As he looked up, searching, Thor’s heart suddenly skipped a beat to see Lycoples swoop down, break through the clouds, and circle the ship, screeching, flapping her wings. He could see something dangling from her claws, and as he looked up into the sun, shielding his eyes, he struggled to figure out what it was. It appeared to be a scroll.
Moments later Lycoples dove down and landed on the deck before him, opening her wings slowly. She stared right at him and he could see the fierceness, the power in them, staring back defiantly, with a sense of purpose. He wanted to go and embrace her, to check the scroll, but he felt too listless to do so.
The others, though, all crowded around the dragon on deck, keeping their distance.
“What is on the scroll?” Angel asked.
Thorgrin shook his head.
Angel, impatient, jumped up and ran over to Lycoples, reached out tentatively, and took the scroll from her claws. Lycoples screeched softly, but did not resist.
Angel unrolled it and looked inside.
“It is from Gwendolyn,” she said, turning to Thorgrin and thrusting it into his hands.
Thor felt it in his fingers, the tough parchment, and it felt so brittle; he could hardly believe it had crossed the world. Holding it somehow broke him out of his reverie, and despite himself, he began to read:
My Dearest Thorgrin:
If the scroll finds you, know that I still live, and that I think of you with every breathing moment. I have met Argon’s master, and he has told me of a Ring. The Sorcerer’s Ring. It is this Ring that we need to be reunited again, to save Guwayne, to restore our homeland and return all of us to the Ring. It is only you who can find this Ring. Thorgrin, we need you now. I need you now. Lycoples will lead you to the Ring. Join her. Do it for me. For our son.
Thorgrin lowered the scroll, his eyes bleary, overcome with emotion at having received an object from Gwendolyn, at hearing her voice, her message, in his head.
Thor looked up at Lycoples, who stood there, waiting, and a part of him felt energized, renewed with a new sense of purpose, ready to depart.
But another part of him still felt too crushed, too exhausted to go on. What was the point, when the Blood Lord still existed, someone out there whom he could never vanquish?
“Well?” Angel pressed, staring at him, waiting for a response.
Angel took the scroll and read it herself impatiently, then she stared back at Thor.
“What are you waiting for?” she demanded.
Thorgrin sat there, listless, depressed. A long silence fell over them, and finally, he just shook his head.
“I cannot go on,” he said, his voice broken.
All the others looked at him in shock.
“But they need you,” Angel insisted.
“I am sorry,” Thorgrin said. “I have let everyone down. I’m sorry.”
He felt terrible even as he said the words, and he couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment in Angel’s eyes.
The others crossed the deck, again giving him space, but Angel stayed by his side and took a step closer. He saw her looking down at him with her soulful eyes, and he felt overcome with shame.
“Do you remember when I told you of the Land of the Giants?” she asked. “The place that might hold the cure for my leprosy?”
Thorgrin nodded, remembering.
“The Land of the Giants is a metaphor,” she said. “It is not an actual land. It is a place where the great ones live. This is the place that Gwendolyn speaks of. I know, because I have heard of it my whole life—the place rumored to hold not only the cure for leprosy, but the Sorcerer’s Ring.”
Thor looked back, perplexed.
“Don’t you understand?” she pressed. “If you find this Ring, it could not only save the others—it could save me, too. Can’t you do it for me?”
As Thor looked back at her, he wanted to help her, wanted to help them all—but something inside him felt weighed down, felt like he could not go on.
Despite himself, he looked down.
Angel turned, a look of betrayal in her eyes, and stormed across to the far side of the deck.
Thor closed his eyes, suffering, feeling a pain in his chest. Then, for some reason, he thought of his mother.
Why, Mother? Why have I failed? Why have my powers met their limits? Why have I let you down?
He closed his eyes, trying to picture his mother’s face, waiting for an answer. But there came none.
He focused with all his might.
I’ve never asked for anything, Mother. I ask you now. Help me. Help me save my son.
