by Morgan Rice
Argon walked alone, fearlessly, out onto the bridge by himself. He wore an intense expression, focused on Ralibar, and Gwen watched, transfixed, as Argon marched out to the center of the bridge, using his staff. He finally stopped, held out a single palm, and aimed east, toward Ralibar and the others.
“Ralibar, I summon you,” Argon boomed, his voice ancient, commanding. “Return to me!”
Ralibar, on the ground, tumbling, getting pinned down again and again, turned his head and looked toward the sound of Argon’s voice.
Suddenly, from Argon’s raised palm there emerged a brilliant white light, shooting across the bridge to the edge of the Canyon. As it did, it morphed into a huge wall of white light, rising from the ground to the heavens, clinging to the side of the Canyon. It looked as if Argon were single-handedly creating a new energy shield.
Ralibar suddenly rolled out from under the other dragons, got to his feet, and flapped his great wings. He lifted into the sky, the other dragons on his tail, and headed toward Argon. He was wounded, not flying as fast as he usually did, and a dragon managed to catch him, biting his tail. Gwen held her breath as she feared Ralibar might not make it.
But Ralibar broke free, flapping harder and harder, and he broke away just long enough to fly through Argon’s wall of light, back into the air across the Canyon.
The other dragons followed right behind him, but as soon as they hit the light wall, they smashed headfirst into it. They screamed in fury, smashing into it again and again, but they were unable to penetrate it.
Argon stood, both palms raised now, creating and maintaining the energy shield, and his arms trembled. Gwen had never seen him under so much strain; he seemed to feel pain every time the dragons hit the shield. Soon, Argon collapsed from the effort, and Gwen cried out as she watched him hit the ground. Argon lay there, helpless, curled up in a ball, at the center of the bridge.
“Ralibar!” Gwen shouted, pointing.
Ralibar turned at the sound of her voice, and he looked down and saw Argon’s body; Ralibar let out a cry and he dove down, his talons extended, aiming right for Argon. He swooped him up, clutching him tight, and flew with him, carrying him higher and higher up in the air.
He followed Gwendolyn as she turned, leading him and all of her people on the road before them, through the Wilds, for her ships, and for a place anywhere in the world that was not the Ring.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thorgrin trekked through the endless fields of mud in the Land of the Druids, looking out at the horizon and hoping to see something, anything; instead, there was nothing but desolation, nothing to break up the monotony of the landscape, which seemed to stretch forever. Dark clouds glowered, hung low in the air, low enough to nearly touch, completing the picture of gloom.
It was the exact picture of the Underworld that Thor remembered, when he had been marching through the wasteland of the Empire. Yet Thor forced himself to remember, to know that he was not in the Empire. He was in the Land of the Druids, he told himself. All that he saw before him was a creation of his mind. He was not walking through a landscape, he knew, but walking through the contours of his own mind.
Consciously, Thor knew it to be true, and he wanted to stop it, to change the picture before him, to think happy thoughts; but oddly, he found himself unable to change it. He did not, he realized, have the power to do so yet. As much as he tried to will a different landscape, a different world, he found himself trekking through this one, his feet sticking to the mud with each step he took, each step labored, his breathing hard. And he felt a deeper sense of foreboding the farther he went, as if he could be attacked at any moment. By what, he did not know.
Thor reached for his weapons, but looked down to find his belt empty; in fact, he was no longer wearing armor. He was dressed in rags again, in the simple frock of a shepherd’s boy that he used to wear. What had happened? How was he dressed like this again? Where had his weapons gone? As Thor felt around his waistband, all he found was a simple sling, the one from his childhood, well worn from years of use.
Thor marched and marched, on guard, and felt that this was a training ground, that his subconscious was taking him through stages of his life. As he squinted into the horizon, he began to see something come into view. It appeared to be a forest of some sort, and as he approached, he saw that it was a new landscape, filled with dead trees as far as the eye could see, their branches black, twisted. It was a massive orchard of death.
Thor walked down a narrow path leading him into this forest, beneath the gnarled branches of all the trees, the skies filled with the sounds of crows, and as he went, he spotted something that put a pit in his stomach: from a nearby tree, he saw a figure hanging, dressed in armor, swaying even though there was no wind. His rusted armor creaked as he swayed, and as the faceplate fell, Thor recognized him: it was Kolk, his former commander of the Legion, a noose about his neck.
Thor wanted to bring him down, to help him, but as he neared, he saw his eyes wide open, saw that he was long dead. Puzzled, Thor continued to walk, wondering. At the next tree, he spotted another hanging body, swaying, eyes wide open. It was Conven, his former Legion brother.
As Thor continued on, he saw thousands of knights in rusted armor, hanging from the trees; as he passed, he saw that each tree held a different body, all of them people he once knew, people he once fought with. There were people he knew to be dead; then, Thor was shocked to see, there were people he knew to still be alive: Reece, Elden, O’Connor. All of his Legion brothers. Then came members of the Silver. All of them dead.
“You are the last one left.”
Thor turned and looked all around for the source of the voice, but he could not find it.
“A warrior learns to fight alone. His men are all around him. But his battlefield is himself.”
