Rise Of The Dragons (Book 1)

by Morgan Rice

  Encountering those thieves had awakened something deep within him, had made him realize how hard it might be to shake off his old self, to become the new person he wanted to be. He did not know if he had the discipline—being his old self was much easier. Merk wanted to change, but he knew his time was running short: he had to find the Tower, to step into his new life soon, before it was too late. He only hoped that the Watchers would accept him in their order—if not, he would surely go back to the man he once was.

  Up ahead, Merk saw the wood change, saw a grove of ancient white trees, trunks as wide as ten men, reaching high into the sky, their branches spreading out like a canopy with shimmering red leaves. One of the trees, with a broad, curved trunk, looked particularly inviting, and Merk, his legs and feet aching, sat down beside it, leaning back into it. He felt an immediate sense of relief, felt the pain leaving his back and legs and knees from hours of hiking. He kicked off his boots and felt the pain throbbing in his feet, and he leaned back and sighed as a cool breeze soothed him, the leaves rustling all around him.

  Merk reached into his sack and extracted what remained of the dried pieces of meat from the rabbit he had caught the other night. He took a bite of the hardened dried meat and chewed slowly, closing his eyes, resting, wondering what the future had in store for him. Sitting here, against this tree, beneath these rustling leaves, felt good enough for him.

  Merk eyes felt heavy and he let them close, just for a moment, needing the rest.

  When he opened them, he was surprised to see the sky had grown darker, to realize that he had fallen asleep. It was already twilight, and Merk realized he would have slept all night—if he hadn’t been awakened by a noise.

  He looked over, immediately on guard as his instincts kicked in, and he grabbed the hilt of his dagger, hidden in his waist. He waited. He did not want to resort to violence—but until he reached the Tower, he was starting to feel that anything was possible.

  The rustling became louder, and it sounded like someone running, bursting through the forest, faster and faster. Merk was puzzled: what was someone else doing all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, in twilight? From the sound of the leaves, Merk could tell it was one person, and that she was light. Maybe a child, or a girl.

  Sure enough, a moment later there burst into his sight a girl, emerging from the forest, running, crying. He watched her, surprised, as she ran, stumbled, and fell, but feet away from him, landing face-first in the dirt. She was pretty, perhaps eighteen, but disheveled, her hair a mess, dirt and leaves in it, her clothes ragged and torn.

  Merk stood, and as she scrambled to get back to her feet she turned and saw him, and her eyes opened wide in fear and panic.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” she cried, as she reached her feet.

  Merk raised his hands.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said slowly, standing to his full height. “In fact, I was just about to be on my way.”

  She backed up several feet in terror, still crying, and he could not help but wonder what had happened to her. Whatever it was, he did not want to get involved—he had enough problems of his own to deal with.

  Merk turned back on the trail and began to hike away, when her voice cried out behind him:

  “No, wait!”

  He turned and saw her standing there, desperate.

  “Please. I need your help,” she pleaded.

  Merk looked at her and saw how beautiful she was beneath her disheveled appearance, with unwashed blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a face with perfect features, covered in tears and in dirt. She wore simple farmer’s clothes, and he could tell she was not rich. She looked as if she had been on the run for a long time.

  He shook his head.

  “You don’t have the money to pay me,” Merk said. “I cannot help you, whatever it is you need. Besides, I’m on my way for my own mission.”

  “You don’t understand,” she begged, stepping closer. “My family—our home was raided this morning. Mercenaries. My father’s been hurt. He chased them away, but they’ll be back soon—and with a lot more men. To kill him—and my whole family. They said they will take everything that is ours, then burn our farm to the ground. Please!” she begged, stepping closer. “I’ll give you anything. Anything! You can’t let my family die.”

  Merk stood there, feeling sorry for her, but was determined not to get involved.

  “There are many problems in the world, miss,” he said. “And I can’t fix all of them.”

  He turned once again to walk away, when her voice rang out again:

  “Please!” she cried. “It is a sign, don’t you see? That I would run into you here, in the middle of nowhere? I expected to find no one—and I found you. You were meant to be here, meant to help us. God is giving you a chance for redemption. Don’t you believe in signs?”

  He stood there and watched her sobbing, and he felt guilty, but mostly detached. A part of him thought of how many people he’d killed in his lifetime, and wondered: what’s a few more? But there always seemed to be just a few more. It never seemed to end. He had to draw the line somewhere. He was through killing.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “But I am not your savior.”

  Merk turned again and began to walk off, determined this time not to stop, to drown out her sobs and grief by rustling the leaves loudly with his feet, blocking out the noise.

  But no matter how hard he rustled the leaves, her cries continued, ringing somewhere in the back of his head, summoning him. He turned and watched her run off, disappearing back into the wood, and he wanted to feel a sense of relief. But more than anything, he felt haunted—haunted by a cry he did not want to hear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Kyra’s heart pounded as she walked behind her father and three brothers, Leo at her side, all of them marching solemnly through the streets of Volis, joined by Anvin, Vidar, Arthfael, and dozens of her father’s men. There was a solemn silence in the air, the skies heavy with gray, a light snow falling once again as they marched through the snow, making their way toward the main gate of the fort. It was a war march. Her father led his men as they responded to the horns, sounding again and again, warning of the trouble that was arriving at their gates.

