by Morgan Rice
“My liege,” said yet another commoner, as he stepped before him and bowed.
Gareth sighed, bracing himself for yet another petition. All day long, petty matters had been brought before him. He’d had no idea that ruling a kingdom could be so mundane; this was never how he had envisioned being King. One person after another streamed in, all wanting answers, judgments, and an endless stream of decisions needed to be made. Everyone wanted something, and everything seemed so trivial. Gareth had imagine being king more glorious.
Gareth looked to the stained glass window, high above his head, and he longed to be outside-to be anywhere but here. He was deeply bored. He felt something stirring inside him, and whenever he felt that way, he knew he had to break up the monotony of his life and create some trouble, some havoc for those around him.
“My lord,” the commoner continued, “the land had been in my family for a thousand years.”
Gareth sighed, trying to tune it all out. These stupid peasants had been going on about some land dispute for he did not know how long. He could barely follow it, and he’d had enough. He just wanted them out of his sight. He wanted time to be alone, to think about his father, about any details of the murder that could be discovered. About whether the witch would reveal him. He had felt profoundly uneasy since their confrontation, and was feeling increasingly paranoid that a conspiracy was tightening around him. He wondered incessantly over whether he would be found out. Ousting Firth had allayed his fears somewhat, but not entirely.
“My lord, that is not true,” said another peasant. “That vineyard was planted by my father’s ancestors. It encroached on his territory only through growth. But our territory, in turn, was encroached by his cattle.”
Gareth looked down at them both, annoyed at being jolted from his thoughts. He did not know how his father had put up with all of this. He’d had enough.
“Neither of you shall have the land,” Gareth said finally, annoyed. “I declare your land confiscated. It is now property of the King. You may both find new homes. That is all-now leave me.”
The commoners stared back in stunned silence, mouths open in shock.
“My liege,” said Aberthol, his ancient advisor, who sat seated with the other councilmembers at the semi-circular table. “Something like that has never been done in the history of the MacGils. This is not royal land, that much is certain. We cannot confiscate land from-”
“I said leave me!” Gareth yelled.
“But my Lord, if you take my land, where shall I and my family go?” asked the peasant. “We have lived on that land for generations!”
“You can be homeless,” Gareth snapped, then motioned to his guards, who hurried forward and dragged the peasants from his sight.
“My liege! Wait!” one of them screamed.
But they were dragged from the room and the door slammed behind them.
The room hung with a heavy silence.
“Who else?” Gareth yelled, impatient to be done.
A group of nobles stood there, in the wings, and looked at each other hesitantly. Finally, they stepped forward.
There were six of them, barons from the northern province, aristocrats, dressed in the blue silk of their clan. Gareth recognized them instantly: the annoying lords who had burdened his father throughout his rule. They controlled the northern armies, and always held the royal family hostage, demanding as much from them as they could.
“My liege,” said one of them, a tall, thin man in his fifties with a balding head, who Gareth remembered seeing from the time he was a boy, “we have two issues to put forth today. The first is the McClouds. Reports are spreading of raids into our villages. They have never raided this far north, and it is troubling. It may be prelude to a greater attack-a full scale invasion.”
“Nonsense!” Orsefain exclaimed, one of Gareth’s new advisors, who sat to his right. “The McClouds have never invaded, and they never would!”
“With all due respect,” the lord countered, “you are too young to remember, but there have, in fact, been McCloud attempts at invasion, before your time. I remember them. It is possible, my lord. In any case, our people are alarmed. We request that you double your forces in our area, if for no other reason than to appease the people.”
Gareth sat there, silent, impatient. He trusted his young advisor, and also doubted the McClouds would invade. He saw this request merely as a way for the northern nobles to try to manipulate him and his forces. It was time to let them know who ran the kingdom.
“Request denied,” Gareth stated. “What else?”
The nobles looked at each other, unpleased. Another one of them cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“During your father’s time, my liege, taxes were raised on our province to muster the northern armies in times of trouble. Your father had always promised to reduce taxes back to what they were, and before his death, the law was about to go into effect. But it was never ratified. So we ask to you to fulfill your father’s will and lower the taxes on our people.”
Gareth resented these barons, who thought they could dictate to him how to run his kingdom. Whether they liked it or not, he was still king. He had to show them who wielded the power here. He turned to Amrold, another new advisor.
“And what do you think, Amrold?” he asked.
Amrold sat there, narrowing his eyes at the lords, scowling down. He was a perpetually unhappy person, and that was one of the reasons Gareth loved him.
“You should not lower taxes,” Amrold said, “but raise them. It’s time for the north to understand who controls this Ring.”
The nobles, along with Gareth’s elder councilmembers, all gasped in outrage.
“My liege, who are these young folk you turn to for counsel?” Aberthol asked.
“These men you see behind me are part of my new council. They shall be included in all decisions we make,” Gareth said.
“But my Liege, this is an outrage!” Kelvin said. “There have always been twelve councilmembers that advised the king, for centuries. It has never changed, not for any MacGil. It was the way your father had it, and the way we have always had it. You change the very nature of the kingship. We have been tested with years of wisdom. These new folk you bring in-they have no wisdom or experience!”
