A feast of dragons sr-3

by Morgan Rice

  Thor turned and took it all in, disoriented. Everything here, on this side of the rain wall, seemed so foreign, so different. There was even a slight red mist in the air, hovering low over the water. He surveyed the horizon and spotted dozens of small islands, spread out, like stepping stones on the horizon.

  A strong breeze picked up and Kolk stepped forward and barked:

  “RAISE THE SAILS!”

  Thor jumped into action with all the boys around him, grabbing the ropes, and hoisting them to catch the breeze. The sails caught and a gust of wind carried them. Thor felt the boat moving beneath them faster than it ever had, and they aimed for the islands. The boat rocked on huge, rolling waves, which rose up out of nowhere, gently moving up and down.

  Thor made his way towards the bow, leaned against the rail and looked out. Reese came up beside him, and O’Connor came up on his other side. They all stood side-by-side, and Thor watched as the chain of islands fast approached. They stood there in silence for a long time, Thor relishing the moist breezes as his body relaxed.

  Finally, Thor realized they aimed for one island in particular. It grew larger, and Thor felt a chill as he realized it was their destination.

  “The Isle of Mist,” Reese said, in awe.

  Thor studied it in wonder. Its shape began to come into focus-it was rocky and craggy, barren, and it stretched several miles in each direction, long and narrow, shaped like a horseshoe. Huge waves crash against its shore, rumbling even from here, creating huge sprays of foam as they met enormous boulders. There was the tiniest strip of land beyond the boulders, and then a wall of cliffs which soared straight up, high into the air. Thor did not see how their boat could safely land.

  Adding to the strangeness of this place, a red mist lingered all over the island, like a dew, sparkling in the sun. It gave it an ominous feel. Thor could sense something inhuman, unearthly, about this place.

  “They say it’s survived millions of years,” O’Connor added. “It’s older than the Ring. Older, even, than the Empire.”

  “It belongs to the dragons,” Elden added, coming up beside Reese.

  As Thor watched, suddenly the second sun plummeted in the sky; in moments the day went from sunny and bright to nearly sunset, the sky tainted with reds and purples. He could not believe it: he had never seen the sun move that quickly before. He wondered what else was different in this part of the world.

  “Does a dragon live on this isle?” Thor asked.

  Elden shook his head.

  “No. I hear it lives close by. They say that red mist is forged from a dragon’s breath. He breathes at night on a neighboring island, and the wind carries it and covers the island by day.”

  Thor heard a sudden noise; at first it sounded like a low rumble, like thunder, long and loud enough to shake the boat. Krohn, still in his shirt, ducked his head and whined.

  The others all spun and Thor turned too and looked out; somewhere on the horizon he thought he could see the faint outline of flames licking the sunset, then disappearing in black smoke, like a small volcano erupting.

  “The Dragon,” Reese said. “We are in its territory now.”

  Thor swallowed, wondering.

  “But then how can we be safe here?” O’Connor asked.

  “You’re not safe anywhere,” came a resounding voice.

  Thor spun to see Kolk standing there, hands on his hips, watching the horizon over their shoulders.

  “That is the point of The Hundred, to live with the risk of death each day. This is not an exercise. The dragon lives close, and there’s nothing to stop him from attacking. He likely will not, because he jealously guards his treasure on his own isle, and dragons don’t like to leave treasure unprotected. But you will hear his roars, and see his flames at night. And if we anger him somehow, there’s no telling what could happen.”

  Thor heard another low rumble, saw another burst of flame on the horizon, and watched as they got closer and closer to the isle, waves crashing against it. He looked up at the steep cliffs, a wall of rock, and wondered how they would ever get up to the top, to its flat and dry land.

  “But I see nowhere for a ship to dock,” Thor said.

  “That would be too easy,” Kolk shot back.

  “Then how do we get onto the island?” O’Connor asked.

  Kolk smiled down, an evil smile.

