A Land of Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thorgrin sat in the small boat, joined by his Legion brothers and Indra and Matus, all of them rowing in the dead calm, lost in their thoughts as they peered out to the ocean. Thor rowed, encouraged, feeling his mother’s bracelet vibrating on his wrist, sensing he was getting closer to his son. As he studied the waves, covered in mist, he could not see anything, yet he could feel his son somewhere out there, could sense he was close. Most of all, Thor sensed his son was alive, and that he needed him.

He rowed harder, as did the others, his muscles rippling, determined.

As they cut through the water, slowly bobbing in the current, unable to see far beyond, Thor’s thoughts turned to Mycoples and Ralibar, and he missed more than ever having the opportunity to soar through the sky, to simply ride on the back of a great beast, to see the world spread out below, to cover so much ground so quickly. Now he was confined to the earth, like any other human, traveling slowly, his sight hindered. He also missed the companionship of Mycoples dearly; it was as if a part of him had been killed back there.

Reece, beside him, took a break and clasped Thor’s shoulder.

“We shall find Guwayne,” he encouraged. “Or we shall all die trying.”

Thor nodded back with equal solemnity, grateful for Reece’s support. As Thor studied the waters, he wondered what would happen if he was all wrong, and if it was already too late. What if, when he finally found Guwayne, he was dead? Thor would be unable to live with himself. And he would be unable to break the news to Gwen.

Or what if, even worse, he never found him?

Thor tried to shake these thoughts from his mind as he rowed harder, knowing failure was not an option. He felt the bracelet vibrating, and he knew he needed to have faith. He did not know where they were going, but he realized that was all part of the test: sometimes one needed to proceed on faith. Sometimes, faith was all one had. And sometimes tests came to make your faith stronger.

One hour blurred into the next as morning turned to afternoon, and Thor began to lose all sense of space and time, rowing and rowing, no sound in his ears but that of the oars lapping the water. The others began to slow their rowing, breathing hard, needing a break.

Every muscle in his body on fire, feeling on the point of collapse, Thor closed his eyes and slowed his rowing, too. He focused, tried to find his inner power, begged it to help direct him to his son.

Please, Mother, he thought. If you’re there, give me a sign. A clear sign. Please. For Guwayne’s sake. I need your help.

A screech tore through the air and Thor craned back his neck, and in the distance, he spotted Estopheles, circling high, producing a cry that filled the lonely ocean. She swooped down and dropped an object from her claw, and it plummeted down to the sea, landing in the water beside Thor. Water splashed up at him as it did, and Thor looked down, amazed, to see a small, glass bottle floating in the water.

He retrieved it, pulled out the cork, unrolled the scroll, and others gathered around as he read Gwendolyn’s letter.

It touched Thor deeply, and he looked up the skies as Estopheles screeched, amazed to see her here, in the middle of nowhere, feeling less alone. He felt encouraged; he felt it was a sign, and that he would find Guwayne.

Estopheles suddenly turned in the other direction, and dove up and down repeatedly, and Thor sensed she was telling him something. That she was leading them somewhere.

Guwayne.

“We must follow her!” Thor called out to the others.

The wind suddenly picked up, the sails were filled, and they all turned the boat, heading toward Estopheles.

They sailed through a thick cloud of mist, hanging low on the waters, and when finally they emerged from the other side, Thor’s heart pounded with delight. He was amazed to see, hardly a hundred yards away, an island, larger than the last one, clearly inhabited, footprints all over the beach.

And as they got closer, sailing into the breaking waves, Thor looked out and saw on the sand something which made him feel faith in life again: beached on the shore was a small boat. And judging by its size, it was large enough to hold just a single person.

A boy.

Thor and the others moved quickly through the dense island jungle, Thor out of breath, heart pounding as he ran, the others by his side, fanning out, tracking the footsteps in the sand that led from the beach. It was clear that from the footsteps that someone had discovered the boat, had taken Guwayne, and Thor burned as he thought of it. Whoever it was, he would make them pay—if he was not already too late.

The jungle was so thick that Thor could barely see as he ran, scratched by branches and not caring. When it got too thick, Thor drew his sword and hacked at anything in his way as he sprinted with all he had, leaping over felled trees, hearing his heart pounding in his ears.

The sounds of exotic birds and animals punctuated the air, but Thor could barely hear anything other than his own heartbeat, than his own thoughts driving him mad. Where had they taken his boy? How long ago had he landed? Were they friendly, or did they have sinister intentions?

And worst of all: what if he did not find him in time?

His mother’s bracelet buzzed like crazy, and Thor could barely think straight knowing that his son was here, just out of his reach, just out of reach, somewhere behind these trees.

“It looks like an army took him!” Matus yelled out, looking down as he ran.

Thor was thinking the same thing—there were so many tracks in so many different directions. How many people lived here? What sort of people were they? Where could they all be leading?

