by Morgan Rice
The man bucked wildly, and she grabbed hold with everything she had as he resisted, squeezing harder and harder. He did everything he could to break free, but she strangled him with all her might. He reached up and tried again and again to release the chain from his throat—but her grip was too strong. She was holding on as if her life depended on it. And it did.
The other man was slowly rousing on the ground, slowly getting to his hands and knees, and she hoped and prayed she would have time to finish choking this man to death before the other approached her.
She squeezed harder and harder as the man cried out, gurgling, struggling, bucking like a wild animal. At one point he even reached back and elbowed her in the gut.
It hurt, but she didn’t let go, and she didn’t stop. Too much was at stake.
The other man finally gained his feet, reached up and grabbed the hot iron poker, and charged her. She didn’t have enough time. The other man was still alive, writhing, in her hands. He just would not die.
She could not let go of him to defend herself. She racked her brain for a strategy.
As the other man charged her, hot poker out in front of him, she waited until the last moment, and then dodged him, squirming out of the way, and instead pulled the man she was choking out in front of her, using him as a body shield.
It worked. The man pierced his cohort instead of her, driving the hot poker all the way into his friend’s heart as he shrieked while she choked him. Finally, his body went limp in her hands, the poker lodged in his chest.
The other one stood there, dumbfounded, staring at his friend’s corpse.
Luanda did not wait. She dropped the corpse and in the same motion, reached around, swung her hand high and whacked her other attacker hard across the face with the iron shackle a second time. Her aim, again, was true, and she broke his nose a second time, knocking him flat on his back, moaning in agony.
She took no chances. She reached over, pulled the hot poker from the chest of the dead man, then reached up high, leaned over, and drove it through the chest of the other man.
He sat up, shrieking, blood gurgling from his mouth, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, as if unbelieving.
Then, a moment later, he stiffened and collapsed, dead.
Gwen dropped to her knees, searched the man’s belt, found the key, and unlocked the shackles at her feet, then at her wrists. She rubbed them, more sore than they had ever been, deep bruises left where she had been clasped.
She looked down at her two jailers, dead, a bloody mess. Filled with rage, she spit on them both.
She reached down and grabbed one of their daggers. Where she was about to go, she would need it. For she could not leave this place without her husband. And she would free him, even if it cost her her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Thor rode alone across the desert wasteland, galloping west as the first sun began to rise, and his heart welled with a great sense of expectation. He had been riding for hours, feeling a sense of guilt over leaving his brothers behind, but feeling more than ever that he was on a momentous trip, riding into his destiny. After his dream, and his encounter with Argon, he felt some great secret awaiting him in his hometown, and as he rode, he felt a tingling through his body, felt on the precipice of a great discovery.
Thor also felt a sense of dread. He hadn’t seen his father since he had stormed out that fateful day, after their argument, and had never returned. He wondered what his father thought of him now. Would his father be remorseful? Would he regret that he had treated Thor so harshly? Would he regret that he had favored his brothers so much? Did he miss having Thor around? Would he apologize and welcome Thor back? Would he want him to stay? Would he be proud of Thor when he saw the warrior he had become, what he had achieved, against all odds?
Or would he be the same old hateful, begrudging father? The one who had always been in competition with him, who had always favored his brothers? Who had refused to recognize Thor’s individuality, his positive traits, his unique talents? The one who had, at every turn, tried his best to keep Thor down? That was the father he had always known. That was the father he had grown to hate.
Thor had tried so many times to love him, to get close to him—but his father just kept pushing him away, finding a way to put barriers between them. Finally, Thor had given up.
As Thor thought it through, he concluded that his leaving probably had not changed his father much, if at all. Most likely, he was the same begrudging, stubborn, spiteful person. Most likely, he would not be happy to see Thor again. He would probably compare him, as he always had, to his three brothers, only seeing their greater height and larger size as proof that they were superior to him. His father was who he was, and nothing could change that. Not even Thor’s love.
His father was a victim of his own personality. But that was no excuse: his father should have been strong enough to overcome his own personality at least enough to be kind to Thor. There came a point, Thor realized, when he could only forgive his father so much for his personality. After a certain point, his father had to take some personal responsibility.
Thor kicked his horse ever harder, as they sprung from the wasteland into the well-paved roads and grassy fields, heading closer to the home he once knew. It was weird to be coming back here, on this familiar road, heading home—this time, on a horse of his own, a fine animal, finer than any warrior, any full grown man, in his hometown owned. And to be bearing his own, superior weaponry, and wearing his own armor—and most of all, the emblem of the Legion. The small black pin of the falcon on his chest, gleaming in the sun, which Thor was more proud of than anything. A part of him felt as if he were returning a conquering hero; he felt as if he had left as a boy, and was returning as a man. An equal to his father. Although, of course, his father would never recognize that.
Thor turned onto the familiar roads, marveling that he was back here. On the day he’d left, he never imagined returning, for any reason. And when he had lived here, he had never imagined getting out. The whole experience of being here was surreal.
