Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

Gwendolyn had been relieved when Steffen, Aberthol, and Alistair had insisted on accompanying her on her quest to the Netherworld. Aberthol had tried to dissuade her, reminding her that no human had ever entered the Netherworld and returned alive, but it had done no good. She knew it had to be done, that this is what Thor needed most. She sensed that Thor could never have been captured—nor could have Mycoples—unless by magic, and she knew they would need an equally strong magic to counteract it. It was her way of aiding in the battle. This was her front.

Gwendolyn also desperately missed Argon, felt guilty for him being punished on her account. She wanted to bring him back, regardless. She sensed, in her dreams, that he needed her, and she was determined to go to him, even it meant risking her life. After all, he had risked his life for her.

Gwendolyn had expected Steffen to accompany her, but she had been surprised by Alistair’s insistence upon coming. Ever since meeting Erec’s wife-to-be, Gwendolyn had felt a special connection to her; the two of them had bonded instantly, like sisters. In some ways, she was like the sister that Gwendolyn had never really had, considering Luanda had hardly been there for her.

“The Netherworld is a place of magic and trapped souls,” Aberthol said, in his old raspy voice, his cane clicking in the icy leaves as they continued marching endlessly through the forest. It was getting so dark in here, Gwen could no longer tell if it was day or night.

“It is not a place fit for a lady,” he added. “And most certainly not for a Queen.”

Aberthol had been trying to talk her out of it the entire way, trying to convince her to turn around. She didn’t want to hear any more.

“I believe our course is ill-advised, my lady,” he continued. “Argon has served the MacGils for generations; perhaps his time has come to move on. We cannot understand the way of sorcerers. In any case, I don’t see how you can rescue him.”

“Argon was my father’s trusted advisor,” Gwendolyn answered, “and he has been a good and faithful friend. If he is meant to stay where he is, then neither I nor the gods can stop it. But I shall not let him wallow there without at least trying.”

“These trees are ancient,” Aberthol prattled on. “This wood has seen centuries of battle. But there has never been a city here. Why?”

Gwendolyn noticed that the older he became, the more prone Aberthol had become to speaking to himself, to rattling on with old stories and lessons, whether or not anyone was listening. He talked more and more in his old age, and Gwen sometimes had to tune him out.

“Of course, the land could not tolerate it,” Aberthol continued. “This land has been relegated throughout the history of the Ring to a place of abandon. It is the road to the Netherworld, that is all. No one lives here. Except of course, for ne’er-do-wells and thieves of the night. It’s a haven for derelicts, do you understand? No one crosses Thornwood without a proper entourage. And we enter with just the four of us.” He shook his head. “A recipe for disaster. Now, if you had listened to me…”

Gwendolyn tried to tune him out, as Aberthol continued mumbling.

“Does he always go on like this?” Alistair asked Gwendolyn, coming up beside her, with a smile. She nodded towards Aberthol as he continued his monologue.

Gwendolyn smiled back.

“More than he used to,” she said.

Alistair smiled.

“Do you fear the Netherworld?” Gwendolyn asked the question foremost in her mind.

Alistair continued to walk beside her, silent and expressionless, until finally, she shook her head.

“I have to be honest and say that I do not,” she said.

Gwendolyn was intrigued. It was not the answer she had expected.

“Why?”

“I have seen some of the worst things this world has to offer,” Alistair said. “I have suffered enough to learn that fear is a waste of energy. What will come, will come. And what will not, will not.”

As they continued to walk, Gwendolyn sensed there was something more Alistair wanted to tell her. Gwen found her so mysterious, and there were many questions she wanted to ask. Who was this woman, this Druid, who feared nothing?

But Gwen didn’t want to pry. So instead she respected her silence, waiting until she was ready.

Finally, Alistair sighed.

“I once worked in a tavern,” Alistair said. “One night, as I was serving drinks, a patron grabbed my wrist and when no one was looking and pulled me inside a room. He was a strong man, with a warrior’s grip, and I didn’t have the strength to resist. I cried out for help, but either no one heard, or no one cared.”

Alistair continued walking, staring into space as if reliving it.

“Something happened,” Alistair finally said. “I still don’t fully understand it. I reached up to push him off of me, and a burst of energy came from my palm. It struck his chest and he flew across the room. He lay there, frozen in fear, staring back at me with a look of wonder. I didn’t wait: I turned and walked out the door.”

Alistair sighed.

“I’m different from others. I don’t know how. But I am. I don’t feel this world the same way you do. I didn’t seek to harm that man. But I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried.”

Gwendolyn was more impressed with Alistair each time she spoke to her. Alistair was so humble, so soft-spoken; and despite her beauty, Gwen could tell she bore great strength. Gwen also felt a sense of camaraderie with her: she had found someone who had suffered, like she had, someone who understood what it was like to go to the other side and back.

Gwen didn’t want to pry, but she couldn’t help herself; she felt compelled to ask the next question:

“Where do you hail from?” she asked.

Before Alistair could answer, there came a twig snap in the forest, and they all turned to see a dozen men appear behind them. Krohn snarled, a vicious noise, his hairs on end as he stood out front of the group and took a few steps forward.

Gwendolyn immediately recalled her ambush in the Southern Forest. These men were thieves, too, it was obvious from their expressions—yet they were more somber looking. Dressed in chain mail from head to toe, they had new arms, seemed impervious to the cold, and were well-organized, camouflaged in all-white. They did not look like amateur thieves, as the ones in the Southern Forest. They looked like professional killers.

She feared for Krohn, who was snarling louder and louder, especially as the thief raised a crossbow for his head.

“Krohn, come back here,” Gwendolyn said.

But Krohn had other ideas. Krohn, fearless, leapt into the air and, with a horrific snarl, laid his fangs into one of the thieves’ throat before he could get off a shot. The thief screamed as Krohn pinned him down on the ground. Krohn thrashed left and right, and in moments, the thief was dead.

There came the noise of a crossbow firing, and an arrow sailed through the air before any of them could react.

“KROHN!” Gwen cried out.

Krohn yelped as the arrow embedded in his side, knocking him down.

The thieves expected that to be all, but Krohn surprised them. He was not done yet.

Krohn bounced back to his feet and leapt again, snarling. He took down another thief, killing him, before yet another arrow sailed through the air and knocked Krohn down for good.

“KROHN!” Gwen cried, stepping forward for him.

The lead thief stepped forward and pointed his sword at Gwendolyn’s throat.

She and the others froze.

“I will say this but once,” the lead soldier said, in a raspy voice, empty of warmth. “Each of you strip. Take off all your clothes, everything you have. Then lie face down in the snow. We will kill you either way, but this way your death will be quick and painless. If you resist, it will be long and torturous.”