Morgan Rice - A Reign of Steel

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?”