Morgan Rice - The Gift of Battle

“GO!” Thor yelled.

Gwendolyn finally seemed to understand, and she led the others as they all turned and finally heeded his request, crossing quickly over the Canyon to protect those on the other side, Lycoples joining them.

Thorgrin, standing there alone, facing the incoming army, looked forward to it. He felt the Sorcerer’s Ring throbbing on his finger, felt the Sword of the Dead throbbing in his hand, and as he drew it, it rang with a sharp sound that seemed to cut through the world. It was ready—desperate—for a fight.

High above, he heard a screech, and Thor looked up to see Estopheles, his old friend, circling, and felt her with him, felt the presence of King MacGil with him, of all those who fought and died for the Ring.

And as thousands of soldiers charged, Thor felt the sword come to life in his hand, urging him on.

You are a warrior , it urged. You never defend. You never wait for your enemies! You attack!

Thor suddenly charged, letting out a great battle cry of his own, and he dove into the crowd, swinging the Sword like a thing possessed. He had never felt himself so powerful, never felt himself move with such speed. With each blow, he killed twenty Empire soldiers. He struck again, and again, and again, moving like a whirlwind, killing them by the dozens, feeling his sword come alive, like an extension of his arm. This was the battle he knew he, and the Sword, were meant for.

Thorgrin felt bigger than himself, bigger than he had ever been. Buoyed by the power of the Ring, and of the Sword, he was like a channel for their energies. He let them take over his body, and as light shone forth from the Ring, he felt himself darting about the battlefield like lightning, felling hundreds of soldiers at a time. He moved so fast, even he did not understand what he was doing, none of the Empire soldiers, despite their greater numbers, standing a chance. It was as if they had all walked into a tsunami.

Whereas before there was noise, shouts, chaos, now there came peace, quiet, stillness. Thor blinked several times as he stood there, breathing hard, covered in blood, trying to understand what had just happened. He looked around, and he saw all around him, in circles, heaps of corpses.

All the Empire divisions that had come for him. All of them, dead.

Thorgrin slowly came back to himself, in a dim haze. He turned and looked back over the bridge and saw, on the far side, Gwendolyn’s and the others’ shocked expressions, all looking to him as if he were a god. He had single-handedly killed an entire division of Empire troops, ten thousand men, at least. The Empire waves, finally, had come to a stop. Finally, they were no longer being pursued.

But as soon as he had the thought, Thor suddenly heard an awful noise in the skies, like a rumbling of thunder, and as he looked up, his stomach fell. He knew immediately that he had won the most epic battle of his life—only for it to be replaced by one even more epic to come.

For as he looked up, Thor saw an army of creatures from hell—and at their head, the Blood Lord, face contorted in fury.

Tens of thousands of his creatures, larger than gargoyles, smaller than dragons, black, hairy, screeching, were converging behind him, plunging down, right for Thor. Finally, they had caught up with him. Finally, he would have to pay the price for stealing back Guwayne.

They came at him as one army of death, claws extended, and Thor knew that he was in for the battle of his life.

Thor stood there, watching them come for him, and felt the Sword of the Dead buzzing in his hands, willing him to fight.

There is no foe too great for you, young warrior! it urged.

And in his hand, holding the Sword, he felt the Sorcerer’s Ring, throbbing, sending a heat up his arm that urged him to fight.

The first gargoyle descended and Thor slashed, again and again. He did not stop slashing as one wave of gargoyles after the next plummeted, claws out, aiming for his face, slashing them down as he spun left and right. He chopped off claws, heads, arms; he stabbed them, swirled, feeling the power of the Sorcerer’s Ring emboldening him as he felled them by the dozens.

They fell all around him, piling up in heaps, none able to touch him.

But Thorgrin suddenly heard awful cries rise up behind him, and he turned and looked out to see Gwendolyn and all of their people on the far side of the Canyon, bracing themselves as the gargoyles descended for them, too. Thousands more gargoyles emerged, encircling them on every side, leaving nowhere to run. Thorgrin did not fear for himself—but he feared for his people, especially as he watched them begin to fall.

Thorgrin knew that, despite everything, despite the powers of the Sword of the Dead, of the Sorcerer’s Ring, he was losing this battle. He would not be able to save his people in time.

What he needed, he knew, was the Shield restored. It was the only way to protect them. But there was something he was missing, some final riddle, some final piece of the puzzle.

“ARGON!” Thor called out, turning to the skies. “Where are you!? I need you now!”

There came no response, and Thor turned and searched in every direction.

“ARGON!” he persisted. “What is it I am missing? What is it that I need to be worthy?”

Thorgrin suddenly sensed a presence behind him, and he turned and saw Argon appearing, standing alone in the center of the bridge. He stood there, facing him, holding his staff, staring back at him, eyes so bright they outshone the suns.

As he stood there, mesmerized, Thor suddenly felt himself get scratched by a gargoyle—and then felt a tug at his hand. He was horrified to feel another snatch the Sword of the Dead from his hands, to watch it carry it away, farther and farther from him, flying up until it disappeared in the skies.

Thor stood there, now defenseless, knowing he was failing. He would lose this epic battle for all time.

He ran to Argon, across the bridge, rushing to meet him, and he watched as Argon slowly closed his eyes, turned his palms, and raised them to the sky. As he did, a shaft of sunlight shot down from the heavens, illuminating him.

“Thorgrin,” he boomed, his voice so powerful it resonated like thunder, echoing throughout the Canyon, rolling even above the sound of the gargoyles. “The Sorcerer’s Ring can bring back the Shield—but it cannot do it alone. You are still missing one piece of the puzzle. One piece of yourself, which you have forgotten.”

He opened his eyes and looked right at Thorgrin, now just feet away, his eyes so intense, they were more fearful than the hordes of the earth. And then he said:

“The Destiny Sword.”

Thor stared back at Argon in shock.

“I thought it was destroyed,” Thor said.

“It was,” Argon said. “But the Sorcerer’s Ring can bring it back. The weapon of the Chosen One will always be yours. What protected this Canyon must be returned. Only the Sorcerer’s Ring can raise it up—and a sacrifice.”

Thor stared back, puzzled.

“A sacrifice?” he asked. “I will do anything.”

Argon shook his head.

“It is not for you to do.”

Thor stare back, baffled.

“It is my sacrifice, Thorgrin,” Argon said. “I can raise the Sword—if I give up my life.”

Thor began to realize what he was saying, and he felt overcome with a sense of dread, of loss. Argon. His mentor. His teacher. The one he respected more than anyone in the world. He had been with him on his journey since the beginning, before he had even ventured to King’s Court. The one he had met when just a boy, a boy who did not know his power. The one who had encouraged him to follow his destiny, who had told him he could be something, someone, greater. The only one who had been a real father to him.