Sorcerer's Ring (Books 1 ,2, and 3). Morgan Rice
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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, or 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 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 who Thor had just fought. “If we had more chances, we would hit, too!”
The knight turned and stared down the boy.
“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, Dress, 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. 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