A Clash of Honor (8 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gareth stood in his chamber, looking out the window at the breaking light of dawn as it rose over King’s Court, watching the masses gather below—and he felt sick to his stomach. On the horizon there sat his worst fear, the very picture of what he dreaded most: the king’s army returning, victorious, triumphant from its clash with the McClouds. Kendrick and Thor rode at its head, free, alive—heroes. His spies had already informed him of everything that had happened, that Thor had survived the ambush, that he was alive and well. Now these men were all emboldened, returning to King’s Court as a solidified force. All of his plans had gone terribly awry, and it left a pit in his stomach. He felt the kingdom closing in on him.

Gareth heard a creaking noise in his room, and he spun and shut his eyes quickly at the site before him, stricken with fear.

“Open your eyes, son!” came the booming voice.

Shaking, Gareth opened his eyes, and was aghast to see his father, standing there, a corpse, decomposing, a rusted crown on his head, a rusted scepter in his hand. He stared back with a reprimanding look, as he had in life.

“Blood will have blood,” his father proclaimed.

“I hate you!” Gareth screamed. “I HATE YOU!” he repeated, and pulled the dagger from his belt and charged forward for his father.

As he reached him, he sliced his dagger—though hit nothing but air, and stumbled through the room.

Gareth spun, but the apparition was gone. He was alone in the chamber. He had been alone the entire time. Was he losing his mind?

Gareth ran to the far corner of the chamber, rummaged through his dressing cabinet and extracted his opium pipe with trembling hands; he quickly lit it, and inhaled deeply, again and again. He felt the flush of drugs wash over his system, felt himself lost temporarily in the drug high. He had been turning to the opium more and more these past days—it seemed to be the only thing that helped chase away the image of his father. Gareth was tormented being here, and he was starting to wonder if his father’s ghost was trapped in these walls, and if he should move his court somewhere else. He would like to raze this building anyway—this place held every memory of his childhood that he hated.

Gareth turned back to the window, covered in a cold sweat, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He watched. The army neared, and Thor was visible even from here, the stupid masses flocking to him like a hero. It made Gareth livid, made him burn with envy. Every plan he had put into motion had fallen apart: Kendrick was freed; Thor was alive; even Godfrey had somehow managed to escape the poison—enough poison to kill a horse.

But then again, his other plans had worked: Firth, at least, was dead, and there was no witness left to prove he’d killed his father. Gareth took a deep breath, relieved, realizing things were not as bad as they seemed. After all, the convoy of Nevaruns was still en route to take away his sister, Gwendolyn, and drag her off to some horrible corner of the Ring and marry her off. He smiled at the thought, starting to feel better. Yes, at least she would be out of his hair soon enough.

Gareth had time. He would find other ways to deal with Kendrick and Thor and Godfrey—he had a myriad schemes to kill them off. And he had all the time and all the power in the world to make it happen. Yes, they had won this round, but they would not win the next.

Gareth heard another groan, spun, and saw nothing in this chamber. He had to get out of here—he couldn’t stand it anymore.

He turned and stormed from the room, the door opening before he reached it, his attendants careful to anticipate his every move.

Gareth threw on his father’s mantle, crown and scepter, as he marched down the hall. He turned down the corridors, until he reached his private dining room, an elaborate stone chamber with high arched ceilings and stained-glass windows, lit up in the early morning light. Two attendants stood waiting at the open door, and another stood waiting behind the head of the table. It was a long banquet table, stretching fifty feet, with dozens of chairs lined up on either side of it; the attendant pulled Gareth’s out for him as he approached, an ancient, oak chair that his father had sat on countless times.

Gareth sat, and he realized how much he hated this room. He remembered being forced to sit in here as a child, his entire family lined up around it, being rebuked by his father and mother. Now, the room was profoundly lonely. There was no one in here but him—not his brothers or sisters or parents or friends. Not even his advisors. Over the past days, he had managed to isolate everybody, and now he dined alone. He preferred it that way anyway—there were too many times he had seen the ghost of his father in here with him, and he had become embarrassed to cry out in front of others.

Gareth reached down and took a sip of his morning soup, then suddenly slammed his silver spoon down on the plate.

