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 never part of this family,” his father said.
Thor’s heart pounded, as he tried to process his father’s words.
“I never loved you!” his father screamed, standing, breaking the shackles. He took several steps towards Thor, the shackles flailing. “I never wanted you!” he shrieked.
He charged Thor, raising his huge hands as if to choke him. Just as his hands closed in on Thor’s throat, Thor blinked.
Thor stood at the head of a ship, a huge, wooden warship, its bow crashing deep into the ocean then rising high, waves crashing all around him. Thor stood at the helm, and before him flew Ephistopheles, still carrying the king’s crown. In the distance there appeared an island, rising out from the sea, covered in a mist. And beyond that, a flame in the sky. The sky was filled with dark purple clouds, the two suns sitting near each other.
Thor heard a horrific roar, and he knew this was the Isle of Mist.
Thor woke with a start. He sat up breathing hard. He looked all around him, wondering.
It had been a dream. He was lying there, in the barracks, in the early light of dawn, the other boys sleeping all around him. His heart pounded as he wiped the sweat from his brow. It had seemed so real.
“I know something of bad dreams, boy,” came a voice.
Thor spun and saw Kolk standing there, not far off, fully dressed, hands on his hips, looking down at the other boys.
“You’re the first to rise,” he said. “That is good. We have a long journey ahead of us. And your nightmares are just the beginning.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gareth stood at his open window, watching dawn break over his kingdom. His kingdom. It felt good to think the words. As of today, he would be King. Not his father, but he. Gareth MacGil. The eighth of the MacGils. The crown would sit on his head.
It was a new era now. A new dynasty. It would be his face on the royal coins, a statue of him outside the castle. In just weeks, his father’s name would be a memory, something relegated to the history books. Now it was his time to rise, his time to shine. It was the day he had looked forward to his entire life.
In fact, Gareth had been up all night, unable to sleep, tossing and turning, pacing the floors, sweating, covered in cold chills. In the few moments he had slept, he had had fast and troubled dreams, had seen the face of his father, staring back at him, reprimanding him, just as it had in life. But now his father could not touch him. Now he was in control. He had opened his eyes from sleep and made the face go away. He was in the land of the living, not his father. He and he alone.
Gareth could hardly conceive all the changes happening around him. As he watched the sky grow warmer, he knew that in just hours, he would wear the crown, the royal robe, wield the royal scepter. All the king’s advisers, all the king’s generals, all the people of his kingdom, would answer to him. He would control the Army, the Legion, the treasury. In fact, there was nothing he could not control, and there was not a single person who would not answer to him. It was the power he had sought, had craved, his entire life. And now it was in his grasp. Not in his sister’s, and not in any of his brothers’. He had managed to make it happen. Perhaps prematurely. But he figured one day it would have been his anyway. Why should he have to wait his entire life, waste his prime, waiting? He should be king in his prime, not as an old man. He had just made it happen a bit sooner.
It was what his father deserved. His entire life he had criticized him, had refused to accept him for who he was. Now Gareth was forcing his father to accept him, from beyond the grave, whether he liked it or not. He was forcing him to have to look down and see his least loved son as ruler, the very son he had never wanted. That was his punishment for withdrawing his love, and for never giving him love to begin with. Gareth didn’t need his love now. Now he had the whole kingdom to love and adore him. And he would squeeze out every ounce of it that he could.
There came a pounding on the door, the iron knocker resonating on the wood, and Gareth turned, already dressed, and strutted to the door. He yanked it open himself, marveling that this would be the last time he would do so. After today, he would sleep in a different room—the King’s chamber—and would have servants around the clock standing in and outside of his door. He would never touch a doorknob again. He would be flocked by a royal entourage, warriors, bodyguards, anything he wanted. He was electrified at the thought of it.
“My liege,” came the chorus of voices.
A dozen of the king’s guard bowed down as the door opened.
One of his advisers stepped forward.
“We have come to accompany you to the crowning ceremony.”
“Very well,” Gareth said, trying to sound composed, trying not to sound as if he had anticipated this moment every day of his life.
He walked forward, raising his chin, already trying to practice the look of a king. He would allow this day to change him, and he would demand that everyone around him look at him differently.
Gareth walked down the red carpet that had been laid out for him along the castle stone floor, dozens of guards lined up along it, awaiting his approach. He walked slowly and deliberately, turning down corridor after corridor, reveling each moment. Everywhere he went guards bowed low.