Rise of the Dragons by Morgan Rice Page A

he did not know how to make
her want that for herself.
    It had all left him feeling confused. By
refusing to praise her, he figured, he could dissuade her. Yet deep down, he
had a sinking feeling he could not—and that his withdrawal of praise would only
alienate her further. He hated how he had to act tonight, and he hated how he
felt right now. But he had no idea what else to do.
    What upset him even more than all this,
was what echoed in the back of his head: the prophecy proclaimed about her the
day she was born. He had always disregarded it as nonsense, a witch’s words; but
today, watching her, seeing her prowess, made him realize how special she was,
made him wonder if it could really be true. And that thought terrified him more
than anything. Her destiny was fast approaching, and he had no way to stop it.
How long would it be until everyone knew the truth about her?
    Duncan closed his eyes and shook his
head, taking a long swig from his sack of wine and trying to push it all from
his mind. This was supposed to be a night of celebration, after all. The Winter
solstice had arrived, and as he opened his eyes he saw the snow raging through
the window, now a full-fledged blizzard, snow piled high against the stone, as
if arriving on cue for the holiday. While the wind howled outside, they were
all secure here in this fort, warm from the fires raging in the fireplaces,
from the body heat, from the roasting food and from the wine.
    Indeed, as he looked around, everyone
looked happy—jugglers, bards and musicians made their rounds as men laughed and
rejoiced, sharing battle stories. Duncan looked with appreciation at the
awesome bounty before him, the banquet table covered with every sort of food
and delicacy. He felt pride as he saw all the shields hanging high along the
wall, each one hand-hammered with a different crest, each insignia representing
a different house of his people, a different warrior who had come to fight with
him. He saw all the trophies of war hanging, too, memories of a lifetime
fighting for Escalon. He was a lucky man, he knew.
    And yet as much as he liked to pretend
otherwise, he had to face that his was a Kingdom under occupation. The old
king, King Tarnis, had surrendered his people to all of their shame, had laid
down arms without even a fight, allowing Pandesia to invade. It had spared
casualties and cities—but it had also robbed their spirit. Tarnis had always
argued that Escalon was indefensible anyway, that even if they held the
Southern Gate, the Bridge of Sorrows, Pandesia could surround them and attack
by sea. But they all knew that was a weak argument. Escalon was blessed with
shores made of cliffs a hundred feet high, crashing waves and jagged rocks at
their base. No ship could get close, and no army could breach them without a
heavy price. Pandesia could attack by sea, but the price would be far too
great, even for such a great empire. Land was the only way—and that left only
the bottleneck of the Southern Gate, which all of Escalon knew was defensible.
Surrendering had been a choice of pure weakness and nothing else.
    Now he and all the other great warriors
were king-less, each left to his own devices, his own province, his own
stronghold, and each forced to bend the knee and answer to the Lord Governor
installed by the Pandesian Empire. Duncan could still recall the day he had
been forced to swear a new oath of fealty, the feeling he’d had when he was
made to bend the knee—it made him sick to think of it.
    Duncan tried to think back to the early
days, when he had been stationed in Andros, when all the knights of all the
houses had been together, rallied under one cause, one king, one capital, one
banner, with a force ten times as great as the men he had here. Now they were
scattered to the far corners of the Kingdom, these men here all that remained
of a unified force.
    King Tarnis had always been a weak king;
Duncan had known that from the start. As his chief commander, he’d