Ring, O’Connor seemed at home everywhere. Reece was glad to have his steady hand at his side as they all rode into battle.
Serna and Krog walked tentatively beside them. Reece could see the anxiety in their strides; they had not undergone the quest they had in the Empire, had not faced the same travails that they had undergone. Reece could recognize in them their anxiety, the way he’d once felt. It made Reece feel like a veteran.
There was Godfrey, not far off, his older brother, and Reece was proud to see him in a suit of armor, even if it did not seem to fit him quite perfectly. Godfrey marched with a swagger, flanked by Akorth and Fulton, leading several hundred men. Reece wondered if they were drunk; certainly Akorth and Fulton were, obvious from their gait. It was funny to see Godfrey in charge: on the one hand, it didn’t quite fit him, yet at the same time, somehow it did. Reece thought that he could see something of their father in him. Godfrey might not be a warrior, but he was a survivor, and a crafty one. Reece felt that Godfrey could outwit anyone. And he had a feeling that no matter what, he would find a way to survive, even if he did it his own way.
They all finally reached their horses, Reece picking out his in the vast sea of animals.
Reece stood there, about to mount his horse, when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye that made him turn. It was a face, staring back at him from the sea of onlookers. He did a double-take, assuming he was imagining it.
But as he looked closer, his heart stopped as he saw who it was. Standing there, in the midst of the people, was a girl whose face he had etched into his mind for most of his childhood. A girl who had never been far from his thoughts, at least not until he met Selese. Standing there was his cousin, Tirus’ only daughter.
Stara.
She stared back at him, her glowing green eyes clearly locked just on his, even in the mass of people. She was too far away to speak to, and with the tide of soldiers coming in and out, he lost sight of her, then regained her again. She looked like an apparition, floati
ng in a sea.
It pained him to see her. Why did she have to be here? Why now? After he had already fallen in love with someone else? It had taken him years to let her go. But seeing her brought it all back again, the pain fresh.
Reece forced himself to turn and look away. He loved Selese now; it wouldn’t be fair to her to look at anyone else.
As he mounted his horse, despite himself, he turned and glanced back for Stara. He was flooded with both relief and upset to see that she was gone.
A horn sounded, and a messenger came galloping across the landscape, racing right up to Kendrick. Reece and the others gathered close, listening.
“My Lord,” the messenger said, gasping for breath. “I have news…the Destiny Sword—Andronicus has sent it away.”
There came a horrified gasp from the men as the messenger stood there, heaving, catching his breath.
“Speak clearly,” Kendrick ordered. “What do you mean, ‘sent it away’?”
“It is being sent now to the other side of the Canyon. If it crosses, the Shield will be down. All will be lost!”
“We must retrieve it at once!” Tirus, close by, called out.
“It must be out foremost objective,” Erec called out.
“But we cannot spare the men,” Kendrick said.
“We need but a small group to go after the Sword,” Godfrey said. “Not an entire division.”
“I will go,” Reece volunteered, stepping forward.
Immediately, Elden, Conven and O’Connor stepped forward by his side.
“And we,” they said.
“After all,” Reece added, “it is we who chased that Sword halfway across the Empire. If anyone should know how to get it back, it should be us.”
“Let our small group of legion go,” Elden said. “That way you will not detract from the main battle, from saving Thor.”
Kendrick looked Reece up and down with a new look of respect. He nodded back solemnly.
“You make our father proud,” Kendrick said.
Reece felt a swelling of pride, elated to be so raised up in Kendrick’s eyes.
“We will meet again, my brother,” Reece said.
“I know that we will,” answered Kendrick.
Without a word, Reece and the other legion mounted their horses and were the first to ride, following the messenger as he led them down a separate road, forking off to the side, away from the road the army would take.
Reece felt the wind in his hair, the ground moving fast beneath him, and knew already that battle had begun.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Thor lay deep in the blackness of the pit, the smell of earth in his nose, his entire body aching. Somewhere up above he heard the muffled shouts of soldiers. He managed to open his one good eye, the other swollen shut, as he strayed in and out of consciousness. It was dark and cold down here, at least a dozen feet below ground, and the light that filtered down, although not bright, made him squint. He tried to move, but every part of his body felt too bruised and broken. He had never known what aching was until this moment. He felt as if he had battled a million men.
He tried to move his wrists but felt them still shackled by the Akdon cuffs; all the strength he’d once had sapped from his body. He could feel all of his energy leaving him, right at the spot where the shackles held his wrists together tight. There was something about this metal—he’d never felt so weak, so vulnerable, in his life.
As Thor squinted, looking up into the sky, he dimly saw soldiers up above, jeering down, throwing clumps of dirt. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, unable to expend the effort.
Thor shut his eyes and saw himself standing in a land far away. He was in the Land of the Dragons, back in the Empire, and he stood atop the highest peak. Sitting on a mountain across from him was Mycoples. She looked at him and flapped her massive wings, then leapt from the peak and flew towards him. He could read her thoughts, and could feel that she was coming to rescue him.
She flew closer, and as she flew beside him, he reached out for her.
But as he did, he looked up to see his hands were clasped in the Akdon shackles; he could not summon the strength to reach her.
