by Morgan Rice
Gwendolyn charged, deeper and deeper into the thick of the battlefield, raising her shield to ward off a blow, her hands shaking. But she never stopped her charge. Empire soldiers pressed in from all sides, realizing an important person had arrived and trying to attack her. One came charging at Gwendolyn with his sword raised high, making it past her entourage, bearing down on her; Gwen waited and then dodged; he went flying past her.
Another came at her, slipping through the ranks, and this time Steffen charged forward, let loose an arrow, and shot him in the throat. He fell sideways off his horse, dead.
Yet another slipped through, and this one Gwen killed herself, raising her dagger and stabbing him in the throat before he could bring his axe down for her head. He dropped his axe on his own head and collapsed off his horse.
But the crowd grew thicker and thicker as she got closer to Thor, more and more Empire men charging for her. Her men and Steffen did the best they could, killing several of them. But she soon felt herself bumped on all sides, and suddenly, she was slammed on the shoulder by a shield, and knocked off her horse.
Gwen landed hard and rolled. She dropped to her knees, her belly killing her, dirt in her face and in her nose. Gasping, Gwen turned and looked up to see an Empire soldier grimacing, coming down at her with a war hammer.
Unable to defend, Gwen raised her hands and braced herself.
The hammer stopped in mid-air, its wielder looking confused.
Gwen looked over and saw Alistair, close by, holding out a single palm, a blue light between her and the weapon. Alistair then raised her hand and directed the light towards the soldier.
The soldier suddenly went flying backwards, dozens of feet through the air, his hammer falling to his side harmlessly.
Alistair reached out a hand and helped Gwen to her feet.
Gwen turned to see several more soldiers charging to attack her, with swords raised high, and she raised a shield and braced herself and Alistair against the blows. There came a snarling noise, and Krohn raced past her, leapt into the air, and sunk his fangs into each soldier’s throat. Krohn pinned each down and viciously shook his head, until satisfied each was dead.
Krohn, snarling, stood before them, scaring back any soldiers who dared approach and providing an opening for her. Gwendolyn saw her chance. She knew it was now or never.
Gwen sprinted, darting through the thick of men, Thorgrin in sight between the battling soldiers.
She was bumped and banged roughly in each direction, and she dodged more than one blow—but her speed worked for her. She was quick, not bogged down by armor, and she managed to weave her way through.
Gwen broke into the open clearing, Krohn leading the way, Steffen and Alistair right behind her, helping to deflect the blows. There he was, hardly twenty feet away from her.
Thorgrin.
Gwen could hardly breathe, she was so overcome with joy to see him, to be so close to him. She wanted to rush out and give him a hug. She felt like laughing and crying at the same time.
Yet she was also terrified of him. Thor fought with Erec like a man possessed. Watching them fight, two of the greatest warriors of all time, was like watching a work of beauty, the back and forth, the swords clanging, flashing in the light, the speed, the agility, the power, the perfect form. They were two masters of their art, their swords sparkling as if extensions of them, as if they were alive.
Dozens of soldiers stopped fighting and just stood there and watched, mesmerized.
Argon came up beside Gwendolyn, and as he did, he uttered one word:
“Rafi.”
Gwendolyn followed his gaze, and saw a sorcerer in scarlet robes standing on the far side of the clearing, watching the spectacle, standing beside Andronicus, beside McCloud. Rafi was the most evil-looking creature that she’d ever seen. He held out two hands towards Thor, and a scarlet light emanated from them, engulfing him. Suddenly, it all made sense. Thor was under this dark sorcerer’s control.
Argon stepped forward, fearlessly, out into the clearing, and held out a palm towards Rafi.
A blue light flew across the clearing. Rafi turned to see Argon and his face contorted with fear. Rafi looked shocked and confused.
“Argon,” Rafi said darkly. “It cannot be.”
The two of them stepped forward, out into the clearing, walking toward each other, each holding out a palm, each directing it at the other as they came closer.
