A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (8 page)

Thor held tight to Lycoples’s neck,
gripping his rough scales as they soared through the air, exhilarated to be
riding on the back of a dragon again. They tore through the air at full speed, the
clouds whipping Thor in the face, as they raced for the pack of gargoyles on
the horizon carrying Guwayne. Thor burned with determined to retrieve his son,
so close now, finally, urging Lycoples on to ever greater speeds.

“Faster!” Thor prodded.

Lycoples flapped her wings again and
again, lowering her head, equally determined to save Thor’s son.

Thor felt elated to be riding with
Mycoples and Ralibar’s offspring—it made him feel as if he were back with Mycoples
again. He had missed her terribly every day since she’d died, and riding with
her offspring made him feel restored. There was also no more exhilarating
feeling than flying through the air, moving at such speed, crossing oceans in
days when it would take ships moons. It made him feel invincible once again. He
felt light, as fast as a bird, with nothing left in the world to stand in his
way.

Thorgrin also felt an intense connection
with Lycoples, a very different energy than with her mother. Lycoples was much
smaller, still young, half the size of a full-grown dragon, and she flew with an
awkward passion, bounding through the air, not quite in full control of all her
powers yet. Flying on her back, he felt new life coming into the world again,
the birth of a new race unfolding before him.

Thorgrin also found himself easily able
to share his thoughts and feelings with her, and he knew she sensed his urgency
to find Guwayne. She flapped furiously without his needing to prod, going faster
than he could ask her to. They flew so fast that he could barely catch his
breath, dipping in and out of the clouds, closing in on the gargoyles. Thor
clutched her scales while with his free hand he gripped the Sword of the Dead.
He could feel it throbbing in his hand, eager for blood.

They began to close in, getting closer to
the pack of gargoyles, now but a hundred yards away, and Thorgrin wondered
where they were flying to, where they were so eager to take Guwayne. As he squinted
he could see Guwayne, dangling from the claws of one of those creatures at the
head of the pack. Were they really taking him to the Land of Blood? If so, why?

Thor looked out at the horizon and saw
nothing but ocean as far as the eye could see; he saw no Land of Blood. Had Ragon been mistaken? Were those just the words of a dying man?

Suddenly, Thorgrin was surprised to see
the huge flock of gargoyles split in two, half of them circling back and racing
to confront him, while the other half continued on. As they approached he got a
good look at them and could see they looked like enormous bats, with wide,
slimy black wings, long claws, and fangs. They reared their narrow heads and
screeched as they flew right for him.

Thor gripped his sword, eager to meet
them in battle, and Lycoples, to her credit, did not waver in fear. Instead,
she flew faster, and Thor, eager to set wrongs right, raised the Sword of the Dead
high. It was so heavy, ten times the weight of any other sword, yet somehow it
felt perfect in his hands. Its black blade glistened in the sky, and as the
monsters screeched, Thor replied with a battle cry of his own. He would cut
through all of them to retrieve his son.

As the first of the gargoyles reached
him, raising its fangs for Thor’s face, Thor reached down and slashed the
sword, slicing it in half. Its blood sprayed everywhere, as the gargoyle tumbled
through the air, past him.

Another came at him, then another,
approaching from all sides, and Thor turned and slashed in every direction, ducking
and slicing them in half. He cut off the talons of one, the wings of another,
then ducked as he was scratched on the shoulder by a third—and reached up and
thrust his sword into its exposed belly.

The swarm of gargoyles descended on him,
and Thor fearlessly met their embrace, fighting like a man possessed, a man
with nothing left to lose. The Sword of the Dead fought, too, coming to life,
like a living being in his hand. It whizzed and hummed and led the way, urging
Thor on, leading him to slash and thrust and block blows. It was like having a
fighting partner in his hand. The Sword hummed and sang as it sliced through
the air, leaving a trail of blood and severed gargoyles in its wake, all of
them tumbling down to the ocean far below.