“The soup is not hot enough!” he shrieked.

It was hot, but not piping hot as he liked it, and Gareth would not tolerate one more mistake around him. An attendant ran over.

“I am sorry, my liege,” the attendant said, bowing his head as he rushed to take it away. But Gareth picked up the plate and threw the hot liquid in the attendant’s face.

The attendant grabbed his eyes, screaming, as he was scolded by the liquid. Gareth then took the plate and lifted it high over his head, and smashed it over the attendant’s head.

The attendant screamed, clutching his bloody scalp.

“Take him away!” Gareth screamed to the other attendants.

They looked at each other warily, then reluctantly took away the bloody attendant.

“Send him to the dungeons!” Gareth said.

As Gareth sat back down, trembling, the room was empty save for one attendant, who walked over to Gareth meekly.

“My liege,” he said, nervous.

Gareth looked over at him in a seething rage. As he looked over, Gareth could see his father, sitting erect at the table, a few chairs away, looking back at him and smiling an evil smile. Gareth tried to look away.

“The Lord you summoned has arrived to see you,” the attendant said. “Lord Kultin, from the Essen province. He waits outside.”

Gareth blinked several times, as he began to process what his attendant was saying. Lord Kultin. Yes, now he remembered.

“Send him in at once,” Gareth ordered.

The attendant bowed and ran from the room, and as he opened the door, in strutted a huge, fierce warrior with long black hair, cold black eyes, a long black beard. He wore full armor and a mantle, wore two long swords, one on either side of his belt, and he kept his hands resting on both of them, as if ready to defend—or attack—at any moment. He looked as if he were in a rage himself, but Gareth knew he was not—Lord Kultin had always appeared this way, ever since the time of his father.

Kultin strutted up to Gareth, stood over him, and Gareth waved his hand at an empty seat.

“Sit,” Gareth said.

“I will stand,” Kultin said back curtly.

Kultin scowled down at Gareth, and Gareth could hear the strength in his voice, and knew that this Lord was unlike the others. He was fierce, filled with bloodlust, ready to kill anyone and anything at the drop of a dime. He was exactly the type of man that Gareth wanted around.

Gareth smiled, pleased for the first time this day.

“You know why I have summoned you?” Gareth asked.

“I could guess,” Kultin answered, terse.

“I have decided to elevate you,” Gareth said. “You will be elevated beyond even the King’s Men, beyond even The Silver. From now on, you will be my personal guard. The King’s Elite. You and your five hundred warriors will be given the choicest meat, the choicest lodging and the venerable Silver Hall. The very best of everything.”

Kultin rubbed his beard.

“And what if I don’t wish to serve you?” he scowled back, challenging him, tightening his grip on his sword.

“You served my father.”

“You are not your father,” he replied.

“True,” Gareth said. “But I am far richer than he, and I pay far more handsomely. Ten times what he paid you. You and your men will live in King’s Court. You will answer to me personally—there will be no one above you. You will bring riches back to your province beyond what you’d ever imagine.”

Kultin stood there, rubbing his beard, and finally reached down and pounded a fist on the table.

“Twenty times,” he replied. “And we will kill anyone you like upon your command. We will guard you with our lives, whether you deserve it or not. And we will kill anyone who comes near you.”

“
Anyone
,” Gareth insisted. “King’s soldiers or not. The Silver or not. If I tell you to kill them, you will do so.”

For the first time, Kultin smiled.

“I don’t care who I kill. As long as the price is high enough.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thor sat at the long banquet table in the Hall of Arms, surrounded by his Legion brothers, his close friends, by scores of the Silver, Kendrick across from him, Kolk and Brom nearby, and he felt more at home than he ever had in his life. The day had been a whirlwind. Before today, they had still looked at him as something of an outsider, or at best, as just another Legion member. But after today, he could see from their every glance, from the way they addressed him, that they looked at him as one of theirs. As an equal. These men, whom he had always admired, were giving him the respect he had strived for his entire life. There was nothing he’d ever wanted more than just to be here, to sit with these men, to fight by their side, and to be accepted by them.