This time, as Thorgrin closed his eyes, he saw his mother as she stood at the end of her skywalk, a smile on her face, looking back at him with compassion.
Thorgrin, she said, you have not failed. You cannot fail. What you see as a failure is just a delusion. Don’t you see? A failure is what you define it to be.
Thorgrin shook his head in his mind’s eye, grappling with her words.
No. I have failed. My son is without me.
Is he? asked his mother.
I shall never find him again.
Shall you not? she asked. Never is a long time. In life, we fail. Life would not be life without failure. Loss. Defeat. But it is not the defeat that defines us. It is what we do after the defeat. Will you crumble and fall, Thorgrin? That is failure. Or will you stand and rise? Will you be brave enough to get back on your feet? Will you have the courage to fight again? That is victory.
Something stirred within Thorgrin, and he realized she was right. Courage, chivalry, honor, valor—it had nothing to do with victory or defeat. It had to do with the courage to try, to stand up for what you believed in, the courage to face your enemy, however formidable he was.
Thorgrin suddenly felt a fresh wave of energy overcome him, and suddenly, he felt himself casting off the wave of gloom that had oppressed him ever since leaving the Land of Blood. He stood, rising to his full height, and felt himself getting stronger, bolder, until he was standing tall and proud.
Thor began to cross the deck, to walk toward Angel, and as he went, the others in the Legion must have sensed it, because they all turned and watched him go, and this time, their eyes were filled with joy as they saw him standing tall and proud. He was back to the old Thorgrin.
Thor walked over to Angel, tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned, and her eyes lit up, too.
He knelt down and embraced her, and he leaned back and looked her in the eyes.
“I shall find the Sorcerer’s Ring,” he said. “Or I shall die trying.”
She hugged him, and he hugged her back. Then he stood, turned, and solemnly, one by one, embraced each member of the Legion.
Thor turned and his eyes met Lycoples, two warriors, eyes gleaming. He could see the resolve on her face, and it was a resolve that he himself now felt. They would ride, gladly, to the ends of the earth together.
Thor turned to the others, as they all stood there, ready to see him off, and as they all looked to him hopefully, for leadership.
“Set sail for the Ring, all of you,” he said, his voice filled once again with confidence. “Meet me there. I shall find this Sorcerer’s Ring, I shall return to the Ring, and there, we shall be united for all time. I shall find this Ring, or I shall die trying.”
The group stared back solemnly, a long silence falling over them.
“And if you do not return?” Matus asked.
Thor looked at him gravely.
“I shall,” he replied. “This time, no matter what, I shall.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Naten stood resentfully on the platform as it rose higher and higher alongside the peak of the Ridge, his men yanking the ropes as the rickety wood swayed and creaked. The horses pranced beside them, all of them anxious to descend the other side and venture on into the Great Waste to search for their brothers in arms, for Koldo, Ludvig, Kendrick, and the others. Naten bitterly resented it.
Naten stood there, and he brooded. He
had done everything in his power to convince the soldiers not to go back out there, to abandon his brothers, and especially Kendrick and his men, and to remain behind here, in the safety of the Ridge. Naten despised Kendrick and the others; he did not want these exiles from the Ring here. He loathed outsiders, and he wanted things to be the way they had been before they arrived. He wouldn’t mind Koldo and Ludvig’s not returning, either—that would only give him greater power in the ranks of the Ridge’s army.
“It is their grave, they dug it,” Naten said bitterly, trying to convince his men one final time.
They all—the six other soldiers—stood there solemnly, unmoved.
“For us to go out there now, it is foolishness,” Naten continued. “We shall never find them. It took too long to regroup. And even if we do, by this point they shall certainly already be dead. Shall we all kill ourselves too? Will that benefit the Ridge? The Ridge needs us here now. You know this.”
But his men stared silently, glum, unwilling to budge.
Finally, one of them shrugged.
