A Joust of Knights

by Morgan Rice

  The silence was shattered by a wild dog’s manic barking, and Godfrey looked down to see Dray emerging from a city alley, barking and snarling like mad, charging across the courtyard after his master. He, too, was desperate to save Darius, and as he reached the great iron gates, he leapt up and threw himself on them, tearing at them, fruitlessly, with his teeth.

  Godfrey watched with horror as the Empire soldiers standing guard caught sight of Dray and signaled to each other. One drew his sword and approached the dog, clearly preparing to slaughter him.

  Godfrey did not know what overcame him, but something inside him snapped. It was just too much for him, too much injustice for him to bear. If he could not save Darius, at least he must save his beloved dog.

  Godfrey heard himself shout, felt himself running, as if he were outside of himself. With a surreal feeling, he felt himself draw his short sword and rush forward for the unsuspecting guard, and as the guard turned, he watched himself plunge it into the guard’s heart.

  The huge Empire soldier looked down at Godfrey with disbelief, his eyes open wide, as he stood there, frozen. Then he dropped down to the ground, dead.

  Godfrey heard a cry and saw the two other Empire guards bear down on him. They raised their menacing weapons, and he knew he was no match for them. He would die here, at this gate, but at least he would die with a noble effort.

  A snarl ripped through the air, and Godfrey saw, out of the corner of his eye, Dray turn and bound forward, and leap onto the guard looming over Godfrey. He sank his fangs into his throat, and pinned him down to the ground, tearing at him until the man stopped moving.

  At the same time, Merek and Ario rushed forward and each used their short swords to stab the other guard at Godfrey’s back, killing him together before he could finish Godfrey off.

  They all stood there, in the silence, Godfrey looking at all the carnage, shocked at what he had just done, shocked that he had that sort of bravery, as Dray rushed over and licked the back of his hand.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you,” Merek said, admiringly.

  Godfrey stood there, stunned.

  “I’m not even sure what I just did,” he said, meaning it, the events all a blur. He had not meant to act—he just had. Did that still make him brave? he wondered.

  Akorth and Fulton looked every which way, in terror, for any sign of Empire soldiers.

  “We must get out of here!” Akorth yelled. “Now!”

  Godfrey felt hands on him and felt himself ushered away. He turned and ran with the others, Dray at their side, all of them leaving the gate, running back to Volusia, and to God knew what the fates had in store for them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Darius sat back against the iron bars, his wrists shackled to his ankles, a long, heavy chain between them, his body covered in wounds and bruises, and he felt like he weighed a million pounds. As he went, the carriage bouncing on the rough road, he looked out and watched the desert sky between the bars, feeling forlorn. His carriage passed through an endless, barren landscape, nothing but desolation as far as the eye could see. It looked as if the world had ended.

  His carriage was shaded, but streaks of sunlight streamed through the bars, and he felt the oppressive desert heat rising up in waves, making him sweat even in the shade, adding to his discomfort.

  But Darius did not care. His entire body burned and ached from his head to his toes, covered in lumps, his limbs hard to move, worn out from the endless days of fighting in the arena. Unable to sleep, he closed his eyes and tried to make the memories go away, but each time he did, he saw all of his friends dying alongside him, Desmond, Raj, Luzi and Kaz, each in terrible ways. All of them dead so that he could survive.

  He was the victor, had achieved the impossible—and yet that meant little to him now. He knew death was coming; his reward, after all, was to be shipped off for the Empire capital, to become a spectacle in a greater arena, with even worse foes. The reward for it all, for all his acts of valor, was death.

  Darius would rather die right now than go through it all again. But he could not even control that; he was shackled here, helpless. How much longer would this torture have to go on? Would he have to witness every last thing he loved in the world die before he could die himself?

  Darius closed his eyes again, desperately trying to blot out the memories, and as he did there came to him an early childhood memory. He was playing before his grandfather’s hut, in the dirt, wielding a staff. He hit a tree again and again, until finally his grandfather snatched it from him.

