The Gift of Battle (16 page)

Thorgrin sat on
the deck of the ship, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, utterly
despondent. After the currents had taken them out from the Land of Blood, out
from under the gloom, through the waterfall of blood and back into the open
sea, they now drifted aimlessly in the vast open ocean, Thor feeling as if his
whole life were drifting away from him. The sun shone down, illuminating
everything, and Thor knew that he should be happy to be back out under an open
sky, away from the darkness of the Land of Blood.

But Thorgrin
felt nothing like joy; instead he felt as if, for the first time in his life,
he had failed a quest. He had endeavored to rescue his son, and he had failed
his mission. He had failed to reach his most prized possession in the world,
had failed to overcome a foe, a land, more powerful than he. He had, in fact,
been meant to die there, he knew, and if it were not for Angel, he would still
be there now, trapped forever.

Now here he was,
drifting at sea with the rest of the Legion, too despondent to move even though
all of them were looking to him for leadership. For the first time in his life
he felt paralyzed, felt purposeless, felt like he could provide none. He had
failed his son, and didn’t see the point of going on. He knew there was no way
back into the Land of Blood, knew that it was an insurmountable place for him.
He was not strong enough yet—just as Ragon had warned.

It was humbling
for Thor to realize there were foes out there stronger than he, that there were
limits to his power—even when his own son was at stake. And, most of all, it
tormented Thorgrin to think of Guwayne stuck there, in the clutches of the Blood
Lord and his dark beings, to be molded to whatever evil purpose they had for
him. His own boy, snatched away from him; a father unable to save his son.

Thorgrin sat
there holding his head, hating himself.

As he sat there,
Thor went over and over in his head what went wrong, how he could’ve done it
all differently. As their ship rocked on the rolling waves, he felt aimless, as
if there were no reason to go on without Guwayne. He could not return to
Gwendolyn without him, a failure—he could not even live with himself as a failure.
And yet he saw no other way.

He felt hopeless
for the first time in his life.

“Thorgrin,” came
a soft voice.

Thor felt a
reassuring hand on his shoulder and he glanced up to see Reece standing over
him. Reece sat beside him, good-naturedly, clearly trying to console him.

“You did all you
could,” he said.

“You got further
than anyone else,” came another voice.

Thor turned to
see Elden come over and sit on his other side. He heard the wood creaking on
the deck, and he looked up to also see O’Connor, Matus, Selese, Indra, and
Angel, all of them gathering around him, and he could see in their eyes their
concern, how much they cared for him. He felt ashamed; they had always seen him
as being so strong, as being so sure of himself, being a leader. They had never
seen him like this. He no longer knew how to act; he no longer knew how to be
with himself.

Thor shook his
head.

“My son still
lies beyond my grasp,” he said, his voice that of a broken man.

“True,” Matus
replied. “But look around you. We are all alive. You have survived. Not all is
lost. We shall all live to fight another day. We shall achieve some other
mission.”

Thorgrin shook
his head.

“There is no
mission without my son. All is meaningless.”

“And what of
Gwendolyn?” Reece asked. “What of the exiles of the Ring? They need us, too. We
must find them and save them, wherever they may be.”

But Thor could
not bear the thought of facing Gwendolyn, of returning to them all as a
failure.

Slowly, he shook
his head.

“Leave me,” he
said to them all, being harsher than he’d wanted.

He could sense
them all staring back at him, all clearly surprised that he would talk to them
that way. He had never spoken to them that way before, and he could see the
hurt in their faces. He immediately felt guilty, but he was too numb within
himself, and too ashamed, to face any of them.

Thor looked
down, unable to look at them, and he heard the groaning and creaking of the
deck. Out of the corner of his eye he watched them all leave him, crossing to
the far side of the ship, leaving him be.

Thor felt a pit
in his stomach; he wished he could have acted otherwise. He wished he could
have rebounded, regained his leadership, gotten over this. But this failed
quest hurt him too deeply.

Thor heard a
distant screech, and he searched the skies, wondering if he were imagining it.
It sounded like the cry of a dragon. Could it be? Was it Lycoples?

As he looked up,
searching, Thor’s heart suddenly skipped a beat to see Lycoples swoop down,
break through the clouds, and circle the ship, screeching, flapping her wings.
He could see something dangling from her claws, and as he looked up into the
sun, shielding his eyes, he struggled to figure out what it was. It appeared to
be a scroll.

Moments later
Lycoples dove down and landed on the deck before him, opening her wings slowly.
She stared right at him and he could see the fierceness, the power in them,
staring back defiantly, with a sense of purpose. He wanted to go and embrace
her, to check the scroll, but he felt too listless to do so.

The others, though,
all crowded around the dragon on deck, keeping their distance.

“What is on the
scroll?” Angel asked.

Thorgrin shook
his head.

Angel,
impatient, jumped up and ran over to Lycoples, reached out tentatively, and
took the scroll from her claws. Lycoples screeched softly, but did not resist.

Angel unrolled
it and looked inside.

“It is from
Gwendolyn,” she said, turning to Thorgrin and thrusting it into his hands.

