A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

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. Which 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 her 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 had too 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, the middle one, eighteen, was absent. MacGil
reddened from the snub.
    Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey
showed such a disrespect for the kingship, it was always clear that he cared
not for it and would never rule. MacGil’s greatest disappointment, Godfrey
instead chose to waste away his days in ale houses, 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 there silently, waiting, until
they did.
    The heavy oak door finally
slammed open and in marched the royal guards, dragging