by Morgan Rice
Merek furrowed his brow.
“If I tied something together, maybe I could reach it,” he said. “Something long and skinny.”
Merek reached up, felt his own collar, and extracted a wire from it; as he unfolded it, it was long enough to suit his purpose.
Merek leaned forward against the prison bars, careful so as not to alert the guard, and reached out with the wire, trying to hook the sash. It dragged in the dirt, but fell a few inches short.
He tried again and again, but Merek kept getting stuck at the elbow in the bars. They were not skinny enough.
The guard turned his way, and Merek quickly retracted it before he could see it.
“Let me try,” Ario said, stepping forward as the guard turned away.
Ario grabbed the long wire and stuck his arms through the cell, and his arms, much skinnier, passed through all the way up to the shoulder.
That extra six inches was what they needed. The hook just barely connected with the end of the red sash, and Ario began to pull it toward him. He stopped as the guard, facing the other direction, nodding off, lifted his head and looked around. They all waited, sweating, praying the guard did not look their way. They waited for what felt like an eternity, until finally the guard began nodding off again.
Ario pulled the sash closer and closer, sliding it across the prison floor, until finally it came through the bars and into the cell.
Godfrey reached out and put the sash on, and they all backed away from him, fearful.
“What on earth are you doing?” Merek asked. “The sash is covered with plague. You can infect us all.”
The other prisoners in the cell backed up, too.
Godfrey turned to Merek.
“I’m going to start coughing, and I’m not going to stop,” he said, wearing the sash, an idea hardening in his mind. “When the guard comes, he’ll see my blood and this sash, and you’ll tell him I have the plague, that they made a mistake in not separating me.”
Godfrey wasted no time. He began coughing violently, taking the blood on his face and rubbing it all up and down himself to make it look worse. He coughed louder than he’d ever had, until finally, he heard the cell door open and heard the guard walking in.
“Get your friend to shut up,” the guard said. “Do you understand?”
“He is not a friend,” Merek replied. “Just a man we met. A man who has the plague.”
The guard, baffled, looked down and noticed the red sash and his eyes widened.
“How did he get in here?” the guard asked. “He should’ve been separated.”
Godfrey coughed more and more, his entire body racked in a coughing fit.
He soon felt rough hands grab him and drag him out, shoving him. He stumbled across the hall, and with one last shove, he was thrown into the pit with the plague victims.
Godfrey lay on top of the infected body, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying to turn his head away, and not breathe in the man’s disease. He prayed to God he didn’t get it. It would be a long night, lying here.
But he was unguarded now. And when it was light, he would rise.
And he would strike.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thorgrin felt himself plunging to the bottom of the ocean, the pressure building in his ears as he sank in the icy water, feeling as if he were being stabbed by a million daggers. Yet as he plunged deeper, the strangest thing happened: the light did not get darker, but brighter. As he flailed, sinking, dragged down by the weight of the sea, he looked down and was shocked to see, in a cloud of light, the last person he’d expected to see here: his mother. She smiled up at him, the light so intense he could barely see her face, and she reached out to him with loving arms as he sank, heading right for her.
“My son,” she said, her voice crystal clear despite the waters. “I am here with you. I love you. It is not your time yet. Be strong. You have passed the test, yet there are many more to come. Face the world and never forget who you are. Never forget: your power comes not from your weaponry, but from inside you.”
Thorgrin opened his mouth to answer back, but as he did, he found himself engulfed by water, swallowing, drowning.
Thor woke with a start, looking all around, wondering where he was. He felt a rough material on his wrists and realized he was bound, his hands behind his back, against a wooden pole. He looked around the dim hold, felt the rocking motion, and he knew at once he was on a ship. He could tell by the way his body moved, by the slats of light coming in, by the moldy smell of men trapped below deck.
Thorgrin looked about, immediately on guard, feeling weak, and trying to remember. The last thing he remembered was that awful storm, the shipwreck, he and his men tumbling from the boat. He remembered Angel, remembered clutching onto her for dear life, and he remembered the sword in his belt, the Sword of the Dead. How had he survived?
