by Morgan Rice
As they crested a hill and the vista of the kingdom spread out before them, there came into view the sprawling, glorious city of King’s Court, with dozens of towers and spires, with its ancient stone walls and its massive drawbridge, with its arched gates, its hundreds of soldiers standing guard on the parapets and on the road, rolling farmland encasing it, and of course King’s Castle in its center. Thor thought immediately of Gwen. It was what had sustained him in battle; it was what had given him reason and purpose to live. Knowing that he was set up out there, that he was ambushed, Thor suddenly feared for her fate, too. He hoped she was okay back here, that whatever forces had put into play his treachery had left her untouched.
Thor heard a distant cheer, saw something glimmering in the light, and as he squinted his eyes at the hilltop, he realized that a great crowd was forming on the horizon, before King’s Court, lining the road, waving flags. The people were coming out in force to greet them.
Someone sounded a horn, and Thor realized they were being welcomed home. For the first time in his life, he did not feel like an outsider.
“Those horns, they sound for you,” Reece said, riding beside him, patting him on the back, looking at him with a new respect. “You are the champion of this battle. You are the people’s hero now.”
“Imagine, one of us, a mere Legion member, turning back the entire McCloud Army,” O’Connor added with pride.
“You do great honor to the entire Legion,” Elden said. “Now they will have to take all of us a lot more seriously.”
“Not to mention, you saved all of our lives,” Conval added.
Thor shrugged, filled with pride, but also refusing to allow any of this to get to his head. He knew he was human, frail, vulnerable, like any of them. And that the tide of battle could have gone the other way.
“I just did what I was trained to do,” Thor responded. “What we were all trained to do. I’m no better than anyone else. I just got lucky on this day.”
“I should say that it was more than luck,” Reece responded.
They all continued at a slow trot, down the main road leading to King’s Court, and as they did the road began to fill with people, pouring out from the countryside, cheering, waving banners, the royal blue and yellow of the MacGils. Thor realized that this was becoming a full-fledged parade. The entire court had come out to celebrate them, and he could see the relief and joy in their faces. He could understand why: if the McCloud army had come any closer, they could have destroyed all this.
Thor rode with the others through the throngs of people, over the wooden drawbridge, their horses’ hooves clomping. They passed through the arched stone gate, through the underpass, the sky going dark, then out the other side, into King’s Court-where they were met by cheering masses. They waved flags and threw candies, and a band started up, sounding cymbals, banging drums, while people broke into dance in the streets.
Thor dismounted with the others as it became too thick to ride, and he reached over and helped Krohn down from the horse. He watched carefully as Krohn limped, then walked; he seemed okay to walk now, and Thor felt relieved. Krohn turned and licked his palm several times.
The group of them walked through King’s Plaza, as Thor was hugged and embraced from every side by people he did not know.
“You have saved us!” an older man called out. “You have liberated our kingdom!”
Thor wanted to respond, but he could not, his voice swallowed by the din of hundreds of people cheering and shouting all around them, the music rising up. Soon, casks of ale were rolled out onto the field, and people burst into drinking, song and laughter.
But Thor had only one thing on his mind: Gwendolyn. He had to see her. He scanned all the faces, desperate for a glimpse of her, sure that she would be here-but he felt crushed to see that he could not find her.
Then he felt a tap on the shoulder.
“I believe the woman you’re looking for is that way,” said Reece, turning him and pointing the other way.
Thor turned and his eyes lit up. There, walking quickly towards him, wearing a huge, relieved smile and looking as if she had been up all night, was Gwendolyn.
She looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and she hurried towards him and ran right into Thor’s arms. She jumped up and embraced him, and he hugged her back, tightly, spinning her in the crowd. She clung to him and would not let go, and he could feel her tears pouring down his neck. He could feel her love, and he felt it right back.
“Thank god you are alive,” she said, overjoyed.
“I thought of nothing but you,” Thor said back, holding her tight. As he held her in his arms, everything felt right in the world once again.
Slowly, he let her go, and she stared up at him and they leaned in and kissed. They held the kiss for a long time, the masses swirling all around them.
“Gwendolyn!” Reece called out in delight.
She turned and embraced him, and then Godfrey stepped up and embraced Thor, then his brother Reece. It was a big family reunion, and Thor somehow felt as if he were a part of it, as if these were all his family already. They were all united by their love for MacGil-and by their hatred for Gareth.
Krohn stepped forward and jumped up onto Gwendolyn, and she leaned back with a laugh and hugged him as he licked her face.
“You grow bigger with each passing day!” she exclaimed. “How can I thank you for keeping Thor safe?”
Krohn jumped up on her again and again, until finally, laughing, she had to pat him down.
“Let’s leave this place,” Gwen said to Thor, being pressed from every side by the thick masses. She reached out and took his hand.
Thor reached out and took hers back, and was about to follow-when suddenly, several warriors of the Silver came up behind Thor and picked him up into the air, high above their heads, placing him on their shoulders. As Thor rose into the air, a great shout came from the crowd.
“THORGRIN!” the crowd cheered.
Thor was spun around and around, as a mug of ale was thrust into his hand. He leaned back and drank, and the crowd cheered like wild.
