A March of Kings by Morgan Rice Page B

night, searching out the face.
    But only silence came in return, as the others looked away.
    “There are rumors of a revolt,” Elden said finally. “Gareth is nothing like you. Nothing like us. He has made many enemies. Especially among the Legion, and among the Silver. Anything can happen. You might one day find yourself King.”
    Reese reddened.
    “I would only wish to be king if it were legitimate. Not under those circumstances. Not because of my father’s early death, and not because Gareth was betrayed. Besides, my eldest brother Kendrick would be far better than me.”
    “But he is not eligible,” said O’Connor.
    “Well then there is also my sister, Gwendolyn. That was my father’s final wish.”
    “For a girl to rule?” someone yelled out in surprise. “That would never happen.”
    “But that was his wish,” Reese insisted.
    “But he shall not get his wish now, shall he?” someone remarked.
    Slowly, Reese shook his head.
    “For better or for worse, we’re all in Gareth’s hands now,” he said.
    “Who knows what we shall return to in a hundred days?” Elden remarked.
    The group fell silent, as they all stared into the flames.
    Thor sat there, thinking. The mention of Gwendolyn’s name left a pit in his stomach. He turned and whispered to Reese.
    “Your sister,” he said. “Did you see her, after the funeral?”
    Reese looked at Thor, and slowly nodded.
    “We spoke. I cleared your name. She knows you had nothing to do in the brothel.”
    Thor felt a great sense of relief, felt his stomach relax for the first time in days. He was overwhelmed with gratitude towards Reese.
    “Did she say she wants to see me again?” Thor asked, hopefully.
    Reese shook his head.
    “I’m sorry, my brother,” he said. “She is a proud one. She does not like to admit when she’s wrong. Even if she is.”
    Thor turned and looked back into the flames, and slowly nodded. He understood. He felt a hollowness in his stomach, but it gave him strength. There would be a long hundred days ahead of him, and it would be best if he had nothing left to care for.
    *
    Thor stood in the king’s chamber, over his bed, the room dark save for a single torch at the far end that flickered slowly. Thor took three slow steps, knelt down beside the king, and held his hand. His eyes were closed. He looked peaceful. He was cold and still, and Thor could feel that he was dead.
    MacGil’s crown still sat on his head, and as Thor watched, Ephistopheles suddenly flew into the room, swooped down through an open window, and landed on the king’s head. She grabbed the crown in her mouth, and flew away with it. She screeched as she flew out the window, her huge wings flapping, carrying the crown far into the sky.
    Thor looked back at MacGil, and saw that now, in his place, lay Gareth. Thor quickly withdrew his hand, as he saw that Gareth’s hand was that of a snake; he looked up and saw that Gareth’s face was transforming, mixed with that of a cobra. He had scaly skin, and a tongue which flickered out at him. Gareth smiled an evil smile, his eyes flashing yellow.
    Thor blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself standing in his village, back home. The streets were deserted. The houses were all deserted, too, the doors and windows open, as if the entire village had left in haste.
    Thor walked down the road he remembered, dust swirling all around him, until he arrived at his old house, a small, white clay dwelling, its door wide open.
    He walked inside, ducking his head, and there, sitting at the table, his back to him, was his father. Thor walked around, his heart thumping, not wanting to see him again—but at the same time feeling compelled to.
    Thor reached the far end of the table, and sat down at the other head, facing his father. His father’s wrists were chained to the wood, with big iron shackles, and he stared sternly back.
    “You have killed our king,” his father said.
    “I did not,” Thor responded.
    “You were