by Morgan Rice
Thor stood there, staring back, hardly able to think straight, the words ringing in his ears. The Silver. This was not what he’d expected—not what he had ever expected. It was honor reserved for the King’s most elite, for sons of nobles, sons of kings, legendary, lifelong warriors. The greatest warriors who had ever served the Ring. It was an honor most people only dreamed of, an honor that Thor could hardly fathom, and one he had never expected to be given in his lifetime.
As he stood there, facing them, words stuck in his throat. He did not know what to say.
“The Silver?” Thor repeated. “Me?”
Erec and Kendrick smiled, nodded back.
If it were not for all these great men standing here in this forest clearing, before this lake, Thor would have thought this was all a joke.
But he could tell by the gravity of all their expressions that this was no joke.
Thor stared back at all the men, and he had never felt more accepted, more honored, in his life. There was no greater privilege he could dream of than to be one of these great men, to join their ranks, to don their armor, their insignia, their weapons, to be known as a member of the Silver.
“Do you accept this honor?” Kendrick asked.
Thor nodded, barely able to contain himself.
“I can think of no greater honor, my lord,” he said, bowing his head.
Kendrick stepped aside with the others, all of them clearing a path, and as they did, Thor saw behind them the shining red lake. It was small, mystical, a light fog rising off of it, and Thor recognized it immediately: the Sacred Lake. It was a magical place, reserved for the elite, hidden deep in the woods, where one would come to pray to the gods, to transform oneself.
Argon stepped to the side of the lake.
“Come,” he beckoned Thor.
Thor walked slowly to him, the men parting ways, until he reached the water’s edge. Argon reached up and placed his palm on Thor’s forehead, and closed his eyes.
Thor felt an intense energy, a burning heat, coursing through Argon’s palm, radiating through his body, as he closed his eyes and focused.
Argon began to mutter in an ancient chant, his voice stark and rumbling, cutting through the silent summer afternoon.
“By the light of the seven dawns, by the grace of the westerly wind…”
Argon’s chanting trailed off, stopping and starting, as Thor found himself getting lost in the ceremony. Argon switched to the ancient, lost language, and Thor no longer understood the words; but he recognized their intonation, recognized they were part of the formal, ritualized language of the Ring, the ancient language reserved for kings, for holy events.
Argon chanted again and again, and Thor felt as if he were melting into Argon’s palm, as if he were surrendering his brain, transforming, becoming someone else.
Finally, Argon paused, then slowly removed his palm.
Thor slowly opened his eyes and the world was filled with an intense, bright light. He saw Argon standing there, looking down.
“Thorgrin of the Western Kingdom of the Ring,” Argon proclaimed formally. “You are being endowed with the highest honor of the Ring. You are being inducted into a society in which every King has joined. You are being allowed into a sacred brotherhood, dubbed a warrior for all time. You will be the youngest member ever inducted into the Silver. This is an honor that can never be retracted, for your entire life, and for lifetimes to come. Now I ask you: is this an honor that you will accept?”
“It is,” Thor said back.
“Do you vow to uphold the principles of the Silver, to protect the weak, to champion the poor, to lay down your life for your family, your people, for any woman in distress?”
“I do,” Thor replied.
“Do you vow to protect your brothers in arms, to give up your life for them?”
“I do.”
“Do you vow that any injury to your brothers is an injury to yourself?”
“I do.”
Argon paused, taking in the silence, closing his eyes.
Finally, he nodded.
“Follow me,” he said.
Argon turned, and Thor watched, amazed, as Argon walked out onto the water. Thor couldn’t believe what he was seeing: Argon kept walking out onto the lake without sinking, his feet atop the water, as if he were walking on dry ground.
Thorgrin watched him go, then he followed, taking a step in. Thor walked in, unable to float as Argon did, and the water was unnaturally cold for this summer day. He continued to walk in, deeper and deeper, teeth chattering, until finally he was in up to his chest, standing beside Argon.
Argon reached down with his staff, placed the bottom atop Thor’s head, and gently pushed down.
“Immerse yourself, Thorgrin,” he commanded, “and rise a member of the Silver. Rise a Lord. Rise a Knight.”
Thor felt Argon pushing his forehead down into the water, and Thor gave in.
Thor submerged, and soon his head was completely underwater, and his entire body felt the chill. He stayed there for several seconds, Argon’s staff holding him down.
As he was underwater, Thor felt his entire life transforming, flashing before his eyes. He felt as if he were leaving one person behind, and becoming someone new.
Argon lifted his staff, and Thor rose, gasping for air, above the water. He stood there, water dripping into his eyes, breathing deep.
As he rose, the sun broke through the sky over the lake, and Thor no longer felt the cold. He turned and looked back, to all of his brothers in arms staring back at him from the shore, approval on their faces—and he felt reborn.
Finally, Thor felt as if he belonged.
They all raised their fists into the air.
“THORGRIN!” they cried out. “THORGRIN!”
* * *
Thorgrin, still elated from the ceremony, sat in the small stone workshop of Brendan, the royal armorer, warming up beside a roaring fire in the fireplace, wearing new, dry clothes given to him as he watched the armorer at work. In the room with him sat Erec and Kendrick, having led him here right after the ceremony, and watching over the handiwork, too.
