The Gift of Battle

by Morgan Rice

  Finally, Thor spotted the place that had haunted his nightmares: the castle of the Blood Lord. He tensed up at the sight of it. There it sat on the horizon, like mud that had risen from the earth and hardened, its sinister glowing lights within it. Thor could feel the gloom of it even from here. And yet his heart quickened, every fiber of his being on fire, as he knew his son lay beyond its walls.

  Lycoples flew and flew, over the shattered gatehouse, over the winding canals leading to it. He was further now than he’d ever been in the Land of Blood, past the Straits of Madness, past the Enchantress, and he knew there was nothing left now between him and the castle.

  Thor expected her to fly right to the castle gate—but she surprised him by coming to a stop several hundred yards before it, as if she’d hit an invisible wall, and diving down low. It was some sort of sorcerer’s bubble, he realized, even more powerful than the bubble cast by the Ring.

  As she prepared to land, Lycoples, Thorgrin realized, could go no further.

  Thor dismounted as Lycoples set them down on the road leading to the castle, and he looked over at the road before them. It was a long approach, the road made of smooth, blackened brick, its gleaming pathway lined with torches and with pikes, each impaled by a severed head.

  Thor looked at Lycoples and she stared back, and he sensed that she wanted to go on—but she could not.

  I shall wait for you here, she said in his mind’s eye. You shall return, warrior. With your son.

  Thorgrin reached up and stroked her head and turned toward the castle. He drew the Sword of the Dead from its scabbard with its distinctive ring, turned, and took the first step onto the road, knowing he would have to go it alone.

  Thor walked, then jogged, then ran down the path, passing all the impaled heads of others who had been foolish enough to come here. He sprinted with all he had, knowing his son was in that tower, desperate to lay eyes on him again.

  As he ran, approaching the stone drawbridge spanning a moat, Thor looked down to see the floor of the drawbridge was lined with spikes, and the moat’s blackened waters were teaming with snapping alligators and hideous creatures he did not recognize. He saw them gorging on human flesh, body parts floating in the water.

  As he looked up, approaching the bridge, he saw two guards standing before it, in all-black armor, twice as tall as he, each holding long halberds as they guarded the entrance.

  Thor never slowed; he continued sprinting, sword drawn, and as they broke into action, raising their halberds and swinging for him, he felt the power of the Ring propelling him forward. Faster than he’d ever been, stronger than he’d ever been, Thor leapt into the air—higher than ever—flying over the heads of the soldiers. With one clean slash, he chopped off one of their heads, then leapt across the bridge and chopped off the other.

  Their halberds fell harmlessly to the ground as they each collapsed, dead.

  Thor looked down at the spikes before him, and he took a running leap. In a single bound he leapt over the drawbridge, over all the spikes, and landed before the door to the castle.

  Thor examined it. It was an immense door, thirty feet high, shaped in a huge arch, made of iron and wood—but Thor did not feel intimidated by it. Instead, he reached up, grabbed the knocker, and with one pull, with the strength of a giant, he tore the door off it hinges, the power of the Ring coursing through him as he did.

  It was time for payback.

  As Thor tore off the door, he faced a grim blackness, the inside lit only by the faint orange glow of torches. A freezing cold gale rushed out at him, damp and cold, feeling like souls being released from hell. There was a faint moaning and howling in the air, as if Thorgrin were entering another realm of hell.

  Thor rushed inside, refusing to give in to his fears, thinking only of his son. He ran through the gloom and blackness, sword drawn, ready for anything, and as he did, he suddenly heard the screech of what sounded like a gargoyle.

  Thor suddenly detected motion, and he looked up to see one of the hideous creatures from Ragon’s isle, one that had snatched Guwayne, hanging upside down from the ceiling. Its glowing yellow eyes fixed on him, startled by his presence, and its face suddenly contorted in a sneer of rage as it released its claws, swooped down from the ceiling, and plunged right for him, screeching.

  Thor reacted, the Ring increasing his speed and reflexes. He stepped forward and met it, slashing the Sword of the Dead and cutting the creature in half.

