A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (5 page)

Thorgrin pulled one last time on the
golden rope, hands shaking, Angel on his back, sweat pouring down his face, and
he finally cleared the cliff, his knees touching down on soil, catching his
breath. He turned and looked back and saw, hundreds of feet below, straight
down the steep cliffs, the crashing ocean waves, their ship on the beach,
looking so small, and he was amazed at how far he’d climbed. He heard groans
all around him, and turned to see Reece and Selese, Elden and Indra, O’Connor
and Matus all finishing the climb, all hoisting themselves up and onto the Isle
of Light.

Thor knelt there, muscles exhausted, and
looked up at the Isle of Light spread out before him—and his heart sank with a
fresh sense of foreboding. Before he even saw the awful sight, he could smell
the burning ash, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. He could also feel the
heat, the smoldering fires, the damage that remained from whatever creatures
had destroyed this place. The island was black, burned, destroyed, everything
that had once been so idyllic about it, that had seemed so invincible, now
turned to ash.

Thorgrin gained his feet and wasted no
time. He began to venture out into the isle, his heart pounding as he looked
everywhere for Guwayne. As he took in the state of this place, he hated to
think of what he might find.

“GUWAYNE!” Thorgrin shouted as he jogged
across the smoldering hills, raising both hands to his mouth.

His voice was echoed back to him against
the rolling hills, as if to mock him. And then nothing but silence.

There came a lonely screech from
somewhere high above, and Thor looked up to see Lycoples, still circling.
Lycoples screeched again, dove low, and flew off toward the center of the isle.
Thor sensed at once that she was leading him to his son.

Thor broke off into a jog, the others
beside him, running through the charred wasteland, searching everywhere.

“GUWAYNE!” he shouted again. “RAGON!”

As Thor took in the devastation of the
blackened landscape, he felt increasingly certain that nothing could have
survived here. These rolling hills, once so lush with grass and trees, were now
but a scarred landscape. Thor wondered what sort of creatures, aside from
dragons, could wreak this sort of havoc—and more importantly, who controlled
them, who had sent them here, and why. Why was his son so important that
someone would send an army for him?

Thor looked to the horizon, hoping for a
sign of them, but his heart sank as he saw nothing. Instead he saw only smoldering
flames littering the hills.

He wanted to believe Guwayne had somehow
survived all this. But he did not see how. If a sorcerer as powerful as Ragon could
not stop whatever forces had been here, how could he possibly save his son?

For the first time since he had set out
on this quest, Thor was beginning to lose all hope.

They ran and ran, ascending and
descending hills, and as they crested a particularly large hill, suddenly
O’Connor, leading the way, pointed excitedly.

“There!” he called out.

O’Connor pointed to the side, to the remains
of an ancient tree, now charred, its branches gnarled. And as Thor looked
closely, he spotted, lying beneath it, motionless, a body.

Thor felt at once that it was Ragon. And
he saw no sign of Guwayne.

Thor, filled with dread, raced forward, and
as he reached him, collapsed on his knees at his side, scanning everywhere for Guwayne.
He hoped that perhaps he’d find Guwayne hidden in Ragon’s robes, or somewhere beside
him, or nearby, perhaps in the cleft of a rock.

But his heart sank as he saw he was
nowhere to be found.

Thor reached down and slowly turned over
Ragon, his robe charred black, praying he had not been killed—and as he turned
him over, he felt a glimmer of hope to see Ragon’s eyes flutter. Thor reached
down and grabbed his shoulders, still hot to the touch, and he pulled back Ragon’s
hood and was horrified to see his face charred, disfigured from the flames.

Ragon began to gasp and cough, and Thor
could see he was struggling for life. He felt devastated at the sight of him, this
beautiful man who had been so kind to them, reduced to such a state for
defending this isle, for defending Guwayne. Thor could not help but feel
responsible.

“Ragon,” Thorgrin said, his voice
catching in his throat. “Forgive me.”

“It is I who beg your forgiveness,” Ragon
said, his voice raspy, barely able to get out the words. He coughed a long
time, then finally continued. “Guwayne…” he began, then trailed off.

