by Morgan Rice
“My lady,” Steffen said, “those bells toll for death.”
She knew it to be true the moment he said it, and she stood there motionless, looking down, watching as panic ensued across the capital of the Ridge.
“But for whom?” she asked, baffled.
Steffen shrugged in response, and she watched as she saw panic spread throughout the streets of the Ridge. She sensed dark things were coming.
“The King!” someone called out from down below. “Our King is dead!”
Gwen’s heart went cold as she heard weeping erupt throughout the streets. She felt as if she had been stabbed in the gut. The King. Dead.
How could it be?
Gwen felt like running down there, grabbing someone, finding out what had happened; she wanted to run to the King’s body, wherever he was, to see for herself. How could it be possible?
Gwen felt overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. If only she had gone straight to him after the tower, as she had promised, perhaps she could have saved his life. Now, it was all too late.
“GO!” she commanded Steffen. “Find out what has happened!”
“Yes, my lady,” he said, turning and running off.
As Gwen looked down below, she could not help but feel that the chaos was already beginning to unfold, that the end of the Ridge was already arriving, just as Eldof, had prophesied. She was beginning to feel as if there were nothing left to stop it. It was if war had already arrived.
She felt an even greater urgency to find Argon now, before it was too late.
“Sometimes you find when you no longer search,” came a dark, cryptic voice.
Gwen spun, and was at once startled and relieved to see Argon standing a few feet away, staring back. He wore his golden robe, held his staff, and he nearly shone in the sun, lighting up the gloomy day.
“I thought you’d left,” she said. “To some other place, some other time.”
He stared back, expressionless.
“Soon enough,” he replied softly, “I will.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, indignant, stepping forward. “Why didn’t you tell me about your master? That you knew of a way to find Thorgrin?”
Argon stared back, and for the first time, she could see real surprise in his eyes.
“Who told you of my master?” he asked.
“Why?” she pressed. “Why won’t you tell me the secret you are holding? Why are you keeping me apart from Thorgrin? From Guwayne?”
Argon looked away, a pained expression across his face.
“Is it true?” she pressed, sensing she was onto something. “Do you have a master?”
“Yes,” he finally replied.
She stared back at him, shocked.
“Just a simple yes? That frightens me.”
“My master,” Argon began, “is a creature of whom you should be frightened. I vowed to never lay eyes upon him again—and it is a vow I intend to keep.”
“But he can lead me to Thorgrin?” Gwen pressed.
Argon slowly shook his head.
“You do not approach him unless you are prepared to lose your life. He is unpredictable—and very, very dangerous.”
“I don’t care if I lose my life,” she pleaded, stepping forward. “Don’t you see that? I have no life now without Thorgrin and Guwayne. How could you fail to see that all this time?”
Argon studied her for a long time, then slowly sighed.
“Yes, I do see,” he finally replied. “You humans think differently than I do.”
She breathed, hopeful.
“Then will you bring me to him?” she asked.
Argon turned and looked away, out at the sky.
“For you…”
As Argon’s voice trailed off, Gwen heard a screech high in the sky, and she looked up and was shocked at what she saw. She could not believe her eyes.
A dragon.
She thought her mind was playing tricks on her, but there it was, a dragon, a small one, which looked shockingly like Ralibar, circling again and again, flapping its wings.
At first, as the dragon swooped toward them, Gwen felt an impulsive reaction of fear. But then, as she studied it carefully, she sensed that it was not out to harm her. It swooped down, then up, again and again, and she realized it could kill her if it wanted to.
But it did not want to kill her. It wanted something else. To warn her, perhaps. Or to give her a message.
The dragon circled around one last time, then finally swooped down, landing nearby, perhaps twenty feet away.
Gwen was shocked as she looked at it up close, sitting there, so proud. It screeched, looking right at her, as it flapped its wings once.
Gwen, in awe, stared back, breathless, in a state of shock. What could this mean?
“Go ahead,” Argon said. “Touch it. It won’t harm you. Dragons do not come randomly.”
Gwen stepped forward, slowly, and she reached out tentatively and lay a hand on its neck. It was thrilling. She felt its ancient scales, so powerful, hard beneath her fingers, and it screeched.
Gwen jumped back as it flapped its wings; yet it stayed in place, and it lowered its head, and she sensed it wanted her to stroke it again. She stepped up, felt its bumpy scales, and she felt exhilarated to see a real dragon again. To be this close to one.
Even more so, as she touched it, she felt shocked that she could read its thoughts. She knew at once that it had been sent to her by Thorgrin.
She gasped.
“Thorgrin lives,” she said, filled with hope. “He sent her to me.”
Argon stepped forward with his staff.
“Yes,” he replied.
“He wants her to help us,” Gwen continued. “He wants to save me. To bring me to him.”
Gwen turned to Argon.
“I cannot,” she said. “Not with these people in jeopardy. I cannot abandon them. I made a vow to the King.”
“Then where shall we take this dragon?” Argon asked.
“To your master,” she replied, realizing at once it was meant to be. “You and I will ride it together. You will bring me to him. Now!” she commanded.
