by Morgan Rice
“My sister,” he repeated. “You do me a great service to come here.”
“The service is to myself,” she replied. “It is an honor to see you. I’m sorry I’ve not come sooner.”
“I’m amazed you were able to come at all,” he said, clasping her hand in both of his. His voice was weak and raspy, and she reached into her shirt and pulled out treats she hid for him. She slid it between the bars, and he looked down in wonder.
“Dried venison,” she said. “Your favorite. Enough to give you strength.”
He grabbed it and immediately took a bite, tearing the meat off the stick. He gulped it down, starving.
Gwen reached into her pocket and extracted a sack of water, and he drank. Then she reached into her waist and grabbed a pouch.
“I wanted you to have something sweet,” she said, smiling. “Honey cakes. I pressed them myself.”
She handed him the pouch, and his eyes welled with tears.
“You do our father a great honor,” he said. “You know that I did not kill him, don’t you?” he asked desperately.
She nodded.
“Of course. Or else I would not be here.”
He nodded back. The sight of him down here nearly brought tears to her eyes; it made her madder at Gareth than ever. She burned at the unfairness of it all.
“Gareth considers us a threat,” she said. “That is why you are here.”
Kendrick stared back.
“That has always been his nature,” he said. “His entire life’s ambition has been our father’s throne. And why would he feel threatened by everyone around him, unless he himself had a hand in the murder?”
Gwen stared back meaningfully.
“I’ve been thinking the same thoughts,” she said. “After all, who else stands to gain?”
“But you must prove it. You must find the murder weapon,” Kendrick said. “The dagger used to kill him. The one that is missing. That will be the key.”
“Have you any idea where to look?” she asked.
Disappointingly, he shook his head.
“Gareth probably disposed of it, or had it disposed of,” he answered. “And without it, it will be very hard to prove anything. It is all circumstantial. And until they prove anything, I may be down here until my execution.”
It broke Gwen’s heart to think of it, and she felt a chill race through her body.
“I will not allow it!” Gwen cried out. “I will find a way to stop him. I promise you. I will.”
Kendrick shook his head.
“I wish I shared your optimism, but you are up against forces greater than you can imagine. There is a conspiracy to cover up the death of our father, and its tentacles, I am sure, reach deep. Be careful in how you tread. Do not underestimate Gareth’s villainy. Remember, you are up against the dragon?”
“The dragon?” Gwen asked.
“There are many types of dragons in this world. The evil of men’s smiles can be more insidious than the fiercest dragon in the wild.”
Gwen sighed, thinking about that. She knew he was right.
“There must be some way, someone who can help us get you out of here,” she said.
As he stood there, shaking his head, suddenly, she had a flash of inspiration.
“Mother,” she said, dreading it even as she spoke the words. If there was anyone she hated more than Gareth, it was her mother, and the one good thing that had come from her father’s death was her mother’s catatonic state, her leaving her alone. She had vowed to never see her again, and the idea of talking to her made her feel physically ill. But for Kendrick, she would do it.
“I don’t know how she could help,” Kendrick said. “She has been unable to speak since the death of our father. And even if she were, Gareth is king now. She is no longer queen. Her remaining influence, if any, is finite.”
“But she was queen only days ago,” Gwen countered. “Many people still answer to her, still fear and respect her and will defer to her wishes-especially those loyal to our father.”
Kendrick nodded back.
“I concede there is a chance,” he said.
He reached out, and grabbed both of her hands in his.
“Whatever happens, I want you to know that our father was right to choose you as the next ruler. I didn’t see it before, but I see it now. He had been right all along.”
Gwen looked back to him, her heart welling with gratitude.
“Also know that I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too,” she said, her eyes welling up. “Know that I will not let you die in here. I will allow myself to die first.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thor descended down the mountain for the caves of the Cyclops, the sunset sky breaking all around him, lighting the world in a million shades of scarlet, and he felt as if he were being marched to his death-as if he were descending into hell itself.
He marched, the Legion members a safe distance behind him, Malic beside him, both of them still bound, Krohn to his side, the shouts of the beast, concealed in the cave, growing louder. The earth trembled as they went, and Thor could only imagine the ire of this beast.
Thor hated Malic with a passion reserved for no other. He had been unfairly setup because of him, unfairly accused, dragged into this, his potential death. Thor only prayed that the legend of the Cyclops held true-and that only the guilty one would be killed.
Thor thought back to that scene on the sparring field, and he remembered Malic’s trying to kill him first. He still didn’t really understand what had happened, or why.
“Before we are sent to our deaths,” Thor said to Malic, walking side by side, “tell me one thing. Why did you do it? Why did you try to kill me back there? And when you failed, why did you then kill that man?”
Malic continued walking, and, to Thor’s surprise, even as he was being marched to his death, he smiled, as if he enjoyed this. This boy was truly sick.
“I never liked you,” Malic said. “From the moment I met you. But that was not the reason. I was paid handsomely for it-to kill you.”
Thor was aghast.
“Paid?” he asked.
“You have very rich enemies. I gladly took their fee for attempting something I wanted to do myself.”
