view; then another. Even from here the golden carriages gleamed in the suns, like silver-backed fish leaping from the water.
By the time he counted twelve of them, he could wait no longer. Heart pounding in his chest, forgetting his flock for the first time in his life, Thor turned and stumbled down the hill, determined to stop at nothing until he made himself known.
*
Thor barely stopped to catch his breath as he sped down the hills, through the trees, scratched by branches and not caring. He reached a clearing and saw his village spread out below: a sleepy country town, packed with one-story, white clay homes with thatched roofs. There were but several dozen families amongst them. Smoke rose from chimneys as most were up early preparing their morning meal. It was an idyllic place, just far enough—a full day’s ride—from King’s Court to deter passersby. Just another farming village on the edge of the Ring, another cog in the wheel of the Western Kingdom.
Thor burst down the final stretch, into the village square, kicking up dirt as he went. Chickens and dogs ran out of his way, and an old woman, squatting outside her home before a cauldron of bubbling water, hissed at him.
“Slow down, boy!” she screeched as he raced past, stirring dust into her fire.
But Thor would not slow—not for her, not for anybody. He turned down one side street, then another, twisting and turning the way he knew by heart, until he reached home.
It was a small, nondescript dwelling, like all the others, with its white clay walls and angular, thatched roof. Like most, its single room was divided, his father sleeping on one side, and his three brothers on the other; unlike most, it had a small chicken coop in the back, and it was here that Thor was exiled to sleep. At first he’d bunked with his brothers; but over time they had grown bigger and meaner and more exclusive, and made a show of not leaving him room. Thor had been hurt, but now he relished his own space, preferring to be away from their presence. It just confirmed for him that he was the exile in his family that he already knew he was.
Thor ran to his front door and burst through it without stopping.
“Father!” he screamed, gasping for breath. “The Silver! They’re coming!”
His father and three brothers sat, hunched over the breakfast table, already dressed in their finest. At his words they jumped up and darted past him, bumping his shoulders as they ran out of the house and into the road.
Thor followed them out, and they all stood there, watching the horizon.
“I see no one,” Drake, the oldest, answered in his deep voice. With the broadest shoulders, hair cropped short like his brothers’, brown eyes and thin, disapproving lips, he scowled down at Thor, as usual.
“Nor do I,” echoed Dross, just a year below Drake, always taking his side.
“They’re coming!” Thor shot back. “I swear!”
His father turned to him and grabbed his shoulders sternly.
“And how would you know?” he demanded.
“I saw them.”
“How? From where?”
Thor hesitated; his father had him. He of course knew the only place Thor could have spotted them was from the top of that knoll. Now Thor was unsure how to respond.
“I…climbed the knoll—”
“With the flock? You know they are not to go that far.”
“But today was different. I had to see.”
His father glowered down.
“Go inside at once and fetch your brothers’ swords and polish their scabbards, so they look their best before the king’s men arrive.”
His father, done with him, turned back to his brothers, who all stood in the road, looking out.
“Do you think they’ll choose us?” asked Durs, the youngest of the three, a full three years ahead of Thor.
“They’d be foolish not to,” his father said. “They are short on men this year. It has been a slim cropping—or else they wouldn’t bother coming. Just stand straight, the three of you, keep your chins up and chests out. Do not look them directly in the eye, but do not look away, either. Be strong and confident. Show no weakness. If you want to be in the King’s Legion, you must act as if you’re already in it.”
“Yes, father,” his three boys answered at once, getting into position.
He turned and glared back at Thor.
“What are you still doing there?” he asked. “Get inside!”
Thor stood there, torn. He didn’t want to disobey his father, but he had to speak with him. His heart pounded as he debated. He decided it would be best to obey, to bring the swords, and then confront his father. Disobeying outright wouldn’t help.
Thor raced into the house, out through the back and to the weapons shed. He found his brothers’ three swords, objects of beauty all of them, crowned with the finest silver hilts, precious gifts for which his father had toiled years. He grabbed all three, surprised as always at their weight, and ran back through the house with them.
He sprinted to his brothers, handed each their sword, then turned to his father.
“What, no polish?” Drake said.
His father turned to him disapprovingly, but before he could say anything, Thor spoke up.
“Father, please. I need to speak with you!”
“I told you to polish—”
“Please, father!”
His father glared back, debating. He must have seen the seriousness on Thor’s face, because finally, he said, “Well?”
“I want to be considered. With the others. For the Legion.”
His brothers’ laughter rose up behind him, making his face burn red.
But his father did not laugh; on the contrary, his scowl deepened.
“Do you?” he asked.
Thor nodded back vigorously.
“I’m fourteen. I’m eligible.”
“The cutoff is fourteen,” Drake said disparagingly, over his shoulder. “If they took you, you’d be the youngest. Do you think they’d choose you over someone like me, five years your elder?”
“You are insolent,” Durs said. “You always have been.”
Thor turned to them. “I’m not asking you,” he said.
He turned back to his father, who still frowned.
“Father, please,” he said. “Allow me a chance. That’s all I ask. I know I’m young, but I will prove myself, over time.”
His father shook his head.