“We have orders,” one said. “We cannot abandon the mission. If they return, we’d be imprisoned.”
“We do not abandon our brothers,” added another.
Naten was silent, burning, hating this mission. He should have killed them all himself earlier when he’d had the chance. Now he was stuck, doomed to go back out there.
As the platform rose higher and higher, Naten racked his brain, desperate to come up with a scheme, some way out of this. As he thought and thought, an idea came to him: when they reached the desert floor, when the others weren’t looking, he would stab the horses in their underbellies. No one would know it was him. And with the horses dying, they would have no choice; they would have to turn back.
Naten smiled at the thought; it was the perfect strategy. As the platform continued to rise, he longer dreaded it, but looked forward to implementing his plan. As they neared the peak of the ridge, Naten had a smile on his face—he would outsmart them all. He always did.
The platform finally came to a stop at the peak of the Ridge, shaking as the wooden doors opened, and out went all the horses and men. Nathan led them, the first out, making sure he was out front and assuming command of the mission, not letting any of the others take it from him. He marched with a bounce in his step as he considered his new plan. The others, beside him, all held onto the group of extra horses they were taking back to Koldo, Ludvig, Kendrick, and the others—and Naten smirked inwardly, knowing they would never have the chance to use them.
Naten kept up the pretense, though, marching across the wide platform at the peak of the Ridge and heading for the far side, where they would board the next platform and descend. He looked out as he went, enjoying the vista from the other side of the Ridge, the vast, open sky, the sense of eternity. From up here, he felt like he ruled the world.
Naten finally reached the far side, and as he did, he stopped, looking forward to enjoying it. He had always loved this spot more than any in the world, where he could stand on the edge of the cliff and feel as if he were looking out into eternity.
But this time, as he stood there, Naten knew immediately that something was wrong. He looked out and saw no platform waiting for them. For the first time ever, it was missing.
He looked down, perplexed, and as he did, he was even more baffled to see the platform rising, making its way up to greet him. It made no sense—there was no patrol due to be headed up now. Who could be riding it up?
Before Naten could make sense of it, before he could understand what was happening, the platform stopped at the top. And before he could register what was happening, its doors opened, and he saw staring back at him faces he did not recognize. Faces that he realized, a moment too late, were not even human. Faces that were the enemy.
Naten’s mouth dropped open in shock and horror as he realized, standing before him, was a platform packed with Empire soldiers, Knights of the Seven, all armed and deadly—the first invaders ever to reach the soil of the Ridge. The harbinger of a vast army to come.
Before he could react, Naten watched, as time slowed down, one of them raise a long spear and thrust it through his belly, its blade piercing his chest, he in agony as the pain rippled through him. How ironic, he thought: it was the same death he had envisioned for his horses.
Naten began to fall, silently, wordlessly, over the edge of the cliff, plummeting down below toward his death, the first casualty of war. As he did, he saw below, waiting to greet his corpse, the final sight of his life: millions and millions of Empire soldiers, preparing to ascend, preparing to destroy the Ridge once and for all.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Gwendolyn stood on the peak of the Ridge, on the broad, stone platform she had once toured with the King, and searched the sky. Argon stood beside her, Steffen at her other side and Krohn at her heels, as she searched the horizon, watching Lycoples disappear. After Lycoples had flown them back from Argon’s master and had dropped her and Argon off here, atop the Ridge, Gwen had commanded Lycoples to depart, to go and find Thorgrin and give him her message. His finding the Sorcerer’s Ring was their last hope, and Gwendolyn, as much as she wanted to for selfish reasons, could not keep Lycoples here with her. So she had let go of her one chance to escape, and instead had chosen to make a stand here, with the Ring, to not abandon her people, her vow, whatever dangers would come.
Gwen had no regrets. It was not in Gwendolyn’s makeup to abandon her people, and she had vowed to the King to help his people, and she intended to keep it. She could have had Lycoples drop her down below, in the safety of the capital, across the lake, far away from the front lines of the invasion to come—but that was not who she was. If a war was coming, this was where she wanted to be, on the frontlines, rallying the troops, preparing.
