The Gift of Battle

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

Thor raced on the back of Lycoples faster than he’d ever had, gripping her scales with one hand and holding Guwayne in the other, and as he urged her faster, he prayed it was not too late. He had crossed half the world since fleeing from the Land of Blood with Guwayne, ecstatic to be able to hold his son again—and desperate to reach Gwendolyn and the others in time to take back the Ring. Indeed, as he flew, the Sorcerer’s Ring throbbed on his finger, and he knew it was pulling him to his homeland, as if it were anxious to return there itself.

They flew and flew all night long beneath the light of a full moon, through the breaking dawn, through another day and now, finally, through the setting suns. All along, he had sensed the Blood Lord and his army just behind him, pursuing. He knew he would have to confront them soon enough.

But the time was not now. Now, first, he had to reach the Ring at all costs. He raced east, knowing his beloved Ring was somewhere on the horizon, anxious to lay eyes on it again, this place to which he never thought he would return. He thought of seeing Gwendolyn and Reece and Kendrick and the Legion and all his brothers in arms again, all of them waiting for him, needing him—and he felt an urgency beyond any he’d ever felt. He only hoped it was not too late, and that they were not already dead.

Guwayne cried in his arms, and Thor imagined Gwendolyn’s joy at seeing him again, at finally being reunited. He felt a sense of pride that he had accomplished the mission—that he had not only retrieved the Sorcerer’s Ring but had retrieved their son. He had promised, so many moons ago, that he would not return to her empty-handed, without their child—and he did not.

Thor heard behind him, somewhere on the horizon, the awful shrieks of the Blood Lord’s creatures, raised from the depths of hell, howling as they had all throughout the night. He knew he had provoked a force even stronger than the Empire, and he knew there would be a price to pay. Their army would follow him anywhere, and Thor assumed they would find him, would all converge on the Ring. It would make an epic battle with the Empire even more so. Thor could feel the fate of the Ring hanging in the balance, and he knew that it could go either way. He had a great power now, with the Sorcerer’s Ring and Lycoples beneath him—but the Empire had vast numbers, and the Blood Lord’s reach was beyond all power.

Thor felt that he was flying into his destiny, the day he was chosen for, the battle he was born to fight. His whole life, everything he had learned, all of his training, it all led up to this final moment. This would be the deciding battle for himself, and for his people.

As Lycoples dipped through the clouds, suddenly the land mass of the Ring came into view, and Thor’s heart beat faster at the sight of his old home, perfectly round with its jagged shores and high cliffs, from high above. He flew past its long shore, with its serrated edges of rock, rising high above the ocean, flew over the Wilds, the long stretch of dark woods beyond it, so fast he could hardly breathe. Then finally, the landscape opened beyond it, and Thor was breathless, as he always was, to see the chasm of the Canyon open up, the most mystical place on earth, with the long bridge leading across and into the mainland of the Ring.

As he looked down, Thor was even more shocked to see what appeared to be a million men, Empire soldiers bursting through the Wilds, a sea of black approaching the Canyon. And his heart fell as he saw what they were attacking. There, their backs to the Canyon, stood everyone he loved in the world, putting up a heroic defense. There was Reece, the Legion, Kendrick, Erec, his sister, Alistair—and most of all, in the middle, his heart leapt to see, was Gwendolyn. She was on her back, looking up, an Empire soldier standing over her and about to kill her.

“DOWN, LYCOPLES!” Thor shouted.

Lycoples needing no prodding. She screeched, as if she had seen it, too, and dove nearly straight down, Thor’s stomach dropping as he held Guwayne tight, clutching onto Lycoples with his free hand. They plunged closer and closer to the earth, Thor willing Lycoples to go faster, and as they nearly reached the ground, they were so close now that Thor could see the terrified faces on all those below, looking up and looking death in the face.

And Thor was even more shocked as Lycoples suddenly opened her mouth and, for the first time since he had known her, roared.

Suddenly, there followed a stream of fire, as Lycoples craned back her neck and breathed with all her fury. The fire rained down like the hand of God—and everything changed on the battlefield below.

She aimed for the enemy, careful to avoid Gwen and her people, and hundreds of Empire soldiers were suddenly aflame, shrieking, flailing. She flew up and down their ranks, breathing fire again and again, decimating one wave of Empire soldiers after the next. Thor was especially relieved to see Gwendolyn rise back to her feet, spared from the fatal sword thrust just in time. He could see her looking up at him with love and hope—especially as she saw him clutching Guwayne—and more than anything, he wanted to be with her, too.