Lycoples, too, joined in, lashing out
with her talons at all gargoyles who dared attack her. She was young, but vicious—and
fearless. She raised her razor-sharp talons and slashed gargoyles left and
right, reaching them before they reached her and slicing them in half. She reached
out and grabbed others by their heads and squeezed to death, while still others
she grabbed and threw, hurling them down through the air, to the ocean. Others
still she bit, opening her huge jaws and sinking her teeth into their scales as
they shrieked out in pain.

Finally, as a fresh swarm came at them, Lycoples
threw back her head, screeched, and let out a stream of flames. Her flame was
not as strong yet as her parents’, yet still it was strong enough to wreak
havoc: the dozens of remaining gargoyles, engulfed in the flames, let out an
awful shriek as they were immersed in the cloud of fire, their horrible screams
filling the air as they tumbled down, aflame, to the sea below.

Thor was taken aback by Lycoples’s
power, not expecting such a stream of flame, and the few gargoyles who remained
alive also looked back with scared expressions—and a whole new fear of Lycoples.
They turned and flew off into the horizon, catching up with the other half of
their flock.

“Faster, Lycoples, faster!” Thor cried
out, lowering his head and holding on tight as she, enraged, flew at an even
greater speed.

Lycoples needed no prodding. She tore through
the air faster than Thor could breathe, and they dove in and out of clouds, the
scarlet sun beginning to set as they bore down on the gargoyles. The gargoyles
dared not turn to face them now, but rather flew with all their speed, flapping
their wings furiously to try to get away.

As they approached, Thor could finally see
Guwayne again, up ahead—and his heart beat faster. He was so close now, nothing
would get in his way. He would slaughter each and every one of these creatures,
and soon they would be reunited again.

As Thor glanced up at the horizon, he
did a double take, shocked by the sight before him. On the horizon, there
slowly appeared what seemed to be a waterfall in the sky. It stretched in every
direction, as far as he could see, a wall of running water—stained red. It ran
from the heavens, right down to the oceans, so thick he could not see through
it, and he heard a great roaring noise as he came closer. He began to realize
what it was: a waterfall of blood.

Thorgrin suddenly knew, without a doubt,
that it was a barrier, a wall blocking off another world: the entry to The Land
of Blood. And as he saw all gargoyles heading for it, he suddenly realized
where they were going—and realized that it might provide them safe harbor.

“FASTER!” he cried.

Lycoples managed to fly even faster, closing
in on them, fifty yards away, then thirty, then ten…. The waterfall loomed
before them, the noise now deafening.

The gargoyles flew just a bit too fast,
and as Thor neared them, they all suddenly entered the waterfall of blood,
disappearing into it.

Thor braced himself, too, preparing to enter
after them—but suddenly, to his surprise, Lycoples stopped short in the air,
rearing her head, refusing to enter it. Thor could not understand what was going
on. It was as though Lycoples were scared to enter.

She flapped her wings, hanging there,
arching her back, screeching, and Thor realized that, for some reason, she could
not pass through this magical barrier to the Land of Blood. Thor reddened,
realizing the gargoyles knew that all along.

Lycoples, frustrated, screeched again
and again, clearly wanting to enter and frustrated that she could not.

Thor felt his heart breaking as he
watched the gargoyles disappear into the waterfall with his son, disappearing
from view.

Thor thought quickly. He looked down and
scanned the ocean, and he saw in the distance, on the horizon, his Legion
brothers, following in their ship. Thor directed Lycoples back down, across the
ocean, toward his friends, knowing he had no choice. If Lycoples could not
enter the Land of Blood, then Thor would have to enter without her.

Lycoples flew Thor down to the ship, and
as she dove low and slowed, Thor jumped off her back and onto the deck. He stood
there, looking up at her, and she flapped her wings, disappointed, wanting him to
ride her again.

Thor shook his head.