Thor’s heart was slamming his chest, not
wanting to hear his next words, fearing the worst. How could he ever face
Gwendolyn again?

“Tell me,” Thor demanded, clutching his
shoulders. “Does the boy live?”

Ragon gasped a long time, trying to
catch his breath, and Thor gestured to O’Connor, who reached over and handed
him a sack of water. Thor poured the water over Ragon’s lips, and Ragon drank,
coughing as he did.

Finally, Ragon shook his head.

“Worse,” he said, his voice barely above
a whisper. “Death would have been a mercy for him.”

Ragon fell silent, and Thor nearly shook
with anticipation, willing him to speak.

“They have taken him away,” Ragon
finally continued. “They snatched him from my arms. All of them, all here, just
for him.”

Thor’s heart dropped at the thought of his
precious child being snatched away by these evil creatures.

“But who?” Thor asked. “Who is behind
this? Who is more powerful than you who could do this? I thought your power,
like Argon’s, was impenetrable by all creatures of this world.”

Ragon nodded.

“All creatures of this world, yes,” he said.
“But these were not of this world. They were creatures not from hell, but from
a place even darker: the Land of Blood.”

“The Land of Blood?” Thorgrin asked, baffled.
“I have been to the hells and back,” Thor added. “What place can be darker?”

Ragon shook his head.

“The Land of Blood is more than a place.
It is a state. An evil darker and more powerful than you ever imagine. It is
the domain of the Blood Lord, and it has grown darker and more powerful over
generations. There is a war between the Realms. An ancient struggle between evil
and light. Each vies for control. And Guwayne, I’m afraid, is the key: whoever
has him, can win, can have dominion over the world. For all time. It was what
Argon never told you. What he could not tell you yet. You were not ready. It
was what he was training you for: a greater war than you would ever know.”

Thor gaped, trying to comprehend.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “They
have not taken Guwayne to kill him?”

He shook his head.

“Far worse. They have taken him as their
own, to raise as the demon child they need to fulfill the prophecy and destroy all
that is good in the universe.”

Thor reeled, his heart pounding, trying
to understand it all.

“Then I shall get him back,” Thor said, a
cold feeling of resolve rushing through his veins, especially as he heard Lycoples
high above, screeching, craving, as he, vengeance.

Ragon reached out and grabbed Thor’s
wrist, with a surprising amount of strength for a man about to die. He looked
into Thor’s eyes with an intensity that scared him.

“You cannot,” he said firmly. “The Land of Blood is too powerful for any human to survive. The price to enter there is too
high. Even with all your powers, mark my words: you would surely die if you go
there.
All
of you would. You are not powerful yet enough yet. You need
more training. You need to foster your powers first. To go now would be folly.
You would not retrieve your son, and you would all be destroyed.”

But Thor’s heart hardened with resolve.

“I have faced the greatest darkness, the
greatest powers in the world,” Thorgrin said. “Including my own father. And
never have I backed down from fear. I will face this dark lord, whatever his
powers; I will enter this Land of Blood, whatever the cost. It is my son. I
will retrieve him—or die trying.”

Ragon shook his head, coughing.

“You are not ready,” he said, his voice
trailing off. “Not ready…. You need…power…. You need…the…ring,” he said, and
then erupted into a fit of coughing blood.

Thor stared back, desperate to know what
he meant before he passed away.

“What ring?” Thor asked. “Our homeland?”

There came a long silence, Ragon’s
wheezing the only sound in the air, until finally he opened his eyes, just a
sliver.

“The…sacred ring.”

Thor grabbed Ragon’s shoulders, willing
him to respond, but suddenly, he felt Ragon’s body stiffening in his hands. His
eyes froze, there came an awful death gasp, and a moment later, he stopped
breathing, perfectly still.

Dead.

Thor felt a wave of agony rush through
him.

“NO!” Thor threw his head back and cried
to the heavens. Thor was wracked with sobs as he reached out and embraced Ragon,
this generous man who had given up his life to guard his son. He was
overwhelmed with grief and guilt—and he slowly and steadily felt a new resolve rising
up within him.

Thor looked to the heavens, and he knew
what he had to do.

