Rise of the Dragons (16 page)

Vesuvius marched, a hundred trolls
following, as he wound his way through Great Wood and up the sharply rising
terrain, too steep for the horses to follow. He marched with a sense of
determination, and for the first time, optimism, hacking through the thick
brush with his blade. He could have passed through without cutting them, but he
wanted to: he enjoyed killing things.

With each passing step Vesuvius heard
the roar of the captured beast grow louder, more distinct on the horizon,
making the ground beneath them tremble. He noted the fear in the faces of his
fellow trolls—and it made him smile. That fear was what he had been hoping to
see for years—it meant that finally, after all the rumors, after all the false
starts and stops, the beast was real. Finally, they had truly found it.

He chopped through the last of the brush
and crested the ridge, and as he did, the forest opened up into a vast clearing
before him—and Vesuvius stopped in his tracks, caught off guard by the sight.
At the far side of the clearing lay a huge cave, its arched opening a hundred
feet high, and chained to its rock, by chains fifty feet long and three feet
thick, one to each ankle and wrists, was the most immense, hideous creature
Vesuvius had ever seen. It was a giant, a true giant, a nasty piece of
creation, standing at least a hundred feet high and thirty feet wide, with a
body built like a man but with four eyes, no nose, and a mouth that was all jaw
and teeth. It opened its mouth in a roar, an awful sound, and Vesuvius, who
feared nothing, who had faced the most gruesome creatures alive, had to admit
that even he was afraid. It opened its mouth wider and wider, its teeth
sharpened to a point five feet long, and looked as if it were ready to swallow
the world.

It also looked enraged. It roared again
and again, stomping its feet, fighting at the chains that bound it, and the
ground shook, the cave shook, the entire mountainside shook. It was as if this
beast, with all its power, was moving the entire mountain by itself, as if it
had so much energy that it could not be contained. Vesuvius grinned; this was
exactly what he needed. A creature like this could blast through the tunnel,
could do what an army of trolls could not.

Vesuvius stepped forward and entered the
clearing, noticing the dozens of dead soldiers, their corpses littering the
ground, and as he did, hundreds of his soldiers lined up at attention. He could
see the fear in all their faces, as if they had no idea what to do with the
giant now that they had captured him.

Vesuvius stopped at the edge of the
clearing, just out of range of the giant’s chains, not wanting to end up like
the corpses, and as he did it turned, charged, and lunged for him, swiping with
his long claws and missing by only a few feet.

Vesuvius stood there, staring back at
it, summing it up, while his commander came running to report to him, keeping a
far distance along the perimeter so as to be out of the giant’s range.

“My Lord and King,” the commander said,
bowing deferentially. “The giant has been captured. It is yours to bring back.
But we cannot bind it. We have lost many a good men trying. We are at a loss
for what to do.”

Vesuvius stood there, hands on his hips,
feeling the eyes of all his men on him, and he surveyed the beast. It was an
awesome specimen of creation, and as it glared down and snarled at him, anxious
to tear him apart, Vesuvius could see what the problem was and he realized at
once, as was his natural skill, how to fix it.

“The problem is,” Vesuvius began, laying
a hand on his commander’s shoulder and leaning in in confidence, “you are
trying to approach it. You must let it come to you. You must catch it off
guard, and only then can you bind it. You must give it what it wants.”

His commander looked back, confused.

“And what is it that it wants, my Lord
and King?” he asked.

Vesuvius began to walk, leading his
commander forward as they stepped deeper into the clearing, toward the giant.

“Why,
you
,” Vesuvius finally
replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world—and then, he suddenly
shoved his commander with all his might, sending the unsuspecting soldier
stumbling forward into the clearing, right into the giant’s range.

Vesuvius backed up, safely out of range,
and watched as the giant blinked down, surprised. The troll leapt to his feet,
trying to run back to the front lines—but the giant reacted immediately,
swooping down with its claws, scooping him up and squeezing his hands around
his waist as he raised him to eye level, holding him as if he were a snack. He
then pulled him close and bit off the troll’s head, swallowing his screams.

Blood gushed everywhere as the beast
stood there, chewing.

Vesuvius was pleased to be rid of an
inept commander.

“If I need to tell you what to do,” he
said to the corpse that was once his commander, “then why have a commander?”

Vesuvius turned and looked over the rest
of his soldiers, and they all stood there, petrified, staring back at him in
shock. He pointed to a soldier standing nearby.

“You,” he said.

The troll stared back nervously.

“Yes, my Lord and King?”

“You shall be next.”

The troll’s eyes widened, and he dropped
to his knees and clasped his hands out before him.

“I cannot, my Lord and King!” he wept.
“I beg you! Not me! Choose someone else!”

Vesuvius stepped forward and nodded
amicably.

“Okay,” he replied. He stepped forward
and sliced the troll’s throat with his dagger, and the troll fell face-first at
his feet. “I will.”

Vesuvius turned to his other soldiers.

“Pick him up,” he commanded, “and throw
him into the giant’s range. When it approaches, this time have your ropes
ready. You will bind him as he goes for the bait.”

A half dozen soldiers grabbed the
corpse, rushed forward, and threw him in range of the giant. At the same time,
the other soldiers followed Vesuvius’s command, rushing forward on either side
of the clearing with their massive ropes at the ready.

The beast looked at the fresh troll at
its feet, as if debating. But finally, as Vesuvius had gambled, it exhibited
its limited intelligence and lunged forward, grabbing the corpse—exactly as
Vesuvius knew it would.

“NOW!” he shrieked.

The soldiers threw the ropes, casting
them over the back of the giant, grabbing hold on either side and pulling,
pinning it down. More soldiers rushed forward and threw more ropes, dozens of
them, again and again, binding its neck, then its arms, then its legs. They
pulled with all their might as they encircled it, and the beast strained and
struggled and roared in fury—but there was soon nothing it could do. Bound by
dozens of thick ropes, held down by hundreds of men, it lay face down in the
dirt, roaring helplessly.

Vesuvius walked close and stood over it,
unimaginable just moments ago, and looked down, satisfied at his conquest.

Finally, after all these years, he
grinned wide.

“Now,” he said slowly, savoring each
word, “Escalon is mine.”

Kyra stood at the window of her chamber,
watching dawn break over the countryside, Leo at her side, with a sense of both
anticipation and dread. She had spent a long night plagued by nightmares, tossing
and turning after overhearing her father’s conversation. She could still hear
her father’s words ringing in her head:
Does she not have a right to know
who she is?

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 serious 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.”