It was a sight to watch, two sorcerers, two titans, facing off with each other, like two mountains colliding. It was a monumental struggle, and Argon’s hands shook, as did Rafi’s. They were each scowling, gasping for air. They each dropped to their knees, each infusing the other with a different color light.
Finally, Argon let out a great battle cry and raised his hands high, and as he did, Rafi suddenly lifted high into the air. Argon swung both his arms, and Rafi went hurling through the air, flying hundreds of feet, disappearing somewhere into the horizon.
Argon collapsed with the effort.
For a moment, Thor paused in his battle with Erec. He stood there, as if confused, as if a spell had been broken over him. Thor stared back at Erec with glazed eyes.
Erec, realizing what had happened, paused, too. He stood there, breathing hard, holding out his sword warily.
“Thorgrin, it is I, Erec,” he said. “Lay down your arms. It is not too late.”
“THORNICUS!” Andronicus yelled, stepping forward. “You are my son! YOU ARE MY SON!” he shrieked.
Thor’s eyes glazed over again, and suddenly, he threw himself back into battle, fighting Erec with twice the power, twice the speed.
They exchanged blow after blow, and soon, Erec tripped backwards, landing on one knee, overpowered.
Thor continued to slash for him, slashing with such fury, that he chopped Erec’s sword in half. He then knocked Erec’s shield from his hand.
Thor stood over Erec, a demonic look in his eyes. He breathed hard, wiped blood from his mouth, and raised his sword to plunge it into Erec.
Gwendolyn could stand to watch no more.
She rushed forward, into the clearing, and ran between Thor and Erec.
“Thorgrin!” she yelled out, tears in her voice. “It’s me. Gwendolyn!”
She stood just a foot away from him, crying, tears pouring down her cheeks. She felt overwhelmed by a million emotions.
The entire battlefield stopped to watch.
Thor stood there, sword raised high, and stared back at her. His eyes were not the eyes she knew and recognized and loved. He looked lost to her, lost in another world, another place, another time. As she stood there, for the first time in her life, she felt afraid of him.
“Thorgrin?” she asked, unsure.
Thor grimaced, and pulled his sword back farther.
Krohn suddenly rushed forward, snarling, and stood between Thor and Gwen. He snarled back at Thor as if he were a stranger. Gwen could hardly believe it: she had never Krohn snarl at him. Her sense of foreboding increased.
“Thor, it’s me,” she pleaded, tearful. “Gwendolyn. Your love.”
Thor blinked, yet still his eyes held the same blank, confused look.
Gwen prayed that Thor would come back to her, would set down his sword. He seemed as if he might.
But suddenly, he scowled and raised his sword again, and Gwen knew in that moment that she would die by his hands.
Her final thought, before the blow came, was that she would wish for no other way to die in this world.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Mycoples rocked and swayed every which way on the ship as the huge waves crashed all over the deck, sliding her from one side of the deck all the way to the other, slamming into the railing. The sound from the crashing waves was deafening. She tried her best to claw through the net, but the Akron material remained indestructible.
At least the boat was out of control. Huge waves tossed it about, rolling in the seas, the storm that she summoned powerful even beyond her dreams. The boat got
sucked in on strong tides and listed its way closer and closer to the Isle of Mist. Mycoples watched it loom closer on the horizon.
The Empire soldiers screamed as they tried to gain control. But they could not. More than one slipped right off the side of the deck, screaming as they plunged to their deaths in the foaming, raging red waters of the sea of blood. More than one monster surfaced, swallowing the men whole.
The boat entered the crashing waves as it neared the shore of the Isle of Mist, a shore comprised of jagged rocks and a narrow strip of sand. The Empire men frantically tried to steer the ship, to avoid the rocks. Somehow, they managed to steer the ship just to the right of them, and they rode one huge, last wave up onto the sandy beach.
It was bad luck for Mycoples. She had wanted them to smash into the rocks, wanted the boat to be destroyed. Now, the boat, while turned on its side and lodged on the beach, was still intact, and half the Empire soldiers along with it.
