by Morgan Rice
Andronicus smiled, satisfied—and then charged into the fray himself.
Wielding a three-headed flail, Andronicus swung its long chain and found target after target, smashing the enemy, knocking off heads left and right. He was too tall, too strong, too fast for all of them, and he cut a path of death right through. He grinned wide, taking it all in. He hadn’t had this much fun in he didn’t know how long. As Andronicus fought with abandon, he took satisfaction in knowing that he faced the last remnant of the Ring’s forces; after this battle, the Ring would finally be his.
Andronicus spotted one of their leaders—Kendrick—charging for him fearlessly. This warrior was reckless indeed if he thought he could take on the Great Andronicus. Andronicus screamed and kicked his horse, and men parted as the two great warriors charged each other in an open clearing.
Andronicus swung his flail for Kendrick’s head, expecting to finish him off. But he was surprised to discover that Kendrick was not like the others he’d fought: he was faster, more agile. He ducked Andronicus’ blow, then parried with his sword, so fast that he even managed to slice Andronicus’s forearm.
Andronicus screamed out, more in surprise than pain. He had not been bested in battle in a very long time.
But the pain only made him focus. He had been over-confident, and he now realized that Kendrick was unlike the others.
Andronicus wielded his flail, swinging it around, aiming low this time, for Kendrick’s horse.
The metal studded ball impacted on Kendrick’s horse’s head, making it stumble.
Kendrick, caught off-guard, did not see it coming, and as he leaned forward, trying to steady his horse, Andronicus lunged forward with a hidden dagger at the end of his gauntlet and sliced Kendrick across the chest.
Kendrick cried out, but spun around with his shield and smashed Andronicus across the face, something Andronicus had not anticipated.
Andronicus stumbled back; in the same motion he reached over, grabbed a short spear he had hidden in his saddle, spun and hurled it at Kendrick.
The spear embedded itself in Kendrick’s shoulder, and Kendrick screamed out, grabbing for it.
Andronicus leaned forward and smashed Kendrick with his shield with all his might, hitting his jaw and knocking him off his horse, spear in his shoulder.
Kendrick landed on the ground hard, immobile. His horse went down with him. Andronicus felt more satisfaction than he had in years.
Andronicus circled around, preparing to finish him off. But as he raised his spear high, he was attacked by several of Kendrick’s men, and was soon distracted in fighting them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kendrick roll away and head off to another battle.
Another time, Andronicus told himself. Kendrick would, sooner or later, die by his hand.
*
Bronson fought with all he had, choosing to forego his shield and instead wielding a sword with his good hand. He fought as best he could with one hand, and with his other, he wielded a flail, gripping onto it with the hook on his stub. He fought like a man possessed, doing his best to defend the Ring. He rode forward, fighting valiantly beside Srog, the two of them back to back, as they felled dozens of Empire men in each direction.
“BRONSON!” screamed out a voice.
Bronson recognized that voice anywhere. It sent a chill through his spine.
He turned and saw, amidst a group of Empire soldiers, his nemesis. His father. McCloud. The monster. The man who had taken his hand from him. The man he hated more than anything in life.
Bronson screamed and kicked his horse and charged for his father. McCloud charged back, like a demon possessed, missing one eye, his face disfigured, the emblem of the Empire burned into it. He had become a hideous creature, even more hideous than he had been.
Here they were, Bronson thought, father and son, finally facing off, finally embracing the inevitable. It was a day Bronson had long been waiting for. He would wipe out his father’s name if he could. And if not, he would at least send his father to hell. It was the vengeance he’d contemplated every day as he looked down and saw his stump for a hand.
“FATHER!” Bronson screamed back.
Bronson charged with a vengeance, raising his sword high, as his father let out a cry to match his own.
The two met in the middle of an open clearing, Empire soldiers parting, and McCloud swung his battle axe, with both hands, shrieking, aiming to take off his son’s head.
Bronson ducked at the last second, swung around with his flail, and managed to smash his father in the back of the head.
