Rise of the Dragons (Kings and Sorcerers--Book 1) by Morgan Rice
Alec held his head in his hands, trying to stop his headache, as the carriage, packed with boys, jolted roughly along the country road, as it had been doing all night long. The bumps and ditches never seemed to end, and this primitive wooden cart, with its iron bars and wooden wheels, seemed to have been constructed to inflict the maximum possible discomfort. With each bump, Alec’s head slammed into the wood behind him. After the first bump, he had been sure it could not go on like this for long, that the road must end sometime soon.
But hour after hour had passed, and if anything, the road only seemed to worsen. He had been awake all night long, with no hope of sleep, if not from the bumps then from the stink of the other boys, from their elbowing and jostling him awake. All night long the cart made stops in villages, picking up more and more boys, cramming them all in here in the blackness. Alec could feel them looking him over, summing him up, a sea of dejected faces staring back at him, their eyes filled with wrath. They were all older, miserable, and looking for a victim.
Alec had at first assumed that, since they were all in this together, all drafted against their will to serve at The Flames, there would be a solidarity amongst them. But he’d learned quickly that was not the case. Each boy was his own island, and if Alec received any sort of communication, it was only hostility. They were rough faces, unshaven, scars across them, noses that looked like they had been broken in too many fights, and it was beginning to dawn on Alec that not every boy in this carriage had just reached his eighteenth year—some were older, more broken down by life, looking like criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, thrown in with the others, all of them being sent to keep The Flames.
Alec, sitting on the hard wood, jammed in, feeling as if he were on a journey to hell, was certain it could not get any worse; but the carriage stops never ended, and to his amazement, they crammed more and more boys in here. When he had first entered, a dozen boys had seemed tight, with no room to maneuver; but now, with over two dozen and counting, Alec could barely breathe. The boys who piled in after him were all forced to stand, trying to grab onto the ceiling, to anything, but mostly slipping and falling onto each other with each bump of the cart. More than one angry boy shoved back, and endless scuffles broke out, all night long, boys constantly elbowing and shoving each other. Alec watched in disbelief as one boy bit another’s ear off. The only saving grace was that they had no room to maneuver, to even bring their shoulders back to throw a punch, so the fights had no choice but to defuse quickly, with vows to continue at a later time.
Alec heard birds chirping, and he looked out, bleary-eyed, to spot the first light of dawn creeping through the iron bars. He marveled that day had broke, that he had survived this, the longest night of his life.
As the sun lit the carriage, Alec began to get a better look at all the new boys that had come in. He was by far the youngest of the lot—and, it appeared, the least dangerous. It was a savage group of muscle-bound, irascible boys, all scarred, some tattooed, looking like the forgotten boys of society. They were all on edge, bitter from the long night, and Alec felt the carriage was ripe for an explosion.
“You look too young to be here,” came a deep voice.
Alec looked over to see a boy, perhaps a year or two older, sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He was the presence, Alec realized, that he had felt squished up against him all night long, a boy with broad shoulders, strong muscles and the innocent, plain face of a farmer. His face was unlike the others, open and friendly, perhaps even a bit naïve, and Alec sensed in him a kindred soul.
“I took my brother’s slot,” Alec replied flatly, wondering how much to tell him.
“He was afraid?” the boy asked, puzzled.
Alec shook his head.
“Lame,” Alec corrected.
The boy nodded, as if understanding, and looked at Alec with a new respect.
They fell into silence, and Alec looked the boy over.
“And you?” Alec asked. “You don’t appear to be eighteen, either.”
“Seventeen,” the boy said.
Alec wondered.
“Then why are you here?” he asked.
“I volunteered.”
Alec was stunned.
“Volunteered? But why?”
The boy looked at the floor and shrugged.
“I wanted to get away.”
“To get away from what?” Alec asked, baffled.
The boy fell silent and Alec could see a gloom pass over his face. He fell silent and he did not think he would respond—but finally, the boy mumbled: “Home.”
Alec saw the sadness in his face, and he understood. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong at this boy’s home, and from the bruises on the boy’s arms, and the look of sadness mixed with anger, Alec could only guess.
“I am sorry,” Alec replied.
The boy looked at him with a surprised expression, as if not expecting any compassion in this cart. Suddenly, he extended a hand.
“Marco,” he said.
“Alec.”
They shook hands, the boy’s twice as large as Alec’s, with a strong grip that left his hand hurting. Alec sensed he had met a friend in Marco, and it was a relief, given the sea of faces before him.
“I suspect you are the only one who volunteered,” Alec said.
Marco looked around and shrugged.
“I suspect you’re right. Most of these were drafted or imprisoned.”
“Imprisoned?” Alec asked, surprised.
Marco nodded.
“The Keepers are comprised not only of draftees, but a good amount of criminals, too.”
“Who you calling a criminal, boy?” came a savage voice.
They both turned to see one of the boys, prematurely aged from his hard life, looking forty years old though not older than twenty, with a pockmarked face and beady eyes. He squatted down low, and stared into Marco’s face.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Marco replied, defiant.
