by Morgan Rice
“Sometimes dreams are more than dreams,” came a voice.
Thor knew that voice, and it sent a chill up his spine.
He turned slowly to see Argon standing there, holding his staff, dressed in his white robes, looking out at the breaking dawn. He did not even look Thor’s way.
Thor was so relieved to see him; it was like seeing an old friend.
“Argon,” Thor said. “Please, tell me. Was it all true? The dream? Does my mother wait for me?”
“Yes and no,” he responded.
Thor wondered.
“Must I return to my hometown?” he pressed.
“You know the answer.”
Thor did. He felt it. He had to go.
“But is she awaiting me there now? How did she get there? What is she doing there?”
“Some things you must find out on your own,” Argon said. “It is up to you to make the journey.”
Suddenly, Argon vanished. Thor turned every which way, looking for him, but he was gone.
Thor rubbed his face several times, wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing.
But he was certain that he had not. First there was the dream. Then, Argon. Thor felt it was a sign, one he could no longer ignore. He felt the same way he did on that fateful day when he’d left his village and first embarked for King’s Court. The universe was telling him something. He had to go back to his hometown. Something was awaiting him there. Some secret he needed to unlock. Was that why fate had sent Thor here, to this remote village, which shared the same road as that to his hometown? He wondered. Had the universe been giving him signs all along?
Thor stood upright, ran his wet hands through his hair, and decided. He must go. He needed answers. His hometown was hardly a day’s ride from here, and he could make it there and back before the sunset. His Legion brothers would be okay without him for the day. It was risky, because he would be leaving his post, and if the Legion commanders found out, he could be punished. But there wasn’t much to do here today, anyway, aside from some more light rebuilding. It wasn’t like they were at war, and Thor felt confident his friends would be safe.
Thor turned and headed for his horse, preparing to take off before the sun rose higher.
Suddenly, there came a voice.
“Where are you going?”
Thor turned and saw Reece, standing there, looking much more recovered, fully dressed. Thor stopped and turned to him.
“Reece,” he said. “You look well. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”
“I am,” he said, his energy returned. “Much. In fact, I’m going to go and pay a visit to the girl who helped me now.”
Thor smiled.
“Not wasting any time, are you?” Thor remarked, looking at the dawn. “Good for you.”
Thor admired his courage. He knew what it took.
Reece smiled sheepishly back.
“And you?” he asked, looking at Thor’s horse. “You look as if you’re going somewhere.”
Thor cleared his throat, wondering how much to say. He could trust Reece more than anyone, and he decided to tell him.
“I had a dream,” Thor responded. “It felt like a sign. I need to visit my hometown. I will return before the second sun sets. Can you cover for me?”
Reece nodded solemnly.
“Do what the fates tell you to do,” he said.
Reece stepped forward and clasped Thor’s forearm firmly.
“You saved my life yesterday. I shall never forget.”
As they clasped arms, Thor felt more than ever that Reece was his true brother, closer to him than anyone he’d ever known. And as he thought of returning home, to the place where he was raised with three brothers who hated him, Thor felt more grateful for that than Reece would ever know.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Luanda stood chained to a stone wall in the McCloud dungeon, each of her wrists and ankles bound with iron shackles. Her body shook from exhaustion, fear and hunger. She wondered how she, a royal princess, the firstborn of the MacGil children, had found herself in this position, had sunk to such a low. It was hard to conceive. Just weeks ago she had imagined her life to come with such joy. She had imagined herself married off to a McCloud prince, imagined becoming queen of the McCloud kingdom. And now, here she stood, a prisoner in her own court, treated like a common criminal-and even worse.
The elder McCloud was an evil creature, the lowest of mankind. She had never encountered a more crude, more vile, more vicious man in her life. He terrorized everyone and everything around him, and even though she’d taken a chance and failed and ended up where she was, she still did not regret her attempt to end his life in that house, back in her home city, when she had attempted to save that poor girl from attack. It had been a mistake to think she could kill him, as Bronson had warned. And in retrospect, it had been stupid. Yet still, she did not regret it.
Luanda closed her eyes and there flashed through her mind the horrific image of Bronson’s being attacked by his own father, of watching him lose his hand in his attempt to save her life. She felt overwhelmed with waves of guilt. She loved Bronson more than ever, admired him for finally taking a stand against his father, and appreciated his sacrifice more than he would ever know. She also felt a fresh repulsion for his father, stronger than ever.
She had to get herself out of this dungeon, and had to rescue Bronson, who was set to be executed, before he died at his own father’s hand. And she had to get them out of this city, out of McCloud territory, somehow back over the Highlands, back to the safety of the MacGil side. She had to make it back to her father’s court, and hope that they would take her back in.