But they had more work to do first. Lycoples, after decimating the thousands of Empire soldiers before the Canyon, now one huge wall of flame, turned to the Wilds, to the Empire ranks pouring out of it and now trying to turn around, take cover in the trees, and hide. There would be no hiding, though.

Lycoples dove down low, flying over the treetops, Thor’s stomach dropping as they came so low he could nearly touch them. Below, running beneath the trees, he saw the divisions of Empire soldiers, moments before so confident, ready to destroy the Ring, and now running for cover.

Lycoples opened her jaws and let loose a stream of flame, setting the Wilds on fire.

Great shrieks arose as she killed Empire soldiers by the thousands, setting the entire forest on fire. The blaze shot up to the sky, spreading out all the way to the base of the

Canyon.

A few Empire soldiers tried lamely to resist, firing arrows, hurling spears, or raising shields to their faces.

But Lycoples was moving too fast—and her flames melted them all. Human weapons were harmless against her. Thor, never having seen her like this, was amazed at how powerful she had become.

Soon, though, there came a rasping noise, and Thor looked down and realized that as Lycoples opened her mouth, she was unable to breathe any more flame. She tried again and again, but no more flames appeared. She was still young, Thor realized, a baby dragon, and she needed time to recover. Thor looked down and saw, with dismay, tens of thousands more Empire troops on their way, marching through the Wilds. It was beyond belief; after all that destruction, the waves of men just kept on coming.

Thor circled back with her, realizing he needed to get Gwendolyn and the others to safety before the next wave of soldiers arrived. As they flew back into the clearing, along the edge of the Canyon, Thor felt the Sorcerer’s Ring vibrating in his hand. He knew that this ring was supposed to be able to restore the Shield—and as he flew over it, he expected to see it come back, as in old days.

But it did not. Thor was baffled. He circled the Canyon again and again, feeling the Sorcerer’s Ring vibrating, expecting the Shield to go up. For some reason he didn’t understand, it did not. He realized something was still missing; there was something more he needed to complete.

Thor turned back to his people with a deepening sense of apprehension. With no Shield, and with more Empire on the way—and the Blood Lord’s army—and with Lycoples unable to breathe fire, his people were all left in a precarious position. He would have to get them to safety fast.

Lycoples descended, Thor directing her to land before Gwendolyn, and as soon as they did, dozens crowded around them. Her people all stood there, stunned survivors, looking out at a wall of flame, saved by Thorgrin and Lycoples and eyes filled with gratitude. They all had been given a second life.

Thor dismounted and, holding Guwayne, ran and embraced Gwendolyn. He held her tight, a momentary reprieve amidst the carnage and smoldering flames, and he could feel Gwen sobbing over his shoulder as she held him tight.

She leaned back and kissed Thorgrin as she looked deep into his eyes, in a kiss that felt like it lasted forever. It was surreal to hold her in his arms again, to be standing next to her, on the same side of the world, after so much time, after so much had happened—after it had seemed so certain that they would never lay eyes on each other again. She embraced him again, clutching him as if afraid she would lose him again.

She finally looked down, and Thor reached out and handed her Guwayne, all bundled up. She slowly unraveled his blanket, then she burst into sobs again at the sight of him, taking him and clutching him tight. She held him as if she would never let go again.

The others came rushing forward—Reece, Kendrick, Erec, his sister, Alistair, the Legion—and one by one he embraced them all. Krohn rushed forward, too, jumping on him, licking him, and Thor embraced him like a brother. It lifted his heart to see them all here, together, all in one place—and on the verge of taking back their homeland. More than anything he wanted to speak to each and every one of them.

But Thor suddenly heard a rustling, and he turned and looked out and his heart dropped to see, emerging from the smoldering woods, thousands more Empire soldiers—the next wave of recruits, ready for blood. They were unstoppable.

Thor felt the Sorcerer’s Ring vibrating on his finger and the Sword of the Dead vibrating in his grip, and he knew that Lycoples had taken it as far as she could—the rest was up to him now.

Thor turned and grabbed Gwen’s shoulders urgently. He could see her and all the others looking to the Wilds in shock, as if amazed that more soldiers could still be coming. As if they had all celebrated too soon.