Thor turned onto the wide open road that led to his small village, remembering it like the back of his hand. As he surveyed the town before him, he was amazed: nothing had changed. There were the old women, still hunched over their cauldrons, boiling their dinner. There were the dogs, running about, the chickens, the sheep…. It was as if no one had even changed position. He recognized the faces, the same old women, the same old men, the same boys, everyone going about their same daily routine. It was like nothing had changed in the world for these people in all these months he had been gone. It was hard for him to fathom. Because he had changed so much, so fast.
Thor had been to so many places since he had left, had undergone so many new experiences, that it had changed his perspective: while this place had once seemed so big and important, it now felt small and quaint to him. Even insignificant. He could not believe that it had ever seemed important to him at all. What had once felt familiar, comforting, now felt small, confining. Thor appreciated now how big the world was out there, and he could finally see this town for what it was: just another insignificant farming town on the periphery of King’s Court. Riding through here he felt claustrophobic, felt a desire to leave already; he could hardly even imagine remaining here for an afternoon.
Thor also felt a sense of anger being here—even a desire for vengeance. In this town he had always been known as the youngest, the weakest, the least ambitious, of his father’s children; he had been known as the one least loved and least wanted, the one destined to stay at home, to tend the sheep. He had never really been taken seriously by anyone here. And no one had ever expected him to leave. Being here had made him feel small, less than himself. It was the very opposite of being in King’s Court, of the way the Legion made him feel. Now, looking at it with fresh eyes, he found himself resenting this place deeply.
He slowed his horse as he headed down the main street, to all the wondering stares of the villagers. He co
uld feel the glances, but he did not stop to talk to anyone, and did not meet anyone’s eye. Instead he rode proudly down the center, then turned down the street for his house, the one he knew by heart. The one that lingered in his dreams. And his nightmares.
Thor found himself outside his old door, and he jumped down, his spurs jingling, tied his horse, and headed for it, weapons rattling on his hip. Thor noticed that the door to his house was ajar, and it was eerie to see. It brought his dream back with full force. He felt a tremendous heat rise through his body, and it told him that something momentous was about to happen.
Thor reached for the iron knocker, but as he did he heard a clanging coming from the back of the house, and he recognized the sound: it was his father, banging away at his forge, probably fixing one of the horse’s shoes, as he often did. The sound fell regularly, and it was definitely his father’s handiwork.
Thor turned and walked around the side of the house, steeling himself to set his eyes upon his father again. His heart was pounding. He felt more nervous than he had when riding into battle. A part of him couldn’t wait to see him, couldn’t wait to see if he was proud of him, couldn’t help but hope; but another part of him dreaded it, and feared the worst.
Thor turned the corner and there he was: his father. He was hunched over his forge, wearing the same clothes he had seen on him when he’d left, hammering away at a horseshoe as if it were the most important thing in the world. Thor stood there, feeling cold with anxiety, looking at his father, remembering their last encounter. His heart beat faster as he wondered what his father’s reaction would be upon seeing him.
Thor stood there, waiting patiently, not wanting to interrupt him—and a part of him not really sure what he was doing here after all. Had it been a mistake to come here? Had he been a fool to heed his dream?
Finally, his father took a break. He set down his anvil, leaned forward, and wiped the sweat dripping from his brow with the back of his hand. Then he turned—and as he did, he froze. He flinched upon seeing Thor, his eyes opened wide in shock.
There was a moment when Thor was filled with hope, with expectation. Would everything be different this time? A part of him hoped that it would. Maybe they could start again.
But as he watched, his father’s face darkened, settling into a deep frown.
That frown told Thor all he needed to know. His father was not repentant. His father was not forgiving. His father did not want to start again. He was the same old dad.
“And look who has come crawling back home,” his father seethed, looking Thor up and down as if he were an insect. “Dressed in all your fancy armor, are you? Did you think that would impress me?”
Thor felt himself shaking inside. He had forgotten how mean, how cutting, his father could be, and he had not wanted it to go down like this.
“Well, it does not impress me,” his father continued. “Not in the least. The day you left here you were dead to me. How dare you come back?”
Thor felt his breath taken away by the harshness of his father’s words. It made him realize, in comparison, how kind the new father figures in his life had been—MacGil, Kendrick, Erec. None of them were related to him, yet they had all been much kinder to Thor. It made him finally realize what a cruel, small man his father was—especially compared to other fathers—and how unlucky he’d been to be his son. It was odd to Thor, because for most of his life he had idolized his father, had thought he was the biggest and most important man in the world. But now that he had gotten out of this place, now that he had met the others, he realized that it had all just been an illusion.
He was beginning to feel a new feeling: that his father was nothing to him now. He was beginning to feel like a distant acquaintance who it displeased him to run into again.
“I have not returned to you, father,” Thor said coolly and calmly, shaking inside but respectful, as he had always been. “I haven’t come back here to stay.”
