The Rock of Ivanore (26 page)

He was now only a short distance from the city. The sounds of screams filled his ears. When he reached the outskirts,
he ducked behind a washhouse. Dokur was in chaos. Hundreds of citizens fled their homes, crowding the one road leading out of the city, while Hestorian soldiers picked them off like flies. Others hid in their homes, only to be rooted out at sword point. In the center of the town square, dozens of captive citizens huddled in a single mass surrounded by enemy soldiers. Men stood around the perimeter, while the women and children clustered together in the center. Except for the occasional cry of a young child, these people were silent, defiant, and proud.

The Hestorian soldiers brandished their scimitars at the terrified captives. While Marcus watched, the soldiers parted, and a burly-looking captain strutted forward.

“I am General Tark!” he said, his voice booming like thunder. “I am your new sovereign! Any of you who wishes to live will bow down to me and pledge your loyalty.”

Not a single soul moved from his place. The soldiers tensed their sinewy arms and readied for the kill.

General Tark stepped toward the group of captives and grabbed a young man by the hair, dragging him from the embrace of an older woman whom Marcus supposed was his mother. The general forced the man to his knees. The man winced in pain but uttered not a word.

“Bow to me!”

The young man did not bow. Instead he spat in Tark's face. The general lifted his scimitar and swung it like a sickle across the man's abdomen. At first Marcus wondered whether the blade had actually come in contact with the man's body at all, but then as if in slow motion, he fell forward, the top half of his body separating from the bottom
half as he struck the ground. The man's mother screamed and then collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

General Tark raised his right arm, preparing to give the signal of attack to his men. The sounds of children whimpering and of women praying rose up from the crowd.

If only I had the key, Marcus thought to himself. I could destroy the enemy with an earthquake or hurricane! Such thoughts were not comforting, however, since he knew he did not possess the strength necessary to perform such miracles, and even if he did, the key was lost.

“I'm sorry, Kelvin,” whispered Marcus, tears forming against his will. “If you die, it will be because I have died as well, but I can't watch this merciless slaughter and do nothing.”

He felt the weight of the blade in his hand. Despite his original dislike for Xerxes, the enchanted staff and sword had served him well. He hoped that when he lay dead, Jayson would find him and take Xerxes as his own. He thought of Zyll and hoped someone would bring him word of his death, perhaps one of the other boys. He had not seen Clovis and the others since before entering the watchtower, nor had he seen Kaië. He hoped they had escaped.

The Hestorian soldiers pressed closer to the frightened group of townsfolk. By the sneers on their faces. they seemed to enjoy this game of taunting them with death. The thought of anyone taking pleasure in the suffering of others angered Marcus. He tightened his grip on his sword and rose from his hiding place. But as he was about to dive into the mass of soldiers he heard what he thought
was a horn sounding. The soldiers heard it, too, as did the townspeople. They stopped to listen.

The horn sounded again, louder than before. When it sounded the third time, the shouts of hundreds of men split the air. The Agoran slave army poured through the streets like living water, running and beating their chests as though they had already won the battle.

he Hestorians were so stunned by the sudden appearance of the Agoran army that they stood motionless as the slaves descended upon them. But their shock was only momentary. They began swinging their weapons with the ferocity of caged lions. Soon bodies were piled high, and blood flowed in the streets. The Agorans had no armor and were vulnerable to the bite of the Hestorian blades, but nothing could match their will and resolve, for unlike the Hestorians who fought for wealth and greed, the Agorans fought for freedom.

Marcus ran into the midst of the fray, his sword slashing at the first Hestorian in his path and then another. He did not fear for his own life but wanted to reach the center of the marketplace where the unarmed citizens of Dokur
still stood, now trapped by the fighting around them. Marcus reached the outer circle of men and saw a look of longing and desperation in their eyes.

 “Do you have any weapons?” shouted Marcus above the din of clashing metal.

“We have,” said one man, “but we had no time to retrieve them before we were rounded up like animals to slaughter.”

“I will lead your families to safety,” continued Marcus. “Then you can get your weapons and return to defend your city.”

The men nodded and then turned to explain the plan to their families. There was no time to debate its plausibility, for if they stayed where they were, they would all be killed.

Marcus made his way through a group of Hestorians, injuring two along the way. The men of Dokur formed a tight layer of defense around their women and children and moved as quickly as possible through the passage Marcus had made for them. More than one man took a blow from an enemy, but by the time they reached the grassy knoll below the Fortress, though many had been injured, not one life had been lost.

