A Reign of Steel (10 page)

Suddenly,
Gwendolyn and MacGil stopped, and Thor turned to see why. As he saw, he
stopped, too.

Standing
before them was a man who meant more to Thor than just about anyone: Argon. He
stood dressed in his white cloak and hood, holding his staff, his eyes shining
as he stared back, expressionless.

“Thorgrinson,”
Argon said.

Thor
reached out and handed Guwayne back to Gwen, but as he looked down, he saw that
Guwayne was gone. Vanished.

Thor
looked over at Gwendolyn, but saw that she was gone, too. So was King MacGil.
In fact, as he spun, he saw that everyone—all the knights, all the people that
had filled King’s Court just moments before—had disappeared.

The
city now stood empty. Now it was just Thor and Argon, standing in this empty place,
facing each other.

“It
is time to further your training,” Argon said. “Only here, in the Land of the Druids,
can you begin to reach the highest levels of who you are; can you begin to tap
the deepest levels of your powers. Only here can you understand what it means
to be who you are, what it means to be a Druid.”

Thor
fell in beside Argon as the two of them walked through King’s Court. There was
nothing but silence, and the howling of the wind. Finally, Thor spoke.

“What
does it mean to be a Druid?” Thor asked.

“It
means to be everything and nothing. To be a Druid, one must master nature, and one
must master one’s self. It means to combine the frailty of being human with the
limitless power of harnessing nature. Do you see that lion, there, charging
us?”

Thor
turned and saw a fierce lion racing for them. His heart raced with fear as it
neared, yet Argon simply held out a hand, and the lion stopped as it leapt and
fell to their feet, harmless.

Argon
lowered his palm.

“The
lion opposes you, until you understand its nature. There is a current that underlies
all things. Here in the Land of the Druids, the current is not beneath the
surface. The current
is
the surface.”

“I
feel it,” Thor said, closing his eyes, breathing in deeply, holding up his
palms to the wind. “I sense it. It is like…a thickness to the air…the slightest
of vibrations, like something humming in the sky.”

Argon
nodded in approval.

“Yes.
It is like running your palm over rushing water. It is everywhere, and here, it
is easier for you to harness it, to understand it. And yet it is also easier
for you to lose control.”

Thor
turned and saw a bear charging for him, roaring, at full speed. Thor’s first
impulse was to turn and run, but instead he held out his palm, feeling the
energy of this place, knowing that it was only nature. Only energy. Energy that
he could harness.

Thor
held out both palms, waiting, despite his fear, forcing himself to stay calm;
at the last second, the bear leapt, roaring, then stopped. It stood there, its
paws in the air, flailing, and finally, it lowered itself down to the ground
and rolled onto its back.

Argon
turned and walked away, and Thor, amazed, turned and hurried to catch up.

The
two walked and walked, leaving the gates of King’s Court, Thor wondering where
they were going.

“If
you hope to meet your mother,” Argon said, finally, “you have a far journey
ahead of you. The Land of the Druids is not a land that you cross at your leisure.
It is a land that you must
earn
to cross. It must admit you. It is a
land that demands of you, that tests you. Only the worthy can cross it. Your
mother is at the farthest end of this land. It will take everything you have to
reach her. You must become stronger.”

“But
how?” Thor asked.

“You
will have to learn to purge yourself of the demons that lurk within you. Of old,
painful memories. Of anyone who mistreated you. Of feelings of anger, hate,
vengeance. Of hurt and pain. You must learn to rise above them, to leave them
in the past. It is the ultimate test of a warrior—and of a Druid.”

Thor
furrowed his brow as they walked, trying to understand.

“But
how do I do that?” he asked.

Argon
stopped, and Thor looked out and saw stretched before them an endless landscape
of gloom. The land was mud, punctuated by dead trees, and the dark clouds that
glowered above it matched its color. A slow-winding river cutting its way
through it, its water the color of mud, and Thor realized at once where he was.

“The
Underworld,” Thorgrin said, remembering the Empire. “The Land of the Dead.”

