Rise of the Dragons (Kings and Sorcerers--Book 1)

by Morgan Rice

Vesuvius marched, a hundred trolls on his heels, through Great Wood, 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. He hacked through the thick brush with his blade and knew 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 giant, growing louder, 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, the giant had been found.

  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. 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 wrist, was the most immense, hideous creature he had ever laid eyes upon. It was 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, his hundreds of waiting 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 and charged for him, swiping at him with its long claws and missing by only a few feet.

  Vesuvius stood there, staring back at it, while his commander came running up beside him, keeping his 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 soldiers trying. We are at a loss for what to do.”

  Vesuvius stood there, hands on his hips, feeling the eyes of all his trolls on him as 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. He realized at once, as he usually did, how to fix it.

  Vesuvius lay a hand on his commander’s shoulder and leaned in close.

  “You are trying to approach it,” he said softly. “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?”

  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 shoved his commander with all his might, sending the unsuspecting soldier stumbling forward into the clearing.

  Vesuvius backed up, safely out of range, and watched as the giant blinked down, surprised. The soldier leapt to his feet, trying to run, 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. He pulled him close and bit off the troll’s head, swallowing his screams.

  Vesuvius smiled, pleased to be rid of an inept commander.

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

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

  “You,” he said.

  The troll stared back nervously.

  “Yes, my Lord and King?”

  “You are 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, dead, at his feet. “I will.”

  Vesuvius turned to his other soldiers.

  “Pick him up,” he commanded, “and throw him in the giant’s range. When it approaches, 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 into the clearing. The other soldiers followed Vesuvius’s command, rushing forward on either side of the clearing with their massive ropes at the ready.

  The giant studied 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, its arms, 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.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN