by Morgan Rice
As they approached, Duncan saw the armor and weaponry inside the caves, glistening in the desert light, and his heart lifted to see hundreds of his men inside, awaiting him at this rallying point.
As Kyra directed Theon down, they landed at the entrance of a massive cave. Duncan could see the fear in the faces of the men below as the dragon approached, bracing themselves for an attack. But then they spotted Kyra and the others on his back, and their expressions changed to one of shock. They let down their guard.
Duncan dismounted with Kyra and the others, and he ran to embrace his men, overjoyed to see them alive again. There were Kavos and Bramthos, Seavig and Arthfael, men who’d risked their lives for him, men he thought he’d never see again.
Duncan turned and saw Kyra, and he was surprised to see she had not dismounted with the others.
“Why do you still sit there?” he asked. “Won’t you join us?”
But Kyra sat there, her back so straight and proud, and solemnly shook her head.
“I mustn’t, Father. I have some solemn business elsewhere. On behalf of Escalon.”
Duncan stared back, baffled, marveling at the strong warrior his daughter had become.
“But where?” Duncan asked. “Where is more important than at our side?”
She hesitated.
“Marda,” she replied.
Duncan felt a chill at the word.
“Marda?” he gasped. “You? Alone? You shall never return!”
She nodded, and he could see in her eyes that she already knew.
“I vowed to go,” she replied, “and I cannot abandon my mission. Now that you are safe, my duty calls. Haven’t you always taught me that duty comes first, Father?”
Duncan felt his heart swell with pride at her words. He stepped forward, reached up, and embraced her, clutching her to him as his men circled around.
“Kyra, my daughter. You are the better part of my soul.”
He saw her eyes well with tears, and she nodded back, stronger, more powerful, without the sentiments she used to have. She gave a little kick, and Theon was quickly up in the air. Kyra flew proudly on his back, higher and higher, up in the sky.
Duncan’s heart broke as he watched her go, heading north, wondering if he would ever see her again as she flew somewhere toward the blackness of Marda.
CHAPTER TEN
Kyra leaned forward and gripped Theon’s scales as they flew, holding tight as the wind ripped through her hair. They flew in and out of clouds, her hands shaking from the moisture, the cold, yet Kyra ignored it all as they raced across Escalon on the way to Marda. Nothing would stop her now.
Kyra’s mind swam with all she’d just been through, still trying to process it all. She recalled her father, and was happy to think of him safe with his men outside of Andros. She felt a great sense of satisfaction. Time and again she had almost died trying to reach him, had been warned to stay away at the cost of her life. Yet she had not given up, sensing deep in her heart that he needed her. She had learned a valuable lesson: she must always trust her instincts, no matter how many people warned her away.
Indeed, as she reflected on it, she realized now that that was precisely why Alva had warned her away: it was a test. He had made it clear that she would die if she went back for her father because he wanted to test her resolve, to test her courage. He had known all along that she would live. He wanted to see if she would head into battle, though, if she thought she would die.
Of course, at the same time her father had saved her; if he had not arrived when he had, Theon would still be pinned beneath that rubble and she would surely be dead. Thinking of her father sacrificing everything for her lifted her heart, too. It brought tears to her eyes as she thought of his braving the flames, and dragons, and death, all just for her.
Kyra smiled as she thought of her brother Aidan, so happy that he was alive and safe, too. She thought of her two dead brothers, and as much strife and rivalry as they’d had between them, it still pained her. She wished she could have been there to protect them.
Kyra thought of Andros, the once great capital, now a cauldron of flame, and her heart fell. Would Escalon ever return to its former glory?
So much had happened at once, Kyra could barely process it. It was as if the world were spinning out of control beneath her, as if the only constant these days was change.