  “Do not play with sticks,” his grandfather scolded. “Do you wish to catch the Empire’s attention? Do you wish for them to think of you as a warrior?”

  His grandfather broke the stick over his knee, and Darius had bristled with outrage. That was more than a stick: that was his all-powerful staff, the only weapon he’d had. That staff had meant everything to him.

  Yes, I want them to know me as a warrior. I want to be known as nothing else in life, Darius had thought.

  But as his grandfather turned his back and stormed away, he had been too scared to say it aloud.

  Darius had picked up the broken stick and held the pieces in his hands, tears rolling down his cheek. One day, he vowed, he would take revenge on all of them—his life, his village, their situation, the Empire, anything and everything he could not control.

  He would crush them all. And he would be known as nothing other than a warrior.

  *

  Darius did not know how much time had passed when he awoke, but he noticed immediately that the bright morning sun of the desert had shifted to the dim orange sun of afternoon, heading to sunset. The air was much cooler, too, and his wounds had stiffened, making it harder for him to move, to even shift himself in the uncomfortable carriage. The horses jostled endlessly on the hard rock of the desert, the endless feeling of metal banging against his head making him feel as if it were shattering his skull. He rubbed his eyes, pulling the caked dirt from his lashes, and wondered how far this capital was. He felt as if he he’d traveled already to the ends of the earth.

  He blinked several times and looked out, expecting, as always to see an empty horizon, a desert of waste. Yet this time as he looked out, he was startled to see something else. He sat up straighter for the first time.

  The carriage began to slow, the thundering of the horses quieted a bit, the roads became smoother, and as he studied the new landscape, Darius saw a sight he would never forget: there, rising out of the desert like some lost civilization, was a massive city wall, seeming to rise to the heavens and stretching as far as the eye could see. It was marked by huge, shining golden doors, its walls and parapets lined with Empire soldiers, and Darius knew at once that they had made it: the capital.

  The sound of the road changed, a hollow, wooden sound, and Darius looked down and saw the carriage being driven over an arched drawbridge. They passed hundreds more soldiers lining the bridge, all of whom snapped to attention as they went.

  A great groaning filled the sky, and Darius looked ahead and watched the golden doors, impossibly tall, open wide, as if to embrace him. He saw a glimmer beyond them, of the most magnificent city he’d ever seen, and he knew, without a doubt, that this was a place from which there would be no escape. As if to confirm his thoughts, Darius heard a distant thunder, one he recognized immediately: it was the roar of an arena, a new arena, of men out for blood, and of what would surely be his final resting place. He did not fear it; he just prayed to god that he die on his feet, a sword in his hand, in one final act of valor.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thorgrin pulled one last time on the golden rope, hands shaking, Angel on his back, sweat pouring down his face, and he finally cleared the cliff, his knees touching down on soil, catching his breath. He turned and looked back and saw, hundreds of feet below, straight down the steep cliffs, the crashing ocean waves, their ship on the beach, looking so small, and he was amazed at how far he’d climbed. He heard groans all around him,
and turned to see Reece and Selese, Elden and Indra, O’Connor and Matus all finishing the climb, all hoisting themselves up and onto the Isle of Light.

  Thor knelt there, muscles exhausted, and looked up at the Isle of Light spread out before him—and his heart sank with a fresh sense of foreboding. Before he even saw the awful sight, he could smell the burning ash, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. He could also feel the heat, the smoldering fires, the damage that remained from whatever creatures had destroyed this place. The island was black, burned, destroyed, everything that had once been so idyllic about it, that had seemed so invincible, now turned to ash.

  Thorgrin gained his feet and wasted no time. He began to venture out into the isle, his heart pounding as he looked everywhere for Guwayne. As he took in the state of this place, he hated to think of what he might find.

  “GUWAYNE!” Thorgrin shouted as he jogged across the smoldering hills, raising both hands to his mouth.

