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

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 towards 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
his 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 at 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. 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 see 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, 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 not 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