  Thor sprinted through the castle, barely slowing to get his bearings, realizing dimly that this place was made of mud and stone, its walls warped. He ran through vast open chambers, his footsteps echoing, and down narrow, twisting and turning corridors, the floor made of mud; he jumped over lava streams and ran through empty rooms with walls made of ancient black granite. He ran through a huge arch and found himself in a chamber with a ceiling so high, he could not even find it.

  Thor heard a great cacophony, louder than the sound of his own breathing, his own pounding heart, and he realized he’d run into a nest of these gargoyles. The chamber lit up with their glowing yellow eyes, and they all screeched and began swooping down at him. It was as if he’d disturbed their nest.

  Thor slashed one after another, like huge bats coming for him. He was in the zone as he fought, feeling the Ring propelling him, slashing each one expertly, ducking and dodging the claws that came for his face. He slashed one, severing its wings, stabbed another, ducked, then jabbed backwards and knocked down yet another with the hilt of the sword. He felt more dexterous than he ever had, the Ring giving him a buoyancy, a power unlike any he’d ever known. It was almost as if it were telling him when to strike before he did.

  Thor continued sprinting through this cave, running blindly forward, not knowing where he was going, where his son was, but feeling the Ring urging him on. He was like a wild animal racing through, able to see and hear and react ten times faster than he’d ever had. He fought as he ran, until finally he was out of the chamber.

  Thor burst into another cavernous room, and he was shocked by what he saw. This room was lit up, streams of lava running along its edge, letting off enough light to see by as they sparked and hissed—and as he saw, Thor wished he didn’t. The screeching of the gargoyles was intensified in here, and as he looked up, he saw thousands of them blackening the ceiling, their wings fluttering, filling his ears, like a den of bats crisscrossing the room.

  Thor knew he should be afraid—but he was not. He did not feel fear. He felt focus. Intensity. He knew he was facing his worst enemies, and instead of wanting to flee, he felt privileged to be able to have the chance to stand against them.

  Thor moved faster than he could ever imagine, faster than even he himself could control. The Sword of the Dead was like a live being in his hand, directing him to slash and turn and spin and stab, allowing him to fell creatures left and right as he cut through the room, a single wave of destruction, felling gargoyles in every direction. Sharp fangs protruded from the Sword’s hilt, and they extended and killed creatures, too.

  But it was the Ring, Thorgrin knew, that propelled him to fight on another level. As Thor’s shoulders began to weaken, to tire, exhausted from spinning, slashing, reacting, hacking down so many of these things, he felt the Ring shoot a wave of energy up his arm, refreshing him, renewing his strained shoulder, as if he had just arrived to battle. When several gargoyles attacked him from behind and Thor could not turn to react in time, he felt the Ring turn and direct his arm, and he watched in awe as the Ring shot out an orb of light that knocked the gargoyles back across the room.

  Their carcasses piling up all around them, the gargoyles began to realize the inevitable. They backed off, dozens of them, all that was left of the thousands, retreating to the far corners of the cavern, now scared of Thorgrin.

  Thorgrin finally stopped fighting, breathing hard, and he surveyed the chamber in the stillness. Straight ahead, in the distance, on the far side of the chamber, he noticed a series of black granite steps leading u
pward, carved into a mountain. And as he looked up, at its top he saw an immense throne, twenty feet wide, covered in black diamonds, and he knew it was the throne of the Blood Lord.

  Yet it sat vacant.

  Thor was baffled, wondering why the Blood Lord was not here. Perhaps he had not been expecting Thor, had never thought he could arrive here, to his inner chamber.

  And as Thorgrin heard a sudden cry, he looked back up again, his body on high alert, and studied the chamber closely—and he was even more shocked by what he saw: there, sitting beside the throne, hiding in the shadows, was a shining golden bassinet.

  Guwayne.

  There came another cry, and Thorgrin’s heart lifted at the sound. Guwayne. He was really here, alive, unharmed, at the side of the throne.

  Thor did not hesitate. He broke into a dash, sprinting up the steps, taking them three, four, five, six at a time, until he reached the top. And as Thor raced by the throne, he suddenly stopped, feeling the strangest thing happen. It was as if the throne were magnetic. It was as if it wanted Thor to sit in it. To rule. To become King of the Dead.