She looked at Argon, who hesitated, and Gwen knew this was a pivotal moment: he would either agree, or he would disappear forever.
Slowly, to her surprise, Argon stepped forward and leapt up onto the dragon.
He held out a hand for her.
She reached out and took it and she knew, as she did, that meeting his master, hearing his secrets, would change her life forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Alistair stood at the rail of the ship, joined by Erec, Strom, and their men, and looked over all their new companions with a sense of joy: there stood Godfrey, Dray at his heels, a sight for sore eyes, one of the only familiar sights from the Ring, along with Akorth, Fulton, Merek, Ario, Loti and Loc, and her men, all those they had rescued from Volusia, joined by their dog, Dray. While they had not yet found Gwendolyn, seeing these people filled her with a sense of optimism, made her feel like, despite the staggering odds against them, they might actually find Gwendolyn and achieve their goal. For the first time, Alistair felt they were getting closer to finding all the others, whatever was left of the exiles of the Ring, and liberating them from wherever they might be in the Empire.
Alistair realized how lucky they were, too, to have found Godfrey and Silis; after all, she had helped navigate them out of Volusia, had shown them the back way out, and had led them where they were now, back on the open ocean, sailing north along the Empire coast. As Alistair reflected, the ocean breezes caressing her face, she realized their journey had been epic; at many points it had seemed they would not survive upriver, would never shake off the Empire fleet, would never reach Volusia. Yet they had made it, had managed to rescue Godfrey, and to escape—and to dam up the pursuit of the Empire fleet behind them.
Now, as she watched the ever-changing coastline, she saw it shift—the ocean turned into a deep harbor, and that harbor split into many w
aterways, all leading back into the Empire. She felt her ship slow and saw the men lowering the sails as they all came to a stop before the crossroads. Alistair peered out into the sun glaring on the water, concerned. Each of these waterways could take them anywhere—and if they chose the wrong one, they would never find Gwendolyn.
She could see the puzzled looks on all of their faces; none of them knew which way to go.
They all turned to Silis.
“And now which way?” Erec asked her.
She examined the waterways and shook her head.
“I wish I knew, my lord,” she finally said to Erec. “I do not know which way Gwendolyn and the others went. I do not know if the famed Ridge even exists. These tributaries all will bring you deep into the Great Waste, and yet each in a different direction. The Waste, remember, is vast. Choose the wrong path, and you shall be a thousand miles from Gwendolyn.”
Erec stood there, looking baffled as he stared out at the waters. A long silence fell over them, the only sound that of the waters rippling against the hull, the wind passing through.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she added. “This is as far as I know. I brought us here, and out of Volusia—but from this point on, the decision is as much yours as mine.”
Erec stared for a long time, then finally turned to Alistair.
Alistair looked out at the water, wondering herself. Inside her, she could feel her baby girl, turning and kicking, and she felt comforted by her presence. She felt as if she were telling her something, urging her which way to go.
Alistair closed her eyes and searched deep within herself, summoning her own powers. She tried to visualize her brother Thorgrin, Gwendolyn, out there, somewhere.
Please, God, she prayed. Send me the answer.
Alistair heard a screech, high above, and she opened her eyes and searched the skies. High up, circling so high that she barely saw her, dipping in and out of clouds, she spotted Estopheles, Thorgrin’s falcon, screeching. She swooped down, then up, and as she circled, Alistair felt the bird was trying to give her a message.
“Alistair?” Erec asked, breaking the silence.
Alistair knew that giving him advice was a sacred responsibility. The fate of this ship, of all these people with her, of all the exiles of the Ring, depended on her choosing correctly.
Alistair closed her eyes, feeling hundreds of eyes upon her, and stepped forward and placed both palms on the rail, feeling the energy. She breathed deeply and focused.
The world about her became very still; she heard the lapping waters against the ship’s hull, the slight breeze in the air, the screech of Estopheles.
Gwendolyn, she thought, where are you?
As she stood there, Alistair began to feel her palms give off a warmth, and she slowly opened her eyes, looked at all the tributaries, and focused on one in particular: a winding river heading west, between three others.
Estopheles, she thought. If this is the river, if this is our path, swoop down. Show me.
Suddenly, Estopheles swooped down, to Alistair’s shock, right over the same river she was staring at.
“There,” Alistair said, pointing. “That shall lead us to Gwendolyn.”
Erec studied her, his brow furrowed.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
Alistair nodded, feeling the certainty in every part of her body.
“That river shall lead us to what remains of the Ring. They need us now. More than ever. I can sense it. There is a terrific danger coming.”
She turned to Erec, ashen, trying to blot out the hell she just saw.
“I do not know if they shall be alive by the time we reach them,” she said.
Erec looked back in horror, then he turned and called out fresh orders, and his men burst into action, their ship immediately picking up speed, and the entire fleet falling in line.
Alistair turned and stared out at the looming river, and as she did, she prayed.
Please, Gwendolyn. Live. We’re coming.
