“My name is Nathar,” said the slave, “and you can tell that scoundrel Fredric that we would love nothing better than to see Dokur in ruins!”
“That would not be wise, my friend,” replied Jayson, “since Dokur’s fate will be yours as well. His Lordship has promised you your freedom if you join him in battle. He also guarantees that the land you once called home will be home again. Your families may return, and the Agorans and humans will live in peace.”
“Lies!” said Nathar, shaking his fist in the air.
“Not lies!” Jayson responded. “The truth! I have spoken with Fredric myself. He has given me his word.”
“Who are you that we should believe you?”
Jayson hesitated. He had broken the law by marrying a human and siring a child by her. He alone was responsible for Fredric’s loathing of the Agoran people. For fifteen years he had remained exiled and had made no attempt to stop the atrocities committed against his people. The guilt of it rested heavily on him, and now as he stood before these men, he feared that the vision he had laid out for Fredric may have been overly optimistic. They might very well blame him for their hardships and the accusation would be justified. How could he ask them to follow him? How could they trust him to lead them?
Jayson faced them boldly. He thought of the last time he had seen his infant son as he held him in his arms and kissed him good-bye. The memory gave him courage. For him, Jayson would do everything possible to save Dokur—to save his people.
He took Ivanore’s seal from his pouch and clasped it tightly between his fingers. It would prove him true should anyone doubt him. “I am Jayson!” he shouted so that his name echoed against the walls of the canyon. “And I have returned to lead you out of bondage!”
The crowd fell silent. They knew him; he could see it in their eyes. But could they forgive him? Would they trust him?
A roar of shouts erupted from the mass of slaves. Some fell to their knees, thanking the gods for deliverance. Others called out pledges of loyalty to the man who had defied Lord Fredric and lived.
Jayson took Fredric’s banner from Arnot’s hands and drew a burning stick from the fire. With the charred end of it he wrote on the back of the banner:
FOR OUR FAMILIES
OUR LAND
AND OUR LIBERTY
Then he held the banner high above his head for all to see.
The crowd broke into frantic cheering and rushed forward to claim their weapons. When the wagon was empty, the remaining men returned for their picks and shovels and hammers.
The last man to the wagon was Nathar, the tall, outspoken slave. He stood before Jayson with his head bowed. “Forgive my disrespect,” he said. “I did not know who you were. My family is dead. I have nothing to live for, but if my blood be spilt to give these men a chance to be reunited with their loved ones, then I give it freely.”
Jayson laid his hand firmly on Nathar’s shoulder. “You are a good leader, my friend. You know these men, and they will follow you. Take this,” he said, handing Fredric’s banner to Nathar. “Ride before them. Give them courage. Will you do that for me?”
Nathar nodded, his eyes moist with gratitude. Jayson called to Damen to bring a horse. Nathar mounted it and straightened his scarred back. Then, as he held the banner high, the slaves fell into ranks behind him.
Fifty-two
orning had melted into midday by the time Marcus and Kaië emerged from the tunnel entrance. The Agoran, Eliha, placed a grateful hand on Marcus’s shoulder.
“I thank you,” he said, “and I am sorry for the loss of your friend.” With that, Eliha scuttled off, soon disappearing from sight.
Marcus squinted his eyes as they adjusted to the bright sun, shining directly overhead. The reality of what had just occurred settled on him like a lead weight. He had never before felt such despair. But he did not even have time to mourn for Bryn, nor for the loss of Zyll’s key.
Kaië pointed toward the sea. What Marcus saw there alarmed him. Just beyond the harbor was a fleet of ships. Above each one, Hestoria’s blue-and-black flag flapped in the wind. Years earlier, relations between Hestoria and Dokur had grown cold after a band of Hestorian spies broke into the royal vaults, making off with several items—including an ancient map drawn by the island’s earliest settlers. Lord Fredric ended trade with the mainland and prepared for war. As the years passed with no confrontation, however, Lord Fredric and his people grew apathetic. But now several dozen Hestorian ships were approaching, enemy soldiers standing ready on their decks.