Thor felt it in
his fingers, the tough parchment, and it felt so brittle; he could hardly believe
it had crossed the world. Holding it somehow broke him out of his reverie, and
despite himself, he began to read:

My Dearest
Thorgrin:

If the scroll
finds you, know that I still live, and that I think of you with every breathing
moment. I have met Argon’s master, and he has told me of a Ring. The Sorcerer’s
Ring. It is this Ring that we need to be reunited again, to save Guwayne, to
restore our homeland and return all of us to the Ring. It is only you who can
find this Ring. Thorgrin, we need you now.
I
need you now. Lycoples will
lead you to the Ring. Join her. Do it for me. For our son.

Thorgrin lowered
the scroll, his eyes bleary, overcome with emotion at having received an object
from Gwendolyn, at hearing her voice, her message, in his head.

Thor looked up
at Lycoples, who stood there, waiting, and a part of him felt energized,
renewed with a new sense of purpose, ready to depart.

But another part
of him still felt too crushed, too exhausted to go on. What was the point, when
the Blood Lord still existed, someone out there whom he could never vanquish?

“Well?” Angel
pressed, staring at him, waiting for a response.

Angel took the
scroll and read it herself impatiently, then she stared back at Thor.

“What are you
waiting for?” she demanded.

Thorgrin sat
there, listless, depressed. A long silence fell over them, and finally, he just
shook his head.

“I cannot go
on,” he said, his voice broken.

All the others
looked at him in shock.

“But they
need
you,” Angel insisted.

“I am sorry,”
Thorgrin said. “I have let everyone down. I’m sorry.”

He felt terrible
even as he said the words, and he couldn’t bear to see the look of
disappointment in Angel’s eyes.

The others
crossed the deck, again giving him space, but Angel stayed by his side and took
a step closer. He saw her looking down at him with her soulful eyes, and he
felt overcome with shame.

“Do you remember
when I told you of the Land of the Giants?” she asked. “The place that might
hold the cure for my leprosy?”

Thorgrin nodded,
remembering.

“The Land of the
Giants is a metaphor,” she said. “It is not an actual land. It is a place where
the great ones live. This is the place that Gwendolyn speaks of. I know,
because I have heard of it my whole life—the place rumored to hold not only the
cure for leprosy, but the Sorcerer’s Ring.”

Thor looked
back, perplexed.

“Don’t you
understand?” she pressed. “If you find this Ring, it could not only save the
others—it could save me, too. Can’t you do it for me?”

As Thor looked
back at her, he wanted to help her, wanted to help them all—but something
inside him felt weighed down, felt like he could not go on.

Despite himself,
he looked down.

Angel turned, a
look of betrayal in her eyes, and stormed across to the far side of the deck.

Thor closed his
eyes, suffering, feeling a pain in his chest. Then, for some reason, he thought
of his mother.

Why, Mother? Why
have I failed? Why have my powers met their limits? Why have I let you down?

He closed his
eyes, trying to picture his mother’s face, waiting for an answer. But there came
none.

He focused with
all his might.

I’ve never asked
for anything, Mother. I ask you now. Help me. Help me save my son.

This time, as
Thorgrin closed his eyes, he saw his mother as she stood at the end of her
skywalk, a smile on her face, looking back at him with compassion.

Thorgrin
, she said,
you
have not failed. You cannot fail. What you see as a failure is just a delusion.
Don’t you see? A failure is what you define it to be.

Thorgrin shook
his head in his mind’s eye, grappling with her words.

No. I have
failed. My son is without me.

Is he?
asked his
mother.

I shall never
find him again.

Shall you not?
she asked.
Never is a long time. In life, we fail. Life would not be life without failure.
Loss. Defeat. But it is not the defeat that defines us. It is what we do
after
the defeat. Will you crumble and fall, Thorgrin? That is failure. Or will
you stand and rise? Will you be brave enough to get back on your feet? Will you
have the courage to fight again? That is victory.

Something
stirred within Thorgrin, and he realized she was right. Courage, chivalry,
honor, valor—it had nothing to do with victory or defeat. It had to do with the
courage to try, to stand up for what you believed in, the courage to face your
enemy, however formidable he was.

Thorgrin suddenly
felt a fresh wave of energy overcome him, and suddenly, he felt himself casting
off the wave of gloom that had oppressed him ever since leaving the Land of Blood. He stood, rising to his full height, and felt himself getting stronger,
bolder, until he was standing tall and proud.

Thor began to
cross the deck, to walk toward Angel, and as he went, the others in the Legion
must have sensed it, because they all turned and watched him go, and this time,
their eyes were filled with joy as they saw him standing tall and proud. He was
back to the old Thorgrin.

Thor walked over
to Angel, tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned, and her eyes lit up, too.

He knelt down
and embraced her, and he leaned back and looked her in the eyes.

“I shall find
the Sorcerer’s Ring,” he said. “Or I shall die trying.”

She hugged him,
and he hugged her back. Then he stood, turned, and solemnly, one by one,
embraced each member of the Legion.

Thor turned and
his eyes met Lycoples, two warriors, eyes gleaming. He could see the resolve on
her face, and it was a resolve that he himself now felt. They would ride,
gladly, to the ends of the earth together.