Thor turned again and again, but still he could not find the voice. It was Argon’s voice, he knew; yet he was nowhere in sight.
Thor hurried down the trail, past the thousands of swinging bodies, feeling as if the entire world were dead, and wondering if this would ever end. As he thought it, suddenly the forest disappeared, and he was back in the desolate landscape of mud.
Thor heard a whooshing noise, and he looked down to see something slithering beneath the surface of the mud, which became translucent. He looked closely and saw a gigantic snake, just beneath the surface, rushing past. As he studied the ground, he suddenly saw thousands of exotic creatures, all slithering a few inches beneath the surface of the mud. Somehow, they were not able to puncture the surface of the mud, yet Thor felt as if it any moment, he might fall through and be immersed into a pit of death.
Thor closed his eyes as he walked.
These creatures are not real, he told himself. They are creatures that slither beneath the surface of my consciousness. I created them. I can suppress them. Use your mind, Thorgrin. Use your mind.
Thor felt a tremendous heat rise between his eyes, in the center of his forehead, and he felt himself getting stronger and stronger. He felt himself controlling the fabric of the universe around him.
Thor opened his eyes and looked down, and he blinked in surprise to see the creatures were gone. He was now walking on nothing but mud.
Thorgrin felt empowered, beginning to realize he had the ability, after all, to summon his powers, to control his environment. He was beginning to understand how to harness it, how to reach into the deeper levels of himself; he was beginning to understand that there was no distinction between the world inside his mind and the world outside.
He was also starting to realize that this entire land was a training ground. He realized he had to reach a certain level before he could face his mother. Before he was worthy.
A thick fog rolled through as Thor walked, momentarily blinding him. As it finally lifted, he peered through and in the distance, he saw a single object rising out of the mud. The fog rolled in again, and he wasn’t certain if he saw it, and he increased his pace, eager to see what it was.
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Thor got closer, and as he did, the fog lifted again and he saw it again. He stopped before it, scrutinizing it, wondering. At first, it appeared to be a giant cross; but as he reached out to touch it, he realized it was something else. It was caked in mud, layers of mud, and as he reached out, he wiped it off, bit by bit. Slowly, a piece of the object came into view: it was a glistening hilt, studded with jewels.
Thor stood there, frozen, his breath catching in his throat. He could not believe it. Standing before him, its blade lodged into the earth, caked in layers of mud, waiting for him to grab it, was the Destiny Sword.
Thor blinked several times, wondering. It felt so real. He knew it was real. And yet, at the same time, Thor knew that he had created this, along with everything else in this land. It felt so good to see this weapon again, to have his old friend back again, a weapon that he had crossed half the world for, had lost a dear friend for, that had dictated so much of his journey in life. Wielding the Destiny Sword had meant more to Thor than he could say. He nearly cried at the sight of it; he realized how much he had missed it. Indeed, he had been haunted by dreams of its being just out of his reach ever since the day he had lost it.
And now as he saw it here, he realized it was his dreams that were creating this. The deepest levels of his subconscious.
Thor reached out, grabbed the hilt of sword, and pulled, expecting to easily extract it from the mud.
Yet Thor was shocked when it did not budge.
Thor pulled harder, then grasped it with both hands. The sword rocked back and forth, but no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to extract it.
Thorgrin finally shouted out with effort, then collapsed, dropping to his knees, breathing hard, crushed.
How could it be? How could it be possible that he was no longer worthy of wielding this sword?
“You were never as strong as you thought, Thornicus,” came a dark voice.
The hairs rose on the back of Thor’s neck as he instantly realized whose voice it was.
He turned slowly and saw the man he hated most in the world standing there, facing him, an evil smile across his face:
Andronicus.
Andronicus grinned down at him, holding a huge battle-ax in one hand and a sword in the other. His muscles were bulging, his armor barely able to contain them, as he loomed over Thor.
“What are you doing here?” Thor asked. “How did you get here?”
Andronicus laughed, an awful, grating sound.
“I came to this land just like you,” he replied. “Searching. I was searching for greater power, for my innermost power. I was a young warrior. And that was when I met your mother.”
Thor stared back, shocked.
“I told you I would come back to you in your dreams,” Andronicus said. “And here, in this land, dreams are real enough to kill you.”
Andronicus lunged forward with his ax and Thor dodged at the last moment as the ax brushed by, just missing him.
“You are not real!” Thor yelled out, aiming a palm at his father, trying to summon his power to make him go away.
Andronicus swung his sword and sliced Thor’s arm.
Thor cried out in horrific pain, blood gushing from the wound.
Andronicus looked back, laughing.
“Is that not real? When I stab you through the heart, you’ll be dead, for all time. Just like me. You may have created me. But now I am here, and I am real enough to kill you—and I will.”
Andronicus swung again and again, and Thor dodged each time, the sword just missing, but each time getting closer. Thor looked over at the Destiny Sword and wished more than anything that he could wield it.
As Andronicus bore down on him, Thor remembered his sling: he reached down, grabbed it, and hurled a stone.
The stone went sailing for Andronicus head, but Andronicus swung his sword and swatted the stone out of the air.