Thor was set down roughly, and he stumbled, laughing, as the crowd embraced him.
“We head now to the victor’s feast,” said a warrior Thor did not know, a member of the Silver, who clapped him on the back with a beefy hand. “It is a feast for warriors only. For men. You will join us. There will be a spot reserved for you at the table. And you and you,” he said, turning to Reece, O’Connor and Thor’s friends. “You are men now. And you will join us.”
A cheer rose up as they were all grabbed by members of the Silver and dragged away; Thor broke free at the last second and turned to Gwen, feeling guilty and not wanting to let her down.
“Go with them,” she said, selflessly. “It is important that you do. Feast with your brothers. Celebrate with them. It is a tradition among the Silver. You cannot miss it. Later tonight, meet me at the back door of the Hall of Arms. Then we will be together.”
Thor leaned in and kissed her one last time, holding it as long as he could, until he was tugged away by his fellow soldiers.
“I love you,” she said to him.
“I love you too,” he said back, meaning it more than she would ever know.
All he could think of, as he was dragged away, as he watched those beautiful eyes, so filled with love for him, was that he wanted, more than anything, to propose to her, to make her his forever. Now was not the right time, but soon, he told himself.
Perhaps, even tonight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gareth stood in his chamber, looking out the window at the breaking light of dawn as it rose over King’s Court, watching the masses gather below-and he felt sick to his stomach. On the horizon there sat his worst fear, the very picture of what he dreaded most: the king’s army returning, victorious, triumphant from its clash with the McClouds. Kendrick and Thor rode at its head, free, alive-heroes. His spies had already informed him of everything that had happened,
that Thor had survived the ambush, that he was alive and well. Now these men were all emboldened, returning to King’s Court as a solidified force. All of his plans had gone terribly awry, and it left a pit in his stomach. He felt the kingdom closing in on him.
Gareth heard a creaking noise in his room, and he spun and shut his eyes quickly at the site before him, stricken with fear.
“Open your eyes, son!” came the booming voice.
Shaking, Gareth opened his eyes, and was aghast to see his father, standing there, a corpse, decomposing, a rusted crown on his head, a rusted scepter in his hand. He stared back with a reprimanding look, as he had in life.
“Blood will have blood,” his father proclaimed.
“I hate you!” Gareth screamed. “I hate you!” he repeated, and pulled the dagger from his belt and charged forward for his father.
As he reached him, he sliced his dagger-though hit nothing but air, and stumbled through the room.
Gareth spun, but the apparition was gone. He was alone in the chamber. He had been alone the entire time. Was he losing his mind?
Gareth ran to the far corner of the chamber, rummaged through his dressing cabinet and extracted his opium pipe with trembling hands; he quickly lit it, and inhaled deeply, again and again. He felt the flush of drugs wash over his system, felt himself lost temporarily in the drug high. He had been turning to the opium more and more these past days-it seemed to be the only thing that helped chase away the image of his father. Gareth was tormented being here, and he was starting to wonder if his father’s ghost was trapped in these walls, and if he should move his court somewhere else. He would like to raze this building anyway-this place held every memory of his childhood that he hated.
Gareth turned back to the window, covered in a cold sweat, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He watched. The army neared, and Thor was visible even from here, the stupid masses flocking to him like a hero. It made Gareth livid, made him burn with envy. Every plan he had put into motion had fallen apart: Kendrick was freed; Thor was alive; even Godfrey had somehow managed to escape the poison-enough poison to kill a horse.
But then again, his other plans had worked: Firth, at least, was dead, and there was no witness left to prove he’d killed his father. Gareth took a deep breath, relieved, realizing things were not as bad as they seemed. After all, the convoy of Nevaruns was still en route to take away his sister, Gwendolyn, and drag her off to some horrible corner of the Ring and marry her off. He smiled at the thought, starting to feel better. Yes, at least she would be out of his hair soon enough.
Gareth had time. He would find other ways to deal with Kendrick and Thor and Godfrey-he had a myriad schemes to kill them off. And he had all the time and all the power in the world to make it happen. Yes, they had won this round, but they would not win the next.
Gareth heard another groan, spun, and saw nothing in this chamber. He had to get out of here-he couldn’t stand it anymore.
He turned and stormed from the room, the door opening before he reached it, his attendants careful to anticipate his every move.
Gareth threw on his father’s mantle, crown and scepter, as he marched down the hall. He turned down the corridors, until he reached his private dining room, an elaborate stone chamber with high arched ceilings and stained-glass windows, lit up in the early morning light. Two attendants stood waiting at the open door, and another stood waiting behind the head of the table. It was a long banquet table, stretching fifty feet, with dozens of chairs lined up on either side of it; the attendant pulled Gareth’s out for him as he approached, an ancient, oak chair that his father had sat on countless times.
Gareth sat, and he realized how much he hated this room. He remembered being forced to sit in here as a child, his entire family lined up around it, being rebuked by his father and mother. Now, the room was profoundly lonely. There was no one in here but him-not his brothers or sisters or parents or friends. Not even his advisors. Over the past days, he had managed to isolate everybody, and now he dined alone. He preferred it that way anyway-there were too many times he had seen the ghost of his father in here with him, and he had become embarrassed to cry out in front of others.