Argon
nodded.

“A
place of your darkest dreams,” he said. “An endless and vast wasteland. It lies
inside you. The darkness, along with the light. And you must cross this. It is the
first step in the journey.”

Thor
gazed out with dread at the barren land, hearing the awful sound of distant crows,
feeling the intense gloom pervading this place. He turned to Argon to ask him
more—but was surprised to see him already gone.

Thor
turned back to look for the safety of King’s Court, wondering if he should turn
around—but it was gone now, too. He stood alone, in the center of this endless wasteland,
surrounded by death, by the darkest corners of his psyche—and with no way out
but through.

Reece
ran through the driving rain with Stara, Matus, and Srog by his side, stumbling
their way down the muddy slope in the black of night. Matus ran with one arm clamped
around the waist of Srog, who was limping badly, while Reece clutched Stara’s
hand, not out of love, but to keep her from slipping, and to keep himself from
slipping too. He felt guilty even touching it, thinking of Selese, but given
the situation, he had no choice.

They
all ran along the edge of the cliff, slipping in the mud as they went, careful
not to fall over the edge. Reece knew the sea was not far, the crashing waves
somewhere below, and yet he was barely able to hear them over the sound of the
pounding rain. With the number of soldiers awaiting them out there, Reece knew
they were likely on a suicide mission. He knew that the Upper Islanders would
be waiting for them in force at the shores, blocking any possible escape route
for them, any dream of making it to his sister’s fleet, which was harbored out
at sea.

Reece
no longer cared. At least they had a plan and would die with honor, not sitting
as cowards in that cave. A part of him, anyway, had died with Selese, and now
he just fought for survival.

Reece
knew they hadn’t much time before daybreak, when the Upper Islanders would
surely move to take vengeance on his sister’s fleet. Even if they didn’t make
the safety of the ship, Reece knew they had to at least try to reach the fleet
to warn them. Reece could not allow them all to die, could not allow their
deaths to be on his head. After all, he was the one who had killed Tirus and
who had unwittingly set them all up for retribution.

The
cliffs finally gave way to a steep mountain slope, and they stumbled downward,
trying to make for the shore below, slipping and propping each other up. Reece
saw the ocean spread out below, and finally was close enough to hear their crashing
waves over the sound of the rain.

They
reached a small plateau and they all paused, breathing hard.

“Leave
me,” Srog said, gasping, clutching his side. “My wound cannot sustain this.”

“No
one gets left behind,” Reece insisted.

Reece
gasped for air as he looked down and saw hundreds of Tirus’s men fanned out on the
shores, standing guard, on the lookout, blocking their escape to the ships—and
also blocking the ships from reaching shore. Reece knew the only reason they hadn’t
been killed yet was because of the cover of darkness, and because of the
blinding wind and rain and fog.

“There,”
Stara said, pointing.

Reece
followed her finger and saw dozens more of Tirus’s men pressed inside a cave on
the shore, sheltered from the wind. They were dunking long arrows into buckets,
then wrapping the tips of the arrows in cloth, slowly, meticulously, again and
again.

“Oil,”
Stara said. “They’re preparing to set their arrows aflame. Those arrows are
long. They’re meant for the ships. They intend to set the fleet aflame.”

Reece
watched, horrified, and realized she was right. He felt a pit in his stomach as
he realized how close Gwendolyn’s ships were to being lost.

“Those
arrows would never fly in this wind and rain,” Matus said.

“They
don’t need to,” Stara countered. “As soon as the rain stops, they will.”

“We
haven’t much time,” Srog said. “How do you propose we fight our way through all
those men? How can we reach the Queen’s ships?”

Reece
scanned the shores. He looked out at the ships, bobbing in the rough waters, anchored
perhaps a hundred yards offshore; the sailors surely had no idea what had happened
on shore, no idea of what was about to happen to them. He could not let them
get hurt. And he also needed to reach them for their own escape. Reece surveyed
the landscape, wondering how they could do it.

“We
can swim,” Reece said.

Srog
shook his head.