Kyra tried to shake it all from her mind and focus on the journey before her: Marda. Kyra felt infused with a sense of purpose as she flew, her heart pounding, anxious to get there, to find the Staff of Truth. She dipped through clouds and looked down as she flew, looking for markers, trying see how close she was to the border, the Flames. As she searched the landscape, her heart fell to see what had become of her homeland: she saw a land torn apart, scarred, burnt by flames. She saw entire strongholds destroyed, whether by Pandesian soldiers, or marauding trolls, or enraged dragons, she did not know. She saw a land so ravaged it was unrecognizable from the place she had once known and loved. It was hard to believe. The Escalon she knew was no more.
It all felt surreal to her, hard to imagine that such change could come so drastically and so quickly. It made her wonder. What if, on that one snowy night, she had never encountered the wounded Theos? Would the fate of Escalon have taken a different course?
Or had it all been predestined? Was she the one responsible for all this, for all that she saw below? Or was she just the vehicle? Would it all have happened some other way regardless?
Kyra wanted so desperately to dive down, to land below, to stay here in Escalon and help wage war against the Pandesians, the trolls, to help fix whatever she could. Yet, despite a sense of looming dread, she forced herself to look up, to stay focused on her mission, to keep flying north, somewhere toward the blackness of Marda.
Kyra shivered. It would be a journey, she knew, to the very essence of darkness. Marda had always, since she had been young, been a place of legend, a place of such evil, so off limits, that no one would ever entertain the idea of visiting it. It was, on the contrary, a place to be sealed off from the world, to be protected from, a place that her people thanked the universe every day was shielded by the Flames. Now, unbelievably, a place she was seeking out.
On the one hand, it was madness. Yet on the other, Kyra’s mother had sent her here, and she sensed deep down that the mission was true. She sensed that Marda was where she was needed, where her ultimate test lay. Where the Staff of Truth lay, that only she could retrieve. It was crazy, but she could already feel the staff, deep in her gut, summoning her, luring her to it like an old friend.
Still, Kyra, for the first time in as long as she could remember, felt a wave of self-doubt overwhelm her. Was she really strong enough to do this? To go to Marda, a place even her father’s men feared to venture? She felt a battle raging within her own soul. Everything inside her screamed that to go to Marda would be to go to her death. And she did not want to die.
Kyra tried to force herself to be strong, not to veer from the path. She knew this was a journey she had to take, and she knew she could not shy away from what was demanded of her. She tried to push from her mind the horrors that awaited her on the far side of the Flames. A nation of trolls. Volcanoes, lava, ash. A nation of evil, of sorcery. Unimaginable creatures and monsters. She tried not to recall the stories she had heard as a child. A place where people tore each other apart for fun, led by the demonic leader Vesuvius. A nation that lived for blood, for cruelty.
They dipped down beneath the clouds for a moment, and Kyra glanced down and saw, far below, that they were passing over the northeastern corner of Escalon. Her heart leapt as she began to recognize the countryside: Volis. There were the hills of her hometown, once so beautiful, now a scab of what it once was. Her heart fell at the sight. There in the distance lay her father’s stronghold, the fort, all now in ruins. It was a great heap of rubble, scattered with untended corpses sprawled in unnatural positions, visible even from here, looking up at the sky as if to ask Kyra how she
could have let this happen to them.
Kyra shut her eyes and tried to push the image from her mind—yet she could not. It was too hard to just fly over this place that had once meant so much to her. She looked up toward the horizon, toward Marda, and she knew she should continue on, but something inside her could not bring herself to just pass over her hometown. She had to stop and see it for herself before she left Escalon, on what might be her final journey.
Kyra directed Theon to dive down, and she could feel him resisting—as if he, too, felt driven to stick with their mission and head to Marda. Reluctantly, though, he gave in.
They dove and landed in the center of what was once Volis, once a bustling stronghold filled with life—children, dance, song, smells of food, her father’s proud warriors strutting to and fro. Kyra’s breath caught as she dismounted and walked. She let out an involuntary cry. There was nothing here now. Just rubble and oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of Theon’s heavy breathing, of his scraping the ground with his talons, as if he himself were enraged, as if eager to leave. She could not blame him: this town was now a tomb.
