A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (20 page)

Thor felt a deepening sense of foreboding
as he gripped the rail, standing at the bow of the ship, and stared out at the
Straits of Madness, looming before him. Red waters of blood churned below as
they carried the ship on their currents, into the straits. Thor looked side to
side, staring up in awe, as did the others, at the stark black cliffs, jagged,
rising straight up, made of a black stone he did not recognize. They were close
together, leaving but twenty yards of angry waters for them to pass through,
and Thor felt claustrophobic, the sky nearly shut out. He also felt vulnerable
to attack, especially as he examined the cliffs and spotted thousands of sets
of small, yellow eyes, glowing, peeking out from tiny holes in the rocks, then
disappearing. He felt as if they were being watched by a million creatures.

But that was not what concerned him
most. As they entered the Straits, the water churned violently, rocking their ship
side to side, up and down—and Thor began to hear something, rising over the din
of the waves and the wind. It was soft at first, like a distant humming; as
they went, though, it grew stronger. It was almost like a chanting, like a
chorus of voices humming in a low pitch. It sounded like a drumbeat, felt like
his heart was beating outside his head; it echoed inside his innermost eardrum,
and the feeling was making him go mad.

Thor clutched the rail, experiencing a feeling
he’d never felt before; it was almost like an unwelcome invader entering his
body. He felt, for the first time in his life, that he was losing control of himself.
As if he could no longer think straight.

The chanting grew louder, and as it did,
he felt increasingly on edge; every little sound was amplified inside him: the
splashing of the water against the hull; the flapping of the sails; the sound
of those insects, buzzing; the screech of a bird high overhead. He could not
turn it off, and it was driving him crazy.

Thor began to feel a rage rising in his
veins, one he could not control or understand. It was consuming him, making him
want to lash out, to kill something—anything. He didn’t understand where it was
coming from, and as they sailed still deeper into the Straits, he felt it
taking over him completely. As if it owned his very soul.

Thor gripped the rail so hard his
knuckles turned white as he tried to control himself, to exorcise himself of
whatever was consuming him. He looked out at the others, hoping they would see
the horror he was going through and would be rushing to help him.

But as Thor saw the others, his apprehension
only deepened. He could see at a glance that whatever madness had gripped him
had gripped the others, too. There was Elden, rushing forward and head-butting
the mast, again and again; there was Angel, curled up in a ball on the floor,
holding her head; there was Selese, rocking left and right, her arms wrapped
around herself; Matus knelt on the deck, pulling his hair from his head; Reece
drew his sword then sheathed it, again and again; O’Connor paced the decks
wildly, racing up and down them, as if trying to get off the boat; and Indra
raised her spear and hurled it into the deck, only to remove it and do it again
and again.

Thor realized that they’d all gone mad. For
the first time in his life he could not think clearly, could not come up with a
strategy to sail out of here, to rescue everyone, to burst free. He could not
think at all. He just felt like he was becoming a ball of rage, growing bigger
and bigger, one he could not control, even with his greatest powers. A titanic
struggle was going on inside him.

And he was losing.

Thor screamed as he sank to his knees,
feeling like tearing off his own skin, his head splitting, the chanting growing
louder and louder inside his head as the boat rocked more violently. Thor felt as
if he had to kill something—anything—to make it stop.

Thor looked down and saw himself
gripping the hilt of the Sword of the Dead, squeezing it and letting it go, squeezing
and letting go, his hand almost moving on its own accord. As he examined it, he
saw the small faces on the hilt begin to move, frowning, as if the sword itself
were coming alive. The sword, too, Thor realized, was being affected by these
straits of madness.

Thor found himself drawing the sword
from its sheath, against his will; he tried to put it back with all his might,
but he was unable to. The Sword gripped him, and the madness was commanding him.
Thor was burning to kill whatever foe he could, to make it all stop.

But the problem was, there was no foe. There
was nothing but air.

Thor heard a shout, and as he turned, he
could not believe what he saw: there went O’Connor, running across the ship,
screaming—and then, jumping up onto the rail and leaping off one side, diving
through the air.

“O’CONNOR!” Thor shouted.

But it was too late. There was nothing
Thor could do but watch, helplessly, as O’Connor dove over the edge, head-first,
plunging a good thirty feet toward the red raging waters below. O’Connor
reached up and flailed before being immediately swept away by them—then sucked
down beneath the surface.

No one came to his help—all of them,
including Thor, too preoccupied with their own private hells. Soon, O’Connor’s
screams stopped, and Thor felt an unspeakable agony as he knew they had just
lost a Legion member forever.

Thor was burning to jump in and save him,
but he could not. And as he tried with all his might to re-sheath his sword, he
could not do that, either. His hands shook with the effort—but it was stronger
than he.

Suddenly, to Thor’s horror, he realized
he was aiming the tip of the sword at himself, at his own heart. His hands
shook as he realized he was going to kill himself.

Thor sensed motion and looked up to see
Reece walking toward him, battling himself, sheathing and unsheathing his sword,
a pained, confused look on his face. For a moment Reece seemed to get a hold of
himself, to become stronger than whatever it was.

“Be strong, Thorgrin!” Reece shouted
out, above the din of the wind and the raging sea. “We can fight this. We are
stronger than this!”

Thor tried to hear his friend’s words,
but the chanting within him grew too loud, the drumbeat of rage, egging him on.

“We are almost there, Thorgrin!” Reece
shouted. “Just a few more feet!”

Thor followed his gaze and turned to see
the end of the Straits of Madness looming, the cliffs parting ways, the waters
calming, the sky breaking into light.