“Then for what?” snapped his father. “Did you leave something behind? Or have you come to deliver some news of your brothers? It had better not be bad. They were finer men than you will ever be.”
Thor tried to remain calm, tried to stay brave. He felt flustered now around his father, as he had always felt, and he could not think as clearly as he had before. He had always had a hard time standing up to him, had a hard time expressing himself in the heat of the moment. But this time he resolved for things to be different.
“No, I’ve not come to deliver news of your beloved other sons,” Thor said. It felt good to speak the words, and he heard in his own voice a new strength, one he had never felt before when speaking to his father. It was the strength of a warrior. The strength of someone who had become independent, his own man.
His father must have sensed it, because he got to his feet, agitated, turned his back on Thor and began fiddling with his tools as if Thor didn’t exist.
“What then?” he snapped, not looking Thor’s way. “Because if you’re coming to ask my forgiveness, you won’t get it. The day you left, you lost a father. Unforgivable. I heard you barged your way into the Legion. Do you think that makes you a man? You stole your position. You got lucky. You didn’t deserve it. You might fancy yourself some sort of warrior. But you’re nothing. Do understand me?” he asked, turning red-faced, facing Thor in a rage.
Thor stood his place, beginning to well up with rage himself. He had seen this going so differently in his head. He had come here with plans to ask his father certain questions—but now, in the moment, those questions all fled from him. Instead, another question popped into his head.
“Why do you hate me?” Thor asked calmly, surprising himself that he had the courage to ask the question.
His father stopped and looked at him, stumped for the first time since he had known him. He narrowed his eyes at Thor.
“What kind of a question is that?” he asked. “Whoever said I hate you? Is that what they teach you in the Legion? I don’t hate you. Like I said, you are nothing to me now.”
“But you don’t love me,” Thor insisted.
“And why should I?” he retorted. “What have you ever done to deserve my love?”
“I’m your son,” Thor responded. “Isn’t that enough?”
His father looked down at him, long and intense, then finally turned away. Before he did, Thor detected a different expression, one he had never seen before. It was one of confusion.
“Sons don’t deserve love just by being sons,” his father said. “They must earn it. Everything must be earned in this world.”
“Do they?” Thor retorted, not letting it go this time. In the past he had always given in to his father’s arguments, his father’s abrupt way of ending a conversation, of getting in the last word and refusing to hear anymore. But not this time. “And what exactly must a son have to do to earn his father’s love?”
His father reddened, on the verge of exploding, clearly outwitted and fed up. He turned and charged towards Thor, reaching out to grab him by the shoulders with his strong, callused hands, as he had so many times in Thor’s life.
“What is it that you are doing here?” he screamed in Thor’s face. “What is it that you want from me?”
Thor could feel his father’s anger coursing from his hands and into his shoulders.
But Thor’s shoulders were bigger and wider now than when he had left, and his hands and forearms were more powerful, too, twice as strong as they had been. His father always thought he could end an argument by grabbing Thor’s shoulders, by shaking him, by infecting him with his anger—but not anymore. As soon as his father’s hands dug into his shoulders, Thor reached up, lifted his hands between them and knocked his father’s hands away; then, in the same motion, he shoved his father with the heel of his hands, right in his chest, hard enough to send his father stumbling back a good five feet, and sending him so off-balance that he nearly fell.
His father looked back to Thor, shocked, as if wondering who he was. He looked as if a snake had
bit him. His face remained red with rage, but this time, he stayed his ground and kept a healthy distance and dared not approach Thor—for the first time in Thor’s life.
“Don’t you ever lay a hand on me again,” Thor said calmly and strongly. “It is not a warning.”
Thor was being genuine. Something inside him would not tolerate this treatment anymore; something inside him warned him that if his father ever laid a hand on him again, he wouldn’t be able to control his reaction.
Something unspoken passed between them, and his father seemed to understand. He stood there and lowered his shoulders just a bit, enough for Thor to realize that he wouldn’t attempt it again.
“Have you come here to harass me then?” his father asked, sounding broken, sounding old, in that moment.
“No,” Thor said, finally remembering. “I’ve come here for answers. Answers that only you can give me.”
His father stared back, and Thor took a deep breath.
“Who was my mother?” Thor asked. “My real mother?”
“Your mother?” his father echoed, caught off guard. “And why would you want to know that?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to know?” Thor asked.
His father looked down to the ground, and his expression softened.
“Your mother died in childbirth with you. I told you that already.”
But he would not meet Thor’s eyes when he said it, and Thor sensed he was not being truthful. Thor was more sensitive now, he could feel things more deeply, and he could feel that his father was lying.
“I know what you told me,” Thor said, strong. “Now I want the truth.”
His father looked up at him, and Thor could see his expression change once again.
“Who have you spoken to?” his father asked. “What have they told you? Who has gotten to you?”
“I want the truth,” Thor demanded. “Once and for all. No more lies. Who was my mother? And why did you hide it from me?”