“It is my kingship to change as I will,” Gareth shot back, firmly. He figured that now was the time to put all these old folk in their place. They were all biased towards his father anyway, and they had always hated him. He could see the resentment in their every glance.
“I shall fill my council with a hundred people if I like,” Gareth added, “and turn to whomever I choose for advice. If you are unhappy, then leave now.”
The old councilmen sat at their table, facing him, and he could see the look of surprise on their faces-which was exactly what he had wanted. He wanted these new advisors to keep them on edge. He was sending them a message: they were the old guard, that they were no longer needed.
Kelvin rose from the council table.
“I resign, my lord,” he said.
“As do I,” Duwayne echoed, standing with him.
They both turned their backs on him, and strode from the room.
Gareth watched them go, his face burning with indignation.
“Guards, arrest them!” Gareth yelled.
The guards stopped them at the door, shackled them, and led them away. Gareth could hear the muted screams of those councilmembers outside the room.
The other councilmembers stood.
“My Liege, this is an outrage! How can you arrest them? You just told them to leave!”
“I told them they were free to choose to leave,” Gareth said. “But of course, that would be treason to the King. I will not abide traitors. Would any more of you like to leave?”
The councilmen looked at each other, distraught; they now had genuine doubt and fear in their eyes. They all looked like broken men-which was exactly what Gareth wanted. Inwardly, he smiled. He was dismantling his fat
her’s institutions, one person at a time.
“Be seated,” Gareth ordered.
Slowly, reluctantly, the councilmembers sat back down.
Gareth turned to the nobles, who still stood there, awaiting his response. Now they needed to be put in their place.
“Regarding your taxes,” Gareth said to them, “not only will I not lower them, but I shall raise them. As of today, your taxes are doubled. Do not come here again unless I summon you. That is all.”
The lead baron’s face quivered, then turned a shade of crimson. Gareth could see that this man was not used to being talked to in this way, and he enjoyed how upset he had made him.
“My liege, our people will not suffer this form of mistreatment.”
Gareth stood, turning red himself.
“Yes, they will suffer it. Because I am King now. Not my father. And you answer to me. Now leave me. And don’t show your face here again!”
The lords stared back at Gareth, mouths open in shock. Not a pin drop could be heard in the chamber, not among the dozens of attendants or councilmen or nobles seated and standing everywhere.
The group of nobles slowly turned, and marched out the chamber, their boots echoing. They slammed the door behind them.
As they went, Gareth noticed their conspiratorial glances. He could see in their eyes their resolve to overthrow him. He already could sense all the enemies in his court, all the plans to depose him. He would deal with each of them, one at a time. He would imprison every single one if he had to.
“Is that all then?” Gareth hastily asked the remaining councilmembers, slowly sitting back down.
“My liege,” Aberthol said, tired, his voice broken, “all that remains is the investigation into your father’s death.”
“Of what do you speak?” Gareth demanded. “The investigation is closed. My brother Kendrick has been imprisoned.”
“I’m afraid it is not so simple, my lord,” Aberthol said. “The Silver is fiercely loyal to Kendrick. They are unsatisfied with his imprisonment. The staying of the execution helped, but not for long. There is great dissatisfaction among the ranks, especially after you cut their salary, and they call for a new investigation. You risk a revolt otherwise.”
“But the vial of poison was found in Kendrick’s chamber,” Gareth protested, his heart pounding.
“Yet there remains no definitive proof linking Kendrick to the murder.”
“As of today, I declare the investigation over,” Gareth announced. “Kendrick will wallow in that dungeon every day of his life.”
“But my lord-”
“Do not bring this matter up to me again,” Gareth snapped. “Now leave me! All of you!”
Quickly, the room filed out, and Gareth found himself alone, sitting on the throne in the deep silence.
Gareth sat there, his heart pounding, seething; he had feared something like this might happen if Kendrick was not executed immediately. He fumed as he remembered, a few months ago, his mother’s sudden interference, her using her powers to prevent him from executing Kendrick. He had heard that Gwen had gotten to her, that they had teamed up to stop it. He seethed with hatred for them both. He could not be safe as long as they were alive.
He recalled his bumbled attempt to have his man torture Gwen, months back. It hadn’t worked. Perhaps now was time to try again. This time, he could outright kill her.
Gareth smiled, as a plan hardened in his mind. Yes, this time might just do the trick.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Thor stood alone at the helm of a large, empty boat, in the middle of the ocean, the tides pulling him along at tremendous speed. The sails were bent by the wind, even though there was no one but him on the boat. It was a ghost ship, and he stood at its helm, looking out at the horizon, which was covered in an unearthly mist, golds and yellows and whites sparkling in the morning sun.
As the mist drifted, the outline of an island began to take shape, more of a mountain rising up from the sea than an island, its single peak soaring into the sky. It rose higher than any mountain Thor had ever seen, and at its top sat a castle, emerging from the rock, built into the edge of a cliff. The sky was expansive, filled with greens and pale yellows, a huge crescent moon hanging in its corner. The place was eerie and mystical. It seemed alive.