Thor looked all around, wondering how he was sailing at sea, confused, looking desperately for his brothers, and for Angel. He felt relieved as he made out shapes in the darkness, and saw them all nearby, bound with ropes to the posts: Reece and Selese, Elden and Indra, Matus, O’Connor, and a few feet away from them, Angel. Thor was elated to see they were all alive, though they all looked exhausted, beaten down from the storm and from the pirates.
Thor heard raucous laughter, arguing, cheering from somewhere up above, and then what sounded like explosions in his ears as men tumbled over each other on the hollow deck, and he remembered: the pirates. Those mercenaries who tried to sink him into the sea.
He would recognize that sound anywhere, the sound of crude individuals, bored at sea, out for cruelty—he had encountered too many of them before. He realized, shaking off his dream, that he was their prisoner now, and he struggled at his cords, trying to break free.
But he could not. His arms had been bound well, as were his ankles. He was not going anywhere.
Thorgrin closed his eyes, trying to summon his power from deep within, the power he knew could move mountains if he chose.
But nothing came. He was too spent from the ordeal of the shipwreck, his strength still too low. He knew from past experience that he needed time to recover. Time, he knew, that he did not have.
“Thorgrin!” came a relieved voice, cutting through the darkness. It was a voice he recognized well, and he looked over to see Reece, bound a few feet away, looking back at him with joy. “You live!” Reece added.
“We did not know if you would come through!”
Thor turned to see O’Connor bound on his other side, equally joyful.
“I prayed for you every minute,” came a sweet, soft voice in the darkness.
Thor looked over to see Angel, tears of joy in her eyes, and he could feel how much she cared for him.
“You owe her your life, you know,” Indra said. “When they cut you loose, it was she who dove in and brought you back. Without her courage you would not be sitting here right now.”
Thor looked at Angel with a new respect, and a new feeling of gratitude and devotion.
“Little one, I shall find a way to repay you,” he said to her.
“You already have,” she said, and he could see how much she meant it.
“Repay her by getting us all out of here,” Indra said, struggling against her binds, irritated. “Those bloodsucking pirates are the lowest of the low. They found us floating at sea and bound us all while we were still unconscious from that storm. If they’d faced us man to man, it would be a very different story.”
“They are cowards,” Matus said. “Like all pirates.”
“They also stripped us of our weapons,” O’Connor added.
Thor’s heart skipped a beat as he suddenly recalled his weapons, his armor, the Sword of the Dead.
“Don’t worry,” Reece said, seeing his face. “Our weaponry made it through the storm—including yours. It is not at the bottom of the sea, at least. But the pirates have it. See there, through the slats?”
Thor peered through the slats and saw, on t
he deck, all of their weapons, laid out beneath the sun, the pirates crowding around them. He saw Elden’s battle-ax and O’Connor’s golden bow and Reece’s halberd and Matus’s flail and Indra’s spear and Selese’s sack of sand—and his very own Sword of the Dead. He saw the pirates, hands on their hips, looking down and examining them with glee.
“I never seen a sword like that,” one of them said to the other.
Thor reddened with rage as he saw the pirate prodding his sword with his foot.
“Looks like it was a King’s,” said another, stepping forward.
“I found it first, it’s mine,” the first one said.
“If you kill me for it,” said the other.
Thor watched the men tackle each other, then heard a loud thump as they both crashed down to the deck, wrestling, the other pirates jeering as they circled around. They rolled back and forth, punching and elbowing, the others egging them on, then finally Thor saw blood sprayed through the slats, saw one pirate stomp the other one’s head several times.
The others cheered, relishing in it.
The pirate who won, a man with no shirt, a wiry torso, and a long scar down his chest, got up and, breathing hard, walked over to the Sword of the Dead. As Thor watched, he reached down and grabbed it and held it up victoriously. The others cheered.
