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

the field. The winning knight paraded slowly, raising his lance to the cheer of the crowd.

      Thor was amazed. He had not envisioned the sport to be so deadly.

      “What those boys just did—that is your job now,” Feithgold said. “You are squire now. More precisely, second squire.”

      He stopped and came in close—so close, Thor could smell his bad breath.

      “And don’t you forget it. I answer to Erec. And you answer to me. Your job is to assist me. Do you understand?”

      Thor nodded back, still trying to take it all in. He had imagined it all going differently in his head, and still didn’t know exactly what was in store for him. He could feel how threatened Feithgold was by his presence, and felt he had made an enemy.

      “It is not my intention to interfere with your being Erec’s squire,” Thor said.

      Feithgold let out a short, derisive laugh.

      “You couldn’t interfere with me, boy, if you tried. Just stay out of my way and do as I tell you.”

      With that, Feithgold turned and hurried down a series of twisting paths behind the ropes. Thor followed as best he could, and soon found himself in a labyrinth of stables. He walked down a narrow corridor, all around him warhorses strutting, squires tending nervously to them. Feithgold twisted and turned and finally stopped before a giant, magnificent horse. Thor had to catch his breath. He could hardly believe something so big and beautiful was real, let alone be contained behind a fence. It looked ready for war.

      “Warkfin,” Feithgold said. “Erec’s horse. Or one of them—the one he prefers for jousting. Not an easy beast to tame. But Erec has managed. Open the gate,” Feithgold ordered.

      Thor looked at him, puzzled, then looked back at the gate, trying to figure it out. He stepped forward, pulled at a peg between the slats, and nothing happened. He pulled harder and it budged, and he gently swung open the wooden gate.

      The second he did, Warkfin neighed, leaned back, and kicked the wood, just grazing the tip of Thor’s finger. Thor yanked back his hand in pain.

      Feithgold laughed.

      “That’s why I had you open it. Do it quicker next time, boy. Warkfin waits for no one. Especially you.”

      Thor was fuming; Feithgold was already getting on his nerves, and he hardly saw how he would be able to put up with him.

      He quickly open the wooden gates, this time stepping out of the way of the horse’s flailing legs.

      “Shall I bring him out?” Thor asked with trepidation, not really wanting to grab the reins as Warfkin stomped and swayed.

      “Of course not,” Feithgold said. “That is my role. Your role is to feed him—when I tell you to. And to shovel his waste.”

      Feithgold grabbed Warkfin’s reins and began to lead him down the stables. Thor swallowed, watching. This was not the initiation he had in mind. He knew he had to start somewhere, but this was degrading. He had pictured war and glory and battle, training and competition among boys his own age. He never saw himself as a servant-in-waiting. He was starting to wonder if he had made the right decision.

      They finally left the dark stables for the bright light of day, back in the jousting lanes. Thor squinted from the change, and was momentarily overcome by thousands of people cheering the noise of opposing knights as they smashed into one other. He’d never heard such a clang of metal, and the earth quaked from the horses’ massive gait.

      All around were dozens of knights and their squires, preparing. Squires polished their knight’s armor, greased up weapons, checked saddles and straps, and double-checked weapons as knights mounted their steeds and waited for their names to be called.

      “Elmalkin!” an announcer called out.

      A knight from a province Thor did not recognize, a broad fellow in red armor, galloped out the gate. Thor turned and jumped out of the way just in time. He charged down the narrow lane, and his lance brushed off the shield of a competitor. They clanged, and the other knight’s lance struck, and Elmalkin went flying backwards, landing on his back. The crowd cheered.

      Elmalkin immediately gathered himself, though, jumping to his feet, spinning around, and reaching out a hand to his squire, who stood beside Thor.

      “My mace!” the knight yelled out.

      The squire next to Thor jumped into action, grabbing a mace off the weapons rack and sprinting out towards the center of the lane. He ran toward Elmalkin, but the other knight had circled back and was charging again. Just as the squire reached him to placing the mace into his master’s hand, the other knight thundered down upon them. The squire did not reach Elmalkin in time: the other knight brought his lance down—and as he did, his lance sideswiped the squire’s head. The squire, reeling from the blow, spun around quickly and went down to the dirt, face first.

      He did not move. Thor could see blood oozing from his head, even from here, staining the dirt.

      Thor swallowed.

      “It’s not a pretty sight, is it?”

      Thor turned to see Feithgold standing beside him, staring back.

      “Steel yourself, boy. This is battle. And we’re right in the middle of it.”

      The crowd suddenly grew quiet, as the main jousting lane was opened. Thor could sense anticipation in the air, as all the other jousts stopped in anticipation of this one. On one side, out came Kendrick, walking out on his horse, lance in hand.

      On the far side, facing him, out walked a knight in the distinctive armor of the McClouds.

      “MacGils versus McClouds,” Feithgold whispered to Thor. “We’ve been at war for a thousand years. And I very much doubt this match will settle it.”

      Each knight lowered his visor, a horn sounded, and with a shout, the two charged each other.

      Thor was amazed at how much speed they picked up, and moments later they collided with such a clang, Thor nearly raised his hands to his ears. The crowd gasped as both fighters fell from their horses.

      They each jumped to their feet and threw off their helmets, as their squires ran out to them, handing them short swords. The two knights sparred with all they had. Watching Kendrick swing and slash mesmerized Thor: it was a thing of beauty. But the McCloud was a fine warrior, too. Back and forth they went, each exhausting the other, neither giving ground.

      Finally their swords met in one momentous clash, and they each knocked each other’s swords from their hands. Their squires ran out, maces in hand, but as Kendrick reached for his mace, the McCloud’s squire ran up behind him and struck him in the back with his own weapon, the blow sending him to the ground, to the horrified gasp of the crowd.

      The McCloud knight retrieved his sword, stepped forward, and pointed it at Kendrick’s throat, pinning him to the ground. Kendrick was left with no choice.

      “I concede!” he yelled.

      There was a victorious shout among the McClouds—but a shout of anger from the MacGils.

      “He cheated!” yelled out the MacGils.

      “He cheated! He cheated!” echoed a chorus of angry cries.

      The mob was getting angrier and angrier, and soon there was such a chorus of protests that the mob began to disperse, and both sides—the MacGils and McClouds—began to approach each other on foot.

      “This isn’t good,” Feithgold said to Thor, as they stood on the side, watching.

      Moments later, the crowd erupted: blows were thrown, and it became an all-out brawl. It was chaos. Men were swinging wildly, grabbing each other in locks, driving each other to the ground. The crowd swelled and it threatened to blow up into an all-out war.

      A horn sounded and guards from both sides marched in, managing to split up the crowd. Another louder horn sounded,