A Cry of Honor by Morgan Rice
“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.
“It is not impossible to change fate,” he said. “But it exacts a heavy price on the petitioner. You want to save a life. That is a noble endeavor. But you cannot save two lives. You will have to choose.”
He turned and faced her.
“Would you have Thor live on this night, or your brother? One of them must die. It is written.”
Gwen was horrified by the question.
“What kind of choice is that?” she asked. “By saving one, I condemn the other.”
“You do not,” he responded. “They are both meant to die on this night. I am sorry. But that is their fate.”
Gwen felt as if a dagger had been plunged into her stomach. Both of them meant to die? It was too awful to imagine. Could fate really be that cruel?
“I cannot choose one over the other,” she said, finally, her voice weak. “My love for Thor is stronger, of course. But Godfrey is my flesh and blood. I cannot stomach the idea of one dying at the expense of the other. And I don’t think either of them would want that.”
“Then they both shall die,” Argon replied.
Gwen felt flooded with panic.
“Wait!” she called out, as he began to turn away.
He turned and looked at her.
“What about me?” she asked. “What if I should die in their stead? Is it possible? Can they both live, and I will die?”
Argon stared at her for a very long time, as if taking in her very essence.
“Your heart is pure,” he said. “You are the most pure-hearted of all the MacGils. Your father chose wisely. Yes, he did…”
Argon’s voice trailed off as he continued to look into her eyes. Gwen felt uncomfortable, but did not dare look away.
“Because of your choice, because of your sacrifice on this night,” Argon said, “the fates have heard you. Thor will be saved on this night. And so will your brother. You will live, too. But a small piece of your life must be taken. Remember, there is always a price. You will die a partial death in return for both of their lives.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, terror-stricken.
“Everything comes with a price,” he answered. “You have a choice. Would you rather not pay it?”
Gwen steeled herself.
“I will do anything for Thor,” she said. “And for my family.”
Argon stared right through her.
“Thor has a very great destiny,” Argon said. “But destiny can change. Our fate is in our stars. But it is also controlled by God. God can change fate. Thor was meant to die on this night. He will live only because of you. You will pay that price. And the cost will be high.”
Gwen wanted to know more, and she reached out to Argon, but as she did, suddenly, a bright light flashed before her, and Argon disappeared.
Gwen spun, looking for him in every direction, but he was nowhere to be found.
She finally turned and looked out at the lake, so serene, as if nothing had happened here on this night. She saw her reflection, and she looked so far away. She was filled with gratitude, and finally, with a sense of peace. But she couldn’t help but also feel a sense of dread for her own future. As much as she tried to put it out of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder: what price would she pay for Thor’s life?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thor lay on the ground in the midst of the battlefield, pinned down by McCloud soldiers, helpless, hearing the clash of battle, the screams of horses, of men dying all around him. The setting sun and the rising moon—a full moon, fuller than any he had ever seen—was suddenly blocked by a huge soldier, who stepped forward, raised his trident and prepared to bring it down. Thor knew that his time had come.
Thor closed his eyes, preparing for death. He did not feel fear. Only remorse. He wanted more time to be alive; he wanted to discover who he was, what his destiny was, and most of all, he wanted more time with Gwen.
Thor felt that it wasn’t fair for him to die like this. Not here. Not this way. Not on this day. It wasn’t his time yet. He could feel it. He was not ready yet.
Thor suddenly felt something rising up within him: it was a fierceness, a strength unlike any he had ever known. His entire body grow hot and tingly, as he felt a new sensation shoot through him, from the soles of his feet, through his legs, up his torso, through his arms, until his fingertips were positively burning, sparking with an energy he could barely understand. Thor shocked himself by letting out a fierce roar, like a dragon rising from the depths of the earth.
Thor felt the strength of ten men course through him as he broke off the soldiers’ grips and leapt to his feet. Before the soldier could bring the trident down, Thor stepped forward, grabbed him by his helmet and head butted him, cracking his nose in two; he then kicked him so hard he went flying backwards like a cannonball, knocking down ten men with him.
Thor shrieked with a newfound rage as he grabbed a soldier, raised him high overhead and threw him into the crowd, taking down a dozen soldiers like bowling pins. Thor then reached out and snatched a flail with a ten foot chain from a soldier’s hands, and swung it overhead, again and again, until screams rose up all around him, taking down all the soldiers within a ten foot radius, dozens of them.
Thor felt his power continue to surge, and he let it take over. As several more men charged him, he reached up and held out a palm and was surprised to feel a tingling and then watch a cool mist fly from it. His attackers suddenly stopped, blanketed in a sheet of ice. They stood frozen in place, blocks of ice.
Thor turned his palms in each direction, and everywhere men became frozen; it looked like blocks of ice had dropped down all over the battlefield.
Thor turned to his brothers in arms, and saw several soldiers about to land fatal blows on Reece, O’Connor, Elden and the twins. He raised a palm in each direction and froze the attackers, saving his brothers from instant death. They turned and looked at him, relief and gratitude welling in their eyes.
The McCloud army began to notice, and became wary of approaching Thor. They started to create a safe perimeter around him, all of these warriors afraid to get too close, as they saw dozens of their comrades frozen in place on the battlefield.
But then there came a roar, and a man stepped forward, five times the size of the others. He must have been fourteen feet tall, a giant, and he carried a sword bigger than Thor had ever seen. Thor raised a palm to freeze him—but it didn’t work against this man. He merely swatted the energy away as if it were an annoying insect, and continued to charge for Thor. Thor was beginning to realize that his power was imperfect; he was surprised, and did not understand why he was not strong enough to stop this man.
The giant reached Thor in three long steps, surprising Thor with his speed, and then backhanded him, sending Thor flying.