As they beached, Mycoples, tangled in her net, went flying out of the boat and onto the sand. It was a big drop, and the impact hurt, and she struggled frantically to break free.
Yet no matter what she did, the Akron held her in place.
The Empire soldiers, rallying, jumped off the boat, onto shore. They seemed intent not just on saving their lives, but still on torturing her. More than one jumped out with a long spear in hand, and ran for her. They began poking her through the net, hurting her. Even with the howling storm, even being washed up on shore, they still could not stop assaulting her. Her plan had worked only partially: she was still their prisoner. She saw more and more spears coming for her, and she knew that they blamed her. She knew that soon, she would be dead.
There came a sudden roar from high up in the sky, one loud enough to shake the entire island. The Empire men stopped, frozen, and looked to the sky, terrified.
But Mycoples was not terrified. She recognized that sound. She would recognize it anywhere. It was the roar of a dragon. It was one of her own.
Ralibar.
Mycoples heart soared. Ralibar must have smelled the scent of man, and he was coming to see who had arrived.
Mycoples did not know where that left her. Ralibar was a lone and bitter recluse, territorial, and he hated all other dragons. He was rumored to have killed more than one dragon who had dared breach his territory. He might kill these Empire men; but he might kill her, too.
Mycoples was helpless either way. Either way, she seemed destined to die here. At least this way, the Empire men would die, too. At least she would have vengeance. And at least she would die at the hand of another dragon instead of a human.
Mycoples’ heart swelled with anticipation as she heard another roar and looked up and saw Ralibar appear, bursting through the clouds, swooping down in fury. He was large—much larger than she had imagined—and he looked ancient, his red scales faded and cracked with age, and had huge, glowing green eyes that she would never forget. His face furrowed into a scowl as he zeroed in on the Empire men.
The Empire soldiers turned and screamed and tried to flee, to run back to their ship.
But it was too late for them. Those who had been fortunate enough to make shore were soon to meet another, much more horrible fate.
Ralibar swooped down, open his great jaws, and breathed fire.
Flames spread through the sky, engulfing the men and igniting the ship. The men shrieked, burned alive. For those he missed, Ralibar swooped down with his huge claws, as thick as a tree trunk, and swiped them in half where they stood. Soon, the beach ran red with blood.
Ralibar’s rage was still not satisfied: he dove down, picked up the remnant of the flaming ship with his huge claws, flew at top speed, carrying it through the air, and smashed it into the wall of the cliff.
With a great crash the ship splintered in a million flaming pieces and rained down all around Mycoples.
Mycoples was thrilled. She lay there, stuck inside the Akron net, on the beach, the waves crashing all around her, the last one alive. She looked up at Ralibar, and watched as he turned and set his eyes on her. He paused, hovering there, breathing, black soot coming out of his nostrils, as if debating.
He then let out a screech, and dove down right for her.
Mycoples closed her eyes and braced herself for what was to come. At least she should be happy she saw the Empire men dead, that she had made it this far. At least now, she could die with dignity.
Mycoples heard a whooshing noise, and felt the air rush by as Ralibar dove down for her. She opened her eyes to see him stopped on the beach before her, hovering, flapping his wings. He screeched and arched his back, and she braced herself.
But no blow ever came. She opened her eyes with surprise to see him reach up with his claw and, instead, slice her net.
Mycoples stared back, shocked. Her net was open.
Mycoples leaned back and flapped her wings and arched her back. She was shocked to be free; she had almost forgotten what it felt like. She was even more shocked to realize that Ralibar had freed her, and that he had not killed her, after all.
Ralibar landed on the beach, a few feet away, and stared back at her. She looked into his ancient green eyes, and saw an expression she had never expected to see. It was curiosity. But more than that, there were something else. Like compassion.