Gwen felt her heart fluttering, felt a familiar tingling sensation in her hands, her arms, as she steeled herself for battle, as she entered the mental mindset. As she had flown over the Great Waste, she had watched in awe, terror, and fascination the endless number of troops of the Empire, all marching for the Ridge—it had looked as if the entire world were rallying to destroy the place. It was a surreal feeling to be flying right into the heart of trouble, and not away from it. It was as if Lycoples had dropped them down right in the eye of the storm.
And she knew, if Argon’s master’s prophecies were true, that nothing would hold the Empire back, that the Ridge would soon be destroyed.
But Gwen was not one to give up easily, or to heed prophecies. Since arriving, she had, on the contrary, done everything in her power to rally the troops of the Ridge, all of the King’s knights, to help defend it. She had at first tried to get them to heed her words and evacuate the Ridge, but they would not hear of it, and she knew she would never be able to force this people to evacuate their home of centuries and head out into the unknown. Especially when there was no enemy yet in sight. Many of them still lived in denial that the Empire would attack.
So Gwen did the next best thing. She sounded all the horns, which continued to sound even now as she stood there, all of them sounding in a chorus, again and again, rallying all the knights in the King’s name, commanding them all to gather at the peak of the Ridge. The people, still in shock at the news of the King’s death, had listened, looking for leadership, especially with the King’s eldest sons still gone and knowing that Gwendolyn was acting with the former King’s will. At least he had made that much clear to his commanders before he’d died.
Now all the brave knights of the Ridge stood atop this broad plateau, lining up as far as she could see, their armor glistening in the sun, all awaiting her command. It was the entire strength of the Ridge, all standing at attention in the silence, as they had been for hours.
Yet now they were all beginning to look to her with skepticism, as the horns sounded again and again, and as yet another set of reinforcements arrived up the platform.
Standing before them all was Ruth, the King’s eldest daughter
, more proud and fierce than them all, and holding, in her brother’s absence, the respect of all the men. She stepped forward, finally, and looked at Gwendolyn fiercely.
“My father is dead,” she said, her voice deep, strong. “This is no time to rally our men to the peaks of the Ridge for a fantasy invasion.”
Gwen looked back at her steadily, admiring her courage.
“The invasion is real,” Gwen said.
Ruth frowned.
“Then where is this army? Show them to me and I shall kill them. No army, even if they found us, can scale the peaks of the Ridge. We have every advantage in the world. But there is none—you follow a fantasy. You have wasted our men’s time up here. It is time to return back to the capital and to bury my father. My brothers shall return soon, and it is Koldo, the eldest born, who shall be in command. Along with your Kendrick. You are a dreamer.”
Gwendolyn sighed; she could not blame her. She could sense how antsy the men were, all for her assurances, and she knew she could not keep an army waiting up here forever—especially with no enemy. She thought of Mardig, down below in the capital, his refusal to join the knights, and she wondered what evil he was plotting down below, after murdering his father. Surely if they returned he would try to seize power and prevent any defense of the Ridge.
The mention of Kendrick, too, made Gwen think of him, the battles they had fought in together, and more than ever, she wished he were here, by her side, wished he had returned from the Waste already. She could use him to help lead this battle. More than anything, she was concerned for him: would he die out there?
“My lady is no dreamer,” Steffen snapped, tensing up, defending her. “If my lady says there will be an invasion, then there shall be. You should learn to respect—”
Gwen laid out a hand, though, on Steffen’s shoulder and stopped him. She appreciated his loyalty, but she did not want to inflame the situation further.
Just then another platform of men stopped at the top from the Ridge side, and as it did, Gwen’s stomach dropped to see Mardig appear, flanked already by several of the former King’s advisors. He scowled at Gwen as he marched right for her.