Morgan Rice: 5 Beginnings (Turned, Arena one, A Quest of Heroes, Rise of the Dragons, and Slave, Warrior, Queen)

by Morgan Rice

  Merk saw he was surrounded and knew he had walked into a trap. He glanced around quickly without letting them know it, his old instincts kicking in, and he counted eight of them. They all held daggers, all dressed in rags, with dirty faces, hands, and fingernails, all unshaven, all with a desperate look that showed they hadn’t eaten in too many days. And that they were bored.

  Merk tensed as the lead thief got closer, but not because he feared him; Merk could kill him—could kill them all—without blinking an eye, if he chose. What made him tense was the possibility of being forced into violence. He was determined to keep his vow, whatever the cost.

  “And what do we have here?” one of them asked, coming close, circling Merk.

  “Looks like a monk,” said another, his voice mocking. “But those boots don’t match.”

  “Maybe he’s a monk who thinks he’s a soldier,” one laughed.

  They all broke into laughter, and one of them, an oaf of a man in his forties with a missing front tooth, leaned in with his bad breath and poked Merk in the shoulder. The old Merk would have killed any man who had come half as close.

  But the new Merk was determined to be a better man, to rise above violence—even if it seemed to seek him out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

  Do not resort to violence, he told himself again and again.

  “What’s this monk doing?” one of them asked. “Praying?”

  They all burst into laughter again.

  “Your god won’t save you now, boy!” another exclaimed.

  Merk opened his eyes and stared back at the cretin.

  “I do not wish to harm you,” he said calmly.

  Laughter rose up, louder than before, and Merk realized that staying calm, not reacting with violence, was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  “Lucky for us, then!” one replied.

  They laughed again, then all fell silent as their leader stepped forward and got in Merk’s face.

  “But perhaps,” he said, his voice serious, so close that Merk could smell his bad breath, “we wish to harm you.”

  A man came up behind Merk, wrapped a thick arm around his throat, and began squeezing. Merk gasped as he felt himself being choked, the grip tight enough to put him in pain but not to cut off all air. His immediate reflex was to reach back and kill the man. It would be easy; he knew the perfect pressure point in the forearm to make him release his grip. But he forced himself not to.

  Let them pass, he told himself. The road to humility must begin somewhere.

  Merk faced their leader.

  “Take of mine what you wish,” Merk said, gasping. “Take it and be on your way.”

  “And what if we take it and stay right here?” the leader replied.

  “No one’s asking you what we can and can’t take, boy,” another said.

  One of them stepped up and ransacked Merk’s waist, rummaging greedy hands through his few personal belongings left in the world. Merk forced himself to stay calm as the hands rifled through everything he owned. Finally, they extracted his well-worn silver dagger, his favorite weapon, and still Merk, as painful as it was, did not react.

  Let it go, he told himself.

  “What’s this?” one asked. “A dagger?”

  He glared at Merk.

  “What’s a fancy monk like you carrying a dagger?” one asked.

  “What are you doing, boy, carving trees?” another asked.

  They all laughed, and Merk gritted his teeth, wondering how much more he could take.

  The man who took the dagger stopped, looked down at Merk’s wrist, and yanked back his sleeve. Merk braced himself, realizing they’d found it.

  “What’s this?” the thief asked, grabbing his wrist and holding it up, examining it.

  “It looks like a fox,” one said.

  “What’s a monk doing with a tattoo of a fox?” another asked.

  Another stepped forward, a tall, thin man with red hair, and grabbed his wrist and examined it closely. He let it go and looked up at Merk with cautious eyes.

  “That’s no fox, you idiot,” he said to his men. “It’s a wolf. It’s the mark of a King’s man—a mercenary.”

  Merk felt his face flush as he realized they were staring at his tattoo. He did not want to be discovered.

  The thieves all remained silent, staring at it, and for the first time, Merk sensed hesitation in their faces.

  “That’s the order of the killers,” one said, then looked at him. “How did you get that mark, boy?”

  “Probably gave it to himself,” one answered. “Makes the road safer.”

  The leader nodded to his man, who released his grip on Merk’s throat, and Merk breathed deep, relieved. But the leader then reached up and held a knife to Merk’s throat and Merk wondered if he would die here, today, in this place. He wondered if it would be punishment for all the killing he had done. He wondered if he was ready to die.

  “Answer him,” their leader growled. “You give that to yourself, boy? They say you need to kill a hundred men to get that mark.”

  Merk breathed, and in the long silence that followed, debated what to say. Finally, he sighed.

  “A thousand,” he said.

  The leader blinked back, confused.

  “What?” he asked.

  “A thousand men,” Merk explained. “That’s what gets you that tattoo. And it was given to me by King Tarnis himself.”

  They all stared back, shocked, and a long silence fell over the wood, so quiet that Merk could hear the insects chirping. He wondered what would happen next.

  One of them broke into hysterical laughter—and all the others followed. They laughed and guffawed as Merk stood there, clearly thinking it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  “That’s a good one, boy,” one said. “You’re as good a liar as you are a monk.”

  The leader pushed the dagger against his throat, hard enough to begin to draw blood.