  Thor stopped before it, shaking, barely able to fend off its power. He looked back and forth between it and Guwayne, knowing he should snatch Guwayne and leave.

  But as he stood there, his knees grew weak. He felt the Ring vibrating on his finger, trying to help him, and he knew he was caught in a supreme test of will. It was an ever harder test than confronting the Blood Lord: he was confronting himself. His own deepest, darkest impulses.

  You, Thorgrin, are meant to be here, a voice rang out. You are meant to be King. The Dark King. Sit, and feel the seat of power. Embrace us, rule here, and you can have powers beyond your wildest dreams. Sit, and finally be King.

  The Ring burned hotter and hotter on Thor’s finger as he leaned forward, barely able to contain his desires, about to sit on the throne.

  But then, at the last moment, Thor felt a searing flash of power course through the Ring and through his body, pushing him away, as if stung. He turned away from it.

  “NO!” he shouted.

  Thor instead turned to Guwayne, just feet away. His heart pounded as he lunged forward to embrace him, bracing himself, fearing that he might, like last time, find it empty. He could not take another disappointment.

  But as Thor reached down he was elated to see Guwayne in the bassinet—and he reached down and scooped him up and held him, feeling overwhelmed with emotion.

  Guwayne cried as Thorgrin held him, and Thor felt the tears running down his own cheeks, elated to hold him again, to see him alive, healthy, unharmed. Thorgrin held him tight, feeling Guwayne’s power course through him as he stood there. He felt that he was a very powerful child, more powerful even than Thor would ever be. He felt within Guwayne a power for good or for evil, and he shuddered, recalling the prophecy that his son would turn to darkness. He prayed it was not true. As long as he was alive, Thorgrin would do everything he could to shelter him, to prevent that.

  As Thorgrin lifted Guwayne from the bassinet, as he turned his back on the throne, suddenly, the entire castle, as if furious, began to shake. The walls began to crumble, to shake and collapse, as if Thorgrin had stolen from them their most precious possession. The gargoyles began to drop down from the ceiling, to fly away, to flee the room, as boulders began to drop and the ground began quaked.

  Thor realized they had little time. He clutched Guwayne tight, turned, and fled from the chamber, rushing down the steps four at a time, racing back through the cavernous room, dodging falling boulders as he went, all of them crashing beside him in a cacophony of dust.

  Thor twisted and turned his way in the darkness, back down the tunnels, racing for his life as the castle began to collapse all around him, Guwayne screaming in his arms. But as long as he held on tight to Guwayne, nothing mattered to him anymore.

  Thor saw the exit to the castle up ahead, and he saw the walls collapsing all around it, leaving but a sliver through which to escape. He gave it one last sprint to the finish.

  A moment later, Thor burst out of the castle, bumped roughly by a boulder that smashed his shoulder, sending him stumbling. But he kept running, never stopping, and as soon as he burst through, the entire castle crumbled in one huge avalanche of rock.

  Thorgrin ran and ran, escaping the spreading avalanche, the mound of rubble, sprinting for his life. He leapt back over the bridge of spikes, ran back down the pathway, the long trail leading back to Lycoples. The ground shook, as if the whole Land of Blood were collapsing, and a fissure in the ground began to open right behind Thor. It spread wider and wider, chasing after him as he went, a great chasm opening to the bowels of the earth, and Thor ran for his life, knowing he was but a step away from death.

  Thor looked up, saw Lycoples waiting, and as reached her, leaping onto her back, never slowing, she screeched and lifted off, as anxious to go as he was.

  The second she did the fissure spread on the ground right beneath where they had just been, and Thor knew that if they had waited just one more second, they would have all been finished.

  Thor held onto Lycoples, clutching Guwayne, who finally fell silent in his arms. Flying in the air, holding his son, lifting off, away from this place, he felt restored again. He could hardly believe it. He had made it. This time, he had won.

  They sped through the air, and Thorgrin and Lycoples both knew where they were going. There was one place left for them to go in the world. A place that would be the scene of an epic war. A place where, Thor knew, the Blood Lord and all his hosts would follow. The place where Gwendolyn, his Legion brothers, and all his people awaited him.

