by Morgan Rice
Defiant to the end, Godfrey waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the others.
As they all stood there, MacGil surveyed his five children: the bastard, the deviant, the drunkard, his daughter, and his youngest. It was a strange mix, and he could hardly believe they had all sprung from him. And now, on his eldest daughter’s wedding day, the task had fallen on him to choose an heir from this bunch. How was it possible?
It was all, he felt, an exercise in futility: after all, he was in his prime, and could rule for thirty more years; whatever heir he chose today might not even ascend the throne for decades. The entire tradition irked him. It may have been relevant in the times of his fathers, but it had no place now.
He cleared his throat.
“We are gathered here today at the bequest of tradition. As you know, on this day, the day of my eldest’s wedding, the task has fallen upon me to name a successor. An heir to rule this kingdom. Should I die, there is no one better fit to rule than your mother. But our kingdom’s laws dictate that only the issue of a king may succeed. Thus, I must choose.”
MacGil caught his breath, thinking. A heavy silence hung in the air, and he could feel the weight of anticipation. He looked in their eyes, and saw different expressions in each. The bastard looked resigned, knowing he would not be picked. The deviant’s eyes were aglow with ambition, as if expecting the choice to naturally fall on him. The drunkard looked out the window; he did not care. His daughter looked back with love, knowing she was not part of this discussion, but loving him nonetheless. The same with his youngest.
“Kendrik, I have always considered you a true son. But the laws of our kingdom prevent me from passing the kingship to anyone of less than true legitimacy.”
Kendrik bowed. “Father, I had not expected you would do so. I’m content with my lot. Please do not let this confound you.”
MacGil was pained at his response, as he felt how genuine he was and wanted to name him heir all the more.
“That leaves four of you. Reece, you’re a fine young man, the finest I’ve ever seen. But you are too young to be part of this discussion.”
“I expected as much, father,” Reece responded, with a slight bow.
“Godfrey, you are one of my three legitimate sons—yet you choose to waste your days in the ale house, with the filth. You were handed every privilege in life, and have spurned every one. If I have any great disappointment in this life, it is you.”
Godfrey grimaced back, shifting uncomfortably.
“Well, then, I suppose I’m done here, and shall head back to the ale house, shan’t I, father?”
With a quick, disrespectful bow, Godfrey turned and strutted across the room.
“Get back here!” MacGil screamed. “NOW!”
Godfrey continued to strut, ignoring him. He crossed the room and pulled open the door. Two guards stood there.
MacGil seethed with rage as the guards looked to him questioningly.
But Godfrey did not wait; he shoved his way past them, into the open hall.
“Detain him!” MacGil yelled. “And keep him from the Queen’s sight. I don’t want his mother burdened by the sight of him on her daughter’s wedding day.”
“Yes, my liege,” they said, closing the door as they hurried off after him.
MacGil sat there, breathing, red-faced, trying to calm down. For the thousandth time, he wondered what he had done to warrant such a child.
He looked back at his remaining children. The four of them stood there, waiting in the thick silence. MacGil took a deep breath, trying to focus.
“That leaves but two of you,” he continued. “And from these two, I have chosen a successor.”
MacGil turned to his daughter.
“Gwendolyn, that will be you.”
There was a gasp in the room; his children all seemed shocked, most of all Gwendolyn.
“Did you speak accurately, father?” Gareth asked. “Did you say Gwendolyn?”
“Father, I am honored,” Gwendolyn said. “But I cannot accept. I am a woman.”
“True, a woman has never sat on the throne of the MacGils. But I have decided it is time to change tradition. Gwendolyn, you are of the finest mind and spirit of any young woman I’ve met. You are young, but God be willing, I shall not die anytime soon, and when the time comes, you will be wise enough to rule. The kingdom will be yours.”
“But father!” Gareth screamed, his face ashen, “I am the eldest born legitimate son! Always, in all the history of the MacGils, kingship has gone to the eldest son!”
“I am King,” MacGil answered darkly, “and I dictate tradition.”
