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

by Morgan Rice

  The giant studied the fresh troll at its feet, as if debating. But finally, as Vesuvius had gambled, it exhibited its limited intelligence and lunged forward, grabbing the corpse—exactly as Vesuvius knew it would.

  “NOW!” he shrieked.

  The soldiers threw the ropes, casting them over the back of the giant, grabbing hold on either side and pulling, pinning it down. More soldiers rushed forward and threw more ropes, dozens of them, again and again, binding its neck, its arms, its legs. They pulled with all their might as they encircled it, and the beast strained and struggled and roared in fury—but there was soon nothing it could do. Bound by dozens of thick ropes, held down by hundreds of men, it lay face down in the dirt, roaring helplessly.

  Vesuvius walked close and stood over it, unimaginable just moments ago, and looked down, satisfied at his conquest.

  Finally, after all these years, he grinned wide.

  “Now,” he said slowly, savoring each word, “Escalon is mine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kyra stood at the window of her chamber watching dawn break over the countryside with a sense of anticipation and dread. She had spent a long night plagued by nightmares, tossing and turning after overhearing her father’s conversation. She could still hear the words ringing in her head:

  Does she not have a right to know who she is?

  All night long she had dreamt of a woman with an obscured face, wearing a veil, a woman she felt certain was her mother. She reached for her, again and again, only to wake grasping at the bed, at nothing.

  Kyra no longer knew what was real and what was a dream, what was a truth and what was a lie. How many secrets had they been keeping from her? What couldn’t they tell her?

  Kyra finally woke at dawn, clutching her cheek, still stinging from the wound, and she wondered about her mother. All of her life she had been told that her mother had died in childbirth, and she had no reason to believe otherwise. Kyra felt she did not really resemble anyone in her family or in this fort, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that everyone had always looked at her a bit differently, as if she didn’t quite belong here. But she had never imagined that there was anything to it, that her father had been lying to her, keeping some secret from her. Was her mother still alive? Why did they have to hide it from her?

  Kyra stood at the window, trembling inside, marveling at how her life had changed so drastically in the last day. She also felt a fire burning in her veins, running from her cheek to her shoulder and down to her wrist, and she knew she was not the same person she was. She could sense the warmth of the dragon coursing through her, pulsating inside her. She wondered what it all meant. Would she ever be the same person again?

  Kyra looked down at the people below, hundreds hurrying to and fro so early, and she marveled at all the activity. Usually this time of day was quiet. But not now. The Lord’s Men were coming for them, like a brewing storm, and her people knew there would be retribution. The spirit in the air was different this time, too. Her people had always been quick to back down. But their spirit seemed to have hardened this time, and she was thrilled to see them preparing to fight. Scores of her father’s men were securing the earthen banks, doubling the guard at the gates, lowering the portcullis, taking positions on the ramparts, barring windows and digging ditches. Men selected and sharpened weapons, filled quivers with arrows, prepared horses, and assembled in the courtyard nervously. They were all preparing.

  Kyra could hardly believe she was the catalyst for all this; she felt a sense of guilt and of pride all at once. Most of all, she felt dread. Her people, she knew, could not survive a direct attack by the Lord’s Men, whom, after all, had the Pandesian Empire behind them. They could put up a stand, but when Pandesia arrived with all its might, they would all surely die here.

  “Glad to see you’re up,” came a cheerful voice.

  Kyra spun, startled, as did Leo beside her, not realizing anyone else was awake in the fort this early, and she was relieved to see Anvin standing in the doorway, a grin on his face, joined by Vidar, Arthfael, and several more of her father’s men. As the group stood looking back at her, she could see they looked at her differently this time. There was something different in their eyes: respect. They no longer looked at her as if she were a young girl, an observer, but rather, as if she were one of them. An equal.

  That look restored her heart, made her feel as if it had all been worth it. There was nothing she had ever wanted more than to gain the respect of these men.

