Morgan Rice - A Reign of Steel

She looked up at him and grimaced.

“Careful where you step!” she scolded.

Thor recognized that voice, and suddenly he remembered: it was the old woman from his village, the one always hunched over her stew, always yelling at him as he ran by, disturbing her chickens. Was he seeing things?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“The question is: what are you doing here?”

Thor blinked, confused.

“I’ve come to find my mother.”

“Have you? And how do you plan to do that?”

Thor looked down at his relic and saw that the arrow was no longer pointing in any direction. It had shattered. He had arrived, and yet now that he was here, he was on his own. He had no idea how to find her now.

Thor stared back at the woman.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered. “How big is the Land of the Druids?”

The old woman threw her head back and cackled, an awful, grating sound that sent shivers up his spine.

Finally, she said: “I can tell you where she is.”

Thor looked at her in surprise.

“You can? But how would you know?”

She stirred her cauldron.

“For a price,” she said, “I will tell you anything.”

“What price?” Thor asked.

“Your bracelet.”

Thor looked down at his bracelet, the golden one that Alistair had given him, shining in the light. He hesitated. He sensed it had tremendous power, and he felt it was the only thing protecting him here in this land. He had a premonition that, if he gave it to her, he would lose all of his strength.

Then again, Thor needed to know where his mother was.

“It is a gift,” he said. “I am sorry. I cannot.”

The woman shrugged.

“Then I cannot help you.”

Thor looked at her in wonder, frustrated.

“Please,” he said. “I need your help.”

She stirred her cauldron for a long time, then finally she sighed.

“Look into my cauldron. What do you see?”

Thor looked at her, confused, then finally glanced down at her cauldron.

He blinked several times, caught off guard, and leaned in closer, trying to get a good look.

In the still waters, slowly, a reflection emerged. At first it looked like his face; but then, slowly, he realized it was not his face. It was the face of Andronicus.

Thor looked at the woman, who stared back, evil.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She smiled wide at him.

“I am everyone,” she said. “And no one.”

She jumped up from her cauldron, reached up and snatched the bracelet off his wrist. As Thor reached out to grab it back, she suddenly transformed before his eyes, morphing into a long, thick white snake. Thor watched with horror and realized it was a deadly Whiteback, the same snake he’d spotted on his first date with Gwendolyn. The sign of death.

The snake grew longer and longer, and before Thor could react, its tail wrapped around his ankles, then around his shins, knees, thighs, waist, and chest. It constricted his arms, and he stood there, barely able to breathe as it crushed him.

The snake then leaned back all the way and opened its fangs wide, and Thor turned his face, feeling its hot breath on his neck and knowing that, in moments, it would sink its fangs into his throat.

Romulus marched across the southern province of the Ring, watching with glee as his tens of thousands of men charged forward for the gates of Savaria. Hundreds of citizens of the Ring streamed for the city gates, and the knights standing guard lowered the huge iron portcullis and slammed it shut with a bang, just as the last person entered. They raised the drawbridge over the moat, and Romulus watched, and smiled wider. These Savarians really thought they could keep him out. They had no idea what was coming for them.

Romulus heard a great cry, and he looked overhead to see his host of dragons come flying, circling above, awaiting his command. He raised his fist and lowered it, and as he did, they dove forward, racing for the horizon. For Savaria.

The dragons flew over the massive walls, over the city gates, as if they did not even exist, and as they came close to the ground, they breathed a wall of fire.

Screams of thousands arose behind the city walls, helpless civilians slaughtered by the dragons’ breath, burned alive, trying to run, with nowhere to go. He watched through the iron gates as knights raised their swords uselessly, their weapons melting in their hands, down to their wrists, their very armor melting on them, screaming as they, too, were burned alive.

No one was safe from the dragons’ wrath. The great walls, meant to keep invaders out, instead kept the waves of dragon fire in, creating a fishbowl effect. Even one dragon could have laid waste to the city. Dozens of them rained down an apocalypse.

Romulus breathed deeply and took great satisfaction in the hell before him. He beamed, riding slowly on his horse, as he felt the heat from the waves of fire. Fire scorched the city walls, flames licking higher and higher, pouring out through the windows, like a huge blazing cauldron that could not be quenched.

Romulus’s men stopped at the edge of the moat, unable to go any closer because of the intense heat. They waited and waited, until finally Romulus raised his hand, and the dragons fell back, returning, circling again over his head.

The flames finally subsided, and as they did, Romulus’s men rushed forward and lowered a long wooden makeshift bridge over the moat. The first battalion raced over it, holding a long iron pole, and they rammed the iron portcullis, still in flames. Sparks flew everywhere, as they rammed it again and again; finally, it caved in, amidst a great cloud of flame and sparks, revealing a wall of flame behind it.

They all stood there waiting, as Romulus directed his horse slowly toward the front line. Behind him, seated on his horse, was his prize, his new plaything—Luanda—her wrists and hands bound, her mouth gagged, her ankles tied to the saddle. She had been forced to ride with him. He could have killed her, of course, but he much preferred to prolong her hell, to make her witness what he was about to do to her homeland. There was something about her, something defiant and evil, he was starting to like, and he wondered if she might even be an appropriate mate for him.

Romulus stopped as he reached the edge of the moat, then gave a terse nod. Hundreds of his men, awaiting his command, burst into the city with a great shout and a sound of horns, and soon the city was filled with his men. He watched with pride as the banner of the Empire was hoisted above its gates.

Savaria, he knew, was one of the great cities of the Ring. And now, every person within, in a matter of minutes, every knight and soldier and commoner and lord, lay dead. And he had not lost a single soldier. It had been the same for his entire march from the Canyon, Romulus slowly and meticulously wiping out every town and village that he encountered, wanting his destruction of the Ring to be absolute.

Of course, King’s Court was still free, but he wanted to take his time before arriving there. He wanted everything destroyed first, not a blade of grass left, as vengeance for his prior defeat. He would reach Gwendolyn in good time, and her King’s Court. He would unleash his dragons, and he would make her pay. But not before he had first destroyed every town in her precious Ring.

Romulus threw back his head and roared with triumph. For however long the spell lasted, he was invincible. And as long as he lived, nothing, and no one, in the world would stop him.

Gwendolyn rode on the back of Ralibar, hanging on for dear life, wondering how she got here. Ralibar flew erratically, unlike he ever had before, weaving up and down, racing through the clouds, as if wanting her off.