Морган Райс
A Quest of Heroes
Chapter Ten
MacGil sat in the banquet hall watching over his subjects, he at one end of the table and King McCloud at the other, hundreds of men from both clans between them. The wedding revelries had been going on for hours until, finally, the tension between the clans had settled down from the day’s jousting. As MacGil suspected, all the men needed were wine and meat – and women – to make them forget their differences. Now they all mingled at the same table, like brothers in arms. In fact, looking them over, MacGil could no longer even tell they were of two separate clans.
MacGil felt vindicated; his master plan was working after all. Already, the two clans seemed closer. He had managed to do what a long line of MacGil kings before him could not: to unify both sides of the Ring, to make them, if not friends, then at least peaceful neighbors. His daughter Luanda was arm-in-arm with her new husband, the McCloud prince, and she seemed content. His guilt lessened. He might have given her away – but he did, at least, give her a queenship.
MacGil thought back to all the planning that preceded this event, recalled the long days of arguing with his advisors. He had gone against the advice of all his counselors in arranging this union. It was not an easy peace and, in time, the McClouds would settle in on their side of the Highlands, this wedding would be long forgotten, and one day they would stir with unrest. He was not naïve. But now, at least, there was a blood tie between the clans – and especially once a child was born, that could not be so easily ignored. If that child flourished, and one day even ruled, a child born of two sides of the Ring, then perhaps, one day, the entire Ring could be united, the Highlands would no longer be a border of contention, and the land could prosper under one rule. That was his dream. Not for himself, but for his descendants. After all, the Ring had to stay strong, needed to stay unified in order to protect the Canyon, to fight off the hordes of the world beyond. As long as the two clans remained divided, they presented a weakened front to the rest of the world.
“A toast,” MacGil shouted, and stood.
The table grew quiet as hundreds of men stood too, raising their goblets.
“To the wedding of my eldest child! To the union of the MacGils and McClouds! To peace throughout the Ring!”
“HEAR HEAR!” came a chorus of shouts. Everyone drank and the room once again filled with the noise of laughter and feasting.
MacGil sat back and surveyed the room, looking for his other children. There, of course, was Godfrey, drinking with two fists, a girl on each shoulder, surrounded by his miscreant friends. This was probably the one royal event he had ever willingly attended. There was Gareth, sitting too closely to his lover, Firth, whispering in his ear; MacGil could see from his darting, restless eyes, that he was plotting something. The thought of it made his stomach turn, and he looked away. There, on the far side of the room, was his youngest son, Reece, feasting at the squires’ table with the new boy, Thor. Thor already felt like a son to him, and he was pleased to see his youngest was fast friends with him.
He scanned the faces for his younger daughter, Gwendolyn, and finally found her sitting off to the side, surrounded by her handmaids, giggling. He followed her gaze, and noticed she was watching Thor. He examined her for a long time, and realized she was smitten. He had not foreseen this and was not quite sure what to make of it. He sensed trouble there. Especially from his wife.
“All things are not what they seem,” came a voice.
MacGil turned to see Argon sitting by his side, watching the two clans dining together.
“What do you make of all this?” MacGil asked. “Will there be peace in the kingdoms?”
“Peace is never static,” Argon said. “It ebbs and flows like the tides. What you see before you is the veneer of peace. You see one side of its face. You’re trying to force peace on an ancient rivalry. But there are hundreds of years of spilled blood. The souls cry out for vengeance. And that cannot be appeased with a single marriage.”
“What are you saying?” MacGil asked, taking another gulp of his wine, feeling nervous, as he often did around Argon.
Argon turned and stared at him with an intensity so strong, it struck panic into MacGil’s heart.
“There will be war. The McClouds will attack. Prepare yourself. All the houseguests you see before you will soon be doing their best to murder your family.”
MacGil gulped.
“Did I make the wrong decision to marry her off to them?”
Argon was silent for a while, until finally he said: “Not necessarily.”
Argon looked away, and MacGil could see that he was finished with the topic. There were a million questions he wanted answered, but he knew his sorcerer would not answer them until he was ready. So instead, he watched Argon’s eyes and followed their gaze to Gwendolyn, then to Thor.
“Do you see them together?” MacGil asked, suddenly curious to know.
“Perhaps,” Argon answered. “There is still much yet to be decided.”
“You speak in riddles.”
