Rise of the Dragons (5 page)

“What’s this monk doing?” one of them
asked. “Praying?”

They all burst into laughter again.

“Your god won’t save you now, boy!”
another exclaimed.

Merk opened his eyes and stared back at
the cretin.

“I do not wish to harm you,” he said
calmly.

Laughter rose up, louder than before,
and Merk realized that staying calm, not reacting with violence, was the
hardest thing he had ever done.

“Lucky for us, then!” one replied.

They laughed again, then all fell silent
as their leader stepped forward and got in Merk’s face.

“But perhaps,” he said, his voice
serious, so close that Merk could smell his bad breath, “we wish to harm you.”

A man came up behind Merk, wrapped a
thick arm around his throat, and began squeezing. Merk gasped as he felt
himself being choked, the grip tight enough to put him in pain but not to cut
off all air. His immediate reflex was to reach back and kill the man. It would
be easy; he knew the perfect pressure point in the forearm to make him release
his grip. But he forced himself not to.

Let them pass,
he told himself.
The road to humility must begin somewhere.

Merk faced their leader.

“Take of mine what you wish,” Merk said,
gasping. “Take it and be on your way.”

“And what if we take it and stay right
here?” the leader replied.

“No one’s asking you what we can and
can’t take, boy,” another said.

One of them stepped up and ransacked
Merk’s waist, rummaging greedy hands through his few personal belongings left
in the world. Merk forced himself to stay calm as the hands rifled through everything
he owned. Finally, they extracted his well-worn silver dagger, his favorite
weapon, and still Merk, as painful as it was, did not react.

Let it go
, he told
himself.

“What’s this?” one asked. “A dagger?”

He glared at Merk.

“What’s a fancy monk like you carrying a
dagger?” one asked.

“What are you doing, boy, carving
trees?” another asked.

They all laughed, and Merk gritted his
teeth, wondering how much more he could take.

The man who took the dagger stopped,
looked down at Merk’s wrist, and yanked back his sleeve. Merk braced himself,
realizing they’d found it.

“What’s this?” the thief asked, grabbing
his wrist and holding it up, examining it.

“It looks like a fox,” one said.

“What’s a monk doing with a tattoo of a
fox?” another asked.

Another stepped forward, a tall, thin
man with red hair, and grabbed his wrist and examined it closely. He let it go
and looked up at Merk with cautious eyes.

“That’s no fox, you idiot,” he said to
his men. “It’s a wolf. It’s the mark of a King’s man—a mercenary.”

Merk felt his face flush as he realized
they were staring at his tattoo. He did not want to be discovered.

The thieves all remained silent, staring
at it, and for the first time, Merk sensed hesitation in their faces.

“That’s the order of the killers,” one
said, then looked at him. “How did you get that mark, boy?”

“Probably gave it to himself,” one
answered. “Makes the road safer.”

The leader nodded to his man, who
released his grip on Merk’s throat, and Merk breathed deep, relieved. But the
leader then reached up and held a knife to Merk’s throat and Merk wondered if
he would die here, today, in this place. He wondered if it would be punishment
for all the killing he had done. He wondered if he was ready to die.

“Answer him,” their leader growled. “You
give that to yourself, boy? They say you need to kill a hundred men to get that
mark.”

Merk breathed, and in the long silence
that followed, debated what to say. Finally, he sighed.

“A
thousand
,” he said.

The leader blinked back, confused.

“What?” he asked.

“A thousand men,” Merk explained.
“That’s what gets you that tattoo. And it was given to me by King Tarnis
himself.”

They all stared back, shocked, and a
long silence fell over the wood, so quiet that Merk could hear the insects
chirping. He wondered what would happen next.

One of them broke into hysterical
laughter—and all the others followed. They laughed and guffawed as Merk stood
there, clearly thinking it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

“That’s a good one, boy,” one said.
“You’re as good a liar as you are a monk.”

The leader pushed the dagger against his
throat, hard enough to begin to draw blood.

“I said, answer me,” the leader
repeated. “A
real
answer. You want to die right now, boy?”

Merk stood there, feeling the pain, and
he thought about the question—he truly thought about it. Did he want to die? It
was a good question, and an even deeper question than the thief supposed. As he
thought about it, really thought about, he realized that a part of him did want
to die. He was tired of life, bone tired.

