Ruler, Rival, Exile

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 twelve books; of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising three books; of the epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising six books; and of the new epic fantasy series OF CROWNS AND GLORY, comprising eight books. Morgan’s books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

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“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

“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

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CHAPTER ONE

Irrien loved the joy of battle, the thrill of knowing that he was stronger than a foe – yet seeing the aftermath of his conquest was far better.

He strode through the ruins of Delos, watching the looting, listening to the screams of the weak as his men killed and plundered, raped and smashed. Strings of new slaves walked in chains toward the docks, while already, a market in looted goods and captured peasants had sprung up in one of the squares. He forced himself to ignore the pain in his shoulder while he walked. His men couldn’t see him weak.

So much of the city was broken now, but Irrien didn’t care about that. What was broken could be rebuilt with enough slaves working under the lash. It could be rebuilt in the shape he wanted.

Of course, there were others who had their demands. Currently, they followed him like sharks following a trail of blood, warriors and priests and more. There were representatives from the other Stones of Felldust, chattering about the roles their masters could play in the looting. There were merchants, wanting to offer the most favorable rates for transporting Irrien’s looted goods back to the lands of endless dust.

Irrien ignored them for the most part, but they kept coming.

“First Stone,” a figure said. He wore the robes of a priest, complete with a belt made from finger bones and holy symbols twisted into his beard with silver wire. An amulet set with bloodstones marked him as one of the highest of his order.

“What is it you want, holy one?” Irrien asked. He rubbed his shoulder absently as he spoke, hoping no one would guess the reason.

The priest spread hands tattooed with runes that danced with every twitch of his fingers.

“It is not what I want, but what the gods require. They have given us victory. It is only right that we thank them with a suitable sacrifice.”

“Are you saying that the victory was not due to the strength of my arm?” Irrien demanded. He let the threat seep into his voice. He used the priests when it suited him, but he would not let them control him.

“Even the strongest must acknowledge the favor of the gods.”

“I will give it thought,” Irrien said, which had been his answer to too many things already today. Demands for attention, demands for resources, a whole parade of people wanting to take portions of what he had won. It was the curse of a ruler, but also a symbol of his power. Every strong man who came begging to Irrien for his favor was an acknowledgment that he could not simply take what he wanted.

They started to walk back toward the castle, and Irrien found himself planning, calculating where repairs would be needed and where monuments to his power could be put in place. In Felldust, a statue would be stolen or broken before it was completed. Here it might stand as a reminder of his victory for the rest of time. When he had healed, there would be a lot to do.

He looked over the castle’s defenses as he and the others returned to it. It was strong; strong enough that he could hold out against the world if he wanted. If someone hadn’t opened the gates for his people, it genuinely could have held off his army until the inevitable conflicts of Felldust overtook it.

He snapped his fingers at a servant. “I want any tunnels beneath this place filled in. I don’t care how many slaves die doing it. Then start on the ones in the city. I will not have a rat run where people can sneak without my knowledge.”

“Yes, First Stone.”

He continued into the castle. Already, servants were moving in the banners of Felldust. Yet there were others who didn’t seem to have gotten the message. Three of his men were tearing at tapestries, pulling stones from the eyes of statues and stuffing the resulting loot into their belt pouches.

Irrien strode forward, and he saw them look around with the reverence that he liked to build in his men.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Continuing the looting of the city, First Stone,” one answered. He was younger than the other two. Irrien guessed that he’d only joined the invasion force because of the promise of adventure. So many did.

“And did your commanders tell you to continue to loot within the castle?” Irrien asked. “Is this where you have been commanded to be?”

Their expressions told him everything he needed to know. He’d ordered his men to be systematic about the looting of the city, but this was not systematic. He demanded discipline from his warriors, and this was not disciplined.

“You thought that you would just take what you wanted,” Irrien said.

“It is Felldust’s way!” one of the men protested.

“Yes,” Irrien agreed. “The strong take from the weak. That is why I took this castle. Now you are trying to take from me. Do you think I am weak?”

