The Gift of Battle (22 page)

Gwen turned and
looked over to see a citizen of the Ridge, a woman holding a small child,
looking back at her with a hopeful face. She saw behind her a small crowd, all
looking to her with hope, for answers. Gwen felt a great responsibility to lead
them well.

She glanced over
at the other ships, and she saw Koldo and the others looking to her, too, all
falling silent. Gwen knew the time had come to tell them.

“We sail to the
Ring!” she announced definitively, the sound of authority carrying in her voice
impressing even her. It was her father’s voice.

She could see
the look of surprise in their faces—especially in those of Kendrick, Brandt,
and Atme, of her people.

“It was your
father’s wish,” Gwendolyn said to Koldo, “for me to lead your people to safety.
The Ring is the only place I know.”

“But it is
destroyed!” Brandt called out.

Gwen shook her
head.

“It can be
rebuilt,” she replied. “The Empire has vacated. It is ours for the taking.”

“But the Shield
is down!” Atme called.

Gwen sighed.

“It will not be
easy,” she said. “But it has been prophesied. The Ring, one day, will rise
again.”

Gwen wished,
more than ever, that Argon were here now, with her, to explain. But as usual,
he was nowhere to be found.

“There is a
sacred Ring,” she continued. “The Sorcerer’s Ring. Thorgrin even now quests for
it. We must sail forth. If he finds it in time, he shall meet us there, and can
help us restore the Ring.”

“And if your
prophecy is wrong?” Ludvig asked. “If Thor does not find this Ring?”

Gwendolyn felt a
heavy silence as they all looked to her.

“It is a leap of
faith we must take,” she said. “Yet life is always a leap of faith.”

They all fell
silent, realizing the challenges that lay ahead, and Koldo nodded back,
gravely.

“I respect the
Queen’s decision!” he called out, and Gwen appreciated his using that title. It
made her fell as if she were, indeed, a Queen again. And if they were returning
to the Ring, perhaps, indeed, she was.

The people,
satisfied, all continued on, breaking back into motion, hoisting sails and
shoving off. Soon their ship was moving, Gwen feeling the currents catching,
carrying it. She looked back and saw, with relief, the shoreline of the Waste
grow further and further.

Gwendolyn made
her way to the bow of the ship, looking out at the waters ahead, thrilled to
feel motion beneath her, the gentle rising and falling of the ship, and as she
did, her new people congregated around her hopefully. She felt like a messiah,
leading her people for a new horizon, a new home, for a place to finally be
free.

Thorgrin cut
through the air on the back of Lycoples, returning from the Land of the Ring,
and feeling the power radiating off of the Sorcerer’s Ring as he wore it on his
finger, clutching the dragon’s scales. Thor felt like a different person since
wearing it, like a bigger version of himself, stronger, more powerful—able to
do anything. He felt the energy of the Ring throbbing on his finger, and was in
awe of the bright light that it cast off. He had never encountered an object
more powerful in his life. Wearing it felt all-consuming, as if he were lost in
its universe.

He also felt
empowered, as he if understood for the first time what it meant to be alive. He
knew that the ring represented a great victory, the culmination of all the
tests and trials and training he’d ever had, all the obstacles he’d overcome,
all the setbacks he had not backed down from. It was more than a ring of power:
it was a ring of destiny. A ring of completion.

Thorgrin raced
through the skies, knowing that anything was possible now. He knew that any
foes that had been too strong, any places too dark, he now had the power to
confront. And his trials were not yet done. They were, in fact, just beginning.

The Sorcerer’s
Ring, he realized, demanded a price: it demanded the best of whoever wore it,
demanded them to climb to ever higher heights, face ever greater foes, greater
trials. For Thorgrin, he knew that meant facing his worst enemy, facing the one
place that had defeated him, the one place he’d had to flee: the Land of Blood. It meant returning, facing the Blood Lord again, trying once again to save
Guwayne. It meant returning to the place of his defeat, and having the courage
to confront it one more time, now that he was a different person.

And if he lived,
Thor knew the Ring would then demand of him one more sacred responsibility: to
return to the Ring itself, to the land of its birth, to fight to take it back,
to save Gwendolyn and the exiles. He felt the Sorcerer’s Ring calling him
there, demanding it of him.

But first he had
to save Guwayne.

“Faster,
Lycoples!” Thorgrin called out to his friend, his heart pounding with anticipation
as the horizon began to shift.

Lycoples,
empowered by the presence of the Ring, flew faster than Thorgrin could
remember, and she lowered her head, Thor gripping her scales, and burst through
the clouds. Up ahead, Thor saw the landscape change: the bright skies overhead
came to an abrupt end as they met the waterfalls of blood, the chilling
entrance to the Land of Blood.