Argon shrugged and looked away, and MacGil realized he wouldn’t get any more from him.
“You saw what happened on the field today?” MacGil prodded. “With the boy?”
“I saw it before it happened,” Argon replied.
“And what do you make of it? What is the source of the boy’s powers? Is he like you?”
Argon turned and stared into MacGil’s eyes, again with an intensity that almost made him look away.
“He is far more powerful than me.”
MacGil stared back, shocked. He had never heard Argon speak like this.
“More powerful? Than you? How is that possible? You are the King’s sorcerer – there is no one more powerful than you in all the land.”
Argon shrugged.
“Power does not come in only one form,” he said. “The boy has powers beyond what you can imagine. Powers beyond what he knows. He has no idea who he is. Or where he hails from.”
Argon turned and stared at MacGil.
“But you do,” he added.
MacGil stared back, wondering.
“Do I?” MacGil asked. “Tell me. I need to know.”
Argon shook his head.
“Search your feelings. They are true.”
“What will become of him?” MacGil asked.
“He will become a great leader. And a great warrior. He will rule kingdoms in his own right. Far greater kingdoms than yours. And he will be a far greater king than you. It is his destiny.”
For a brief moment, MacGil burned with envy. He turned and examined the boy, laughing harmlessly with Reece, at a table for squires, the commoner, the weak outsider, the youngest of the bunch. He didn’t imagine how it was possible. Looking at him now, he looked barely eligible to join the Legion. He wondered for a moment if Argon was wrong.
But Argon had never been wrong and never made pronouncements without a reason.
“Why are you telling me this?” MacGil asked.
Argon turned and stared at him.
“Because it is your time to prepare. The boy needs to be trained. He needs to be given the best of everything. It is your responsibility.”
“Mine? And what of his father?”
“What of him?” Argon asked.
Chapter Eleven
Thor peeled open his eyes, disoriented, wondering where he was. He lay on the floor, on a mound of straw, his face planted sideways, his arms dangling over his head. He lifted his face, wiping the drool from his mouth, and immediately felt a stab of pain in his head, behind his eyes. It was the worst headache of his life. He remembered the night before, the King’s feast, the drinking, his first taste of ale. The room was spinning. His throat was dry, and at that moment he vowed he would never drink again.
Thor looked around, trying to get his bearings in the cavernous barracks. Everywhere were bodies, lying on heaps of straw, the room filled with snoring; he turned the other way and saw Reece, a few feet away, passed out, too. It was then he realized: he was in the barracks. The Legion’s barracks. All around him were boys his age, about fifty of them.
Thor vaguely remembered Reece showing him the way, in the late hours of the morning, and crashing on the mound of straw. Early morning light flooded in through the open windows, and Thor soon realized he was the only one yet awake. He looked down and saw he had slept in his clothes, and reached up and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He would give anything for a chance to bathe – although he had no idea where. And he would do anything for a pint of water. His stomach rumbled – he wanted food, too.
It was all so new to him. He barely knew where he was, where life would take him next, what the routines were of the King’s Legion. But he was happy. It had been a dazzling night, one of the finest of his life. He had found a close friend in Reece, and had caught Gwendolyn looking at him once or twice. He had tried to speak with her, but each time he approached, his courage failed. He felt a pang of regret as he thought about it. There had been too many people around. If it was ever just the two of them, he would gain the courage. But would there be a next time?
Before Thor could finish the thought, there was a sudden banging on the wooden doors of the barracks, and an instant later, they crashed open, light flooding in.
“To your feet, squires!” came a shout.
In marched a dozen members of the King’s Silver, chainmail rattling, banging on the wooden walls with metal staffs. The noise was deafening, and all around Thor, the other boys jumped to their feet.
Leading the group was a particularly fierce-looking soldier Thor recognized from the arena the day before, the stocky, bald one with the scar on his nose, whom Reece had told him was named Kolk.
He seemed to be scowling right at Thor as he raised a finger and pointed it at him.
“You there, boy!” he screamed. “I said on your feet!”
Thor was confused. He was already standing.
“But I’m already on my feet, sire,” Thor answered.
Kolk stepped forward and backhanded Thor across the face. Thor stung with the indignation of it, as all eyes were on him.
“Don’t you talk back to your superior again!” Kolk reprimanded.
Before Thor could respond the men moved on, roaming through the room, yanking one boy after another to his feet, kicking some in the ribs who were too slow to get up.
