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

by Morgan Rice

  Vesuvius thought quickly. He could not kill the beast—he needed it alive, needed to harness its strength. Yet he needed it to obey him. But how? How could he goad it into the tunnel?

  Suddenly, he had an idea: if he could not prod it in, then perhaps he could entice it.

  He turned and grabbed the troll beside him.

  “You,” he commanded. “Run for the tunnel. Make sure the giant sees you.”

  The solder stared back, wide-eyed with fear.

  “But, my Lord and King, what if it follows me?”

  Vesuvius grinned.

  “That is exactly the point.”

  The soldier stood there, panic-stricken, too scared to obey—and Vesuvius stabbed him in the heart. He then stepped up to the next soldier and held the dagger to his throat.

  “You can die here now,” he said, “by the edge of my blade—or you can run for that tunnel and have a chance to live. You choose.”

  Vesuvius pushed the blade tighter against his throat, and the troll, realizing he meant it, turned and darted off.

  Vesuvius watched as he ran across the cave, zigzagging his way amidst all the chaos, between all the dying soldiers, through the beast’s legs, and ran for the entrance to the tunnel.

  The giant spotted him, and he swatted down and missed him. In a rage, and attracted to the one soldier running away from him, the giant, as Vesuvius had hoped, immediately followed. It ran through the cave, each step shaking the earth, the walls.

  The troll ran for his life and finally entered the massive tunnel. Though wide and tall, the tunnel was shallow, ending after a mere fifty yards despite years of work, and as the troll ran inside, he soon reached the dead end, a wall of rock.

  The giant, enraged, charged in after it, never even slowing. As it reached the troll it swiped for him with its massive fists and claws. The troll ducked and the giant instead smashed into rock. The ground shook, a great rumble followed, and Vesuvius watched in awe as the wall crumbled, as an avalanche of rocks came pouring out in a massive cloud of dust.

  Vesuvius’ heart quickened. That was it. It was exactly what he had always dreamt, exactly what he needed, what he had envisioned from the day he set out to find this beast. It swiped again, and smashed out another chunk of rock, taking out a good fifty feet in a single swipe—more than Vesuvius’s slaves had been able to do in an entire year of digging.

  Vesuvius was overjoyed, realizing it could work.

  But then the giant found the troll, grabbed it, lifted it into the air, and bit off its head.

  “CLOSE THE TUNNEL!” Vesuvius commanded, rushing forward and directing his soldiers.

  Hundreds of trolls, waiting on standby, rushed forward and began pushing the slab of Altusian rock that Vesuvius had positioned before the entrance to the tunnel, a rock so thick that no beast, not even this creature, could break it. The sound of stone scraping stone filled the air as Vesuvius watched the tunnel slowly seal up.

  The giant, seeing the entrance being closed, turned and charged for it.

  But the entrance sealed a moment before the giant reached it. The entire cave as it slammed into it—but luckily the stone held.

  Vesuvius smiled; the giant was trapped. He was right where he wanted him.

  “Send the next one in!” Vesuvius ordered.

  A human slave was kicked forward, lashed by his captors, again and again, toward a tiny opening in the stone slab. The human, realizing what was about to happen, refused to go, kicking and struggling; but they beat him savagely, until finally they were able to run him through the opening, giving him one last shove through.

  From inside there came the muffled shouts of the slave, clearly running for his life, trying to get away from the giant. Vesuvius stood there and listened with glee as he heard the sound of the enraged giant, trapped, swatting and smashing at rock, digging his tunnel for him.

  One swipe at a time, his tunnel was being dug—each swipe, he knew, bringing him closer to The Flames, to Escalon. He would turn the humans into a nation of slaves.

  Finally, victory would be his.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Kyra opened her eyes to blackness, lying on a cold stone floor, her head splitting, her body aching, and wondered where she was. Shivering from the cold, her throat parched, feeling as if she hadn’t eaten in days, she reached out and felt the cobblestone floor beneath her fingers, and she tried to remember.