“But it’s not fair!” Gareth pleaded, his voice whining. “I am supposed to be King. Not my sister. Not a woman!”
“Silence your tongue, boy!” MacGil shouted, shaking with rage. “Dare you question my judgment?”
“Am I being passed over then for a woman? Is that what you think of me?”
“I have made my decision,” MacGil said. “You will respect it, and follow it obediently, as every other subject of my kingdom. Now, you may all leave me.”
His children bowed their heads quickly and hurried from the room.
But Gareth stopped at the door, unable to bring himself to leave.
He turned back, and, alone, faced his father.
MacGil could see the disappointment in his face. Clearly, he had expected to be named heir today. Even more: he had wanted it. Desperately. Which did not surprise MacGil in the least—and which was the very reason he did not give it to him.
“Why do you hate me, father?” he asked.
“I don’t hate you. I just don’t find you fit to rule my kingdom.”
“And why is that?” Gareth pressed.
“Because that is precisely the thing you seek.”
Gareth’s face turned a dark shade of crimson. Clearly, MacGil had given him an insight into his truest nature. MacGil watched his eyes, saw them burn with a hatred for him that he had never imagined possible.
Without another word, Gareth stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.
In the reverberating echo, MacGil shuddered. He recalled his son’s stare and sensed a hatred so deep, deeper than even than those of his enemies. In that moment, he thought of Argon, of his pronouncement, of danger being close.
Could it be as close as this?
CHAPTER SIX
Thor sprinted across the vast field of the arena, running with all he had. Behind him he could hear the footsteps of the King’s guards, close on his tail. They chased him across the hot and dusty landscape, cursing as they went. Before him were spread out the members—and new recruits—of the Legion, dozens of boys, just like him, but older and stronger. They were training and being tested in various formations, some throwing spears, others hurling javelins, a few practicing their grips on lances. They aimed for distant targets, and rarely missed. These were his competition, and they seemed formidable.
Among them were dozens of real knights, members of the Silver, standing in a broad semi-circle, watching the action. Judging. Deciding on who would stay and who would be sent home.
Thor knew he had to prove himself, had to impress these men. Within moments the guards would be upon him, and if he had any chance of making an impression, now was the time. But how? His mind raced as he dashed across the courtyard, determined not to be turned away.
As Thor raced across the field, others began to take notice. Some of the recruits stopped what they were doing and turned, and some of the knights did as well. Within moments, Thor felt all the attention focused on him. They looked bewildered, and he realized they must be wondering who he was, sprinting across their field, three of the King’s guard chasing him. This was not how he had wanted to make an impression. His whole life, when he had dreamed of joining the Legion, this was not how he had envisioned it happening.
As Thor ran, debating what to do, his course of action was made plain for him. One large boy, a recrui
t, decided to take it upon himself to impress the others by stopping Thor. Tall, muscle-bound, he was nearly twice Thor’s size, and he raised his wooden sword and blocked Thor’s way. Thor could see he was determined to strike him down, to make a fool of him in front of everyone, and thereby gain himself advantage over the other recruits.
This made Thor furious. Thor had no bone to pick with this boy, and it was not his fight. But he was making it his fight, just to gain advantage with the others.
As they got closer, Thor could hardly believe this boy’s size: he towered over him, scowled down with locks of thick black hair covering his forehead, and the largest, squarest jaw Thor had ever seen. He did not see how he could make a dent against this boy.
The boy charged him with his wooden sword, and Thor knew that if he didn’t act quick, he would be knocked out.
Thor’s reflexes kicked in. He instinctively took out his sling, reached back, and hurled a rock at the boy’s hand. It found its target, and knocked the sword from his hand, just as the boy was bringing it down. It went flying and the boy, screaming, clutched his hand.
Thor wasted no time. He charged, taking advantage of the moment, leapt into the air, and kicked the boy, planting his two front feet squarely on the boy’s chest. But the boy was so thick, it was like kicking an oak tree. The boy merely stumbled back a few inches, while Thor stopped cold in his tracks and fell at the boy’s feet. This did not bode well, Thor thought, as he hit the ground with a thud, his ears ringing.
