Buch lesen: «A Forge of Valor»
Morgan Rice
Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER’S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising four books (and counting). Morgan’s books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.
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Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice
“If you thought that there was no reason left for living after the end of THE SORCERER’S RING series, you were wrong. In RISE OF THE DRAGONS Morgan Rice has come up with what promises to be another brilliant series, immersing us in a fantasy of trolls and dragons, of valor, honor, courage, magic and faith in your destiny. Morgan has managed again to produce a strong set of characters that make us cheer for them on every page.…Recommended for the permanent library of all readers that love a well-written fantasy.”
--Books and Movie Reviews
Roberto Mattos
“RISE OF THE DRAGONS succeeds—right from the start…. A superior fantasy…It begins, as it should, with one protagonist's struggles and moves neatly into a wider circle of knights, dragons, magic and monsters, and destiny.…All the trappings of high fantasy are here, from soldiers and battles to confrontations with self….A recommended winner for any who enjoy epic fantasy writing fueled by powerful, believable young adult protagonists.”
--Midwest Book Review
D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer
“An action packed fantasy sure to please fans of Morgan Rice’s previous novels, along with fans of works such as THE INHERITANCE CYCLE by Christopher Paolini…. Fans of Young Adult Fiction will devour this latest work by Rice and beg for more.”
--The Wanderer, A Literary Journal (regarding Rise of the Dragons)
“A spirited fantasy that weaves elements of mystery and intrigue into its story line. A Quest of Heroes is all about the making of courage and about realizing a life purpose that leads to growth, maturity, and excellence….For those seeking meaty fantasy adventures, the protagonists, devices, and action provide a vigorous set of encounters that focus well on Thor's evolution from a dreamy child to a young adult facing impossible odds for survival….Only the beginning of what promises to be an epic young adult series.”
--Midwest Book Review (D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer)
“THE SORCERER’S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers.”
--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos
“In this action-packed first book in the epic fantasy Sorcerer's Ring series (which is currently 14 books strong), Rice introduces readers to 14-year-old Thorgrin "Thor" McLeod, whose dream is to join the Silver Legion, the elite knights who serve the king…. Rice's writing is solid and the premise intriguing.”
--Publishers Weekly
Books by Morgan Rice
KINGS AND SORCERERS
RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)
RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)
THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)
A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)
THE SORCERER’S RING
A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)
A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)
A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)
A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)
A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)
A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)
A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)
A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)
A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)
A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)
A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)
A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)
A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)
AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)
A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)
A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)
THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)
THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY
ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)
ARENA TWO (Book #2)
THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS
TURNED (Book #1)
LOVED (Book #2)
BETRAYED (Book #3)
DESTINED (Book #4)
DESIRED (Book #5)
BETROTHED (Book #6)
VOWED (Book #7)
FOUND (Book #8)
RESURRECTED (Book #9)
CRAVED (Book #10)
FATED (Book #11)
Listen to KINGS AND SORCERERS in its Audiobook edition!
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Copyright © 2015 by Morgan Rice
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Jacket image Copyright St. Nick, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
"Valor is superior to number."
Flavius Vegetius Renatus(4th century)
CHAPTER ONE
A cell door slammed, and Duncan slowly opened his eyes, wishing he hadn’t. His head was throbbing, one eye was sealed shut, and he struggled to shake off the heavy sleep. A sharp pain shot through his good eye as he leaned back against cold, hard rock. Stone. He was lying on cold, damp stone. He tried to sit up, felt iron tugging at his wrists and ankles, rattling, and immediately, he realized: shackles. He was in a dungeon.
A prisoner.
Duncan opened his eyes wider as there came the distant sound of marching boots, echoing somewhere in the blackness. He tried to get his bearings. It was dark in here, stone walls dimly lit by torches flickering far away, by a small shaft of sunlight from a window too high up to see. The pale light filtered down, stark and lonely, as if from a world miles away. He heard a distant drip of water, a shuffle of boots, and he could just barely make out the contours of the cell. It was vast, its stone walls arched, with too many dark edges disappearing into blackness.
From his years in the capital, Duncan knew right away where he was: the royal dungeon. It was where they sent the kingdom’s worst criminals, most powerful enemies, to rot away their days—or await their execution. Duncan had sent many men down here himself when he had served here, at the bequest of the King. It was a place, he knew too well, from which prisoners did not resurface.