“No, Lycoples,” he said to her. “You can
be of no use to me where I need to go. You can help me elsewhere: go find my
beloved. Find Gwendolyn, wherever she is. Tell her I live. Guwayne lives. And save
her for me from whatever danger she might be in.”

Lycoples screeched and hovered, clearly not
wanting to leave Thor’s side.

“GO!” Thor commanded firmly.

Lycoples finally, reluctantly, turned
and flew off, disappearing in the horizon.

All the others gathered around Thor on
the ship and stared at him, stunned. He looked out, past the bow, to the
looming waterfalls of blood, and knew what he had to do.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, “tonight
we enter the Land of Blood.”

Gwendolyn walked side-by-side with the
Queen, escorting her across the golden skywalk that spanned the capital of the Ridge.
The path was made of solid gold cobblestones, elevated fifteen feet above the
city streets, spanning from the castle exit to all corners of the city. It was
a walkway reserved for royals, and as they walked the Queen’s servants trailed
behind them, holding up parasols to block the sun.

The two strolled arm-in-arm, the Queen
affectionately linking arms with her and insisting that she take her on a tour
of the city. The Queen fondly showed Gwen all the sights as they went, pointing
out notable architecture and orienting her to the various neighborhoods of this
ancient city. Gwendolyn felt comforted by her presence, especially after such a
long stretch without female company. In some respects, the Queen was like the warm
mother that she never had.

It made Gwendolyn reflect on her own
mother. Her mother had been a cold and hard Queen, always deciding based on
what was right for the kingdom—but not necessarily what was right for their
family. She had also been a cold, hard mother, and Gwendolyn had had endless
arguments and power struggles with her. Gwendolyn recalled the first time she had
met Thorgrin, her mother’s epic struggle to keep the two of them apart. It
brought back fresh bitterness and resentment.

It also caused Gwen think of other
times, other places; she recalled the balls in her father’s court, everyone
dressed in their finest, the jousts, the festivals, the endless years of bounty
and good times, years Gwen was certain could never end. She recalled the first
time she had ever met Thorgrin, back in the bounty of the Ring, just a young,
naïve boy entering King’s Court for the first time. It felt like another
lifetime. She felt so aged since then, so much upended in her life. Even here,
within the splendor of this place, she had a hard time imagining days of
comfort and security like that coming back to her again.

Gwen snapped out of it as the Queen pulled
her along and pointed up ahead.

“This quarter is where most of our
people live,” the Queen said proudly.

Gwendolyn looked down at the beautiful
city, afforded a sweeping view from up here on the skywalk, and was in awe at
its beauty and sophistication. The city was crammed with pristine houses of
every shape and size, some built of marble, others limestone, all snuggled in close
together, giving the city a cozy feel. The city looked perfectly worn,
crisscrossed by cobblestone streets, horses walking through, slowly pulling
carriages through the streets. Lining the streets were people selling their
wares, and everywhere there was the smell of food: stalls were overflowing with
massive fruits, while vendors sold sacks and barrels of wine. Other shops were
everywhere, tanners selling hides, blacksmiths weaponry, and jewelers sparkling
gems. Everyone was dressed in their finest, and they strolled about this
luxurious city in harmony.

Gwen looked up and saw the impressive
fortifications walling in the city, its ancient stone walls lined with knights,
their armor gleaming in the sun. She saw the castle towering over the city,
like a watchman, its ramparts staggered and lined with more knights, beacons of
strength and perfect discipline. Church bells tolled softly in the distance,
dogs barked below in the streets and children squealed in delight as they ran
after them. A gentle breeze, heavy with moisture from the lakes, caressed her
as she walked, and Gwen realized this place was as close to perfection as one
could imagine. In the distance, the waters glistened and in the far distance,
the peaks of the Ridge loomed over all of them, a faint outline on the horizon,
shrouded in mist, making this place feel even more protected.

Gwen saw people open and closing their
shutters, hanging clothes out to dry, and as she glanced down, she noticed many
people waving up at them affectionately. She felt too elitist walking up here,
on this pathway.

