The Gift of Battle (18 page)

And as she leaned
back and looked over the cliffs, looked down the steep Ridge, she saw thousands
more, all in black, climbing with hooks one step at a time, scaling the cliffs
and spreading over the stone like ivy. It was an army in motion, all coming up
to kill them. It was unstoppable. Limitless.

Gwen realized
now what was happening: the Empire, with so many men at its disposal, could
afford to use these men as fodder. They would never stop. If they killed a
thousand, they would merely send at thousand more. These men were expendable.
Gwen realized at once, with a deepening pit in her stomach, that this was a
battle they could never win.

Still, that did
not mean she would give up. She was her father’s daughter, and she had never
seen him back down from a battle.

Gwen watched yet
another soldier climb over the ridge, pulling himself up on his rope, and as he
did, she was the first to step forward, raise her boot, and kick him in the
chest, sending him backwards, falling, flailing, down hundreds of feet to his
army below.

All around her,
her men followed her example, finding inspiration in her leadership. Her ranks
were joined by Steffen and Ruth and her dozens of knights, even Krohn, all of
them fighting their way right for the edge, and as they made it, kicking and
stabbing and punching men back over the side.

Some of her men
raised rocks and threw them down, crushing men’s skulls as they climbed the
ridge, while others hurled spears. Gwen found a discarded bow, took aim, and
fired several arrows straight down the cliff, taking out dozens more.

They pushed back
row after row of Empire soldiers—but that also left their flanks exposed to the
soldiers who had already managed to make it up to the ridge. Gwen cried out as
an Empire soldier slashed her other arm, and she wheeled to him as he was about
to stab her in the chest—and then Krohn leapt forward and sank his fangs into
the man’s wrist, severing his hand.

All around her,
though, her men were not so lucky, and many fell, stabbed from behind, while
they fought off the ranks of newly approaching soldiers. That left openings for
many Empire soldiers to successfully scale onto the plateau and join their
ranks. Everywhere, Gwen saw grappling hooks appearing over the edge, digging
into rock, launched by arrows from down below, from the other side of the
ridge. Dozens of hooks landed with each passing moment, an Empire soldier
behind each one, climbing his way up.

Gwen’s men
fought gloriously for hours, never retreating, killing more men than armies
could, sending thousands of Empire soldiers back over the edge. But even so,
they were only human, and they began to tire beneath the suns, overwhelmed by
the fresh Empire ranks. Gwen’s ranks of Ridge knights began to thin out—and her
ranks were much more precious than the Empire’s. A dozen of her man fell—and
that turned into two dozen, then three. On and on the fighting went, hundreds
of Empire falling, dying, being pushed back—but hundreds more appearing behind
them. Gwen fought until her ribs hurt from trying to catch her breath—but always
there were more men. They were like a tide that could not be stopped.

More and more
Empire made headway, scaling the cliffs, taking over the plateau and beginning
to push her men further back on the platform, creeping back toward the Ridge
side. Soon, so many Empire had scaled their side that Gwen and her men could no
longer reach the far edge, no longer have the advantage of kicking them over as
they arrived, or fighting straight down.

And their buffer
from the edge deepened—first five feet, then ten, then twenty, then thirty—a
buffer that became so deep that soon the halfway point was crossed, and Gwen
and her men found themselves in the position of creeping back toward their own
edge, their own plunge, their own death. Gwen, heart pounding, sweating beneath
the fading suns, realized they were losing.

All around her,
more and more of her men were dropping, the Empire’s black filling the world.
The platform was slick, running red with blood, and they were losing.

A soldier kicked
Krohn, sending him tumbling, whining, while Steffen was locked up fighting two
soldiers at once. That left Gwen alone, and she raised her shield and blocked a
fierce below from a huge Empire soldier, but it was so strong, she lost her
shield. He was so quick, he stepped forward and kicked her in the chest, and
his large boot sent her flying back, winded, landing on her back on the hard
rock. She felt as if her ribs were cracked.

Gwen looked up
and saw him standing over her, scowling, raising his sword high, about to kill
her.

As he brought
down his sword, Gwen saw her life flashing before her, and she knew she was
about to die. She saw her father’s face, urging her on, urging her to be
strong. And she was not ready to die yet.

Gwen lifted her
foot and at the last second, kicked the soldier hard between the legs. He
groaned and dropped his sword, and she jumped to her feet and grabbed him by
the back of the head and kneed him in the face.

He fell to his
side, unmoving, and Gwen felt born again. She was not down yet.

Just then, Gwen
sensed motion out of the corner of her eye, and she turned, too late, to see a
sword slash coming for her face. She braced herself for the blow—when suddenly,
there came a distinctive clang of sword stopping sword, but inches from her
face.

