Dragon Rise (The Dragonwalker Book 3)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “Horus heard about activity. He sent me to take a look.”

  Fes breathed out heavily and allowed Alison to lead him. They headed along the street, weaving through alleyways that Fes didn’t know. There was much of the city that he wasn’t nearly as familiar with as others, mostly because they were parts of the city within which he hadn’t operated. Horus’s section was one of them. He had taken jobs from the man, but when he had begun to work for Azithan, the need to take those jobs had begun to fade.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Why? Do you really need to ask?”

  “After what I did—”

  Alison shook her head. “You didn’t do anything more than anyone else would have done.”

  Fes grunted. “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Fine. You didn’t do anything more than what is explainable by what happened to you.” She glanced over at him, tugging on his sleeve to guide him down another alley.

  This one was barely wide enough for them to walk shoulder to shoulder. In the distance, he thought he saw movement and held one hand on his dagger, ready to unsheathe it if it were necessary. He didn’t want to walk openly with the weapon, as that would attract even more attention and he wasn’t interested in having everyone in the city jumping him. He might have been lucky to survive that last attack. Fatigue worked through him, and he wondered how much of it came from his drawing on that Deshazl magic.

  There were times when it was strange that he no longer questioned the fact that he had Deshazl magic. How could he question it when it so obviously flowed through him? It was power that he could no longer deny, the kind of power that filled him, giving him the strength to do what he had just managed to do: bring down dozens of men.

  “Why did you come back?”

  “To find you.”

  “Me?”

  “You. The rebellion. I need help.”

  Alison shook her head. “Fes—”

  Fes sighed. “I know I shouldn’t have come. And I know that it’s possible that you might not even help, but there is someone who needs my help, and to help them, I need the help of others. I need the help of the rebellion.”

  She continued forward, falling silent. As they walked, Fes wasn’t certain whether or not there was movement at the end of the alley. He couldn’t tell, not any longer. It had grown dark, and though his eyesight had always been good in the dark, there was something about this that made it incredibly difficult for him to see clearly.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. “You know I wanted to meet with Horus, and this doesn’t seem to be quite the right direction.”

  It was hard to get a sense of direction in the alley, but as they walked, he didn’t think they were heading toward where he would expect to find Horus. He wasn’t sure where they were heading, only that it was the wrong way.

  They reached the end of the alley, and it opened up into a wider courtyard. Three dozen people stood waiting for him, all of them armed with swords or crossbows. The crossbows were all aimed at him. Fes looked down Alison before glancing over her shoulder to see that it was closed off. There would be others coming from that direction, he suspected.

  “What is this?”

  Alison shook her head. “Like I said. You shouldn’t have come.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Fes came around slowly. His head throbbed, feeling almost as if he’d spent too much time drinking. His mouth was dry, so he knew that it wasn’t ale. It took a few moments for him to remember what had happened.

  Alison.

  He jerked up, and his head cracked on something hard.

  He tried to reach for it, but his hands were shackled. He couldn’t move his legs, either. There was a slow jostling, and he realized that he was moving.

  Alison had betrayed him.

  What had he been thinking coming to the city? And why had he thought that he could trust her?

  It was an easy answer. They had been friends. They had been more than friends. And now, she had betrayed him.

  To where? And to who?

  Maybe the price was too much for her. It was possible that Alison and the rest of the rebellion decided that they wanted to get in on the reward money, and if that were the case, there might not be anything that Fes could do. If they were bringing him to the Dragon Guard, then it wouldn’t be long before he was brought before the emperor. And Jaken. Fes wasn’t sure which of them he was more afraid of.

  Without any weapons, and without any control over his Deshazl abilities, he feared what Jaken might do to him. It wasn’t hard to imagine a knife or—more likely—a sword slipped into his belly. After everything that he’d done, all of the attacks that he had made on Jaken, he would be tortured.

  And no one would come for him.

  All of this because he had wanted to help Jayell?

  No. All of this because he had somehow gotten caught up in a battle that he was never meant to be a part of. He should have known better than to allow himself to get caught up in it. He’d always wanted to be neutral and had convinced himself that working for Azithan, collecting relics on his behalf, might serve the empire, but it didn’t place him into any sort of obligation to anyone.

  And then the rebellion had claimed him until he had betrayed both them and the empire.

  Why? Why had he done that? He knew better than to allow himself to get caught up in these things. He knew better than to get mixed up in the workings of the empire.

  But now that he had been, now that he knew that he was Deshazl, which meant that he was something more than he had ever imagined, what did that mean for where his allegiances lay?

  Fes didn’t know.

  The wagon jostled again, and Fes struck his head on the ceiling once more. His head throbbed, and he rolled to the side, trying to position himself so that he wouldn’t strike it again. His shoulder still hurt, and he glanced over at it, realizing that someone had dressed it. The pain wasn’t quite what he had expected it to be, so he must have been somewhat cared for.

