A Sky of Spells (Book #9 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (4 page)

Luanda lay on the ground at
Romulus’ feet, watching in horror as thousands of Empire soldiers flooded the
bridge, screaming with triumph as they crossed into the Ring. They were
invading her homeland, and there was nothing she could do but sit there,
helpless, and watch, and wonder if it was somehow all her fault. She could not
help but feel as if she was somehow responsible for the Shield’s lowering.

Luanda turned and looked out
at the horizon, saw the endless Empire ships, and she knew that soon it would
be millions of Empire troops flooding in. Her people were finished; the Ring was
finished. It was all over now.

Luanda closed her eyes and
shook her head, again and again. There was a time when she had been so angry with
Gwendolyn, with her father, and would have been glad to witness the destruction
of the Ring. But her mind had changed, ever since Andronicus’ betrayal and
treatment of her, ever since his shaving her head, his beating her in front of
his people. It made her realize how wrong, how naïve, she had been in her own
quest for power. Now, she would give anything for her old life back. All she
wanted now was a life of peace and contentment. She no longer craved ambition
or power; now, she just wanted to survive, to make wrongs right.

But as she watched, Luanda
realized it was too late. Now her beloved homeland was on its way to destruction,
and there was nothing she could do.

Luanda heard an awful noise,
laughter mixed with a snarl, and she looked up and saw Romulus standing there,
hands on his hips, watching it all, a huge contended smile on his face, his
long jagged teeth showing. He threw back his head and laughed and laughed, elated.

Luanda  yearned to kill him;
if she had a dagger in hand, she would run it through his heart. But knowing
him, how thick he was built, how impervious he was to everything, the dagger
probably wouldn’t even pierce it.

Romulus looked down at her,
and his smile turned to a grimace.

“Now,” he said, “it’s time
to kill you slowly.”

Luanda heard a distinctive
clang and watched Romulus draw a weapon from his waist. It looked like a short
sword, except tapered to a long narrow point. It was an evil weapon, one clearly
designed for torture.

“You are going to suffer
very, very much,” he said.

As he lowered his weapon,
Luanda raised her hands to her face, as if to block it all out. She closed her
eyes and shrieked.

That was when the strangest
thing happened: as Luanda shrieked, her shriek was echoed by an even greater
shriek. It was the shriek of an animal. A monster. A primordial roar, one louder
and more resonant than anything she’d ever heard in her life. It was like
thunder, tearing the skies apart.

Luanda opened her eyes and looked
up to the heavens, wondering if she had imagined it. It sounded as if it had
been the shriek of God himself.

Romulus, also stunned,
looked up to the skies, baffled. By his expression, Luanda could tell that it had
really happened; she had not imagined it.

It came again, a second shriek,
even worse than the first, with such ferocity, such power, Luanda realized it could
only be one thing:

A dragon.

As the skies parted, Luanda
was awe-struck to watch two immense dragons soar overhead, the largest and
scariest creatures she had ever seen, blotting out the sun, turning day to
night as they cast a shadow over all of them.

Romulus’ weapon fell from
his hands, his mouth open in shock. Clearly, he’d never witnessed anything quite
like this, either, especially as the two dragons flew so low to the ground,
barely twenty feet above their heads, nearly grazing their heads. Their great
talents hung below them, and as they shrieked again, they arched their backs
and spread open their wings.

At first, Luanda braced
herself, as she assumed they were coming to kill her. But as she watched them
fly, so fast overhead, as she felt the wind they left knock her over, she
realized they were going elsewhere: over the Canyon. Into the Ring.

The dragons must have seen the
soldiers crossing into the Ring and realized the Shield was down. They must
have realized that this was their chance to enter the Ring, too.

Luanda watched, riveted, as one
dragon suddenly opened its mouth, swooped down, and breathed a stream of fire
onto the men on the bridge.

Screams of thousands of
Empire soldiers arose, shrieking to the heavens as a great wall of fire
engulfed them.

The dragons continued
flying, breathing fire as they crossed the bridge, burning all of Romulus’ men.
Then they continued to fly, into the Ring itself, continuing to breathe fire
and to destroy every Empire man who’d entered, sending wave after wave of destruction.

Within moments, there were no
Empire men left on the bridge, or on the mainland of the Ring.

The Empire men who were
heading for the bridge, who were about to cross, stopped in their tracks. They
dared not enter. Instead, they turned and fled, running back to the ships.

Romulus turned to watch his
men leave, irate.

Luanda sat there, stunned,
and realized this was her chance. Romulus was distracted, as he turned and chased
after his men and tried to get them to head for the bridge. This was her
moment.