As Thor stood there, his boat rocking, somehow he was not afraid. He felt the ocean taking him there, and knew that this was the place he was meant to be. He knew, somehow, that his destiny awaited him there. That it was a place he was meant to be. That, in a strange way, it was home.
Thor could not remember setting sail, or how he got on this boat, but he knew it was a journey he was meant to take. Somehow, this place had always been in his dreams, somewhere deep down in the corners of his consciousness. He felt with certainty that his mother lived there.
Thor had never really contemplated his mother before. He had always been told she had passed away in childbirth, and had always felt a supreme guilt over this. But now, as he got closer to this island, he sensed her presence. That she was waiting for him.
A huge wave suddenly lifted the boat, hoisted it higher and higher into the air, and Thor felt himself rising higher and higher in the ocean. The wave picked up speed, like a tsunami, and he rode it all the way as it brought him rushing towards the island, faster and faster.
As he got close, he began to see a figure. It was a lone figure, standing atop a cliff. A woman. She wore flowing, blue robes, her chin was lowered, and her palms were out at her side. An intense light shone from behind her, radiated from her palms, shooting out like lightning. The light shone so brightly, that as Thor looked up, trying to see her, he had to shield his eyes. He could not make out her face.
He sensed that it was her. More than anything, he wanted to see her face, to see if she looked like him.
“Mother!” he called out.
“My son,” came a soft voice from somewhere. It was the kindest, most reassuring voice he had ever heard. He longed to hear it again.
Suddenly, the wave came crashing down, and took the boat plunging down with it, and he braced himself as he headed for the rocks.
Thor woke with a start, sitting upright, breathing hard.
The dawn was breaking over the horizon, and all around him, the Legion members were strewn about, fast asleep. His mind spun with the dream: it had seemed so real.
As he got his bearings, he realized that today was the day. The final day of the Hundred. The day they had all been dreading.
He felt a hundred years older than when he’d arrived here a hundred days ago. He could not believe that he had made it, and that this was his final day. His time here had far exceeded his imagination. Each day been harder than the next, each training more grueling, pushing him and his brothers harder and harder. Days became longer and longer, as he had learned to train with every weapon known to man-and some not even known to man. They had been forced to train in every possible terrain, from swamps to glaciers, and had been screamed at from early morning to late at night. More than one of his brothers had dropped out, had been sent home alone on a small ship. Many had been injured. Two had died accidentally, slipping off a cliff on a particularly stormy day. They had all encountered trials and tribulations together, fought against monsters, survived every type of weather. This island was unforgiving, and had gone from hot to cold with no warning, seeming to have only two seasons.
As Thor sat there, Krohn beside him, a part of him dreaded this final day, wanted to lie back down, to go back to sleep-but he knew he could not. These last hundred days had forged him into a different person, and he was ready to face whatever they would throw at him.
Thor sat there in the early morning light, waiting. Soon, they would all arise, gear up, embark on their final mission. But until they did, he could revel in being the first to rise, and sit there and enjoy the silence, watch the sun break one final time over this place he had come to love.
*
Thor stood with the others on the rocky, na
rrow beach, hands on his hips, looking out at the storm tossed sea, feeling the chill in the air of the new season. He had learned to become so used to adverse weather that he no longer shivered as a freezing gale brushed across his body. He stared out at the sea, his grey eyes glistening, and felt hardened, impervious. He felt like a man.
His brothers in arms stood close by, Krohn beside him, near the fleet of small wooden boats preparing to set sail for the final test of the Hundred. They waited, all anxious, as Kolk paced among them, looking as dissatisfied and intense as ever.
“Those of you who have made it to this day might want to congratulate yourselves. Don’t. You have one final day left, and this day is what sets others apart. If you survive it, you will come back a Legion member. All the trials you have been through, they have all just been preparation for what you’re about to do.”
Kolk stopped and turned, pointing at the horizon.
“That island on the horizon,” he said, “on it lives a lone dragon, an outcast from the land of the dragons. We have lived in his shadow these past hundred days, and have been fortunate he has not attacked. Warriors do their best to avoid the place. Today, we will pay it a visit.
“This dragon jealously guards a treasure. An ancient, golden scepter. He is rumored to hide it deep in his lair. You must find the canyon, descend into it, find the scepter and return with it.”
There came a nervous murmur from the group as the boys turned and looked at each other, fear filling their eyes. Thor’s heart pounded as he looked out at the crashing sea, at the island in the distance, covered in a surreal mist, even on this clear day. He could feel its energy, even from here. Over the last hundred days his power had developed, and he was now able to be more sensitive to sensing energies, even from a distance. He could sense that a formidable creature lived on it, an ancient, primordial creature, and that they were heading into great danger.
“Man the boats and move!” Kolk commanded.
They all ran for the small rowboats, which were rocking wildly in the waters on shore, and one at a time they piled in, each boat holding about a dozen boys. Thor piled in, Krohn beside him, next to Reese, O’Connor, Elden and the twins, each sitting on a bench and grabbing an oar.