McCloud stumbled and fell from his horse.
Bronson wasted no time: he circled around and jumped to the ground, facing his father on foot, as his father slowly stood, wobbly, disoriented. Bronson brought his sword down with one hand, and McCloud raised his shield and blocked it. But Bronson slashed again and again, eventually knocking his father’s shield from his grasp. Then he leaned back and kicked him.
His father stumbled and landed on his back, hurt, slow to get up.
Bronson stood over him, breathing hard, and stepped up and placed one foot on his father’s throat.
McCloud gasped for air, and Bronson raised the point of his sword and held it to his father’s wrist.
“You took my hand, father,” Bronson said. “I should take yours. In fact, I should kill you.” Bronson sighed. “But I will not sink so low. I have more honor than you. I will instead take you, unharmed, as my prisoner. Do you yield?”
McCloud struggled, gasping for air, then finally nodded yes.
Bronson slowly removed the tip of his sword from McCloud’s wrist.
“Turn over and put your hands behind your back,” Bronson commanded.
McCloud did so, and as he did, Bronson reached down to clasp his father, removing his extra set of shackles at his waist.
But as he reached down, McCloud suddenly spun, grabbed a handful of dirt, threw it in Bronson’s eyes.
Bronson shrieked, raising his hands to his eyes and dropping his shackles. McCloud swung around and elbowed Bronson in the groin as hard as he could.
Bronson dropped to the ground, in agony.
McCloud stood over him, grabbing him by the hair on the back of his head.
“It’s good to see you again, son,” McCloud said.
McCloud raised his knee, and lowered Bronson’s face, and a crack split the air as he broke his son’s nose.
Bronson tasted blood, and the last thing he saw was the ground coming up fast, too fast, to greet him.
*
Thor charged through the battlefield, unstoppable, killing scores of McClouds who rode out to attack his father. He cut through them, faster than any of them could react, determined to protect him. That was all that mattered now. Andronicus—and crushing all of these opponents in the Ring.
Thor could not stop himself. He felt possessed, in the control of a power greater than he. His sword practically swung itself.
Thor looked over and saw his father, not far away, knock Kendrick off his horse—and for the first time, Thor blinked. For a brief moment, some long-lost part of him stirred inside; for a flash, a part of him recognized Kendrick. He could not remember from where. For just a moment, a part of him was confused about who he was fighting for.
But then Thor felt a bolt of energy, and he turned to see Rafi, riding close behind, raising his fingers in his direction. Thor felt an intense wave of energy engulf him, making it impossible to think. He felt a titanic struggle occurring within him for control, for free will. And then he felt himself subsumed by a fog.
As Thor looked back to Kendrick, he no longer recognized him. He was just another one of his father’s endless opponents, another one of these rebels who would not cede the Ring.
There came a fierce battle cry, one different from the others, and Thor turned to see a warrior charging for him. Other soldiers parted ways, creating a wide clearing for them, and the knight stopped before Thor and faced him. There came a momentary lull in the battle, as others turne
d to watch. Clearly, this knight, whomever he was, was an important person on the MacGil side.
“Thorgrin! It is I, Erec!” boomed the knight, sitting proudly on his horse. “You are not yourself. I do not want to fight you. I ask you to lay down your arms. Lay down your arms and join our cause!”
Thor felt himself flush with rage. Who was this stranger to tell him what to do?
“I lay down my arms for no one!” Thor yelled back, defiant.
Thor wasted no time: he charged forward, raised his sword high, and there came a clash of swords, as he and Erec sparred furiously, back and forth, going blow for blow, neither gaining an inch.
Finally, Thor dodged one of Erec’s blows and then dove from his horse and tackled him to the ground.
The two of them rolled on the ground, wrestling, neither gaining the advantage. Finally, Thor rolled out from under him and they gained their feet again.
They faced each other, and a wide clearing opened around them, all the other warriors stopping to watch.