“Well, now you are,” the boy seethed, clearly looking for a fight. “Say it again. You want to call me a criminal to my face?”
Marco reddened and clenched his jaw, getting angry himself.
“If the shoe fits,” Marco said.
The other boy flushed with rage, and Alec admired Marco’s defiance, his fearlessness. The boy lunged at Marco, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing with all his might.
It all happened so fast, Marco was clearly caught off guard—and in these close quarters, he had little room to maneuver. His eyes bulged wide as he was losing air, trying unsuccessfully to pry the boy’s hands off. Marco was bigger, but the boy had wiry hands, calloused, probably from years of murdering, and Marco could not loosen his grip.
“FIGHT! FIGHT!” the other boys called out.
The others looked over, half-heartedly watching the violence, one of a dozen fights that had erupted throughout the night.
Marco, struggling, leaned forward quickly and head-butted the other boy, smashing him in the nose. There came a cracking noise and blood gushed from the boy’s nose.
Marco tried to stand to get better leverage—but as he did, a big boot pressed down on his shoulder from a different boy, pinning him down. At the same moment, the first boy, blood still gushing from his nose, reached into his waist and pulled out something shiny. It flashed in the pre-morning light, and Alec realized, shocked, it was a dagger. It was all happening so quickly, there was no time for Marco to react.
The boy thrust it forward, aiming for Marco’s heart.
Alec reacted. He lunged forward, grabbed the boy’s wrist with two hands, and pinned them down to the floor, sparing Marco from the deadly blow a moment before the blade touched his chest. The blade still grazed Marco, tearing open his shirt, but not touching his skin.
Alec and the boy went down to the wood, struggling for the blade, while Marco managed to reach up and twist the ankle of his other attacker, snapping it with a crack.
Alec felt greasy hands on his face, felt the first
boy’s long fingernails scratching him, reaching for his eyes. Alec knew he had to act quick, and he let go of the hand with the dagger, spun around and threw his elbow, feeling a satisfying crunch as his elbow connected with the boy’s jaw.
The boy spun off of him, face-first to the ground.
Alec, breathing hard, his face stinging from the scratches, managed somehow to jump to his feet, as Marco stood beside him, sandwiched between all the other boys. The two stood side by side, looking down at their attackers lying on the floor, motionless. Alec’s heart slammed in his chest, and as he stood there, he decided he no longer wanted to sit; it left him too vulnerable to attack from above. He would rather stand the rest of the way, however long the journey was.
Alec looked out and saw all the hostile eyes glaring at him, and this time, instead of looking away he met them back, realizing he needed to project confidence if he were to survive amongst this lot. Finally, they all seemed to give him a look, something like respect, and then they looked away.
Marco looked down, examining the tear in his shirt where the dagger had almost punctured his heart. He looked at Alec, his face filled with gratitude.
“You have a friend for life,” Marco said sincerely.
He reached out for Alec’s arm and Alec clasped it, and it felt good. A friend: that was exactly what he needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
But hour after hour had passed, and if anything, the road only seemed to worsen. He had been awake all night long, with no hope of sleep, if not from the bumps then from the stink of the other boys, from their elbowing and jostling him awake. All night long the cart made stops in villages, picking up more and more boys, cramming them all in here in the blackness. Alec could feel them looking him over, summing him up, a sea of dejected faces staring back at him, their eyes filled with wrath. They were all older, miserable, and looking for a victim.
Alec had at first assumed that, since they were all in this together, all drafted against their will to serve at The Flames, there would be a solidarity amongst them. But he’d learned quickly that was not the case. Each boy was his own island, and if Alec received any sort of communication, it was only hostility. They were rough faces, unshaven, scars across them, noses that looked like they had been broken in too many fights, and it was beginning to dawn on Alec that not every boy in this carriage had just reached his eighteenth year—some were older, more broken down by life, looking like criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, thrown in with the others, all of them being sent to keep The Flames.
Alec, sitting on the hard wood, jammed in, feeling as if he were on a journey to hell, was certain it could not get any worse; but the carriage stops never ended, and to his amazement, they crammed more and more boys in here. When he had first entered, a dozen boys had seemed tight, with no room to maneuver; but now, with over two dozen and counting, Alec could barely breathe. The boys who piled in after him were all forced to stand, trying to grab onto the ceiling, to anything, but mostly slipping and falling onto each other with each bump of the cart. More than one angry boy shoved back, and endless scuffles broke out, all night long, boys constantly elbowing and shoving each other. Alec watched in disbelief as one boy bit another’s ear off. The only saving grace was that they had no room to maneuver, to even bring their shoulders back to throw a punch, so the fights had no choice but to defuse quickly, with vows to continue at a later time.
Alec heard birds chirping, and he looked out, bleary-eyed, to spot the first light of dawn creeping through the iron bars. He marveled that day had broke, that he had survived this, the longest night of his life.
As the sun lit the carriage, Alec began to get a better look at all the new boys that had come in. He was by far the youngest of the lot—and, it appeared, the least dangerous. It was a savage group of muscle-bound, irascible boys, all scarred, some tattooed, looking like the forgotten boys of society. They were all on edge, bitter from the long night, and Alec felt the carriage was ripe for an explosion.