“Don’t worry,” came a reassuring voice.
He turned and saw Reece standing there.
“It is not personal to you. It is just their way. Their way of breaking us down.”
“But they didn’t do it to you,” Thor said.
“Of course, they won’t touch me, because of my father. But they won’t exactly be polite, either. They want us in shape, that’s all. They think this will toughen us up. Don’t pay much attention to them.”
The boys were all marched out of their barracks and Thor and Reece fell in with them. As they stepped outside, the bright sunlight struck Thor and he squinted and held up his hands. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a wave of nausea, and he turned, bent over, and threw up.
He could hear the snicker of boys all around him. A guard pushed him, and Thor stumbled forward, back in line with the others, wiping his mouth. Thor had never felt more awful.
Beside him, Reece smiled.
“Rough night, was it?” he asked Thor, grinning widely, elbowing him in the ribs. “I told you to stop after the second goblet.”
Thor felt queasy as the light pierced his eyes; it had never felt so strong as today. It was a hot day already, and he could feel drops of sweat forming beneath his leathermail.
Thor tried to remember back to Reece’s warning of the night before – but for the life of him, he could not remember.
“I don’t remember any such advice,” Thor retorted.
Reece grinned wider. “Precisely. That is because you did not listen.” Reece chuckled. “And those ham-handed attempts to speak to my sister,” he added. “It was positively pathetic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy so fearful of a girl in my life.”
Thor reddened as he tried to remember. But he could not. It was all hazy to him.
“I mean you no offense,” Thor said. “With your sister.”
“You cannot offend me. If she should choose you, I would be thrilled.”
The two of them marched faster, as the group turned up a hill. The sun seemed to be getting stronger with each step.
“But I must warn you: every hand in the kingdom is after her. The chances of her choosing you… Well, let’s just say they are remote.”
As they marched faster across the rolling green hills of King’s Court, Thor felt reassured. He felt accepted by Reece. It was amazing, but he continued to feel Reece was more of a brother to him than he’d ever had. As they walked, Thor noticed his three real brothers marching close by. One of them turned and scowled back to him, then nudged his other brother, who looked back with a mocking grin. They shook their heads and turned away. They had not so much as one kind word for Thor. But he hardly expected anything else.
“Get in line, Legion! Now!”
Thor looked up and saw several more of the Silver crowd around them, pushing the fifty of them into a tight line, double file. One man came up behind and struck the boy in front of Thor with a large bamboo rod, cracking him hard on the back; the boy cried out, and fell more tightly in line. Soon they were in two neat rows, marching steadily through the King’s ground.
“When you march into battle, you march as one!” called out Kolk, walking up and down the sides. “This is not your mother’s yard. You are marching to war!”
Thor marched and marched beside Reece, sweating in the sun, wondering where they were being led. His stomach still turned from the ale, and he wondered when he would have breakfast, when he would get something to drink. Once again, he cursed himself for drinking the night before.
As they went up and down the hills, through an arched stone gate, they finally reached the surrounding fields. They passed through another arched stone gate and entered a coliseum of sorts. The training ground for the Legion.
Before them were all sorts of targets for throwing spears, firing arrows, and hurling rocks, as well as piles of straw to slash with swords. Thor’s heart quickened at the sight of it. He wanted to get in there, to use the weapons, to train.
But as Thor made his way toward the training area, suddenly he was elbowed in the ribs from behind, and a small group of six boys, most of them younger like Thor, were herded off the main line. He found himself being split from Reece, being led to the other side of the field.
“Think you’re going to train?” Kolk asked mockingly as they forked from the others, away from the targets. “It’s horses for you today.”
Thor looked up and saw where they were headed: on the far side of the field, several horses pranced about. Kolk looked down at him with an evil smile.
“While the others hurl spears and wield swords, today you will tend horses and clean their waste. We all have to start somewhere. Welcome to the Legion.”
Thor’s heart fell. This was not how he had seen it going at all.
“You think you’re special, boy?” Kolk asked, walking beside him, getting close to his face. Thor sensed he was trying to break him. “Just because the King and his son have taken a liking to you, doesn’t mean crap to me. You’re in my command now. You understand me? I don’t care about whatever fancy tricks you pulled on the jousting ground. You’re just another little boy. Do you understand me?”
Thor swallowed. He was in for a long, hard training.
