by Morgan Rice
The beasts were powerful, though, and they seemed to never stop coming, and Thor and his men, after their first initial win, began to tire. Matus swung his flail and a beast caught it in his halberd and yanked the flail out of Matus’s hand, leaving him defenseless. Another of the King’s soldiers stepped forward and stabbed him, piercing Matus’s arm with his halberd, making Matus scream out in pain.
The gargoyles, too, flew in a steady stream, and while O’Connor aimed his bow up at them, one of them swatted it from his hands, while three of them descended on him from behind, landing on his shoulders, biting his neck. O’Connor cried out and dropped to his knees, flailing, reaching back and trying desperately to get them off of him.
Elden swung his wide ax and chopped one a beast in half—but the blow left his back exposed, and another beast swung down with the side of his halberd and brought it down on Elden’s exposed back, the side of the metal cracking his back, and the shaft splintering in half. Elden, stung by the blow, dropped to his knees.
Indra stepped forward and elbowed the creature in the throat before it could finish Elden off, sparing him; but a gargoyle then descended on her, biting her wrist, making her drop her sling and clutch her arm in pain.
Reece, surrounded and in the thick of the battle beside Thor, slashed and parried every which way, but he could not fight from every side, and soon, exposed, he was pierced in the side by a halberd, and he shrieked out in pain.
Thor, completely surrounded, sweat stinging his eyes, slashed and stabbed furiously in every direction, killing creatures left and right, fighting for his life. But he was running out of steam, struggling to catch his breath. However many creatures he killed, five more appeared. The buzzing filled his ears, as his ranks dwindled, and creatures descended upon him from every possible direction.
Thor knew, even as he fought, that this was a battle he could not win. That he would soon be condemned to an eternal hell of endless grief and torture.
A soldier charged from Thor’s blind spot, swung his halberd, and knocked the sword from Thor’s hand. It hit the black granite floor with a clang, and Thor was then elbowed in his back. He dropped to his knees, winded, defenseless, closed in on from every direction.
In the chaos, Thor closed his eyes and found a moment of peace. As he felt his life about to end, he retreated to a deeper part of himself. He thought of his mother, of Argon, of all the skills and powers they had taught him, and he knew, deep down, that this was just another test. A supreme test. He knew he was being handed it to rise above all of this. He knew, however impossible it seemed, that he had the power deep within him to overcome all of this. Even here, in the land of the dead, below the earth. The universe was still the universe, and he still had dominion over it. He knew that he was denying his power, once again.
A realization suddenly flashed over him:
I am bigger than death. I only die if I choose to die. If I want to live, if I truly want to live, I can never die. All death is suicide.
All death is suicide.
Thor felt a sudden burning coursing in his palms, between his eyes, and he leapt to his feet with an enormous amount of strength, more than anything he’d ever encountered. He leapt up twenty feet in the air, just missing the halberds as they struck for him, flying over their heads, and landing on the other side of the hordes.
Thor found himself landing right before the sword—the Sword of the Dead. He looked at it, immersed in the rock, and felt its power. He felt as he’d felt that day he had drawn the Destiny Sword. He felt that it was his. That it was always his. That he was meant to wield more than one special weapon in the life—he was meant to wield many.
Thor reached forward and with a great cry, grabbed the Sword of the Dead, his hands wrapping around the smooth ivory hilt, and yanked it up with all his might.
To his amazement, it began to move. With a sound like that of the earth tearing apart, stone being torn in two, the ground trembled, and the sword slowly rose.
Thor held the sword high overhead, feeling triumphant, feeling its power course through him, feeling one with it. He felt that his power was limitless. Even over death.
Thor noticed the King of the Dead stand up in his throne, looking down on him in shock and awe.
Thor turned and threw himself into legions of beasts, moving faster than he’d ever had, reaching back and slashing with the sword. He found that the sword, instead of slowing him, despite its weight actually made him faster, as if it were slashing on its own—as if it were an extension of his arm. Thor found himself cutting through beast after beast, taking out one soldier after the next, cutting through them like they were not even there. Shrieks rose up all around them as he felled one creature after the next, on the ground and in the air alike. He drove scores of soldiers back into a lava pit, screaming. He blocked their blows as they charged him with their halberds, the sword so powerful that it sliced the halberds in two, as if they were twigs. In the same motion, Thor swung around and took out a dozen soldiers in a single blow.
With a fierce battle cry, Thor charged whomever remained of the beasts, slashing with all his might, killing them left and right, going faster and faster in a chaotic blur. His shoulders no longer felt tired—now, he felt invincible.
Soon, Thor found himself standing there alone, facing no more enemies. He did not understand what happened. All was still. The floors were covered with corpses, and there was no one left to fight.
Thor stood, his heart hammering, and faced the throne.
In the silence, the King of the Dead, a grave look on his face, looked down at him in disbelief.
Thor could not believe it.