“Then why did you kill that man I was wrestling with?” Thor asked. “What has he to do with me?”
“When I missed my chance to kill you,” Malic said, “I figured my next best chance was to kill him and pin it on you. Then the warriors would kill you, and save me the trouble.”
Thor frowned.
“Well it didn’t work out that way, did it?” Thor asked.
“You will die by the Cyclops hand,” Malic said.
“But so will you,” Thor countered.
Malic shrugged.
“Everybody has to die sometime,” he said, then fell into silence.
Thor could not understand him-he truly seemed apathetic to life. He wondered what evil had befallen him to make him this way.
“Just tell me one more thing before your death,” Thor urged. “Who paid you? Who are my enemies?”
Malic continued walking, silent. Clearly, he was done speaking.
“Well,” Thor concluded, “I hope you’re satisfied. Now you’re going to get us both killed.”
“Wrong,” Malic said. “I don’t believe in legends and fairytales. The monster won’t kill me. I am stronger than any monster. It will only kill one of us. And it will be you.”
Thor looked at him with a hatred beyond calculation.
“I would kill you right now, if I could,” Thor said.
Malic smiled.
“Then too bad we are both bound.”
They continued marching, silently, getting ever closer, the sky turning darker, and the monster’s roars growing louder.
“I like you,” Malic said, surprising Thor. “In another life, we would be friends.”
Thor looked at him, unbelieving.
“You are sick,” Thor said. “I don�
�t understand you. You said you hated me. We would never be friends. I am not friends with liars-or murderers.”
Malic threw his head back and laughed loudly.
“Lying and murdering is the way of the world,” he answered. “At least I am bold enough to admit it. Everyone else hides and cowers behind a facade.”
The two of them continued marching, farther and farther down the hill, getting closer to the cave of the Cyclops. The sky morphed into a brilliant, glowing red, looking as if it were on fire. Thor could not help but feel as if he were walking into the very pit of hell.
Finally, the ground leveled out, the cave hardly thirty yards before them, and they stopped as two warriors came up behind them and cut their ropes, freeing their hands. The warriors turned and ran back uphill, to the large crowd of Legion members who watched at a safe distance uphill.
Thor and Malic glanced at each other, then Thor turned and marched boldly right up to the huge cave. Malic followed. If Thor was going to die, he would do so bravely. Krohn walked beside him, growling.
“Go back, Krohn!” Thor commanded, wanting to spare him.
But Krohn refused to leave his side.
There came another earth-shattering roar, and it was enough to make Thor want to stop in his tracks. Beside him, Malic continued marching, relaxed, with a smile on his face, as if happy to meet the monster. Maybe he was happy to meet his death, Thor thought. He seemed suicidal.
Thor’s mind raced as they approached the cave. The opening was so high, soaring at least thirty feet, it was ominous; it made Thor wonder about the size of the creature that lived within it. He wondered if these would be his last moments on earth, if he would die this way, down here, in this cave, on this island. All because of Malic, because of a crime he did not commit. He wondered about his fate and destiny, if it had all been wrong. After all, Argon had never seen this, had never seen his encounter with the Cyclops-or at least had never warned him of it. And Thor had never seen it himself. Was his power not as strong as he thought? Was this where it would all end? Or had his fate changed somehow?
For the first time since he had embarked, Thor took seriously the idea that he might not return. For some reason, he thought of Gwendolyn. He thought of her waiting for him, of his never showing up, of his not returning for her. It broke his heart.
Before he could finish the thought, suddenly, from out of the cave came the largest beast Thor had ever seen. The Cyclops took three huge steps, ducking his head, unbelievably, despite the thirty foot opening, then raising himself to his full height as he stepped outside. He was enormous, like looking up at a mountain.
As he stepped, the earth shook. He leaned back and roared, and it felt as if it would shatter Thor’s eardrums. Thor’s body froze with fright. Finally, Malic’s did, too. He stood there, open-mouthed, staring up, his sword hanging limp in his hand. Krohn snarled, fearless.
The Cyclops must have been fifty feet tall. He was broader and thicker than an elephant, the grey skin on his muscles rippling, his one eye blinking madly, and had two huge fangs, each the size of Thor. He leaned his head back and roared again, his hands bunched into fists, his arms rising high then coming down, too fast, like tree trunks, swinging right for Thor and Malic.
Thor jumped out of the way just in time, as the monster’s fists slammed into the earth, creating a huge crater, shaking the ground so hard that Thor stumbled. Malic barely escaped, too.
Thor looked at the short sword in his hand, at the sling at his waist, and wondered how he could ever combat this creature. He was a speck next to this beast; Thor doubted his sword could even puncture its skin. It would take an army, and an arsenal of weapons, to even attempt to kill it.
Malic threw caution to the wind. He raised his sword, and with a battle cry, charged the creature, attempting to puncture the beast in its shin. But he did not even get close: the beast merely swatted him away, and Malic went flying, landing hard on the ground, rolling and tumbling.