Thor burned at the sight. This scum, holding his sword, a sword meant for a King. A sword he had risked his life to earn. A sword given to he, and no other.
There came a sudden shout, and Thor saw the pirate’s face suddenly wince in agony. He cried out and threw the sword, as if holding a snake, and Thor saw it go flying through the air and land on the deck with a clang and a thud.
“It bit me!” the pirate yelled to the others. “The freaking sword bit my hand! Look!”
He held out his hand and displayed a missing finger. Thor looked over at the sword, its hilt visible through the slats, and saw small, sharp teeth protruding from one of the faces carved in it, blood running down it.
The other pirates turned and glanced at it.
“It’s of the devil!” one yelled.
“I’m not touching it!” yelled another.
“Never mind it,” said one, turning his back. “There are plenty of other weapons to choose from.”
“What about my finger?” cried the pirate, in agony.
The other pirates laughed, ignoring him, and instead focused on going through the other weapons, fighting over the cache for themselves.
Thor returned his attention to his sword, seeing it now sitting there, so close to him, tantalizingly right on the other side of the slats. He tried once again with all his might to break free, but his cords would not give. They had been tied well.
“If we could just get our weapons,” Indra seethed. “I can’t stand the sight of their greasy palms on my spear.”
“Maybe I can help,” Angel said.
Thor and the others turned to her skeptically.
“They didn’t bind as they did you,” she explained. “They were afraid of my leprosy. They tied my hands, but then they gave up. See?”
Angel stood, showing her wrists bound behind her back, but her feet free to walk.
“Little good it will do us,” Indra said. “You’re still locked down here with all of us.”
Angel shook her head.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m smaller than all of you. I can squeeze my body through those slats.” She turned to Thor. “I can reach your sword.”
He looked back at her, impressed by her fearlessness.
“You’re very bold,” he said. “I admire that about you. Yet you would endanger yourself. If they catch you out there, they may kill you.”
“Or worse,” Selese added.
Angel looked back, proud, insistent.
“I will die either way, Thorgrin,” Angel replied. “I learned that a long time ago. My life taught me that. My disease taught me that. Dying does not matter to me; it is only living that matters. And living free, unrestrained from the bonds of men.”
Thor looked back at her, inspired, amazed at her wisdom for such a young age. She already knew more about life than most of the great teachers he had met.
Thor nodded back at her solemnly. He could see the warrior spirit within her, and he would not restrain it.
“Go then,” he said. “Be quick and quiet. If you see any sign of danger, return to us. I care more for you than that sword.”
Angel brightened, encouraged. She turned quickly and hurried through the hold, walking awkwardly with her hands behind her back, until she reached the slats. She knelt there, looking out, sweating, eyes wide with fear.
Finally, seeing her chance, Angel stuck her head through a gap in the slats, just wide enough to hold her. She wiggled her way through it, pushing off with her feet.
A moment later, she disappeared from the hold, and Thor could see her, standing on the deck. His heart pounded as he prayed for her safety, prayed that she could get his sword and get back before it was too late.
Angel stood, crouched down and hurried quickly to the sword; she reached out with her bare foot, placed it on the hilt, and slid it over.
The sword made a loud noise as it slid across the deck, toward the hold. It was but a few inches away from the slats, when suddenly a voice cut through the air.
“The little creep!” a pirate yelled.
Thor saw all the pirates turn her way, then run to her.
Angel ran, trying to make it back—but they caught her before she could make it. They grabbed her and scooped her up, and Thor could see them marching her toward the rail, as if prepared to hurl her into the seas.
Angel managed to lift up the back of her heel hard and a groan rang out as she connected right between the pirate’s legs. The pirate holding her moaned and dropped her, and without hesitating, Angel raced back across the deck, reached the sword, and kicked it.
Thor watched, exhilarated, as the sword slipped through the cracks and landed in the hold, right at his feet, with a bang.
There came a scream as one of the pirates backhanded Angel. The others scooped her up and carried her back for the rail, preparing to throw her into the sea.
