by Morgan Rice
“That’s my spot, boy.”
Alec turned to see an older recruit, unshaven, glaring at him, holding a dagger.
“Best get away from here,” he warned, “before I cut your throat.”
Marco stepped forward.
“You can have your hay,” he said. “It stinks anyway.”
The two of them turned and continued deeper into the barracks, until, in a far corner, Alec found a small patch of hay deep in the shadows. He saw no one nearby, and he and Marco sat a few feet away from each other, their backs against the wall.
Alec immediately breathed a sigh of relief; it felt so good to rest his aching legs, to not be in motion. He felt secure with his back to the wall, in a corner, where he could not get easily ambushed—and from where he was afforded a view of the room. He saw hundreds of recruits milling about, all in some state of argument, and dozens more pouring in by the second. He also saw several being dragged out by their ankles, dead. This place was a vision of hell.
“Don’t worry, it gets worse,” said a voice beside him.
Alec turned to see a recruit lying in the shadows a few feet away, a boy he hadn’t noticed before, on his back, hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. He had a deep, jaded voice.
“Hunger will probably kill you—it kills about half the boys that come through here,” he said. “Disease kills most others. And if that doesn’t get you, another boy will. Maybe you’ll be fighting over a piece of bread—or maybe for no reason at all. Maybe they won’t like the way you walk, or the way you look. Maybe you remind them of someone. Or maybe it’s just pure hate for no reason; there’s a lot of that going around here.”
He sighed.
“And if all that doesn’t get you,” he added, “those flames will. Maybe not on your first patrol, or your second or your third. Trolls break through every now and again, usually on fire, always looking to kill something. They’re got nothing to lose and they come out of nowhere. I saw one the other night, sank its teeth in a boy’s throat before the others killed it.”
Alec exchanged a look with Marco, both of them dejected, wondering what kind of life they had signed up for.
“Nope,” the boy added, “I haven’t seen any boy survive more than one moon of duty.”
“You’re still here,” Marco observed.
The boy grinned, chewing on a piece of straw, still looking up.
“Because I learned how to survive. I’m the longest here.”
“How long have you been here?” Alec asked.
“Two moons.”
Alec gasped, shocked. Two moons, the oldest survivor. This really was a factory of death.
Alec started to wonder if he had made a mistake coming here; maybe he should have just fought the Pandesians as they’d arrived and died a quick, clean death back at home. Now that he was here, and his brother was safe, Alec found his thoughts turning to escape.
Alec found himself searching the walls, checking the windows and doors, counting the guards, wondering if there was a way.
“That’s good,” the boy said, still staring at the ceiling yet somehow observing him. “Think of escape. Think of anything but this place. That’s how you survive.”
Alec flushed, embarrassed the boy was reading his mind, and amazed he could do it without even looking directly at him.
“But don’t really try it,” the boy said. “Can’t tell you how many of us die each night, trying. Better to be killed than to die that way.”
“What way?” Marco asked. “Do they torture you?”
The boy shook his head.
“Worse,” he replied. “They let you go.”
Alec stared back, confused.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“They chose this spot well,” he explained. “Those woods are filled with death. Boars, beasts, bats, trolls—everything you can imagine. No boy ever survives.”
The boy grinned, looked at them for the first time, and reached out a hand.
“Welcome, my friends,” he said, “to The Flames.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kyra walked through the winding streets of the fort, snow crunching beneath her boots, Leo at her side, in a daze after her first battle. It had all happened more quickly than she had imagined, had been more vicious, more bloody, more intense than she could have foreseen. Men died, good men, men she had known all her life, in horrible and painful ways. Fathers and brothers and husbands now lay dead in the snow, their corpses piled outside of the fort’s gates, the ground too hard to bury them.
She closed her eyes and tried to shake out the images.
It had been a great victory, and yet it also humbled her, made her see how real, how intense battle was, and how fragile life could be. It had shown her how easily men could die—and how easily she could take a man’s life. Both of which were equally frightening.
Being a great warrior was what she had always wanted, more than anything; yet she also could see now that it came with a heavy price. Valor was what she strived for, yet there was nothing easy about valor. Unlike the spoils of war, it was not something she could hold in her grasp. But it was always there, just out of reach. Where was this thing called valor? Where had it gone?
More than anything, it made her wonder about herself, her new power, which had come from out of nowhere and which seemed to have disappeared just as quickly. She tried to summon it again, but could not. What was it? Where did it come from? Kyra feared what she didn’t understand, what she couldn’t control.
As Kyra walked the streets, she was puzzled by her townsfolk’s reaction. After the battle, she had expected them to be panicked, to be boarding up their homes, or getting ready to leave the fort. After all, they had killed the Lord’s Men, and surely a great and terrible army would be coming for them all. It might be the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that—but it was coming. They were all walking dead men. How could they not be afraid?
