A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page A

several times.
    The others cheered, relishing in it.
    The pirate who won, a man with no shirt, a wiry
torso, and a long scar down his chest, got up and, breathing hard, walked over
to the Sword of the Dead. As Thor watched, he reached down and grabbed it and
held it up victoriously. The others cheered.
    Thor burned at the sight. This scum, holding
his sword, a sword meant for a King. A sword he had risked his life to earn. A
sword given to he, and no other.
    There came a sudden shout, and Thor saw the
pirate’s face suddenly wince in agony. He cried out and threw the sword, as if
holding a snake, and Thor saw it go flying through the air and land on the deck
with a clang and a thud.
    “It bit me!” the pirate yelled to the others. “The
freaking sword bit my hand! Look!”
    He held out his hand and displayed a missing
finger. Thor looked over at the sword, its hilt visible through the slats, and
saw small, sharp teeth protruding from one of the faces carved in it, blood
running down it.
    The other pirates turned and glanced at it.
    “It’s of the devil!” one yelled.
    “I’m not touching it!” yelled another.
    “Never mind it,” said one, turning his back. “There
are plenty of other weapons to choose from.”
    “What about my finger?” cried the pirate, in
agony.
    The other pirates laughed, ignoring him, and instead
focused on going through the other weapons, fighting over the cache for
themselves.
    Thor returned his attention to his sword,
seeing it now sitting there, so close to him, tantalizingly right on the other
side of the slats. He tried once again with all his might to break free, but his
cords would not give. They had been tied well.
    “If we could just get our weapons,” Indra seethed.
“I can’t stand the sight of their greasy palms on my spear.”
    “Maybe I can help,” Angel said.
    Thor and the others turned to her skeptically.
    “They didn’t bind as they did you,” she
explained. “They were afraid of my leprosy. They tied my hands, but then they
gave up. See?”
    Angel stood, showing her wrists bound behind
her back, but her feet free to walk.
    “Little good it will do us,” Indra said. “You’re
still locked down here with all of us.”
    Angel shook her head.
    “You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m smaller
than all of you. I can squeeze my body through those slats.” She turned to
Thor. “I can reach your sword.”
    He looked back at her, impressed by her
fearlessness.
    “You’re very bold,” he said. “I admire that
about you. Yet you would endanger yourself. If they catch you out there, they
may kill you.”
    “Or worse,” Selese added.
    Angel looked back, proud, insistent.
    “I will die either way, Thorgrin,” Angel
replied. “I learned that a long time ago. My life taught me that. My disease
taught me that. Dying does not matter to me; it is only living that matters.
And living free, unrestrained from the bonds of men.”
    Thor looked back at her, inspired, amazed at
her wisdom for such a young age. She already knew more about life than most of the
great teachers he had met.
    Thor nodded back at her solemnly. He could see
the warrior spirit within her, and he would not restrain it.
    “Go then,” he said. “Be quick and quiet. If you
see any sign of danger, return to us. I care more for you than that sword.”
    Angel brightened, encouraged. She turned
quickly and hurried through the hold, walking awkwardly with her hands behind
her back, until she reached the slats. She knelt there, looking out, sweating,
eyes wide with fear.
    Finally, seeing her chance, Angel stuck her
head through a gap in the slats, just wide enough to hold her. She wiggled her
way through it, pushing off with her feet.
    A moment later, she disappeared from the hold, and
Thor could see her, standing on the deck. His heart pounded as he prayed for her
safety, prayed that she could get his sword and get back before it was too
late.
    Angel stood, crouched down and hurried quickly
to the