Brendan, a short, stout man in his fifties, proud, with a big belly, a balding head, and a long dark beard, sat hunched over his forge, scrutinizing his work as if it were his only child. As he sat there, Brendan meticulously explained each piece of armor, what purpose it served, how it was made. He worked on a dozen small pieces at once, holding them up, reexamining them, fitting them onto Thor, then taking them off and adjusting them.
Brendan was putting the finishing touches on the shiniest, most beautiful, most ornate set of silver armor that Thor had ever seen. It shone beside the fireplace, and Thor could hardly believe that it was being made just for him. As Brendan pounded away at it with a hammer, flattening it against the stone at just the right angle, the sound rang throughout the room.
“Members of the Silver must wear the finest armor known to man,” Erec explained, sitting near Thor, watching the armorer work beside the flames.
“No regular armor will suffice. It must be the strongest, reinforced a thousand times, stronger than any armor from anywhere.”
“And also lighter,” Kendrick added.
“Not to mention shinier,” added Brendan, turning to them with a smile as he wiped sweat from his brow. “The armor must not only be the best, it must also look the best. Outward appearance is a point of pride for the Silver.”
“Take pride in your appearance,” Kendrick said, “and you will take pride in yourself.”
Thor watched, transfixed, excited to wear it, as the armorer pounded away.
“This metal comes from a very special place,” he continued, “before it is coated with silver. The refining process takes years.”
The armorer finally finished with one piece to his satisfaction, and he reached up and placed it against Thor’s shoulder, taking yet another measurement of Thor’s shoulder and arm, making more fine adjustments.
“The pauldron,” Brend
an explained, gauging it with his eye. “It protects your shoulder, and it must also protect the joints. Good armor allows you to move and to breathe. It also guards your most vulnerable spots.”
Brendan lowered the pauldron, set it back down, took up a smoothing tool, then polished it, working so fast, it all seemed like magic to Thor. The room was filled with the sounds of his work, and the smells of burning metal and the silver polish. Thor watched in awe as he worked.
Soon, Brendan turned and held up the breastplate against Thor’s chest. He placed it, then hurried back around Thor, reached under his arm, and strapped it tight around him. He then placed the pauldron over his shoulder and arm, strapping it tight.
“And how does that feel now?” he asked.
Thor bent his elbow several times, reached his arm up and down, left and right, and was amazed. He had never worn armor so light, yet so strong. As he moved, his arm shined in the light, like a fish jumping through water. He felt different just having it on. He felt invincible.
“It is perfect,” Thorgrin said.
“Of course,” Brendan said, with a wink and a smile, “my work is always perfect.”
Brendan gathered up the entire suit and placed it before Thor.
“We are ready, my lords,” he said to Erec and Kendrick.
Kendrick stepped forward.
“It is a tradition, when a knight gets his first suit of armor, that his father put it on him,” Kendrick said to Thor. “But since your father is not here, Erec and I are here to do it for you. If you allow us the honor.”
Thor felt overcome with gratitude.
“There would be no greater honor,” he replied.
Erec and Kendrick together began to put on all of Thor’s pieces of armor, strapping them on one at a time. As they did, Thor felt as if he were being rebuilt. He felt supported not just by the armor, but by these two men, who were like fathers to him. It made up for the loss of not having a real father to accept him.
“Even if he were alive,” Thor said, “with the father I have, I would not want him to be here for this. In some ways,” he said, realizing, “I have no father.”
Kendrick nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “I have no mother—at least not one I’ve ever met. I have been known as the bastard of the royal court my entire life. There is something empty inside you when you are missing a parent—or even worse, when you have a parent you don’t understand, or you don’t like.”
Kendrick sighed.
“But I’ll tell you something I was told when I was young, something that stayed with me my entire life, something which has sustained me. Once I learned this, it changed my way of looking at the world.”
Thor looked at him, curious, and he could see Kendrick thinking, brows furrowed, earnest.
“We have the ability to choose our parents,” he said.
Thor looked back, puzzled.
“Choose?” Thor asked.
“We have biological parents. But inside, mentally,” Kendrick said, pointing a finger at Thor’s head, “in your mind, you can choose your parents. You can choose your father. You can choose one you admire, one you respect. And you need not only have one father. You can choose many fathers. In your mind, they can sit around a table, like a council. Like the King’s council. Together, they can be your new father. Ones you admire and respect. Ones who admire and respect you back. Ones you wish to be like.”
Thor thought about that.
“Whenever you think of the father you don’t have, or don’t like,” Kendrick added, “think of these men instead. Picture them clearly in your mind. Place them in your head as if they are your father. Your real father. Over time, they will become your real father. As real to you—if not more so—than your biological father. And then you will see that your biological father is not that important after all. He is no authority for you. Eventually, you will come to see that these men are no authority for you, either. You choose your own authority.”
Thor pondered all of this carefully, and he tried to do what Kendrick said. He imagined the council table, and around it, he put people he loved and admired and respected. He put Kendrick there. And Erec. He put Argon, and King MacGil, and Aberthol. He put some of the great warriors he had known and fought with….
