by Morgan Rice
They hurried down the corridor, out the stables, then went around to the back of the building.
There, in the large, open space, was Firth, using a pitchfork to shovel piles of hay. There seemed to be a sadness on his face.
As they approached, Firth stopped and looked up, and his eyes opened wide in surprise. And something else—perhaps fear.
Gwen could see all that she needed to in that stare. He had something to hide.
“Did Gareth send you?” Firth asked.
Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a glance.
“And why would our brother do that?” Godfrey asked.
“I’m just asking,” Firth said.
“No,” Gwen said. “He did not. Were you expecting him to?”
Firth narrowed his eyes, looking back and forth to the two of them. He slowly shook his head, then fell silent.
Gwen exchanged a look with Godfrey, then turned back to Firth.
“We’ve come here on our own,” she said. “To ask you some questions about our father’s murder.”
She watched Firth carefully and could tell he was nervous. He fidgeted with the pitchfork.
“Why would you ask me?”
“Because you know who did it,” Godfrey said flatly.
Firth stopped fidgeting and looked at him, real fear in his face. He gulped.
“If I knew that, my lord, it would be treason to hide it. I could be executed for that. So the answer is no. I do now know who did it.”
Gwen could see how nervous he was, and she took a step closer to him.
“What are you doing out here, tending hay?” she asked, realizing. “A few months ago, you were always by Gareth’s side. In fact, after he became king, he elevated you, if I’m not mistaken.”
“He did, my lady,” Firth said meekly.
“Then why has he cast you out, relegated you to this? Did you two have a falling out?”
Firth’s eyes shifted, and he swallowed, looking from Gwen to Godfrey.
He remained silent, though.
“And what did you two have a falling out about?” Gwen pressed, following her instinct. “I wonder if it had something to do with my father’s assassination? Something to do with the cover up, perhaps?”
“We did not have a falling out, my lady. I chose to come and work here.”
Godfrey laughed.
“Did you?” Godfrey asked. “You were tired of being in the King’s Castle, so you chose instead to come out here and shovel crap in the stables?”
Firth looked away, reddening.
“I will ask you just one more time,” Gwen said firmly. “Why did my brother send you here? What did you two argue over?”
Firth cleared his throat.
“Your brother was upset that he was unable to wield the Dynasty Sword. That’s all it was. I was a victim of his wrath. It is nothing more, my lady.”
Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a look. She sensed there was some truth to that—but that he was hiding something still.
“And what do you know of the missing dagger from Gareth’s stable?” Godfrey asked.
Firth swallowed.
“I know nothing of a missing dagger, my Lord.”
“Don’t you? There are only four on the wall. Where is the fifth?”
“Perhaps Gareth used it for something. Perhaps it is lost?” Firth said weakly.
Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a look.
“It’s funny you should say that,” Gwen said, “because we just spoke to a certain servant who gave us a different account. He told us about the night of our father’s murder. A dagger was thrown down, into the waste pit, and he saved it. Do you recognize it?”
She reached down, unwrapped the knife and showed it to him.
His eyes opened wide, and he looked away.
“Why do you carry that, my lady?”
“It’s interesting you should ask,” Gwen said, “because the servant told us something else,” Gwen lied, bluffing. “He saw the face of the man who threw it down. And it was yours.”
Firth’s eyes opened wider.
“He has a witness, too,” Godfrey added. “They both saw your face.”
Firth looked so anxious, it looked as if he might crawl out of his skin.
Gwen took a step closer. He was guilty, she could sense it, and she wanted to put him away.
“I will only ask you one last time,” she said, her voice made of steel. “Who murdered our father? Was it Gareth?”
Firth gulped, clearly caught.
“Even if I knew something of your father’s murder,” Firth said, “it would do me no good to speak of it. As I said, the punishment is execution. What would I stand to gain?”
Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a look.
“If you tell us who was responsible for the murder, if you admit that Gareth was behind it, even if you took some part in it, we will see to it that you are pardoned,” Gwen said.