  Kyra caught a glimpse through the iron bars of the Lord Governor, riding on the horizon with three dozen of his men, all dressed in the scarlet armor of Pandesia, their yellow and blue Pandesian banners flapping in the wind. They rode through the snow on their massive black horses, wearing the finest armor and donning the finest weaponry—and all heading directly for the fort. The rumble of their horses could be heard from here, and Kyra felt the ground trembling beneath them.

  As Kyra marched, holding her new staff, carrying her new bow, and wearing hew new bracers, she felt reborn, felt invincible; finally, she felt like a real warrior, with real weapons. She was elated to have them, and as she walked, it pleased her to see her father’s men—and all of her people—rallying, all unafraid, all joining them on their march to meet the enemy. She saw all the village folk looking to her father and his men with hope, and she was honored to be marching with them. They had an infinite trust in him, and under his leadership, the village folk remained calm.

  Kyra saw the Lord’s Men getting closer, approaching on the main road, and her heart started pounding in expectation. She knew this confrontation would define her life—all of their lives. It felt surreal.

  A horn sounded yet again.

  “No matter what happens,” Anvin said, coming up beside her, talking quietly, “no matter how close they get, do not take any action until your father’s command. He is your commander now. I am not talking to you as his daughter—but as one of his men. One of us.”

  She nodded back, honored.

  “I don’t want to be the cause of death for our people,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” Arthfael said, coming up on her other side. “This day has been a long time coming. You didn’t start this war—they did.”

  She
felt reassured, and as she marched, she tightened her grip on her staff, ready for whatever might come. She took solace in the fact that the Lord Governor had only brought a few dozen men—perhaps they were coming to negotiate a truce?

  They reached the massive gate, and they all stopped and looked to her father.

  “Raise it!” he commanded. “We shall not cower in fear of our enemies, but meet them as men beyond the gate and hear what they have to say.”

  A groaning noise came as his men slowly raised the thick iron portcullis. Finally it stopped with a bang, and Kyra joined the others as they all marched through it.

  As one, she and fifty of her father’s men marched through the gate and across the hollow wood bridge. They crossed over the moat, and all came to a stop at the stone gatehouse and waited.

  A rumble filled the air as the Lord’s Men bore down on them, dozens of horses, their banners flapping in the wind, until they all came to a stop a few feet before them. Kyra stood several feet behind her father, grouped in with the others, and she pushed away to the front lines, wanting to stand by his side—and to stare down the Lord’s Men, face to face.

  Kyra saw the Lord Governor, a middle-aged, balding man with wisps of gray hair and a large belly, sitting smugly on his horse a dozen feet away, staring down at all of them as if they were commoners. Three dozen of his men sat on horseback behind him, all wearing serious expressions and bearing serious weaponry. These men, she could see, were all prepared for war and death.

  Kyra was so proud to see her father standing there, before all his men, looking up proudly, unflinching, unafraid. He wore the face of a commander at war, one that was unfamiliar to her. It was not the face of the father she knew, but of a warlord that commanded his people.

  A long, tense silence filled the air, punctuated only by the howling of the wind, as the Lord Governor took his time, examining them for a full minute, clearly trying to intimidate them, to force her people to look up and take in the awesomeness of their horses and weapons and armor. The silence stretched so long that Kyra started to wonder if anyone would break it, and she began to realize that her father’s greeting them silently, coldly, standing with all his men at arms, was in itself an act of defiance. She loved him for it. He was not a man to back down to anyone, whatever the odds.

  Leo was the only one to break the silence, quietly snarling up at the governor.

  Finally, the Lord Governor cleared his throat, as he stared at her father.

  “Your daughter has caused quite an uproar,” he said, his voice nasally. He remained on his horse, not coming down to meet them at their level. “Five of my men are dead. She has broken the sacred Pandesian law. You know the consequence: to touch a Lord’s Man means pain of death.”

  He fell silent, and her father did not respond. As the snow and wind picked up, the only sound that could be heard was the flapping of the banners in the wind. The men, equally numbered on both sides, stared at each other in a tense silence.

  Finally, the Lord Governor continued.

  “Because I am a merciful Lord,” he said, “I will not execute your daughter. Nor will I kill you and your men and your people, which is my right. I am, in fact, willing to put all this nasty business behind us.”

  The silence continued as the Governor, taking his time, slowly surveyed all their faces, until he stopped on Kyra. She felt a chill as his ugly eyes settled on her.

  “In return, I will take your daughter, as is my right. She is unwed, and of age, and as you know, Pandesian law permits me. Your daughter—all of your daughters—are our property now.”

  He sneered at her father.

  “Consider yourself lucky I do not exact a harsher punishment,” he concluded.