But as he dwelled on it, Merk ultimately
realized he was not ready to die. Not now. Not today. Not when he was ready to
start anew. Not when he was just beginning to enjoy life. He wanted a chance to
change. He wanted a chance to serve in the Tower. To become a Watcher.

“No, actually I don’t,” Merk replied.

He finally looked his captor right in
the eye, a resolve growing within him.

“And because of that,” he continued,
“I’m going to give you one chance to release me, before I kill you all.”

They all looked at him in silent shock,
before the leader scowled and began to break into action.

Merk felt the blade begin to slice his
throat, and something within him took over. It was the professional part of
him, the one he had trained his entire life, the part of him that could take no
more. It meant breaking his vow—but he no longer cared.

The old Merk came rushing back so fast,
it was as if it had never left—and in the blink of an eye, he found himself
back in killer mode.

Merk focused and saw all of his opponents’
movements, every twitch, every pressure point, every vulnerability. The desire
to kill them overwhelmed him, like an old friend, and Merk allowed it to take
over.

In one lightning-fast motion, Merk
grabbed the leader’s wrist, dug his finger into a pressure point, snapped it
back until it cracked, then snatched the dagger as it fell and in one quick
move, sliced the man’s throat from ear to ear.

Their leader stared back at him with an
astonished look before slumping down to the ground, dead.

Merk turned and faced the others, and
they all stared back, stunned, mouths agape.

Now it was Merk’s turn to smile, as he
looked back at all of them, relishing what was about to happen next.

“Sometimes, boys,” he said, “you just
pick the wrong man to mess with.”

Kyra stood in the center of the crowded
bridge, feeling all eyes on her, all awaiting her decision for the fate of the
boar. Her cheeks flushed; she did not like to be the center of attention. She
loved her father for acknowledging her, though, and she felt a great sense of
pride, especially for his putting the decision in her hands.

Yet at the same time, she also felt a
great responsibility. She knew that whatever choice she made would decide the
fate of her people. As much as she loathed the Pandesians, she did not want the
responsibility of throwing her people into a war they could not win. Yet she
also did not want to back down, to embolden the Lord’s Men, to disgrace her
people, make them seem weak, especially after Anvin and the others had so
courageously made a stand.

Her father, she realized, was wise: by
putting the decision in her hands, he made it seemed as if the decision was
theirs, not the Lord’s Men, and that act alone had saved his people face. She
also realized he had put the decision in her hands for a reason: he must have
knew this situation required an outside voice to help all parties save face—and
he chose her because she was convenient, and because he knew her not to be
rash, to be a voice of moderation. The more she pondered it, the more she
realized that was why he chose her: not to incite a war—he could have chosen
Anvin for that—but to get his people out of one.

She came to a decision.

“The beast is cursed,” she said
dismissively. “It nearly killed my brothers. It came from the Wood of Thorns
and was killed on the eve of Winter Moon, a day we are forbidden to hunt. It
was a mistake to bring it through our gates—it should have been left to rot in
the wild, where it belongs.”

She turned derisively to the Lord’s Men.

“Bring it to your Lord Governor,” she
said, smiling. “You do us a favor.”

The Lord’s Men looked from her to the
beast, and their expressions morphed; they now looked as if they had bitten
into something rotten, as if they didn’t want it anymore.

Kyra saw Anvin and the others looking at
her approvingly, gratefully—and her father most of all. She had done it—she had
allowed her people to save face, had spared them from a war—and had managed a
jibe at Pandesia at the same time.

Her brothers dropped the boar to the
ground and it landed in the snow with a thud. They stepped back, humbled, their
shoulders clearly aching.

All eyes now fell to the Lord’s Men, who
stood there, not knowing what to do. Clearly Kyra’s words had cut deep; they
now looked at the beast now as if it were something foul dragged up from the
bowels of the earth. Clearly, they no longer wanted it. And now that it was
theirs, they seemed to have also lost the desire for it.

Their commander, after a long, tense
silence, finally gestured to his men to pick up the beast, then turned,
scowling, and marched away, clearly annoyed, as if knowing he had been
outsmarted.

The crowd dispersed, the tension gone,
and there came a sense of relief. Many of her father’s men approached her
approvingly, laying hands on her shoulder.

“Well done,” Anvin said, looking at her
with approval. “You shall make a good ruler someday.”