Thor felt more weary than he’d ever had, having been awake for nearly two straight days, his body covered in bruises and cuts and scrapes, having not stopped for he did not know how long; physically, a part of him just wanted to collapse, to go to sleep and not wake for a week. But he caught a second wind, and these men and boys were more festive than he’d ever seen them. A great tension had broken, and relief filled the room. It was more than relief: it was joy. The joy of victory. The joy of saving their homeland. And it all had to do with Thor.

One after the other, members of the Silver came by, draped an arm around Thor, patted him on the back, shook him roughly, clasped forearms, and called him “Thorgrinson.” It was a title of respect, one usually reserved for adults, implying that Thor was a famed warrior. It was a title usually reserved for an elite warrior. If ever the Legion boys had used that title amongst themselves, it had been in jest; but now, these men used it with Thor with seriousness.

As another mug of frothing ale was put into Thor’s hand, he took a long drink, feeling it go to his head; then he reached out and took a huge chunk of the venison laid out before him. He was starving, but first he bent over and handed this chunk to Krohn, who happily snatched it from his hand. Thor took another piece for himself, and he chewed and chewed, starving. The food was delicious.

Serving girls, barely clothed, passed by the rows of men, refilling their mugs of ale and goblets of wine, and as one walked by, one of the warriors grabbed her and yanked her down onto his lap. She giggled. Another servant girl came close to Thor, and a warrior grabbed her and tried to thrust her into Thor’s lap—but Thor held up his hands, and gently prodded her away.

“Don’t you like the women?” the warrior asked Thor.

“I like them just fine,” Thor said. “But there is one in particular who I am saving myself for.”

“Just one?” the warrior pressed, disappointed. “Take two or three. Don’t fall for just one. You’re too young. Take as many as your hands can grab,” he said, and with that, he grabbed the girl himself, who screamed with delight, and carried her over his shoulder, off to a far corner of the room, to a pile of soft rugs.

“Don’t listen to him,” came a voice.

Thor looked over and saw Reece, sitting beside him, who reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Gwen would be proud,” Reece said. “I am proud. That was exactly the kind of response I would want from a brother-in-law.”

Thor smiled at the thought.

“If I were to propose to her, would you really accept me into your family?” he asked.

“What kind of questions that is that?” Reece asked. “You already are my brother. In every sense of the word. My
true
brother.”

Thor felt honored. He also felt the same way about Reece.

“Be good to her,” Reece added. “That’s all I ask. She’s tough, but sensitive. Don’t take a second wife. And don’t look elsewhere.”

Reece went back to his drinking, and before Thor could respond, Kolk suddenly stood, across from Thor, and banged his mug on the wooden table several times, until finally the room quieted. All that could be heard was the crackling of the fire, roaring at the far end of the hall, and the growling of the dogs who fought with each other for a spot beside the flames.

“Men of the Legion!” he called out in his booming voice. “Men of the Silver! The King’s soldiers! Today was a day of glory day for the MacGils! And we would be remiss if we did not acknowledge the exploits of one warrior: Thorgrinson!” he called out, raising his mug to Thor.

The entire room suddenly stood, raising their mugs.

“Thorgrinson!” they shouted, breaking into a cheer.

Thor stood and felt hands patting him on the back, tugging at him roughly. He was embarrassed, but elated at the same time. He hardly knew what to make of all this. Kolk. The warrior who had always rebuked him. He had never expected this.

Kolk banged his mug again, and everyone sat back down, and the room fell silent.

“Thor’s courage today typified everything we want in a member of the Legion, everything we want in a member of the Silver. Honor must be rewarded, at all costs. So from this day, Thorgrin, you are promoted to Captain of the Legion. You will answer only to me, and the rest of the Legion will answer to you. You have in your command now hundreds of the finest young warriors our kingdom has to offer. To Thorgrinson!” he shouted again.

“To Thorgrinson!” the room shouted.

As they all sat back down, Thor sat there, stunned, hardly able to breathe, not knowing what to make of all of this. He, the youngest of the Legion members, promoted to Captain of them all. A part of him felt he didn’t really deserve it. All he had done what was he had been trained to do.