“Your boyhood weapons will do you no good here, boy,” his father said.
Thor desperately searched for a weapon anywhere, but he could find none. He was defenseless against this monster, and Andronicus was determined to kill him.
“You still resist me,” Andronicus said. “But I am a part of you. Accept me. Accept me, and I will disappear.”
“Never!” Thor exclaimed.
Andronicus raised his ax and threw it at Thor. Thor had not expected it, and he barely had time to dodge as it flew end over end, and sliced his shoulder. Thor yelled out in pain, as blood squirted from his other arm.
Before he could react, Andronicus kicked him with both feet in the chest, knocking Thor down on his back.
Thor slid dozens of feet on the mud, until he finally came to a stop. He looked up, but Andronicus already stood over him, and raised his battle-ax high.
“I love you, Thornicus. And that is why I must kill you.”
As Andronicus raised his ax high, Thor, defenseless, raised his hands and shouted out, knowing this would be an awful way to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Erec quickly climbed the endless stairs leading to the top of the highest peak of the Southern Isles, looking up as he went, his heart warmed at the sight of his father’s fort. There it sat, on the highest point of the island, just as he’d remembered as a child. It was a beautiful structure, like a small castle, yet square and low to the ground, adorned with turrets and parapets. It was built of ancient stones quarried centuries ago from these cliffs, and its presence was imposing. For Erec, it was home; yet it also embodied a special place in his dreams, an almost magical place.
Erec approached its massive copper doors, tall and rectangular, shining so brightly in the sun he had to squint, with their huge carved handles that brought back memories. Erec had forgotten that the Southern Isles were a land of copper, its bountiful copper mines yielding an endless amount of material, so much so that nearly every structure in the Southern Isles, even the poorest house, had some element of copper in it. His father’s fort, the most beautiful and elaborate structure here, had so much copper on it, shined so brightly, that it was visible from nearly any point on the islands. It was designed to leave people in awe—whether friends or enemies.
Erec was breathing hard, his legs burning, as he finally reached the plateau and approached the place—he had forgotten how steep the Upper Isles were, how the entire island was basically one huge mountain range, a series of elevations, rising and falling, people constantly having to climb endless steps carved into the stone to reach anything. His father’s fort, most of all. Erec realized that, whatever shape he was in, it was still not the shape of the Southern Islanders, where all the men—and women—had legs of tree trunks, accustomed their entire lives to climbing and descending.
As Erec approached the doors, Alistair at his side, half a dozen soldiers, dressed in the uniform of the Southern Isles, head to toe in copper armor, weapons, shields, shining like the fort, immediately stepped aside and pulled open the doors for him. They bowed their heads low, offering him a reception fit for a king. It gave Erec a strange sensation; it brought home the fact that soon, his father would be dead—and he would be King.
Erec had never been treated like a king before, and he realized he did not like the feeling. He was a humble man at heart, his entire life devoted to being a loyal soldier, a warrior, a knight—not to politics or pomp. His life was devoted to serving others, to serving the Ring, to be the best warrior he could be. He cared for little else.
Seeing all these people in the Southern Isles treat him with such a reception made him realize that his life was about to change. He would soon be spending less time with his weaponry, less time in the field, and more time being a ruler, in halls of politics. He was not sure if he liked the feeling. Was that the natural evolution of a warrior? he wondered. To rise up from the field of battle, a place of honor, and to enter into the murky field of politics? Erec felt that there more honor in battle, and that the deeper one waded into the politics and power, the more one risked one’s honor. Was evolving from warri
or to ruler the natural evolution of responsibility? Or was it a de-evolution, a tarnishing of one’s honors and virtues?
Erec did not know the answer, and a part of him did not want to find out. He wanted a simple life as a warrior, defending his kingdom, living amongst his people. He did not want to rule them. And yet he was his father’s firstborn, and everyone on the Isles, including his father, would expect nothing less of him.
If there was any saving grace to being King on these isles, it was that Kings here were different from Kings anywhere else in the world; to be King here meant that one not only had to picked by lineage—one also had to earn it. To earn the Kingship, Erec would have to be tested on the field of battle, by his own people. A contest would be called, and any commoner would have the right to challenge him. If any one of them defeated him, then the Kingship would pass to them. At least Erec, assuming he won, would be King through merit—and not through lineage alone.
Erec marched down the corridors holding Alistair’s hand, their footsteps echoing off the copper floors, attendants and soldiers lined up, bowing their heads as they passed. More attendants opened another set of doors for them, and they turned down another corridor, and another, and finally, before them were the doors to his father’s chamber. One last soldier opened the door, and Erec braced himself, nervous, anticipating what state his father might be in.
Alistair stopped with him before the door, tugging his hand.
“My lord, shall I enter with you?” Alistair asked, hesitant.
Erec nodded.
“You shall be my wife. It is fitting that you meet my father before he dies.”
“Yet you have not seen him since your youth. Perhaps you want some time alone with him.”
Erec clutched her hand. “Where I go, you go.”
The two entered the room and the door closed behind them, leaving just the two of them in this room with the King, along with the attendants lined up solemnly along the walls.