Silently, they spoke to each other. Mycoples thanked him, arched her neck and screeched, letting him known her intentions. She was going to fight back, against the Empire. She would fly back immediately, across the ocean, and find a way back into the Ring. She would find a way back through the Shield, find a way to get back to her master, to Thorgrin. He needed her. And that was all that mattered to her.
Ralibar arched back his neck and shrieked, too.
Mycoples took off, into the air, her great wings flapping, and as she did, she heard a great screech behind her. She turned to see Ralibar taking off, catching up to her. She was shocked: he wanted to join her. To help her. Ralibar. The loner. For some reason, he had taken a liking to her.
Mycoples welcomed the company. She flapped her great wings, flying higher and higher, aiming east, for the Ring, for Thorgrin. She sensed he was in mortal danger. And she would do whatever she could to save his life.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Selese charged with Illepra, the two of them riding with all they had, at the point of exhaustion, not even pausing to rest their horses. They charged down the final stretch of barren landscape until finally, the tall pillars heralding the Eastern Crossing came in sight.
The journey had taken much out of Selese, more than she could have ever imagined; if it weren’t for the thought of losing Reece, she didn’t know if she would have been able to press on. She had become stronger and tougher than she had ever imagined, and now that she saw the Eastern Crossing, saw that it was real, she was determined to find Reece, whatever it took. She only prayed that he was here.
As they neared it, Selese was awestruck: the magnificent Eastern Crossing, the one she had heard of since she was a child. Of the four crossings bridging the Canyon, the Eastern Crossing was the longest. Being situated on the McCloud side of the Ring, Selese had never been here, and being from a small town, she had never seen anything so big and intimidating in her life. The bridge crossed the Canyon, and it seemed to stretch forever, to another world.
The Canyon itself left her speechless. She had never seen anything in nature remotely like it. A vast chasm in the earth, filled with swirling mists of every color. Selese felt a magical energy coming off it. She marveled that anything so big and beautiful could exist in the world.
Selese reached the foot of the bridge, stopped her horse, and dismounted, as did Illepra. The two of them stood there, breathing hard beside their horses.
Selese looked out and wondered. She saw no immediate sign of Reece, and her heart sank.
“Perhaps he already crossed?” Illepra asked.
Selese shrugged. She had no idea.
Selese scanned the floor of the bridge, and she
saw something which she recognized with her expert eye: blood.
She followed the trail nervously, Illepra beside her. Clearly, a great struggle had taken place here. She only prayed that Reece had not been involved.
As they headed farther onto the bridge, Selese spotted corpses on the ground, and her heart leapt. She prayed none of them were Reece’s.
Selese rushed forward, nearly crying as she knelt down, and turned each body over. She breathed deep, so relieved to see that the faces did not belong to Reece. None of these were faces she recognized.
“They bear the markings of the Empire,” Illepra observed. “Empire soldiers, all of them,” she said, turning them over with her boot. “They were killed by someone.”
“By Reece,” said Selese, hopeful. “I’m sure he killed them. These men were probably taking the Sword. And he stopped them. As a good knight should.”
“And where is he, then?” Illepra asked.
Selese stood there and looked all around, wondering. Could Reece have turned around and gone home, with the Sword? That would be most tragic, if she had ridden all this way for nothing.
Selese went to the railing, laid her palms on it, and stood there and looked out. She sighed, looking down into the mist, and wondered. Was Reece out there somewhere?
As Selese ran her hands along the wide, smooth stone railing of the bridge, she felt something which made her stop and look down. There was, she noticed, a jagged chip in the rail. She noticed blood, and a chunk of the rail knocked off below.
Selese turned and looked at the dead soldiers, and looked back at the markings on the railing, and suddenly, she pieced it all together.
“The boulder,” she said. “There was a struggle. It was hoisted over the edge. Look.”
Illepra came hurrying over, and Selese leaned over and pointed out the marks the boulder had left.
“Then they must have abandoned the mission,” Illepra said. “He must have turned back. Perhaps he’s back with the camp even now.”
Selese stared down for a long time, and finally, something dawned on her.