On the decks of Dokur’s own ships, groups of worried sailors stared toward the horizon, the realization of danger only now becoming apparent. On the cliffs above the shore, citizens of Dokur gathered to see the approaching ships for themselves.
“What do we do?” asked Kaië.
Marcus silently observed the advancing ships. If Jayson did not return with the slave army by nightfall, Dokur would be crushed, and all of Imaness would be in danger of invasion.
In his hands, Xerxes sprang to life and gasped. “We’re under attack!” he screeched. “Quick, Marcus, the key! Send a tidal wave down on those Hestorian swine!”
“I can’t,” Marcus whispered.
“What do you mean can’t?”
“I lost it in the Fortress.”
Xerxes gasped again, louder than before. His beaked clicked angrily. “You can’t be serious! How irresponsible! How careless! Zyll will certainly have something to say—”
Marcus grasped Xerxes’ head and drew the blade, fastening the empty staff beneath his cape.
“I don’t have time to argue now!” he said, gripping Xerxes so hard that the muscles in his arms and shoulders grew taut. His feet moved faster and faster as he ran across the hill toward the rocky shore. Kaië called after him.
“Marcus! Stop!” But the roar of the waves and the sound of blood pounding through his body drowned out all other sounds. Ahead of him, the Eye of Dokur pierced the sky, gazing down on him like a condescending god. As he neared, a new voice echoed in his ears.
“Marcus! Marcus!”
Marcus slowed to a stop. The voice called again, and the familiar face of Clovis Dungham appeared from behind a jagged boulder not far from the base of the tower. Holding a finger to his lips, he gestured for Marcus to come closer.
“Clovis, you’re free,” said Marcus, kneeling beside his friend in the sand. Zody and Tristan were with him. “Are you all right?”
“A bit hungry actually, but fine,” replied Clovis. “Have you seen Kelvin?”
“Isn’t he with you?”
“He was,” replied Tristan, “but after we escaped from the Mardok, he said he had to hurry to the tower. He told us to wait here until he returned.”
“How long have you been waiting?” Marcus asked.
“Not long,” said Zody. “Half an hour, at most.”
By this time, Kaië had caught up with Marcus. Out of breath, she chastised him for running ahead. “If this is a race, I gladly concede,” she said, panting.
After Marcus made hasty introductions, he explained to everyone present about Arik’s role in the impending attack from the sea, Jayson’s meeting with Lord Fredric, and his call to bring the Agoran slaves back to Dokur.
“But why did Kelvin go to the tower?” asked Tristan. “He can’t fight Arik alone!”
“No, he can’t,” said Marcus, brandishing his sword in the sunlight. “I’m going to join him.”
“We’ll come, too,” said Clovis.
“There’s no sense in that! You don’t have any weapons!”
“I have my bow,” Clovis replied, but Marcus shook his head.
“I can manage fine on my own,” he insisted. “Go with Kaië. Get the word out to the villagers of Arik’s intentions, and see if you can get them to fight. By the looks of that fleet, we’ll be invaded before nightfall.”
Marcus turned back toward the tower and tried to determine the best approach so as not to be seen. The tower stood in the center
of a large outcropping of rock just above the sand. There was nothing behind which he could hide. He would have to approach in plain view.
He watched as Kaië led Tristan, Clovis, and Zody back to the crest of the hill beyond which stood the Fortress, and past that, Dokur. At the top of the hill, Kaië paused and looked over her shoulder. Her face wore a troubled expression. The sight of it was forever impressed on Marcus’s mind. Then she was gone.
Marcus turned his attention to the tower. Thinking of Bryn and Jayson, a powerful energy welled within him. With his sword held tightly in his hands, he sprinted across the sand. An armed Mardok met him at the base of the tower, their swords clashing as they struck one another. But the Mardok was no match for Marcus, whose sudden surge of strength surprised them both. He did not have time to contemplate what source had fueled his power. Marcus left the wounded Mardok where he lay and hurried into the tower.
