A Land Of Fire (Book 12)

by Morgan Rice

  “My former husband was always wary of the Alzacs,” she said. “They do not only produce the best warriors on the island, but they are also crafty, and not to be trusted. They are also power hungry. I will not rest easy until I see every one of them involved in the rebellion slaughtered.”

  Alistair watched the battle, and saw thousands of Southern Islanders pushing back Bowyer’s tribe, the battle raging up and down steep mountain slopes, spread out all over the Southern Isles, men fighting men on steep angles, the distant sound of metal clashing against metal and horses neighing punctuation the morning air. They were all brilliant warriors, their copper armor and weaponry shining in the sun, and they blanketed the mountains like goats, fighting each other to the death.

  She watched and flinched as one soldier off his horse and off the side of the cliff, shrieking as he went hurtling to his death.

  As far as Alistair could tell, the Southern Islanders had the advantage over Bowyer’s tribe, which appeared to be on the run, and she could not see what there was to fear. Perhaps the former Queen was being overly cautious. Soon, she felt, this would all be over, Erec would be back in his seat as King, and they could start over again.

  Alistair heard a shuffling of feet, and she turned and saw Dauphine walking toward her from the far side of the plaza. Dauphine had, in the past, always approached her with a look of disapproval or indifference—yet this time, Alistair noticed she wore a different expression. It seemed to be one of remorse—and of a new respect.

  Dauphine came up to her.

  “I must apologize,” she said earnestly. “You stood falsely accused. I was misinformed, and for that I am sorry.”

  Alistair nodded back.

  “I never held any ill feelings toward you,” Alistair said, “and I do not harbor them now. I am happy to have you as my sister-in-law, assuming you are happy to have me.”

  Dauphine smiled widely, for the first time. She stepped up, hugged Alistair, and Alistair, surprised, hugged her back.

  Dauphine finally pulled back and studied her with intensity.

  “I hate my enemies with a great passion,” Dauphine explained, “and I love my friends with equal fervor. You shall become a friend and a sister to me. A true sister. Anyone as devoted to Erec as you has won my heart. You shall find a loyal friend in me, I promise. And my word is greater than my bond.”

  Alistair felt that she meant it, and it felt so good to have a sister, to finally have the tension between them resolved. She could see that Dauphine was someone who felt deeply, and was not always able to control her passions.

  “Will they give up?” Alistair asked, watching Bowyer’s men.

  Erec’s mother shrugged.

  “The Alzacs have always been separatists. They’ve always coveted the crown, and they are sore losers. My father and his father before him tried to eradicate them from the islands—now is the time. Without them, we shall be one nation, unified under Erec.”

  There came the sudden sound of a chorus of horns, and they all turned in alarm, looking up at the cliffs behind them. The mountaintops suddenly filled with soldiers on horseback, appearing all over the ridge, covering the horizon from all directions. Alistair saw them bearing all different color banners, and she looked up in confusion, not understanding what was happening.

  “I don’t understand,” Alistair said. “The battle lies before us. Why do they approach from behind?”

  Erec’s mother’s face fell with dread, and she looked as if she were watching the arrival of death itself.

  “They are not for us,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Those banners—they have turned half the island against us. They are following Bowyer in his bid to be King. It’s a revolt!”

  “It is finished,” Dauphine said, her voice filled with despondency. “We have been ambushed. Deceived.”

  “They head for the house of the sick,” his mother observed, as the forces began to steer down the slope. “They’re going to kill Erec—so that Bowyer can be King.”

  “We must stop them!” Alistair said.

  Erec’s mother grabbed Alistair’s wrist.

  “If you head forward, to Erec, you head to a certain death. If you wish to survive, head back to our forces, regroup, and live to fight another day.”

  Alistair shook her head.

  “You don’t understand,” she replied. “Without Erec, I am not alive anyway.”

