A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

Chapter 8

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.