by Morgan Rice
“You are a fool. Why do you care so much about me? I wouldn’t care half as much for you.”
“I am leader now, which makes you my responsibility,” Reece replied. “I don’t care for you. I care for honor. And my honor commands me to leave no one behind.”
They both turned nervously as the first of the Faws reached them. Reece stepped forward, beside Krog, and they slashed with their swords, killing several.
“We go together!” Reece called out.
Without wasting another moment, Reece grabbed Krog, draped him over his shoulder, grabbed the rope, and the two of them screamed as they set off through the air, a moment before the Faws stormed the shore.
The two of them sailed through the air, swaying across for the other side.
“Help!” Krog screamed.
Krog was slipping off of Reece’s shoulder, and he grabbed the vine; but it was now wet with the spray of the rapids, and Krog’s hands slipped right through the vine as he plummeted down. Reece reached down to grab him, but it all happened too fast: Reece’s heart plummeted as he was forced to watch Krog fall, just out of his grasp, down into the gushing waters.
Reece landed on the far shore and tumbled to the ground. He rolled to his feet, prepared to rush back to the water—but before he could react, Conven broke from the group, rushed forward and dove headfirst into the raging waters.
Reece and the others watched, breathless. Was Conven that brave, Reece wondered? Or that suicidal?
Conven swam fearlessly through the gushing current. He reached Krog, somehow not getting bit by the creatures, and grabbed him as he flailed, draping an arm around his shoulder and treading water with him. Conven swam against the current, heading back to shore.
Suddenly, Krog shrieked.
“MY LEG!”
Krog writhed in pain as a Fouren lodged in his leg, biting him, its shiny yellow scales visible over the current. Conven swam and swam until finally he neared shore and Reece and the others reached down and dragged them out. As they did, a school of Fourens jumped into the air after them, and Reece and the others swatted them away.
Krog flailed and Reece looked down and saw the Fouren still in his leg; Indra pulled her dagger, bent over and dug it into Krog’s thigh as he shrieked, prying the animal out. It flopped on shore, then back into the water.
“I hate you!” Krog seethed to her.
“Good,” Indra replied, unfazed.
Reece looked at Conven, who stood there, dripping wet, in awe of his fearlessness. Conven stared back, expressionless, and Reece noticed with shock that a Fouren was lodged in his arm, flopping in the air. Reece couldn’t believe how calm Conven was, as he reached over slowly, yanked it out and threw it back into the water.
“Didn’t that hurt?” Reece asked, confused.
Conven shrugged.
Reece worried for Conven more than ever; while he admired his courage, he could not believe his recklessness. He had dived headfirst into a school of vicious creatures, and didn’t even think twice about it.
On the far side of the river, hundreds of Faws stood there, staring out, infuriated, chattering their teeth.
“Finally,” O’Connor said, “we’re safe.”
Centra shook his head.
“Only for now. Those Faws are smart. They know the river bends. They’ll take the long way, run around it, find the crossing. Soon, they’ll be on our side. Our time is limited. We must move.”
They all followed Centra as he sprinted through mud fields, past exploding geysers, navigating his way through this exotic landscape.
They ran and ran, until finally the mist broke and Reece’s heart was elated to see, before them, the Canyon wall, its ancient stone shining. He looked up, and its walls seemed impossibly high. He did not know how they would climb it.
Reece stood there with the others and stared up with dread. The wall seemed even more imposing now than it had on the way down. He looked over and saw their ragged state and wondered how they could possibly scale it. They were all exhausted, beaten and bruised, weary from battle. Their hands and feet were raw. How could they possibly climb straight up, when it had taken all they had just to descend?
“I can’t go on,” Krog said, wheezing, his voice cracking.
Reece was feeling the same way, though he did not say it.
They were backed into a corner. They had outrun the Faws, but not for long. Soon they would find them, and they would all be outnumbered and killed. All of this hard work, all of their efforts, all for nothing.
