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.
Thor’s visualization become so strong in his mind’s eyes that he was no longer surprised when he took that fateful step into air and instead felt himself standing on what felt like solid ground. He looked down and saw that it was air, mist—and yet he was standing on it.
Thor continued walking, crossing the gap, walking on air, continuing around the ring, one foot after the next, until finally he had reached stone again.
He had done it.
He continued walking, feeling buoyed by a power he had never felt before, a power overwhelming him completely. He felt stronger than he’d ever had, no longer fearing any opponents, but welcoming them. No longer fearing himself—but welcoming it.
And as he finished walking the circle, he felt a sense of completion, felt as if he had completed something within himself. Finally, after all these years and all these battles and all these conquests, he was no longer afraid. Finally, he had supreme faith in himself.
Suddenly, the mist lifted completely and the sun broke through, sparkling in a haze, a million colors, like a rainbow all around him. Thorgrin felt the world opening up before him as he stood at the completion of the circle, and as he realized he was right in the place where he had begun.
Thor looked out to see a skyway suddenly appearing, an arched walkway made of stone, forking off from the circle, curving, rising, higher and higher out of the mist. At the end of it, there sat a castle made of stone, perched at the edge of a cliff. He could sense the power coming off of it even from here. It was the castle that had haunted his dreams ever since he could remember. It felt like his mother’s castle—but different.
He saw a single object shining in the sun, gleaming, waiting for him before the shining castle door.
And as he took the first step, he knew, he just knew, that at the end of the walkway, as he completed this final path of his final test, there would be waiting for him the Sorcerer’s Ring.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Darius opened his eyes slowly, his head splitting, and he looked all around in the blackness, trying to get his bearings. He lay face down, his face planted on a floor made of hard wood. It smelled like ocean water. His world bobbed up and down, and he saw streaks of sunlight pouring in through slats, and he realized, with a start, that he must be below deck on a ship.
Darius tried to sit up, alarmed, yet as he moved his arms and legs, he felt them restrained by thick iron shackles, their chains scarping against the wood. His head pounding, his eyes hurting even in the dim light, he tried to sit up and put his head in his hands, tried to understand where he was. What had last happened. It was so hard to remember.
The creaking of wood filled the air, and as his world slowly bobbed up and down, Darius realized he was out at sea, riding the massive ocean waves, being taken God knows where. He was someone’s captive. But whose?
Darius heard groaning all around him, and as he looked around, slowly adjusting to the dim light, he was surprised to see hundreds of others, like he, shackled to the deck, their noise filling the air in a soft rattling of chains. As he tried to move, to get a better look, his body wracked in pain, he realized that he was a slave now—that they were all slaves. That could only mean one thing: they were prisoners to the Empire.
Darius rubbed his head and tried to think. Somehow, he had ended up here, in the holds of this ship. Somehow, he had been captured.
Darius closed his eyes, trying to numb the pain, and forced himself to remember. He saw his father’s face, and he remembered being in the arena…in the Empire capital…his father dying in his arms…. He remembered, with a jolt, his rush of power, the exhilarating feeling that Darius would never forget. He remembered seeing those elephants hurling through the air, destroying the arena…. He remembered escaping, opening the city gates and allowing the Knights of the Seven to pour in, to destroy the capital.
Then he, himself, being clubbed.
Darius rubbed his face, realizing he had been knocked unconscious, chained, during the invasion of the capital. Given the size of that army, though, he was lucky to be alive.
He was a slave again, ironically. An Empire slave. But this time, a slave to the Knights of the Seven.
But where were they taking him?
“SLAVES! ON YOUR FEET!” suddenly boomed a voice.
The hold flooded with harsh ocean sunlight as two huge wooden doors were suddenly opened high above, and in marched dozens of Empire soldiers.
Darius heard the crack of a whip and he suddenly jumped in pain as he felt the lash of a whip across his back, his skin feeling as if it were being torn off him. He turned to see rows of Empire soldiers storming the hold. Several stepped forward, raised swords, and brought them down.
Darius braced himself, expecting to be killed; but instead, he heard a clang and felt his shackles being severed.
Rough hands grabbed him and dragged him to his feet. He immediately felt weak, nauseous, dizzy, and he wondered when was the last time he ate.
Kicked in the back, Darius stumbled forward, falling in with hundreds of other prisoners, as dozens of soldiers escorted them roughly, leading them out of the dark hold and up toward the light of the upper deck.
As Darius stumbled with the others, he remembered his power, and he tried to summon it again.
But for some reason he could not understand, he was unable to. Whatever it was he had, he had lost it once again. Perhaps, he realized, he needed time for it to recharge.
Darius squinted and held his hands to his face as he stumbled up the stairs into the harsh sunlight, and he collapsed on the deck as a soldier shoved him and he tripped over others.
Another soldier grabbed him and dragged him roughly to his feet, and he looked around, trying to get his bearings. He scanned the ship and saw hundreds of Empire soldiers patrolling the decks of a massive warship, commanding hundreds of galley slaves chained to benches and forced to row. Dozens more slaves were chained to cannons alongside the ship, while dozens more were forced to do hard labor, scrubbing the decks, hoisting sails, or doing whatever the soldiers, whips in hand, commanded.
Darius looked out, beyond the rail, and saw that this warship was but a speck in a vast fleet of Empire warships, thousands of them filling the horizon, all sailing somewhere together. He wondered where.
“Move it, slave!” commanded an Empire soldier, then elbowe
d him in the ribs.
Darius stumbled forward with a group of slaves and found himself grabbed roughly and ushered over to a bench filled with slaves, all slumped over their oars—none of them moving. Darius looked closely and saw the lashes on their exposed backs, burnt from the sun, and wondered why none of them were moving. Had they fallen asleep at the oars?
His question was answered as a soldier stepped forward, severed the chains one by one, grabbed each one, and pushed back each slave.
Darius was shocked to see each fall backwards, limp, landing flat on their backs on the deck.
Dead.
More soldiers stepped forward and hoisted the corpses in the air, one by one, then walked them to the rail and hurled them over the edge. Darius saw the bodies splash in the water below, and watched as the currents carried them away quickly. Before they submerged, he saw several sharks surface and snatch them, dragging them beneath the surface.
Darius looked down at the empty bench, covered in blood where the dead slaves had just sat, with a sense of dread. He wondered how long they had been here, how long it had taken them to be worked to death
Before he could think it through, he was shoved down to a vacant seat and re-shackled, his chains locked to the bench where the dead slaves had just been. His wrists were chained to the oars, as were the other fresh slaves seated beside him, and he was suddenly lashed across the back, feeling an awful pain rip through his body.
“ROW!” a commander shouted.
All the other slaves began to row, and Darius joined them, lashed sporadically and wanting to make it all go away. One hell, he knew, had been replaced with another. Soon enough, he would die here.
Darius looked out to sea and studied the horizon, studied the angle of the suns, and he realized they were heading east. And then suddenly it struck him: that could only mean one thing. They, this vast fleet, all of the Empire, could only be heading to one place:
The Ring.
A war was coming. The greatest war of all time. And he, Darius, fighting for the wrong side, would be stuck right in the middle of it.