Gwen looked over
and was shocked to see, standing a few feet away, Kendrick, blocking the blow,
spinning the sword around, then stabbing the soldier in the heart.

She looked over
and saw he had just arrived from the Ridge side—and along with him, Brandt,
Atme, Koldo, Ludvig and Kaden.

“You must
retreat!” Kendrick yelled. “All of you! There is no time! Come with us!”

Gwen watched in
shock as Kendrick and the others threw themselves into the battle with fresh
strength, blocking and slashing, saving many of her men and sending scores of
Empire back. They brought a fresh energy into the battle and allowed her men to
catch their breath—and more importantly, to be reinvigorated. Gwen was
overjoyed with relief to see them back from the Waste, to know they were still
alive.

Gwendolyn heard
a scream, and she turned and looked out in horror to see the first of her own
men had been pushed backwards, over their own side of the Ridge, hurling to his
death. Only a few feet remained now between her people and the edge, and their
time was running short.

“We must
evacuate!” Kendrick called out. “We must go, Gwendolyn! We cannot win up here!”

“We cannot!”
Gwendolyn yelled. “I vowed to the King to defend the Ridge and his people!”

“We cannot
defend them up here!” Koldo yelled. “It is defensible no longer!”

Gwen knew they
were right, and she finally nodded back.

“MEN, WE MUST
RETREAT!” Koldo called out to his father’s knights.

Gwen could see
them all look at him with great respect, and she was relieved he was here, to
lead the men of the Ridge in battle, just as his father would have wanted.
Immediately, his men began to mobilize.

His presence
alone inspired them, and as they retreated slowly, one step at a time, they all
also made a terrific push, fighting with renewed energy, felling soldiers on
every side. They fought gloriously, killing dozens, rallying as horns sounded
all around them.

As they were
backed up nearly to the edge, Gwen saw there was no platform left—Mardig had
taken it, had left them all without a means back down. All that was left were
the ropes, still dangling on the beams that had born it. She looked down and
saw them swinging there, dangling hundreds of feet.

“JUMP!” Koldo
commanded.

All around her,
their men turned and jumped, grabbing ropes, sliding all the way down, far,
far, hundreds of feet below.

Gwen reached
down and picked up Krohn. Then she stood there, hesitating.

“WE MUST, my
lady!” Kendrick called out.

She suddenly
felt Kendrick’s strong arm around her waist, and he jumped.

The next thing
she knew they were flying through the air, over the Ridge, plummeting,
flailing, aiming for a rope, a final lifeline before falling into oblivion.

Thorgrin raced
through the air on the back of Lycoples, clutching her scales, willing her
onward, and for the first time in a long time, he felt alive again. He felt a
driving sense of purpose, unleashed from the Land of Gloom, knowing that
Lycoples was taking him to the Land of the Ring, knowing that soon enough he
would have a chance to find the sacred object that could change the fate of
mankind forever.

Thorgrin could
feel the excitement in the dragon’s body, this ancient beast who carried the
blood of Ralibar and Mycoples, whose ancient power told her exactly where to
go. As they flew, passing over vast stretches of sea, feeling as if they were
flying to the end of the world, Thor felt Lycoples’s power coursing through
him, and he felt his own skin tingling, knowing, with each passing cloud, that
they were getting ever closer to the place that would yield him the Sorcerer’s
Ring.

Thor knew it
would not be easy; he knew that whatever lay before him would be the greatest
trial of his life. His head swam as he thought of it. The Sorcerer’s Ring. The
one needed to restore the Ring for all time. The ring that only he, the chosen
one, could wear.

And yet he knew
it would come with a price. He knew it would be fiercely guarded, and he prayed
that he was up to the test. He also knew that, somehow, finding this ring would
increase his power, would be his final trial in becoming a Master Druid. In
becoming King of the Druids.

Thor closed his
eyes as he went, breathed deeply, and pictured his mother’s face. He could feel
her with him, and he knew that he would need her powers, her help, to get him
through this.

Lycoples
screeched, jolting Thor from his thoughts, and as she dipped out of the clouds,
Thor looked down and was amazed by what he saw: far below, amidst a sea of
clouds, he saw a series of cliffs, shaped in a circle. Their walls were jagged,
protruding up into the air, but at their top was a narrow, smooth circle, like
the lip of a volcano. From up here, it looked like a ring, perhaps a mile in
diameter, with mist and fog and clouds on the inside, and fog all around them.
The circular walkway at the top was narrow, wide enough to hold Thorgrin and
not much else. Thor sensed immediately that this was the place that held the
Ring.