“LYCOPLES!” Thor shrieked, the anguished
cry of a father filled with desperation, filled with fury, with nothing left to
lose.

Lycoples heard his cry: she screeched,
high up in the heavens, her fury matching Thor’s, and she circled down lower
and lower, until she landed but a few feet away.

Without hesitating, Thor ran to her,
jumped on her back, and grabbed hold of her neck tight. He felt energized to be
on the back of a dragon again.

“Wait!” O’Connor yelled, rushing forward
with the others. “Where are you going?”

Thor looked them dead in the eye.

“To the Land of Blood,” he replied,
feeling more certain than he’d ever had in his life. “I will rescue my son.
Whatever it takes.”

“You will be destroyed,” Reece said,
stepping forward with concern, his voice grave.

“Then I will be destroyed with honor,” Thor
replied.

Thor peered upward, looked to the
horizon, and he saw the trail of the gargoyles, disappearing into the sky—and he
knew where he must go.

“Then you shall not go alone,” Reece
called out, “We shall follow your trail in our ship, and we shall meet you
there.”

Thorgrin nodded and squeezed Lycoples,
and suddenly, Thor felt that familiar sensation as the two of them lifted up
into the air.

“No, Thorgrin!” cried out an anguished
voice behind him.

He knew the voice to be Angel’s, and he
felt a pang of guilt as he flew away from her.

But he could not look back. His son lay
ahead—and death or not, he would find him—and kill them all.

Gwendolyn walked through the tall arched
doors to the King’s throne room, held open for her by several attendants, Krohn
at her side, and was impressed by the sight before her. There, at the far end
of the empty chamber, sat the King on his throne, alone in this vast place, the
doors echoing behind her as they closed. She approached, walking down the
cobblestone floors, passing shafts of sunlight as they streamed in through the
rows of stained glass, lighting up the place with images of ancient knights in
scenes of battle. This place was both intimidating and serene, inspiring and
haunted by the ghosts of kings past. She could feel their presence hanging in
the thick air, and it reminded her, in too many ways, of King’s Court. She felt
a sudden pang of sadness hanging in her chest, as the room made her miss her
father dearly.

King MacGil sat there, ponderous, chin
on his fist, clearly burdened by thought, and, Gwendolyn sensed, by the weight
of rulership. He looked lonely to her, trapped in this place, as if the weight
of the kingdom sat on his shoulders. She understood the feeling all too well.

“Ah, Gwendolyn,” he said, lighting up at
the sight of her.

She expected him to remain on his
throne, but he immediately rose to his feet and hurried down the ivory steps, a
warm smile on his face, humble, without the pretension of other kings, eager to
come out and greet her. His humility was a welcome relief to Gwendolyn,
especially after that encounter with his son, which still left her shaken, as ominous
as it was. She wondered whether to tell the King; for now, at least, she
thought she would hold her tongue and see what happened. She did not want to seem
ungrateful, or to begin their meeting on a bad note.

“I thought of little else since our discussion
yesterday,” he said, as he approached and embraced her warmly. Krohn, at her
side, whined and nudged the King’s hand, and he looked down and smiled. “And
who is this?” he asked warmly.

“Krohn,” she replied, relieved he had
taken a liking to him. “My leopard—or, to be more accurate, my husband’s
leopard. Although I suppose he’s as much mine now as his.”

To her relief, the King knelt down, took
Krohn’s head in his hands, rubbed his ears and kissed him, unafraid. Krohn
responded by licking his face.

“A fine animal,” he said. “A welcome
change from our common stock of dog here.”

Gwen looked at him, surprised at his
kindness as she recalled Mardig’s words.

“Then animals such as Krohn are allowed
here?” she asked.

The King threw back his head back and laughed.

“Of course,” he replied. “And why not. Did
someone tell you otherwise?”

Gwen debated whether to tell her of her
encounter, and decided to hold her tongue; she did not want to be viewed as a
tattletale, and she needed to know more about these people, this family, before
drawing any conclusions or hastily rushing into the middle of a family drama.
It was best, she thought, to keep silent for now.

“You wished to see me, my King?” she
said, instead.

Immediately, his face grew serious.

