Free A Clash of Honor by Morgan Rice

of the Hall of Arms. Then we will be together.”
    Thor leaned in and kissed her one last time, holding it as long as he could, until he was tugged away by his fellow soldiers.
    “I love you,” she said to him.
    “I love you too,” he said back, meaning it more than she would ever know.
    All he could think of, as he was dragged away, as he watched those beautiful eyes, so filled with love for him, was that he wanted, more than anything, to propose to her, to make her his forever. Now was not the right time, but soon, he told himself.
    Perhaps, even tonight.

CHAPTER TWELVE

 
 
    Gareth stood in his chamber, looking out the window at the breaking light of dawn as it rose over King’s Court, watching the masses gather below—and he felt sick to his stomach. On the horizon there sat his worst fear, the very picture of what he dreaded most: the king’s army returning, victorious, triumphant from its clash with the McClouds. Kendrick and Thor rode at its head, free, alive—heroes. His spies had already informed him of everything that had happened, that Thor had survived the ambush, that he was alive and well. Now these men were all emboldened, returning to King’s Court as a solidified force. All of his plans had gone terribly awry, and it left a pit in his stomach. He felt the kingdom closing in on him.
    Gareth heard a creaking noise in his room, and he spun and shut his eyes quickly at the site before him, stricken with fear.
    “Open your eyes, son!” came the booming voice.
    Shaking, Gareth opened his eyes, and was aghast to see his father, standing there, a corpse, decomposing, a rusted crown on his head, a rusted scepter in his hand. He stared back with a reprimanding look, as he had in life.
    “Blood will have blood,” his father proclaimed.
    “I hate you!” Gareth screamed. “I HATE YOU!” he repeated, and pulled the dagger from his belt and charged forward for his father.
    As he reached him, he sliced his dagger—though hit nothing but air, and stumbled through the room.
    Gareth spun, but the apparition was gone. He was alone in the chamber. He had been alone the entire time. Was he losing his mind?
    Gareth ran to the far corner of the chamber, rummaged through his dressing cabinet and extracted his opium pipe with trembling hands; he quickly lit it, and inhaled deeply, again and again. He felt the flush of drugs wash over his system, felt himself lost temporarily in the drug high. He had been turning to the opium more and more these past days—it seemed to be the only thing that helped chase away the image of his father. Gareth was tormented being here, and he was starting to wonder if his father’s ghost was trapped in these walls, and if he should move his court somewhere else. He would like to raze this building anyway—this place held every memory of his childhood that he hated.
    Gareth turned back to the window, covered in a cold sweat, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He watched. The army neared, and Thor was visible even from here, the stupid masses flocking to him like a hero. It made Gareth livid, made him burn with envy. Every plan he had put into motion had fallen apart: Kendrick was freed; Thor was alive; even Godfrey had somehow managed to escape the poison—enough poison to kill a horse.
    But then again, his other plans had worked: Firth, at least, was dead, and there was no witness left to prove he’d killed his father. Gareth took a deep breath, relieved, realizing things were not as bad as they seemed. After all, the convoy of Nevaruns was still en route to take away his sister, Gwendolyn, and drag her off to some horrible corner of the Ring and marry her off. He smiled at the thought, starting to feel better. Yes, at least she would be out of his hair soon enough.
    Gareth had time. He would find other ways to deal with Kendrick and Thor and Godfrey—he had a myriad schemes to kill them off. And he had all the time and all the power in the world to make it happen.