He had won.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Darius sat beside the fire at sunset, hunched over, his back raw, stinging, the pain worse than anything he’d experienced. It felt as if his skin had been ripped off his back, and it hurt to breathe, to move, to sit up. Dray sat loyally by his side, whining, his head in Darius’ lap, unwilling to leave his side. Darius offered him small pieces of food but Dray, downcast, would not accept it. He gritted his teeth and grunted as Loti, kneeling at his side, placed a cool rag on his back, doused in ointments, running it along his skin as she had been doing for a while now, trying her best to ease his pain. As she did so, he noticed tears in her eyes, and he could see how guilty she felt.
“You did not deserve this,” she said. “You have suffered for my actions.”
Darius shook his head.
“You have suffered for all of our actions,” he corrected. “It should not have fallen on you alone to have to stand up to the Empire. What you did for your brother, for all of us, was an honorable thing; what I did for you was the only thing.”
Loti cried softly as she rubbed his wounds, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
“And now?” she asked. “What was it all for? They’ll return in the morning. They will take me, and maim us all. Or worse—they will kill us all.”
Darius shook his head emphatically.
“I will not let them take you,” he said. “I will not see them offer you up to save all of their lives.”
“Then we shall all die,” she stated.
He looked at her, her face grim, severe.
“Perhaps we shall,” he said. “But are there not worse things? At least we shall die together.”
He could tell by her expression how touched she was, how loyal she was, how grateful.
“I shall never forget what you did for me today,” she said. “Never. Not as long as I live. You have my entire heart. Whether we die tomorrow or not, do you understand me? I am yours. I will love you from now to the end of eternity.”
She leaned in and kissed him, and he kissed her back, a long meaningful kiss, and Darius felt his heart beat faster. She pulled back, her eyes glazed, and he could feel her sincerity. Her kiss took away the pain of his wounds; he would do it all again gladly for her, despite all the pain, despite all the suffering.
The village horn sounde
d, and all around the village fire, there gathered near Darius and Loti the Council of Elders, along with hundreds of villagers. Darius could sense the anxiety in the air, could see the panic across all their faces as they all swirled about, mumbling loudly, arguing with each other, a sense of desperation in the air. Darius could not blame them—after all, this could be their last night on earth. Tomorrow, a wave of mutilation or destruction was coming for them, and there was little that they could do about it.
The horn sounded again, and the villagers quieted as the chief elder, Bokbu, stepped forward, raised his palms, and faced them. He looked down sternly at Loti and Darius.
“Your actions have endangered our people,” he said slowly, his voice grave. “But that matters little now. What matters,” he said, looking out at the people, “is the choice that lies before us. At daybreak, what will we choose? Execution or maiming?”
A loud grumbling arose, villagers arguing with each other.
“We’ll take maiming over death any day!” one shouted.
“I shall not be maimed!” yelled Raj. “I will die first!”
More grumbling erupted, everyone seeming to feel differently about it, and no one happy. Darius was shocked; even with faced with maiming, his villagers still wouldn’t stand up, wouldn’t all agree, as one, to fight back. What more did they need? Had their spirits been crushed so deeply?
“It is not a choice,” one of the elders said, as the crowd slowly quieted. “It is not a choice that any man can make. It is a horror, a curse open us all.”
The crowd fell deeply silent, somber, for a long time, all that could be heard was the whipping of the wind.
“We do have a choice!” a villager yelled. “We can hand the girl over to them!”
There came a muted cheer of approval amongst some villagers.
“She’s endangered us all!” he yelled. “She broke the law. She is to blame! She must pay the price!”
There came a louder cheer of support among the crowd, mixed with arguing. Darius was amazed to see his people at such odds with each other, so willing to give her up.
“There is another choice!” another elder yelled out, raising his palms as the crowd grew silent. “We can offer them the girl and plea for our lives. Perhaps they will relent. Perhaps they shall not maim or kill us.”
“And perhaps they should do both!” another crowd member yelled out.
There came a cheer, and the crowd once again broke into an agitated murmur, long and intense—until Bokbu stood and raised both of his palms. As he did, all eyes turned to him with respect, and finally, there was silence.
He cleared his throat, his presence grave, commanding authority and attention.
“Because of the actions of this one girl,” he boomed, “our entire village has been put in an impossible situation. Of course we cannot accept death. We have little choice but to accept life as the Empire wishes us to have it, as we always have. If that requires handing over the perpetrator to them, then that is what we are compelled to do.
“As much as it pains me, sometimes one must sacrifice for the sake of the whole. I see no other way out. We must accept their sentence. We shall be maimed, but not dead. Life will go on for us, as it always has.”
He cleared his throat as the crowd remained silent, and he turned and fixed his gaze on Darius.
“Tomorrow, at daybreak, we will do as the Emperor commands and you, Darius, as they requested, will represent our village and present our offer to them. You will hand over the girl, we will accept their punishment, and we will move on. There shall be no more talk of this. The elders have spoken.”
With that, Bokbu reached out and slammed his staff on the hollow wooden log, making a definitive sound, the sound always used to mark an important ruling. It meant the ruling could not be changed, could not be argued.