  Images flooded her mind, and she was unsure at first if they were memories or nightmares. She recalled being captured by the Lord’s Men, thrown into a cart, a metal gate slamming on her. She remembered a long, bumpy ride, remembered resisting as the gate opened, struggling to break free and being clubbed on the head. After that, all had, mercifully, been blackness.

  Kyra reached up and felt the lump on the back of her head and she knew it had not been a dream. It had all been real. The reality sunk in like a stone: she had been captured by the Lord’s Men, carted off, and imprisoned.

  Kyra was furious at Maltren for his betrayal, furious at herself for being so stupid as to have believed him. She was also scared, pondering what would come next. Here she lay, alone, in the Governor’s custody, and only terrible things could be coming for her. She felt sure that her father and her people had no idea where she was. Perhaps her father would assume she had heeded him and ventured to the Tower of Ur. Maltren would surely lie and report back that he had seen her fleeing Volis for good.

  As Kyra scrambled in the dark, she instinctively reached for her bow, her staff—but they had all been stripped. She looked up and saw a dim glow coming through the cell bars, and she sat up and saw torches lining the stone walls of a dungeon, beneath which stood several soldiers, at attention. There sat a large iron door in the center of it, and it was silent down here, the only sound that of a dripping coming from somewhere in the ceiling, and of rats scurrying in some dark corner.

  Kyra sat up against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest, trying to get warm. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, forcing herself to imagine herself someplace else, anywhere. As she did, she saw Theos’ intense yellow eyes staring back at her. She could hear the dragon’s voice in her mind’s eye.

  Strength is not defined in times of peace. It is defined in hardship. Embrace your hardship, do not shy from it. Only then can you overcome it.

  Kyra opened her eyes, shocked at the vision, looking around and expecting to see Theos in front of her.

  “Did you see him?” a girl’s voice suddenly cut through the darkness, making Kyra jump.

  Kyra wheeled, stunned to hear the voice of another person here in this cell with her, coming from somewhere in the shadows—and even more stunned to hear it was a girl’s voice. She sounded about her age, and as a figure emerged from the shadows, Kyra saw she was right: there sat a pretty girl, perhaps fifteen, with brown hair and eyes, long tangled hair, face covered in dirt, clothes in tatters. She looked terrified as she stared back at Kyra.

  “Who are you?” Kyra asked.

  “Have you seen him?” the girl repeated, urgently.

  “Seen who?”

  “His son,” she replied.

  “His son?” Kyra asked, confused.

  The girl turned and looked outside the cell, terror-stricken, and Kyra wondered what horrors she had seen.

  “I haven’t seen anyone,” Kyra said.

  “Oh God, please don’t let them kill me,” the girl pleaded. “Please. I hate this place!”

  The girl began to weep uncontrollably, curled up on the stone floor, and Kyra, her heart breaking for her, got up, went over and draped an arm around her shoulder, trying to soothe her.

  “Shhh,” Kyra said, trying to calm her. Kyra had never seen anyone in such a broken state; this girl looked positively terrified about whoever it was she was talking about. It gave Kyra a sinking feeling for what was to come.

  “Tell me,” Kyra said. “Who are you talking about? Who hurt you? The Governor? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  She saw t
he bruises on the girl’s face, the scars on her shoulders, and she tried not to think of what they had done to this poor girl. She waited patiently for her to stop weeping.

  “My name is Dierdre,” she said. “I’ve been here…I don’t know. I thought it was a moon cycle, but I have lost track of time. They took me from my family, ever since the new law. I tried to resist, and they took me here.”

  Dierdre stared into space as if reliving it all again.

  “Every day there await new tortures for me,” she continued. “First it was the son, then the father. They pass me off like a doll and now…I am… nothing.”

  She stared back at Kyra with an intensity that scared her.

  “I just want to die now,” Dierdre pleaded. “Please, just help me die.”

  Kyra looked back, horrified.

  “Don’t say that,” Kyra said.