  “You’re better, then?” asked Vidar.

  Kyra thought about that, and as she opened and closed her fists and stretched her arms, she realized she was, indeed, better—in fact, stronger than ever before. As she nodded back to them, she could see they also looked at her with something else: a touch of fear. As if she held some sort of power they did not know or trust.

  “I feel reborn,” she replied.

  Anvin grinned wide.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re going to need it. We’ll need every hand we can get.”

  She looked back, surprised and thrilled.

  “Are you offering me a chance to fight with you?” she asked, her heart thumping. No news could be more thrilling to her.

  Arthfael smiled and stepped forward, clasping her shoulder.

  “Just don’t tell your father,” he said.

  Leo stepped forward and licked these men’s hands and they all stroked his head.

  “We have a little present for you,” Vidar said.

  Kyra was surprised.

  “A present?” she asked.

  “Consider it a homecoming,” Arthfael said, “just a little something to help you forget that scratch on your cheek.”

  He stepped aside, as did the others, and Kyra realized they were inviting her to follow. There was nothing she wanted more. She smiled back, joyful for the first time in as long as she could remember.

  “Is that what it takes to be invited to join your lot?” she asked with a smile. “I had to kill five of the Lord’s Men?”

  “Three,” Arthfael corrected. “As I recall, Leo here killed two of them.”

  “Yes,” Anvin said. “And surviving an encounter with a dragon counts for something, too.”

  *

  Kyra marched with the men across the grounds of her father’s fort, Leo at her side, their boots crunching on the snow, energized by the industry all around her, the fort so busy, filled with a sense of purpose, stunningly alive in the dawn. She passed carpenters, cobblers, saddlers, masons, all hard at work on their craft, while endless men sharpened swords and other blades along stones. As they walked, Kyra sensed people stopped and staring at her; her ears burned. They all must have known why the Lord’s Men were coming, what she had done. She felt so conspicuous, and feared her people would hate her.

  But she was surprised to see that they looked at her with admiration—and something else, perhaps fear. They must have discovered she’d survived an encounter with a dragon, and it seemed they did not know what to make of her.

  Kyra looked up and searched the skies, hoping beyond hope that she might see Theos, recovered, flying high, circling her. But as she searched the skies, she saw nothing. Where was he? she wondered. Had he survived? Would he ever fly again? Was he already halfway across the world?

  As they walked, crossing the fort, Kyra became curious as to where they were leading her and what gift they could possibly have in store for her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked Anvin, as they turned down a narrow cobblestone street. They passed villagers digging out from the snow, while huge slabs of ice and snow slid off clay roofs. Smoke rose from chimneys all throughout the village, the smell of it crisp on the winter day.

  They turned down another street and Kyra spotted a wide, low stone dwelling, covered in snow, with a red oak door, one set apart from the others, which she recognized immediately.

  “Is that not the blacksmith’s forge?” she asked.

  “It is,”
Anvin replied, still walking.

  “But why do you lead me here?” she asked.

  They reached the door, and Vidar smiled as he opened the door and stepped aside.

  “You shall see.”

  Kyra ducked through the low doorway then stood up straight in the forge, Leo following, the others filing in behind her, and as she entered, she was struck by the heat, the fires from the forge making it warm in here. She immediately noticed all the weapons laid out on the blacksmith’s anvils, and she studied them with admiration: swords and axes still in progress, some still red-hot, still being molded.

  The blacksmith sat there with his three apprentices, faces covered in soot, and looked up, expressionless, through his thick black beard. His place was packed with weapons—laid out on every surface, on the floor, hanging from hooks, and it appeared he was working on dozens at once. Kyra knew Brot, the blacksmith, a short man, stocky, with a low brow perpetually furrowed in concentration, to be a serious man who spoke few words, and who lived for his weapons. He was known to be gruff, not to care much for men—only for a piece of steel.

