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

him. And soon, amazingly, he felt himself
stronger than the beast.
    He was choking the Sybold to
death. Finally, the beast went limp.
    Thor did not let go for another
full minute.
    He stood slowly, out of breath,
staring down, wide-eyed, as he held his wounded arm. He could not believe what
had just happened. Had he, Thor, just killed a Sybold?
    He felt it was a sign, on this
day of all days. He felt as if something momentous had happened. He had just
killed the most famed and feared beast of his kingdom. Single-handedly. Without
a weapon. It did not seem real. No one would believe him.
    He stood there, reeling,
wondering what power had overcome him, what it meant, who he really was. The
only people known to have power like that were druids. But his father and
mother were not druids, so he couldn’t be one.
    Or could he be?
    Thor suddenly sensed someone
behind him, and spun to see Argon standing there, staring down at the animal.
    “How did you get here?” Thor
asked, amazed.
    Argon ignored him.
    “Did you witness what happened?”
Thor asked, still unbelieving. “I don’t know how I did it.”
    “But you do know,” Argon
answered. “Deep inside, you know. You are different than the others.”
    “It was like…a surge of power,”
Thor said. “Like a strength I didn’t know I had.”
    “The energy field,” Argon said.
“One day you will come to know it quite well. You may even learn to control
it.”
    Thor clutched his shoulder, the
pain excruciating. He looked down and saw his hand covered in blood. He felt
lightheaded, worried what would happen if he didn’t get help.
    Argon took three steps forward,
reached out, grabbed Thor’s free hand, and placed it firmly on the wound. He
held it there, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
    Thor felt a warm sensation course
through his arm. Within seconds, the sticky blood on his hand dried up, and he
felt his pain begin to fade.
    He looked down and could not
comprehend it: he was healed. All that remained were three scars where the
claws had cut—but they looked to be several days old. They were sealed. There
was no more blood.
    Thor looked at Argon in
astonishment.
    “How did you do that?” he asked.
    Argon smiled.
    “I didn’t. You did. I just
directed your power.”
    “But I don’t have the power to
heal,” Thor answered, baffled.
    “Don’t you?” Argon replied.
    “I don’t understand. None of this
is making any sense,” Thor said, increasingly impatient. “Please, tell me.”
    Argon looked away.
    “Some things you must learn over
time.”
    Thor thought of something.
    “Does this mean I can join the
King’s Legion?” he asked, excitedly. “Surely, if I can kill a Sybold, then I
can hold my own with other boys.”
    “Surely you can,” he answered.
    “But they chose my brothers—they
didn’t choose me.”
    “Your brothers couldn’t have
killed this beast.”
    Thor stared back, thinking.
    “But they have already rejected
me. How can I join them?”
    “Since when does a warrior need
an invitation?” Argon asked.
    His words sunk in deep. Thor felt
his body warming over.
    “Are you saying I should just
show up? Uninvited?”
    Argon smiled.
    “ You create your destiny.
Others do not.”
    Thor blinked—and a moment later,
Argon was gone.
    Thor couldn’t believe it. He spun
around the wood in every direction, but there was no trace of him.
    “Over here!” came a voice.
    Thor turned and saw a huge
boulder before him. He sensed the voice came from up top, and he immediately
climbed it.
    He reached the top, and was
puzzled to see no sign of Argon.
    From this vantage point, though,
he was able to see above the treetops of Darkwood. He saw where Darkwood ended,
saw the second sun setting in a dark green, and beyond that, the road leading
to King’s Court.
    “The road is yours to take,” came
the voice. “If you dare.”
    Thor spun but saw nothing. It was
just a voice, echoing. But he knew Argon was there, somewhere, egging him on.
And he felt, deep down, that he was right.
    Without another moment’s
hesitation, Thor scrambled down the rock and set off, through the wood, for the
distant road.
    Sprinting for his destiny.
     
     

CHAPTER
THREE
     
     
    King MacGil—stout,
barrel-chested, with a beard too thick with gray, long hair to match, and a
broad forehead lined with too many battles—stood on the upper ramparts of his
castle, his queen beside him, and overlooked the day’s burgeoning festivities.
His royal grounds sprawled