A March of Kings. Morgan Rice

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.

      Thor was taken aback; he’d never been in the presence of a thief before, a real thief. He himself had never thought of stealing, and had always been amazed to realize that some people did.

      “Why do you do it?” Thor asked.

      Merek shrugged.

      “My family has no food. They have to eat. I don’t have any schooling, or any skills of any kind. Stealing is what I know. Nothing major. Just food mostly. Whatever gets them through. I got away with it for years. Then I got caught. This is my third time caught, actually. Third time’s the worst.”

      “Why?” Thor asked.

      Merek was quiet, then slowly shook his head. Thor could see his eyes well up with tears.

      “The king’s law is strict. No exceptions. Third offense, they take your hand.”

      Thor was horrified. He glanced down at Merek’s hands; they were both there.

      “They haven’t come for me yet,” Merek said. “But they will.”

      Thor felt terrible. Merek looked away, as if ashamed, and Thor did, too, not wanting to think about it.

      Thor put his head in his hands, his head killing him, trying to piece together his thoughts. The last few days felt like a whirlwind; so much had happened so quickly. On the one hand, he felt a sense of success, of vindication: he’d seen the future, had foreseen MacGil’s poisoning, and had saved him from it. Perhaps fate, after all, could be changed – perhaps destiny could be bent. Thor felt a sense of pride: he had saved his king.

      On the other hand, here he was, in the dungeon, unable to clear his name. All his hopes and dreams were shattered, any chance of joining the Legion gone. Now he would be lucky if he didn’t spend the rest of his days down here. It pained him to think that MacGil, who had taken Thor in like a father, the only real father he had ever had, thought Thor actually tried to kill him. It pained him to think that Reece, his best friend, might believe that he’d tried to kill his father. Or even worse, Gwendolyn. He thought of their last encounter – how she thought he frequented the brothels – and felt as if everything good in his life had been pulled out from under him. He wondered why this was all happening to him. After all, he had only wanted to do good.

      Thor didn’t know what would become of him; he didn’t care. All he wanted now was to clear his name, for people to know that he hadn’t tried to hurt the king; that he had genuine powers, that he really saw the future. He didn’t know what would become of him, but he knew one thing: he had to get out of here. Somehow.

      Before Thor could finish the thought, he heard footsteps, heavy boots clomping their way down the stone corridors; there came a rattling of keys, and moments later, there came into view a burly jail keeper, the man who had dragged Thor here and punched him in the face. At the sight of him Thor felt the pain well up on his cheek, felt aware of it for the first time, and felt a physical revulsion.

      “Well, if it isn’t the little pip who tried to kill the King,” the warder scowled, as he turned the iron key in the lock. After several reverberating clicks,