The room settled back into its festivities, and Thor heard a whining beside him. He looked down and saw Krohn, resting his head in his lap, and realized he felt left out—and hungry. Thor reached out and grabbed another hunk of venison, even bigger, an entire leg, with the bone, and Krohn snatched it from his hands and carried it happily across the room. Krohn found a spot beside the fire, walking boldly right between the pack of wolfhounds. Although they were all bigger than he, as Krohn walked down the center, they all parted ways, none of them daring challenge him. Already, Krohn exuded an energy unlike any other animal. Thor could see him growing bigger and stronger every day, more powerful, more mysterious.

“It is an honor well-deserved,” Reece said, standing and embracing Thor. Thor stood and embraced him back, and received embraces from Elden, O’Connor, and the twins. One after the other, Legion members shook his hand and clasped his forearm, all showing deference to him, clearly all pleased to have him as their Captain.

“A battle won by mere witchery and tricks,” came a dark voice.

Thor turned to see standing behind him his three real brothers, Drake, Dross and Durs. His heart skipped a beat as he saw them, standing just a few feet away, looking down at him coldly, unsmiling. He hadn’t seen them in ages, and had nearly forgotten about them. He could see in their eyes that they still held hatred for him, and it brought back fresh memories of his childhood, of his feeling unworthy, feeling small next to them.

“You did not fight like a warrior,” said Drake, the eldest. “You did not fight like one of us. If you did, you never would have won.”

“You are not deserving of the honors they heap on you,” added Dross.

“Despite what these men think, we know the truth about you. You are still just our younger brother,” said Durs. “Still just a poor sheepherder. The smallest and least deserving of all of us. You cheated your way into the Legion, and you cheated your way into the honors you won today.”

“And what do you all know of cheating?” O’Connor said back, stepping up and defending Thor.

“And what makes you all so superior?” Elden added, at his side. “Just because you are older?”

“That’s right,” Drake said. “We are older. And bigger. And stronger. We could beat you all to a pulp one-on-one, any day.”

“So why don’t you?” Reece countered. “Let us arrange a one-on-one combat, and see who wins.”

Dross laughed derisively.

“I don’t need to listen to you,” he said. “You are too young and ignorant to even talk to me. I’m a far greater warrior than you will ever be.”

“Oh no, but you do need to listen to Thor,” Reece countered. “He’s your Captain now. Did you not hear Kolk? You’ll have to listen to Thor’s every word from now. How does that make you feel?” Reece smiled.

The three brothers scowled down.

“We will
never
listen to you,” Drake spat to Thor. “We will
never
take an order from you. Ever. As long as we live.”

Thor was taken aback by their anger towards him.

“Why do you hate me?” Thor asked. “You always have, ever since I could remember.”

“Because you’re not worth anything,” Durs sneered.

With that, the three of them turned and walked off into the crowd, disappearing. Thor felt his heart pounding, felt a pit in his stomach.

Reece reached up and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it. They’re not worth the ground you walk on.”

O’Connor turned to him.

“Some people hate for no reason,” he added. “That’s just who they are.”

“Others are just filled with envy, for everyone and everything,” Elden added. “They need someone or something to blame, so they decide that you are the reason they don’t have what they want in life, and they hate you for their own failed lives. It is the easy way out for them—to blame you instead of being truthful and blaming themselves. It is just bullying—in another form.”

Thor understood. But it still stung him to the core. He did not know what he had done to deserve such animosity from his own family. Not just now, but his entire life. Why had he had to be born into this family? Why had they had to be there, always, at every turn, to ruin things for him at his happiest moments?

“My friend,” Reece said.

Thor looked up.

“There is something across the room that might cheer you up,” he laid a hand on Thor’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of the opposite side of the chamber.

There, standing in the doorway, smiling across the room at him, was Gwendolyn. Thor’s heart leapt.

“It seems she waits for you,” Reece said, smiling.

Thor had completely forgotten. With all the excitement, he had forgotten to meet her at the back door.

Thor hurried across the hall, whistling for Krohn, who raced to catch up. He saw Gwen smile wide, then duck out the back door, and Thor’s heart raced as he realized that finally, after everything, they could have time to be together.