Rise of the Dragons. Morgan RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”
Chapter Five
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,