A   Q U E S T   O F   H E R O E S

(Book #1 in the Sorcerer’s
Ring)

Morgan Rice

About Morgan
Rice

Morgan
Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy
series THE SORCERER’S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling
series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1
bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising
two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND
SORCERERS, comprising five books (and counting). Morgan’s books are available
in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25
languages.

TURNED
(Book #1 in the Vampire Journals), ARENA
ONE (Book #1 of the Survival Trilogy), A
QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1 in the Sorcerer’s Ring) and RISE
OF THE DRAGONS (Kings and Sorcerers—Book #1) are each available as a free
download on Amazon!

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loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the
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“THE SORCERER’S RING has all the ingredients for an instant
success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming
relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep
you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the
permanent library of all fantasy readers.”

--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

“[An] entertaining epic fantasy.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“The beginnings of something remarkable are there.”

--San Francisco Book Review

“Action-packed …. Rice's writing is solid and the premise intriguing.”

--Publishers Weekly

“A spirited fantasy ….Only the beginning of what promises to be an epic young
adult series.”

--Midwest Book Review

Books by Morgan
Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

A REALM OF SHADOWS (Book #5)

NIGHT OF THE BOLD (Book #6)

THE SORCERER’S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book
#1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

Download
Morgan Rice books now!

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to THE SORCERER’S RING series in audio book format!

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Copyright
© 2012 by Morgan Rice

All
rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any
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This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places,
events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

Jacket image Copyright RazoomGame, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Uneasy lies the head that wears
the crown.”

—William Shakespeare

Henry IV, Part II

CHAPTER ONE

The boy stood on the highest
knoll of the low country in the Western Kingdom of the Ring, looking north,
watching the first of the rising suns. As far as he could see stretched rolling
green hills, dipping and rising like camel humps in a series of valleys and
peaks. The burnt-orange rays of the first sun lingered in the morning mist,
making them sparkle, lending the light a magic that matched the boy’s mood. He
rarely woke this early or ventured this far from home—and never ascended this
high—knowing it would incur his father’s wrath. But on this day, he didn’t
care. On this day, he disregarded the million rules and chores that had
oppressed him for his fourteen years. For this day was different. It was the
day his destiny had arrived.

The boy, Thorgrin of the Western
Kingdom of the Southern Province of the clan McLeod—known to all he liked
simply as Thor—the youngest of four boys, the least favorite of his father, had
stayed awake all night in anticipation of this day. He had tossed and turned,
bleary-eyed, waiting, willing the first sun to rise. For a day like this
arrived only once every several years, and if he missed it, he would be stuck
in this village, doomed to tend his father’s flock the rest of his days. That
was a thought he could not bear.

Conscription Day. It was the one
day the King’s Army canvassed the provinces and hand-picked volunteers for the
King’s Legion. As long as he had lived, Thor had dreamt of nothing else. For
him, life meant one thing: joining the Silver, the King’s elite force of
knights, bedecked in the finest armor and the choicest arms anywhere in the two
kingdoms. And one could not enter the Silver without first joining the Legion,
the company of squires ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age. And if
one was not the son of a noble, or of a famed warrior, there was no other way
to join the Legion.

Conscription Day was the only
exception, that rare event every few years when the Legion ran low and the King’s
men scoured the land in search of new recruits. Everyone knew that few
commoners were chosen—and that even fewer would actually make the Legion.

Thor studied the horizon
intently, looking for any sign of motion. The Silver, he knew, would have to
take this, the only road into his village, and he wanted to be the first to
spot them. His flock of sheep protested all around him, rising up in a chorus
of annoying grunts and urging him to bring them back down the mountain, where
the grazing was choicer. He tried to block out the noise, and the stench. He
had to concentrate.

What had made all of this
bearable, all these years of tending flocks, of being his father’s lackey, his
older brothers’ lackey, the one cared for least and burdened most, was the idea
that one day he would leave this place. One day, when the Silver came, he would
surprise all those who had underestimated him and be selected. In one swift
motion, he would ascend their carriage and say goodbye to all of this.

Thor’s father, of course, had
never considered him seriously as a candidate for the Legion—in fact, he had
never considered him as a candidate for anything. Instead, his father devoted
his love and attention to Thor’s three older brothers. The oldest was nineteen
and the others but a year behind each other, leaving Thor a good three years
younger than any of them. Perhaps because they were closer in age, or perhaps
because they looked alike and looked nothing like Thor, the three of them stuck
together, barely acknowledging Thor’s existence.

Worse, they were taller and
broader and stronger than he, and Thor, who knew he was not short, nonetheless
felt small beside them, felt his muscular legs frail compared to their barrels
of oak. His father made no move to rectify any of this—and in fact seemed to
relish it—leaving Thor to attend the sheep and sharpen weapons while his
brothers were left to train. It was never spoken, but always understood, that
Thor would spend his life in the wings, be forced to watch his brothers achieve
great things. His destiny, if his father and brothers had their way, would be
to stay here, swallowed by this village, and give his family the support they
demanded.

Worse still was that Thor sensed
his brothers, paradoxically, were threatened by him, maybe even hated him. Thor
could see it in their every glance, their every gesture. He didn’t understand
how, but he aroused something, like fear, or jealousy, in them. Perhaps it was
because he was different from them, didn’t look like them or speak with their
mannerisms; he didn’t even dress like them, his father reserving the best—the
purple and scarlet robes, the gilded weapons—for his brothers, while Thor was
left wearing the coarsest of rags.

Nonetheless, Thor made the best
of what he had, finding a way to make his clothes fit, tying the frock with a
sash around his waist, and, now that summer was here, cutting off the sleeves
to allow his toned arms to be caressed by the breezes. His shirt was matched by
coarse linen pants—his only pair—and boots made of the poorest leather, laced
up his shins. They were hardly the leather of his brothers’ shoes, but he made
them work. His was the typical uniform of a herder.

But he hardly had the typical
demeanor. Thor stood tall and lean, with a proud jaw, noble chin, high
cheekbones, and gray eyes, looking like a displaced warrior. His straight,
brown hair fell back in waves on his head, just past his ears, and behind the
locks, his eyes glistened like minnows in the light.

Thor’s brothers would be allowed
to sleep in this morning, given a hearty meal, and sent off for the Selection
with the finest weapons and his father’s blessing—while he would not even be
allowed to attend. He had tried to raise the issue with his father once. It had
not gone well. His father had summarily ended the conversation, and he had not
tried again. It just wasn’t fair.

Thor was determined to reject the
fate his father had planned for him. At the first sign of the royal caravan, he
would race back to the house, confront his father, and, like it or not, make
himself known to the King’s men. He would stand for selection with the others.
His father could not stop him. He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of
it.

The first sun rose higher, and
when the second sun, mint green, began to rise, adding a layer of light to the
purple sky, Thor spotted them.

He stood upright, hairs on end,
electrified. There, on the horizon, came the faintest outline of a horse-drawn
carriage, its wheels kicking dust into the sky. His heart beat faster as
another came into view; then another. Even from here the golden carriages
gleamed in the suns, like silver-backed fish leaping from the water.

By the time he counted twelve of
them, he could wait no longer. Heart pounding in his chest, forgetting his
flock for the first time in his life, Thor turned and stumbled down the hill,
determined to stop at nothing until he made himself known.

*

Thor barely paused to catch his
breath as he sped down the hills, through the trees, scratched by branches and
not caring. He reached a clearing and saw his village spread out below: a
sleepy country town packed with one-story, white clay homes with thatched
roofs. There were but several dozen families amongst them. Smoke rose from
chimneys as most were up early preparing their morning meal. It was an idyllic
place, just far enough—a full day’s ride—from King’s Court to deter passersby.
Just another farming village on the edge of the Ring, another cog in the wheel
of the Western Kingdom.

Thor burst down the final
stretch, into the village square, kicking up dirt as he went. Chickens and dogs
ran out of his way, and an old woman, squatting outside her home before a
cauldron of bubbling water, hissed at him.

“Slow down, boy!” she screeched
as he raced past, stirring dust into her fire.

But Thor would not slow—not for
her, not for anybody. He turned down one side street, then another, twisting
and turning the way he knew by heart, until he reached home.

It was a small, nondescript
dwelling like all the others, with its white clay walls and angular, thatched
roof. Like most, its single room was divided, his father sleeping on one side
and his three brothers on the other; unlike most, it had a small chicken coop
in the back, and it was here that Thor was exiled to sleep. At first he’d
bunked with his brothers; but over time they had grown bigger and meaner and
more exclusive, and made a show of not leaving him room. Thor had been hurt,
but now he relished his own space, preferring to be away from their presence.
It just confirmed for him that he was the exile in his family that he already
knew he was.

Thor ran to his front door and
burst through it without stopping.

“Father!” he yelled, gasping for
breath. “The Silver! They’re coming!”

His father and three brothers sat
hunched over the breakfast table, already dressed in their finest. At his words
they jumped up and darted past him, bumping his shoulders as they ran out of
the house and into the road.

Thor followed them out, and they
all stood watching the horizon.

“I see no one,” Drake, the
oldest, answered in his deep voice. With the broadest shoulders, hair cropped
short like his brothers’, brown eyes, and thin, disapproving lips, he scowled
down at Thor, as usual.

“Nor do I,” echoed Dross, just a
year below Drake, always taking his side.

“They’re coming!” Thor shot back.
“I swear!”

His father turned to him and
grabbed his shoulders sternly.

“And how would you know?” he
demanded.

“I saw them.”

“How? From where?”

Thor hesitated; his father had
him. He of course knew the only place Thor could have spotted them was from the
top of that knoll. Now Thor was unsure how to respond.

“I…climbed the knoll—”

“With the flock? You know they
are not to go that far.”

“But today was different. I had
to see.”

His father glowered down.

“Go inside at once and fetch your
brothers’ swords and polish their scabbards, so they look their best before the
King’s men arrive.”

His father, done with him, turned
back to his brothers, who all stood in the road looking out.

“Do you think they’ll choose us?”
asked Durs, the youngest of the three, a full three years ahead of Thor.

“They’d be foolish not to,” his
father said. “They are short on men this year. It has been a slim cropping—or
else they wouldn’t bother coming. Just stand straight, the three of you, keep
your chins up and chests out. Do not look them directly in the eye, but do not
look away, either. Be strong and confident. Show no weakness. If you want to be
in the King’s Legion, you must act as if you’re already in it.”

“Yes, Father,” his three boys
answered at once, getting into position.

He turned and glared back at
Thor.

“What are you still doing there?”
he asked. “Get inside!”

Thor stood there, torn. He didn’t
want to disobey his father, but he had to speak with him. His heart pounded as
he debated. He decided it would be best to obey, to bring the swords, and then
confront his father. Disobeying outright wouldn’t help.

Thor raced into the house, out
through the back and to the weapons shed. He found his brothers’ three swords,
objects of beauty all of them, crowned with the finest silver hilts, precious
gifts for which his father had toiled years. He grabbed all three, surprised as
always at their weight, and ran back through the house with them.

He sprinted to his brothers,
handed each a sword, then turned to his father.

“What, no polish?” Drake said.

His father turned to him
disapprovingly, but before he could say anything, Thor spoke up.

“Father, please. I need to speak
with you!”

“I told you to polish—”

“Please, Father!”

His father glared back, debating.
He must have seen the seriousness on Thor’s face, because finally, he said, “Well?”

“I want to be considered. With
the others. For the Legion.”

His brothers’ laughter rose up
behind him, making his face burn red.

But his father did not laugh; on
the contrary, his scowl deepened.

“Do you?” he asked.

Thor nodded back vigorously.

“I’m fourteen. I’m eligible.”

“The cutoff is fourteen,” Drake
said disparagingly, over his shoulder. “If they took you, you’d be the
youngest. Do you think they’d choose you over someone like me, five years your
elder?”

“You are insolent,” Durs said. “You
always have been.”

Thor turned to them. “I’m not
asking you,” he said.

He turned back to his father, who
still frowned.

“Father, please,” he said. “Allow
me a chance. That’s all I ask. I know I’m young, but I will prove myself, over
time.”

His father shook his head.

“You’re not a soldier, boy. You’re
not like your brothers. You’re a herder. Your life is here. With me. You will
do your duties and do them well. One should not dream too high. Embrace your
life, and learn to love it.”

Thor felt his heart breaking as
he saw his life collapsing before his eyes.

No, he thought. This can’t be.

“But Father—”

“Silence!” he shrieked, so shrill
it cut the air. “Enough with you. Here they come. Get out of the way, and best
mind your manners while they’re here.”

His father stepped up and with
one hand pushed Thor to the side, as if he were an object he’d rather not see.
His beefy palm stung Thor’s chest.

A great rumbling arose, and townsfolk
poured out from their homes, lining the streets. A growing cloud of dust
heralded the caravan, and moments later they arrived, a dozen horse-drawn
carriages, with a noise like great thunder.

They came into town like a sudden
army, halting close to Thor’s home. Their horses , pranced in place, snorting.
It took a long time for the cloud of dust to settle, and Thor anxiously tried
to steal a peek at their armor, their weaponry. He had never been this close to
the Silver before, and his heart thumped.

The soldier on the lead stallion dismounted.
Here he was, a real, actual member of the Silver, covered in shiny ring mail, a
long sword on his belt. He looked to be in his thirties, a real man, stubble on
his face, scars on his cheek, and a nose crooked from battle. He was the most
substantial man Thor had ever seen, twice as wide as the others, with a
countenance that said he was in charge.

The soldier jumped down onto the
dirt road, his spurs jingling as he approached the lineup of boys.

Up and down the village dozens of
boys stood at attention, hoping. Joining the Silver meant a life of honor, of
battle, of renown, of glory—along with land, title, and riches. It meant the
best bride, the choicest land, a life of glory. It meant honor for your family,
and entering the Legion was the first step.

Thor studied the large, golden
carriages, and knew they could only hold so many recruits. It was a large
kingdom, and they had many towns to visit. He gulped, realizing his chances
were even more remote than he thought. He would have to beat out all these
other boys—many of them substantial fighters—along with his own three brothers.
He had a sinking feeling.

Thor could hardly breathe as the
soldier paced in silence, surveying the rows of hopefuls. He began on the far
side of the street, then slowly circled. Thor knew all the other boys, of
course. He also knew some of them secretly did not want to be picked, even
though their families wanted to send them off. They were afraid; they would
make poor soldiers.

Thor burned with indignity. He
felt he deserved to be picked as much as any of them. Just because his brothers
were older and bigger and stronger didn’t mean he shouldn’t have a right to
stand and be chosen. He burned with hatred for his father, and nearly burst out
of his skin as the soldier approached.

The soldier stopped, for the
first time, before his brothers. He looked them up and down, and seemed
impressed. He reached out, grabbed one of their scabbards, and yanked it, as if
to test how firm it was.

He broke into a smile.

“You haven’t yet used your sword
in battle, have you?” he asked Drake.

Thor saw Drake nervous for the
first time in his life. Drake swallowed.

“No, my liege. But I’ve used it
many times in practice, and I hope to—”

“In practice!”

The soldier roared with laughter
and turned to the other soldiers, who joined in, laughing in Drake’s face.

Drake turned bright red. It was
the first time Thor had ever seen Drake embarrassed—usually, it was Drake
embarrassing others.

“Well then I shall certainly tell
our enemies to fear you—you who wields your sword in practice!”

The crowd of soldiers laughed
again.

The soldier then turned to Thor’s
other brothers.

“Three boys from the same stock,”
he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “That can be useful. You’re all a
good size. Untested, though. You’ll need much training if you are to make the
cut.”

He paused.

“I suppose we can find room.”

He nodded toward the rear wagon.

“Get in, and be quick of it.
Before I change my mind.”

Thor’s three brothers sprinted
for the carriage, beaming. Thor noticed his father beaming, too.

But he was crestfallen as he
watched them go.

The soldier turned and moved on
to the next home. Thor could stand it no longer.

“Sire!” Thor yelled out.

His father turned and glared at
him, but Thor no longer cared.

The soldier stopped, his back to
him, and slowly turned.

Thor took two steps forward, his
heart beating, and stuck out his chest as far as he could.

“You haven’t considered me, sire,”
he said.

The soldier, startled, looked
Thor up and down as if he were a joke.

“Haven’t I?” he asked, and burst
into laughter.

His men burst into laughter, too.
But Thor didn’t care. This was his moment. It was now or never.

“I want to join the Legion!” Thor
said.

The soldier stepped toward Thor.

“Do you now?”

He looked amused.

“And have you even reached your
fourteenth year?”

“I did, sire. Two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks ago!”

The soldier shrieked with
laughter, as did the men behind them.

“In that case, our enemies shall
surely quiver at the sight of you.”

Thor felt himself burning with
indignity. He had to do something. He couldn’t let it end like this. The
soldier turned to walk away—but Thor could not allow it.

Thor stepped forward and yelled: “Sire!
You are making a mistake!”

A horrified gasp spread through
the crowd, as the soldier stopped and once again slowly turned.

Now he was scowling.

“Stupid boy,” his father said,
grabbing Thor by his shoulder, “go back inside!”

“I shall not!” Thor yelled,
shaking off his father’s grip.

The soldier stepped toward Thor,
and his father backed away.

“Do you know the punishment for
insulting the Silver?” the soldier snapped.

Thor’s heart pounded, but he knew
he could not back down.

“Please forgive him, sire,” his
father said. “He’s a young child and—”

“I’m not speaking to you,” the
soldier said. With a withering look, he forced Thor’s father to turn away.

The soldier turned back to Thor.

“Answer me!” he said.

Thor swallowed, unable to speak.
This was not how he saw it going in his head.

“To insult the Silver is to
insult the King himself,” Thor said meekly, reciting what he’d learned from
memory.

“Yes,” the soldier said. “Which
means I can give you forty lashes if I choose.”

“I mean no insult, sire,” Thor
said. “I just want to be picked. Please. I’ve dreamt of this my entire life.
Please. Let me join you.”

The soldier looked at him, and
slowly, his expression softened. After a long while, he shook his head.

“You’re young, boy. You have a
proud heart. But you’re not ready. Come back to us when you are weaned.”

With that, he turned and stormed
off, barely glancing at the other boys. He quickly mounted his horse.

Thor, crestfallen, watched as the
caravan broke into action; as quickly as they’d arrived, they were gone.

The last thing Thor saw was his
brothers, sitting in the back of the last carriage, looking out at him,
disapproving, mocking. They were being carted away before his eyes, away from
here, into a better life.

Inside, Thor felt like dying.

As the excitement around him faded,
villagers slinked back into their homes.

“Do you realize how stupid you
were, foolish boy?” Thor’s father snapped, grabbing his shoulders. “Do you
realize you could have ruined your brothers’ chances?”

Thor brushed his father’s hands
off of him roughly, and his father reached back and backhanded him across the
face.

Thor felt the sting of it and
glared back at his father. A part of him, for the first time, wanted to hit his
father back. But he held himself.

“Go get my sheep and bring them
back. Now! And when you return, don’t expect a meal from me. You will miss your
meal tonight, and think about what you’ve done.”

“Maybe I shall not come back at
all!” Thor yelled as he turned and stormed off, away from his home, toward the
hills.

“Thor!” his father yelled. A few
of the villagers who remained on the road stopped and watched.

Thor broke into a trot, then a
run, wanting to get as far away from this place as possible. He barely noticed
he was crying, tears flooding his face, as every dream he’d ever had was
crushed.

CHAPTER TWO

Thor wandered for hours in the
hills, seething, until finally he chose a hill and sat, arms crossed over his
legs, and watched the horizon. He watched the carriages disappear, watched the
cloud of dust that lingered for hours after.

There would be no more visits.
Now he was destined to remain here in this village for years, awaiting another
chance—if they ever returned. If his father ever allowed it. Now it would be
just him and his father, alone in the house, and his father would surely let
out the full breadth of his wrath on him. He would continue to be his father’s
lackey, years would pass, and he would end up just like him, stuck here living
a small, menial life—while his brothers gained glory and renown. His veins
burned with the indignity of it all. This was not the life he was meant to
live. He knew it.

Thor wracked his brain for
anything he could do, any way he could change it. But there was nothing. These
were the cards life had dealt him.

After hours of sitting, he rose
dejectedly and began traversing his way back up the familiar hills, higher and
higher. Inevitably, he drifted back toward the flock, to the high knoll. As he
climbed, the first sun fell in the sky and the second reached its peak, casting
a greenish tint. Thor took his time as he ambled, mindlessly removing his sling
from his waist, its leather grip well worn from years of use. He reached into the
sack tied to his hip and fingered his collection of stones, each smoother than
the next, hand-picked from the choicest creeks. Sometimes he fired on birds;
other times, rodents. It was a habit he’d ingrained over years. At first, he’d
missed everything; then, once, he hit a moving target. Since then, his aim was
true. Now, hurling stones had become part of him—and it helped to release some
of his anger. His brothers might be able to swing a sword through a log—but
they could never hit a flying bird with a stone.

Thor mindlessly placed a stone in
the sling, leaned back, and hurled it with all he had, pretending he was
hurling it at his father. He hit a branch on a far-off tree, taking it down
cleanly. Once he’d discovered he could actually kill moving animals, he’d
stopped aiming at them, afraid of his own power and not wanting to hurt
anything; now his targets were branches. Unless, of course, a fox came after
his flock. Over time, they had learned to stay clear, and Thor’s sheep, as a
result, were the safest in the village.

Thor thought of his brothers, of
where they were right now, and he steamed. After a day’s ride they would arrive
in King’s Court. He could just picture it. He saw them arriving to great
fanfare, people dressed in their finest, greeting them. Warriors greeting them.
Members of the Silver. They would be taken in, given a place to live in the
Legion’s barracks, a place to train in the King’s fields using the finest
weapons. Each would be named squire to a famous knight. One day, they would
become knights themselves, get their own horse, their own coat of arms, and
have their own squire. They would partake in all the festivals and dine at the
King’s table. It was a charmed life. And it had slipped from his grasp.

Thor felt physically sick, and
tried to force it all from his mind. But he could not. There was a part of him,
some deep part, that screamed at him. It told him not to give up, that he had a
greater destiny than this. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t
here. He felt he was different. Maybe even special. That no one understood him.
And that they all underestimated him.

Thor reached the highest knoll
and spotted his flock. Well trained, they were all still gathered, gnawing away
contentedly at whatever grass they could find. He counted them, looking for the
red marks he had stained on their backs. He froze as he finished. One sheep was
missing.

He counted again, and again. He
couldn’t believe it: one was gone.

Thor had never lost a sheep
before, and his father would never let him live this down. Worse, he hated the
idea of one of his sheep lost, alone, vulnerable in the wilderness. He hated to
see anything innocent suffer.

Thor scurried to the top of the
knoll and scanned the horizon until he spotted it, far off, several hills away:
the lone sheep, the red mark on its back. It was the wild one of the bunch. His
heart dropped as he realized the sheep had not only fled, but had chosen, of
all places, to head west, to Darkwood.

Thor gulped. Darkwood was
forbidden—not just for sheep, but for humans. It was beyond the village limit,
and from the time he could walk, Thor knew not to venture there. He never had.
Going there, legend told, was a sure death, its woods unmarked and filled with
vicious animals.

Thor looked up at the darkening
sky, debating. He couldn’t let his sheep go. He figured if he could move fast,
he could get it back in time.

After one final look back, he
turned and broke into a sprint, heading west, for Darkwood, thick clouds
gathering above. He had a sinking feeling, yet his legs seemed to carry him on
his own. He felt there was no turning back, even if he wanted to.

It was like running into a
nightmare.

*

Thor sped down the series of
hills without pausing, into the thick canopy of Darkwood. The trails ended
where the wood began, and he ran into unmarked territory, summer leaves
crunching beneath his feet.

The instant he entered the wood
he was engulfed in darkness, the light blocked by the towering pines above. It
was colder in here, too, and as he crossed the threshold, he felt a chill. It
wasn’t just from the dark, or the cold—it was from something else. Something he
could not name. It was a sense of…being watched.

Thor looked up at the ancient
branches, gnarled, thicker than he, swaying and creaking in the breeze. He had
barely gone fifty paces into the wood when he began to hear odd animal noises.
He turned and could hardly see the opening from which he’d entered; he felt
already as if there were no way out. He hesitated.

Darkwood had always sat on the
periphery of the town and on the periphery of Thor’s consciousness, something
deep and mysterious. Any herder who ever lost a sheep to the wood had never
dared venture after it. Even his father. The tales about this place were too
dark, too persistent.

But there was something different
about today that made Thor no longer care, that made him throw caution to the
wind. A part of him wanted to push the boundaries, to get as far away from home
as possible, and to allow life to take him where it may.

He ventured farther, then paused,
unsure which way to go. He noticed markings, bent branches where his sheep must
have gone, and turned in that direction. After some time, he turned again.

Before another hour had passed,
he was hopelessly lost. He tried to remember the direction from which he
came—but was no longer sure. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, but he
figured the only way out was forward, so he continued on.

In the distance, Thor spotted a
shaft of sunlight, and made for it. Finding himself before a small clearing, he
stopped at its edge, rooted—he could not believe what he saw before him.

Standing there, his back to Thor,
dressed in a long, blue satin robe, was a man. No, not a man—Thor could sense
it from here. He was something else. A Druid, maybe. He stood tall and
straight, head covered by a hood, perfectly still, as if he did not have a care
in the world.

Thor didn’t know what to do. He
had heard of Druids, but had never encountered one. From the markings on his
robe, the elaborate gold trim, this was no mere Druid: those were royal
markings. Of King’s Court. Thor could not understand it. What was a royal Druid
doing here?

After what felt like an eternity,
the Druid slowly turned and faced him, and as he did, Thor recognized the face.
It took his breath away. It was one of the most famous faces in the kingdom:
the King’s personal Druid. Argon, counselor to kings of the Western Kingdom for centuries. What he was doing here, far from the royal court, in the center
of Darkwood, was a mystery. Thor wondered if he were imagining it.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,”
Argon said, staring directly at Thor.

His voice was deep, ancient, as
if spoken by the trees themselves. His large, translucent eyes seemed to bore
right through Thor, summing him up. Thor felt an intense energy radiating from the
Druid—as if he were standing opposite the sun.

Thor immediately took a knee and
bowed his head.

“My liege,” he said. “I’m sorry
to have disturbed you.”

Disrespect toward a King’s
counselor would result in imprisonment or death. That fact had been ingrained
in Thor since the time he was born.

“Stand up, child,” Argon said. “If
I wanted you to kneel, I would have told you.”

Slowly, Thor stood and looked at
him. Argon took several steps closer. He stopped and stared at Thor, until Thor
began to feel uncomfortable.

“You have your mother’s eyes,”
Argon said.

Thor was taken aback. He had
never met his mother, and had never met anyone, aside from his father, who knew
her. He had been told she died in childbirth, something for which Thor always
felt a sense of guilt. He had always suspected that that was why his family
hated him.

“I think you’re mistaking me for
someone else,” Thor said. “I don’t have a mother.”

“Don’t you?” Argon asked with a
smile. “Were you born by man alone?”

“I meant to say, sire, that my
mother died in birth. I think you mistake me.”

“You are Thorgrin, of the clan
McLeod. The youngest of four brothers. The one not picked.”

Thor’s eyes opened wide. He
hardly knew what to make of this. That someone of Argon’s stature should know
who he was—it was more than he could comprehend. He’d never even imagined that
he was known to anyone outside his village.

“How…do you know this?”

Argon smiled back, but did not
respond.

Thor was suddenly filled with
curiosity.

“How…” Thor added, fumbling for
words, “…how do you know my mother? Have you met her? Who was she?”

Argon turned and walked away.

“Questions for another time,” he
said.

Thor watched him go, puzzled. It
was such a dizzying and mysterious encounter, and it was all happening so fast.
He decided he could not let Argon leave; he hurried after him.

“What are you doing here?” Thor
asked, hurrying to catch up. Argon, using his staff, an ancient ivory thing,
walked deceptively fast. “You were not waiting for me, were you?”

“Who else?” Argon asked.

Thor hurried to catch up,
following him into the wood, leaving the clearing behind.

“But why me? How did you know I
would be here? What is it that you want?”

“So many questions,” Argon said. “You
fill the air. You should listen instead.”

Thor followed as they continued
through the thick wood, doing his best to remain silent.

“You come in search of your lost
sheep,” Argon stated. “A noble effort. But you waste your time. She will not
survive.”

Thor’s eyes opened wide.

“How do you know this?”

“I know worlds you will never
know, boy. At least, not yet.”

Thor wondered as he hiked to
catch up.

“You won’t listen, though. That
is your nature. Stubborn. Like your mother. You will continue after your sheep,
determined to rescue her.”

Thor reddened as Argon read his
thoughts.

“You are a feisty boy,” he added.
“Strong-willed. Too proud. Positive traits. But one day it may be your
downfall.”

Argon began to hike up a mossy
ridge, and Thor followed.

“You want to join the King’s
Legion,” Argon said.

“Yes!” Thor answered, excitedly. “Is
there any chance for me? Can you make that happen?”

Argon laughed, a deep, hollow
sound that sent a chill up Thor’s spine.

“I can make everything and
nothing happen. Your destiny was already written. But it is up to you to choose
it.”

Thor did not understand.

They reached the top of the
ridge, where Argon stopped and faced him. Thor stood only feet away, and Argon’s
energy burned through him.

“Your destiny is an important
one,” he said. “Do not abandon it.”

Thor’s eyes widened. His destiny?
Important? He felt himself swell with pride.

“I do not understand. You speak
in riddles. Please, tell me more.”

Argon vanished.

Thor’s mouth fell open. He looked
every which way, listening, wondering. Had he imagined it all? Was it some
delusion?

Thor turned and examined the
wood; from this vantage point, high up on the ridge, he could see farther than
before. As he looked, he spotted motion in the distance. He heard a noise and
felt sure it was his sheep.

He stumbled down the mossy ridge
and hurried in the direction of the sound, back through the wood. As he went,
he could not shake his encounter with Argon. He could hardly conceive it had
happened. What was the King’s Druid doing here, of all places? He had been
waiting for him. But why? And what had he meant about his destiny?

The more Thor tried to unravel
it, the less he understood. Argon had warned him not to continue while tempting
him to do so. Now, as he went, Thor felt an increasing sense of foreboding, as
if something momentous were about to happen.

He turned a bend and stopped cold
in his tracks at the view before him. All his worst nightmares were confirmed
in a single moment. His hair stood on end, and he realized he had made a grave
mistake in coming this deep into Darkwood.

Opposite him, hardly thirty paces
away, was a Sybold. Hulking, muscular, standing on all fours, nearly the size
of a horse, it was the most feared animal of Darkwood, maybe even of the
kingdom. Thor had never seen one, but had heard the legends. It resembled a
lion, but was bigger, broader, its hide a deep scarlet and its eyes a glowing
yellow. Legend had it that its crimson color came from the blood of innocent
children.

Thor had heard of few sightings
of this beast his entire life, and even these were thought to be dubious. Maybe
that was because no one had ever actually survived an encounter. Some
considered the Sybold to be the God of the Woods, and an omen. What that omen was,
Thor had no idea.

He took a careful step back.

The Sybold, its huge jaws
half-open, its fangs dripping saliva, stared back with its yellow eyes. In its
mouth was Thor’s missing sheep: screaming, hanging upside down, half its body
pierced by fangs. It was mostly dead. The Sybold appeared to revel in the kill,
taking its time; it seemed to delight in torturing it.

Thor could not stand the cries.
The sheep wiggled, helpless, and he felt responsible.

Thor’s first impulse was to turn
and run, but he already knew that would be futile. This beast could outrun
anything. Running would only embolden it. And he could not leave his sheep to
die like that.

He stood frozen in fear, and knew
he had to take action of some sort.

His reflexes took over. He slowly
reached down to his pouch, extracted a stone, and placed it in his sling. With
a trembling hand, he wound up, took a step forward, and hurled.

The stone sailed through the air
and hit its mark. A perfect shot. It hit the sheep in its eyeball, driving
through to its brain.

The sheep went limp. Dead. Thor
had spared the animal its suffering.

The Sybold glared, enraged that
Thor had killed its plaything. It slowly opened its immense jaws and dropped
the sheep, which landed with a thump on the forest floor. Then it set its eyes
on Thor.

It snarled, a deep, evil sound
that rose from its belly.

As it skulked toward him, Thor,
heart pounding, placed another stone in his sling, reached back, and prepared
to fire once again.

The Sybold broke into a sprint,
moving faster than anything Thor had ever seen in his life. Thor took a step
forward and hurled the stone, praying it hit, knowing he wouldn’t have time to
sling another before it arrived.

The stone hit the beast in its
right eye, knocking it out. It was a tremendous throw, one that would’ve
brought a lesser animal to its knees.

But this was no lesser animal.
The beast was unstoppable. It shrieked at the damage, but never even slowed.
Even without one eye, even with the stone lodged in its brain, it continued to
charge mindlessly at Thor. There was nothing Thor could do.

A moment later, the beast was on
him. It wound up with its huge claw and swiped his shoulder.

Thor shrieked. It felt like three
knives cutting across his flesh, hot blood gushing instantly from it.

The beast pinned him to the
ground, on all fours. The weight was immense, like an elephant standing on his
chest. Thor felt his ribcage being crushed.

The beast threw back its head,
opened wide its jaws to reveal its fangs, and began to lower them for Thor’s
throat.

As it did, Thor reached up and
grabbed its neck; it was like gripping solid muscle. Thor could barely hang on.
His arms started to shake as the fangs descended lower. He felt its hot breath
all over his face, felt the saliva drip down onto his neck. A rumble came from
deep within the animal’s chest, burning Thor’s ears. He knew he would die.

Thor closed his eyes.

Please, God. Give me strength.
Allow me to fight this creature. Please. I beg you. I will do anything you ask.
I will owe you a great debt.

And then something happened. Thor
felt a tremendous heat rise up within his body, coursing through his veins,
like an energy field racing through him. He opened his eyes and saw something
that surprised him: from his palms emanated a yellow light, and as he pushed
back into the beast’s throat, amazingly, he was able to match its strength and
hold it at bay.

Thor continued to push until he
was actually pushing the beast back. His strength grew and he felt a cannonball
of energy—an instant later, the beast went flying backwards, Thor sending it a
good ten feet. It landed on its back.

Thor sat up, not understanding
what had happened.

The beast regained its feet.
Then, in a rage, it charged again—but this time Thor felt different. The energy
coursed through him; he felt more powerful than he had ever been.

As the beast leapt into the air,
Thor crouched down, grabbed it by its stomach, and hurled it, letting its
momentum carry it.

The beast flew through the wood,
smashed into a tree, and collapsed to the floor.

Thor stared, amazed. Had he just
thrown a Sybold?

The beast blinked twice, then
looked at Thor. It stood up and charged again.

This time, as the beast pounced,
Thor grabbed it by its throat. They both went to the ground, the beast on top
of Thor. But Thor rolled over on top of it. Thor held onto it, choking it with
both hands, as the beast kept trying to raise its head and snap its fangs at
him. It just missed. Thor, feeling a new strength, dug his hands in and did not
let go. He let the energy course through him. And soon, amazingly, he felt
himself stronger than the beast.

He was choking the Sybold to
death. Finally, the beast went limp.

Thor did not let go for another
full minute.

He stood slowly, out of breath,
staring down, wide-eyed, as he held his wounded arm. What had just happened?
Had he, Thor, just killed a Sybold?

He felt it was a sign, on this
day of all days. He felt as if something momentous had happened. He had just
killed the most famed and feared beast of his kingdom. Single-handedly. Without
a weapon. It did not seem real. No one would believe him.

He felt the world spin as he
wondered what power had overcome him, what it meant, who he really was. The
only people known to have power like that were Druids. But his father and
mother were not Druids, so he couldn’t be one.

Or could he be?

Sensing someone behind him, Thor spun
to see Argon standing there, staring down at the animal.

“How did you get here?” Thor
asked, amazed.

Argon ignored him.

“Did you witness what happened?”
Thor asked, still unbelieving. “I don’t know how I did it.”

“But you do know,” Argon
answered. “Deep inside, you know. You are different than the others.”

“It was like…a surge of power,”
Thor said. “Like a strength I didn’t know I had.”

“The energy field,” Argon said. “One
day you will come to know it quite well. You may even learn to control it.”

Thor clutched his shoulder; the
pain was excruciating. He looked down and saw his hand covered in blood. He
felt lightheaded, worried what would happen if he didn’t get help.

Argon took three steps forward,
reached out, grabbed Thor’s free hand, and placed it firmly on the wound. He
held it there, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Thor felt a warm sensation course
through his arm. Within seconds, the sticky blood on his hand dried up, and he
felt his pain begin to fade.

He looked down and could not
comprehend it: he was healed. All that remained were three scars where the
claws had cut—but they were sealed and looked to be several days old. There was
no more blood.

Thor looked at Argon in astonishment.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

Argon smiled.

“I didn’t. You did. I just
directed your power.”

“But I don’t have the power to
heal,” Thor answered, baffled.

“Don’t you?” Argon replied.

“I don’t understand. None of this
is making any sense,” Thor said, increasingly impatient. “Please, tell me.”

Argon looked away.

“Some things you must learn over
time.”

Thor thought of something.

“Does this mean I can join the
King’s Legion?” he asked, excitedly. “Surely, if I can kill a Sybold, then I
can hold my own with other boys.”

“Surely you can,” he answered.

“But they chose my brothers—they
didn’t choose me.”

“Your brothers couldn’t have
killed this beast.”

Thor stared back, thinking.

“But they have already rejected
me. How can I join them?”

“Since when does a warrior need
an invitation?” Argon asked.

His words sunk in deep. Thor felt
his body warming over.

“Are you saying I should just
show up? Uninvited?”

Argon smiled.

“You create your destiny.
Others do not.”

Thor blinked—and a moment later,
Argon was gone. Again.

Thor spun around, looking in
every direction, but there was no trace of him.

“Over here!” came a voice.

Thor turned and saw a huge
boulder before him. He sensed the voice came from up top, and he immediately
climbed the big rock.

He reached the top, and was
puzzled to see no sign of Argon.

From this vantage point, though,
he was able to see above the treetops of Darkwood. He saw where Darkwood ended,
saw the second sun setting in a dark green, and beyond that, the road leading
to King’s Court.

“The road is yours to take,” came
the voice. “If you dare.”

Thor spun but saw nothing. It was
just a voice, echoing. But he knew Argon was there, somewhere, egging him on.
And he felt, deep down, that he was right.

Without another moment’s
hesitation, Thor scrambled down the rock and set off through the wood for the
distant road.

Sprinting for his destiny.

CHAPTER
THREE

King MacGil—stout,
barrel-chested, with a beard too thick with gray, long hair to match, and a
broad forehead lined with too many battles—stood on the upper ramparts of his
castle, his Queen beside him, and overlooked the day’s burgeoning festivities.
His royal grounds sprawled beneath him in all their glory, stretching as far as
the eye could see, a thriving city walled in by ancient stone fortifications.
King’s Court. Interconnected by a maze of winding streets sat stone buildings
of every shape and size—for the warriors, the caretakers, the horses, the
Silver, the Legion, the guards, the barracks, the weapons house, the armory—and
among these, hundreds of dwellings for the multitude of his people who chose to
live within the city walls. Between these streets spanned acres of grass, royal
gardens, stone-lined plazas, overflowing fountains. King’s Court had been
improved upon for centuries, by his father, and his father before him—and it
sat now at the peak of its glory. Without doubt, it was now the safest
stronghold within the Western Kingdom of the Ring.

MacGil was blessed with the
finest and most loyal warriors any king had ever known, and in his lifetime, no
one had dared attack. The seventh MacGil to hold the throne, he had held it
well for his thirty-two years of rule, had been a good and wise king. The land
had prospered greatly in his reign. He had doubled his army’s size, expanded
his cities, brought his people bounty, and not a single complaint could be
found among his people. He was known as the generous king, and there had never
been such a period of bounty and peace since he took the throne.

Which, paradoxically, was
precisely what kept MacGil up at night. For MacGil knew his history: in all the
ages, there had never been such a long a stretch without a war. He no longer
wondered if there would be an attack—but when. And from whom.

The greatest threat, of course,
was from beyond the Ring, from the empire of savages that ruled the outlying
Wilds, which had subjugated all the peoples outside the Ring, beyond the
Canyon. For MacGil, and the seven generations before him, the Wilds had never
posed a direct threat. Because of his kingdom’s unique geography, shaped in a
perfect circle—a ring—separated from the rest of the world by a deep canyon a
mile wide, and protected by an energy shield that had been active since a
MacGil first ruled, they had little to fear of the Wilds. The savages had tried
many times to attack, to penetrate the shield, to cross the canyon; not once
had they been successful. As long as he and his people stayed within the Ring,
there was no outside threat.

That did not mean, though, that
there was no threat from inside. And that was what had kept MacGil up at night
lately. That, indeed, was the purpose of the day’s festivities: the marriage of
his eldest daughter. A marriage arranged specifically to appease his enemies,
to maintain the fragile peace between the Eastern and Western Kingdoms of the Ring.

While the Ring spanned a good
five hundred miles in each direction, it was divided down the middle by a
mountain range. The Highlands. On the other side of the Highlands sat the Eastern Kingdom, ruling the other half of the Ring. And this kingdom, ruled for centuries
by their rivals, the McClouds, had always tried to shatter its fragile truce
with the MacGils. The McClouds were malcontents, unhappy with their lot,
convinced their side of the kingdom sat on ground less fertile. They contested
the Highlands, too, insisting the entire mountain range was theirs, when at
least half of it belonged to the MacGils. There were perpetual border
skirmishes, and constant threats of invasion.

As MacGil pondered it all, he was
annoyed. The McClouds should be happy; they were safe inside the Ring,
protected by the Canyon, they sat on choice land, and had nothing to fear. Why
couldn’t they be content with their own half of the Ring? It was only because
MacGil had grown his army so strong that, for the first time in history, the
McClouds had dared not attack. But MacGil, the wise king he was, sensed
something on the horizon; he knew this peace could not last. Thus, he had
arranged this marriage of his eldest daughter to the eldest prince of the
McClouds. And now the day had arrived.

As he looked down, he saw
stretched below him thousands of minions dressed in brightly colored tunics,
filtering in from every corner of the kingdom, from both sides of the Highlands. Nearly the entire Ring, all pouring into his fortifications. His people had
prepared for months, commanded to make everything look prosperous, strong. This
was not just a day for marriage; it was a day to send a message to the
McClouds.

MacGil surveyed his hundreds of
soldiers lined up strategically along the ramparts, in the streets, along the
walls, more soldiers than he could ever need—and felt satisfied. It was the
show of strength he wanted. But he also felt on edge; the environment was
charged, ripe for a skirmish. He hoped no hotheads, inflamed with drink, rose
up on either side.

He scanned the jousting fields,
the playing fields, and thought of the day to come, filled with games and
jousts and all sorts of festivities. They would be intense. The McClouds would
surely show up with their own small army, and every joust, every wrestle, every
competition, would take on meaning. If even one went awry, it could evolve into
a battle.

“My King?”

He felt a soft hand on his and
turned to see his Queen, Krea, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.
Happily married to him his entire reign, she had borne him five children, three
of them boys, and had not complained once. Moreover, she had become his most
trusted counselor. As the years passed, he had come to learn she was wiser than
all of his men. Indeed, wiser than he.

“It is a political day,” she
said. “But also our daughter’s wedding. Try to enjoy. It won’t happen twice.”

“I worried less when I had
nothing,” he answered. “Now that we have it all, everything worries me. We are
safe. But I don’t feel safe.”

She looked back at him with
compassionate eyes, large and hazel; they looked as if they held the wisdom of
the world. Her eyelids drooped, as they always had, looking just a bit sleepy,
and were framed by her beautiful, straight brown hair tinged with gray, which
fell on both sides of her face. She had a few more lines, but she hadn’t
changed a bit.

“That’s because you’re not safe,”
she said. “No king is safe. There are more spies in our court than you’ll ever
care to know. And that is the way of things.”

She leaned in and kissed him, and
smiled.

“Try to enjoy it,” she said. “It
is a wedding after all.”

With that, she turned and walked
off the ramparts.

He watched her go, then turned
and looked out over his court. She was right; she was always right. He did want
to enjoy it. He loved his eldest daughter, and it was a wedding after all. It
was the most beautiful day of the most beautiful time of year, spring at its
height, with summer dawning, the two suns perfect in the sky, and the slightest
of breezes astir. Everything was in full bloom, trees everywhere awash in a
broad palette of pinks and purples and oranges and whites. There was nothing he’d
like more than to go down and sit with his men, watch his daughter get married,
and drink pints of ale until he could drink no more.

But he could not. He had a long
course of duties before he could even step out of his castle. After all, the
day of a daughter’s wedding meant obligation for a king: he had to meet with
his council; with his children; and with a long line of supplicants who had a
right to see the King on this day. He would be lucky if he left his castle in
time for the sunset ceremony.

*

MacGil, dressed in his finest
royal garb, velvet black pants, a golden belt, a royal robe made of the finest
purple and gold silk, a white mantle, shiny leather boots up to his calves, and
wearing his crown—an ornate gold band with a large ruby set in its
center—strutted down the castle halls, flanked by attendants. He strode through
room after room, descending the steps from the parapet, cutting through his
royal chambers, through the great arched hall, with its soaring ceiling and
rows of stained glass. Finally, he reached an ancient oak door, thick as a tree
trunk, which his attendants opened before stepping aside. The Throne Room.

His advisors stood at attention
as MacGil entered, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Be seated,” he said, more abrupt
than usual. He was tired, on this day especially, of the endless formalities of
ruling the kingdom, and wanted to get them over with.

He strode across the Throne Room,
which never ceased to impress him. Its ceilings soared fifty feet high, one
entire wall a panel of stained glass, floors and walls made of stone a foot
thick. The room could easily hold a hundred dignitaries. But on days like
today, when his council convened, it was just him and his handful of advisors
in the cavernous setting. The room was dominated by a vast table shaped in a
semicircle, behind which his advisors stood.

He strutted through the opening,
right down the middle, to his throne. He ascended the stone steps, passed the
carved golden lions, and sank into the red velvet cushion lining his throne, wrought
entirely of gold. His father had sat on this throne, as had his father,
and all the MacGils before him. When he sat, MacGil felt the weight of his
ancestors—of all the generations—upon him.

He surveyed the advisors in
attendance. There was Brom, his greatest general and his advisor on military
affairs; Kolk, the general of the boys’ Legion; Aberthol, the oldest of the
bunch, a scholar and historian, mentor of kings for three generations; Firth,
his advisor on internal affairs of the court, a skinny man with short, gray
hair and hollowed-out eyes that never stayed still. Firth was not a man that
MacGil had ever trusted, and he never even understood his title. But his
father, and his before him, kept an advisor for court affairs, and so he kept
it out of respect for them. There was Owen, his treasurer; Bradaigh, his
advisor on external affairs; Earnan, his tax collector; Duwayne, his advisor on
the masses; and Kelvin, the representative of the nobles.

Of course, the King had absolute
authority. But his kingdom was a liberal one, and his fathers had always taken
pride in allowing the nobles a voice in all matters, channeled through their
representative. It was historically an uneasy power balance between the
kingship and the nobles. Now there was harmony, but during other times there
had been uprisings and power struggles between the nobles and royalty. It was a
fine balance.

As MacGil surveyed the room he
noticed one person missing: the very man he wanted to speak with most—Argon. As
usual, when and where he showed up was unpredictable. It infuriated MacGil to
no end, but he had no choice but to accept it. The way of Druids was
inscrutable to him. Without him present, MacGil felt even more haste. He wanted
to get through this, get to the thousand other things that awaited him before
the wedding.

The group of advisors sat facing
him around the semicircular table, spread out every ten feet, each sitting in a
chair of ancient oak with elaborately carved wooden arms.

“My liege, if I may begin,” Owen
called out.

“You may. And keep it short. My
time is tight today.”

