A Reign of Steel

by Morgan Rice

  “You seek absolute answers,” he said. “In the Land of the Druids, you will find there are no absolutes. The only answers you’ll find are within yourself. However powerful you are inside, that is how powerful this world will be before you. Prepare yourself, young Thorgrin, and steel yourself to control the hardest, greatest, most unwieldy weapon of all: your mind.”

  *

  Thor traversed the Land of the Druids for hours, MacGil by his side. The two of them had been laughing and bantering for hours, reminiscing about the old times, about the hunts they had taken together, about King’s Court, about when Thor had first met the King’s daughter. They talked about MacGil’s accepting him into his family; they talked about battle, and knights, and honor, and valor. They talked about King MacGil’s assassin, and the vengeance that had been taken. They talked of politics. But mostly they talked of battle. They were both fearless warriors at their heart, and they understood each other on a deep level. In some ways, Thor felt as if he were here talking to himself. It felt so good to be talking to King MacGil again, to have him back at his side. Thor felt a sense of a break from reality, as if he were wandering in a surreal land, in a dream from which there was no waking up.

  They passed through vistas that Thor recognized with delight, places that felt so familiar, places from his hometown, from his countryside, from outside King’s Court. He felt so comfortable here. A part of him could dimly feel his mind creating these places as he went, and it was hard to separate the two; Thor felt as if he were standing at a strange intersection between his own mind and the external reality of the world. It was scary to him to realize the depth of power of his mind. If he could create anything, that meant he could create the most glorious kingdoms with the snap of a finger. Yet if he had a moment of weakness, that meant that, in just a few moments, he could create the darkest kingdoms. That terrified him. How could he keep his mind filled with positive thoughts all the time?

  They crested a hill and both stopped, looking out. Thor gasped, awestruck at the sight. He could hardly fathom it: spread out below was King’s Court. It was a perfect replica, so real that Thor was certain it was the real thing. It looked more glorious than he had ever seen it, thousands of knights in shining armor standing before the ancient stone walls, standing before the portcullis, lining the parapets. There were more knights than he’d ever seen, glorious warriors protecting a glorious city.

  King MacGil stood beside him and smiled.

  “Your mind is a beautiful place, Thorgrin,” he said, looking out and admiring the view. “I never had that many knights in King’s Court. It seems you have increased their ranks!”

  King MacGil threw back his head and laughed.

  “In fact, I don’t think I have ever seen that many knights at once,” he added. “The shining of their armor blinds me. You truly are a warrior at heart.”

  Thor had a hard time believing his mind was creating this; it all seemed so real, so perfect, more real than anything he’d ever seen.

  Thor set out on the path with MacGil, the road perfectly immaculate, heading toward the gates. As they went, thousands more knights appeared on the road and stiffened at attention, lined all up and down the road. Trumpets sounded in the distance.

  They crossed the bridge, over the moat, under the portcullis, and into King’s Court. As they passed beneath the massive, arched stone gates, waiting to greet them was a single person, smiling, hand outstretched to them.

  Gwendolyn.

  Thor beamed at the sight of her. She looked more beautiful than ever, with her long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, wearing a regal dress, smiling and holding one hand out for Thor.

  Thor hurried to her and embraced her and she leaned in and kissed him, hugging him tight.

  Then they turned and walked through King’s Court together, King MacGil falling in beside his daughter.

  “I’m glad that you envision my daughter in such a beautiful light,” King MacGil whispered to him. “I see her the same way.”

  “Thorgrinson,” Gwendolyn whispered, clasping one hand around his arm, leaning in and kissing his cheek. He could feel her love for him, and it revived him.

  “Gwendolyn,” he said, clasping her hand, holding it tight. Suddenly, Thor remembered. “Where’s Guwayne?”

  No sooner had he spoken the words then there came the cry of a baby. Thor looked over to see his son in Gwendolyn’s arms. She held him gently, cradling him, smiling.