It was the most
unusual landscape he had ever seen, and Thor sensed he’d have to walk along it,
in a circle, in a ring.

Immediately, he
felt a sense of apprehension. What sort of ring was this? There was no sign of
a sacred object, of the Sorcerer’s Ring. It was but a ring of rock emerging
from the clouds, a narrow walkway that wound around a huge, perfect circle,
with no person, no destination, in sight. Thor saw no creatures to defend
against, no sorcerer waiting to greet him. He saw no weapons or shields, no
structures of any sort. Nothing but this massive ring of rock, tempting him to
land below, and to walk it.

But why? Why
walk in a huge circle?

What was this
place?

Lycoples
suddenly dove downward, screeching, flapping her wings, aiming for the platform
atop the rock, and Thor knew he had found the place. He sensed the power in the
air, a vibration that coursed through him.

Slowly, it began
to dawn on Thor that this place was only partially real—and that it partially
existed in another dimension, deep within the canals of his own mind. In some
ways, it was like the Land of the Druids, a land created partially by his own
mind. Yet, it was partially real, too. He sensed he was entering another realm,
a realm much more dangerous than reality. It was a realm of magic. It felt like
a trap.

It would demand
his greatest battle, he knew, because he would not be battling an outside
opponent. He would be battling for the inside of his mind. He would be battling
himself.

Lycoples set
them down on the edge of the rock and Thor quickly dismounted, warily standing
on the narrow platform atop the cliffs. Looking about, he saw the jagged cliffs
disappearing into the clouds, and saw only clouds in the center. The walkway
was narrow—but a few feet wide—and he knew that if he took a wrong step in
either direction, he would plummet into nothingness for eternity.

Thor turned back
to face Lycoples, and she looked at him, craning her neck forward, her intense
eyes staring at him.

This is where I
leave you
,
he heard her saying in his mind’s eye.
This is a warrior’s journey. A
journey for you alone.

Thor looked back
at her, feeling a deepening sense of apprehension.

“Old friend,”
Thor said, “where will you go?”

Thor reached out
to touch the scales on her face, but as he did, he was shocked to see she had
disappeared.

Thorgrin turned,
looking all around, wondering where she was, wondering what this place was
exactly. He had a deep feeling of dread here, stronger than any other place
he’d been. The enemy here, he sensed, was invisible. He would have preferred to
face a den of monsters, a Blood Lord, even the gates of hell, over this place.
Because this was a place, he feared, that would make him confront himself.

“Your training
is nearly complete, young Thorgrin,” came Argon’s voice suddenly.

Thor spun,
shocked, looking all around for Argon, but saw him nowhere.

“Argon?” Thor
called out, his voice echoing. “Where are you?”

“I am everywhere
and nowhere,” Argon replied. “The question is: where are
you
?”

“Where is the
Ring?” Thor called out. “Where is the Sorcerer’s Ring?”

There came a
long silence, then finally Argon’s voice echoed again.

“The Ring can
only be found, only be worn, by one who deserves it. One who has become a
Master Druid. The King of the Druids. That is what it means to be King. You
must pass your final step, your final test.”

“And what is
that test?” Thor asked.

“If you can
win,” Argon called out, “if you can defeat yourself, then the Ring shall be
yours.”

Thor frowned.

“But how can I
defeat myself?” he asked.

All fell silent,
and Thor looked around, but there came no more sound. There was only the sound
of the clouds, of the vapor drifting in and out on the wind.

Suddenly, there
came a clang of armor, and Thor jumped, startled. He spun, shocked to see a
warrior standing a few feet away, appearing out of the mist, facing him. His
silver armor shone in the fog, and as this fine knight raised his visor, Thor
was breathless to see it was himself he was facing.

Thor gripped the
hilt of the Sword of the Dead, drew it slowly, and raised his shield. He then
braced himself, as his double charged him.

His double
brought his sword down, a blow meant to kill, and Thor raised the Sword of the
Dead and blocked, sparks flying—and he was surprised at how powerful the blow
was. Thor was shocked to see that his double, too, wielded the Sword of the
Dead.

His double
brought his sword down further, nearly touching his neck, and Thor, struggling,
finally spun and knocked his sword of the way. As he did, Thor lost his balance
and stopped himself before falling over the edge.

Thor’s double
took advantage of it and rushed forward before Thor could regain his footing,
and kicked Thor in the ribs.

Thor let out a
cry as he slipped off the side and began sliding down the rock. He reached out
with one hand, flailing, managed to grab the edge, and he held on, dangling. He
looked down over his shoulder and saw he was about to slip down into nothingness.