But right now, all of that seemed like a far cry. Bronson might already be dead for all she knew, and as she stood there, shackled, there was no hope in sight for evading her jailers. In fact, she had more pressing things on her mind: her jailers, two cretins, had taken turns tormenting her throughout the night. One would grab her hair, the other would pull on her shirt; one would threaten her with a blade, another with a hot iron. They hadn’t raped or tortured her yet. But their threats had been ongoing for hours, and they were escalating. She felt as if they were building up to something, and if all their threats were true, she knew she would be raped and tortured and left for dead before the sun rose. They were two disgusting little men, unshaven with greasy hair, wearing the uniform of the McClouds, and she felt they were good to their word. Her hours were numbered. She had to find a way out of here, and fast. It was time to make a move. She just didn’t know what.
“I say we cut her slowly,” one said to the other, an evil grin on his face, revealing rotten teeth.
“I say we burn her first,” said the other.
They both laughed, amused at their own jokes, and Luanda tried to think fast, faster than she ever had in her life. Being a woman, no one had ever credited her for being smart-but she was smart, at least as smart as her father, as smart as any of the other MacGil children. Throughout her life, she had managed to find her way out of almost anything.
She summoned her inner strength, all the cunning she’d ever had-the cunning of generations of MacGil kings, whose blood ran through her. She closed her eyes and thought, willed for a solution to come to her.
And then, one did.
It was far-fetched, and probably wouldn’t work, but she had to try.
“I will go along with whatever you say!” she suddenly cried out, her voice hoarse.
“We know that you will!” one of them shouted back. “You have no choice!”
They both broke into hysterical laughter.
“That is not what I mean,” she said, her heart pounding. “If you unchain me,” she added, “I will show you pleasures unlike any you’ve ever had in your life.”
The two jailers looked at each other, a smile on their faces, debating. She wondered if they were buying it.
“What pleasures, exactly?” asked one, coming close, so close she could smell his rotten breath as he held a b
lade up to her throat.
“Pleasures beyond what any woman has ever showed you,” she said, trying her best to sound convincing.
“That doesn’t impress me,” said the other dismissively, “I’ve spent my life in whorehouses. Do you think there’s something you can show me that some common whore cannot?”
They both yelled out in laughter again, and the other took his metal poker and dipped it into the hot fire, until the tip of it glowed orange.
“Besides,” he said, turning to her. “I prefer to torture you anyway. I get more pleasure from that. The king said you are ours to do with as we wish. And we most certainly shall!”
Gwen’s eyes opened wide in terror as the hot poker came close to her face, so hot it made her sweat even from a foot away. She saw the malicious smile on the man’s face, and knew that in just a moment, her face would be scarred forever.
“Wait!” she screamed out. “I don’t just offer you pleasure! But riches! I am the daughter of a king, lest you forget! I will give you more money than you can ever imagine! Certainly more money than McCloud ever will!”
Her jailers stopped, intrigued for the first time.
“And how much is that exactly?” he asked.
“More than you can carry. Wheelbarrows fill. An entire house full, if you like.”
“And how will you manage that?” the other one asked, stepping forward.
“I will send word to my father. He will ship me whatever I like. Did you not see our wedding? The jewels that I wore?”
The two attackers looked at each other, unsure.
“Your father is dead,” said one.
“But his court lives on,” she said, thinking quick. “My mother still lives. So do my siblings. They will send you any riches you want. if I pen a letter.”
One of them stepped close, holding the blade tighter to her throat.
“Why don’t we just kill you,” he said slowly, “pen the letter in your name, and take the riches anyway?”
“Because you don’t know my penmanship,” she said, thinking faster than ever. “They would never believe it if it were not in my hand! Then you would have nothing! Surely it is worth more to you to have all that gold than to have me dead!”
They looked at each other, debating.
“What’s to stop us from forcing you to pen the letter, then killing you? That way we get the gold, and we get to torture and kill you!”
She looked at them, terrified. She thought quick, and a solution came to her.
“I will do whatever you wish,” she said. “I will put myself at your mercy. But I can’t write with my hands shackled. Unshackle me, and bring me a quill and parchment, and you can choose what to do with me.”
The two men looked at each other, then finally one nodded to the other, licking his lips.
“You are more stupid than I thought,” said one, coming up a few feet behind her and unlocking each of her shackles with a key where they met the stone wall.
“Because now we will take your letter, and then I will reshackle you and rape and torture you all night!”
The two erupted into uproarious laughter.
As soon as the man finished unlocking her second shackle, Luanda burst into action. Each shackle was affixed to the wall by a three foot iron chain, with one shackle on her wrist and the other on the wall. As her jailer unlocked the one on the wall, leaving her wrist still shackled and connected to the chain, she knew she only had one chance at this.
She swung around with her wrist, still bolted to the shackle, swung the heavy iron chain overhead, and brought it down with all her might, aiming for the man’s face as he stepped carelessly back in front of her.
They had underestimated her. They did not expect that she still had the reservoir of strength that she did, that she had the means to use it, that she had the knowledge and cunning of a king’s daughter, one who had been trained her entire life by the King’s best warriors.