“I’d
never make it,” he replied.

“None
of us would,” Matus added. “Those waters are rougher than they look. You are
not from here; you do not understand. The tides are fierce in the open sea. We
would all drown. I’d rather die on dry land than at sea.”

“What
about those rocks?” Stara suddenly said.

They
all turned and followed her finger. As he peered into the rain, wiping water
from his eyes, Reece saw a jetty of rocks, jutting out into the ocean perhaps
thirty yards.

“If
we can make it to the edge of those rocks, my arrows can reach,” Stara said,
lifting her bow.

“Can
reach what?” Matus asked.

“The
closest ship,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Reece
looked at her, confused.

“And
why would you fire on our own ships?”

Stara
shook her head, impatient.

“You
don’t understand,” she said. “We can attach a rope to the arrow. If the arrow
lodges in the deck, it will give us a line. It can guide us through the waters.
We can pull ourselves as we swim to the ship.”

Reece
looked at her, impressed by her bold plan. The idea was crazy enough that it
just might work.

“And
what are the Queen’s men going to do when they see an arrow with a rope lodging
into their ship in the black of night?” Srog asked. “They will cut it off. Or
they will kill us. How should they know it is us?”

Reece
thought quickly.

“The
MacGil sign,” he said. “The falcon’s claws. Any MacGil of the Ring will
recognize it. Three arrows shot straight into the sky, all of them aflame. If we
shoot them off first, they’ll know it’s us, not the enemy.”

Srog
looked at Reece skeptically.

“And
how are you going to get flaming arrows to last in weather like this?”

“They
don’t need to last,” Reece replied. “They just need to stay aflight for a few
seconds, just long enough for the sailors to see them, before the rains will
put them out.”

Srog
shook his head.

“It
all sounds like craziness to me,” he said.

“Do
you have any better ideas?” Reece asked.

Srog
shook his head.

“Then
it’s settled,” Reece said.

“That
rope there,” said Stara, pointing. “The long one, coiled up, on the beach, near
Tirus’s men. It is just long enough. That’s what we need. We can tie it to the
arrow and make it work.”

“And
if your brother’s men spot us?” Srog asked.

Stara
shrugged.

“Then
we shall be killed by our own men.”

“And
what of those ten men there, blocking the entrance to the jetty?” Srog asked.

Reece
looked out and saw six soldiers standing before it. He turned, snatched Stara’s
bow, grabbed an arrow, raised it high, and fired.

The
arrow sailed through the air, sailing down forty yards, and pierced one of the
soldiers through the throat. He dropped dead.

“I
count nine,” Reece said, then took off at a sprint.

*

The
others followed Reece as he sprinted down the hill, slipping and sliding,
scrambling for the jetty. It took Tirus’s men a few moments to realize that one
of their own had fallen; yet soon enough they did, and they all drew their
weapons, on guard, peering out into the night for the enemy.

Reece
and the others raced recklessly for the chokepoint leading out to the jetty, Reece
feeling that if they got their fast enough, just maybe they could kill the
soldiers guarding it before they knew what hit them. More importantly, maybe
they could get past them.

“Attack
them, but no matter what, don’t stop running!” Reece yelled to the others. “We’re
not here to fight them all—we just need to make it past them, to the end of the
jetty.”

The
blackness of early morning was beginning to lift as they all ran, swords drawn,
Reece gasping for air as his feet hit the sand, stumbling, realizing this might
be the last run of his life. The group of soldiers blocking the jetty did not
see them either, their attention on their soldier who had fallen, all of them
baffled as to who had killed him. Three of the soldiers sat hunched over him, trying
to revive him.

That
was their fatal mistake. Reece and Matus lunged forward as they reached them, Srog
hobbling just behind them, swords drawn, and before the three soldiers, their
sides exposed, realized, they stabbed each one through the heart. That left six
of them.

Stara,
right behind them, drew her dagger and backhanded one, slicing his throat,
dropping him to the ground; then she turned seamlessly and stabbed another
through the heart. That left four.