  “I tried to take a knife the other day to kill myself—but it slipped from my hands and they captured me again. Please. I’ll give you anything. Kill me.”

  Kyra shook her head, aghast.

  “Listen to me,” Kyra said, feeling a new inner strength rise up within her, a new determination as she saw Dierdre’s plight. It was the strength of her father, the strength of generations of warriors, coursing through her. And more than that: it was the strength of the dragon. A strength she did not know she had until this day.

  She grabbed Dierdre’s shoulders and looked her in the eye, wanting to get through to her.

  “You are not going to die,” Kyra said firmly. “And they are not going to hurt you. Do you understand me? You are going to live. I will make sure of it.”

  Dierdre seemed to calm, drawing strength from Kyra’s strength.

  “Whatever they have done to you,” Kyra continued, “that is in the past now. Soon you are going to be free—we are going to be free. You are going to start life over again. We will be friends and I will protect you. Do you trust me?”

  Dierdre stared back, clearly shocked. Finally, she nodded, calm.

  “But how?” Dierdre asked. “You don’t understand. There is no escape from here. You don’t understand what they’re like—”

  They both flinched as the iron door slammed open. Kyra watched as the Lord Governor strutted in, trailed by a half dozen men, and joined by a man who was his spitting image, with that same bulbous nose and smug look, perhaps in his thirties. He must have been his son. He had his father’s same sneering, stupid face, his same look of arrogance.

  They all crossed the dungeon and neared the cell bars, and his men approached with torches, lighting up the cell. Kyra looked around in the bright light and was horrified to see her accommodations for the first time, to see the bloodstains all over the floor. She did not want to think of who else had been here—or of what had happened to them.

  “Bring her here,” the Governor ordered his men.

  The cell door opened, his men marched in and Kyra found herself hoisted to her feet, arms yanked behind her back, unable to break free as much as she tried. They brought her close to the Lord Governor and he looked her up and down like an insect.

  “Did I not warn you?” he said softly, his voice low and dark.

  Kyra frowned.

  “Pandesian law allows you to take unwed girls as wives, not prisoners,” Kyra said, defiant. “You violate your own law to imprison me.”

  The Lord Governor exchanged a look with the others, and they all broke into laughter.

  “Do not worry,” he said, glowering at her, “I will make you my wife. Many times over. And my son’s, too—and anyone else’s whom I wish. And when we’re done with you, if we haven’t killed you yet, then I’ll let you live out your days down here.”

  He grinned an evil grin, clearly enjoying this.

  “As for your father and your people,” he continued, “I’ve had a change of heart: we are going to kill every last one of them. They will be a memory soon enough. Not even that, I’m afraid: I will see to it that Volis is erased from the history books. As we speak, an entire division of the Pandesian army approaches to avenge my men and destroy your fort.”

  Kyra felt a great indignation bubbling up within her. She tried desperately to summon her power, whatever it was that had helped her on the bridge, but to her dismay, it would not come. She writhed and bucked, but could not break free.

  “You have a strong spirit,” he said. “That is good. I shall enjoy breaking that spirit. I shall enjoy it very much.”

  He turned his back on her, as if to leave, when suddenly, without warning, he wheeled and backhanded her with all his might.

  It was a move she did not expect, and Kyra felt the mighty blow smash her jaw and send her reeling down to the floor, beside Dierdre.

  Kyra, stung, jaw aching, lay there and looked up, watching them all go. As they all left her cell, locking it behind them, the Lord Governor stopped, face against the bars, and looked down at her.

  “I will wait for tomorrow to torture you,” he said, grinning. “I find that my victims suffer the most when they are given a full night to think about the hardship to come.”

  He let out an awful laugh, delighted with himself, then turned with his men and left the dungeon, the massive iron door slamming behind them like a coffin on her heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Merk hiked through Whitewood at sunset, his legs aching, his stomach growling, trying to keep the faith that the Tower of Ur was out there on the horizon, that eventually he would reach it. He tried to focus on what his new life would be like once he arrived, how he would become a Watcher and start again.