And that was their last mistake.
Luanda summoned every skill she had, every ounce of bravery, as she swung the chain around and down for her jailer’s face. She took aim, and her aim was true.
The chain came flying down, with the heavy iron shackle at the end of it, right for her jailer’s nose. It was a perfect hit, and she struck him hard, smashing it across the bridge of his nose and sending him stumbling back several feet, landing on the ground, screaming in agony. He dropped the hot iron poker and reached up to hold his face.
Without hesitating, Luanda swung around with her other hand, and took aim for the other jailer’s throat, as he made the mistake of turning his back on her and looking down at his friend. The chain wrapped itself cleanly around his throat, and she immediately reached up with her other hand, grabbed the other end, and squeezed.
The man bucked wildly, and she grabbed hold with everything she had as he resisted, squeezing harder and harder. He did everything he could to break free, but she strangled him with all her might. He reached up and tried again and again to release the chain from his throat-but her grip was too strong. She was holding on as if her life depended on it. And it did.
The other man was slowly rousing on the ground, slowly getting to his hands and knees, and she hoped and prayed she would have time to finish choking this man to death before the other approached her.
She squeezed harder and harder as the man cried out, gurgling, struggling, bucking like a wild animal. At one point he even reached back and elbowed her in the gut.
It hurt, but she didn’t let go, and she didn’t stop. Too much was at stake.
The other man finally gained his feet, reached up and grabbed the hot iron poker, and charged her. She didn’t have enough time. The other man was still alive, writhing, in her hands. He just would not die.
She could not let go of him to defend herself. She racked her brain for a strategy.
As the other man charged her, hot poker out in front of him, she waited until the last moment, and then dodged him, squirming out of the way, and instead pulled the man she was choking out in front of her, using him as a body shield.
It worked. The man pierced his cohort instead of her, driving the hot poker all the way into his friend’s heart as he shrieked while she choked him. Finally, his body went limp in her hands, the poker lodged in his chest.
The other one stood there, dumbfounded, staring at his friend’s corpse.
Luanda did not wait. She dropped the corpse and in the same motion, reached around, swung her hand high and whacked her other attacker hard across the face with the iron shackle a second time. Her aim, again, was true, and she broke his nose a second time, knocking him flat on his back, moaning in agony.
She took no chances. She reached over, pulled the hot poker from the chest of the dead man, then reached up high, leaned over, and drove it through the chest of the other man.
He sat up, shrieking, blood gurgling from his mouth, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, as if unbelieving.
Then, a moment later, he stiffened and collapsed, dead.
Gwen dropped to her knees, searched the man’s belt, found the key, and unlocked the shackles at her feet, then at her wrists. She rubbed them, more sore than they had ever been, deep bruises left where she had been clasped.
She looked down at her two jailers, dead, a bloody mess. Filled with rage, she spit on them both.
She reached down and grabbed one of their daggers. Where she was about to go, she would need it. For she could not leave this place without her husband. And she would free him, even if it cost her her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Thor rode alone across the desert wasteland, galloping west as the first sun began to rise, and his heart welled with a great sense of expectation. He had been riding for hours, feeling a sense of guilt over leaving his brothers behind, but feeling more than ever that he was on a momentous trip, riding into his destiny. After his dream, and his encounter with Argon, he felt some great secret awaiting him in his hometown, and as he rode, he felt a tingli
ng through his body, felt on the precipice of a great discovery.
Thor also felt a sense of dread. He hadn’t seen his father since he had stormed out that fateful day, after their argument, and had never returned. He wondered what his father thought of him now. Would his father be remorseful? Would he regret that he had treated Thor so harshly? Would he regret that he had favored his brothers so much? Did he miss having Thor around? Would he apologize and welcome Thor back? Would he want him to stay? Would he be proud of Thor when he saw the warrior he had become, what he had achieved, against all odds?
Or would he be the same old hateful, begrudging father? The one who had always been in competition with him, who had always favored his brothers? Who had refused to recognize Thor’s individuality, his positive traits, his unique talents? The one who had, at every turn, tried his best to keep Thor down? That was the father he had always known. That was the father he had grown to hate.
Thor had tried so many times to love him, to get close to him-but his father just kept pushing him away, finding a way to put barriers between them. Finally, Thor had given up.
As Thor thought it through, he concluded that his leaving probably had not changed his father much, if at all. Most likely, he was the same begrudging, stubborn, spiteful person. Most likely, he would not be happy to see Thor again. He would probably compare him, as he always had, to his three brothers, only seeing their greater height and larger size as proof that they were superior to him. His father was who he was, and nothing could change that. Not even Thor’s love.
His father was a victim of his own personality. But that was no excuse: his father should have been strong enough to overcome his own personality at least enough to be kind to Thor. There came a point, Thor realized, when he could only forgive his father so much for his personality. After a certain point, his father had to take some personal responsibility.