Yet as she mingled with her people, Kyra saw nothing of the sort. On the contrary, she saw a jubilant people, energized, rejuvenated; she saw a people that had been set free. They bustled in every direction, clapping each other on the back, celebrating—and preparing with a renewed energy. They sharpened weapons, strengthened gates, piled rocks high, stored food, bustled about with a great sense of purpose. Hers was a people with an iron will, a people not easily deterred. In fact, it was almost as if they all looked forward to the next confrontation, however grim the odds.
Yet she also noticed something else amongst her people, something which left her feeling uncomfortable: the new way they looked at her. Clearly word had spread of what she had done, and she could feel the whispers behind her back. They looked at her as if she were not of them, these people she had known and loved her entire life. It made her feel unsettled; it made her feel as if this were no longer her home—and that she did not know where her true home was.
Kyra walked over to the thick stone wall of the ramparts and climbed the stone steps, Leo right behind her, taking them to the upper levels. She passed all her father’s men, standing guard every twenty feet or so, and she could see they all looked at her differently now. She saw a new respect in their eyes. It was as if she were one of their own. And that, more than anything, made it all worth it for her. Yet she also saw that same suspicion that made her queasy.
Kyra turned the corner and in the distance, standing above the arched gates, looking out over the countryside like an eagle peering into the horizon, she saw the man she was looking for: her father. He stood there, hands on his hips, several of his men around him, gazing out into the rising snow. He blinked into the wind, unfazed by it—or by his fresh wounds from battle.
Her father turned as she approached. He gestured to his men, and they all walked off, leaving them alone. Leo rushed forward and licked his hand, and her father stroked his head.
Kyra stood there, facing her father alone, and she did not know what to say. He looked back at her, expressionless, and she could no
t tell if he was angry with her, proud of her, or both. He was a complicated man in the most simple of times—and these were not simple times. His face was hard, like the mountains beyond them, and as white as the snow that fell, and he looked like the ancient stone that had stood here for a thousand years. She did not know if he was of this place, or if this place was of him.
He turned and looked back out at the countryside, and she stood beside him, looking out, too. They shared the silence, punctuated only by the wind, as she waited for him to be ready.
“I used to think that our safety, our secure life here, was more important than freedom. But today, I realized I was wrong. You have taught me what I have forgotten: that freedom, that honor, is worth more than all.”
He smiled as he looked over at her, and she was relieved to see warmth in his eyes.
“You have given us a great gift on this day,” he said. “You have reminded us what honor means.”
She smiled, touched by his words, relieved he was not upset with her. She felt that the rift in their relationship had been repaired.
“It is hard to see men die,” he said, reflective, looking back out at the countryside. “Even for me.”
A long silence followed, and Kyra wondered if he would bring up her powers, what had happened; she sensed that he wanted to. She wanted to bring it up herself but was unsure how.
“I am different, Father, aren’t I?” she finally asked, her voice soft, afraid to ask the question, not looking at him.
He continued to stare out at the horizon, inscrutable, until finally he nodded slightly.
“It has something to do with my mother, doesn’t it?” she pressed. “Who was she? Am I even your daughter?”
He turned and looked at her, sadness in his eyes, mixed with a nostalgic look she did not fully understand.
“These are all questions for another time,” he said. “When you are ready.”
“I am ready now,” she insisted.
He shook his head.
“There are many things you must learn first, Kyra. Many secrets I have had to withhold from you,” he said, his voice heavy with remorse. “It pained me to do so, but it was to protect you. The time has arrived for you to know everything, for you to know who you truly are.”
She stood there, her heart pounding, desperate to know, yet afraid to at the same time.
“I was a fool,” he sighed. “I thought I could raise you. They warned me this day would come, but I did not believe it for myself. Not until today, not until I saw your skill. Your talents…they are beyond me.”
She furrowed her brow, her heart pounding, confused.
“I don’t understand, Father,” she said. “What are you saying?”
His face hardened with resolve.
“I am saying it is time for you to leave,” he said, his voice filled with determination, that tone he took when he refused to back down. “You must leave this fort at once and seek out your uncle, your mother’s brother. Akis. In the Tower of Ur.”
“The Tower of Ur?” she repeated, shocked. “Is my uncle a Watcher, then?”
Her father shook his head.
“He is much more. It is he who must train you—and is he, and only he, who can reveal the secret of who you are.”
While the thought of learning her secret thrilled her, it was overwhelmed by the idea of leaving her people.
“I don’t want to go,” she said. “I want to be here, with you.”
He sighed.
“Unfortunately, what you and I want no longer matters,” he said. “This is not about you and me. This is about Escalon—all of Escalon. The destiny of our land lies in your hand. Don’t you see, Kyra?” he said, turning to her. “It is you: you are the one who will lead our people out of the darkness.”
She blinked, shocked, hardly believing his words.
“I can’t leave your side, Father,” she pleaded. “I won’t.”
He turned and looked out at the countryside, sadness in his eyes.
“Within a fortnight this place, all you see here, will be destroyed. You must escape when you can. You are our only hope—your dying here, with us, will help no one.”