Gravel crunched beneath Kyra’s boots as she slowly walked through the place, a gust of wind ripping through from the scorched plains surrounding the fort. She looked everywhere, needing to see, yet also needing to look away: it was like a nightmare. There was Shopkeepers Row, now nothing but a long pile of charred rubble; on her other side was the armory, now completely destroyed, a heap of stone, its front gate caved in. Before her, the great, towering fort, where her father had held so many feasts, where she herself had lived, now lay as a ruin, but a few walls left standing. Its gate was open, gaping, as if inviting the world to enter and see what it had once been.
As she walked, her heart pounding in her chest, Kyra knew she needed to see this, needed to see what become of her people in order to feel a sense of resolution. As much as she didn’t want to, Kyra forced herself to look, to take it all in. She saw bodies of women and children, all lying dead in the streets, bodies twisted in unnatural positions. She saw a dozen of her father’s men, Vidar in their center, all lying dead, face first by the castle’s gate. She could see from the way they held their swords that they had all put up a fight, made a stand here. She shook her head in admiration: these brave men had fought fearlessly, despite the odds, facing off against an army.
Her eyes watered at the sight. They were an inspiration to her. They died for the revolution that she had sparked, and as she looked at them, she resolved that their deaths not be in vain.
Kyra’s heart broke as she continued to walk, the signs of death all around her. What monsters could have done this? She looked closely and saw the huge claw marks on the bodies, and she knew this to be a troll attack. It was a sneak glimpse of what awaited her on the other side of the Flames.
Kyra slowly made her way toward her old fort. She passed through the destroyed doorway and entered the remnants of the building, eager to see this place she had once inhabited, this place she had been so sure would never fall.
It was cool in here, swirling with dust, unnaturally damp, as if spirits hung in the air. It felt conspicuously abandoned, felt as if she were visiting some distorted version of her past. It was as if her childhood memories had been destroyed and replaced.
Kyra passed what remained of a gaping stairway, now shattered in half, unable to ascend. She continued walking, straight ahead, in a daze, and entered what remained of her father’s Great Hall, now nothing more than a pile of rubble. She passed behind a crack in the stone wall and found the entrance, still hidden, to her father’s Chamber of Heroes.
Kyra entered and as she did, she stood there, numb. This small, hidden chamber, to her great relief, had been preserved. It was here where she had spent so many of her childhood days, dreaming, yearning, craving to be a warrior. There, to her relief, were the sculptures of the great warriors, still standing, the ones that had spurred her imagination as a child, had spurred her to want to achieve greatness. Sunlight poured in through gaps in the walls, high up, shining down on the sarcophagi of her ancestors. The outlines of their bodies lay face up in the stone, facing up proudly to the sky, staring into the heavens, eyes wide, as if even death held no fear for them. They were supposed to reside here for thousands of years. This room was supposed to stand the test of time.
“A powerful thing, to face our own mortality.”
Kyra spun, raising her staff, tense, ready for battle, shocked that someone else was alive here, in the room with her.
But she relaxed when she recognized who it was. Softis the Wise. Volis’s historian.
It felt so good to see an old face. There he stood, but feet away, looking older than ever. He had always looked old, but now he looked ancient. He stood hunched over in his robe, leaning on his staff, looking, if possible, even older than when she had left him.
“Softis.”
She rushed forward, embracing him, and he hugged her back with his weak grip. It was like having a piece of her childhood restored to her once again.
“You survived,” she said with a rush of relief, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.
He nodded, smiling weakly.
“My fate,” he replied, his voice ancient and raspy, “my blessing and my curse. To survive life at every turn. Long after everyone I have known and loved is dead.”
He sighed.
