Morgan Rice - A feast of dragons

“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.

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.