  Alistair tore her hand from her grip, and she turned and ran headlong into the oncoming army, toward certain death, ready to do whatever she had to to reach Erec first. If he was going to die, she would die at his side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Thorgrin sat in the small boat, joined by his Legion brothers and Indra and Matus, all of them rowing in the dead calm, lost in their thoughts as they peered out to the ocean. Thor rowed, encouraged, feeling his mother’s bracelet vibrating on his wrist, sensing he was getting closer to his son. As he studied the waves, covered in mist, he could not see anything, yet he could feel his son somewhere out there, could sense he was close. Most of all, Thor sensed his son was alive, and that he needed him.

  He rowed harder, as did the others, his muscles rippling, determined.

  As they cut through the water, slowly bobbing in the current, unable to see far beyond, Thor’s thoughts turned to Mycoples and Ralibar, and he missed more than ever having the opportunity to soar through the sky, to simply ride on the back of a great beast, to see the world spread out below, to cover so much ground so quickly. Now he was confined to the earth, like any other human, traveling slowly, his sight hindered. He also missed the companionship of Mycoples dearly; it was as if a part of him had been killed back there.

  Reece, beside him, took a break and clasped Thor’s shoulder.

  “We shall find Guwayne,” he encouraged. “Or we shall all die trying.”

  Thor nodded back with equal solemnity, grateful for Reece’s support. As Thor studied the waters, he wondered what would happen if he was all wrong, and if it was already too late. What if, when he finally found Guwayne, he was dead? Thor would be unable to live with himself. And he would be unable to break the news to Gwen.

  Or what if, even worse, he never found him?

  Thor tried to shake these thoughts from his mind as he rowed harder, knowing failure was not an option. He felt the bracelet vibrating, and he knew he needed to have faith. He did not know where they were going, but he realized that was all part of the test: sometimes one needed to proceed on faith. Sometimes, faith was all one had. And sometimes tests came to make your faith stronger.

  One hour blurred into the next as morning turned to afternoon, and Thor began to lose all sense of space and time, rowing and rowing, no sound in his ears but that of the oars lapping the water. The others began to slow their rowing, breathing hard, needing a break.

  Every muscle in his body on fire, feeling on the point of collapse, Thor closed his eyes and slowed his rowing, too. He focused, tried to find his inner power, begged it to help direct him to his son.

  Please, Mother, he thought. If you’re there, give me a sign. A clear sign. Please. For Guwayne’s sake. I need your help.

  A screech tore through the air and Thor craned back his neck, and in the distance, he spotted Estopheles, circling high, producing a cry that filled the lonely ocean. She swooped down and dropped an object from her claw, and it plummeted down to the sea, landing in the water beside Thor. Water splashed up at him as it did, and Thor looked down, amazed, to see a small, glass bottle floating in the water.

  He retrieved it, pulled out the cork, unrolled the scroll, and others gathered around as he read Gwendolyn’s letter.

  It touched Thor deeply, and he looked up the skies as Estopheles screeched, amazed to see her here, in the middle of nowhere, feeling less alone. He felt encouraged; he felt it was a sign, and that he would find Guwayne.

  Estopheles suddenly turned in the other direction, and dove up and down repeatedly, and Thor sensed she was telling him somethin
g. That she was leading them somewhere.

  Guwayne.

  “We must follow her!” Thor called out to the others.

  The wind suddenly picked up, the sails were filled, and they all turned the boat, heading toward Estopheles.

  They sailed through a thick cloud of mist, hanging low on the waters, and when finally they emerged from the other side, Thor’s heart pounded with delight. He was amazed to see, hardly a hundred yards away, an island, larger than the last one, clearly inhabited, footprints all over the beach.

  And as they got closer, sailing into the breaking waves, Thor looked out and saw on the sand something which made him feel faith in life again: beached on the shore was a small boat. And judging by its size, it was large enough to hold just a single person.

  A boy.

  *

  Thor and the others moved quickly through the dense island jungle, Thor out of breath, heart pounding as he ran, the others by his side, fanning out, tracking the footsteps in the sand that led from the beach. It was clear that from the footsteps that someone had discovered the boat, had taken Guwayne, and Thor burned as he thought of it. Whoever it was, he would make them pay—if he was not already too late.

