A Grant of Arms sr-8

by Morgan Rice

  Gwen had never considered that, and Alistair’s words, as always, provided her a sense of solace. Still, she felt ridden with guilt, and determined to find him—and free him. She would make wrongs right, no matter what she had to do.

  “He will not be here forever,” Gwendolyn said back firmly. “What’s done can be undone.”

  Gwen turned to Aberthol.

  “Can’t it?” she asked, hopeful. “Can’t trapped souls be freed?”

  Aberthol sighed, and looked down grimly.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone being freed from the Valley of Souls,” he said. “I don’t know how it’s possible. I don’t even know how you are going to find him.”

  Gwendolyn was wondering the same thing as they all marched through the valley, larger than any cemetery she’d ever seen, tens of thousands of frozen figures before them, like monuments to some other world. It was eerie and haunting. A gale of wind rushed through, freezing her to the bone, and she pulled her furs tighter.

  Gwen could not even see where the valley ended, and it could take months to walk through this land. She was beginning to feel hopeless. She had no idea how they would ever find Argon here.

  Please, father, she pleaded silently. Please help me.

  Gwen thought of her dad, King MacGil, of how much he’d loved her, of how much she’d missed him. She’d never felt more alone. She wished he could be by her side, that he could guide her again, could help her. Why had he had to leave her alone with all of this? Why couldn’t he just be there to help her now?

  Gwen heard a screech, high up in the sky, and she looked up with surprise to see a lone bird, circling. At first she could not see it well, amidst the clouds; but then it lowered, and screeched again, and her heart soared as she recognized it: her father’s bird. Estopheles.

  Estopheles dove down low, screeching, circling them. She dove down low, then rose up, circling again and again, and Gwendolyn felt she was trying to give them a message. She flew off to one side, diving and rising, spreading her wings, and Gwendolyn felt more and more certain she was trying to tell them something. That Estopheles was trying to lead them somewhere.

  Gwen had a thrill as she realized: perhaps her prayers had been answered. Perhaps she was leading them to Argon.

  “She is telling us something,” Gwendolyn said to the others. “We must follow her.”

  Gwendolyn turned and headed off in another direction, following her.

  She marched quickly through the valley, and the others fell in behind her. She looked up, watching the sky, weaving her way between the ice capsules, all the trapped souls. She looked up at the faces, the bodies as she went, each capsule holding a more exotic creature. Not all were human. Some of them were of races she had never seen. There were men and women, young and old, in cloaks and robes. She wondered what they had all done to be sentenced and imprisoned here. It was like a vast army of the undead. In some ways, though, it was worse than dying. Here, they all seemed stuck in an awful state—not alive, and not dead, either.

  Gwendolyn walked and walked, the cold so intense it was freezing her to the bone. She was feeling herself slowing down, sick from hunger, from exhaustion. Estopheles flew and flew, sometimes going out of sight, and Gwen began to wonder if she were imagining it all, if she were being led to the right place.

  She wondered if this would ever end. She felt an intense pain in her stomach, felt her baby, Thor’s baby, turning over again and again, and wondered what would become of them. She had a vision of herself collapsing, being frozen in the ice, and never rising again, never being found.

  Estopheles suddenly screeched, snapping her out of it, and dove straight down, to a patch of ice around the bend, perhaps a hundred yards away. She landed atop of a sole ice capsule, turned to Gwen and screeched.

  Gwendolyn summoned her last bit of energy, walking towards it as quickly as she could, when suddenly she dropped to her knees in pain and felt an awful twinge in her stomach. She cried out in agony, barely able to catch her breath as an intense pain shot through her. She breathed and breathed, and felt like crying, more so for her baby than for herself. She prayed he was all right.

  Gwen felt a comforting hand beneath each of her arms, and looked over to see Alistair helping her up on one side, and Steffen on the other. Aberthol was huffing to catch up himself, several feet behind. Krohn came over, and licked her face, whining.

  Clearly, this trek had taken a tremendous toll on her, on all of them. They all looked more dead than alive. And Gwendolyn felt such pain, she almost wished she were dead.

