by Morgan Rice
“Goddess,” came a voice.
Volusia spun, in a rage, to see several of her generals standing close by.
“The next person who interrupts me will be thrown into the ring,” she snapped.
A general, nervous, terrified, exchanged a look with another.
“But Goddess, this is urgent—”
Volusia jumped from her seat and faced one of her generals, who stood there, fear across his face. All her other advisors grew quiet with fear as they watched.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If it is truly urgent, then I shall let you live. But if it is not, and you have interrupted my viewing pleasure for nothing, then I will kill you here and now.”
She gripped his wrist, and he wiped sweat from his forehead, clearly debating. Finally, he spoke:
“It is urgent, Goddess.”
She smiled.
“Very well, then,” she replied. “It is your life to lose.”
He gulped, then said, in a rush:
“I bear news from the streets of Volusia,” he said. “There is a great outcry amongst your citizens. Everywhere, the Volks have spread out, killing and gorging on innocent people. They tear off their heads with their teeth, and suck on their blood. At first, it was just a few—but now they slaughter our people everywhere. They are torturing and killing our people and they have free rein in the streets. What’s more,” he continued, “word arrives from the east: the Knights of the Seven are close, and they bring with them an army greater than all the earth. They say they are seven million men—and they are all approaching the capital.”
Volusia looked at him, her mind racing with a million thoughts, but mostly annoyance at being interrupted from the arena. She released her grip on his wrist, and he stood up straighter, clearly relieved.
“You spoke the truth,” she said. “Your message was urgent. For that, I thank you.”
Then in one swift motion, she drew her dagger and sliced his throat.
He stared back at her, wide-eyed in shock, as he collapsed to the ground, dead at her feet.
She smiled.
“That part about sparing you,” she added. “I changed my mind.”
Volusia felt her body grow hot with a flash of rage as she thought of the Volks, out there gorging on all her citizens. She had given them too much free rein.
“Enough is enough, Goddess,” said Aksan, her trusted advisor and assassin. “The Volks have grown uncontrollable. You cannot control them. They will turn against you, too, eventually. They must be stopped, regardless of whatever powers they wield.”
Volusia had been thinking the same thing.
She grudgingly rose from her seat and marched from her chamber, beginning to take the steps down toward the streets of Volusia.
The Volks, she knew, were the source of all the power she had. She needed them. Yet at the same time, they were an even greater threat to her.
She knew she had no choice. She could not have people around her she could not control—especially sorcerers whose power was greater than hers. Perhaps her advisors had been right all along when they’d advised her not to enter into a pact with the Volks; perhaps there was a reason they had been shunned throughout the Empire.
Volusia, followed by her entourage, marched down the streets of the capital, and as she went, she looked up and in the distance saw hundreds of citizens on their backs, the green Volks on top of them pinning them down, sucking the blood from their throats as their bodies writhed.
Everywhere she looked she saw Volks gorging themselves, slaughtering her people. And there, in the center, beneath a statue of her, was the leader of the Volks, Vokin, gorging on several bodies at once.
Volusia approached him, determined to put an end to this chaos, to expel him and his people. Her heart thumped as she wondered how he would react—she feared it would not be good. Yet she took comfort in the fact that she had all her generals behind her and that they would not dare touch her, a goddess.
Volusia came up to him and stood over him, and as she did, he finally stopped gorging and looked up at her, still snarling, his sharp fangs dripping with blood. He icily recognized Volusia, darkness in his eyes, looking mad to be interrupted.
“And what do you want, Goddess?” he asked, his voice throaty, nearly snarling.
Volusia was furious, not only by his actions, but by his lack of respect.
“I want you to leave,” she commanded. “You will leave my service at once. I expel you from the capital. You will take your men and walk out the gates and never come back again.”
Vokin slowly and menacingly stood and rose to his full height—which was not much—and breathing hard, raspy, he glared back at Volusia. As she watched his eyes shift colors, demonic, for the first time, she felt real fear.
“Will I?” he mocked.
He took a step toward her and as he did, all of the Volk suddenly rushed to his side—while all of her generals nervously drew their swords behind her.
A thick tension hung in the air as the two sides faced off with each other.
“Would you be so brazen as to confront a goddess?” Volusia demanded.
Vokin laughed.
“A goddess?” he echoed. “Whoever said you were one?”
She glared back at him, but she felt real fear rising within her as he took another step closer. She could smell his awful smell even from here.
“No one dismisses the Volks,” he continued. “Not you, not anyone. For the dishonor you have inflicted upon us this day, for the injustice you have served, do you really think there will be no price to pay?”
Volusia stood proudly, feeling the goddess within her taking over. She knew, after all, that she was invincible.
“You will walk away,” she said, “because my powers are greater than yours.”
“Are they?” he replied.
He smiled wide, an awful look that she would recall for the rest of her life, burned into her mind, as he reached up with his long, slimy green fingers and stroked the side of her face.
“And yet, I fear,” he said, “you are not as powerful as you think.”