Luanda jumped to her feet,
her heart pounding, and turned and raced back for the bridge. She knew she had only
a few precious moments; if she were lucky, maybe, just
maybe
, she could run
long enough, before Romulus noticed, and make the other side. And if she could
make the other side, maybe her reaching the mainland would help restore the
Shield.

She had to try, and she knew
it was now or never.

Luanda ran and ran, breathing
so hard she could hardly think, her legs shaking. She stumbled on her feet, her
legs heavy, her throat dry, flailing her arms as she went, the cold wind grazing
her bald head.

She ran faster and faster,
her heart pounding in her ears, the sound of her own breathing filling her
world, as all became a narrow blur. She made it a good fifty yards across the
bridge before she heard the first scream.

Romulus. Clearly, he had spotted
her.

Behind her there suddenly
came the sound of men charging on horseback, crossing the bridge, coming after
her.

Luanda sprinted, increasing
her pace, as she felt the men bearing down her. She ran past all the corpses of
the Empire men, burnt by the dragons, some still flaming, doing her best to
avoid them. Behind her, the horses grew even louder. She glanced back over her
shoulder, saw their spears raised high and knew that this time Romulus aimed to
have her killed. She knew that, in just moments, those spears would be thrust into
her back.

Luanda looked forward and
saw the Ring, the mainland, just feet in front of her. If only she could make
it. Just ten more feet. If she could just cross the border, maybe, just maybe,
the Shield would go back up and save her.

The men bore down on her as
she took her final steps. The sound of horses was deafening in her ears, and
she smelled the sweat of horses and of men. She braced herself, expecting a spear
point to puncture her back at any moment. They were just feet away. But so was
she.

In one final act of
desperation, Luanda dove, just as she saw a soldier raise his hand with a spear
behind her. She hit the ground with a tumble. Out of the corner of her eye she
saw the spear sailing through the air, heading right for her.

Yet as soon as Luanda crossed
the line, landed on the mainland of the Ring, suddenly, behind her, the Shield was
activated again. The spear, inches behind her, disintegrated in mid-air. And
behind it, all the soldiers on the bridge shrieked, raising their hands to their
faces, as they all went up in flames, disintegrating.

In moments, they were all
just piles of ashes.

On the far side of the
bridge Romulus stood, watching it all. He shrieked and beat his chest. It was a
cry of agony. A cry of someone who had been defeated. Outwitted.

Luanda lay there, breathing
hard, in shock. She leaned down and kissed the soil she leaned on. Then she threw
her head back and laughed in delight.

She had made it. She was
safe.

Thorgrin stood in the open
clearing, facing Andronicus, surrounded by both armies. They stood at a
standstill, watching as father and son faced off once again. Andronicus stood
there in all his glory, towering over Thor, wielding a huge axe in one hand and
a sword in the other. As Thor faced him, he forced himself to breathe slow and deep,
to control his emotions. Thor had to remain clear-minded, to focus as he fought
this man, the same way he would any other enemy. He had to tell himself that he
was not facing his father, but his worst foe. The man who had hurt Gwendolyn; the
man who had hurt all of his countrymen; the man who had brainwashed him. The
man who deserved to die.

With Rafi dead, Argon back
in control, all the undead creatures back beneath the earth, there was no more
delaying this final confrontation, Andronicus’ facing off with Thorgrin. It was
the battle that must determine the fate of the war. Thor would not let him get
away, not this time, and Andronicus, cornered in, finally seemed willing to
face off with his son.

“Thornicus, you are my son,”
Andronicus said, his low voice reverberating. “I do not wish to harm you.”

“But I wish to harm you,”
Thor replied, refusing to give in to Andronicus’ mind games.

“Thornicus, my son,”
Andronicus repeated, as Thor took a wary step closer, “I do not wish to kill
you. Lay down your weapons and join me. Join me as you had before. You are my
son. You are not
their
son. You carry my bloodline; you do not carry
theirs. My homeland is your homeland; the Ring is but an adopted place for you.
You are
my
people. These people mean nothing to you. Come home. Come
back to the Empire. Allow me to be the father you always wanted. And become the
son I always wanted you to be.

“I will not fight you,”
Andronicus said finally, as he lowered his axe.

Thor had heard enough. He
had to make a move now, before he allowed his mind to be swayed by this
monster.

Thor let out a battle cry, raised
sword high and charged forward, bringing it down with both hands for Andronicus’
head.

Andronicus stared back in
surprise, then at the last second, he reached down, grabbed his axe from the
ground, raised it and blocked Thor’s blow.

Sparks flew off of Thor’s
sword as the two of them locked weapons, inches away, each groaning, as
Andronicus held back Thor’s blow.

“Thornicus,” Andronicus
grunted, “your strength is great. But it is
my
strength. I gave you
this. My blood runs in your veins. Stop this madness, and join me!”