“Your daughter will receive a
great many gifts today, which we all hope will fill her coffers. The thousands
of people paying tribute, presenting gifts to you personally, and filling our
brothels and taverns, will help fill our coffers, too. And yet the preparation
for today’s festivities will also deplete a good portion of the royal treasury.
I recommend an increase of tax on the people, and on the nobles. A one-time
tax, to alleviate the pressures of this great event.”

MacGil saw the concern on his
treasurer’s face, and his stomach sank at the thought of the treasury’s
depletion. Yet he would not raise taxes again.

“Better to have a poor treasury
and loyal subjects,” MacGil answered. “Our riches come in the happiness of our
subjects. We shall not impose more.”

“But my liege, if we do not—”

“I have decided. What else?”

Owen sank back, crestfallen.

“My king,” Brom said in his deep
voice. “At your command, we have stationed the bulk of our forces in court for
today’s event. The show of power will be impressive. But we are stretched thin.
If there should be an attack elsewhere in the kingdom, we will be vulnerable.”

MacGil nodded, thinking it
through.

“Our enemies will not attack us
while we are feeding them.”

The men laughed.

“And what news from the Highlands?”

“There has been no reported activity
for weeks. It seems their troops have drawn down in preparation for the
wedding. Maybe they are ready to make peace.”

MacGil was not so sure.

“That either means the arranged
wedding has worked, or they wait to attack us at another time. And which do you
think it is, old man?” MacGil asked, turning to Aberthol.

Aberthol cleared his throat, his
voice raspy as it came out: “My liege, your father and his father before him
never trusted the McClouds. Just because they lie sleeping, does not mean they
will not wake.”

MacGil nodded, appreciating the
sentiment.

“And what of the Legion?” he
asked, turning to Kolk.

“Today we welcomed the new
recruits,” Kolk answered, with a quick nod.

“My son among them?” MacGil
asked.

“He stands proudly with them all,
and a fine boy he is.”

MacGil nodded, then turned to
Bradaigh.

“And what word from beyond the
Canyon?”

“My liege, our patrols have seen
more attempts to bridge the Canyon in recent weeks. There may be signs that the
Wilds are mobilizing for an attack.”

A hushed whisper spread amongst
the men. MacGil felt his stomach tighten at the thought. The energy shield was
invincible; still, it did not bode well.

“And what if there should be a
full-scale attack?” he asked.

“As long as the shield is active,
we have nothing to fear. The Wilds have not succeeded in breaching the Canyon
for centuries. There is no reason to think otherwise.”

MacGil was not so certain. An
attack from outside was long overdue, and he could not help but wonder when it
might be.

“My liege,” Firth said in his
nasally voice, “I feel obliged to add that today our court is filled with many
dignitaries from the McCloud kingdom. It would be considered an insult for you
not to entertain them, rivals or not. I would advise that you use your
afternoon hours to greet each one. They have brought a large entourage, many
gifts—and, word is, many spies.”

“Who is to say the spies are not
already here?” MacGil asked back, looking carefully at Firth as he did—and
wondering, as always, if he might be one himself.

Firth opened his mouth to answer,
but MacGil sighed and held up a palm, having had enough. “If that is all, I
will leave now, to join my daughter’s wedding.”

“My liege,” Kelvin said, clearing
his throat, “of course, there is one more thing. The tradition, on the day of
your eldest’s wedding. Every MacGil has named a successor. The people shall
expect you to do the same. They have been buzzing. It would not be advisable to
let them down. Especially with the Destiny Sword still immobile.”

“Would you have me name an heir
while I am still in my prime?” MacGil asked.

“My liege, I mean no offense,”
Kelvin stumbled, looking concerned.

MacGil held up a hand. “I know
the tradition. And indeed, I shall name one today.”

“Might you inform us as to who?”
Firth asked.

MacGil stared him down, annoyed.
Firth was a gossip, and he did not trust this man.

“You will learn of the news when
the time is right.”

MacGil stood, and the others
rose, too. They bowed, turned, and hurried from the room.

MacGil stood there thinking for
he did not know how long. On days like this he wished he was not king.

*

MacGil stepped down from his
throne, boots echoing in the silence, and crossed the room. He opened the
ancient oak door himself, yanking the iron handle, and entered a side chamber.

He enjoyed the peace and solitude
of this cozy room, as he always had, its walls hardly twenty paces in either
direction yet with a soaring, arched ceiling. The room was made entirely of
stone, with a small, round stained-glass window on one wall. Light poured in through
its yellows and reds, lighting up a single object in the otherwise bare room.

The Destiny Sword.

There it sat, in the center of
the chamber, lying horizontal on iron prongs, like a temptress. As he had since
he was a boy, MacGil walked close to it, circled it, examined it. The Destiny Sword.
The sword of legend, the source of the might and power of his entire kingdom,
from one generation to the next. Whoever had the strength to hoist it would be
the Chosen One, the one destined to rule the kingdom for life, to free the
kingdom from all threats, in and outside the Ring. It had been a beautiful
legend to grow up with, and as soon as he was anointed King, MacGil had tried
to hoist it himself, as only MacGil kings were even allowed to try. The kings
before him, all of them, had failed. He was sure he would be different. He was
sure he would be The One.

But he was wrong. As were all the
other MacGil kings before him. And his failure had tainted his kingship ever
since.

As he stared at it now, he
examined its long blade, made of a mysterious metal no one had ever deciphered.
The sword’s origin was even more obscure, rumored to have risen from the earth
in the midst of a quake.

Examining it, he once again felt
the sting of failure. He might be a good king, but he was not The One. His
people knew it. His enemies knew it. He might be a good king, but no matter
what he did, he would never be The One.

If he had been, he suspected
there would be less unrest amongst his court, less plotting. His own people
would trust him more and his enemies would not even consider attack. A part of
him wished the sword would just disappear, and the legend with it. But he knew
it would not. That was the curse—and the power—of a legend. Stronger, even,
than an army.

As he stared at it for the
thousandth time, MacGil couldn’t help but wonder once again who it would be.
Who of his bloodline would be destined to wield it? As he thought of what lay
before him, his task of naming an heir, he wondered who, if any, would be
destined to hoist it.

“The weight of the blade is
heavy,” came a voice.

MacGil spun, surprised to have
company in the small room.

There, standing in the doorway,
was Argon. MacGil recognized the voice before he saw him and was both irritated
with him for not showing up sooner and pleased to have him here now.

“You’re late,” MacGil said.

“Your sense of time does not
apply to me,” Argon answered.

MacGil turned back to the sword.

“Did you ever think I would be
able to hoist it?” he asked reflectively. “That day I became King?”

“No,” Argon answered flatly.

MacGil turned and stared at him.

“You knew I would not be able to.
You saw it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

MacGil pondered this.

“It scares me when you answer
directly. That is unlike you.”

Argon stayed silent, and finally
MacGil realized he wouldn’t say any more.

“I name my successor today,”
MacGil said. “It feels futile, to name an heir on this day. It strips a king’s
joy from his child’s wedding.”

“Maybe such joy is meant to be
tempered.”

“But I have so many years left to
reign,” MacGil pleaded.

“Perhaps not as many as you
think,” Argon answered.

MacGil narrowed his eyes,
wondering. Was it a message?

But Argon added nothing more.

“Six children. Whom should I
pick?” MacGil asked.

“Why ask me? You have already
chosen.”

MacGil looked at him. “You see
much. Yes, I have. But I still want to know what you think.”

“I think you made a wise choice,”
Argon said. “But remember: a king cannot rule from beyond the grave. Regardless
of whom you think you choose, fate has a way of choosing for itself.”

“Will I live, Argon?” MacGil
asked earnestly, asking the question he had wanted to know since he had
awakened the night before from a horrific nightmare.

“I dreamt last night of a crow,”
he added. “It came and stole my crown. Then another carried me away. As it did,
I saw my kingdom spread beneath me. It turned black as I went. Barren. A
wasteland.”

He looked up at Argon, his eyes
watery.

“Was it a dream? Or something
more?”

“Dreams are always something
more, aren’t they?” Argon asked.

MacGil was struck by a sinking
feeling.

“Where is the danger? Just tell
me this much.”

Argon stepped close and stared
into his eyes with such intensity, MacGil felt as if he were staring into
another realm itself.

Argon leaned forward, whispered:

“Always closer than you think.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Thor hid in the straw in the back
of a wagon as it jostled him along the country road. He’d made his way to the
road the night before and had waited patiently until a wagon came along large
enough for him to board without being noticed. It was dark by then, and the
wagon trotted along just slowly enough for him to gain a good running pace and
leap in from behind. He’d landed in the hay and buried himself inside. Luckily,
the driver had not spotted him. Thor didn’t know for certain if the wagon was
going to King’s Court, but it was heading in that direction, and a wagon this
size, and with these markings, could be going few other places.

As Thor rode throughout the
night, he stayed awake for hours, thinking of his encounter with the Sybold.
With Argon. Of his destiny. His former home. His mother. He felt that the
universe had answered him, had told him he had another destiny. He lay there,
hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the night sky, visible through
the tattered canvas. He watched the universe, so bright, its red stars so far
away. He was exhilarated. For once in his life, he was on a journey. He did not
know where, but he was going. One way or the other, he would make his way to
King’s Court.

When Thor opened his eyes it was
morning, light flooding in, and he realized he’d drifted off. He sat up
quickly, looking all around, chiding himself for sleeping. He should have been
more vigilant—he was lucky he had not been discovered.

The cart still moved, but did not
jostle as much. That could only mean one thing: a better road. They must be
close to a city. Thor looked down and saw how smooth the road was, free of
rocks, of ditches, and lined with fine white shells. His heart beat faster;
they were approaching King’s Court.

Thor looked out the back of the
cart and was overwhelmed. The immaculate streets were flooded with activity.
Dozens of carts, of all shapes and sizes and carrying all manner of things,
filled the roads. One was laden with furs; another with rugs; still another
with chickens. Amongst them walked hundreds of merchants, some leading cattle,
others carrying baskets of goods on their heads. Four men carried a bundle of
silks, balancing them on poles. It was an army of people, all heading in one
direction.

Thor felt alive. He’d never seen
so many people at once, so many goods, so much happening. He’d been in a small
village his entire life, and now he was in a hub, engulfed in humanity.

He heard a loud noise, the
groaning of chains, the slamming of a huge piece of wood, so strong the ground
shook. Moments later came a different sound, of horses’ hooves clacking on
wood. He looked down and realized they were crossing a bridge; beneath them
passed a moat. A drawbridge.

Thor stuck his head out and saw
immense stone pillars, the spiked iron gate above. They were passing through
King’s Gate.

It was the largest gate he had
ever seen. He looked up at the spikes, marveling that if they came down, they
would slice him in half. He spotted four of the King’s Silver guarding the
entry, and his heart beat faster.

They passed through a long stone
tunnel, then moments later the sky opened again. They were inside King’s Court.

Thor could hardly believe it.
There was even more activity here, if possible—what seemed to be thousands of people,
milling in every direction. There were vast stretches of grass, perfectly cut,
and flowers blooming everywhere. The road widened, and alongside it were
booths, vendors, and stone buildings. And amidst all of these, the King’s men.
Soldiers, bedecked in armor. Thor had made it.

In his excitement, he unwittingly
stood; as he did, the cart stopped short, sending him tumbling backward,
landing on his back in the straw. Before he could rise, there was the sound of
wood lowered, and he looked up to see an angry old man, bald, dressed in rags
and scowling. The cart driver reached in, grabbed Thor by the ankles with his
bony hands, and dragged him out.

Thor went flying, landing hard on
his back on the dirt road, raising up a cloud of dust. Laughter rose up around
him.

“Next time you ride my cart, boy,
it will be the shackles for you! You’re lucky I don’t summon the Silver now!”

The old man turned and spat, then
hurried back on his cart and whipped his horses on.

Embarrassed, Thor slowly gained
his wits and got to his feet. He looked around. One or two passersby chuckled,
and Thor sneered back until they looked away. He brushed the dirt off and
rubbed his arms; his pride was hurt, but not his body.

His spirits returned as he looked
around, dazzled, and realized he should be happy that at least he’d made it
this far. Now that he was out of the cart he could look around freely, and an
extraordinary sight it was: the court sprawled as far as the eye could see. At
its center sat a magnificent stone palace, surrounded by towering, fortified
stone walls crowned by parapets, atop which, everywhere, patrolled the King’s
army. All around him were fields of green, perfectly maintained, stone plazas,
fountains, groves of trees. It was a city. And it was flooded with people.

Everywhere streamed all manner of
people—merchants, soldiers, dignitaries—everyone in such a rush. It took Thor
several minutes to understand that something special was happening. As he
ambled along, he saw preparations being made—chairs placed, an altar erected.
It looked like they were preparing for a wedding.

His heart skipped a beat as he
saw, in the distance, a jousting lane, with its long dirt path and dividing
rope. On another field, he saw soldiers hurling spears at far-off targets; on
another, archers aiming at straw. It seemed as if everywhere were games,
contests. There was also music: lutes and flutes and cymbals, packs of
musicians wandering; and wine, huge casks being rolled out; and food, tables
being prepared, banquets stretching as far as the eye could see. It was as if
he’d arrived in the midst of a vast celebration.

As dazzling as all this was, Thor
felt an urgency to find the Legion. He was already late, and he needed to make
himself known.

He hurried to the first person he
saw, an older man who seemed, by his blood-stained frock, to be a butcher,
hurrying down the road. Everyone here was in such a hurry.

“Excuse me, sir,” Thor said,
grabbing his arm.

The man looked down at Thor’s
hand disparagingly.

“What is it, boy?”

“I’m looking for the King’s
Legion. Do you know where they train?”

“Do I look like a map?” the man
hissed, and stormed off.

Thor was taken aback by his
rudeness.

He hurried to the next person he
saw, a woman kneading flour on a long table. There were several women at this
table, all working hard, and Thor figured one of them had to know.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Might
you know where the King’s Legion train?”

They looked at each other and
giggled, some of them but a few years older than he.

The eldest turned and looked at him.

“You’re looking in the wrong
place,” she said. “Here we are preparing for the festivities.”

“But I was told they trained in
King’s Court,” Thor said, confused.

The women broke into another
chuckle. The eldest put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

“You act as if this is your first
time in King’s Court. Have you no idea how big it is?”

Thor reddened as the other women
laughed, then finally stormed off. He did not like being made fun of.

He saw before him a dozen roads,
twisting and turning every which way through King’s Court. Spaced out in the
stone walls were at least a dozen entrances. The size and scope of this place
was overwhelming. He had a sinking feeling he could search for days and still
not find it.

An idea struck him: surely a
soldier would know where the others trained. He was nervous to approach an
actual King’s soldier, but realized he had to.

He turned and hurried to the
wall, to the soldier standing guard at the closest entrance, hoping he would
not throw him out. The soldier stood erect, looking straight ahead.

“I’m looking for the King’s
Legion,” Thor said, summoning his bravest voice.

The soldier continued to stare
straight ahead, ignoring him.

“I said I’m looking for the King’s
Legion!” Thor insisted, louder, determined to be recognized.

After several seconds, the
soldier glanced down, sneering.

“Can you tell me where it is?”
Thor pressed.

“And what business have you with
them?”

“Very important business,” Thor
urged, hoping the soldier would not press him.

The soldier turned back to
looking straight ahead, ignoring him again. Thor felt his heart sinking, afraid
he would never receive an answer.

But after what felt like an
eternity, the soldier replied: “Take the eastern gate, then head north as far
as you can. Take the third gate to the left, then fork right, and fork right
again. Pass through the second stone arch, and their ground is beyond the gate.
But I tell you, you waste your time. They do not entertain visitors.”

It was all Thor needed to hear.
Without missing another beat, he turned and ran across the field, following the
directions, repeating them in his head, trying to memorize them. He noticed the
sun higher in the sky, and only prayed that when he arrived, it would not
already be too late.

*

Thor sprinted down the immaculate,
shell-lined paths, twisting and turning his way through King’s Court. He tried
his best to follow the directions, hoping he was not being led astray. At the
far end of the courtyard, he saw all the gates, and chose the third one on the
left. He ran through it and then followed the forks, turning down path after
path. He ran against traffic, thousands of people pouring into the city, the
crowd growing thicker by the minute. He brushed shoulders with lute players,
jugglers, jesters, and all sorts of entertainers, everyone dressed in finery.

Thor could not stand the idea of
the selection beginning without him, and tried his best to concentrate as he
turned down path after path, looking for any sign of the training ground. He
passed through an arch, turned down another road, and then, far off, spotted
what could only be his destination: a mini coliseum, built of stone in a
perfect circle. Soldiers guarded the huge gate in its center. Thor heard a
muted cheering from behind its walls and his heart quickened. This was the
place.

He sprinted, lungs bursting. As
he reached the gate, two guards stepped forward and lowered their lances,
barring the way. A third guard stepped forward and held up a palm.

“Stop there,” he commanded.

Thor stopped short, gasping for
breath, barely able to contain his excitement.

“You…don’t…understand,” he
heaved, words tumbling out between breaths, “I have to be inside. I’m late.”

“Late for what?”

“The selection.”

The guard, a short, heavy man
with pockmarked skin, turned and looked at the others, who looked back
cynically. He turned and surveyed Thor with a disparaging look.

“The recruits were taken in hours
ago, in the royal transport. If you were not invited, you cannot enter.”

“But you don’t understand. I
must—”

The guard reached out and grabbed
Thor by the shirt.

“You don’t understand, you
insolent little boy. How dare you come here and try to force your way in? Now
go—before I shackle you.”

He shoved Thor, who stumbled back
several feet.

Thor felt a sting in his chest
where the guard’s hand had touched him—but more than that, he felt the sting of
rejection. He was indignant. He had not come all this way to be turned away by
a guard without even being seen. He was determined to make it inside.

The guard turned back to his men,
and Thor slowly walked away, heading clockwise around the circular building. He
had a plan. He walked until he was out of sight, then broke into a jog,
creeping his way along the walls. He checked to make sure the guards weren’t
watching, then picked up speed until he was sprinting. When he was halfway
around the building he spotted another opening into the arena—high up were
arched openings in the stone, blocked by iron bars. One of these openings was
missing its bars. He heard another roar, lifted himself up onto the ledge, and
looked.

His heart quickened. Spread out
inside the huge, circular training ground were dozens of recruits—including his
brothers. Lined up, they all faced a dozen of the Silver. The King’s men walked
amidst them, summing them up.

Another group of recruits stood
off to the side, under the watchful eyes of a soldier, throwing spears at a
distant target. One of them missed.

Thor’s veins burned with
indignation. He could have hit those marks; he was just as good as any of them.
Just because he was younger, a bit smaller, it wasn’t fair that he was being
left out.

Suddenly, Thor felt a hand on his
back as he was yanked backwards and sent flying through the air. He landed hard
on the ground below, winded.

He looked up and saw the guard
from the gate, sneering down at him.

“What did I tell you, boy?”

Before he could react, the guard
leaned back and kicked Thor hard. Thor felt a sharp thump in his ribs, as the
guard wound up to kick him again.

This time, Thor caught the guard’s
foot in midair; he yanked it, knocking him off balance and making him fall.

Thor quickly gained his feet. At
the same time, the guard gained his. Thor stared at him, shocked by what he had
just done. Across from him, the guard glowered.

“Not only will I shackle you,”
the guard hissed, “but I will make you pay. No one touches a King’s guard!
Forget about joining the Legion—now you will wallow away in the dungeon! You’ll
be lucky if you’re ever seen again!”

The guard pulled out a chain with
a shackle at its end. He approached Thor, vengeance on his face.

Thor’s mind raced. He could not
allow himself to be shackled—yet he did not want to hurt a member of the King’s
Guard. He had to think of something—and fast.

He remembered his sling. His
reflexes took over as he grabbed it, placed a stone, took aim, and let it fly.

The stone soared through the air
and knocked the shackles from the stunned guard’s grip; it also hit the guard’s
fingers. The guard pulled back and shook his hand, yelling in pain, as the
shackles clattered to the ground.

The guard, giving Thor a look of
death, drew his sword. It came out with a distinctive, metallic ring.

“That was your last mistake,” he
threatened darkly, and charged.

Thor had no choice; this man
would just not leave him be. He placed another stone in his sling and hurled
it. He aimed deliberately—he did not want to kill the guard, but he had to stop
him. So instead of aiming for his heart, nose, eye, or head, Thor aimed for the
one place he knew would stop him, but not kill him.

Between the guard’s legs.

He let the stone fly—not at full
strength, but enough to put the man down.

It was a perfect strike.

The guard keeled over, dropping
his sword, grabbing his groin as he collapsed to the ground and curled up in a
ball.

“You’ll hang for this!” he
groaned amidst grunts of pain. “Guards! Guards!”

Thor looked up and in the
distance saw several of the King’s guards racing for him.

It was now or never.

Without wasting another moment,
he sprinted for the window ledge. He would have to jump through, into the
arena, and make himself known. And he would fight anyone who got in his way.

CHAPTER FIVE

MacGil sat in the upper hall of
his castle, in his intimate meeting hall, the one he used for personal affairs.
He sat on his intimate throne, this one carved of wood, and looked out at four
of his children standing before him. There was his eldest son, Kendrick, at
twenty-five years a fine warrior and true gentleman. He, of all his children,
resembled MacGil the most—which was ironic, since he was a bastard, MacGil’s only
issue by another woman, a woman he had long since forgotten. MacGil had raised Kendrick
with his true children, despite his Queen’s initial protests, on the condition
he would never ascend the throne. This pained MacGil now, since Kendrick was
the finest man he’d ever known, a son he was proud to sire. There would have
been no finer heir to the kingdom.

Beside him, in stark contrast,
stood his second-born son—yet his firstborn legitimate son—Gareth,
twenty-three, thin, with hollow cheeks and large brown eyes which never stopped
darting. His character could not be more different than his elder brother’s.
Gareth’s nature was everything Kendrick’s was not: where his brother was
forthright, Gareth hid his true thoughts; where his brother was proud and noble,
Gareth was dishonest and deceitful. It pained MacGil to dislike his own son,
and he had tried many times to correct his nature; but after some point in the
boy’s teenage years, he decided his nature was predestined: scheming,
power-hungry, and ambitious in every wrong sense of the word. Gareth also,
MacGil knew, had no love for women, and had many male lovers. Other kings would
have ousted such a son, but MacGil was more open-minded, and for him, this was
not a reason not to love him. He did not judge him for this. What he did judge
him for was his evil, scheming nature, which was something he could not
overlook.

Lined up beside Gareth stood
MacGil’s second-born daughter, Gwendolyn. Having just reached her sixteenth
year, she was as beautiful a girl as he had ever laid eyes upon—and her nature
outshone even her looks. She was kind, generous, honest—the finest young woman
he had ever known. In this regard, she was similar to Kendrick. She looked at
MacGil with a daughter’s love for a father, and he’d always felt her loyalty in
every glance. He was even more proud of her than of his sons.

Standing beside Gwendolyn was
MacGil’s youngest boy, Reece, a proud and spirited young lad who, at fourteen,
was just becoming a man. MacGil had watched with great pleasure his initiation
into the Legion, and could already see the man he was going to be. One day,
MacGil had no doubt, Reece would be his finest son, and a great ruler. But that
day was not now. He was too young yet, and still had much to learn.

MacGil had mixed feelings as he
surveyed these four children, his three sons and daughter, standing before him.
He felt pride mingled with disappointment. He also felt anger and annoyance,
for two of his children were missing. The eldest, his daughter Luanda, of course was preparing for her own wedding, and since she was being married off to
another kingdom, she had no business partaking in this discussion of heirs. But
his other son, Godfrey, at eighteen the middle one, was absent. MacGil reddened
from the snub.

Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey had
shown such disrespect for the kingship; it was always clear that he cared not
for it and would never rule. And, MacGil’s greatest disappointment, Godfrey
instead chose to waste away his days in alehouses with miscreant friends, causing
the royal family ever-increasing shame and dishonor. He was a slacker, sleeping
most of his days and filling the rest of them with drink. On the one hand,
MacGil was relieved he wasn’t here; on the other, it was an insult he could not
suffer. He had, in fact, expected this, and had sent out his men early to comb
the alehouses and bring him back. MacGil sat silently, waiting, until they did.

The heavy oak door finally
slammed open and in marched the royal guards, dragging Godfrey between them.
They gave him a shove, and Godfrey stumbled into the room as they slammed the
door behind him.

His brothers and sister turned
and stared. Godfrey was slovenly, reeking of ale, unshaven, and half-dressed.
He smiled back. Insolent. As always.

“Hello, Father,” Godfrey said. “Did
I miss all the fun?”

“You will stand with your
siblings and wait for me to speak. If you don’t, God help me, I’ll chain you in
the dungeons with the rest of the common prisoners, and you won’t see food—much
less ale—for three days entire.”

Defiant, Godfrey glared back at
his father. In that stare, MacGil detected some deep reservoir of strength,
something of himself, a spark of something that might one day serve Godfrey
well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.

Rebellious to the end, Godfrey
waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the
others.

MacGil surveyed these five
children standing before him: the bastard, the deviant, the drunkard, his
daughter, and his youngest. It was a strange mix, and he could hardly believe
they had all sprung from him. And now, on his eldest daughter’s wedding day,
the task had fallen on him to choose an heir from this bunch. How was it
possible?

It was an exercise in futility;
after all, he was in his prime and could rule for thirty more years. Whatever
heir he chose today might not even ascend the throne for decades. The entire
tradition irked him. It may have been relevant in the times of his fathers, but
it had no place now.

He cleared his throat.

“We are gathered here today at
the bequest of tradition. As you know, on this day, the day of my eldest’s
wedding, the task has fallen upon me to name a successor. An heir to rule this
kingdom. Should I die, there is no one better fit to rule than your mother. But
our kingdom’s laws dictate that only the issue of a king may succeed. Thus, I
must choose.”

MacGil caught his breath,
thinking. A heavy silence hung in the air, and he could feel the weight of
anticipation. He looked in their eyes, and saw different expressions in each.
The bastard looked resigned, knowing he would not be picked. The deviant’s eyes
were aglow with ambition, as if expecting the choice naturally to fall on him.
The drunkard looked out the window; he did not care. His daughter looked back
with love, knowing she was not part of this discussion, but loving her father
nonetheless. The same with his youngest.

“Kendrick, I have always
considered you a true son. But the laws of our kingdom prevent me from passing
the kingship to anyone of less than true legitimacy.”

Kendrick bowed. “Father, I had
not expected you would do so. I’m content with my lot. Please do not let this
confound you.”

MacGil was pained at his
response, as he felt how genuine he was and wanted to name him heir all the
more.

“That leaves four of you. Reece,
you’re a fine young man, the finest I’ve ever seen. But you are too young to be
part of this discussion.”

“I expected as much, Father,”
Reece responded, with a slight bow.

“Godfrey, you are one of my three
legitimate sons—yet you choose to waste your days in the alehouse, with the
filth. You were handed every privilege in life, and have spurned every one. If
I have any great disappointment in this life, it is you.”

Godfrey grimaced back, shifting
uncomfortably.

“Well, then, I suppose I’m done
here, and shall head back to the alehouse, shan’t I, Father?”

With a quick, mocking bow,
Godfrey turned and strutted across the room.

“Get back here!” MacGil snapped. “NOW!”

Godfrey continued to strut,
ignoring him. He crossed the room and pulled open the door. Two guards stood
there.

MacGil seethed with rage as the
guards looked to him questioningly.

But Godfrey did not wait; he
shoved his way past them, into the open hall.

“Detain him!” MacGil yelled. “And
keep him from the Queen’s sight. I don’t want his mother burdened by the sight
of him on her daughter’s wedding day.”

“Yes, my liege,” they said,
closing the door as they hurried off after him.

MacGil sat there, breathing,
red-faced, trying to calm down. For the thousandth time, he wondered what he had
done to warrant such a child.

He looked back at his remaining
children. The four of them looked back at him, waiting in the thick silence.
MacGil took a deep breath, trying to focus.

“That leaves but two of you,” he
continued. “And from these two, I have chosen a successor.”

MacGil turned to his daughter.

“Gwendolyn, that will be you.”

There was a gasp in the room; his
children all seemed shocked, most of all Gwendolyn.

“Did you speak accurately, Father?”
Gareth asked. “Did you say Gwendolyn?”

“Father, I am honored,” Gwendolyn
said. “But I cannot accept. I am a woman.”

“True, a woman has never sat on
the throne of the MacGils. But I have decided it is time to change tradition.
Gwendolyn, you are of the finest mind and spirit of any young woman I’ve met.
You are young, but God be willing, I shall not die anytime soon, and when the
time comes, you will be wise enough to rule. The kingdom will be yours.”

“But Father!” Gareth screamed,
his face ashen. “I am the eldest born legitimate son! Always, in all the history
of the MacGils, kingship has gone to the eldest son!”

“I am King,” MacGil answered
darkly, “and I dictate tradition.”

“But it’s not fair!”
Gareth pleaded, his voice whining. “I am supposed to be King. Not my sister.
Not a woman!”

“Silence your tongue, boy!”
MacGil shouted, shaking with rage. “Dare you question my judgment?”

“Am I being passed over then for
a woman? Is that what you think of me?”

“I have made my decision,” MacGil
said. “You will respect it, and follow it obediently, as every other subject of
my kingdom. Now, you may all leave me.”

His children bowed their heads
quickly and hurried from the room.

But Gareth stopped at the door,
unable to bring himself to leave.

He turned back, and, alone, faced
his father.

MacGil could see the disappointment
in his face. Clearly, he had expected to be named heir today. Even more: he had
wanted it. Desperately. Which did not surprise MacGil in the least—and which
was the very reason he did not give it to him.

“Why do you hate me, Father?” he
asked.

“I don’t hate you. I just don’t
find you fit to rule my kingdom.”

“And why is that?” Gareth
pressed.

“Because that is precisely the
thing you seek.”

Gareth’s face turned a dark shade
of crimson. Clearly, MacGil had given him an insight into his truest nature.
MacGil watched his eyes, saw them burn with a hatred for him that he had never
imagined possible.

Without another word, Gareth
stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.

In the reverberating echo, MacGil
shuddered. He recalled his son’s stare and sensed a hatred so deep, deeper than
even than those of his enemies. In that moment, he thought of Argon, of his
pronouncement, of danger being close.

Could it be as close as this?

CHAPTER SIX

Thor sprinted across the vast field of
the arena, running with all he had. Behind him he could hear the footsteps of
the King’s guards, close on his tail. They chased him across the hot and dusty
landscape, cursing as they went. Before him were spread out the members—and new
recruits—of the Legion, dozens of boys, just like him, but older and stronger.
They were training and being tested in various formations, some throwing
spears, others hurling javelins, a few practicing their grips on lances. They
aimed for distant targets, and rarely missed. These were his competition, and
they seemed formidable.

Among them were dozens of real knights,
members of the Silver, standing in a broad semicircle watching the action.
Judging. Deciding who would stay and who would be sent home.

Thor knew he had to prove himself, had
to impress these men. Within moments the guards would be upon him, and if he
had any chance of making an impression, now was the time. But how? His mind
raced as he dashed across the courtyard, determined not to be turned away.

As Thor raced across the field, others
began to take notice. Some of the recruits stopped what they were doing and
turned, as did some of the knights. Within moments, Thor felt all the attention
focused on him. They looked bewildered, and he realized they must be wondering
who he was, sprinting across their field, three of the King’s guard chasing
him. This was not how he had wanted to make an impression. His whole life, when
he had dreamed of joining the Legion, this was not how he had envisioned it
happening.

As Thor ran, debating what to do,
his course of action was made plain for him. One large boy, a recruit, decided
to take it upon himself to impress the others by stopping Thor. Tall,
muscle-bound, and nearly twice Thor’s size, he raised his wooden sword to block
Thor’s way. Thor could see he was determined to strike him down, to make a fool
of him in front of everyone, and thereby gain himself advantage over the other
recruits.

This made Thor furious. Thor had
no bone to pick with this boy, and it was not his fight. But he was making it
his fight, just to gain advantage with the others.

As he got closer, Thor could
hardly believe this boy’s size: he towered over him, scowled down with locks of
thick black hair covering his forehead, and the largest, squarest jaw Thor had
ever seen. He did not see how he could make a dent against this boy.

The boy charged him with his
wooden sword, and Thor knew that if he didn’t act quickly, he would be knocked
out.

Thor’s reflexes kicked in. He
instinctively took out his sling, reached back, and hurled a rock at the boy’s
hand. It found its target and knocked the sword from his hand, just as the boy
was bringing it down. It went flying and the boy, screaming, clutched his hand.

Thor wasted no time. He charged,
taking advantage of the moment, leapt into the air, and kicked the boy,
planting his two front feet squarely on the boy’s chest. But the boy was so
thick, it was like kicking an oak tree. The boy merely stumbled back a few
inches, while Thor stopped cold in his tracks and fell at the boy’s feet.

This does not bode well, Thor thought, as he hit the
ground with a thud, his ears ringing.

Thor tried to gain his feet, but
the boy was a step ahead of him. He reached down, grabbed Thor by his back, and
threw him, sending him flying, face first, into the dirt.

A crowd of boys quickly gathered
in a circle around them and cheered. Thor reddened, humiliated.

Thor turned to get up, but the
boy was too fast. He was already on top of him, pinning him down. Before Thor
knew it, it had turned into a wrestling match, and the boy’s weight was
immense.

Thor could hear the muted shouts
of the other recruits as they formed a circle, screaming, anxious for blood.
The face of the boy scowled down; the boy reached out his thumbs and brought
them down for Thor’s eyes. Thor could not believe it—it seemed this boy really
wanted to hurt him. Did he really want to gain advantage that badly?

At the last second, Thor rolled
his head out of the way, and the boy’s hands went flying by, plunging into the
dirt. Thor took the chance to roll out from under him.

Thor gained his feet and faced
the boy, who rose as well. The boy charged and swung for Thor’s face, and Thor
ducked at the last second; the air rushed by his face, and he realized if the
boy’s fist had hit him, it would have broken Thor’s jaw. Thor reached up and
punched the boy in the gut, but it hardly did a thing; it was like striking a
tree.

Before Thor could react, the boy
elbowed him in the face.

Thor stumbled back, reeling from
the blow. It was like getting hit by a hammer, and his ears rang.

While Thor stumbled, still trying
to catch his breath, the boy charged and kicked him hard in the chest. Thor
went flying backwards and crashed to the ground, landing on his back. The other
boys cheered.

Thor, dizzy, began to sit up, but
the boy charged once more, swung, and punched him again, hard in the face,
knocking him flat on his back again—and down for good.

Thor lay there, hearing the muted
cheers of the others, feeling the salty taste of blood running from his nose,
the welt on his face. He groaned in pain. He looked up and could see the large
boy turn away and walk back toward his friends, already celebrating his
victory.

Thor wanted to give up. This boy
was huge, fighting him was futile, and he could take no more punishment. But
something inside him pushed him. He could not lose. Not in front of all these
people.

Don’t give up. Get up. Get up!

Thor somehow summoned the
strength. Groaning, he rolled over and got to his hands and knees, then,
slowly, to his feet. He faced the boy, bleeding, his eyes swollen, hard to see,
breathing hard, and raised his fists.

The huge boy turned around and
stared down at Thor. He shook his head in disbelief.

“You should have stayed down,
boy,” he threatened, as he began to walk back to Thor.

“ENOUGH!” yelled a voice. “Elden,
stand back!”

A knight suddenly stepped up,
getting between them, holding out his palm and stopping Elden from getting
closer to Thor. The crowd quieted, as they all looked to the knight; clearly
this was a man who demanded respect.

Thor looked up, in awe at the
knight’s presence. He was in his twenties, tall, with broad shoulders, a square
jaw, and brown, well-kept hair. Thor liked him immediately. His first-rate
armor, chainmail made of polished silver, was covered with royal markings: the
falcon emblem of the MacGil family. Thor’s throat went dry: he was standing
before a member of the royal family. He could hardly believe it.

“Explain yourself, boy,” he said
to Thor. “Why have you charged into our arena uninvited?”

Before Thor could respond,
suddenly, the three members of the King’s guard broke through the circle. The
lead guard stood there, breathing hard, pointing a finger at Thor.

“He defied our command!” the
guard yelled. “I am going to shackle him and take him to the King’s dungeon!”

“I did nothing wrong!” Thor
protested.

“Did you now?” the guard yelled. “Barging
into the King’s property uninvited?”

“All I wanted was a chance!” Thor
yelled, turning, pleading to the knight before him, the member of the royal
family. “All I wanted was a chance to join the Legion!”

“This training ground is only for
the invited, boy,” came a gruff voice.

Into the circle stepped a
warrior, fifties, broad and stocky, with a bald head, short beard, and a scar
running across his nose. He looked like he had been a professional soldier all
his life—and from the markings on his armor, the gold pin on his chest, he
looked to be their commander. Thor’s heart quickened at the site of him: a
general.

“I was not invited, sire,” Thor
said. “That is true. But it has been my life’s dream to be here. All I want is
a chance to show you what I can do. I am as good as any of these recruits. Just
give me one chance to prove it. Please. Joining the Legion is all I’ve ever
dreamt of.”

“This battleground is not for
dreamers, boy,” came his gruff response. “It is for fighters. There are no
exceptions to our rules: recruits are chosen.”

The general nodded, and the King’s
guard approached Thor, shackles out.

But suddenly the knight, the
royal family member, stepped forward and put out his palm, blocking the guard.

“Maybe, on occasion, an exception
may be made,” he said.

The guard looked up at him in
consternation, clearly wanting to speak out, but having to hold his tongue in
deference to a royal family member.

“I admire your spirit, boy,” the
knight continued. “Before we cast you away, I would like to see what you can
do.”

“But Kendrick, we have our rules—”
the general said, clearly displeased.

“The royal family makes the
rules,” Kendrick answered sternly, “and the Legion answers to the royal family.”

“We answer to your father, the
King—not to you,” the general retorted, equally defiant.

There was a standoff, the air
thick with tension. Thor could hardly believe what he had ignited.

“I know my father, and I know
what he would want. He would want to give this boy a try. And that is what we
will do.”

The general, after several tense
moments, finally backed down.

Kendrick turned to Thor, eyes
locking on his, brown and intense, the face of a prince, but also of a warrior.

“I will give you one chance,” he
said to Thor. “Let’s see if you can hit that mark.”

He gestured at a stack of hay far
across the field, with a small, red stain in its center. Several spears were
lodged in the hay, but none inside the red.

“If you can do what none of these
others boys could do—if you can hit that mark from here—then you may join us.”

The knight stepped aside, and
Thor could feel all eyes on him.

He spotted a rack of spears and
looked them over carefully. They were of a finer quality than he’d ever seen,
made of solid oak, wrapped in the finest leather. His heart pounded as he
stepped forward, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand,
feeling more nervous than ever before in his life. Clearly, he was being given
a nearly impossible task. But he had to try.

Thor reached over and picked a
spear, not too long, not too short. He weighed it in his hand—it was heavy,
substantial. Not like the ones he used back home. But it also felt right. He
felt that maybe, just maybe, he could find his mark. After all, spear-throwing
was his finest skill, next to hurling stones, and many long days of roaming the
wilderness had given him ample targets. He had always been able to hit targets
even his brothers could not.

Thor closed his eyes and breathed
deeply. If he missed, he would be pounced upon by the guards and dragged off to
jail—and his chances of joining the Legion would be ruined forever. This one
moment held everything he had ever dreamt of.

He prayed to God with all he had.

Without hesitating, Thor opened
his eyes, took two steps forward, reached back, and hurled the spear.

He held his breath as he watched
it sail.

Please, God. Please.

The spear cut through the thick,
dead silence, and Thor could feel the hundreds of eyes on it.

Then, after an eternity, there
came the sound, the undeniable sound of a spear point piercing hay. Thor didn’t
even have to look. He knew, he just knew, it was a perfect strike. It was the
way the spear felt when it left his hand, the angle of his wrist, that told him
it would hit.

Thor dared to look—and saw, with
huge relief, that he was right. The spear had found its place in the center of
the red mark—the only spear in it. He’d done what the other recruits could not.

Stunned silence enveloped him, as
he felt the other recruits—and knights—all gaping at him.

Finally, Kendrick stepped forward
and clapped Thor hard on the back with his palm, with the sound of
satisfaction. He grinned widely.

“I was right,” he said. “You will
stay!”

“What, my lord!” screamed the
King’s guard. “It is not fair! This boy arrived uninvited!”

“He hit that mark. That’s
invitation enough for me.”

“He is far younger and smaller
than the others. This is no peewee squad,” said the general.

“I would rather a smaller soldier
who can hit his mark than an oaf who cannot,” the knight replied.

“A lucky throw!” yelled the large
boy whom Thor had just fought. “If we had more chances, we would hit, too!”

The knight turned and stared down
the boy who yelled.

“Would you?” he asked. “Shall I
see you do it now? Shall we wager your stay here on it?”

The boy, flustered, lowered his
head in shame, clearly not willing to take up the offer.

“But this boy is a stranger,”
protested the general. “We don’t even know where he hails from.”

“He comes from the lowlands,”
came a voice.

The others turned to see who
spoke, but Thor did not need to—he recognized the voice. It was the voice that
had plagued him his entire childhood. The voice of his eldest brother: Drake.

Drake stepped forward with his
other two brothers, and glared down at Thor with a look of disapproval.

“His name is Thorgrin, of the
clan McCleod of the Southern Province of the Eastern Kingdom. He is the
youngest of four. We all hail from the same household. He tends our father’s
sheep!”

The entire group of boys and knights
burst into a chorus of laughter.

Thor felt his face redden; he
wanted to die at that moment. He had never been more ashamed. That was just
like his brother, to take away his moment of glory, to do whatever he could to
keep him down.

“Tends sheep, does he?” echoed
the general.

“Then our foes will surely have
to watch out for him!” yelled another boy.

There was another chorus of
laughter, and Thor’s humiliation deepened.

“Enough!” yelled Kendrick,
sternly.

Gradually, the laughter subsided.

“I’d rather have a sheepherder
any day who can hit a mark than the lot of you—who seem good at laughing, but
not much more,” Kendrick added.

With that, a silence descended on
the boys, who weren’t laughing anymore.

Thor was infinitely grateful to
Kendrick. He vowed to pay him back any way he could. Regardless of what
happened to Thor, this man had, at least, restored his honor.

“Don’t you know, boy, that it is
not a warrior’s way to tattle on his friends—much less his own family, his own
blood?” the knight asked Drake.

Drake looked down, flustered, one
of the rare times that Thor had seen him out of sorts.

But another of his other
brothers, Dross, stepped forward and protested: “But Thor wasn’t even chosen. We
were. He is merely following us here.”

“I’m not following you,” Thor
insisted, finally speaking up. “I’m here for the Legion. Not for you.”

“It doesn’t matter why he’s here,”
the general said, annoyed, stepping forward. “He’s wasting all of our time. Yes,
it was a good hit of the spear, but he still cannot join us. He has no knight
to sponsor him, and no squire willing to partner with him.”

“I will partner with him,” called
out a voice.

Thor spun, along with the others.
He was surprised to see, standing a few feet away, a boy his age, who actually
looked like him, except with blond hair and bright green eyes, wearing the most
beautiful royal armor: chainmail covered with scarlet and black
markings—another member of the King’s family.

“Impossible,” the general said. “The
royal family does not partner with commoners.”

“I can do as I choose,” the boy
shot back. “And I say that Thorgrin will be my partner.”

“Even if we sanctioned it,” the
general said, “it does not matter. He has no knight to sponsor him.”

“I shall sponsor him,” came a
voice.

Everyone turned in the other direction,
and there came a muffled gasp amongst the others.

Thor turned to see a knight
mounted on a horse, bedecked in the beautiful, gleaming armor and wearing all
manner of weaponry on his belt. He positively shined—it was like looking at the
sun. Thor could tell by his demeanor, his bearing, and by the markings on his
helmet, that he was different from the others. He was a champion.

Thor recognized this knight. He
had seen paintings of him, and had heard of his legend. Erec. He couldn’t
believe it. He was the greatest knight in the Ring.

“But my lord, you already have a
squire,” the general protested.

“Then I shall have two,” Erec
answered, in a deep, confident voice.

A stunned silence pervaded the
group.

“Then there is nothing left to
say,” Kendrick said. “Thorgrin has a sponsor and a partner. The matter is
resolved. He is now a member of the Legion.”

“But you have forgotten about me!”
the King’s guard screamed, stepping forward. “None of this excuses the fact
that the boy has struck a member of the King’s guard, and that he must be
punished. Justice must be done!”

“Justice will be done.” Kendrick’s
voice could have cut steel. “But it will be at my discretion. Not yours.”

“But my liege, he must be put in
the stocks! An example must be made of him!”

“If you keep up your talk, then you
shall be the one going to the stocks,” Kendrick said to the guard, glaring him
down.

Finally, the guard backed down;
reluctantly, he turned and walked away, red-faced, glaring at Thor.

“Then it is official,” Kendrick
called out in a loud voice. “Welcome, Thorgrin, to the King’s Legion!”

The crowd of knights and boys let
out a cheer and then turned away, back to their training.

Thor felt numb with shock. He
could hardly believe it. He was now a member of the King’s Legion. It was like
a dream.

Thor turned to Kendrick, more
grateful to him than he could ever say. He had never had anyone in his life
before who cared about him, who went out of his way to look out for him, to
protect him. It was a funny feeling. He already felt closer to this man than to
his own father.

“I don’t know how to thank you,”
Thor said. “I am deeply indebted to you.”

Kendrick smiled down. “Kendrick
is my name. You shall get to know it well. I am the King’s eldest son. I admire
your courage. You shall be a fine addition to this lot.”

Kendrick turned and hurried off,
and as he did, Elden, the huge boy Thor had fought, shuffled by.

“Watch your back,” the boy said. “We
sleep in the same barracks, you know. And don’t think for a moment you’re safe.”

The boy turned and stormed off
before Thor could respond; he had already made an enemy.

He was beginning to wonder what
was in store for him here, when the King’s youngest son hurried over to him.

“Don’t mind him,” he said to
Thor. “He’s always picking fights. I’m Reece.”

“Thank you,” Thor said, reaching
out his hand, “for choosing me as your partner. I don’t know what I would have
done without it.”

“I’m happy to choose anyone who
stands up to that brute,” Reece said happily. “That was a nice fight.”

“Are you kidding?” Thor asked,
wiping dried blood from his face and feeling his welt swell up. “He killed me.”

“But you didn’t give up,” Reece
said. “Impressive. Any of the others of us would have just stayed down. And
that was one hell of a spear throw. How did you learn to throw like that? We
shall be partners for life!” He looked at Thor meaningfully as he shook his
hand. “And friends, too. I can sense it.”

As Thor shook his hand, he couldn’t
help but feel that he was making a lifelong friend.

Suddenly, he was poked from the
side.

He spun and saw an older boy
standing there, with pockmarked skin and a long and narrow face.

“I am Feithgold. Erec’s squire.
You are now his second squire. Which means you answer to me. And we have
a tournament in minutes. Are you going to just stand there when you’ve been
made squire to the most famous knight in the kingdom? Follow me! Quickly!”

Reece had already turned away.
Thor turned and hurried after the squire as he ran across the field. He had no
idea where they were going—but he didn’t care. He was singing inside.

He had made it.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Gareth
hurried across King’s Court, dressed in his royal fineries, pushing his way amongst
the masses who poured in from all directions for his sister’s wedding, and he
fumed. He was still reeling from his encounter with his father. How was it
possible that he was skipped over? That his father would not choose him as
king? It made no sense. He was the firstborn legitimate son. That was the way
it had always worked. He had always, from the time he was born, assumed he
would reign—he had no reason to think otherwise.

It
was unconscionable. Passing him over for a younger sibling—and a girl, no less.
When word spread, he would be the laughingstock of the kingdom. As he walked,
he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him and he did not know how to
catch his breath.