“The Shield,” Thor said urgently. “It is not restored.”

Gwen looked back at him and he could see the fear in her eyes—she knew what that meant.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “The Ring. The Sorcerer’s Ring. It was supposed to—”

Thor shook his head.

“It did not work,” he said. “Something is missing.”

She looked back, shocked.

“You have no time,” Thor continued. “You and all the others—you must cross now, to the far side of the Canyon. This battle, what’s left of it, is mine now. Take our son, take these people, and cross.”

She looked at him, terror and longing in her eyes.

“I vowed to never be apart from you again,” she said. “Whatever the cost.”

He shook his head.

“I can only fight this battle alone,” he said. “If you want to help me, cross. Protect those on the other side. Allow me to fight here. This is my war now. And take Lycoples with you. The Sword of the Dead summons me, and I can’t have you near me when it does.”

She looked at him and her expression slowly shifted to one of understanding. Another battle cry filled the air, and the Empire soldiers, seeing Lycoples grounded, unable to breathe fire, were emboldened. They sprinted now for them.

“GO!” Thor yelled.

Gwendolyn finally seemed to understand, and she led the others as they all turned and finally heeded his request, crossing quickly over the Canyon to protect those on the other side, Lycoples joining them.

Thorgrin, standing there alone, facing the incoming army, looked forward to it. He felt the Sorcerer’s Ring throbbing on his finger, felt the Sword of the Dead throbbing in his hand, and as he drew it, it rang with a sharp sound that seemed to cut through the world. It was ready—desperate—for a fight.

High above, he heard a screech, and Thor looked up to see Estopheles, his old friend, circling, and felt her with him, felt the presence of King MacGil with him, of all those who fought and died for the Ring.

And as thousands of soldiers charged, Thor felt the sword come to life in his hand, urging him on.

You are a warrior, it urged. You never defend. You never wait for your enemies! You attack!

Thor suddenly charged, letting out a great battle cry of his own, and he dove into the crowd, swinging the Sword like a thing possessed. He had never felt himself so powerful, never felt himself move with such speed. With each blow, he killed twenty Empire soldiers. He struck again, and again, and again, moving like a whirlwind, killing them by the dozens, feeling his sword come alive, like an extension of his arm. This was the battle he knew he, and the Sword, were meant for.

Thorgrin felt bigger than himself, bigger than he had ever been. Buoyed by the power of the Ring, and of the Sword, he was like a channel for their energies. He let them take over his body, and as light shone forth from the Ring, he felt himself darting about the battlefield like lightning, felling hundreds of soldiers at a time. He moved so fast, even he did not understand what he was doing, none of the Empire soldiers, despite their greater numbers, standing a chance. It was as if they had all walked into a tsunami.

Whereas before there was noise, shouts, chaos, now there came peace, quiet, stillness. Thor blinked several times as he stood there, breathing hard, covered in blood, trying to understand what had just happened. He looked around, and he saw all around him, in circles, heaps of corpses.

All the Empire divisions that had come for him. All of them, dead.

Thorgrin slowly came back to himself, in a dim haze. He turned and looked back over the bridge and saw, on the far side, Gwendolyn’s and the others’ shocked expressions, all looking to him as if he were a god. He had single-handedly killed an entire division of Empire troops, ten thousand men, at least. The Empire waves, finally, had come to a stop. Finally, they were no longer being pursued.

But as soon as he had the thought, Thor suddenly heard an awful noise in the skies, like a rumbling of thunder, and as he looked up, his stomach fell. He knew immediately that he had won the most epic battle of his life—only for it to be replaced by one even more epic to come.

For as he looked up, Thor saw an army of creatures from hell—and at their head, the Blood Lord, face contorted in fury.

Tens of thousands of his creatures, larger than gargoyles, smaller than dragons, black, hairy, screeching, were converging behind him, plunging down, right for Thor. Finally, they had caught up with him. Finally, he would have to pay the price for stealing back Guwayne.

They came at him as one army of death, claws extended, and Thor knew that he was in for the battle of his life.

Thor stood there, watching them come for him, and felt the Sword of the Dead buzzing in his hands, willing him to fight.

There is no foe too great for you, young warrior! it urged.

And in his hand, holding the Sword, he felt the Sorcerer’s Ring, throbbing, sending a heat up his arm that urged him to fight.