As they burst through a thick wall of foliage, there came the sudden sound of tribal chanting and dancing, a persistent drumbeat filling the air. The drums beat so fast, to the beat of Thor’s heart, and they grew louder as he ran. They all ran for the direction of the music, and Thor felt both encouraged, and a sense of dread. Whoever was out there did not sound friendly. Why, he wondered for the millionth time, would they take his son? What would they do with him?

“Do you know of the people of this isle?” Thor called out to Matus. “The Upper Isles is closer than the Ring.”

Matus shook his head as he ran, dodging a tree.

“I’ve never been this far north. I didn’t even know these islands were inhabited. Your guess is as good as mine.”

They all came to a sudden stop at the edge of the jungle, right before a wall of vines, through which they could see a vast clearing. Hardened warriors, they all knew better than to rush through the perimeter of a hostile enemy without first taking stock.

Thor stared, breathing hard, and was amazed at the sight before him: in the clearing stood hundreds of natives, men with translucent white skin and bulging, glowing green eyes. They were barely clothed, and had wiry, muscular bodies. They chanted and beat on drums, dancing in circles every which way, again and again, circling barefoot on the sand in the jungle clearing. In the center of their village was a tall stone well, and above it, draped across, a thick log. Smoke rose from the well, and from inside it, Thor could hear screams.

A baby’s screams.

The hairs stood on Thor’s back as he listened, as he watched the natives circling, dancing around the well again and again, raising torches, banging on drums. He realized, with a flash of horror, what was happening: these primitive people were getting ready to sacrifice that baby.

Without even thinking of a strategy, without even considering how outnumbered they were, Thor burst into the clearing, sword drawn, and raised a great battle cry, charging these hundreds of armed warriors. Even if he had stopped to think of it, Thor would not have paused; something visceral inside of him drove him forward. Thor knew that could be his son in that well, and he would kill anyone and anything in his path to rescue him.

His brothers all joined him, all of them rushing headlong into danger, all by his side, prepared to go anywhere with him, no matter what the risk.

They had hardly gone ten feet, were still a good fifty yards away, when the entire village spotted them, and hundreds of warriors stopped their dancing and turned toward them. They raised their spears, and bows and arrows, and charged to meet them.

Thor did not slow, and neither did his brothers. The seven of them raced headlong into the army, reckless and carefree, preparing to do battle to the death.

They all met each other in a clash of arms. Thor, sword held high, was the first to reach them. Three tribesmen raised crude daggers and leapt for him, and as they did, Thor ducked low, and slashed, slicing their chests and sending them all collapsing to the ground, as he rolled out of the way.

Thor jumped back to his feet and continued his charge, heading for a group of tribesmen who were all raising spears, preparing to throw them right at him. Thor leapt into the air and sliced the spears in half before they could throw them, then he planted his sword in the ground and used it to propel himself into the air, swinging his legs around and kicking them all in the chest and knocking them back. Thor landed back on his feet, grabbed his sword, and swung around in a wide circle, felling them all.

Thor heard the baby’s cry in the distance, ringing in his ears, rising even above the shouts of the men, and he fought like a man possessed. He did not try to summon his powers; he did not want to. He wanted to kill these men with his bare hands, these men who dared take his son from him, who dared try to kill him. He wanted to kill them all man to man, face to face.

Thor slashed left and right as these men came at him with daggers and spears. Thor killed them left and right, but he could not kill all of them before they fired off at him. One of the tribesmen hurled a stone with his sling, and it hit Thor hard in the head, cutting him above his temple and drawing blood. Others fired off arrows before Thor could reach them, and while Thor ducked and evaded most, seeing them coming from the corner of his eye, he could not miss all of them, and one arrow grazed his left arm. He cried out in pain as it drew blood.

Yet still Thor did not slow down. He thought of nothing but his child, and even with his wounds, Thor continued to charge, swinging his sword with both hands, slashing and kicking and elbowing his way for the village center. Soon he was engulfed by tribesmen, elbow to elbow with them, fighting hand to hand, eye to eye, through the thick crowd. It was slow going, even with his brothers fighting side by side with him, helping to block blows and felling tribesmen in their own right.

Thor was faster and stronger than these natives with their crude weapons, and he weaved in and out of them expertly, dodging spear thrusts as he slashed and stabbed. Yet the crowd grew thick, and there were just too many of them, and as he found himself enclosed from all sides, there were a few he never saw coming. Thor heard something behind him, and spun to see a villager lowering his dagger for the back of his head. It was too late to react, and Thor braced himself for the blow.

Suddenly, the tribesman opened his eyes wide and collapsed at Thor’s feet, and Thor watched him fall, puzzled. He looked down and saw an arrow through his back, and he looked up to see O’Connor, holding his bow, grinning, his aim as true as always. Indra stood beside him and fired off an arrow of her own, and as she did, Thor heard a grunting noise and he looked over to see another tribesman, to his right, fall before he could unleash his spear.

