by Morgan Rice
As Gareth stood there, his back to them, his heart pounded as he waited. He anxiously fingered the fruit, pretending to be interested. There was an interminable silence behind him, as Gareth imagined all the things that might go wrong.
Please, don’t let him come this way, Gareth prayed to himself. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll abandon the plot.
Then, suddenly, he felt a rough palm slap him on his back. He spun and looked.
The cretin stared back, his large black, soulless eyes staring into his.
“You didn’t tell me you had a partner,” the man growled. “Or are you a spy?”
The man reached out before Gareth could react, and yanked down Gareth’s hood. He got a good look at Gareth’s face, and his eyes opened wide in shock.
“The Royal Prince,” the man stumbled. “What are you doing here?”
A second later, the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition, and he answered himself, with a small, satisfied smile, piecing together the whole plot instantly. He was much smarter than Gareth had hoped.
“I see,” the man said. “This vial—it was for you, wasn’t it? You aim to poison someone, don’t you? But who? Yes, that is the question…”
Gareth’s face flushed with anxiety. This man—he was too quick. It was too late. His whole world was unraveling around him. Firth had screwed it up. If this man gave Gareth away, he would be sentenced to death.
“Your father, maybe?” the man asked, his eyes lighting in recognition. “Yes, that must be it, mustn’t it? You were passed over. Your father. You aim to kill your father.”
Gareth had had enough. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, pulled a small dagger from inside his cloak, and plunged it into the man’s chest. The man gasped.
Gareth didn’t want any passersby to witness this: he grabbed the man by his tunic and pulled him close, ever closer, until their faces were almost touching, until he could smell his rotten breath. With his free hand, he reached up and clamped the man’s mouth shut, before he could cry out. Gareth felt the man’s hot blood trickling on his palm, running through his fingers.
Firth came up beside him and let out a horrified cry.
Gareth held the man there, like that, for a good sixty seconds, until finally, he felt him slumping in his arms. He let him collapse, limp, a heap on the ground.
Gareth spun all around, wondering if he had been seen; luckily, no heads turned in this busy marketplace, in this dark alley. He removed his cloak, and threw it over the lifeless heap.
“I am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” Firth kept repeating, like a little girl, crying hysterically and shaking as he approached Gareth. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”
Gareth reached up and backhanded him.
“Shut your mouth and be gone from here,” he hissed.
Firth turned and hurried off.
Gareth prepared to leave, but then stopped and turned back. He had one thing left to do: he reached down, grabbed his sack of coins from the dead man’s hand, and stuffed it back into his waistband.
The man would not be needing this.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gareth walked quickly through the forest trail, Firth beside him, his hood pulled over his head, despite the heat. He could hardly conceive that he now found himself in exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. Now there was a dead body, a trail. Who knows who that man may have talked to. Firth should have been more circumspect in his dealings with the man. Now, the trail could end up leading back to Gareth.
“I’m sorry,” Firth said, hurrying to catch up beside him.
Gareth ignored him, doubling his pace, seething.
“What you did was foolish, and weak,” Gareth said. “You never should have glanced my way.”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what to do when he demanded more money.”
Firth was right: it was a tricky situation. The man was a selfish, greedy pig and he changed the rules of the game and deserved to die. Gareth shed no tears over him. He only prayed that no one had witnessed the murder. The last thing he needed was a trail. There would be tremendous scrutiny in the wake of his father’s assassination, and he could not afford even the smallest trail of clues left to follow.
At least they were now in Blackwood. Despite the summer sun, it was nearly dark in here, the towering eucalyptus trees blocking out every shaft of light. It matched his mood. Gareth hated this place. He continued hiking down the meandering trail, following the dead man’s directions. He hoped the man was telling the truth, not leading them astray. The whole thing could be a lie. Or it could be he was leading them to a trap, to some friend of his waiting to rob them of more money.
Gareth chided himself. He had put too much trust in Firth. He should have handled this all himself. Like he always did.
“You better just hope that this trail leads us to the witch,” Gareth quipped, “and that she has the poison.”
They continued down trail after trail, until finally they reached a fork, just as the man said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood that Gareth had ever seen. The trees were impossibly thick, mangled.
Gareth entered them, and felt an immediate chill up his skin, could feel the evil hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.
Just as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke through the wood. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch’s cottage.
Gareth’s heart quickened. As he entered the clearing, he looked around to make sure no one was watching, to make sure it was not a trap.
“You see, he was telling the truth,” Firth said, excitement in his voice.
“That means nothing,” Garrett chided. “Remain outside, and stand guard. Knock if anyone enters. And keep your mouth shut.”
Gareth didn’t bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he grabbed the iron handle, yanked open the two-foot thick door, and ducked his head as he entered, closing it behind him.