But even though it was just a few feet
away, it was too far for him. It might as well have been on the other end of
the world.

Thor could not stand it another second.
He could no longer contain the rage, the desire to kill.

In one horrifying moment, a moment that
would haunt Thorgrin for the rest of his life, he found himself standing and, with
shaking hands, redirecting the tip of the sword away from his own chest.
Instead, he was horrified to see, he was turning it—and directing it at Reece.

Reece looked down and watched, and his
face fell in horror as he, too, realized what Thor was about to do.

But neither of them could control it,
both in the grips of something far more powerful than they.

Thor, helpless to do otherwise, found
himself stepping forward, raising his sword, and as Reece reached out to
console him, plunging it right into the beating heart of his best friend in the
world.

Thor could do nothing but stand there
and gasp as he held Reece tight, and killed the man he loved most in the world.

Darius lay on his back and looked up and
watched one of those creatures raise its ax high overhead and bring it down
right for his face. His world moved in slow motion: he felt every breeze, saw
the frozen face of the beast, heard the distant cheers of the crowd. This was
what it felt like, he realized, to live his last breath.

Darius wanted to react in time, to roll
out of the way or block the blow—yet he knew he could not. His sword lay two
feet away, and this time the creature had come down too fast for him to react
in time. Out of the corner of his eye Darius saw his fellow gladiators, all dead
on the ground, and he knew that his time, too, had come. Here he would meet his
end, on this dusty floor, in this hated arena, with all these gladiators whom
he did not know, killed by this horrific beast.

Darius had no regrets. He had fought
proudly, had not backed down, and had faced whatever they had thrown at him. At
least he would have a chance now to reunite with his brothers in arms—Raj,
Desmond, Kaz, and Luzi—and join them in the world to come. Darius thought of
Loti, and he wondered if she, too, were dead, waiting to greet him, or is she
was still alive somewhere. He did not know which was worse.

The blade came closer, and Darius felt
its breeze and prepared to die—when suddenly, a clang rang in his ears. Darius
blinked and looked up to see the giant ax blade stopped by a long, silver staff,
just inches above his face.

Darius looked over and was shocked to
see Deklan, standing there calmly in his brown robes, staring back defiantly at
the beast as he held out his silver staff, blocking its blow and saving
Darius’s life.

Darius blinked several times, not
understanding what he was seeing. What was Deklan doing here? Why had he risked
his life for him? How could he be so strong as to block such a terrific blow
with his silver staff?

As Darius stared in disbelief, still
trying to process it all, trying to process that he was still alive, he watched
Deklan break into action. Deklan spun his staff in a circle, throwing the ax
from the creature’s hand, then pulled back his staff and jabbed the creature
between the eyes, knocking it backwards.

The great ax spun in the air, and Deklan
reached out and snatched it seamlessly, then as several creatures charged him,
he pulled it back and threw it. It sailed end over end through the air then
lodged itself in a creature’s head—to the delight of the crowd—felling it.

In the same motion Deklan swung his
staff around and smashed another creature on the side of the head, making it
drop its ax in mid-blow and sending it to its knees. Other creatures descended upon
him, but Deklan faced them all calmly, hardly even looking distressed as he
sidestepped them and swung his staff in every direction, end over end, striking
one here and another there, moving like lightning as he darted between them. He
was constantly in motion, like a cat, moving with stunning speed and dexterity;
he was more agile and graceful than any fighter Darius had ever seen.

Deklan spun and jabbed one in the wrist,
disarming him, then broadsided one in the throat, then dodged and swept out
another from behind his knees, then rolled and swung upward, hitting another
between the legs. He created a circle of devastation around him, blocking or
dodging their blows, moving so quickly that no one could touch him. He was like
a whirlwind, and he did not stop until all the creatures lay on the ground before
him.

With a pause in the battle, Deklan walked
over to Darius, calm and cool, and reached out a hand.

Darius looked up, shocked, still hardly
believing what had happened. He took Deklan’s hand and he yanked him to his
feet.

Deklan smiled back.

“Figured I couldn’t let you have all the
fun,” he said with a grin.

Deklan picked up a dropped ax, stepped
forward, and slashed Darius’s chains, freeing him.

The crowd roared in surprise and
delight, and Darius turned and took it all in, standing there with Deklan in
the eye of the tornado, seeing all the felled creatures, all about to rise
again. He stared back at Deklan in awe, wondering. He had never encountered a
greater warrior. Who was this man?

All around them, the creatures were
slowly rising, and as Darius tightened his grip on an ax handle, he felt
emboldened. Standing side by side with Deklan, he felt that, for the first
time, he could win.

“I don’t understand,” Darius said, as
they waited, back to back, for the creatures to come again. “Why did you risk
your life for me?”

“I realized you were right,” he said.
“Life is a small thing. Honor matters more. Somewhere along the path, I lost my
way. You helped me find it again. I am done surviving: now I choose to live—and
to live with honor.”

“But why me?” Darius insisted, something
bothering him. “Why give it all up, why risk your life for
me
, a
stranger?”

There came a pause, amidst the roar of
the crowd, as more creatures gained their feet, assembling like a small army to
come back for them. Darius braced himself, as he knew the fight of his life was
coming.

“Because, Darius,” Deklan finally
replied, “you are no stranger.”

Darius looked back at him, puzzled, and
as he did, he finally recognized something in the man’s eyes, something that
had been at the edge of his consciousness, something that finally had it all
make sense.

“Because you, Darius,” he said, bracing himself
for the coming blows, “are my son.”