He
stumbled his way with the masses toward the wedding ceremony of his elder
sister. He looked about, saw the multitude of colored robes, the endless
streams of people, all the different folk from all the different provinces. He
hated being this close to commoners. This was the one time when the poor could
mingle with the rich, the one time those savages from the Eastern Kingdom, from the far side of the Highlands, had been allowed in, too. Gareth still could
hardly conceive his sister was being married off to one of them. It was merely a
political move by his father, a pathetic attempt to make peace between the
kingdoms.

Even
stranger, somehow, his sister actually seemed to like this creature. Gareth
could hardly conceive why. Knowing her, it was not the man she liked,
but the title, the chance to be Queen of her own province. She would get what
she deserved; they were all savages, those on the other side of the Highlands. In Gareth’s mind, they lacked his civility, his refinery, his sophistication. It
was not his problem. If his sister was happy, let her be married off. It was
just one less sibling to have around that might stand in his way to the throne.
In fact, the farther away she was, the better.

Not
that any of this was his concern anymore. After today, he would never be king.
Now, he would be relegated to being just another anonymous prince in his father’s
kingdom. Now, he had no path to power; now, he was doomed to a life of mediocrity.

His
father had underestimated him—he always had. His father considered himself
politically shrewd—but Gareth was much shrewder and always had been. For
instance: for marrying Luanda to a McCloud, his father thought himself a master
politician. But Gareth was more far-sighted than his father, was able to
consider more of the ramifications, and was already looking one step farther.
He knew where this would lead. Ultimately, this marriage would not appease the
McClouds but embolden them. They were brutes, so they would see this peace
offering not as a sign of strength, but of weakness. They would not care for a
bond between the families, and as soon as his sister was taken away, Gareth
felt certain they would plan an attack. It was all a ruse. He had tried to tell
his father, but he would not listen.

Not
that any of this was his concern anymore. After all, now he was just another
prince, just another cog in the kingdom. Gareth positively burned at the
thought of it, and hated his father at that moment with a hatred he never knew
was possible. As he crammed in, shoulder to shoulder with the masses, he
imagined ways he could take revenge, ways he could get the kingship after all.
He could not just sit idly by, that was for certain. He could not let the kingship
go to his younger sister.

“There
you are,” came a voice.

It
was Firth, walking up beside him, wearing a jolly smile and revealing his
perfect teeth. Eighteen, tall, thin, with a high voice and smooth skin and
ruddy cheeks, Firth was his lover of the moment. Gareth was usually happy to
see him, but was in no mood for him now.

“I
think you have been avoiding me all day,” Firth added, linking one arm around
his as they walked.

Gareth
immediately shook off his arm, checking to make sure no one had seen.

“Are
you stupid?” Gareth chastised. “Don’t you ever link arms with me in public
again. Ever.”

Firth
look down, red-faced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

“That’s
right, you didn’t. Do it again, and I shall never see you again,” Gareth
scolded.

Firth
turned redder, and looked truly apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Gareth
checked again, felt confident no one had seen, and felt a little bit better.

“What
gossip from the masses?” Gareth asked, wanting to change the subject, to shake
his dark thoughts.

Firth
immediately perked up and regained his smile.

“Everyone
waits in expectation. They all wait for the announcement that you have been
named successor.”

Gareth’s
face dropped. Firth examined him.

“Haven’t
you?” Firth asked, skeptical.

Gareth
reddened as he walked, not meeting Firth’s eyes.

“No.”

Firth
gasped.

“He
passed me over. Can you imagine? For my sister. My younger sister.”

Now
Firth’s face fell. He looked astonished.

“That
is impossible,” he said. “You are firstborn. She is a woman. It’s not possible,”
he repeated.

Gareth
looked at him, stone cold. “I do not lie.”

The
two of them walked for some time in silence, and as it grew even more crowded,
Gareth looked around, starting to realize where he was and really take it all
in. King’s Court was absolutely jammed—there must have been thousands of people
swarming in from every possible entrance. They all shuffled their way toward
the elaborate wedding stage, around which were set at least a thousand of the
nicest chairs, with thick cushions covered in red velvet, and golden frames. An
army of servants strode up and down the aisles, seating people, carrying
drinks.

On
either side of the endlessly long wedding aisle, strewn with flowers, sat the
two families—the MacGils and McClouds—the line sharply demarcated. There were
hundreds on either side, each dressed in their finest, the MacGils in the deep
purple of their clan, and the McClouds in their burnt-orange. To Gareth’s eye,
the two clans could not look more different: though they were each richly adorned,
he felt as if the McClouds were merely dressing up, pretending. They were
brutes beneath their clothes—he could see it in their facial expressions, in
the way they moved, jostled each other, the way they laughed too loudly. There
was something beneath their surface that royal clothing could not hide. He
resented having them within their gates. He resented this entire wedding. It
was yet another foolish decision by his father.

If
Gareth were king, he would have executed a different plan. He would have called
this wedding, too. But then he would have waited until late in the night, when
the McClouds were steeped in drink, barred the doors to the hall, and burned
them all in a great fire, killing them all in one clean swoop.

“Brutes,”
Firth said, as he examined the other side of the wedding aisle. “I can hardly
imagine why your father let them in.”

“It
should make for interesting games afterwards,” Gareth said. “He invites our
enemy into our gates, then arranges wedding-day competitions. Is that not a
recipe for skirmish?”

“Do
you think?” Firth asked. “A battle? Here? With all these soldiers? On her
wedding day?”

Gareth
shrugged. He put nothing past the McClouds.

“The
honor of a wedding day means nothing to them.”

“But
we have thousands of soldiers here.”

“As
do they.”

Gareth
turned and saw a long line of soldiers—MacGils and McClouds—lined up on either
side of the battlements. They would not have brought so many soldiers, he knew,
unless they were expecting a skirmish. Despite the occasion, despite the fine
dress, despite the lavishness of the setting, the endless banquets of food, the
summer solstice in full bloom, the flowers—despite everything, there still hung
a heavy tension in the air. Everyone was on edge—Gareth could see it by the way
they bunched up their shoulders, held out their elbows. They didn’t trusted
each other.

Maybe
he would get lucky, Gareth thought, and one of them would stab his father in
his heart. Then maybe he could become king after all.

“I
suppose we can’t sit together,” Firth said, disappointment in his voice, as
they approached the seating area.

Gareth
shot him a look of contempt. “How stupid are you?” he spat, venom in his voice.

He
was seriously beginning to wonder whether he had made a good idea to choose
this stable boy as his lover. If he didn’t get him over his sappy ways quick,
he might just out them both.

Firth
looked down in shame.

“I
will see you afterwards, in the stables. Now be gone with you,” he said, and
gave him a small shove. Firth disappeared into the crowd.

Suddenly,
Gareth felt an icy grip on his arm. For a moment his heart stopped, as he
wondered if he was discovered; but then he felt the long nails, the thin
fingers, plunge into his skin, and he knew it right away to be the grasp of his
wife. Helena.

“Don’t
embarrass me on this day,” she hissed, hatred in her voice.

He
turned and studied her. She looked beautiful, all done up, wearing a long white
satin gown, her hair piled high with pins, wearing her finest diamond necklace,
and her face smoothed over with makeup. Gareth could see objectively that she
was beautiful, as beautiful as she was on the day he married her. But still he
felt no attraction to her. It had been another idea of his father’s—to try to
marry him out of his nature. But all it had done was give him a perpetually
sour companion—and stir up even more court speculation about his true
inclinations.

“It
is your sister’s wedding day,” she rebuked. “You can act as if we are a
couple—for once.”

She
locked one arm through his and they walked to a reserved area roped off with
velvet. Two royal guards let them through and they mingled with the rest of the
royals at the base of the aisle.

A
trumpet was blown, and slowly, the crowd quieted. There came the gentle music
of a harpsichord, more flowers were strewn along the aisle, and the royal
procession began to walk down, couples arm-in-arm. Gareth was tugged by Helena, and he began marching down the aisle with her.

Gareth
felt more conspicuous, more awkward than ever, hardly knowing how to make his
love seem genuine. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and couldn’t help but feel
as if they were all evaluating him, though he knew they were not. The aisle
could not be short enough; he could not wait to reach the end, stand near his
sister at the altar, and get this over with. He also could not stop thinking
about his meeting with his father, and he wondered if all these onlookers
already knew the news.

“I
received ill news today,” he whispered to Helena as they finally reached the
end, and the eyes were off him.

“Do
you think I don’t know that already?” she snapped.

He
turned and looked at her, surprised.

She
looked back with contempt. “I have my spies,” she said.

He
narrowed his eyes, wanting to hurt her. How could she be so nonchalant?

“If
I am not king, then you shall never be queen,” he said.

“I
never expected to be queen,” she answered.

That
surprised him even more.

“I
never expected him to name you,” she added. “Why would he? You are not a
leader. You are a lover. But not my lover.”

Gareth
felt himself reddening.

“Nor
are you mine,” he said to her.

It
was her turn to redden. She was not the only one who had a secret lover. Gareth
had spies of his own who told him of her exploits. He had let her get away with
it so far—as long as she kept it quiet, and left him alone.

“It’s
not like you give me a choice,” she answered. “Do you expect me to remain
celibate the rest of my life?”

“You
knew who I was,” he answered. “Yet you chose to marry me. You chose power, not
love. Don’t act surprised.”

“Our
marriage was arranged,” she said. “I did not choose a thing.”

“But
you did not protest,” he answered.

Gareth
lacked the energy to argue with her today. She was a useful prop, a puppet
wife. He could tolerate her, and she could be useful on occasion—as long as she
did not annoy him too much.

Gareth
watched with supreme cynicism as everyone turned to watch his eldest sister
being walked down the aisle by his father, that creature. The gall of him—he
even had the nerve to feign sadness, wiping a tear as he walked her. An actor
to the last. But in Gareth’s eyes, he was just a bumbling fool. He couldn’t
imagine his father felt any genuine sadness for marrying off his daughter, who,
after all, he was throwing to the wolves of the McCloud kingdom. Gareth felt an
equal disdain for Luanda, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. She seemed
to hardly care that she was being married off to a lesser people. She, too, was
after power. Cold-blooded. Calculated. In this way, she, of all his siblings,
was most like him. In some ways he could relate to her, though they never had
much warmth for each other.

Gareth
shifted on his feet, impatient, waiting for it all to end.

He
suffered through the ceremony, Argon presiding over the blessings, reciting the
spells, performing the rituals. It was all a charade, and it made him sick. It
was just the union of two families for political reasons. Why couldn’t they
just call it what it was?

Soon
enough, thank heavens, it was over. The crowd rose up in a huge cheer as the
two kissed. A great horn was blown, and the perfect order of the wedding
dissolved into controlled chaos. The royal family all made their way back down
the aisle and over to the reception area.

Even
Gareth, as cynical as he was, was impressed by the sight; his father had spared
no expense this time. Stretching out before them were all manner of tables,
banquets, vats of wine, an endless array of roasting pigs and sheep and lamb.

Behind
them, they were already preparing for the main event: the games. There were
targets being prepared for stone-hurling, spear-throwing, archery—and, at the
center of it all, the jousting lane. Already, the masses were crowding around
it.

Crowds
were already parting for the knights on both sides. For the MacGils, the first
to enter, of course, was Kendrick, mounted on his horse and bedecked in armor,
followed by dozens of the Silver. But it was not until Erec arrived, set back
from the others on his white horse, that the crowd quieted in awe. He was like
a magnet for attention; even Helena leaned forward, and Gareth noted her lust
for him, like all the other women.

“He’s
nearly of selection age, yet he’s not married. Any woman in the kingdom would
marry him. Why does he choose none of us?”

“And
what do you care?” Gareth asked, feeling jealous despite himself. He too,
wanted to be up there in armor, on a horse, jousting for his father’s name. But
he was not a warrior. And everyone knew it.

Helena ignored him with a dismissive
wave of her hand. “You are not a man,” she said, derisively. “You do not
understand these things.”

Gareth
blushed. He wanted to let her have it, but now was not the time. Instead, he
accompanied her as she took a seat in the stands with the others to watch the
day’s festivities. This day was going from worse to worse, and Gareth already
felt a pit in his stomach. It would be a very long day, a day of endless
chivalry, of pomp, of pretense. Of men wounding or killing each other. A day he
was completely excluded from. A day that represented everything he hated.

As
he sat there, he brooded. He wished silently that the festivities would erupt
into a full-fledged battle, that there would be full-scale bloodshed before
him, that everything good about this place be destroyed, torn to bits.

One
day he would have his way. One day he would be King.

One
day.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Thor
did his best to keep up with Erec’s squire, hurrying to catch up as he weaved
his way through the masses. It had been such a whirlwind since the arena, he
could hardly process what was happening all around him. He was still trembling
inside, could still hardly believe he had been accepted into the Legion, and that
he had been named second squire to Erec.

“I
told you, boy—keep up!” Feithgold snapped.

Thor
resented being called “boy,” especially as the squire was hardly a few years
older. Feithgold darted in out of the crowd, almost as if he were trying to
lose Thor.

“Is
it always this crowded here?” Thor called out, trying to catch up.

“Of
course not!” Feithgold yelled back. “Today is not only the summer solstice, the
longest day of the year, but also the day the King chose for his daughter’s
wedding—and the only day in history we’ve opened our gates to the McClouds.
There has never been such a crowd here as now. It is unprecedented. I hadn’t
expected this! I fear we will be late!” he said, all in a rush, as he sped
through the crowd.

“Where
are we going?” Thor asked.

“We’re
going to do what every good squire does: to help our knight prepare!”

“Prepare
for what?” Thor pressed, nearly out of breath. It was getting hotter by the
minute, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“The
royal joust!”

They
finally reached the edge of the crowd and stopped before a King’s guard, who
recognized Feithgold and gestured to the others to let them pass.

They
slipped under a rope and stepped into a clearing, free from the masses. Thor
could hardly believe it; there, up close, were the jousting lanes. Behind the
ropes stood mobs of spectators, and up and down the dirt lanes stood huge
warhorses—the largest Thor had ever seen—mounted by knights in all manner of
armor. Mixed among the Silver were knights from all over the two kingdoms, from
every province, some in black armor, others in white, wearing helmets and
donning weapons of every shape and size. It looked as if the entire world had
descended on these jousting lanes.

There
were already some competitions in progress, knights from places Thor did not
recognize charging each other, clanging lances and shields, followed always by
a short cheer from the crowd. Up close, Thor could not believe the strength and
speed of the horses, the sound the weapons made. It was a deadly art.

“It
hardly seems like a sport!” Thor said to Feithgold as he followed him along the
perimeter of the lanes.

“That’s
because it is not,” Feithgold yelled back, over the sound of a clang. “It is a
serious business, masked as a game. People die here, every day. It is battle.
Lucky are the ones who walk away unscathed. They are far and few between.”

Thor
looked up as two knights charged each other and collided at full speed. There
was an awful crash of metal on metal, then one of them flew off his horse and
landed on his back, just feet away from Thor.

The
crowd gasped. The knight did not stir, and Thor saw a piece of a wooden shaft
stuck in his ribs, piercing his armor. He cried out in pain and blood poured
from his mouth. Several squires ran over to attend him, dragging him off the
field. The winning knight paraded slowly, raising his lance to the cheer of the
crowd.

Thor
was amazed. He had not envisioned the sport to be so deadly.

“What
those boys just did—that is your job now,” Feithgold said. “You are squire now.
More precisely, second squire.”

He
stopped and came in close—so close, Thor could smell his bad breath.

“And
don’t you forget it. I answer to Erec. And you answer to me. Your job is to
assist me. Do you understand?”

Thor
nodded back, still trying to take it all in. He had imagined it all going
differently in his head, and still didn’t know exactly what was in store for
him. He could feel how threatened Feithgold was by his presence, and felt he
had made an enemy.

“It
is not my intention to interfere with your being Erec’s squire,” Thor said.

Feithgold
let out a short, derisive laugh.

“You
couldn’t interfere with me, boy, if you tried. Just stay out of my way and do
as I tell you.”

With
that, Feithgold turned and hurried down a series of twisting paths behind the
ropes. Thor followed as best he could, and soon found himself in a labyrinth of
stables. He walked down a narrow corridor, all around him warhorses strutting,
squires nervously tending to them. Feithgold twisted and turned and finally
stopped before a giant, magnificent horse. Thor had to catch his breath. He
could hardly believe something so big and beautiful was real, let alone could be
contained behind a fence. It looked ready for war.

“Warkfin,”
Feithgold said. “Erec’s horse. Or one of them—the one he prefers for jousting.
Not an easy beast to tame. But Erec has managed. Open the gate,” Feithgold
ordered.

Thor
looked at him, puzzled, then looked back at the gate, trying to figure it out.
He stepped forward, pulled at a peg between the slats, and nothing happened. He
pulled harder until it budged, and he gently swung open the wooden gate.

The
second he did, Warkfin neighed, leaned back, and kicked the wood, just grazing
the tip of Thor’s finger. Thor yanked back his hand in pain.

Feithgold
laughed.

“That’s
why I had you open it. Do it quicker next time, boy. Warkfin waits for no one.
Especially you.”

Thor
was fuming; Feithgold was already getting on his nerves, and he hardly saw how
he would be able to put up with him.

He
quickly open the wooden gates, this time stepping out of the way of the horse’s
flailing legs.

“Shall
I bring him out?” Thor asked with trepidation, not really wanting to grab the
reins as Warkfin stomped and swayed.

“Of
course not,” Feithgold said. “That is my role. Your role is to feed him—when I
tell you to. And to shovel his waste.”

Feithgold
grabbed Warkfin’s reins and began to lead him down the stables. Thor swallowed,
watching. This was not the initiation he had in mind. He knew he had to start
somewhere, but this was degrading. He had pictured war and glory and battle,
training and competition among boys his own age. He never saw himself as a
servant-in-waiting. He was starting to wonder if he had made the right
decision.

They
finally left the dark stables for the bright light of day, back in the jousting
lanes. Thor squinted from the change, and was momentarily overcome by thousands
of people cheering the noise of opposing knights as they smashed into one other.
He’d never heard such a clang of metal, and the earth quaked from the horses’
massive gait.

All
around were dozens of knights and their squires, preparing. Squires polished
their knights’ armor, greased up weapons, checked saddles and straps, and double-checked
weapons as knights mounted their steeds and waited for their names to be
called.

“Elmalkin!”
an announcer called out.

A
knight from a province Thor did not recognize, a broad fellow in red armor,
galloped out the gate. Thor turned and jumped out of the way just in time. The
knight charged down the narrow lane, and his lance brushed off the shield of a
competitor. They clanged, the other knight’s lance struck, and Elmalkin went
flying backwards, landing on his back. The crowd cheered.

Elmalkin
immediately gathered himself, though, jumping to his feet, spinning around and
reaching out a hand to his squire, who stood beside Thor.

“My
mace!” the knight yelled out.

The
squire next to Thor jumped into action, grabbing a mace off the weapons rack
and sprinting out toward the center of the lane. He ran toward Elmalkin, but
the other knight had circled back and was charging again. Just before the
squire reached him to placing the mace into his master’s hand, the other knight
thundered down upon them. The squire did not reach Elmalkin in time. The other
knight brought his lance down—and as he did, his lance sideswiped the squire’s
head. The squire, reeling from the blow, spun around quickly and went down to
the dirt, face first.

He
did not move. Thor could see blood oozing from his head, even from here,
staining the dirt.

Thor
swallowed.

“It’s
not a pretty sight, is it?”

Thor
turned to see Feithgold standing beside him, staring back.

“Steel
yourself, boy. This is battle. And we’re right in the middle of it.”

The
crowd suddenly grew quiet as the main jousting lane was opened. Thor could
sense anticipation in the air as all the other jousts stopped in anticipation
of this one. On one side, out came Kendrick, walking out on his horse, lance in
hand.

On
the far side, facing him, out walked a knight in the distinctive armor of the
McClouds.

“MacGils
versus McClouds,” Feithgold whispered to Thor. “We’ve been at war for a
thousand years. And I very much doubt this match will settle it.”

Each
knight lowered his visor, a horn sounded, and with a shout, the two charged
each other.

Thor
was amazed at how much speed they picked up before they moments later collided
with such a clang, Thor nearly raised his hands to his ears. The crowd gasped
as both fighters fell from their horses.

They
each jumped to their feet and threw off their helmets, as their squires ran out
to them, handing them short swords. The two knights sparred with all they had.
Watching Kendrick swing and slash mesmerized Thor: it was a thing of beauty.
But the McCloud was a fine warrior, too. Back and forth they went, each
exhausting the other, neither giving ground.

Finally
their swords met in one momentous clash, and they each knocked each other’s
swords from their hands. Their squires ran out, maces in hand, but as Kendrick
reached for his mace, the McCloud’s squire ran up behind him and struck him in
the back with his own weapon, the blow sending him to the ground, to the
horrified gasp of the crowd.

The
McCloud knight retrieved his sword, stepped forward, and pointed it at Kendrick’s
throat, pinning him to the ground. Kendrick was left with no choice.

“I
concede!” he yelled.

There
was a victorious shout among the McClouds—but a shout of anger from the
MacGils.

“He
cheated!” yelled out the MacGils.

“He
cheated! He cheated!” echoed a chorus of angry cries.

The
mob was getting angrier and angrier, and soon there was such a chorus of
protests that the mob began to disperse, and both sides—the MacGils and
McClouds—began to approach each other on foot.

“This
isn’t good,” Feithgold said to Thor, as they stood on the side, watching.

Moments
later, the crowd erupted; blows were thrown, and it became an all-out brawl. It
was chaos. Men were swinging wildly, grabbing each other in locks, driving each
other to the ground. The crowd swelled and the brawl threatened to blow up into
an all-out war.

A
horn sounded and guards from both sides marched in, managing to split up the
crowd. Another, louder, horn sounded, and silence fell as King MacGil stood
from his throne.

“There
will be no skirmishes today!” he boomed in his kingly voice. “Not on this day
of celebration! And not in my court!”

Slowly,
the crowd calmed.

“If
it is a contest you wish for between our two great clans, it will be decided by
one fighter, one champion, from each side.”

MacGil
looked to King McCloud, who sat on the far side, seated with his entourage.

“Agreed?”
MacGil yelled out.

McCloud
stood solemnly.

“Agreed!”
he echoed.

The
crowd cheered on both sides.

“Choose
your best man!” MacGil yelled.

“I
already have,” McCloud said.

There
emerged from the McCloud side a formidable knight, the biggest man Thor had
ever seen, mounted on his horse. He looked like a boulder, all bulk, with a
long beard and a scowl that looked permanent.

Thor
sensed movement beside him, and right next to him, Erec stepped up, mounted Warkfin,
and walked forward. Thor swallowed. He could hardly believe this was happening
all around him. He swelled with pride for Erec.

Then
he was overcome with anxiety, as he realized he was on duty. After all, he was
squire and his knight was about to fight.

“What
do we do?” Thor asked Feithgold in a rush.

“Just
stand back and do as I tell you,” he answered.

Erec
strode forward into the jousting lane, and the two knights stayed there, facing
each other, their horses stomping in a tense standoff. Thor’s heart pounded in
his chest as he waited and watched.

A
horn sounded, and the two charged each other.

Thor
could not believe the beauty and grace of Warkfin—it was like watching a fish
jump from the sea. The other knight was huge, but Erec was a graceful and sleek
fighter. He cut through the air, his head low, his silver armor rippling, more
polished than any armor he had laid his eyes upon.

As
the two men met, Erec held his lance with perfect aim and leaned to the side.
He managed to knock the knight in the center of his shield while simultaneously
dodging his blow.

The
huge mountain of a man tumbled backwards, onto the ground. It was like a
boulder landing.

The
MacGil crowd cheered as Erec rode past, turned, and circled back. He raised his
face plate and held the tip of his lance to the man’s throat.

“Yield!”
Erec yelled down.

The
knight spit.

“Never!”

The
knight then reached into a hidden satchel on his waist, pulled out a handful of
dirt, and before Erec could react, threw it into Erec’s face.

Erec,
stunned, reached for his eyes, dropping his lance and falling from his horse.

The
MacGil crowd booed and hissed and cried in outrage as Erec fell, clutching his
eyes. The knight, wasting no time, hurried over and kneed him in the ribs.

Erec
rolled over, and the knight grabbed a huge rock, picked it up high, and
prepared to bring it down on Erec’s skull.

“NO!”
Thor screamed, stepping forward, unable to control himself.

Thor
watched in horror as the knight brought down the rock. At the last second, Erec
somehow rolled out of the way. The stone lodged deep into the ground, right
where his skull had been.

Thor
was amazed at Erec’s dexterity. He was already back on his feet, facing this
dirty fighter.

“Short
swords!” the Kings cried out.

Feithgold
suddenly wheeled and stared at Thor, wide-eyed.

“Hand
it to me!” he yelled.

Thor’s
heart pounded in panic. He spun around, searching Erec’s weapons rack, looking
desperately for the sword. There was a dizzying array of weapons before him. He
reached out, grabbed it, and thrust it into Feithgold’s palm.

“Stupid
boy! That is a medium sword!” Feithgold yelled.

Thor’s
throat went dry; he felt the whole kingdom staring at him. His vision was
blurry with anxiety as he spiraled into panic, not knowing which sword to
choose. He could barely focus.

Feithgold
stepped forward, shoved Thor out of the way, and grabbed the short sword
himself. He then raced out into the jousting lane.

Thor
watched him go, feeling useless, horrible. He also tried to imagine if it were
himself running out there, in front of all those people, and his knees grew
weak.

The
other knight’s squire reached him first, and Erec had to jump out of the way as
the knight swung for him, barely missing. Finally, Feithgold reached Erec and
placed the short sword into his hand. As he did, the knight charged Erec. But
Erec was too clever. He waited until the last moment, then jumped out of the
way.

The
knight kept charging, though, and ran right into Feithgold, standing, to his bad
luck, in the place where Erec had just been. The knight, filled with rage at
missing Erec, kept charging and grabbed Feithgold with both hands by his hair,
and head-butted him hard in the face.

There
was a cracking of bone as blood squirted from Feithgold’s nose and he collapsed
to the ground, limp.

Thor
stood there, mouth open in shock. He could not believe it. Neither could the
crowd, which booed and hissed.

Erec
swung around with his sword, just missing the knight, and the two faced each
other again.

Thor
suddenly realized: he was Erec’s only squire now. He gulped. What was he
supposed to be doing? He was not prepared for this. And the whole kingdom was
watching.

The
two knights attacked each other viciously, going blow for blow. Clearly the
McCloud knight was much stronger than Erec—yet Erec was the better fighter,
faster and more agile. They swung and slashed and parried, neither able to gain
advantage.

Finally,
King MacGil stood.

“Long
spears!” he called out.

Thor’s
heart pounded. He knew this meant him: he was on duty.

He
spun and looked at the rack, taking down the weapon that seemed most
appropriate. As he grabbed its leather shaft, he prayed he chose correctly.

He
burst onto the lane and could feel thousands of eyes on him. He ran and ran for
all he was worth, wanting to reach Erec as quickly as possible, and finally
placing the spear into his hand. He was proud to see he reached him first.

Erec
took the spear and spun, prepared to face the other knight. Being the honorable
warrior that he was, Erec waited until the other knight was armed before
attacking. Thor hurried off to the side, out of the men’s way, not wanting to
repeat Feithgold’s mistake. As he did, he dragged Feithgold’s limp body out of
harm’s way.

As
Thor watched, he sensed something was wrong. Erec’s opponent took his spear,
raised it straight up, then began bringing it down in a strange motion. As he
did, suddenly, Thor felt his world go into focus in a way it never had. He
intuited that something was wrong. His eyes locked on the McCloud knight’s
spearhead, and as he looked closely, he noticed it was loose. The knight was
about to use the tip of his spear as a throwing knife.

As
the knight brought down his spear, the head detached and sailed through the
air, end over end, heading right for Erec’s heart. In seconds, Erec would be
dead—there was no way he could react in time. From the looks of its jagged
blade, it appeared to be armor-piercing.

In
that moment, Thor felt his whole body warming. He felt a tingling sensation—it
was the same sensation he’d experienced back in Darkwood, when battling the
Sybold. His whole world slowed. He was able to see the tip spinning in slow
motion, was able to feel an energy, a heat, rising within him—one he didn’t
know he had.

He
stepped forward and felt bigger than the spearhead. In his mind, he willed it
to stop. He demanded it to stop. He did not want to see Erec hurt. Especially
not this way.

“NO!”
Thor shrieked.

He
took another step and held out his palm, aimed at the spearhead.

It
stopped and hung there, in midair, right before reaching Erec’s heart.

It
then dropped harmlessly to the ground.

The
two knights both turned and looked at Thor—as did the two kings, as did the
thousands of spectators. He felt the whole world staring down at him, and
realized they had all just witnessed what he did. They all knew he was not
normal, that he had some sort of power, that he had influenced the games, had
saved Erec—and changed the fate of the kingdom.

Thor
stood rooted in place, wondering what just happened.

He
was now certain he wasn’t the same as all these people. He was different.

But
who was he?

CHAPTER NINE

Thor
found himself swept up, ushered through the crowd by Reece, the King’s youngest
son and his newfound sparring partner. Ever since the jousting match, it had
been a blur. Whatever he had done back there, whatever power he had used to
stop that spearhead from killing Erec, it had caught the attention of the
entire kingdom. The match had been stopped after that, called off by both Kings,
and a truce called. Each knight retired to his side, the masses broke up in an
agitated stir, and Thor had been taken by the arm and ushered off by Reece.

He’d
been swept away in a royal entourage, cutting the back way through the masses,
Reece tugging at his arm the whole way. Thor was still shaking from the day’s
events. He hardly understood what he had just done back there, how it had
influenced things. He had just wanted to be anonymous, just another one of the
King’s Legion. He had not wanted to be the center of attention.

Worse,
he didn’t know where he was being led, if he was going to be punished somehow
for interfering. Of course, he had saved Erec’s life—but he had also interfered
with a knight’s battle, which was forbidden for a squire. He wasn’t sure if he would
be rewarded or rebuked.

“How
did you do that?” Reece asked, as he yanked him along. Thor followed blindly,
trying to process it all himself. As he went, the masses gawked, staring at him
as if he were some kind of freak.

“I
don’t know,” Thor answered truthfully. “I just wanted to help him and…it
happened.”

Reece
shook his head.

“You
saved Erec’s life. Do you realize that? He is our most famed knight. And you
saved him.”

Thor
felt good as he turned Reece’s words over in his head, felt a wave of relief.
He had liked Reece from the moment he’d met him; he had a calming effect,
always knowing what to say. As he pondered it, he realized maybe he was not in
for punishment after all. Maybe, in some ways, they would view him as a sort of
hero.

“I
didn’t try to do anything,” Thor said. “I just wanted him to live. It was
just…natural. It was no big deal.”

“No
big deal?” Reece echoed. “I couldn’t have done it. None of us could have.”

They
turned the corner and Thor saw before them the King’s castle, sprawled out, reaching
high into the sky. It looked monumental. The King’s army stood at attention,
lining the cobblestone road leading over the drawbridge, keeping the masses at
bay. They stepped aside to allow Reece and Thor past.

The
two of them followed the road, soldiers on either side, up to the huge arched
doors, covered in iron bolts. Four soldiers pulled it open and stepped aside,
at attention. Thor could not believe the treatment he was receiving; he felt as
if he were a member of the royal family.

As
they entered the castle, the doors closing behind them, Thor was amazed at the
sight before him: the inside was immense, with soaring stone walls a foot thick
and vast, open rooms. Before him milled hundreds of members of the royal court,
rambling about in an excited stir. He could sense the buzz and excitement in
the air, and all eyes turned and looked at him as he entered. He was
overwhelmed by the attention.

They
all huddled close, seemed to gawk as Thor went with Reece down the castle
corridors. He had never seen so many people dressed in such finery. He saw
dozens of girls of all ages, dressed in elaborate outfits, locking arms and
whispering in each other’s ears and giggling at him as he went. He felt
self-conscious. He couldn’t tell if they liked him, or if they were making fun
of him. He was not used to being the center of attention—much less in a royal
court—and hardly knew how to handle himself.

“Why
are they laughing at me?” he asked Reece.

Reece
turned and chuckled. “They’re not laughing at you,” he said. “They have taken a
liking to you. You’re famous.”

“Famous?”
he asked, stunned. “What do you mean? I just got here.”

Reece
laughed and clasped a hand on his shoulder. He was clearly amused by Thor.

“Word
spreads faster in the royal court than you might imagine. And a newcomer like
yourself—well, this does not happen every day.”

“Where
are we going?” he asked, realizing he was being led somewhere.

“My
father wants to meet you,” he said, as they turned down a new corridor.

Thor
swallowed.

“Your
father? You mean…the King?” Suddenly, he was nervous. “Why would he want to
meet me? Are you sure?”

Reece
laughed.

“I
am quite sure. Stop being so nervous. It’s just my dad.”

“Just
your dad?” Thor said with disbelief. “He’s the King!”

“He’s
not that bad. I have a feeling it will be a happy audience. You saved Erec’s
life, after all.”

Thor
swallowed hard, his palms sweaty, as another large door opened and they entered
a vast hall. He looked up in awe at the arched ceiling, covered in an elaborate
design and soaring high. The walls were lined with arched stained-glass
windows, and if possible, even more people were crammed into this room. There
must have been a thousand of them, and the room positively swarmed. Banquet
tables stretched across the room as far as the eye could see, people sitting on
endlessly long benches, dining. Between these was a narrow aisle with a long,
red carpet, leading to a platform on which sat the royal throne. The crowd
parted ways as Reece and Thor walked down the carpet toward the King.

“And
where do you think you’re taking him?” came a hostile, nasally voice.

Thor
looked up to see a man standing over him, not much older than he was, dressed
in a royal garb, clearly a prince, blocking their way and scowling down.

“It’s
Father’s orders,” Reece snapped back. “Better get out of our way, unless you
want to defy them.”

The
prince stood his ground, frowning, looking as if he’d bitten into something
rotten as he examined Thor. Thor did not like him at all. There was something
he did not trust about him, with his lean, unkind features and eyes which never
stopped darting.

“This
is not a hall for commoners,” the prince replied. “You should leave the
riffraff outside, where it came from.”

Thor
felt his chest tighten. Clearly this man hated him, and he had no idea why.

“Shall
I tell Father you said that?” Reece defended, standing his ground.

Grudgingly,
the prince turned and stormed away.

“Who
was that?” Thor asked Reece, as they continued walking.

“Never
mind him,” Reece replied. “He’s just my older brother—or one of them. Gareth.
The oldest. Well, not really the oldest—he’s just the oldest legitimate one.
Kendrick, who you met on the battleground—he is really the oldest.”

“Why
does Gareth hate me? I don’t even know him.”

“Don’t
worry—he doesn’t reserve his hate only for you. He hates everybody. And anyone
who gets close to the family, he sees as a threat. Never mind him. He is but
one of many.”

As
they continued walking, Thor felt increasingly grateful to Reece, who, he was
realizing, was becoming a true friend.

“Why
did you stand up for me?” Thor asked, curious.

Reece
shrugged.

“I
was ordered to bring you to Father. Besides, you’re my sparring partner. And it’s
been a long time since someone came through my age here who I thought could be
worthy.”

“But
what makes me worthy?” Thor asked.

“It’s
the fighter’s spirit. It cannot be faked.”

As
they continued to walk down the aisle toward the King, Thor felt as if he’d
always known him—it was strange, but in some ways he felt as if Reece were his
own brother. He had never had a brother—not a real brother—and it felt good.

“My
other brothers are not like him, don’t worry,” Reece said as people flocked
around them, trying to catch a glimpse of Thor. “My brother Kendrick, the one
you met—he’s the best of all. He’s my half-brother, but I consider him a true
brother—even more than Gareth. Kendrick is like a second father to me. He will
be to you, too, I am sure of it. There is nothing he would not do for me—or for
anyone. He is the most loved of our royal family among the people. It is a
great loss he is not allowed to become King.”

“You
said ‘brothers.’ You have another brother, too?” Thor asked.

Reece
took a deep breath.

“I
have one other, yes. We are not that close. Godfrey. Unfortunately, he wastes
his days in the alehouse, with the commoners. He’s not a fighter, like us. He’s
not interested in it—he’s not interested in anything, really. Except ale—and
the ladies.”

Suddenly,
they stopped short as a girl blocked their way. Thor stood there, transfixed.
Perhaps a couple of years older than him, she stared back with blue, almond
eyes, perfect skin, and long, strawberry hair. She was dressed in a white satin
dress bordered with lace, and her eyes positively glowed, dancing with joy and
mischief. She locked her eyes on his and held him completely captivated. He
couldn’t move if he wanted to. She was the most beautiful person he had ever
seen.

She
smiled, displaying perfect white teeth—and as if he weren’t transfixed already,
her smile held him there, lit up his heart in a single gesture. He never felt
so alive.

Thor
stood before her, unable to speak. Unable to breathe. It was the first time in
his life he’d ever felt this way.

“Aren’t
you going to introduce me?” the girl asked Reece. Her voice went right into
Thor—it was even sweeter than her appearance.

Reece
sighed.

“And
then there’s my sister,” he said with a smile. “Gwen, this is Thor. Thor, Gwen.”

Gwen
curtsied.

“How
do you do?” she asked with a smile.

Thor
stood there, frozen. Finally, Gwen giggled.

“Not
so many words at once, please,” she said with a laugh.

Thor
felt himself redden; he cleared his throat.

“I
am…I… am…sorry,” he said. “I’m Thor.”

Gwen
giggled.

“I
know that already,” she said. She turned to her brother. “My, Reece, your
friend certainly has a way with words.”

“Father
wants to meet him,” he said impatiently. “We are going to be late.”

Thor
wanted to speak to her, to tell her how beautiful she was, how happy he was to
meet her, how grateful he was she had stopped. But his tongue was completely
tied. He had never been this nervous in his life. So, instead, all that came
out was:

“Thank
you.”

Gwen
giggled, laughing harder.

“Thank
you for what?” she asked. Her eyes lit up. She was enjoying this.

Thor
felt himself redden again.

“Um…I
don’t know,” he mumbled.

Gwen
laughed harder, and Thor felt humiliated. Reece elbowed him, prodding him on,
and the two continued to walk. After a few steps, Thor checked back over his
shoulder. Gwen still stood there, staring back at him.

Thor
felt his heart pounding. He wanted to talk to her, to find out everything about
her. He was so embarrassed for his loss of words. But he had never been exposed
to girls, really, in his small village—and certainly never to one so beautiful.
He had never been taught exactly what to say, how to act.

“She
talks a lot,” Reece said, as they continued, approaching the King. “Never mind
her.”

“What
is her name?” Thor asked.

Reece
gave him a funny look. “She just told you!” he said with a laugh.

“I’m
sorry…I…uh…I forgot,” Thor said, embarrassed.

“Gwendolyn.
But everyone calls her Gwen.”

Gwendolyn.
Thor turned her name over and over in his mind. Gwendolyn. Gwen. He did
not want to let it go. He wanted it to linger in his consciousness. He wondered
if he would have a chance to see her again. He guessed probably not, being a
commoner. The thought hurt him.

The
crowd grew quiet as Thor looked up and realized they were now close to the
King. King MacGil sat on his throne, dressed in his royal purple mantle,
wearing his crown and looking imposing.

Reece
kneeled before him, and the crowd quieted. Thor followed suit. A silence
blanketed the room.

The
King cleared his throat, a deep, hearty noise. As he spoke, his voice boomed
throughout the room.

“Thorgrin
of the Lowlands of the Southern Province of the Western Kingdom,” he began. “Do
you realize that today you interfered with the King’s royal joust?”

Thor
felt his throat go dry. He hardly knew how to respond; it was not a good way to
begin. He wondered if he was going to be punished.

“I
am sorry, my liege,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean to.”

MacGil
leaned forward and raised one eyebrow.

“You
didn’t mean to? Are you saying you didn’t mean to save Erec’s life?”

Thor
was flustered. He realized he was just making it worse.

“No,
my liege. I did mean to—”

“So
then you admit you did mean to interfere?”

Thor
felt his heart pounding. What could he say?

“I
am sorry, my liege. I guess I just…wanted to help.”

“Wanted
to help?” MacGil boomed, then leaned back and roared with laughter.

“You
wanted to help! Erec! Our greatest and most famed knight!”

The
room erupted with laughter, and Thor felt his face flush, one too many times
for one day. Could he do nothing right here?

“Stand
and come closer, boy,” MacGil ordered.

Thor
looked up in surprise to see the King smiling down, studying him, as he stood
and approached.

“I
spot nobility in your face. You are not a common boy. No, not common at all….”

MacGil
cleared his throat.

“Erec
is our most loved knight. What you have done today is a great thing. A great
thing for us all. As a reward, from this day, I take you in as part of my
family, with all the same respects and honors due any of my sons.”

The
King leaned back and boomed: “Let it be known!”

There
came a huge cheer and stomping of feet throughout the room.

Thor
looked around, flustered, unable to process all that was happening to him. Part
of the King’s family. It was beyond his wildest dreams. All he had wanted was
to be accepted, to be given a spot in the Legion. Now, this. He was so
overwhelmed with gratitude, with joy, he hardly knew what to do.

Before
he could respond, suddenly the room broke into song and dance and feasting,
people celebrating all around him. It was mayhem. He looked up at the King, saw
the love in his eyes, the adoration and acceptance. He had never felt the love
of a father figure in his life. And now here he was, loved not just by a man,
but by the King, no less. In one day, his world had changed. He only prayed
that all of this was real.

*

Gwendolyn
pushed her way through the crowd, wanting to catch sight of the boy before he
was ushered out of the royal court. Thor. Her heart beat faster at the
thought of him, and she could not stop turning his name over in her mind. She
had been unable to stop thinking about him from the moment she had encountered
him. He was younger than her, but not by more than a year or two—and besides,
he had an air about him that made him seem older, more mature than the others,
more profound. From the moment she had seen him, she felt she had known him.
She smiled to herself as she remembered meeting him, how flustered he was. She
could see in his eyes that he felt the same way about her.

Of
course, she did not even know the boy. But she had witnessed what he had done
on the jousting lane, had seen what a liking her younger brother had taken to
him. She had watched him ever since, sensing there was something special about
him, something different from the others. Meeting him had only confirmed it. He
was different from all these royal types, from all the people born and bred
here. There was something refreshingly genuine about him. He was an outsider. A
commoner. But oddly, with a royal bearing. It was as if he were too proud for
what he was.

Gwen
made her way to the upper balcony’s edge and looked down. Below was spread out
the royal court, and she caught a last glimpse of Thor as he was ushered out,
Reece by his side. They were surely heading to the barracks, to train with the
other boys. She felt a pang of regret, already wondering, scheming, how she
could arrange to see him again.

Gwen
had to know more about him. She had to find out. For that, she would have to
speak to the one woman who knew everything about anyone and everything going on
in the kingdom: her mother.

Gwen
turned and cut her way back through the crowd, twisting through the back
corridors of the castle she knew by heart. Her head spun. It had been a
dizzying day. First, the morning’s meeting with her father, his shocking news
that he wanted her to rule his kingdom. She was completely caught off guard,
had never expected it in a million years. She still could hardly process it
now. How could she ever possibly rule a kingdom? She pushed the thought from
her mind, hoping that day would never come. After all, her father was healthy
and strong, and more than anything, all she wanted was for him to live. To be
here with her. To be happy.

But
she could not push the meeting from her mind. Somewhere in there, lurking, was
the seed planted that one day, whenever that day should come, she would
be next. She would succeed him. Not any of her brothers. But her. It terrified
her; it also gave her a sense of importance, of confidence, unlike any she’d
ever had. He had found her fit to rule—her—to be the wisest of them all.
She wondered why.

It
also, in some ways, worried her. She assumed it would stir up a huge amount of
resentment and envy—her, a girl, being chosen to rule. Already she could feel
Gareth’s envy. And that scared her. She knew her older brother to be terribly
manipulative and completely unforgiving. He would stop at nothing to get what
he wanted, and she hated the idea of being in his sights. She had tried to talk
to him after the meeting, but he would not even look at her.

Gwen
ran down the spiral staircase, her shoes echoing on the stone. She turned down
another corridor, passed through the rear chapel, through another door, past
several guards, and entered the private chambers of the castle. She had to
speak with her mother, whom she knew would be resting here. Her mother had
little tolerance for these long social affairs anymore—she liked to slip out to
her private chambers and rest as often as possible.

Gwen
passed another guard, went down another hall, then finally stopped before the
door to her mother’s dressing room. She was about to open it, but stopped.
Behind the door, she heard muted voices, their pitch rising, and sensed
something wrong. It was her mother, arguing. She listened closely, and heard
her father’s voice. They were fighting. But why?

Gwen
knew she should not be listening—but she could not help herself. She reached
out and gently pushed open the heavy oak door, grabbing it by its iron knocker.
She opened it just a crack and listened.

“He
won’t stay in my house,” her mother snapped.

“You
rush to judgment when you don’t even know the entire story.”

“I
know the story,” she snapped back. “Enough of it.”

Gwen
heard venom in her mother’s voice, and was taken aback. She rarely heard her
parents fight—just a few times in her life—and had never heard her mother so
worked up. She could not understand why.

“He
will stay in the barracks with the other boys. I do not want him under my roof.
Do you understand?” she pressed.

“It
is a big castle,” her father spat back. “His presence will not be noticed by
you.”

“I
don’t care if it is noticed or not. I don’t want him here. He’s your problem.
It was you who chose to bring him in.”

“You
are not so innocent, either,” her father retorted.

She
heard footsteps, watched her father strut across the room and out the door on
the other side, slamming it behind him so hard that the room shook. Her mother
stood alone in the center of the room, and began to cry.

Gwen
felt terrible. She didn’t know what to do. On one hand, she thought it best to
slip away, but on the other, she couldn’t stand the sight of her mother crying,
couldn’t stand to leave her there like that. She also, for the life of her,
could not understand what they were arguing about. She assumed they were
arguing about Thor. But why? Why would her mother even care? Dozens of people
lived in the castle.

Gwen
couldn’t bring herself to just walk away, not with her mother in that state.
She had to comfort her. She reached up and gently pushed the door open.

It
creaked, and her mother wheeled, caught off guard. She scowled at her daughter.

“Do
you not knock?” she snapped. Gwen could see how upset she was, and felt
terrible.

“What’s
wrong, Mother?” Gwen asked, walking toward her gently. “I don’t mean to pry,
but I heard you arguing with Father.”

“You
are right; you shouldn’t pry,” her mother retorted.

Gwen
was surprised. Her mother was often a handful, but was rarely like this. The
force of her anger made Gwen stop in her tracks a few feet away, unsure.

“Is
it about the new boy? Thor?” she asked.

Her
mother turned and looked away, wiping a tear.

“I
don’t understand,” Gwen pressed. “Why would you care where he stayed?”

“My
matters are of no concern to you,” she said coldly, clearly wanting to end the
matter. “What do you want? Why have you come here?”

Gwen
was nervous now. She wanted her mother to tell her everything about Thor, but
she couldn’t have picked a worse moment. She cleared her throat, hesitant.

“I…actually
wanted to ask you about him. What do you know of him?”

Her
mother turned and narrowed her eyes at her, suspicious.

“Why?”
she asked, with deadly seriousness. Gwen could feel her summing her up, looking
right through her, and seeing with her uncanny perception that Gwen liked him.
She tried to hide her feelings, but knew it was no use.

“I’m
just curious,” she said, unconvincingly.

Suddenly,
the Queen took three steps toward her, grabbed her arms roughly, and stared
into her face.

“Listen
to me,” she hissed. “I’m only going to say this once. Stay away from that boy.
Do you hear me? I don’t want you anywhere near him, under any circumstance.”

Gwen
was horrified.

“But
why? He’s a hero.”

“He
is not one of us,” her mother answered. “Despite what your father might think.
I want you to keep away from him. Do you hear me? Vow to me. Vow to me right
now.”

“I
will not vow,” Gwen said, yanking her arm away from her mother’s too-strong
grip.