Duncan tried to move, but his shackles wouldn’t let him, cutting into his bruised and bleeding wrists and ankles. These, though, were the least of his ailments; his entire body ached and throbbed, in so much pain that he could hardly decipher where it hurt most. He felt as if he had been clubbed a thousand times, stampeded by an army of horses. It hurt to breathe, and he shook his head, trying to make it go away. It would not.
As he closed his eyes, licked his chapped lips, Duncan saw flashes. The ambush. Had it been yesterday? A week ago? He could no longer recall. He had been betrayed, surrounded, lured by promises of a false deal. He had trusted Tarnis, and Tarnis, too, had been killed, before his eyes.
Duncan remembered his men dropping their weapons at his command; remembered being restrained; and worst of all, he remembered his sons’ murders.
He shook his head again and again as he cried out in anguish, trying fruitlessly to wipe the images from his mind. He sat with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and moaned at the thought. How could he have been so stupid? Kavos had warned him, and he had not heeded the warning, being naively optimistic, thinking it would be different this time, that the nobles could be trusted. And he had led his men right into a trap, right into a den of snakes.
Duncan hated himself for it, more than he could say. His only regret was that he was still alive, that he had not died back there with his sons, and with all the others he had let down.
The footsteps came louder, and Duncan looked up and squinted into the darkness. Slowly there emerged the silhouette of a man, blocking the shaft of sunlight, approaching until he stood but a few feet away. As the man’s face took shape, Duncan recoiled with recognition. The man, easily distinguishable in his aristocratic dress, wore the same pompous look he’d had when petitioning Duncan for the kingship, when trying to betray his father. Enis. Tarnis’s son.
Enis knelt before Duncan, a smug, victorious smile on his face, the long vertical scar on his ear noticeable as he stared back with his shifty, hollow eyes. Duncan felt a wave of revulsion, a burning desire for vengeance. He clenched his fists, wanting to lunge for the boy, to tear him apart with his own hands, this boy who had been responsible for the death of his sons, for his men’s imprisonment. The shackles were all that was left in the world to keep him from killing him.
“The shame of iron,” Enis remarked, smiling. “Here I kneel, but inches from you, and you are powerless to touch me.”
Duncan glared back, wishing he could speak, yet too exhausted to form words. His throat was too dry, his lips too parched, and he needed to conserve his energy. He wondered how many days it had been since he’d had water, how long he’d been down here. This weasel, anyway, was not worth his speech.
Enis was down here for a reason; clearly he wanted something. Duncan had no false illusions: he knew that, no matter what this boy had to say, his execution was looming. Which was what he wanted, anyway. Now that his sons were dead, his men imprisoned, there was nothing left for him in this world, no other way to escape his guilt.
“I am curious,” Enis said, in his slick voice. “How does it feel? How does it feel to have betrayed everyone you know and love, everyone who trusted you?”
Duncan felt his rage flare up. Unable to keep silent any longer, he somehow summoned the strength to speak.
“I betrayed no one,” he managed to say, his voice gravelly and hoarse.
“Didn’t you?” Enis retorted, clearly enjoying this. “They trusted you. You walked them right into ambush, surrender. You stripped the last thing they had left: their pride and honor.”
Duncan fumed with each breath.
“No,” he finally replied, after a long and heavy silence. “You are the one who stripped that away. I trusted your father, and he trusted you.”
“Trust,” Enis laughed. “What a naïve concept. Would you really stake men’s lives in trust?”
He laughed again, as Duncan fumed.
“Leaders don’t trust,” he continued. “Leaders doubt. That is their job, to be skeptical on behalf of all their men. Commanders protect men from battle—but leaders must protect men from deception. You are no leader. You failed them all.”
Duncan took a deep breath. A part of him could not help but feel that Enis was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He had failed his men, and it was the worst feeling of his life.
“Is that why you have come here?” Duncan finally replied. “To gloat over your deception?”
The boy smiled, an ugly, evil smile.
“You are my subject now,” he replied. “I am your new King. I can go anywhere, anytime I wish, for any reason, or for no reason at all. Maybe I just like to look at you, lying here in the dungeon, as broken as you are.”
