Morgan Rice - A Charge of Valor

Then, one at a time, they all followed, jumping onto Mycoples back behind him, Indra taking Krohn.

As they all got on, Thor leaned forward and stroked the dragon’s neck. Her scales were thick, smooth, and the feel of it electrified him. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

“Old friend,” he said, “bring us to your home.”

Mycoples jerked, and leapt up into the air.

She shot straight up, and Thor grabbed on with all his might, as did the others; they screamed and held on for their lives. Mycoples finally leveled out, flapping her huge wings as she flew them over the sea of lava. They were completely at her mercy; if she decided to drop them, they would all be dead in an instant. Yet Thor had never trusted anyone or anything more in his life.

From up here, as they looked down, Thor had the most incredible view of the Land of the Dragons, spread out below them. It was desolate and harrowing and breathtakingly beautiful. It was indeed a land of fire and power, all lit up by the blood red sun of the first light.

As they neared the lair, Thor stroked her neck, and Mycoples dove down low, right to the mouth of the cave, setting them down at the entrance. They all dismounted.

“Wait for us,” Thor whispered to Mycoples before he left. She purred, blinking slowly and flapping her wings once, as if she understood.

Thor turned with the others, and they all raced inside the cave. There wasn’t much time before the other dragons returned, and every second counted.

Thor was astounded. The cave was packed with mounds of treasure, towers of gold coins, jewelry, treasure chests, weapons—every manner of gold and treasure they could find. It was like an endless treasure tunnel, light gleaming off of everything, and as they ran through Thor had to check himself and resist the impulse to stop and examine, to reach out and grab some.

They ran and ran, Thor feeling the energy of the Destiny Sword ahead, pulling them in.

Finally, breathing hard, they turned a bend, and there, at the end of the cave, sitting right in the center, on a special pedestal, it sat.

The Destiny Sword.

They all stopped in their tracks, breathing hard, all staring, eyes opened wide in wonder. They were all too flabbergasted to say a word.

“Now what?” O’Connor asked.

“If no one can wield it,” Elden asked, “how can we bring it back? The thieves took a dozen men just to carry it.”

“Legend has it that only a MacGil, the true MacGil, can wield it,” Thor said. “There is a MacGil among us.”

They all turned and looked at Reece.

But Reece stood there and shook his head.

“I am not firstborn,” he said. “I cannot be King. I cannot be the Chosen One. I’m just another MacGil.”

“Still, you are a MacGil,” Thor urged. “You must try.”

The distant rumblings of the dragons arose, shaking the cave. They were beginning to return.

“Hurry,” O’Connor said. “We haven’t much time.”

Reece stepped forward quickly, hurried over to the Sword, raised two hands, and with all his might, he tried to hoist it.

He grunted and groaned from the exertion—but nothing happened. It did not budge.

“We have nothing to lose,” Indra said. “Why don’t we all try?”

Thor looked back over his shoulder, watching the mouth of the cave, as the others all rushed forward, led by Elden.

One at a time, Elden, then O’Connor, then Conven tried to hoist it. Even Indra tried.

But it would not budge.

They all tried together.

Still, it would not budge.

“Come, help us!” Elden screamed.

Thor rushed forward, and as he neared the Sword, the strangest thing happened: the others all suddenly backed away, as if its energy repelled them. They cleared a wide circle for Thor.

Thor stepped forward, laid one hand on it loosely, and he felt an energy rush through him unlike any he’d ever experienced. It was like he was grasping the sun. Like he knew what it meant to be alive for the first time.

An intense energy shot through his arm and shoulder and his entire being, as Thor leaned back and suddenly hoisted the sword, easily, high overhead.

The others all looked at him with wonder and awe. An intense golden light shone off him, brighter even than the treasure, illuminating the cave, enveloping them all. As one, all of his friends dropped to their knees and knelt before him.

Thor could not understand what was happening. It was all too surreal.

Here he was, holding the Sword of Destiny, the sword that only a MacGil, only the Chosen One, could wield.

Who was he?

Erec stood there, at the base of the gulch, standing alone before the Duke’s army, peering into the narrow tunnel of blackness, waiting. He stood there, hands on his hips, displaying a sense of calm for all the eyes on him; yet deep down, he was anxious. His sixth sense told him Andronicus’ men were close. He could not sit on his horse and wait. He had to be on his feet, on the ground, standing out front, before all the others. That was who he was.

Erec had gone over in his head his men’s positions countless times, had rehearsed their strategy, had tried to think of every scenario, of everything that could go wrong. He felt confident, prepared. All of the Duke’s men had been in position, waiting for hours, all trusting him.

But so much time had passed. Could he be wrong? Fleeting thoughts of doubt raced through his mind. What if Andronicus’ army did not march this way? What if they were more cautious than he’d thought and circumvented the gulch? What if they were attacking Savaria, unprotected, right now? What if he had, for the first time in his military life, miscalculated? All of these people’s lives depended on him. And so did Alistair’s.

Erec told himself he had to stop doubting, and trust his instincts. He had made his choice and he needed to see it through. Although he had never met Andronicus, or his commanders, he felt as if he already knew them. He could always think how other commanders thought, had always had a talent of putting himself in their shoes. And he knew the topography of the Ring better than anyone—especially than any invader.

Which was ironic, considering that Erec was originally an outsider himself. He had been raised in the Southern Isles, and had arrived in MacGil’s training as a boy. Perhaps because he had felt an outsider from the start, he had made it his duty to not take the Ring for granted, as those who had been raised here, but to memorize every nook and cranny, every contour, every mountain, valley and gulch. Especially from a military perspective. He knew how men advanced, he knew where they rested, and he knew where they retreated. He had studied all the histories, all the great battles. He knew how battles were won and how they were lost.

And everything he ever knew told him that this gulch was where Andronicus’ men would advance.

As more time passed, the sun growing higher in the sky, the Duke’s men grew impatient, and began to lose discipline; Erec could begin to hear squirming, coughing, sneezing, and the shuffling of horses. He knew time was growing short.

That was when it began. It started as the slightest tremor, one he could barely feel in the soles of his feet. He knew that they were coming.

Erec turned and mounted his horse, beside the Duke and Brandt, up in front of all the men. Their eyes were all on him.

“They’re coming,” Erec said to the Duke, looking straight into the gulch.

“I don’t hear anything,” the Duke replied.

“Nor I,” said Brent. “Are you certain?”

Erec nodded, looking straight ahead.

“BRACE YOURSELVES!” Erec yelled out to the men. “INTO POSITIONS!”

The men scrambled, getting into their final positions, as Erec stood there, holding his ground proudly, right down the center of the gulch, several dozen warriors surrounding him. Their group would be just enough to goad the enemy, to give them assurance to come forward, into the gulch. If it was a good commander, he would charge forward, going for the easy kill. If it was a great commanders, he would hesitate, sense the danger, and retreat.