by Morgan Rice
Thor moved with the speed of lightning, a one-man killing machine, as he cut through the rest of the men, creating a one-man warpath of destruction. The tribesmen were helpless against a warrior such as he, a warrior unlike any they had encountered before. This was the fight of Thor’s life, and he would stop at nothing to achieve his goal.
Within moments, Thor cut a path through them, a pile of bodies lining up through the crowd’s center. It was like he had entered a gap in space and time, and he was not fully conscious of what he was doing, or even where he was. He was taken over by the killing.
Thor reached the village center, and he wiped the sweat from his eyes, trying to understand what had just happened to him. He had felt the power of a hundred men, even if just for a moment, and he had been invincible.
The baby’s cries snapped Thor back to the present, and he quickly turned and raced for the stone well.
With no one left between him and the well, Thor scrambled to climb to the top of it, as sweat stung his eyes, his heart pounding.
Please, God. Let my son be alive.
As Thor reached the top, the cries grew louder, echoing in the empty well, and he coughed and gagged from the rising smoke. Thor reached down and with shaking hands yanked at the crank, again and again, the rope rising, turning, raising up the baby as Thor rescued it from the heat and the smoke.
Thor pulled and pulled, anxious to see that the baby was okay, and as it finally reached the top, Thor reached down in the smoke and held the baby, lifting it up, and turned to look into his son’s eyes.
Thor was elated to see that the baby was alive and healthy. Yet as he examined the baby, naked, lying in the bassinet, Thor was shocked to discover something: it was not his son.
It was a girl.
The girl screeched as Thor held her high. He was glad to have saved her. But it was not his son. It was someone else’s child.
Indra and the others reached the top of the well, beside Thor, and as they did, Thor handed the baby to her, then immediately turned and scanned the village, looking for any sign of his son. From up here he had a great perspective, and could see the whole village spread out below. The rest of his brothers were finishing off the last of the tribesmen, and all of them were dead, bodies sprawled out everywhere.
But nowhere was there any sign of Guwayne.
Thor was determined to get answers. On the far side of the village he saw one villager, wounded, slowly getting to his feet, and he leapt down off the wall, racing for him as he tried to crawl away.
Thor jumped on his back, pinned him down to the sand with one knee, drew a dagger, and turned the man over and held it to his throat.
“Where is my baby?” Thor demanded, eyes bulging with panic and rage.
The man mumbled something in a language Thor could not understand, panic in his eyes.
Thor, desperate, tightened the blade against the man’s throat.
“MY BABY!” Thor shrieked, turning and pointing at Indra, who held the screaming baby girl.
The villager finally seemed to understand, and he mumbled something again.
“I don’t understand!” Thor yelled.
The man suddenly turned and pointed up, over Thor’s shoulder.
Thor turned and followed his finger, and he saw a distant mountain range, and near the top, winding its way up, a small procession of men. They were heading towards the top of the volcano, and in their center, raised above their heads, was a small case, born on poles, gleaming gold, shining in the sun.
A case just large enough to hold a baby.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gwen ran through the ship, panic-stricken as she watched her people turning to stone, one after the next, and falling over the rail, into the water. It was like something out of her worst nightmare. Quickly, she was losing her ranks, the thousands of survivors of the Ring piled onto three ships, quickly thinning out.
Gwen saw Steffen about to look over the edge, and she ran to him, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and yanked him backwards. He went stumbling and landed on his rear, and he looked up at her in shock.
“Don’t look!” she cried. “You’ll be killed.”
Shock gave way to gratitude, as he realized. He stood and bowed before her.
“My lady,” he said, eyes welling with tears, “you saved my life.”
“Help me save others,” she replied.
Steffen rushed about to help the others, and he was joined by Sandara, Kendrick, Godfrey, Brandt and Atme, along with the new Legion members, Merek and Ario, all of them racing with Gwendolyn throughout the ship, saving people from looking over the edge, preventing people from getting too close to loved ones who had already turned to stone and were plummeting. Gwen watched a wife shriek as her husband had just turned to stone. She watched him clutch his body, refusing to let go, trying to keep him from falling over the edge, and then she herself inevitably looking over at the water. She, too, turned to stone, her face frozen in a look of agony, and together, her arms wrapped around him, as one big chunk of stone, they fell over the edge and plunged into the deep.
Gwen looked out at her other two ships and was horrified to see that one of them was now completely empty, all of the people on board having turned to stone and plummeted over. The railings were all broken from where the stones had smashed them, and there remained not a sole survivor left. In fact, as all the stones begin to pile up on one side of the ship, the ship itself began to list, and as Gwen watched, helpless, it began to sink.
The ship sank with increasing speed, and in moments it landed on its side in the water with a great splash, its sails smacking against the ocean. It lay on its side, bobbing, all its people dead before it even capsized, and Gwen felt sick to her stomach as she saw it sink completely into the water below.
Gwen could hardly believe that there now remained but two ships of the glorious fleet that had once set out from the Ring. Gwen looked about frantically, fearing she would lose all of her people here.