Thor, sweating, having more fear for Angel than for himself, looked down at his sword and felt an intense connection to it. Their connection was so strong, Thor did not need to use his magical powers. He spoke to it, as he would to a friend, and he felt it listen.
“Come to me, my friend. Release my binds. Let us be together again.”
The sword heeded his call. It suddenly lifted into the air, floated behind his back, and severed his ropes.
Thor immediately spun around, grabbed the hilt in midair, and brought the sword down, slashing the cords at his ankles.
He then jumped to his feet and slashed the cords binding all the others.
Thor turned and charged for the slats, raised his boot, and kicked off the wooden door. Shattered, it went flying into pieces as he burst out into sunlight, free, sword in hand—and determined to rescue Angel.
Thor sprinted onto the deck and charged for the men holding Angel, who squirmed in their arms, fear in her eyes as they reached the rail.
“Let her go!” Thor yelled.
Thor raced for her, cutting down the pirates who approached him from all sides, slashing them across the chest before they could even get a blow in—none of them a match for him and the Sword of the Dead.
He cut through the group, kicked the final two men out of the way, then reached out and grabbed the back of the final pirate’s shirt just before he dropped her over. He yanked him toward him, pulling Angel back over the edge, then twisted his arm so he dropped her. She landed safely on deck.
Thor then grabbed the man and hurled him over the edge. He plummeted into the icy seas, screaming.
Thor heard footsteps and turned to see dozens of pirates bearing down on him. This was not a small boat but a huge, professional ship, as large as any warship, and it contained at least a hun
dred pirates, all of them hardened, accustomed to a life of killing at sea. They all charged, clearly welcoming the fight.
Thor’s Legion brothers poured out of the hold, each racing forward to reclaim their weapons before the pirates could reach them. Elden jumped out of the way as a pirate brought a machete down for his neck, then he grabbed him and headbutted him, breaking the pirate’s nose. He snatched the machete from his hand and cut him in half. Then he leapt for his battle-ax.
Reese snatched his halberd, O’Connor his bow, Indra her spear, Matus his flail, and Selese her sack of sand, while Angel darted past them, kicking a pirate in the shin before he could throw a dagger at Thor. The pirate screamed and grabbed his leg, and the dagger went flying overboard.
Thor charged forward and leapt into the group, kicking one pirate in the chest and slashing another, then spinning around and slashing another’s arm before he could bring his machete down on Reece. Another charged and swung a club for his head, and Thor ducked, the club whizzing by. He prepared to stab him, but Reece stepped forward and used his halberd to kill him.
O’Connor let loose two arrows which went whizzing by Thor, and Thor spun and watched two pirates, charging for his back, fall dead. He spotted a pirate charging for Angel and Thor was about to chase after him when O’Connor stepped up and put an arrow in his back.
Thor heard footsteps and spun to see a pirate charging for O’Connor’s back with a club. Thor lunged and, feeling the Sword of the Dead vibrating, slashed his thick club in two then stabbed the pirate in the heart before he could reach him. Thor then spun around, kicked another man in the ribs, and, the Sword of the Dead leading the way, chopped off the man’s head. Thor was amazed. It was as if the sword had a beating heart of its own, willing Thor on to what it wanted him to do.
As Thor slashed furiously in every direction, a dozen men piled up before him, he covered in blood up to his elbows—when suddenly, a pirate jumped him from behind, landing on his back. The mercenary raised a dagger, bringing it down on the back of Thor’s shoulder, and he was too close, and it was too late, for Thor to react.
Thor spotted an object in the air, hurling at him out of the corner of his eye, and he suddenly felt the man release his grip and drop down to the deck. Thor turned to see Angel standing there, having just thrown a stone, and realized she’d connected perfectly with the man’s temple. The man squirmed at Thor’s feet, and Thor watched, amazed, as Angel stepped forward, grabbed a hook off the deck, and raising it high, impaled it in the man’s chest. It was the same hook the pirates had used to ensnare them in their net at sea. Justice, Thor realized, had come full circle.