“They killed them all,” he continued, shaking his head, looking to the floor with sadness. “Women and children, young and old, strong and lame. They killed all that remained of this fort.”
“Trolls?” she asked warily, almost afraid to ask.
He nodded back solemnly.
“Your father could not have anticipated this,” he replied. “Now all that we have left, ironically, are these tombs.”
Softis stepped forward, limping through the room, running his hand along the bronze sculptures, along the stone sarcophagi.
“Great men they were,” he said. “Men to look up to. Men whose problems were as pressing in their times as ours. They were men of valor. Men we must remember always.”
He turned to her, his eyes aglow.
“They are your people, Kyra. Your blood. It runs through you, this blood of valor. Armis the Great: a man who killed a dozen men with a single pull of a bow. Arcard the Strong: a man who fought off a legion of soldiers with a single sword. Aseries the Lone: a man who fought alone, refused to stand with an army, and killed more men on his own than entire villages together.”
He turned to her.
“These are you, Kyra. You are not separate from them. You are one and the same. Your ancestors’ blood courses through you, and they all watch over you. They all depend on you now. You are all they have left.”
He stepped forward and grasped her shoulders with a surprising strength.
“Don’t you see, Kyra? You are all they have left.”
He stared into her eyes, a glimmer of his old intensity shining through, like a candle on its last flame.
“What will you do, Kyra? Will you make them proud?”
She nodded back gravely.
“Yes,” she said, meaning it. “I will.”
“Even if it means risking your life?”
“Yes,” she replied. “With all that I am.”
She felt her words were true, and as she spoke them, she felt a vibration run through her palms, as if the spirits lingering in the room had heard her and had approved.
Softis stared at her for a long time, as if gauging the truth of what she said, and finally he nodded in approval.
“Good,” he said.
He sighed and withdrew his hand, yet still he studied her.
“Of all the great men,” he added, “who had ever fought for Volis, of all the warriors they thought would be the standard bearer, the greatest of them all was you, Kyra.”
Kyra stared back, shocked.
“Me?” she asked.
He nodded.
“That was what they could not have
seen,” he replied. “All along, for all these generations, it was you they were waiting for. You, a simple girl, who is far more than that.”
Kyra’s hands trembled as she pondered the weight of his words.
“Do not shy from danger, Kyra,” he urged. “Seek it out. That is the only way to save your life.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kyle opened his eyes, disoriented, wondering where he was. He reached out and felt cold grass and dirt between his fingers, felt a heavy weight atop him, nearly suffocating him. He also felt something curious licking his palm, nudging him awake.
Kyle leaned back and shoved off the armor. Breathing hard from the effort, free of the weight, Kyle looked about and was horrified at what he saw. He was surrounded by dead bodies. He lay in a field of corpses—thousands of them—Pandesian soldiers and trolls mingled together, all charred, faces frozen in death masks of agony. The land, too, was scorched around them, burned by the dragons’ breath, and as Kyle pushed the last of the shields and heavy armor off of him, he realized at once that the only reason he had survived was because of the metal and corpses shielding him.
He continued to feel the tongue on his palm, and Kyle, remembering, looked over and was shocked at who he saw: Leo. Kyra’s wolf. Somehow it had sought him out, had found him, had crossed Escalon searching for him, and had nudged him awake. Of course, it made sense: Leo was fanatically devoted to Kyra, and he must have sensed that Kyle could lead him to her. That also, though, meant something else: Kyra and Leo had gotten separated. Kyle’s heart fell, as he wondered what may have happened to her.
Kyle heard a snort, a clawing at the grass, and he turned to see Kyra’s horse, Andor, standing nearby, waiting impatiently, too. Kyle marveled at the loyalty of her animals.
Kyle rubbed Leo’s head as he sat up, his head aching, wondering how much time had passed. He was singed, aching, scratched and wounded on nearly every part of his body. Yet he was alive. He was the lone man here, in this battlefield of the dead, now a massive cemetery.
