A March of Kings. Morgan Rice
get yours,” he sneered at Thor, then turned to Merek, “but now it’s your turn, you little thief. Third time,” he said with a malicious smile, “no exceptions.”
He dove for Merek, grabbed him roughly, yanked one arm behind his back, clamped down the shackle, then clamped the other end into a hook on the wall. Merek screamed out, tugging wildly against the shackle, trying to break free; but it was useless. The warder got behind him and grabbed him, held him in a bear hug, took his free arm, and placed it on a stone ledge.
“This will teach you not to steal,” he snarled.
He removed the axe from his belt and raised it high above his head, his mouth open wide, his ugly teeth sticking out as he snarled.
“NO!” Merek screamed.
Thor sat there, horrified, transfixed as their warder brought down his weapon, aiming for Merek’s wrist. Thor realized that in seconds, this poor boy’s hand would be chopped off, forever, for no reason other than his petty thievery for food, to help feed his family. The injustice of it burned inside him, and he knew he could not allow it. It just wasn’t fair.
Thor felt his entire body growing hot, and then felt a burning inside, rising up from his feet and coursing through his palms. He felt time slow down, felt himself moving faster than the man, felt every instant of every second, as the man’s axe hung there in mid-air. Thor felt a burning energy ball in his palm and hurled it at his warder.
He watched in amazement as the yellow sphere went flying from his palm, through the air, lighting up the dark cell as it left a trail – and went right for the warder’s face. It hit him in his head, and as it did, he dropped his axe and went flying across the cell, smashing into a wall and collapsing. Thor saved Merek a split second before the blade reached his wrist.
Merek looked over at Thor, wide-eyed.
The warder shook his head and began to rise, to apprehend Thor. But Thor felt the power burning through him, and as the warder reached his feet and faced him, Thor ran forward, jumped into the air, and kicked him in the chest. Thor felt a power he had never known rush through his body and heard a cracking noise as his kick sent the large man flying back through the air, smashing against the wall, and down into a heap on the floor, truly unconscious this time.
Merek stood there, shocked, and Thor knew exactly what he had to do. He grabbed the axe, hurried over, held Merek’s shackle up against the stone, and chopped it. A great spark flew through the air as the chain-link was severed. Merek flinched, then raised his head and looked at the chain dangling down to his feet, and realized he was free.
He stared back at Thor, open-mouthed.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Merek said. “I don’t know how you did that, whatever it is, or who you are – or what you are – but you saved my life. I owe you one. And that is something I do not take lightly.”
“You owe me nothing,” Thor said.
“Wrong,” Merek said, reaching out and clasping Thor’s forearm. “You’re my brother now. And I will repay you. Somehow. Someday.”
With that, Merek turned, hurried out the open cell door, and ran down the corridor, to the shouts of the other prisoners.
Thor looked over, saw the unconscious guard, the open cell door, and knew he had to act, too. The shouts of prisoners were growing louder.
Thor stepped out, looked both ways, and decided to run the opposite way of Merek. After all, they couldn’t catch them both at once.
Chapter Three
Thor ran through the night, through the chaotic streets of King’s Court, amazed at the commotion around him. The streets were crowded, throngs of people hurrying about in an agitated stir. Many carried torches, lighting up the night, casting stark shadows on faces, while the castle bells tolled incessantly. It was a low ring, coming once a minute, and Thor knew what that meant: death. Death bells. And there was only one person in the kingdom for whom the bells would toll on this night: the king.
Thor’s heart pounded as he wondered. The dagger from his dream flashed before his eyes. Had it been true?
He had to know for sure. He reached out and grabbed a passerby, a boy running the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” Thor demanded. “What is all this commotion?”
“Haven’t you heard?” the boy shot back, frantic. “Our king is dying! Stabbed! Mobs are forming outside King’s Gate, trying to get the news. If it’s true, it’s terrible for us all. Can you imagine? A land without a king?”
With that, the boy shoved Thor’s hand off, turned and ran back into the night.
Thor stood there, his heart pounding, not wanting to acknowledge the reality all around him. His dreams, his premonitions – they were more than fancies. He had seen the future. Twice. And that scared him. His powers were deeper than he knew, and seemed to be getting stronger with each passing day. Where would this all lead?
Thor stood there, trying to figure out where to go next. He had escaped, but now he had no idea where to turn. Surely within moments the royal guards – and possibly all of King’s Court – would be out looking out for him. The fact that Thor escaped would just make him seem more guilty. But then again, the fact that MacGil was stabbed while Thor was in prison – wouldn’t that vindicate him? Or would it make him seem like part of a conspiracy?
Thor couldn’t take any chances. Clearly, no one in the kingdom was in the mood to hear rational thought – it seemed everyone around him was out for blood. And he would probably be the scapegoat. He needed to find shelter, some place to go where he could ride out the storm and clear his name. The safest place to go would be far from here. He should flee, take refuge in his village – or even farther, as much distance from here as he could get.
But Thor did not want to take the safest route; it was not who he was. He wanted to stay here, to clear his name, and to keep his position in the Legion. He was not a coward, and he did not run. Most of all, he wanted to see MacGil before he died – assuming he was still alive. He needed to see him. He felt overwhelmed with guilt that he hadn’t been able to stop the assassination. Why had he been doomed to see the king’s death if there was nothing he could do about it? And why had he envisioned him being poisoned when he was, in fact, stabbed?
As Thor stood there, debating, it came to him: Reece. Reece was the one person he could trust not to turn him in to the authorities, maybe even to give him safe harbor. He sensed Reece would believe him. He knew Thor’s love for his father was genuine, and if anyone had a chance of clearing Thor’s name, it would be Reece. He had to find him.
Thor took off at a sprint through the back alleys, twisting and turning against the crowd, as he ran away from King’s Gate, toward the castle. He knew where Reece’s chamber was – on the eastern wing, close to the outer city wall – and he only hoped that Reece was inside. If he was, maybe he could catch his attention, help him find a way into the castle. Thor had a sinking feeling that if he lingered here, in the streets, he would soon be recognized. And when this mob recognized him, it would tear him to bits.
As Thor turned down street after street, his feet slipping in the mud of the summer night, he finally reached the stone wall of the outer ramparts. He stuck close, running alongside it, just beneath the eyes of the watchful soldiers who stood every few feet.
As he neared Reece’s window, he reached down and picked up a smooth rock. Luckily, the one weapon they had forgotten to strip him of was his old, trusted sling. He extracted it from his waist, set the stone in place, and hurled it.
With his flawless aim, Thor sent the stone flying over the castle wall and perfectly into the open-air window of Reece’s room. Thor heard it clack into the inner wall, then waited, ducking low along the wall to escape detection by the King’s guards, who flinched at the noise.
Nothing happened for several moments, and Thor’s heart dropped, as he wondered if Reece was not in his room after all. If not, Thor would have to flee this place; there was no other way for him to gain safe harbor. He held his breath, his heart pounding, as