Reece
backhanded one with his gauntlet and kicked another, while Srog head-butted one
and Matus ducked as an attacker swung a mace for his head, then rose up and
sliced his stomach.

Within
moments the group of soldiers blocking the jetty was down, as Reece and the
others blew past them like a storm.

A
horn sounded, and Reece turned to see that Tirus’s other men—hundreds of
them—had spotted them. There rose a great battle cry on the beach, as the men
turned and began racing for them.

“The
rope!” Stara shouted.

Reece
ran over to the huge coil of rope nearby and hoisted it over his shoulder; it
was heavier than he’d imagined. Matus rushed over and helped him, and they
hoisted it together as they all ran down the jetty, the four of them running as
fast as they could. Stara brought up the rear, and she stopped, turned, raised
her bow, and fired six shots in procession, taking out six of the closest
soldiers, the bodies piling up at the base the jetty.

They
all, gasping for air, finally reached the edge of the jetty. Waves crashed all around
them, foam spraying up over their feet. Reece lost his footing for a moment, and
Stara reached out and steadied him. Beside them, Srog and Matus hurried to tie
the rope to the end of one of Stara’s arrows.

“The
warning sign first!” Reece called out, reminding Stara.

Stara
took three arrows from a closed quiver wrapped around her back. These were
wrapped with an oil-soaked cloth, prepared in advance, as all good archers did,
in their own separate quiver. Out of the quiver she also removed the dry flint
rocks and struck them together, creating sparks. She did it again and again,
the sparks not catching in the rain. Reece turned to see Tirus’s men storming
the jetty. He knew their time was short.

“Come
on!” Reece cried.

Finally,
the cloth sparked, and all three arrows lit up.

“Shoot
them up high!” Reece said. “Nearly straight overhead! But angle a little toward
the ships! That is the sign!”

Stara
fired the three flaming arrows in quick succession, and they shot up, close to each
other, perfect shots. It was the flame of the falcon’s claws, high up in the
sky, the ancient sign of the MacGils, and any good commander watching the skies
would see. Reece was relieved to see that the arrows stayed aflame for a good five
seconds, until finally, all three fizzled out.

“The
rope!” Matus said. “Fire it now!”

Stara
took up the rope and arrow, aiming high, long distance for the ship.

“We’ve
got one shot at this,” Reece said to her. “Do not miss.”

She
turned and looked at him, and he was struck by how beautiful her face was in
the rain, how proud, how noble—how fearless. He stared back at her and nodded
reassuringly.

“You
can do this,” he said. “I have faith in you.”

She
nodded back.

Stara
turned and fired, and they all watched, Reece holding his breath, as the arrow
sailed up high, arching through the air. Reece knew that if it fell short, they
would all be finished.

Finally,
in the distance, Reece heard the satisfying thunk of arrow piercing wood, and as
Reece saw the rope stiffen below, he knew she had hit: the arrow was lodged in
the ship. The rope uncoiled as it sailed through the air, and there were but a
few feet of it left as it finally lodged into its resting place.

Reece
turned and saw hundreds of Tirus’s men shouting, too close now, drawing their
swords and bows and closing in on them.

“The
water’s not getting any warmer!” Matus cried out, looking down at the churning
sea.

As
one, the four them of them grabbed hold of the rope and jumped off the rocks
and into the foaming sea.

Reece
was shocked at how cold the water was; he struggled to catch his breath as he
swallowed a mouthful of salty seawater, bobbing up and down in the raging
ocean. He held onto the rope, not letting go no matter what, and he pulled
himself up, one foot at a time, heading toward the distant boat.

Reece
pulled hard and fast, along with the others, and they all began to move their
way through the water, with each pull getting farther from shore and closer to
the ship.

Reece
heard the muted shouts of Tirus’s men on the shore behind them, and then he
heard another noise which disturbed him—the noise of an arrow piercing water. The
noise came again, and again, and Reece looked over to see arrows sailing
through the air, piercing the water on either sides of him. He realized that
Tirus’s men were firing on them.