Morgan Rice: 5 Beginnings (Turned, Arena one, A Quest of Heroes, Rise of the Dragons, and Slave, Warrior, Queen)

by Morgan Rice

  “But I was told they trained in King’s Court,” Thor said, confused.

  The women broke into another chuckle. The eldest put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

  “You act as if this is your first time in King’s Court. Have you no idea how big it is?”

  Thor reddened as the other women laughed, then finally stormed off. He did not like being made fun of.

  He saw before him a dozen roads, twisting and turning every which way through King’s Court. Spaced out in the stone walls were at least a dozen entrances. The size and scope of this place was overwhelming. He had a sinking feeling he could search for days and still not find it.

  An idea struck him: surely, a soldier would know where the others train. He was nervous to approach an actual king’s soldier, but realized he had to.

  He turned and hurried to the wall, to the soldier standing guard at the closest entrance, hoping he would not throw him out. The soldier stood erect, looking straight ahead.

  “I’m looking for the King’s Legion,” Thor said, summoning his bravest voice.

  The soldier continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring him.

  “I said I’m looking for the King’s Legion!” Thor insisted, louder, determined to be recognized.

  After several seconds, the soldier glanced down, sneering.

  “Can you tell me where it is?” Thor pressed.

  “And what business have you with them?”

  “Very important business,” Thor urged, hoping the soldier would not press him.

  The soldier turned back to looking straight ahead, ignoring him again. Thor felt his heart sinking, afraid he would never receive an answer.

  But after what felt like an eternity, he replied: “Take the eastern gate, then head north as far as you can. Take the third gate to the left, then fork right, and fork right again. Pass through the second stone arch, and their ground is beyond the gate. But I tell you you waste your time: they do not entertain visitors.”

  It was all Thor needed to hear. Without missing another beat, he turned and ran across the field, following the directions, repeating them in his head, trying to memorize them. He noticed the sun higher in the sky, and only prayed that when he arrived, it would not already be too late.

  *

  Thor sprinted down the immaculate, shell-lined paths, twisting and turning his way through King’s Court. He tried his best to follow the directions, hoping he was not being led astray. As he reached the far end of the courtyard, he saw all the gates, and chose the third one on the left. He ran through it and then followed the forks, turning down path after path. He ran against traffic, thousands of people pouring into the city, the crowd growing thicker by the minute. He brushed shoulders with lute players, jugglers, clowns, and all sorts of entertainers, everyone dressed in fineries.

  Thor could not stand the thought of the selection process beginning without him, and he tried his best to concentrate as he turned down path after path, looking for any sign of the training ground. He passed through an arch, turned down another road, and then, far off, he spotted what could only be his destination: a mini colosseum, built of stone, in a perfect circle. It had a huge gate in its center, guarded by soldiers. Thor heard a muted cheering from behind its walls and his heart quickened. This was the place.

  He sprinted, lungs bursting. As he reached the gate, two guards stepped forward and lowered their lances, barring the way. A third guard stepped forward and held out a palm.

  “Stop there,” he commanded.

  Thor stopped short, gasping for breath, barely able to contain his excitement.

  “You…don’t…understand,” he heaved, words tumbling out between breaths, “I have to be inside. I’m late.”

  “Late for what?”

  “The selection.”

  The guard, a short, heavy man with pockmarked skin, turned and looked at the others, who looked back cynically. He turned and surveyed Thor with a disparaging look.

  “The recruits were taken in hours ago, in the royal transport. If you were not invited, you cannot enter.”

  “But you don’t understand. I must—”

  The guard reached out and grabbed Thor by the shirt.

  “You don’t understand, you insolent little boy. How dare you come here and try to force your way in? Now go—before I shackle you.”

  He shoved Thor, who stumbled back several feet.

  Thor felt a sting in his chest where the guard’s hand had touched him—but more than that, he felt the sting of rejection. He was indignant. He had not come all this way to be turned away by a guard, without even being seen. He was determined to make it inside.

  The guard turned back to his men, and Thor slowly walked away, heading clockwise, around the circular building. He had a plan. He waited until he was out of sight, then broke into a jog, creeping his way alongside the walls. He turned to make sure they weren’t watching, then picked up speed, sprinting. He kept running until he was halfway around the building and spotted another opening into the arena: high up were arched openings in the stone, blocked by iron bars. One of them, he noticed, was missing its bars. He heard another roar, and lifted himself up onto the ledge and looked.

  His heart quickened. There, spread out inside the huge, circular training ground, were dozens of recruits—including his brothers. Lined up, they all faced a dozen of the Silver. The king’s men walked amidst them, summing them up.

  Another group of recruits stood off to the side, under the watchful eyes of a soldier, hurling spears at a distant target. One of them missed.

  Thor’s veins burned with indignation. He could have hit those marks; he was just as good as any of them. Just because he was younger, a bit smaller, it wasn’t fair that he was being left out.

  Suddenly, Thor felt a hand on his back as he was yanked backwards, flying through the air. He landed hard on the ground below, winded.

  He looked up and saw the guard from the gate, sneering down.

  “What did I tell you, boy?”

  Before he could react, the guard leaned back and kicked Thor hard. Thor felt a sharp thump in his ribs, as the guard wound up to kick him again.

  This time, Thor caught the guard’s foot in mid-air; he yanked it, knocking him off balance and making him fall.

  He quickly gained his feet. At the same time, the guard gained his. Thor stood there, staring back, shocked by what he had just done. Across from him, the guard glowered.

  “Not only will I shackle you,” the guard hissed, “but I will make you pay. No one touches a king’s guard! Forget about joining the Legion—now, you will wallow away in the dungeon! You’ll be lucky if you’re ever seen again!”

