Rise Of The Dragons (Book 1)

by Morgan Rice

  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. Only dreams were left to fill the space of her father’s words.

  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? Why couldn’t they tell her?

  And who was she, exactly?

  Kyra finally woke at dawn, clutching her cheek that still stung 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. She knew 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 little bit differently, as if she didn’t quite belong here. But she had never imagined that there was anything to it, that her father—and all the others—had been lying to her, keeping some secret from her. Was her mother someone else? Was she 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 out at all the people below, hundreds of people 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. In the past, her people had been quick to be subservient—to never fight back. But their spirit seemed to have hardened this time, and she was thrilled to see them digging in—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 for the war to come.

  Kyra could not believe that she had been 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. They could put up a good stand, but when the armies arrived with all their 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 in the doorway looking back at her, she could see that they looked at her differently this time. There was something different in their eyes: respect. It was as if they no longer looked at her as if she were a young girl, an observer, but rather, one of them. As an equal.

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

  “You’re feeling 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, feeling better—in fact, stronger than she ever had before. As she nodded back to them, she could see they also looked at her with something else, too: a touch of fear, as if she held some sort of exotic 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.

  “You’re 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 them. 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 here, the fort so busy, so 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 were sharpening swords and other blades along stones. Everyone was getting ready.

  As they walked, Kyra sensed people stopped and staring at her; her ears burned, realizing they all must have known why the Lord’s Men were coming, what she had done. She felt so conspicuous, and feared the 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 she felt they looked at her as if she were a sorcerer.

  Kyra suddenly looked up, hoping beyond hope that she might see the dragon somewhere, recovered, flying high, perhaps circling her. But as she searched the skies, she saw nothing. Where was the dragon now? she wondered. Had it survived? Was it able to fly again? Was it already halfway across the world?

  As they hiked and hiked, Kyra suddenly remembered and became curious as to where they were leading her, 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, as huge slabs of ice and snow slid off the clay roves. Smoke rose from chimneys all throughout the village, the smell of it crisp on the winter day.

  As they turned down another street, 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.

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

  “It is,” Anvin replied, still walking.

  “But why are you taking 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 keeping it warm. It must have been twenty degrees warmer here than outside. 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, Brot, 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 he must have been working on dozens at once. Kyra knew Brot, short, stocky, with a low brow perpetually furrowed in concentration, to be a ser
ious man who spoke few words, who lived for his weapons. He was known to be gruff, to not 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 enthusiastic when talking about weaponry. He must have recognized a kindred soul, as they had a mutual love for the weapons of a warrior.

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

  She looked at the empty bench and sat across the table from him, her back to the forge, feeling the heat from it. Anvin and the others stood, crowding around them, and they all watched Brot as he 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 sending off a cloud of steam.

  For Kyra, this forge had always been the most exciting place in her father’s court.

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

  “I have heard of your exploits,” he 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 that it was perfectly straight.

  She knew better than to interrupt him, and waited for him to continue.

  “A shame,” he finally said.

  Kyra stared back, confused.

  “What?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “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 harsh 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, always saying 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 stood guard at The Flames—but Brot also 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 called me here?” 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. Children’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 need a warrior’s weapons.”

  He turned around, 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, and her heart filled with gratitude.

  “Feel it,” Brot urged. “Go ahead.”

  Kyra held it up and weighed it in her hand, in awe at the fit, and could not understand.

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

  “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.”

  As 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 tips, and as she fingered one she was amazed at how sharp they were. She inspected their intricate design.

  “Barbed broadhead,” Brot said proudly. “You get it in him, and that arrow will not come out. They are meant to kill.”

  She looked up at him, and the others, 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 for her.

  “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. Kyra was shocked to see that they were bracers, long, thin forearm guards. They ran from her wrist to her elbow, and as they clasped into place with a click, they fit perfectly.

  Kyra bent her elbows in wonder, examining them, and as she did, she felt invincible, as if they were a part of her new skin. They were so light, yet so strong.

  “Bracers,” Brot said. “Thin enough to allow you to move, yet strong enough to withstand the blow of any sword of this earth.” He looked right at her. “It’s not only for protection when firing that bow—these are extra-long, also made of Alkan steel. You won’t need to carry 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 and raised her forearms—and was amazed as she stopped the blow, sparks flying.

  Brot smiled, lowering the sword, pleased.

  Kyra examined her bracers and felt an overwhelming joy.

  “You have given me all that 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 questioningly, 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 thin 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, she could instantly that it was lighter than her previous 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 weapo
n 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, the staff, to her shock, suddenly unscrewed and split in two equal halves—and at each tip there was revealed a pointy blade, several inches long.

  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 seamlessly she could not even tell there was a concealed weapon within it.

  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 cut through the air, sounding in the distance, one after the next, each more ominous, echoing off the hills.

  All of them exchanged a glance, and she could see in their eyes that they all knew what this meant: the day of battle had come.

  The Lord’s Men were here.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Merk hiked and hiked on the forest trail, the shadows getting long, the sun beginning to set, as he continued on his way through Whitewood, the thieves now a good day’s hike behind him. He hadn’t stopped hiking since, trying to clear his mind of the incident, to get back to the peaceful place he had once inhabited. His legs growing weary, Merk was more anxious than ever to find the Tower of Ur, and as he went he scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of it through the trees. But there was none. This trek was beginning to feel more like a pilgrimage, one that would never end, and he wanted it to be over.