“He
is a commoner, and you are a Princess,” her mother yelled. “You are a Princess.
Do you understand? If you go anywhere near him, I will have him exiled from
here. Do you understand?”

Gwen
hardly knew how to respond. She had never seen her mother like this.

“Do
not tell me what to do, Mother,” she said, finally.

Gwen
did her best to put on a brave voice, but deep inside she was trembling. She
had come here wanting to know everything; now, she felt terrified. She did not
understand what was happening.

“Do
as you wish,” her mother said. “But his fate lies in your hands. Don’t forget
it.”

With
that, her mother turned, strutted from the room, and slammed the door behind
her, leaving Gwen all alone in the reverberating silence, her good mood
shattered. What could possibly elicit such a strong reaction from her mother
and her father?

Who
was this boy?

CHAPTER TEN

MacGil sat in the banquet hall
watching over his subjects, he at one end of the table and King McCloud at the
other, hundreds of men from both clans between them. The wedding revelries had
been going on for hours until, finally, the tension between the clans had
settled down from the day’s jousting. As MacGil suspected, all the men needed
were wine and meat—and women—to make them forget their differences. Now they
all mingled at the same table, like brothers in arms. In fact, looking them
over, MacGil could no longer even tell they were of two separate clans.

MacGil felt vindicated; his
master plan was working after all. Already, the two clans seemed closer. He had
managed to do what a long line of MacGil kings before him could not: to unify
both sides of the Ring, to make them, if not friends, then at least peaceful
neighbors. His daughter Luanda was arm-in-arm with her new husband, the McCloud
prince, and she seemed content. His guilt lessened. He might have given her
away—but he did, at least, give her a queenship.

MacGil thought back to all the
planning that preceded this event, recalled the long days of arguing with his
advisors. He had gone against the advice of all his counselors in arranging
this union. It was not an easy peace and, in time, the McClouds would settle in
on their side of the Highlands, this wedding would be long forgotten, and one
day they would stir with unrest. He was not naïve. But now, at least, there was
a blood tie between the clans—and especially once a child was born, that could
not be so easily ignored. If that child flourished, and one day even ruled, a
child born of two sides of the Ring, then perhaps, one day, the entire Ring
could be united, the Highlands would no longer be a border of contention, and
the land could prosper under one rule. That was his dream. Not for himself, but
for his descendants. After all, the Ring had to stay strong, needed to stay
unified in order to protect the Canyon, to fight off the hordes of the world
beyond. As long as the two clans remained divided, they presented a weakened
front to the rest of the world.

“A toast,” MacGil shouted, and
stood.

The table grew quiet as hundreds
of men stood too, raising their goblets.

“To the wedding of my eldest
child! To the union of the MacGils and McClouds! To peace throughout the Ring!”

“HEAR HEAR!” came a chorus of
shouts. Everyone drank and the room once again filled with the noise of
laughter and feasting.

MacGil sat back and surveyed the
room, looking for his other children. There, of course, was Godfrey, drinking
with two fists, a girl on each shoulder, surrounded by his miscreant friends.
This was probably the one royal event he had ever willingly attended. There was
Gareth, sitting too closely to his lover, Firth, whispering in his ear; MacGil
could see from his darting, restless eyes, that he was plotting something. The
thought of it made his stomach turn, and he looked away. There, on the far side
of the room, was his youngest son, Reece, feasting at the squires’ table with
the new boy, Thor. Thor already felt like a son to him, and he was pleased to
see his youngest was fast friends with him.

He scanned the faces for his
younger daughter, Gwendolyn, and finally found her sitting off to the side,
surrounded by her handmaids, giggling. He followed her gaze, and noticed she
was watching Thor. He examined her for a long time, and realized she was
smitten. He had not foreseen this and was not quite sure what to make of it. He
sensed trouble there. Especially from his wife.

“All things are not what they
seem,” came a voice.

MacGil turned to see Argon
sitting by his side, watching the two clans dining together.

“What do you make of all this?”
MacGil asked. “Will there be peace in the kingdoms?”

“Peace is never static,” Argon
said. “It ebbs and flows like the tides. What you see before you is the veneer
of peace. You see one side of its face. You’re trying to force peace on an
ancient rivalry. But there are hundreds of years of spilled blood. The souls
cry out for vengeance. And that cannot be appeased with a single marriage.”

“What are you saying?” MacGil
asked, taking another gulp of his wine, feeling nervous, as he often did around
Argon.

Argon turned and stared at him
with an intensity so strong, it struck panic into MacGil’s heart.

“There will be war. The McClouds
will attack. Prepare yourself. All the houseguests you see before you will soon
be doing their best to murder your family.”

MacGil gulped.

“Did I make the wrong decision to
marry her off to them?”

Argon was silent for a while,
until finally he said: “Not necessarily.”

Argon looked away, and MacGil
could see that he was finished with the topic. There were a million questions
he wanted answered, but he knew his sorcerer would not answer them until he was
ready. So instead, he watched Argon’s eyes and followed their gaze to
Gwendolyn, then to Thor.

“Do you see them together?”
MacGil asked, suddenly curious to know.

“Perhaps,” Argon answered. “There
is still much yet to be decided.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Argon shrugged and looked away,
and MacGil realized he wouldn’t get any more from him.

“You saw what happened on the
field today?” MacGil prodded. “With the boy?”

“I saw it before it happened,”
Argon replied.

“And what do you make of it? What
is the source of the boy’s powers? Is he like you?”

Argon turned and stared into
MacGil’s eyes, again with an intensity that almost made him look away.

“He is far more powerful than me.”

MacGil stared back, shocked. He
had never heard Argon speak like this.

“More powerful? Than you?
How is that possible? You are the King’s sorcerer—there is no one more powerful
than you in all the land.”

Argon shrugged.

“Power does not come in only one
form,” he said. “The boy has powers beyond what you can imagine. Powers beyond
what he knows. He has no idea who he is. Or where he hails from.”

Argon turned and stared at
MacGil.

“But you do,” he added.

MacGil stared back, wondering.

“Do I?” MacGil asked. “Tell me. I
need to know.”

Argon shook his head.

“Search your feelings. They are
true.”

“What will become of him?” MacGil
asked.

“He will become a great leader.
And a great warrior. He will rule kingdoms in his own right. Far greater
kingdoms than yours. And he will be a far greater king than you. It is his
destiny.”

For a brief moment, MacGil burned
with envy. He turned and examined the boy, laughing harmlessly with Reece, at a
table for squires, the commoner, the weak outsider, the youngest of the bunch.
He didn’t imagine how it was possible. Looking at him now, he looked barely
eligible to join the Legion. He wondered for a moment if Argon was wrong.

But Argon had never been wrong
and never made pronouncements without a reason.

“Why are you telling me this?”
MacGil asked.

Argon turned and stared at him.

“Because it is your time to
prepare. The boy needs to be trained. He needs to be given the best of
everything. It is your responsibility.”

“Mine? And what of his father?”

“What of him?” Argon asked.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

Thor peeled open his eyes,
disoriented, wondering where he was. He lay on the floor, on a mound of straw,
his face planted sideways, his arms dangling over his head. He lifted his face,
wiping the drool from his mouth, and immediately felt a stab of pain in his
head, behind his eyes. It was the worst headache of his life. He remembered the
night before, the King’s feast, the drinking, his first taste of ale. The room
was spinning. His throat was dry, and at that moment he vowed he would never
drink again.

Thor looked around, trying to get
his bearings in the cavernous barracks. Everywhere were bodies, lying on heaps
of straw, the room filled with snoring; he turned the other way and saw Reece,
a few feet away, passed out, too. It was then he realized: he was in the
barracks. The Legion’s barracks. All around him were boys his age, about fifty
of them.

Thor vaguely remembered Reece
showing him the way, in the late hours of the morning, and crashing on the
mound of straw. Early morning light flooded in through the open windows, and
Thor soon realized he was the only one yet awake. He looked down and saw he had
slept in his clothes, and reached up and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He
would give anything for a chance to bathe—although he had no idea where. And he
would do anything for a pint of water. His stomach rumbled—he wanted food, too.

It was all so new to him. He
barely knew where he was, where life would take him next, what the routines
were of the King’s Legion. But he was happy. It had been a dazzling night, one
of the finest of his life. He had found a close friend in Reece, and had caught
Gwendolyn looking at him once or twice. He had tried to speak with her, but
each time he approached, his courage failed. He felt a pang of regret as he
thought about it. There had been too many people around. If it was ever just
the two of them, he would gain the courage. But would there be a next time?

Before Thor could finish the
thought, there was a sudden banging on the wooden doors of the barracks, and an
instant later, they crashed open, light flooding in.

“To your feet, squires!” came a
shout.

In marched a dozen members of the
King’s Silver, chainmail rattling, banging on the wooden walls with metal
staffs. The noise was deafening, and all around Thor, the other boys jumped to
their feet.

Leading the group was a
particularly fierce-looking soldier Thor recognized from the arena the day
before, the stocky, bald one with the scar on his nose, whom Reece had told him
was named Kolk.

He seemed to be scowling right at
Thor as he raised a finger and pointed it at him.

“You there, boy!” he screamed. “I
said on your feet!”

Thor was confused. He was already
standing.

“But I’m already on my feet,
sire,” Thor answered.

Kolk stepped forward and
backhanded Thor across the face. Thor stung with the indignation of it, as all
eyes were on him.

“Don’t you talk back to your
superior again!” Kolk reprimanded.

Before Thor could respond the men
moved on, roaming through the room, yanking one boy after another to his feet,
kicking some in the ribs who were too slow to get up.

“Don’t worry,” came a reassuring
voice.

He turned and saw Reece standing
there.

“It is not personal to you. It is
just their way. Their way of breaking us down.”

“But they didn’t do it to you,”
Thor said.

“Of course, they won’t touch me,
because of my father. But they won’t exactly be polite, either. They want us in
shape, that’s all. They think this will toughen us up. Don’t pay much attention
to them.”

The boys were all marched out of
their barracks and Thor and Reece fell in with them. As they stepped outside,
the bright sunlight struck Thor and he squinted and held up his hands.
Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a wave of nausea, and he turned, bent over,
and threw up.

He could hear the snicker of boys
all around him. A guard pushed him, and Thor stumbled forward, back in line
with the others, wiping his mouth. Thor had never felt more awful.

Beside him, Reece smiled.

“Rough night, was it?” he asked
Thor, grinning widely, elbowing him in the ribs. “I told you to stop after the
second goblet.”

Thor felt queasy as the light
pierced his eyes; it had never felt so strong as today. It was a hot day
already, and he could feel drops of sweat forming beneath his leather mail.

Thor tried to remember back to
Reece’s warning of the night before—but for the life of him, he could not
remember.

“I don’t remember any such
advice,” Thor retorted.

Reece grinned wider. “Precisely.
That is because you did not listen.” Reece chuckled. “And those ham-handed
attempts to speak to my sister,” he added. “It was positively pathetic. I don’t
think I’ve ever seen a boy so fearful of a girl in my life.”

Thor reddened as he tried to
remember. But he could not. It was all hazy to him.

“I mean you no offense,” Thor
said. “With your sister.”

“You cannot offend me. If she
should choose you, I would be thrilled.”

The two of them marched faster,
as the group turned up a hill. The sun seemed to be getting stronger with each
step.

“But I must warn you: every hand
in the kingdom is after her. The chances of her choosing you… Well, let’s just
say they are remote.”

As they marched faster across the
rolling green hills of King’s Court, Thor felt reassured. He felt accepted by
Reece. It was amazing, but he continued to feel Reece was more of a brother to
him than he’d ever had. As they walked, Thor noticed his three real brothers
marching close by. One of them turned and scowled back to him, then nudged his
other brother, who looked back with a mocking grin. They shook their heads and
turned away. They had not so much as one kind word for Thor. But he hardly
expected anything else.

“Get in line, Legion! Now!”

Thor looked up and saw several
more of the Silver crowd around them, pushing the fifty of them into a tight
line, double file. One man came up behind and struck the boy in front of Thor
with a large bamboo rod, cracking him hard on the back; the boy cried out, and
fell more tightly in line. Soon they were in two neat rows, marching steadily
through the King’s ground.

“When you march into battle, you
march as one!” called out Kolk, walking up and down the sides. “This is not
your mother’s yard. You are marching to war!”

Thor marched and marched beside
Reece, sweating in the sun, wondering where they were being led. His stomach
still turned from the ale, and he wondered when he would have breakfast, when
he would get something to drink. Once again, he cursed himself for drinking the
night before.

As they went up and down the
hills, through an arched stone gate, they finally reached the surrounding
fields. They passed through another arched stone gate and entered a coliseum of
sorts. The training ground for the Legion.

Before them were all sorts of
targets for throwing spears, firing arrows, and hurling rocks, as well as piles
of straw to slash with swords. Thor’s heart quickened at the sight of it. He
wanted to get in there, to use the weapons, to train.

But as Thor made his way toward
the training area, suddenly he was elbowed in the ribs from behind, and a small
group of six boys, most of them younger like Thor, were herded off the main
line. He found himself being split from Reece, being led to the other side of
the field.

“Think you’re going to train?”
Kolk asked mockingly as they forked from the others, away from the targets. “It’s
horses for you today.”

Thor looked up and saw where they
were headed: on the far side of the field, several horses pranced about. Kolk looked
down at him with an evil smile.

“While the others hurl spears and
wield swords, today you will tend horses and clean their waste. We all have to
start somewhere. Welcome to the Legion.”

Thor’s heart fell. This was not
how he had seen it going at all.

“You think you’re special, boy?”
Kolk asked, walking beside him, getting close to his face. Thor sensed he was
trying to break him. “Just because the King and his son have taken a liking to
you, doesn’t mean crap to me. You’re in my command now. You understand
me? I don’t care about whatever fancy tricks you pulled on the jousting ground.
You’re just another little boy. Do you understand me?”

Thor swallowed. He was in for a
long, hard training.

Making matters worse, as soon as
Kolk drifted away to torture someone else, the boy in front of Thor, a short
stocky kid with a flat nose, turned and sneered at him.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.
“You cheated your way in. You weren’t selected. You’re not one of us. Not
really. None of us like you.”

The boy beside him also turned
and sneered at Thor.

“We’re going to do everything we
can to make sure you drop out,” he said. “Getting in is easy next to staying
in.”

Thor recoiled at their hatred. He
couldn’t believe he already had enemies, and didn’t understand what he’d done
to deserve it. All he’d ever wanted was to join the Legion.

“Why don’t you mind yourself,”
came a voice.

Thor looked over and saw a tall,
skinny redheaded boy, with freckles across his face and small green eyes,
sticking up for him. “You two are stuck here shoveling with the rest of us,” he
added. “You’re not so special, either. Go pick on someone else.”

“You mind your business, lackey,”
one of the boys shot back, “or we’ll be after you, too.”

“Try it,” the redhead snapped.

“You’ll talk when I tell you to,”
Kolk yelled at one of the boys, smacking him hard upside the head. The two boys
in front of Thor, thankfully, turned back around.

Thor hardly knew what to say; he
fell in beside the redhead, grateful to him.

“Thank you,” Thor said.

The redhead turned and smiled at
him.

“Name is O’Connor. I’d shake your
hand, but they’d smack me if I did. So take this as an invisible handshake.”

He smiled wider, and Thor instantly
liked him.

“Don’t mind them,” he added. “They’re
just scared. Like the rest of us. None of us quite knew what we were signing up
for.”

Soon their group reached the end
of the field, and Thor counted six horses prancing about.

“Take up the reins!” Kolk
commanded. “Hold them steady, and walk them around the arena until they break.
Do it now!”

Thor stepped forward to take the
reins of one of the horses, and as he did, the horse stepped back and pranced,
nearly kicking him. Thor, startled, stumbled back, and the others in the group
laughed at him. Kolk smacked him hard in the back of the head, and he felt like
turning and hitting back.

“You are a member of the Legion
now. You never retreat. From anybody. No man, no beast. Now take those reins!”

Thor steeled himself, stepped
forward, and grabbed the reins from the prancing horse. He managed to hang on
while the horse yanked and pulled, and began to lead him around the wide dirt
field, getting in line with the others. His horse tugged at him, resisting, but
Thor tugged back, not giving up so easily.

“It gets better, I hear.”

Thor turned to see O’Connor
coming up beside him, smiling. “They want to break us, you know?”

Suddenly, Thor’s horse stopped.
No matter how much he pulled on the reins, it would not budge. Then Thor
smelled something awful; there was more waste coming from the horse than he
ever imagined possible. It did not seem to end.

Thor felt a small shovel pressed
into his palm, and looked over to see Kolk beside him, smiling down.

“Clean it up!” he snapped.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Gareth
stood in the crowded marketplace, wearing a cloak despite the midday sun,
sweating beneath it, and trying to remain anonymous. He always tried to avoid
this part of King’s Court, these crowded alleyways, which stank of humanity and
common man. All around him were people haggling, trading, trying to get one up
on each other. Gareth stood at a corner stall, feigning interest in a vendor’s
fruit, keeping his head low. Standing just a few feet away was Firth, at the
end of the dark alleyway, doing what they had come here to do.

Gareth
stood within earshot of the conversation, keeping his back to it so as not to
be seen. Firth had told him of a man, a mercenary, who would sell him a poison
vial. Gareth wanted something strong, something certain to do the trick. No
chances could be taken. After all, his own life was on the line.

It
was hardly the sort of thing he could ask the local apothecary for. He had set
Firth to the task, who had reported back to him after testing out the black
market. After much pointing of the way, Firth had led them to this slovenly
character, with whom he now furtively spoke at the end of the alleyway. Gareth
had insisted on coming along for their final transaction, to make sure
everything went smoothly, to make sure he was not being swindled and given a
false potion. Plus, he was still not completely assured of Firth’s competence.
Some matters, he just had to take care of himself.

They
had waited for this man for half an hour, Gareth getting jostled in the busy
market, praying he was not recognized. Even if he was, he figured, as long as
he kept his back to the alley, if someone should know who he was, he could
merely walk away, and no one would make the connection.

“Where
is the vial?” Firth, just a few feet away, asked the cretin.

Gareth
turned just a bit, careful to keep his face hidden, and peeked from the corner
of his cloak. Standing opposite Firth was an evil-looking man, slovenly, too
thin, with sunken cheeks and huge black eyes. He looked something like a rat.
He stared down at Firth, unblinking.

“Where’s
the money?” he responded.

Gareth
hoped Firth would handle this well; he usually managed to screw things up
somehow.

“I
shall give you the money when you give me the vial.” Firth held his ground.

Good, Gareth thought, impressed.

There
was a thick moment of silence, then:

“Give
me half the money now, and I will tell you where the vial is.”

“Where
it is?” Firth echoed, his voice rising in surprise. “You said I would have it.”

“I
said you would have it, yes. I did not say I would bring it. Do you take me for
a fool? Spies are everywhere. I know not what you intend—but I assume it is not
trivial. After all, why else buy a vial of poison?”

Firth
paused, and Gareth knew he was caught off guard.

Finally,
Gareth heard the distinct noise of coins clacking, and peeked over and saw the
royal gold pouring from Firth’s pouch into the man’s palm.

Gareth
waited, the seconds stretching forever, increasingly worried they were being
had.

“You’ll
take the Blackwood,” the man finally responded. “At your third mile, fork on
the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left.
You will go through the darkest wood you have ever seen, then arrive at a small
clearing. The witch’s cottage. She will be waiting for you—with the vial you
desire.”

Gareth
peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man
reached out and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.

“The
money,” the man growled. “It is not enough.”

Gareth
could see the fear spread across Firth’s face, and regretted having sent him
for this task. This slovenly character must have detected his fear—and now was
taking advantage. Firth was just not cut out for the sort of thing.

“But
I gave you precisely what you asked for,” Firth protested, his voice rising too
high. He sounded effeminate. And this seemed to embolden the man.

The
man grinned back, evil.

“But
now I ask for more.”

Firth’s
eyes opened wide with fear, and uncertainty. Then, suddenly, Firth turned and
looked right at him.

Gareth
turned away, hoping it was not too late, hoping he was not spotted. How could
Firth be so stupid? He prayed he had not given him away.

Gareth’s
heart pounded as he waited. He anxiously fingered the fruit, pretending to be
interested. There was an interminable silence behind him, as Gareth imagined
all the things that might go wrong.

Please,
don’t let him come this way,
Gareth prayed to himself. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll abandon the plot.

He
felt a rough palm slap him on his back. He spun and looked.

The
cretin’s large black, soulless eyes stared into his.

“You
didn’t tell me you had a partner,” the man growled. “Or are you a spy?”

The
man reached out before Gareth could react, and yanked down Gareth’s hood. He
got a good look at Gareth’s face, and his eyes opened wide in shock.

“The
Royal Prince,” the man stumbled. “What are you doing here?”

A
second later, the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition, and he answered himself,
with a small, satisfied smile, piecing together the whole plot instantly. He
was much smarter than Gareth had hoped.

“I
see,” the man said. “This vial—it was for you, wasn’t it? You aim to poison
someone, don’t you? But who? Yes, that is the question…”

Gareth’s
face flushed with anxiety. This man—he was too quick. It was too late. His
whole world was unraveling around him. Firth had screwed it up. If this man
gave Gareth away, he would be sentenced to death.

“Your
father, maybe?” the man asked, his eyes lighting in recognition. “Yes, that
must be it, mustn’t it? You were passed over. Your father. You aim to kill your
father.”

Gareth
had had enough. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, pulled a small dagger
from inside his cloak, and plunged it into the man’s chest. The man gasped.

Gareth
didn’t want any passersby to witness this, so he grabbed the man by his tunic
and pulled him close, ever closer, until their faces were almost touching,
until he could smell his rotten breath. With his free hand, he reached up and
clamped the man’s mouth shut before he could cry out. Gareth felt the man’s hot
blood trickling on his palm, running through his fingers.

Firth
came up beside him and let out a horrified cry.

Gareth
held the man like that for a good sixty seconds, until finally, he felt him
slumping in his arms. He let him collapse, limp, a heap on the ground.

Gareth
spun all around, wondering if he had been seen; luckily, no heads turned in
this busy marketplace, in this dark alley. He removed his cloak and threw it
over the lifeless heap.

“I
am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” Firth kept repeating, like a little girl,
crying hysterically and shaking as he approached Gareth. “Are you okay? Are you
okay?”

Gareth
reached up and backhanded him.

“Shut
your mouth and be gone from here,” he hissed.

Firth
turned and hurried off.

Gareth
prepared to leave, but then stopped and turned back. He had one thing left to
do: he reached down, grabbed his sack of coins from the dead man’s hand, and
stuffed it back into his waistband.

The
man would not be needing these.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

Gareth
walked quickly through the forest trail, Firth beside him, his hood pulled over
his head despite the heat. He could hardly conceive that he now found himself
in exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. Now there was a dead body, a
trail. Who knew who that man may have talked to. Firth should have been more
circumspect in his dealings with the man. Now, the trail could end up leading
back to Gareth.

“I’m
sorry,” Firth said, hurrying to catch up beside him.

Gareth
ignored him, doubling his pace, seething.

“What
you did was foolish, and weak,” Gareth said. “You never should have glanced my
way.”

“I
didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what to do when he demanded more money.”

Firth
was right; it was a tricky situation. The man was a selfish, greedy pig who
changed the rules of the game and deserved to die. Gareth shed no tears over
him. He only prayed no one had witnessed the murder. The last thing he needed
was a trail. There would be tremendous scrutiny in the wake of his father’s
assassination, and he could not afford even the smallest trail of clues left to
follow.

At
least they were now in Blackwood. Despite the summer sun, it was nearly dark in
here, the towering eucalyptus trees blocking out every shaft of light. It
matched his mood. Gareth hated this place. He continued hiking down the
meandering trail, following the dead man’s directions. He hoped the man had
told the truth and was not leading them astray. The whole thing could be a lie.
Or it could be he led them to a trap, to some friend of his waiting to rob them
of more money.

Gareth
chided himself. He had put too much trust in Firth. He should have handled this
all himself. Like he always did.

“You
better just hope that this trail leads us to the witch,” Gareth quipped, “and
that she has the poison.”

They
continued down trail after trail until they reached a fork, just as the man
said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed
it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were
true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood Gareth had ever
seen. The trees were impossibly thick and mangled.

Gareth
entered the wood and felt an immediate chill up his spine, could feel the evil
hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.

Just
as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended
in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke
through the trees. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch’s
cottage.

Gareth’s
heart quickened. He entered the clearing looking around to make sure no one was
watching, to make sure it was not a trap.

“You
see, he was telling the truth,” Firth said, excitement in his voice.

“That
means nothing,” Garrett chided. “Remain outside and stand guard. Knock if
anyone approaches. And keep your mouth shut.”

Gareth
didn’t bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he
grabbed the iron handle, pushed open the two-inch-thick door, and ducked his
head as he entered, closing it behind him.

It
was dark inside, lit only by scattered candles in the room. It was a
single-room cottage, devoid of windows, enveloped by a heavy energy. He stood
there, stifled by the thick silence, preparing himself for anything. He could
feel the evil in here. It made his skin crawl.

From
the shadows he detected motion, then a noise.

Hobbling
toward him there appeared an old woman, shriveled up, with a hunchback. She
raised a candle, which lit up a face covered in warts and lines. She looked
ancient, older than the gnarled trees that blanketed her cottage.

“You
wear a hood, even in blackness,” she said, wearing a sinister smile, her voice
sounding like crackling wood. “Your mission is not innocent.”

“I’ve
come for a vial,” Gareth said quickly, trying to sound brave and confident, but
hearing the quivering in his voice. “Sheldrake Root. I’m told you have it.”

There
was a long silence, followed by a horrific cackle. It echoed in the small room.

“Whether
or not I have it is not the question. The question is: why do you want it?”

Gareth’s
heart pounded as he tried to formulate an answer.

“Why
should you care?” he finally asked.

“It
amuses me to know who you are killing,” she said.

“That’s
no business of yours. I’ve brought money for you.”

Gareth
reached into his waistband, took out a bag of gold, in addition to the bag of
gold he had given the dead man, and banged them both down on her small wooden
table. The sound of metallic coins rang in the room.

He
prayed it would pacify her, that she would give him what he wanted and he could
leave this place.

The
witch reached out a single finger with a long, curved nail, picking up one of
the bags and inspecting it. Gareth held his breath, hoping she would ask no
more.

“This
might be just enough to buy my silence,” she said.

She
turned and hobbled into the darkness. There was a hiss, and beside a candle
Gareth could see her mixing liquid into a small, glass vial. It bubbled over,
and she put a cork on it. Time seemed to slow as Gareth waited, increasingly
impatient. A million worries raced through his mind: what if he was discovered?
Right here, right now? What if she gave him the wrong vial? What if she told
someone about him? Had she recognized him? He couldn’t tell.

Gareth
was having increasing reservations about this whole thing. He never knew how
hard it could be to assassinate someone.

After
what felt like an interminable silence, the witch returned. She handed him the
vial, so small it nearly disappeared into his palm, and backed away from him.

“Such
a small vial?” he asked. “Can this do the trick?”

She
smiled.

“You’d
be amazed at how little it takes to kill a man.”

Gareth
turned and headed for the door, when suddenly he felt a cold finger on his
shoulder. He had no idea how she had managed to cross the room so quickly, and
it terrified him. He stood there, frozen, afraid to turn and look at her.

She
spun him around, leaned in close—an awful smell emanating from her—then
suddenly reached up with both hands, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him,
pressing her shriveled lips hard against his.

Gareth
was revolted. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to him.
Her lips were like the lips of a lizard, her tongue, which she pressed onto
his, like that of a reptile. He tried to pull away, but she held his face tight,
pulling him harder.

Finally,
he managed to yank himself away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand,
as she leaned back and chuckled.

“The
first time you kill a man is the hardest,” she said. “You will find it much
easier the next time around.”

*

Gareth
burst out of the cottage, back into the clearing, to find Firth standing there,
waiting for him.

“What’s
wrong? What happened?” Firth asked, concerned. “You look as if you’ve been
stabbed. Did she hurt you?”

Gareth
paused, breathing hard, wiping his mouth again and again. He hardly knew how to
respond.

“Let’s
get away from this place,” he said. “Now!”

As
they began to head out of the clearing into the black wood, the sun was
suddenly obscured by clouds racing across the sky, making the beautiful day
cold and dark. Gareth had never seen such thick, black clouds appear so
quickly. He knew that whatever was happening, it was not normal. He worried how
deep the powers of this witch were, as the cold wind rose in the summer day and
crept up the back of his neck. He couldn’t help but think she had somehow
possessed him with that kiss, cast some sort of curse on him.

“What
happened in there?” Firth pressed.

“I
don’t want to talk about it,” Gareth said. “I don’t want to think about this
day—ever again.”

The
two of them hurried back down the trail, down the hill, and soon entered the
main forest trail to head back toward King’s Court. Just as Gareth was
beginning to feel more relieved, preparing to shove the whole episode to the
back of his mind, suddenly, he heard another set of boots. He turned and saw a
group of men walking toward them. He couldn’t believe it.

His
brother. Godfrey. The drunk. He was walking toward them, laughing, surrounded
by the villainous Harry and two other of his trouble-making friends. Of all the
times and places for his brother to run into him. In the woods, in the middle
of nowhere. Gareth felt as if his whole plot were cursed.

Gareth
turned away, pulled the hood over his face, and hiked twice as fast, praying he
had not been discovered.

“Gareth?”
called out the voice.

Gareth
had no choice. He froze in his tracks, pulled back his hood, and turned and
looked at his brother, who came waltzing merrily toward him.

“What
are you doing here?” Godfrey asked.

Gareth
opened his mouth, but then closed it, stumbling, at a loss for words.

“We
were going for a hike,” Firth volunteered, rescuing him.

“A
hike, were you?” one of Godfrey’s friends mocked Firth, in a high, feminine
voice. His friends laughed, too. Gareth knew that his brother and his friends
all judged him for his predisposition—but he hardly cared about that now. He
just needed to change the topic. He didn’t want them to wonder what he was
doing out here.

“What
are you doing out here?” Gareth asked, turning the tables.

“A
new tavern opened, by Southwood,” Godfrey answered. “We had just been trying it
out. The best ale in all the kingdom. Want some?” he asked, holding out a cask.

Gareth
shook his head quickly. He knew he had to distract him, and he figured the best
way was to change the topic, to rebuke him.

“Father
would be furious if he caught you drinking during the day,” Gareth said. “I
suggest you set down that and return to court.”

It
worked. Godfrey glowered, and clearly he was no longer thinking about Gareth,
but about his father and himself.

“And
since when did you care about Father’s needs?” he retorted.

Gareth
had had enough. He hadn’t time to waste with a drunkard. He succeeded in what
he wanted, distracting him, and now, hopefully, he wouldn’t think too deeply
about why he had run into him here.

Gareth
turned and hurried down the trail, hearing their mocking laughter behind him as
he went. He no longer cared. Soon, it would be he who had the last laugh.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Thor
sat at the wooden table, working away at the bow and arrow laid out in pieces.
Beside him sat Reece, along with several other members of the Legion. They were
all hunched over their weapons, hard at work on carving the bows and tightening
the strings.

“A
warrior knows how to string his own bow,” Kolk yelled out, as he walked up and
down the rows of boys, leaning over, examining each one’s work. “The tension
must be just right. Too little, and your arrow will not reach its mark. Too
much, and your aim will not be true. Weapons break in battle. Weapons break on
journeys. You must know how to repair them as you go. The greatest warrior is
also a blacksmith, a carpenter, a cobbler, a mender of all things broken. And
you don’t really know your own weapon until you’ve repaired it yourself.”

Kolk
stopped behind Thor and leaned over his shoulder. He yanked the wooden bow out
of Thor’s grasp, the string hurting his palm as he did.

“The
string is not taut enough,” he chided. “It is crooked. Use a weapon like this
in battle, and you will surely die. And your partner will die beside you.”

Kolk
slammed the bow back down on the table and moved on; several other boys
snickered. Thor reddened as he grabbed the string again, pulled it as taut as
he possibly could, and wrapped it around the notch in the bow. He’d been at work
on this for hours, the cap to an exhausting day of labor and menial tasks.

Most
of the others were training, sparring, sword-fighting. He looked out and in the
distance saw his brothers, the three of them, laughing as they clacked wooden
swords; as usual, Thor felt they were gaining the upper hand while he was being
left behind in their shadow. It was unfair. He felt increasingly that he was
unwanted here, as if he were not a true member of the Legion.

“Don’t
worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” O’Connor said beside him.

Thor’s
palms were chafed from trying; he pulled back the string one last time, this
time with all his might, and finally, to his surprise, it clicked. The string
fit neatly in the notch, Thor pulling with all his might, sweating. He felt a
great sense of satisfaction with his bow now as strong as it should be.

The
shadows were growing longer as Thor wiped his forehead with the back of his
hand and wondered how much longer this would go on. He contemplated what it
meant to be a warrior. In his head, he had seen it differently. He had only
imagined training, all the time. But he supposed this was also a form of
training.

“This
was not what I signed up for, either,” O’Connor said, as if reading his mind.

Thor
turned, and was reassured to find his friend’s constant smile.

“I
come from the Northern Province,” he continued. “I, too, dreamed of joining the
Legion my entire life. I guess I imagined constant sparring and battle. Not all
of these menial tasks. But it will get better. It is just because we are new.
It is a form of initiation. There seems to be a hierarchy here. We are also the
youngest. I don’t see the nineteen-year-olds doing this. This can’t last
forever. Besides, it’s a useful skill to learn.”

A
horn sounded. Thor looked over and saw the rest of the Legion gathering beside
a huge stone wall in the middle of the field. Ropes were draped across it,
spaced every ten feet. The wall must have been thirty feet tall, and piled at
its base were stacks of hay.

“What
are you waiting for?” Kolk screamed. “MOVE!”

The
Silver appeared all around them, screaming, and before Thor knew it he and the
others jumped from their benches and ran across the field to the wall.

Soon
they were all gathered there, standing before the ropes. There was an excited
buzz in the air as all the Legion members stood together. Thor was ecstatic to
finally be included with the others, and he found himself gravitating to Reece,
who stood with another friend of his. O’Connor joined them.

“You
will find in battle that most towns are fortified,” Kolk boomed out, looking
over the faces of the boys. “Breaching fortifications is the work of a soldier.
In a typical siege, ropes and grappling hooks are used, much like the ones we
have thrown over this wall, and climbing a wall is one of the most dangerous
things you will encounter in battle. In few cases will you be more exposed,
more vulnerable. The enemy will pour molten lead on you. They will shoot down
arrows. Drop rocks. You don’t climb a wall until the moment is perfect. And
when you do, you must climb for your life—or else risk death.”

Kolk
took a deep breath, then yelled out: “BEGIN!”

All
around him the boys broke into action, each charging for a rope. Thor sprinted
for a free one and was about to take it when an older boy reached it first,
bumping him out of the way. Thor scrambled and grabbed the closest one he could
find, a thick, knotted twine. Thor’s heart pounded as he began to scramble his
way up the wall.

The
day had turned misty, and Thor’s feet slipped on the stone. Still, he made good
time and couldn’t help but notice he was faster than many of the others, nearly
taking the lead as he scrambled his way up. He was, for the first time today,
starting to feel good, starting to feel a sense of pride.

Suddenly,
something hard slammed into his shoulder. He looked up and saw members of the
Silver at the top of the wall, throwing down small rocks, sticks, all manner of
debris. The boy on the rope beside Thor reached up with one hand to block his
face and lost his grip and fell backwards, down to the ground. He dropped a
good twenty feet, and landed in the pile of hay below.

Thor
was losing his grip, too, but somehow managed to hang on. A club hailed down
and struck Thor hard on the back, but he continued to climb. He was making good
time and was starting to think he might even be the first one to the top, when
suddenly, he felt a hard kick in the ribs. He couldn’t understand where it came
from, until he looked over and saw one of the boys beside him, swinging
sideways. Before Thor could react, the boy kicked him again.

Thor
lost his grip this time and found himself hurling backwards, through the air,
flailing. He landed on his back in the hay, shocked but unhurt.

Thor
scrambled to his hands and knees, catching his breath, and looked about. All
around him, boys were dropping like flies from the ropes, landing in the hay,
kicked or shoved by each other—or if not, then kicked off by members of the
Silver up top. Those who weren’t had their ropes cut, so they went came
crashing down, too. Not a single member reached the top.

“On
your feet!” yelled Kolk. Thor jumped up, as did the others.

“SWORDS!”

The
boys ran as one to a huge rack of wooden swords. Thor joined them and grabbed
one, shocked at how heavy it was. It weighed twice as much as any weapon he had
lifted. He could barely hold it.

“Heavy
swords, begin!” came a shout.

Thor
looked up and saw that huge oaf, Elden, the one who had first attacked him when
he met the Legion. Thor remembered him too well, as his face still hurt from
the bruises Elden had given him. He was bearing down on him, sword held high, a
look of fury on his face.

Thor
raised his sword at the last moment and managed to block Elden’s blow, but the
sword was so heavy, he was barely able to hold it back. Elden, bigger and
stronger, reached around and kicked Thor hard in the ribs.

Thor
dropped to his knees in pain. Elden swung around again to crack him in the
face, but Thor managed to reached up and block the blow with a moment to spare.
But Elden was too quick and strong; he swung around and slashed Thor in the
leg, knocking him down on his side.

A
small crowd of boys gathered around them, cheering and hollering, as their
fight became the center of attention. It seemed as if they were all rooting for
Elden.

Elden
came down with his sword again, slashing hard, and Thor rolled out of the way,
the blow barely missing his back. Thor had a moment’s advantage and took it—he
swung around and hit the oaf hard behind the knee. It was a soft spot, and
enough to knock him back, then down, stumbling onto his rear.

Thor
used the chance to scramble to his feet. Elden rose, red-faced, more furious
than ever, and now the two faced off.

Thor
knew he couldn’t just stand there; he charged and swung. But this practice
sword was made of a strange wood and just too heavy; his move was telegraphed.
Elden blocked it easily, then jabbed Thor hard in the ribs.

It
hit a soft spot, and Thor keeled over and dropped his sword, the wind knocked
out of him.

The
other boys screamed in delight. Thor kneeled there, unarmed, and felt the tip
of Elden’s sword jammed into the base of his throat.

“Yield!”
Elden demanded.

Thor
glared up at him, the salty taste of blood on his lip.

“Never,”
he said, defiant.

Elden
grimaced, raised his sword, and prepared to bring it down. There was nothing
Thor could do. He was in for a mighty blow.

As
the sword came down, Thor closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt the world
slowing down, felt himself transported to another realm. He was suddenly able
to feel the swing of the sword in the air, its motion, and he willed the
universe to stop it.

He
felt his body warming, tingling, and as he focused, he felt something
happening. He felt himself able to control it.

Suddenly
the sword froze in midair. Thor had somehow managed to stop it using his power.

As
Elden held the sword, confused, Thor then used his mind power to grasp and
squeeze Elden’s wrist. He squeezed harder and harder in his mind, and in
moments, Elden cried out and dropped the sword.

All
the boys quieted, as they stood, frozen, looking down at Thor, wide-eyed in
surprise and fear.

“He’s
a demon!” one yelled out.

“A
sorcerer!” another yelled.

Thor
was overwhelmed. He had no grasp of what he had just done. But he knew it was
not normal. He was both proud and embarrassed, emboldened and afraid.

Kolk
stepped forward, into the circle, standing between Thor and Elden.

“This
is no place for spells, boy, whoever you are,” he chastised Thor. “It is a
place for battle. You defied our rules of fighting. You will think about what
you have done. I will send you to a place of true danger, and we shall see how
well your spells defend you there. Report to guard patrol at the Canyon.”

There
was a gasp among the Legion, and they all quieted. Thor did not understand
exactly what that meant, but he knew that whatever it was, it could not be
good.

“You
can’t send him to the Canyon!” Reece protested. “He is too new. He could get
hurt.”

“I
shall do whatever I choose to, boy.” Kolk grimaced at Reece. “Your father is
not here to protect you now. Or him. And I run this Legion. And you better mind
your tongue—just because you are royalty, don’t think you can speak out of line
again.”

“Fine,”
Reece responded. “Then I shall join him!”

“As
will I!” O’Connor chimed in, stepping forward.

Kolk
looked them over, and slowly shook his head.

“Fools.
That is your choice. Join him if you wish.”

Kolk
turned and looked at Elden. “Don’t think you get off so easy, either,” he said
to him. “You started this fight. You must pay the price, too. You will join
them on patrol tonight.”

“But
sire, you can’t send me to the Canyon!” Elden protested, eyes wide in fear. It
was the first time Thor had seen him afraid of anything.

Kolk
took a step forward, close to Elden, and raised his hands to his hips. “Can’t
I?” he said. “Not only can I send you there— I can also send you away for good,
out of this Legion, and to the farthest reaches of our kingdom if you continue
to talk back to me.”

Elden
looked away, too flustered to respond.

“Anyone
else want to join them?” Kolk called out.

The
other boys, bigger and older and stronger, all looked away in fear. Thor gulped
as he looked around at the nervous faces, and wondered just how bad the Canyon
could be.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Thor
walked along the well-trodden dirt road, flanked by Reece, O’Connor, and Elden.
The four of them had barely said a word to each other since they left, still in
shock. Thor looked over at Reece and O’Connor with a feeling of gratitude he
had never known before. He could hardly believe that they had put themselves on
the line for him like that. He felt he had found true friends, more like
brothers. He had no idea what lay in store for them at the Canyon, but whatever
they should face, he was happy to have them at his side.

Elden
he tried not to look at. He could see him kicking rocks, smoldering with rage,
could see how annoyed and upset he was to be here, on patrol with them. But
Thor felt no pity for him. As Kolk had said, he had started the whole thing. It
served him right.

The
four of them, a ragtag group, proceeded down the road, following directions.
They had been walking for hours, it was late in the afternoon, and Thor’s legs
were growing weary. He was also hungry. He had been given only a small bowl of
barley stew for lunch and hoped some food might be waiting for them wherever
they were going.

But
he had bigger worries than that. He looked down at his new armor, and knew it
would not have been given to him if there were not an important reason. Before being
sent off, the four of them had been given new squire’s armor: leather, dressed
in chainmail. They were also given short swords of a coarse metal—hardly the
fine steel used to forge a knight’s sword, but certainly better than nothing.
It felt good to have a substantial weapon at his waist—in addition, of course,
to his sling, which he still carried. Though he knew that if they were to
encounter real trouble tonight, the weapons and armor they were given might not
suffice. He longed for the superior armor and weapons of his cohorts in the
Legion: medium and long swords of the finest metal, short spears, maces,
daggers, halberds. But these belonged to the boys of fame and honor, from
famous families, who could afford such things. This was not Thor, a simple
shepherd’s son.

As
they marched down the interminable road into the second sunset, far from the
welcoming gates of King’s Court, toward the distant divide of the Canyon, Thor
could not help but feel as if this were all his fault. For some reason, some of
the other members of the Legion had seemed to not take a liking to him, as if
they resented his presence. It didn’t make any sense. And it gave him a sinking
feeling. His whole life he had wanted nothing more than to join them. Now, he
felt he had crashed into it by cheating; would he ever be truly accepted by his
peers?

Now,
on top of everything, he was singled out to be marched away for Canyon duty. It
was unfair. He hadn’t started the fight, and when he had used his powers,
whatever they were, it had not been on purpose. He still didn’t understand
them, didn’t know where they came from, how he summoned them, or how to turn
them off. He shouldn’t be punished for that.

Thor
had no idea what Canyon duty meant, but from the expressions of the others,
clearly, it was not desirable. He wondered if he were being marched off to be
killed, if this was their way of forcing him out of the Legion. He was
determined not to give up.

“How
much farther can the Canyon be?” O’Connor asked, breaking the silence.

“Not
far enough,” answered Elden. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for
Thor.”

“You
started the fight, remember?” Reece interrupted.

“But
I fought cleanly, and he did not,” Elden protested. “Besides, he deserved it.”

“Why?”
Thor asked, wanting to know the answer that had been burning inside for a
while. “Why did I deserve it?”

“Because
you don’t belong here, with us. You stole your position in the Legion. The rest
of us were picked. You fought your way in.”

“But
isn’t that what the Legion is about? Fighting?” Reece answered. “I would argue
that Thor deserves his spot more than any of us. We were merely picked. He
struggled and fought to gain what was not given him.”

Elden
shrugged, unimpressed.

“The
rules are the rules. He was not picked. He shouldn’t be with us. That’s why I
fought him.”

“Well,
you are not going to make me go away,” Thor responded, shakiness in his voice,
determined to be accepted.

“We’ll
see about that,” Elden muttered darkly.

“And
just what you mean by that?” O’Connor asked.

Elden
did not volunteer any more, but continued walking silently. Thor’s stomach
tightened. He couldn’t help but feel as if he had made too many enemies, though
he did not understand why. He did not like the feeling.

“Don’t
pay any attention to him,” Reece said to Thor, loudly enough for the others to
hear. “You did nothing wrong. They sent you to Canyon duty because they see
potential in you. They want to toughen you up or else they wouldn’t bother. You’re
also in their sights because my father singled you out. That’s all.”

“But
what is Canyon duty?” he asked.

Reece
cleared his throat, looking anxious.

“I’ve
never been on it myself. But I’ve heard stories. From some of the older kids,
and from my brothers. It is patrol duty. But on the other side of the Canyon.”

“The
other side?” O’Connor asked, terror in his voice.

“What
do you mean ‘the other side’?” Thor asked, not understanding.

Reece
studied him.

“Have
you never been to the Canyon?”

Thor
could feel the others looking at him, and he shook his head, self-conscious.

“You’re
kidding,” Elden snapped.

“Really?”
O’Connor pressed. “Not once in your life?”

Thor
shook his head, reddening. “My father never took us anywhere. I’ve heard of it.”

“You’ve
probably never been outside your village, boy,” Elden said. “Have you?”

Thor
shrugged, silent. Was it that obvious?

“He
hasn’t,” Elden added, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”

“Shut
up,” Reece said. “Leave him alone. That doesn’t make you any better than him.”

Elden
sneered at Reece and raised his hand briefly to his scabbard, but then relaxed
it. Apparently, even though he was bigger than Reece, he didn’t want to provoke
the king’s son.

“The
Canyon is the only thing keeping our kingdom of the Ring safe,” Reece
explained. “Nothing else stands between us and the hordes of the world. If the
savages of the Wilds were to breach it, we would all be finished. The entire
Ring looks to us, the King’s men, to protect them. We have patrols guarding it
all the time—mostly on this side, and occasionally, on the other. There is only
one bridge across, only one way in or out, and the most elite of the Silver
stand watch round-the-clock.”

Thor
had heard of the Canyon his entire life, had heard horrifying stories of the
evils that lurked on the other side, the massive evil empire that surrounded
the Ring, and how close they all lived to terror. It was one of the reasons he
had wanted to join the King’s Legion: to help protect his family and his
kingdom. He hated the idea that other men were out there constantly protecting
him while he lived comfortably in the arms of the kingdom. He wanted to do his
service and help fight off the evil hordes. He could imagine nothing braver
than those men who guarded the Canyon passageway.

“The
Canyon is a mile wide, and surrounds the entire Ring,” Reece explained. “It is
not easy to breach. But of course our men are not the only thing keeping the
hordes at bay. There are millions of those creatures out there, and if they
wanted to overrun this Canyon, by sheer force of will, they could in a moment.
Our manpower only helps supplement the energy shield of the Canyon. The real
power that keeps them at bay is the power of the Sword.”

Thor
turned. “The Sword?”

Reece
looked at him.

“The
Destiny Sword. You know the legend?”

“This
country rube probably never even heard of it,” Elden chimed in.

“Of
course I know it,” Thor snapped back, defensive. Not only did he know it, but
he had also spent many days pondering the legend throughout his life. He had
always wanted to see it. The fabled Destiny Sword, the magical sword whose
energy protected the Ring, filled the Canyon with a potent force that protected
the Ring from invaders.

