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

presence: he was tall, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, brown,
well-kept hair, in his 20s. Thor liked him immediately. His first-rate armor, a
chainmail made of a 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, 50s, 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, 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