  But he couldn’t focus. Ever since he had met that girl, heard her story, it had been gnawing away at him. He wanted to push her from his mind, but try as he did, he could not. He was so sure he had been turning away from a life of violence. If he went back for her and helped kill those men, when would the killing ever end? Would there not be another job, another cause, right behind that one?

  Merk hiked and hiked, poking the ground with his staff, leaves crunching beneath his feet, furious. Why had he had to run into her? It was a huge wood—why couldn’t they have missed each other? Why did life always have to throw things in his way? Things beyond his understanding?

  Merk hated hard decisions, and he hated hesitation; his entire life he had always been so sure of everything, and he had regarded that as one of his strong points. He had always known what he was. But now, he was not so sure. Now, he found himself wavering.

  He cursed the gods for having him run into that girl. Why couldn’t people take care of themselves, anyway? Why did they always need him? If she and her family were unable to defend themselves, then why did they deserve to live anyhow? If he saved them, wouldn’t some other predator, sooner or later, kill them?

  No. He could not save them. That would be enabling them. People had to learn to defend themselves.

  And yet perhaps, he pondered, there was a reason she had been put before his eyes. Maybe he was being tested.

  Merk looked up at the skies, the sunset a thin strip on the horizon, barely visible through Whitewood, and he wondered at his new faith.

  Tested.

  It was a powerful word, a powerful idea, and one he did not like. He did not like what he did not understand, what he could not control, and being tested was precisely that. As he hiked and hiked, stabbing the leaves with his staff, Merk felt his carefully constructed world collapsing all around him. Before, his life had been easy; now, it life felt like an uncomfortable state of questioning. Being sure of things in life, he realized, was easy; questioning things was what was hard. He had stepped out of a world of black and white and into a world filled with shades of gray, and the uncertainty unsettled him. He did not understand who he was becoming, and that bothered him most of all.

  Merk crested a hill, leaves crunching, breathing hard but not from exertion. As he reached the top, he stopped and looked out, and for the first time since embarking on this journey, he felt a ray of hope. He almost could not beli
eve what he was seeing.

  There it sat, on the horizon, glowing against the sunset. Not a legend, not a myth, but a real place: the Tower of Ur.

  Nestled in a small clearing in the midst of a vast and dark wood, it rose up, an ancient stone tower, circular, perhaps fifty yards in diameter, and rising to the treeline. It was the oldest thing he had ever seen, older, even, than the castles in which he had served. It had a mysterious, impenetrable aura to it. He could sense it was a mystical place. A place of power.

  Merk breathed a deep sigh of exhaustion and relief. He had made it. Seeing it here was like a dream. Finally, he would have a place to be in the world, a place to call home. He would have a chance to start life over, a chance to repent. He would become a Watcher.

  He knew he should be ecstatic, should double his pace and set off on the final leg of the journey before nightfall. And yet, try as he did, for some reason he could not take the first step. He stood there, frozen, something gnawing away at him.

  Merk turned around, able to see the horizon in every direction, and in the far distance, against the setting sun, he saw black smoke rising. It was like a punch in the gut. He knew where it was coming from: that girl. Her family. The murderers were setting fire to everything.

  As he followed the trail of smoke he they had not reached her farm yet. They were still on the outskirts of her fields. Soon enough, they would reach it. But for now, for these last precious minutes, she was safe.

  Merk cracked his neck, as he was prone to do when torn by an inner conflict. He stood there, shifting in place, filled with a great sense of unease, unable to go forward. He turned and looked back at the Tower of Ur, the destination of his dreams, and he knew he should forge ahead. He had arrived, and he wanted to relax, to celebrate.

  But for the first time in his life, a desire welled up within him. It was a desire to act selflessly, a desire to act purely for justice’s sake. For no fee and no reward. Merk hated the feeling.

  Merk leaned back and shouted, at war with himself, with the world. Why? Why now, of all times?