CHAPTER ONE
Thorgrin awoke to a world of searing heat and suffocating smoke, his body suspended in a haze of agony that blurred the line between sleep and consciousness, nightmare and reality.His eyelids fluttered open, heavy as lead, revealing a scene straight from the depths of some forgotten hell.He was bound—wrists and ankles lashed with thick, sinewy ropes—to a wooden frame that arched over a pit of glowing coals.The embers pulsed like the heart of a dying beast, radiating waves of blistering warmth that licked at his exposed skin, singeing the hairs on his arms and chest.Sweat poured from his brow, mingling with the dried blood that still crusted his wounds.The air was thick with the acrid stench of unfamiliar herbs and charred wood, and something else, something his fevered mind screamed out was burning flesh.
Disorientation gripped him like a vise.Where was he?Fragments of memory assaulted him: the breach in the Shield, the desperate ride north, the ambush in the snow-swept wilds.Proudlock's treachery.The wandering in the frozen wastes, lifeblood ebbing away, then the barbarians, fierce, tattooed warriors who captured him.The ceremony, the earth awakening, the realization, and fear of what was happening beneath their feet.The unmaking of everything.
Kragthar, their leader.The chant.The world is cracking open.Then blackness.
Then this.
He twisted against his bonds, the ropes biting deeper into his raw flesh, but they held fast, especially in his weakened state.He had no idea how long he had been bound like this.
He had no idea how long he had been wandering in the freezing wilderness before he had been captured.He had no idea how much blood he had lost or the last time he had had anything to eat or drink.
What he did know was that he was near to death anyway, without the added help of the burning coals, which hissed and popped, below him.Embers leaping upward like hungry spirits eager to consume him.The heat was unbearable, scorching his back and legs, drawing blisters on his skin through the remnants of his tattered clothing.
What if those rags caught fire and burned him, while he was being baked from below like an ox on a spit?
Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but he shoved it down, drawing on the iron resolve that had carried him through exile, countless battles, and the defeat of the Blood Lord.He was Thorgrin, King of the Ring, King of the Druids—not some helpless victim destined to die in this godforsaken land.
His eyes darted around, piercing the smoke-filled gloom.He was in a vast longhouse, its walls fashioned from mammoth hides stretched over frames of bone and ivory, adorned with grotesque totems: skulls of beasts he couldn't name, feathers matted with blood, and runes etched in swirling patterns that seemed to shift in the firelight.The structure was immense, easily spanning the length of a small village hall, with a high, arched ceiling lost in the smoke and shadows.Flickering torches in iron sconces cast erratic light, illuminating the faces of his captors.
They surrounded him in a circle, dozens of them—wild-looking tribespeople clad in furs and leathers, their bodies marked with azure tattoos that writhed like living serpents across their skin.Men and women alike, their hair braided with bones and feathers, their eyes wide with excitement and fervor. They chanted in an ancient tongue, a rhythmic dirge that echoed off the walls like the growl of thunder trapped in stone.The words were guttural, alien yet familiar to Thor’s groping, foggy mind: "Vyrka...shul'kthar...eyldra na'korr!"Over and over, building in intensity, their voices rising to a fever pitch that throbbed in Thorgrin’s temples and vibrated through his bones.Drums pounded in sync, skinned from some massive creature, their beats like the pulse of the earth itself.
At the circle's head stood a colossal figure—the leader, Thorgrin recalled dimly through the haze of pain.Kragthar, a mountain of a man with a beard woven with quartz chips that caught the firelight like stars in a storm.He wore no shirt, his chest a canvas of scars and tattoos, and in his hand, he held a curved dagger of obsidian, its blade glinting ominously.Beside him crouched a crone, her face hidden beneath an antlered headdress, scattering herbs into the coals that sent up plumes of hallucinogenic smoke.The air shimmered with it, distorting the edges of Thorgrin's vision, making the chanters seem to multiply and merge like phantoms.
A sacrificial ritual.The realization hit Thorgrin like a hammer blow.These barbarians, these savages, were offering him to their gods.Burned alive, his life force a tribute to whatever dark entities they worshipped in this frozen wasteland.He had heard tales of such rites in his youth—whispers from traders who skirted the northern fringes, speaking of tribes who appeased the ice spirits with blood and fire.But to face it now, bound and helpless, ignited a primal terror he hadn't felt since his boyhood days in the village, dreaming of dragons and destinies.
