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

by Morgan Rice

Thor walked for hours through the winding trails of the forest, thinking about his encounter with Gwen. He could not shake her from his mind. Their time together had been magical, way beyond his expectations, and he no longer worried about the depth of her feelings for him. It was the perfect day—except, of course, for what happened at the end of their encounter.

  That white snake, so rare, and such a bad omen. It was lucky they had not been bitten. Thor looked down at Krohn, walking loyally beside him, happy as ever, and wondered what would’ve happened if he had not been there, had not killed the snake and saved their lives. Would they both be dead right now? He was forever grateful to Krohn, and knew he had a lifelong, trusted companion in him.

  Yet the omen still bothered him: that snake was exceedingly rare, and didn’t even live in this portion of the kingdom. It lived farther south, in the marshes and swamps. How could it have traveled so far? Why did it have to come upon them at just that moment? It was too mystical, and he felt absolutely certain that it was a sign. Like Gwen, he felt it was a bad omen, a harbinger of death to come. But whose?

  Thor wanted to push the image from his mind, to forget about it, to think of other things—but he could not. It plagued him, gave him no rest. He knew he should return to the barracks, but he had not been able to. Today was still their day off, and so instead he had walked for hours, circling the forest trails, trying to clear his mind. He felt certain the snake held some deep message just for him, that he was being urged to take some action.

  Making things worse, his departure with Gwen had been abrupt. When they’d reach the forest’s edge, they had parted ways quickly, with barely a word. She had seemed distraught. He assumed it was because of the snake, but he could not be sure. She had made no mention of their meeting again. Had she changed her mind about him? Had he done something wrong?

  The thought tore Thor apart. He hardly knew what to do with himself, and he wandered in circles for hours. He needed to talk to someone who understood these things, who could interpret signs and omens.

  Thor stopped in his tracks. Of course. Argon. He would be perfect. He could explain it all to him, and set his mind at ease.

  Thor looked out. He was standing at the northern end of the farthest ridge and from here had a sweeping view of the royal city below him. He stood near a crossroads. He knew Argon lived alone, in a stone cottage on the northern outskirts of Boulder Plains. He knew that if he forked left, away from the city, one of these trails would lead him there. He began his journey.

  It would be a long journey, and there was a good chance Argon would not even be there when Thor arrived. But he had to try. He could not rest until he had answers.

  Thor walked with a new bounce in his step, walking double-time, heading toward the plains. Morning turned into afternoon, as he walked and walked. It was a beautiful summer day, and the light shone brilliantly on the fields all around him. Krohn bounced along at his side, stopping every now and again to pounce on a squirrel, which he carried triumphantly in his mouth.

  The trail became steeper, windier, and the meadows faded, giving way to a desolate landscape of rocks and boulders. Soon, the trail, too, faded. It became colder and windier up here, as the trees dropped away too, and the landscape turned rocky, craggy. It was eerie up here, nothing but small rocks, dirt, and boulders as far as the eye could see; Thor felt like he was journeying on a wasted earth. As the trail completely disappeared, Thor found himself walking on gravel and rock.

  Beside him, Krohn began to whine. There was a creepy feeling in the air, and Thor felt it, too. It wasn’t necessarily evil; it was just different. Like a heavy spiritual fog.

  Just as Thor was beginning to wonder if he was heading in the right direction, he spotted on the horizon, high up on a hill, a small stone cottage. It was perfectly round, shaped as a ring, built of black, solid stone and low to the ground. It had no windows, and just a single door, shaped in an arch—yet with no knocker or handle. Could Argon really live here, in this desolate place? Would he be upset that Thor had come uninvited?

  Thor was beginning to have second thoughts, but forced himself to stay on the path. As he approached the door, he felt the energy in the air, so thick he could hardly breathe. His heart beat faster with trepidation as he reached out to knock with his fist.

  Before he could touch it, the door opened by itself, a crack. It looked black in there, and Thor could not tell if only the wind had pushed it open. It was so dark, he could not see how anyone could be inside.

  Thor reached out, gently pushed open the door, and stuck his head in.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  He pushed it wider. It was completely dark in here, save for a soft glow on the far side of the dwelling.

  “Hello?” he called out, louder. “Argon?”

  Beside him, Krohn whined. It seemed obvious to Thor this was a bad idea, that Argon was not at home. But still he forced himself to look. He took two steps in, and as he did, the door slammed closed behind him.

  Thor spun, and there, standing at the far wall, was Argon.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Thor said, his heart pounding.

  “You come uninvited,” Argon said.

  “Forgive me,” Thor said. “I did not mean to intrude.”

  Thor looked around as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and saw several small candles, laid out in a circle, around the periphery of the stone wall. The room was lit mostly by a single shaft of light, which came in through a small, circular opening in the ceiling. This place was overwhelming, stark and surreal.

  “Few people have been here,” Argon replied. “Of course, you would not be here now unless I allowed you to be. That door only opens for whom it is intended. For whom it is not, it would never open—not with all the strength of the world.”

  Thor felt better, and yet he also wondered how Argon had known he was coming. Everything about this man was mysterious to him.