  “You swim,” he said.

  For a moment, Thor wondered if he was kidding; but then he realized from the look on his face that he was not. Thor swallowed.

  “Swim?” Reese echoed, unbelieving.

  “Those waters are teaming with creatures!” Elden said.

  “Oh, that’s the least of it,” Kolk continued. “Those tides are treacherous; those whirlpools will suck you down; those waves will smash you into those jagged rocks; the water is hot; and if you make it past the rocks, you’ll have to find a way to climb those cliffs, to reach dry land. If the sea creatures don’t get you first. Welcome to your new home.”

  Thor stood there with the others, at the rail’s edge, looking down at the foaming sea beneath him. The water swirled beneath him like a living thing, the tides growing stronger by the second, rocking the boat, making it harder to keep his balance. Down below, the waters raged, churning, a bright red which seemed to contain the blood of hell itself. Worse of all, as Thor watched closely, these waters were disturbed every few feet by the surfacing of another sea monster, rising up, snapping its long teeth, then submerging.

  Their ship suddenly dropped anchor, so far from shore, and Thor swallowed. He looked up at the boulders framing the island, and wondered how they would make it from here to there. The crashing of the waves grew louder by the second, making others have to shout to be heard.

  As he watched, several small rowboats were lowered into the water, then guided by the commanders far from the ship, a good thirty yards. They would not make it that easy: they would have to swim to reach them.

  The thought of it made Thor’s stomach turn.

  “JUMP!” Kolk screamed.

  For the first time, Thor felt afraid. He wondered if that made him less of a Legion member, less of a warrior. He knew that warriors should be fearless at all times. But he had to admit to himself that he felt fear now. He hated the fact that he did, and he wished it could be otherwise. But he did.

  But as Thor looked around and saw the terrified faces of the other boys, he felt better. All around him boys stood close to the rail, frozen in fear, staring down at the waters. One boy in particular was so scared that he shook. It was the boy from the day of the shields, the one who had been afraid, who had been forced to run laps.

  Kolk must have sensed it, because he crossed the boat towards him. Kolk seemed unaffected as the wind threw back his hair, grimacing as he went, looking ready to conquer nature itself. He came up beside him and his scowl deepened.

  “JUMP!” Kolk screamed.

  “No!” the boy answered. “I can’t! I won’t do it! I can’t swim! Take me back home!”

  Kolk walked right up to the boy, as he was beginning to back away from the rail, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and hoisted him high off the ground.

  “Then you shall learn to swim!” Kolk snarled, and then, to Thor’s disbelief, he hurled the boy over the edge.

  The boy went flying through the air, screaming, as he plummeted a good fifteen feet towards the foaming sea. He landed with a splash, then floated to the surface, flailing, gasping for air.

  “HELP!” he screamed.

  “What’s the first law of the Legion?” Kolk screamed out, turning to the other boys on ship, ignoring the boy in the water.

  Thor was dimly aware of the correct response, but was too distracted by the sight of the boy, drowning below, to answer.

  “To help a fellow Legion member in need!” Elden screamed out.

  “And is he in need?” Kolk yelled, pointing down to the boy.

  The boy raised his arms, bobbing in and out of the water, and the other boys stood on de
ck, staring, all too scared to dive in.

  At that moment, something funny happened to Thor. As he focused on the drowning boy, everything else fell away. Thor no longer thought of himself. The fact that he might die never even entered his mind. The sea, the monsters, the tides…it all faded away. All he could think of was rescuing someone else.

  Thor stepped up onto the wide, oak rail, bent his knees, and without thinking, leapt high into the air, heading face first for the bubbling red of the waters beneath him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gareth sat on his father’s throne in the Grand Hall, rubbing his hands along its smooth, wooden arms and looking out at the scene before him: thousands of his subjects were packed into the room, people flocking in from all corners of The Ring to watch this once-in-a-lifetime event, to see if he could wield the Dynasty Sword. To see if he was the Chosen One. Not since his father was young had the people had a chance to witness a hoisting-and no one seemed to want to miss it. Excitement hung in the air like a cloud.

