by Morgan Rice
“Will I survive it?” he asked, hoping for a response.
“Your time to die has not yet come,” Argon responded slowly.
Thor felt immensely relieved to hear that, and surprised that Argon would give him a straight answer. He decided to push his luck.
“Will I also become a member of the Legion?” he asked.
“That, and much more,” Argon replied.
Thor’s spirits lifted even higher. He could not believe he was getting answers out of Argon. He felt a sudden burning curiosity to know why Argon was here. He knew he would not have come here, would not be talking to him, unless he had something important to say.
“Do you see the horizon?” Argon asked. “Beyond the Dragon’s breath? Past the flames? Out there, in the blackness, lies your destiny.”
Thor sensed what he was speaking of. He remembered MacGil’s dying words, about his destiny, about his mother.
“My mother?” Thor asked.
Slowly, Argon nodded.
“She is alive? She is out there? In the Land of the Druids? Is that it?”
Argon turned to him, his eyes aglow.
“Yes,” he answered. “She awaits you even now. You have a great destiny to fulfill.”
Thor was excited beyond belief at the idea of his mother being alive somewhere in the world, at the idea of meeting her, discovering who she was. He was excited at the idea that someone was awaiting him, that someone cared for him. But he was also confused.
“But I thought my destiny was back home, in the Ring?” Thor asked.
Argon shook his head.
“A greater part awaits you out there. Greater than you can ever imagine. The fate of the Ring rests on it. There is great unrest at home. The Ring needs you.”
Thor could scarcely comprehend it. How could the Ring need him, just a single boy?
“Tell me, Thor, what do you see? Look into the blackness. Close your eyes. What do you see in the Sorcerer’s Ring?”
Thor did as instructed, closing his eyes, breathing deeply. He tried to focus, to allow whatever it was to come to him.
But whatever power he had, he could not summon it. He could not focus.
“Be patient,” came Argon’s voice. “Don’t force it. Allow it to come to you. You can see it. I know you can.”
Thor kept his eyes closed, breathed, again and again, and tried to let go of controlling it.
Then, he was shocked. He began to see something. Great visions, lucid, as if he were witnessing them. He saw destruction in the Ring. Murders. Fires. Rubble. He was horrified.
“I see great calamity,” he said, struggling to comprehend his visions. “I see death. Battle. Destruction. I see the kingdom collapsing.”
“Good,” Argon said. “Yes, tell me more.”
Thor furrowed his brow.
“I see a great darkness in Gareth.”
“Yes,” Argon said.
Thor opened his eyes and looked at Argon, distraught.
“Gwendolyn,” he said. “What about her? I can’t it clearly. But I sense something. Something dark. Something I did not like. Tell me it’s not true.”
Argon turned away, looked into the blackness.
“We each have our own destiny, I’m afraid,” he sighed.
“But I must save her!” Thor exclaimed. “From whatever it is, from whatever dark thing that is going to happen to her.”
“You will save her,” Argon said. “And you won’t.”
“What does that mean?” Thor pleaded. “Please, tell me. I beg you. No more riddles.”
Argon slowly shook his head.
“You have come here to learn to be a warrior. Yet the physical is but one side of a warrior. You must learn to develop your inner skills. Your powers. Your ability to see. Don’t get caught up in swords and spears. That is the easy route.”
Argon turned and took a step closer to him, and stared into his eyes with burning intensity.
“The greatest battle ahead of you lies within yourself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
100 DAYS LATER
Gareth sat in his father’s throne room, on his father’s throne, looking down at the dozens of councilmen and lords and commoners before him, all with their own problems, and he was miserable. Months had passed since he had assumed the throne, and with each passing day, he felt more tortured, more paranoid—and more alone. He had ousted his closest friend and advisor—Firth—long ago, relegating him to the horse stables and forbidding him to see him, and he missed him. Ousting Firth was the right thing to do—he was reckless and had become a liability. After all, he remained the only one who could connect Gareth to his father’s murder, and he did not want to be associated with him anymore.
He had brought in a half dozen of his friends to be his mentors, and it was these people who surrounded him these days. They were ruthless, ambitious, aristocratic types—and that was exactly what he wanted. Gareth didn’t necessarily trust them, but at least they were his age, and they were as cynical and ruthless as he. They were the kind of people he wanted to surround himself with. They saw the world as he did, and he needed the new guard to counteract the old. His father’s people were still entrenched, like an institution, and he felt increasingly oppressed by them. If he could, he would raze King’s Court and build the whole thing anew. Everything new. He held no respect for history—he despised history. For him, the ideal was a modern, blank slate, and the destruction of every history book that ever was.
“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 father’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.