of the other recruits as they formed a circle, screaming, anxious for blood. The face of the boy scowled down; the boy reached out his thumbs, and brought them down for Thor’s eyes. Thor could not believe it: it seemed this boy really wanted to hurt him. Did he really want to gain advantage that badly?
At the last second, Thor rolled his head out of the way, and the boy’s hands went flying by, plunging into the dirt. Thor took the chance to roll out from under him.
Thor gained his feet, and faced the boy, who arose as well. The boy charged and swung for Thor’s face, and Thor ducked at the last second; the air rushed by his face, and he realized if it had hit him, it would have broken his jaw. Thor reached up and punched the boy in the gut—but it hardly did a thing: it was like striking a tree.
Before Thor could react, the boy elbowed him in the face.
Thor stumbled back, reeling from the blow. It was like getting hit by a hammer, and his ears rang.
While Thor stumbled, still trying to catch his breath, the boy charged and kicked him hard in the chest. Thor went flying backwards and crashed to the ground, landing on his back. The other boys cheered.
Thor, dizzy, began to sit up, but just as he began, the boy charged once more, swung and punched him again, hard in the face, knocking him flat on his back again—and down for good.
Thor lay there, hearing the muted cheers of the others, feeling the salty taste of blood running from his nose, the welt on his face. He groaned in pain. He looked up and could see the large boy turn away and walk back towards his friends, already celebrating his victory.
Thor wanted to give up. This boy was huge, fighting him was futile, and he could take no more punishment. But something inside him pushed him. He could not lose. Not in front of all these people.
Don’t give up. Get up. Get up!
Thor somehow summoned the strength: groaning, he rolled over and got to his hands and knees, then, slowly, to his feet. He faced the boy, bleeding, his eyes swollen, hard to see, breathing hard, and raised his fists.
The huge boy turned around and stared down at Thor. He shook his head, unbelieving.
“You should have stayed down, boy,” he threatened, as he began to walk back to Thor.
“ENOUGH!” yelled a voice. “Elden, stand back!”
A knight suddenly stepped up, getting between them, holding out his palm and stopping Elden from getting closer to Thor. The crowd quieted, as they all looked to the knight: clearly this was a man who demanded respect.
Thor looked up, in awe at the knight’s presence: he was tall, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, brown, well-kept hair, in his 20s. Thor liked him immediately. His first-rate armor, a chainmail made of a polished silver, was covered with royal markings: the falcon emblem of the MacGil family. Thor’s throat went dry: he was standing before a member of the royal family. He could hardly believe it.
“Explain yourself, boy,” he said to Thor. “Why have you charged into our arena uninvited?”
Before Thor could respond, suddenly, the three members of the King’s guard broke through the circle. The lead guard stood there, breathing hard, pointing a finger at Thor.
“He defied our command!” the guard yelled. “I am going to shackle him and take him to the King’s dungeon!”
“I did nothing wrong!” Thor protested.
“Did you now?” the guard yelled. “Barging into the King’s property uninvited?”
“All I wanted was a chance!” Thor yelled, turning, pleading to the knight before him, the member of the royal family. “All I wanted was a chance to join the Legion!”
“This training ground is only for the invited, boy,” came a gruff voice.
Into the circle stepped a warrior, 50s, broad and stocky, with a bald head, short beard, and a scar running across his nose. He looked like he had been a professional soldier all his life—and from the markings on his armor, the gold pin on his chest, he looked to be their commander. Thor’s heart quickened at the site of him: a general.
“I was not invited, sire,” Thor said. “That is true. But it has been my life’s dream to be here. All I want is a chance to show you what I can do. I am as good as any of these recruits. Just give me one chance to prove it. Please. Joining the Legion is all I’ve ever dreamt of.”
“This battleground is not for dreamers, boy,” came his gruff response. “It is for fighters. There are no exceptions to our rules: recruits are chosen.”
The general nodded, and the King’s guard approached Thor, shackles out.
But suddenly the knight, the royal family member, stepped forward and put out his palm, blocking the guard.
“Maybe, on occasion, an exception may be made,” he said.
The guard looked up at him in consternation, clearly wanting to speak out, but having to hold his tongue in deference to a royal family member.
“I admire your spirit, boy,” the knight continued. “Before we cast you away, I would like to see what you can do.”
“But Kendrick, we have our rules—” the general said, clearly displeased.
“The royal family makes the rules,” Kendrick answered sternly, “and the Legion answers to the royal family.”
“We answer to your father, the King—not to you,” the general retorted, equally defiant.
There was a standoff, the air thick with tension. Thor could hardly believe what he had ignited.
“I know my father, and I know what he would want. He would want to give this boy a try. And that is what we will do.”
The general, after several tense moments, finally backed down.
Kendrick turned to Thor, eyes locking on his, brown and intense, the face of a prince, but also of a warrior.
“I will give you one chance,” he said to Thor. “Let’s see if you can hit that mark.”
He gestured at a stack of hay, far across the field, with a small, red stain in its center. Several spears were lodged in the hay, but none inside the red.
“If you can do what none of these others boys could do—if you can hit that mark from here—then you may join us.”
The knight stepped aside, and Thor could feel all eyes on him.
He spotted a rack of spears and looked them over carefully: they were of a finer quality than he’d ever seen, made of solid oak, wrapped in the finest leather. His heart pounded as he stepped forward, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, feeling more nervous than ever before in his life. Clearly, he was being given a nearly impossible task. But he had to try.
Thor reached over and picked a spear, not too long, or too short. He weighed it in his hand—it was heavy, substantial. Not like the ones he used back home. But it also felt right. He felt that maybe, just maybe, he could find his mark. After all, spear-throwing was his finest