Firth looked at her, eyes narrowing.
“A full pardon?” he asked. “Even if I had some role in it?”
“Yes,” Gwen answered. “If you agree to stand as witness against our brother, you will be pardoned. Even if you are the one who wielded the knife. After all, our brother is the one who stood to gain from the murder, not you. You were just his lackey.
“So now tell us,” Gwen insisted. “This is your last chance. We already have proof linking you to the murder. If you remain silent, you will certainly wallow in prison for the rest of your life. The choice is yours.”
As she spoke, Gwen felt a strength rising through her, the strength of her father. The strength of justice. In that moment, for the first time, she actually felt like she might be able to rule.
Firth stared back for a long time, looking back and forth between Gwen and Godfrey, clearly debating.
Then, finally, Firth burst into tears.
“I thought it was what your brother wanted,” he said, crying. “He put me up to getting the poison. That was his first attempt. When it failed, I just thought…well… I just thought I would finish the job for him. I held no ill will against your father. I swear. I’m sorry. I was just trying to please Gareth. He wanted it so badly. When he failed, I couldn’t stand to see it. I’m sorry,” he said, weeping, collapsing on the ground, sitting there, hands on his head.
Godfrey, to Gwen’s surprise, rushed over, grabbed Firth roughly by the shirt, and yanked him to his feet. He held him tight, scowling down at him.
“You little shit,” he said. “I should kill you myself.”
Gwen was surprised to see how angry Godfrey was, especially considering his relationship with their father. Maybe, deep down, Godfrey held stronger feelings for their father than even he realized.
“But I won’t,” Godfrey added. “I want to see Gareth hang first.”
“We promised you a pardon, and you will get one,” Gwen added, “assuming you testify against Gareth. Will you?”
Firth nodded meekly, looking down, avoiding their gaze, still weeping.
“Of course you will,” Godfrey added. “If you don’t, we will kill you ourselves.”
Godfrey dropped Firth, and he collapsed back down to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he said, over and over. “I’m sorry.”
Gwen looked down at him, disgusted. She felt overwhelmed with sadness, thinking of her father, a noble, gallant man, having to die by this pathetic creature’s hand. The dagger, still in her hand, positively shook, and she wanted to plunge it into Firth’s heart herself.
But she did not. She wrapped it up carefully, and stuck in her waistband. She needed the evidence.
Now they had their witness.
And now it was time to bring down their brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Thor stood at the helm of the ship, the sails full, the boat cruising beneath him, and his heart swelled as he saw, on the horizon, his homeland appearing. The Ring. It had been a long journey home, he and the Legion leaving the Isle of Mist in rough waters, fighting their way out to
sea, then fighting their way through the rain wall. They had entered the open waters into a thick fog, and fog had enveloped them nearly the entire way home, luckily for them, allowing them to escape detection from the Empire the entire way back.
Now, with the Ring in sight, the two suns broke free, revealing a clear and perfect day. The wind caught, and the sails allowed them all a happy break from rowing. As Thor stood there, Krohn beside him, his bigger and stronger legs braced more sturdily on the wood, he stood taller, straighter, his shoulders broader, his jaw more full, and he stared with his narrow gray eyes at his homeland, his hair blowing in the wind.
In his palm he held the sparkling Orethist stone he’d salvaged from the dragon’s shore. He could feel its power pulsing through him, and he smiled in anticipation as he imagined giving it to Gwen. He had been unable to shake her from this thoughts the entire ride home, and he realized now that she, more than anything else back home, was what mattered to him most, what he looked forward to most. He hoped that she still cared for him. Maybe she had moved on. After all, she was a Royal—she must have been introduced to hundreds of other boys in the meantime. He squeezed the jewel harder, closed his eyes, and silently prayed that she still cared for him even a fraction as much as he did for her.
