Read Online Rise of the Dragons by Morgan Rice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Morgan Rice
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annoyed, having to concede defeat.
“Anyone else?” Kyra asked, smiling wide,
turning and facing the circle of men.
Most of them wore smiles, clearly proud
of her, proud of watching her grow up and reach this point. Except, of course,
Maltren, who frowned back. He looked as if he were about to challenge her when
suddenly another soldier appeared, facing off with a serious expression. This
man was shorter and wider, with an unkempt red beard and fierce eyes. She could
tell by the way he held his sword that he was more cautious than her previous
opponent. She took that as a compliment: finally, they were beginning to take
her seriously.
He charged, and Kyra did not understand
why, but for some reason, knowing what to do came easily to her. It was as if
her instincts kicked in and took over for her. She found herself to be much
lighter and more nimble than these men, with their heavy armor and thick,
wooden swords. They all were fighting for power, and they all expected their
foes to challenge and block them. Kyra, though, was happy to dodge them, and
refused to fight on their terms. They fought for power—but she fought for
speed.
Kyra’s staff moved in her hand like an
extension of her; she spun it so quickly her opponents had no time to react,
they still in mid-swing while she was already behind them. Her new opponent
came at her with a lunge to the chest—but she merely sidestepped and swung her
staff up, striking his wrist and dislodging his sword from his grip. She then
brought the other end around and cracked him on the head.
The horn sounded, the point hers, and he
looked at her in shock, holding his forehead, his sword on the ground. Kyra,
examining her handiwork, realizing she was still standing, was a bit startled
herself.
Kyra had become the person to beat, and
now the men, no longer hesitant, lined up to test their skills against her.
The snowstorm raged on as torches were
lit against the twilight and Kyra sparred with one man after the next. No
longer did they wear smiles: their expressions were now deadly serious,
perplexed, then outright annoyed, as no one could touch her—and each ended up
defeated by her. Against one man, she leapt over his head as he thrust,
spinning and landing behind him before whacking his shoulder; for another, she
ducked and rolled, switched hands with her staff and landed the decisive blow,
unexpectedly, with her left hand. For each, her moves were different, part
gymnast, part swordsman, so none could anticipate her. These men did a walk of
shame to the sidelines, each amazed at having to admit defeat.
Soon there remained but a handful of
men. Kyra stood in the center of the circle, breathing hard, turning in each
direction to search for a new foe. Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael watched her from
the sidelines, all with smiles across their faces, looks of admiration. If her
father could not be there to witness this and be proud of her, at least these
men could.
Kyra defeated yet another opponent, this
one with a blow behind the knee, yet another horn sounded, and finally, with
none left to face her, Maltren stepped out into the circle.
“A child’s tricks,” he spat, walking
toward her. “You can spin a piece of wood. In battle, that will do you no good.
Against a real sword, your staff would be cut in half.”
“Would it, then?” she asked, bold,
fearless, feeling the blood of her father flowing within her and knowing she
had to confront this bully for all time, especially as all these men were
watching her.
“Then why not try it?” she prodded.
Maltren blinked back at her in surprise,
clearly not expecting that response. Then he narrowed his eyes.
“Why?” he shot back. “So you can run for
your father’s protection?”
“I need not my father’s protection, nor
anyone else’s,” she replied. “This is between you and me—whatever should
happen.”
Maltren looked over at Anvin, clearly
uncomfortable, as if he had dug himself into a pit which he could
“Anyone else?” Kyra asked, smiling wide,
turning and facing the circle of men.
Most of them wore smiles, clearly proud
of her, proud of watching her grow up and reach this point. Except, of course,
Maltren, who frowned back. He looked as if he were about to challenge her when
suddenly another soldier appeared, facing off with a serious expression. This
man was shorter and wider, with an unkempt red beard and fierce eyes. She could
tell by the way he held his sword that he was more cautious than her previous
opponent. She took that as a compliment: finally, they were beginning to take
her seriously.
He charged, and Kyra did not understand
why, but for some reason, knowing what to do came easily to her. It was as if
her instincts kicked in and took over for her. She found herself to be much
lighter and more nimble than these men, with their heavy armor and thick,
wooden swords. They all were fighting for power, and they all expected their
foes to challenge and block them. Kyra, though, was happy to dodge them, and
refused to fight on their terms. They fought for power—but she fought for
speed.
Kyra’s staff moved in her hand like an
extension of her; she spun it so quickly her opponents had no time to react,
they still in mid-swing while she was already behind them. Her new opponent
came at her with a lunge to the chest—but she merely sidestepped and swung her
staff up, striking his wrist and dislodging his sword from his grip. She then
brought the other end around and cracked him on the head.
The horn sounded, the point hers, and he
looked at her in shock, holding his forehead, his sword on the ground. Kyra,
examining her handiwork, realizing she was still standing, was a bit startled
herself.
Kyra had become the person to beat, and
now the men, no longer hesitant, lined up to test their skills against her.
The snowstorm raged on as torches were
lit against the twilight and Kyra sparred with one man after the next. No
longer did they wear smiles: their expressions were now deadly serious,
perplexed, then outright annoyed, as no one could touch her—and each ended up
defeated by her. Against one man, she leapt over his head as he thrust,
spinning and landing behind him before whacking his shoulder; for another, she
ducked and rolled, switched hands with her staff and landed the decisive blow,
unexpectedly, with her left hand. For each, her moves were different, part
gymnast, part swordsman, so none could anticipate her. These men did a walk of
shame to the sidelines, each amazed at having to admit defeat.
Soon there remained but a handful of
men. Kyra stood in the center of the circle, breathing hard, turning in each
direction to search for a new foe. Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael watched her from
the sidelines, all with smiles across their faces, looks of admiration. If her
father could not be there to witness this and be proud of her, at least these
men could.
Kyra defeated yet another opponent, this
one with a blow behind the knee, yet another horn sounded, and finally, with
none left to face her, Maltren stepped out into the circle.
“A child’s tricks,” he spat, walking
toward her. “You can spin a piece of wood. In battle, that will do you no good.
Against a real sword, your staff would be cut in half.”
“Would it, then?” she asked, bold,
fearless, feeling the blood of her father flowing within her and knowing she
had to confront this bully for all time, especially as all these men were
watching her.
“Then why not try it?” she prodded.
Maltren blinked back at her in surprise,
clearly not expecting that response. Then he narrowed his eyes.
“Why?” he shot back. “So you can run for
your father’s protection?”
“I need not my father’s protection, nor
anyone else’s,” she replied. “This is between you and me—whatever should
happen.”
Maltren looked over at Anvin, clearly
uncomfortable, as if he had dug himself into a pit which he could
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