  Gareth himself was numb with anticipation. As he watched the room continue to swell, more and more people packed inside, he started to wonder whether his father’s advisors has been right, whether indeed it had been a bad idea to hold the hoisting in the Grand Hall and to open it to the public. They had urged him to attempt it in the small, private Sword Chamber; they had reasoned that if he failed, few would witness it. But Gareth did not trust his father’s people; he felt more confident in his destiny than his father’s old guard, and he wanted the entire kingdom to witness his accomplishment, to witness that he was the Chosen One, as it happened. He had wanted the moment recorded in time. The moment his destiny had arrived.

  Gareth had entered the room with a flair, had strutted through accompanied by his advisors, wearing his crown and mantle, wielding his scepter-he wanted them all to know that he, not his father, was the true King, the true MacGil. It had not taken him as long as he had expected to feel that this was his castle, these his subjects. He wanted his people to feel it now, this show of power to be widely seen. After today, they would know for certain that he was there one and only true king.

  But now that Gareth sat there, alone on the throne, looking out at the vacant iron prongs in the center of the room in which the sword would be placed, lit up by a shaft of sunlight pouring down through the ceiling, he was not so sure. The gravity of what he was about to do weighed down on him; it would be an irreversible step, and there was no turning back. What if, indeed, he failed? He tried to push it from his mind.

  The huge door opened with a creak on the far side of the room, and with an excited hush, the room fell silent in anticipation. In marched a dozen of the court’s strongest hands, holding the sword between them, all struggling under its weight. Six men stood on each side, and they noticeably struggled under its weight. They marched slowly, one step at a time, carrying the sword towards the vacant prongs in the center of the room.

  Gareth’s heart quickened as he watched it get closer. For a brief moment, his confidence wavered-if these twelve men, larger than any he had ever seen, could barely hold it, what chance was there for him? But he tried to push these thoughts from his mind-after all, the sword was about destiny, not strength. And he forced himself to remember that it was his destiny to be here, to be the firstborn of the MacGils, to be King. He searched the crowd for Argon; for some reason he had a sudden, intense desire to seek his counsel. This was the time he needed him most. For some reason, he could think of no one else. But of course, he was nowhere to be found.

  Finally, the dozen men reached the center of the room, carrying the sword into the shaft of sunlight, and they placed it down on the iron prongs. It landed with a reverberating clang, the sound traveling in ripples throughout the room. The room fell entirely silent.

  The crowd instinctively parted ways, making a path for Gareth to walk down and try to hoist it.

  Gareth slowly rose from his throne, savoring the moment, savoring all this attention. He could feel all the eyes on him. He knew a moment like this would never come again, when the entire kingdom watched him so completely, so intensely, analyzing every move he made. He had lived this moment so many times in his mind since he had been a youth, and now it had come. He wanted it to go slowly.

  He walked down the steps of the throne, taking them one at a time, savoring each step. He walked on the red carpet, feeling how soft it was beneath his feet, closer and closer towards the patch of sunlight, towards the sword. As he walked, it was like walking in a dream. He felt outside of himself. A part of him felt as if he had walked this carpet many times before, having hoisted the sword a million times in his dreams. It made him feel all the more that he was fated to hoist it, that he was walking into destiny.

  He saw how it would go in his mind: he would step forward boldly, reach out with a single hand, and as his subjects leaned in, he would suddenly and dramatically raise it high over his head with a single hand. They would all gasp and fall to their faces and declare him the Chosen One, the most important of the MacGil kings who had ever ruled, the one meant to rule forever. They would weep with joy at the sight. They would cower in fear of him. They would thank the gods that they had lived in this lifetime to witness it. They would worship him as a god.