Thor felt a
moment of apprehension, recalling his past failures in this place. He
remembered what it was like to enter a world too strong for him, to be besieged
by bouts of madness, by a seductress. It was a place of darkness that knew no
bounds, a place he had not been strong enough to face.

But that was the
old Thorgrin. Now, having passed his final tests, and wearing the Sorcerer’s Ring,
he was stronger. It was time to put himself to the test, to face his demons.
And most importantly, his son lay beyond that wall—he could not abandon him. He
would retrieve him, or die trying.

Lycoples
screeched as they approached the waterfalls of blood, hesitant, and Thorgrin
recalled her being unable to enter before. But this time, he knew, it would be
different. This time, they had the Ring.

“Onward,
Lycoples,” Thor whispered. “You are untouchable now.”

Thor held out
his hand with the Ring on it, and as he did, an aura of red light slowly spread
and encased them, like a bubble.

Lycoples
stretched out her great wings and screeched, and Thor could sense her
hesitation; but she trusted him, lowered her head, and flew forward in faith.

Thor felt
himself encased in blood as they both entered the waterfalls. They were
immersed in the deafening waters gushing down, splashing all around them. But
the aura spread over them, and the water bounced off of it harmlessly, keeping
them safe and dry, flying through it as they would a cloud.

Soon, they
emerged on the other side, to Thor’s relief.

Lycoples
screeched with joy, with victory, as they did, bursting out into the Land of Blood. It was a stark contrast. Here, the clouds hung low, were thick and heavy,
black, ominous. There was no sun to speak of, and the land below was grim,
covered in ash, as Thor remembered it. Thor felt himself tensing up at the
sight of it, remembering all that had happened—but he forced himself to fly on.

They flew over
the sea of blood, racing by landscapes of dead trees, of dried lava, the entire
land looking charred and desolate, as if nothing could live here. They flew and
flew, so fast Thor could hardly catch his breath, covering more ground in a
minute than they had in days with the ship. Down below, every now and again,
Thor spotted a lone monster on the landscape, looking up and roaring at them,
and he knew that if they were down there, it would like nothing more than to
tear them to shreds.

Finally, Thor
spotted the place that had haunted his nightmares: the castle of the Blood Lord.
He tensed up at the sight of it. There it sat on the horizon, like mud that had
risen from the earth and hardened, its sinister glowing lights within it. Thor
could feel the gloom of it even from here. And yet his heart quickened, every
fiber of his being on fire, as he knew his son lay beyond its walls.

Lycoples flew
and flew, over the shattered gatehouse, over the winding canals leading to it.
He was further now than he’d ever been in the Land of Blood, past the Straits
of Madness, past the Enchantress, and he knew there was nothing left now
between him and the castle.

Thor expected
her to fly right to the castle gate—but she surprised him by coming to a stop
several hundred yards before it, as if she’d hit an invisible wall, and diving
down low. It was some sort of sorcerer’s bubble, he realized, even more
powerful than the bubble cast by the Ring.

As she prepared
to land, Lycoples, Thorgrin realized, could go no further.

Thor dismounted
as Lycoples set them down on the road leading to the castle, and he looked over
at the road before them. It was a long approach, the road made of smooth,
blackened brick, its gleaming pathway lined with torches and with pikes, each
impaled by a severed head.

Thor looked at
Lycoples and she stared back, and he sensed that she wanted to go on—but she
could not.

I shall wait for
you here
,
she said in his mind’s eye.
You shall return, warrior. With your son.

Thorgrin reached
up and stroked her head and turned toward the castle. He drew the Sword of the
Dead from its scabbard with its distinctive ring, turned, and took the first
step onto the road, knowing he would have to go it alone.

Thor walked,
then jogged, then ran down the path, passing all the impaled heads of others
who had been foolish enough to come here. He sprinted with all he had, knowing
his son was in that tower, desperate to lay eyes on him again.

As he ran,
approaching the stone drawbridge spanning a moat, Thor looked down to see the
floor of the drawbridge was lined with spikes, and the moat’s blackened waters
were teaming with snapping alligators and hideous creatures he did not
recognize. He saw them gorging on human flesh, body parts floating in the
water.

As he looked up,
approaching the bridge, he saw two guards standing before it, in all-black
armor, twice as tall as he, each holding long halberds as they guarded the
entrance.

Thor never
slowed; he continued sprinting, sword drawn, and as they broke into action,
raising their halberds and swinging for him, he felt the power of the Ring
propelling him forward. Faster than he’d ever been, stronger than he’d ever
been, Thor leapt into the air—higher than ever—flying over the heads of the
soldiers. With one clean slash, he chopped off one of their heads, then leapt
across the bridge and chopped off the other.