Thor tried to gain his feet, but the boy was a step ahead of him: he reached down, grabbed Thor by his back, and threw him, sending him flying, face first, into the dirt.
A crowd of boys quickly gathered in a circle around them and cheered. Thor reddened, humiliated.
Thor turned to get up, but the boy was too fast. He was already on top of him, pinning him down. Before Thor knew it, it had turned into a wrestling match, and the boy’s weight was immense.
Thor could hear the muted shouts of the other boys as they formed a circle, screaming, anxious for blood. He looked up and saw the face of the boy, scowling down; the boy reached out his thumbs, and brought them down for Thor’s eyes. Thor could not believe it: it seemed this boy really wanted to hurt him. Did he really want to gain advantage that badly?
At the last second, Thor rolled his head out of the way, and the boy’s hands went flying by, plunging into the dirt. Thor took the chance to roll out from under him.
Thor gained his feet, and faced the boy, who gained his, too. The boy charged and swung for Thor’s face, and Thor ducked at the last second; the air rushed by his face, and he realized if it had hit him, it would have broken his jaw. Thor reached up and punched the boy in the gut—but it hardly did a thing: it was like striking a tree.
Before Thor could react, the boy reached around and elbowed Thor in the face.
Thor stumbled back, reeling from the blow. It was like getting hit by a hammer, and his ears rang.
While he was stumbling, still trying to catch his breath, the boy charged and kicked Thor hard in the chest. Thor went flying backwards and crashed to the ground, landing on his back. The other boys cheered.
Thor, dizzy, began to sit up, but just as he began, the boy charged, reached down and swung and punched him again, hard in the face, knocking him flat on his back again—and down for good.
Thor lay there, hearing the muted cheers of the others, feeling the salty taste of blood running from his nose, the welt on his face. He groaned in pain. He looked up and could see the large boy turn away and walk back towards his friends, already celebrating his victory.
Thor wanted to give up. This boy was huge, fighting him was futile, and he could take no more punishment. But something inside him pushed him. He could not lose. Not in front of all these people.
Don’t give up. Get up. Get up!
Thor somehow summoned the strength: groaning, he rolled over and got to his hands and knees, then, slowly, to his feet. He faced the boy, bleeding, his eyes swollen, hard to see, breathing hard, and raised his fists.
The huge boy turned around and stared down at Thor. He shook his head, unbelieving.
“You should have stayed down, boy,” he threatened, as he began to walk back to Thor.
“ENOUGH!” yelled a voice. “Elden, stand back!”
A knight suddenly stepped up, getting between them, holding out his palm and stopping Elden from getting closer to Thor. The crowd quieted, as they all looked to the knight: clearly this was a man who demanded respect.
Thor looked up, in awe at his 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 a 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 was pounding as he stepped forward, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, feeling more nervous than he had in his life. Clearly, he was being given a nearly impossible task. But he had to try.
Thor reached over and picked one, 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 upon by the guards and dragged off to jail—and his chances of joining the Legion would be ruined forever. This one moment held everything he had ever dreamt of.
He prayed to God with all he had.
Without hesitating, Thor opened his eyes, took two steps forward, reached back and hurled the spear.
He held his breath as he watched it sail.
Please, God. Please.
The spear cut through the thick, dead silence, and Thor could feel the hundreds of eyes on it.
Then, after an eternity, there came the sound, the undeniable sound of a spear point piercing hay. Thor didn’t even have to look. He knew, he just knew, that it was a perfect strike. It was the way the spear felt when it left his hand, the angle of his wrist, that told him it would hit.
Thor dared to look—and saw, with huge relief, that he was right. The spear found its place in the center of the red mark—the only spear in it. He’d done what the other recruits could not.
Stunned silence enveloped him, as he felt the other recruits—and knights—all gaping at him.