Andronicus pushed Thor back,
and Thor stumbled backwards.

“Never!” Thor screamed,
defiant. “I will never return to you. You are no father to me. You are a
stranger. You don’t deserve to be my father!”

Thor charged again,
screaming, and brought his sword down. Andronicus blocked it, and Thor, expecting
it, quickly spun around with his sword and slashed Andronicus’ arm.

Andronicus cried out as
blood squirted from his wound. He stumbled back and looked Thor over with
disbelief, reaching over and touching his wound, then examining the blood on
his hand.

“You mean to kill me,”
Andronicus said, as if realizing for the first time. “After all I’ve done for
you.”

“I most certainly do,” Thorgrin
said.

Andronicus studied him, as
if studying a new person, and soon his look changed from one of wonder and disappointment,
to one of anger.

“Then you are no son of
mine!” he screamed. “The Great Andronicus does not ask twice!”

Andronicus threw down his
sword, raised his battle axe with both hands, let out a great cry and charged
for Thor. Finally, the battle had begun.

Thor raised his sword to
block the blow, but it came down with such force that, to Thor’s shock, it
shattered Thor’s sword, breaking it in two.

Thor quickly improvised,
dodging out of the way as the blow continued to come down; it just grazed him,
missing by an inch, so close he could feel the wind brush his shoulder. His
father had tremendous strength, greater than any warrior he’d ever faced, and
Thor knew this would not be easy. His father was fast, too—a deadly combination.
And now Thor had no weapon.

Andronicus swung around
again without hesitating, swinging sideways, aiming to chop Thor in half.

Thor leapt into the air,
high over Andronicus his head, doing a somersault, using his inner powers to propel
him, to bring him high in the air and land behind Andronicus. He landed on his
feet, reached down and grabbed his father’s sword from the ground, spun around and
charged, swinging for Andronicus’ back.

But to Thor’s surprise,
Andronicus was so fast, he was prepared. He spun around and blocked the blow.
Thor felt the impact of metal hitting metal reverberate throughout his body.
Andronicus’ sword, at least, held; it was stronger than his. It was strange, to
hold his father’s sword—especially when facing his father.

Thor swung around, and came
down sideways for Andronicus’ shoulder. Andronicus blocked, and came down for
Thor’s.

Back and forth they went,
attacking and blocking, Thor driving Andronicus back, and Andronicus, in turn,
pushing Thor back. Sparks flew, the weapons moving so fast, gleaming in the light,
their great clangs riveting the battlefield, the two armies watching,
transfixed. The two great warriors pushed each other back and forth across the
open clearing, neither gaining an inch.

Thor raised his sword to
strike again, but this time Andronicus surprised him by stepping forward and
kicking him in the chest. Thor went flying backwards, landing on his back.

Andronicus rushed forward
and brought down his axe. Thor rolled out of the way, but not quickly enough:
it sliced Thor’s bicep, just enough to draw blood. Thor cried out, but
nonetheless, swung around, and swung his sword and sliced Andronicus’ calf.

Andronicus stumbled and
cried out, and Thor rolled back to his feet, as the two faced each other, each
wounded.

“I’m stronger than you, son,”
Andronicus said. “And more experienced in battle. Give in now. Your Druid
powers will not work against me. It is just me against you, man to man, sword
to sword. And as a warrior, I am better. You know this. Yield to me, and I
shall not kill you.”

Thor scowled.

“I yield to no one! Least of
all you!”

Thor forced himself to think
of Gwendolyn, of what Andronicus had done to her, and his rage intensified. Now
was the time. Thor was determined to finish Andronicus off, once and for all, to
send this awful creature back to hell.

Thor charged with a final
burst of strength, giving it all he had, letting out a great cry. He brought
his sword down left and right, swinging so fast he could barely contain it,
Andronicus blocking each one, even as he was pushed back, step by step. The
fighting went on and on, and Andronicus seemed surprised that his son could
exhibit such strength, and for so long.

Thor found his moment of
opportunity when, for a moment, Andronicus’ arms grew tired. Thor swung for his
axe head and connected, and managed to knock the blade from Andronicus’ hands. Andronicus
watched it fly through the air, shocked, and Thor then kicked his father in the
chest, knocking him down, flat on his back.

Before he could rise, Thor stepped
forward and placed a foot on his throat. Thor had him pinned, and he stood
there, looking down at him.

The entire battlefield was riveted
as Thor stood over him, holding the tip of his sword to his father’s throat.

Andronicus, blood seeping
from his mouth, smiled between his fangs.

“You cannot do it, son,” he
said. “That is your great weakness. Your love for me. Just like my weakness for
you. I could never bring myself to kill you. Not now, not your entire life. This
entire battle is futility. You will let me go. Because you and I are one.”