Their halberds
fell harmlessly to the ground as they each collapsed, dead.

Thor looked down
at the spikes before him, and he took a running leap. In a single bound he
leapt over the drawbridge, over all the spikes, and landed before the door to
the castle.

Thor examined
it. It was an immense door, thirty feet high, shaped in a huge arch, made of
iron and wood—but Thor did not feel intimidated by it. Instead, he reached up,
grabbed the knocker, and with one pull, with the strength of a giant, he tore
the door off it hinges, the power of the Ring coursing through him as he did.

It was time for
payback.

As Thor tore off
the door, he faced a grim blackness, the inside lit only by the faint orange
glow of torches. A freezing cold gale rushed out at him, damp and cold, feeling
like souls being released from hell. There was a faint moaning and howling in
the air, as if Thorgrin were entering another realm of hell.

Thor rushed
inside, refusing to give in to his fears, thinking only of his son. He ran
through the gloom and blackness, sword drawn, ready for anything, and as he
did, he suddenly heard the screech of what sounded like a gargoyle.

Thor suddenly
detected motion, and he looked up to see one of the hideous creatures from
Ragon’s isle, one that had snatched Guwayne, hanging upside down from the
ceiling. Its glowing yellow eyes fixed on him, startled by his presence, and
its face suddenly contorted in a sneer of rage as it released its claws,
swooped down from the ceiling, and plunged right for him, screeching.

Thor reacted,
the Ring increasing his speed and reflexes. He stepped forward and met it,
slashing the Sword of the Dead and cutting the creature in half.

Thor sprinted
through the castle, barely slowing to get his bearings, realizing dimly that
this place was made of mud and stone, its walls warped. He ran through vast
open chambers, his footsteps echoing, and down narrow, twisting and turning
corridors, the floor made of mud; he jumped over lava streams and ran through
empty rooms with walls made of ancient black granite. He ran through a huge
arch and found himself in a chamber with a ceiling so high, he could not even
find it.

Thor heard a
great cacophony, louder than the sound of his own breathing, his own pounding
heart, and he realized he’d run into a nest of these gargoyles. The chamber lit
up with their glowing yellow eyes, and they all screeched and began swooping
down at him. It was as if he’d disturbed their nest.

Thor slashed one
after another, like huge bats coming for him. He was in the zone as he fought,
feeling the Ring propelling him, slashing each one expertly, ducking and
dodging the claws that came for his face. He slashed one, severing its wings,
stabbed another, ducked, then jabbed backwards and knocked down yet another
with the hilt of the sword. He felt more dexterous than he ever had, the Ring
giving him a buoyancy, a power unlike any he’d ever known. It was almost as if
it were telling him when to strike before he did.

Thor continued
sprinting through this cave, running blindly forward, not knowing where he was
going, where his son was, but feeling the Ring urging him on. He was like a
wild animal racing through, able to see and hear and react ten times faster
than he’d ever had. He fought as he ran, until finally he was out of the
chamber.

Thor burst into
another cavernous room, and he was shocked by what he saw. This room was lit
up, streams of lava running along its edge, letting off enough light to see by
as they sparked and hissed—and as he saw, Thor wished he didn’t. The screeching
of the gargoyles was intensified in here, and as he looked up, he saw thousands
of them blackening the ceiling, their wings fluttering, filling his ears, like
a den of bats crisscrossing the room.

Thor knew he
should be afraid—but he was not. He did not feel fear. He felt focus.
Intensity. He knew he was facing his worst enemies, and instead of wanting to
flee, he felt privileged to be able to have the chance to stand against them.

Thor moved
faster than he could ever imagine, faster than even he himself could control.
The Sword of the Dead was like a live being in his hand, directing him to slash
and turn and spin and stab, allowing him to fell creatures left and right as he
cut through the room, a single wave of destruction, felling gargoyles in every
direction. Sharp fangs protruded from the Sword’s hilt, and they extended and
killed creatures, too.

But it was the
Ring, Thorgrin knew, that propelled him to fight on another level. As Thor’s
shoulders began to weaken, to tire, exhausted from spinning, slashing,
reacting, hacking down so many of these things, he felt the Ring shoot a wave
of energy up his arm, refreshing him, renewing his strained shoulder, as if he
had just arrived to battle. When several gargoyles attacked him from behind and
Thor could not turn to react in time, he felt the Ring turn and direct his arm,
and he watched in awe as the Ring shot out an orb of light that knocked the
gargoyles back across the room.

Their carcasses
piling up all around them, the gargoyles began to realize the inevitable. They
backed off, dozens of them, all that was left of the thousands, retreating to
the far corners of the cavern, now scared of Thorgrin.