Reece did not want to die here. Not in this place. If he had to die, he wanted to die up there, on his own soil, on the mainland, and with Selese by his side. If only he could have one more chance to escape.
Reece heard a horrific noise, and he turned to see the Faws, perhaps a hundred yards away. There were thousands of them, and they had already skirted the river, and were closing in.
They all drew their weapons.
“There’s nowhere left to run,” Centra said.
“Then we’ll fight to the death!” Reece called out.
“Reece!” came a voice.
Reece looked straight up the Canyon wall, and as the mist cleared, there appeared a face he at first thought was an apparition. He could not believe it. There, before him, was the woman he had just been thinking of.
Selese.
What was she doing here? How had she arrived here? And who was that other woman with her? It looked like the royal healer, Illepra.
The two of them hung there, on the side of the cliff, a long and thick rope coiled around their waists and hands. They were coming down quickly, on a long, thick rope, one easy to grasp. Selese reached back and threw the rest of it down, dropping a good fifty feet through the air, like manna from heaven, and landing at Reece’s feet.
It was the way out.
They did not hesitate. They all ran for it, and within moments were climbing up, as fast as they could. Reece let everyone else go first, and as he jumped up, the last man up, he climbed and pulled the rope with him as he went, so that the Faws could not get it.
As he cleared the ground, the Faws appeared, reaching up and jumping for his feet—and just missing as Reece climbed out of reach.
Reece stopped as he reached Selese, who waited for him on a ledge; he leaned over and they kissed.
“I love you,” Reece said, his entire being filled with love for her.
“And I you,” she replied.
The two of them turned and headed up the Canyon wall with the others. They climbed, higher and higher. Soon, they would be home. Reece could hardly believe it.
Home.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alistair sprinted her way through the chaotic battlefield, weaving her way in and out of the soldiers as they fought for their lives against the army of undead rising up all around them. Moans and shrieks filled the air as the soldiers killed the ghouls—and as the ghouls, in turn, killed the soldiers. The Silver and MacGils and Silesians fought boldly—but they were vastly outnumbered. For each undead they killed, three more appeared. It was only a matter of time, Alistair could see, until all of her people were wiped out.
Alistair doubled her speed, running with all she had, her lungs bursting, ducking as an undead swiped for her face and crying out as another scratched her arm, drawing blood. She did not stop to fight them. There was no time. She had to find Argon.
She ran in the direction she had seen him last, when he was fighting Rafi and had collapsed from the effort. She prayed it had not killed him, that she could rouse him, and that she could make it before she and all her people were killed.
An undead appeared before her, blocking her way, and she held out her palm; a white ball of light struck it in the chest, knocking it backwards.
Five more appeared, and she held out her palm—but this time, only one more ball of light emerged, and the other four closed in on her. Her powers, she was surprised to realize, were limited.
Alistair braced herself for attack as they
closed in—when she heard a snarling noise and looked over to see Krohn, leaping beside her and sinking his fangs into their throats. The undead turned on him, and Alistair found her chance. She elbowed one in the throat, knocking it over, and ran.
Alistair pushed her way through the chaos, desperate, the ghouls increasing in number by the moment, her people beginning to be pushed back. As she ducked and weaved, she finally emerged into a small clearing, the place where she remembered seeing Argon.
Alistair scanned the ground, desperate, and finally, between all the corpses, she found him. He was lying there, slumped on the ground, curled up in a ball. He lay in a small clearing and clearly he had cast some sort of spell to keep others away from him. He was unconscious, and as Alistair rushed to his side, she hoped and prayed he was still alive.
As she came closer, Alistair felt enveloped, protected in his magic bubble. She took a knee beside him and took a deep breath, finally safe from the battle all around her, finding respite in the eye of the storm.
Yet Alistair was also struck with terror as she looked down at Argon: he lay there, eyes closed, not breathing. She was flooded with panic.