It was dark in here, lit only by scattered candles in the room. It was a single room cottage, devoid of windows, and he immediately felt enveloped by a heavy energy. He stood there, stifled by the thick silence, preparing himself for anything. He could feel the evil in here. It made his skin crawl.
From out of the shadows he detected motion, then a noise.
Hobbling towards him there appeared an old woman, shriveled up, hunchback. She raised a candle and lit her face, and he could see it was covered in warts and lines. She looked ancient, older than the gnarled trees that hovered over her cottage.
“You wear a hood, even in blackness,” she said, wearing a sinister smile, her voice sounding like crackling wood. “Your mission is not innocent.”
“I’ve come for a vial,” Gareth said quickly, trying to sound brave and confident, but hearing the quivering in his voice. “Sheldrake Root. I’m told you have it.”
There was a long silence, followed by a horrific hackle. It echoed in the small room.
“Whether or not I have it is not the question. The question is: why do you want it?”
Gareth’s heart pounded as he tried to formulate an answer.
“Why should you care?” he finally asked.
“It amuses me to know who you are killing,” she said.
“That’s no business of yours. I’ve brought money for you.”
Gareth reached into his waistband, took out the bag of gold, in addition to the bag of gold he had given the dead man, and banged them both down on her small wooden table. The sound of metallic coins rang in the room.
He prayed it would pacify her, that she would give him what he wanted and he could leave this place.
The witch reached out a single finger with a long, curved nail, picked up one of the bags and inspected i
t. Gareth held his breath, hoping she would ask no more.
“This might be just enough to buy my silence,” she said.
She turned and hobbled into the darkness. There was a hissing noise, and beside a candle Gareth could see her mixing liquid into a small, glass vial. It bubbled over, and she put a cork on it. Time seemed to slow as Gareth waited, increasingly impatient. A million worries raced through his mind: what if he was discovered? Right here, right now? What if she gave him the wrong vial? What if she told someone about him? Had she recognized him? He couldn’t tell.
Gareth was having increasing reservations about this whole thing. He never knew how hard it could be to assassinate someone.
After what felt like an interminable silence, finally, she returned. She held out the vial, so small it nearly disappeared into his palm.
“Such a small vial?” he asked. “Can this do the trick?”
She smiled.
“You’d be amazed at how little it takes to kill a man.”
Gareth turned and began to head for the door, when suddenly he felt a cold finger on his shoulder. He had no idea how she had managed to cross the room so quickly, and it terrified him. He stood there, frozen, afraid to turn and look at her.
She stood there, inches away, grinning back. She leaned in so close, an awful smell emanating from her, then suddenly reached up with both hands, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him, pressing her shriveled lips hard against his.
Gareth was revolted. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to him. Her lips were like the lips of a lizard, her tounge, which she pressed onto his, like that of a reptile. He tried to pull away, but she held his face tight, pulling him harder, kissing him on the mouth.
Finally, he managed to yank himself away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as she leaned back and chuckled.
“The first time you kill a man is the hardest,” she said. “You will find it much easier the next time around.”
*
Gareth burst out of the cottage, back into the clearing, to find Firth standing there, waiting for him.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Firth asked, concerned. “You look as if you’ve been stabbed. Did she hurt you?”
Gareth stood there, breathing hard, wiping his mouth again and again. He hardly knew how to respond.
“Let’s get away from this place,” he said. “Now!”
As they began to move, to head out of the clearing into the black wood, suddenly the sun was obscured by clouds, racing across the sky, making the beautiful day cold and dark. Gareth looked up, and had never seen such thick, black clouds appear so quickly. He knew that whatever was happening, it was not normal. He worried about how deep the powers were of this witch, as he felt the cold wind rise in the summer day, creep up the back of his neck. He couldn’t help but think that she had somehow possessed him with that kiss, cast some sort of curse on him.
“What happened in there?” Firth pressed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gareth said. “I don’t want to think about this day—ever again.”
The two of them hurried back down the trail, down the hill, soon entering the main forest trail to head back towards King’s Court. Just as Gareth was beginning to feel more relieved, preparing to shove the whole episode to the back of his mind, suddenly, he heard another set of boots. He turned and saw a group of men walking towards them. He couldn’t believe it.
His brother. Godfrey. The drunk. He was walking towards them, laughing, surrounded by the villainous Harry, and two other of his miscreant friends. Of all times and places, for his brother to run into him here. In the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Gareth felt as if his whole plot were cursed.
Gareth turned away, pulled the hood over his face, and hiked twice as fast, praying he had not been discovered.
“Gareth?” called out the voice.
Gareth had no choice. He froze in his tracks, pulled back his hood, and turned and looked at his brother, who came waltzing merrily towards him.
“What are you doing here?” Godfrey asked.
Gareth opened his mouth, but then closed it, stumbling, at a loss for words.
“We were going for a hike,” Firth volunteered, rescuing him.
