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

by Morgan Rice

Kyra stood outside the gates of Volis, studying the wintry landscape as the snow fell, the sky streaked with scarlet as if the sun were struggling to break through, and she leaned forward on the emerging wall, breathing hard as she plopped down yet another stone. Kyra had joined the others in gathering these huge stones from the river to erect yet another wall around the perimeter of Volis. As the mason beside her smeared the plaster, she plopped down one stone after the next. Now, arms trembling, she needed a break.

  Kyra was joined by hundreds of her people, lined up all along the wall, all building it higher, deeper, adding rings to the embankments. Others, beyond the wall, worked with shovels, digging fresh ditches, while others still dug graves for the dead. Kyra knew that all of this was futile, that it would not hold back the great Pandesian army when it came, that no matter what they did, they would all die in this place. They all knew it. But they built it anyway. It gave them something to do, some sense of having control while staring death in the face.

  As Kyra took a break, she leaned against the wall, looked out at the landscape, and wondered. All was so still now, the snow muffling all sound, as if the world contained nothing but peace. But she knew differently; she knew the Pandesians were out there somewhere, preparing. She knew they would return, in a deafening rumble, and destroy all that she held precious. What she saw before her was an illusion: it was the calm before the storm. It was hard to understand how the world could be so still, so perfect, one moment—and so filled with destruction and chaos the next.

  Kyra glanced back over her shoulder and saw her people winding down their work for the day, laying down trowels and shovels as night began to fall and filtering back toward their homes. Smoke rose from chimneys, candles were lit in windows, and Volis looked so cozy, so protected, as if it could not be touched by the world. She marveled at the illusion.

  As she stood there, she could not help but hear her father’s words, ringing in her ears, his request that she leave at once. She thought of her uncle, whom she had never met, of the journey it would require, across Escalon, through Whitewood, all the way to the Tower of Ur. She thought of her mother, of the secret being withheld from her. She thought of her uncle training her to become more powerful—and it all thrilled her.

  And yet as she turned and looked at her people, she knew she just could not abandon them in their time of strife, even if it meant saving her life. It was just not who she was.

  Suddenly, a low, soft horn sounded, one signaling the end of the work day.

  “Night falls,” said the mason, standing beside her, laying down his trowel. “There is little we can do in the dark. Our people return for the meal. Come now,” he said, as rows of people turned and headed back across the bridge, through the gates.

  “I will come in a moment,” she said, not yet ready, wanting more time to enjoy the peace, the silence. She was always happiest alone, outdoors.

  Leo whined and licked his lips.

  “Take Leo with you—he’s hungry.”

  Leo must have understood because he already leapt off after the mason while she was still speaking, and the mason laughed and returned with him for the fort.

  Kyra stood outside the fort, closing her eyes against the noise and becoming lost in her thoughts. Finally, the sound of the hammers had stopped. Finally, she had true peace.

  She looked out and studied the horizon, the darkening woodline, the rolling gray clouds covering up the scarlet, and she wondered. When were they coming? What size force would they bring? What would their army look like?

  As she looked out, she was surprised to detect motion in the distance. Something caught her eye and as she watched, she saw a lone rider materialize, emerging from the wood and taking the main road for their fort. Kyra reached back and gripped her bow unconsciously, bracing herself, wondering if he were a scout, if he were heralding an army.

  But as he neared, she loosened her grip and relaxed as she recognized him: it was one of her father’s men. Maltren. He galloped, and as he did, led a riderless horse beside him by the reins. It was a most curious sight.

  Maltren came to an abrupt stop before her and looked down at her with urgency, appearing scared; she could not understand what was happening.

  “What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “Is Pandesia coming?”

  He sat there, breathing hard, and shook his head.

  “It is your brother,” he said. “Aidan.”

  Kyra’s heart plummeted at the mention of her brother’s name, the person she loved most in the world. She was immediately on edge.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “What’s happened to him?”

  Maltren caught his breath.

  “He’s been badly injured,” he said. “He needs help.”

  Kyra’s heart started pounding. Aidan? Injured? Her mind spun with awful scenarios—but mostly, confusion.

  “How?” she demanded. “What was he doing in the wood? I thought he was in the fort, preparing for the feast?”

  Maltren shook his head.

  “He went out with your brothers,” he said. “Hunting. He took a bad fall from his horse—his legs are broken.”

  Kyra felt a flash of determination rush through her. Filled with adrenaline, not even stopping to think it all through carefully, she rushed forward and mounted the spare horse.

  If she had taken just a moment to turn around, to check the fort, she would have found Aidan, safely inside. But fueled by urgency, she did not stop to question Maltren.

  “Lead me to him,” she said.

  The two of them, an unlikely duo, charged off together, away from Volis and, as night fell, toward the blackening wood.