  “Are you well, my lady?” Alistair asked.

  Gwendolyn held onto her tight, waiting for the pain to pass, to be able to breathe again. Finally, slowly, it did.

  Alistair draped one arm over her shoulder, and they all began to walk again.

  As Gwendolyn took one step after the next, making her way through the fields, slowly the pain subsided. She looked up and saw Estopheles on the horizon, and was determined to get there.

  Finally, weaving their way between the capsules, they reached the one that Estopheles was perched on. She sat up there proudly, spreading her wings, screeching down at them.

  Gwendolyn let her eyes fall, her heart pounding with anticipation, and her heart raced as she saw who was trapped inside.

  Standing there, inside the ice, eyes closed, hands at his sides, was Argon.

  Gwen could hardly breathe. She had found him.

  Gwen stepped closer, until she was standing a foot away, and slowly reached out with her palm and touched the ice. She felt the ice-cold energy rush through her.

  A tear rolled down her cheek as she looked up and stared into Argon’s closed eyes, at his frozen body. Argon, one of the most powerful people she had ever encountered. Advisor to kings for centuries. Now, relegated to this. Gwen felt horrible to see him like this, like a trapped animal—and all on her account.

  “Argon,” she called out. “Answer me.”

  Gwen’s voice was filled with grief. As she cried, she no longer knew if it was for Argon, or her unborn son, or her father, or Thorgrin, or herself. Grief engulfed her and she could no longer think clearly.

  Argon did not answer. He did not even move. He seemed frozen forever.

  “You must come back to us,” she said.

  Still he did not reply. He just stood there, frozen, as if lost in another world.

  “Argon, I need you!” she called out, more desperate. “The Ring needs you. Thorgrin needs you. Please. Talk to me.”

  Gwendolyn pressed her face up against the ice, clutched it with both hands, and as she did, she felt her baby turning again and again.

  Yet still, nothing happened. It seemed Argon was lost to her forever. Had she made a mistake to come here?

  Gwen, determined, stepped back and drew her sword from her belt. She raised it high and slashed at the ice with all her might, determined to free him.

  But it merely bounced off harmlessly, the ice not even chipped.

  Steffen, following her cue, stepped forward and fired arrows at it. But these all bounced off harmlessly, too.

  Gwendolyn turned to Alistair, desperate.

  “Do something,” she pleaded. “You are a druid. You have power. I’ve seen your power.”

  “What would you have me do?” she asked.

  “Break the capsule. Melt the ice. Do something!”

  Alistair stepped forward, closed her eyes, and held out her palm. She muttered something in a language Gwendolyn did not understand, with a low humming noise, and aimed her palm at the ice.

  A yellow light streamed from her palm, for the ice capsule.

  But to Gwen’s surprise it bounced back, and the light soon disappeared.

  Alistair pulled her hand back, as if stung.

  “I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “These are forces more powerful than I’ve ever seen. They are far greater than I.”

  Gwen stood there, staring, crushed. She had come all this way for nothing. There was nothing more she cou
ld do. Argon was trapped forever. And she would never be able to free Thor.

  Estopheles screeched, flapped her wings, and took off into the sky. Soon, she disappeared, too.

  Gwen felt her whole life slipping away from her.

  Gwen, weak with exhaustion, at the end of her rope, dropped to her knees before the ice capsule. She closed her eyes and prayed.

  God, if you hear me, I pray to you. Not to Argon. Not to the land. Not to the sky. Not to many gods. But to you, and you alone. There is only one God, and I turn to you now, in my time of need. I pray to you, I beg you, release Argon. You can take me instead. Just release Argon. And save Thorgrin.

  Gwendolyn knelt there, with her eyes closed, very quiet and still, trembling. The land was very still and quiet, nothing but the howling of the wind passing through.

  Then, slowly, she began to hear a faint voice inside her head.

  Gwendolyn, God has heard you.

  It was Argon’s voice.

  Gwen opened her eyes and looked back at Argon. He remained there, frozen, unmoving, eyes closed.