“Raise the masts!” she yelled to her admiral. “Double the men on the oars! Get us away from these waters!”
Men broke into action as bells sounded, taking positions, doing their best to move the ships along.
Gwen rushed to Sandara and grabbed her wrist, desperate for answers.
“How long will these waters last?” she asked.
Sandara shook her head grimly.
“They travel on the open ocean, my lady,” she said. “These waters are like a school of fish, passing through. I’ve never encountered them myself, but I’ve heard they pass quickly—especially with a strong wind.”
Gwen turned and peered out at the distant horizon, keeping her eyes up high, afraid to look down at the waters. It was hard to tell where they ended.
She turned and craned her neck and looked back up at the sails and was relieved to see them hoisted, and filled with a good wind. Men grunted all about her as they rowed and rowed.
“They might pass quickly,” Gwen said, “but we shall take no chances. You will all row until the tomorrow breaks!”
Gwen looked up, saw the sun at high noon, and knew it would be a long, backbreaking day for them all. But she would take no chances. It was still better than death.
Gwendolyn found Illepra, holding the baby, sheltering her, and Gwen’s heart soared in relief as she took her back. On the silent, somber air, all that could be heard was the lapping of the oars against the water, the cries of the gulls, and the soft moaning and sobbing of the survivors, heartbroken, mourning loved ones. They were the lucky ones. But Gwen did not feel lucky.
Indeed, as she looked out at the horizon and considered their meager rations, she knew this did not bode well. It did not bode well at all.
*
Gwendolyn, bleary-eyed, sat up and watched as dawn broke over the ocean, a thin purple line blending to scarlet, burning the mist off the ocean. A lone gull cried up above, and as the sky warmed, Gwen turned and surveyed her people: they were all bent over their oars, sleepi
ng in place, exhausted from their efforts. It had been a long and harrowing day and night, and Gwen had thought it would never end. She had handed the baby to Illepra late in the night and had finally fallen asleep.
As the sun began to creep over the horizon, Gwendolyn, who had stayed awake all night, rose and took the first steps, the only one awake on the quiet ship. She made her way gingerly to the rail, the deck creaking as she went, and braced herself to look over, to examine the waters. She wanted to be the first to look, the first to know for sure that the waters were safe. She didn’t feel it was right to have one of her subjects test it. She was Queen, after all, and if someone were to die, it should be her. She felt it was her responsibility.
Gwen crossed the deck, and just as she reached the rail, a voice cut through the still morning air:
“My lady.”
Gwen turned and saw Steffen standing there, dark circles beneath his eyes, looking back at her with concern.
“I fear I know where you are going,” he said, his voice filled with worry.
Gwen nodded back.
“I will check the waters,” she replied.
Steffen shook his head and stepped forward.
“That is no job for a Queen,” he said. “I am your servant. Allow me to check.”
He began to walk forward, for the rail, but Gwen reached out and laid a hand on his wrist.
He turned to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “But no. It is my ship, my people. It is for me to check.”
His brow furrowed.
“My lady, you could die.”
“So can you. And who is to say my life is worth more than yours?”
Steffen’s eyes watered over as he looked back at her.
“You truly are a great Queen,” he said. “A Queen like no other.”
Gwen could hear how much he meant it, and it touched her.
Without further ado, Gwen turned, took two big steps to the rail, clutched it with trembling hands and closed her eyes, images flashing through her mind of all the people who had turned to stone. She prayed she did not meet the same fate.
Gwen opened her eyes and looked over, taking a deep breath and bracing herself.
The waters, lit by the morning sun, were glowing blue. Gwen looked carefully, and she was elated to see no trace of the lightened waters. The sea was back to the way it had been.
“My lady!” Steffen called out in alarm, rushing forward to his side.
Gwen smiled as she turned and calmly looked back at him.
“I’m alive,” she said. “There is nothing more to fear.”
All around her, Gwen’s people began to rise, getting to their feet, bleary-eyed. One by one, they looked at her in awe, then made their way over to her.
“The waters are safe!” Gwen called out.
The people cried out with relief, and as one they all rushed to the edge of the rail, leaned over and examined the sea in wonder. It was just a normal ocean, like it had always been.
Gwendolyn was struck with a hunger pang, and she thought of their dwindling rations and wondered when her people had last eaten. She herself had abstained two meals a day, to save more for her people, and she was starting to feel the hunger. She was almost afraid to ask what remained.
She turned to her admiral, who stood beside her, and she could see from the grim look on his face that it was not good.
“The rations?” she asked, hesitant.
He shook his head gravely.
“I am sorry, my lady,” he reported. “There is nothing left.”
“The people clamor for food,” Aberthol added, beside her. “They are growing desperate. They rowed throughout the night, and now they have nothing. I do not know how much longer we shall be able to appease them.”
“Or how much longer we will be able to survive,” Brandt added, grimly.
Gwendolyn took in the news, feeling the weight of it. She turned to Kendrick, who stood beside her.
“And what do you propose we do?” Gwendolyn asked.