“The
Sword lives in King’s Court?” Thor asked.

Reece
nodded.

“It
has lived amongst the royal family for generations. Without it, the kingdom
would be nothing. The Ring would be overrun.”

“If
we are protected, then why bother patrol the Canyon at all?” Thor asked.

“The
Sword only blocks the major threats,” Reece explained. “A small and isolated
evil creature can slip in here and there. That is why our men are needed. A
single being could cross the Canyon, or even a small group of them—they might
be so bold as to try to cross the bridge, or they may act with stealth and
climb down the Canyon walls on one end and up on the other. It is our job to
keep them out. Even one creature can cause a lot of damage. Years ago, one slipped
in and murdered half the children of a village before he was caught. The Sword
does the bulk of the work, but we are an indispensable part.”

Thor
took it all in, wondering. The Canyon seemed so grand, their duty so important,
he could hardly believe that he would be part of this great purpose.

“But
even with all that, I haven’t explained it very well,” Reece said. “There’s
more to the Canyon than just that.” He fell silent.

Thor
looked at him and saw something like fear or wonder in his eyes.

“How
can I explain it?” Reece said, struggling for the proper words. He cleared his
throat. “The Canyon is far bigger than all of us. The Canyon is…”

“The
Canyon is a place for men,” came a resounding voice.

They
all turned at the sound of the voice, the stamp of a horse.

Thor’s
eyes widened. Trotting up beside them, bedecked in full chainmail, with long
gleaming weapons hanging over the side of his incredible horse, was Erec. He
smiled down at them, keeping his eyes fixed on Thor.

Thor
looked up in shock.

“It
is a place that will make you a man,” Erec added, “if you are not one already.”

Thor
had not seen Erec since his jousting match, and felt so relieved at his
presence, to have a real knight here with them as they headed for the Canyon—no
less, Erec himself. Thor felt invincible having him, and prayed he was coming
with them.

“What
are you doing here?” Thor asked. “Are you accompanying us?” he asked, hoping he
didn’t sound too eager.

Erec
leaned back and laughed.

“Not
to worry, young one,” he said. “I’m going with you.”

“Really?”
Reece asked.

“It
is tradition for a member of the Silver to accompany members of the Legion on
their first patrol. I volunteered.”

Erec
turned and looked down at Thor.

“After
all, you helped me yesterday.”

Thor
felt his heart warm, buoyed by Erec’s presence. He also felt lifted up in the
eyes of his friends. Here he was, being accompanied by the greatest knight of
the kingdom, as they headed toward the Canyon. Much of his fear was falling
away.

“Of
course, I shall not go out on patrol with you,” Erec added. “But I will lead
you across the bridge, and to your camp. It will be your duty to venture out on
patrol, alone, from there.”

“It
is a great honor, sire,” Reece said.

“Thank
you,” O’Connor and Elden echoed.

Erec
looked down at Thor and smiled.

“After
all, if you’re going to be my first squire, I can’t let you die just yet.”

“First?”
Thor asked, his heart skipping a beat.

“Feithgold
broke his leg in the jousting match. He will be out for at least eight weeks.
You are my first squire now. And our training might as well begin, shan’t it?”

“Of
course, sire,” Thor responded.

Thor’s
mind was swimming. For the first time in a while, he felt as if luck was
finally turning his way. Now he was first squire to the greatest knight of all.
He felt as if he had leapfrogged over all his friends.

The
five of them continued on, heading west into the setting sun, Erec walking
slowly on his horse beside them.

“I
assume you have been to the Canyon, sire?” Thor asked.

“Many
times,” Erec responded. “My first patrol. I was your age, in fact.”

“And
how did you find it?” Reece asked.

All
four boys turned and stared at Erec, rapt with attention. Erec rode on for some
time in silence, looking straight ahead, his jaw set.

“Your
first time is an experience you never forget. It is hard to explain. It is a
strange and foreign and mystical and beautiful place. On the other side lie
unimaginable dangers. The bridge to cross it is long and steep. There are many
of us patrolling—but always, you feel alone. It is nature at its best. It
crushes man to be in its shadow. Our men have patrolled it for hundreds of
years. It is a rite of passage. You do not fully understand danger without it;
you cannot become a knight without it.”

He
fell back into silence. The four boys looked at each other, queasy.

“Should
we expect a skirmish on the other side then?” Thor asked.

Erec
shrugged.

“Anything
is possible, once you reach the Wilds. Unlikely. But possible.”

Erec
looked down at Thor.

“Do
you want to be a great squire, and one day, a great knight?” he asked, looking
right at Thor.

Thor’s
heart beat faster.

“Yes,
sire, more than anything.”

“Then
there are things you must learn,” Erec said. “Strength is not enough; agility
is not enough; being a great fighter is not enough. There is something else,
something more important than all of them.”

Erec
fell back into silence, and Thor could wait no longer.

“What?”
Thor asked. “What is most important?”

“You
must be of sound spirit,” Erec replied. “Never afraid. You must enter the
darkest wood, the most dangerous battle, with complete equanimity. You must
carry this equanimity with you, always, whenever and wherever you go. Never
fearful, always on guard. Never restful, always diligent. You don’t have the
luxury of expecting others to protect you anymore. You’re no longer a citizen.
You’re now one of the King’s men. The greatest qualities for a warrior are
courage and equanimity. Be not afraid of danger. Expect it. But do not seek it.

“This
Ring we live in,” Erec added, “our kingdom. It seems as if we, with all our
men, protect it against the hordes of the world. But we do not. We are
protected only by the Canyon, and only by the sorcery within it. We live in a
sorcerer’s ring. Don’t forget it. We live and die by magic. There is no
security here, boy, on either side of the Canyon. Take away sorcery, take away
magic, and we have nothing.”

They
walked on in silence for quite some time, as Thor turned Erec’s words over in
his mind again and again. He felt as if Erec were giving him a hidden message,
as if he were telling him that, whatever power he had, whatever magic he might
be summoning, it was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it was something to be
proud of, and the source of all energy in the kingdom. Thor felt better. He had
felt he was being sent to the Canyon as a punishment for his using his magic,
and had felt guilty about it; but now he felt his powers, whatever they were,
might become a source of pride.

As
the other boys drifted ahead and Erec and Thor fell back, Erec looked down at
him.

“You’ve
already managed to make some powerful enemies at Court,” he said, an amused
smile on his face. “As many enemies as you have friends, it seems.”

Thor
reddened, shamed.

“I
don’t know how, sire. I didn’t intend to.”

“Enemies
are not gained by intentions. They are often gained by envy. You have managed
to create a great deal of it. That is not necessarily a bad thing. You are the
center of much speculation.”

Thor
scratched his head, trying to understand.

“But
I don’t know why.”

Erec
still looked amused.

“The
Queen herself is chief among your adversaries. You have somehow managed to get
on her wrong side.”

“My
mother?” Reece asked, turning. “Why?”

“That
is the very question I’ve been wondering myself,” Erec said.

Thor
felt terrible. The Queen? An enemy? What had he done to her? He couldn’t
conceive it. How could he even be important enough for her to take notice of
him? He hardly knew what was happening around him.

Suddenly,
something dawned on him.

“Is
she the reason that I was sent out here? To the Canyon?” he asked.

Erec
turned and looked straight ahead, his face growing serious.

“She
might be,” he said, contemplative. “She just might be.”

Thor
wondered at the extent and depth of the enemies he had made. He had stumbled
into a court he knew nothing about. He had just wanted to belong. He had just
followed his passion and his dream, and had done whatever he could to achieve
it. He did not think that by doing so, he might raise envy or jealousy. He
turned it over and over in his mind, like a riddle, but could not get to the
bottom of it.

As
Thor was mulling these thoughts, they reached the top of a knoll, and as the
sight spread out before them, all thoughts of anything else fell away. Thor’s
breath was taken away—and not just by the strong, gusty wind.

Stretching
out before them, as far as the eye could see, lay the Canyon. It was the first
time Thor had ever seen it, and the sight shocked him so thoroughly he stood
rooted in place, unable to move. It was the grandest and most majestic thing he
had ever seen. The huge chasm in the earth seemed to stretch for eternity,
spanned only by a single, narrow bridge lined with soldiers. The bridge seemed
to stretch to the end of the earth itself.

The
Canyon was alight with greens and blues from the second setting sun, and the
sparkling rays bounced off its walls. As he felt his legs again, Thor began to
walk with the others, closer and closer to the bridge, until he was able to
look down, deep into the Canyon’s cliffs; they seemed to plummet into the
bowels of the earth. Thor could not even see the bottom, and didn’t know if
that was because it had no bottom, or if it was because it was covered in mist.
The rock that lined the cliffs looked to be a million years old, formed with
patterns that storms must have left centuries before. It was the most
primordial place he had ever seen. He had no idea his planet was so vast, so
vibrant, so alive.

It
was as if he had come to the beginning of creation.

Thor
heard the others gasp all around him, too.

The
thought of the four of them patrolling this Canyon seemed laughable. They were
dwarfed even by the sight of it.

As
they walked toward the bridge, soldiers stiffened on either side, at attention,
making way for the new patrol. Thor felt his pulse quicken.

“I
don’t see how the four of us can possibly patrol this,” O’Connor said.

Elden
snickered. “There are many patrols besides us. We are merely one cog in the
machine.”

As
they walked across the bridge, the only sound to be heard was that of the
whipping wind, and of their boots, and Erec’s horse, walking along. The hoofs
left a hollow and reassuring sound, the only real thing Thor could hang onto in
this surreal place.

None
of the soldiers, who all stiffened at attention in Erec’s presence, said a word
as they stood guard. They must have passed hundreds of them.

Thor
could not help but notice on either side of them, impaled on spikes every few
feet along the railing, were the heads of barbarian invaders. Some were still
fresh, still dripping with blood.

Thor
looked away. It made it all too real. He did not know if he was ready for this.
He tried not to imagine the many skirmishes which must have produced those
heads, the lives that had been lost, and what awaited him on the other side. He
wondered if they would make it back. Was that the purpose of this whole
expedition? To kill him off?

He
looked over the edge, at the endlessly disappearing cliffs, and heard the
screech of a distant bird; it was a sound he had never heard before. He
wondered what kind of bird it was, and what other exotic animals lurked on the
other side.

But
it was not really the animals which bothered him, or even the heads on spikes.
More than anything, it was the feeling of this place. He could not tell if it
was the mist, or the howling wind, or the vastness of the open sky, or the
light of the setting sun—but something about this place was so surreal, it
transported him. Enveloped him. He felt a heavy magical energy hanging over
them. He wondered whether it was the protection of the Sword, or some other
ancient force. He felt as if he were not just crossing a mass of land, but
crossing into another realm of existence.

Just
a few short days ago he had been herding sheep in his small village. It seemed
unbelievable that now, for the first time in his life, he would spend the night,
unprotected, on the other side of the Canyon.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

As
the sun began to fade from the sky—dark scarlet mixed with blue that seemed to
envelop the universe—Thor walked with Reece, O’Connor, and Elden down the trail
that led into the forest of the Wilds. Thor had never been so on edge in his
life. Now it was just the four of them, Erec having remained behind at camp,
and despite their bickering, Thor sensed they now needed each other more than
ever. They had to bond on their own, without Erec. Before they’d parted, Erec
had told them not to worry, that he would stay at base and hear their calls,
and would be there if they needed him.

That
gave Thor little assurance now.

As
the woods narrowed in on them, Thor looked around at this exotic place, the
forest floor lined with thorns and strange fruits. The branches of the many
trees were gnarled and ancient, nearly touching each other, so close Thor often
needed to duck. They had thorns instead of leaves and they protruded
everywhere. Yellow vines hung down in places, and Thor had made the mistake of
reaching up to push a vine from his face only to realize it was a snake. He had
yelled and jumped out of the way just in time.

He
had expected the others to laugh at him, but they, too, were humbled with fear.
All around them were the foreign noises of exotic animals. Some were low and
guttural, some high-pitched and shrieking. Some echoed from far off; others
seemed impossibly close. Twilight came on too fast as they all headed deeper
into the forest. Thor felt certain that at any moment they could be ambushed.
As the sky grew darker, it was getting harder to even see the faces of his
compatriots. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles whitened, while his
other hand clutched his slingshot. The others gripped their weapons, too.

Thor
willed himself to be strong, confident, and courageous as a good knight should.
As Erec had instructed him. It was better for him to face death now than to
always live in fear of it. He tried to lift his chin and walk boldly forward,
even increasing his pace and going a few feet in front of the others. His heart
was pounding, but he felt as if he were facing his fears.

“What
are we patrolling for exactly?” Thor asked.

As
soon as he said it, he realized it might be a dumb question, and he expected
Elden to make fun of him.

But
to his surprise, there was only silence in return. Thor looked over and saw the
whites of Elden’s eyes, and realized he was even more afraid. This, at least,
gave Thor some confidence. Thor was younger and smaller than him, and he was
not giving in to his fear.

“The
enemy, I guess,” Reece finally said.

“And
who is that?” Thor asked. “What does he look like?”

“There
are all sorts of enemies out here,” Reece said. “We are in the Wilds now. There
are nations of savages, and all manner and races of evil creatures.”

“But
what is the point of our patrol?” O’Connor asked. “What difference can we
possibly make by doing this? Even if we kill one or two, is that going to stop
the million behind it?”

“We
are not here to make a dent,” Reece answered. “We are here to make our presence
known, on behalf of our King. To let them know not to come too close to the
Canyon.”

“I
think it would make more sense to wait till they try to cross it and deal with
them then,” O’Connor said.

“No,”
Reece said. “It is better to deter them from even approaching. That is the
reason for these patrols. At least, that is what my older brother says.”

Thor’s
heart pounded as they continued deeper into the forest.

“How
far are we supposed to go?” Elden asked, speaking up for the first time, his
voice quivering.

“Don’t
you remember what Kolk said? We have to retrieve the red banner and bring it
back,” Reece said. “That is our proof that we’ve gone far enough for our
patrol.”

“I
have not seen a banner anywhere,” O’Connor said. “In fact, I can barely see a
thing. How are we supposed to get back?”

No
one answered. Thor was thinking the same thing. How could they possibly find a
banner in the black of night? He started to wonder if this was all a trick, an
exercise, another one of the psychological games the Legion played on the boys.
He thought again of Erec’s words, of his many enemies at court. He had a
sinking feeling about this patrol. Were they being set up?

Suddenly
there came a horrific screeching noise, followed by movement inside the
branches—and something large ran across their path. Thor pulled his sword, and
the others did, too. The sound of swords leaving scabbards, of metal on metal,
filled the air as they all stood in place, holding their swords out in front of
them, looking nervously in every direction.

“What
was that?” Elden cried out, his voice cracking with fear.

The
animal once again crossed their path, racing from one side of the forest to the
other, and this time they got a good look at it.

Thor’s
shoulders relaxed as he recognized it.

“Just
a deer,” he said, greatly relieved. “The strangest-looking deer I’ve seen—but a
deer nonetheless.”

Reece
laughed, a reassuring noise, a laugh too mature for his age. As Thor heard it,
he realized it was the laugh of a future King. He felt better having his friend
at his side. And then he laughed, too. All that fear, all for nothing.

“I
never knew your voice cracked when you caved in to fear,” Reece mocked Elden,
laughing again.

“If
I could see you, I would pummel you,” Elden said.

“I
can see you fine,” Reece said. “Come try it.”

Elden
glared back at him, but didn’t dare make a move. Instead, he put his sword back
in his scabbard, as did the others. Thor admired Reece for giving Elden a hard time;
Elden mocked everybody else—he deserved to get some back himself. He admired
Reece’s fearlessness in doing so because after all, Elden was still twice their
size.

Thor
finally felt some of the tension leaving his body. They’d had their first
encounter, the ice was broken, and they were still alive. He leaned back and
laughed, too, happy to be alive.

“Keep
laughing, stranger boy,” Elden said. “We’ll see who has the last laugh.”

I’m
not laughing at you,
as Reece is, Thor thought. I’m just relieved to be alive.

But
he didn’t bother saying it; he knew that nothing he could say would change
Elden’s hatred for him.

“Look!”
O’Connor yelled. “There!”

Thor
squinted but could barely see what he was pointing at in the thickening night.
Then he saw it: the banner of the Legion, hanging from one of the branches.

They
all began to run for it.

Elden
ran past the others, brushing them aside roughly.

“That
flag is mine!” he yelled.

“I
saw it first!” O’Connor yelled.

“But
I will get it first, and I will be the one to bring it back!” Elden yelled.

Thor
fumed; he could barely believe Elden’s actions. He recalled what Kolk had
said—that whoever got the banner would be rewarded—and realized why Elden
sprinted. But that did not excuse him. They were supposed to be a team, a group—not
every man for himself. Elden’s true colors were coming out—none of the others
ran for it, tried to outdo the others. It made Thor hate Elden even more.

Elden
sprinted past after elbowing O’Connor, and before the others could react, he
gained several feet on them and snatched the banner.

As
he did, a huge net appeared out of nowhere, rising from the ground, springing
up into the air, entrapping Elden and hoisting him up high. He swung back and
forth before their eyes, just feet away, like an animal caught in a trap.

“Help
me! Help me!” he screamed, terrified.

They
all slowed as they walked up close to him; Reece began to laugh.

“Well,
who is the coward now?” Reece yelled out, amused.

“Why
you little crap!” he yelled. “I will kill you when I get down from this!”

“Oh
really?” Reece retorted. “And when will that be?”

“Set
me down!” Elden yelled, turning and spinning in the net. “I command you!”

“Oh,
you command us, do you?” Reece said, bursting into laughter again.

Reece
turned and looked at Thor.

“What
do you think?” Reece asked.

“I
think that he owes all of us an apology,” O’Connor said. “Especially Thor.”

“I
agree,” Reece said. “I’ll tell you what,” he said to Elden. “Apologize—and make
it sincere—and I will consider cutting you down.”

“Apologize?”
Elden echoed, horrified. “Not in one million suns.”

Reece
turned to Thor.

“Maybe
we should just leave this lump here for the night. It would be great food for
the animals. What do you think?”

Thor
smiled wide.

“I
think that’s a fine idea,” O’Connor said.

“Wait!”
Elden shrieked.

O’Connor
reached up and snatched the banner from Elden’s dangling finger.

“Guess
you didn’t beat us to the banner after all,” O’Connor said.

The
three of them turned and began to walk away.

“No,
wait!” Elden cried. “You can’t leave me here! You wouldn’t!”

The
three of them continued to walk away.

“I’m
sorry!” Elden began to sob. “Please! I’m sorry!”

Thor
stopped, but Reece and O’Connor continued to walk. Finally, Reece turned.

“What
are you doing?” Reece asked Thor.

“We
can’t leave him here,” Thor said. As much as Thor disliked Elden, he didn’t
think it right to leave him there.

“Why
not?” Reece asked. “He brought it on himself.”

“If
the tables were turned,” O’Connor said, “you know he would gladly leave you
there. Why should you care?”

“I
understand,” Thor said. “But that doesn’t mean we should act like him.”

Reece
put his hands on his hips and sighed deeply as he leaned in and whispered to
Thor.

“I
wasn’t going to leave him there all night. Maybe just half the night. But you
do have a point. He’s not cut out for this. He’d probably piss himself and have
a heart attack. You’re too kind. That’s a problem,” Reece said as he put a hand
on Thor’s shoulder. “But that’s why I chose you for a friend.”

“And
I,” O’Connor said, putting his hand on Thor’s other shoulder.

Thor
turned, marched toward the net, reached out, and cut it down.

Elden
landed with a thud. He scrambled to his feet, threw the net off, and
frantically searched the ground.

“My
sword!” he yelled. “Where is it?”

Thor
looked down at the ground, but it was too dark to see.

“It
must have flown into the trees when you were hoisted up,” Thor answered.

“Wherever
it is, it’s gone now,” Reece said. “You’ll never find it.”

“But
you don’t understand,” Elden pleaded. “The Legion. There is just one rule.
Never leave your weapon behind. I can’t return without it. I would be ousted!”

Thor
turned and searched the ground again, searched the trees, looking everywhere.
But he could see absolutely no sign of Elden’s sword. Reece and O’Connor just
stood there, not bothering to look.

“I’m
sorry,” Thor said, “I don’t see it.”

Elden
scrambled everywhere, then finally gave up.

“It’s
your fault,” he said, pointing at Thor. “You got us into this mess!”

“No
I didn’t,” Thor replied. “You did! You ran for the flag. You pushed us all out
of the way. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I
hate you!” Elden screamed.

He
charged Thor, grabbing him by the shirt and knocking him down to the ground.
The weight of him caught Thor off guard. Thor managed to spin around, but Elden
spun again and pinned Thor down. Elden was just too big and strong, and it was
too hard to hold him back.

Suddenly,
though, Elden let go and rolled off. Thor heard the sound of a sword being
extracted from his scabbard, and looked up and saw Reece standing over Elden,
holding the tip of his sword at his throat.

O’Connor
reached over and gave Thor a hand, and pulled him quickly to his feet. Thor
stood with his two friends, looking down on Elden, who remained on the ground,
Reece’s sword at his throat.

“You
touch my friend again,” Reece, deadly serious, said slowly to Elden, “and I
assure you, I will kill you.”

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Thor,
Reece, O’Connor, Elden, and Erec all sat on the ground, forming a circle around
a blazing fire. The five of them sat glum and silent, Thor surprised it could
be this cold on a summer night. There was something about this canyon, the
chilly, mystical winds that swirled around, down his back, and mingled with the
fog that never seemed to go away, which left him damp to the bone. He leaned
forward and rubbed his hands against the fire’s heat, unable to get them warm.

Thor
chewed on the piece of dried meat the others were passing around; it was tough
and salty, but somehow nourished him. Erec reached over and handed him
something and Thor felt a soft wineskin pressed into his hand, the liquid
sloshing in it. It was surprisingly heavy as he raised it to his lips and
squirted it into the back of his mouth, for too long a time. He felt warm for
the first time that night.

Everyone
was quiet, staring into the flames. Thor was still on edge. Being on this side
of the Canyon, in enemy territory, he still felt as if he should be on guard at
every moment, and marveled at how calm Erec seemed to be, as if he were
casually sitting in his own backyard. Thor was relieved, at least, to be out of
the Wilds, reunited with Erec, and sitting around the reassurance of a fire.
Erec watched the forest line, attentive to every little noise, yet confident
and relaxed. Thor knew that if any danger came, Erec would protect them all.

Thor
felt content around the flames; he looked around and saw the others seemed
content, too—except, of course, for Elden, glum ever since returning from the
forest. He had lost his confident swagger from earlier in the day, and he sat
there, sour and swordless. The commanders would never forgive such a
mistake—Elden would be kicked out of the Legion upon their return. He wondered
what Elden would do. He had a feeling he would not go down easily, that he had
some trick, some backup plan, up his sleeve. Thor assumed that whatever it was,
it would not be good.

Thor
turned and followed Erec’s gaze to the distant horizon, in the southern
direction. A faint glow, an endless line as far as the eye could see, lit up
the night. Thor wondered.

“What
is it?” he finally asked Erec. “That glow? The one you keep staring at?”

Erec
was silent for a long time, the only sound that of the whipping of the wind.
Finally, without turning, he said: “The Gorals.”

Thor
exchanged a glance with the others, who looked back, fearful. Thor’s stomach
tightened at the thought of it. The Gorals. So close. There was nothing in
between them and him except for a simple forest and a vast plain. There was no
longer the great Canyon separating them, keeping them safe. All his life he had
heard tales of these violent savages from the Wilds who had no ambition except
to attack the Ring. And now there was nothing between them. He couldn’t believe
how many of them there were. It was a vast and waiting army.

“Aren’t
you afraid?” Thor asked Erec.

Erec
shook his head.

“The
Gorals move as one. Their army camps out there every night. They have for
years. They would only attack the Canyon if they mobilized the entire army and
attacked as one. And they wouldn’t dare try. The power of the Sword acts as a
shield. They know they cannot breach it.”

“So
then why do they camp out there?” Thor asked.

“It
is their way of intimidating. And preparing. There have been many times
throughout the course of history, in the time of our fathers, when they
attacked, tried to breach the Canyon. But it hasn’t happened in my time.”

Thor
looked up at the black sky, the yellow and blue and orange stars twinkling high
overhead, and wondered. This side of the Canyon was a place of nightmares, and had
been ever since he could walk. The thought of it made him fearful, but he
forced that from his mind. He was a member of the Legion now, and had to act
like it.

“Do
not worry,” Erec said, as if reading his thoughts. “They will not attack while
we have the Destiny Sword.”

“Have
you ever held it?” Thor asked Erec, suddenly curious. “The Sword?”

“Of
course not,” Erec retorted sharply. “No one is allowed to grasp it, except for
descendants of the King.”

Thor
looked at him, confused.

“I
don’t understand. Why?”

Reece
cleared his throat.

“May
I?” he interceded.

Erec
nodded back.

“There
is a legend around the Sword. It has never actually been hoisted by anyone.
Legend has it that one man, the chosen one, will be able to wield it by
himself. Only the King is allowed to try, or one of the King’s descendants, if
named King. So there it sits, untouched.”

“And
what of our current King? Your father?” Thor asked. “Can’t he try?”

Reece
looked down.

“He
did once. When he was crowned. So he tells us. He could not lift it. So it sits
there like an object of rebuke for him. He hates it. It weighs on him like a
living thing.

“When
the chosen one arrives,” Reece added, “he will free the Ring from its enemies
all around and lead us to a greater destiny than we’ve ever known. All wars
will end.”

“Fairytales
and nonsense,” Elden interceded. “That Sword will be lifted by no one. It is
too heavy. It is not possible. And there is no ‘chosen one.’ It’s all hogwash.
That legend was invented just to keep the common man down, to keep us all
waiting for the supposed ‘chosen one.’ To embolden the line of MacGils. It is a
very convenient legend for them.”

“Shut
your tongue, boy,” Erec snapped. “You will always speak respectfully of your
King.”

Elden
looked down, humbled.

Thor
thought about everything, trying to take it all in. It was so much to process
at once. All his life he had dreamt of seeing the Destiny Sword. He had heard
stories of its perfect shape. It was rumored to be crafted from a material no
one understood, was supposed to be a magical weapon. It made Thor wonder what
would happen if they didn’t have the sword to protect them. Would the King’s
army then be vanquished by the Empire? Thor looked out at the glowing fires on
the horizon. They seemed to stretch to eternity.

“Have
you ever been out there?” Thor asked Erec. “Far out there? Beyond the forest?
Into the Wilds?”

The
others all turned and look at Erec, as Thor anxiously awaited his reply. In the
thick silence, Erec stared at the flames for a long time—so long that Thor
began to doubt he would ever answer. Thor hoped he had not been too nosy; he
felt so grateful and indebted to Erec, and certainly didn’t want to get on his
bad side. Thor also wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Just
when Thor was wishing he could retract his question, Erec responded:

“Yes,”
he said, solemn.

That
single word hung in the air for too long, and in it, Thor heard the gravity
that told him all he needed to know.

“What
is it like out there?” O’Connor asked.

Thor
was relieved that he was not the only one asking the questions.

“It
is controlled by one ruthless empire,” Erec said. “But the land is vast and
varied. There is the land of the savages. The land of the slaves. And the land
of the monsters. Monsters unlike any you can imagine. And there are deserts and
mountains and hills as far as you can see. There are the marshes and the swamps
and the great ocean. There is the land of the Druids. And the land of the
Dragons.”

Thor’s
eyes opened wide.

“Dragons?”
he asked, surprised. “I thought they didn’t exist.”

Erec
looked at him, deadly serious.

“I
assure you, they do. And it is a place you never want to go. A place even the
Gorals fear.”

Thor
swallowed at the thought. He could hardly imagine venturing out that deep into
the world. He wondered how Erec had ever made it back alive. He made a mental
note to ask him another time.

There
were so many questions Thor wanted to ask him—about the nature of the evil
empire and who ruled it; why they wanted to attack; when Erec had ventured out;
when he had returned. But as Thor stared into the flames it grew colder and
darker, and as all his questions swirled in his head, he felt his eyes grow
heavy. This was not the right time to ask.

Instead,
he let sleep carry him away. He lay his head down on the ground. Before his
eyes closed for good, he looked over at the foreign soil, and wondered when—or
if—he would ever return home again.

*

Thor
opened his eyes, confused, wondering where he was and how he had gotten there.
He looked down and saw a thick fog up to his waist, so thick he could not see
his feet. He turned and saw dawn breaking over the canyon before him. Far away,
on the other side, was his homeland. He was still on this side, the wrong side,
of the divide. His heart quickened.

Thor
looked at the bridge, but strangely, it was now empty of soldiers. The whole
place, in fact, seemed desolate. He could not understand what was happening. As
he watched the bridge, its wooden planks fell one after another, like dominoes.
Within moments the bridge collapsed, dropped down into the precipice. The
bottom was so far down, he never even heard the planks hit.

Thor
swallowed and turned, looking for the others—but they were nowhere in sight. He
had no idea what to do. Now he was stuck. Here, alone, on the other side of the
Canyon, with no way to get back. He could not understand where everyone had
gone.

Hearing
something, he turned and looked into the forest. He detected movement. He rose
to his feet and walked toward the sound, his feet sinking into the earth as he
went. As he got closer, he spied a net hanging from a low branch. Inside it was
Elden, spinning around and around in circles, the branches creaking as he
moved.

A
falcon sat perched on his head, a distinct-looking creature with a body that gleamed
of silver and a single black stripe running down its forehead, between its
eyes. It bent over, plucked out Elden’s eye, and held it there. It turned to
Thor, holding the eye in its beak.

Thor
wanted to look away but could not. Just as he was realizing Elden was dead,
suddenly, the entire wood came to life. Charging out of it, from every
direction, was an army of Gorals. Huge, wearing only loincloths, with immense,
well-muscled chests, three noses placed in a triangle on their face, and two
long, curved sharp fangs, they hissed and snarled, sprinting right for him. It
was a hair-raising sound, and there was nowhere for Thor to go. He reached down
and grabbed for his sword—but looked down to discover it was gone.

Thor
screamed.

He
woke sitting straight up, breathing hard, looking frantically in every
direction. All around him was silence—a real, alive silence, not the silence of
his dream.

Beside
him, in the first light of dawn, Reece, O’Connor, and Erec slept sprawled out
on the ground, the dying embers of the fire near them. On the ground, hopping,
was a falcon. It turned and cocked its head at Thor. It was large and silver
and proud, with a single black stripe running down its forehead, and it stared
at him, looking him right in the eye, and screeched. The sound made him shiver:
it was the same falcon from his dream.

It
was then he realized the bird was a message—that his dream had been more than a
dream. That something was wrong. He could feel it, a slight vibration in his
back, running up his arms.

He
quickly got to his feet and looked all around, wondering what it could be. He
heard nothing wrong, and nothing seemed out of place; the bridge was still
there, the soldiers were all on it.

What
was it? he
wondered.

And
then he realized what it was. Someone was missing. Elden.

At
first Thor wondered if maybe he had left them, headed back across the bridge to
the other side of the Canyon. Maybe he was ashamed over losing his sword and
had left the region altogether.

But
then Thor looked to the forest and saw fresh indentation in the moss, the
footprints heading toward the trail in the morning dew. There was no doubt that
those were Elden’s. Elden had not left; he had gone back into the forest.
Alone. Maybe to relieve himself. Or maybe, Thor realized with a shock, to try
to retrieve his sword.

It
was a stupid move, to go alone like that, and it proved how desperate Elden
was. Thor sensed right away that there was great danger. Elden’s life was at
stake.

The
falcon screeched at that moment, as if to confirm Thor’s thoughts. Then it kicked
up and flew, diving right for Thor’s face. Thor ducked his head—its talons just
missed and it rose in the air, flying away.

Thor
leapt into action. Without thinking, without even contemplating what he was
doing, he sprinted off into the woods, following the footprints.

Thor
didn’t stop to feel the fear as he sprinted alone, deep into the Wilds. If he
had paused to think how crazy it was, he probably would have frozen, would have
felt himself flooded with panic. But instead, he just reacted, feeling a pressing
need to help Elden. He ran and ran—alone—deeper into the wood in the early
light of dawn.

“Elden!”
he screamed.

He
couldn’t explain it, but somehow he sensed Elden was about to die. Perhaps he
shouldn’t care, based on the way that Elden had treated him, but he couldn’t
help himself: he did. If he were in this situation, Elden would certainly not
come to rescue him. It was crazy to put his life on the line for someone who
cared nothing for him—and, in fact, would gladly see him die. But he could not
help it. He’d never felt a sensation like this one before, where his senses
were screaming to him to react—especially over something he could not possibly
have known. He was changing somehow, and he did not know how. He felt as if his
body were being controlled by some new, mysterious power, and it made him feel
uneasy, out of control. Was he losing his mind? Was he overreacting? Was it all
just from his dream? Maybe he should turn around.

But
he did not. He let his feet lead him and did not give in to fear or doubts. He
ran and ran until his lungs were bursting.

Thor
turned a bend, and what he saw made him stop short in his tracks. He stood
there, trying to catch his breath, trying to reconcile the image before him,
which did not make any sense. It was enough to strike terror into any hardened
warrior.

There
stood Elden, holding his short sword and looking up at a creature unlike any
Thor had ever seen. It was horrific. It towered over them both, at least nine
feet tall, and as wide as four men. It raised its muscular, red arms, with
three long fingers, like nails, at the end of each hand, and a head like that
of a demon, with four horns, a long jaw, and a broad forehead. It had two large
yellow eyes and fangs curled like tusks. It leaned back and screeched.

Beside
him, a thick tree, hundreds of years old, split in two at the sound.

Elden
stood, frozen in fear. He dropped his sword, and the ground beneath him went
wet.

The
creature drooled and snarled, and took a step toward Elden.

Thor, too, was filled with fear,
but unlike Elden, it did not immobilize him. For some reason, the fear
heightened his senses, made him feel more alive. It gave him tunnel vision,
allowed him to focus supremely on the creature before him, on its position to
Elden, on its width and breadth and strength and speed. On its every movement.
It also allowed him to focus on his own body position, his own weapons.

Thor burst into action. He
charged forward, between Elden and the beast. The beast roared, its breath so
hot, Thor could feel it even from a distance. The sound raised every hair on
the back of Thor’s neck and made him want to turn around. But he heard Erec’s
voice in his head, telling him to be strong. To be fearless. To retain
equanimity. And he forced himself to stand his ground.

Thor raised his sword high and
charged, plunging it into the beast’s ribs, aiming for his heart.

The creature shrieked in agony,
its blood pouring down Thor’s hand as Thor plunged the sword all the way in, to
the hilt.

But to Thor’s surprise, it did
not die. The beast seemed invincible.

Without missing a beat, the beast
swung around and swiped Thor so hard he felt his ribs crack. Thor went flying
across the clearing, smashing into a tree before collapsing to the ground. He
felt a terrible headache as he lay there.

Thor looked up, dazed and
confused, the world spinning. The beast reached down and extracted Thor’s sword
from its stomach. The sword seemed tiny in its hands, like a toothpick, and the
beast reached back and hurled it; it went flying through the trees, taking down
branches, and disappeared into the wood.

It turned its full attention on
Thor and began to bear down on him.

Elden stood where he was, still
frozen in fear. But as the beast charged Thor, suddenly, Elden burst into
action. He charged the beast from behind and jumped onto its back. It slowed
the beast just enough for Thor to sit up; the beast, furious, flung back his
arms and threw Elden. He went flying across the clearing, smashed into a tree,
and slumped to the ground.

The beast, still bleeding,
panting heavily, turned its attention back to Thor. It snarled and widened its
fangs as it approached him.

Thor was out of options. His
sword was gone, and there was nothing between him and the monster. The monster
dove down for him, and at the last second, Thor rolled out of the way. The
monster hit the tree where Thor had been with such force it uprooted it.

The beast raised its foot and
brought it down for Thor’s head. Thor once more rolled out of the way; the
creature left a footprint where Thor’s head had been.

Thor leapt to his feet, placed a
stone in his sling, and hurled.

He hit the monster square between
the eyes, a fiercer throw than he had ever made, and the creature staggered
back. Thor was certain he had killed it.

But to his amazement, the beast
did not stop.

Thor tried his best to summon his
power, whatever power it was that he had. He charged the beast, leaping
forward, crashing into it, aiming to tackle it and drive it down to the ground
with a superhuman power.

But to Thor’s shock, this time
his power never kicked in. He was just another boy. A frail boy, next to this
massive beast.

The beast merely reached down,
grabbed Thor by his waist, and hoisted him high above its head. Thor, helpless,
dangled high in the air—and then he was thrown. He went flying like a missile
across the clearing, and smashed again into a tree.

Thor lay there, stunned, his head
splitting, his ribs cracked in two. The beast raced for him, and he knew this
time he was finished. It raised its red, muscular foot, preparing to bring it
down right on Thor’s head. He prepared for death.

Then, for some reason, the beast
froze in midair. Thor blinked, trying to understand why.

The beast reached up and clutched
its throat, and Thor noticed the head of an arrow protruding from it. A moment
later, the beast keeled over, dead.

Erec came running into view,
followed by Reece and O’Connor. Thor saw Erec looking down on him, asking if he
was okay, and he wanted to answer, more than anything. But the words would not
come out. A moment later, his eyes closed on him, and then his world went black.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Thor opened his eyes slowly,
dizzy at first, trying to figure out where he was. He was lying on straw, and
for a moment wondered if he was back in the barracks. He propped himself up on
one elbow, on alert, looking for the others.

He was somewhere else. From the
looks of it, he was in a very elaborate stone room. It looked as if he were in
a castle. A royal castle.

Before he could figure it all
out, a large, oak door swung open and in strutted Reece. In the distance, Thor
could hear the muted noise of a crowd.

“Finally, he lives,” Reece
announced with a smile, as he rushed forward, grabbed Thor’s hand, and pulled
him to his feet.

Thor raised a hand to his head,
trying to slow his terrible headache from rising too fast.

“Come on, let’s go, everyone’s
waiting for you,” he urged, yanking Thor.

“Wait a minute, please,” Thor
said, trying to collect himself. “Where am I? What happened?”

“We’re back in King’s Court—and
you are about to be celebrated as the hero of the day!” Reece said merrily, as
they headed for the door.

“Hero? What do you mean? And…how
did I get here?” he asked, trying to remember.

“That beast knocked you out. You’ve
been out for quite a while. We had to carry you back across the Canyon bridge.
Quite dramatic. Not exactly how I expected you to return to the other side!” he
said with a laugh.

They walked out into the
corridors of the castle, and as they went, Thor could see all sorts of
people—women, men, squires, guards, knights—staring at him, as if they had been
waiting for him to wake. He also saw something new in their eyes, something
like respect. It was the first time he had seen it. Up until now, most everyone
had looked at him with something like disdain—now they looked at him as if he
were one of them.

“What exactly happened?” Thor
racked his brain, trying to recall.

“Don’t you remember any of it?”
Reece asked.

Thor tried to think.

“I remember running into the
wood. Fighting with that beast. And then…” He drew a blank.

“You saved Elden’s life,” Reece
said. “You ran fearlessly into the wood, on your own. I don’t know why you
wasted energy on saving that prig’s life. But you did. The King is very, very
pleased with you. Not because he cares about Elden. But he cares very much
about bravery. He loves to celebrate. It’s important to him, to celebrate
stories like this, to inspire the others. And it reflects well on the King, and
on the Legion. He wants to celebrate. You’re here because he’s going to reward
you.”

“Reward me?” Thor asked,
dumbfounded. “But I didn’t do anything!”

“You saved Elden’s life.”

“I only reacted. I only did what
came naturally.”

“And that’s exactly why the King
wants to reward you.”

Thor felt embarrassed. He didn’t
think his actions deserved rewarding. After all, if it hadn’t been for Erec,
Thor would be dead right now. Thor thought about it, and his heart filled with
gratitude for Erec, once again. He hoped that one day he could repay him.

“But what about our patrol duty?”
Thor asked. “We didn’t finish it.”

Reece put a reassuring hand on
his shoulder.

“Friend, you saved a boy’s life.
A member of the Legion. That’s more important than our patrol.” Reece laughed. “So
much for an uneventful first patrol!” he added.

At the end of yet another
corridor, two guards opened a door for them, and Thor blinked and found himself
in the royal chamber. There must have been a hundred knights standing about the
room, with its soaring cathedral ceilings, stained glass, and weapons and suits
of armor hung everywhere on the walls like trophies. The Hall of Arms. It was
the place where all the greatest warriors met, all the men of the Silver. Thor’s
heart raced as he surveyed the walls, all the famous weaponry, the armor of
heroic and legendary knights. Thor had heard rumors of this place his entire
life. It had been his dream to see it for himself one day. Normally no squires
were allowed here—no one but the Silver.

Even more surprising, as he
entered, real knights turned and looked at him—him—from all sides. And
they wore looks of admiration. Thor had never seen so many knights in one room,
and had never felt so accepted. It was like walking into a dream. Especially
since just moments before, he had been fast asleep.

Reece must have noticed Thor’s
dumbfounded face.

“The finest of the Silver have
gathered here to honor you.”

Thor felt himself well with pride
and disbelief. “Honor me? But I’ve done nothing.”

“Wrong,” came a voice.

Thor turned and felt a heavy hand
on his shoulder. It was Erec, grinning down.

“You have displayed bravery and
honor and courage, beyond what was expected of you. You nearly gave up your
life to save one of your brethren. That is what we look for in the Legion, and
this is what we look for in the Silver.”

“You saved my life,” Thor said to
Erec. “If it weren’t for you, that beast would have killed me. I don’t know how
to thank you.”

Erec grinned down.

“You already have,” he answered. “Don’t
you remember the joust? I believe we are even.”

Thor marched down the walkway
toward King MacGil’s throne, at the far end of the hall, Reece on one side of
him and Erec on the other. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and it all felt
like a dream.

Standing around the King were his
dozens of counselors, along with his eldest son, Kendrick. As Thor approached,
his heart swelled with pride. He could hardly believe the King was granting him
an audience again—and that so many important men were here to witness it.

They reached the King’s throne.
MacGil stood, and a muted hush overcame the room. MacGil’s ponderous expression
broke into a wide smile, as he took three steps forward and to Thor’s surprise,
gave him a hug.

A great cheer rose up in the
room.

He pulled back, held Thor firmly
by the shoulders, and grinned down.

“You served the Legion well,” he
said.

A servant handed the King a
goblet, which the King raised. In a loud voice, he called out:

“TO COURAGE!”

“TO COURAGE!” shouted back the
hundreds of men in the room. An excited murmur followed, then the room once
again fell quiet.

“In honor of your exploits today,”
the King bellowed, “I grant you a great gift.”

The King gestured, and an
attendant stepped forward, wearing a long, black gauntlet, on which sat a
magnificent falcon. It turned and stared right Thor—as if he knew him.

It took Thor’s breath away. It
was the exact falcon from his dream, with its silver body and the single black
stripe running down its forehead.

“The falcon is the symbol of our
kingdom, and of our Royal family,” MacGil boomed. “It is a bird of prey, of
pride and honor. Yet it is also a bird of skill, of cunning. It is loyal, and
fierce, and it soars above all other animals. It is also a sacred creature. It
is said that he who owns a falcon is also owned by one. It will guide you on
all your ways. It will leave you, but it will always come back. And now, it is
yours.”

The falconer stepped forward,
placed a heavy, chainmail gauntlet onto Thor’s hand and wrist, then placed the
bird on it. Thor felt electrified, having it on his arm. He could hardly move.
He was shocked by its weight; it was a struggle just to hold still as the bird fidgeted
on his wrist. He felt its talons digging in, though luckily he only felt
pressure, as he was protected by the gauntlet. The bird turned, stared right at
him, and screeched. Thor felt it looking into his eyes, and he felt a mystical
connection to the animal. He just knew it would be with him all his days.

“And what shall you name her?”
the King asked, in the thick silence of the room.

Thor racked his brain, which was too
frozen to even work.

He tried to think quickly. He
summoned in his mind all the names of all the famed warriors of the kingdom. He
turned and scanned the walls, and saw a series of plaques with all the names of
battles, all the places of the kingdom. His eyes rested on one particular
place. It was a place in the Ring where he had never been, but which he had
always heard was a mystical, powerful place. It sounded right to him.

“I shall call her Estopheles,”
Thor called out.

“Estopheles!” the crowd echoed,
sounding pleased.

The falcon screeched as if in
response.

Suddenly, Estopheles flapped her
wings and flew up high, all the way to the apex of the cathedral ceiling, and
out an open window. Thor watched her go.

“Don’t worry,” the falconer said,
“she shall always return to you.”

Thor turned and looked at the
King. He had never been given a gift in his life, much less one of this
stature. He hardly knew what to say, how to thank him. He was overwhelmed.

“My liege,” he said, lowering his
head. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You already have,” MacGil said.

The crowd cheered, and the
tension in the room was broken. A spirited conversation broke out among the
men, and so many knights approached Thor, he hardly knew which way to turn.

“That is Algod, of the Eastern Province,” Reece said, introducing him to one.

“And this is Kamera, of the Low
Marshes…. And this, Basikold, of the Northern Forts….”

Soon, the names became a blur.
Thor was overwhelmed. He could hardly believe that all these knights wanted to
meet him. He had never felt so accepted or honored anytime in his life and he
had a feeling that a day like this would never come again. It was the first
time in his life he had a feeling of self-worth.

And he could not stop thinking of
Estopheles.

As Thor turned every which way,
greeting people whose names flowed by, names he could hardly grasp onto, a
messenger hurried over, slipping between the knights. He carried a small
scroll, which he pressed into Thor’s palm.

Thor rolled it open and read the
fine, delicate handwriting:

Meet me in the back courtyard.
Behind the gate.

Thor could smell a delicate
fragrance emanating from the pink scroll, and was puzzled as he tried to figure
out who it was from. It bore no signature.

Reece leaned over, read it over
his shoulder, and laughed.

“It seems my sister has taken a
fancy to you,” he said, smiling. “I would go if I were you. She hates to be
kept waiting.”

Thor felt himself blush.

“The rear courtyard is through
those gates. Hurry. She’s known to change her mind quickly.” Reece smiled as he
looked at him. “And I’d love to have you in my family.”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Thor
tried to follow Reece’s directions as he wound his way through the crowded
castle, but it was not easy. This castle had too many twists and turns, too
many hidden back doors, and too many long corridors that seemed to lead only to
more corridors.

He
ran through Reece’s directions in his head as he descended yet another small
set of steps, turned down another corridor, and finally stopped before a small
arched door with a red handle—the one Reece had told him about—and pushed it
open.

Thor
hurried outside and was struck by the strong light of the summer day; it felt
good to be outdoors, out of that stuffy castle, breathing fresh air, the sun on
his face. He squinted, his eyes adjusting in the bright light, and took in the
sight. Before him sprawled the royal gardens, stretching as far as the eye
could see, hedges perfectly trimmed in different shapes, forming neat rows,
trails winding amidst them. There were fountains, unusual trees, orchards ripe
with early summer fruits, and fields of flowers of every size and shape and
color. The sight took his breath away. It was like walking into a painting.

Thor
looked everywhere for a sign of Gwendolyn, his heart pounding. This rear
courtyard was empty, and Thor assumed it was probably reserved for the royal
family, set off from the public with its high, stone garden walls. And yet, he
looked everywhere and could not find her.

He
wondered if her note was a hoax. That was probably it. She was probably just making
fun of him, the country bumpkin, amusing herself at his expense. After all, how
could someone of her rank really have any interest in him?

Thor
looked down and read her note again, then rolled it back up in shame. He had
been made fun of. What a fool he was to get his hopes up like that. It hurt him
deeply.

Thor
turned and prepared to head back into the castle, head lowered. Just as he
reached for the door, a voice rang out.

“And
where are you going?” came the joyful voice. It sounded like a bird’s
song.