Thor closed his eyes, and in his mind, all these men populated the table, and slowly he began to see them all as his father. Each of them comprising pieces of the father he never had. Slowly, he felt he had a father. A new father. Kendrick was right.
They finished securing the armor to Thor, and he could not believe how good it felt, how light, the silver custom-fitted to his body, conforming to every contour. He looked at a reflection of himself before a tall mirror, and he was shocked. It was one he did not recognize. He no longer saw a boy. He saw a man. A member of the Silver. A great warrior and knight. It took his breath away, and it made him feel differently about himself.
Thor put on his helmet, ornate, cut on sharp angles, its nose coming to a point, and it was the most beautiful Thor had ever seen. As he put it on, he saw he was a man to be feared.
Thor took off the helmet and held it in his hands, feeling the power radiating off of it.
“No suit of armor is complete without this,” Kendrick said.
Thor looked down to see Erec place a dagger in his hand, a beautiful, ornate dagger, carved with the King’s inscription.
“It bears the inscription of the MacGil family. You will soon wed my sister. You are a member of the royal family now. We are brothers. You deserve this.”
Thor felt his eyes tearing up as he held the dagger, feeling its weight, honored to hold it, to have these great men in his life. There was nothing more he could want.
They opened the door and led him down the ancient hall of the armorer, Thor’s new spurs clinking as they went, Thor feeling like a man among men. As Thor wondered where they were leading him, two attendants threw open a set of huge double doors, and Thor found himself ushered into a great hall.
He was shocked at what he saw: inside sat every member of the Silver, hundreds of men, all in armor, all waiting to greet him, all looking at his new armor with great respect. The greatest warriors of the kingdom, all eager to welcome him into the ranks.
“Thorgrinson!” they all chanted as one, raising their swords high in honor.
“Thorgrinson!”
“THORGRINSON!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Romulus marched down the gravelly trail, through the barren wasteland on the outskirts of the Empire capital, flanked by his new councilmen and a dozen generals. He was preoccupied as he marched, his mind swarming with all the reports that had filtered in throughout the day of the rebellion popping up throughout the Empire. News of Andronicus’s and Romulus’s ascension had continued to spread, and provinces everywhere saw this as their chance for freedom. Some of his own commanders, his own battalions, had been staging rebellions, too. Romulus had been dispatching his soldiers to every corner of the Empire to crush them. It seemed to be working. Yet every day, fresh reports of revolt arrived. Romulus knew he needed some decisive action to put an end to the instability for good, to reassert the dominance of the Empire. Without that, he feared, the Empire might begin to fragment.
The revolts did not worry Romulus too much. His army was vast, and thus far loyal, and over time he felt certain he would crush them all ruthlessly and cement his power. What worried him more—much more—were the reports of the dragons. Word had it that they were bent on vengeance since the theft of the sword, and were spreading havoc throughout the Empire, setting fire to towns and cities, taking their revenge. A great wrath had been unleashed, one not seen since the time of his father, and it spread with each passing day. With it spread the clamor of the people to quell it. Romulus knew that if he did not do something soon, the dragons would reach the capital—and even those loyal to him would revolt.
Over these last moons, Romulus had sent his men on a quest to every corner of the Empire to find a magica
l spell to combat the dragons. He had followed countless false leads, through murky swamps, and bogs, and forests, listening patiently to sorcerers who gave him various spells and potions and weapons. All of them had turned out to be dead ends. In his rage, Romulus had murdered each and every sorcerer—and the leads had stopped coming in.
Yet now, another lead had come in, and Romulus grimaced as he hiked, following yet another lead, this one through the desolate wastelands. His hopes were low; most likely, it was just another charlatan. He marched quickly, impatient, meandering down the twisty trail, through a field of thorns, already in a bad mood. If this sorcerer was false, Romulus resolved to murder him by hand.
Finally, Romulus crested a ridge and saw before him a tall limestone cave, an eerie greenish glow coming from inside.
He paused before it, something about it putting him on edge. This place felt different than the others—a creepiness crawled up his arms. His advisor came up beside him.
“This is the place, Supreme Commander,” he reported. “The sorcerer dwells inside.”
Romulus glowered down at him.
“If this one, too, wastes my time, I will kill not only him, but you with him.”
His advisor gulped.
“Many have sworn by him, Commander. He is rumored to be the greatest sorcerer of the Empire.”
Romulus marched forward, leading the pack of men directly into the cave. The luminescent green walls let off a glow, just bright enough to see by, and Romulus led the way deeper and deeper into the cave. Odd noises echoed off its walls, sounding like moans, screeching, like trapped spirits, and it made Romulus, a man afraid of nothing, think twice. The air was thick, humid, and a stench wafted on the air from somewhere in the distance.
Romulus felt an increasing sense of foreboding, and he was beginning to lose patience as he marched deeper into the blackness.
“If you are wasting my time,” Romulus said, turning to his advisor, reddening, preparing to turn around, starting to wonder if this were another dead end.
His advisor gulped.
“I swear no time is being wasted, Commander. I was told that—”
