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

said.
    Thor
felt them all looking at him, and he felt his face turn red as a beet. He
wanted to disappear. They were right: he had never been with a woman. But he
would never tell them that. He wondered if it was obvious from his face.
    Before
he could respond, one of the twins reached up, clasped a firm hand on his back,
and threw a gold coin up to the woman on the stairs.
    “I
believe you have your first customer!” he yelled.
    The
room cheered, and Thor, despite his pushing and pulling and resisting, felt
himself shoved forward by dozens of men, through the crowd, and up the
staircase. As he went, his mind filled with thoughts of Gwen. Of how much he
loved her. Of how he didn’t want to be with anyone else.
    He
wanted to turn and run. But there was literally no escape. Dozens of the
biggest men he had ever seen shoved him forward, and did not allow retreat.
Before he knew it, he was up the steps, on the landing, staring at a woman
taller than he, who wore too much perfume, and smiled down at him. Making
matters worse, Thor was drunk. The room was positively spinning out of control,
and he felt that in another moment he would collapse.
    The
woman reached down, pulled Thor’s shirt, led him firmly into a room, and
slammed the door behind them. Thor was determined not to be with her. He
held in his mind thoughts of Gwen, forcing them to the front. This was not how
he wanted his first experience to be.
    But
his mind was not listening. He was so drunk, he could barely see now. And the
last thing he remembered, before he blacked out, was being led across the room,
towards a lady’s bed, and hoping he made it before he hit the floor.
     

CHAPTER
TWENTY THREE
     
     
    MacGil peeled open his eyes, awakened by
the relentless pounding on his door, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head
was splitting. Harsh sunlight shone in through the open castle window, and he
realized his face was planted in his sheepskin blanket. Disoriented, he tried
to remember. He was home, in his castle. He tried to summon the night before.
He remembered the hunt. Then, an alehouse, in the woods. Drinking way too much.
Somehow, he must have made it back here.
    He looked over and saw his wife, the
Queen, sleeping beside him, under the covers and slowly rousing.
    The pounding came again, the awful noise
of an iron knocker slamming.
    “Who could that be?” she asked, annoyed.
    MacGil was wondering the same thing. He
specifically remembered leaving instructions with his servants not to wake
him—especially after the hunt. There’d be hell to pay for this.
    It was probably his steward, with
another petty financial matter.
    “Stop that bloody banging!” MacGil
finally bellowed, rolling out of bed, sitting with his elbows on his knees,
hand in his head. He ran his hands through his unwashed hair and beard, then
over his face, trying to wake himself up. The hunt—and the ale—had taken a lot
out of him. He wasn’t as limber as he used to be. The years had taken their
toll; he was exhausted. At this moment, he felt like never drinking again.
    With a supreme effort he pushed himself
off his knees, and to his feet. Dressed only in his robe, he quickly crossed
the room, and finally reached the door, a foot thick, grabbing the iron handle
and yanking it back.
    Standing there was his greatest general,
Brom, flanked by two attendants. They lowered their heads in deference, but his
general stared right at him, a grim look on his face. MacGil hated it when he
wore that look. It always meant somber news. It was at moments like these that
he hated being King. He had been having such a good day yesterday, a great
hunt, and it had reminded him of when he was young and carefree. Especially
wasting the night away like that in the alehouse. Now, to be rudely awakened
like this, it took away any illusion of peace he had had.
    “My liege, I am sorry to wake you,” Brom
said.
    “You should be sorry,” MacGil growled.
“This better be important.”
    “It is,” he said.
    King MacGil spotted the seriousness of
his face, and turned and checked back over his shoulder for his Queen. She had
gone back to sleep.
    MacGil gestured for them to enter, then
led them through his vast bedroom, and through another arched door, to a side
chamber, shutting the door behind them so as not to disturb her. He sometimes
used this smaller room, no greater than twenty paces in each direction, with a
few comfortable chairs and a big stained-glass window, when he didn’t