Morgan Rice - A Clash of Honor

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.”

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.