Thor turned to
the others, as they all stood there, ready to see him off, and as they all
looked to him hopefully, for leadership.

“Set sail for
the Ring, all of you,” he said, his voice filled once again with confidence.
“Meet me there. I shall find this Sorcerer’s Ring, I shall return to the Ring,
and there, we shall be united for all time. I shall find this Ring, or I shall
die trying.”

The group stared
back solemnly, a long silence falling over them.

“And if you do
not return?” Matus asked.

Thor looked at
him gravely.

“I shall,” he
replied. “This time, no matter what, I shall.”

Naten stood
resentfully on the platform as it rose higher and higher alongside the peak of
the Ridge, his men yanking the ropes as the rickety wood swayed and creaked.
The horses pranced beside them, all of them anxious to descend the other side
and venture on into the Great Waste to search for their brothers in arms, for
Koldo, Ludvig, Kendrick, and the others. Naten bitterly resented it.

Naten stood
there, and he brooded. He had done everything in his power to convince the
soldiers
not
to go back out there, to abandon his brothers, and
especially Kendrick and his men, and to remain behind here, in the safety of
the Ridge. Naten despised Kendrick and the others; he did not want these exiles
from the Ring here. He loathed outsiders, and he wanted things to be the way
they had been before they arrived. He wouldn’t mind Koldo and Ludvig’s not
returning, either—that would only give him greater power in the ranks of the
Ridge’s army.

“It is their
grave, they dug it,” Naten said bitterly, trying to convince his men one final
time.

They all—the six
other soldiers—stood there solemnly, unmoved.

“For us to go
out there now, it is foolishness,” Naten continued. “We shall never find them.
It took too long to regroup. And even if we do, by this point they shall
certainly already be dead. Shall we all kill ourselves too? Will that benefit
the Ridge? The Ridge needs us here now. You know this.”

But his men
stared silently, glum, unwilling to budge.

Finally, one of
them shrugged.

“We have
orders,” one said. “We cannot abandon the mission. If they return, we’d be
imprisoned.”

“We do not
abandon our brothers,” added another.

Naten was
silent, burning, hating this mission. He should have killed them all himself
earlier when he’d had the chance. Now he was stuck, doomed to go back out
there.

As the platform
rose higher and higher, Naten racked his brain, desperate to come up with a
scheme, some way out of this. As he thought and thought, an idea came to him:
when they reached the desert floor, when the others weren’t looking, he would
stab the horses in their underbellies. No one would know it was him. And with
the horses dying, they would have no choice; they would have to turn back.

Naten smiled at
the thought; it was the perfect strategy. As the platform continued to rise, he
longer dreaded it, but looked forward to implementing his plan. As they neared
the peak of the ridge, Naten had a smile on his face—he would outsmart them
all. He always did.

The platform
finally came to a stop at the peak of the Ridge, shaking as the wooden doors
opened, and out went all the horses and men. Nathan led them, the first out,
making sure he was out front and assuming command of the mission, not letting
any of the others take it from him. He marched with a bounce in his step as he
considered his new plan. The others, beside him, all held onto the group of
extra horses they were taking back to Koldo, Ludvig, Kendrick, and the
others—and Naten smirked inwardly, knowing they would never have the chance to
use them.

Naten kept up
the pretense, though, marching across the wide platform at the peak of the
Ridge and heading for the far side, where they would board the next platform
and descend. He looked out as he went, enjoying the vista from the other side
of the Ridge, the vast, open sky, the sense of eternity. From up here, he felt
like he ruled the world.

Naten finally
reached the far side, and as he did, he stopped, looking forward to enjoying
it. He had always loved this spot more than any in the world, where he could
stand on the edge of the cliff and feel as if he were looking out into
eternity.

But this time,
as he stood there, Naten knew immediately that something was wrong. He looked
out and saw no platform waiting for them. For the first time ever, it was
missing.

He looked down,
perplexed, and as he did, he was even more baffled to see the platform rising,
making its way up to greet him. It made no sense—there was no patrol due to be
headed up now. Who could be riding it up?

Before Naten
could make sense of it, before he could understand what was happening, the
platform stopped at the top. And before he could register what was happening,
its doors opened, and he saw staring back at him faces he did not recognize.
Faces that he realized, a moment too late, were not even human. Faces that were
the enemy.

Naten’s mouth
dropped open in shock and horror as he realized, standing before him, was a
platform packed with Empire soldiers, Knights of the Seven, all armed and
deadly—the first invaders ever to reach the soil of the Ridge. The harbinger of
a vast army to come.

Before he could
react, Naten watched, as time slowed down, one of them raise a long spear and
thrust it through his belly, its blade piercing his chest, he in agony as the
pain rippled through him. How ironic, he thought: it was the same death he had
envisioned for his horses.

Naten began to
fall, silently, wordlessly, over the edge of the cliff, plummeting down below
toward his death, the first casualty of war. As he did, he saw below, waiting
to greet his corpse, the final sight of his life: millions and millions of
Empire soldiers, preparing to ascend, preparing to destroy the Ridge once and
for all.