  The Lord Governor turned and nodded to his men, and two of his soldiers, fierce-looking men, dismounted, their armor jingling, and began to cross the bridge, their boots and spurs echoing over the hollow wood as they went. Kyra’s heart slammed in her chest as she saw them coming for her; she wanted to take action, to draw her bow and fire, to wield her staff. But she recalled Anvin’s words about awaiting her father’s command, about how disciplined soldiers should act, and as hard as it was, she forced herself to wait. She was part of a group now.

  As they came closer, Kyra wondered what her father would do. Would he give her away to these men? Would he fight for her? Whether they won or lost did not matter to her—what mattered more to her was that he cared about her enough to make a stand.

  But as they came closer, her father did not react, and Kyra’s heart pounded in her throat. She felt a wave of disappointment, realizing he would let her go. It made her want to cry.

  Leo, though, snarled furiously, standing out in front of her, hair raised; yet still they didn’t stop. She knew that if she commanded him to pounce, he would in an instant; yet she did not want him to be harmed by those weapons, and she did not want to defy her father’s command and spark a war.

  The men were but a few feet away from her when, suddenly, at the last second, her father nodded to his men, and six of them stepped forward and lowered their halberds, blocking the soldiers’ approach.

  The soldiers stopped short, their armor jingling against the metal halberds, and they looked to her father, clearly not expecting this.

  “You’ll be going no further,” her father said. His voice was strong, dark, cold, a voice no one would dare defy. It carried the tone of authority—not of a serf. And in that moment, Kyra loved him more than she’d ever had.

  He turned and looked up at the Governor in the thick silence.

  “The thing is, we are all free men here,” he said to the Governor, “men and women, old and young alike. Kyra,” he said, turning to her, “do you wish to leave with these men?”

  She stared back at him, suppressing a smile.

  “No,” she said firmly.

  He turned back to the Lord Governor.

  “There you have it. The answer is hers. The choice is hers to make. Not yours, and not mine. If you wish to have some property or gold of mine as recompense for your loss,” he said to the Governor, “then it is yours. But you shall not have my daughter—or any of our daughters—regardless of what a scribe set down as Pandesian law.”

  The Lord Governor glowered down at him, shock in his face, clearly not used to being spoken to that way—or defied. He looked as if he did not know what to do. Clearly, this was not the reception he had been expecting.

  “You dare to block my men?” he asked. “To turn down my offer?”

  “It is no offer at all,” Kyra’s father replied.

  “Think carefully, serf,” he chided. “I shall offer it twice. If you refuse me, you will face death—you and all of your people. I am not alone—behind me lies the vast army of Pandesia. Do you really think you can face them alone—when your own King has surrendered your kingdom? When the odds are so stacked against you?”

  Her father shrugged.

  “I don’t fight for odds,” he replied. “I fight for causes. Your number of men does not matter to me. What matters is our freedom. You can kill us—but you will never kill our spirit.”

  The governor’s face hardened.

  “When all your women and children are taken away from you, screaming, remember the choice you made today.”

  The Governor suddenly turned, kicked his horse, and rode away, followed by several attendants, heading back on the road on which he’d came, into the snowy countryside.

  Dozens of his men remained behind, and their commander raised his banner high and called out: “ADVANCE!”

  His men all dismounted and began marching in rows, in perfect discipline, over the drawbridge and right for them.

  Kyra turned and looked at her father, as did all the others, awaiting his command, her heart pounding—and suddenly he raised one fist high, and with a fierce battle cry, lowered it.

  Suddenly, the sky was filled with arrows, and Kyra looked over to see several of her father’s archers take aim from the battlements and fire. Sh
e heard the arrows whiz by her ear and she watched as they felled the Lord’s Men left and right. Cries filled the air as men died all around her. It was the first time she had seen so many men die up close, and the sight stunned her.

  Her father, at the same time, drew a short sword from each side of his waist, stepped forward, and stabbed the two soldiers who had come for his daughter, felling them at his feet.

  Anvin, Vidar, and Arthfael raised spears and hurled them, their aim true, each felling a soldier who charged across the bridge. Brandon and Braxton stepped forward and hurled spears, too, one of them grazing a soldier’s arm and the other grazing a soldier’s leg, wounding them, at least.

  Still more men charged, and Kyra, inspired, raised her new bow for the first time, placed an arrow, and fired. She aimed for the commander, who was leading the remainder of his men in a charge on horseback, and she watched with great satisfaction as her arrow sailed through the air and landed in his heart. It was her first shot with the new bow, and her first time killing a man in formal combat—and as their commander fell to the ground, she looked down in shock at what she had just done.

  At the same time, a dozen of the Lord’s Men raised their bows and fired back, and Kyra watched in horror as arrows whizzed by her head from the opposite direction—and as some of her father’s men cried out, wounded, dropping all around her. Clearly, there was no time to sit back anymore—if they were going to win this, they would have to charge now.

  “FOR YOUR HOMELAND!” her father yelled.

  Her father drew his sword and charged across the bridge, into the thick of the Lord’s Men, and his soldiers all fell in behind him. Kyra drew her staff and joined in, too, exhilarated at rushing into battle and wanting to be by her father’s side.

  As they charged, the Lord’s Men prepared another round of arrows and fired once again—a wall of arrows coming at them.