Rise of the Dragons (17 page)

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 weapon 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.

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.

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.

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. She 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.

But then, to Kyra’s surprise, her
father’s men raised their large shields, creating a wall as they all squatted
down together, perfectly disciplined. She squatted behind one of them, and
heard the thwack as a wall of deadly arrows were stopped.

“CHARGE!” her father yelled.

They all jumped to their feet and
charged again, and she realized her father’s strategy—to get close enough to
the Lord’s Men to render their arrows useless.

They reached the wall of soldiers and
there came a great clang of metal as men clashed in battle, swords meeting
swords, halberds meeting shields, spears meeting armor. For Kyra, it was
terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. She was right there, next to the
men, all fighting hand-to-hand, grunting and groaning, throwing each other,
slashing and blocking, the clang of metal deafening. Leo, at her side, lunged
forward and tore off a man’s foot. One of her father’s men cried out beside her
and she looked over to see him stabbed by a sword, blood dripping from his
mouth. She saw Anvin head-butt a man, then plunge a sword into his gut. She saw
her father use his shield as a weapon, smashing two men so hard he knocked them
over the bridge and into the moat. She’d never before seen her father in
action, and he was a fierce thing to watch. Even more impressive was how his
men formed around him, followed him, and it was clear that they had fought by
each other’s sides for years. They had a camaraderie she envied.