“A hike, were you?” one of Godfrey’s friends mocked Firth, in a high, feminine voice. His friends laughed, too. Gareth knew that his brother and his friends all judged him for his predisposition—but he hardly cared about that now. He just needed to change the topic. He didn’t want them to wonder what he was doing out here.
“What are you doing out here?” Gareth asked, turning the tables.
“A new tavern opened, by Southwood,” Godfrey answered. “We had just been trying it out. The best ale in all the kingdom. Want some?” he asked, holding out a cask.
Gareth shook his head quickly. He knew he had to distract him, and he figured the best way was to change the topic, to rebuke him.
“Father would be furious if he caught you drinking during the day,” Gareth said. “I suggest you set down that and return to court.”
It worked. Godfrey glowered, and clearly he was no longer thinking about Gareth, but about father, and himself.
“And since when did you care about father’s needs?” he retorted.
Gareth had had enough. He hadn’t time to waste with a drunkard. He succeeded in what he wanted, distracting him, and now, hopefully, he wouldn’t think too deeply about why he had run into him here.
Gareth turned and hurried down the trail, hearing their mocking laughter behind him as he went. He no longer cared. Soon, it would be he who had the last laugh.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thor sat before the wooden table, working away at the bow and arrow laid out in pieces. Beside him sat Reece, along with several other members of the Legion. They were all hunched over their weapons, hard at work on carving the bows and tightening the strings.
“A warrior knows how to string his own bow,” Kolk yelled out, as he walked up and down the rows of boys, leaning over, examining each one’s work. “The tension must be just right. Too little, and your arrow will not reach its mark. Too much, and your aim will not be true. Weapons break in battle. Weapons break on journeys. You must know how to repair them as you go. The greatest warrior is also a blacksmith, a carpenter, a cobbler, a mender of all things broken. And you don’t really know your own weapon until you’ve repaired it yourself.”
Kolk stopped behind Thor and leaned over his shoulder. He reached out and yanked the wooden bow out of Thor’s grasp, the string hurting his palm as he did.
“The string is not taught enough,” he chided. “It is crooked. Use a weapon like this in battle, and you will surely die. And your partner will die besides you.”
Kolk slammed the bow back down, then moved on; several other boys snickered. Thor reddened as he grabbed the string again, pulled it as taught as he possibly could, and wrapped it around the notch in the bow. He’d been at work on this for hours, the cap to an exhausting day of labor and menial tasks.
Most of the others were out and about, training, sparring, sword fighting. He looked out and in the distance saw his brothers, the three of them, laughing as they clacked wooden swords; as usual, Thor felt that they were gaining the upper hand and he was being left behind, in their shadow. Thor thought it unfair. He felt increasingly that he was unwanted here, as if he were not a true member of the Legion.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” O’Connor said beside him.
Thor’s palms were chafed from trying; he pulled back the string one last time, this time with all his might, and finally, to his surprise, it clicked. The string fit neatly in the notch, as he pulled with all his might, sweating. He felt a great sense of satisfaction, as the bow finally felt as strong as it should be.
The sun grew longer in the sky and he looked up, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and wondered how much longer this would go on. He contemplated what it meant to be a warrior. In his head,
he had seen it differently. He had only imagined training, all the time. But, he guessed, this was also a form of training.
“This was not what I signed up for, either,” O’Connor said, as if reading his mind.
Thor turned, and was reassured to find his constant smile.
“I come from the Northern Province,” he continued. “I, too, dreamed of joining the Legion my entire life. I guess I imagined constant sparring, battle. Not all of these menial tasks. But it will get better. It is just because we are new. It is a form of initiation. There seems to be a hierarchy here. We are also the youngest. I don’t see the nineteen-year-olds doing this. This can’t last forever. Besides, it’s a useful skill to learn.”
A horn sounded. Thor looked over and saw the rest of the Legion gathering together, beside a huge stone wall in the middle of the field. Ropes were draped across it, spaced every ten feet. The wall must have rose thirty feet and piled at its base were stacks of hay.
“What are you waiting for?” Kolk screamed. “MOVE!”
The Silver appeared all around them, screaming, and before Thor knew it he and all the others jumped from their benches and ran across the field, for the wall.
Soon they were all gathered there, standing before the ropes. There was an excited buzz in the air, as all of the Legion members stood there, together. Thor was ecstatic to finally be included with the others, and he found himself gravitating to Reece, who stood with another friend of his. O’Connor joined them.
“You will find in battle that most towns are fortified,” Kolk boomed out, looking over the faces of the boys. “Breaching fortifications is the work of a soldier. In a typical siege, ropes and grappling hooks are used, much like the ones we have thrown over this wall, and climbing a wall is one of the most dangerous things you will encounter in battle. In few cases will you be more exposed, more vulnerable. The enemy will pour down molten lead on you. They will shoot down arrows. Drop rocks. You don’t climb a wall until the moment is perfect. And when you do, you must climb for your life—or else risk death.”