Thor stood over him, hands
shaking as he held the sword tip at his father’s throat. Slowly, he raised it. A
part of him felt his father’s words to be true. How could he bring himself to
kill his father?

But as he stared down, he considered
all the pain, all the damage, his father had inflicted on everyone around him.
He considered the price of letting him live. The price of compassion. It was
too great a price to pay, not just for Thorgrin, but for everyone he loved and
cared about. Thor glanced behind him and saw the tens of thousands of Empire
soldiers whom had invaded his homeland, standing there, ready to attack his
people. And this man was their leader. Thor owed it to his homeland. To Gwendolyn.
And most of all, to himself. This man might be his father by blood, but that
was all. He was not his father in any other sense of the word. And blood alone
did not make a father.

Thor raised his sword high,
and with a great cry, he swung it down.

Thor closed his eyes, and
opened them to see the sword, embedded in the soil, right beside Andronicus’
head. Thor left it there and stepped back.

His father had been right:
he had been unable to do it. Despite everything, he just could not bring
himself to kill a defenseless man.

Thor turned his back on his
father, facing his own people, facing Gwendolyn. Clearly he had won the battle;
he had made his point. Now, Andronicus, if he had any honor, would have no
choice but to return home.

“THORGRIN!” Gwendolyn
screamed.

Thor turned to see, with
shock, Andronicus’s axe swinging at him, coming right for his head. Thor ducked
at the last second, and the axe flew by.

Andronicus was fast, though,
and in the same motion he swung back around with his gauntlet and backhanded
Thor across the jaw, knocking him down to his hands and knees.

Thor felt an awful cracking in
his ribs, as Andronicus’ boot kicked him in the stomach, sending him rolling, gasping
for air.

Thor lay on his hands and
knees, breathing hard, blood dripping from his mouth, his ribs killing him,
trying to muster the strength to get up. Out of the corner of his eye he
watched Andronicus step forward, smile wide, and raise his axe high with both
hands. He was aiming, Thor could see, to chop off Thor’s head. Thor could see it
in his bloodshot eyes that Andronicus would have no mercy, as Thor had had.

“This is what I should have
done thirty years ago,” Andronicus said.

Andronicus let out a great
scream, as he brought his axe down for Thor’s exposed neck.

Thor, though, was not done
fighting; he managed one last burst of energy, and despite all his pain, he
scrambled to his feet and charged his father, tackling him around the ribs,
driving him backwards, onto the ground, on his back.

Thor lay on top of him,
wrestling him down, preparing to fight him with his bare hands. It had become a
wrestling match. Andronicus reached up and grabbed Thor’s throat, and Thor was
surprised by his strength; he felt himself losing air quickly as he was choked.

Thor grasped at his waist, desperate,
searching for his dagger. The royal dagger, the one King MacGil had given him,
before he died. Thor was losing air fast, and he knew if he didn’t find it
soon, he’d be dead.

Thor found it with his last
breath. He raised it high, and plunged it down with both hands, into Andronicus’
chest.

Andronicus shot up, gasping
for air, eyes bulging in a death stare, as he sat up and continued to choke his
son.

Thor, out of breath, was
seeing stars, going limp.

Finally, slowly, Andronicus’
grip released, as his arms fell to his side. His eyes rolled sideways, and he stopped
moving.

He lay there frozen. Dead.

Thor gasped as he pried his
father’s limp hand from his throat, heaving and coughing, rolling off his
father’s dead body.

His entire body was shaking.
He had just killed his father. He had not thought it was possible.

Thor glanced around and saw
all the warriors, both armies, staring at him in shock. Thor felt a tremendous
heat course through his body, as if some profound shift had just occurred
within him, as if he had wiped some evil part of himself. He felt changed,
lighter.

Thor heard a great noise in
the sky, like thunder, and he looked up and saw a small black cloud appear over
Andronicus’ corpse, and a funnel of small black shadows, like demons, whirl
down to the ground. They swirled around his father, encompassing him, howling,
then lifted his body high into the air, higher and higher, until it disappeared
into the cloud. Thor watched, in shock, and wondered to what hell his father’s
soul would be dragged.

Thor looked up, and saw the
Empire army facing him, tens and tens of thousands of men, vengeance in their
eyes. The Great Andronicus was dead. Yet still, his men remained. Thor and the
men of the Ring were still outnumbered a hundred to one. They had won the
battle, but they were about to lose the war.

Erec and Kendrick and Srog
and Bronson walked to Thor’s side, swords drawn, as they all faced the Empire
together. Horns sounded up and down the Empire line, and Thor prepared to face
battle one last time. He knew they could not win. But at least they would all
go down together, in one great clash of glory.