  The jungle was so thick that Thor could barely see as he ran, scratched by branches and not caring. When it got too thick, Thor drew his sword and hacked at anything in his way as he sprinted with all he had, leaping over felled trees, hearing his heart pounding in his ears.

  The sounds of exotic birds and animals punctuated the air, but Thor could barely hear anything other than his own heartbeat, than his own thoughts driving him mad. Where had they taken his boy? How long ago had he landed? Were they friendly, or did they have sinister intentions?

  And worst of all: what if he did not find him in time?

  His mother’s bracelet buzzed like crazy, and Thor could barely think straight knowing that his son was here, just out of his reach, just out of reach, somewhere behind these trees.

  “It looks like an army took him!” Matus yelled out, looking down as he ran.

  Thor was thinking the same thing—there were so many tracks in so many different directions. How many people lived here? What sort of people were they? Where could they all be leading?

  As they burst through a thick wall of foliage, there came the sudden sound of tribal chanting and dancing, a persistent drumbeat filling the air. The drums beat so fast, to the beat of Thor’s heart, and they grew louder as he ran. They all ran for the direction of the music, and Thor felt both encouraged, and a sense of dread. Whoever was out there did not sound friendly. Why, he wondered for the millionth time, would they take his son? What would they do with him?

  “Do you know of the people of this isle?” Thor called out to Matus. “The Upper Isles is closer than the Ring.”

  Matus shook his head as he ran, dodging a tree.

  “I’ve never been this far north. I didn’t even know these islands were inhabited. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  They all came to a sudden stop at the edge of the jungle, right before a wall of vines, through which they could see a vast clearing. Hardened warriors, they all knew better than to rush through the perimeter of a hostile enemy without first taking stock.

  Thor stared, breathing hard, and was amazed at the sight before him: in the clearing stood hundreds of natives, men with translucent white skin and bulging, glowing green eyes. They were barely clothed, and had wiry, muscular bodies. They chanted and beat on drums, dancing in circles every which way, again and again, circling barefoot on the sand in the jungle clearing. In the center of their village was a tall stone well, and above it, draped across, a thick log. Smoke rose from the well, and from inside it, Thor could hear screams.

  A baby’s screams.

  The hairs stood on Thor’s back as he listened, as he watched the natives circling, dancing around the well again and again, raising torches, banging on drums. He realized, with a flash of horror, what was happening: these primitive people were getting ready to sacrifice that baby.

  Without even thinking of a strategy, without even considering how outnumbered they were, Thor burst into the clearing, sword drawn, and raised a great battle cry, charging these hundreds of armed warriors. Even if he had stopped to think of it, Thor would not have paused; something visceral inside of him drove him forward. Thor knew that could be his son in that well, and he would kill anyone and anything in his path to rescue him.

  His brothers all joined him, all of them rushing headlong into danger, all by his side, prepared to go anywhere with him, no matter what the risk.

  They had hardly gone ten feet, were still a good fifty yards away, when the entire village spotted them, and hundreds of warriors stopped their dancing and turned toward them. They raised their spears, and bows and arrows, and charged to meet them.

  Thor did not slow, and neither did his brothers. The seven of them raced headlong into the army, reckless and carefree, preparing to do battle to the death.

  They all met each other in a clash of arms. Thor, sword held high, was the first to reach them. Three tribesmen raised crude daggers and leapt for him, and as they did, Thor ducked low, and slashed, slicing their chests and sending them all collapsing to the ground, as he rolled out of the way.

  Thor jumped back to his feet and continued his charge, heading for a group of tribesmen who were all raising spears, preparing to throw them right at him. Thor leapt into the air and sliced the spears in half before they could throw them, then he planted his sword in the ground and used it to propel himself into the air, swinging his legs around and kicking them all in the chest and knocking them back. Thor landed back on his feet, grabbed his sword, and swung around in a wide circle, felling them all.