"No," he growled under his breath, the word lost in the chant's crescendo.He would not die like this—not roasted like a feast-day hog, his screams a hymn to pagan deities.He was the restorer of the Shield, the slayer of empires.Gwendolyn waited for him in the south, as did their son Guwayne, barely yet a man.Too young to face the rest of his life without a father.
The crone rose, her milky eyes fixing on him with unnerving intensity.She murmured something in that ancient tongue, and Kragthar nodded gravely, stepping forward with the dagger raised.The chant swelled, the drums thundering faster, the coals flaring brighter as if eager for the offering.Thorgrin's heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins like liquid fire.The heat was intensifying, the frame creaking as it lowered him fractionally closer to the pit.Blisters formed on his back, the pain a white-hot agony that cleared the last vestiges of fever from his mind.
Summon your strength, he commanded himself.The druidic power within him—honed through trials in the Land of the Druids—stirred like a slumbering beast.It wasn't at full force, not even close; his wounds sapped it, the smoke dulled it, but it was there, a spark waiting to ignite.
He knew he had one chance.One roll of the dice, or it would be all over for him.
For the Ring.
He closed his eyes, blocking out the chant, the heat, the fear, and delved inward.Runes etched on his soul glowed in his mind's eye, ancient wards of protection and might.He whispered them silently, drawing on the universe’s latent energy, even here in this frozen desolation.
Power bloomed within him, a warm counterpoint to the coals' blaze.His muscles tensed, swelling with unnatural vigor.The ropes groaned as he strained against them, fibers stretching, then snapping one by one with sharp cracks like breaking bones.The chanters faltered, their voices hitching as they noticed the disturbance.Kragthar's eyes widened, the dagger pausing mid-raise.
With a roar that echoed the thunder of his homeland, Thorgrin surged upward.The bonds on his wrists gave way first, rawhide tearing like parchment.He twisted his body, kicking out with bound legs to shatter the frame's supports.Wood splintered, and he plummeted—but not into the coals.He rolled mid-fall, landing on the pit's edge with a grunt of pain, embers scattering like angry fireflies.His ankles were still lashed, but he ignored them, scrambling to his feet as the circle erupted into chaos.
Kragthar bellowed a command in his alien tongue and lunged toward him, arms outstretched, grasping.The crone shrieked, flinging a handful of herbs that ignited mid-air, a burst of blinding light meant to disorient.But Thorgrin was already moving, the druid fire lending him speed beyond mortal limits.
He dodged Kragthar's grabbing hands and countered with a savage elbow to the leader's jaw.Bone crunched, and Kragthar staggered back, blood spraying from his split lip.
He knew he needed help.He was unarmed and heavily outnumbered.He desperately searched for something, anything, and his eyes locked on a spear lying on the floor, abandoned by one of the savages as the ritual had begun.He snatched it up, using its heft to sweep the legs from under a charging warrior.The man toppled into the coals with a scream, furs igniting in a whoosh of flame.
The longhouse devolved into pandemonium.The tribespeople looked shocked more than anything else.Some surged towards him, others hung back, perhaps wary of this man who had broken the bonds, or maybe they were worried the gods that were about to accept the sacrifice would be bitter, scorned, eager to take out their wrath on the tribe.
Thor eyed the entrance, a slit of light twenty yards to his right, and charged for it, elbowing and shouldering people out of his way.The atmosphere in the building changed again instantly, and everyone surged towards him, their chants breaking into war cries.A woman with braided hair thrust a staff at his knees, but he leaped over it, shoving her back and away from him, mid-flight.Fingers and hands grabbed at him, pulling his arms, his hair, his ragged clothing, but he staggered onwards, towards the slit of light, knowing it was his only hope, his only salvation.If they got hold of him again, even for a couple of seconds, he would be finished.
Pain lanced through Thorgrin's side and thighs, reopened wounds from the ambush that refused to heal, blood soaking his robe anew.He gritted his teeth and powered on towards the light, pushing aside savages who crowded around him, chanting, screaming.
He fought not to kill indiscriminately—these were people, not monsters, even if their rites were barbaric.But survival demanded ruthlessness.He thrust with his spear, aiming low, forcing an opening in front of him.
Suddenly, Kragthar, recovered from his earlier blow, roaring like a wounded bear, barreled into him.They collided with bone-jarring force, tumbling onto the floor.