  “I said, answer me,” the leader repeated. “A real answer. You want to die right now, boy?”

  Merk stood there, feeling the pain, and he thought about the question—he truly thought about it. Did he want to die? It was a good question, and an even deeper question than the thief supposed. As he thought about it, really thought about, he realized that a part of him did want to die. He was tired of life, bone tired.

  But as he dwelled on it, Merk ultimately realized he was not ready to die. Not now. Not today. Not when he was ready to start anew. Not when he was just beginning to enjoy life. He wanted a chance to change. He wanted a chance to serve in the Tower. To become a Watcher.

  “No, actually I don’t,” Merk replied.

  He finally looked his captor right in the eye, a resolve growing within him.

  “And because of that,” he continued, “I’m going to give you one chance to release me, before I kill you all.”

  They all looked at him in silent shock, before the leader scowled and began to break into action.

  Merk felt the blade begin to slice his throat, and something within him took over. It was the professional part of him, the one he had trained his entire life, the part of him that could take no more. It meant breaking his vow—but he no longer cared.

  The old Merk came rushing back so fast, it was as if it had never left—and in the blink of an eye, he found himself back in killer mode.

  Merk focused and saw all of his opponents’ movements, every twitch, every pressure point, every vulnerability. The desire to kill them overwhelmed him, like an old friend, and Merk allowed it to take over.

  In one lightning-fast motion, Merk grabbed the leader’s wrist, dug his finger into a pressure point, snapped it back until it cracked, then snatched the dagger as it fell and in one quick move, sliced the man’s throat from ear to ear.

  Their leader stared back at him with an astonished look before slumping down to the ground, dead.

  Merk turned and faced the others, and they all stared back, st
unned, mouths agape.

  Now it was Merk’s turn to smile, as he looked back at all of them, relishing what was about to happen next.

  “Sometimes, boys,” he said, “you just pick the wrong man to mess with.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kyra stood in the center of the crowded bridge, feeling all eyes on her, all awaiting her decision for the fate of the boar. Her cheeks flushed; she did not like to be the center of attention. She loved her father for acknowledging her, though, and she felt a great sense of pride, especially for his putting the decision in her hands.

  Yet at the same time, she also felt a great responsibility. She knew that whatever choice she made would decide the fate of her people. As much as she loathed the Pandesians, she did not want the responsibility of throwing her people into a war they could not win. Yet she also did not want to back down, to embolden the Lord’s Men, to disgrace her people, make them seem weak, especially after Anvin and the others had so courageously made a stand.

  Her father, she realized, was wise: by putting the decision in her hands, he made it seemed as if the decision was theirs, not the Lord’s Men, and that act alone had saved his people face. She also realized he had put the decision in her hands for a reason: he must have knew this situation required an outside voice to help all parties save face—and he chose her because she was convenient, and because he knew her not to be rash, to be a voice of moderation. The more she pondered it, the more she realized that was why he chose her: not to incite a war—he could have chosen Anvin for that—but to get his people out of one.

  She came to a decision.

  “The beast is cursed,” she said dismissively. “It nearly killed my brothers. It came from the Wood of Thorns and was killed on the eve of Winter Moon, a day we are forbidden to hunt. It was a mistake to bring it through our gates—it should have been left to rot in the wild, where it belongs.”

  She turned derisively to the Lord’s Men.

  “Bring it to your Lord Governor,” she said, smiling. “You do us a favor.”

  The Lord’s Men looked from her to the beast, and their expressions morphed; they now looked as if they had bitten into something rotten, as if they didn’t want it anymore.

  Kyra saw Anvin and the others looking at her approvingly, gratefully—and her father most of all. She had done it—she had allowed her people to save face, had spared them from a war—and had managed a jibe at Pandesia at the same time.

  Her brothers dropped the boar to the ground and it landed in the snow with a thud. They stepped back, humbled, their shoulders clearly aching.

  All eyes now fell to the Lord’s Men, who stood there, not knowing what to do. Clearly Kyra’s words had cut deep; they now looked at the beast now as if it were something foul dragged up from the bowels of the earth. Clearly, they no longer wanted it. And now that it was theirs, they seemed to have also lost the desire for it.

  Their commander, after a long, tense silence, finally gestured to his men to pick up the beast, then turned, scowling, and marched away, clearly annoyed, as if knowing he had been outsmarted.

  The crowd dispersed, the tension gone, and there came a sense of relief. Many of her father’s men approached her approvingly, laying hands on her shoulder.

  “Well done,” Anvin said, looking at her with approval. “You shall make a good ruler someday.”

  The village folk went back to their ways, the hustle and bustle returning, the tension dissipated, and Kyra turned and searched for her father’s eyes. She found them looking back, he standing but a few feet away. In front of his men, he was always reserved when it came to her, and this time was no different—he wore an indifferent expression, but he nodded at her ever so slightly, a nod, she knew, of approval.

  Kyra looked over and saw Anvin and Vidar clutching their spears, and her heart quickened.

  “Can I join you?” she asked Anvin, knowing they were heading to the training grounds, as the rest of her father’s men.

  Anvin glanced nervously at her father, knowing he would disapprove.

