A Feast of Dragons - By Morgan Rice Page 0,42

him: it was okay to feel fear—but it was not okay to give into it. That was the code of a warrior.

So instead, Thor forced himself to be strong. He forced himself to draw his sword, to step forward, and swing for the monster’s calf. It was a direct hit.

But the monster’s skin was so thick, the sword merely bounced off, falling from Thor’s hands. It was like striking stone. Thor scurried to pick it up again. The creature, angered, swung its huge fist at Thor; Thor managed to duck, and he saw his chance. He darted forward, raised his sword high, and plunged it in the beast’s smallest toe.

The beast shrieked as rivers of blood poured out. It was an awful noise, shaking Thor to the very core—so horrific, Thor almost wished he had never attacked it.

The beast was much faster than Thor had anticipated. Before Thor could react, he swept down again with one hand, and this time grabbed Thor and hoisted him high into the air. He squeezed Thor so hard, he could barely breathe.

The beast raised Thor higher up, all the way.

Krohn, down below, snarled and charged the Cyclops. He sank his teeth into its toe, and dug in, shaking it, until finally the Cyclops, infuriated, threw Thor down.

Thor felt himself go flying through the air and land hard on the ground, rolling several times, covered in dust, winded.

The beast roared again, then reached down and swiped for Krohn, who got out of the way just in time. It then yanked Thor’s short sword out from his toe as if it were a toothpick, and snapped the sword in half with a single hand.

The beast stepped towards him, and as Thor lay there, watching, helpless, he was sure he was dead.

But then the beast surprised him. It stopped, turned and looked at Malic instead. In one quick motion, it swooped down, grabbed Malic, and lifted him high into the air, squeezing him harder than he had Thor. Malic shrieked, and Thor could hear his ribs breaking even from here.

The beast held Malic close, right to his face, as if relishing this. Malic squirmed in his arms, but it was useless.

The beast suddenly pulled Malic to him, opened his mouth, revealing rows of jagged teeth, then brought Malic face first into his mouth. He chomped down, biting off Malic’s head. Blood came gushing down like a river. It happened so fast, Thor could barely process what he had witnessed.

The Cyclops dropped to the ground what was left of Malic’s body.

It then stopped and turned to Thor, staring at him, and Thor’s heart slammed in his chest. He prayed that the legend was true, that the monster would only kill the guilty.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the beast slowly turned its back, and marched to its cave. Thor held his breath, beginning to realize that the nightmare was over.

Thor could not believe it. His trial had taken place, in the eyes of his brethren, and he had been vindicated. He would live.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Gareth walked slowly into the throne room, needing time to be alone, to gather his thoughts, to remember why he wanted to be King. He entered the immense chamber, with its vaulted ceilings, stone floor and walls, and crossed it slowly, head down, his mind racing as he walked in the path his father had so many times.

Halfway across the room, Gareth looked up—and froze in place.

To his surprise, his throne had been turned around in the middle of the night, so its back was to him. Even more surprising, there was somebody sitting in it. In his throne.

Gareth could see the outline of a body, the arms resting on its arms, and he burned with rage, wondering who could be so impudent as to sit on a king’s throne. He also was puzzled as to how they had managed to turn around the throne, this ancient seat that had been rooted to its place for a thousand years.

Gareth walked quickly towards it, prepared to confront the intruder.

As he reached the base of the steps, to his shock, the throne suddenly spun around. On it, facing him, looking down, sat his father, his eyes open in disapproval.

Gareth stood unmoving, breathless, feeling as if a sword had been thrust into his chest. His feet were stuck to the floor: he could not get himself to pick them up, to put one after the other to ascend the stairs. After all, it was his father’s throne.