“Argon!” she cried out, shaking his shoulders with both hands, trembling. “Argon, it’s me! Alistair! Wake up! You have to wake up!”
Argon lay there, unresponsive, while all around her, the battle was intensifying.
“Argon, please! We need you. We cannot combat Rafi’s magic. We do not have the skills that you do. Please, come back to us. For the Ring. For Gwendolyn. For Thorgrin.”
Alistair shook him, you still he did not respond.
Desperate, an idea came to her. She lay both palms on his chest, closed her eyes and focused. She summoned all of her inner energy, whatever was left, and slowly, she felt her hands warm. As she opened her eyes, she saw a blue light emanating from her palms, spreading over his chest and shoulders. Soon it enveloped his entire body. Alistair was using an ancient spell she had once learned, to revive the sick. It was draining her, and she felt all the energy leaving her body. Getting weak, she willed for Argon to come back.
Alistair collapsed, exhausted from the effort, and lay at Argon’s side, too weak to move.
She sensed movement, and she looked over and to her amazement saw Argon begin to stir.
He sat up and turned to her, his eyes shining with an intensity that scared her. He stared at her, expressionless, then reached over, grabbed his staff, and gained his feet. He reached out one hand, grabbed hers, and effortlessly yanked her to her feet.
As he held her hand, she felt all of her own energy restored.
“Where is he?” Argon asked.
Argon did not wait for an answer; it was as if he knew exactly where he needed to go, as he turned, staff at his side, walked right into the thick of battle.
Alistair couldn’t understand how Argon was not hesitant to stroll into the soldiers. Then she understood why: he was able to cast a magical bubble around him as he went, and as the undead charged him from all sides, none were able to penetrate it. Alistair stuck close to him as he marched fearlessly, harmlessly through the thick of the battle, as if strolling through a meadow on a sunny day.
The two of them made their way through the battlefield, and he kept silent, marching, dressed in his long white cloak and hood, walking so fast that Alistair could barely keep up.
He finally stopped at the center of the battle, in a clearing, opposite which stood Rafi. Rafi still stood there, holding both arms out at his sides, his eyes rolled back in his head as he summoned thousands of undead, pouring out of the crevice in the earth.
Argon raised a single palm high overhead, palm up, facing the sky, and opened his eyes wide.
“RAFI!” he screamed in challenge.
Despite all the noise, Argon’s scream cut through the battle, resonating off the hills.
As Argon shrieked, suddenly the clouds parted high above. A white stream of light came flying down, from the sky, right to Argon’s palm, as if connecting him to the very heavens. The stream of light grew wider and wider, like a tornado, enveloping the battlefield, enveloping everything around him.
There came a great wind and a great whooshing noise, and Alistair watched in disbelief as beneath her the ground began to shake even more violently, and the huge crevice in the earth began to move in the opposite direction, slowly sealing itself backup.
As it began to close on itself, dozens of undead shrieked, crushed as they tried to crawl out.
Within moments, hundreds of undead were slipping, sliding back down to the earth, as the crevice became more and more narrow.
The earth shook one last time, then grew quiet, as the crevice finally sealed itself, the ground whole again, as if no fissure had ever appeared. The awful shrieks of the undead filled the air, muted from beneath the earth.
There came a stunned silence, a momentary lull in battle, as everyone stood and watched.
Rafi shrieked and turned and set his sights on Argon.
“ARGON!” Rafi shrieked.
The time had come for the final clash of these two great titans.
Rafi ran into the open clearing, holding his red staff high, and Argon did not hesitate, racing out to greet Rafi.
The two met in the middle, each wielding their staffs high overhead. Rafi brought his staff down for Argon and Argon raised his and blocked it. A great white light arose, like sparks, as they met. Argon swung back, and Rafi blocked.
Back and forth they went, blow for blow, attacking, blocking, white light flying everywhere. The ground shook with each of their blows, and Alistair could feel a monumental energy in the air.
