Morgan Rice - A March of Kings

“Kendrick of the Clan MacGil of the Western Kingdom of the Ring,” he announced in a formal, grave voice, as he read from a scroll, “I hereby declare that, under law of the King, you are hereby arrested as a traitor to the realm for the assassination of King MacGil.”

Kendrick’s hair stood on end, and his entire body went cold.

An outraged gasp spread throughout the room, as his brothers in arms slowly stood from their seats, tense, on edge. A thick silence blanketed the room as everyone watched Kendrick for his reaction.

Kendrick stood slowly, trying to breathe, to understand. He felt as if his life flashed before him in a single moment.

Kendrick studied Darloc’s face, lined and grim, and he could see that he was earnest.

“Darloc,” Kendrick said steadily, forcing himself to keep calm, his voice resonating in the dead-silent room, “you have known me my entire life. You know that these words you read are not true.”

Darloc’s eye twitched.

“My liege,” Darloc answered sadly. “I’m afraid that my personal beliefs do not matter. I am but a servant of the King and I am merely carrying out what I have been commanded to. Please forgive me. You are right. I could never believe such slander myself. But my beliefs are subservient to those of the King. I’m afraid I must follow orders.”

Kendrick stared back at the man, and he could see the solemnity on his face, could see how upset, how conflicted, he was at having to be in this position. He actually felt bad for him.

Kendrick could hardly conceive the audacity of it: his own brother, accusing him of murdering their father. That could only mean one thing: Gareth was threatened, and had something to hide. He needed a scapegoat immediately, no matter how flimsy. In Kendrick’s mind, that solidified it: Gareth killed him. It made a fresh fire burn within Kendrick-not because he cared about being imprisoned himself, but because he realized that Gareth was the assassin, and he felt compelled to bring him to justice.

“I am sorry, Kendrick, but I am going to have to take you in,” Darloc said, and motioned to one of his men.

As the soldier took a step forward, Atme suddenly jumped to his feet and stepped like lightning between the man and Kendrick, drawing his sword.

“If you wish to touch Kendrick, you will have to go through me,” came his grave voice.

Suddenly the room was filled with the sounds of swords being drawn, as every member of The Silver, dozens of them, leapt to their feet and confronted the king’s guard.

Darloc stood there, looking very afraid, and in that moment he must have realized that he had very badly miscalculated coming here. He must have realized that his kingdom was just one move away a full-fledged civil war.

Gwen stood on the sandy shore, as ocean waves crashed too close to her feet, huge, fierce waves, hitting her legs with enough strength to make her wobble. She stood there, losing her footing, as she watched the huge ship set sail before her, Thor standing at its helm, waving. On Thor’s shoulder sat Ephistopheles, who stared back with an ominous look that made Gwen’s blood run cold.

Thor was smiling, but as she watched, his sword fell from his waist and plummeted into the ocean. Oddly, he seemed not to notice, still smiling and waving, and she felt terrified for him.

The sea, so calm, suddenly turned rough, its waters turning from a crystal blue to a foaming black; as she watched, their boat was rocked violently, tossed about in the waves. Still Thor stood there, smiling and waving to her as if nothing were happening. She could not understand what was going on. Behind him the skies, clear just a moment before, turned scarlet, the clouds themselves seeming to froth over in rage. Lightning lit up the sky all around, and as she watched, a lightning bolt pierced the sail. In moments, Thor’s ship was aflame. The ship, on fire, gained speed, sailed away, faster and faster, sucked out into the sea on massive currents.

“THOR!” Gwen shrieked.

She shrieked again as the ship went up into a ball of flames and was sucked into the dark red sky, disappearing on the horizon.

She looked down, and a wave crashed before her, up to her chest, knocking her onto her back. She reached out to grab hold of something-but there was nothing. She felt herself getting sucked out into the ocean, faster and faster, the currents consuming her, as another huge wave crashed down, right on her face.

Gwen shrieked.

She opened her eyes to see herself standing in her father’s chamber. It was empty and freezing in here, nighttime, the wall lined with torches-too many torches, all lit up, flickering. In the room stood a sole figure, standing on the window ledge, his back to her. She sensed immediately that it was her father. He wore his royal furs, and, on his head, the crown. It seemed bigger than it had ever been.

“Father?” she asked, as she approached.

Slowly, he turned and looked at her. She was horrified. His face was half-skeleton, eyes bulging from the sockets, flesh decomposed. He looked at her with a look of horror, of desperation, as he reached out one hand.

“Why won’t you avenge me?” he moaned.

Gwen’s breath caught in her chest, horrified as she rushed towards him.

He started to lean back, and she reached out to grab his hand-but it was too late. He fell slowly, backwards, out the window.

Gwen shrieked as she ran forward, and stuck her head out to watch. Her father plummeted down into the blackness, falling and falling. The ground gave way, and he seemed to fall into the bowels of the earth. She never heard him hit.

Gwen heard a rattling noise, and turned and surveyed his empty chamber. There was his crown. It must have fallen off his head, and now it rolled, on its side, across the floor, making a hollow, metallic sound as it did. It rolled in circles, louder and louder, until it finally settled down. It sat there, in the center of the bare stone floor.

From somewhere, his words rang out again:

“Avenge me!”

Gwen woke with a start, sitting upright in bed, breathing hard. She rubbed her eyes and jumped from the mattress, hurrying over to her window, trying to shake herself of the awful nightmare. She took cold water from a small bowl by the window, splashed it on her face several times, and looked out.

It was dawn, and King’s Court was quiet, the light just beginning to break from the first rising sun. It looked like she was the first one to rise. The dream had been awful, more like a vision, and her heart pounded as she replayed it. Thor, dying on that ship. It had felt like a message, more like she was seeing the future than a dream. Her heart broke, as she felt with certainty that he would soon be dead.

And then here was that awful image of her father, the decomposed skeleton. His rebuke to her. The images were all so real, she could not go back to sleep. She paced her chamber and hardly knew what to do with herself.

Without thinking, she crossed her room and began to dress, way earlier than usual. She felt she had to do something. Anything. Whatever she could to find her father’s killer.

*

As he walked down the empty castle corridors in the early morning light, Godfrey was sober and alone-both for the first time in years-and it was an unfamiliar feeling. He could not remember how long it had been since he had gone a full day without a drink, or had spent time alone, not surrounded by his drunken friends. His feelings of loneliness, of gravity, were all new to him, and he realized that this is what everyday people must feel like as they lived their normal lives. It was terrible. Boring. He hated it, and he wanted to run back to the alehouse, to his friends, and make it all go away. Real life was not for him.