He shook his head.
“If we do not find provisions soon,” he said, “if we do not find land soon, this ship shall become a floating grave.”
Gwendolyn turned to Sandara, standing beside him.
“How much farther until we reach your land?” she asked Sandara.
Sandara shook her head and looked out and studied the horizon.
“It is hard to say, my lady,” she said. “It depends on the currents. It could be a day—or it could be a month.”
Gwen’s stomach tightened at her words. A month. Her people would not survive. They would all die here, waste away, an awful death in the midst of the ocean. Worse, they would surely turn on each other, revolt, and kill one another. Hunger could make people desperate.
Gwendolyn nodded, resigned.
“Let us pray for land,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Darius walked quickly through his village as the sun began to set, more nervous than he’d ever been, repeatedly wiping the sweat from his palms. He could not understand why he was so anxious as he weaved his way, heading toward the river, to meet Loti at her cottage. He had faced brothers in combat, had labored under taskmasters, had even been engaged in the most dangerous of toil in the mines, and yet he had never felt nervous like this before.
Yet as Darius headed to meet Loti, he felt his mind buzzing, his heart pounding, and he could not keep his throat from going dry. He could not understand how she had this effect over him, what it was about her. He barely even knew her, had only laid eyes upon her twice, and yet now, as he headed to meet her, he could think of little else.
Darius thought back to their encounter, and he turned over her words in his mind again and again. He tried to remember exactly what she had said; he was starting to doubt himself, starting to wonder if she really liked him, if she felt the same way about him as he did her, or perhaps whether she just wanted to see him in a casual way, or was just curious to know more about him. Perhaps she was dating someone else; perhaps she would stand him up and not even meet him at all.
Darius’s heart beat faster as he considered all the scenarios. He had dressed himself in his best clothes: a white cotton tunic and black pants of fine wool, clothes his father had once worn. They were the best clothes his family owned, and his father had paid dearly for them. Still, as Darius examined them, he felt self-conscious about them, seeing how stained and torn they were in places, still the dress of a slave, even if slightly elevated. They were not the clothes of the Empire, not the clothes of a free man. Yet no one in his village had the clothes of a free man.
Darius finally emerged from the busy, winding village streets as he came to the western end of the village, a sprawling complex of small cottages built nearly on top of one another. As he searched the dwellings, he tried to remember what she had said: a cottage with a door stained red.
Darius went from house to house, looking everywhere, and just when he was about to give up, suddenly, his eyes settled on it. There it was, standing apart from the others, slightly smaller than the rest, looking exactly like the others except for the faded red stain on the door.
Darius gulped. He looked down and checked the flowers in his hand, wildflowers he had plucked from the side of the river bank, yellow, with long thin stems. He was sorry now that they weren’t of a better quality; he should have picked the wild roses on the far side of the meadow, but he hadn’t had time for that.
Next time, he told himself. That is, if she even wants to see me again.
Darius stepped up and knocked, and he could barely even take in what was happening, his heart slamming in his chest, drowning out all thoughts but its pounding. He could barely even hear the screams of the children, and all the villagers running chaotically about him, all drowned out as he knocked on the door.
Darius stood, waiting, and began to doubt whether it would ever open, or whether he was ever even truly invited here. Had he been mistaken? Had he imagined the whole thing?
<
br /> Darius stood there so long that, finally, he turned to go—when the door suddenly opened. There appeared the face of an older woman, staring back at him suspiciously. She opened the door wide and stepped out, hands on her hips, and looked him up and down as if he were an insect. Her eyes fell on the flowers he held, and her face fell in disappointment.
“You’re the one who’s come to see my daughter?” she asked.
He stared back, silent, not knowing how to respond.
“And those are what you brought her?” she added, staring at the flowers.
Darius looked down at the flowers, panic welling up inside him.
“I…um…I am sorry—”
The woman was suddenly bumped aside as Loti appeared beside her, a broad smile on her face. She stepped up, took the flowers from Darius’s hands and she examined them, delighted.
As she did, all of Darius’s fears began to melt away. Loti looked more beautiful than he’d even remembered, freshly bathed, wearing beautiful white linen from head to toe, and he had never seen her smile—not like that.
“Oh, Mother, stop being so hard on him,” Loti said. “These flowers are perfectly beautiful.”
She fixed her eyes on Darius, and his heart beat faster.
“Well, are you coming in?” she asked, giggling, stepping forward and linking arms with him, and then leading him into her cottage, squeezing past her mother.
Darius entered the small, dark cottage, and she led him to a seat, against the far wall, hardly ten feet from the entrance. They sat side by side on a small clay bench, and her mother closed the door and came back inside, and sat across from them on a stool.
Her mother kept her eyes locked on Darius, examining him, and Darius felt claustrophobic in the small, dim cottage. He shifted in his chair. He realized it was the tradition of all the women in the village to interrogate him before allowing him to take her daughter anywhere. Out of respect for her parents, Darius wanted to make sure he did nothing to offend them. He was determined to make a good impression.