“I do,” he said. “Our speech was
interrupted yesterday, and there remains much we need to discuss.”

He turned and gestured with his hand,
beckoning for her to follow him, and they walked together, their footsteps echoing,
as they crossed the vast chamber in silence. Gwen looked up and examined saw
the high, tapered ceilings as they went, the coat of arms displayed along the
walls, trophies, weapons, armor…. Gwen admired the order of this place, how
much pride these knights took in battle. This hall reminded her of a place she
might have found back in the Ring.

They crossed the chamber and when they
reached the far end passed through another set of double doors, their ancient
oak a foot thick and smooth from use, and they exited onto a massive balcony,
adjacent to the throne room, a good fifty feet wide and just as deep, a marble
baluster framing it.

She followed the King out, to the edge,
and leaning her hands against the smooth marble, she looked out. Below her
stretched the sprawling and immaculate city of the Ridge, all its angular slate
roofs marking the skyline, all its ancient houses of different shapes, built so
close to one another. This was clearly a patchwork city that had evolved over
hundreds of years, cozy, intimate, well-worn from use. With its peaks and
spires, it looked like a fairytale city, especially set against the backdrop of
the blue waters beyond, sparkling under the sun—and beyond even that, the
towering peaks of the Ridge, rising up all around it in a huge circle, like a
great barrier to the world.

So tucked in, so sheltered from the
outside world, Gwen could not imagine that anything bad could ever befall this
place.

The King sighed.

“Hard to imagine this place is dying,”
he said—and she realized he had been sharing the same thoughts.

“Hard to imagine,” he added, “that
I
am dying.”

Gwen turned to him and saw his
light-blue eyes were pained, filled with sadness. She felt a flush of concern.

“Of what malady, my lord?” she asked. “Surely,
whatever it is, it is something the healers can heal?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

“I have been to every healer,” he
replied. “The finest in the kingdom, of course. They have no cure. It is a
cancer spreading throughout me.”

He sighed and looked off to the horizon,
and Gwen felt overwhelmed with sadness for him. Why was it, she wondered, that the
good people were often beset with tragedy—while the evil ones somehow managed
to flourish?

“I hold no pity for myself,” the King
added. “I accept my fate. What concerns me now is not myself—but my legacy. My
children. My kingdom. That is all that matters to me now. I cannot plan my own
future, but at least I can plan theirs.”

He turned to her.

“And that is why I have summoned you.”

Gwen’s heart broke for him, and she knew
she would do anything she could to help him.

“As much as I am willing,” she replied,
“I see not how I can be of help to you. You have an entire kingdom at your
disposal. What can I possibly offer that others cannot?”

He sighed.

“We share the same goals,” he said. “You
wish to see the Empire defeated—so do I. You wish for a future for your family,
your people, a place of safety and security, far from the grips of the Empire—as
do I. Of course, we have that peace here, now, in the shelter of the Ridge. But
this is not a true peace. Free people can go anywhere—we cannot. We are not
living free as much as we are hiding. There is an important difference.”

He sighed.

“Of course, we live in an imperfect
world, and this may be the best our world has to offer. But I think not.”

He fell silent for a long while, and
Gwen wondered where he was going with this.

“We live our lives in fear, as my father
did before me,” he finally continued, “fear that we will be discovered, that the
Empire will find us here in the Ridge, that they will arrive here, bring war to
our doorstep. And warriors should never live in fear. There is a fine line
between guarding your castle and being afraid to walk out openly from it. A
great warrior can fortify his gates and defend his castle—but an even greater
warrior can open them wide and fearlessly face whoever knocks.”

He turned to her, and she could see a
kingly determination in his eyes, could feel him emanating strength—and in that
moment, she understood why he was King.

“Better to die facing the enemy, boldly,
than to wait safely for him to come to our gates.”

Gwen was baffled.

“You wish, then,” she said, “to attack
the Empire?”

He stared back, and she still could not
understand his expression, what was racing through his mind.

“I do,” he replied. “But it is an
unpopular position. It was, too, an unpopular position for my ancestors before
me, which is why they never did. You see, safety and bounty has a way of softening
a people, making them reluctant to give up what they have. If I launched a war,
I would have many fine knights behind me—but also, many reluctant citizens. And
perhaps, even, a revolution.”