Finally Kyra felt a question burning inside of her.
“They will come back, won’t they?” she asked.
It was more of a statement than a question, and as he studied the horizon, he nodded.
“They will,” he replied. “The will cover this place like a million locusts. All of this that we have known and loved will soon be no more.”
She felt a pit in her stomach at his response, and yet she knew it was the truth, and was grateful at least for that.
“And what of the capital?” Kyra asked. “What of the old King? Could you not go to Andros and have them resurrect the old army? Make a stand?”
Her father shook his head.
“The King surrendered once,” he said, wistfully. “His time to fight has passed. Andros is roamed by politicians now, not warriors, and none are to be trusted.”
“But surely they would make a stand for our country, if not for Volis,” she insisted.
“Volis is not our country,” he said. “It is but one stronghold. One they can afford to turn their backs on. Our victory today, as great as it was, was still too small for them to rally to our side.”
They both fell into a comfortable silence as they studied the horizon.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“A good leader must know fear,” he said. “Fear helps us sharpen our senses. And to prepare. It is not death I fear—it is only not dying well.”
They stood there, studying the skies, as she pondered his words, realizing the truth in them. A long, comfortable silence fell over them.
“Where is your dragon now?” he asked.
Kyra studied the horizon; strangely enough, she had been wondering the same thing. The skies were empty, thick with rolling clouds, and she kept hoping, in the back of her mind, to hear a screech, to see its wings.
But there was nothing. Nothing but emptiness and silence, and her father’s lingering question:
Where is your dragon now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After a short sleep, packed with more fast, troubled dreams, Alec felt himself rudely awakened by a kick in the ribs. He opened his eyes, weary, disoriented, hardly knowing where he was; he felt hay in his mouth, and he remembered: the barracks. He remembered staying up most of the night, watching his and Marco’s back as the night had been filled the sounds of boys fighting, creeping in and out of the shadows, calling out to each other threateningly. He had watched more than one boy get dragged out by the others, feet first, dead—but not before others could pounce on his dead body and raid him for anything and everything they could salvage.
Alec was kicked again, and this time, alert, he rolled over, ready for anything and expecting a dagger in the heart. He looked up, blinking in the blackness, and was surprised to see not one of the boys, but rather two soldiers. They were kicking boys all up and down the line, grabbing them, yanking them to their feet. Alec felt rough hands beneath his arms, felt himself yanked up, too, then pushed and prodded out of the barracks.
“What’s happening? What’s going on?” he mumbled, still unsure if he was awake.
“Time for duty,” the soldier snapped back. “You’re not here for pleasure, boy.”
Alec had wondered when he would be sent to patrol The Flames, but it had never occurred to him it would be in the middle of the night, after such a long ride and only a few minutes of rest. He stumbled forward, drunk with exhaustion, wondering how he could survive this. They had given them nothing to eat since they had arrived, and he still felt weak from the long journey.
Before him a boy collapsed, perhaps from hunger, or from exhaustion, it didn’t matter—the soldiers pounced on him, kicking him viciously until he stopped moving altogether. They left him on the frozen ground, dead, and continued marching.
Alec, realizing he did not want to end up like that
boy, strengthened his resolve and forced himself wide awake. As he did, he saw Marco come up beside him.
“Sleep much?” Marco asked with a wry smile.
Alec shook his head gloomily.
“Don’t worry,” Marco said. “We’ll sleep when we’re dead—and we’ll be dead soon enough.”
They turned a bend and Alec was momentarily blinded by The Flames, hardly fifty yards away, their heat tremendous even from here.
“If trolls come through, kill them,” an Empire soldier called out. “Otherwise, don’t kill yourselves. At least not until morning. We want this place well-guarded.”
Alec was given a final shove, and he and the group of boys were left there, near The Flames, while the soldiers turned and marched off. He wondered why they trusted them to stand guard, not to run, but then he turned and as he watched them go he saw watchtowers everywhere, manned with soldiers with crossbows, fingers on the trigger, all of them waiting, clearly, for one of the boys to make a run for it.
Alec stood there, with no armor and no weapons, and wondered how they could expect them to be effective. But then he looked over and saw that some of the other boys had swords.
“Where did you get that?” Alec called out to a boy nearby.
“When a boy dies, get it from him,” he called back. “If you can get it first.”
Marco frowned.
“How do they expect us to stand guard with no weapons?” he asked.
One of the other boys, face black with soot, snickered.
“Newbies don’t get weapons,” he said. “They expect you to die anyway. If you’re still here after a few nights, you’ll find a way to get one.”
Alec stared at The Flames, crackling so intensely, the heat warming his face, and wondered what lay on the other side, waiting to burst through.
“What do we do in the meantime?” he asked. “If a troll breaks through?”
One boy laughed.
“Kill them with your bare hands!” he called out. “You might survive—but then again, you might not. He’ll be on fire, and will probably burn you with him.”