He didn’t have his great sword anymore, and his wounded shoulder still ached too much for it even if he’d had it, so he pulled out a long knife instead. His first thrust caught the youngest of the three through the base of the jaw, driving up through his skull.

He spun, slamming the second of the three back into a wall as he scrabbled for his own weapons. Irrien parried a sword stroke from the other, cutting his throat effortlessly on the backswing, shoving him away as he fell.

The one he’d pushed away was backing up now, his hands in the air.

“Please, Stone Irrien. It was a mistake. We didn’t think.”

Irrien stepped in and stabbed him without a word, striking again and again. He held the weakling up so that he wouldn’t fall too soon, ignoring the way his wound hurt with the effort of it. This wasn’t just a killing, it was a demonstration.

When he finally let the man collapse, Irrien turned to the others, spreading his hands, wanting to make the challenge obvious.

“Does anyone here think that I am weak enough that you can simply demand things of me? Does anyone think that they can take from me?”

They were silent, of course. Irrien left them trailing in his wake as he stalked toward the throne room.

His throne room.

Where even now, his prize awaited him.

Stephania cringed as Irrien came into the throne room, and she hated herself for it. She knelt next to the same throne that she’d occupied just a short time before, golden chains holding her in place. She’d pulled at them when the room had been empty, but there had been no give in them.

Irrien stalked toward her, and Stephania forced herself to push down her fear. He’d beaten her, he’d put her in chains, but she had a choice. She could let herself be broken, or she could turn this to her advantage. There would be a way to do that, even with this.

Being chained beside Irrien’s throne had its advantages, after all. It meant that he planned to keep her. It meant that his men had left her alone, even as they’d dragged off Stephania’s handmaidens and servants for their pleasure. It meant that she was still at the heart of things, even if she didn’t have control over them.

Yet.

Stephania watched Irrien as he sat, assessing every line of him, judging him the way a hunter might judge the ground on which her prey lived. It was obvious that he wanted her, or why would he keep her here instead of sending her to some slave pit? Stephania could work with that. He might think that she was his, but soon he would be doing everything she suggested.

She would play the part of the demur plaything, and she would take back what she’d worked for.

She waited, listening as Irrien started to deal with the business of the city. Most of it was mundane stuff. How much they had taken. How much there still was to take. How many guards they needed to secure the walls, and how the flow of food would be controlled.

“We have an offer from a merchant to supply our forces,” one of the courtiers said. “A man named Grathir.”

Stephania snorted at that, and found Irrien looking down at her.

“Do you have something to say, slave?”

She swallowed her urge to snap back at that. “Only that Grathir is notorious for supplying substandard goods. His former business partner is poised to take his business, though. Support him and you might get the supplies you need.”

Irrien stared at her levelly. “And why are you telling me this?”

Stephania knew this was her chance, but she had to play it carefully. “I want to show you that I can be useful to you.”

He didn’t reply, but turned his attention back to the men there. “I will consider it. What is next?”

Next, it seemed, were petitions from the representatives of the other rulers of Felldust.

“The Second Stone would like to know when your return to Felldust will be,” one representative said. “There are matters there that require the Five Stones to be together.”

“Fourth Stone Vexa requires more space for her contingent of ships.”

“Third Stone Kas sends his congratulations on our shared victory.”

Stephania ran through the names of the other Stones of Felldust. Cunning Ulren, Kas Forkbeard, Vexa, the only female Stone, Borion the fop. Secondary names compared to Irrien, yet theoretically all but his equals. Only the fact that they weren’t here gave Irrien so much power.

Along with names, Stephania’s memory supplied interests, weaknesses, desires. Ulren was growing old in Irrien’s shadow, and would have had the First Stone’s seat if the warlord hadn’t taken it. Kas was cautious, a lord of merchants who calculated every coin before he acted. Vexa kept a house beyond the city, where it was rumored her servants were all without tongues so that they could not speak of what they saw. Borion was the weakest, likely to lose his seat to the next challenger.