  His voice was echoed back to him against the rolling hills, as if to mock him. And then nothing but silence.

  There came a lonely screech from somewhere high above, and Thor looked up to see Lycoples, still circling. Lycoples screeched again, dove low, and flew off toward the center of the isle. Thor sensed at once that she was leading him to his son.

  Thor broke off into a jog, the others beside him, running through the charred wasteland, searching everywhere.

  “GUWAYNE!” he shouted again. “RAGON!”

  As Thor took in the devastation of the blackened landscape, he felt increasingly certain that nothing could have survived here. These rolling hills, once so lush with grass and trees, were now but a scarred landscape. Thor wondered what sort of creatures, aside from dragons, could wreak this sort of havoc—and more importantly, who controlled them, who had sent them here, and why. Why was his son so important that someone would send an army for him?

  Thor looked to the horizon, hoping for a sign of them, but his heart sank as he saw nothing. Instead he saw only smoldering flames littering the hills.

  He wanted to believe Guwayne had somehow survived all this. But he did not see how. If a sorcerer as powerful as Ragon could not stop whatever forces had been here, how could he possibly save his son?

  For the first time since he had set out on this quest, Thor was beginning to lose all hope.

  They ran and ran, ascending and descending hills, and as they crested a particularly large hill, suddenly O’Connor, leading the way, pointed excitedly.

  “There!” he called out.

  O’Connor pointed to the side, to the remains of an ancient tree, now charred, its branches gnarled. And as Thor looked closely, he spotted, lying beneath it, motionless, a body.

  Thor felt at once that it was Ragon. And he saw no sign of Guwayne.

  Thor, filled with dread, raced forward, and as he reached him, collapsed on his knees at his side, scanning everywhere for Guwayne. He hoped that perhaps he’d find Guwayne hidden in Ragon’s robes, or somewhere beside him, or nearby, perhaps in the cleft of a rock.

  But his heart sank as he saw he was nowhere to be found.

  Thor reached down and slowly turned over Ragon, his robe charred black, praying he had not been killed—and as he turned him over, he felt a glimmer of hope to see Ragon’s eyes flutter. Thor reached down and grabbed his shoulders, still hot to the touch, and he pulled back Ragon’s hood and was horrified to see his face charred, disfigured from the flames.

  Ragon began to gasp and cough, and Thor could see he was struggling for life. He felt devastated at the sight of him, this beautiful man who had been so kind to them, reduced to such a state for defending this isle, for defending Guwayne. Thor could not help but feel responsible.

  “Ragon,” Thorgrin said, his voice catching in his throat. “Forgive me.”

  “It is I who beg your forgiveness,” Ragon said, his voice raspy, barely able to get out the words. He coughed a long time, then finally continued. “Guwayne…” he began, then trailed off.

  Thor’s heart was slamming his chest, not wanting to hear his next words, fearing the worst. How could he ever face Gwendolyn again?

  “Tell me,” Thor demanded, clutching his shoulders. “Does the boy live?”

  Ragon gasped a long time, trying to catch his breath, and Thor gestured to O’Connor, who reached over and handed him a sack of water. Thor poured the water over Ragon’s lips, and Ragon drank, coughing as he did.

  Finally, Ragon shook his head.

  “Worse,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Death would have been a mercy for him.”

  Ragon fell silent, and Thor nearly shook with anticipation, willing him to speak.

  “They have taken him away,” Ragon finally continued. “They snatched him from my arms. All of them, all here, just for him.”

  Thor’s heart dropped at the thought of his precious child being snatched away by these evil creatures.

  “But who?” Thor asked. “Who is behind this? Who is more powerful than you who could do this? I thought your power, like Argon’s, was impenetrable by all creatures of this world.”

  Ragon nodded.

  “All creatures of this world, yes,” he said. “But these were not of this world. They were creatures not from hell, but from a place even darker: the Land of Blood.”

