“I have faced the greatest darkness, the greatest powers in the world,” Thorgrin said. “Including my own father. And never have I backed down from fear. I will face this dark lord, whatever his powers; I will enter this Land of Blood, whatever the cost. It is my son. I will retrieve him—or die trying.”
Ragon shook his head, coughing.
“You are not ready,” he said, his voice trailing off. “Not ready…. You need…power…. You need…the…ring,” he said, and then erupted into a fit of coughing blood.
Thor stared back, desperate to know what he meant before he passed away.
“What ring?” Thor asked. “Our homeland?”
There came a long silence, Ragon’s wheezing the only sound in the air, until finally he opened his eyes, just a sliver.
“The…sacred ring.”
Thor grabbed Ragon’s shoulders, willing him to respond, but suddenly, he felt Ragon’s body stiffening in his hands. His eyes froze, there came an awful death gasp, and a moment later, he stopped breathing, perfectly still.
Dead.
Thor felt a wave of agony rush through him.
“NO!” Thor threw his head back and cried to the heavens. Thor was wracked with sobs as he reached out and embraced Ragon, this generous man who had given up his life to guard his son. He was overwhelmed with grief and guilt—and he slowly and steadily felt a new resolve rising up within him.
Thor looked to the heavens, and he knew what he had to do.
“LYCOPLES!” Thor shrieked, the anguished cry of a father filled with desperation, filled with fury, with nothing left to lose.
Lycoples heard his cry: she screeched, high up in the heavens, her fury matching Thor’s, and she circled down lower and lower, until she landed but a few feet away.
Without hesitating, Thor ran to her, jumped on her back, and grabbed hold of her neck tight. He felt energized to be on the back of a dragon again.
“Wait!” O’Connor yelled, rushing forward with the others. “Where are you going?”
Thor looked them dead in the eye.
“To the Land of Blood,” he replied, feeling more certain than he’d ever had in his life. “I will rescue my son. Whatever it takes.”
“You will be destroyed,” Reece said, stepping forward with concern, his voice grave.
“Then I will be destroyed with honor,” Thor replied.
Thor peered upward, looked to the horizon, and he saw the trail of the gargoyles, disappearing into the sky—and he knew where he must go.
“Then you shall not go alone,” Reece called out, “We shall follow your trail in our ship, and we shall meet you there.”
Thorgrin nodded and squeezed Lycoples, and suddenly, Thor felt that familiar sensation as the two of them lifted up into the air.
“No, Thorgrin!” cried out an anguished voice behind him.
He knew the voice to be Angel’s, and he felt a pang of guilt as he flew away from her.
But he could not look back. His son lay ahead—and death or not, he would find him—and kill them all.
CHAPTER NINE
Gwendolyn walked through the tall arched doors to the King’s throne room, held open for her by several attendants, Krohn at her side, and was impressed by the sight before her. There, at the far end of the empty chamber, sat the King on his throne, alone in this vast place, the doors echoing behind her as they closed. She approached, walking down the cobblestone floors, passing shafts of sunlight as they streamed in through the rows of stained glass, lighting up the place with images of ancient knights in scenes of battle. This place was both intimidating and serene, inspiring and haunted by the ghosts of kings past. She could feel their presence hanging in the thick air, and it reminded her, in too many ways, of King’s Court. She felt a sudden pang of sadness hanging in her chest, as the room made her miss her father dearly.
King MacGil sat there, ponderous, chin on his fist, clearly burdened by thought, and, Gwendolyn sensed, by the weight of rulership. He looked lonely to her, trapped in this place, as if the weight of the kingdom sat on his shoulders. She understood the feeling all too well.
“Ah, Gwendolyn,” he said, lighting up at the sight of her.
She expected him to remain on his throne, but he immediately rose to his feet and hurried down the ivory steps, a warm smile on his face, humble, without the pretension of other kings, eager to come out and greet her. His humility was a welcome relief to Gwendolyn, especially after that encounter with his son, which still left her shaken, as ominous as it was. She wondered whether to tell the King; for now, at least, she thought she would hold her tongue and see what happened. She did not want to seem ungrateful, or to begin their meeting on a bad note.
“I thought of little else since our discussion yesterday,” he said, as he approached and embraced her warmly. Krohn, at her side, whined and nudged the King’s hand, and he looked down and smiled. “And who is this?” he asked warmly.
“Krohn,” she replied, relieved he had taken a liking to him. “My leopard—or, to be more accurate, my husband’s leopard. Although I suppose he’s as much mine now as his.”
To her relief, the King knelt down, took Krohn’s head in his hands, rubbed his ears and kissed him, unafraid. Krohn responded by licking his face.
“A fine animal,” he said. “A welcome change from our common stock of dog here.”
Gwen looked at him, surprised at his kindness as she recalled Mardig’s words.
“Then animals such as Krohn are allowed here?” she asked.
The King threw back his head back and laughed.
“Of course,” he replied. “And why not. Did someone tell you otherwise?”
Gwen debated whether to tell her of her encounter, and decided to hold her tongue; she did not want to be viewed as a tattletale, and she needed to know more about these people, this family, before drawing any conclusions or hastily rushing into the middle of a family drama. It was best, she thought, to keep silent for now.
“You wished to see me, my King?” she said, instead.
Immediately, his face grew serious.
“I do,” he said. “Our speech was interrupted yesterday, and there remains much we need to discuss.”
He turned and gestured with his hand, beckoning for her to follow him, and they walked together, their footsteps echoing, as they crossed the vast chamber in silence. Gwen looked up and examined saw the high, tapered ceilings as they went, the coat of arms displayed along the walls, trophies, weapons, armor…. Gwen admired the order of this place, how much pride these knights took in battle. This hall reminded her of a place she might have found back in the Ring.
They crossed the chamber and when they reached the far end passed through another set of double doors, their ancient oak a foot thick and smooth from use, and they exited onto a massive balcony, adjacent to the throne room, a good fifty feet wide and just as deep, a marble baluster framing it.
She followed the King out, to the edge, and leaning her hands against the smooth marble, she looked out. Below her stretched the sprawling and immaculate city of the Ridge, all its angular slate roofs marking the skyline, all its ancient houses of different shapes, built so close to one another. This was clearly a patchwork city that had evolved over hundreds of years, cozy, intimate, well-worn from use. With its peaks and spires, it looked like a fairytale city, especially set against the backdrop of the blue waters beyond, sparkling under the sun—and beyond even that, the towering peaks of the Ridge, rising up all around it in a huge circle, like a great barrier to the world.
So tucked in, so sheltered from the outside world, Gwen could not imagine that anything bad could ever befall this place.
The King sighed.
“Hard to imagine this place is dying,” he said—and she realized he had been sharing the same thoughts.