  “Did you hear that?” Gwen asked Alistair.

  “Here what?” Alistair said.

  Gwen realized that no one else had heard it. It was a voice just for her. Was she losing her mind? Or was it real?

  Gwen leaned her face and hands against the ice, closed her eyes and listened.

  I am lost in another world now, Argon said to her. I can be free, but only for a great price. It is not your life that will be the price. But the life of someone very close to you. Either the life of your husband-to-be, or the life of your son. Whom do you choose?

  Gwendolyn began to sob, overwhelmed with grief.

  “How can I make such a choice?” she called back.

  All things come with a sacrifice.

  Gwen closed her eyes, crying, and slowly, she became very quiet and still. She had to choose. She had to.

  Inside, she made her choice. As agonizing as it was, she answered quietly, in her own mind.

  There came a sudden cracking noise, and Gwen opened her eyes and looked up in shock.

  She stood and stepped back, as the ice she had been leaning on began to crack in her hands. The ice capsule began to crack, in a hundred places, all around Argon. Soon, it shattered, and fell to the floor.

  Gwen stood there, speechless as she watched. They all stepped back in awe, as the cracking grew louder.

  Soon, the ice was gone. Nothing stood between her and Argon, who stood there, hands at his sides, perfectly still.

  His eyes flew open. He stared back at her, with a light more intense than any she had ever seen. It was like staring at the sun.

  Argon had returned. She could not believe it.

  Argon was alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Godfrey charged into battle with a great battle cry, Akorth and Fulton beside him, thousands of his men close behind. He rode recklessly into the heart of danger, following the bulls, to Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog, determined to assist them. Godfrey’s heart thumped with fear, but he was proud of himself for not turning back. He had never felt so afraid of his life; everything around him became a blur, and he could taste his own sweat as it rolled down his cheek.

  If this was what battle felt like, he hated it. He never wanted to experience it again. To him it felt like a controlled state of panic. His hands shook as he raised a sword with one hand and charged for the enemy, screaming more to cover up his own fear. Why do men put themselves through this? he wondered. He would much rather be back at home, drinking ale, chasing women, and making fun of other warriors who wasted their days on the battlefield.

  Yet despite it all, here he was. He rode alongside them all, headlong into a whirlwind of chaos, expecting at any moment to be knocked off his horse and killed. For once in his life, he did not care. For once in his life, he felt he was part of something bigger than himself, bigger than his fears. For once, he really let himself go. He was being overcome by a sense of abandon, and it was carrying him through.

  Godfrey, dodging bulls, rounded the bend, and as he did, his fear intensified, as a huge division of Empire men appeared before him, charging at a speed which was blinding to him. He gulped. Godfrey had done his job well in releasing the bulls, and he was surprised his crazy plan had worked as well as it had. But now that he saw this new Empire division approaching, he felt it was all for nothing. They were about to die anyway at the hands of this vastly superior force, that much was clear.

  Scaring him most of all was the sight of the person leading the charge. It made his knees go weak. There, right before him, was a man he had thought of as a brother. Thorgrin. Godfrey could not believe it: Thor was charging right for them. He looked possessed, bigger and stronger than ever, charging for them with blinding force, with a sword that Godfrey did not recognize. It had the markings of the Empire, and Thor wielded it as if it were alive. He rode as if borne on wings of lightning.

  Godfrey braced himself, as he realized he was right in Thor’s path. Why he, of all people?

  “Thor!” Godfrey screamed out as they got closer, hoping maybe Thor would recognize them, would lower his arms, would turn some other way.

  But it did not work. Thor’s eyes looked possessed, and he charged right for him.

  Godfrey raised his shield with both hands, bracing himself for an awful blow.

  Thor bore down on him and raised his sword high, scowling, and Godfrey knew he was finished.

  Godfrey became so nervous that he flinched in advance, and accidentally twisted and slid sideways, beginning an awkward fall off his horse.

  That accidental twist saved him. As Thor swung his sword, it just missed Godfrey, the sword connecting with Godfrey’s shield instead of his head. It impacted with a great clang, and sent Godfrey falling off his horse for good.