Making matters worse, as soon as Kolk drifted away to torture someone else, the boy in front of Thor, a short stocky kid with a flat nose, turned and sneered at him.
“You don’t belong here,” he said. “You cheated your way in. You weren’t selected. You’re not one of us. Not really. None of us like you.”
The boy beside him also turned and sneered at Thor.
“We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you drop out,” he said. “Getting in is easy next to staying in.”
Thor recoiled at their hatred. He couldn’t believe he already had enemies, and didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve it. All he’d ever wanted was to join the Legion.
“Why don’t you mind yourself,” came a voice.
Thor looked over and saw a tall, skinny redheaded boy, with freckles across his face and small green eyes, sticking up for him. “You two are stuck here shoveling with the rest of us,” he added. “You’re not so special, either. Go pick on someone else.”
“You mind your business, lackey,” one of the boys shot back, “or we’ll be after you, too.”
“Try it,” the redhead snapped.
“You’ll talk when I tell you to,” Kolk yelled at one of the boys, smacking him hard upside the head. The two boys in front of Thor, thankfully, turned back around.
Thor hardly knew what to say; he fell in beside the redhead, grateful to him.
“Thank you,” Thor said.
The redhead turned and smiled at him.
“Name is O’Connor. I’d shake your hand, but they’d smack me if I did. So take this as an invisible handshake.”
He smiled wider, and Thor instantly liked him.
“Don’t mind them,” he added. “They’re just scared. Like the rest of us. None of us quite knew what we were signing up for.”
Soon their group reached the end of the field, and Thor counted six horses prancing about.
“Take up the reins!” Kolk commanded. “Hold them steady, and walk them around the arena until they break. Do it now!”
Thor stepped forward to take the reins of one of the horses, and as he did, the horse stepped back and pranced, nearly kicking him. Thor, startled, stumbled back, and the others in the group laughed at him. Kolk smacked him hard in the back of the head, and he felt like turning and hitting back.
“You are a member of the Legion now. You never retreat. From anybody. No man, no beast. Now take those reins!”
Thor steeled himself, stepped forward, and grabbed the reins from the prancing horse. He managed to hang on while the horse yanked and pulled, and began to lead him around the wide dirt field, getting in line with the others. His horse tugged at him, resisting, but Thor tugged back, not giving up so easily.
“It gets better, I hear.”
Thor turned to see O’Connor coming up beside him, smiling. “They want to break us, you know?”
Suddenly, Thor’s horse stopped. No matter how much he pulled on the reins, it would not budge. Then Thor smelled something awful; there was more waste coming from the horse than he ever imagined possible. It did not seem to end.
Thor felt a small shovel pressed into his palm, and looked over to see Kolk beside him, smiling down.
“Clean it up!” he snapped.
Chapter Twelve
Gareth stood in the crowded marketplace, wearing a cloak despite the midday sun, sweating beneath it, and trying to remain anonymous. He always tried to avoid this part of King’s Court, these crowded alleyways, which stank of humanity and common man. All around him were people haggling, trading, trying to get one up on each other. Gareth stood at a corner stall, feigning interest in a vendor’s fruit, keeping his head low. Standing just a few feet away was Firth, at the end of the dark alleyway, doing what they had come here to do.
Gareth stood within earshot of the conversation, keeping his back to it so as not to be seen. Firth had told him of a man, a mercenary, who would sell him a poison vial. Gareth wanted something strong, something certain to do the trick. No chances could be taken. After all, his own life was on the line.
It was hardly the sort of thing he could ask the local apothecary for. He had set Firth to the task, who had reported back to him after testing out the black market. After much pointing of the way, Firth had led them to this slovenly character, with whom he now furtively spoke at the end of the alleyway. Gareth had insisted on coming along for their final transaction, to make sure everything went smoothly, to make sure he was not being swindled and given a false potion. Plus, he was still not completely assured of Firth’s competence. Some matters, he just had to take care of himself.
They had waited for this man for half an hour, Gareth getting jostled in the busy market, praying he was not recognized. Even if he was, he figured, as long as he kept his back to the alley, if someone should know who he was, he could merely walk away, and no one would make the connection.
“Where is the vial?” Firth, just a few feet away, asked the cretin.
Gareth turned just a bit, careful to keep his face hidden, and peeked from the corner of his cloak. Standing opposite Firth was an evil-looking man, slovenly, too thin, with sunken cheeks and huge black eyes. He looked something like a rat. He stared down at Firth, unblinking.
