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

you?” Argon asked with a smile. “Were you born by man alone?”

      “I meant to say, sire, that my mother died in birth. I think you mistake me.”

      “You are Thorgrin, of the Clan McLeod. The youngest of four brothers. The one not picked.”

      Thor’s eyes opened wide. He hardly knew what to make of this. That someone of Argon’s stature should know who he was—it was more than he could comprehend. He didn’t even imagine that he was known to anyone outside his village.

      “How…do you know this?”

      Argon smiled back, but did not respond.

      Thor was suddenly filled with curiosity.

      “How…” Thor added, fumbling for words, “…how do you know my mother? Have you met her? Who was she?”

      Argon turned and walked away.

      “Questions for another time,” he said.

      Thor watched him go, puzzled. It was such a dizzying and mysterious encounter, and it was all happening so fast. He decided he could not let Argon leave; he hurried after him.

      “What are you doing here?” Thor asked, hurrying to catch up. Argon, using his staff, an ancient ivory thing, walked deceptively fast. “You were not waiting for me, were you?”

      “Who else?” Argon asked.

      Thor hurried to catch up, following him into the wood, leaving the clearing behind.

      “But why me? How did you know I would be here? What is it that you want?”

      “So many questions,” Argon said. “You fill the air. You should listen instead.”

      Thor followed as they continued through the thick wood, doing his best to remain silent.

      “You come in search of your lost sheep,” Argon stated. “A noble effort. But you waste your time. She will not survive.”

      Thor’s eyes opened wide.

      “How do you know this?”

      “I know worlds you will never know, boy. At least, not yet.”

      Thor wondered as he hiked to catch up.

      “You won’t listen, though. That is your nature. Stubborn. Like your mother. You will continue after your sheep, determined to rescue her.”

      Thor reddened as Argon read his thoughts.

      “You are a feisty boy,” he added. “Strong-willed. Too proud. Positive traits. But one day it may be your downfall.”

      Argon began to hike up a mossy ridge, and Thor followed.

      “You want to join the King’s Legion,” Argon said.

      “Yes!” Thor answered, excitedly. “Is there any chance for me? Can you make that happen?”

      Argon laughed, a deep, hollow sound that sent a chill up Thor’s spine.

      “I can make everything and nothing happen. Your destiny was already written. But it is up to you to choose it.”

      Thor did not understand.

      They reached the top of the ridge, and as they did Argon stopped and faced him. Thor stood only feet away, and Argon’s energy burned through him.

      “Your destiny is an important one,” he said. “Do not abandon it.”

      Thor’s eyed widened. His destiny? Important? He felt himself well with pride.

      “I do not understand. You speak in riddles. Please, tell me more.”

      Suddenly, Argon vanished.

      Thor could hardly believe it. He stood there looking every which way, listening, wondering. Had he imagined it all? Was it some delusion?

      Thor turned and examined the wood; from this vantage point, high up on the ridge, he could see farther than before. As he looked, he spotted motion, in the distance. He heard a noise and felt sure it was his sheep.

      He stumbled down the mossy ridge and hurried in the direction of the sound, back through the wood. As he went, he could not shake his encounter with Argon. He could hardly conceive it had happened. What was the King’s druid doing here, of all places? He had been waiting for him. But why? And what had he meant about his destiny?

      The more Thor tried to unravel it, the less he understood. Argon was both warning him not to continue and at the same time tempting him to do so. Now, as he went, Thor felt an increasing sense of foreboding, as if something momentous were about to happen.

      He turned a bend and stopped cold in his tracks at the view before him. All his worst nightmares were confirmed in a single moment. His hair stood on end, and he realized he had made a grave mistake in coming this deep into Darkwood.

      There, opposite him, hardly thirty paces away, was a Sybold. Hulking, muscular, standing on all fours, nearly the size of a horse, it was the most feared animal of Darkwood, maybe even of the kingdom. Thor had never seen one, but had heard the legends. It resembled a lion, but was bigger, broader, its hide a deep scarlet and its eyes a glowing yellow. Legend had it that its scarlet color came from the blood of innocent children.

      Thor had heard of few sightings of this beast his entire life, and even these were thought to be dubious. Maybe that was because no one ever actually survived an encounter. Some considered the Sybold to be the God of the Woods, and an omen. What that omen was, Thor had no idea.

      He took a careful step back.

      The Sybold stood, its huge jaws half-open, its fangs dripping saliva, staring back with its yellow eyes. In its mouth was Thor’s missing sheep: screaming, hanging upside-down, half its body pierced by fangs. It was mostly dead. The Sybold appeared to revel in the kill, taking its time; it seemed to delight in torturing it.

      Thor could not stand the cries. The sheep wiggled, helpless, and he felt responsible.

      Thor’s first impulse was to turn and run; but he already knew that would be futile. This beast could outrun anything. Running would only embolden it. And he could not leave his sheep to die like that.

      He stood there, frozen in fear, and knew he had to take action of some sort.

      His reflexes took over. He slowly reached down to the pouch, extracted a stone, and placed it in his sling. With a trembling hand, he wound up, took a step forward, and hurled.

      The stone sailed through the air and hit its mark. It was a perfect shot. It hit the sheep in its eyeball, driving through to its brain.

      The sheep went limp. Dead. Thor had spared this animal its suffering.

      The Sybold glared, enraged that Thor had killed its plaything. It slowly opened its immense jaws and dropped the sheep, which landed with a thump on the forest floor. Then it set its eyes on Thor.

      It snarled, a deep, evil sound, rising from its belly.

      As it started skulking towards him, Thor, heart pounding, placed another stone in his sling, reached back, and prepared to fire once again.

      The Sybold broke into a sprint, moving faster than anything Thor had ever seen in his life. Thor took a step forward and hurled the stone, praying it hit, knowing he wouldn’t have time to sling another before it arrived.

      The stone hit the beast in its right eye, knocking it out. It was a tremendous throw, one that would’ve brought a lesser animal to its knees.

      But this was no lesser animal. The beast was unstoppable. It shrieked at the damage, but never even slowed. Even without one eye, even with the stone lodged in its brain, it continued to charge mindlessly at Thor. There was nothing Thor could do.

      A moment later, the beast was on him. It wound up with its huge claw and swiped his shoulder.

      Thor shrieked and fell. It felt like three knives cutting across