Sorcerer's Ring (Books 1 ,2, and 3). Morgan Rice

Thor had made it.

      In his excitement, he unwittingly stood; as he did, the cart stopped short, sending him tumbling backward, landing on his back in the straw. Before he could rise, there was the sound of wood lowered, and he looked up to see an angry old man, bald, dressed in rags and scowling. The cart driver reached in, grabbed Thor by the ankles with his bony hands, and dragged him out.

      Thor went flying, landing hard on his back on the dirt road, raising up a cloud of dust. Laughter rose up around him.

      “Next time you ride my cart, boy, it will be the shackles for you! You’re lucky I don’t summon the Silver now!”

      The old man turned and spat, then hurried back on his cart and whipped his horses on.

      Embarrassed, Thor slowly gained his wits and got to his feet. He looked around: one or two passersby chuckled, and Thor sneered back until they looked away. He brushed the dirt off and rubbed his arms; his pride was hurt, but not his body.

      His spirits returned as he looked around, dazzled, and realized he should be happy that at least he’d made it this far. Now that he was out of the cart he could look around freely, and an extraordinary sight it was: the court sprawled as far as the eye could see. At its center sat a magnificent stone palace, surrounded by towering, fortified stone walls, crowned by parapets, atop which, everywhere, patrolled the King’s army. All around him were fields of green, perfectly maintained, stone plazas, fountains, groves of trees. It was a city. And it was flooded with people.

      Everywhere streamed all manner of people—merchants, soldiers, dignitaries—everyone in such a rush. It took Thor several minutes to understand that something special was happening. As he ambled along, he saw preparations being made, chairs placed, an altar erected. It looked like they were preparing for a wedding.

      His heart skipped a beat as he saw, in the distance, a jousting lane, with its long dirt path and dividing rope. On another field, he saw soldiers hurling spears at far-off targets; on another, archers, aiming at straw. It seemed as if everywhere were games, contests. There was also music: lutes and flutes and cymbals, packs of musicians wandering; and wine, huge casks being rolled out; and food, tables being prepared, banquets stretching as far as the eye could see. It was as if he’d arrived in the midst of a vast celebration.

      As dazzling as all this was, Thor felt an urgency to find the Legion. He was already late, and he needed to make himself known.

      He hurried to the first person he saw, an older man who seemed, by his blood-stained frock, to be a butcher, hurrying down the road. Everyone here was in such a hurry.

      “Excuse me, sir,” Thor said, grabbing his arm.

      The man looked down at Thor’s hand disparagingly.

      “What is it, boy?”

      “I’m looking for the King’s Legion. Do you know where they train?”

      “Do I look like a map?” the man hissed, and stormed off.

      Thor was taken aback by his rudeness.

      He hurried to the next person he saw, a woman kneading flower on a long table. There were several women at this table, all working hard, and Thor figured one of them had to know.

      “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Might you know where the King’s Legion train?”

      They looked at each other and giggled, some of them but a few years older than he.

      The eldest turned and looked at him.

      “You’re looking in the wrong place,” she said. “Here we are preparing for the festivities.”

      “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, the soldier 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. 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, jesters, and all sorts of entertainers, everyone dressed in finery.

      Thor could not stand the idea of the selection beginning without him, and 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, spotted what could only be his destination: a mini coliseum, 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