  Thor heard the baby’s cry in the distance, ringing in his ears, rising even above the shouts of the men, and he fought like a man possessed. He did not try to summon his powers; he did not want to. He wanted to kill these men with his bare hands, these men who dared take his son from him, who dared try to kill him. He wanted to kill them all man to man, face to face.

  Thor slashed left and right as these men came at him with daggers and spears. Thor killed them left and right, but he could not kill all of them before they fired off at him. One of the tribesmen hurled a stone with his sling, and it hit Thor hard in the head, cutting him above his temple and drawing blood. Others fired off arrows before Thor could reach them, and while Thor ducked and evaded most, seeing them coming from the corner of his eye, he could not miss all of them, and one arrow grazed his left arm. He cried out in pain as it drew blood.

  Yet still Thor did not slow down. He thought of nothing but his child, and even with his wounds, Thor continued to charge, swinging his sword with both hands, slashing and kicking and elbowing his way for the village center. Soon he was engulfed by tribesmen, elbow to elbow with them, fighting hand to hand, eye to eye, through the thick crowd. It was slow going, even with his brothers fighting side by side with him, helping to block blows and felling tribesmen in their own right.

  Thor was faster and stronger than these natives with their crude weapons, and he weaved in and out of them expertly, dodging spear thrusts as he slashed and stabbed. Yet the crowd grew thick, and there were just too many of them, and as he found himself enclosed from all sides, there were a few he never saw coming. Thor heard something behind him, and spun to see a villager lowering his dagger for the back of his head. It was too late to react, and Thor braced himself for the blow.

  Suddenly, the tribesman opened his eyes wide and collapsed at Thor’s feet, and Thor watched him fall, puzzled. He looked down and saw an arrow through his back, and he looked up to see O’Connor, holding his bow, grinning, his aim as true as always. Indra stood beside him and fired off an arrow of her own, and as she did, Thor heard a grunting noise and he looked over to see another tribesman, to his right, fall before he could unleash his spear.

  Elden stepped forward, wielding a huge hammer, and in a broad stroke, he knocked three of them a
cross the chest with a thumping noise, sending them to the ground. Elden then raised his hammer and turned it sideways, and butted two of them across the face, knocking them down. He then swung the heavy hammer over his head and sent it sailing into the mass of bodies, and it took down four more tribesmen, creating a path in the crowd.

  Reece lunged forward with his sword, slashing every which way, while Conven did not even bother swinging his sword as he ran recklessly right into the thick of the tribesmen. He reached up and snatched a spear from one of their hands, and used that spear against its own attacker. He then spun around, creating a circle around him as he slashed every which way, downing tribesmen left and right. When he was done, Conven raised it above his head and hurled it with such force that it went through one tribesman and into another.

  As Thor made progress, fighting his way through the crowd, his shoulders burning from the nonstop battle, he heard a whooshing noise above his head, and he noticed Matus coming up beside him, swinging a spiked flail, the chain swishing through the air as the metal ball found its target again and again, taking down a half dozen of them and lightening the crowd.

  Thor, freed up, emboldened by all his brothers at his side, slashed deeper into the crowd, forging his way, keeping an eye on the distant well, hearing the baby’s screams, watching the tribesmen standing menacingly above it. Thor noticed one of them nod to the other and then saw them begin to turn a crank, and lower the screaming baby down toward the fire.

  Desperate, Thor stabbed a tribesman in the chest, snatching a spear from his hands, yanked it backwards, then took a step forward and threw it.

  The spear sailed through the air, above the heads of the others, and finally, Thor, with his perfect aim, killed one of the tribesmen turning the cranks. O’Connor, picking up on his lead, fired off an arrow himself, and hit the other tribesman between the eyes. They both fell off the edge of the well, dead.

  Determined to reach his son, Thor fought twice as hard, cutting his way through like a man possessed. Something came over him, a supreme rage beyond which he could control, and Thor leaned back and let out an unearthly shriek, veins popping in his arms and neck and shoulders, the sound of a desperate creature determined to rescue its young.