Thor
wondered if he was imagining it. He spun, searching, and there she was, sitting
in the shade beneath a castle wall. She smiled back, dressed in her royal
finest, layers of white satin dress with pink trim. She looked even more
beautiful than he’d remembered.

It
was her. Gwendolyn. The girl Thor had been dreaming about since they had met,
with her almond, blue eyes and long strawberry hair, with her smile that lit
his heart. She wore a large white-and-pink hat, shading her from the sun,
beneath which her eyes sparkled. For a moment he felt like turning around to
make sure that there was no one else standing behind him.

“Um…”
Thor began. “I…um…don’t know. I…um…was going inside.”

Once
again, he was finding himself flustered around her, finding it hard to collect
his thoughts and articulate them.

She
laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“And
why would you be doing that?” she asked, playful. “You just arrived.”

Thor
was flustered. His tongue was tied.

“I…um…couldn’t
find you,” he said, embarrassed.

She
laughed again.

“Well,
I’m right here. Aren’t you going to come and get me?”

She
held out a single hand; Thor rushed over to her, reached down, and took her
hand. He was electrified by the touch of her skin, so smooth and soft, her frail
hand fitting perfectly inside of his. She looked up at him and let her hand
linger there a moment, before slowly rising. He loved the feel of her
fingertips in his palm and hoped she would never take them away.

She
withdrew her hand, then placed her arm in his, locking arms. She began to walk,
leading the way down the series of winding trails. They walked along a small
cobblestone path, and soon they were inside a labyrinth of hedges, protected
from outside view.

Thor
was nervous. Perhaps he, a commoner, would get in trouble, walking like this
with the King’s daughter. He felt a light sweat break out on his forehead, and
did not know if it was from the heat or from her touch.

He
wasn’t sure what to say.

“You’ve
caused quite a stir here, haven’t you?” she said with a smile. He was grateful
she broke the awkward silence.

Thor
shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

She
laughed. “And why wouldn’t you mean to? Isn’t it good to cause a stir?”

Thor
was stymied. He hardly knew how to respond. It seemed as if he always said the
wrong thing.

“This
place is so stuffy and boring anyway,” she said. “It’s nice to have a newcomer.
My father seems to have taken quite a liking to you. So has my brother.”

“Um…thanks,”
Thor replied.

He
was kicking himself, dying inside. He knew he should say more, and he wanted
to. He just did not know what to say.

“Do
you…” he began, racking his brain for the right thing to say, “…like it here?”

She
leaned back and laughed.

“Do
I like it here?” she asked. “But I should hope so. I live here!”

She
laughed again and Thor felt himself redden. He felt that he was really messing
things up. But he wasn’t raised around girls, had never had a girlfriend in his
village, and just didn’t know what to say to her. What could he ask her? Where
are you from? He already knew where she was from. He started to wonder why she
bothered with him; was it just for her amusement?

“Why
do you like me?” he asked.

She
looked back at him, and made a funny sound.

“You
are a presumptuous boy,” she chuckled. “Who says I like you?” she asked with a
huge smile. Clearly, everything he said amused her.

Thor
now felt as if he’d gotten himself into deeper trouble.

“I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I was just wondering. I mean…um…I know you
don’t like me.”

She
laughed harder.

“You
are amusing, I have to give you that. I take it you’ve never had a girlfriend,
have you?”

Thor
looked down and shook his head, humiliated.

“I
assume no sisters, either?” she pressed.

Thor
shook his head.

“I
have three brothers,” he blurted out. Finally, at least, he had managed to say
something normal.

“Do
you?” she asked. “And where are they? Back in your village?”

Thor
shook his head. “No, they are here, in the Legion, with me.”

“Well,
that must be comforting.”

Thor
shook his head.

“No.
They don’t like me. They wish I wasn’t here.”

It
was the first time her smile dropped.

“And
why wouldn’t they like you?” she asked, horrified. “Your own brothers?”

Thor
shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

They
walked a while more in silence. He was suddenly afraid that he was killing
their happy mood.

“But
don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me. It’s always been that way. In fact,
actually, I’ve met good friends here. Better friends than I’ve ever had.”

“My
brother? Reece?” she asked.

Thor
nodded.

“Reece
is a good one,” she said. “He’s my favorite in some ways. I have four brothers,
you know. Three are true, and one is not. The eldest is my dad’s son from
another woman. My half-brother. You know him, Kendrick?”

Thor
nodded. “I owe him a great debt. It is thanks to him that I have a spot in the
Legion. He’s a fine man.”

“It’s
true. He’s one of the finest in the kingdom. I love him as much as a true
brother. And then there’s Reece, who I love just as much. The other two…well….
You know how families are. Not everyone gets along. Sometimes I wonder how all
of us come from the same people.”

Now
Thor was curious. He wanted to know more about who they were, her relationship
to them, why they weren’t close. He wanted to ask her, but didn’t want to pry.
And she didn’t seem to want to dwell on it, either. She seemed to be a happy
person, a person who only liked to focus on happy things.

As
they finished the labyrinth trail, the courtyard opened up to a new garden,
where the grass was perfectly trimmed and designed into shapes. It was a massive
game board of some sort, sprawling at least fifty feet in each direction, with
huge wooden pieces, taller than Thor, placed throughout.

Gwen
cried out in delight.

“Will
you play?” she asked.

“What
is it?” he asked.

She
turned, her eyes opened wide in amazement.

“You’ve
never played Racks?” she asked.

Thor
shook his head, embarrassed, feeling more like a country rube than ever.

“It
is the finest game!” she exclaimed.

She
reached out with her two hands and took his, dragging him onto the field. She
bounded off with delight; he couldn’t help but smile himself. More than
anything, more than the field, more than this beautiful place, it was the feel
of her hands on his that electrified him. The feeling of being wanted. She wanted
him to go with her. She wanted to spend time with him. Why would anyone
care about him? Especially someone like her? He still felt as if this were all
a dream.

“Stand
over there,” she said. “Behind that piece. You have to move it, and you have
only ten seconds to do so.”

“What
do you mean move it?” Thor asked.

“Choose
a direction, quickly!” she cried out.

Thor
picked up the enormous wooden block, surprised at its weight. He carried it
several steps, and put it down on another square.

Without
hesitating, Gwen pushed her own piece over. It landed on Thor’s piece and
knocked it to the ground.

She
cried out in delight.

“That
was a bad move!” she said. “You got right in my way! You lost!”

Thor
looked at the two pieces on the ground, puzzled. He didn’t understand this game
at all.

She
laughed, taking his arm as she continued to lead him down the trails.

“Don’t
worry, I’ll teach you,” she said.

His
heart soared at her words. She’d teach him.  She wanted to see him
again. To spend time with him. Was he imagining all of this?

“So
tell me, what do you think of this place?” she asked, as she led him into
another series of labyrinths. This one was decorated with flowers eight feet
high, bursting with color, strange insects hovering over their tips.

“It
is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Thor answered truthfully.

“And
why do you want to be a member of the Legion?”

“It
is all I ever dreamed of,” he replied.

“But
why?” she asked. “Because you want to serve my father?”

Thor
thought about that. He’d never really wondered why—it was always just there.

“Yes,”
answered. “I do. And the Ring.”

“But
what about life?” she asked. “Don’t you want to have a family? Land? A wife?”

She
stopped and looked at him; it threw him. He was frazzled. He had never
considered these things before, and hardly knew how to respond. Her eyes
sparkled as she glanced back at him.

“Um…I…I
don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

“And
what would your mother say about that?” she asked, playfully.

Thor’s
smile lowered.

“I
don’t have a mother,” he said.

Her
smile dropped again.

“What
happened to her?” she asked.

Thor
was about to answer her, to tell her everything. It would be the first time in
his life that he had ever spoken about her to anyone. And the crazy thing was,
he wanted to. He wanted, desperately, to open up to her, this stranger, and let
her know everything about his deepest feelings.

But
as he opened his mouth to speak, suddenly a harsh voice came from out of
nowhere.

“Gwendolyn!”
shrieked the voice.

They
both spun to see her mother, the Queen, dressed in her finest, accompanied by
her handmaids, marching right for her daughter. Her face was livid.

The
Queen walked right up to Gwen, grabbed her roughly by the arm, and yanked her
away.

“You
get back inside right now. What did I tell you? I don’t want you speaking to
him ever again. Do you understand me?”

Gwen’s
face reddened, then transformed with anger and pride.

“Get
off me!” she yelled at her mother. But it was no use; her mother kept dragging
her away, and her handmaids encircled her, too.

“I
said get off me!” Gwen yelled. She glanced back at Thor with a desperate, sad
look, one of pleading.

Thor
understood the feeling. It was one that he felt himself. He wanted to call out
to her, and felt his heart breaking as he watched her get dragged away. It was
like watching a future life get taken away from him, right before his eyes.

He
stood there for long after she disappeared from view, staring, rooted in place,
breathless. He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to forget all of this.

Most
of all, he did not want to imagine that he might not ever see her again.

*

As
Thor ambled back to the castle, still reeling from his encounter with Gwen, he
was barely even aware of his surroundings. His mind was consumed by thoughts of
her; he could not stop seeing her face. She was magnificent. The most beautiful
and kind and sweet and gentle and loving and funny person he had ever met. He
needed to see her again. He actually felt pained at the absence of her
presence. He didn’t understand his feelings for her, and that scared him. He
barely knew her, yet he knew already that he could not be without her.

Yet
at the same time, he thought back to the Queen yanking her away, and his
stomach sank to think of the powerful forces standing between them. Forces that
did not want them to be together, for some reason.

As
he tried to get to the bottom of it, suddenly he felt a stiff hand on his
chest, stopping him hard in his tracks.

He
looked up to see a boy, maybe a couple of years older than him, tall and thin,
dressed in the most expensive clothes he had ever seen—in royal purple and
green and scarlet silks, with an elaborate feathered hat—grimacing down. The
boy looked dainty, spoiled, as if raised in the lap of luxury, with softened
hands and high arched eyebrows that peered down disdainfully.

“They
call me Alton,” the boy began. “I am the son of Lord Alton, first cousin to the
King. We have been lords of the realm for seven centuries. Which entitles me to
be a Duke. You, by contrast, are a commoner,” he said, nearly spitting
the word. “The royal court is for royalty. And for men of rank. Not for your
kind.”

Thor
stood there, having no idea who this boy was or what he had done to upset him.

“What
do you want of me?” Thor asked.

Alton snickered.

“Of
course, you would not know. You probably don’t know anything, do you? How dare
you barge in here and pretend to be one of us!” he spat.

“I’m
not pretending anything,” Thor said.

“Well,
I don’t care whatever wave you washed in on. I just want to warn you, before
you get any more fantasies in your head, that Gwendolyn is mine.”

Thor
stared back, shocked. His? He hardly knew what to say.

“Our
marriage has been arranged since birth,” Alton continued. “We are of the same
age, and of the same rank. Plans are already in motion. Don’t you dare think,
even for instant, that it will be any different.”

Thor
felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him; he didn’t even have the
strength to respond.

Alton took a step closer and stared
down.

“You
see,” he said in a soft voice, “I allow Gwen her flirtations. She has many.
Every once in a while she’ll take pity on a commoner, or perhaps a servant. She
will allow them to be her entertainment, her amusement. You might have come to
the conclusion that it is something more. But that’s all it is for Gwen. You
are just another acquaintance, another amusement. She collects them, like
dolls. They don’t mean anything to her. She’s excited by the newest commoner,
and after a day or two, she gets bored. She shall drop you quickly. You’re
nothing to her, really. And by year’s end she and I will be wed. Forever.”

Alton’s eyes opened wide, showing his
fierce determination.

Thor
felt his heart breaking at his words. Were they true? Was he really nothing to
Gwen? Now he was confused; he hardly knew what to believe. She had seemed so genuine.
But maybe Thor had just been jumping to the wrong conclusion?

“You’re
lying,” Thor finally said back.

Alton sneered, and then raised a
single, pampered finger, and jabbed it into Thor’s chest.

“If
I see you near her again, I’ll use my authority to call the royal guard. They
will have you imprisoned!”

“On
what grounds?!” Thor asked.

“I
need no grounds. I have rank here. I will make one up, and it is me they will
believe. By the time I’m done slandering you, half the kingdom will believe you
are a criminal.”

Alton smiled, self-satisfied; Thor
felt sick.

“You
lack honor,” Thor said, uncomprehending that anyone could act with such
indecency.

Alton laughed, a high-pitched sound.

“I
never had it to begin with,” he said. “Honor is for fools. I have what I want.
You can keep your honor. And I will have Gwendolyn.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY

Thor
walked with Reece out the arched gate of King’s Court and onto the country road
that led to the Legion’s barracks. The guards stood at attention for them as
they passed and Thor felt a great sense of belonging, like he wasn’t such an
outsider. He thought back to just a few days before, when a guard had chased
him out of here. How much had changed, so quickly.

Thor
heard a screeching and looked up to see, high overhead, Estopheles circling,
looking down. She dove, and Thor, excited, held out his wrist, still wearing
the metal gauntlet. But she rose again and flew off, higher and higher, though
never completely out of sight. Thor wondered. She was a mystical animal, and he
felt an intense connection to her that was hard to explain.

Thor
and Reece continued in silence, keeping a quick pace toward the barracks. Thor
knew his brethren would be awaiting him and wondered what sort of reception he
would receive. Would there be envy, jealousy? Would they be mad he got all this
attention? Would they make fun of him for being carried back across the canyon?
Or would they finally accept him?

Thor
hoped it was the latter. He was tired of struggling with the rest of the Legion
and just wanted, more than anything, to belong. To be accepted as one of them.

The
barracks came into sight in the distance, and Thor’s mind began to be
preoccupied with something else.

Gwendolyn.

Thor
didn’t know how much he could talk to Reece about this, given that it was his
sister. But he could not get her out of his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking of
his encounter with that menacing royal, Alton, and wondered how much of what he
said was true. A part of him feared to discuss it with Reece, not wanting to
risk upsetting him somehow and losing his new friend over his sister. But
another part of him had to know what he thought.

“Who
is Alton?” Thor finally asked, hesitant.

“Alton?” Reece repeated. “Why do you ask of him?”

Thor
shrugged, unsure how much to say.

Luckily,
Reece continued.

“He’s
but a menacing, lesser royal. Third cousin to the King. Why? Has he been after
you about something?” Then Reece narrowed his eyes. “Gwen? Is that it? I should’ve
warned you.”

Thor
turned and looked at Reece, eager to hear more.

“What
do you mean?”

“He’s
a lout. He’s been after my sister since he could walk. He’s certain the two of
them will be wed. My mother seems to think so, too.”

“Will
they?” Thor asked, surprised by the urgency in his own voice.

Reece
looked at him and smiled.

“My,
my, you have fallen for her, haven’t you?” He chuckled. “That was fast.”

Thor
reddened, hoping it wasn’t so obvious.

“Whether
or not they do would depend on my sister’s feelings for him,” Reece finally
answered. “Unless they forced her into marriage. But I doubt my father would do
that.”

“And
how does she feel for him?” Thor pressed, afraid he was being too nosy, but
needing to know.

Reece
shrugged. “You’d have to ask her, I guess. I never talk to her about it.”

“But
would your father force her into marriage?” Thor pressed. “Could he really do
such a thing?”

“My
father can do anything he wants. But that’s between him and Gwen.”

Reece
turned and looked at Thor.

“Why
all these questions? What did you talk about?”

Thor
blushed, unsure what to say.

“Nothing,”
he said finally.

“Nothing!”
Reece laughed. “Sounds like a lot of nothing to me!”

Reece
laughed harder, and Thor was embarrassed, wondering if he was just imagining
that Gwen liked him. Reece reached over and put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Listen,
old mate,” Reece said, “the only thing you can know for sure about Gwen is that
she knows what she wants. And she gets what she wants. That’s always been the
case. She’s as strong-willed as my father. No one can force her to do
anything—or like anyone—she doesn’t want. So don’t worry. If she chooses you,
trust me, she’ll let you know. Okay?”

Thor
nodded, feeling better, as always, after he talked to Reece.

He
looked up and saw the huge gates to the Legion’s barracks before him. He was
surprised to see several of the other boys standing at the gate, as if waiting
for them, and even more surprised to see them grinning, and then letting out a
cheer at the sight of him. They rushed forward, grabbed Thor by the shoulders,
draped their arms around him, and pulled him inside. Thor was amazed as he was
swept inside in an embrace of goodwill by the others.

“Tell
us about the Canyon. What’s it like on the other side?” one asked.

“What
was the creature like? The one that you killed?” another asked.

“I
didn’t kill him,” Thor protested. “Erec did.”

“I
heard you saved Elden’s life,” one said.

“I
heard you attacked the creature head-on. Without any real weapons.”

“You’re
one of us now!” one yelled out, and the other kids cheered, ushering him along,
as if he were their long-lost brother.

Thor
could hardly believe it. The more he heard their words, the more he realized
maybe they did have a point. Maybe he had been brave after all. He never really
thought about it. For the first time in a long while, he was starting to feel
good about himself. Most of all because now, finally, he felt like he belonged
with these boys. He felt tension releasing from his shoulders.

Thor
was ushered out into the main training ground, and before him stood dozens more
of the Legion, along with dozens of the Silver. They, too, let out a cheer at
the sight of him. They all came forward and patted him on the back.

Kolk
stepped forward, and the others quieted. Thor braced himself, since Kolk never
had anything but contempt for Thor. But now, to Thor’s surprise, he looked down
at him with a different sort of expression. While he still couldn’t quite bring
himself to smile, he wasn’t scowling, either. And Thor could have sworn he
detected something like admiration in his eyes.

Kolk
stepped forward, held up a small pin of a black falcon, and pinned it on Thor’s
chest.

The
pin of the Legion. Thor had been accepted. Finally, he was one of them.

“Thorgrin
of the Southern Province of the Western Kingdom,” Kolk said, gravely. “We
welcome you to the Legion.”

The
boys let out a shout, then all rushed in, draping their arms around Thor and
swaying him this way and that.

Thor
couldn’t even take it all in. He tried not to. He just wanted to enjoy this
moment. Now, finally, there was somewhere he belonged.

Kolk
turned and faced the other boys.

“Okay,
boys, calm yourselves,” he commanded. “Today is a special day. No more
pitchforks and polish and horse crap for you. Now it’s time to really train. It’s
weapons day.”

The
boys returned an excited shout, and followed Kolk as he trotted across the
training field toward a huge circular building made of oak, with shining bronze
doors. Thor walked with the group as they approached, an excited buzz in the
air. Reece was by his side, and O’Connor came and joined them.

“Never
thought I’d see you alive again,” O’Connor said, smiling and clapping a hand on
his shoulder. “Next time, let me wake up first, will you?”

Thor
smiled back.

“What
is that building?” Thor asked Reece, as they got closer. There were immense
iron rivets all over the door, and the place had an imposing presence.

“The
weapons house,” Reece answered. “It’s where they store all our arms. Every once
in a while they let us get a peek, even train with some of them. Depends what
lesson they want to impart.”

Thor’s
stomach tightened as he noticed Elden coming over to them. Thor braced himself,
expecting a threat—but this time, to Thor’s amazement, Elden wore a look of
appreciation.

“I
have to thank you,” he said, looking down, humbled. “For saving my life.”

Thor
was stumped; he had never expected this from him.

“I
was wrong about you,” Elden added. “Friends?” he asked.

He
held out a hand.

Thor,
not one to hold a grudge, gladly reached over and met his hand.

“Friends,”
Thor said.

“I
don’t take that word lightly,” Elden said. “I will always have your back. And I
owe you one.”

With
that, he turned and hurried off back into the crowd.

Thor
barely knew what to make of it. He was amazed at how quickly things had
changed.

“I
guess he’s not a complete creep,” O’Connor said. “Maybe he’s okay after all.”

They
reached the weapons house. The immense doors swung open, and Thor entered in
awe. He walked slowly, neck craned, surveying the place in a broad circle,
taking it all in. There were hundreds of weapons, weapons he didn’t even
recognize, hanging on the walls. The other boys hurried forward in an excited
rush, running up to weapons, picking them up, handling them, examining them.
Thor followed their example, feeling like a kid in a candy store.

He
hurried over to a large halberd, hoisted the wooden shaft with two hands, and
felt its weight. It was massive, well oiled. The blade was worn and notched,
and he wondered if it had killed any men in battle.

He
set it down and picked up a spiked flail, a studded metal ball attached to a
short staff by a long chain. He held the studded wooden shaft, and felt the
metal spike dangle on the end of the chain. Beside him, Reece handled a battle
axe and O’Connor tested the weight of a long pike, jabbing into the air at an
imaginary enemy.

“Listen
up!” Kolk yelled, and they all turned.

“Today
we will learn about fighting your enemy from a distance. Can anyone here tell
me what weapons can be used? What can kill a man from thirty paces away?”

“A
bow and arrow,” somebody yelled.

“Yes,”
Kolk answered. “What else?”

“A
spear!” someone shouted.

“What
else? There are more than just these. Let’s hear them.”

“A
slingshot,” Thor added.

“What
else?”

Thor
racked his brain, but was running out of options.

“Throwing
knives,” Reece yelled.

“What
else?”

The
other boys hesitated. No one had any ideas left.

“There
are throwing hammers,” Kolk yelled, “and throwing axes. There is the crossbow.
Pikes can be thrown. So can swords.”

Kolk
paced the room, looking over the faces of the boys, who stood rapt with
attention.

“That
is not all. A simple rock from the ground can be your best friend. I’ve seen a
man, big as a bull, a war hero, killed on the spot by a throw from a rock by a
craftier soldier. Soldiers often don’t realize that armor can be used as a
weapon, too. The gauntlet can be taken off and thrown in an enemy’s face. This
can stun him, several feet away. In that moment, you can kill him. Your shield
can be thrown, too.”

Kolk
took a breath.

“It
is crucial that when you learn to fight, you don’t just learn to fight in the
distance between you and your opponent. You must expand your fight to a much
greater distance. Most people fight with three paces. A good warrior fights
with thirty. Understood?”

“Yes
sir!” came the chorus of shouts.

“Good.
Today, we will sharpen your throwing skills. Canvass the room and grab what
throwing devices you see. Each grab one and be outside in thirty seconds. Now
move!”

The
room erupted into a scramble, and Thor ran for the wall, searching for
something to grab. He was bumped and pushed every which way by other excited
boys, until he finally saw what he wanted and grabbed it. It was a small
throwing axe. O’Connor grabbed a dagger, Reece a sword, and the three of them
raced out with the other boys into the field.

They
followed Kolk to the far side of the field, where there were lined up a dozen
shields on posts.

All
the boys, holding their weapons, gathered around Kolk expectantly.

“You
will stand here,” he boomed out, gesturing to a line in the dirt, “and aim for
those shields when throwing your weapons. You will then run to the shields,
retrieve a different weapon, and practice throwing that. Never choose the same
weapon. Always aim for the shield. For those of you who miss a shield, you will
be required to run one lap around the field. Begin!”

The
boys lined up, shoulder to shoulder, behind the dirt line, and began to throw
their weapons at the shields, which must have been a good thirty yards away.
Thor fell in line with them. The boy beside him reached back and threw his
spear, missing by a hair.

The
boy turned and began to jog around the arena. As he did, a member of the King’s
men ran up beside him, and laid a heavy mantle of chainmail over his shoulders,
weighing him down.

“Run
with that, boy!” he ordered.

The
boy, weighed down, already sweating, continued to run in the heat.

Thor
did not want to miss the target. He leaned back, concentrated, pulled his
throwing axe back, and let it go. He closed his eyes and hoped it hit its mark,
and was relieved to hear the sound of it embedding itself in the leather shield.
He barely made it, hitting a lower corner, but at least he did. All around him,
several boys missed and broke off into laps. The few that hit raced for the
shields to grab a new weapon.

Thor
reached the shields and found a long, slim throwing dagger, which he extracted,
then ran back to the throwing line.

They
continued to throw for hours, until Thor’s arm was killing him and he had run
one too many laps himself. He was dripping in sweat, as were others around him.
It was an interesting exercise, to throw all sorts of weapons, to get used to
the feel and weight of all different shafts and blades. Thor felt himself
getting better, more used to it, with each throw. But still, the heat was
oppressive, and he was getting tired. There were only a dozen boys still
standing before the shields, with most of them broken off into laps. It was
just too hard to hit so many times, with so many different weapons, and the
laps and the heat made accuracy more difficult. Thor was gasping, and didn’t
know how much longer he could go on. Just when he felt he was about to
collapse, suddenly, Kolk stepped forward.

“Enough!”
he yelled.

The
boys returned from their laps and collapsed on the grass. They lay there,
panting, breathing hard, removing the heavy coats of chain mail that had been
draped on them. Thor, too, sat down in the grass, arm exhausted, dripping with
sweat. Some of the King’s men came around with buckets of water and dropped
them on the grass. Reece reached out, grabbed one, drank from it, then handed
it to O’Connor, who drank and handed it to Thor. Thor drank and drank, the
water dripping down his chin and chest. The water felt amazing. He breathed
hard as he handed it back to Reece.

“How
long can this go on?” he asked.

Reece
shook his head, gasping. “I don’t know.”

“I
swear they’re trying to kill us,” came a voice. Thor turned and saw Elden, who
had come up and sat beside him. Thor was surprised to see him there, and it
sank in that Elden truly wanted to be friends. It was odd to see such a change
in his behavior.

“Boys!”
Kolk yelled, walking slowly between them. “More of you are missing your marks
now, late in the day. As you can see, it is harder to be accurate when you’re
tired. That’s the point. During battle, you will not be fresh. You will be
exhausted. Some battles can go on for days. Especially if you are attacking a
castle. And it is when you’re at your most tired that you must make your most
accurate throw. Often you will be forced to throw whatever weapon is at your
disposal. You must be an expert in every weapon, and in every state of
exhaustion. Is that understood?”

“YES
SIR!” they shouted back.

“Some
of you can throw a knife, or a spear. But that same person is missing with a
hammer or axe. Do you think you can survive by throwing one weapon?”

“NO
SIR!”

“Do
you think this is just a game?”

“NO
SIR!”

Kolk
grimaced as he paced, kicking boys in the back who he felt were not sitting up
straight enough.

“You’ve
rested long enough,” he said. “Back on your feet!”

Thor
scrambled to his feet with the others, his legs weary, not sure how much more
of this he could stand.

“There
are two sides to distance fighting,” Kolk continued. “You can throw—but so can
your enemy. He may not be safe at thirty paces away—but you may not be, either.
You must learn how to defend yourself at thirty paces. Is that understood?”

“YES
SIR!”

“To
defend yourself from a throwing object, you will need to not only be aware and
quick on your feet, to duck, or roll, or dodge—but to also be adept at
protecting yourself with a large shield.”

Kolk
gestured, and a soldier brought out a huge, heavy shield. Thor was amazed—it
was nearly twice his size.

“Do
I have a volunteer?” Kolk asked.

The
group of boys was quiet, hesitant, and without thinking, Thor, swept up in the
moment, raised his hand.

Kolk
nodded, and Thor hurried forward.

“Good,”
Kolk said. “At least one of you is dumb enough to volunteer. I like your
spirit, boy. A stupid decision. But good.”

Thor
was beginning to wonder if he really had made a stupid decision as Kolk handed
him the huge metal shield. He fastened it to one arm, and could not believe how
heavy it was. He was barely able to lift it.

“Thor,
your mission is to run from this end of the field to the other. Unscathed. See
those fifty boys facing you?” Kolk said to Thor. “They are all going to throw
weapons at you. Real weapons. Do you understand? If you do not use your shield
to protect you, you may die before you make it to the other side.”

Thor
stared back in disbelief. The crowd of boys grew very quiet.

“This
is not a game,” Kolk continued. “This is very serious. Battle is serious. It is
life-and-death. Are you sure you still want to volunteer?”

Thor
nodded, too frozen in terror to say anything else. He could hardly change his
mind at this point, not in front of everyone.

“Good.”

Kolk
gestured to an attendant, who stepped forward and blew a horn.

“Run!”
Kolk screamed.

Thor
hoisted the heavy shield with two hands, grasping it with all that he had. As
he did, he felt a resounding thud, so severe it shook his skull. It must have been
a metal hammer. It didn’t pierce the shield, but it sent an awful shock
throughout his system. He nearly dropped the shield, but forced himself to
grasp it and move on.

Thor
began to run, hobbling as fast as he could with the shield. As weapons and missiles
flew past him, he forced himself to huddle within the shield as best he could.
The shield was his lifeline. And as he ran, he learned how to stay within it.

An
arrow flew by him, missing him by a fraction of an inch, and he pulled his chin
back tighter. Another heavy object slammed against the shield, hitting him so
hard he stumbled back several feet and collapsed to the ground. But Thor got
back on his feet and continued to run. With a supreme effort, gasping for air,
finally he crossed the field.

“Yield!”
Kolk yelled.

Thor
dropped the shield, dripping in sweat. He was beyond grateful he had reached
the other side; he didn’t know if he could’ve held that shield for another
moment.

Thor
hurried back to the others, many of whom gave him looks of admiration. He
wondered how he had survived.

“Nice
work,” Reece whispered to him.

“Any
other volunteers?” Kolk called out.

There
was dead silence among the boys. After watching Thor, no one else wanted to
try.

Thor
felt proud of himself. He wasn’t sure if he would have volunteered knowing what
it entailed, but now that it was over, he was glad that he did it.

“Fine.
Then I will volunteer for you,” Kolk yelled. “You! Saden!” he called out,
pointing to someone.

An
older, thin boy stepped forward, looking terrified.

“Me?”
Saden said, his voice cracking.

The
other boys laughed at him.

“Of
course you. Who else?” Kolk said.

“I’m
sorry, sir, but I would rather not.”

A
horrified gasp arose among the Legion.

Kolk
approached him, grimacing.

“You
don’t do what you want,” Kolk growled. “You do what I tell you to do.”

Saden
stood frozen, looking scared to death.

“He
shouldn’t be here,” Reece whispered to Thor.

Thor
turned and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“He
comes from a noble family, and they placed them here. But he doesn’t want to be
here. He’s not a fighter. Kolk knows that. I think they’re trying to break him.
I think they want him out.”

“I’m
sorry, sir, but I cannot,” Saden said, sounding terrified.

“You
can,” Kolk screamed, “and you will!”

There
was a frozen, tense standoff.

Saden
looked down to the ground, hanging his chin in shame.

“I
am sorry, sir. Give me some other task, and I will gladly do it.”

Kolk
turned red in the face, storming toward him until he was inches from his face.

“I
will give you another task, boy. I don’t care who your family is. From
now on, you will run. You will run around this field until you collapse. And
you will not come back until you volunteer to take up this shield. Do you
understand me?”

Saden
looked as if he were about to burst into tears, as he nodded back.

A
soldier came over, draped chainmail over Saden, and then another soldier draped
a second set of chainmail on him. Thor could not understand how he could bear
the weight of it. He could barely run with one of them.

Kolk
leaned back and kicked Saden hard in the rear, and he went stumbling forward
and began his long, slow jog around the field. Thor felt bad for him. As he
watched him hobble around, he couldn’t help but wonder if the boy would survive
the Legion.

Suddenly
a horn was sounded, and Thor turned to see a company of the King’s men ride up
on horseback, a dozen of the Silver with them, holding long spears and wearing
feathered helmets. They stopped before the Legion.

“In
honor of the King’s daughter’s wedding day, and in honor of the summer
solstice, the King has declared the rest of today a hunting day!”

All
the boys around Thor erupted into a huge cheer. As one, they broke off into a
sprint, following the horses as they turned and charged across the field.

“What’s
happening?” Thor asked Reece, as he began to run with the others.

Reece
wore a huge smile on his face.

“It’s
a godsend!” he said. “We’re off for the day! We get to hunt!”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Thor
jogged down the forest trail with the others, holding the spear that had been
handed to him for the hunt. Beside him were Reece, O’Connor, and Elden, along
with at least fifty other members of the Legion. In front of them rode a
hundred Silver, on horseback and in light armor, some carrying short spears,
but most with bows and arrows slung over their backs. Running on foot amongst
them were dozens of squires and attendants.

Riding
at the front was King MacGil, looking as huge and proud as ever, an excited
grin on his face. He was flanked by his sons, Kendrick and Gareth, and, Thor
was surprised to see, even Godfrey. Dozens of pages ran amongst them, a few of
them leaning back and blowing horns made of long ivory tusks; others yanked at
baying dogs, who anxiously ran forward to keep up with the horses. It was
complete mayhem. As the huge group charged through the forest, they began to
split off in every direction, and Thor hardly knew where they were going, or
which group to follow.

Erec
rode close by, and Thor and the others decided to follow his trail. Thor ran up
beside Reece.

“Where
are we going?” he asked Reece, out of breath as they ran.

“Deep
into the wood,” Reece called back. “The King’s men aim to bring back days’
worth of game.”

“Why
are some of the Silver on horses and others on foot?” O’Connor asked Reece.

“Those
on horses are hunting the easier kill, such as deer and fowl,” Reece responded.
“They use their bows. Those on foot aim for the more dangerous animals. Like
the yellowtail boar.”

Thor
was both excited and nervous at the mention of the animal. He had seen one
growing up; it was a nasty and dangerous creature, known to tear a man in two
with little provocation.

“The
oldest warriors tend to stay on horseback and go after deer and birds,” Erec
added, looking down. “The younger tend to stay on foot, and go after the bigger
game. You have to be in better shape for it, of course.”

“Which
is why we allow this hunt for you boys,” Kolk, running with the others not far
away, yelled out, “it is training for you, too. You will have to be on foot the
entire hunt, keep up with the horses. As we go, you will break off into smaller
groups, and each fork down your own path, and each hunt down your own animal.
You will find the most vicious animal you can—and you will fight it to the
death. These are the same qualities that make you a soldier: stamina,
fearlessness, and not backing down from your adversary, no matter how big or
how vicious. Now go!” he screamed.

Thor
ran faster, as did all of his brethren, racing to catch up to the horses as
they tore through the forest. He hardly knew which way to go, but he figured if
he stuck close to Reece and O’Connor, he would be okay.

“An
arrow, quick!” Erec yelled down.

Thor
burst into action, running up beside Erec’s horse, grabbing an arrow from the
quiver on the saddle, and handing it up to him. Erec placed it on his bow as he
rode, slowed, and took steady aim at something in the woods.

“The
dogs!” Erec screamed.

One
of the King’s attendants released a barking dog, which dove into the bushes. To
Thor’s surprise, a large bird flew up, and as it did, Erec let loose the arrow.

It
was a perfect shot, right to the neck, and the bird fell down, dead. Thor was
amazed at how Erec had spotted it.

“The
bird!” Erec yelled out.

Thor
ran, grabbed the dead bird, warm, blood oozing from its neck, and ran back to
Erec. He slung it on Erec’s saddle to hang there as he rode.

All
around Thor, many knights on horseback were doing the same, flushing birds and
shooting them down for their squires to retrieve. Most used arrows; some used
spears. Kendrick pulled back his spear, took aim, and hurled it at a deer. It
was a perfect strike, right into its throat, and it fell, too.

Thor
was amazed at the abundance of game in these woods, the amount of bounty they
would be bringing home. It would be enough to feed King’s Court for days.

“Have
you been on a hunt before?” Thor called out to Reece, narrowly avoiding being
trampled by one of the King’s men as they ran. It was hard to hear, with the
barking of the dogs, the horns sounding, and the screams of men, laughing, victorious,
as they took down animal after animal.

Reece
had a big smile on his face as he jumped over a log and continued running.

“Many
times! But only because of my father. They don’t let us join the hunt until a
certain age. It’s a thrilling thing—although no one tends to get out of it
unscathed. More than one man has been hurt, or killed, chasing boar.”

Reece
gasped as he ran. “But I’ve always ridden on horseback,” he added. “I’ve never
been allowed to be on foot before, with the Legion, never allowed to hunt boar.
It is a first for me!”

The
forest suddenly changed, with dozens of trails stretching out before them, each
splitting in a dozen ways. Another horn sounded, and the huge group began to
break up into smaller groups.

Thor
stuck close to Erec, and Reece and O’Connor joined them; they all turned onto a
narrow path that curved sharply downward. They ran and ran, Thor clutching his
spear tight as he jumped a small creek. Their small group comprised Erec and
Kendrick on horseback, Thor, Reece, O’Connor, and Elden on foot, making six of
them—and as Thor turned, he noticed two more members of the Legion running up
behind them, joining them. They were large and broad, with wavy sandy hair that
fell past their eyes, and big smiles. They looked to be a couple of years older
than Thor—and they were identical twins.

“I
am Conval,” one of them called out to Thor.

“And
I Conven.”

“We
are brothers,” Conval said.

“Twins!”
Conven added.

“Hope
you don’t mind if we join you,” Conval said to Thor.

Thor
had seen them around in the Legion, but had never met them before. He was happy
to meet new members, especially members who were friendly to him.

“Happy
to have you,” Thor called out.

“The
more hands the better,” Reece echoed.

“I
hear the boars in this wood are huge,” Conval remarked.

“And
deadly,” Conven added.

Thor
looked at the long spears the twins carried, three times longer than his, and
wondered. He noticed them looking at his short spear.

“That
spear won’t be long enough,” Conval said

“These
boars have big tusks. You need something longer,” Conven said.

“Take
mine,” Elden said, running to Thor and offering his spear.

“I
can’t take yours,” Thor said. “What would you use?”

Elden
shrugged. “I’ll be okay.”

Thor
was touched at his generosity, and marveled at how different their friendship
was now.

“Take
one of mine,” ordered a voice.

Thor
looked up and saw Erec ride up beside him, gesturing to the saddle, which held
two long spears.

Thor
reached out and grabbed a long spear from the saddle, grateful to have it. It
was heavier, and more awkward to run with—but he did feel more protected, and
it sounded like he would need it.

They
ran and ran, until the air burned in Thor’s lungs and he did not know if he
could go any farther. He was alert, looking about him for any sign of an
animal. He felt protected with these other men around him, and invincible with
a long spear. But he was still very much on edge. He had never hunted a boar
before, and had no idea what to expect.

As
his lungs burned, the forest broke open into a clearing and thankfully, Erec
and Kendrick pulled their horses to a stop. Thor assumed that granted them all
permission to stop, too. They all stood there, the eight of them in the forest
clearing, the boys on foot gasping for air, and Erec and Kendrick dismounting
from their horses. The horses panted, but otherwise it was quiet, the only
sound the wind in the trees. The noise of the hundreds of other men racing
through the forest was now gone, and Thor realized they must be very far from
the others.

He
looked around the clearing, panting.

“I
haven’t seen any markings of animals,” Thor said to Reece. “Have you?”

Reece
shook his head.

“The
boar is a crafty animal,” Erec said, stepping forward. “He won’t always show
himself. Sometimes he’ll be the one watching you. He might wait until you’re
caught off guard, and then he’ll charge. Always keep your guard up.”

“Look
out!” O’Connor yelled.

Thor
spun and suddenly a large animal burst into the clearing with a huge commotion;
Thor flinched, thinking they were being attacked by a boar. O’Connor screamed,
and Reece turned and hurled a spear at it. It missed, and the animal flew up
into the air. It was then that Thor realized it was just a turkey, disappearing
back into the wood.

They
all laughed, the tension broken. O’Connor reddened, and Reece laid a reassuring
hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t
worry, friend,” he said.

O’Connor
looked away, embarrassed.

“There
are no boar here,” Elden said. “We chose a bad path. The only thing down this
path are fowl. We will come back empty-handed.”

“Maybe
that’s not a bad thing,” said Conval. “I hear a boar fight can be
life-and-death.”

Kendrick
calmly surveyed the wood; Erec did the same. Thor could see on the faces of
these two men that something was out there. He could tell from their experience
and wisdom they were on guard.

“Well,
the trail seems to end here,” Reece said. “So if we go on, the wood will be
unmarked. We won’t find our way back.”

“But
if we go back, our hunt is over,” O’Connor said.

“What
would happen if we should return empty-handed?” Thor asked. “Without a boar?”

“We
would be the laughingstock of the others,” Elden said.

“No
we wouldn’t,” Reece said. “Not everyone finds a boar. In fact, it’s more rare
to find one than not.”

As
the group of them stood there in silence, breathing hard, watching the woods,
Thor suddenly realized he had drunk too much water. He had been holding it in
the entire hunt and now he had such a pain in his bladder, he could barely
contain it.

“Excuse
me,” he said, and began make to his way into the woods.

“Where
are you going?” Erec asked, cautious.

“I
just have to relieve myself. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t
go far,” Erec cautioned.

Thor,
self-conscious, hurried into the woods and went about twenty paces from the
others, until he found a spot just out of view.

Just
as he finished relieving himself, suddenly, he heard a twig snap. It was loud
and distinct, and he knew—he just knew—it was from no human.

He
turned slowly, the hair rising on the back of his neck, and looked. Up ahead,
maybe another ten paces, was another small clearing, a boulder in its center.
And there, at the base of the boulder, was movement. A small animal, he could
not tell what.

Thor
debated whether to go back to his people or to see what it was. Without
thinking, he crept forward. Whatever the animal was, he didn’t want to lose it,
and if he headed back, it might be gone when he returned.

Thor
stepped closer, hairs on edge as the woods got thicker and there was less room
to maneuver. He could see nothing but dense woods, the sun cutting at sharp
angles. Finally, he reached the clearing. As he approached, he loosened his
grip on his spear, and lowered it down to his hip. He was taken aback by what
he saw before him in the clearing, in a patch of sunlight.

There,
squirming in the grass beside the rock, was a small leopard cub. It sat there,
squirming and whining, squinting into the sun. It looked as if it had just been
born, barely a foot long, small enough to fit inside Thor’s shirt.

Thor
stood there, amazed. The cub was all white, and he knew it must be the cub of
the white leopard, the rarest of all animals.

Hearing
a sudden rustling of leaves behind him, he turned to see the entire group
rushing toward him, Reece out front, looking worried. In moments, they were
upon him.

“Where
did you go?” he demanded. “We thought you were dead.”

As
they all came up beside him and looked down at the cub, he could hear them gasp
in shock.

“A
momentous omen,” Erec said to Thor. “You have found the find of a lifetime. The
rarest of all animals. It has been left alone. It has no one to care for it.
That means it’s yours. It is your obligation to raise it.”

“Mine?”
Thor asked, perplexed.

“It
is your obligation,” Kendrick added. “You found it. Or, I should say, it found
you.”

Thor
was baffled. He had tended sheep, but he had never raised an animal in his
life, and he had no idea what to do.

But
at the same time, he already felt a strong kinship with the animal. Its small,
light blue eyes opened and seemed to stare only at him.

He
approached it, bent down, and picked it up in his arms. The animal reached up
and licked his cheek.

“How
does one care for a leopard cub?” Thor asked, overwhelmed.

“I
suppose the same way one cares for anything else,” Erec said. “Feed it when it’s
hungry.”

“You
must name it,” Kendrick said.

Thor
pondered, amazed that this was his second time to name an animal in as many
days. He remembered a story from his childhood, about a lion that terrorized a
village.

“Krohn,”
Thor said.

The
others nodded back in approval.

“Like
the legend,” Reece said.

“I
like it,” O’Connor said.

“Krohn
it is,” Erec said.

As
Krohn lowered its head into Thor’s chest, Thor felt a stronger connection to it
than to anything he’d ever had. He couldn’t help but feel as if he’d already
known Krohn for lifetimes as the animal squirmed and squealed at him.

Suddenly
there came a distinct sound, one that raised the hair on the back of Thor’s
neck, and made him turn quickly and stare up at the sky.

High
above, was Estopheles. It suddenly dove down low, right for Thor’s head,
screeching as it did, before lifting at the last second.

At
first Thor wondered if it was jealous of Krohn. But then, with a split second
to spare, Thor realized: his falcon was warning him.

A
moment later there came a distinct noise from the other side of the wood. It
was a rustling, followed by a charging—and it all happened too fast.

Because
of the warning, Thor had an advantage—he saw it coming and leapt out of the way
with a second to spare, as a massive boar charged right for him. It missed him
by a hair.

The
clearing broke into chaos. The boar charged the others, ferocious, swinging its
tusks every which way. In one swipe, it managed to slice O’Connor’s arm, and
blood burst out as he clutched it, screaming.

It
was like trying to fight a bull, but without the proper weapons. Elden tried to
jab it with his long spear, but the boar merely turned its head, clamped down
on it with its enormous mouth, and in one clean motion bit it in two. Then the
boar turned and charged Elden, hitting him in the ribs; luckily for Elden, he
narrowly missed being torn apart by its tusks.

This
boar was unstoppable. It was out for blood, and it would clearly not leave them
alone until it had it.

The
others rallied and broke into action. Erec and Kendrick drew their swords, as
did Thor, Reece, and the others.

They
all encircled the beast, but it was hard to hit, especially with its three-foot-long
tusks that kept them from getting anywhere close to it. It ran in circles,
chasing them around the clearing. As they each took turns attacking, Erec
scored a direct hit, slashing it on its side; but this boar must have been made
of steel, because it just kept going.

That
was when everything changed. For a brief moment, something caught Thor’s eyes,
and he turned and looked into the forest. In the distance, hidden behind the
trees, he could have sworn he saw a man with a black, hooded cloak; he saw him
raise a bow and arrow and aim it right for the clearing. He seemed to be aiming
not at the boar, but at the men.

Thor
wondered if he were seeing things. Could they be under attack? Here? In the
middle of nowhere? By whom?

Thor
allowed his instincts to take over. He sensed that the others were in danger,
and he raced for them. He saw the man aiming his bow for Kendrick.

Thor
dove for Kendrick. He tackled him hard, knocking him to the ground, and as he
did so, a moment later the arrow flew by, just missing him.

Thor
immediately looked back to the forest, looking for signs of the attacker. But
he was gone.

But
he had no time to think; the boar was still sprinting madly about the clearing,
only feet away from them. Now it turned in their direction, and Thor had no
time to react. He braced himself for the impact as the long, sharp tusks bore
down directly for him.

A
moment later there came a high-pitched squeal; Thor turned to see Erec leaping
onto the beast’s back, raising his sword high with both hands, and plunging it
into the back of its neck. The beast roared, blood squirting from its mouth as
it buckled to its knees, then crashed down to the ground, Erec on top of it. It
came to a halt just feet away from Thor.

Everyone
stood frozen in place, looking at each other—and wondering what on earth just
happened.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

Thor,
carrying Krohn inside his shirt, was overwhelmed by the noise as Reece opened
the door to the alehouse. A huge group of waiting Legion members and soldiers,
crammed inside, met them with a shout. It was packed and hot inside, and Thor
was immediately sandwiched in between his brethren, shoulder to shoulder. It
had been a long day of hunting, and they had all gathered here, at this
alehouse deep in the woods, to celebrate. The Silver had led the way, and Thor,
Reece and the others followed.

Behind
Thor, the twins, Conval and Conven, carried their prize possession, the boar,
bigger than anyone else’s, on a long pole over their shoulders. They had to set
it down outside the tavern doors before coming in. Thor took a last glance back;
it looked so fierce, it was hard to conceive they had killed it.

Thor
felt a squirm inside his jacket and looked down to see his new companion,
Krohn. He could hardly believe he was actually carrying a white leopard pup. It
stared up at him with its crystal blue eyes and squeaked. Thor sensed he was
hungry.

Thor
was jostled inside the alehouse, dozens more men streaming in behind him, and
he proceeded deeper into the small, crowded place, which must have been twenty
degrees warmer in here—not to mention more humid. He followed Erec and
Kendrick, and in turn was followed by Reece, Elden, the twins, and O’Connor,
whose arm was bandaged from the boar’s slice, but had finally stopped bleeding.
O’Connor seemed more dazed than hurt. His good spirits had returned, and their
whole group shuffled deep into the room.

It
was packed shoulder to shoulder, so tight that there was barely room to even
turn. There were long benches, and some men stood, while others sat, singing
drinking songs and banging their tankards into their friends’, or banging them
on the table. It was a rowdy, festive environment, and Thor had never seen
anything like it.

