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

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 tending nervously 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 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 and 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 Warfkin 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