Rise of the Dragons (Kings and Sorcerers--Book 1)
Merk hiked and hiked on the forest trail, the shadows getting long as he wound his way through Whitewood, the dead thieves now a good day’s hike behind him. He hadn’t stopped hiking since, trying to clear his mind of the incident, to get back to the peaceful place he had once inhabited. It wasn’t easy. His legs growing weary, Merk was more anxious than ever to find the Tower of Ur, to walk into his new life as a Watcher, and he scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of it through the trees.
But there was no sign of it. This trek was beginning to feel more like a pilgrimage, one that would never end. The Tower of Ur was more remote, more well-hidden, than he had imagined.
Encountering those thieves had awakened something deep within him, had made Merk realize how hard it might be to shake off his old self. He did not know if he had the discipline. He only hoped that the Watchers would accept him in their order; if not, with nowhere else to turn, he would surely go back to being the man he once was.
Up ahead, Merk saw the wood change, saw a grove of ancient white trees, trunks as wide as ten men, reaching high into the sky, their branches spreading out like a canopy with shimmering red leaves. One of the trees, with a broad, curved trunk, looked particularly inviting, and Merk, feet aching, sat down beside it. He leaned back and felt an immediate sense of relief, felt the pain leaving his back and legs from hours of hiking. He kicked off his boots and felt the pain throbbing in his feet, and he sighed as a cool breeze soothed him, leaves rustling above.
Merk reached into his sack and extracted what remained of the dried strips of meat from the rabbit he had caught the other night. He took a bite and chewed slowly, closing his eyes, resting, wondering what the future had in store for him. Sitting here, against this tree, beneath these rustling leaves, felt good enough for him.
Merk’s eyes felt heavy and he let them close, just for a moment, needing the rest.
When he opened them, Merk was surprised to see the sky had grown darker, to realize that he had fallen asleep. It was already twilight, and he realized with a start that he would have slept all night—if he had not been awakened by a noise.
Merk sat up and took stock, immediately on guard as his instincts kicked in. He clutched the hilt of his dagger, hidden in his waist, and waited. He did not want to resort to violence—but until he reached the Tower, he was starting to feel that anything was possible.
The rustling became louder, and it sounded like someone running, bursting through the forest. Merk was puzzled: what was someone else doing out here, in the middle of nowhere, in twilight? From the sound of the leaves, Merk could tell it was one person, and that it was light. Maybe a child, or a girl.
Sure enough, a moment later there burst into his sight a girl, emerging from the forest, running, crying. He watched her, surprised, as she ran, alone, stumbled, and fell, but feet away from him. She landed face-first in the dirt. She was pretty, perhaps eighteen, but disheveled, her hair a mess, dirt and leaves in it, her clothes ragged and torn.
Merk stood, and as she scrambled to get back to her feet she saw him and her eyes widened in panic.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she cried, standing, backing away.
Merk raised his hands.
“I mean you no harm,” he said slowly, standing to his full height. “In fact, I was just about to be on my way.”
She backed up several feet in terror, still crying, and he could not help but wonder what had happened. Whatever it was, he did not want to get involved—he had enough problems of his own.
Merk turned back on the trail and began to walk away, when her voice cried out behind him:
“No, wait!”
He turned and saw her standing there, desperate.
“Please. I need your help,” she pleaded.
Merk looked at her and saw how beautiful she was beneath her disheveled appearance, with unwashed blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a face with perfect features, covered in tears and in dirt. She wore simple farmer’s clothes, and he could tell she was not rich. She looked as if she had been on the run for a long time.
He shook his head.
“You don’t have the money to pay me,” Merk said. “I cannot help you, whatever it is you need. Besides, I’m on my way for my own mission.”
“You don’t understand,” she begged, stepping closer. “My family—our home was raided this morning. Mercenaries. My father’s been hurt. He chased them away, but they’ll be back soon—and with a lot more men—to kill him, to kill my whole family. They said they will burn our farm to the ground. Please!” she begged, stepping closer. “I’ll give you anything. Anything!”
Merk stood there, feeling sorry for her, but determined not to get involved.
“There are many problems in the world, miss,” he said. “And I can’t fix them all.”
He turned once again to walk away, when her voice rang out again:
“Please!” she cried. “It is a sign, don’t you see? That I would run into you here, in the middle of nowhere? I expected to find no one—and I found you. You were meant to be here, meant to help me. God is giving you a chance for redemption. Don’t you believe in signs?”
He stood there and watched her sobbing, and he felt guilty, but mostly detached. A part of him thought of how many people he’d killed in his lifetime, and wondered: what’s a few more? But there were always just a few more. It never seemed to end. He had to draw the line somewhere.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “But I am not your savior.”
Merk turned again and began to walk off, determined this time not to stop, to drown out her sobs and grief by rustling the leaves loudly with his feet, blocking out the noise.
But no matter how hard he rustled the leaves, her cries continued, ringing somewhere in the back of his head, summoning him. He turned and watched her run off, disappearing back into the wood, and he wanted to feel a sense of relief. But more than anything, he felt haunted—haunted by a cry he did not want to hear.
He cursed as he hiked, enraged, wishing he’d never met her. Why? he wondered. Why him?
It kept gnawing away at him, would not let him be, and he hated the feeling. Was this what it was like, he wondered, to have a conscience?
CHAPTER TWENTY