Morgan Rice - A Joust of Knights

Celta nodded back to Argon, their eyes locking.

Gwen wanted to rush forward and hug him, yet she was conflicted; she was mad at him for his not telling her whatever he knew that kept her from finding her husband and son.

“What do you know about Thor?” she demanded. “And Guwayne? And why did you not tell me you had a brother?”

Argon just looked back at her, eyes aglow, never wavering, lost in distant worlds she knew she would never understand. Some part of him was always unreachable, even to her.

“Not all knowledge is meant to be revealed,” he finally replied.

Gwen frowned, refusing to accept no for an answer.

“Guwayne is my son ,” she said. “Thor is my husband. I deserve to know where they are. I need to know where they are,” she said, stepping forward, desperate.

Argon gazed back at her for a long time, then finally sighed, turned, and walked to the window, looking out.

“Many centuries ago,” he said to her, “before your father’s father, and his father before him, my brother and I were close. Yet time has a way of forking even the strongest rivers, and over time, we grew apart. This universe was not big enough to hold two brothers—not brothers like Ragon and I.”

Argon fell silent for a long time, gazing out the window.

“It became clear that Ragon’s place was here, in the Ridge, on this side of the world,” he continued, “while mine was elsewhere, in the Ring. We were two sides of the same coin, two faces of the same father—much like the two sides of the Ring and the Ridge.”

As Argon fell silent again, Gwen processed it all. It was hard to imagine: Argon and Ragon’s father. She was overflowing with questions, but she held her tongue.

Finally, he began again.

“My place was in the Ring, protecting the Canyon, holding up the Shield. Guarding the Destiny Sword, while Ragon guarded the Ridge. We lived this way for many, many centuries.”

“But he’s not here now,” Gwen said, puzzled.

Argon shook his head.

“No, he is not.”

“Where is he then?” she asked.

“Ragon foresaw the end of the Ridge,” Argon replied, “and he took the steps needed to save it. He’s in exile, on the Isle of Light, preparing for the second coming.”

“Second coming?” Gwen asked.

Argon sighed long and hard, staying silent. Gwen did not want to pry, but she needed to know where this was all going, and how it related to Thor.

“What I want to know is about Thorgrin and Guwayne,” she finally insisted. “What are you not telling me?”

Argon looked anguished as he looked at the window, until finally, he turned and looked at her. The intensity of his gaze was overwhelming.

“Some things are given to us in life,” he said gravely, “while others are taken away. We must celebrate what we have while we have it. And when something is lost to us, we must allow it to leave.”

Gwen felt her heart sinking at his words.

“What are you saying?” she demanded.

He took two steps toward her, standing a few feet away, staring back with such intensity that she had to look away. She had never seen him wear such a serious expression.

“Your husband is gone,” he pronounced gravely, each of his words like a blow to her heart. “Your son is gone to you, too. I am sorry, but they will never return. Not as you know them.”

Gwen felt like collapsing.

“NO!” she shrieked, crying, everything bursting out of her. She ran forward and grabbed Argon’s robe, and beat him on his chest with her fists, again and again.

Argon stood there, expressionless, not fighting her off but not comforting her either.

“I am sorry,” he said, after several moments. “I loved Thorgrin as a son. And Guwayne, too.”

“NO!” she shrieked, refusing to accept it.

Gwen turned and ran out the chamber, down the corridor, and burst out onto the wide parapets atop the castle. She stood there, all alone, clutching the rail and searching the horizon. She looked out at the distant peaks, the mist hanging over the ridge. Somewhere beyond was the Great Waste, and beyond that, the great sea. Carrying Thorgrin and Guwayne.

She could not accept her fate. Never.

“NO!” Gwen shrieked to the heavens. “Come back to me!”

Thor felt a deepening sense of foreboding as he gripped the rail, standing at the bow of the ship, and stared out at the Straits of Madness, looming before him. Red waters of blood churned below as they carried the ship on their currents, into the straits. Thor looked side to side, staring up in awe, as did the others, at the stark black cliffs, jagged, rising straight up, made of a black stone he did not recognize. They were close together, leaving but twenty yards of angry waters for them to pass through, and Thor felt claustrophobic, the sky nearly shut out. He also felt vulnerable to attack, especially as he examined the cliffs and spotted thousands of sets of small, yellow eyes, glowing, peeking out from tiny holes in the rocks, then disappearing. He felt as if they were being watched by a million creatures.

But that was not what concerned him most. As they entered the Straits, the water churned violently, rocking their ship side to side, up and down—and Thor began to hear something, rising over the din of the waves and the wind. It was soft at first, like a distant humming; as they went, though, it grew stronger. It was almost like a chanting, like a chorus of voices humming in a low pitch. It sounded like a drumbeat, felt like his heart was beating outside his head; it echoed inside his innermost eardrum, and the feeling was making him go mad.

Thor clutched the rail, experiencing a feeling he’d never felt before; it was almost like an unwelcome invader entering his body. He felt, for the first time in his life, that he was losing control of himself. As if he could no longer think straight.

The chanting grew louder, and as it did, he felt increasingly on edge; every little sound was amplified inside him: the splashing of the water against the hull; the flapping of the sails; the sound of those insects, buzzing; the screech of a bird high overhead. He could not turn it off, and it was driving him crazy.

Thor began to feel a rage rising in his veins, one he could not control or understand. It was consuming him, making him want to lash out, to kill something—anything. He didn’t understand where it was coming from, and as they sailed still deeper into the Straits, he felt it taking over him completely. As if it owned his very soul.

Thor gripped the rail so hard his knuckles turned white as he tried to control himself, to exorcise himself of whatever was consuming him. He looked out at the others, hoping they would see the horror he was going through and would be rushing to help him.

But as Thor saw the others, his apprehension only deepened. He could see at a glance that whatever madness had gripped him had gripped the others, too. There was Elden, rushing forward and head-butting the mast, again and again; there was Angel, curled up in a ball on the floor, holding her head; there was Selese, rocking left and right, her arms wrapped around herself; Matus knelt on the deck, pulling his hair from his head; Reece drew his sword then sheathed it, again and again; O’Connor paced the decks wildly, racing up and down them, as if trying to get off the boat; and Indra raised her spear and hurled it into the deck, only to remove it and do it again and again.

Thor realized that they’d all gone mad. For the first time in his life he could not think clearly, could not come up with a strategy to sail out of here, to rescue everyone, to burst free. He could not think at all. He just felt like he was becoming a ball of rage, growing bigger and bigger, one he could not control, even with his greatest powers. A titanic struggle was going on inside him.