Inside, a steep staircase spiraled up the interior walls. Marcus climbed them with ease, taking two and three steps at a time. He had climbed halfway to the top when a second Mardok appeared above him. The creature hurled a dagger at him, which caught him by surprise. As Marcus twisted to avoid contact with the blade, he lost his balance and fell from the precarious ledge on which he stood. Only his quick impulse to grab hold of the edge saved him. The Mardok, on seeing his failure, ran down the stairs toward Marcus. Marcus pulled himself to safety just as the Mardok descended on him. Marcus thrust his sword forward, but the Mardok slipped to the side, sending his own sword down like thunder on the stone steps. They exchanged blow after blow until finally Marcus landed a successful strike to the Mardok’s chest. The creature bellowed in pain and toppled from the ledge to the hard, cold floor below.
Marcus ascended the remaining steps to a door at the top. The door was slightly ajar, and as he approached, he heard a voice.
“Come in, Marcus,” it said. “I have been expecting you.”
Fifty-three
s Kaië led Clovis, Tristan, and Zody away from the beach, Dokur’s navy ships sprang to life. Whistles blew and men shouted orders. Canons were stripped of their dusty covers, and sails were freed from their bonds. The sight of Hestoria’s fleet weighing anchor outside the harbor had sent them into a confused frenzy. But it was what they saw next that turned their confusion into terror.
On the deck of each enemy ship, a dark mass appeared, rising from below deck. As the formless masses unfurled their wings, stretching out their long and thorny necks, the air split with their deep, bellowing calls.
Dragons!
The first dragon flapped its wings, lifting its immense body into the air. Soon the others took flight, as well. The people on the cliffs screamed and fled in terror.
Kaië watched as the swarm of dragons flew across the harbor toward the anchored navy. The first dragon opened its jaws, and a tongue of flame lashed out, igniting the bow of one of the ships. The men on board scurried to douse the fire, only to be buffeted by more dragons. Within a few short minutes, the entire fleet of Dokur was in flames.
“We must find shelter!” shouted Kaië as she led the three boys over the hill below the Fortress. Behind them the cries of men in pain mingled with the dragons’ calls. Soon they reached the secret tunnel. “You’ll be safe here,” Kaië told them. “I’m going to warn the other citizens.”
“You’re coming back, right?” asked Zody.
Kaië shook her head. “I must fight alongside my people.”
“Let us fight with you,” said Tristan.
Zody interrupted. “Tristan, have you lost your mind? There are dragons out there! And Arik took our weapons, remember?”
“I have a weapon.” Clovis proudly held up his crossbow. “I’ll go with Kaië.”
Zody laughed. “Are you any good with it?”
“Well, no but—”
Tristan held out his hand. “Let me take the crossbow,” he said. “You stay here with Zody.”
Clovis hesitated. Then he held the weapon close to his chest. “No,” he said. “I want to fight.”
“Fine. I’ll go with you,” Tristan said, following Kaië and Clovis down the hill. Zody stood at the mouth of the tunnel, astounded at Tristan’s audacity.
“What are you doing?” he shouted. “I told you, you don’t have a weapon!”
“I’ll find one!” Tristan called back.
Zody paced back and forth in the tunnel. If he stayed, he’d be safe. But what if everyone else died and no one knew where to find him? If he went with Tristan, he’d get killed for sure, but then again, maybe not. He juggled these thoughts for several moments. Finally he made a decision. “Wait up! I’m coming with you!” he said and then added under his breath, “I really hate dragons!”
Fifty-four
he door at the top of the tower stairs creaked as Marcus pushed it open. He stepped into a bare round room with a wooden floor. To his right, a window opened to the sea. To his left, a rope ladder hung against the wall, leading to a framework of rafters above. Arik stood in the center of the room, his hair disheveled, his cloak torn. A gash on his upper arm bled profusely. His cloak concealed his other arm.
“You’ve arrived in the nick of time,” he said, his lips thinning into a cynical grin. “A moment later and I may very well have done something I might regret.”
Arik pulled his cloak away. Beneath it, clasped in the bend of his elbow, was Kelvin. Arik held him around the neck so that he could not speak and struggled to breathe.