Duncan breathed, each breath hurting, barely able to control his rage. He wanted to hurt this man more than anyone he’d ever met.
“Tell me,” Duncan said, wanting to hurt him. “How did it feel to murder your father?”
Enis’s expression hardened.
“Not half as good as it will feel when I watch you die in the gallows,” he replied.
“Then do it now,” Duncan said, meaning it.
Enis smiled, though, and shook his head.
“It won’t be that easy for you,” he replied. “I will watch you suffer first. I want you to first see what will become of your beloved country. Your sons are dead. Your commanders are dead. Anvin and Durge and all your men at the Southern Gate are dead. Millions of Pandesians have invaded our nation.”
Duncan’s heart sank at the boy’s words. Part of him wondered if this was a trick, yet he sensed it was all true. He felt himself sinking lower into the earth with each proclamation.
“All of your men are imprisoned, and Ur is being bombarded by sea. So you see, you have failed miserably. Escalon is far worse off than it was before, and you have no one to blame but yourself.”
Duncan shook with rage.
“And how long,” Duncan asked, “until the great oppressor turns on you? Do you really think you shall be exempt, that you will escape Pandesia’s wrath? That they will allow you to be King? To rule as your father once did?”
Enis smiled wide, resolute.
“I know that they will,” he said.
He leaned in close, so close that Duncan could smell his bad breath.
“You see, I’ve made them a deal. A very special deal to ensure my power, a deal that was too much for them to turn down.”
Duncan dared not ask what it was, yet Enis smiled wide and leaned in.
“Your daughter,” he whispered.
Duncan’s eyes widened.
“Did you really think you could hide her whereabouts from me?” Enis pressed. “As we speak, Pandesians are closing in on her. And that gift will cement my place in power.”
Duncan’s shackles rattled, the noise echoing throughout the dungeon, as he struggled with all his might to break free and attack, filled with a despair beyond what he could bear.
“Why have you come?” Duncan asked, feeling much older, his voice broken. “What is it that you want from me?”
Enis grinned. He fell silent for a long time, then finally sighed.
“I believe that my father wanted something of you,” he said slowly. “He would not have summoned you, would not have brokered that deal, unless he did. He offered you a great victory with the Pandesians—and in return, he would have requested something. What? What was it? What secret was he hiding?”
Duncan stared back, resolute, no longer caring.
“Your father did wish for something,” he said, rubbing it in. “Something honorable and sacred. Something he could trust with only me. Not his own son. Now I know why.”
Enis sneered, flushed red.
“If my men died for anything,” Duncan continued, “it was for this sake of honor and trust—one that I would never break. Which is why you shall never know.”
Enis darkened, and Duncan was pleased to see him enraged.
“Would you still guard the secrets of my dead father, the man who betrayed you and all your men?”
“You betrayed me,” Duncan corrected, “not he. He was a good man who once made a mistake. You, on the other hand, are nothing. You are but a shadow of your father.”
Enis scowled. He slowly rose to his full height, leaned over, and spit beside Duncan.
“You will tell me what he wanted,” he insisted. “What—or who—he was trying to hide. If you do, I might just be merciful and free you. If not, I will not only escort you to the gallows myself, but I will see to it that you die the most gruesome death imaginable. The choice is yours, and there is no turning back. Think hard, Duncan.”
Enis turned to leave, but Duncan called out.
“You can have my answer now if you wish,” Duncan replied.
Enis turned, a satisfied look on his face.
“I choose death,” he replied, and for the first time, managed to smile. “After all, death is nothing next to honor.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dierdre, wiping sweat from her forehead as she labored away in the forge, suddenly sat up, jolted by a thunderous noise. It was a distinct noise, one that set her on edge, a noise that rose above the din of all the hammers striking anvils. All the men and women around her stopped, too, laid down their unfinished weapons, and looked out, puzzled.
It came again, sounding like thunder rolling on the wind, sounding as if the very fabric of the earth were being torn apart.
Then again.
Finally, Dierdre realized: iron bells. They were tolling, striking terror in her heart as they slammed again and again, echoing throughout the city. They were bells of warning, of danger. Bells of war.
All at once the people of Ur jumped up from their tables and rushed out of the forge, all eager to see. Dierdre was first among them, joined by her girls, joined by Marco and his friends, and they all burst outside and entered streets flooded with concerned citizens, all flocking toward the canals to get a better view. Dierdre searched everywhere, expecting, with those bells, to see her city overrun with ships, with soldiers. Yet she did not.