  “I had an encounter I did not understand,” Thor said, needing to let it all out, and to hear Argon’s opinion. “There was a snake. A Whiteback. It nearly attacked us. We were saved by my leopard, Krohn.”

  “We?” Argon asked.

  Thor flushed, realizing he had said too much. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I was not alone,” he said.

  “And who were you with?”

  Thor bit his tongue, not knowing how much to say. After all, this man was close to her father, the King, and perhaps he would tell.

  “I don’t see how that is relevant to the snake.”

  “It is entirely relevant. Have you not wondered if that is why the snake came to begin with?”

  Thor was caught completely off guard.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Not every omen you see is meant for you. Some are meant for others.”

  Thor examined Argon in the dim light, starting to understand. Was Gwen fated for something evil? And if so, could he stop it?

  “Can you change fate?” Thor asked.

  Argon turned, slowly crossing his room.

  “Of course, that is the question we have been asking for centuries,” Argon replied. “Can fate be changed? On the one hand, everything is destined, everything is written. On the other hand, we have free will. Our choices also determine our fate. It seems impossible for these two—destiny and free will—to live together, side by side, yet they do. It is where these two intercede—where destiny meets free will—that human behavior comes into play. Destiny can’t always be broken, but sometimes it can be bent, or even changed, by a great sacrifice and a great force of free will. Yet most of the time, destiny is firm. Most of the time, we are just bystanders, put here to watch it play out. We think we play a part in it, but usually we don’t. We are mostly observers, not participants.”

  “So then why does the universe bother showing us omens, if there’s nothing we can do about them?” Thor asked.

  Argon turned and smiled.

  “You are quick, boy, I will give you t
hat. Mostly, we are shown omens to prepare ourselves. We are shown our fate to give us time to prepare. Sometimes, rarely, we are given an omen to enable us to take action, to change what will be. But this is very rare.”

  “Is it true that the Whiteback foretells death?”

  Argon examined him.

  “It is,” he said, finally. “Without fail.”

  Thor’s heart pounded at the response, at the confirmation of his fears. He was also surprised by Argon’s straightforward response.

  “I encountered one today,” Thor said, “but I don’t know who will die. Or if there is some action I can take to prevent it. I want to put it out of my mind, but I cannot. Always, that image of the snake’s head is with me. Why?”

  Argon examined him a very long time, and sighed.

  “Because whoever will die, it will affect you directly. It will affect your destiny.”

  Thor was increasingly agitated; he felt that every answer bred more questions.

  “But that’s not fair,” Thor said. “I need to know who it is that will die. I need to warn them!”

  Slowly, Argon shook his head.

  “It may not be for you to know,” he answered. “And if you do know, there may still be nothing you can do about it. Death finds its subject—even if someone is warned.”

  “Then why was I shown this?” Thor asked, tormented. “And why can’t I get it from my head?”

  Argon stepped forward, so close, inches away; the intensity of his eyes burned bright in this dim place, and it frightened Thor. It was like looking into the sun, and it was all he could do not to look away. Argon raised a hand and placed it on Thor’s shoulder. It was ice to the touch and sent a chill through him.

  “You are young,” Argon said, slowly. “You are still learning. You feel things too deeply. Seeing the future is a great reward. But it can also be a great curse. Most humans who live out their destiny have no awareness of it. Sometimes the most painful thing is to be aware of your destiny, of what will be. You have not even begun to understand your powers. But you will. One day. Once you understand where you are from.”

  “Where I’m from?” Thor asked, confused.

  “Your mother’s home. Far from here. Beyond the Canyon, on the outer reaches of the Wilds. There is a castle, high up in the sky. It sits alone on a cliff, and to reach it, you walk along a winding stone road. It is a magical road—like ascending into the sky itself. It is a place of profound power. That is where you hail from. Until you reach that place, you will never fully understand. Once you do, all your questions will be answered.”

  Thor blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself, to his amazement, standing outside Argon’s dwelling. He had no idea how he got here.

  The wind whipped through the rocky crag, and Thor squinted at the harsh sunlight. Beside him stood Krohn, whining.

  Thor went back to Argon’s door and pounded on it with all his might. There came nothing but silence in return.

  “Argon!” Thor screamed.

  He was answered only by the whistling of the wind.

  He tried the door, even putting his shoulder to it—but it would not budge.

  Thor waited a long time—he was not sure how long—until finally the day grew late. Finally, he realized that his time here was over.

  He turned and began to walk back down the rocky slope, wondering. He felt more confused than ever, and also felt more certain that a death was coming—yet more helpless to stop it.

  As he hiked in that desolate place, he began to feel something cold on his ankles and saw a thick fog forming. It rose, growing thicker and rising higher by the moment. Thor did not understand what was happening. Krohn whined.

  Thor tried to speed up, to continue his way back down the mountain, but in moments the fog grew so thick, he could barely see before his eyes. At the same time, he felt his limbs grow heavy, and, as if by magic, the sky grew dark. He felt himself growing exhausted. He could not take another step. He curled up in a ball on the ground, right where he stood, enveloped in the thick fog. He tried to open his eyes, to move, but he could not. In moments, he was fast asleep.