As he caressed her cheek, Volusia shrieked; she suddenly felt a searing pain course into her cheeks, run along her face, all over her skin. Wherever his fingers had touched, she felt as if her skin were melting away, burning off of her cheekbones.
Volusia sank to her knees and shrieked, feeling in more pain than she could conceive, shocked that she, a goddess, could ever feel such pain.
Vokin laughed as he reached down and held out a small golden looking glass for her to see herself in.
As Volusia looked at her own reflection, her pain worsened: she saw herself, and she wanted to throw up. While half of her face remained beautiful, the other half had become melted, distorted. Her appearance was the scariest thing she had ever seen, and she felt like dying at the sight of herself.
Vokin laughed, a horrific sound.
“Take a long look at yourself, Goddess,” he said. “Once you were famed for your beauty—now you will be famed for being grotesque. Just like us. It is our goodbye present to you. After all, don’t you know that the Volks cannot leave without giving a departing gift?”
He laughed and laughed as he turned and walked away, out the city gates, followed by his army of sorcerers, Volusia’s source of power. And Volusia could do nothing but kneel there, clutching her face, and shrieking to the heavens with the cracking voice of a goddess.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Gwendolyn ascended the spiral stone staircase in the far corner of the King’s castle, her heart pounding with anticipation, as she headed for Argon’s chamber. The King had graciously given Argon the grand chamber at the top of the spiral tower to recover, and had also vowed to Gwendolyn that he would give him his finest healers. Gwendolyn had been nervous to see him ever since; after all, the last time she had seen him, he was still comatose, and she was skeptical he would ever rise again.
Jasmine’s words had encouraged her that Argon w
as healing, and her cryptic reference to what Argon knew about finding Thor and Guwayne was consuming her. Was there something he was holding back from her? Why would he not reveal it? And how did a young girl know all this?
Gwen, desperate for any chance, any lead, to be able to reunite with her husband and son, burned with desire as she reached the top floor and rushed up to the large arched door to his chamber.
Two of the King’s guards stood before it, but when they saw the look on her face, they thought better of it.
“Open this door at once,” she said, using the voice of a Queen.
They exchanged a look and stepped aside, opening the door as she rushed inside.
Gwendolyn entered the chamber, the door slamming behind her, and as she did, she was startled at the sight before her. There, in the magnificent spiral tower, was a beautiful chamber, shaped in a circle, its walls made of cobblestone, its walls lined with stained glass. Even more shocking was what she saw: Argon, sitting up in bed, awake, alert, looking right at her, wearing his white robes and holding his staff. She was elated to see him alive, conscious, back to his old self. She was even more surprised to see, sitting beside the bed, a woman, who looked ageless, with long silky hair parted in the middle, and wearing a green, silk gown. Her eyes glowed red, and she sat perfectly erect, with one hand on Argon’s back, the other on his shoulder, and hummed softly, her eyes closed. Gwen realized at once that she must be the King’s personal healer, the one responsible for Argon’s recovery.
What’s more, Gwen immediately sensed the connection between the two of them, sensed that they liked each other. It was strange—Gwen had never imagined Argon falling in love. But looking at the two of them, they seemed perfect together. Each a powerful sorcerer.
Gwen stopped in her tracks, so startled at the sight, she didn’t know what to say.
Argon looked at her, and his eyes lit up with intensity as he stood to his full height, holding his staff. She sensed with relief that his great power had returned to him.
“You live,” she said, astounded.
He nodded back and smiled ever so slightly.
“I do indeed,” he replied. “Thanks to your carrying me through the desert. And to Celta’s help.”
Celta nodded back to Argon, their eyes locking.
Gwen wanted to rush forward and hug him, yet she was conflicted; she was mad at him for his not telling her whatever he knew that kept her from finding her husband and son.
“What do you know about Thor?” she demanded. “And Guwayne? And why did you not tell me you had a brother?”
Argon just looked back at her, eyes aglow, never wavering, lost in distant worlds she knew she would never understand. Some part of him was always unreachable, even to her.
“Not all knowledge is meant to be revealed,” he finally replied.
Gwen frowned, refusing to accept no for an answer.
“Guwayne is my son,” she said. “Thor is my husband. I deserve to know where they are. I need to know where they are,” she said, stepping forward, desperate.
Argon gazed back at her for a long time, then finally sighed, turned, and walked to the window, looking out.
“Many centuries ago,” he said to her, “before your father’s father, and his father before him, my brother and I were close. Yet time has a way of forking even the strongest rivers, and over time, we grew apart. This universe was not big enough to hold two brothers—not brothers like Ragon and I.”
Argon fell silent for a long time, gazing out the window.
“It became clear that Ragon’s place was here, in the Ridge, on this side of the world,” he continued, “while mine was elsewhere, in the Ring. We were two sides of the same coin, two faces of the same father—much like the two sides of the Ring and the Ridge.”
As Argon fell silent again, Gwen processed it all. It was hard to imagine: Argon and Ragon’s father. She was overflowing with questions, but she held her tongue.
Finally, he began again.