“First
time in an alehouse?” Elden asked, practically shouting to be heard.

Thor
nodded back, feeling like a rube once again.

“I
bet you’ve never even had a tankard of ale, have you?” asked Conven, clapping
him on the shoulder with a laugh.

“Of
course I have,” Thor shot back defensively.

He
was blushing, though, and hoped no one could tell, because, in fact, he had never
truly had ale, aside from the small sip at the wedding. His father had never
allowed ale in the house. And even if he did, he was sure he couldn’t afford
it.

“Very
good then!” cried out Conval. “Bartender, give us a round of your strongest.
Thor here is an old pro!”

One
of the twins put down a gold coin. Thor was amazed at the money these boys
carried; he wondered what family they hailed from. That coin could have lasted
his family a month back in his village.

A
moment later a dozen tankards of foaming ale were slid across the bar, and the
boys pushed their way through and grabbed them; a cask got shoved into Thor’s
hand. The foam dripped over the side of his hand, and his stomach twisted in
anticipation. He was nervous.

“To
our hunt!” Reece called out.

“TO
OUR HUNT!” the others echoed.

Thor
followed the others, trying to act natural as he raised the foaming liquid to
his lips. He took a sip, and hated the taste, but saw the others gulping theirs
down, not removing them from their lips until they finished. Thor felt obliged
to do the same, or else look like a coward. He forced himself to drink it,
gulping it down as fast he could, until finally, halfway through, he set it
down, coughing.

The
others looked at him, and roared with laughter. Elden clapped him on the back.

“It
is your first time, isn’t it?” he asked.

Thor
reddened as he wiped foam from his lips. Luckily, before he could reply, there
came a shout in the room, and they all turned to see several musicians shove
their way in. They started playing on lutes and flutes, clanging cymbals, and
the rowdy atmosphere heightened.

“My
brother!” came a voice.

Thor
turned to see a boy a few years older than him, with a small belly yet broad
shoulders, unshaven, looking somewhat slovenly, step forward and embrace Reece
in an awkward hug. He was joined by three companions, who seemed equally
slovenly.

“I
never thought I’d find you here!” he added.

“Well,
once in a while I need to follow in my brother’s footsteps, don’t I?” Reece
shouted back with a smile. “Thor, do you know my brother, Godfrey?”

Godfrey
turned and shook Thor’s hand, and Thor could not help but notice how smooth and
plump it was. It was not a warrior’s hand.

“Of
course I know the newcomer,” Godfrey said, leaning in too close and slurring
his words. “The whole kingdom is alive with talk of him. A fine warrior I hear,”
he said to Thor. “Too bad. What a waste of a talent for the alehouse!”

Godfrey
leaned back and roared with laughter, and his three companions joined him. One
of them, a head taller than the others, with a huge belly, bright red cheeks,
and flush with drink, leaned forward and clamped a hand on Thor’s shoulder.

“Bravery
is a fine trait. But it sends you to the battlefield, and keeps you cold. Being
a drunk is a better trait: it keeps you safe and warm—and assures a warm lady
by your side!”

He
roared with laughter, as did the others, and the bartender set down fresh
tankards of ale for all of them. Thor hoped he wouldn’t be asked to drink; he
could already feel the ale rushing to his head.

“It
was his first hunt today!” Reece yelled out to his brother.

“Was
it then?” Godfrey replied. “Well then that calls for a drink, doesn’t it?”

“Or
two!” his tall friend echoed.

Thor
looked down as another cup was shoved into his palm.

“To
firsts!” Godfrey called out.

“TO
FIRSTS!” the others echoed.

“May
your life be filled with firsts,” the tall one echoed, “except for the first
time being sober!”

They
all roared with laughter as they drank.

Thor
sipped his, then tried to get away with lowering it—but Godfrey caught him.

“That’s
not the way you drink it, boy!” Godfrey yelled. He stepped forward, grabbed the
tankard, put it to Thor’s lips, and the men all laughed as Thor gulped it down.
He set it down, empty, and they cheered.

Thor
felt lightheaded. He was beginning to feel out of control, and it was harder to
focus. He didn’t like the feeling.

Thor
felt another squirm in his shirt, as Krohn reared his head.

“Well,
what have we here!” Godfrey shouted in delight.

“It’s
a leopard cub,” Thor said.

“We
found it on the hunt,” Reece added.

“He’s
hungry,” Thor said. “I’m not sure what to feed him.”

“Why,
of course, ale!” the tall man yelled.

“Really?”
Thor asked. “Is that healthy for him?”

“Of
course!” Godfrey yelled. “It is just hops, boy!”

Godfrey
reached out, dipped his finger into the foam, and held it out; Krohn leaned
forward and licked it up. He licked again and again.

“See,
he likes it!”

Godfrey
suddenly retracted his finger with a scream. He held it up and showed blood.

“Sharp
teeth on that one!” he yelled out—and the others all broke into laughter.

Thor
reached down, stroked Krohn’s head, and tilted the remnant of his drink into
the leopard’s mouth. Krohn lapped it up, and Thor resolved to find him real
food. He hoped Kolk would let him stay in the barracks and that none of the
Legion would object.

The
musicians changed their song, and several more friends of Godfrey’s appeared.
They came over, joined them in a fresh round of drinks, and led Godfrey away,
back into the crowd.

“I
will see you later, young man,” Godfrey said to Reece, before leaving. Then he
turned to Thor: “Hopefully you’ll spend more time in the alehouse!”

“Hopefully
you’ll spend more time on the battlefield,” Kendrick called back.

“I
very much doubt that!” Godfrey said and roared with laughter with the rest of
his compatriots, as he disappeared into the crowd.

“Do
they always celebrate like this?” Thor asked Reece.

“Godfrey?
He’s been in the alehouse since he could walk. A disappointment to my father.
But he’s happy with himself.”

“No,
I mean the King’s men. The Legion. Is there always a trip to the alehouse?”

Reece
shook his head.

“Today
is a special day. The first hunt, and the summer solstice. This doesn’t happen
that often. Enjoy it while it does.”

Thor
was feeling increasingly disoriented as he looked around the room. This was not
where he wanted to be. He wanted to be back in the barracks, training. And his
thoughts drifted, once again, to Gwendolyn.

“Did
you get a good look at him?” Kendrick asked, as he came up to Thor.

Thor
looked at him, puzzled.

“The
man in the woods, who shot the arrow?” Kendrick added.

The
others crowded around close, trying to hear as the mood grew serious.

Thor
tried again to remember, but he could not. Everything was fuzzy.

“I
wish I did,” he said. “It all happened so fast.”

“Maybe
it was just one of the King’s other men, shooting in our direction by accident,”
O’Connor said.

Thor
shook his head.

“He
wasn’t dressed like the others. He wore all black, and a cloak and hood. And he
only shot one arrow, aimed right for Kendrick, then disappeared. I’m sorry. I
wish I saw more.”

Kendrick
shook his head, trying to think.

“Who
would want you dead?” Reece asked Kendrick.

“Was
it an assassin?” O’Connor asked.

Kendrick
shrugged. “I have no enemies that I know of.”

“But
Father has many,” Reece said. “Maybe someone wants to kill you to get to him.”

“Or
maybe someone wants you out of the way for the throne,” Elden postulated.

“But
that’s absurd! I’m illegitimate! I cannot inherit the throne!”

While
they all shook their heads, sipping their ale and trying to figure it out,
there came another shout in the room, and all the men’s attention turned toward
the staircase leading upstairs. Thor looked up and saw a string of women walk
out of an upper hallway, stand by a banister, and look down at the room. They
were all scantily dressed and wore too much makeup.

Thor
blushed.

“Well,
hello, men!” called the lady in front, with a large bosom and wearing a red
lace outfit.

The
men cheered.

“Who’s
got money to spend tonight?” she asked.

The
men cheered again.

Thor’s
eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Is
this also a brothel?” he asked.

The
others turned and looked at him in stunned silence, then all broke into
laughter.

“My
God, you are naïve, aren’t you!” Conval said.

“Tell
me you’ve never been to a brothel?” Conven said.

“I
bet he’s never been with a woman!” Elden said.

Thor
felt them all looking at him, and he felt his face turn red as a beet. He
wanted to disappear. They were right: he had never been with a woman. But he
would never tell them that. He wondered if it was obvious from his face.

Before
he could respond, one of the twins reached up, clasped a firm hand on his back,
and threw a gold coin up to the woman on the stairs.

“I
believe you have your first customer!” he yelled.

The
room cheered, and Thor, despite his pushing and pulling and resisting, felt
himself shoved forward by dozens of men, through the crowd and up the
staircase. As he went, his mind filled with thoughts of Gwen. Of how much he
loved her. Of how he didn’t want to be with anyone else.

He
wanted to turn and run. But there was literally no escape. Dozens of the
biggest men he had ever seen shoved him forward, and did not allow retreat.
Before he knew it, he was up the steps, on the landing, staring at a woman
taller than he, who wore too much perfume and smiled down at him. Making
matters worse, Thor was drunk. The room was positively spinning out of control,
and he felt that in another moment he would collapse.

The
woman reached down, pulled Thor’s shirt, led him firmly into a room, and
slammed the door behind them. Thor was determined not to be with her. He
held in his mind thoughts of Gwen, forcing them to the front. This was not how
he wanted his first experience to be.

But
his mind was not listening. He was so drunk, he could barely see now. And the
last thing he remembered, before he blacked out, was being led across the room,
toward a lady’s bed, and hoping he made it before he hit the floor.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

MacGil peeled open his eyes, awakened by
the relentless pounding on his door, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head
was splitting. Harsh sunlight shone in through the open castle window, and he
realized his face was planted in his sheepskin blanket. Disoriented, he tried
to remember. He was home, in his castle. He tried to summon the night before.
He remembered the hunt. Then an alehouse in the woods. Drinking way too much.
Somehow, he must have made it back here.

He looked over and saw his wife, the
Queen, sleeping beside him under the covers and slowly rousing.

The pounding came again, the awful noise
of an iron knocker slamming.

“Who could that be?” she asked, annoyed.

MacGil was wondering the same thing. He
specifically remembered leaving instructions with his servants not to wake
him—especially after the hunt. There’d be hell to pay for this.

It was probably his steward, with
another petty financial matter.

“Stop that bloody banging!” MacGil
finally bellowed, rolling out of bed, sitting with his elbows on his knees,
hand in his head. He ran his hands through his unwashed hair and beard, then
over his face, trying to wake himself up. The hunt—and the ale—had taken a lot
out of him. He wasn’t as limber as he used to be. The years had taken their
toll; he was exhausted. At this moment, he felt like never drinking again.

With a supreme effort he pushed himself up
off his knees and to his feet. Dressed only in his robe, he quickly crossed the
room and finally reached the door, a foot thick, grabbing the iron handle and
yanking it back.

Standing there was his greatest general,
Brom, flanked by two lieutenants. The lieutenants lowered their heads in
deference, but his general stared right at him, a grim look on his face. MacGil
hated it when he wore that look. It always meant somber news. It was at moments
like these that he hated being King. He had had such a good day yesterday, a
great hunt, and it had reminded him of when he was young and carefree.
Especially wasting the night away like that in the alehouse. Now, to be rudely
awakened like this, it took away any illusion of peace he had had.

“My liege, I am sorry to wake you,” Brom
said.

“You should be sorry,” MacGil growled. “This
better be important.”

“It is,” he said.

King MacGil spotted the seriousness of
his face, and turned and checked back over his shoulder for his Queen. She had
gone back to sleep.

MacGil gestured for them to enter, then
led them across his vast bedroom and through another arched door, to a side
chamber, shutting the door behind them so as not to disturb her. He sometimes
used this smaller room, no greater than twenty paces in each direction, with a
few comfortable chairs and a big stained-glass window, when he didn’t feel like
going down to the Great Hall.

“My liege, our spies have told us of a
McCloud contingent of men riding east, for the Fabian Sea. And our scouts in
the south report a caravan of Empire ships heading north. Surely they must be
heading there to meet the McClouds.”

MacGil tried to process this
information, his brain moving too slowly in his drunken state.

“And?” he prodded, impatient, tired. He
was so exhausted by the endless machinations and speculations and subterfuges
of his court.

“If the McClouds are truly meeting with
the Empire, there can only be one purpose,” Brom continued. “To conspire to
breach the Canyon and overthrow the Ring.”

MacGil looked up at his old commander, a
man whom he had fought alongside for thirty years, and could see the deadly
seriousness in his eyes. He could also see fear. That disturbed him; this was
not a man he had ever seen fear anything.

MacGil slowly rose to his full height,
which was still considerable, and turned and walked across the room until he
reached the window. He looked out, surveying his court below, empty in the
early morning, and pondered. He knew, all along, that one day a day like this
would come. He just had not expected it to come so soon.

“That was quick,” he said. “It’s been
but days since I married off my daughter to their prince. And now you think
they already conspire to overthrow us?”

“I do, my liege,” Brom responded
sincerely. “I see no other reason. All indications are it is a peaceful
meeting. Not a military one.”

MacGil slowly shook his head.

“But it does not make sense. They could
not let the Empire in. Why would they? Even if for some reason they managed to
help lower the Shield on our side and open a breach, then what would happen?
The Empire would overwhelm them as well. They would not be safe, either.
Surely, they know this.”

“Maybe they are going to strike a deal,”
Brom retorted. “Maybe they will let the Empire in, in return for their
attacking us only, so that the McClouds can control the Ring.”

MacGil shook his head.

“The McClouds are too smart for that.
They are crafty. They know that the Empire cannot be trusted.”

His general shrugged.

“Maybe they want control of the Ring so
badly, they are willing to take that chance. Especially now that they have your
daughter as their Queen.”

MacGil thought about this. His head was
pounding. He did not want to deal with this now. Not so early in the morning.

“So then what do you propose?” he asked,
short with him, tired of all the speculation.

“We could preempt this, sire, and attack
the McClouds. The time is now.”

MacGil gaped at him.

“Right after I gave my daughter to them
in a wedding? I don’t think so.”

“If we don’t,” Brom countered, “we allow
them to dig our grave. Surely they will attack us. If not now, then later. And
if they join with the empire, we would be finished.”

“They cannot cross the Highlands so
easily. We control all the choke points. It would be a slaughter. Even with the
Empire in tow.”

“The Empire have millions of men to
spare,” Brom responded. “They can afford to be slaughtered.”

“Even with the Shield down,” MacGil
said, “it would not be so easy to just march millions of soldiers across the
Canyon—or across the Highlands, or to approach by ship. We would spot such
mobilization far in advance. We would have warning.”

MacGil thought.

“No, we will not attack. But for now, we
can take a prudent step: double our patrols at the Highlands. Strengthen our
fortifications. And double our spies. That will be all.”

“Yes, my liege,” Brom said, turning and
hurrying from the room with his lieutenants.

MacGil turned back to the window, his
head pounding. He sensed war on the horizon, coming at him with the
inevitability of a winter storm. He sensed, further, that there was nothing he
could do about it. He looked all around him, at his castle, at the stone, at
the pristine royal court spread out beneath him, and could not help but wonder
how long all this would last.

What he would give for another drink.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

Thor felt a foot nudging him in his ribs
and slowly peeled opened his eyes. He lay face down on a mound of straw, and
for a moment had no idea where he was. His head felt like it weighed a million
pounds, his throat was drier than it had ever been, and his eyes and head were
killing him. He felt as if he’d fallen off a horse.

He was nudged again, and as he sat up,
the room spun violently. He leaned over and threw up, gagging again and again.

A chorus of laughter erupted all around
him, and he looked up to see Reece, O’Connor, Elden, and the twins hovering
close by, looking down.

“Finally, sleeping beauty wakes!” Reece
called out, smiling.

“We didn’t think you’d ever rise,” O’Connor
said.

“Are you okay?” Elden asked.

Thor sat up, wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand, trying to process it all. As he did, Krohn, lying a few feet
away, whimpered and ran over to him, jumping into his arms and burying his head
in his shirt. Thor was relieved to see him, and happy to have him at his side.
He tried to remember.

“Where am I?” Thor asked. “What happened
last night?”

The three of them laughed.

“I’m afraid you had one drink too many,
my friend. Someone can’t hold his ale. Don’t you remember? The alehouse?”

Thor closed his eyes, rubbed his
temples, and tried to bring it all back. It came in flashes. He remembered the
hunt…entering the alehouse…the drinks. He remembered being led upstairs…the
brothel. After that, it was all black.

His heart quickened as he thought of
Gwendolyn. Had he done anything stupid with that girl? Had he ruined his
chances with Gwen?

“What happened?” he pressed Reece,
serious, as he clasped his wrist. “Please, tell me. Tell me I didn’t do
anything with that woman.”

The others laughed, but Reece stared
back at his friend earnestly, realizing how upset he was.

“Don’t worry, friend,” he answered. “You
did nothing at all. Except for throw up and collapse on her floor!”

The others laughed again.

“So much for your first time,” Elden
said.

But Thor felt deeply relieved. He had
not alienated Gwen.

“Last time I buy you a woman!” said Conval.

“Perfectly good waste of money,” said Conven.
“She wouldn’t even return it!”

The boys laughed again. Thor was
humiliated, but relieved he had not ruined anything.

He took Reece’s arm and pulled him
aside.

“Your sister,” he whispered, urgently. “She
doesn’t know about any of this, does she?”

Reece broke into a slow smile as he put
an arm around Thor’s shoulder.

“Your secret is safe with me, even
though you didn’t do anything. She doesn’t know. And I can see how deeply you
care for her, and I appreciate that,” he said, his face morphing into a serious
expression. “I can see now that you really do care for her. If you had gone
whoring, that would not be the kind of brother-in-law I would want. In fact, I
have been asked to deliver you this message.”

Reece shoved a small scroll into Thor’s
palm, and Thor looked down, confused. He saw the royal stamp on it, the pink
paper, and he knew. His heart quickened.

“From my sister,” Reece added.

“Whoa!” came a chorus of voices.

“Someone’s got a love letter!” O’Connor
said.

“Read it to us!” Elden yelled.

The others chimed in with laughter.

But Thor, wanting privacy, hurried off
to the side of the barracks, away from the others. His head was splitting, and
the room still spun—but he didn’t care anymore. He unrolled the delicate
parchment and read the note with trembling hands.

“Meet me at Forest Ridge at midday. Don’t
be late. And don’t call attention to yourself.”

Thor stuffed the note into his pocket.

“What does it say, lover boy?” Conven
called out.

Thor hurried over to Reece, knowing he
could trust him.

“The Legion has no exercises today,
right?” Thor asked.

Reece shook his head. “Of course not. It’s
a holiday.”

“Where is Forest Ridge?” Thor asked.

Reece smiled. “Ah, Gwen’s favorite
place,” he said. “Take the eastern road out of the court and stay right. Climb
the hill, and it begins after the second knoll.”

Thor looked at Reece.

“Please, I don’t want anyone to know.”

Reece smiled.

“I’m sure she does not either. If my
mother found out, she would kill you both. She would lock my sister in her
room, and exile you to the southern end of the kingdom.”

Thor gulped at the thought of it.

“Really?” he asked

Reece nodded back.

“She doesn’t like you. I don’t know why,
but her mind is set. Go quickly, and don’t tell a soul. And don’t worry,” he
said, clasping his hand. “I won’t either.”

*

Thor walked quickly in the early
morning, Krohn scampering beside him, trying his best not to be seen. He
followed Reece’s directions as best he could, repeating them in his head as he
hurried past the outskirts of the royal court, up a small hill, and along the
edge of a thick forest. To his left, the ground fell off below him, leaving him
walking on a narrow trail on the edge of a steep ridge, a cliff to his left,
and the forest to his right. Forest Ridge. She had told him to meet her there.
Was she serious? Or was she just playing with him?

Was that prissy royal, Alton, right? Was
Thor just entertainment for her? Would she tire of him soon? He hoped, more
than anything, that that was not the case. He wanted to believe her feelings
for him were genuine; yet he still had a hard time conceiving how that could be
the case. She barely knew him. And she was royalty. What interest could she
possibly have in him? Not to mention that she was a year or two older, and he
had never had an older girl take an interest in him; in fact, he had never had any
girl take an interest in him. Not that there were many girls to choose from in
his small village.

Thor had never thought about girls that
much. He hadn’t been raised with any sisters, and there were few girls his age
in his village. At his age, none of the other boys seemed too concerned. Most
of the boys seemed to wed around their eighteenth year, in arranged
marriages—really, more like business arrangements. Men of high rank who weren’t
married off by their twenty-fifth year reached their Selection Day: they were
obligated to either choose a bride or go out and find one. But that did not
apply to Thor. He was of poor means, and people of his rank usually were just
married off in ways that benefited the families. It was like trading cattle.

But when Thor had seen Gwendolyn, all
that had changed. For the first time, he had been struck by something, a
feeling so deep and strong and urgent it allowed him to think of nothing else. Each
time he’d seen her, that feeling deepened. He hardly understood it, but it
pained him to be away from her.

Thor doubled his pace along the ridge,
looking for her everywhere, wondering exactly where she would meet him—or if
she would meet him at all. The first sun grew higher and the first bead of
sweat formed on his forehead. He still felt ill and queasy from the effects of
the night before. As the sun grew even higher, and his search for her was
proving futile, he began to wonder if she was really going to meet him at all.
He also began to wonder just how much danger he was putting them in. If her
mother, the Queen, really was so against this, would she truly have him
deported from the kingdom? From the Legion? From everything he’d come to know
and love? Then what would he do?

As he thought about it, he decided it
was still all worth it, for the chance to be with her. He was willing to risk
it all for that chance. He only hoped he wasn’t being made a fool of, or
rushing to any premature conclusions about how strong her feelings were for
him.

“Were you just going to walk right by
me?” came a voice, followed by a giggle.

Thor jumped, caught off guard, then
stopped and turned. Standing in the shade of a huge pine tree, smiling back,
was Gwendolyn. His heart lifted at that smile. He could see the love in her
eyes, and all his worries and fears instantly melted away. He chided himself
for how he could have been so stupid to ever second-guess her intentions.

Krohn squeaked at the sight of her.

“And what do have we here?!” she cried
out in delight.

She knelt down and Krohn came running to
her, leaping into her arms with a whimper; she picked him up and held him,
caressing him.

“He’s so cute!” she said, hugging him
tightly. He licked her face. She giggled and kissed him back.

“And what’s your name, little fellow?”
she asked.

“Krohn,” Thor said. Finally, this time,
he was not as tongue-tied as before.

“Krohn,” she echoed, looking into the
cub’s eyes. “And is it every day that you travel with a leopard friend?” she
asked Thor with a laugh.

“I found him,” Thor said, feeling
self-conscious beside her, as he always did. “In the wood—on the hunt. Your
brother said I should keep him, because I found him. That it was destined.”

She looked at him, and her expression
became serious.

“Well, he is right. Animals are very
sacred things. You don’t find them. They find you.”

“I hope you don’t mind if he joins us,”
Thor said.

She giggled.

“I would be sad if he didn’t,” she
answered.

She looked both ways, as if to make sure
no one was watching, then reached out, grabbed Thor’s hand, and pulled him into
the wood.

“Let’s go,” she whispered. “Before
someone spots us.”

Thor was exhilarated at the feel of her
touch, as she guided him onto the forest trail. They headed quickly into the
woods, the path twisting and turning amidst the huge pines. She let go of his
hand, but he did not forget the feel of it.

He was beginning to feel more confident
that she actually liked him, and it was obvious she did not want to be spotted,
either, probably by her mother. Clearly she took this seriously, because she
had something to risk by seeing him, too.

Then again, Thor thought, maybe she just
didn’t want to be spotted by Alton—or by any other boys she might be with.
Maybe Alton had been right. Maybe she was ashamed to be seen with Thor.

Thor felt all these mixed emotions swirl
within him.

“Cat has your tongue, does it?” she
asked, finally breaking the silence.

Thor felt torn; he didn’t want to risk
messing things up by telling her what was on his mind—but at the same time he
felt like he needed to put all his worries to rest. He needed to know where she
really stood. He could contain it no longer.

“When I left you last time, I ran into Alton. He confronted me.”

Gwendolyn’s expression darkened, her
high spirits suddenly ruined—and Thor immediately felt guilty he had brought it
up. He cherished her good nature, her joy, and wished he could take it back. He
wanted to stop, but it was too late. There was no turning back now.

“And what did he say?” she said, her
voice dropping.

“He told me to stay away from you. He
told me you didn’t really care about me. He told me I was just amusement for
you. That you would tire of me in a day or two. He also said you and he were
set to be wed, and that your marriage was already arranged.”

Gwendolyn let out an angry, mocking
laugh.

“Did he then?” she snorted. “That boy is
the most arrogant, unbearable little pip,” she added, angry. “He’s been a thorn
in my side since the time I could walk. Just because our parents are cousins,
he thinks he’s part of the royal family. I’ve never met anyone so entitled who
deserved it less. Making things worse, he’s got it into his head somehow that
the two of us are destined to wed. As if I would just go along with whatever my
parents forced me to do. Never. And certainly not with him. I can’t stand the
sight of him.”

Thor felt so relieved at her words, he
felt a million pounds lighter; he felt like singing from the treetops. It was
exactly what he had needed to hear. Now he felt sorry he had darkened their
mood all over nothing. But he wasn’t completely satisfied yet; he noticed she
still hadn’t said anything about whether she truly liked him, Thor.

“As far as you are concerned,”
she said, stealing a glance him, then looking away. “I barely know you. I hardly
need to be pressed to commit my feelings now. But I would say that I don’t
think I would be spending time with you if I hated you that much. Of course it
is my right to change my mind as I wish, and I can be fickle—but not when it
comes to love.”

That was all Thor needed. He was
impressed by her seriousness, and even more impressed by her choice of word: “love.”
He felt restored.

“And incidentally, I might also ask the
same of you,” she said, turning the tables. “In fact, I think I have a lot more
to lose than you do. After all, I am royalty, and you are commoner. I am older
and you are younger. Don’t you think I should be the one who is more guarded?
Whispers come to me in the court of your agenda, your social climbing, of your
just using me, being hungry for rank. Your wanting favor with the King. Should
I believe all this?”

Thor was horrified.

“No, my lady! Never. These things never
even entered my mind. I’m with you only because I cannot think of being
anywhere else. Only because I want to be. Only because when I’m not with
you, I think of nothing else.”

A small smile played at the corner of
her mouth, and he could see her expression starting to lighten.

“You are new here,” she said. “You are
new to King’s Court, to royal life. You need time to see how things really
work. Here, nobody means what they say. Everyone has an agenda. Everyone is
angling for power—or rank or wealth or riches or titles. No one can ever be
taken for face value. Everyone has their own spies, and factions, and agendas.
When Alton told you that my marriage has already been arranged, for instance,
what he was really doing was trying to find out how close you and I are. He is
threatened. And he might be reporting to someone. For him, marriage doesn’t
mean love. It means a union. Purely for financial gain, for rank. For property.
In our royal court, nothing is what it seems.”

Suddenly, Krohn sprinted past them, down
the forest trail and into a clearing.

Gwen looked at Thor and giggled; she
reached out, grabbed his hand, and ran with him.

“Come on!” she yelled, excited.

The two of them ran down the trail and
burst into the huge clearing, laughing. Thor was taken aback by the sight: it
was a beautiful forest meadow filled with wildflowers of every possible color
up to their knees. Birds and butterflies of every color and size danced and
flew in the air, and the meadow was alive with the sound of chirping. The sun
shone down brilliantly, and it felt like a secret place, hidden here in the
midst of this tall dark wood.

“Have you ever played Hangman’s Blind?”
she asked with a laugh.

Thor shook his head, and before he could
respond, she took a handkerchief from her neck, reached up, and wrapped it over
Thor’s eyes, tying it behind him. He couldn’t see, and she giggled loudly in
his ear.

“You’re it!” she said.

Then he heard her run away in the grass.

He smiled.

“But what do I do?” he called out.

“Find me!” she called back.

Her voice was already far away.

Thor, blindfolded, began to run after
her, tripping as he went. He listened carefully to the rustle of her dress,
trying to follow her direction. It was hard, and he ran with his hands out
before him, thinking always that he might run into a tree, even though he knew
it was an open meadow. Within moments, he was disoriented, and felt as if he were
running in circles.

But he continued to listen, hearing the
sound of her giggle far away, and kept adjusting, running for it. Sometimes it
seemed to get closer, then farther. He was beginning to feel dizzy.

He heard Krohn running beside him,
yelping, and he listened instead to Krohn, following his footsteps. As he did,
Gwyn’s giggle got louder, and Thor realized that Krohn was leading him to her.
He was amazed at how smart Krohn was, to join in their game.

Soon, he could hear her just feet away
from him; he chased her, zigzagging every which way through the field. He
reached out, and she screamed in delight as he caught the corner of her dress.
As he grabbed her, he tripped, and the two of them went crashing down into the
soft field. He spun at the last second, so that he would fall first and she on
top of him, cushioning her fall.

As Thor landed on the ground, Gwen on
top of him, she screamed out in surprise. She was still giggling as she reached
up and pulled back the kerchief.

Thor’s heart was pounding as he saw her
face just inches from his. He felt the weight of her body on his, in her thin
summer dress, felt every contour of her body. The full weight of her pressed
down on him, and she made no move to resist. She was staring into his eyes,
their breathing shallow, and she did not look away. He did not either. Thor’s
heart pounded so fast, he was having a hard time focusing.

Suddenly, she leaned in and planted her
lips on his. They were softer than he could possibly imagine, and as they met,
for the first time in his life, he felt truly alive.

He closed his eyes, and she closed hers,
and they did not move, their lips meeting for he did not know how long. He
wanted to freeze this time.

Finally, slowly, she pulled away. She
still smiled, as she slowly opened her eyes, and she still lay there, her body
on his.

They lay like that for a long time,
staring into each other’s eyes.

“Where did you come from?” she asked,
softly, smiling.

He smiled back. He did not know how to
answer.

“I’m just a regular boy,” he said.

She shook her head and smiled.

“No you are not. I can sense it. I
suspect you are far, far more than that.”

She leaned in and kissed him again, and
his lips met hers, this time, for a much longer time. He reached up and ran his
hand through her hair, and she ran hers through his. He could not stop his mind
from racing.

He already wondered how this would end.
Could they possibly be together, with all the forces between them? Was it
possible for them to really be a couple?

Thor hoped, more than anything in his
life, that they could. He wanted to be with her now, even more than he wanted
to be in the Legion.

As he was thinking these thoughts, there
came a sudden rustling in the grass, and the two of them, startled, turned. Krohn
leapt through the grass, just feet away, and there came another rustling noise.
Krohn yelped, then growled—then there came a hissing noise. Finally, it was
quiet.

Gwen rolled off Thor as they both sat up
and looked. Thor jumped to his feet, protective of Gwen, wondering what it
could be. He didn’t see anyone. But someone—or something—must be there, just
feet away, in the tall grass.

Krohn appeared before them, and in his
mouth, in his small, razor-sharp teeth, there dangled a huge, limp white snake.
It must have been ten feet long, its skin a brilliant, shining white, as thick
as a large tree branch.

Thor realized in an instant what had
happened: Krohn had spared the two of them from an attack by this deadly
reptile. His heart rushed with gratitude for the cub.

Gwen gasped.

“A Whiteback,” she said. “The most
lethal reptile in the entire kingdom.”

Thor stared at it in awe.

“I thought this snake did not exist. I
thought it was just a legend.”

“It is very rare,” Gwen said. “I’ve only
see one in my lifetime. The day my father’s father was killed. It is an omen.”

She turned and looked at Thor.

“It means death is coming. The death of
someone very close.”

Thor felt a chill on his spine. A sudden
cold breeze ran through the meadow on this summer day, and he knew, with
absolute certainty, that she was right.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

Gwendolyn
walked alone through the castle, taking the spiral staircase, twisting and
turning her way to the top. Her mind raced with thoughts of Thor. Of their
walk. Of their kiss. And then, of that snake.

She
burned with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she had been elated to be
with him; on the other, she was terror-stricken by that snake, by the omen of
death it brought. But she did not know for whom, and she could not get that out
of her mind either. She feared it was for someone in her family. Could it be
one of her brothers? Godfrey? Kendrick? Could it be her mother? Or, she
shuddered to even think, her father?

The
sight of that snake had cast a somber shadow on their joyous day, and once
their mood had been shattered, they had been unable to get it back. They had
made their way back together to the court, parting ways right before they came
out of the woods, so they would not be seen. The last thing she wanted was for
her mother to catch them together. But Gwen would not give up Thor so easily,
and she would find a way to combat her mother; she needed time to figure out
her strategy.

It
had been painful to part with Thor; thinking back on it, she felt bad. She had
meant to ask him if he would see her again, had meant to make a plan for
another day. But she had been in a daze, so distraught by the sight of that
snake that she had forgotten. Now she worried that he thought she didn’t care
for him.

The
second she had arrived at King’s Court, her father’s servants had summoned her.
She had been ascending the steps ever since, her heart beating, wondering why
he wanted to see her. Had she had been spotted with Thor? There could be no
other reason her father wanted to see her so urgently. Was he, too, going to
forbid her to see him? She could hardly imagine that he would. He had always
taken her side.

Gwen,
nearly out of breath, finally reached the top. She hurried down the corridor, past
the attendants who snapped to attention and opened the door for her to her
father’s chamber. Two more servants, waiting inside, bowed at her presence.

“Leave
us,” her father said to them.

They
bowed and hurried from the room, closing the door behind them with a
reverberating echo.

Her
father rose from his desk, a big smile on his face, and ventured toward her
across the vast chamber. She felt at ease, as she always did, at the sight of
him, and felt relieved to see no anger in his expression.

“My
Gwendolyn,” he said.

He
held out his arms and embraced her in a big hug. She embraced him back, and he
directed her to two huge chairs, placed on an angle beside the roaring fire.
Several large dogs, wolfhounds, most of whom she had known since childhood, got
out of their way as they walked toward the fire. Two of them followed her, and
rested their heads in her lap. She was glad for the fire: it had become
unusually cold for a summer day.

Her
father leaned in toward the fire, staring at the flames as they crackled before
them.

“You
know why I have summoned you?” he asked.

She
searched his face, but still was not sure.

“I
do not, Father.”

He
looked back in surprise.

“Our
discussion the other day. With your siblings. About the kingship. That is what
I wanted to discuss with you.”

Gwen’s
heart soared with relief. This was not about Thor. It was about politics.
Stupid politics, which she could not care less about. She sighed in relief.

“You
look relieved,” he said. “What did you think we were going to discuss?”

Her
father was too perceptive; he always had been. He was one of the few people who
could read her like a book. She had to be careful around him.

“Nothing,
Father,” she said quickly.

He
smiled again.

“So,
then, tell me. What do you think of my choice?” he asked.

“Choice?”
she asked.

“For
my heir! To the kingdom!”

“You
mean me?” she asked.

“Who
else?” he laughed.

She
blushed.

“Father,
I was surprised, to say the least. I am not the firstborn. And I am a woman. I
know nothing of politics. And care nothing for them—or for ruling a kingdom. I
have no political ambition. I do not know why you chose me.”

“It
is precisely for those reasons,” he said, his expression deadly serious. “It is
because you don’t aspire to the throne. You don’t want the kingship. And you
know nothing of politics.”

He
took a deep breath.

“But
you know human nature. You are very perceptive. You got it from me. You have
your mother’s quick wit, but my skill with people. You know how to judge them;
you can see right through them. And that is what a king needs. To know the
nature of others. There is nothing more you need. All else is artifice. Know
who your people are. Understand them. Trust your instincts. Be good to them.
This is all.”

“Surely,
there must be more to ruling a kingdom than that,” she said.

“Not
really,” he said. “It all stems from that. Decisions stem from that.”

“But
Father, you are forgetting that, first, I have no desire to rule, and second,
you’re not going to die. This is all just a silly tradition, linked to your
eldest’s wedding day. Why dwell on this? I’d rather not even speak of it, or
think of it. I hope the day should never come when I see you pass—so this is
all irrelevant.”

He
cleared his throat, looking grave.

“I
have spoken to Argon, and he sees a dark future for me. I have felt it myself.
I must prepare,” he said.

Gwen
felt her stomach tighten.

“Argon
is a fool. A sorcerer. Half of what he says doesn’t come to pass. Ignore him.
Don’t give in to his silly omens. You are fine. You will live forever.”

But
he slowly shook his head, and she could see the sadness in his face, and she
felt her stomach tighten even more.

“Gwendolyn,
my daughter, I love you. I need you to be prepared. I want you to be the next
ruler of the Ring. I am serious in what I say. It is not a request. It is a
command.”

He
looked at her with such seriousness, his eyes darkening, it scared her. She had
never seen that look on her father’s face before.

She
felt her eyes well, and reached up and brushed away a tear.

“I
am sorry to have upset you,” he said.

“Then
stop talking of this,” she said, crying. “I don’t want you to die.”

“I
am sorry, but I cannot. I need you to answer me.”

“Father,
I do not want to insult you.”

“Then
say yes.”

“But
how can I possibly rule?” she pleaded.

“It
is not as hard as you think. You will be surrounded by advisors. The first rule
is to trust none of them. Trust yourself. You can do this. Your lack of
knowledge, your naïveté—that is what will make you great. You will make genuine
decisions. Promise me,” he insisted.

She
looked into his eyes, and saw how much this meant to him. She wanted to get off
this topic, if for no other reason than to appease his morbidity and cheer him
up.

“Okay,
I promise you,” she said in a rush. “Does that make you feel better?”

He
leaned back, and she could see him greatly relieved.

“Yes,”
he said. “Thank you.”

“Good,
now can we talk of other things? Things that might actually happen?” she asked.

Her
father leaned back and roared with laughter; he seemed a million pounds
lighter.

“That
is why I love you,” he said. “Always so happy. Always able to make me laugh.”

He
examined her, and she could sense he was searching for something.

“You
seem unusually happy yourself,” he said. “Is there a boy in the picture?”

Gwen
blushed. She stood up and walked to the window, turning from him.

“I’m
sorry, Father, but that is a private affair.”

“It
is not private if you will be ruling my kingdom,” he said. “But I won’t pry.
However, your mother has requested an audience with you, and I assume she will
not be so lenient. I will let it go. But prepare yourself.”

Her
stomach tightened, and she turned away, looking out the window. She hated this
place. She wished she were anywhere but here. In a simple village, on a simple
farm, living a simple life with Thor. Away from all of this, from all of these
forces trying to control her.

She
felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and turned to see her father standing
there, smiling down.

“Your
mother can be fierce. But whatever she decides, know that I will take your
side. In matters of love, one must be allowed to choose freely.”

Gwen
reached up and hugged her dad. At that moment, she loved him more than
anything. She tried to push the omen of that snake from her mind, praying, with
all she had, that it was not meant for her father.

*

Gwen
twisted and turned down corridor after corridor, past rows of stained glass,
heading toward her mother’s chamber. She hated being summoned by her mother,
hated her controlling ways. In many ways, her mother was really the one who
ruled the kingdom. She was stronger than her father in many ways, stood her
ground more, gave in less easily. Of course the kingdom had no idea; he put on
a strong face, seemed to be the wise one.

But
when he returned to the castle, behind closed doors, it was she whom he turned
to for advice. She was the wiser one. The colder one. The more calculating one.
The tougher one. The fearless one. She was the rock. And she ruled their large
family with an iron fist. When she wanted something, especially if she got it
into her head that it was for the good of the family, she made sure it
happened.

And
now her mother’s iron will was about to be turned toward her; she was already
bracing herself for the confrontation. She sensed it had something to do with
her romantic life, and feared she had been spotted with Thor. But she was
resolved not to back down—no matter what it took. If she had to leave this
place, she would. Her mother could put her in the dungeon for all she cared.

As
Gwen approached her mother’s chamber, the large oak door was opened by her
servants, who stepped out of the way as she entered, then closed it behind her.

Her
mother’s chamber was much smaller than her father’s, more intimate, with large
rugs and a small tea set and gaming board set up beside a roaring fire, several
delicate, yellow velvet chairs beside them. Her mother sat in one of the
chairs, her back to Gwen, even though she was expecting her. She faced the
fire, sipped her tea, and moved one of the pieces on the game board. Behind her
were two ladies-in-waiting, one tending her hair, the other tightening her
strings on the back of her dress.

“Come
in, child,” came her mother’s stern voice.

Gwen
hated when her mother did this—held court in front of her servants. She wished
she would dismiss them, like her father did when they spoke. It was the least
she could do for privacy and decency. But her mother never did. Gwen concluded
it was a power play, keeping her servants hovering around, listening, in order
to keep Gwen on edge.

Gwen
had no choice but to cross the room and take a seat in one of the velvet chairs
opposite her mother, too close to the fire. Another of her mother’s power
plays: it kept her company too warm, caught off guard by the flames.

The
Queen did not look up; rather, she stared down at her board game, pushing one
of the ivory pieces in the complex maze.

“Your
turn,” her mother said.

Gwen
looked down at the board; she was surprised her mother still had this game
going. She recalled she had the brown pieces, but she hadn’t played this game
with her mother in weeks. Her mother was an expert at Pawns—but Gwen was even
better. Her mother hated to lose, and she clearly had been analyzing this board
for quite a while, hoping to make the perfect move. Now that Gwen was here, she
made her play.

Unlike
her mother, Gwen didn’t need to study the board. She merely glanced at it and
saw the perfect move in her head. She reached up and moved one of the brown
pieces sideways, all the way across the board. It put her mother one move away
from losing.

Her
mother stared down, expressionless except for a flicker of her eyebrow, which
Gwen knew indicated dismay. Gwen was smarter, and her mother would never accept
that.

Her
mother cleared her throat, studying the board, still not looking at her.

“I
know all about your escapades with that common boy,” she said derisively. “You
defy me.” Her mother looked up at her. “Why?”

Gwen
took a deep breath, feeling her stomach tighten, trying to frame the best
response. She would not give in. Not this time.

“My
private affairs are not your business,” Gwen responded.

“Aren’t
they? They are very much my business. Your private affairs will affect
kingships. The fate of this family. Of the Ring. Your private affairs are
political—as much as you would like to forget. You are not a commoner. Nothing
is private in your world. And nothing is private from me.”

Her
mother’s voice was steely and cold, and Gwen resented every moment of this
visit. There was nothing Gwen could do but sit there and wait for her to
finish. She felt trapped.

Finally,
her mother cleared her throat.

“Since
you refuse to listen to me, I will have to make decisions for you. You will not
see that boy ever again. If you do, I will have him transferred out of the
Legion, out of King’s Court, and back to his village. Then I will have him put
in stocks—along with his whole family. He will be cast out in disgrace. And you
will never know him again.”

Her
mother looked up at her, her lower lip trembling in rage.

“Do
you understand me?”

Gwen
breathed in sharply, for the first time comprehending the evil her mother was
capable of. She hated her more than she could say. Gwen also caught the nervous
glances of the attendants. It was humiliating.

Before
she could respond, her mother continued.

“Furthermore,
in order to prevent more of your reckless behavior, I have taken steps to
arrange a rational union for you. You will be wed to Alton, on the first day of
next month. You may begin your wedding preparations now. Prepare for life as a
married woman. That is all,” her mother said dismissively, turning back to the
board as if she had just mentioned the most common of matters.

Gwen
seethed and burned inside, and wanted to scream.

“How
dare you,” Gwen said back, her rage building. “Do you think I am some puppet on
a string, to be played by you? Do you really think I will marry whomever you
tell me to?”

“I
don’t think,” her mother replied. “I know. You are my daughter, and you
answer to me. And you will marry exactly who I say you will.”

“No
I won’t!” Gwen screamed back. “And you can’t make me! Father said you can’t
make me!”

“Arranged
unions are still the right of every parent in this kingdom—and they are
certainly the right of the king and queen. Your father postures, but you know
as well as I do that he will always concede to my will. I have my ways.”

Her
mother glared at her.

“So,
you see, you will do as I say. Your marriage is happening. Nothing can stop it.
Prepare yourself.”

“I
won’t do it,” Gwen responded. “Never. And if you talk to me any more of this, I
will never speak to you again.”

Her
mother looked up and smiled at her, a cold, ugly smile.

“I
don’t care if you never speak to me. I’m your mother, not your friend. And I am
your Queen. This may very well be our last encounter together. It does not
matter. At the end of the day you will do as I say. And I will watch you from
afar, as you live out the life I plan for you.”

Her
mother turned back to her game.

“You
are dismissed,” she said with a wave of her hand, as if Gwen were another
servant.

Gwen
so boiled over with rage, she could not take it anymore. She took three steps,
marched to her mother’s game board, and threw it over with both hands, sending
the ivory pieces and the big ivory table crashing down and shattering to
pieces.

Her
mother jumped back in shock.

“I
hate you,” Gwen hissed.

With
that, Gwen turned, red-faced, and stormed from the room, brushing off the
attendants’ hands, determined to walk out on her own volition—and to never see
her mother’s face again.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

Thor walked for hours through the
winding trails of the forest, thinking about his encounter with Gwen. He could
not shake her from his mind. Their time together had been magical, way beyond
his expectations, and he no longer worried about the depth of her feelings for
him. It was the perfect day—except, of course, for what happened at the end of
their encounter.

That white snake, so rare, and such
a bad omen. It was lucky they had not been bitten. Thor looked down at Krohn,
walking loyally beside him, happy as ever, and wondered what would’ve happened
if he had not been there, had not killed the snake and saved their lives. Would
they both be dead right now? He was forever grateful to Krohn, and knew he had
a lifelong, trusted companion in him.

Yet the omen still bothered him:
that snake was exceedingly rare, and didn’t even live in this portion of the
kingdom. It lived farther south, in the marshes and swamps. How could it have
traveled so far? Why did it have to come upon them at just that moment? It was
too mystical, and he felt absolutely certain that it was a sign. Like Gwen, he
felt it was a bad omen, a harbinger of death to come. But whose?

Thor wanted to push the image
from his mind, to forget about it, to think of other things—but he could not.
It plagued him, gave him no rest. He knew he should return to the barracks, but
he had not been able to. Today was still their day off, and so instead he had
walked for hours, circling the forest trails, trying to clear his mind. He felt
certain the snake held some deep message just for him, that he was being urged
to take some action.

Making things worse, his
departure with Gwen had been abrupt. When they’d reach the forest’s edge, they
had parted ways quickly, with barely a word. She had seemed distraught. He
assumed it was because of the snake, but he could not be sure. She had made no
mention of their meeting again. Had she changed her mind about him? Had he done
something wrong?

The thought tore Thor apart. He
hardly knew what to do with himself, and he wandered in circles for hours. He
needed to talk to someone who understood these things, who could interpret
signs and omens.

Thor stopped in his tracks. Of
course. Argon. He would be perfect. He could explain it all to him, and set his
mind at ease.

Thor looked out. He was standing
at the northern end of the farthest ridge and from here had a sweeping view of
the royal city below him. He stood near a crossroads. He knew Argon lived
alone, in a stone cottage on the northern outskirts of Boulder Plains. He knew
that if he forked left, away from the city, one of these trails would lead him
there. He began his journey.

It would be a long journey, and
there was a good chance Argon would not even be there when Thor arrived. But he
had to try. He could not rest until he had answers.

Thor walked with a new bounce in
his step, walking double-time, heading toward the plains. Morning turned into
afternoon, as he walked and walked. It was a beautiful summer day, and the
light shone brilliantly on the fields all around him. Krohn bounced along at
his side, stopping every now and again to pounce on a squirrel, which he
carried triumphantly in his mouth.

The trail became steeper,
windier, and the meadows faded, giving way to a desolate landscape of rocks and
boulders. Soon, the trail, too, faded. It became colder and windier up here, as
the trees dropped away too, and the landscape turned rocky, craggy. It was eerie
up here, nothing but small rocks, dirt, and boulders as far as the eye could
see; Thor felt like he was journeying on a wasted earth. As the trail
completely disappeared, Thor found himself walking on gravel and rock.