He opened his eyes and on the horizon spotted the thick wood outlining the shores of the Ring. He breathed. It had been a long hundred days, the longest of his life, and he still could not believe he had survived it. He felt proud to be coming home, proud to have survived, and proud to be a true member of the Legion. He recalled the journey left to take through the woods, across the Canyon, back inside the energy shield of the Ring. He remembered how frightened he had been upon first leaving the Canyon, and marveled at how differently he felt now. He no longer held any fear. After his hundred days of grueling training, of every sort of combat, after facing the Cyclops and most of all, the Dragon, he realized that nothing scared him anymore. He was beginning to feel like a warrior.
Thor heard a familiar screeching noise, and looked up to see Ephistopheles. She was circling high above, following the ship. She swooped down and landed on the ship’s rail, close by. She turned and screeched, looking right at Thor.
Thor was elated to see her, a reminder of home.
Just as quickly, she lifted into the air, flapping her wide wings. He knew he would see her again.
Thor reached down and lay a free hand on the hilt of his new sword. When they had finished the Hundred, before they had boarded the ships to return home, the Legion commanders had given each of the surviving boys a weapon, a token to symbolize that they were now full Legion members. Reese had been given a bejeweled shield; O’Connor, who walked now with a limp, still recovering from the dragon’s blow, had been given a mahogany bow and arrow; Elden had been given a mace with a spiked silver ball—and Thor had been given this sword, its hilt wrapped with the finest silk, bejeweled, its blade sharper and smoother than any he had seen. Holding it in his hand, it felt like air.
As he squeezed its hilt tighter, he felt that he was now part of the Legion, a part of this band of brothers forever. They had gone through things together that no one else would ever understand. Thor looked over his brethren and could see that they looked older, too, stronger, toughened. They all looked like they had been through hell. And they had. He thought of all the brothers they had lost back there, boys they had started out with on this boat and who were not returning; boys who had dropped out along the way from cowardice; and boys who had been killed. It was sobering. Today was a cause for celebration—but it was also a cause for mourning. Not all of them had made it back. The weight of it was carried by all the Legion members, and Thor could detect a more serious, more mature look to them, the youthful giddiness they’d had just months ago gone, replaced with something else. A sense of mortality.
Thor would do anything now for these boys, his real brothers. And they all, since his rescuing them from the dragon, looked at him with a new respect. Maybe, even, with a sense of awe. Even Kolk looked at him differently, with something like respect, and he had not reprimanded him once since.
Finally, Thor felt like he belonged. Whatever enemies he faced on shore no longer scared him. In fact, now, he welcomed combat.
Now, he understood what it meant to be a warrior.
*
Thor rode on horseback with the Legion, Reese on one side of him, O’Connor, Elden and the twins on the other, Krohn following below, all of them walking on the path towards King’s court. He could hardly believe his eyes: before him, stretched as far as the eye could see, stood thousands of people, lining the road, screaming in adulation at their return. They waved banners, tossed candies at them, threw flower petals in their path. Military drums beat with precision, and cymbals and music rang out. It was the grandest parade that Thor had ever seen, and he rode at the center of it, surrounded by all his brothers.
Thor had not expected a return welcome like this. Luckily, there journey back through the Canyon had been uneventful, and he had been shocked as they had crossed the bridge and the hundreds of King’s soldiers had lowered their heads in deference to them. To them, boys. The guards had reached out and lowered their halberds, one at a time, in honor and respect. As Thor had walked through them, he had never felt more accepted, more of a sense of belonging, in his life. It made him feel that every minute of every hardship had been worth it. Here he was, respected by these great men, now a part of their ranks. There was nothing he had ever wanted more in life.
As they’d all set foot back on the safety of their side of the Canyon, they had been met with another surprise: there was a fleet of horses awaiting them, the most beautiful horses Thor had ever seen. Now, instead of having to tend the horses, to shovel their waste, Thor had been given one to ride himself. It was a thing of splendor, with a black hide and a long, white nose. He had named him Percival.