The first gargoyle descended and Thor slashed, again and again. He did not stop slashing as one wave of gargoyles after the next plummeted, claws out, aiming for his face, slashing them down as he spun left and right. He chopped off claws, heads, arms; he stabbed them, swirled, feeling the power of the Sorcerer’s Ring emboldening him as he felled them by the dozens.

They fell all around him, piling up in heaps, none able to touch him.

But Thorgrin suddenly heard awful cries rise up behind him, and he turned and looked out to see Gwendolyn and all of their people on the far side of the Canyon, bracing themselves as the gargoyles descended for them, too. Thousands more gargoyles emerged, encircling them on every side, leaving nowhere to run. Thorgrin did not fear for himself—but he feared for his people, especially as he watched them begin to fall.

Thorgrin knew that, despite everything, despite the powers of the Sword of the Dead, of the Sorcerer’s Ring, he was losing this battle. He would not be able to save his people in time.

What he needed, he knew, was the Shield restored. It was the only way to protect them. But there was something he was missing, some final riddle, some final piece of the puzzle.

“ARGON!” Thor called out, turning to the skies. “Where are you!? I need you now!”

There came no response, and Thor turned and searched in every direction.

“ARGON!” he persisted. “What is it I am missing? What is it that I need to be worthy?”

Thorgrin suddenly sensed a presence behind him, and he turned and saw Argon appearing, standing alone in the center of the bridge. He stood there, facing him, holding his staff, staring back at him, eyes so bright they outshone the suns.

As he stood there, mesmerized, Thor suddenly felt himself get scratched by a gargoyle—and then felt a tug at his hand. He was horrified to feel another snatch the Sword of the Dead from his hands, to watch it carry it away, farther and farther from him, flying up until it disappeared in the skies.

Thor stood there, now defenseless, knowing he was failing. He would lose this epic battle for all time.

He ran to Argon, across the bridge, rushing to meet him, and he watched as Argon slowly closed his eyes, turned his palms, and raised them to the sky. As he did, a shaft of sunlight shot down from the heavens, illuminating him.

“Thorgrin,” he boomed, his voice so powerful it resonated like thunder, echoing throughout the Canyon, rolling even above the sound of the gargoyles. “The Sorcerer’s Ring can bring back the Shield—but it cannot do it alone. You are still missing one piece of the puzzle. One piece of yourself, which you have forgotten.”

He opened his eyes and looked right at Thorgrin, now just feet away, his eyes so intense, they were more fearful than the hordes of the earth. And then he said:

“The Destiny Sword.”

Thor stared back at Argon in shock.

“I thought it was destroyed,” Thor said.

“It was,” Argon said. “But the Sorcerer’s Ring can bring it back. The weapon of the Chosen One will always be yours. What protected this Canyon must be returned. Only the Sorcerer’s Ring can raise it up—and a sacrifice.”

Thor stared back, puzzled.

“A sacrifice?” he asked. “I will do anything.”

Argon shook his head.

“It is not for you to do.”

Thor stare back, baffled.

“It is my sacrifice, Thorgrin,” Argon said. “I can raise the Sword—if I give up my life.”

Thor began to realize what he was saying, and he felt overcome with a sense of dread, of loss. Argon. His mentor. His teacher. The one he respected more than anyone in the world. He had been with him on his journey since the beginning, before he had even ventured to King’s Court. The one he had met when just a boy, a boy who did not know his power. The one who had encouraged him to follow his destiny, who had told him he could be something, someone, greater. The only one who had been a real father to him.

“NO!” Thor yelled, realizing.

Thor ran for him, the last few feet, trying to grab him to save him in time.

But it was too late.

Argon walked to the rail, and slowly, gracefully, dove off of it, arms out wide by his side.

Thor watched in horror as he plummeted. As he did, the shaft of light followed him, swirling all different colors.

“ARGON!” Thorgrin shrieked.

Argon fell straight down in a swan dive, right into the mists of the Canyon, and disappeared from Thorgrin’s eyes forever.

Thorgrin felt his heart torn to pieces as he watched, knowing this time Argon was truly gone forever.

And Thor was equally shocked to see there rise out of the mist, right where Argon had fell, a single weapon, illuminated in the shaft of light.

It rose higher and higher, then floated right to him, right into his palm. It was a perfect fit.

The Destiny Sword.

It was his, once again.