by Morgan Rice
Vesuvius ran and ran, the snow melted in places in the charred countryside left by the dragon, the ground still smoking from its breath, until he crested a hill and saw a valley below. At its bottom sat a simple village, smoke rising from chimneys, farmers going about their work, women, children, cattle sharing the streets. They had no idea, Vesuvius realized with a smile, of the hell about to descend upon them.
Vesuvius grinned from ear to ear. He would rape all these women, he decided, torture all the men, take some slaves back with him, and murder whatever was left. On second thought, perhaps he would just murder them all.
“TROLLS OF MARDA!” he shouted. “I PRESENT TO YOU YOUR FIRST PRIZE!”
His trolls cheered as they raised their halberds and charged behind him, all racing down the slope, Vesuvius’s legs unable to carry him fast enough.
The wind in his hair, the ground softening beneath his feet, Vesuvius had never felt so overjoyed. In but moments he reached the village, and he raised his halberd high as he saw the first face, the first human of Escalon to turn and stare and look him in the face. Here was the first human to see trolls, for the first time in history, in her native country, and her look of terror was priceless. It was a woman, perhaps in her thirties, staring back at him with such horror and fear and disbelief that it made everything he’d ever done in life worth it.
Vesuvius raised his halberd, swung it around, and just as she began to scream, he chopped her head off.
A shame, he thought—she would have made a fine plaything. But he had a ritual of always killing the first person in battle, and that, not even for her, he could not break.
As her body collapsed, all around him his trolls rushed forward and set torches to the village, stabbed spears into men’s hearts, hacked down women and children, anything and everything they could get their hands on. Shouts of terror filled the air as the humans fled, none able to go fast enough.
Vesuvius joined them, and he soon felt himself covered in blood, his arms and shoulders tired from all the killing. He laughed aloud, praising the heavens for this day. If he could freeze this moment in time, he would.
For he knew that soon, very, very soon, all of Escalon would be his.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The baby dragon emerged from his egg in a bout of rage, landing with his feet on the ground of Escalon, still breathing fire as the pack of wolves turned and fled. He arched his neck, his red scales still slimy, squinted, and breathed until his fire ceased.
He took his first wobbly steps, one foot after the next, learning how to walk, stretching, feeling his wings, beginning to get an understanding of himself. He could feel the fire coursing in his belly, through his veins, wanting to emerge. He could feel his strength slowly rising up within him. He leaned back and let loose the fire again.
The wolves ran, but not fast enough, and the dragon watched in satisfaction as the pack shrieked, in flames, flailing on the ground. He stepped forward, still wobbly, and breathed down on them again and again, unsatisfied.
The pack was soon burnt to a crisp, and the baby dragon turned and looked out at the forest. There, on its periphery, were several more wolves. They stood there, unsure.
The dragon wanted more. He ran forward, hobbling, slipping, falling to the ground face-first, then getting up again. He tried to flap his wings, but they were not strong enough, and after lifting into the air for a few feet, he fell back to the ground. He slipped and fell again, and yet he still charged for them.
He breathed fire as they all turned and fled, and suddenly, his flames ran out. Standing there, dry, parched, unable to fly or run, the baby dragon realized he had met the limit of his power. He tried again and again, and yet no flames came. How long would his flames take to regenerate? He wondered. How long would he be defenseless?
The dragon looked around with a new sense of appreciation for his surroundings. He was vulnerable; he felt it. He looked up and searched the sky for his father, but he was nowhere to be found. He felt the power in his veins that he would one day have—but right now, he did not have it yet.
No sooner had he had the thought when he heard a branch crack behind him. He turned and braced himself as he saw several soldiers approaching, wearing blue and yellow armor, face visors down, long shields held out before them, looking back warily.
“What have we here?” asked one.
Another soldier raised his visor, studied the baby dragon, then searched the skies for its father. Seeing nothing, he looked back to the dragon.
“Looks like someone forgot its baby,” he said cruelly.
A soldier stepped forward and examined the broken shell, puncturing it with his long spear. Slimy liquid emerged from it.
“Barely out of its shell,” he observed. “Weak, then. The better for us.”
The soldiers, emboldened, cruelty in their faces, approached.
The dragon stood its ground proudly, arched its back, and tried to breathe fire.
But this time, to his dismay, only a trickle came out.
The soldiers laughed as the dragon felt his first jolt of fear. Before he could react, a soldier stepped forward and smashed him on the side of his head with his shield.
The dragon stumbled as he felt a wave of pain rush through his body. He knew that one day he would be able to kill all these men with a single breath; yet that did him no good today.
Still, the dragon, born a fighter, was determined not to give up, no matter how outnumbered, how bleak his situation. As a soldier approached, the baby dragon waited, then, at the last second, he reached around with his sharp claws and sliced the soldier’s face. Blood gushed as he left a nasty wound, forcing the soldier, shrieking, to drop his shield and stumble back.
Yet another soldier charged from behind and jabbed the dragon in his back with his spear; the dragon shrieked as it punctured his still-soft scales.