Elden stepped forward, wielding a huge hammer, and in a broad stroke, he knocked three of them across the chest with a thumping noise, sending them to the ground. Elden then raised his hammer and turned it sideways, and butted two of them across the face, knocking them down. He then swung the heavy hammer over his head and sent it sailing into the mass of bodies, and it took down four more tribesmen, creating a path in the crowd.

Reece lunged forward with his sword, slashing every which way, while Conven did not even bother swinging his sword as he ran recklessly right into the thick of the tribesmen. He reached up and snatched a spear from one of their hands, and used that spear against its own attacker. He then spun around, creating a circle around him as he slashed every which way, downing tribesmen left and right. When he was done, Conven raised it above his head and hurled it with such force that it went through one tribesman and into another.

As Thor made progress, fighting his way through the crowd, his shoulders burning from the nonstop battle, he heard a whooshing noise above his head, and he noticed Matus coming up beside him, swinging a spiked flail, the chain swishing through the air as the metal ball found its target again and again, taking down a half dozen of them and lightening the crowd.

Thor, freed up, emboldened by all his brothers at his side, slashed deeper into the crowd, forging his way, keeping an eye on the distant well, hearing the baby’s screams, watching the tribesmen standing menacingly above it. Thor noticed one of them nod to the other and then saw them begin to turn a crank, and lower the screaming baby down toward the fire.

Desperate, Thor stabbed a tribesman in the chest, snatching a spear from his hands, yanked it backwards, then took a step forward and threw it.

The spear sailed through the air, above the heads of the others, and finally, Thor, with his perfect aim, killed one of the tribesmen turning the cranks. O’Connor, picking up on his lead, fired off an arrow himself, and hit the other tribesman between the eyes. They both fell off the edge of the well, dead.

Determined to reach his son, Thor fought twice as hard, cutting his way through like a man possessed. Something came over him, a supreme rage beyond which he could control, and Thor leaned back and let out an unearthly shriek, veins popping in his arms and neck and shoulders, the sound of a desperate creature determined to rescue its young.

Thor moved with the speed of lightning, a one-man killing machine, as he cut through the rest of the men, creating a one-man warpath of destruction. The tribesmen were helpless against a warrior such as he, a warrior unlike any they had encountered before. This was the fight of Thor’s life, and he would stop at nothing to achieve his goal.

Within moments, Thor cut a path through them, a pile of bodies lining up through the crowd’s center. It was like he had entered a gap in space and time, and he was not fully conscious of what he was doing, or even where he was. He was taken over by the killing.

Thor reached the village center, and he wiped the sweat from his eyes, trying to understand what had just happened to him. He had felt the power of a hundred men, even if just for a moment, and he had been invincible.

The baby’s cries snapped Thor back to the present, and he quickly turned and raced for the stone well.

With no one left between him and the well, Thor scrambled to climb to the top of it, as sweat stung his eyes, his heart pounding.

Please, God. Let my son be alive.

As Thor reached the top, the cries grew louder, echoing in the empty well, and he coughed and gagged from the rising smoke. Thor reached down and with shaking hands yanked at the crank, again and again, the rope rising, turning, raising up the baby as Thor rescued it from the heat and the smoke.

Thor pulled and pulled, anxious to see that the baby was okay, and as it finally reached the top, Thor reached down in the smoke and held the baby, lifting it up, and turned to look into his son’s eyes.

Thor was elated to see that the baby was alive and healthy. Yet as he examined the baby, naked, lying in the bassinet, Thor was shocked to discover something: it was not his son.

It was a girl.

The girl screeched as Thor held her high. He was glad to have saved her. But it was not his son. It was someone else’s child.

Indra and the others reached the top of the well, beside Thor, and as they did, Thor handed the baby to her, then immediately turned and scanned the village, looking for any sign of his son. From up here he had a great perspective, and could see the whole village spread out below. The rest of his brothers were finishing off the last of the tribesmen, and all of them were dead, bodies sprawled out everywhere.

But nowhere was there any sign of Guwayne.

Thor was determined to get answers. On the far side of the village he saw one villager, wounded, slowly getting to his feet, and he leapt down off the wall, racing for him as he tried to crawl away.

Thor jumped on his back, pinned him down to the sand with one knee, drew a dagger, and turned the man over and held it to his throat.

“Where is my baby?” Thor demanded, eyes bulging with panic and rage.

The man mumbled something in a language Thor could not understand, panic in his eyes.

Thor, desperate, tightened the blade against the man’s throat.

“MY BABY!” Thor shrieked, turning and pointing at Indra, who held the screaming baby girl.

The villager finally seemed to understand, and he mumbled something again.

“I don’t understand!” Thor yelled.

The man suddenly turned and pointed up, over Thor’s shoulder.

Thor turned and followed his finger, and he saw a distant mountain range, and near the top, winding its way up, a small procession of men. They were heading towards the top of the volcano, and in their center, raised above their heads, was a small case, born on poles, gleaming gold, shining in the sun.

A case just large enough to hold a baby.