“You are distracted, dear Queen,” the
Queen said to her, smiling.

Gwen blushed.

“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s just that…I
prefer to interact with my people. I like to embrace them, to walk the same
streets as they.”

Gwen hoped she hadn’t offended her, and
she was relieved to see the Queen’s smile widen.

“You are a girl after my own heart,” she
said. “I was hoping you would ask. I don’t like to live as royals do, either—I
would rather be with my people.”

She led her down a curved, golden
staircase, into the streets, and as they descended, there was an excited rush
amongst her people; they all gushed at the Queen’s presence and rushed forward
to greet her, handing her fruits and flowers. Gwen could see how loved she was by
her people—and she understood why: she was the kindest Queen she’d ever met.

Gwen enjoyed walking the streets, loved
the vitality, the smells of cooking meat stronger down here; it was bustling
with people, and she loved the energy of this place. These people of the Ridge,
she was coming to realize, were warm and friendly people, quick to smile and to
embrace strangers. She was beginning to feel at home.

“Our walking through the street is, in
fact, most convenient. My daughter whom you wish to see is on the far end of
the city, perched in her library. This is the quickest way to get there.”

Gwen thought of where they were going—the
Royal Library—which she so badly wished to see, and she grew excited. She also
thought of the Queen’s youngest daughter, whom the King asked her to see first,
and she wondered once again about her.

“Tell me about her,” Gwen said.

The Queen’s face lit up at the mention
of her.

“She’s remarkable,” she said. “She has a
mind unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You will see that there is really no one like
her. I don’t know where she gets it from—certainly not from me.”

The Queen shook her head as she spoke,
her eyes watering with admiration.

“How can it be that a ten-year-old girl can
have an intellect powerful enough to be the scholar of the kingdom? Not only is
she the fastest thinker I’ve ever met, but she retains scholarship unlike
anyone I’ve ever met. It’s more than an affinity—it’s an obsession. Ask her anything
about our history, and she will tell you. I’m ashamed to say her knowledge is
greater even than mine. And yet, I am so proud of her—she spends all her days
in that library. It is making her far too pale, if you ask me. She should be
out, playing with her friends.”

Gwen thought of it all as she walked,
remembering her first meeting her at the feast, and how taken she had been by
her. Clearly, this was an extraordinary girl. Being so enamored of books, the
two of them had clicked instantly, as Gwen had sensed a kindred soul in her. It
made Gwen think of her time spent in the House of Scholars, and she knew that
if her father had not intervened, she would have spent all her days locked away
in that building, lost in books.

“Your husband told me I must see her
first,” Gwen said. “He said I should ask her of the history before visiting the
tower and your other son, Kristof. He said she would give me a primer, a better
understanding of it.”

Gwen watched the Queen’s face darken at
the mention of her other son. She nodded sadly.

“Yes, she will tell you all about that
cursed tower and more,” she said. “Though I don’t know what good it will do. My
children in that tower are lost to me now.”

Gwen looked at her, stunned.

“Children?” she repeated. “The king mentioned
but one son. Have you others?”

The Queen looked down as they walked,
cutting through the streets, passing vendors, and she remained silent for a
very long time. Just when Gwen began to wonder if she would ever answer, finally,
the Queen wiped a tear and looked at her, her face filled with sadness.

“My daughter lives there, too.”

Gwen gasped.

“A daughter? Your husband did not
mention it.”

The Queen nodded.

“Kathryn. He never mentions her. He acts
as if she does not exist. Just because she is touched.”

Gwen looked back, puzzled.

“Touched?” she echoed.

The Queen looked away, and Gwen realized
it was too painful for her to discuss it, and she did not want to pry. A silence
fell back over them as they walked, Gwen more curious than ever. These people
of the Ridge seemed to hold endless secrets. It made Gwen think of the Queen’s
other son, Mardig, and made her wonder what darkness lay in their family.

They weaved their way throughout the
streets and finally turned a corner, and as they did, the Queen came to an
abrupt stop. She looked up, and Gwen did, too.

