Thor stuffed Krohn back into his shirt, turned for the cliff wall, crammed his hands into whatever nooks and crannies he could find, found some crags for his feet, and began climbing straight up. Beside him, Reese did the same.
It was incredibly hard, the cliff nearly smooth, with only small crags in which to place his fingers and toes. Sometimes he found himself having to pull himself up by just the tips of a few fingers, pushing off with just the tips of his toes. He had only gone a few feet, and his arms and legs already shook. He looked up, and saw at least a hundred feet before him; he looked down and saw a ten foot drop to the sand below. He was breathing hard, and did not know how he would make it. Krohn whined inside his shirt, wriggling.
Reese climbed at the same rate, and he rested beside him, also looked down, and shared the same bewildered look.
Thor took another step, and as he did, he slipped. He slid several feet. Reese reached out for him, but it was too late.
Thor went flying backwards, through the air, hurling, bracing himself for a rough impact on the sand. Krohn yelped, jumping out, flying through the air beside him.
Thor heard the crashing of a wave, and luckily, the wave hit the sand just before impact. Thor landed in the water, splashing down, and was grateful that it had softened the blow.
He sat up, and watched as Reese, too, lost his grip and came flying down and landed in the water, not too far from him. The two of them sat there, and wondered. All around them, other boys were arriving on the shore, and also looked up in wonder.
Thor didn’t see how they could make it to the top, how they could ever make it to the island.
O’Connor, wading onto the sand, stood there and examined the cliff for a good minute before he reached back and removed the bow from his shoulder. From his waist he removed a long bunch of rope, and as Thor watched, he tied the rope to the end of an arrow.
Before Thor could ask him what he was doing, O’Connor fired.
The arrow carried the rope, higher and higher through the air, until it reached the very top of the cliff and looped itself around a small tree. It was a perfect shot, the arrow falling cleanly over one end and sliding back down the mountain. O’Connor tugged at it, making sure it was stable; the tree bent but did not give. Thor was impressed.
“I’m not a complete waste,” O’Connor said, with a proud smile.
The other Legion members crowded around him and his rope, as O’Connor began to climb it.
He pulled himself up relatively quickly and easily, climbing higher and higher, until he reached the top. When he did, he tied the arrow around the tree, providing a secure rope for the others.
“One at a time!” O’Connor called down.
“You go,” Reese said to Thor.
“After you,” Thor said.
Reese climbed up, and Thor waited until he reached the top, then followed. It was easy compared to climbing the rock face, and soon Thor reached the top.
He was sweating, breathing hard, beyond exhausted, and he collapsed on the grass as he reached the island. It was real, soft grass, and after what he had been through, he felt as if he had landed on the most luxurious of beds.
Thor lifted his head enough to look out at the sunset all around him, casting a mystical light onto this strange place. It was craggy, desolate, forlorn, covered in an eerie and unwelcoming mist. The mist seemed to taint everything, seemed to threaten to swallow him whole. It was hardly a place he would call welcoming.
Thor swallowed. This desolate place, in the middle of nowhere, at the top of the world, would be home for the next hundred days.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gwendolyn ran through the back streets of King’s court, twisting and turning, trying to remember her way to the alehouse. She had only been here once in her life, when trying to retrieve Godfrey for some occasion, and she had never frequented this part of King’s Court since. It was too seedy for her, and she felt uncomfortable from all the stares as the streets became populated with unruly types. It saddened her that Godfrey had wasted so much of his life here, in this place that was beneath him. It had put a stain on the honor of the royal family, and she knew he was better than that.
Tears still poured down her cheeks and her heart still pounded as she ran through her mind, again and again, what had just happened at the river. She reached up and felt the small cut on her cheek, still stinging, still fresh, and wondered if it would scar. Gwen looked down at her hand and saw it was covered in blood. She had not taken time to bandage it-but that was the least of it now. She realized how lucky she was not to have been killed or maimed; she thought of Ephistopheles, and felt certain her father had saved her. Looking back, she should have heeded her dream more carefully. But how? Dreams were still a mystery to her. She never quite knew the right course of action to take, even when it seemed clear.
She knew of Gareth’s dog’s reputation for butchery, knew how many people he had maimed for life and marveled that she had escaped. She grew cold thinking that Gareth had sent him to her. Her mind spun with the implications. Obviously he would not have sent him unless he had something to hide about their father’s murder. She felt more certain of it than ever. The question was how to prove it. She would not give up until she did-even if it meant risking her own life. Gareth must have thought that that man would scare her away-but the opposite was true. Gwen was not one to back down. And when someone tried to scare or threaten her, she always fought back twice as hard.
She turned yet another corner, and finally saw the tavern, crooked, sagging on one end, the structure way too old and never tended well to begin with. The door was partially open, and two drunks stumbled out of it, one of them lighting up at the sight of her.
“Hey, look here!” he said, elbowing his buddy, who, more drunk than he, turned and belched at her.
“Hey miss, going our way?” he yelled, and shrieked with laughter at his own joke.
They lurched towards her, but after what she had been through, Gwen was not afraid. She was in no mood for everyday cretins-and she pushed them roughly out of her way. Caught off guard, they stumbled back, drunk.
“Hey!” one screamed, indignant.
But Gwen hurried past them, unafraid, right into the open tavern. In the mood she was in, if one of them followed her in, she would find an empty glass and smash it on his head. That would make them think twice about addressing a member of the royal family so disrespectfully.
Gwen strode into the tavern, the smell hitting her, and as she did, the rowdy atmosphere fell silent, all heads turning. There were dozens of seedy types in here, all drinking, all slovenly; she could scarcely believe how many people were so deep into drink so early in the day. It was not a holiday, at least as far she could recall. Then again, she supposed that for these people, it always was.
One man, seated at the bar, was slower to turn than the others, and when he did, his eyes opened wide at the sight of her.
“Gwen!” he called out, surprise in his voice.
Gwen hurried over to Godfrey, feeling all the emotion pouring out of her. Godfrey looked at her with real concern, stumbled up from his barstool, and hurried over to her, laying a protective arm around her.
He guided her away from the others, to a small table in the corner of the tavern. His two friends, Akorth and Fulton, kept others at bay, and created a wall for their privacy.
“What happened?” he asked, quietly and urgently, as he sat beside her. “What happened to your face?” he asked, reaching towards her cut.
Her back to all the others, she sat beside her brother, and finally felt all her emotion pouring out. Despite her best efforts, she broke down sobbing, covering her face in her hands, in shame.