Finally, Argon found his opening, swinging his staff from underneath, upwards, and as he did, shattering Rafi’s staff.
The ground shook violently.
Argon stepped forward, raised his staff high overhead with two hands, and plunged it straight down, right through Rafi’s chest.
Rafi let out an awful shriek, thousands of small bats flying out of his mouth as his jaw remained wide open. The skies turned black for a moment, as thick black clouds gathered from the heavens, right over Rafi’s head, and swirled down to earth. They swallowed him whole, and Rafi howled as he spun through the air, yanked upwards, into the skies, heading up to some awful fate that Alistair did not want to imagine.
Argon stood there, breathing hard, as all finally fell silent, Rafi dead.
The army of undead shrieked, as one at a time, they all disintegrated before Argon’s eyes, each falling into a mound of ashes. Soon the battlefield was littered with thousands of mounds, all that remained of Rafi’s evil spells.
Alistair surveyed the battlefield and saw there was only one battle left to wage: across the clearing, her brother, Thorgrin, was already facing off with their father, Andronicus. She knew that in the battle to come, one of these determined men would lose their lives: her brother or her father. She prayed that it was her brother who came out alive.
CHAPTER FIVE
Luanda lay on the ground at Romulus’ feet, watching in horror as thousands of Empire soldiers flooded the bridge, screaming with triumph as they crossed into the Ring. They were invading her homeland, and there was nothing she could do but sit there, helpless, and watch, and wonder if it was somehow all her fault. She could not help but feel as if she was somehow responsible for the Shield’s lowering.
Luanda turned and looked out at the horizon, saw the endless Empire ships, and she knew that soon it would be millions of Empire troops flooding in. Her people were finished; the Ring was finished. It was all over now.
Luanda closed her eyes and shook her head, again and again. There was a time when she had been so angry with Gwendolyn, with her father, and would have been glad to witness the destruction of the Ring. But her mind had changed, ever since Andronicus’ betrayal and treatment of her, ever since his shaving her head, his beating her in front of his people. It made her realize how wrong, how naïve, she had been in her own quest for power. Now, she would give
anything for her old life back. All she wanted now was a life of peace and contentment. She no longer craved ambition or power; now, she just wanted to survive, to make wrongs right.
But as she watched, Luanda realized it was too late. Now her beloved homeland was on its way to destruction, and there was nothing she could do.
Luanda heard an awful noise, laughter mixed with a snarl, and she looked up and saw Romulus standing there, hands on his hips, watching it all, a huge contended smile on his face, his long jagged teeth showing. He threw back his head and laughed and laughed, elated.
Luanda yearned to kill him; if she had a dagger in hand, she would run it through his heart. But knowing him, how thick he was built, how impervious he was to everything, the dagger probably wouldn’t even pierce it.
Romulus looked down at her, and his smile turned to a grimace.
“Now,” he said, “it’s time to kill you slowly.”
Luanda heard a distinctive clang and watched Romulus draw a weapon from his waist. It looked like a short sword, except tapered to a long narrow point. It was an evil weapon, one clearly designed for torture.
“You are going to suffer very, very much,” he said.
As he lowered his weapon, Luanda raised her hands to her face, as if to block it all out. She closed her eyes and shrieked.
That was when the strangest thing happened: as Luanda shrieked, her shriek was echoed by an even greater shriek. It was the shriek of an animal. A monster. A primordial roar, one louder and more resonant than anything she’d ever heard in her life. It was like thunder, tearing the skies apart.
Luanda opened her eyes and looked up to the heavens, wondering if she had imagined it. It sounded as if it had been the shriek of God himself.
Romulus, also stunned, looked up to the skies, baffled. By his expression, Luanda could tell that it had really happened; she had not imagined it.
It came again, a second shriek, even worse than the first, with such ferocity, such power, Luanda realized it could only be one thing:
A dragon.