  “The Land of Blood?” Thorgrin asked, baffled. “I have been to the hells and back,” Thor added. “What place can be darker?”

  Ragon shook his head.

  “The Land of Blood is more than a place. It is a state. An evil darker and more powerful than you ever imagine. It is the domain of the Blood Lord, and it has grown darker and more powerful over generations. There is a war between the Realms. An ancient struggle between evil and light. Each vies for control. And Guwayne, I’m afraid, is the key: whoever has him, can win, can have dominion over the world. For all time. It was what Argon never told you. What he could not tell you yet. You were not ready. It was what he was training you for: a greater war than you would ever know.”

  Thor gaped, trying to comprehend.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “They have not taken Guwayne to kill him?”

  He shook his head.

  “Far worse. They have taken him as their own, to raise as the demon child they need to fulfill the prophecy and destroy all that is good in the universe.”

  Thor reeled, his heart pounding, trying to understand it all.

  “Then I shall get him back,” Thor said, a cold feeling of resolve rushing through his veins, especially as he heard Lycoples high above, screeching, craving, as he, vengeance.

  Ragon reached out and grabbed Thor’s wrist, with a surprising amount of strength for a man about to die. He looked into Thor’s eyes with an intensity that scared him.

  “You cannot,” he said firmly. “The Land of Blood is too powerful for any human to survive. The price to enter there is too high. Even with all your powers, mark my words: you would surely die if you go there. All of you would. You are not powerful yet enough yet. You need more training. You need to foster your powers first. To go now would be folly. You would not retrieve your son, and you would all be destroyed.”

  But Thor’s heart hardened with resolve.

  “I have faced the greatest darkness, the greatest powers in the world,” Thorgrin said. “Including my own father. And never have I backed down from fear. I will face this dark lord, whatever his powers; I will enter this Land of Blood, whatever the cost. It is my son. I will retrieve him—or die trying.”

  Ragon shook his head, coughing.

  “You are not ready,” he said, his voice trailing off. “Not ready…. You need…power…. You need…the…ring,” he said, and then erupted into a fit of coughing blood.

  Thor stared back, desperate to know what he meant before he passed away.

  “What ring?” Thor asked. “Our homeland?”

  There came a long silence, Ragon’s wheezing the only sound in the air, until finally he opened his eyes, just a sliver.

>   “The…sacred ring.”

  Thor grabbed Ragon’s shoulders, willing him to respond, but suddenly, he felt Ragon’s body stiffening in his hands. His eyes froze, there came an awful death gasp, and a moment later, he stopped breathing, perfectly still.

  Dead.

  Thor felt a wave of agony rush through him.

  “NO!” Thor threw his head back and cried to the heavens. Thor was wracked with sobs as he reached out and embraced Ragon, this generous man who had given up his life to guard his son. He was overwhelmed with grief and guilt—and he slowly and steadily felt a new resolve rising up within him.

  Thor looked to the heavens, and he knew what he had to do.

  “LYCOPLES!” Thor shrieked, the anguished cry of a father filled with desperation, filled with fury, with nothing left to lose.

  Lycoples heard his cry: she screeched, high up in the heavens, her fury matching Thor’s, and she circled down lower and lower, until she landed but a few feet away.

  Without hesitating, Thor ran to her, jumped on her back, and grabbed hold of her neck tight. He felt energized to be on the back of a dragon again.

  “Wait!” O’Connor yelled, rushing forward with the others. “Where are you going?”

  Thor looked them dead in the eye.

  “To the Land of Blood,” he replied, feeling more certain than he’d ever had in his life. “I will rescue my son. Whatever it takes.”

  “You will be destroyed,” Reece said, stepping forward with concern, his voice grave.

  “Then I will be destroyed with honor,” Thor replied.

  Thor peered upward, looked to the horizon, and he saw the trail of the gargoyles, disappearing into the sky—and he knew where he must go.

  “Then you shall not go alone,” Reece called out, “We shall follow your trail in our ship, and we shall meet you there.”