A March of Kings

As the figure stood over him, holding the knife, MacGil somehow managed to raise a hand and push it into the man’s shoulder, trying to get him to stop. He felt a burst of the old warrior’s strength rise up within him, felt the strength of his ancestors, felt some deep part of him that made him king, that would not give up. With one giant shove, he managed to push back the assassin with all his might.

The man was thinner, more frail than MacGil thought, and went stumbling back with a cry, tripping across the room. MacGil managed to stand and, with a supreme effort, reached down and pulled the knife from his chest. He threw it across the room and it hit the stone floor with a clang, skidding across it, and slammed into the far wall.

The man, whose hood had fallen back around his shoulders, scrambled to his feet and stared back, wide-eyed with terror, as MacGil began to bear down on him. The man turned and ran across the room, stopping only long enough to retrieve the dagger before he fled.

MacGil tried to chase him, but the man was too fast, and suddenly the pain rose up, piercing his chest. He felt himself grow weak.

MacGil stood there, alone in the room, and looked down at the blood pouring from his chest, into his open palms. He sank to his knees.

He felt his body grow cold, and leaned back and tried to call out.

“Guards,” came his faint cry.

He took a deep breath, and with supreme agony, managed to muster his deep voice. The voice of a once-king.

“GUARDS!” he shrieked.

He heard footsteps from some distant hallway, slowly getting closer. He heard a distant door open, sensed bodies getting closer to him. But the room spun again, and this time it was not from drink.

The last thing he saw was the cold stone floor, rising up to meet his face.

Chapter Two

Thor grabbed the iron knocker of the immense wooden door before him and pulled with all his might. It opened slowly, creaking, and revealed before him the king’s chamber. He took a step in, feeling the hairs on his arms tingle as he crossed the threshold. He could feel a great darkness here, lingering in the air like a fog.

Thor took several steps into the chamber, hearing the crackle of the torchlight on the walls as he made his way toward the body, lying in a heap on the floor. He already sensed it was the king, that he had been murdered – that he, Thor, had been too late. Thor could not help but wonder where all the guards were, why no one was here to rescue him.

Thor’s knees grew weak as he took the final steps to the body; he knelt on the stone, grabbed the shoulder, already cold, and rolled the king over.

There was MacGil, his former king, lying there, eyes wide open, dead..

Thor looked up and suddenly saw the king’s attendant standing over them. He held a large, bejeweled goblet, one that Thor recognized from the feast, made of solid gold and covered in rows of rubies and sapphires. While staring at Thor, the attendant poured it slowly onto the king’s chest. The wine splashed all over Thor’s face.

Thor heard a screeching, and turned to see his falcon, Estopheles, perched on the king’s shoulder; she licked the wine off his cheek.

Thor heard a noise and turned to see Argon, standing over him, looking down sternly. In one hand he held the crown, shining. In another, his staff.

Argon walked over and placed the crown firmly on Thor’s head. Thor could feel it, its weight digging in, fitting snugly, its metal hugging his temples. He looked up at Argon in wonder.

“You are King now,” Argon pronounced.

Thor blinked, and when he opened his eyes, before him stood all the members of the Legion, of the Silver, hundreds of men and boys crammed together into the chamber, all facing him. As one, they all knelt, then bowed down to him, their faces low to the ground.

“Our King,” came a chorus of voices.

Thor woke with a start. He sat upright, breathing hard, looking all about him. It was dark in here, and humid, and he realized he was sitting on a stone floor, his back to the wall. He squinted in the darkness, saw iron bars in the distance and beyond them, a flickering torch. Then he remembered: the dungeon. He had been dragged down here, after the feast.

He remembered that guard, punching him in the face, and realized he must have been unconscious; he didn’t know how long. He sat up, breathing harder, trying to wash away the horrific dream. It had seemed so real. He prayed it wasn’t true, that the king wasn’t dead. The image of the dead king was lodged in his mind. Had Thor really seen something? Or was it all just his imagination?

Thor felt someone kick him on the sole of his foot, and looked up to see a figure standing over him.

“It’s about time you woke up,” came the voice. “I’m waiting hours.”

In the dim light Thor made out the face of a teenage boy, about his age. He was thin, short, with hollow cheeks and pockmarked skin – yet there seemed to be something kind and intelligent behind his green eyes.

“I’m Merek,” he said. “Your cellmate. What you in for?”

Thor sat upright, trying to get his wits about him. He leaned back against the wall, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to remember, to piece it all together.

“They say you tried to kill the king,” Merek continued.

“He did try to kill him, and we’re going to tear him to pieces if he ever gets out from behind those bars,” snarled a voice.

A chorus of clanking erupted, tin cups banging against metal bars, and Thor looked to see the entire corridor filled with cells, grotesque-looking prisoners sticking their heads to the bars and, in the flickering torchlight, sneering out at him. Most were unshaven, with missing teeth, and some looked as if they’d been down here for years. It was a horrifying sight, and Thor forced himself to look away. Was he really down here? Would he be stuck down here, with these people, forever?

“Don’t worry about them,” Merek said. “It’s just you and me in this cell. They can’t get in. And I could care less if you poisoned the king. I’d like to poison him myself.”

“I didn’t poison the King,” Thor said, indignant. “I didn’t poison anyone. I was trying to save him. All I did was knock over his goblet.”

“And how did you know the goblet was poisoned?” screamed a voice from down the aisle, eavesdropping. “Magic, I suppose?”

Their came a chorus of cynical laughter from up and down the cell corridor.

“He’s psychic!” one of them yelled out, mocking.

The others laughed.

“No, it was just a lucky guess!” another bellowed, to the delight of the others.

Thor glowered, resenting the accusations, wanting to set them all straight. But he knew it would be a waste of time. Besides, he didn’t have to defend himself to these criminals.

Merek studied him, with a look that was not as skeptical as the others. He looked as if he were debating.

“I believe you,” he said, quietly.

“You do?” Thor asked.

Merek shrugged.

“After all, if you’re going to poison the King, would you really be so stupid to let him know?”

Merek turned and walked away, a few paces over to his side of the cell, and leaned back against the wall and sat down, facing Thor.

Now Thor was curious.

“What are you in for?” he asked.

“I’m a thief,” Merek answered, somewhat proudly.