  It was time to return home.

  It was time, finally, to fight for the Ring.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  The Blood Lord arose from his ancient slumber, disoriented, in complete shock. He had felt his castle shaking all around him, rousing him from his sleep, had felt a great disruption in the force, had felt instantly that someone had intruded in his sacred space.

  It was impossible. No one had ever before approached his castle—much less broken inside it. Not in a thousand millennia.

  At first, the Blood Lord assumed it had been a nightmare. But as the walls continued to shake and crumble all around him, deep underground, he soon realize that it was not. It was a disruption unlike anything he had ever felt. And as he sat up, at attention, he sensed immediately that the boy was gone.

  Guwayne.

  The Blood Lord let out a horrific shriek as he jumped to his feet then jumped straight up, raising a fist and shattering the stone. He flew up, through the floor, bursting out of the rock into the chambers above.

  As he stood there, in a room now filled with rubble, he was distraught. Around him, nearly all of his precious gargoyles lay dead, crushed, writhing. The few who remained were screeching and circling high above.

  He turned immediately and looked up, for his throne, for the bassinet—and with a sense of horror and dread, he saw that his throne was crushed, and that the bassinet lay empty. Someone had snatched the child.

  The Blood Lord seethed, as he realized immediately who it was: Thorgrin. He had snatched away his child. He had taken away his most precious jewel, this power child whom he’d hoped to raise as his own, whom he’d groom to become greatest darkest Lord of them all. Whom he would use to rule the world—just as the prophecies had proclaimed.

  Yet he did not understand how it was possible. He was more powerful than Thorgrin; he had already defeated him once. Thorgrin did not have that kind of power—unless, he suddenly realized, he had retrieved the sacred Sorcerer’s Ring. Had he?

  The Blood Lord shrieked in agony, seeing his whole life’s mission destroyed, feeling his veins burning with fury, with a desire for vengeance. He knew instantly what he had to do: find Thorgrin. Crush him. Retrieve the child.

  And he knew instantly that there was only one place that Thorgrin could have taken him: the Ring.

  He leapt up, as the walls continued to c
ollapse, and this time he burst right through, out the other side of his castle, into daylight, smashing through rock with his fist. He emerged on the ground, outside his castle, and immediately he looked up and searched the skies. There, in the distance, on the far horizon, he spotted Thorgrin. He was flying away on the back of a dragon, and holding something.

  Guwayne. His child.

  The Blood Lord howled in fury, his face contorted in agony, and he knew there was only one thing he could do: muster his army.

  He put his palms out to his side, turned them, and slowly raised them, higher and higher. As he did, all around him the landscape of ash and mud began to crawl, to squirm, to come alive. There slowly emerged from the black soil an army. An army of undead, emerging as if from a field of eggs, reaching up out of the soil with their long, hideous red claws and pulling themselves up. They looked like gargoyles, but were five times the size, with blackened scales, hairy bodies, and long, slimy fangs. They had wings as long as their bodies, and tails just as long, which flopped against the soil. They stared back at the Blood Lord with their glowing orange eyes, thousands of them, awaiting his command, drooling, shrieking. Wanting to kill something. Anything.

  Thorgrin had made a grave mistake. The Blood Lord was no primitive sorcerer. No local king. He was the Lord of all Lords, the one who could raise an army from dust, the one that no one had ever defeated. The one who had punished anyone who had dared defy him.

  Thorgrin had provoked a nest the likes of which the world had never known. He would follow him to the ends of the earth, until the earth was scorched with his creatures, and tear him—and his son—to pieces.

  The time had come to destroy the world.

  And the first stop on his mission could be but one place:

  The Ring.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  Gwen and her people sailed at a good speed downriver, the wind picking up, the currents getting stronger, sailing further and further east, the suns low in the sky, the shores of the Waste not even visible anymore on the horizon. Gwen looked down at Krohn at her feet, looked over at Steffen at her side, Koldo, Ludvig, Kaden, Ruth and Kendrick manning the ships beside her, and she felt fortunate. The reality of their situation was starting to sink in: they had escaped. Despite all odds, they had fled the Ridge, had saved hundreds, and had made it out to open water.