*
Godfrey sat at the stern of Erec’s huge ship, leaning against the rail, legs dangling over the edge as they sailed, Dray lying beside him, his second sack of wine in his hand, and finally feeling good. Beside him sat Akorth and Fulton, already on their fourth sacks, Merek on his first, and Ario, who only stared out into the waters. All of them, finally, were relaxed, all of them, after the chaos, the whirlwind, with a chance to breathe.
Godfrey reflected as he looked out at the waters, trying to process it all. He could not believe they had escaped the horrors of Volusia, a city in which he was sure he was going to die—nor could he believe that he had run into Erec and Alistair—or that he had managed to help them escape, too. The fact that he was even sitting on their ship now, on the way to find Gwendolyn, was surreal. It was as if he had been given a second chance at life.
Finally, for the first time since arriving in the Empire, Godfrey was optimistic. He was back in motion, with an army of his own people—and an army of freed slaves—and on his way to save Gwendolyn and the others. He took another swig of ale, letting it all go to his head, not having realized how much he had missed it.
Yet on the other hand, as he looked out, Godfrey also felt trepidation; he knew they were still far from home, were sailing into even greater dangers, heading deeper into the Waste in their quest to find his sister, if she were even still alive. Surely they would soon be engulfed by hostile Empire armies, and the deeper they went, the harder it would be to get out. He did not know what the future held.
Yet for the first time in a while, he did not care. He was part of something greater than himself now, and he felt a driving sense of mission, of purpose. He would go wherever he had to, risk whatever he had to, to save his sister.
As Godfrey took another swig, he speculated on the future. What if they all made it back, safe, together again? What would he do with his life then? There was a part of himself, stirring deep inside, that he did not understand, that was giving him some sense of unrest. He felt himself changing. If they survived all this, would he go back to spending his days in a tavern? Or would he do something else? Would he become the responsible son his father had always wanted him to be?
It was an awful, boring sense of responsibility that was creeping over him, a sense that his life should be devoted to something greater, that he hated. He felt that perhaps, after all he had been through, he was changing, becoming someone else, someone who, as a boy in the taverns, he would make fun of. Someone too serious. Someone who did not want to devote his life to drink and games.
“If we ever find this Ridge, what do you think their taverns will be like?” came a drunken voice.
Godfrey turned to see Akorth seated beside him, staring back, eyes glazed from wine.
“I suspect, very much like ours,” Fulton said.
“The taverns in Volusia were first rate,” Akorth said.
“And their ale,” Fulton added. “It was enough to make me want to stay and die there.”
“Perhaps we should have,” Akorth said. “We would have died, but at least we’d have a smile on our faces. Now we sail to who knows where?”
Godfrey stared out at the waters as they sailed, trying to shut out their voices; instead, he tried to reflect back on all the places he had been, all he had seen. What was it all for? He recalled the early days, when they’d all been in King’s Court together, he and Gwendolyn, Kendrick and Gareth, Reece and Luanda. His father had seemed so invincible then, so almighty. How could such times of strength and glory, such an impermeable kingdom, have been reduced to this?
Godfrey felt the strong wine going to his head, and began to feel lightheaded. He knew there would be battles up ahead. Surely, there would be a battle to save Gwendolyn, wherever she was, and a battle to escape from this place. Battles in which he might very well die. The chances were still overwhelmingly against them; they were still a small fleet in the midst of a vast Empire.
A part of Godfrey, the old Godfrey, wanted to drink himself int
o oblivion, to forget all this. He wanted to be so drunk that, when battle came, it wouldn’t even matter because he’d be so lost.
But the new Godfrey, the one he didn’t understand, bubbling up inside him, was beginning to feel otherwise. It was prodding him to face his troubles, whatever lay ahead, clear-headed, with courage. With valor.
Slowly, Godfrey stood until he reached his full height. He stared out at the waters, reached back, and threw his still-full sack of wine.
He watched it land in the river with a satisfying splash and float away.
“What have you done?” asked an outraged Akorth, as if he had just killed a man.
“Are you mad?” cried Fulton. “I would have drunk that!”
But Godfrey turned to him, a smile on his face, feeling clarity for the first time in his life. There were troubles ahead—and he was going to face them.
“No,” he replied. “I am not mad. I am awake. For the first time in my life, I am awake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Volusia stood before the open gates of the capital, palms held out uselessly before her, and watched, horrified, as the Knights of the Seven bore down on her, hardly fifty yards away. It was death, staring her in the face, galloping toward her, and she felt it coming with certainty. Finally, she was about to die.
But that was not what horrified her most. What filled her with a sense of cold dread, even more painful than the death to come, was her sudden realization. Was she not, after all, a goddess? She could not understand. She had tried to summon her powers and had failed. Why had the world not answered her?
Unless, Volusia realized, a pit in her stomach, it had all been a lie, one grand delusion. What if she was no goddess, after all? What if she were a mere mortal, like everyone else? What if all the statues she had erected to herself, all the services, the prayers, the incense, the holidays, the culture she had created—what if all of it had been false?
The idea that she was a mere mortal, a commoner like everyone else, was the most painful of her life. She was someone who could bleed and die. Someone who was not all-powerful. Someone whose life was about to come to an end.