  “Snow’s thickening,” Anvin finally replied, hesitant. “Night’s falling, too.”

  “That’s not stopping you,” Kyra countered.

  He grinned back.

  “No, it’s not,” he admitted.

  Anvin glanced at her father again, and she turned and saw him shake his head before turning and heading back inside.

  Anvin sighed.

  “They’re preparing a mighty feast,” he said. “You’d best go in.”

  Kyra could smell it herself, the air heavy with fine meats roasting, and she saw her brothers turn and head inside, along with dozens of villagers, all rushing to prepare for the festival.

  But Kyra turned and looked longingly out at the fields, at the training grounds.

  “A meal can wait,” she said. “Training cannot. Let me come.”

  Vidar smiled and shook his head.

  “You sure you’re a girl and not a warrior?” Vidar asked.

  “Can I not be both?” she replied.

  Anvin let out a long sigh, and finally shook his head.

  “Your father would have my hide,” he said.

  Then, finally, he nodded.

  “You won’t take no for an answer,” he concluded, “and you’ve got more heart than half my men. I suppose we can use one more.”

  *

  Kyra ran across the snowy landscape, trailing Anvin, Vidar and several of her father’s men, Leo by her side as usual. The snowfall was thickening and she did not care. She felt a sense of freedom, of exhilaration, as she always did when passing through Fighter’s Gate, a low, arched opening cut into the stone walls of the training ground. She breathed deep as the sky opened up and she ran into this place she loved most in the world, its rolling green hills, now covered in snow, encased by a rambling stone wall, perhaps a quarter mile wide and deep. She felt everything was as it should be as she saw all the men training, crisscrossing on their horses, wielding lances, aiming for distant targets and bettering themselves. This, for her, was what life was about.

  This training ground was reserved for her father’s men; women were not allowed here and neither were boys who had not yet reached their eighteenth year—and who had not been invited. Brandon and Braxton, every day, waited impatiently to be invited—yet Kyra suspected that they never would. Fighter’s Gate was for honorable, battle-hardened warriors, not for blowhards like her brothers.

  Kyra ran through the fields, feeling happier and more alive here than anywhere else on earth. The energy was intense, it packed with dozens of her father’s finest warriors, all wearing slightly different armor, warriors from all regions of Escalon, all of whom had over time gravitated to her father’s fort. There were men from the south, from Thebus and Leptis; from the Midlands, mostly from the capital, Andros, but also from the mountains of Kos; there were westerners from Ur; river men from Thusis and their neighbors from Esephus. There were men who lived near the Lake of Ire, and men from as far away as the waterfalls at Everfall. All wore different colors, armor, wielded different weapons, all men of Escalon yet each representing his own stronghold. It was a dazzling array of power.

  Her father, the former King’s champion, a man who commanded great respect, was the only man in these times, in this fractured kingdom, that men could rally around. Indeed, when the old King had surrendered their kingdom without a fight, it was her father that people urged to assume the throne and lead the fight. Over time, the best of the former King’s warriors had sought him out, and now, with the force growing larger each day, Volis was achieving a strength that nearly rivaled the capital. Perhaps that was why, Kyra realized, the Lord’s Men felt the need to humble them.

  Elsewhere throughout Escalon, the Lord Governors for Pandesia did not allow knights to gather, did not allow such freedoms, for fear of a revolt. But here, in Volis, it was different. Here, they had no choice: they needed to allow it because they needed the best possible men to keep The Flames.

  Kyra turned and
looked out, beyond the walls, beyond the rolling hills of white, and in the distance, on the far horizon, even through the snowfall, she could see, just barely, the dim glow of The Flames. The wall of fire that protected the eastern border of Escalon, The Flames, a wall of fire fifty feet deep and several hundred high, burned as brightly as ever, lighting up the night, their outline visible on the horizon and growing more pronounced as night fell. Stretching nearly fifty miles wide, The Flames were the only thing standing between Escalon and the nation of savage trolls to the east.

  Even so, enough trolls broke through each year to wreak havoc, and if it weren’t for The Keepers, her father’s brave men who kept The Flames, Escalon would be a slave nation to the trolls. The trolls, who feared water, could only attack Escalon by land, and The Flames was the only thing keeping them at bay. The Keepers stood guard in shifts, patrolled in rotation, and Pandesia needed them. Others were stationed at The Flames, too—draftees, slaves and criminals—but her father’s men, The Keepers, were the only true soldiers amongst the lot, and the only ones who knew how to keep The Flames.

  In return, Pandesia allowed Volis and their men their many small freedoms, like Volis, these training grounds, real weapons—a small taste of freedom to make them still feel like free warriors, even if it was an illusion. They were not free men, and all of them knew it. They lived with an awkward balance between freedom and servitude that none could stomach.

  But here, at least, in Fighter’s Gate, these men were free, as they had once been, warriors who could compete and train and hone their skills. They represented the best of Escalon, better warriors than any Pandesia had to offer, all of them veterans of The Flames—and all serving shifts there, but a day’s ride away. Kyra wanted nothing more than to join their ranks, than to prove herself, to be stationed at The Flames, to fight real trolls as they came through and to help guard her kingdom from invasion.