The village folk went back to their
ways, the hustle and bustle returning, the tension dissipated, and Kyra turned
and searched for her father’s eyes. She found them looking back, he standing
but a few feet away. In front of his men, he was always reserved when it came
to her, and this time was no different—he wore an indifferent expression, but
he nodded at her ever so slightly, a nod, she knew, of approval.

Kyra looked over and saw Anvin and Vidar
clutching their spears, and her heart quickened.

“Can I join you?” she asked Anvin,
knowing they were heading to the training grounds, as the rest of her father’s
men.

Anvin glanced nervously at her father,
knowing he would disapprove.

“Snow’s thickening,” Anvin finally
replied, hesitant. “Night’s falling, too.”

“That’s not stopping you,” Kyra
countered.

He grinned back.

“No, it’s not,” he admitted.

Anvin glanced at her father again, and
she turned and saw him shake his head before turning and heading back inside.

Anvin sighed.

“They’re preparing a mighty feast,” he
said. “You’d best go in.”

Kyra could smell it herself, the air
heavy with fine meats roasting, and she saw her brothers turn and head inside,
along with dozens of villagers, all rushing to prepare for the festival.

But Kyra turned and looked longingly out
at the fields, at the training grounds.

“A meal can wait,” she said. “Training
cannot. Let me come.”

Vidar smiled and shook his head.

“You sure you’re a girl and not a
warrior?” Vidar asked.

“Can I not be both?” she replied.

Anvin let out a long sigh, and finally
shook his head.

“Your father would have my hide,” he
said.

Then, finally, he nodded.

“You won’t take no for an answer,” he
concluded, “and you’ve got more heart than half my men. I suppose we can use
one more.”

*

Kyra ran across the snowy landscape,
trailing Anvin, Vidar and several of her father’s men, Leo by her side as
usual. The snowfall was thickening and she did not care. She felt a sense of
freedom, of exhilaration, as she always did when passing through Fighter’s
Gate, a low, arched opening cut into the stone walls of the training ground.
She breathed deep as the sky opened up and she ran into this place she loved
most in the world, its rolling green hills, now covered in snow, encased by a
rambling stone wall, perhaps a quarter mile wide and deep. She felt everything
was as it should be as she saw all the men training, crisscrossing on their
horses, wielding lances, aiming for distant targets and bettering themselves.
This, for her, was what life was about.

This training ground was reserved for
her father’s men; women were not allowed here and neither were boys who had not
yet reached their eighteenth year—and who had not been invited. Brandon and
Braxton, every day, waited impatiently to be invited—yet Kyra suspected that
they never would. Fighter’s Gate was for honorable, battle-hardened warriors,
not for blowhards like her brothers.

Kyra ran through the fields, feeling
happier and more alive here than anywhere else on earth. The energy was
intense, it packed with dozens of her father’s finest warriors, all wearing
slightly different armor, warriors from all regions of Escalon, all of whom had
over time gravitated to her father’s fort. There were men from the south, from
Thebus and Leptis; from the Midlands, mostly from the capital, Andros, but also
from the mountains of Kos; there were westerners from Ur; river men from Thusis
and their neighbors from Esephus. There were men who lived near the Lake of
Ire, and men from as far away as the waterfalls at Everfall. All wore different
colors, armor, wielded different weapons, all men of Escalon yet each
representing his own stronghold. It was a dazzling array of power.

Her father, the former King’s champion,
a man who commanded great respect, was the only man in these times, in this
fractured kingdom, that men could rally around. Indeed, when the old King had
surrendered their kingdom without a fight, it was her father that people urged
to assume the throne and lead the fight. Over time, the best of the former
King’s warriors had sought him out, and now, with the force growing larger each
day, Volis was achieving a strength that nearly rivaled the capital. Perhaps
that was why, Kyra realized, the Lord’s Men felt the need to humble them.

Elsewhere throughout Escalon, the Lord
Governors for Pandesia did not allow knights to gather, did not allow such
freedoms, for fear of a revolt. But here, in Volis, it was different. Here,
they had no choice: they needed to allow it because they needed the best
possible men to keep The Flames.