“Thorgrin, I implore you!” Erec called out, breathing hard, blood on his lip. “It is I, Erec!”
Thor screamed and charged, sword raised high. Their swords clashed as they fought hand-to-hand, going blow for blow, shield striking sword striking shield, back and forth, perfectly matched. Neither could gain the advantage.
Thor was surprised by this knight’s power and agility; he had never encountered anyone like him.
“It is I, Erec!” he said, up close, groaning, as their swords met and locked. “You know me, Thorgrin.”
Thor grunted, scowling.
“My name is Thornicus!” Thor yelled, unlocking his sword.
They jabbed and slashed and parried, back and forth, until Thor’s arms were growing tired, neither gaining an inch.
“You were my squire once, Thorgrin,” Erec said. “I helped train you. I would do anything for you. Anything. Thorgrin, it is I, Erec.”
Thor momentarily paused, something in his words striking a chord. For a passing moment he was confused, voices in his head struggling with each other, as Thor tried to understand, to know where he was, who he was. Who was this man he was fighting?
“Erec?” Thor asked.
Suddenly Rafi appeared beside Thor, and he let out an awful gurgling noise from the back of his throat as he raised his hands and directed them towards Thor.
Thor felt himself engulfed in an awful energy, and a desperate rage overcame him as he turned and set his sights on Erec.
This time, he did not recognize Erec. Not at all. He was a foe, and nothing more.
Thor raised his sword high and charged, blood in his eyes, determined this time to wipe this man off the face of the earth.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Romulus galloped across the countryside, heading east, away from all the soldiers, away from the entire Empire army. Luanda was seated on the front of the horse, and she still struggled, despite his muscular arms wrapped around tight around her waist. He was surprised at her strength. Even with the ropes binding her, even with his huge arms, he had a hard time keeping her still. She was like a bucking horse. She wanted desperately to be free—but he could not let her.
Romulus rode the horse ever faster, kicking it until it protested in pain, knowing he had to make the Eastern Crossing, get back to the other side and bring Luanda with him. His magic cloak lay at the ready at his waist.
Romulus was still smarting from his defeat at the hand of Andronicus’ men, something he had never anticipated. He had been sure he would take Andronicus by surprise and take over the Ring. But in the end, Romulus had been lucky to escape with his life, even though he’d had to turn and flee, alone, for the safety of the Canyon.
But he had his prize now, and that was all that mattered. Luanda. A MacGil. The firstborn MacGil, no less.
Romulus prayed that the legend of the cloak was true, that as soon as he crossed the Canyon with her, the Shield would shatter, and his millions of men waiting outside the Canyon could come rushing in. This time, he would lead them to complete and utter victory against Andronicus, and crush the Ring. Then Romulus would be Supreme Commander, and there would be no one and nothing left to stop him.
Romulus was so close now, he could almost taste it.
They rode and rode, across the empty, frozen plains, until finally the Eastern Crossing came into view, the high pillars of its entrance marking the horizon. Romulus’ horse was near exhaustion, but he kicked even harder, digging his heels in. His destiny was close at hand, and he intended to grab hold of it.
Romulus recalled that, for the cloak to work, he’d have to cross the Canyon with the MacGil on foot. As he reached the base of the Canyon, the entry to the bridge, he stopped abruptly, dismounted, grabbed Luanda, and yanked her down with him.
Somehow, even with her hands bound, Luanda managed to slip out from under him and before he could react, she began to run across the landscape.
In a rage, Romulus reacted quickly, grabbing the whip from his saddle and lashing out at her, wrapping it around her ankles.
Luanda shrieked as he lashed her ankles together, and she fell face first to the ground.
Romulus pulled her roughly towards him, dragging her along the ground. He reached down, grabbed her with one hand, lifted her high into the air, and scowled up at her.
“If you were not a MacGil, I would kill you right now,” he seethed.
Luanda grimaced and spat in his face.
Startled, Romulus backhanded her.
