Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

Aberthol nodded back.

“Your schooling serves you well,” he said. “Part myth, part fact. No one knows how much each part is. But yes, there is a legend. That those trapped by magic are held in the Netherworld.”

“The Netherworld,” Steffen gasped, remaining by Gwen’s side.

“Do you know of it?” Gwen asked.

Steffen nodded.

“It is a place rumored to make men’s souls run cold. A place of ice and fog. One of the rings of the deepest hells.”

“It is a place no humans are allowed,” Aberthol added, “unless guided by a Druid. And since we have no Druid among us, I am afraid, even if it were true, we could not enter. Our journey would be for naught.”

“I can lead you,” came a voice.

Gwen, Steffen and Aberthol turned to see Alistair step forward. She looked back at Gwen with an earnest expression.

Krohn stepped forward and licked her hand. It was clear to Gwen that Krohn liked her—and Krohn rarely took a liking to people, especially strangers.

“But how can you?” Gwen asked. “Unless you are…”

Alistair nodded.

“You are correct,” she said. “I am a Druid.”

They looked back at her in wonder, and she lowered her head to the ground.

“I have never told anyone,” she said. “But for you, I would do it. You mean the world to Erec. And for my lord, there is not a thing I would not do.”

Gwendolyn stepped forward, close to her, smiling, feeling herself well with hope for the first time. If she could find Argon and free him, perhaps she could save Thor.

“From this day forward,” Gwendolyn said to Alistair, “you are my sister.”

Alistair smiled back.

“There is nothing I would like more.”

Thor braced himself as best he could, as yet another blow rained down on him. He tried to resist with all his might, but with his wrists bound behind him in Akdon shackles, there was little he could do. His energy had been sapped by this magical metal, and he found himself unable to fight back as a large group of Empire soldiers punched him in the face, the chest, the back, and finally knocked him face-first onto the ground.

The mob pounced on him, kicking him, blow after blow landing on his ribs, his back, his legs, his head. Thor tried to protect his face as best he could, but he already felt one eye starting to swell, to shut on him.

Not far away, Andronicus watched it all with a smile, clearly pleased to see his own son abused in this way.

What kind of father would allow something like this to happen to his son? Thor wondered. If Thor had had any confusion of whether he had any affection for his father, or whether his father had any for him, these blows certainly wiped them out.

The blows continued for so long that Thor lost count. Finally, Andronicus yelled:

“Enough!”

The soldiers parted as Andronicus walked forward. For a moment, Thor thought he would be getting a respite from the abuse—but instead, more soldiers approached and began to strip him of his clothing.

Thor felt the freezing winter winds cut into his raw skin. He tried again to resist with all he had, but he could not.

Thor screamed in protest as he felt his shirt being torn off his body and watched his mother’s ring fall out, tumbling to the ground. He watched as a soldier grabbed it, holding it up and examining it.

“NO!” Thor screamed out, as he watched the ring he had reserved for Gwendolyn sink into the greedy palm of an Empire soldier. His face was distinctly recognizable, with a crooked nose, bulging eyes, and a scar running along his chin. The soldier put the ring on his pinky finger and held it up, laughing. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

More blows rained down on him as Thor felt his shirt stripped, then his boots. But all Thor could think of was his mother’s ring, disappearing into the hands of that cretin, and his heart broke.

How could the fates be so cruel? Thor wondered. How can his mother allow this to happen to him? Couldn’t she intercede somehow?

“Mother!” Thor screamed out, wishing she were here to help.

There came a deep, sinister laugh from above. He looked up to see Andronicus standing over him.

“Your mother won’t help you now, boy,” Andronicus said, glowering down.

He nodded, and another man stepped forward carrying a thick, coarse rope. Two soldiers went to work tying the rope around Thor’s ankles. It cut into his skin, and just as Thor wondered what they were doing, suddenly, he heard a whip, a horse’s neigh, and felt himself being dragged backwards.

Thor’s body was dragged along the frozen winter ground, along the dirt and small pebbles; it tore at the bare skin of his back, as Empire soldiers jeered him. The horse gained speed, and he was paraded in circles around the Empire camp.

His body covered in bruises, exhausted, with no energy left, Thor began to lose consciousness. He tried to make this all go away, to imagine himself somewhere else, anywhere but here.

The dragging through the camp went on for he did not know how long, until finally he came to a stop, dust settling all around him. He lay there, face first on the ground, groaning, one eye swollen shut. With an effort, he opened his one good eye and saw he had been deposited a few feet away, ironically, from the Destiny Sword. Clearly, this had been done to rub it in. The Sword sat there, where he had left it, lodged inside the huge boulder.

“Here it is, this weapon that has plagued our Empire for centuries,” Andronicus yelled out to a crowd of transfixed soldiers. “Thor may be the Chosen One—or the Chosen One might just be one of us. Who is to say that only a MacGil, only a member of the Ring, can wield it? Who is to say that is not a myth they have created to keep us down?”

The crowd cheered in approval.

“Whoever wields the sword,” Andronicus yelled, “whoever can pull it from this boulder, will be named a general. Who will step forward and try?”

There came a cheer, followed by a rush of men, as one soldier after the next rushed forward, grabbed the Sword’s hilt and yanked with all his might, trying desperately to get it out of the stone. Thor’s could not bear to watch the Destiny Sword in the hands of these cretins. He did not know what he would do if one of them could wield it. That would mean that the legend had been wrong and that he, Thor, was not special after all.

But one at a time, the men tried and failed, one soldier after the next, pushing and shoving each other to get a try. Some tried two or three times.

But it was the same for all of them: nothing.

Finally, Andronicus himself approached the Sword, and the crowd parted ways. He knelt before it, then stood, wrapped his huge hands around its hilt, and with a great scream, he yanked the Sword with all he had. Thor worried for a moment. After all, Andronicus was his father, and a MacGil. Might that enable him to wield the Sword?

But though Andronicus’ scream rose, higher and higher, eventually he collapsed, unable to make the Sword budge.

Thor felt a great sense of relief, as he realized that none of the Empire, even his father, could wield it. It also made him feel special.

Andronicus glowered down at the weapon, and Thor could see his face turning purple with rage.

“Bring me a hammer!” he commanded. “NOW!”

Several men rushed to his side with a two-handed war hammer. Andronicus snatched it, raised it high overhead, and with a scream, he brought it down on the rock.

Try as he did, the rock would not shatter. It would not even chip. Andronicus tried again and again, with always the same result: it was like hammering steel.

Finally, with a great groan of frustration, Andronicus turned and swung the hammer sideways, smashing in the heads of two soldiers and killing them on the spot. Then he spun the hammer again, and threw it into the crowd, killing another soldier as it hit him in mid-air.