Kyra turned and looked out, beyond the
walls, beyond the rolling hills of white, and in the distance, on the far
horizon, even through the snowfall, she could see, just barely, the dim glow of
The Flames. The wall of fire that protected the eastern border of Escalon, The
Flames, a wall of fire fifty feet deep and several hundred high, burned as
brightly as ever, lighting up the night, their outline visible on the horizon
and growing more pronounced as night fell. Stretching nearly fifty miles wide,
The Flames were the only thing standing between Escalon and the nation of
savage trolls to the east.

Even so, enough trolls broke through
each year to wreak havoc, and if it weren’t for The Keepers, her father’s brave
men who kept The Flames, Escalon would be a slave nation to the trolls. The
trolls, who feared water, could only attack Escalon by land, and The Flames was
the only thing keeping them at bay. The Keepers stood guard in shifts,
patrolled in rotation, and Pandesia needed them. Others were stationed at The
Flames, too—draftees, slaves and criminals—but her father’s men, The Keepers,
were the only true soldiers amongst the lot, and the only ones who knew how to
keep The Flames.

In return, Pandesia allowed Volis and
their men their many small freedoms, like Volis, these training grounds, real
weapons—a small taste of freedom to make them still feel like free warriors,
even if it was an illusion. They were not free men, and all of them knew it.
They lived with an awkward balance between freedom and servitude that none
could stomach.

But here, at least, in Fighter’s Gate,
these men were free, as they had once been, warriors who could compete and
train and hone their skills. They represented the best of Escalon, better
warriors than any Pandesia had to offer, all of them veterans of The Flames—and
all serving shifts there, but a day’s ride away. Kyra wanted nothing more than
to join their ranks, than to prove herself, to be stationed at The Flames, to
fight real trolls as they came through and to help guard her kingdom from
invasion.

She knew, of course, that it would never
be allowed. She was too young to be eligible—and she was a girl. There were no
other girls in the ranks, and even if there were, her father would never allow
it. His men, too, had looked upon her as a child when she had started visiting
them years ago, had been amused by her presence, like a spectator watching. But
after the men had left, she had remained behind, alone, training every day and
night on the empty fields, using their weapons, targets. They had been
surprised at first to arrive the following day to find arrow marks in their
targets—and even more surprised when they were in the center. But over time,
they had become used to it.

Kyra began to earn their respect,
especially on the rare occasions she had been allowed to join them. By now, two
years later, they all knew she could hit targets most of them could not—and
their tolerating her had morphed to something else: respecting her. Of course,
she had not fought in battles, as these other men had, had never killed a man,
or stood guard at The Flames, or met a troll in battle. She could not swing a
sword or a battle axe or halberd, or wrestle as these men could. She did not
have nearly their physical strength, which she regretted dearly.

Yet Kyra had learned she had a natural
skill with two weapons, each of which made her, despite her size and sex, a
formidable opponent: her bow, and her staff. The former she had taken to
naturally, while the latter she had stumbled upon accidentally, moons ago, when
she could not lift a double-handed sword. Back then, the men had laughed at her
inability to wield the sword, and as an insult, one of them had chucked her a
staff derisively.

“See if you can lift this stick
instead!” he’d yelled, and the others had laughed. Kyra had never forgotten her
shame at that moment.

At first, her father’s men had viewed
her staff as a joke; after all, they used it merely for a training weapon,
these brave men who carried double-handed swords and hatchets and halberds, who
could cut through a tree with a single stroke. They looked to her stick of wood
as a plaything, and it had given her even less respect than she already had.

But she had turned a joke into an
unexpected weapon of vengeance, a weapon to be feared. A weapon that now even
many of her father’s men could not defend against. Kyra had been surprised at
its light weight, and even more surprised to discover that she was quite good
with it naturally—so fast that she could land blows while soldiers were still
raising their swords. More than one of the men she had sparred with had been
left black and blue by it and, one blow at a time, she had fought her way to
respect.

Kyra, through endless nights of training
on her own, of teaching herself, had mastered moves which dazzled the men,
moves which none of them could quite understand. They had grown interested in
her staff, and she had taught them. In Kyra’s mind, her bow and her staff
complemented each other, each of equal necessity: her bow she needed for
long-distance combat, and her staff for close fighting.

Kyra also discovered she had an innate
gift that these men lacked: she was nimble. She was like a minnow in a sea of
slow-moving sharks, and while these aging men had great power, Kyra could dance
around them, could leap into the air, could even flip over them and land in a
perfect roll—or on her feet. And when her nimbleness combined with her staff
technique, it made for a lethal combination.