  Thor reached out and took the boy, who leapt into his arms, bigger and older than Thor remembered. Guwayne hugged Thor, and Thor hugged him back.

  “Daddy,” Guwayne said into his ear.

  It was the first time Thor had ever heard him speak. It was surreal.

  Suddenly, Gwendolyn and MacGil stopped, and Thor turned to see why. As he saw, he stopped, too.

  Standing before them was a man who meant more to Thor than just about anyone: Argon. He stood dressed in his white cloak and hood, holding his staff, his eyes shining as he stared back, expressionless.

  “Thorgrinson,” Argon said.

  Thor reached out and handed Guwayne back to Gwen, but as he looked down, he saw that Guwayne was gone. Vanished.

  Thor looked over at Gwendolyn, but saw that she was gone, too. So was King MacGil. In fact, as he spun, he saw that everyone—all the knights, all the people that had filled King’s Court just moments before—had disappeared.

  The city now stood empty. Now it was just Thor and Argon, standing in this empty place, facing each other.

  “It is time to further your training,” Argon said. “Only here, in the Land of the Druids, can you begin to reach the highest levels of who you are; can you begin to tap the deepest levels of your powers. Only here can you understand what it means to be who you are, what it means to be a Druid.”

  Thor fell in beside Argon as the two of them walked through King’s Court. There was nothing but silence, and the howling of the wind. Finally, Thor spoke.

  “What does it mean to be a Druid?” Thor asked.

  “It means to be everything and nothing. To be a Druid, one must master nature, and one must master one’s self. It means to combine the frailty of being human with the limitless power of harnessing nature. Do you see that lion, there, charging us?”

  Thor turned and saw a fierce lion racing for them. His heart raced with fear as it neared, yet Argon simply held out a hand, and the lion stopped as it leapt and fell to their feet, harmless.

  Argon lowered his palm.

  “The lion opposes you, until you understand its nature. There is a current that underlies all things. Here in the Land of the Druids, the current is not beneath the surface. The current is the surface.”

  “I feel it,” Thor said, closing his eyes, breathing in deeply, holding up his palms to the wind. “I sense it. It is like…a thickness to the air…the slightest of vibrations, like something humming in the sky.”

  Argon nodded in approval.

  “Yes. It is like running your palm over rushing water. It is everywhere, and here, it is easier for you to harness it, to understand it. And yet it is also easier for you to lose control.”

  Thor turned and saw a bear charging for him, roaring, at full speed. Thor’s first impulse was to turn and run, but instead he held out his palm, feeling the energy of this place, knowing that it was only nature. Only energy. Energy that he could harness.

  Thor held out both palms, waiting, despite his fear, forcing himself to stay calm; at the last second, the bear leapt, roaring, then stopped. It stood there, its paws in the air, flailing, and finally, it lowered itself down to the ground and rolled onto its back.

  Argon turned and walked away, and Thor, amazed, turned and hurried to catch up.

  The two walked and walked, leaving the gates of King’s Court, Thor wondering where they were going.

  “If you hope to meet your mother,” Argon said, finally, “you have a far journey ahead of you. The Land of the Druids is not a land that you cross at your leisure. It is a land that
you must earn to cross. It must admit you. It is a land that demands of you, that tests you. Only the worthy can cross it. Your mother is at the farthest end of this land. It will take everything you have to reach her. You must become stronger.”

  “But how?” Thor asked.

  “You will have to learn to purge yourself of the demons that lurk within you. Of old, painful memories. Of anyone who mistreated you. Of feelings of anger, hate, vengeance. Of hurt and pain. You must learn to rise above them, to leave them in the past. It is the ultimate test of a warrior—and of a Druid.”

  Thor furrowed his brow as they walked, trying to understand.

  “But how do I do that?” he asked.

  Argon stopped, and Thor looked out and saw stretched before them an endless landscape of gloom. The land was mud, punctuated by dead trees, and the dark clouds that glowered above it matched its color. A slow-winding river cutting its way through it, its water the color of mud, and Thor realized at once where he was.

