A Quest of Heroes. Morgan Rice

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 felt the world spin as he wondered 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?

      Sensing someone behind him, Thor 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 was 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 were sealed and looked to be several days old. 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. Again.

      Thor spun around, looking 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 the big rock.

      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 beneath him in all their glory, stretching as far as the eye could see, a thriving city walled in by ancient stone fortifications. King’s Court. Interconnected by a maze of winding streets sat stone buildings of every shape and size – for the warriors, the caretakers, the horses, the Silver, the Legion, the guards, the barracks, the weapons house, the armory – and among these, hundreds of dwellings for the multitude of his people who chose to live within the city walls. Between these streets spanned acres of grass, royal gardens, stone-lined plazas, overflowing fountains. King’s Court had been improved upon for centuries, by his father, and his father before him – and it sat now at the peak of its glory. Without doubt, it was now the safest stronghold within the Western Kingdom of the Ring.

      MacGil was blessed with the finest and most loyal warriors any king had ever known, and in his lifetime, no one had dared attack. The seventh MacGil to hold the throne, he had held it well for his thirty-two years of rule, had been a good and wise king. The land had prospered greatly in his reign. He had doubled his army’s size, expanded his cities, brought his people bounty, and not a single complaint could be found among his people. He was known as the generous king, and there had never been such a period of bounty and peace since he took the throne.

      Which, paradoxically, was precisely what kept MacGil up at night. For MacGil knew his history: in all the ages, there had never been such a long a stretch without a war. He no longer wondered if there would be an attack – but when. And from whom.

      The greatest threat, of course, was from beyond the Ring, from the empire of savages that ruled the outlying Wilds, which had subjugated all the peoples outside the Ring, beyond the Canyon. For MacGil, and the seven generations before him, the Wilds had never posed a direct threat. Because of his kingdom’s unique geography, shaped in a perfect circle – a ring – separated from the rest of the world by a deep canyon a mile wide, and protected by an energy shield that had been active since a MacGil first ruled, they had little to fear of the Wilds. The savages had tried many times to attack, to penetrate the shield, to cross the canyon; not once had they been successful. As long as he and his people stayed within the Ring, there was no outside threat.

      That did not mean, though, that there was no threat from inside. And that was what had kept MacGil up at night lately. That, indeed, was the purpose of the day’s festivities: the marriage of his eldest daughter. A marriage arranged specifically to appease his enemies, to maintain the fragile peace between the Eastern and Western Kingdoms of the Ring.

      While the Ring spanned a good five hundred miles in each direction, it was divided down the middle by a mountain range. The Highlands. On the other side of the Highlands sat the Eastern Kingdom, ruling the other half of the Ring. And this kingdom, ruled for centuries by their rivals, the McClouds, had always tried to shatter its fragile truce with the MacGils. The McClouds were malcontents, unhappy with their lot, convinced their side of the kingdom sat on ground less fertile. They contested the Highlands, too, insisting the entire mountain range was theirs, when at least half of it belonged to the MacGils. There were perpetual border skirmishes, and constant threats of invasion.

      As