Puzzled, she headed toward the massive watchtowers perched at the edge of the Sorrow, wanting to get a better view.
“Dierdre!”
She turned to see her father and his men, all running for the watchtowers, too, all eager to get an open view of the sea. All four towers rang frantically, something that never happened, as if death itself were approaching the city.
Dierdre fell in beside her father as they ran, turning down streets and ascending a set of stone steps until they finally reached the top of the city wall, at the edge of the sea. She stopped there, beside him, stunned at the sight before her.
It was like her worst nightmare come to life, a sight she wished she’d never seen in her lifetime: the entire sea, all the way to the horizon, was filled with black. The black ships of Pandesia, so close together that they covered the water, seemed to cover the entire world. Worst of all, they all bore down in a singular force right for her city.
Dierdre stood frozen, staring at the coming death. There was no way they could defend against a fleet that size, not with their meager chains, and not with their swords. When the first ships reached the canals, they could bottleneck them, maybe, delay them. They could perhaps kill hundreds or even thousands of soldiers.
But not the millions she saw before her.
Dierdre felt her heart ripping in two as she turned and looked to her father, his soldiers, and saw the same silent panic in their faces. Her father put on a brave face before his men, but she knew him. She could see the fatalism in his eyes, see the light fade from them. All of them, clearly, were staring at their deaths, at the end of their great and ancient city.
Beside her, Marco and his friends looked out with terror, but also with resolve, none of them, to their credit, turning and running away. She searched the sea of faces for Alec, but she was puzzled not to find him anywhere. She wondered where he could have gone. Surely he would not have fled?
Dierdre stood her ground and tightened her grip on her sword. She knew death was coming for them—she just had not expected it so soon. She was done, though, running from anyone.
Her father turned to her and grabbed her shoulders with urgency.
“You must leave the city,” he demanded.
Dierdre saw the fatherly love in his eyes, and it touched her.
“My men will escort you,” he added. “They can get you far from here. Go now! And remember me.”
Dierdre wiped away a tear as she saw her father looking down at her with so much love. She shook her head and brushed his hands off of her.
“No, Father,” she said. “This is my city, and I will die by your—”
Before she could finish her words, a horrific explosion cut through the air. At first she was confused, thinking it was another bell, but then she realized—cannon fire. Not just one cannon, but hundreds of them.
The shock waves alone knocked Dierdre off balance, cutting through the fabric of the atmosphere with such force, she felt as if her ears were split in two. Then came the high-pitched whistle of cannonballs, and as she looked out to sea, she felt a wave of panic as she saw hundreds of massive cannonballs, like iron cauldrons in the sky, arching high and heading right for her beloved city.
There followed another sound, worse than the last: the sound of iron crushing stone. The very air rumbled as there came one explosion after another. Dierdre stumbled and fell as all around her the great buildings of Ur, architectural masterpieces, monuments that had lasted thousands of years, were destroyed. These stone buildings, ten feet thick, churches, watchtowers, fortifications, battlements—all, to her horror, were smashed to bits by cannonballs. They crumbled before her eyes.
There came an avalanche of rubble as one building after another toppled to the ground.
It was sickening to watch. As Dierdre rolled on the ground, she saw a hundred-foot stone tower begin to fall on its side. She was helpless to do anything but watch as she saw hundreds of people beneath it look up and shriek in terror as the wall of stone crushed them.
There followed another explosion.
And another.
And another.
All around her more and more buildings exploded and fell, thousands of people instantly crushed in massive plumes of dust and debris. Boulders rolled throughout the city like pebbles while buildings fell into each other, crumbling as they landed on the ground. And still the cannonballs kept coming, ripping through one precious building after the other, turning this once majestic city into a mound of rubble.
Dierdre finally regained her feet. She looked about, dazed, ears ringing, and between clouds of dust saw streets filled with corpses, pools of blood, as if the whole city had been wiped out in an instant. She looked to the seas and saw the thousands more ships waiting to attack, and she realized that all their planning had been a joke. Ur was already destroyed, and the ships had not even touched shore. What good would all those weapons, all those chains and spikes, do now?
