way he could change it. But there was nothing. These were the cards life had dealt him.
After hours of sitting, he rose dejectedly and began traversing his way back up the familiar hills, higher and higher. Inevitably, he drifted back towards the flock, to the high knoll. As he climbed, the first sun fell in the sky and the second reached its peak, casting a greenish tint. Thor took his time as he ambled, mindlessly removing his sling from his waist, its leather grip well-worn from years of use. He reached into his sack, tied to his hip, and fingered his collection of stones, each smoother than the next, hand-picked from the choicest creeks. Sometimes he fired on birds, other times, rodents. It was a habit he’d ingrained over years. At first, he’d missed everything; then, once, he hit a moving target. Since then, his aim was true. Now, hurling stones had become part of him—and it helped to release some of his anger. His brothers might be able to swing a sword through a log—but they could never hit a flying bird with a stone.
Thor mindlessly placed a stone in the sling, leaned back and hurled it with all he had, pretending he was hurling it at his father. He hit a branch on a far-off tree, taking it down cleanly. Once he’d discovered he could actually kill moving animals, he’d stopped aiming at them, afraid at his own power and not wanting to hurt anything; now his targets were branches. Unless of course, a fox came after his flock; over time, they had learned to stay clear. Thor's sheep, as a result, were the safest in the village.
Thor thought of his brothers, of where they were right now, and he steamed. After a day’s ride they would arrive in King’s Court. He could see it. He saw them arriving to great fanfare, people dressed in their finest, greeting them. Warriors greeting them. Members of The Silver. They would be taken in, given a place to live in the Legion’s barracks, a place to train in the King’s fields, the finest weapons. Each would be named squire to a famous knight. One day, they would become knights themselves, get their own horse, their own coat of arms, and have their own squire. They would partake in all the festivals, and dine at the King’s table. It was a charmed life. And it had slipped from his grasp.
Thor felt physically sick, and tried to force it all from his mind. But he could not. There was a part of him, some deep part, that screamed at him. It told him not to give up, that he had a greater destiny than this. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t here. He felt he was different. Maybe even special. That no one understood him. And that they all underestimated him.
Thor reached the highest knoll and spotted his flock. Well-trained, they were all still gathered, gnawing away contentedly at whatever grass they could find. He counted them, looking for the red marks he had stained on their backs. He froze as he finished. One sheep was missing.
He counted again, and again. He couldn’t believe it: one was gone.
Thor had never lost a sheep before, and his father would not let him live this down. Worse, he hated the idea of one of his sheep lost, alone, vulnerable in the wilderness. He hated to see anything innocent suffer.
Thor scurried to the top of the knoll and scanned the horizon until he spotted it, far-off, several hills away: the lone sheep, the red mark on its back. It was the wild one of the bunch. His heart dropped as he realized the sheep had not only fled, but had chosen, of all places, to head west, to Darkwood.
Thor gulped. Darkwood was forbidden—not just for sheep, but for humans. It was beyond the village limit, and from the time he could walk, Thor knew not to venture there. He never had. Going there, legend told, was a sure death, its woods unmarked and filled with vicious animals.
Thor looked up at the darkening sky, debating. He couldn’t let his sheep go. He figured if he could move fast, he could get it back in time.
After one final look back, he turned and broke into a sprint, heading west, for Darkwood, thick clouds gathering above. He had a sinking feeling, yet his legs seemed to carry him on his own. He felt there was no turning back, even if he wanted to.
It was like running into a nightmare.
*
Thor sped down the series of hills without pausing, into the thick canopy of Darkwood. The trails ended where the wood began, and he ran into unmarked territory, summer leaves crunching beneath his feet.
The instant he entered the wood he was engulfed in darkness, the light blocked by the towering pines above. It was colder in here, too, and as he crossed the threshold, he felt a chill. It wasn’t just from the dark, or the cold—it was from something else. Something he could not name. It was a sense of…being watched.
Thor looked up at the ancient branches, gnarled, thicker than he, swaying and creaking in the breeze. He had barely gone fifty paces into the wood when he began to hear odd animal noises. He turned and could hardly see the opening from which he’d entered; he felt already as if there were no way out. He hesitated.
Darkwood had always sat on the periphery of the town and on the periphery of Thor’s consciousness, something deep and mysterious. Every herder who ever lost a sheep to the wood had never dared venture after it. Even his father. The tales about this place were too dark, too persistent.
But there was something different about today that made Thor no longer care, that made him throw caution to the wind. A part of him wanted to push the boundaries, to get as far away from home as possible, and to allow life to take him where it may.
He ventured farther, then paused, unsure which way to go. He noticed markings, bent branches where his sheep must have gone, and turned in that direction. After some time, he turned again.
Before another hour had passed, he was hopelessly lost. He tried to remember the direction from which he came—but was no longer sure. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, but he figured the only way out was forward, so he continued on.
In the distance, Thor spotted a shaft of sunlight, and made for it. He found himself before a small clearing, and stopped at its edge, rooted: he could not believe what he saw before him.
Standing there, his back to Thor, dressed in a long, blue satin robe, was a man. No—not a man, Thor could sense it from here. He was something else. A druid, maybe. He stood tall and straight, head covered by a hood, perfectly still, as if he did not have a care in the world.
Thor stood there, not knowing what to do. He had heard of druids, but had never encountered one. From the markings on his robe, the elaborate gold trim, this was no mere druid: those were royal markings. Of the King’s court. Thor could not understand it. What was a royal druid doing here?
After what felt like an eternity, the druid slowly turned and faced him, and as he did, Thor recognized the face. It took his breath away. It was one of the most famous faces in the kingdom: the King’s personal druid. Argon, counselor to kings of the Western Kingdom for centuries. What he was doing here, far from the royal court, in the center of Darkwood, was a mystery. Thor wondered if he were imagining it.
“Your eyes do not deceive you,” Argon said, staring directly at Thor.
His voice was deep, ancient, as if spoken by the trees themselves. His large, translucent eyes seemed to bore right through Thor, summing him up. He felt an intense energy radiating from him—as if he were standing opposite the sun.
Thor immediately took a knee and bowed his head.
“My liege,” he said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
Disrespect toward a King’s counselor would result in imprisonment or death. It had been ingrained in Thor since the time he was born.
“Stand up, child,” Argon said. “If I wanted you to kneel, I would have told you.”
Slowly, Thor stood and looked at him. Argon took several steps closer. He stood there and stared, until Thor began to feel uncomfortable.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” Argon said.
Thor was taken aback. He had never met his mother, and had never met anyone, aside from his father, who knew her. He had been told she died in childbirth, something for which Thor always felt a sense of guilt. He had always suspected that that was why his family hated him.