“You look too young to be here,” came a deep voice.
Alec looked over to see a boy, perhaps a year or two older, sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He was the presence, Alec realized, that he had felt squished up against him all night long, a boy with broad shoulders, strong muscles and the innocent, plain face of a farmer. His face was unlike the others, open and friendly, perhaps even a bit naïve, and Alec sensed in him a kindred soul.
“I took my brother’s slot,” Alec replied flatly, wondering how much to tell him.
“He was afraid?” the boy asked, puzzled.
Alec shook his head.
“Lame,” Alec corrected.
The boy nodded, as if understanding, and looked at Alec with a new respect.
They fell into silence, and Alec looked the boy over.
“And you?” Alec asked. “You don’t appear to be eighteen, either.”
“Seventeen,” the boy said.
Alec wondered.
“Then why are you here?” he asked.
“I volunteered.”
Alec was stunned.
“Volunteered? But why?”
The boy looked at the floor and shrugged.
“I wanted to get away.”
“To get away from what?” Alec asked, baffled.
The boy fell silent and Alec could see a gloom pass over his face. He fell silent and he did not think he would respond—but finally, the boy mumbled: “Home.”
Alec saw the sadness in his face, and he understood. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong at this boy’s home, and from the bruises on the boy’s arms, and the look of sadness mixed with anger, Alec could only guess.
“I am sorry,” Alec replied.
The boy looked at him with a surprised expression, as if not expecting any compassion in this cart. Suddenly, he extended a hand.
“Marco,” he said.
“Alec.”
They shook hands, the boy’s twice as large as Alec’s, with a strong grip that left his hand hurting. Alec sensed he had met a friend in Marco, and it was a relief, given the sea of faces before him.
“I suspect you are the only one who volunteered,” Alec said.
Marco looked around and shrugged.
“I suspect you’re right. Most of these were drafted or imprisoned.”
“Imprisoned?” Alec asked, surprised.
Marco nodded.
“The Keepers are comprised not only of draftees, but a good amount of criminals, too.”
“Who you calling a criminal, boy?” came a savage voice.
They both turned to see one of the boys, prematurely aged from his hard life, looking forty years old though not older than twenty, with a pockmarked face and beady eyes. He squatted down low, and stared into Marco’s face.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Marco replied, defiant.
“Well, now you are,” the boy seethed, clearly looking for a fight. “Say it again. You want to call me a criminal to my face?”
Marco reddened and clenched his jaw, getting angry himself.
“If the shoe fits,” Marco said.
The other boy flushed with rage, and Alec admired Marco’s defiance, his fearlessness. The boy lunged at Marco, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing with all his might.
It all happened so fast, Marco was clearly caught off guard—and in these close quarters, he had little room to maneuver. His eyes bulged wide as he was losing air, trying unsuccessfully to pry the boy’s hands off. Marco was bigger, but the boy had wiry hands, calloused, probably from years of murdering, and Marco could not loosen his grip.
“FIGHT! FIGHT!” the other boys called out.
The others looked over, half-heartedly watching the violence, one of a dozen fights that had erupted throughout the night.
Marco, struggling, leaned forward quickly and head-butted the other boy, smashing him in the nose. There came a cracking noise and blood gushed from the boy’s nose.
Marco tried to stand to get better leverage—but as he did, a big boot pressed down on his shoulder from a different boy, pinning him down. At the same moment, the first boy, blood still gushing from his nose, reached into his waist and pulled out something shiny. It flashed in the pre-morning light, and Alec realized, shocked, it was a dagger. It was all happening so quickly, there was no time for Marco to react.
The boy thrust it forward, aiming for Marco’s heart.
Alec reacted. He lunged forward, grabbed the boy’s wrist with two hands, and pinned them down to the floor, sparing Marco from the deadly blow a moment before the blade touched his chest. The blade still grazed Marco, tearing open his shirt, but not touching his skin.
Alec and the boy went down to the wood, struggling for the blade, while Marco managed to reach up and twist the ankle of his other attacker, snapping it with a crack.
Alec felt greasy hands on his face, felt the first
The boy spun off of him, face-first to the ground.
Alec, breathing hard, his face stinging from the scratches, managed somehow to jump to his feet, as Marco stood beside him, sandwiched between all the other boys. The two stood side by side, looking down at their attackers lying on the floor, motionless. Alec’s heart slammed in his chest, and as he stood there, he decided he no longer wanted to sit; it left him too vulnerable to attack from above. He would rather stand the rest of the way, however long the journey was.
Alec looked out and saw all the hostile eyes glaring at him, and this time, instead of looking away he met them back, realizing he needed to project confidence if he were to survive amongst this lot. Finally, they all seemed to give him a look, something like respect, and then they looked away.
Marco looked down, examining the tear in his shirt where the dagger had almost punctured his heart. He looked at Alec, his face filled with gratitude.
“You have a friend for life,” Marco said sincerely.
He reached out for Alec’s arm and Alec clasped it, and it felt good. A friend: that was exactly what he needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN