by Morgan Rice
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 quickly 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.
He needed answers. He needed to know his future, needed to know how all of this would end.
He paced, wracking his brain, when a figure popped into his mind: the witch.
Of course, she would know.
Gareth raced across the room, stopping only to put on his crown, his mantle, to carry his scepter, without which he would go nowhere. He needed answers—and fast.
*
Gareth marched quickly through the forest trail, heading deeper and deeper into Dark Wood, trying to shake the dark thoughts that had gripped him, that seemed to hang over him like a veil. His mind had not stopped racing since his dream, and he had found no respite in any corner of the castle. Everywhere he looked, he saw another monument to his father, felt another silent rebuke to his failure as a son, and now, his failure as King. He felt increasingly that this castle was a big tomb, a monument of ghosts, and that one day it would entomb him, too.
Blood will have blood.
His father’s voice rang in his ears as he found himself reliving the dream, again and again.
As he pondered it all, pondered his failed hoisting of the Dynasty Sword, Gareth was struck with the idea that perhaps, after all, he was not destined to be King. Perhaps he was never destined to be king.
He needed prophecy, like a man in the desert needed water. The witch had seen his future when he had first visited her; he felt that she would have the answers he needed, would tell him honestly what his destiny was. Until he knew, he could not rest.
Gareth marched along the forest trail, heading deeper and deeper, ignoring the sky as it turned black, as thick clouds rolled in, and as a summer rain suddenly hailed down, lashing him. He twisted and turned through the trails of Dark Wood, trying to remember his way back. He had hoped it would be a place that he would never return to, and was unpleasantly surprised to find himself back here so quickly.
The air got colder and he sensed an evil energy getting closer. There was no doubt that this was the place. He could feel it hanging in the air, oozing onto his skin, like a slime, even from here.
As Gareth pushed deeper, hurrying between a clump of thick trees, he saw it: there, in the clearing, sat her small stone cottage. Even the trees around the clearing were recognizable: twisted into unnatural shapes, with three red trees on its edge, one in each direction.
Gareth strode across it, hurrying to her cottage, and as he reached her door, he lifted the brass knocker and slammed it several times. It echoed with a hollow thud, and he waited and waited, to no avail, getting drenched in the rain. The sky was now nearly as black as night, even though it was morning.
Gareth slammed the knocker again and again.
“OPEN THIS DOOR!” he screamed.
He was flooded with panic, wondering what he would do if she were gone from this place.
/>
He waited what felt like an eternity, and was just about to turn away, when suddenly, the door opened.
Gareth spun and looked inside.
He could see no one, nothing but blackness, the faint flicker of a candle coming from deep inside. He turned, surveyed the woods, made sure no one was watching, then he hurried inside, slamming the door behind them.
It was quiet in here, the only sound that of the rain hitting the stone roof, of the rain dripping off of him, onto the floor in a small puddle. He looked around, giving his eyes time to adjust. It was so dim in here, he could barely see the witch, on the far side of the room, could barely see her silhouette. Hunched over, fiddling with something, she looked more creepy and ominous than before. The room was filled with her stench—that of decay and rotting flesh. He could hardly breathe. He already regretted coming here. Had it been a mistake?
“So,” said the witch in her horse, mocking voice, “our new King comes to visit!”
She cackled, thrilled with her own statement. Gareth could not understand what was so funny. He hated her laughter. He hated everything about her.
“I have come for answers,” he said, taking a step towards her, trying to sound confident, trying to sound like a king, but hearing the shakiness in his own voice.
“I know why you have come, boy,” she spat. “For assurance that you will rule forever. That you will not be killed, the way you killed others. We always want for ourselves what we deny others, don’t we?”
There came a long silence, as she slowly made her way closer to him. Gareth did not know whether to run from her or rebuke her. She held a single candle up to her face, covered in warts and etched with lines.
“I cannot give you what you do not have,” she said slowly, breaking into an evil smile, revealing small, rotted teeth.
Gareth felt a chill climb up his back.
“What do you mean, ‘do not have’?” he asked.
“Destiny is what it is, boy,” she said.
“What does that mean?” he pressed urgently, having a sinking feeling. “Are you saying I’m not destined to be King?”
“There are many kings in this world. There are those greater than kings, too. Those with greater destinies—destinies that outshine yours.”
“Greater than mine?” he asked. “But I am King of the Western Kingdom of the Ring! The greatest free land left in the Empire. Who could possibly be greater than me?”
“Thorgrin,” she answered directly.
The name struck him like a knife.
“Thorgrin will be greater than you. Greater than all the MacGil Kings. Greater than any King that ever lived. And one day, you will bow down to him and beg him for mercy,” she said, her voice cackling.
Gareth felt sick at her pronouncement—most of all, because it felt so real. He could hardly conceive how it could be. Thor? An outsider boy? A mere Legion member? Greater than he? With one wave of his hand he could have him imprisoned and executed. How could he possibly be greater than he?
“Then change my destiny!” he commanded, frantic. “Make ME the greatest! Make ME hoist the sword!”
The witch leaned back and cackled, until Gareth could stand it no longer.
“You would be crushed under the weight of that sword,” she said. “You are king—for now. That should be enough. Make it enough. Because that is all you will ever have. And when what you have is done, you will pay the price. Blood will have blood.”
He felt a chill.
“What good is it to be king, if the kingship will not last?” Gareth asked.
“What good is it to live, if death must come?” she answered.
“I am your king!” he yelled. “I COMMAND YOU! HELP ME!”
He charged for her, aiming to grab her by the shoulders, to shake her into submission—but as he reached for her, he felt himself grabbing at nothing but air.
He spun around, searched the cottage—but it was empty.
Gareth turned and stumbled from the cottage, into the sky, and as he got drenched, icy water running down his face and neck, he welcomed the pouring rain. He wished it would wash away his dreams, this meeting, and everything ill he had ever done. He no longer wanted to be king. He just wanted another chance at life.
“FATHER!” he shrieked.
His voice rose up, higher into Dark Wood, louder even than the sound of the rain—and was met by the cry of a distant bird.
*
Godfrey walked quickly down the forest trail as the sky darkened and a cool wind picked up, forking onto the trail that led to Dark Wood. The wind howled and the sky grew darker as he went, and he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He could sense evil in this place. As the skies opened and rain came pouring down, now, more than ever, he wished he had a drink. Or two.
As the reality of what he was doing began to sink in, a part of him became afraid. After all, what if he found this witch, and what if he found answers he did not like. What could he really do? Was this witch dangerous? And if Gareth caught him asking, couldn’t he have him imprisoned, too, along with Kendrick?
Godfrey doubled his pace, and as he rounded a small bend, he raised his head and was shocked at the sight. He stopped in his tracks, frozen. He could not believe it. Walking towards him, head down, mumbling to himself, was none other than his brother: Gareth.
Dressed in their father’s finest robes, still wearing his father’s crown and carrying his scepter, Gareth marched towards him, alone, emerging from Dark Wood. What was he doing here?
A moment later Gareth looked up and let out a little cry, just feet away, startled to see anyone there in the wood—let alone his brother.
“Godfrey!” Gareth exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I should ask the same of you,” Godfrey responded darkly.
Gareth scowled and Godfrey could sense their old sibling rivalry rekindled.
“You ask nothing of me,” Gareth hissed. “You are my younger brother. And I am your King now, unless you have forgotten,” he said in his sternest voice.
Godfrey let out a short, derisive laugh, raspy from years of drink and tobacco.
“You are king of nothing,” Godfrey shot back. “You are just a pig. The same person you always were. You can fool the others, but not me. I never deferred to father’s command—do you really think I would defer to yours?”
Gareth reddened, turning a shade of purple, but Godfrey could see that he’d caught him. Gareth knew his own brother, and knew that Godfrey would never bow down to him.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Gareth said. “What brings you here?”
Godfrey smiled, seeing how nervous Gareth was, and realizing he had him.
“Well, funny you should ask,” Godfrey answered. “I remembered my walk the other day, bumping into you, and your evil sidekick, Firth. At the time, I thought nothing of it, of what you’d be doing out here, in Dark Wood. I must have assumed the two of you were taking a lover’s walk.”
Godfrey took a deep breath.
“But as I thought back on our father’s murder, I remembered that day. And as I thought of the vial of poison used in the attempt to kill him, it occurred to me that maybe you came all the way out here for something more. Maybe it was not just an innocent stroll. Maybe you came here for something more ominous. Something potent enough to kill our father. Maybe a witch’s brew. Maybe the same poison supposedly found in our brother Kendrick’s chamber,” Godfrey said, proud of himself for piecing it all together, and feeling more sure of it now than ever.
Godfrey watched Gareth’s eyes closely as he pronounced each word, and he could see them shifting, could see how well Gareth tried to hide his reaction; but in those eyes, he could see that he had caught him. Everything he had said was true.
“You are a paranoid, wasteful drunk,” Gareth scolded. “You always have been. You have no purpose for your life, so you imagine fancies for others. I can see that you try to make yourself important with these fanciful plots, try to be the hero of our
dead father—but you are not. You are as low as the masses. In fact, you are even lower, because you had the potential to be more. Father hated you, and no one in this kingdom takes you seriously. How dare you try to implicate me in our father’s murder? The rightful assassin is sitting in the dungeon, and the entire kingdom knows it. And babbling words from a drunk will change no one’s mind.”
Godfrey could hear, from the over-eagerness of Gareth’s tone, that he was nervous. That he knew he was caught.
Godfrey smiled back.
“It’s funny what a kingdom can believe from a drunk,” he said, “when one speaks the truth.”
Gareth scowled back.
“If you slander your King,” Gareth threatened, “you better be prepared to prove it. If not, I shall have you executed with Kendrick.”
“And who else shall you imprison?” Godfrey asked. “How many souls can you quash until our kingdom realizes that I am right?”
Gareth reddened, then suddenly brushed past Godfrey, bumping his shoulder roughly, and hurrying off down the trail.
Godfrey turned and watched him go, until he disappeared in the dark forest. He was convinced now. And more determined than ever.
He turned and looked down the trail leading towards a clearing in the distance. He knew that’s where the witch’s cottage was. He was just feet away from finding the proof he needed.
Godfrey turned and hurried down the trail, nearly running, stumbling over roots, going as fast as he could as the sky turned dark, the wind howling.
Finally, he burst through the trees, and entered the clearing. He sprinted into it, prepared to knock down the witch’s door, to confront her, to get the proof he needed.
But as he entered the clearing, he stood there, frozen in his tracks. He didn’t understand. He had been to this clearing before, had seen her cottage. But as he stood there now, the clearing was completely empty. There was no cottage, no building—nothing but grass. It was empty, surrounded by gnarled trees, three red trees. Had it disappeared?