Thor hit the ground hard, and before he could turn, the giant was on him, picking him up over his head with two hands. He threw him, and the McCloud army screamed in triumph as Thor went flying through the air, a good twenty feet, landing on the ground and tumbling hard, until he rolled to a stop. Thor felt as if all of his ribs had been cracked.
Thor looked up to see the giant bearing down on him, and this time, there was nothing left he could do. Whatever power he had had been exhausted.
He closed his eyes.
Please God, help me.
As the giant bore down on him, Thor began to hear a muted buzzing in his mind; it grew and grew, and soon, it became a buzzing outside of his mind, in the universe. He felt a strange sensation he never had before; he began to feel in unison with the very material and fabric of the air, the swinging of the trees, the movement of the blades of grass. He felt a great buzzing amidst all of them, and as he reached a hand up, he felt as if he were gathering this buzzing, from all corners of universe, summoning it to his will.
Thor opened his eyes to hear a tremendous buzzing overhead, and watched in surprise as a massive swarm of bees materialized from the sky. They poured in from all corners, and as he raised his hands, he felt that he was directing them. He did not know how he was doing it, but he knew that he was.
Thor moved his hands in the direction of the giant, and as he did, he watched as a swarm of bees darkened the sky, dove down and completely covered the giant. The giant raised his hands and flailed, then shrieked, as they all devoured him, stinging him a thousand times until he collapsed to his knees, then to his face, dead. The ground shook with the impact of his body.
Thor then directed his hand towards the McCloud army, who sat on their horses, staring back at him, watching the scene, in shock. They began to turn to flee—but there was no time to react. Thor swung his palm in their direction, and the swarm of bees left the giant and began to attack the soldiers.
The McCloud army let out a shout of fear, and as one they turned and rode, stung countless times by the swarm. Soon the battlefield was emptying of them, as they disappeared as fast as they could. Some of them could not manage to ride away in time, and soldier after soldier fell, filling the field with corpses.
As the survivors kept galloping, the swarm chased them all the way across the field, into the horizon, the great sound of buzzing blending with the thunder of horses’ hooves and of men’s shouts of fear.
Thor was astounded: within minutes, the battlefield was vacant, still. All that remained was the moaning of the McCloud wounded, lying in heaps. Thor looked around and saw his friends, exhausted, breathing hard; they seemed to be badly bruised, covered in light wounds, but okay. Aside, of course, from the three legion members he did not know, who lay there, dead.
There came a great rumbling on the horizon, and Thor turned in the other direction and saw the King’s army charging over the hill, racing towards them, Kendrick leading the way. They galloped for them, and within moments they came to a stop before Thor and his friends, the lone survivors on this bloody field.
Thor stood there, in shock, staring back, as Kendrick, Kolk, Brom and the others dismounted and walked slowly towards Thor. They were accompanied by dozens of Silver, all the great warriors of the King’s Army. They saw that Thor and the others stood there alone, victorious, in the bloody battlefield, riddled with the corpses of hundreds of McClouds. He could see their looks of wonder, of respect, of awe. He could see it in their eyes. It was what he had wanted his entire life long.
He was a hero.
CHAPTER NINE
Erec galloped on his horse, racing down the Southern Lane, charging faster than he ever had, doing his best to avoid the holes on the road in the black of night. He had not stopped riding since he had received news of Alistair’s kidnapping, of her being sold into slavery and taken to Baluster. He could not stop reprimanding himself. He’d been stupid and naïve to trust that innkeeper, to assume that he would be good to his word, would keep up his end of the deal and release Alistair to him after he had won the tournament. Erec’s word was his honor, and he assumed that others’ word was sacred, too. It was a foolish mistake. And Alistair had paid the price for it.
Erec’s heart broke at the thought of her, and he kicked his horse harder. Such a beautiful and refined lady, first having to suffer the indignity of working for that innkeeper—and now, being sold into slavery, and to the sex trade no less. The thought of it infuriated him, and he could not help but feel that
Erec charged through the night, the sound of his horse’s hooves ever-present, filling his ears, along with the sounds of his horse’s breathing. The horse was beyond exhausted, and Erec feared he might ride him to the ground. Erec had gone right to the innkeeper after the tournament, had not stopped to take a break, and he was so weary with exhaustion, he felt as if he might just slump and fall off his horse. But he forced his eyes to stay open, forced himself to stay awake, as he rode beneath the last vestiges of the full moon, heading ever south for Baluster.
Erec had heard stories of Baluster throughout his life, though it was a place he had never been; from the rumors, it was known to be a place of gambling, of opium, of sex, of every imaginable vice in the kingdom. It was where the disgruntled poured in, from all four corners of the Ring, to exploit every sort of dark festivity known to man. The place was the opposite of who he was. He never gambled, and rarely drank, and preferred to spend his free time alone, training, sharpening his skills. He could not understand the types of people who embraced sloth and revelry, the way the frequenters of Baluster did. It did not bode well, his being brought there. Nothing good could come of it. The very thought of her in such a place made his heart sink. He knew he had to rescue her quickly, and get her far from here, before any damage was done.
As the moon fell in the sky, as the road grew wider, more well-traveled, Erec caught his first glimpse of the city: the endless number of torches lighting its walls made the city appear like a bonfire in the night. Erec was not surprised: its inhabitants were rumored to stay up all hours of the night.
Erec rode harder and the city neared, and finally he rode over a small wooden bridge, torches on either side, a sleepy sentry nodding off at its base, who jumped up as Erec stormed past. The guard called out after him: “HEY!”
But Erec didn’t even slow. If the man mustered up the confidence to chase after Erec—which Erec doubted very much—then Erec would make sure it was the last thing he did.