Krohn yelped and yelped, hairs standing on his back, leaning over as if getting ready to pounce into the water. But even Krohn must have known it would be useless to attack this thing.
One of the older boys stepped forward and screamed:
“DUCK!”
Thor lowered his head, as the boy threw a spear. It whizzed through the air but it missed, flew harmlessly by and sank into the water. The creature was too skinny, and too quick.
Suddenly, Krohn leapt off the boat and back into the water, landing with his jaws open and his sharp teeth extended on the back of the creature’s neck. Krohn clamped down and swung the creature left and right, not letting go.
But it was a losing battle: the creature’s skin was too tough, and it was too muscular. The creature threw Krohn side to side then finally sent him flying into the water. Meanwhile, the creature’s grip tightened on Thor’s leg; it was like a vice, and Thor felt himself losing oxygen. The tentacles burned so bad, Thor felt as if his leg was about to be torn off his body.
In one final, desperate attempt, Thor let go of the boy’s hand and in the same motion swung around and reached for the short sword on his belt.
But he could not grab it in time; he slipped and spun and fell face first into the water.
Thor felt himself dragged away, farther from the boat, the creature pulling him out to sea. He was dragged backwards, faster and faster, and as he reached out helplessly, he watched the rowboat disappearing before him. The next thing he knew, he felt himself being pulled down, beneath the surface of the water, deep into the depths of the Sea of Fire.
CHAPTER NINE
Gwendolyn ran in the open meadow, her father, King MacGil, beside her. She was young, maybe ten, and her father was much younger, too. His beard was short, not showing any signs of the gray it would have later in life, and his skin was free of wrinkles, youthful, shining. He was happy, carefree, and laughed with abandon as he held her hand and ran with her through the fields. This was the father she remembered, the father she knew.
He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, spinning her again and again, laughing louder and louder, and she giggled hysterically. She felt so safe in his arms, and she wanted this time together to never end.
But when her father set her down, something strange happened. Suddenly, the day went from a sunny afternoon to twilight. When Gwen’s feet hit the ground, they were no longer in the flowers of the meadow, but stuck in mud, up to her ankles. Her father now lay in the mud, on his back, a few feet away from her, older, much older, too old, and he was stuck. A few feet away, lying in the mud, was his crown, sparkling.
“Gwendolyn,” he gasped. “My daughter. Help me.”
He lifted a hand out from the mud, reaching for her, desperate.
She was overcome with an urgency to help him, and she tried to go to him, to grab his hand. But her feet would not budge. She looked down and saw that they were stuck in the mud which was hardening all around her, drying up, cracking. She wiggled and wiggled, trying to break free.
Gwen blinked and found herself standing on the parapets of the castle, looking down on King’s Court. Something was wrong: as she looked down, she did not see the usual splendor and festivities, but rather a sprawling cemetery. Where there once sat the shining splendor of King’s Court there now sat fresh graves as far the eye could see.
She heard a shuffling of feet, and her heart stopped as she turned to see an assassin, wearing a black cloak and hood, approaching her. He sprinted for her, pulling back his hood, revealing a grotesque face, one eye missing, a thick, jagged scar over the socket. He snarled, raised one hand, and raised a glistening dagger, its hilt glowing red.
He was moving too fast and she could not react in time. She braced herself, knowing she was about to be killed as he brought the dagger down with full force.
It stopped suddenly, just inches from her face, and she opened her eyes to see her father, standing there, a corpse, catching the man’s wrist in mid-air. He squeezed the man’s hand until he dropped it, then hoisted the man over his shoulders and threw him off the parapet. Gwen listened to his screams as he plunged down over the edge.
Her father turned and stared at her, a corpse, his flesh decomposed; he grabbed her shoulders firmly, and wore a stern expression.
“It is not safe for you here,” he warned. “It is not safe!” he screamed, his hands digging into her shoulders way too firmly, making her cry out.
Gwen woke screaming. She sat upright in bed, looking all around her chamber, expecting there to be an attacker.
But she was met with nothing but silence, the thick, still silence that preceded dawn.
Sweating, breathing hard, she jumped from bed, dressed in her nighttime lace, and paced her room. She hurried over to her small, stone basin and splashed water in her face, again and again. She leaned against the wall, felt the cool stone on her bare feet on this warm summer morning, and tried to compose herself.
The dream had felt too real. She sensed it was more than a dream-a genuine warning from her father, a message. She felt an urgency to leave King’s Court, right now, and to never come back.
She knew that was something she could not do. She knew she had to compose herself, to gain her wits. But every time she blinked, she saw her father’s face, felt his warning. She had to do something to shake the dream off.
Gwen looked out and saw the first sun just beginning to rise, and she thought of the only place that would help her regain her composure: King’s River. Yes, she had to go.
*
Gwendolyn immersed herself again and again in the freezing cold springs of King’s River, holding her nose and ducking her head under water. She sat in the small, natural swimming pool carved from rock, hidden in the upper springs, that she had found and frequented ever since she was a child. She held her head beneath the water and lingered there, feeling the cold currents run through her hair, over her scalp, feeling it wash and cleanse her naked body.
She had found this secluded spot one day, hidden amidst a clump of trees, high up on the mountain, a small plateau where the river slowed. In this spot, the river’s current slowed, and the pool was deep and still. Above her, the river trickled in and below her, it continued to trickle down-yet here, on this plateau, the waters held just the slightest current. The pool was deep, the rocks smooth, and the place so well hidden, she could bathe naked with abandon. She came here almost every morning in the summer, as the sun was rising, to clear her mind. Especially on days like today, when dreams haunted her, as they often did, it was her one place of refuge.
It was so hard for Gwen to know if it was just a dream, or something more. How was she to know when a dream was a message, an omen? To know when it was just her mind playing tricks on her, or if she were being given a chance to take action?
Gwendolyn rose for air, breathing in the warm summer morning, hearing the birds chirp all around her in the trees. She leaned back against the rock, her body immersed up to her neck, sitting on a natural ledge in the water, thinking. She reached up with her hands and splashed her face, then ran her hands through her long, strawberry hair. She looked down at the crystal surface of the water, reflecting the sky, the second sun, which was already beginning to rise, the trees which arched over the water, and her own face. Her almond eyes, glowing blue, glowed back at her through the ripples. She could see something of her father in them. She turned away, thinking again of her dream.
She knew it was dangerous for her to remain in King’s Court with her father’s assassination, with all the spies, all the plots-and especially, with Gareth as king. Her brother was unpredictable. Vindictive. Paranoid. And very, very jealous. He saw everyone as a threat-especially her. Anything could happen. She knew that she was not safe here. Nobody was.