Thor stood there with the others, at the rail’s edge, looking down at the foaming sea beneath him. The water swirled beneath him like a living thing, the tides growing stronger by the second, rocking the boat, making it harder to keep his balance. Down below, the waters raged, churning, a bright red which seemed to contain the blood of hell itself. Worse of all, as Thor watched closely, these waters were disturbed every few feet by the surfacing of another sea monster, rising up, snapping its long teeth, then submerging.
Their ship suddenly dropped anchor, so far from shore, and Thor swallowed. He looked up at the boulders framing the island, and wondered how they would make it from here to there. The crashing of the waves grew louder by the second, making others have to shout to be heard.
As he watched, several small rowboats were lowered into the water, then guided by the commanders far from the ship, a good thirty yards. They would not make it that easy: they would have to swim to reach them.
The thought of it made Thor’s stomach turn.
“JUMP!” Kolk screamed.
For the first time, Thor felt afraid. He wondered if that made him less of a Legion member, less of a warrior. He knew that warriors should be fearless at all times. But he had to admit to himself that he felt fear now. He hated the fact that he did, and he wished it could be otherwise. But he did.
But as Thor looked around and saw the terrified faces of the other boys, he felt better. All around him boys stood close to the rail, frozen in fear, staring down at the waters. One boy in particular was so scared that he shook. It was the boy from the day of the shields, the one who had been afraid, who had been forced to run laps.
Kolk must have sensed it, because he crossed the boat towards him. Kolk seemed unaffected as the wind threw back his hair, grimacing as he went, looking ready to conquer nature itself. He came up beside him and his scowl deepened.
“JUMP!” Kolk screamed.
“No!” the boy answered. “I can’t! I won’t do it! I can’t swim! Take me back home!”
Kolk walked right up to the boy, as he was beginning to back away from the rail, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and hoisted him high off the ground.
“Then you shall learn to swim!” Kolk snarled, and then, to Thor’s disbelief, he hurled the boy over the edge.
The boy went flying through the air, screaming, as he plummeted a good fifteen feet towards the foaming sea. He landed with a splash, then floated to the surface, flailing, gasping for air.
“HELP!” he screamed.
“What’s the first law of the Legion?” Kolk screamed out, turning to the other boys on ship, ignoring the boy in the water.
Thor was dimly aware of the correct response, but was too distracted by the sight of the boy, drowning below, to answer.
“To help a fellow Legion member in need!” Elden screamed out.
“And is he in need?” Kolk yelled, pointing down to the boy.
The boy raised his arms, bobbing in and out of the water, and the other boys stood on deck, staring, all too scared to dive in.
At that moment, something funny happened to Thor. As he focused on the drowning boy, everything else fell away. Thor no longer thought of himself. The fact that he might die never even entered his mind. The sea, the monsters, the tides…it all faded away. All he could think of was rescuing someone else.
Thor stepped up onto the wide, oak rail, bent his knees, and without thinking, leapt high into the air, heading face first for the bubbling red of the waters beneath him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gareth sat on his father’s throne in the Grand Hall, rubbing his hands along its smooth, wooden arms and looking out at the scene before him: thousands of his subjects were packed into the room, people flocking in from all corners of The Ring to watch this once-in-a-lifetime event, to see if he could wield the Dynasty Sword. To see if he was the Chosen One. Not since his father was young had the people had a chance to witness a hoisting-and no one seemed to want to miss it. Excitement hung in the air like a cloud.
Gareth himself was numb with anticipation. As he watched the room continue to swell, more and more people packed inside, he started to wonder whether his father’s advisors has been right, whether indeed it had been a bad idea to hold the hoisting in the Grand Hall and to open it to the public. They had urged him to attempt it in the small, private Sword Chamber; they had reasoned that if he failed, few would witness it. But Gareth did not trust his father’s people; he felt more confident in his destiny than his father’s old guard, and he wanted the entire kingdom to witness his accomplishment, to witness that he was the Chosen One, as it happened. He had wanted the moment recorded in time. The moment his destiny had arrived.
Gareth had entered the room with a flair, had strutted through accompanied by his advisors, wearing his crown and mantle, wielding his scepter-he wanted them all to know that he, not his father, was the true King, the true MacGil. It had not taken him as long as he had expected to feel that this was his castle, these his subjects. He wanted his people to feel it now, this show of power to be widely seen. After today, they would know for certain that he was there one and only true king.
But now that Gareth sat there, alone on the throne, looking out at the vacant iron prongs in the center of the room in which the sword would be placed, lit up by a shaft of sunlight pouring down through the ceiling, he was not so sure. The gravity of what he was about to do weighed down on him; it would be an irreversible step, and there was no turning back. What if, indeed, he failed? He tried to push it from his mind.
The huge door opened with a creak on the far side of the room, and with an excited hush, the room fell silent in anticipation. In marched a dozen of the court’s strongest hands, holding the sword between them, all struggling under its weight. Six men stood on each side, and they noticeably struggled under its weight. They marched slowly, one step at a time, carrying the sword towards the vacant prongs in the center of the room.
Gareth’s heart quickened as he watched it get closer. For a brief moment, his confidence wavered-if these twelve men, larger than any he had ever seen, could barely hold it, what chance was there for him? But he tried to push these thoughts from his mind-after all, the sword was about destiny, not strength. And he forced himself to remember that it was his destiny to be here, to be the firstborn of the MacGils, to be King. He searched the crowd for Argon; for some reason he had a sudden, intense desire to seek his counsel. This was the time he needed him most. For some reason, he could think of no one else. But of course, he was nowhere to be found.
Finally, the dozen men reached the center of the room, carrying the sword into the shaft of sunlight, and they placed it down on the iron prongs. It landed with a reverberating clang, the sound traveling in ripples throughout the room. The room fell entirely silent.
The crowd instinctively parted ways, making a path for Gareth to walk down and try to hoist it.
Gareth slowly rose from his throne, savoring the moment, savoring all this attention. He could feel all the eyes on him. He knew a moment like this would never come again, when the entire kingdom watched him so completely, so intensely, analyzing every move he made. He had lived this moment so many times in his mind since he had been a youth, and now it had come. He wanted it to go slowly.
He walked down the steps of the throne, taking them one at a time, savoring each step. He walked on the red carpet, feeling how soft it was beneath his feet, closer and closer towards the patch of sunlight, towards the sword. As he walked, it was like walking in a dream. He felt outside of himself. A part of him felt as if he had walked this carpet many times before, having hoisted the sword a million times in his dreams. It made him feel all the more that he was fated to hoist it, that he was walking into destiny.
He saw how it would go in his mind: he would step forward boldly, reach out with a single hand, and as his subjects leaned in, he would suddenly and dramatically raise it high over his head with a single hand. They would all gasp and fall to their faces and declare him the Chosen One, the most important of the MacGil kings who had ever ruled, the one meant to rule forever. They would weep with joy at the sight. They would cower in fear of him. They would thank the gods that they had lived in this lifetime to witness it. They would worship him as a god.
Gareth approached the sword, just feet away now, and felt himself tremble inside. As he entered the