They had ridden for most of the day, cresting a small hill before reaching King’s Court. When they’d reached its peak, Thor’s breath had been taken away: as far as the eye could see, the masses lined King’s Road, cheering them. The horizon was filled with Fall foliage and flowers, and it was a perfect day. They had left at Summer and returned at Fall, and the change was shocking.
As they all rode their horses now through the parade in King’s Court, the sun beginning to set, Thor felt as if he were in a dream.
“Can you believe this is for us?” O’Connor asked, walking on his horse beside Thor.
“We’re Legion members now,” Elden said. “Real Legion members. If there’s a war, we’re called upon as reserves. We’re not just trainees anymore: we’re soldiers, too.”
The masses cheered as they passed through, but as Thor looked over the faces, he was looking for only one person: Gwendolyn. It was all he thought of. Not riches or fame or honor, or any of it. He just wanted to see her, to know that she was still here, that she still cared for him.
The cheers reached a crescendo as the group reached King’s Gate and crossed the wooden bridge, the bridge echoing beneath the weight of the horses’ hooves. They continued on through the soaring arched stone, beneath the rows of iron spikes. They proceeded through the darkened part of the tunnel, then came out the other side, into King’s Court.
As they did, they were met with a cheer, masses flooding the plaza from every direction, calling out their names. Thor was even amazed to hear some people call out his name—he could hardly believe that anyone even knew who he was.
As they continued into the plaza, Thor saw that banquet tables had been prepared for the festivities. He was beginning to realize that this day had been declared a holiday, and that all these festivities were just for them. It was hard to fathom.
They reached the center of the plaza, and standing there, waiting to greet them, was Brom, the lead general of all the armed forces. He was surrounded by his top generals, and by dozens of members of The Silver, and one by one, the boys dismounted and walked towards them, stopping at attention as th
ey lined up.
Kolk walked around and stood beside Brom, and the two of them stood side by side, facing the boys. The crowd fell silent.
“Men,” Brom called out, “for from now on you shall be called men—we welcome you home as members of the Legion!”
The crowd cheered, and knights of The Silver stepped forward and pinned each boy with a pin, a black falcon holding a sword, the emblem of the Legion, on their left breast, above their hearts. Each Legion member was pinned by the knight he was squire to—and Thor was upset that Erec and Kendrick were both not there to pin him. Kolk, in their place, stepped forward and pinned him. He looked down and, to Thor’s surprise, slowly broke into a smile.
“You’re not half bad,” he said.
It was the first time Thor had ever seen him smile. Then Kolk quickly frowned and hurried off.
The masses cheered, and musicians started up, drums and lutes and cymbals and harps, and the crowd broke into celebration.
Casks of ale were rolled out onto the fields, and a foaming glass of ale was soon shoved into Thor’s hand. Within moments, it became an all-out party.
Someone came up behind Thor and lifted him up onto his shoulders, and Thor found himself hoisted in the air, along with this brethren, holding his glass of ale as it spilled, laughing as he was jostled in the air. Thor reached over and clinked glasses with Reese, also on a stranger’s shoulders, off-balance, laughing. He swayed and eventually fell off, landing on his feet with the others.
Songs and dancing broke out everywhere, and Thor found himself locking arms with some woman he did not recognize, a stranger who grabbed his arm and danced with him in circles, spinning him around and around, in one direction, then the other. Thor, caught off guard, finally broke away; he did not want to dance with her. Although all the other Legion members were dancing with random strangers, Thor did not want to be with anyone else. He only wanted Gwendolyn.
He searched for her frantically through the crowd. Had she come? Was she still interested in him?
The crowd grew rowdier, and the sun began to set, torches were lit and the drink grew stronger. Jugglers appeared, throwing flaming sticks, sporting events ensued, and huge spits of meat were rolled out. Thor was thrilled to be in the middle of it—but without seeing Gwendolyn, something was missing.