  Godfrey went flying off his horse and landed on the ground with a hard thud, the wind knocked out of him, rolling in the dirt, gasping for breath, his head ringing. He rolled and rolled, and finally stopped and lifted his head.

  All around him was the stampede of a thousand horses, riding every which way—and as he raised his chin, the last thing he saw was a horse’s hoof, coming right down for his forehead and knocking him out for good.

  * * *

  Andronicus was pleased to watch Thornicus back to his old self, fighting with abandon, leading the charge and cutting his way through the field of his fellow countrymen. On the front lines of those riding out to meet him were hundreds of McClouds, foolish enough to think they could defeat his son.

  Thor wielded his weapon like a thing of fury, killing a half-dozen men in a single stroke. The field ran red with the blood of the Ring, the McClouds falling at Thor’s feet.

  Andronicus smiled, satisfied—and then charged into the fray himself.

  Wielding a three-headed flail, Andronicus swung its long chain and found target after target, smashing the enemy, knocking off heads left and right. He was too tall, too strong, too fast for all of them, and he cut a path of death right through. He grinned wide, taking it all in. He hadn’t had this much fun in he didn’t know how long. As Andronicus fought with abandon, he took satisfaction in knowing that he faced the last remnant of the Ring’s forces; after this battle, the Ring would finally be his.

  Andronicus spotted one of their leaders—Kendrick—charging for him fearlessly. This warrior was reckless indeed if he thought he could take on the Great Andronicus. Andronicus screamed and kicked his horse, and men parted as the two great warriors charged each other in an open clearing.

  Andronicus swung his flail for Kendrick’s head, expecting to finish him off. But he was surprised to discover that Kendrick was not like the others he’d fought: he was faster, more agile. He ducked Andronicus’ blow, then parried with his sword, so fast that he even managed to slice Andronicus’s forearm.

  Andronicus screamed out, more in surprise than pain. He had not been bested in battle in a very long time.

  But the pain only made him
focus. He had been over-confident, and he now realized that Kendrick was unlike the others.

  Andronicus wielded his flail, swinging it around, aiming low this time, for Kendrick’s horse.

  The metal studded ball impacted on Kendrick’s horse’s head, making it stumble.

  Kendrick, caught off-guard, did not see it coming, and as he leaned forward, trying to steady his horse, Andronicus lunged forward with a hidden dagger at the end of his gauntlet and sliced Kendrick across the chest.

  Kendrick cried out, but spun around with his shield and smashed Andronicus across the face, something Andronicus had not anticipated.

  Andronicus stumbled back; in the same motion he reached over, grabbed a short spear he had hidden in his saddle, spun and hurled it at Kendrick.

  The spear embedded itself in Kendrick’s shoulder, and Kendrick screamed out, grabbing for it.

  Andronicus leaned forward and smashed Kendrick with his shield with all his might, hitting his jaw and knocking him off his horse, spear in his shoulder.

  Kendrick landed on the ground hard, immobile. His horse went down with him. Andronicus felt more satisfaction than he had in years.

  Andronicus circled around, preparing to finish him off. But as he raised his spear high, he was attacked by several of Kendrick’s men, and was soon distracted in fighting them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kendrick roll away and head off to another battle.

  Another time, Andronicus told himself. Kendrick would, sooner or later, die by his hand.

  * * *

  Bronson fought with all he had, choosing to forego his shield and instead wielding a sword with his good hand. He fought as best he could with one hand, and with his other, he wielded a flail, gripping onto it with the hook on his stub. He fought like a man possessed, doing his best to defend the Ring. He rode forward, fighting valiantly beside Srog, the two of them back to back, as they felled dozens of Empire men in each direction.

  “BRONSON!” screamed out a voice.

  Bronson recognized that voice anywhere. It sent a chill through his spine.

  He turned and saw, amidst a group of Empire soldiers, his nemesis. His father. McCloud. The monster. The man who had taken his hand from him. The man he hated more than anything in life.