Thorgrin pulled
himself up with all his might, straining, as his double appeared before him and
raised his sword, preparing to finish him off. Thor knew his life hung in the
balance and that he had to act fast. In one quick motion, he yanked himself up,
swung his legs around, and with all his might, kicked his double behind the
knee, causing him to fall.

His double fell
backwards, over the side of the cliffs, tumbling into the mist, his armor
clanking as he fell and fell, disappearing into the clouds.

Thorgrin knelt
there, gasping for breath, rubbing his ribs where he had been kicked. It had
been a quick and fierce and unexpected confrontation, and it had caught him off
guard. Had he really beaten him? Was it himself he had beaten?

Thor looked left
and right, wary, looking for more enemies—but there were none.

He slowly gained
his feet, and as he stood there, alone, baffled, he felt instinctively that in
order to find the answers he was looking for, he had to walk this ring, walk
the entire circle. Complete it.

Thor began to
walk, one step at a time, in and out of the mist that blocked his view at
times. He looked down, searching everywhere for a ring, for any sacred
object—but there was none. He wondered if he would ever find it, and where it
could be hidden.

As Thor walked,
wary, he heard a faint clanging of armor, growing stronger. He peered into the
mist, and was shocked to see several more of his doubles charging for him,
single file, each raising battle-axes. They charged out of the mist, and Thor knew
he could not avoid them—and that they would pose the fight of his life.

As they charged,
Thor had a sudden realization: by trying to oppose them, he was opposing
himself. He would lose. He suddenly had the insight that these doubles were, in
part, his creation. This place was his creation. The more power he endowed to
them in his mind, the more power they would have. The only way to defeat them,
he realized, would be not to acknowledge them. Not to give them power. To
realize that they were his own creation—and to stop creating them.

So Thorgrin,
instead of attacking, instead of defending, stood very still. He did not even
confront them. He closed his eyes and stood very still as he raised palms to
his side, and felt the heat throbbing within them. In his mind’s eye, he chose
to create a different reality: he did not see hostile warriors charging him;
instead, he saw nothingness. Mist. Silence. He saw the warriors fall off the
side of the cliff and disappear forever. He replaced violence with peace, harmony.

Thor opened his
eyes, but, feeling his power searing within him, he no longer braced himself as
the first soldier reached him, bringing the ax down for his head. He knew he
was stronger than that. Stronger than believing what was before him was real. Thor
forced himself to stay focused, centered, and to see a different reality up
until even the last second. It was the hardest effort of his life, as every
ounce of him screamed out to defend. But he knew he had to keep his mind
strong. He knew that if his mind was not strong enough, he would be killed by
this opponent.

Thor stood there
calmly and stared, believing in himself, in the power of his mind, and at the
last second, the double leading the charge leaned sideways and fell off the
cliff, tumbling in a loud clanging of armor. Behind him, one by one, all the
other doubles fell, too, disappearing down the sides of the cliff, into the
mist.

Thor kept
walking boldly forth, and as he circled the ring, dozens more of these doubles
appeared out of the mist. But Thor walked right into them, keeping himself
centered, feeling the heat in his palms, having faith in himself, and as he
continued, taking one step after another in a walk of faith, he walked right
down the middle, the knights parting ways, falling off on either side of the
cliffs.

Finally, they
stopped coming. Finally, as he walked, there was peace. Silence.

He had defeated
them. He had defeated himself.

Thor was slowly
realizing that the only power left to overcome in the universe was the power in
his mind. He was coming to realize the greatest source of power in the universe
was not outside somewhere, but within himself. It was the final, and the
greatest frontier, the infinite well which he had barely begun to tap. It was
the scariest thing in the world—and the most inspiring.

As Thorgrin
continued walking, going fearlessly forth, halfway around the circle, the mist
lifted. The sun began to appear, shafts of light coming down on him in scarlet,
and as the walkway lit up, he stopped short. He saw that before him, there was
a gap of about twenty feet in the walkway before it picked up again.

This, too,
Thorgrin realized, was a test. It was a test of faith, faith to cross this. Was
his faith strong enough? Was his belief in himself, in his mind, strong enough?
Was it strong enough to step into nothingness?

Thorgrin
realized that it needed to be. That was what it meant to pass the final test.
That was what it meant to master himself. That was what it meant to become the
King of the Druids.

And what was
what was required to be worthy of the Sorcerer’s Ring.

Thorgrin closed
his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked forth. He took the final, fateful step
off the edge, into nothingness. As he did, he willed himself to imagine a
different outcome. He refused to see himself falling, but instead saw himself
standing on air, walking.