The beast turned to Thor. It charged him, the ground shaking as it went, and Thor was too frozen with fear to move. Thor wanted to turn and run, but he forced himself to stand in place, to hold his ground. There were too many eyes watching him; he could not let down his Legion brothers. He remembered what one of his trainers taught him: it was okay to feel fear-but it was not okay to give into it. That was the code of a warrior.
So instead, Thor forced himself to be strong. He forced himself to draw his sword, to step forward, and swing for the monster’s calf. It was a direct hit.
But the monster’s skin was so thick, the sword merely bounced off, falling from Thor’s hands. It was like striking stone. Thor scurried to pick it up again. The creature, angered, swung its huge fist at Thor; Thor managed to duck, and he saw his chance. He darted forward, raised his sword high, and plunged it in the beast’s smallest toe.
The beast shrieked as rivers of blood poured out. It was an awful noise, shaking Thor to the very core-so horrific, Thor almost wished he had never attacked it.
The beast was much faster than Thor had anticipated. Before Thor could react, he swept down again with one hand, and this time grabbed Thor and hoisted him high into the air. He squeezed Thor so hard, he could barely breathe.
The beast raised Thor higher up, all the way.
Krohn, down below, snarled and charged the Cyclops. He sank his teeth into its toe, and dug in, shaking it, until finally the Cyclops, infuriated, threw Thor down.
Thor felt himself go flying through the air and land hard on the ground, rolling several times, covered in dust, winded.
The beast roared again, then reached down and swiped for Krohn, who got out of the way just in time. It then yanked Thor’s short sword out from his toe as if it were a toothpick, and snapped the sword in half with a single hand.
The beast stepped towards him, and as Thor lay there, watching, helpless, he was sure he was dead.
But then the beast surprised him. It stopped, turned and looked at Malic instead. In one quick motion, it swooped down, grabbed Malic, and lifted him high into the air, squeezing him harder than he had Thor. Malic shrieked, and Thor could hear his ribs breaking even from here.
The beast held Malic close, right to his face, as if relishing this. Malic squirmed in his arms, but it was useless.
The beast suddenly pulled Malic to him, opened his mouth, revealing rows of jagged teeth, then brought Malic face first into his mouth. He chomped down, biting off Malic’s head. Blood came gushing down like a river. It happened so fast, Thor could barely process what he had witnessed.
The Cyclops dropped to the ground what was left of Malic’s body.
It then stopped and turned to Thor, staring at him, and Thor’s heart slammed in his chest. He prayed that the legend was true, that the monster would only kill the guilty.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the beast slowly turned its back, and marched to its cave. Thor held his breath, beginning to realize that the nightmare was over.
Thor could not believe it. His trial had taken place, in the eyes of his brethren, and he had been vindicated. He would live.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gareth walked slowly into the throne room, needing time to be alone, to gather his thoughts, to remember why he wanted to be King. He entered the immense chamber, with its vaulted ceilings, stone floor and walls, and crossed it slowly, head down, his mind racing as he walked in the path his father had so many times.
Halfway across the room, Gareth looked up-and froze in place.
To his surprise, his throne had been turned around in the middle of the night, so its back was to him. Even more surprising, there was somebody sitting in it. In his throne.
Gareth could see the outline of a body, the arms resting on its arms, and he burned with rage, wondering who could be so impudent as to sit on a king’s throne. He also was puzzled as to how they had managed to turn around the throne, this ancient seat that had been rooted to its place for a thousand years.
Gareth walked quic
kly towards it, prepared to confront the intruder.
As he reached the base of the steps, to his shock, the throne suddenly spun around. On it, facing him, looking down, sat his father, his eyes open in disapproval.
Gareth stood unmoving, breathless, feeling as if a sword had been thrust into his chest. His feet were stuck to the floor: he could not get himself to pick them up, to put one after the other to ascend the stairs. After all, it was his father’s throne. And now his father was seated in it. He did not know how it was possible.
“The weight of my blood hangs on you,” his father proclaimed. “It is a weight you will not escape. Blood will have blood.”
Gareth blinked-and when he opened his eyes, the throne sat empty. He breathed hard, looking all around, wondering what had happened. He felt a presence lingering in the air, but his father was nowhere to be seen.
Legs shaking, Gareth ascended the ivory steps, one at a time, tentative, until finally he reached the throne. He sat in it, slowly, afraid to lean back. Gradually, he did, and looked out over the empty room.
Suddenly, he felt a horrific pain in his hands, his forearms, his thighs, even the back of his head. He looked down and saw the throne was now covered in thorns, growing thicker by the moment, rising up like an unstoppable vine, wrapping themselves around him, chaining him to it. The thorns grew wildly, embracing him, squeezing him, until he was bleeding all over his body. He struggled, leaned back and shrieked from the pain-until finally the thorns rose up and wrapped themselves around his mouth.
Gareth woke screaming.
He jumped from his bed in the muted light of dawn and paced his room, breathing hard. He made his way to the far wall, leaned a palm against the stone, and bent over, gasping for air.
It had felt so real, all of it. He spun around his room, almost expecting his father to be in it.
But he was not. He was alone.
Gareth felt haunted. He had an awful, sinking feeling that his father’s spirit would not let him rest. Would never let him rest.
