Morgan Rice: The Gift of Battle

Thor grabbed it, grabbing O’Connor with his other hand, and as he did the rope moved, Elden reaching down with his great strength and yanking them both up the side of the hull. The other Legion joined in and pulled, one yank at a time, until Thor felt himself rising through the air and, finally, over the rail. They both landed on the deck of the ship with a thud.

Thor, exhausted, out of breath, still coughing up sea water, sprawled on the deck beside O’Connor; O’Connor turned and looked at him, equally exhausted, and Thor could see the gratitude in his eyes. He could see O’Connor thanking him. No words need be said—Thor understood. They had a silent code. They were Legion brothers. Sacrificing for each other was what they did. It was what they lived for.

Suddenly, O’Connor started laughing.

At first Thor was worried, wondering if the madness was still upon him, but then he realized that O’Connor was fine. He was just back to his old self. He was laughing from relief, laughing from joy at being alive.

Thor began to laugh, too, the stress behind him, and the others all joined in. They were alive; despite all odds, they were alive.

The other Legion stepped forward and grabbed O’Connor and Thor and yanked them back to their feet. They all clasped hands, embraced joyfully, their ship, finally, entering waters with smooth sailing ahead.

Thor looked out and saw with relief that they were sailing further and further from the Straits, and lucidity was descending over all of them. They had made it; they had passed through the Straits, albeit with a heavy price. Thor did not think they could survive a trip through it again.

“There!” called out Matus.

Thor turned with the others and followed his finger as he pointed—and he was stunned by the sight before them. He saw a whole new vista spread before them on the horizon, a new landscape in this Land of Blood. It was a landscape thick with gloom, dark clouds lingering low on the horizon, the water still thick with blood—and yet now, the outline of the shore was closer, more visible. It was black, devoid of trees or life, looking like ash and mud.

Thor’s heartbeat quickened as beyond it, in the distance, he spotted a black castle, made of what appeared to be earth and ash and mud, rising up from the ground as if it were one with it. Thor could feel the evil emanating off of it.

Leading to the castle was a narrow canal, its waterways lined with torches, blocked by a drawbridge. Thor saw torches burning in the windows of the castle, and he felt a sudden sense of certainty: with all his heart, he knew that Guwayne was inside that castle, waiting for him.

“Full sails!” Thor cried out, feeling back in control again, feeling a renewed sense of purpose.

His brothers jumped into action, hoisting the sails as they caught the strong breeze that picked up from behind and propelled them forward. For the first time since entering this Land of Blood, Thor felt a sense of optimism, a sense that they could really find his son and rescue him from here.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” came a voice.

Thor turned and looked down to see Angel smiling up at him, tugging on his shirt. He smiled, knelt down beside her, and hugged her.

“As I am you,” he replied.

“I don’t understand what happened,” she said. “One minute I was myself, and the next… it was like I did not know myself.”

Thor slowly shook his head, trying to forget.

“Madness is the worst foe of all,” he replied. “We, ourselves, are the one enemy we cannot overcome.”

She frowned, concerned.

“Will it ever happen again?” she asked. “Is there anything else in this place like that?” she asked, fear in her voice as she studied the horizon.

Thor studied it too, wondering the very same thing himself—when all too soon, to his dread, the answer came rushing out at them.

There came a tremendous splash, like the sound of a whale surfacing, and Thor was amazed to see the most hideous creature he’d ever seen emerging before him. It looked like a monster squid, fifty feet high, bright red, the color of blood, and it loomed over the ship as it shot up out of the waters, its endless tentacles thirty feet long, dozens of them spreading out in every direction. Its beady yellow eyes scowled down at them, filled with fury, as its huge mouth, lined with sharp yellow fangs, opened up with a sickening sound. The creature blotted out whatever light the gloomy skies had allowed, and it shrieked an unearthly sound as it began to descend right for them, its tentacles spread out, ready to consume the entire ship.

Thor watched it with dread, caught up in its shadow with all the others, and he knew they had gone from one certain death to the next.

The Empire commander lashed his zerta again and again as he galloped through the Great Waste, following the trail, as he had been for days, across the desert floor. Behind him, his men rode on, gasping, on the verge of collapsing, as he had not given them a moment to rest the entire time they had been riding—even throughout the night. He knew how to drive zertas into the ground—and he knew how to drive men, too.

He had no mercy on himself, and he certainly had none for his men. He wanted them to be impervious to exhaustion and heat and cold—especially when they were on a mission as sacred as this. After all, if this trail actually led to where he hoped it might—to the legendary Ridge itself—it could change the entire fate of the Empire.

The commander dug his heels into the zerta’s back until it shrieked, forcing it ever faster, until it was nearly tripping over itself. He squinted into the sun, scrutinizing the trail as they went. He had followed many trails in his life, and had killed many people at the end of them—yet he had never followed a trail as enthralling as this one. He could feel how close he was to the greatest discovery in the history of the Empire. His name would be memorialized, sung of for generations.

They ascended a ridge in the desert, and he began to hear a faint noise growing, like a storm brewing in the desert; he looked out as they crested it, expecting to see a sandstorm coming their way, and he was shocked, instead, to spot a stationary wall of sand a hundred yards away, rising straight up from the ground into the sky, swirling and churning, like a tornado in place.

He stopped, his men beside him, and watched, curious, as it did not seem to move. He could not understand it. It was a wall of raging sand, but it did not come any closer. He wondered what lay on the other side. Somehow, he sensed, it was the Ridge.

“Your trail ends,” one of his soldiers said derisively.

“We cannot pass through that wall,” said another.

“You have led us to nothing but more sand,” said another.

The commander slowly shook his head, scowling back with conviction.

“And what if there lies a land on the other side of that sand?” he retorted.

“The other side?” a soldier asked. “You are mad. It is nothing but a cloud of sand, an endless waste, like the rest of this desert.”

“Admit your failure,” said another soldier. “Turn back now—or if not, we shall turn back without you.”

The commander turned and faced his soldiers, shocked at their insolence—and saw contempt and rebellion in their eyes. He knew he had to act quickly if he were to quash it.

In a fit of sudden rage, the commander reached down, grabbed a dagger from his belt, and swung it backwards in one quick motion, lodging it in the soldier’s throat. The soldier gasped, then fell backwards off his zerta and hit the ground, a fresh pool of blood collecting on the desert floor. Within moments, a swarm of insects appeared out of nowhere, covering his body and eating it.