Free Rise of the Dragons by Morgan Rice

not get out
of.
    Anvin stared back, equally disturbed.
    “We spar with wooden swords here,” he
called out. “I won’t have anyone get hurt under my watch—much less, our
commander’s daughter.”
    But Maltren suddenly darkened.
    “The girl wants real weapons,” he said,
his voice firm, “then we shall give it to her. Perhaps she will learn a lesson
for life.”
    Without waiting any further, Maltren
crossed the field, drew his real sword from its scabbard, the sound ringing in
the air, and stormed back. The tension became thick in the air, as all grew
silent, none sure what to do.
    Kyra faced Maltren , feeling her palms
sweating despite the cold, despite a gust of wind that blew the torches
sideways. She could feel the snow turning to ice, crunching beneath her boots,
and she forced herself to focus, to concentrate, knowing this would be no
ordinary bout.
    Maltren let out a sharp cry, trying to
intimidate her, and charged, raising his sword high, it gleaming in the
torchlight. Maltren, she knew, was a different fighter than the others, more
unpredictable, less honorable, a man who fought to survive rather than to win.
She was surprised to find him swinging right for her chest.
    Kyra ducked out of the way as the blade
passed right by.
    The crowd of men gasped, outraged, and
Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael stepped forward.
    “Maltren!” Anvin called out, furious, as
if ready to stop it.
    “No!” Kyra called back, staying focused
on Maltren, breathing hard as he came at her again. “Let us fight!”
    Maltren immediately spun around and
swung again—and again and again. Each time, she dodged, or stepped back, or
leapt over his swings. He was strong, but not as quick as she.
    He then raised his sword high and
brought it straight down, clearly expecting her to block and expecting to slash
her staff in two.
    But Kyra saw it coming and she instead
sidestepped and swung her staff sideways, hitting his sword on the side of its
blade, deflecting it while protecting her staff. In the same motion, she took
advantage of the opening, and swung around and jabbed him in the solar plexus.
    He gasped and dropped to one knee as a
horn sounded.
    There came a great cheer, all the men
looking to her with pride as she stood over Maltren, the victor.
    Maltren, enraged, looked up at her—and
instead of conceding defeat as all the others had, he suddenly charged for her,
raising his sword and swinging.
    It was a move Kyra had not expected,
assuming he would concede honorably. As he came for her, Kyra realized there
were not many moves left at her disposal with such short notice. She could not
get out of the way in time.
    Kyra dove to the ground, rolled out of
the way, and at the same time, spun around with her staff and struck Maltren
behind the knees, sweeping his legs out from under him.
    He landed on his back in the snow, his
sword flying from his grip—and Kyra immediately gained her feet and stood over
him, holding the tip of her staff down on his throat and pushing. At the same
moment, Leo bounded over beside her and snarled over Maltren’s face, inches
away, his drool landing on Maltren’s cheek, just waiting for the order to
pounce.
    Maltren looked up, blood on his lip,
stunned and finally humbled.
    “You dishonor my father’s men,” Kyra
seethed, still enraged. “What do you think of my little stick now?”
    A tense silence fell over them as she
kept him pinned down, a part of her wanting to raise her staff and strike him,
to let Leo loose on him. None of the men tried to stop it, or came to his aid.
    Realizing he was isolated, Maltren
looked up with real fear.
    “KYRA!”
    A harsh voice suddenly cut through the
silence.
    All eyes turned, and her father suddenly
appeared, marching into the circle, wearing his furs, flanked by a dozen men
and looking at her disapprovingly.
    He stopped a few feet away from her,
staring back, and she could already anticipate the lecture to come. As they
faced each other, Maltren scrambled out