scream.
Romulus. Clearly, he had spotted her.
Behind her there suddenly came the sound of men charging on horseback, crossing the bridge, coming after her.
Luanda sprinted, increasing her pace, as she felt the men bearing down her. She ran past all the corpses of the Empire men, burnt by the dragons, some still flaming, doing her best to avoid them. Behind her, the horses grew even louder. She glanced back over her shoulder, saw their spears raised high and knew that this time Romulus aimed to have her killed. She knew that, in just moments, those spears would be thrust into her back.
Luanda looked forward and saw the Ring, the mainland, just feet in front of her. If only she could make it. Just ten more feet. If she could just cross the border, maybe, just maybe, the Shield would go back up and save her.
The men bore down on her as she took her final steps. The sound of horses was deafening in her ears, and she smelled the sweat of horses and of men. She braced herself, expecting a spear point to puncture her back at any moment. They were just feet away. But so was she.
In one final act of desperation, Luanda dove, just as she saw a soldier raise his hand with a spear behind her. She hit the ground with a tumble. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the spear sailing through the air, heading right for her.
Yet as soon as Luanda crossed the line, landed on the mainland of the Ring, suddenly, behind her, the Shield was activated again. The spear, inches behind her, disintegrated in mid-air. And behind it, all the soldiers on the bridge shrieked, raising their hands to their faces, as they all went up in flames, disintegrating.
In moments, they were all just piles of ashes.
On the far side of the bridge Romulus stood, watching it all. He shrieked and beat his chest. It was a cry of agony. A cry of someone who had been defeated. Outwitted.
Luanda lay there, breathing hard, in shock. She leaned down and kissed the soil she leaned on. Then she threw her head back and laughed in delight.
She had made it. She was safe.
CHAPTER SIX
Thorgrin stood in the open clearing, facing Andronicus, surrounded by both armies. They stood at a standstill, watching as father and son faced off once again. Andronicus stood there in all his glory, towering over Thor, wielding a huge axe in one hand and a sword in the other. As Thor faced him, he forced himself to breathe slow and deep, to control his emotions. Thor had to remain clear-minded, to focus as he fought this man, the same way he would any other enemy. He had to tell himself that he was not facing his father, but his worst foe. The man who had hurt Gwendolyn; the man who had hurt all of his countrymen; the man who had brainwashed him. The man who deserved to die.
With Rafi dead, Argon back in control, all the undead creatures back beneath the earth, there was no more delaying this final confrontation, Andronicus’ facing off with Thorgrin. It was the battle that must determine the fate of the war. Thor would not let him get away, not this time, and Andronicus, cornered in, finally seemed willing to face off with his son.
“Thornicus, you are my son,” Andronicus said, his low voice reverberating. “I do not wish to harm you.”
“But I wish to harm you,” Thor replied, refusing to give in to Andronicus’ mind games.
“Thornicus, my son,” Andronicus repeated, as Thor took a wary step closer, “I do not wish to kill you. Lay down your weapons and join me. Join me as you had before. You are my son. You are not
“I will not fight you,” Andronicus said finally, as he lowered his axe.
Thor had heard enough. He had to make a move now, before he allowed his mind to be swayed by this monster.
Thor let out a battle cry, raised sword high and charged forward, bringing it down with both hands for Andronicus’ head.
Andronicus stared back in surprise, then at the last second, he reached down, grabbed his axe from the ground, raised it and blocked Thor’s blow.
Sparks flew off of Thor’s sword as the two of them locked weapons, inches away, each groaning, as Andronicus held back Thor’s blow.
“Thornicus,” Andronicus grunted, “your strength is great. But it is
Andronicus pushed Thor back, and Thor stumbled backwards.
“Never!” Thor screamed, defiant. “I will never return to you. You are no father to me. You are a stranger. You don’t deserve to be my father!”
Thor charged again, screaming, and brought his sword down. Andronicus blocked it, and Thor, expecting it, quickly spun around with his sword and slashed Andronicus’ arm.
Andronicus cried out as blood squirted from his wound. He stumbled back and looked Thor over with disbelief, reaching over and touching his wound, then examining the blood on his hand.
“You mean to kill me,” Andronicus said, as if realizing for the first time. “After all I’ve done for you.”
“I most certainly do,” Thorgrin said.
Andronicus studied him, as if studying a new person, and soon his look changed from one of wonder and disappointment, to one of anger.
“Then you are no son of mine!” he screamed. “The Great Andronicus does not ask twice!”
Andronicus threw down his sword, raised his battle axe with both hands, let out a great cry and charged for Thor. Finally, the battle had begun.
Thor raised his sword to block the blow, but it came down with such force that, to Thor’s shock, it shattered Thor’s sword, breaking it in two.
Thor quickly improvised, dodging out of the way as the blow continued to come down; it just grazed him, missing by an inch, so close he could feel the wind brush his shoulder. His father had tremendous strength, greater than any warrior he’d ever faced, and Thor knew this would not be easy. His father was fast, too—a deadly combination. And now Thor had no weapon.
Andronicus swung around again without hesitating, swinging sideways, aiming to chop Thor in half.
Thor leapt into the air, high over Andronicus his head, doing a somersault, using his inner powers to propel him, to bring him high in the air and land behind Andronicus. He landed on his feet, reached down and grabbed his father’s sword from the ground, spun around and charged, swinging for Andronicus’ back.
But to Thor’s surprise, Andronicus was so fast, he was prepared. He spun around and blocked the blow. Thor felt the impact of metal hitting metal reverberate throughout his body. Andronicus’ sword, at least, held; it was stronger than his. It was strange, to hold his father’s sword—especially when facing his father.
Thor swung around, and came down sideways for Andronicus’ shoulder. Andronicus blocked, and came down for Thor’s.
Back and forth they went, attacking and blocking, Thor driving Andronicus back, and Andronicus, in turn, pushing Thor back. Sparks flew, the weapons moving so fast, gleaming in the light, their great clangs riveting the battlefield, the two armies watching, transfixed. The two great warriors pushed each other back and forth across the open clearing, neither gaining an inch.
Thor raised his sword to strike again, but this time Andronicus surprised him by stepping forward and kicking him in the chest. Thor went flying backwards, landing on his back.
Andronicus rushed forward and brought down his axe. Thor rolled out of the way, but not quickly enough: it sliced Thor’s bicep, just enough to draw blood. Thor cried out, but nonetheless, swung around, and swung his