“Let him go!” shouted Marcus through clenched teeth. Anger burned within him. “I said let him go!”
Arik laughed.
“You are fierce for one so young,” he said. “I suppose you want to kill me. It won’t matter if you do. If you look out that window there, you will see the fleet of Dokur in ruins, while my men row to shore in skiffs I designed to withstand the treacherous tides of Imaness. And even if they are unsuccessful, my dragons—trained for war from the time they were hatchlings—cannot be defeated. So kill me if you like, but Dokur is doomed.”
The sight of Dokur’s incinerated navy and the countless skiffs carrying enemy soldiers rowing across the harbor struck Marcus through his very heart. The enemy seemed numberless. Jayson would never arrive in time.
“I know who you are!” said Marcus. “I know how you betrayed Jayson and Ivanore. And now you betray your own father!”
Arik laughed menacingly. “Is that what Jayson told you? Did he tell you of his own treachery? How he broke the law by marrying my sister? Did he tell you how I got this?”
Arik turned his face aside, and Marcus winced at the sight of the ugly, pulsating scar.
“You’ve won, Arik,” said Marcus. “Dokur is as good as fallen. As for Kelvin, you don’t need him. Release him, and I vow to leave you in peace.”
“Release him? Release him?” Arik tightened his grip on Kelvin’s neck. “This child has wounded me with this pitiful little dagger,” he said, holding Kelvin’s dagger in his hand. “I was just about to break his neck when you so rudely interrupted me.”
Marcus didn’t think. Roaring with rage, he plunged forward with his sword pointed straight ahead of him. Arik warded the attack by twisting his body to the left and flinging Marcus aside. Though his initial attack failed, Marcus’s sudden advance distracted Arik long enough for Kelvin to break free. Seeing that he was now outnumbered, Arik scurried up the rope ladder and disappeared into the web of timbers above.
Kelvin knelt on the floor, rubbing his throat with his hands. “Will you go after him or shall I?” he croaked, but Marcus had already leapt off the top rung and into the rafters.
The uppermost area of the tower was bathed in shadow. A cone-shaped slate roof rose high overhead, letting in no light. The only illumination ascended through the crisscross of beams, creating an eerie illusion of layered shadows.
Marcus balanced on a twelve-inch beam that spanned the width of the room below. More beams crossed above his head, supporting the roof. One beam sloped low enough for him to
grab hold of and steady himself as he inched his way across. Somewhere, in one of the deep pockets of blackness, Arik waited for him.
The air was stifling. Marcus’s skin tingled, and the moisture that formed on his body dampened his clothes. The cramped darkness filled him with dread, and though he struggled to keep his memories in check, images from his dreams flooded his mind. Once again he heard the warboar of his childhood breathing in his ears. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.
Marcus opened his eyes wide and scanned the darkness for signs of movement. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath to calm himself. His lungs burned from the suffocating dust that blurred the air like a haze. The sound of air rushing in and out of them seemed as loud as the waves crashing against the shore outside. In and out, the rhythm steady as a drum. In and out. In and out. Marcus caught his breath and held it, yet the rhythm of someone else’s breathing echoed in his ears.
Marcus spun around, and his blade clashed against Arik’s dagger, halting a deadly blow from behind. The force of the blow knocked Marcus off balance. He fell, grasping the beam with his arms as his sword clattered to the floor below.
“What a predicament!” said Arik, amused. “I suppose you expect me to toy with you now, or to do the gentlemanly thing and pull you up so we can continue this farce.” He placed the toe of his boot over Marcus’s fingers. A sharp pain shot through his hand and he screamed out. “I hate to disappoint you,” continued Arik, “but I don’t like playing games.”
Arik raised the dagger, point down, above Marcus’s head. Suddenly Arik shot forward, as though some abrupt force had collided with him from behind. His face smashed into the beam as he fell. Holding onto him was Kelvin. The two of them hit the floor below with a sickening thud. And then there was silence mingled with the sounds of the sea crashing against the cliffs below.
Fifty-five
The Rock of Ivanore Page 15