One by one, the villagers dissipated, drifting back to their homes, despondent. Darius’s friends, Raj, Desmond and Luzi came over, along with several of his other brothers, as Darius sat there, numb, in shock. He could not believe that his people would betray Loti, betray him, like this. Were they that afraid of death? Were they so desperate to cling to their pathetic little lives?
“We can’t hand her over,” Raj said. “We can’t go down like this.”
“What are we to do?” asked Luzi. “Shall we fight? Us against ten thousand men?”
Darius turned to see his sister, Sandara, approaching, joined by that Queen of the white people, Gwendolyn, and her brothers. He saw the concern across Sandara’s and Gwendolyn’s faces. As Darius looked at Gwendolyn, he could see the warrior in her eyes; he knew that she was their best hope.
“How are your wounds, my brother?” Sandara asked, coming over and inspecting them, her face lined with concern.
“My wounds are deep,” he replied meaningfully. “And not from the lashing.”
She looked at him, and she understood.
“You cannot fight,” she said. “Not this time.”
“You have not lived here,” Darius said. “Not for years. You cannot tell me what to do. You don’t understand what our people have suffered.”
Sandara looked down, and Darius felt bad; he hadn’t meant to be so harsh with her. But he was feeling desperate, furious at the world.
Darius turned and looked at Gwendolyn, who also looked down at him with concern.
“And you, my lady?” he asked.
She looked back at him questioningly.
“Do you plan to leave us now?” he added.
Gwendolyn stared back, expressionless, and he could tell she was consumed by that very decision.
“The choice is yours,” he added, “to leave or to stay. You still have a chance to get out. The Empire does not know you are here. Of course, the Great Waste might kill you, but at least it is a chance. We, though—we have no chance. Yet if you stay, if you stay here and fight by our side, we would have a greater chance. We need you, you and your men, and their armor and their steel. Without you, we have no chance. Will you join us? Will you fight? Do you choose to be a Queen? Or do you choose to be a warrior?”
Gwendolyn looked back and forth from Darius to Sandara to Kendrick, and he could not read her expression. She seemed under a cloud, and he could see how much she had suffered. He could see that she was weighing the future of her people, as Queen, and he did not envy her her decision.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally, her voice broken, filled with sadness. “I wish I could help you. But I cannot.”
*
Gwendolyn, on her way back to the caves at sunset, passed through the village, all the people agitated, a panicked energy in the air, and her mind swirled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, she thought of Sandara’s people, of their predicament, and her heart went out to them. She knew how cruel the Empire could be—she had experienced it firsthand. Her first impulse, of course, was to rush to their aid, to throw her people into their fight, to give up all of their lives for their cause, for their freedom.
On the other hand, she was a Queen now. She was not her father’s daughter, not a teenage girl, but a Queen, with responsibilities for her people. They all looked to her and their lives all depended on her. She could not make the wrong decision on their behalf. After all, what right did she have to give up their lives for someone else’s? What kind of Queen would that make her?
Gwen had seen her people suffer so much, too much, and she had suffered so much herself. Did they deserve to be thrown into another war, to end their lives this way, far from home, here in this dusty village? The villagers would be terribly outnumbered in the morning, all of them maimed or worse. She knew the right thing to do, not as warrior, but as a leader, was to round her people up and, at the first light of sun, march them in the opposite direction, into the Great Waste. To begin the great journey to find the Second Ring. It might just be a fantasy, she knew, and they would all likely die out there in the Great Waste—but at least they would be striving for something, striving for another life. Not walking
into instant death.
Regardless of what she wanted, she, Gwendolyn, the individual, that was her job as Queen demanded, wasn’t it? To protect her people?
Gwen’s heart broke for the villagers. She believed in their cause, and it was a cause she shared. Yet, even the villagers were divided, and even they didn’t have the heart to fight. Few of them had the warrior spirit—few except for Darius. Could she fight a battle for them that they did not wish to fight themselves?
“As Queen, surely you cannot be considering their predicament?” Aberthol said as he walked beside her. “True, they are a good people. A kind and fair people—”
“And they took us in,” Gwen added.
Aberthol nodded.
“They did,” he replied. “But they do not fight our wars for us. We have no obligation to fight theirs for them. Not that we could win anyway. It is not, you see, an invitation to join them in battle—but an invitation to join them in death. Those are two vastly different propositions, my lady. Your father never would have approved of that. Would he have sacrificed all of his people? For a fight they do not wish to fight, and a fight they cannot win?”
They continued to walk, falling into a comfortable silence as Gwen pondered his words.
Kendrick and Steffen walked alongside here, and they did not need to say anything; she saw the compassion on their faces. They understood, all too well, what it meant to make a hard decision. And they understood Gwendolyn, after all this time, all these places together. They knew the decision was hers to make, and they gave her the space to make it.
All of which made Gwendolyn feel even more tortured by it. She could see both sides of it; yet her mind felt muddled. If only she had Thor here, by her side, with his dragons—that would change everything. What she wouldn’t give to see her old friend Ralibar appear in the horizon, swoop down with his familiar roar and let her take a long ride.