Morgan Rice - A feast of dragons

Alton took a step forward, staring into her eyes.

“So you see Gwendolyn, destiny is meant for the two of us after all. Stop resisting it. Take my hand now, and let’s make matters official. Let’s stop fighting what we already know to be true.”

Alton held out a hand, his smile widening as he stared at her. But she could also see drops of sweat forming on his forehead in the sun.

“Still no response?” he said. “Then allow me to add one more point,” he added, as he held his hand out there, trembling. “I’ve heard it on good rumor that your family plans to marry you off soon, like your older sister. After all, they can’t afford to have an unwed MacGil roaming around. You can choose my hand now in marriage-or if not, allow yourself to be assigned to some stranger. And I might add that it might be a brutal stranger, a savage from some corner of the Ring. You’d do far better with someone like me, someone you know.”

“You lie,” Gwen spat, feeling her entire body tremble. “I cannot be married off. Not by my family. Not by anyone.”

“Oh can’t you? Your sister was.”

“That was when my father was alive. When he was King.”

“And do we not have a King now?” he asked with a wry smile. “The King’s law is the King’s law.”

Gwen’s heart was racing as she contemplated his words. Gareth? Her brother? Marry her off? Could he be so sick, so cruel? Did he even have the right to do so? After all, he may be king, but he was not her father.

She did not want to ponder any of this anymore. She was revolted by Alton. She had no idea what to believe. She took a step closer to him, and put on her firmest face.

“Let me make it as clear for you as I can,” she enunciated slowly, her voice as cold as steel. “If you come near me again, I will have the royal guards-the royal guards of the true royal family-imprison you. They will throw you in the dungeon and you will never get out again. I can guarantee you that. Now get out of my presence, once and for all.”

Alton stood there, staring, and slowly his smile collapsed into a frown. Eventually his face started to tremble, and she could see his face change, boil over with rage.

“Don’t forget,” he hissed, “you’ve brought this on yourself.”

She had never heard him so angry before, as he spun on his heel, stormed off the parapets, and down the steps.

She stood there, alone, trembling inside, listening to his footsteps disappear for a very long time. She prayed to the gods that she never see him again.

Gwen turned back to the parapets, walked to the edge and looked out. Was anything he said true? She prayed not. That was the problem with Alton-he had a way of implanting the worst thoughts in her head, thoughts she could not get out.

She closed her eyes and tried to shake the memory. He was an awful creature, the epitome of everything she hated about this place, the epitome of everything she felt was wrong with the world.

She opened her eyes, looked out over King’s court, and tried to make it all disappear. She tried to get back to the place she had been before Alton had appeared, to thinking of Thor, of his arrival home today, of being back in his arms. If anything, seeing Alton just made her realize how much she loved Thor. Thor was the opposite of Alton in every way: he was a noble, proud warrior, with a pure heart. He was more royal than Alton would ever be.

It made her realize how much she wanted to be with Thor, how she would do anything for it to be just the two of them, far away from this place. And she felt more determined than ever to let nothing come between them.

But as Gwen stood there, trying to recapture her peace, to picture Thor’s face, the shape of his jaw, the color of his eyes, the curve of his lips, she could not. Anger burned in her veins. Her peace had been shattered. She could not think clearly anymore, and she wanted to think clearly, before Thor arrived.

Gwen turned on her heel and crossed the parapet, leaving the roof, entering the spiral staircase, and beginning her descent. She needed a change of environment. She would enter the royal gardens, and take a long walk amidst the flowers. That would change her mindset-it always did.

As she descended, going down flight after flight, traveling the well-worn stone staircase that she had since a child, something felt wrong. She felt it before she saw it. It was a chill, a cold energy, like a sudden cloud passing over her.

Then she saw it, out of the corner of her eye. Motion, darkness. A blur. It all happened so quickly.

And then she felt it.

Gwen was tackled from behind, coarse hands grabbing her around the waist, driving her down to the ground.

She hit the stone hard, tumbling down the steps flight after flight.

The world spun, was a blur, as she banged and scraped her knees, her elbows, her forearms. She instinctively covered her head as she rolled, the way her instructors had taught her when she was a child, and shielded her head from the worst of it.

After several steps, she did not know how many, she rolled onto a plateau, on one of the corridors leading off the stairwell. She lay there curled up in a ball and breathed hard, trying to catch her breath, the wind knocked out of her.

There was no time to rest. She heard footsteps, coming down, fast, too fast, big heavy footsteps, and knew that her attacker, whoever he was, was right on her heels. She willed her body to get up, to regain her feet, and it took every ounce of energy that she had.

Somehow, she managed to get to her hands and knees, just as he came into view. It was Gareth’s dog, back again. This time he wore a single leather glove, it’s knuckles covered in metal spikes.

Gwen quickly reached down to her waist and pulled out the weapon that Godfrey had given her. She pulled back the wooden sheath, revealing the blade, and lunged for him. She was quick-quicker than she imagined she could be, and aimed the blade right for his heart.

But he was even quicker than she. He swatted her wrist, and the small blade went flying, landing on the stone floor and skidding across it.

Gwen turned and watched it fly, and felt all her hopes go flying with it. Now, she was defenseless.

Gareth’s dog wound up with his fist, with the metal knuckles, and swung right for her face. It all happened too fast for her to react. She saw the knuckles, the metal spikes, coming down right for her cheek-and she knew that in just a moment they would all puncture her face, and leave her horribly, permanently, scarred. Disfigured. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the life-changing pain that would follow.

Suddenly there came a noise, and to her surprise, her attacker’s blow stopped in mid-air, just inches from her cheek. It was a clanging noise, and she looked over to see a man standing beside her, a wide man, with a hunched, twisted back, holding up a short metal staff. It was inches from her face, and the staff blocked the blow of the man’s fist.

Steffen. He had saved her from the blow. But what was he doing here?

Steffen held his staff there with a trembling hand, holding back the attacker’s fist, preventing Gwen from being injured. He then leaned forward with his metal staff and jabbed the man hard, right in the face. The blow broke his nose and sent him plunging down to the cold stone floor, on his back.

Gareth’s dog lay there, defenseless, and Steffen stood over him, holding his staff, looking down at him.

Steffen turned for a moment and looked at Gwen, concern in his eyes.

“Are you okay, my lady?” he asked.

“Look out!” Gwen yelled.

Steffen turned back, but it was too late. He had taken his eyes off of Gareth’s dog a moment too long, and being the tricky assassin that he was, reached up and swept Steffen, kicking him behind the knee and sending him flying flat on his back.