A Feast of Dragons - By Morgan Rice Page 0,44
black as night, even though it was morning.
Gareth slammed the knocker again and again.
“OPEN THIS DOOR!” he screamed.
He was flooded with panic, wondering what he would do if she were gone from this place.
He waited what felt like an eternity, and was just about to turn away, when suddenly, the door opened.
Gareth spun and looked inside.
He could see no one, nothing but blackness, the faint flicker of a candle coming from deep inside. He turned, surveyed the woods, made sure no one was watching, then he hurried inside, slamming the door behind them.
It was quiet in here, the only sound that of the rain hitting the stone roof, of the rain dripping off of him, onto the floor in a small puddle. He looked around, giving his eyes time to adjust. It was so dim in here, he could barely see the witch, on the far side of the room, could barely see her silhouette. Hunched over, fiddling with something, she looked more creepy and ominous than before. The room was filled with her stench—that of decay and rotting flesh. He could hardly breathe. He already regretted coming here. Had it been a mistake?
“So,” said the witch in her horse, mocking voice, “our new King comes to visit!”
She cackled, thrilled with her own statement. Gareth could not understand what was so funny. He hated her laughter. He hated everything about her.
“I have come for answers,” he said, taking a step towards her, trying to sound confident, trying to sound like a king, but hearing the shakiness in his own voice.
“I know why you have come, boy,” she spat. “For assurance that you will rule forever. That you will not be killed, the way you killed others. We always want for ourselves what we deny others, don’t we?”
There came a long silence, as she slowly made her way closer to him. Gareth did not know whether to run from her or rebuke her. She held a single candle up to her face, covered in warts and etched with lines.
“I cannot give you what you do not have,” she said slowly, breaking into an evil smile, revealing small, rotted teeth.
Gareth felt a chill climb up his back.
“What do you mean, ‘do not have’?” he asked.
“Destiny is what it is, boy,” she said.
“What does that mean?” he pressed urgently, having a sinking feeling. “Are you saying I’m not destined to be King?”
“There are many kings in this world. There are those greater than kings, too. Those with greater destinies—destinies that outshine yours.”
“Greater than mine?” he asked. “But I am King of the Western Kingdom of the Ring! The greatest free land left in the Empire. Who could possibly be greater than me?”
“Thorgrin,” she answered directly.
The name struck him like a knife.
“Thorgrin will be greater than you. Greater than all the MacGil Kings. Greater than any King that ever lived. And one day, you will bow down to him and beg him for mercy,” she said, her voice cackling.
Gareth felt sick at her pronouncement—most of all, because it felt so real. He could hardly conceive how it could be. Thor? An outsider boy? A mere Legion member? Greater than he? With one wave of his hand he could have him imprisoned and executed. How could he possibly be greater than he?
“Then change my destiny!” he commanded, frantic. “Make ME the greatest! Make ME hoist the sword!”
The witch leaned back and cackled, until Gareth could stand it no longer.
“You would be crushed under the weight of that sword,” she said. “You are king—for now. That should be enough. Make it enough. Because that is all you will ever have. And when what you have is done, you will pay the price. Blood will have blood.”
He felt a chill.
“What good is it to be king, if the kingship will not last?” Gareth asked.
“What good is it to live, if death must come?” she answered.
“I am your king!” he yelled. “I COMMAND YOU! HELP ME!”
He charged for her, aiming to grab her by the shoulders, to shake her into submission—but as he reached for her, he felt himself grabbing at nothing but air.
He spun around, searched the cottage—but it was empty.
Gareth turned and stumbled from the cottage, into the sky, and as he got drenched, icy water running down his face and neck, he welcomed the pouring rain. He wished it would wash away his dreams, this meeting, and everything ill he had ever done. He no longer wanted to be king. He just wanted another chance