  How long had he been out? However long it was, it had been long enough that they had chained him and thrown him into the back of a wagon. It was long enough that he was confined, trapped, captured in a way that he hadn’t been even when hurt by Elizabeth.

  The betrayal hurt the most.

  Fes lost track of time. He learned to roll with the constant jostling of the wagon, and began to hate the way that it swayed from side to side. There wasn’t much room in it, and he was forced to keep his knees bent and his back hunched. His body ached from the position, and any attempt to try to stretch out failed.

  If only he had the power that Arudis managed. If he had that kind of power, he wouldn’t have been captured. He might have been able to break free. When he had realized that Alison had betrayed him, he could have frozen everyone in place, and then he could have made his escape. He could even have avoided harming those people on the street.

  More than anything, that was reason that he needed to return to Arudis if he somehow managed to break free. He wanted to learn how to use that ability so that he didn’t have to hurt other people. He didn’t want others to suffer because of his magic. How could he want that?

  Eventually, the wagon came to a stuttering stop. There was no sound from outside the wagon, so he didn’t know if it was muted or if there was some way of shielding him from overhearing. He waited, hoping that someone would open up the wagon, but it didn’t come. After a brief respite, the wagon continued onward.

  Fes closed his eyes. Maybe there was some way he could to reach that Deshazl part of himself. Maybe had he been willing to stay with Arudis and learn about his magic, he wouldn’t have to wonder what he could use to connect with himself.

  Arudis had wanted him to find a balance between the rage and the intellect. They were the traits of the dragon, and somehow she believed that he had them, though Fes didn’t know what she meant. It was another reason that he should have remained with her, more reason that he should have been willing to linger in
the village after the Calling.

  Had he stayed, he would have been closer to helping Jayell than he was now. Had he remained, he wouldn’t have been betrayed the way that he had been. And had he stayed, he wouldn’t have been forced to kill in the way that he had.

  That hurt the most.

  Fes had seen enough death and had caused enough death, that he didn’t enjoy it. He didn’t want others to suffer because he was wanted by the empire, but he also didn’t want to allow himself to go so willingly to his capture.

  Maybe the better option would have been to allow himself to be captured by Carter, brought to the emperor, and from there he could have determined what he needed to do to find Jayell. Maybe he could have used Jaken and his connection to the emperor to figure out what they had done with her.

  Fes stared at the wall. It was dark, and there was barely anything to see, but he suddenly realized that he had missed an opportunity. He didn’t need to fight his way to freedom. He could have allowed someone to have claimed the reward, and with that, he could have gone to the palace and used Jaken to reveal what had happened to Jayell.

  The intellect. That was the part that Arudis had wanted him to understand.

  He had the rage under control. Well, not under control, but he had mastered the way of succumbing to the rage, of letting it flow out of him, and he didn’t struggle with reaching that power. It was power that he should have hesitated to use.

  Maybe that was one of the lessons Arudis had wanted him to reach. He needed to know when it was time to release that rage and when it was time to hold onto it, keeping it wrapped up within himself.

  Was there any way to use his Deshazl strength to break free of these chains?

  Maybe it was possible, but what then?

  He needed to plan and anticipate, not merely react. He needed to use his mind, and not only his heart. He needed to find the right way to use that connection to the Deshazl power.

  Only… He wasn’t entirely certain how to do that.

  Fes focused on the chains. As far as he could tell, they were simple steel chains. Had they been made of something like dragonglass, it was possible that he wouldn’t be able to escape, and even with steel chains, he might not be able to break free. But he wondered if he could manage to reach that Deshazl part of himself, maybe he could use the strength that it brought and find a way to snap the steel, at least freeing himself from the chains.

  What would Arudis have wanted him to do?

  Use his intellect.

  There was power within him, but it was reaching that power, holding on to it in a way that was helpful rather than harmful, that Fes struggled with. Could he focus it? Could he target that power at the chains rather than somewhere else?

  As he focused on them, focused on the cold around his wrists, the pain as they squeezed more tightly than was necessary, he pulled. He dragged on the chains, putting all of his strength into that, reaching for the power that he knew was stored within himself. All he had to do was find a way of summoning it, of drawing it out, and he could…

  The chain snapped.

  The power had come to him without the need to allow himself to succumb to the rage.

  How?

  Was it because he had thought through it? Was it because he had tried to plan and to use that power in a way that was intentional, or was it some other reason?

  He didn’t know.

  Fes focused on that connection again. There remained a chain on his legs, and if he could break free of that, then he might be able to escape when the door to the wagon opened.

  Or maybe not.

  How many would be on the other side of the wagon when it opened?

  He had no weapons, and without his daggers, without some way of fighting, how would he be able to get free?

  He had to think through things.

  He had already broken the chains, but could he break them when he needed to? Could he wait until revealing himself wouldn’t place himself in any more danger? First, he wanted to release the chains holding his legs.

  Fes focused again, feeling for the metal as they circled his ankles, and grasped each shackle, gripping it. Slowly, he fed the sense of rage, that connection to dragon magic that boiled within him, through his hands and into the chains.