  Gareth approached the sword, just feet away now, and felt himself tremble inside. As he entered the sunlight, although he had seen the sword many times before, he was taken aback by its beauty. He had never been allowed this close to it before, and it surprised him. It was intense. With a long shining blade, made from a material which no one had deciphered, it had the most ornate hilt he had ever seen, wrapped with a fine, silk-like material, encrusted with jewels of every sort, and emblazoned with the falcon crest. As he took a step closer, hovering over it, he felt the intense energy radiating off of it. It seemed to throb. He could hardly breathe. In just a moment it would be in his palm. High above his head. Shining in the sunlight for all the world to see.

  He, Gareth, the Great One.

  Gareth reached out and placed his right hand on the hilt, slowly closing it, feeling every jewel, every contour as he grasped it, electrified. An intense energy radiated through his palm, up his arm, through his body. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. He knew that this was his moment. His moment for all time.

  Gareth reached down and clasped his other hand on the hilt, too. He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.

  If it please the gods, allow me to hoist this. Give me a sign. Show me that I am King. Show me that I am meant to rule.

  Gareth prayed silently, waiting for a response, for a sign, for the perfect moment. But seconds went by, a full ten seconds, the entire kingdom watching, and he heard no response.

  Then, suddenly, he saw the face of his father, scowling back at him.

  Gareth opened his eyes in terror, wanting to wipe the image from his mind. His heart pounded, and he felt it was a terrible omen.

  It was now or never.

  Gareth leaned over, and with all his might, he tried to hoist the sword. He struggled for all he had, until his entire body shook, convulsed.

  The sword did not budge. It was like trying to move the very foundation of the earth.

  Gareth tried harder still, harder, and harder. Finally, he was visibly groaning and screaming.

  Moments later, he collapsed.

  The blade had not moved an inch.

  A shocked gasp spread throughout the room as he hit the ground. Several advisers rushed to his aid, checking to see if he was okay, and he violently shoved them away. Embarrassed, he stood, bringing himself back to his own two feet.

  Humiliated, Gareth looked around at his subjects, looking to see how they would view him now.

  They had already turned away, were already filtering from the room. Gareth could see the disappointment in their faces, could see that he was just another failed spectacle in their eyes. Now they all knew, each and every one of them, that he was not their true king. He was not the destined and chosen MacGil. He was
nothing. Just another prince who had usurped the throne.

  Gareth felt himself burning with shame. He had never felt more lonely than in that moment. Everything he had imagined, from the time he was a child, had been a lie. A delusion. He had believed in his own fable.

  And it had crushed him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gareth paced in his chamber, his mind reeling, stunned by his failure to hoist the sword, trying to process the ramifications. He felt numb. He could hardly believe he had been so stupid to attempt to hoist the sword, the Dynasty Sword, which no MacGil had been able to hoist for seven generations. Why had he thought he would be better than his ancestors? Why had he assumed he would be different?

  He should have known. He should have been cautious, never should have overestimated himself. He should have been content with simply having his father’s throne. Why he had he had to push it?

  Now all his subjects knew he was not the Chosen One; now his rule would be marred by this; now, perhaps, they would have more grounds to suspect him for the death of his father. He saw that everyone looked at him differently already, as if he were a walking ghost, as if they were already preparing themselves for the next king to come.

  Worse than that, for the first time in his life, Gareth felt unsure about himself. His entire life, he had seen his destiny clearly. He had been certain he was meant to take his father’s place, to rule and to wield the sword. His confidence had been shaken to the core. Now, he was not sure about anything.

  Worst of all, he could not stop seeing that image of his father’s face, right before he’d hoisted it. Had that been his revenge?

  “Bravo,” came a slow, sardonic voice.

  Gareth spun, shocked that anyone was with him in this chamber. He recognized the voice instantly; it was a voice he had become too familiar with over the years, and one he had come to despise. It was the voice of his wife.