  “The Underworld,” Thorgrin said, remembering the Empire. “The Land of the Dead.”

  Argon nodded.

  “A place of your darkest dreams,” he said. “An endless and vast wasteland. It lies inside you. The darkness, along with the light. And you must cross this. It is the first step in the journey.”

  Thor gazed out with dread at the barren land, hearing the awful sound of distant crows, feeling the intense gloom pervading this place. He turned to Argon to ask him more—but was surprised to see him already gone.

  Thor turned back to look for the safety of King’s Court, wondering if he should turn around—but it was gone now, too. He stood alone, in the center of this endless wasteland, surrounded by death, by the darkest corners of his psyche—and with no way out but through.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Reece ran through the driving rain with Stara, Matus, and Srog by his side, stumbling their way down the muddy slope in the black of night. Matus ran with one arm clamped around the waist of Srog, who was limping badly, while Reece clutched Stara’s hand, not out of love, but to keep her from slipping, and to keep himself from slipping too. He felt guilty even touching it, thinking of Selese, but given the situation, he had no choice.

  They all ran along the edge of the cliff, slipping in the mud as they went, careful not to fall over the edge. Reece knew the sea was not far, the crashing waves somewhere below, and yet he was barely able to hear them over the sound of the pounding rain. With the number of soldiers awaiting them out there, Reece knew they were likely on a suicide mission. He knew that the Upper Islanders would be waiting for them in force at the shores, blocking any possible escape route for them, any dream of making it to his sister’s fleet, which was harbored out at sea.

  Reece no longer cared. At least they had a plan and would die with honor, not sitting as cowards in that cave. A part of him, anyway, had died with Selese, and now he just fought for survival.

  Reece knew they hadn’t much time before daybreak, when the Upper Islanders would surely move to take vengeance on his sister’s fleet. Even if they didn’t make the safety of the ship, Reece knew they had to at least try to reach the fleet to warn them. Reece could not allow them all to die, could not allow their deaths to be on his head. After all, he was the one who had killed Tirus and who had unwittingly set them all up for retribution.

  The cliffs finally gave way to a steep mountain slope, and they stumbled downward, trying to make for the shore below, slipping and propping each other up. Reece saw the ocean spread out below, and finally was close enough to hear their crashing waves over the sound of the rain.

  They reached a small plateau and they all paused, breathing hard.

  “Leave me,” Srog said, gasping, clutching his side. “My wound cannot sustain this.”

  “No one gets left behind,” Reece insisted.

  Reece gasped for air as he looked down and saw hundreds of Tirus’s men fanned out on the shores, standing guard, on the lookout, blocking their escape to the ships—and also blocking the ships from reaching shore. Reece knew the only reason they hadn’t been killed yet was because of the cover of darkness, and because of the blinding wind and rain and fog.

  “There,” Stara said, pointing.

  Reece followed her finger and saw dozens more of Tirus’s men pressed inside a cave on the shore, sheltered from the wind. They were dunking long arrows into buckets, then wrapping the tips of the arrows in cloth, slowly, meticulously, again and again.

  “Oil,” Stara said. “They’re preparing to set their arrows aflame. Those arrows are long. They’re meant for the ships. They intend to set the fleet aflame.”

  Reece watched, horrified, and realized she was right. He felt a pit in his stomach as he realized how close Gwendolyn’s ships were to being lost.

  “Those arrows would never fly in this wind and rain,” Matus said.

  “They don’t need to,” Stara countered. “As soon as the rain stops, they will.”

  “We haven’t much time,” Srog said. “How do you propose we fight our way through all those men? How can we reach the Queen’s ships?”

  Reece scanned the shores. He looked out at the ships, bobbing in the rough waters, anchored perhaps a hundred yards offshore; the sailors surely had no idea what had happened on shore, no idea of what was about to happen to them. He could not let them get hurt. And he also needed to reach them for their own escape. Reece surveyed the landscape, wondering how they could do it.