  The few times Kyra had spoken with him, though, Brot had proved, beneath his gruff exterior, to be a kindhearted man, and passionate when talking about weaponry. He must have recognized a kindred soul in Kyra, as they had a mutual love for weaponry.

  “Kyra,” he said, seeming pleased to see her. “Sit.”

  She sat across form him at the empty bench, her back to the forge, feeling its heat. Anvin and the others crowded around them, and they all watched as Brot tinkered with his weaponry: a lance, a sickle, a mace in progress, its chain still waiting to be hammered out. Kyra saw a sword, its edges still rough, waiting to be sharpened. Behind him his apprentices worked, the noise of their tools filling the air. One hammered away at an ax, sparks flying everywhere, while another reached out with his long tongs and pulled a strip of white-hot steel from the forge, laying it on the anvil and preparing to hammer. The third used his tongs to take a halberd off his anvil and place it in the large, iron slack tub, its waters hissing the second it was submerged and emitting a cloud of steam.

  For Kyra, this forge had always been the most exciting place in Volis.

  As she watched him, her heart beat faster, wondering what present these men had in store.

  “I heard of your exploits,” Brot said, not meeting her eye, looking down at a long sword as he examined it, testing its weight. It was one of the longest swords she had ever seen, and he frowned and narrowed his eyes as he held its blade, seeming unsatisfied.

  She knew better than to interrupt him, and she waited patiently in the silence for him to continue.

  “A shame,” he finally said.

  Kyra stared back, confused.

  “What?” she asked.

  “That you did not kill the boy,” he said. “We wouldn’t all be in this mess if you had, would we?”

  He still did not meet her eyes, weighing the sword, and she flushed, knowing he was right but not regretting her actions.

  “A lesson for you,” he added. “Kill them all, always. Do you understand me?” he asked, his tone hard as he looked up and met her eyes, dead serious. “Kill them all.”

  Despite his harsh tone and blunt quality, Kyra admired Brot for always saying what he believed, and what others were afraid to say. She also admired him for his fearlessness: owning weapons of steel was outlawed by Pandesia, on punishment of death. Her father’s men’s weapons were sanctioned only because they kept The Flames—but Brot also illegally forged weapons for dozens of others, helping to supply a secret army. He could be caught and killed at any moment, and yet he never flinched in the face of duty.

  “Is that why you’ve summoned me?” she asked, puzzled. “To give me advice on killing men?”

  He hammered away at a sword on the anvil before him, working for a while, ignoring her until he was ready. Still looking down, he said:

  “No. To help you kill them.”

  She blinked, confused, and Brot reached back and gestured to one of his apprentices, who rushed over and handed him an object.

  Brot looked at her.

  “I heard you lost two weapons last night,” he said. “A bow and a staff, was it?”

  She nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

  Brot shook his head disapprovingly.

  “That is because you play with sticks. A child’s weapons. You’ve killed five of the Lord’s Men and have faced off with a dragon and lived, and that is more than anyone in this room. You are a warrior now, and you deserve a warrior’s weapons.”

  He reached back as one of his apprentices handed him something, then turned back and laid a long object down on the table, covered in a red, velvet cloth.

  She looked up at him questioningly, her heart beating with anticipation, and he nodded back.

  Kyra reached out, slowly removed the red cloth, and gasped at what she saw: before her lay a beautiful longbow, its handle carved, ornate, and covered in a paper-thin sheet of shiny metal. It was unlike any bow she had ever seen.

  “Alkan steel,” he explained, as she hoisted it and admired how light it was. “The strongest in the world—and also the lightest. Very scarce, used by kings. These men here have paid for it—and my men have been pounding it all night.”

  Kyra turned and saw Anvin and the others looking back, smiling, and her heart filled with gratitude.

  “Feel it,” Brot urged. “Go ahead.”

  Kyra held up the bow and weighed it in her hand, in awe at how it fit in her hand.

  “It is even lighter than my wood one,” she said, confused.