“Where’s the money?” he responded.
Gareth hoped Firth would handle this well; he usually managed to screw things up somehow.
“I shall give you the money when you give me the vial.” Firth held his ground.
Good, Gareth thought, impressed.
There was a thick moment of silence, then:
“Give me half the money now, and I will tell you where the vial is.”
“Where it is?” Firth echoed, his voice rising in surprise. “You said I would have it.”
“I said you would have it, yes. I did not say I would bring it. Do you take me for a fool? Spies are everywhere. I know not what you intend – but I assume it is not trivial. After all, why else buy a vial of poison?”
Firth paused, and Gareth knew he was caught off guard.
Finally, Gareth heard the distinct noise of coins clacking, and peeked over and saw the royal gold pouring from Firth’s pouch into the man’s palm.
Gareth waited, the seconds stretching forever, increasingly worried they were being had.
“You’ll take the Blackwood,” the man finally responded. “At your third mile, fork on the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left. You will go through the darkest wood you have ever seen, then arrive at a small clearing. The witch’s cottage. She will be waiting for you – with the vial you desire.”
Gareth peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man reached out and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.
“The money,” the man growled. “It is not enough.”
Gareth could see the fear spread across Firth’s face, and regretted having sent him for this task. This slovenly character must have detected his fear – and now was taking advantage. Firth was just not cut out for the sort of thing.
“But I gave you precisely what you asked for,” Firth protested, his voice rising too high. He sounded effeminate. And this seemed to embolden the man.
The man grinned back, evil.
“But now I ask for more.”
Firth’s eyes opened wide with fear, and uncertainty. Then, suddenly, Firth turned and looked right at him.
Gareth turned away, hoping it was not too late, hoping he was not spotted. How could Firth be so stupid? He prayed he had not given him away.
Gareth’s heart pounded as he waited. He anxiously fingered the fruit, pretending to be interested. There was an interminable silence behind him, as Gareth imagined all the things that might go wrong.
Please, don’t let him come this way, Gareth prayed to himself. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll abandon the plot.
He felt a rough palm slap him on his back. He spun and looked.
The cretin’s large black, soulless eyes stared into his.
“You didn’t tell me you had a partner,” the man growled. “Or are you a spy?”
The man reached out before Gareth could react, and yanked down Gareth’s hood. He got a good look at Gareth’s face, and his eyes opened wide in shock.
“The Royal Prince,” the man stumbled. “What are you doing here?”
A second later, the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition, and he answered himself, with a small, satisfied smile, piecing together the whole plot instantly. He was much smarter than Gareth had hoped.
“I see,” the man said. “This vial – it was for you, wasn’t it? You aim to poison someone, don’t you? But who? Yes, that is the question…”
Gareth’s face flushed with anxiety. This man – he was too quick. It was too late. His whole world was unraveling around him. Firth had screwed it up. If this man gave Gareth away, he would be sentenced to death.
“Your father, maybe?” the man asked, his eyes lighting in recognition. “Yes, that must be it, mustn’t it? You were passed over. Your father. You aim to kill your father.”
Gareth had had enough. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, pulled a small dagger from inside his cloak, and plunged it into the man’s chest. The man gasped.
Gareth didn’t want any passersby to witness this, so he grabbed the man by his tunic and pulled him close, ever closer, until their faces were almost touching, until he could smell his rotten breath. With his free hand, he reached up and clamped the man’s mouth shut before he could cry out. Gareth felt the man’s hot blood trickling on his palm, running through his fingers.
Firth came up beside him and let out a horrified cry.
Gareth held the man like that for a good sixty seconds, until finally, he felt him slumping in his arms. He let him collapse, limp, a heap on the ground.
Gareth spun all around, wondering if he had been seen; luckily, no heads turned in this busy marketplace, in this dark alley. He removed his cloak and threw it over the lifeless heap.
“I am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” Firth kept repeating, like a little girl, crying hysterically and shaking as he approached Gareth. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”
Gareth reached up and backhanded him.
“Shut your mouth and be gone from here,” he hissed.
Firth turned and hurried off.
Gareth prepared to leave, but then stopped and turned back. He had one thing left to do: he reached down, grabbed his sack of coins from the dead man’s hand, and stuffed it back into his waistband.
The man would not be needing these.
