Rise of the Dragons

“No one’s asking you what we can and can’t take, boy,” another said.

One of them stepped up and ransacked Merk’s waist, rummaging greedy hands through his few personal belongings left in the world. Merk forced himself to stay calm as the hands rifled through everything he owned. Finally, they extracted his well-worn silver dagger, his favorite weapon, and still Merk, as painful as it was, did not react.

Let it go, he told himself.

“What’s this?” one asked. “A dagger?”

He glared at Merk.

“What’s a fancy monk like you carrying a dagger?” one asked.

“What are you doing, boy, carving trees?” another asked.

They all laughed, and Merk gritted his teeth, wondering how much more he could take.

The man who took the dagger stopped, looked down at Merk’s wrist, and yanked back his sleeve. Merk braced himself, realizing they’d found it.

“What’s this?” the thief asked, grabbing his wrist and holding it up, examining it.

“It looks like a fox,” one said.

“What’s a monk doing with a tattoo of a fox?” another asked.

Another stepped forward, a tall, thin man with red hair, and grabbed his wrist and examined it closely. He let it go and looked up at Merk with cautious eyes.

“That’s no fox, you idiot,” he said to his men. “It’s a wolf. It’s the mark of a King’s man – a mercenary.”

Merk felt his face flush as he realized they were staring at his tattoo. He did not want to be discovered.

The thieves all remained silent, staring at it, and for the first time, Merk sensed hesitation in their faces.

“That’s the order of the killers,” one said, then looked at him. “How did you get that mark, boy?”

“Probably gave it to himself,” one answered. “Makes the road safer.”

The leader nodded to his man, who released his grip on Merk’s throat, and Merk breathed deep, relieved. But the leader then reached up and held a knife to Merk’s throat and Merk wondered if he would die here, today, in this place. He wondered if it would be punishment for all the killing he had done. He wondered if he was ready to die.

“Answer him,” their leader growled. “You give that to yourself, boy? They say you need to kill a hundred men to get that mark.”

Merk breathed, and in the long silence that followed, debated what to say. Finally, he sighed.

“A thousand,” he said.

The leader blinked back, confused.

“What?” he asked.

“A thousand men,” Merk explained. “That’s what gets you that tattoo. And it was given to me by King Tarnis himself.”

They all stared back, shocked, and a long silence fell over the wood, so quiet that Merk could hear the insects chirping. He wondered what would happen next.

One of them broke into hysterical laughter – and all the others followed. They laughed and guffawed as Merk stood there, clearly thinking it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

“That’s a good one, boy,” one said. “You’re as good a liar as you are a monk.”

The leader pushed the dagger against his throat, hard enough to begin to draw blood.

“I said, answer me,” the leader repeated. “A real answer. You want to die right now, boy?”

Merk stood there, feeling the pain, and he thought about the question – he truly thought about it. Did he want to die? It was a good question, and an even deeper question than the thief supposed. As he thought about it, really thought about, he realized that a part of him did want 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.”