Beside him, Krohn began to whine.
There was a creepy feeling in the air, and Thor felt it, too. It wasn’t
necessarily evil; it was just different. Like a heavy spiritual fog.

Just as Thor was beginning to
wonder if he was heading in the right direction, he spotted on the horizon,
high up on a hill, a small stone cottage. It was perfectly round, shaped as a
ring, built of black, solid stone and low to the ground. It had no windows, and
just a single door, shaped in an arch—yet with no knocker or handle. Could
Argon really live here, in this desolate place? Would he be upset that Thor had
come uninvited?

Thor was beginning to have second
thoughts, but forced himself to stay on the path. As he approached the door, he
felt the energy in the air, so thick he could hardly breathe. His heart beat
faster with trepidation as he reached out to knock with his fist.

Before he could touch it, the
door opened by itself, a crack. It looked black in there, and Thor could not
tell if only the wind had pushed it open. It was so dark, he could not see how
anyone could be inside.

Thor reached out, gently pushed
open the door, and stuck his head in.

“Hello?” he called out.

He pushed it wider. It was
completely dark in here, save for a soft glow on the far side of the dwelling.

“Hello?” he called out, louder. “Argon?”

Beside him, Krohn whined. It
seemed obvious to Thor this was a bad idea, that Argon was not at home. But
still he forced himself to look. He took two steps in, and as he did, the door
slammed closed behind him.

Thor spun, and there, standing at
the far wall, was Argon.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,”
Thor said, his heart pounding.

“You come uninvited,” Argon said.

“Forgive me,” Thor said. “I did
not mean to intrude.”

Thor looked around as his eyes
adjusted to the darkness, and saw several small candles, laid out in a circle,
around the periphery of the stone wall. The room was lit mostly by a single
shaft of light, which came in through a small, circular opening in the ceiling.
This place was overwhelming, stark and surreal.

“Few people have been here,” Argon
replied. “Of course, you would not be here now unless I allowed you to be. That
door only opens for whom it is intended. For whom it is not, it would never
open—not with all the strength of the world.”

Thor felt better, and yet he also
wondered how Argon had known he was coming. Everything about this man was
mysterious to him.

“I had an encounter I did not
understand,” Thor said, needing to let it all out, and to hear Argon’s opinion.
“There was a snake. A Whiteback. It nearly attacked us. We were saved by my
leopard, Krohn.”

“We?” Argon asked.

Thor flushed, realizing he had
said too much. He didn’t know what to say.

“I was not alone,” he said.

“And who were you with?”

Thor bit his tongue, not knowing
how much to say. After all, this man was close to her father, the King, and
perhaps he would tell.

“I don’t see how that is relevant
to the snake.”

“It is entirely relevant. Have
you not wondered if that is why the snake came to begin with?”

Thor was caught completely off
guard.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Not every omen you see is meant
for you. Some are meant for others.”

Thor examined Argon in the dim
light, starting to understand. Was Gwen fated for something evil? And if so,
could he stop it?

“Can you change fate?” Thor
asked.

Argon turned, slowly crossing his
room.

“Of course, that is the question
we have been asking for centuries,” Argon replied. “Can fate be changed? On the
one hand, everything is destined, everything is written. On the other hand, we
have free will. Our choices also determine our fate. It seems impossible for
these two—destiny and free will—to live together, side by side, yet they do. It
is where these two intercede—where destiny meets free will—that human behavior
comes into play. Destiny can’t always be broken, but sometimes it can be bent,
or even changed, by a great sacrifice and a great force of free will. Yet most
of the time, destiny is firm. Most of the time, we are just bystanders, put
here to watch it play out. We think we play a part in it, but usually we don’t.
We are mostly observers, not participants.”

“So then why does the universe
bother showing us omens, if there’s nothing we can do about them?” Thor asked.

Argon turned and smiled.

“You are quick, boy, I will give
you that. Mostly, we are shown omens to prepare ourselves. We are shown our
fate to give us time to prepare. Sometimes, rarely, we are given an omen to
enable us to take action, to change what will be. But this is very rare.”

“Is it true that the Whiteback
foretells death?”

Argon examined him.

“It is,” he said, finally. “Without
fail.”

Thor’s heart pounded at the
response, at the confirmation of his fears. He was also surprised by Argon’s
straightforward response.

“I encountered one today,” Thor
said, “but I don’t know who will die. Or if there is some action I can take to
prevent it. I want to put it out of my mind, but I cannot. Always, that image
of the snake’s head is with me. Why?”

Argon examined him a very long
time, and sighed.

“Because whoever will die, it
will affect you directly. It will affect your destiny.”

Thor was increasingly agitated;
he felt that every answer bred more questions.

“But that’s not fair,” Thor said.
“I need to know who it is that will die. I need to warn them!”

Slowly, Argon shook his head.

“It may not be for you to know,”
he answered. “And if you do know, there may still be nothing you can do about
it. Death finds its subject—even if someone is warned.”

“Then why was I shown this?” Thor
asked, tormented. “And why can’t I get it from my head?”

Argon stepped forward, so close,
inches away; the intensity of his eyes burned bright in this dim place, and it
frightened Thor. It was like looking into the sun, and it was all he could do
not to look away. Argon raised a hand and placed it on Thor’s shoulder. It was
ice to the touch and sent a chill through him.

“You are young,” Argon said,
slowly. “You are still learning. You feel things too deeply. Seeing the future
is a great reward. But it can also be a great curse. Most humans who live out
their destiny have no awareness of it. Sometimes the most painful thing is to be
aware of your destiny, of what will be. You have not even begun to understand
your powers. But you will. One day. Once you understand where you are from.”

“Where I’m from?” Thor asked,
confused.

“Your mother’s home. Far from
here. Beyond the Canyon, on the outer reaches of the Wilds. There is a castle,
high up in the sky. It sits alone on a cliff, and to reach it, you walk along a
winding stone road. It is a magical road—like ascending into the sky itself. It
is a place of profound power. That is where you hail from. Until you reach that
place, you will never fully understand. Once you do, all your questions will be
answered.”

Thor blinked, and when he opened
his eyes, he found himself, to his amazement, standing outside Argon’s
dwelling. He had no idea how he got here.

The wind whipped through the
rocky crag, and Thor squinted at the harsh sunlight. Beside him stood Krohn,
whining.

Thor went back to Argon’s door
and pounded on it with all his might. There came nothing but silence in return.

“Argon!” Thor screamed.

He was answered only by the
whistling of the wind.

He tried the door, even putting
his shoulder to it—but it would not budge.

Thor waited a long time—he was
not sure how long—until finally the day grew late. Finally, he realized that
his time here was over.

He turned and began to walk back
down the rocky slope, wondering. He felt more confused than ever, and also felt
more certain that a death was coming—yet more helpless to stop it.

As he hiked in that desolate place,
he began to feel something cold on his ankles and saw a thick fog forming. It
rose, growing thicker and rising higher by the moment. Thor did not understand
what was happening. Krohn whined.

Thor tried to speed up, to
continue his way back down the mountain, but in moments the fog grew so thick,
he could barely see before his eyes. At the same time, he felt his limbs grow
heavy, and, as if by magic, the sky grew dark. He felt himself growing
exhausted. He could not take another step. He curled up in a ball on the
ground, right where he stood, enveloped in the thick fog. He tried to open his
eyes, to move, but he could not. In moments, he was fast asleep.

*

Thor saw himself standing at the
top of a mountain, staring out over the entire kingdom of the Ring. Before him
was King’s Court, the castle, the fortifications, the gardens, the trees, and
rolling hills as far as he could see—all in the full bloom of summer. The
fields were filled with fruits and colored flowers, and there was the sound of
music and festivities.

But as Thor turned slowly,
surveying everything, the grass began to turn black. Fruits fell off the trees.
Then the trees themselves shriveled up to nothing. All the flowers dried up to
crisps, and, to his horror, one building after the next crumbled, until the
entire kingdom was nothing but desolation, heaps of rubble and stone.

Thor looked down and suddenly saw
a huge Whiteback slithering between his feet. He stood there, helpless, as it
coiled around his legs, then his waist, then his arms. He felt himself being
suffocated, the life squeezed out of him, as the snake coiled all the way
around and stared at him in the face, inches away, hissing, its long tongue
nearly touching Thor’s cheek. And then it opened its mouth wide, revealing huge
fangs, leaned forward, and swallowed Thor’s face.

Thor shrieked, then found himself
standing alone inside the King’s castle. It was completely empty, no throne
left where one used to be. The Destiny Sword lay on the ground, untouched. The
windows were all shattered, stained glass lying in heaps on the stone. He heard
distant music, turned toward the sound, and walked through empty room after
empty room. Finally he reached huge double doors, a hundred feet tall, and
opened them with all his might.

Thor stood at the entrance to the
royal feasting hall. Before him two long feasting tables stretched across the
room, overflowing with food—yet empty of men. At the far end of the hall was
one man. King MacGil. He sat on his throne, staring right at Thor. He seemed so
far away.

Thor felt he had to reach him. He
began to walk across the great room toward him, between the two feasting
tables. As he went, all the food on either side of him went bad, becoming
rotten with each step he took, turning black and immediately covered with
flies. Flies buzzed and swarmed all around him, tearing apart the food.

Thor walked faster. The King was
getting close now, hardly ten feet away, when a servant appeared out of a side
chamber carrying a huge, golden goblet of wine. It was a distinctive goblet,
made of solid gold and covered in rows of rubies and sapphires. While the King
wasn’t looking, Thor saw the servant slip a white powder into the goblet. Thor
realized it was poison.

The servant brought it closer,
and MacGil reached down and grabbed it with both hands.

“No!” Thor screamed.

Thor lunged forward, trying to
knock the wine away from the King.

But he was not fast enough.
MacGil drank the wine in big gulps. It poured down his cheeks, down his chest,
as he finished it.

MacGil turned and looked at Thor,
and his eyes opened wide. He reached up and grabbed his throat until, gagging,
he keeled over and fell off his throne; he fell sideways, landing on the hard
stone floor. His crown rolled off it, hit the stone floor with a clang, and
rolled several feet.

He lay there, motionless, eyes
open, dead.

Estopheles swooped down, landed
on MacGil’s head. It sat there, looked right at Thor, and screeched. The sound
was so shrill, it sent a shiver up Thor’s spine.

“No!” Thor screamed.

*

Thor woke screaming.

He sat up, looking all around,
sweating, breathing hard, trying to figure out where he was. He was still lying
on the ground, on Argon’s mountain. He must have fallen asleep here. The fog
was gone, and as he looked up he saw that it was daybreak. A blood-red sun was
breaking over the horizon, lighting up the day. Beside him, Krohn whined,
jumped into his lap, and licked his face.

Thor hugged Krohn with one hand
as he breathed hard, trying to figure out if he was awake or asleep. It took
him a long time to realize it had just been a dream. It had felt so real.

Thor heard a screech and turned
to see Estopheles perched on a rock, just a foot away. The large bird looked
right at him and screeched, again and again.

The sound sent a chill up Thor’s
spine. It was the same screech from his dream, and at that moment he knew, with
every ounce of his body, that the dream had been a message.

The King was going to be
poisoned.

Thor jumped to his feet and, in
the breaking light of dawn, sprinted down the mountain, heading for King’s
Court. He had to get to the King. He had to warn him. The King might think he
was crazy, but he had no choice—he would do whatever he could to save the King’s
life.

*

Thor raced across the drawbridge,
sprinting for the castle’s outer gate, and luckily, the two guards recognized
him from the Legion. They let him through without stopping, and he continued
running, Krohn by his side.

Thor sprinted across the royal
courtyard, past the fountains, and ran right to the inner gate of the King’s
castle. There stood four guards blocking his way.

Thor stopped, gasping for air.

“What is your purpose, boy?” one
of them asked.

“You don’t understand, you have
to let me in,” Thor gasped. “I need to see the King.”

The guards looked at each other,
skeptical.

“I am Thorgrin, of the King’s
Legion. You must let me through.”

“I know who he is,” one guard
said to the other. “He’s one of us.”

But the lead guard stepped
forward.

“What business have you with the King?”
he pressed.

Thor still fought to catch his
breath.

“Very urgent business. I must see
him at once.”

“Well, he must not be expecting
you, because you are ill informed. Our King is not here. He left with his
caravan hours ago, on court business. They won’t be returning until tonight,
until the royal feast.”

“Feast?” Thor asked, his heart
thumping. He remembered his dream, the feasting tables, and eerily felt it all
coming to life.

“Yes, feast. If you are of the
Legion, I am sure you will be there. But now he is gone, and there is no way
you can see him. Come back tonight, with the others.”

“But I must get him a message!”
Thor insisted. “Before the feast!”

“You can leave the message with
me if you like. But I can’t deliver it any sooner than you.”

Thor did not want to leave such a
message with a guard; he realized it would seem crazy. He had to deliver it
himself, tonight, before the feast. He only prayed it would not be too late.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

Thor hurried back to the Legion’s
barracks at the crack of dawn, luckily arriving before the day’s training
began. He was winded when he arrived, Krohn at his side, and he ran into the
other boys just as they were waking, beginning to file out for the day’s
assignments. He stood there, gasping, more troubled than ever. He hardly knew
how he would make it through the day’s training; he would be counting down the
minutes until the night’s feast, until he could warn the King. He felt certain
the omen came to him so that he could deliver the warning. The fate of the
kingdom rested on his shoulders.

Thor ran up beside Reece and O’Connor
as they made their way out to the field, looking exhausted, and began to line
up.

“Where were you last night?”
Reece asked.

Thor wished he knew how to
respond—but he didn’t really know where he had been himself. What was he
supposed to say? That he had fallen asleep outside on the ground, on Argon’s
mountain? It made no sense, not even to him.

“I don’t know,” he answered, not
knowing how much to tell them.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”
O’Connor asked.

“I got lost,” Thor said.

“Lost?”

“Well, you’re lucky you made it
back when you did,” Reece said.

“If you had come back late for
the day’s assignments, they wouldn’t have let you back into the Legion,” Elden
added, coming up beside them, clapping a beefy hand on his shoulder. “Good to see
you. You were missed yesterday.”

Thor was still shocked at the
difference in how Elden treated him since their time on the far side of the
Canyon.

“How did things go with my
sister?” Reece asked, in a hushed tone.

Thor blushed, unsure how to
respond.

“Did you see her?” Reece prodded.

“Yes, I did,” he began. “We had a
great time. Although we had to leave abruptly.”

“Well,” Reece continued, as they
all lined up side-by-side before Kolk and the King’s men, “you will get to see
more of her tonight. Put on your finest. It’s the King’s feast.”

Thor’s stomach dropped. He
thought of his dream and felt as if destiny were dancing before his eyes—and
that he was helpless, fated to do nothing but just watch it unfold.

“QUIET!” yelled Kolk, as he began
to pace before the boys.

Thor stiffened with the others as
they all fell silent.

Kolk walked slowly up and down
the lines, surveying them all.

“You had your fun yesterday. Now
it’s back to training. And today, you will learn the ancient art of
ditch-digging.”

A collective groan rose up among
the boys.

“SILENCE!” he yelled.

The boys fell quiet.

“Ditch-digging is hard work,”
Kolk continued. “But it is important work. You will one day find yourself out
there in the wilderness, protecting our kingdom, with no one to help you. It
will be freezing, so cold you can’t feel your toes, in the black of night, and
you will do anything to keep warm. Or you may find yourself in a battle, in
which you need to take cover to save yourself from the enemies’ arrows. There
may be a million reasons why you need a ditch. And a ditch may be your best
friend.

“Today,” he continued, clearing
his throat, “you will spend all day digging, until your hands are red with
calluses and your back is breaking, and you can’t take it anymore. Then, on the
day of battle, it will not seem as bad.

“FOLLOW ME!” Kolk yelled.

There came another groan of
disappointment as the boys broke down into lines of two and began marching
across the field, following Kolk.

“Great,” Elden said. “Ditch-digging.
Exactly how I wanted to spend the day.”

“Could be worse,” O’Connor said. “It
could be raining.”

They looked up at the sky, and
Thor spotted threatening clouds overhead.

“It just might,” Reece said. “Don’t
jinx it.”

“THOR!” came a shout.

Thor turned to see Kolk glaring
at him, off to the side. He ran over to him, wondering what he had done wrong.

“Yes, sire.”

“Your knight has summoned you,”
he said curtly. “Report to Erec at the castle grounds. You’re lucky: you’re off
duty for today. You will serve your knight instead, as all good squires should.
But don’t think you’re getting out of ditch-digging. When you return tomorrow,
you will be digging ditches by yourself. Now go!” he yelled.

Thor turned and saw the envious
looks of the others, then ran from the field, heading for the castle. What
could Erec want from him? Had it something to do with the King?

*

Thor ran through King’s Court,
turning down a path he had never gone down before—toward the barracks of the
Silver. Their barracks were much grander than those of the Legion’s, their
buildings twice the size, lined with copper, and their pathways paved with new
stone. To get there, Thor had to pass through a large arched gate where a dozen
of the King’s men stood guard. The path then broadened, stretching out across a
huge, open field and culminating in a complex of stone buildings encircled by a
fence, and guarded by dozens more knights. It was an imposing sight, even from
here.

Thor raced down the path,
conspicuous in the open field. The knights already prepared for his approach,
even though he was so far away, stepping forward and crossing their lances,
looking straight ahead, ignoring him as they blocked his path.

“What business have you here?”
one of them asked.

“I am reporting for duty,” Thor
responded. “I am Erec’s squire.”

The knights exchanged a wary
look, but another knight stepped forward and nodded. They stepped back,
uncrossed their weapons, and the gate slowly opened, its metal spikes rising,
creaking. The gate was immense, at least two feet thick, and Thor thought that
this place was even more fortified than even the King’s castle.

“The second building on the right,”
the knight yelled. “You’ll find him in the stables.”

Thor turned and hurried down the
path through the courtyard, passing a compound of stone buildings, taking it
all in. Everything was gleaming here, spotless, perfectly maintained. The whole
place exuded an aura of strength.

Thor found the building, and was
dazzled by the sight before him: dozens of the biggest and most beautiful
horses he’d ever seen were tied up in neat rows outside the building, most of
them covered in armor. The horses gleamed. Everything here was bigger, grander.

Real knights trotted by in every
direction, carrying various weapons, passing through the courtyard on their way
in or out of various gates. It was a busy place, and Thor could feel the
presence of battle here. This place was not about training; it was about war.
Life and death.

Thor passed through a small,
arched entranceway, down a darkened corridor of stone, and hurried past stable
after stable, searching for Erec. Thor reached the end of it, but he was
nowhere to be found.

“Looking for Erec, are you?” a
guard asked.

Thor turned and nodded.

“Yes, sire. I am his squire.”

“You are late. He is already
outside, preparing his horse. Move quickly, then.”

Thor ran down the corridor and
burst out of the stables into an open field. There was Erec, standing before a
giant, valiant stallion, a gleaming black horse with a white nose. The horse
snorted as Thor arrived, and Erec turned.

“I am sorry, sire,” Thor said,
out of breath. “I came as fast as I could. I did not mean to be late.”

“You are just in time,” Erec said
with a gracious smile. “Thor, meet Lannin,” he added, gesturing to the horse.

Lannin snorted and pranced, as if
in response. Thor stepped up and reached out a hand and stroked his nose; he
whinnied softly in return.

“He is my journey horse. A knight
of rank has many horses, as you will learn. There is one for jousting, one for
battle, and one for the long, solitary journey. This is the one you forge the
closest friendship with. He likes you. That is good.”

Lannin leaned forward and stuck
his nose in Thor’s palm. Thor was overwhelmed by the magnificence of this
creature. He could see intelligence shining in his eyes. It was eerie; he felt
as if the horse understood everything.

But something Erec said threw
Thor off.

“Did you say a journey, sire?” he
asked, surprised.

Erec stopped tightening the
harness, turned and looked at him.

“Today is the day of my birth. I
have reached my twenty-fifth year. That is a special day. Do you know about
Selection Day?”

Thor shook his head. “Very
little, sire; only what others tell me.”

“We knights of the Ring must
always continue on, generation after generation,” Erec began. “We have until
our twenty-fifth year to choose a bride. If one is not chosen by then, law
dictates for us to find one. We are given one year to find her, and to bring
her back. If we return without one, then one is given to us by the King, and we
forfeit our right to choose.

“So today, I must embark on my
journey to find my bride.”

Thor stared back, speechless.

“But sire, you are leaving? For
one year?”

Thor’s stomach dropped at the
thought of it. He felt his world crumbling around him. It wasn’t until this
moment that he realized what a liking he had taken to Erec; in some ways, he
had become like a father to him—certainly more of a father than the one he’d
had.

“But then who shall I be squire
to?” Thor asked. “And where will you go?”

Thor recalled how much Erec had
stuck up for him, how he had saved his life. His heart sank at the idea of his
leaving.

Erec laughed, a carefree laugh.

“Which question shall I answer
first?” he said. “Do not worry. You have been assigned a new knight. You will
be squire to him until my return. Kendrick, the King’s eldest son.”

Thor’s heart soared to hear that;
he felt an equally strong attachment to Kendrick who, after all, was the first
one to look out for him and assure him a spot in the Legion.

“As far as my journey….” Erec
continued, “…I do not yet know. I know I will head south, toward the kingdom
that I hail from, and search for a bride in that direction. If I do not find
one within the Ring, then I may even cross the sea to my own kingdom to search
for one there.”

“Your own kingdom, sire?” Thor
asked.

Thor realized that he didn’t
really know that much about Erec, about where he came from. He had always just
assumed he had come from within the Ring.

Erec smiled. “Yes, far from here,
across the sea. But that is a tale for another time. It will be a far journey,
and a long one, and I must prepare. So help me now. Time is short. Harness my
horse, and stock it with all manner of weapons.”

Thor’s head was spinning as he
sprang into action, running to the horse armory and retrieving the distinct
black and silver armor that belonged to Lannin. He ran back with one piece at a
time, first placing the mailcoat on the horse’s back, reaching up to drape it
around his huge body. Then Thor added the shaffron, the thin, plated metal for
the horse’s head.

Lannin whinnied as he did so, but
seemed to like it. He was a noble horse, a warrior, Thor could tell, and he
seemed just as comfortable in armor as a knight would.

Thor ran back and retrieved Erec’s
golden spurs, and helped attach one to each foot as Erec mounted the horse.

“Which weapons will you need,
sire?” Thor asked.

Erec looked down, seeming huge
from this perspective.

“It’s hard to anticipate what
battles I might encounter throughout a year. But I need to be able to hunt, and
to defend myself. So of course, I need my longsword. I also should bring my
shortsword, a bow, a quiver of arrows, a short spear, a mace, a dagger, and my
shield. I suspect that will do.”

“Yes, sire,” Thor said, and broke
into action. He ran to Erec’s weapons rack, beside Lannin’s stable, and looked
over the dozens of weapons. There was an impressive arsenal to choose from.

He carefully removed all the
weapons Erec specified, bringing them back one at a time and handing them to
Erec or placing them securely in the harness.

As Erec sat there tightening his
leather gauntlets, preparing to leave, Thor could not stand to watch him go.

“Sire, I feel it is my duty to
accompany you on this journey,” Thor said. “I am your squire after all.”

Erec shook his head.

“It is a journey I must take
alone.”

“Then may I at least accompany
you to the first crossing?” Thor pressed. “If you are heading south, those are
roads that I know well. I am from the south.”

Erec looked down, considering.

“If you want to accompany me to
the first crossing, I see no harm in that. But it is a hard day’s ride, so we
must leave now. Take my squire’s horse, in the rear of the stable. The brown
one with the red mane.”

Thor ran back to the stable and
found the horse. As he mounted it, Krohn stuck his head out of his shirt and
looked up and whined.

“It’s okay, Krohn,” Thor
reassured.

Thor leaned forward, goaded the
horse, and burst out of the stable. Erec had barely waited for him to catch up
when he and Lannin raced off at a gallop. Thor followed Erec as best he could.

They rode together out of King’s
Court, through the gate, as several guardsmen pulled it back and stood to the
side. Several members of the Silver were lined up, watching, waiting, and as
Erec rode by, they raised their fists in salute.

Thor was proud to ride beside him,
to be his squire, and excited to accompany him, even if it was only to the
first crossing.

There was so much Thor had left
to say to Erec, so many things he wanted to ask him—and so much he wanted to
thank him for. But there wasn’t time, as the two of them galloped south,
bursting across the plains, the terrain constantly changing as their horses
charged down the King’s road in the late morning sun. As they passed a hill, in
the distance Thor could see all the Legion members in a field, breaking their backs
as they dug. Thor was glad he was not among them. As Thor watched, he saw one
of them stop and raise a fist in the air toward him. It was hard to see in the
sun, but he felt sure it was Reece saluting. Thor raised a fist back as they
rode on.

The well-paved roads gave way to
untended country roads: narrower, rougher, and eventually hardly more than
well-trodden paths cutting through the countryside. Thor knew it was dangerous
for common folk to ride these roads alone—especially at night, with all the thieves
that lurked on them, but Thor had little worry of this himself, especially with
Erec at his side—in fact, if a robber should confront them, Thor feared more
for the robber’s life. Of course, it would be crazy for any thief to attempt to
stop a member of the Silver.

They rode all day, hardly taking
a break, until Thor was exhausted, out of breath. He could hardly believe Erec’s
stamina—yet he dared not let Erec know he was tired, for fear of seeming weak.

They passed a major crossroads,
and Thor recognized it. He knew that if they bore right, it would bring them to
his village. For a moment, Thor felt overwhelmed with nostalgia, and part of
him wanted to take the road, to see his father, his village. He wondered what
his father was doing right now, who was tending the sheep, how irate his father
must have been when Thor had not returned. Not that he cared for him much. He
just momentarily missed what was familiar. He was, in fact, relieved he had
escaped from that small village, and another part of him wanted to never
return.

They continued galloping on,
farther and farther south, to territory even Thor had never been to. He had
heard of the southern crossing, though he had never had reason to be there
himself. It was one of three major crossroads that led to the southern reaches
of the Ring. He was a good half day’s ride now from King’s court, and already
the sun was getting long in the sky. Thor, sweating, out of breath, was
starting to wonder with trepidation if he would make it back in time for the King’s
feast tonight. Had he made a mistake to accompany Erec this far?

They rounded a hilltop, and
finally Thor saw it, there on the horizon: the unmistakable sign of the first
crossing. It was marked by a large, skinny tower, the King’s flag draped from it
in all four directions, and members of the Silver standing guard atop its
parapets. At the sight of Erec, the knight atop the tower blew his trumpet.
Slowly, the gatehouse rose.

They were but a few hundred yards
away, and Erec slowed his horse to a walk. Thor had a knot in his stomach as he
realized these were his last few minutes with Erec until who knew how long. Who
knew, indeed, if he would even return. One year was a long time, and anything
could happen. Thor was glad, at least, that he had had this chance to accompany
him. He felt as if he had fulfilled his duty.

The two of them walked
side-by-side, their horses breathing hard, the men breathing hard, as they
approached the tower.

“I may not see you for many
moons,” Erec said. “When I return, I will have a bride in tow. Things may
change. Though no matter what happens, know that you will always be my squire.”

Erec took a deep breath.

“As I leave you, there are some
things I want you to remember. A knight is not forged by strength—but by
intelligence. Courage alone does not make a knight, but courage and honor and
wisdom together. You must work always to perfect your spirit, your mind.
Chivalry is not passive—it is active. You must work on it, better yourself,
every moment of every day.

“Over these moons, you will learn
all manner of weapons, all manner of skills. But remember: there is another
dimension to our fighting. The sorcerer’s dimension. Seek out Argon. Learn to
develop your hidden powers. I have sensed them in you. You have great
potential. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sire,” Thor answered,
welling with gratitude for his wisdom and understanding.

“I chose to take you under my
wing for a reason. You are not like the others. You have a greater destiny.
Greater, perhaps, even than mine. But it remains unfulfilled. You must not take
it for granted. You must work at it. To be a great warrior, you must not only
be fearless and skilled. You must also have a warrior’s spirit, and carry that
always in your heart and your mind. You must be willing to lay down your life
for others. The greatest knight does not quest for riches or honor or fame or
glory. The greatest knight takes the hardest quest of all: the quest to make
yourself a better person. Every day, you must strive to be better. Not just
better than others—but better than yourself. You must quest to take up the
cause of those lesser than yourself. You must defend those who cannot defend
themselves. It is not a quest for the light-hearted. It is a quest of heroes.”

Thor’s mind spun as he took it
all in, pondering Erec’s words carefully. He was overwhelmed with gratitude for
him, and hardly knew how to respond. He sensed that it would take many moons
for the full message of these words to sink in.

They reached the gate of the
first crossing, and as they did, several members of the Silver came out to
greet Erec. They rode up to him, big grins on their faces, and as he dismounted
they clapped him hard on the back, as old friends.

Thor jumped down, took Lannin’s
reins, and led him to the keeper at the gate, to feed and rub him down. Thor
stood there as Erec turned and looked at him, one last time.

In their final goodbye, there was
too much Thor wanted to say. He wanted to thank him. But he also wanted to tell
him everything. Of the omen. Of his dream. Of his fears for the King. He
thought maybe Erec would understand.

But he could not bring himself
to. Erec was already surrounded by knights, and Thor feared that Erec—and all
of them—would think him crazy. So he stood there, tongue-tied, as Erec reached over
and clasped his shoulder one last time.

“Protect our King,” Erec said
firmly.

The words sent a chill up Thor’s
spine, as if Erec had read his mind.

Erec turned, walked through the
gate with the other knights, and as they passed through, their backs to him,
the metal spikes slowly lowered behind him.

Erec was gone now. Thor felt a
pit in his stomach. It could be an entire year until he saw him again.

Thor mounted his horse, grasped
the reins, and kicked hard. Afternoon was here and he had a good half day’s
ride to make it back for the feast. He felt Erec’s final words reverberating in
his head, like a mantra.

Protect our King.

Protect our King.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

Thor rode hard in the darkness,
racing through the final gate of King’s Court, barely slowing his horse as he
jumped off it, breathing hard, and handing the reins to an attendant. He had
been riding all day, the sun had fallen hours before, and he could see
immediately from all the torchlight inside, hear from all the reverie behind
the gates, that the King’s feast was in full swing. He kicked himself for being
away for as long as he did, and only prayed he was not too late.

He ran to the nearest attendant.

“Is all in order inside?” he
asked in a rush. He had to find out whether the King was okay—though of course
he couldn’t directly ask if he had been poisoned.

The attendant looked at him,
baffled.

“And why shouldn’t it be? All is
in order, except that you are late. Members of the King’s Legion should always
be on time. And your clothes are filthy. You reflect poorly on your peers. Wash
your hands, and hurry inside.”

Thor rushed through the gate,
sweating, put his hands in a small stone laver filled with water, splashed it
on his face, and ran it through his longish hair. He had been in constant
motion since early in the morning, he was covered in dust from the road, and it
felt as if it had been ten days in one. He took a deep breath, tried to calm
himself and seem orderly, and strode quickly down corridor after corridor,
toward the vast doors of the feasting hall.

As he stepped inside, through the
huge arched doors, it was just like his dream: before him were the two feasting
tables, at least a hundred feet long, at the far end of which sat the King at
the head of his own table, surrounded by men. The noise struck Thor like a
living thing, the hall absolutely packed with people. There were not only the
King’s men, members of the Silver and of the Legion seated at the feasting
tables, but also hundreds of others, bands of traveling musicians, groups of
dancers, of jesters, dozens of women from the brothels…. There were also all
manners of servants, of guards, dogs running about. It was a madhouse.

Men drank from huge goblets of
wine and beer, and many of them stood, singing drinking songs, arms about each
other, clinking casks. There were heaps of food laid out on the tables, with
boar and deer and all sorts of other game roasting on spits before the
fireplace. Half the room gorged themselves, while the other half mingled about
the room. Looking at the chaos in the room, seeing how drunk the men were, Thor
realized that if he’d arrived earlier, when it began, it would have been more
orderly. Now, at this late hour, it seemed to have evolved into more of a
drunken bash.

Thor’s first reaction, aside from
being overwhelmed, was deep relief to see that the King was alive. He breathed
a sigh of relief. He was okay. He wondered again if that omen meant nothing, if
his dream meant nothing, if he was just overreacting to fancies, making
something bigger in his head than it should be. But still, he just could not
shake the feeling. He still felt a pressing urgency to reach the King, to warn
him.

Protect our King.

Thor pushed his way into the
thick crowd, trying to make it the long way toward the King. It was slow going.
The men were drunk and rowdy, packed shoulder to shoulder, and MacGil sat
hundreds of feet away.

Thor managed to get about halfway
through the crowd when he stopped, suddenly spotting Gwendolyn. She sat at one
of the small tables, off to the side of the hall, surrounded by her handmaids.
She looked glum, which seemed unlike her. Her food and drink were untouched,
and she sat off to the side, separated from the other members of the royal
family. Thor wondered what could be wrong.

Thor broke from the crowd and
hurried over to her.

She looked up and saw him coming,
but instead of smiling, as she always did, her face darkened. For the first
time, Thor saw anger in her eyes.

Gwen slid her chair, got up,
turned her back, and began to march away.

Thor felt as if a knife had been
plunged into his heart. He could not understand her reaction. Had he done
something wrong?

He raced around the table,
hurrying over to her, and grabbed her wrist gently.

She surprised him by throwing it
off roughly, turning and scowling at him.

“Don’t you touch me!” she
screamed.

Thor took a step back, shocked at
her reaction. Was this the same Gwendolyn he knew?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I meant
you no harm. And no disrespect. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I have no words left for you,”
she seethed, her eyes aglow with fury.

Thor could hardly breathe; he had
no idea what he had done wrong.

“My lady, please tell me, what
have I done to offend you? Whatever it is, I apologize.”

“What you have done is beyond
remedy. No apology will suffice. It is who you are.”

She started to walk away again,
and a part of Thor thought he should let her be; but another part of him couldn’t
stand to just walk away, not after what they’d had. He had to know—he had to
know the reason why she hated him so much.

Thor ran in front of her,
blocking her way. He could not let her go. Not like this.

“Gwendolyn, please. Just please
give me one chance to at least know what it is that I have done. Please, just
give me this.”

She stared back, seething, hands
on her hips.

“I think you know. I think you
know very well.”

“I do not,” Thor stated
earnestly.

She stared, as if summing him up,
and finally, seemed to believe him.

“The night before you saw me, I
am told that you visited the brothels. That you had your way with many women.
And you delighted in them all night long. Then, as the sun broke, you came to
me. Does that remind you? I’m disgusted by your behavior. Disgusted that I ever
met you, that you ever touched me. I hope I shall never see your face again.
You’ve made a fool of me—and no one makes a fool of me!”

“My lady!” Thor yelled out,
trying to stop her, wanting to explain. “It isn’t true!”

But a band of musicians got
between them, and she darted off, slipping through the crowd so fast that he
could not find her. Within moments, he completely lost trace of her.

Thor was burning inside. He could
not believe that someone had gotten to her, had told her these lies about him,
had turned her against him. He wondered who was behind it. It hardly mattered;
his chances with her were now ruined. He was dying inside.

Thor turned and began to stagger
through the room, remembering the King, feeling hollowed out, as if he had
nothing left to live for.

Before he’d gone a few feet, Alton suddenly appeared, blocked his way, and sneered down with a satisfied smile. He wore
silk leggings, a velvet blazer, and a feathered hat. He looked down at Thor,
with his long nose and chin, and with the utmost arrogance and self-pride.

“Well, well,” he said. “If it’s not
the commoner. Have you found your bride-to-be here yet? Of course you have not.
I think rumors have spread already far and wide of your exploits in the
brothel.” He smiled and leaned in close, revealing small, yellow teeth. “In
fact, I’m sure they have.

“You know what they say: if there’s
a glimmer of truth, it helps spark a rumor. I found that glimmer. And now your
reputation is ruined, boy.”

Thor, seething with rage, could
take it no longer. He charged and punched Alton in the gut, making him keel
over.

Moments later, bodies were on
him, fellow Legion members, soldiers, getting in their way, pulling them apart.

“You have overstepped your
bounds, boy!” Alton yelled out, pointing at him over the bodies. “No one
touches a royal! You will hang in the stocks for the rest of your life! I will
have you arrested! Be sure of it! At first light I will have them come for you!”
Alton yelled, and turned and stormed away.

Thor couldn’t care less about Alton, or his guards. He thought only of the King. He brushed the Legion members off and
turned back for MacGil. He shoved people out of the way as he hurried for the
King’s table. His mind was swimming with emotions, and he could hardly believe
this turn of events. Here he was, just as his reputation was rising, only to have
it ruined by some malignant snake, to have his love cheated away from him. And
now, tomorrow, the threat of being imprisoned. And with the Queen aligned
against him, he feared that just maybe he would be.

But Thor didn’t care about any of
that now. All he cared about was protecting the King.

He pushed harder as he weaved his
way through the crowd, bumping into a jester, walking right through his act,
and finally, after pushing through three more attendants, making it to the King’s
table.

MacGil sat in the center of the
table, a huge skin of wine in one hand, his cheeks red, laughing at the
entertainment. He was surrounded by all his top generals, and Thor stood before
them, pushing his way right up to the bench, until finally, the King noticed
him.

“My liege,” Thor yelled out,
hearing the desperation in his own voice. “I must speak with you! Please!”

A guard came to pull Thor away,
but the King raised a palm.

“Thorgrin!” MacGil bellowed in
his deep, kingly voice, drunk with wine. “My boy. Why have you approached our
table? The Legion’s table is there.”

Thor bowed low.

“My King, I am sorry. But I must
speak with you.”

A musician clanged a cymbal in
Thor’s ear, and finally, MacGil gestured for him to stop.

The music quieted, and all the
generals turned and looked at Thor. Thor could feel all the attention on him.

“Well, young Thorgrin, now you
have the floor. Speak. What is it that cannot wait till tomorrow?” MacGil said.

“My liege,” Thor began, but then
stopped. What could he say exactly? That he had a dream? That he saw an omen?
That he felt the King would be poisoned? Would it sound absurd?

But he had no choice. He had to
press on.

“My liege, I had a dream,” he
began. “It was about you. In this feasting hall, in this place. The dream
was…that you should not drink.”

The King leaned forward, eyes
opened wide.

“That I should not drink?” he
repeated, slowly and loudly.

Then, after a moment of stunned
silence, MacGil leaned back and roared with laughter, shaking the whole table.

“That I should not drink!” MacGil
repeated. “What a dream is this! I should call it a nightmare!”

The King leaned back and
bellowed, and all his men joined in. Thor reddened, but he could not back down.

MacGil gestured, and a guard
stepped forward and grabbed Thor and began to take him away—but Thor roughly
yanked the guard off of him. He was determined. He had to give the King this
message.

Protect our King.

“My King, I demand that you
listen!” Thor screamed, red-faced, pressing forward and banging the table with
his fist.

It shook the table, and all the
men’s turned and stared at Thor.

There was a stunned silence, as
the King’s face dropped into a scowl.

“YOU demand?” MacGil yelled. “You
demand nothing of me, boy!” he screamed, his anger rising.

The table quieted even more, and
Thor felt his cheeks redden in humiliation.

“My King, forgive me. I mean no
disrespect. But I am concerned for your safety. Please. Do not drink. I dreamt
you were poisoned! Please. I care very much about you. That is the only reason
for my saying so.”

Slowly, MacGil’s scowl lifted. He
stared deeply into Thor’s eyes and took a deep breath.

“Yes, I can see that you do care.
Even if you are foolish boy. I forgive you your disrespect. Go on now. And don’t
let me see your face again until the morning.”

He gestured to his guards, and
they yanked Thor away, strongly this time. The table slowly resumed its
merriment as they all went back to drinking.

Thor, dragged several feet away,
burned with indignation. He feared for what he had done here tonight, and had a
sinking feeling that tomorrow he would pay the price. Maybe even be asked to
leave this place. Forever.

As the guards gave him one last
shove, Thor found himself at the Legion’s table, maybe twenty feet away from
the King. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun to see Reece standing there.

“I’ve been searching for you all
day. What happened to you?” Reece asked. “You look as if you have seen a ghost!”

Thor was too overwhelmed to
respond.

“Come sit with me—I saved you a
seat,” Reece said.

Reece pulled Thor down beside
him, at a table set aside for the King’s family. Godfrey had a drink in each
hand, and beside him sat Gareth, watching with shifting eyes. Thor hoped beyond
hope that Gwendolyn might be there, too, but she was not.

“What is it, Thor?” Reece
prodded, as he sat down beside him. “You stare at this table as if it will bite
you.”

Thor shook his head.

“If I told you, you would not
believe me. So best I just keep my mouth shut.”

“Tell me. You can tell me
anything,” Reece urged with intensity.

Thor saw the look in his eyes,
and realized that, finally, someone was taking him seriously. He took a deep
breath and began. He had nothing to lose.

“The other day, in the forest,
with your sister, we saw a Whiteback snake. She said it was an omen of death,
and I believe it is. I went to Argon and he confirmed that a death is coming.
Shortly after, I had a dream that your father would be poisoned. Here. Tonight.
In this hall. I know it in my bones. He will be. Someone is trying to
assassinate him,” Thor said.

He said it all in a rush, and it
felt good to get it off his chest. It felt good to have someone actually
listen.

Reece was quiet as he stared back
into his eyes for a long time. Finally, he spoke.

“You seem genuine. I have no
doubt. And I appreciate your caring for my father. I believe you. I do. But
dreams are tricky things. Not always what we think.”

“I told the King,” Thor said. “And
they laughed at me. Of course, he will drink tonight.”

“Thor, I believe you dreamt this.
And I believe you feel this. But I’ve had terrible dreams, too, my entire life.
The other night, I dreamt I was pushed out of the castle, and I woke feeling
that I was. But I was not. Do you understand? Dreams are strange things. And
Argon speaks in riddles. You must not take it all so seriously. My father is
fine. I am fine. We’re all fine. Try to just sit back and drink and relax. And
enjoy.”

With that, Reece leaned back in
his chair, covered in furs, and drank. He gestured to a servant, who put a huge
portion of venison before Thor, along with a drinking goblet.

But Thor just sat there, staring
at his food. He felt his whole life dissolving around him. He didn’t know what
to do.

He could still think of nothing
but his dream. It was like being in a waking nightmare, sitting there, watching
everyone drink and feast around him. All he could do was watch all the drinks,
all the goblets, heading for the King. He watched closely every server, every
goblet of wine. Every time the King drank, Thor flinched.

Thor was obsessed. He could not
look away. He watched and watched for what felt like hours.

Finally, Thor spotted one
particular servant who approached the King with a goblet unlike the others. It
was large, made of very distinct gold, covered in rows of rubies and sapphires.

It was the exact goblet from Thor’s
dream.

Thor, his heart pounding in his
chest, watched with horror as the servant came closer to the King. When he was
just feet away, Thor could stand it no longer. Every ounce of his body screamed
this was the poisoned goblet.

Thor leapt from his table, shoved
his way through the thick crowd, roughly elbowing everyone in his way.

Just as the King took the goblet
into his hands, Thor leapt up onto his table, reached out, and slapped the
goblet from the King’s hands.

A horrified gasp filled the
entire hall as the goblet flew threw the air and landed on the stone with a
hard clink.

The entire hall went dead silent.
Every musician, every juggler, stopped. Hundreds of men and women all turned
and stared.

The King slowly stood and
glowered down at Thor.

“How dare you!” shrieked the
King. “You insolent little boy! I will put you in the stocks for this!”

Thor stood there, horrified. He
felt the entire world crashing down on him. He just wanted to disappear.

Suddenly, a hound walked over to
the puddle of wine now forming on the floor, and lapped it up. Before Thor
could respond, before the room could move again, all eyes went to the hound,
who started making awful, horrible noises.

A moment later, the hound froze
up and fell on its side, dead. The entire room looked at the dog with a
horrified gasp.

“You knew the drink was poison!”
yelled a voice.

Thor turned and saw the Prince
Gareth standing there, coming up beside the King, pointing accusingly at Thor.

“How could you have possibly have
known it was poisoned? Unless you are the one who did it! Thor tried to poison
the King!” Gareth yelled out.

The entire crowd cheered in
outrage.

“Take him to the dungeon,” the King
commanded.

A moment later, Thor felt guards
grabbing him hard from behind, dragging him through the hall. He squirmed, and
tried to protest.

“No!” he screamed out. “You don’t
understand!”

But no one listened. He was
dragged through the crowd, fast and quick, and as he went, he watched them all
disappear from him, his whole life disappear from him. They crossed the hall
and out a side door, the door slamming shut behind them.

It was quiet here. A moment
later, Thor felt himself descending. He was being pulled by several hands down
a winding stone staircase. It grew darker and darker, and soon he could hear the
cries of prisoners.

An iron cell door opened, and he
realized where he was being taken. The dungeon.

He squirmed, trying to protest,
to break free.

“You don’t understand!” he
yelled.

Thor looked up and saw a guard
step forward, a large, crude man with an unshaven face and yellow teeth.

He scowled down at Thor.

“Oh, I understand very well,”
came his raspy voice.

He pulled back his arm, and the
last thing Thor saw was his fist, coming down right for his face.

Then his world was blackness.

NOW AVAILABLE!

A
MARCH OF KINGS

(Book #2 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

OR

SORCERER'S
RING BUNDLE (BOOKS 2 AND 3)

“THE
SORCERER’S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots,
counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete
with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for
hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all
fantasy readers.”

--Books
and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

A MARCH
OF KINGS takes us one step further on Thor’s epic journey into manhood, as he
begins to realize more about who he is, what his powers are, as he embarks to
become a warrior.

After he
escapes from the dungeon, Thor is horrified to learn of another assassination
attempt on King MacGil. When MacGil dies, the kingdom is set into turmoil. As
everyone vies for the throne, King’s Court is more rife than ever with its
family dramas, power struggles, ambitions, jealousy, violence, and betrayal. An
heir must be chosen from among the children, and the ancient Destiny Sword, the
source of all their power, will have a chance to be wielded by someone new. But
all this might be upended: the murder weapon is recovered, and the noose
tightens on finding the assassin. Simultaneously, the MacGils face a new threat
by the McClouds, who are set to attack again from within the Ring.

Thor
fights to win back Gwendolyn’s love, but there may not be time: he is told to
pack up, to prepare with his brothers in arms for The Hundred, a hundred
grueling days of hell that all Legion members must survive. The Legion will
have to cross the Canyon, beyond the protection of the Ring, into the Wilds,
and set sail across the Tartuvian Sea for the Isle of Mist, said to be
patrolled by a dragon, for their initiation into manhood.

Will
they make it back? Will the Ring survive in their absence? And will Thor
finally learn the secret of his destiny?

With its
sophisticated world-building and characterization, A MARCH OF KINGS is an epic
tale of friends and lovers, of rivals and suitors, of knights and dragons, of
intrigue and political machinations, of coming of age, of broken hearts, of
deception, ambition, and betrayal. It is a tale of honor and courage, of fate
and destiny, of sorcery. It is a fantasy that brings us into a world we will
never forget, and which will appeal to all ages and genders.

A
MARCH OF KINGS

(Book #2 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

OR

SORCERER'S
RING BUNDLE (BOOKS 2 AND 3)

Listen to THE SORCERER’S RING series in
audio book format!

Now available on:

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Download
Morgan Rice books now!

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

A REALM OF SHADOWS (Book #5)

NIGHT OF THE BOLD (Book #6)

THE SORCERER’S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book
#1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

About Morgan Rice

Morgan
Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy
series THE SORCERER’S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling
series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1
bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising
two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND
SORCERERS, comprising five books (and counting). Morgan’s books are available
in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25
languages.

TURNED
(Book #1 in the Vampire Journals), ARENA
ONE (Book #1 of the Survival Trilogy), A
QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1 in the Sorcerer’s Ring) and RISE
OF THE DRAGONS (Kings and Sorcerers—Book #1) are each available as a free
download on Amazon!

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loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the
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