Dierdre heard moaning and looked over to see one of her father’s brave men, a man she had once loved dearly, lying dead but feet away from her, crushed by a pile of rubble that should have landed on her, had she not stumbled and fell. She went to go to help him—when the air suddenly shook with the roar of another round of cannonballs.
And another.
Whistling followed, then more explosions, more buildings falling. Rubble piled higher, and more people died, as she was knocked to her feet yet again, a wall of stone collapsing beside her and narrowly missing her.
There came a lull in the firing, and Dierdre stood. A wall of rubble now blocked her view of the sea, yet she sensed the Pandesians were close now, at the beach, which was why the firing had stopped. Huge clouds of dust hung in the air, and in the eerie silence, there came nothing but the moans of the dead all around her. She looked over to see Marco beside her, crying out in distress as he tried to yank free the body of one of his friends. Dierdre looked down and saw the boy was already dead, crushed beneath the wall of what was once a temple.
She turned, remembering her girls, and was devastated to see several of them also crushed to death. But three of them survived, trying, fruitlessly, to save the others.
There came the shout of the Pandesians, on foot, on the beach, charging for Ur. Dierdre thought of her father’s offer, and knew that his men could still whisk her away from here. She knew that remaining here would mean her death—yet that was what she wanted. She would not run.
Beside her, her father, a gash across his forehead, rose up from the rubble, drew his sword, and fearlessly led his men in a charge for the pile of rubble. He was, she realized proudly, rushing to meet the enemy. It would be a battle on foot now, and hundreds of men rallied behind him, all rushing forward with such fearlessness that it filled her with pride.
She followed, drawing her sword and climbing the huge boulders before her, ready to do battle by his side. As she scrambled to the top, she stopped, stunned at the sight before her: thousands of Pandesian soldiers, in their yellow and blue armor, filled the beach, charging for the mound of rubble. These men were well trained, well armed, and rested—unlike her father’s men, who numbered but a few hundred, with crude weapons and all already wounded.
It would, she knew, be a slaughter.
And yet her father didn’t turn back. She was never more proud of him than she was in that moment. There he stood, so proud, his men gathered around him, all ready to rush down to meet the enemy, even though it would mean a sure death. It was, for her, the very embodiment of valor.
As he stood there, before he descended, he turned and looked at Dierdre with a look of such love. There was a goodbye in his eyes, as if he knew he would never see her again. Dierdre was confused—her sword was in hand, and she was preparing to charge with him. Why would he be saying goodbye to her now?
She suddenly felt strong hands grab her from behind, felt herself yanked backwards, and she turned to see two of her father’s trusted commanders grabbing her. A group of his men also grabbed her three remaining girls, and Marco and his friends. She bucked and protested, but it was no use.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
They ignored her protests as they dragged her away, clearly at her father’s command. She caught one last look at her father before he led his men down the other side of the rubble in a great battle cry.
“Father!” she cried.
She felt torn apart. Just as she was truly admiring the father she loved again, he was being taken from her. She wanted to be with him desperately. But he was already gone.
Dierdre found herself thrown on a small boat, and immediately the men began rowing down the canal, away from the sea. The boat turned again and again, cutting through the canals, heading toward a secret side opening in one of the walls. Before them loomed a low stone arch, and Dierdre recognized immediately where they were going: the underground river. It was a raging current on the other side of that wall, and it would lead them far away from the city. She would emerge somewhere many miles away from here, safe and sound in the countryside.
All her girls turned to look to her, as if wondering what they should do. Dierdre came to an immediate decision. She pretended to acquiesce to the plan, so that they would all go. She wanted them all to escape, to be free from this place.
Dierdre waited until the last moment, and just before they entered, she leapt from the boat, landing in the waters of the canal. Marco, to her surprise, noticed her and jumped, too. That left only the two of them floating in the canal.
“Dierdre!” shouted her father’s men.
They turned to grab her—but it was too late. She had timed it perfectly, and they were already caught up in the gushing currents, sweeping their boat away.
Dierdre and Marco turned and swam quickly for an abandoned boat, boarding it. They sat there, dripping wet, and stared at each other, each breathing hard, exhausted.
Dierdre turned and looked back to where they had come from, to the heart of Ur, where she had left her father’s side. It was there she would go, there and nowhere else, even if it meant her death.
