by Morgan Rice
“Don’t worry,” came a reassuring voice.
He turned and saw Reece standing there.
“It is not personal to you. It is just their way. Their way of breaking us down.”
“But they didn’t do it to you,” Thor said.
“Of course, they won’t touch me, because of my father. But they won’t exactly be polite, either. They want us in shape, that’s all. They think this will toughen us up. Don’t pay much attention to them.”
The boys were all marched out of their barracks and Thor and Reece fell in with them. As they stepped outside, the bright sunlight struck Thor and he squinted and held up his hands. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a wave of nausea, and he turned, bent over, and threw up.
He could hear the snicker of boys all around him. A guard pushed him, and Thor stumbled forward, back in line with the others, wiping his mouth. Thor had never felt more awful.
Beside him, Reece smiled.
“Rough night, was it?” he asked Thor, grinning widely, elbowing him in the ribs. “I told you to stop after the second cask.”
Thor felt queasy as the light pierced his eyes; it had never felt so strong as today. It was a hot day already, and he could feel drops of sweat forming beneath his leathermail.
Thor tried to remember back, to Reece’s warning of the night before—but for the life of him, he could not remember.
“I don’t remember any such advice,” Thor retorted.
Reece grinned wider. “Precisely. That is because you did not listen.”
Reece chuckled.
“And those ham-handed attempts to speak to my sister,” he added. “It was positively pathetic,” laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy so fearful of a girl in my life.”
Thor reddened as he tried to remember. But he could not. It was all hazy to him.
“I mean you no offense,” Thor said. “With your sister.”
“You cannot offend me. If she should choose you, I would be thrilled.”
The two of them marched faster, as the group turned up a hill. The sun seemed to be getting stronger with each step.
“But I must warn you: every hand in the kingdom is after her. The chances of her choosing you… Well, let’s just say they are remote.”
As they walked faster, marching across the rolling green hills of King’s Court, Thor felt reassured. He felt accepted by Reece. It was amazing to Thor, but he continued to feel that Reece was more of a brother to him than he’d ever had. As they walked, Thor noticed his three real brothers, marching close by. One of them turned and scowled back to him, then nudged his other brother, who looked back with a mocking grin. They shook their heads, and turned away. They had not so much as one kind word for Thor. But he hardly expected anything else.
“Get in line, Legion! Now!”
Thor looked up and saw several more of the Silver crowd around them, pushing the fifty of them into a tight line, double file. One man came up behind and struck the boy in front of Thor with a large bamboo rod, cracking him hard on the back; the boy cried out, and fell more tightly in line. Soon they were in two neat rows, marching steadily through the King’s ground.
“When you march into battle, you march as one!” called out Kolk, walking up and down the sides. “This is not your mother’s yard. You are marching to war!”
Thor marched and marched beside Reece, sweating in the sun, wondering where they were being led. His stomach still turned from the ale, and he wondered when he would have breakfast, when he would get something to drink. Once again, he cursed himself for drinking the night before.
As they went up and down the hills, through an arched stone gate, they finally reached the surrounding fields. They passed through another arched stone gate, and finally entered a coliseum of sorts. Clearly, the training ground for the Legion.
Before them were all sorts of targets, for throwing spears, firing arrows, hurling rocks, and piles of straw for slashing swords. Thor’s heart quickened at the sight of it. He wanted to get in there, to use the weapons, to train.
But as Thor made his way towards the training area, suddenly he was elbowed in the ribs from behind, and a small group of six boys, most of them younger, like Thor, were herded off the main line. He found himself being split from Reece, being led to the other side of the field.
“Think you’re going to train?” Kolk asked mockingly as they forked from the others, away from the targets. “It’s horses for you today.”
Thor looked up, and saw where they were headed: on the far side of the field, several horses pranced about. Kolk smiled down with an evil smile.
“While the others hurl spears and wield swords, today you will tend horses and clean their waste. We all have to start somewhere. Welcome to the Legion.”
Thor’s heart fell. This was not how he had seen it going at all.
“You think you’re special boy?” Kolk asked, walking beside him, getting close to his face. Thor sensed that he was trying to break him. “Just because the king and his son have taken a liking to you, doesn’t mean crap to me. You’re in my command now. You understand me? I don’t care about whatever fancy you pulled on the jousting ground. You’re just another little boy. Do you understand me?”
Thor swallowed as he sensed that he was in for a long, hard training.
Making matters worse, as soon as Kolk drifted away to torture someone else, the boy in front of Thor, a short stocky kid with a flat nose, turned and sneered at him.
“You don’t belong here,” he said. “You cheated your way in. You weren’t selected. You’re not one of us. Not really. None of us like you.”
The boy beside him also turned and sneered at Thor.
“We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you drop out,” he said. “Getting in is easy next to staying in.”
Thor recoiled at their hatred. He couldn’t believe he already had enemies, and didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve it. All he’d ever wanted was to join the Legion.
“Why don’t you mind for yourself,” came a voice.
Thor looked over and saw a tall, skinny redhead boy, with freckles across his face and small green eyes, sticking up for him. “You two are stuck here shoveling with the rest of us,” he added. “You’re not so special, either. Go pick on someone else.”
“You mind your business, lackey,” one of the boys shot back, “or we’ll be after you, too.”
“Try it,” the redhead snapped.