  “That’s Beechum wood beneath,” he said. “Stronger than what you had—and lighter, too. This bow will never break—and your arrows shall go much further.”

  She admired it, speechless, realizing this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. Brot reached out and handed her a quiver filled with arrows, all with shiny new heads, and as she fingered one she was amazed at how sharp they were. She inspected their intricate design.

  “Barbed broadhead,” Brot said proudly. “You land one of these, and the head will not come out. They are designed to kill.”

  Kyra looked up at Brot and the others, overwhelmed, not knowing what to say. What meant most to her were not the weapons but that these great men thought enough of her to go out of their way.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “I shall do my best to honor your work, and to be worthy of this weapon.”

  “I’m not done yet,” he said, gruffly. “Hold out your arms.”

  She did, puzzled, and he stepped forward and examined them, rolling up her sleeves and checking her forearms. He finally nodded, satisfied.

  “That’s about right,” he said.

  Brot nodded to an apprentice, who stepped forward holding two shiny objects and clasped them to her forearms. As the cold metal touched her skin, Kyra was shocked to see that they were bracers, long, thin forearm guards. They ran from her wrist to her elbow, and as they were clasped into place with a click, they fit perfectly.

  Kyra bent her elbows in wonder, examining the bracers, and as she did, she felt invincible, as if they were a part of her new skin. They were so light, yet so strong, protecting her from wrist to elbow.

  “Bracers,” Brot said. “Thin enough to allow you to move, yet strong enough to withstand the blow of any sword.” He looked right at her. “These are not only for protection from the string when firing that bow—these are extra-long, also made of Alkan steel. They are meant to replace a shield. This shall be your armor. If an enemy comes at you with a sword, you now have the means to defend yourself.”

  He suddenly grabbed a sword off the table, raised it high, and brought it down right for her head.

  Kyra, shocked, reacted, raising her forearms with her new bracers—and she was amazed as she stopped the blow, sparks flying.

  Brot smiled, lowering his sword, pleased.

  Kyra examined her bracers and felt an overw
helming joy.

  “You have given me all I could ever want,” Kyra said, getting ready to embrace them.

  But Brot held up a hand and stopped her.

  “Not all,” he corrected.

  Brot gestured to his third apprentice, who brought forth a long object wrapped in a black velvet cloth.

  Kyra looked at it curiously, then draped the bow over her shoulder and reached out and took it. She unwrapped it slowly, and when she finally saw what was beneath it, she was breathless.

  It was a staff, a work of beauty, even longer than her old one, and, most amazing of all, shiny. Like the bow, it was covered in a plate of Alkan steel, pounded paper-thin, light reflecting off of it. Yet even with all this metal, as she weighed it in her hands, it was lighter than her old staff.

  “Next time,” Brot said, “when they strike your staff, it won’t break. And when you hit a foe, the blow will be more severe. It is a weapon and a shield in one. And that’s not all,” he said, pointing at it.

  Kyra looked down, confused, not understand what he was pointing at.

  “Twist it,” he said.

  She did as he told her and as she did, to her shock, the staff unscrewed and split in two equal halves. In each end was embedded a pointy blade, several inches long.

  Kyra looked up, agape, and Brot smiled.

  “Now you have more ways to kill a man,” he said.

  She looked up at the glistening blades, the finest work she had ever seen, and she was in awe. He had custom-forged this weapon for her, giving her a staff that doubled as two short spears, a weapon uniquely suited for her strengths. She twisted it closed again, smoothly locking it into place, so seamless she could not even tell there was a concealed weapon within.

  She looked up at Brot, at all of the men, tears in her eyes.

  “I shall never be able to thank you,” she said.

  “You already have,” Anvin said, stepping forward. “You have brought a war upon us—a war that we ourselves were afraid to start. You have done us a great favor.”

  Before she could process his words, suddenly, a series of horns sounded in the distance, one after the next, echoing off the fort.