A huge net suddenly fell, entangling Mycoples, and she tumbled down through the sky, falling end over end, screeching. She called out for him, needing his help as much as he needed hers.
Thor blinked and found himself in a vast desert, baking under the sun. He looked down and saw the desert floor, blanketed in thousands of snakes. Stretched before him was an endless trail that weaved through the snakes; he knew instinctively that he had to stay on that trail if he wanted to live. It was a trail made up of ossified dragon bones.
Thor walked down the trail, deeper and deeper into the desert, feeling as if he were walking to the end of the world. On the horizon a stone cottage came into view, and as he came closer, he looked up, and was surprised to see Argon’s face.
“Argon, help me,” Thor whispered, gasping for air, reaching out for him with his shackled hands.
But Argon stood behind a protective wall, an invisible shield, and Thor could not get closer. Argon stared back from the other side, staff in hand, concern etched across his face.
“I wish I could,” Argon replied. “But I am of help to no one now.”
“Teach me,” Thor said. “Teach me to be free.”
Argon shook his head.
“I have already trained you,” he said. “All the powers you have left, they lie deep within you. Now, you must train yourself.”
Argon’s eyes lit up, a fiery glow so intense that Thor nearly had to look away.
“Search within yourself, Thorgrin. Therein lies the last frontier. You must come to know who you are. Not who your father is, not who your mother is. But who you are.”
Thor reached out for him, trying to get through, but found himself falling backwards.
Thor was lying face down on a long, narrow footbridge, spanning a massive Canyon. The footbridge crossed the sky, stretching for miles, and he lay there in the middle. It rose in an arc and led to a cliff, on top of which sat a castle, shining blue. He rolled over, looked to one side, and saw the Destiny Sword. He reached for it, grasping its hilt. He held it up high, and as he did, he was horrified to see the Sword had been snapped in half. He examined it, hardly comprehending.
It was now just a useless piece of metal.
Thor turned and hurled the Sword, and it went flying over the edge. He watched it tumble through the sky, drop down to nothingness.
“Thorgrin,” came a woman’s voice.
Thor looked up. In the distance, atop the castle, stood his mother, arms wide at her sides, smiling down compassionately at him.
“Mother!” Thor called out.
“I am here, my son,” she said back, her voice filled with love.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Thor said. “Why didn’t you tell me who my father was?”
She shook her head.
“None of that matters now, Thorgrin,” she said. “Come home. Come home to me. Come and gain powers greater than you ever knew. Learn the secret of who you are. Only then will you be free. Only then can you overcome your father.”
With a supreme effort, Thor got to his hands and knees and began to crawl his way down the bridge, towards her. But the bridge was so long, and she seemed to stand in another realm, getting farther away from him the more he crawled.
“Mother!” he screamed.
The footbridge suddenly snapped, and Thor went tumbling, end over end, screaming as he plunged downward, towards the depths of the world.
Thor woke screaming.
He was still in the darkness of the pit, his face still swollen, one eye swollen shut, and his arm still throbbed where he had been branded. He wondered how long he’d slept; from the pain throbbing all over his face and body, he figured it wasn’t long enough.
He looked up to see Empire men still jeering down at him. Nothing had changed.
He was disappointed. He thought he had di
ed, and a part of him wished that he had, and as he looked up at all these men, he had a sinking feeling that the worst of his suffering was yet to come.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Gwendolyn hiked down the dense forest trail, accompanied by Steffen, Aberthol, and Alistair—and, of course, Krohn, who would not leave her side, nearly clinging to her, his fur brushing up against her leg. It was an unlikely group, the four of them and a leopard: Gwendolyn the Queen, Steffen the hunchback, Aberthol the scholar, and Alistair the mysterious Druid. Two beautiful, young women, one old man, and one hunchback. From an outside perspective, they must have seemed to be a vulnerable group of travelers taking this remote road this far north, in the notorious Thornwood Forest, no less. But appearances were deceiving: Steffen was adroit with a bow, Gwendolyn, raised with the King’s guard, was confident of her own fighting skills, and while Aberthol was frail, she sensed that Alistair carried a hidden power that would be at least equal to Steffen’s fighting skills.
Gwen surveyed the beautiful, thick forest all around her, the trees made of an ancient, white bark. A winter forest, they called it. The northern reaches of the Ring were filled with them. Leaves sprouted here in winter, fell off in the summer, and began to bloom in fall. Now that it was winter, they were in full bloom, huge white leaves everywhere, covered in frost. It looked like a white wonderland, the frost on the leaves crunching beneath their feet. Gwendolyn felt the cold grow more intense, more biting, with every step they took. This place looked so pure, so untouched, as if nothing evil could ever happen here; yet Gwen knew some of the worst criminals lurked amidst these trees.
Gwendolyn had been relieved when Steffen, Aberthol, and Alistair had insisted on accompanying her on her quest to the Netherworld. Aberthol had tried to dissuade her, reminding her that no human had ever entered the Netherworld and returned alive, but it had done no good. She knew it had to be done, that this is what Thor needed most. She sensed that Thor could never have been captured—nor could have Mycoples—unless by magic, and she knew they would need an equally strong magic to counteract it. It was her way of aiding in the battle. This was her front.