“You’ll talk when I tell you to,” Kolk yelled at one of the boys, smacking him hard upside the head. The two boys in front of Thor, thankfully, turned back around.
Thor hardly knew what to say; he fell in beside the redhead, so grateful to him.
“Thank you,” Thor said.
The redhead turned and smiled at him.
“Name is O’Connor. I’d shake your hand, but they’d smack me if I did. So take this as an invisible handshake.”
He smiled wider, and Thor instantly liked him.
“Don’t mind them,” he added. “They’re just scared. Like the rest of us. None of us quite knew what we were signing up for.”
Soon their group reached the end of the field, and Thor looked up and saw six horses, prancing about.
“Take up the reins!” Kolk commanded. “Hold them steady, and walk them around the arena until they break. Do it now!”
Thor stepped forward to grab the reins from the horse’s mouth, and as he did, the horse stepped back and pranced, nearly kicking him. Thor, startled, stumbled back, and the others in the group laughed at him. He felt himself smacked hard in the back of the head, and saw Kolk, and felt like turning and hitting him back.
“You are a member of the Legion now. You never retreat. From anybody. No man, no beast. Now take those reins!”
Thor steeled himself, stepped forward, and grabbed the reins from the prancing horse. He managed to hang on, while the horse yanked and pulled, and began to lead him around the wide dirt field, getting in line with the others
. His horse tugged at him, resisting, but Thor tugged back, not giving up so easily.
“It gets better, I hear.”
Thor turned to see O’Connor coming up beside him, smiling. “They want to break us, you know?”
Suddenly, Thor’s horse stopped. No matter how much he yanked it, this time, it would not budge. Then Thor smelled something awful; he looked back, and saw more waste coming from the horse than he ever imagined possible. It did not seem to end.
Thor felt a small shovel cast into his palm, and looked over to see Kolk beside him, smiling down.
“Clean it up!” he snapped.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gareth stood in the crowded marketplace, wearing a cloak despite the midday sun, sweating beneath it, and trying to remain anonymous. He always tried to avoid this part of King’s Court, these crowded alleyways, which stank of humanity and common man. All around him were people haggling, trading, trying to get one up on each other. Gareth stood at a corner stall, feigning interest in a vendor’s fruit, keeping his head low, his cloak on. Standing just a few feet away was Firth, at the end of the dark alleyway, doing what they had come here to do.
Gareth stood within earshot of the conversation, keeping his back to him so as not to be seen. Firth had told him of a man, a mercenary, who would sell him a poison vial. Gareth wanted something strong, something certain to do the trick. No chances could be taken. After all, his own life was on the line.
It was hardly the sort of thing he could ask the local apothecary for. He had set Firth to the task, who had reported back to him after testing out the black market. After much pointing of the way, Firth had lead them to this slovenly character, who he spoke with now, furtively, at the end of the alleyway. Gareth had insisted on coming along for their final transaction, to make sure everything went smoothly, to make sure he was not being swindled and given a false potion. Plus, he was still not completely assured of Firth’s competence. Some matters, he just had to take care of himself.
They had been waiting for this man for half an hour now, Gareth getting jostled in the busy market, praying he was not recognized. Even if he was, he figured, as long as he kept his back to the alley, if someone should know who he was, he could merely walk away, and no one would make the connection.
“Where is the vial?” Firth, just a few feet away, asked the cretin.
Gareth turned just a bit, so as not to be noticed, and peaked from the corner of his cloak. Standing there, opposite Firth, was an evil-looking man, slovenly, too thin, with sunken cheeks and huge black eyes. He looked something like a rat. He stared down at Firth, unblinking.
“Where’s the money?” he responded.
Gareth hoped Firth would handle this well: he usually managed to screw things up somehow.
“I shall give you the money when you give me the vial,” Firth held his ground.
Good, Gareth thought, impressed.
There was a thick moment of silence, then:
“Give me half the money now, and I will tell you where the vial is.”
“Where it is?” Firth echoed, his voice rising in surprise. “You said I would have it.”
“I said you would have it, yes. I did not say I would bring it. Do you take me for a fool? Spies are everywhere. I know not what you intend—but I assume it is not trivial. After all, why else buy a vial of poison?”
Firth paused, and Gareth knew he was caught off guard.
Finally, Gareth heard the distinct noise of coins clacking, and peeked over and saw the royal gold pouring from Firth’s pouch, into the man’s palm.
Gareth waited, the seconds stretching forever, increasingly worried they were being had for.
“You’ll take the Blackwood,” the man finally responded. “At your third mile, fork on the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left. You will go through the darkest would you have ever seen, then arrive at a small clearing. The witch’s cottage. She will be waiting for you—with the vial you desire.”
Gareth peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man reached out, and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.
“The money,” the man growled. “It is not enough.”
Gareth could see the fear spread across Firth’s face, and regretted having sent him for this task. This slovenly character must have detected his fear—and now he was taking advantage. Firth was just not cut out for the sort of thing.
“But I gave you precisely what you asked for,” Firth protested, his voice rising too high. He sounded effeminate. And this seemed to embolden the man.
The man grinned back, evil.
“But now I ask for more.”
Firth’s eyes opened wide with fear, and uncertainty. Then, suddenly, Firth turned and looked right at him.
Gareth turned away, hoping it was not too late, hoping he was not spotted. How could Firth be so stupid? He prayed he had not given him away.
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 t
his.
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.