“Don’t kill it!” commanded a voice.
A soldier, bigger than the others, with different markings, clearly their commander, stepped forward.
“We need it alive!” he continued. “This will be the greatest prize we have ever captured.”
Another soldier came forward with his shield, wound up, and smashed it across the jaw.
The dragon felt another jolt of pain as it swayed; yet somehow it mustered the strength to spin back around and claw the man across the stomach.
Another soldier smashed it from behind.
And another.
A dozen more soldiers pounced on it, smashing it from all sides, its ears filled with the clanging of metal. One blow at a time, his strength weakened, his world went dark.
Yet still he fought, lashing out, struggling to break free, screeching his young screech, managing to claw a few more soldiers in the face.
Yet it wasn’t enough. Soon, despite all his efforts, he found himself on his side, in the grass, losing consciousness. He looked up, searched the skies, and hoped, wished, for but one thing.
Father, he called in his mind. Why have you abandoned me?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kyra stood before Alva, her second uncle, and stared in disbelief. Despite herself, she felt supremely disappointed. Kolva had been everything she had ever hoped for in an uncle, had given her a sense of pride, of lineage; she had looked forward to spending time with him, to train with him, and she was proud to call him her mentor.
But this boy before her, Alva, hardly four feet tall, looking ancient, puny, sitting in a tree, appeared to be no mentor, no warrior, no sorcerer, wizard, or monk, no all-powerful being whom, she had imagined, would teach her everything she would need to know to become the greatest warrior of all time. Instead, there sat a mere boy, younger even than her little brother, Aidan, smiling down at her mysteriously, his face covered, prematurely aged. She felt as if she were being mocked. Had she crossed Escalon for this? To train not in the famed Tower of Ur, but rather here, in the woods, with a boy?
Kyra felt like crying. She also hated that this strange boy was her uncle, that sh
e shared a bloodline with him. She had to admit, she felt ashamed. It made her wonder about herself.
She didn’t know what to say or do; she wanted to flee this place, to go back to the tower, to pound on the doors until a warrior let her in. Someone she could respect, someone who had the power to teach her, to help her master her powers. She felt as if she were wasting her time.
“You are ready to leave,” Alva observed, his voice like a child’s, still smiling. “You are tense. Your hand rests firmly on your staff, and you think of the bow on your back, the wolf and Andor at your side. You think of returning to the tower. Perhaps even of returning to your father.”
Kyra reddened as he read her mind perfectly. She felt violated; she had never experienced anything like it before. A long silence fell over them.
“I mean no offense,” she finally said. “But I have crossed Escalon to train. You are half my age and half my size.”
She expected him to take offense, but instead, to her surprise, he still smiled.
“And yet,” he said, sitting on the branches, cross-legged, looking down at her, “I have lived centuries longer than you have.”
She frowned, confused.
“Centuries?” she asked. “I don’t understand. You look young. And you look nothing like me.”
Kolva stood at the edge of the clearing, patiently awaiting Alva’s command, and Kyra looked from Kolva to Alva, her two uncles, saw the stark difference in appearance between them, and wondered how they could both share her bloodline.
“We don’t choose our relatives,” Alva replied. “Sometimes family can disappoint us. We search for pride in our ancestors, pride in our relatives. But this pride is meaningless. The pride you seek must come from within.”
Kyra shook her head, feeling overwhelmed. She wanted to discount this boy, and yet, as she stood there, she had to admit she sensed a tremendous energy coming off of him, a power she could not quite grasp.
“I must return to my father and help him,” she said.
“Maybe you are helping him,” Alva replied. “Right now. By standing here.”
Kyra was perplexed; she had no patience for riddles.
“I haven’t time for this,” she said. “I must train.”
“You are training right now,” he replied.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Training?” she asked, wondering if he were mocking her. “I’m standing in the woods, far from battle, talking to a boy sitting in a tree. Is this training? Can you teach me to wield a staff, to fire arrows, to become a great warrior?”
He smiled, unflappable.
“Is that all you wish to learn?” he asked. “I can teach you far more than that.”
She stared back, wondering.
“Those things of which you speak are trivial,” he continued. “They have little to do with true power. Any warrior can wield a weapon. What I teach is far more than that. What I teach is the source behind the weaponry; the hand that wields the sword; the spirit that guides the hand.”
She stared back, not understanding what he meant. She did not know what to say or feel.
“I thought…” she began, then trailed off. “I thought…you would lead me to my mother. That, if you were my uncle, you would reveal who she is. Who I am.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head, his smile beginning to fade.
“Too many questions,” he replied. “Questions that cloud you. You are full of demands—from myself and from the universe. Sometimes the universe is not ready to yield answers. Your mother understood that.”
Kyra tensed at the mention of her mother.
“You knew her then?” Kyra pressed.
He nodded.
“Very well, indeed,” he replied. “We both did.”
Kyra looked to Kolva, who nodded back.
“And what was she like?” she asked, so eager to know.