  “We can swim,” Reece said.

  Srog shook his head.

  “I’d never make it,” he replied.

  “None of us would,” Matus added. “Those waters are rougher than they look. You are not from here; you do not understand. The tides are fierce in the open sea. We would all drown. I’d rather die on dry land than at sea.”

  “What about those rocks?” Stara suddenly said.

  They all turned and followed her finger. As he peered into the rain, wiping water from his eyes, Reece saw a jetty of rocks, jutting out into the ocean perhaps thirty yards.

  “If we can make it to the edge of those rocks, my arrows can reach,” Stara said, lifting her bow.

  “Can reach what?” Matus asked.

  “The closest ship,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Reece looked at her, confused.

  “And why would you fire on our own ships?”

  Stara shook her head, impatient.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “We can attach a rope to the arrow. If the arrow lodges in the deck, it will give us a line. It can guide us through the waters. We can pull ourselves as we swim to the ship.”

  Reece looked at her, impressed by her bold plan. The idea was crazy enough that it just might work.

  “And what are the Queen’s men going to do when they see an arrow with a rope lodging into their ship in the black of night?” Srog asked. “They will cut it off. Or they will kill us. How should they know it is us?”

  Reece thought quickly.

  “The MacGil sign,” he said. “The falcon’s claws. Any MacGil of the Ring will recognize it. Three arrows shot straight into the sky, all of them aflame. If we shoot them off first, they’ll know it’s us, not the enemy.”

  Srog looked at Reece skeptically.

  “And how are you going to get flaming arrows to last in weather like this?”

  “They don’t need to last,” Reece replied. “They just need to stay aflight for a few seconds, just long enough for the sailors to see them, before the rains will put them out.”

  Srog shook his head.

  “It all sounds like craziness to me,” he said.

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Reece asked.

  Srog shook his head.

  “Then it’s settled,” Reece said.

  “That rope there,” said Stara, pointing. “The long one, coiled up, on the beach, near Tirus’s men. It is just long enough. That’s what we need. We can tie it to the arrow and make it work.”

&
nbsp; “And if your brother’s men spot us?” Srog asked.

  Stara shrugged.

  “Then we shall be killed by our own men.”

  “And what of those ten men there, blocking the entrance to the jetty?” Srog asked.

  Reece looked out and saw six soldiers standing before it. He turned, snatched Stara’s bow, grabbed an arrow, raised it high, and fired.

  The arrow sailed through the air, sailing down forty yards, and pierced one of the soldiers through the throat. He dropped dead.

  “I count nine,” Reece said, then took off at a sprint.

  *

  The others followed Reece as he sprinted down the hill, slipping and sliding, scrambling for the jetty. It took Tirus’s men a few moments to realize that one of their own had fallen; yet soon enough they did, and they all drew their weapons, on guard, peering out into the night for the enemy.

  Reece and the others raced recklessly for the chokepoint leading out to the jetty, Reece feeling that if they got their fast enough, just maybe they could kill the soldiers guarding it before they knew what hit them. More importantly, maybe they could get past them.

  “Attack them, but no matter what, don’t stop running!” Reece yelled to the others. “We’re not here to fight them all—we just need to make it past them, to the end of the jetty.”

  The blackness of early morning was beginning to lift as they all ran, swords drawn, Reece gasping for air as his feet hit the sand, stumbling, realizing this might be the last run of his life. The group of soldiers blocking the jetty did not see them either, their attention on their soldier who had fallen, all of them baffled as to who had killed him. Three of the soldiers sat hunched over him, trying to revive him.

  That was their fatal mistake. Reece and Matus lunged forward as they reached them, Srog hobbling just behind them, swords drawn, and before the three soldiers, their sides exposed, realized, they stabbed each one through the heart. That left six of them.

  Stara, right behind them, drew her dagger and backhanded one, slicing his throat, dropping him to the ground; then she turned seamlessly and stabbed another through the heart. That left four.