Gareth reached down and took a sip of his morning soup, then suddenly slammed his silver spoon down on the plate.
“The soup is not hot enough!” he shrieked.
It was hot, but not piping hot as he liked it, and Gareth would not tolerate one more mistake around him. An attendant ran over.
“I am sorry, my liege,” the attendant said, bowing his head as he rushed to take it away. But Gareth picked up the plate and threw the hot liquid in the attendant’s face.
The attendant grabbed his eyes, screaming, as he was scolded by the liquid. Gareth then took the plate and lifted it high over his head, and smashed it over the attendant’s head.
The attendant screamed, clutching his bloody scalp.
“Take him away!” Gareth screamed to the other attendants.
They looked at each other warily, then reluctantly took away the bloody attendant.
“Send him to the dungeons!” Gareth said.
As Gareth sat back down, trembling, the room was empty save for one attendant, who walked over to Gareth meekly.
“My liege,” he said, nervous.
Gareth looked over at him in a seething rage. As he looked over, Gareth could see his father, sitting erect at the table, a few chairs away, looking back at him and smiling an evil smile. Gareth tried to look away.
“The Lord you summoned has arrived to see you,” the attendant said. “Lord Kultin, from the Essen province. He waits outside.”
Gareth blinked several times, as he began to process what his attendant was saying. Lord Kultin. Yes, now he remembered.
“Send him in at once,” Gareth ordered.
The attendant bowed and ran from the room, and as he opened the door, in strutted a huge, fierce warrior with long black hair, cold black eyes, a long black beard. He wore full armor and a mantle, wore two long swords, one on either side of his belt, and he kept his hands resting on both of them, as if ready to defend-or attack-at any moment. He looked as if he were in a rage himself, but Gareth knew he was not-Lord Kultin had always appeared this way, ever since the time of his father.
Kultin strutted up to Gareth, stood over him, and Gareth waved his hand at an empty seat.
“Sit,” Gareth said.
“I will stand,” Kultin said back curtly.
Kultin scowled down at Gareth, and Gareth could hear the strength in his voice, and knew that this Lord was unlike the others. He was fierce, filled with bloodlust, ready to kill anyone and anything at the drop of a dime. He was exactly the type of man that Gareth wanted around.
Gareth smiled, pleased for the first time this day.
“You know why I have summoned you?” Gareth asked.
“I could guess,” Kultin answered, terse.
“I have decided to elevate you,” Gareth said. “You will be elevated beyond even the King’s Men, beyond even The Silver. From now on, you will be my personal guard. The King’s Elite. You and your five hundred warriors will be given the choicest meat, the choicest lodging and the venerable Silver Hall. The very best of everything.”
Kultin rubbed his beard.
“And what if I don’t wish to serve you?” he scowled back, challenging him, tightening his grip on his sword.
“You served my father.”
“You are not your father,” he replied.
“True,” Gareth said. “But I am far richer than he, and I pay far more handsomely. Ten times what he paid you. You and your men will live in King’s Court. You will answer to me personally-there will be no one above you. You will bring riches back to your province beyond what you’d ever imagine.”
Kultin stood there, rubbing his beard, and finally reached down and pounded a fist on the table.
“Twenty times,” he replied. “And we will kill anyone you like upon your command. We will guard you with
our lives, whether you deserve it or not. And we will kill anyone who comes near you.”
“Anyone,” Gareth insisted. “King’s soldiers or not. The Silver or not. If I tell you to kill them, you will do so.”
For the first time, Kultin smiled.
“I don’t care who I kill. As long as the price is high enough.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thor sat at the long banquet table in the Hall of Arms, surrounded by his Legion brothers, his close friends, by scores of the Silver, Kendrick across from him, Kolk and Brom nearby, and he felt more at home than he ever had in his life. The day had been a whirlwind. Before today, they had still looked at him as something of an outsider, or at best, as just another Legion member. But after today, he could see from their every glance, from the way they addressed him, that they looked at him as one of theirs. As an equal. These men, whom he had always admired, were giving him the respect he had strived for his entire life. There was nothing he’d ever wanted more than just to be here, to sit with these men, to fight by their side, and to be accepted by them.
Thor felt more weary than he’d ever had, having been awake for nearly two straight days, his body covered in bruises and cuts and scrapes, having not stopped for he did not know how long; physically, a part of him just wanted to collapse, to go to sleep and not wake for a week. But he caught a second wind, and these men and boys were more festive than he’d ever seen them. A great tension had broken, and relief filled the room. It was more than relief: it was joy. The joy of victory. The joy of saving their homeland. And it all had to do with Thor.
One after the other, members of the Silver came by, draped an arm around Thor, patted him on the back, shook him roughly, clasped forearms, and called him “Thorgrinson.” It was a title of respect, one usually reserved for adults, implying that Thor was a famed warrior. It was a title usually reserved for an elite warrior. If ever the Legion boys had used that title amongst themselves, it had been in jest; but now, these men used it with Thor with seriousness.