Alva opened his eyes and looked down at her, a twinkle in his eyes.
“Just like you.”
Kyra felt a flood of excitement at the thought, eager to know more.
“Tell me more.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Release all questions and demands, or you will be unable to train. Let go of everything you have, everything you are.”
Kyra stared back, unsure.
“I had expected to arrive at a place with a great training ground,” she replied. “With great warriors to train with.”
He shook his head.
“Still fixed on illusions,” he replied. “I offer you much more. I offer you this,” he said and spread his arms wide.
She looked around and saw nothing but trees.
“What is this?” she pressed.
“You do not see the trees before you,” he replied sadly.
Kyra could contain her impatience no longer. She felt sure she was being tricked, that she was being tested, that this was all somehow part of her test.
“I do not wish to offend you,” she repeated, “but my time is short. I cannot let my father die out there while I stand here, wasting time.”
Kyra turned, hurried across the clearing, and mounted Andor. She directed him toward the woods and prepared to kick and ride off, unsure where she would go—anywhere but here.
Yet as she prepared to ride off, she looked at the woods before her, and was shocked. Instead of trees she saw rolling hills, shining in the sun. She saw gold and silver castles, a fantastical landscape of waterfalls and rivers and lakes. She saw a place unlike anything she had ever seen.
Behind it, she saw a massive army, all black, forming on the horizon.
Then the landscape changed, and the woods reappeared.
She spun back around, her heart pounding, unsure what had just happened. Alva raised a hand, and as he did, Andor, to her shock, suddenly sat.
Kyra studied Alva in awe, and finally began to realize just how powerful he was. She realized, finally, that she had met her true teacher.
“What was that vision I saw?” she asked. Then, hesitant, “Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled wide.
“Soon, my niece,” he replied, “you shall find out.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dierdre sat proudly on her horse, leading the group of liberated girls through the familiar streets of Ur, and feeling a sense of pride at her homecoming. It felt good to be back in familiar terrain, back in her father’s stronghold, and it felt good, most of all, to be able to help these girls, to spare them the anguish that she had met herself.
Yet Dierdre felt a wave of mixed emotions as she rode these packed, familiar streets, each corner filled with a childhood memory, but also with a sense of sadness. It was here, after all, that the Pandesians had taken her away; it was here that her father and his men had done nothing to stop it, had allowed her to be given away like chattel in some cattle trade. All because some lord in some far off empire had declared that Escalon women were the property of men. It was here, in her own city, that she had been betrayed, where her father, whom she had idolized most of all, had let her down.
Dierdre rode on, determined, anticipating the confrontation to come with her father, looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. A part of her loved her home city, with its glistening canals, its cobblestones, steeples, domes and spires, its ancient temples, its air filled with the sound of foreign traders and the sight of foreign banners. Yet a part of her wanted to run from it all, to start fresh somewhere else. She passed through the arch of the ancient temple, and a part of her wanted to lead these girls elsewhere, anywhere else in Escalon.
Dierdre knew she couldn’t run from her fears. She had to confront her past, confront those who had betrayed her, teach them what it meant to sell away a life. These men, her father most of all, had to be held accountable for their actions. All through her life Dierdre had always been one to avoid confrontation, yet now she knew that to run away from it would be cowardly. If she did not face them, make them ow
n what they did, it would endanger other daughters, and other girls would suffer the same fate she had.
As Dierdre turned into the crowded marketplace, people stopped and stared, looking up in wonder at the caravan of girls riding so proudly down the center of the streets. Ur was a city that had seen it all, given its exotic visitors from all corners of the world, yet this sight stunned people. After all, they were a group of young, beautiful girls, exhausted from their long journey perhaps, but riding proudly through the streets like a band of warriors. Dierdre felt intensely protective of each one of them and was determined to find each a home—or give them a spot fighting beside her, whatever they chose.
As Dierdre rode proudly down the center of the street, she knew the dangers of being so conspicuous; she knew the Pandesian presence was everywhere, and she knew that word would spread soon of her arrival, if it hadn’t already. They would come looking for her, to her father’s fort. But she refused to hide in her hometown. She reached down and tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword; if they came for her, she was ready.
As she rode, Dierdre thought of her friend, Kyra, alone, on her way to the Tower of Ur, and she wondered if she had made it. She vowed to herself that, as soon as she got these girls situated, as soon as she had the weapons and support she needed, she would find her somehow, join forces with her. She felt that Kyra was like a sister to her, the sister she never had, the two of them having suffered so much together at the hands of the Pandesians.
Dierdre turned a corner and felt a rush of excitement as she saw her father’s stronghold, the ancient stone fort, low, crowned with parapets, on top of which stood many of her father’s men. They were unarmed, of course, given the Pandesian presence in the city and the law against Escalon men bearing weapons. Yet still they were allowed at least to inhabit the fort, her father having at least some semblance of the strength he once had here as a warlord. It was just a façade, though, she knew. With the Pandesians occupying them, they were hardly the free and proud warriors they had once been. And that was about to change—if she had any say in it.