As she thought about the situation in Felldust, Stephania laid gentle fingers on Irrien’s arm. She moved delicately, the touch barely there. She had learned the skills of seduction a long time ago, then spent time perfecting them on a string of useful lovers. She had brought around Thanos, hadn’t she? How much more difficult could Irrien be?

She felt the moment when he tensed.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“You seem tense with all this talking,” Stephania said. “I thought I could help. Maybe I could help relax you in… other ways?”

The key was not to push too hard. To hint and to offer, but never to demand outright. Stephania arranged her most innocent look, stared up into Irrien’s eyes… then cried out as he slapped her casually.

Anger flared in her at that. Stephania’s pride told her that she would find a way to make Irrien pay for that blow, that she would have revenge on him.

“Ah, there’s the real Stephania,” Irrien said. “Do you think I’m fooled by your pretense that you’re a humble slave? Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe you can be broken with one beating?”

Fear flashed again in Stephania. She could still remember the whistle of the whip as Irrien had struck her with it. Her back still burned with the memory of the blows. There had been a time when she had enjoyed punishing those servants who deserved it. Now, the thought just brought back the pain.

Even so, she would use the pain if she had to.

“No, but I’m sure you plan more,” Stephania said. She didn’t even try for innocence this time. “You’re going to enjoy trying to break me as much as I’m going to enjoy playing with you while you do it. Isn’t that half the fun?”

Irrien hit her again. Stephania let him see her defiance then. It was obviously what he wanted. She would do whatever she had to in order to bind Irrien to her. Once she’d done it, it wouldn’t matter what she’d suffered to get there.

“You think that you are special, don’t you?” Irrien said. “You are just a slave.”

“A slave you keep chained to your throne,” Stephania pointed out in her most sultry voice. “A slave you obviously plan to have in your bed. A slave who could be so much more. A partner. I know Delos like no one else. Why not just admit it?”

Irrien stood then.

“You’re right. I have made a mistake.”

He reached down, taking her chains and unlocking them from the throne. Stephania had a moment in which to feel a sense of triumph as he lifted her. Even if he was cruel to her now, even if he just dragged her to his chambers and threw her down there to claim as his own, she was making progress.

That wasn’t where he threw her, though. He cast Stephania down on the cold marble, and she felt the hardness of it under her knees as she skidded to a halt in front of one of the figures there.

The shock of that hit her more than the pain. How could Irrien do that? Hadn’t she been everything he could want? Stephania looked up to see a man in dark robes looking at her with obvious contempt.

“I made the mistake of thinking you were worth my time,” Irrien said. “You want a sacrifice, priest? Take her. Cut the babe from her and offer it up to your gods in my name. I’ll not have some mewling brat alive with a claim to this throne. When you’re done, throw what’s left of her for whatever scavengers will eat her.”

Stephania stared up at the priest, then looked over at Irrien, barely able to form the words. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. She wouldn’t let it.

“Please,” she said. “This is foolish. I can do so much more for you than this!”

They didn’t seem to care though. Panic flashed through her, along with the shocked thought that this was actually happening. They were actually going to do this.

No. No, they couldn’t!

She screamed as the priest grabbed her arms. Another caught her legs, and they carried her, still struggling, between them. Irrien and the others followed in their wake, but right then, Stephania didn’t care about them. She only cared about one thing:

They were going to kill her baby.

CHAPTER TWO

Ceres still couldn’t believe that they’d escaped. She lay on the deck of the small boat she’d stolen, and it was impossible to think that she was actually there, rather than back in some fighting pit beneath the castle, waiting to die.

Not that they were safe yet. The flight of an arrow overhead made that much clear.

Ceres looked up over the boat’s railing, trying to work out if there was anything she could do. Archers fired from the shore, most of their shafts striking the water around the boat, a few thudding into the wood to tremble there as they spent their energy.