Marcus spoke to the men once again. “I will lead your families to the far side of the Fortress. They'll be safe there. Go now and fetch your weapons—anything! Your Agoran brothers need your help.”

Marcus led the women and children down the same path he had previously taken, where the refugees were
well out of their enemy's view. He accompanied them as far as the Fortress gate and then stopped. “It's getting dark, but if you continue on the path around the Fortress you will reach a clearing bordered with trees. Wait there. Do not pass through the trees, or the ships may spot you from the harbor.”

He watched, satisfied, as the procession continued without him. Just as the last families were passing by, he saw the woman whose son had been killed by the Hestorian general. She carried with her a large cloth bag. He called to her and the woman approached him. “You are the Liberator,” she said in a hushed tone.

Marcus shook his head. “No,” he said, “the man you seek is down there in the battle.”

“I should like to thank him,” she continued.

“If he survives, if anyone of us survives, I will see to it that you meet him. Are you a doctor?” asked Marcus, indicating the bag in her hand.

“Nay,” said the woman, “I am a midwife.”

Marcus's disappointment must have shown on his face, for the woman opened her bag and showed him its contents: herbs of all kinds and a few rudimentary medical tools.

“However,” she continued, “on occasion I am called upon to aid those who fall ill. You might say I dabble in the art of herbal healing.”

Relieved that his instinct had been correct after all, Marcus told the woman about Kelvin and gave her directions to find him. He hoped she might be of assistance until a true doctor could be found.

Marcus looked up and saw what appeared to be a black cloud above the harbor. With the destruction of Dokur's ships complete, the horde of enemy dragons now headed toward the city. Turning back, Marcus ran as fast as he could to the battlefield.

e'll take weapons from the dead,” said Tristan, scanning the town square from a safe distance behind the tavern. Kaië had led him there along with Zody and Clovis in hopes of finding swords for them, but the locker that normally housed the tavern's collection of them was empty. As they watched the battle raging, they knew they must either return to safety or somehow obtain new weapons.

“We won't make it!” said Zody. “We'll get run through for sure!”

“Let
me
go.” Kaië was adamant. “They might think twice about striking down a woman.” Zody was about to agree with her, when a startling sight stopped them both.
Tristan was already halfway to the square, weaving through the combatants.

“Look at him!” said Zody.

Staying low to the ground, Tristan soon reached the square. He knelt beside a fallen Hestorian and pried the bloody scimitar from his hand. He turned toward his friends and gleefully waved the weapon over his head. A moment later, another Hestorian stepped in front of him, scimitar raised and ready to attack. But the soldier never swung his weapon. Instead he froze where he stood, a look of agony on his face. Then he crumpled to the ground, dead with a single arrow in his back. Behind him stood Clovis, crossbow raised and discharged.

“Great shot!” shouted Zody, slapping Clovis on the back. Clovis smiled weakly, but his smile quickly disappeared.

“What's the matter?” asked Zody. “You look pale. You're not going to faint, are you?”

Clovis lifted a shaky finger and pointed above Zody's head. Zody slowly turned and found himself eye to eye with a hideous dragon. The beast reared back and beat its wings, which spanned the entire length of the tavern. Its black scales glistened like oil, and smoke streamed from the corners of its mouth, which was large enough to bite a man in two.

“Run!” shouted Kaië, grabbing Clovis by the collar and racing toward the square. Zody tried to follow, but the sensation of the dragon's hot breath on his skin made his legs feel like rubber.

Kaië reached Tristan and called over her shoulder. “Come on, Zody!”

The dragon leapt onto the tavern's roof. It blew columns of fire from its nostrils, setting the neighboring building aflame. The wooden structure lit up like a bonfire, eerily illuminating the battle in the fading daylight. Mustering every ounce of strength he could, Zody ran toward Kaië.

“Quick! Find me a sword!” he said and then muttered, “I really,
really
hate dragons.”

y the time Marcus returned to the marketplace, the battle between the Agorans and the Hestorians was in full sway. The men of Dokur had taken up arms and joined in the fight. But Marcus was dismayed to see how well the enemy's armor protected them, while every blow to an Agoran left him wounded or dead. As the sun continued its descent into the sea, Marcus feared certain defeat. And to make matters worse, the dragons were setting whole sections of the town on fire.

A feeling of despair settled on Marcus, but the sight of a familiar face quickly restored his hope. Jayson, his clothes torn and bloody, valiantly fought off three Hestorian soldiers. Spinning to his right, he dispatched the first with his sword and then buried his blade into
another's stomach. The third met his fate when his head was separated from his neck.