Gwen looked out and squinted at the
peaks of the Ridge, looming on the distant horizon, with the eye of a Queen, of
the professional strategist she had become.

“It seems it would be next to impossible
for the Empire to attack you,” she replied, “even if they did somehow find you.
How could they even scale those walls? Cross that lake?”

He placed his hands on his hips and
looked out and studied the horizon with her.

“We would certainly have the advantage,”
he replied. “We could kill a hundred of theirs for every one of ours. But the
problem is, they have millions to spare—we have thousands. Eventually, they
will win.”

“Would they sacrifice millions for a
small corner of the Empire?” she asked, knowing the answer before she even
asked it. After all, she had witnessed firsthand what they had given up to
attack the Ring.

“They are ruthless for conquest,” he
said. “They would sacrifice anything. That is their way. They would never give
up. That is what I know.”

“Then how can I help, my liege?” she
asked.

He sighed, quiet for a long time, looking
out at the skyline.

“I need you to help me save the Ridge,”
he said finally, looking her, an intense gravity in his eyes.

“But how?” she asked, confused.

“Our prophecies speak of the arrival of an
outsider,” he said. “A woman. From another kingdom, across the sea. They speak
of her saving the Ridge, of her leading our people across the desert. I never
knew of what they meant, until this day. I believe that woman is you.”

Gwen felt a chill at his words; her
heart was still aching from her people’s exile, from the ruin of the Ring,
aching for Thor and Guwayne. She could not stand the idea of being burdened
with another leadership.

“The Ridge is dying,” he continued, as
she stood there silently. “Each day, our shores, our water source, are drying
up. By the time my children’s lifetime is over, the waters will be replaced by
drought, and our food source will be gone. I must think to the future, as my
fathers refused to do. Taking action is no longer an option—it is a necessity.”

“But what action?” she asked.

 He sighed, staring out at the horizon.

“There is a way to save the Ridge,” he
said. “It is rumored to be written of the ancient books, the ones guarded by the
Light Seekers.”

She stared back, puzzled.

“Light Seekers?” she asked.

“You see, my kingdom, too, is infected
with a cancer,” he explained. “As perfect as all looks from walking our
streets, all here is far from perfect. A vine grows amongst my people, and it
is the vine of a belief. A religion. A cult. The Light Seekers. It adds
followers by the day, and it has spread to every corner of my capital. It has
reached even to the heart of my very own family. Can you imagine? A King’s own
family?”

She tried to process it all, but could
not follow his story.

“Eldof. He is their leader, a human,
just like us, who believes himself a god. He preaches his false religion to all
of his false prophets, and they will do anything he says. Many of my people are
now more likely to obey his commands than mine.”

He stared at her, concern etched across
his too-lined face.

“I am in a dangerous position here,” he
added. “We all are. And not just from what lies beyond the Ridge.”

So many questions raced through Gwen’s
mind, but she did not want to pry; instead, she gave him time to think it all
through and to ask of her what he wanted.

“The ancient books are rumored to exist
deep within his monastery,” he finally added, after a long silence in which he
rubbed his beard, staring at the floor as if lost in memory. “I have ransacked
it many times—but to no avail. Of course, they may not exist at all—but I
believe they do. And I believe they hold the answer.”

He turned to her.

“I need you to enter the monastery,” he
said. “Befriend Eldof. Find the books. Find me the secret I need to save my
people.”

Gwen struggled to understand, her mind
reeling from all the information.

“So you want me to meet Eldof?” she
asked. “The cult leader?”

“Not him,” the King replied. “But his head
priest. My son. Kristof.”

Gwen stared at him, shocked.

“Your
son
?” she asked.

The King nodded back, his eyes moist.

“I am ashamed to admit,” he replied. “My
son is all but lost to me. But perhaps he shall listen to you, an outsider. I
implore. It is a father’s wish. And it is for the sake of the Ridge.”

As overwhelmed as she was, feeling as if
she had just been thrust into the middle of a political and family drama, Gwen
still felt infused with a sense of mission.