Gwen gasped, in awe at the building
before her. It was a building unlike any Gwen had ever seen, built of shining
marble, with huge golden doors shaped in a tall arch, intricately carved. The
doors were adorned with golden images of books carved into them, and long,
tapered stained-glass windows lined the exterior. It resembled a church but was
more circular in shape, and even more impressive, set in the midst of an open
city square with nothing around it in every direction, encircled by a circular
courtyard of clean, golden cobblestone. Gwen could see right away the respect that
this city had for books, for scholarship; after all, this Royal Library sat
like a beacon in the center of the city.

“My daughter awaits you inside,” the
Queen said, a sadness now to her voice. “Ask her anything you will. She will
tell you all. There are some things that are too painful for a mother to speak
of.”

She gave Gwendolyn a quick hug, then
turned and disappeared in the streets, followed by her servants.

Gwen, alone, faced the huge golden doors,
twenty feet high, a foot thick, and as she reached out and laid a hand on their
golden handles, she pulled, and felt ready to enter another world.

*

As Gwen entered the Royal Library,
waiting to greet her was Jasmine, standing there alone in the vast hall of
marble, her hands before her, lightly clasped at her waist, and staring back with
a sweet, excited smile, intelligence shining in her eyes.

She rushed forward, beaming, and took
Gwen’s hand.

“I’ve been waiting and
waiting
for you!” she exclaimed, as she turned and excitedly began to give Gwen a tour.
“My dad said you would be coming this morning, and I’ve waited ever since. I
must have checked the windows a hundred times. Did my mom take you on one of
her long and boring tours?” she asked with a short laugh, delighting herself.

Gwen could not help but laugh, too, this
child’s enthusiasm infectious. She was captivated by Jasmine from the moment
she saw her, so intelligent and endearing. She was also talkative and fun.
There was a bounce to her step, a playful giddiness which Gwendolyn did not
expect. She expected her to be serious and somber, lost in books, like any
other scholar—but she was anything but. She was like any other child, carefree,
skipping along, joyous, warm and good-natured. In some ways, she reminded
Gwendolyn of the carefree, joyous spirit she’d once had herself as a youth. She
wondered when, exactly, she lost it.

As Jasmine led her through the halls, her
talking never ceasing, she moved from one topic to the next with surprising
dexterity, pointing out one rack of books after the other.

“This stack on the right are the
tragedies of our first playwright, Circeles,” she said. “I consider them to be
basically trite works, what you might expect from the first generation of Ridge
playwrights. Of course, they were suited for different occupations back then—mostly
martial. As Keltes says, with each generation comes a refinery, a move from
martial to higher skills. We all strive for higher forms of grace, do we not?”

Gwen looked back at her, dazzled by her speech,
her nonstop flow of words and knowledge, as she continued relentlessly, pointing
out rack after rack of books. They passed through endless corridors, decorated
with ornate wall paintings, their floors lined with gold.

The library was like a maze, and Jasmine
led her down winding, narrow corridors lined with books on either side. The
racks of books, made of gold, rose twenty feet high, and all the books looked
ancient, leather-bound, penned, Gwendolyn could see, in the ancient language of
the Ring. There were a staggering number of books, even for someone like
Gwendolyn, and amazingly, Jasmine seemed to recognize every single one.

“And here we have the histories, of
course,” Jasmine continued, pulling down a book as she walked and leafing
through it. “They stretch for miles. It’s organized from the early historians
through the latter ones—it should, in fact, be the other way around. You’d
think the latter would stand upon the shoulders of the former, offer a more
enlightened perspective into the history of the Ridge and the Ring—but that’s
not so. As is often the case, the original historians were better versed than
any who followed. I think there’s some truth to the notion that latter
generations outdo the former—yet there is more truth to the notion of former
generations holding ancient wisdom untouchable by the latter ones,” she said. “The
firstborn syndrome, is it?”