“My place was in the Ring, protecting the Canyon, holding up the Shield. Guarding the Destiny Sword, while Ragon guarded the Ridge. We lived this way for many, many centuries.”
“But he’s not here now,” Gwen said, puzzled.
Argon shook his head.
“No, he is not.”
“Where is he then?” she asked.
“Ragon foresaw the end of the Ridge,” Argon replied, “and he took the steps needed to save it. He’s in exile, on the Isle of Light, preparing for the second coming.”
“Second coming?” Gwen asked.
Argon sighed long and hard, staying silent. Gwen did not want to pry, but she needed to know where this was all going, and how it related to Thor.
“What I want to know is about Thorgrin and Guwayne,” she finally insisted. “What are you not telling me?”
Argon looked anguished as he looked at the window, until finally, he turned and looked at her. The intensity of his gaze was overwhelming.
“Some things are given to us in life,” he said gravely, “while others are taken away. We must celebrate what we have while we have it. And when something is lost to us, we must allow it to leave.”
Gwen felt her heart sinking at his words.
“What are you saying?” she demanded.
He took two steps toward her, standing a few feet away, staring back with such intensity that she had to look away. She had never seen him wear such a serious expression.
“Your husband is gone,” he pronounced gravely, each of his words like a blow to her heart. “Your son is gone to you, too. I am sorry, but they will never return. Not as you know them.”
Gwen felt like collapsing.
“NO!” she shrieked, crying, everything bursting out of her. She ran forward and grabbed Argon’s robe, and beat him on his chest with her fists, again and again.
Argon stood there, expressionless, not fighting her off but not comforting her either.
“I am sorry,” he said, after several moments. “I loved Thorgrin as a son. And Guwayne, too.”
“NO!” she shrieked, refusing to accept it.
Gwen turned and ran out the chamber, down the corridor, and burst out onto the wide parapets atop the castle. She stood there, all alone, clutching the rail and searching the horizon. She looked out at the distant peaks, the mist hanging over the ridge. Somewhere beyond was the Great Waste, and beyond that, the great sea. Carrying Thorgrin and Guwayne.
She could not accept her fate. Never.
“NO!” Gwen shrieked to the heavens. “Come back to me!”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Thor felt a deepening sense of foreboding as he gripped the rail, standing at the bow of the ship, and stared out at the Straits of Madness, looming before him. Red waters of blood churned below as they carried the ship on their currents, into the straits. Thor looked side to side, staring up in awe, as did the others, at the stark black cliffs, jagged, rising straight up, made of a black stone he did not recognize. They were close together, leaving but twenty yards of angry waters for them to pass through, and Thor felt claustrophobic, the sky nearly shut out. He also felt vulnerable to attack, especially as he examined the cliffs and spotted thousands of sets of small, yellow eyes, glowing, peeking out from tiny holes in the rocks, then disappearing. He felt as if they were being watched by a million creatures.
But that was not what concerned him most. As they entered the Straits, the water churned violently, rocking their ship side to side, up and down—and Thor began to hear something, rising over the din of the waves and the wind. It was soft at first, like a distant humming; as they went, though, it grew stronger. It was almost like a chanting, like a chorus of voices humming in a low pitch. It sounded like a drumbeat, felt like his heart was beating outside his head; it echoed inside his innermost eardrum, and the feeling was making him go mad.
Thor clutched the rail, experiencing a feeling he’d never felt before; it was almost like an unwelcome invader entering his body. He felt, for the first
time in his life, that he was losing control of himself. As if he could no longer think straight.
The chanting grew louder, and as it did, he felt increasingly on edge; every little sound was amplified inside him: the splashing of the water against the hull; the flapping of the sails; the sound of those insects, buzzing; the screech of a bird high overhead. He could not turn it off, and it was driving him crazy.
Thor began to feel a rage rising in his veins, one he could not control or understand. It was consuming him, making him want to lash out, to kill something—anything. He didn’t understand where it was coming from, and as they sailed still deeper into the Straits, he felt it taking over him completely. As if it owned his very soul.
Thor gripped the rail so hard his knuckles turned white as he tried to control himself, to exorcise himself of whatever was consuming him. He looked out at the others, hoping they would see the horror he was going through and would be rushing to help him.
But as Thor saw the others, his apprehension only deepened. He could see at a glance that whatever madness had gripped him had gripped the others, too. There was Elden, rushing forward and head-butting the mast, again and again; there was Angel, curled up in a ball on the floor, holding her head; there was Selese, rocking left and right, her arms wrapped around herself; Matus knelt on the deck, pulling his hair from his head; Reece drew his sword then sheathed it, again and again; O’Connor paced the decks wildly, racing up and down them, as if trying to get off the boat; and Indra raised her spear and hurled it into the deck, only to remove it and do it again and again.
Thor realized that they’d all gone mad. For the first time in his life he could not think clearly, could not come up with a strategy to sail out of here, to rescue everyone, to burst free. He could not think at all. He just felt like he was becoming a ball of rage, growing bigger and bigger, one he could not control, even with his greatest powers. A titanic struggle was going on inside him.