A Joust of Knights

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

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.