  The guard pulled out a chain with a shackle at its end. He approached Thor, vengeance on his face.

  Thor’s mind raced. He could not allow himself to be shackled—yet he did not want to hurt a member of the King’s Guard. He had to think of something—and fast.

  He remembered his sling. His reflexes took over as he grabbed it, placed a stone, took aim, and hurled.

  The stone flew through the air and knocked the shackles from the stunned guard’s hand; it also hit the guard’s fingers. The guard pulled back and shook his hand, screaming in pain, as the shackles went flying to the ground.

  The guard looked up at Thor with a look of death. He pulled his sword from his scabbard. It came out with a distinctive, metallic ring.

  “That was your last mistake,” he threatened darkly, and charged.

  Thor had no choice: this man would just not leave him be. He placed another stone in his sling and hurled it. He aimed deliberately: he did not want to kill him, but he had to stop him. So instead of aiming for his heart, nose, eye, or head, Thor aimed for the one place he knew would stop him, but not kill him.

  He aimed between his legs.

  He let the stone fly, not at full strength, but enough to put the man down.

  It was a perfect strike.

  The guard keeled over, dropping his sword, gr
abbing between his legs as he collapsed to the ground and curled up in a ball.

  “You’ll hang for this!” he groaned amidst grunts of pain. “GUARDS! GUARDS!”

  Thor looked up and in the distance saw several of the King’s Guards racing for him.

  It was now or never.

  Without wasting another moment, he sprinted for the window ledge. He would have to jump through, into the arena, and make himself known. And he would fight anyone who got in his way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MacGil sat in the upper hall of his castle, in his intimate meeting hall, the one he used for personal affairs. He sat on his intimate throne, this one carved of wood, and looked out at his four children standing before him. There was his eldest son, Kendrik, at twenty five years a fine warrior and true gentleman. He, of all his children, resembled MacGil the most—which was ironic, since he was a bastard, MacGil’s only issue by another woman, a woman he had long since forgotten. MacGil had raised Kendrik with his true children, despite his Queen’s initial protests, on the condition he would never ascend the throne. Which pained MacGil now, since Kendrik was the finest man he’d ever known, a son he was proud to sire, and there would have been no finer heir to the kingdom.

  Beside him, in stark contrast, stood his second-born son—yet his firstborn legitimate son—Gareth, twenty-three, thin, with hollow cheeks and large brown eyes which never stopped darting. His character could not be more different than his elder brother’s. Gareth’s nature was everything his elder brother’s was not: where his brother was forthright, Gareth hid his true thoughts; where his brother was proud and noble, Gareth was dishonest and deceitful. It pained MacGil to dislike his own son, and he had tried many times to correct his nature; but after some point in his teenage years, he finally realized his nature was predestined: scheming, power-hungry, and ambitious in every wrong sense of the word. Gareth also, MacGil knew, had no love for women, and had many male lovers. Other kings would have ousted such a son, but MacGil was more open-minded, and for him, this was not a reason not to love him. He did not judge him for this. What he did judge him for was his evil, scheming nature, which was something he could not overlook.

  Lined up beside Gareth stood his second-born daughter, Gwendolyn. Having just reached her sixteenth year, she was as beautiful a girl as he had ever laid eyes upon—and her nature outshone even her looks: she was kind, generous, honest—the finest young woman he had ever known. In this regard, she was similar to her eldest brother. She looked at MacGil with a daughter’s love for a father, and he’d always felt her loyalty, in every glance. He was even more proud of her than of his sons.

  Standing beside her was MacGil’s youngest boy, Reece, a proud and spirited young lad who, at fourteen, was just becoming a man. MacGil had watched with great pleasure his initiation into the Legion, and could already see the man he was going to be. One day, he had no doubt, he would be his finest son, and a great ruler. But that day was not now. He was too young yet, and had too much to learn.

  MacGil felt mixed feelings as he surveyed his four children, his three sons and daughter, standing before him, felt pride mingled with disappointment. He also felt anger and annoyance, for two of his children were missing. The eldest, his daughter Luanda, of course was preparing for her own wedding, and since she was being married off to another kingdom, she had no business being here, in this discussion of heirs. But his other son, Godfrey, the middle one, eighteen, was absent. MacGil reddened from the snub.

  Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey showed such a disrespect for the kingship, it was always clear that he cared not for it, and would never rule. MacGil’s greatest disappointment, Godfrey instead chose to waste away his days in ale houses, with miscreant friends, causing the royal family ever-increasing shame and dishonor. He was a slacker, sleeping most of his days, and filling the rest of them with drink. On the one hand, MacGil was relieved he wasn’t here; on the other, it was an insult he could not suffer. He had, in fact, expected this, and had sent out his men early to comb the alehouses and bring him back. MacGil sat there silently, waiting, until they did.

  The heavy oak door finally slammed open and in marched the royal guards, dragging Godfrey between them. They gave him a shove, and Godfrey stumbled into the room as they slammed the door behind him.

  The children turned and stared. Godfrey was slovenly, reeking of ale, unshaven, and half dressed. He smiled back. Insolent. As always.

  “Hello father,” Godfrey said. “Did I miss all the fun?”

  “You will stand with your siblings and wait for me to speak. If you don’t, God help me, I’ll chain you in the dungeons with the rest of the common prisoners, and you won’t see food—much less ale—for three days entire.”

  Godfrey stood there, defiant, glaring back at his father. In that stare his father detected some deep reservoir of strength, something of himself, a spark of something that might one day serve him well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.

  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.”