“We need to move faster,” Thanos said beside her. He rushed to one of the sails. “Help me get this up.”

“Not… yet,” a voice croaked from the other side of the deck.

Akila lay there, and to Ceres’s eyes he looked terrible. The First Stone’s sword had been sticking through him just minutes before, and now that Ceres had pulled it out, he was obviously losing blood. Even so, he managed to raise his head, looking at her with an urgency that was hard to ignore.

“Not yet,” he repeated. “The ships around the harbor have our wind, and a sail will just make us a target. Use the oars.”

Ceres nodded, pulling Thanos over to where the combatlords they’d rescued were rowing. It was hard to find space to fit in beside the heavily muscled men, but she squeezed into place and lent her little remaining strength to their efforts.

They pulled into the shadow of a moored galley and the arrows stopped.

“We need to be clever now,” Ceres said. “They can’t kill us if they can’t find us.”

She let go of her oar and the others did likewise for a moment or two, letting their boat drift in the wash of the bigger boat, impossible to see from the shore.

It gave her a moment to go over to Akila. Ceres had only known him briefly, but she could still feel guilt for what had happened to him. He’d been fighting for her cause when he’d suffered the wound that even now seemed like a gaping mouth in his side.

Sartes and Leyana knelt beside him, obviously trying to staunch the bleeding. Ceres found herself surprised by just how good a job they were doing of it. She guessed that the war had forced people to learn all kinds of skills that they otherwise might not have.

“Will he make it?” Ceres asked her brother.

Sartes looked up at her. There was blood on his hands. Beside him, Leyana looked pale with effort.

“I don’t know,” Sartes said. “I’ve seen enough sword wounds before, and I think this one missed the important organs, but I’m just basing that on the fact that he isn’t dead yet.”

“You’re doing fine,” Leyana said, reaching out to touch Sartes’s hand. “But there’s only so much anyone can do on a boat, and we need a real healer.”

Ceres was happy that she was there. From the little she’d seen of the girl so far, Leyana and her brother seemed to be a good fit for one another. They certainly seemed to be doing a good job of keeping Akila alive between them.

“We’ll get you to a healer,” Ceres promised, although she wasn’t sure how they could keep that promise right then. “Somehow.”

Thanos was at the bow of the boat now. Ceres went to him, hoping that he had more of an idea than she did of how to get out of there. The harbor was full of boats right then, the invasion fleet standing like some floating city alongside the real one.

“It was worse than this in Felldust,” Thanos said. “This is the main fleet, but there are more boats still waiting to come.”

“Waiting to pick apart the Empire,” Ceres guessed.

She wasn’t sure what she felt about that. She’d been working to bring down the Empire, but this… this just meant more people suffering. Ordinary people and nobles alike would find themselves enslaved at the hands of the invaders, if they weren’t killed outright. By now, they would probably have found Stephania too. Ceres should probably have felt some kind of satisfaction at that, but it was hard to feel much other than the relief that she was finally out of their lives.

“Do you regret leaving Stephania behind?” Ceres asked Thanos.

He reached out to put an arm around her. “I regret that it came to that,” he said. “But after everything she did… no, I don’t regret it. She deserved it and more.”

He sounded as though he meant it, but Ceres knew how complicated things could be when it came to Stephania. Still, she was gone now, probably dead. They were free. Or they would be, if they could make it out of this harbor alive.

Across the deck, she saw her father nod, pointing.

“There, see those ships? They look as though they’re leaving.”

Sure enough, there were galleys and cogs leaving the harbor, clustered together in a group as though afraid that someone would take everything they had if they didn’t. Given what Felldust was like, someone probably would.

“What are they?” Ceres asked. “Merchant ships?”

“Some might be,” her father replied. “Filled with loot from the conquest. My guess is that several are slavers, too.”

That was a thought that filled Ceres with disgust. That there would be ships there taking the people of her city away to live out lives in chains was something that made her feel as though she wanted to tear the ships apart with her hands. Yet she couldn’t. They were just one boat.