Morgan Rice - A Grant of Arms

Thor tried to break free with all his might. As he did, he heard a gradual splintering of wood. He felt rushing cold water on his feet, and he looked down to see a hole opening in the bottom of the boat.

He suddenly fell through it, plunging down, screaming, into the dark and freezing sea, engulfed by water, sinking into the depths of the ocean.

Thor woke breathing hard. He sat upright and looked about, sweating, trying to collect himself. He saw soldiers sleeping on the ground all around him, but he did not recognize them. It was all so confusing: they were Empire soldiers. What was he doing with them?

A cold breeze came and Thor looked down and saw he was lying on the cold, hard ground, on pebbles and dirt, camped out with all the other soldiers. He still wore his armor, his boots, and as he sat up, he was beginning to realize it had been a dream. He was on dry land. And his mother was nowhere in sight.

Thor rubbed his head, his mind muddled, trying to gain clarity. He looked over and saw, not far away, Rafi, sitting up in the night, staring back at him, his yellow eyes glowing beneath his hood. Rafi chanted a strange tune, and Thor felt it invading his thoughts, entering his brain, making all free thought impossible. The incessant humming drowned it out. As he heard it, all Thor could think of was his obligation to his father. His obligation for loyalty to the Empire.

Thor jumped to his feet, his armor rankling, shaking his head, trying to understand. He looked out into the night and he saw the Ring. But this was not the Ring he knew. This was not his homeland. He was in a foreign part of the Ring. And as he looked out, he did not see this land anymore as home; instead, he saw it as a place to invade. A place that needed to be crushed.

Thor looked about: in the still night air all around him, thousands of Empire soldiers lay fast asleep, the embers of bonfires glowing. He was starting to feel clear again. He was Andronicus’ son. He was heir to the Empire. And he owed his father a great debt.

Thor spotted a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, the only motion in the black of night. He saw a lone soldier, slithering through the night, passing by rows of soldiers, and heading for the large tent just feet away.

Andronicus’ tent.

Thor watched as the figure sprinted, holding something at his side. He looked closer and saw that it was long and sharp, and glistened beneath the torchlight. And that was when Thor realized: the man held a dagger. This man, sprinting towards the tent, creeping silently through the night, was an assassin. And he was aiming to kill Thor’s father.

Thor jumped into action, sprinting across the camp, racing to stop the assassin.

The assassin sprinted up to the two soldiers standing guard and sliced both of their throats silently before either could say a word. They both slumped silently down, dead. He then rushed right through the flaps of Andronicus’ tent.

Thor was just a few feet behind them, and he burst through the flaps on the assassin’s heels. As he entered, Thor saw the assassin a foot before his father, raising the dagger high for his back. Andronicus lay there in his bed, on his stomach, unsuspecting; he had no idea he was about to be killed.

Thor burst into action: he reached to his waist, grabbed his sling, placed a stone, and hurled it with all his might.

The stone lodged itself in the back of the assassin’s neck, embedding itself deeply. The assassin froze, his dagger high in the air, just inches away from Andronicus—then he slumped over and fell face-first to the ground beside him, his dagger falling harmlessly to his side.

Dead.

Andronicus jumped up, eyes wide with panic, and looked over and saw the assassin. He stared, realizing how close he had come to being killed.

Andronicus turned slowly, and looked up at Thor. Slowly, he realized what Thor had just done. His expression of fear turned to something like awe. Appreciation. It was an expression Thor had never seen on him before.

Andronicus rose and approached Thor slowly.

“My son,” he said, reaching out and laying a hand on Thor’s shoulder. “You have saved my life on this night.”

Thor looked back at his father, filled with pride. In the past, the feel of Andronicus’s touch had upset him; but now he welcomed it. It was his father’s touch. The father he’d always longed to have.

“I did what any son would do,” Thor replied.

Andronicus shook his head slowly, and looked down at Thor with admiration.

“I have vastly underestimated you,” he said. “You are not only my greatest soldier. You are now also the son I never had. You are going to be by my side forever. Do you know that?”

Thor looked back into Andronicus’ eyes, and he answered: “There is nothing I yearn for more, my father.”

“Take a long look at me, Thornicus,” he said. “Do you see who I am? My face, my height, my skin, my horns. I was not always this way. I was once like you. Like your father. Like my brothers. A MacGil, like all the others. But I changed. I transformed. I made a vow, and I accepted the powers of the darkest sorcery, and a ceremony was performed. I allowed the evil spirit to enter me. I allowed it to transform me. I allowed it to change my race, my appearance, and to give me more power than I’d ever dreamed. It is a sacred ceremony. Only a chosen few are given the privilege to transform, to attain such power.”

Andronicus looked intensely into his eyes.

“You have proved yourself worthy here today. When these battles are over, you will transform, like me. You will be my height. My race. My skin. You will have horns, like mine. You will leave behind the pathetic human race. And you will become exactly as your father.”

Thor’s eyes glazed over, his mind clouded, as he was flooded with appreciation.

“I would like that, father,” he answered. “I would like that very much.”

Mycoples lay on the deck of the Empire ship, curled up in a ball beneath the Akron netting that clamped her down. Overwhelmed with sadness, she felt the rocking of the ocean beneath her, the gentle rise and fall of the boat, and opened one eye just a bit. She saw Empire soldiers reveling, drinking, celebrating, clearly thrilled with themselves that they had subdued a dragon. She felt the aches all over her body from where they had poked and prodded and stabbed her.

She looked out, beyond them, and Mycoples saw the yellow waters of the Tartuvian, stretching as far as the eye could see. Mycoples closed her eyes again, wishing this would all just go away. She wished she could return to the land of her birth, to the land of the dragons, and be with her clan once again. Even more so, she wished that she could be at Thor’s side. But she knew that Thor was far gone from her, lost in another place. He was not the Thorgrin she once knew.

Mycoples sensed these soldiers would take her back to the Empire, put her on parade, make her a show-thing for the Empire soldiers. She sensed that she would be chained for the rest of her life, tortured, displayed like an artifact. As she thought of the misery of her life to come, it tortured her. She wished she could just die now, with pride, in one last great battle. She hadn’t survived for thousands of years only for this, to be captured and held prisoner by humans. She had been warned never to get too close to a human, and she had made a mistake and allowed herself to be vulnerable. Her love for Thor had made her weak, had made her lower her defenses. And now she was paying the price.

Yet, despite it all, Mycoples still loved him—and she would do it all over again, just for him.

Mycoples closed her eyes, heavy from exhaustion, from the netting digging into her, from the wounds all over her body. And she wished only to be far from here.