  This time, Fes could feel it seeping away from him. It came slowly, but the power eased out, and with another sharp crack, both shackles split, and he pried them free of his ankles.

  Was that the key? Did it involve focusing, letting that power within him ease free, or was there more to it?

  Now that he was freed, he rubbed his wrists and ankles, massaging feeling back into them. It had faded from how he was confined.

  Fes took a deep breath. He focused on the wagon. There was the jostling around him, the steady swaying that threatened to slam him into either side wall, and the occasional jolt that sent him slamming into the ceiling. Each time he felt that he had resisted, fighting it, but he didn’t need to, did he?

  Fes began to move with the wagon, swaying from side to side, letting the sense of the wagon fill him. There was a rhythmic nature to it, and it reminded him of what he had heard when Tracen had been scraping off metal, forming the totem.

  The totem.

  He reached into his pocket and was relieved to find that they hadn’t taken that. Perhaps they thought it was only decorative, and with this, it probably was. But then, maybe it wasn’t. If Indra could animate her totems, was there any way for this totem to be animated in a similar way? Maybe not without Indra, but Fes preferred to keep this totem with him, just in case, even if it was nothing more than a reminder of his friend.

  When the wagon finally came to a stop, he remained motionless.

  Fes waited, expecting the door to the wagon to open anytime, but it didn’t. Every so often, he heard what he thought was the start of a voice, but it faded too quickly.

  Was there any way for him to break free?

  He had given up hope of that, thinking that doing so would involve breaking free of the wood of the wagon, and though he thought he might be able to if he were able to summon that power from his Deshazl magic, what if there were an easier way?

  There would be a lock holding him confined.

  Fes searched around the inside of the wagon. Though it was dark, and he couldn’t see well, he could see well enough that he noticed a faint outline where a door would be. He traced his fingers along the outline and pushed gently on it. He focused on the wood, trying to feel through it, continuing to push, pressing his hand against the wagon, letting the heat and power seep up within him. As he did, he felt a connection to the wood. He could feel the grains within it, the texture reminding him of the striations of dragon bones. He used that imagery and pressed through it, sending his slow connection to heat and power through the crack in the door, through the hinge, and it snapped.

  Fes hesitated. If anyone on the outside realized what he had done, they would rush to the wagon. He crouched in place, his body tensed as he waited to see if anyone would pull the door open, but no one did.

  Slowly, Fes pushed the door open and poked his head out. It was dark, and as he had thought, he was in a high-backed wagon. A line of other wagons stretched out behind him, most of them unguarded.

  They had intended to leave him here all night?

  Fes slowly crawled out of the wagon and stood crouched in the shadows of it.

  The moon was full overhead, and the bright light reflected off the side of the wagon. Something glittered in the moonlight, and Fes crawled beneath the wagon, running his hands toward what he had seen.

  It was a rack beneath the wagon.

  Inside the rack, he found a cloak. His cloak. Bundled inside the cloak were his daggers—and the swords.

  Could they really have just left them with him?

  Of course, they could have. They didn’t see him as any threat, especially not bound and chained inside the wagon. How could they have expected him to have escaped?

  Fes quickly pulled on hi
s cloak, slipping the dagger sheath back around his waist, and sliding the daggers into it. Something was soothing about doing that. Lastly, he sheathed one of the swords. The other he kept unsheathed.

  Now he had a weapon. He had his weapons.

  His injured shoulder screamed at him, but not so much that he couldn’t move it.

  He had to figure out where he was and what they intended to do with him, and once he did, once he figured out what Alison was after, he could run for it. And then…

  Then he’d already decided. He would return to the capital. Once there, he would turn himself in, reach Jaken, and find out what had happened to Jayell. He could use that connection—and possibly Azithan—to find her. When he did, he would have to be prepared for how he would escape.

  But he now had some understanding of his Deshazl connection. He didn’t have to succumb to the rage to have that magic. He might not have the same control over it as Arudis did, but he wasn’t powerless. Even without a weapon, he had managed to escape shackles and the confines of the wagon.

  First, he had to figure out what was taking place here.

  There were other wagons. Why would there be?

  Fes stayed beneath the wagon he’d been held in and looked for signs of movement in the night. Now that he was free, his eyesight was gradually adjusting, and he was able to see the row of wagons more clearly. There had to be several dozen wagons, and in the distance, he smelled smoke, likely from a campfire.

  They had intended to leave him here all night.

  Bound and trapped. Like an animal.

  It was almost enough to send the rage seething up within him again, but Fes tamped it down.

  He stayed on the far side of the wagon, keeping it between him and the campfire, and scurried over to the next wagon. Like the one that he had been held in, this one was windowless, and at the back of it, he found a locked door. Fes grabbed one of his daggers and slipped it into the lock, gradually easing out some of his Deshazl power, letting it slowly creep out of him and into the lock. Gradually, that power exploded inside the lock, and he pulled open the door.