Morgan Rice: A Clash of Honor

Thor heard a great snarl, and Krohn leapt on the soldier, driving him back and pinning him down. But a soldier stepped forward with a club and swiped Krohn, hitting him so hard that Krohn went tumbling over with a yelp, and landed on his back, limp.

Another soldier stepped forward, standing over Thor, and raised a trident. He scowled down, and this time there was no one to stop him. He prepared to bring it down, right for Thor’s face, and as Thor lay there, pinned, helpless, he could not help but feel that, finally, his end had come.

Gwen knelt by Godfrey’s side in the claustrophobic cottage, Illepra beside her, and could stand it no longer. She had been listening to her brother’s moans for hours, watching Illepra’s face grow increasingly grim, and it seemed certain that he would die. She felt so helpless, just sitting here. She felt that she needed to do something. Anything.

Not only was she racked with guilt and worry for Godfrey-but even more so, for Thor. She could not shake from her mind the image of him charging into battle, set up for a trap by Gareth, about to die. She felt she had to do something. She was going crazy sitting here.

Gwen suddenly rose to her feet, and hurried across the cottage.

“Where are you going?” Illepra asked, her voice hoarse from chanting prayers.

Gwen turned to her.

“I will be back,” she said. “There is something I must try.”

She opened the door and hurried outside, into the sunset air, and blinked at the site before her: the sky was streaked with reds and purples, the second sun sitting as a green ball on the horizon. Akorth and Fulton, to their credit, still stood there, on guard, and they jumped up and looked at her, concern on their faces.

“Will he live?” Akorth asked.

“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “Stay here. Stand guard.”

“And where are you going?” Fulton asked.

An idea had occurred to her as she looked into the blood red sky, felt the mystical feeling in the air, she knew that there was one man who might be able to help her.

Argon.

If there was one person Gwen could trust, one person who loved Thor and who had remained loyal to her father, one person who had the power to help her in some way, it was he.

“I need to seek out someone special,” she said.

She turned and hurried off, across the plains, breaking into a jog, running, retracing the steps to Argon’s cottage.

She hadn’t been here in years, ever since she was a child, but she knew he lived high on the desolate, craggy planes. She ran and ran, barely catching her breath, as the terrain became more desolate, more windy, grass giving way to pebbles, then to rocks. The wind howled, and as she went, the landscape became eerie; she felt as if she were walking on the surface of a star.

She finally reached his cottage, out of breath, and pounded on the door. There was no knob anywhere she could grab onto, but she knew this was his place.

“Argon!” she shrieked. “It is me! MacGil’s daughter! Let me in! I command you!”

She pounded and pounded, but all that came back in return was the howling of the wind.

Finally, she broke into tears, exhausted, feeling more helpless than she ever had. She felt hollowed out, as if she had nowhere left to turn.

As the sun sank deeper into the sky, its blood-red giving way to twilight, Gwen turned and began to walk back down the hill. She wiped tears from her face as she went, desperate to figure out where to go next.

“Please father,” she said aloud, closing her eyes. “Give me a sign. Show me where to go. Show me what to do. Please don’t let your son die on this day. And please don’t let Thor die. If you love me, answer me.”

Gwen walked in silence, listening to the wind, when suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck her.

The lake. The Lake of Sorrows.

Of course. The lake was where everyone went to pray for someone who was deathly ill. It was a pristine, small lake, in the middle of the Red Wood, surrounded by towering trees that reached into the sky. It was considered a holy place.

Thank you father, for answering me, Gwen thought.

She felt him with her now, more than ever, and she burst into a sprint, racing towards Red Wood, towards the lake that would hear her sorrows.

*

Gwen knelt on the shore of the Lake of Sorrows, her knees resting on the soft, red pine that encased the water like a ring, and looked out at the still water, the stillest water she had ever seen, which mirrored the rising moon. It was a brilliant, full moon, more full than she had ever seen, and while the second sun was still setting, the moon was rising, casting both sunset and moonlight over the Ring. The sun and the moon reflected together, opposite each other in the lake, and she felt the sacredness of this time of day. It was the window between the close of one day and the start of another, and at this sacred time, and in this sacred place, anything was possible.

Gwen knelt there, crying, praying for all she was worth. The events of the last few days had been too much for her, and now she let it all out. She prayed for her brother, but even more so for Thor. She could not stand the thought of losing them both on this night, of having no one left around her but Gareth. She could not stand the thought of she, herself, being shipped off to be wed to some barbarian. She felt her life collapsing around her, and she needed answers. Even more, she needed hope.

There were many people in her kingdom who prayed to the God of the Lakes, or the God of the Woods, or the God of the Mountains, or the God of the Wind-but Gwen never believed in any of these. She, like Thor, was one of the few who went against the grain of belief in her kingdom, and followed the radical path of believing in just one God, just one being who controlled the entire universe. It was to this God that she prayed.

Please God , she prayed. Return Thor to me. Let him be safe in battle. Let him escape his ambush. Please let Godfrey live. And please protect me-don’t let me be taken away from here, wed to that savage. I will do anything. Just give me a sign. Show me what you want from me.

Gwen knelt there for a long time, hearing nothing but the howling of the wind, racing through the endlessly tall pine trees of Red Wood; she listened to the gentle cracking of the branches as they swayed above her head, their needles dropping in the water.

“Be careful what you pray for,” came a voice.

She spun, flinching, and was shocked to see someone standing there, not far from her. She would have been scared, but she recognized the voice immediately-an ancient voice, older than the trees, older than the earth itself, and her heart swelled as she knew who it was.

She turned and saw him standing over her, wearing his white cloak and hood, eyes translucent, burning through her as if he were peering into her very soul. He held his staff, lit up in the sunset and the moonlight.

Argon.

She stood and faced him.

“I sought you out,” she said. “I went to your cottage. Did you hear me knock?”

“I hear everything,” he answered cryptically.

She paused, wondering. He was expressionless.

“Tell me what I have to do,” she said. “I will do anything. Please, don’t let Thor die. You can’t let him die!”

Gwen stepped forward and grasped his wrist, pleading. But as she touched him she was scorched by a burning heat, traveling through his wrist and onto her hands, and she pulled back, overwhelmed by the energy.

Argon sighed, turned from her, and took several steps towards the lake. He stood there, looking out at the water, his eyes reflected in the light.

She walked up beside him and stood there silently, for she did not know how long, waiting until he was ready to speak.