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 flour 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 trained. 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. At 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. Soldiers guarded the huge gate in its center. 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 up 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 walked until he was out of sight, then broke into a jog, creeping his way along the walls. He checked to make sure the guards weren’t watching, then picked up speed until he was sprinting. When he was halfway around the building he spotted another opening into the arena—high up were arched openings in the stone, blocked by iron bars. One of these openings was missing its bars. He heard another roar, lifted himself up onto the ledge, and looked.
His heart quickened. 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, throwing 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 and sent flying through the air. He landed hard on the ground below, winded.
He looked up and saw the guard from the gate, sneering down at him.
“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 midair; he yanked it, knocking him off balance and making him fall.
Thor quickly gained his feet. At the same time, the guard gained his. Thor stared at him, 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 m
ember 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 let it fly.
The stone soared through the air and knocked the shackles from the stunned guard’s grip; it also hit the guard’s fingers. The guard pulled back and shook his hand, yelling in pain, as the shackles clattered to the ground.
The guard, giving Thor a look of death, drew his sword. 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 the guard, 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.
Between the guard’s 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, grabbing his groin 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 V
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 four of his children standing before him. There was his eldest son, Kendrick, 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 Kendrick with his true children, despite his Queen’s initial protests, on the condition he would never ascend the throne. This pained MacGil now, since Kendrick was the finest man he’d ever known, a son he was proud to sire. 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 Kendrick’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 the boy’s teenage years, he decided 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 MacGil’s 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 Kendrick. 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 Gwendolyn 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, MacGil had no doubt, Reece would be his finest son, and a great ruler. But that day was not now. He was too young yet, and still had much to learn.
MacGil had mixed feelings as he surveyed these four children, his three sons and daughter, standing before him. He 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 partaking in this discussion of heirs. But his other son, Godfrey, at eighteen the middle one, was absent. MacGil reddened from the snub.
Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey had shown such disrespect for the kingship; it was always clear that he cared not for it and would never rule. And, MacGil’s greatest disappointment, Godfrey instead chose to waste away his days in alehouses 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 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.
His brothers and sister 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.”
Defiant, Godfrey glared back at his father. In that stare, MacGil detected some deep reservoir of strength, something of himself, a spark of something that might one day serve Godfrey well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.
Rebellious to the end, Godfrey waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the others.
MacGil surveyed these five children standing before him: 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 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 naturally to 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 her father nonetheless. The same with his youngest.
“Kendrick, 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.”
Kendrick 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 alehouse, 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 alehouse, shan’t I, Father?”
With a quick, mocking bow, Godfrey turned and strutted across the room.
“Get back here!” MacGil snapped. “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 looked back at him, waiting in the thick silence. MacGil took a deep breath, trying to focus.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 61