Blood sprayed from her lips, and she finally seemed broken; yet Romulus’ rage was not satisfied. He would tear her apart if he could. Perhaps he would, as soon as they crossed the Canyon. Yes, the thought of that appeased him.
Romulus turned, faced the bridge, and draped the cloak over his shoulders. He felt it buzzing, vibrating, felt an energy race through him that he had not felt before. He was certain it was going to work; he would single-handedly take down the Shield. His heart pounded with anticipation.
Romulus reached down and with one arm grabbed Luanda by the waist, hoisting her up and carrying her through the air like an unruly child. He began marching with her onto the bridge.
Luanda bucked and screamed, trying with all her might to get loose. But he held her tight this time, and there was no escape.
Romulus took his first step onto the bridge, and it felt good. Soon he would be across; and despite all the flailing and screaming in the world, there was nothing Luanda could do to stop him.
Soon, the Ring would be his.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Gwendolyn rode beside Argon, Alistair, Aberthol, and Steffen, Krohn at their feet, the five of them on horseback, charging across the northern landscape of the Ring, racing south for their homeland, for Thor. Gwen was elated to be back in her homeland, back on this side of the Ring and out of the Netherworld. It was like a dream. She had been certain she’d never find Argon, that she’d never escape the Netherworld. And now, here they were, all back home again and so close to being back with Thor.
Gwendolyn kept replaying in her mind the moment Argon had opened his eyes, had come back to her, had come back to life. Tears still poured down her cheeks as she thought of the sacrifice she had made, the dreadful choice she’d had to make to defy fate and bring Argon back. She knew that one day, the time would come to give up what she had promised for Argon’s life. Thorgrin’s life, or the life of her child.
But that day, at least, was not today.
Gwen’s stomach pained her as she rode, the baby turning and turning, as he had been ever since they’d found Argon. It had all been a blur, ever since Argon had been freed. The revived Argon was more powerful than ever, and he used his power to cast a great bubble; Gwen and the others found themselves caught up in it, floating with Argon in the air, skirting over the ground at faster and faster speed, carrying them all the way back through the Netherworld, to the edge of the Canyon—and then floating them harmlessly across it. It had been shocking for Gwendolyn to fly throu
gh the air like that. It made her think of her time with Thor on the back of Mycoples.
Gwen recalled looking down as they crossed the Canyon, marveling at the swirling mists beneath her, the depths of the Canyon which never seemed to end. She wondered if there was even a bottom.
Finally, Argon had set them down back on this side of the Ring, his bubble reaching the end of its power now that they were back safely on this side. They had set down near a group of wild horses they had found roaming the countryside, and they had not stopped riding since.
They raced south and east, heading for the battlefield where Argon had told her he sensed a great battle was taking place. He’d sensed that it was an epic battle for the very heart and soul of the Ring, and that the very future of the Ring was at stake. Surely, she knew, this was where Thor must be. And everyone else she loved and cared for.
Gwen felt a race against time, desperate to get there before it was all too late, before Thor was killed, or anyone else whom she loved. She could sense in every ounce of her being that they were all on the edge of a great calamity. Had she been too late in finding Argon? Had it all been for nothing?
There came a screech high above, and she looked up to see Estopheles, circling, leading them.
Gwen kicked her horse harder. Beside her, Krohn snarled, and raced to catch up.
They rode and rode, crossing the Ring, hour after hour passing, all of them knowing what was at stake and none of them even stopping to catch their breath. The sun grew long in the sky, and Gwen’s tears never stopped. She felt an awful tragedy was about to happen. Had she sacrificed too much?
They rode deeper and deeper into unknown territory, the Highlands looming large on the horizon. There was a single city striding the peaks, and she recognized it at once from the history books: Highlandia. The McCloud stronghold. The city between two kingdoms.
On the steep mountain slope coming down from Highlandia, Gwen could see the broad trail of an army charging down. And as she followed that trail, and crested a ridge herself, she finally stopped, seeing it. She was shocked.
