by Morgan Rice
“The worst job for a Pandesian!” Durge called out to Anvin. “To be stationed at the gate. They bask in the sun all day long, and they can expect no action.”
“Not until today,” Anvin corrected.
Durge drew his sword.
“Not until today,” he echoed.
Anvin lowered his head and kicked his horse and they all galloped, racing across the peninsula, a band of warriors charging together for their destiny. Anvin charged beside Thebus, leading his men as they raced down the barren stretch of land, the sun beating down, sweat stinging his eyes as he blinked into the sun. The light was blinding, bouncing off everything, the water now surrounding them on both sides, and but a few hundred yards ahead lay the Southern Gate, gleaming, reflecting more light than the two seas.
Anvin felt his heart slamming as they approached, knowing these next moments would determine everything, would be the sum of all he had ever fought for as a warrior. If they took the gate, they would, for the first time in years, shut off Escalon from the outside world, from invasion, would seal it off for its final step toward freedom. But if they failed—all of Pandesia would bear down on them with the weight of an ocean, and they would all be killed.
Anvin thought of Duncan, counting on him, and he gripped his sword, knowing he could not let his old friend down.
“Aim for the hornblowers first!” Durge cried.
Anvin looked at him, puzzled.
“See the ships?” Thebus cried, pointing to the sea.
Anvin looked and on the horizon saw hundreds of black ships, sailing the yellow and blue banners of Pandesia.
“That’s why there are so few men at the gate,” he added. “They need only sound the horns, and all the ships shall come to their rescue. They must not sound those horns!”
Anvin followed his finger and saw standing up high, on platforms raised on the gate, about twenty feet off the ground, a soldier on either side, each holding a horn several feet long. They faced south, their backs still to them.
“I’ll take the one on the right,” Anvin said, gripping his spear. He galloped faster, praying he could get close enough before his target turned around.
“And the other is mine,” Durge replied.
“And you, the crank turner,” Durge commanded one of his men, pointing with his sword.
Anvin followed his gaze and saw a soldier standing by a huge crank, hands at the ready, his back to them, too.
“If that gate is closed before we can reach it,” Durge added, “we are finished.”
They bore down, horses thundering, fifty yards away, then forty, then thirty, Anvin’s throat so dry he could barely breathe. He studied the hornblower on the right, counting the steps until he was close enough to throw his spear. He knew it would have to be a perfect throw, or else risk losing it all.
He was just a few more yards from throwing when one of the Pandesian soldiers suddenly turned, hearing them. His eyes opened wide in panic. He reached out and shoved the soldiers beside him, and as one they all turned and looked.
“NOW!” Durge shouted.
Anvin knew he needed a few more yards to ensure an accurate throw—yet he had no choice. He took a deep breath, steadied his shoulder as best as he could, and raised the heavy spear, praying—and then let it fly.
Anvin held his breath as he watched his spear fly; his palms were sweaty as he released, and he had no idea if his throw was true. He also watched Durge’s sword, flying at the same time, turning end over end as it neared its target.
The hornblower on the left, Durge’s target, turned and raised the horn to his mouth, and as he did, Durge’s sword impaled him in the chest. He dropped the horn and fell off the platform, dead.
At the same time, Anvin’s hornblower turned, at just the moment when the spear was set to impale his body. Anvin was appalled to see that that lucky turn had saved him, to see his spear sail by his target, merely grazing his arm and knocking him off balance.
Anvin was relieved to see that, at least, the hornblower cried and fell from the platform. And yet somehow the steep fall, which should have killed him, did not. He crawled on the ground, alive, inching his way toward his horn, which had fallen but a few feet away.
Anvin was flooded with panic, knowing there was no time. He was still ten yards away when the hornblower reached out and grabbed his horn. He raised it to his mouth with shaking hands, took a deep breath, and, with puffed cheeks, was about to blow.
Anvin allowed his blind instincts to take over. He leapt from his horse while still at a full gallop, the world rushing by him, raised his sword, and swung for the hornblower. He felt his blade slashing flesh, and he looked over to see the soldier slump to the ground, decapitated, the horn still on his lips, his cheeks still puffed—thankfully, silent.
Anvin hit the ground hard, rolled and rolled, and gained his feet, never slowing. He charged the other soldier holding the crank, knowing time was short, and as he ran, he saw the other crank turner, dead on the ground, in a pool of blood, killed by a spear in the back.
Anvin tackled the soldier to the ground just as he began to turn the crank and lower the massive portcullis. He landed on top of him and tried to choke him, but as soon as he did, he was kicked hard in the back by a Pandesian soldier—then clubbed by another. He turned to see a third Pandesian pouncing, a sword coming down for him before he could gather himself. He had left himself too vulnerable, he realized, by rushing out ahead of the pack.
As he braced himself for the blow, his men arrived, their horses galloping through, and Anvin watched with relief as one decapitated the soldier above him, sparing his life. Another killed the Pandesian beside him with a spear through his chest. Anvin spotted another Pandesian run for the crank, and saw a hatchet turn end over end as it flew through the air and lodged itself in his back.
Durge and his men overtook the gate, horses galloping, slashing and killing Pandesians on all sides, who had no time to put up a defense. They swept through like a desert storm and slaughtered them all in a blur. A few Pandesians had time enough to just grab for swords and shields, yet barely had they lifted them when they were hacked down. And with the hornblowers dead and the cranks out of their control, there was little they could do to alert the others. They were quickly surrounded and killed.
Soon, all the Pandesian soldiers lay in heaps, their blood staining the sand, while all fell silent.
“He’s getting away!” someone yelled.
Anvin turned to see a lone Pandesian had escaped. The soldier mounted his horse and took off, galloping south at lightning speed toward Pandesia. Anvin knew if he got away, all would be lost.
Anvin didn’t hesitate. Without thinking he mounted his horse and rode after him. He bore down him, as fast as he ever rode, air cutting into his lungs, hardly able to breathe. They rode, just the two of them out there alone, and the terrain shifted as they went farther from the gate, left the peninsula, and entered the mainland of Pandesia, the ground morphing to hard rock. Their horses’ hooves clattered, and Anvin knew they were riding in Fields of Ore. A stretch of black stone, it was no terrain for riding.
Anvin’s horse was slipping and sliding on the slick stone, and soon, it stumbled and fell—while the Pandesians did, too. He hit the ground hard, bruised from the hard landing, feeling pain in every corner of his body. His only solace was that the Pandesian up ahead was in the same position as he.
Anvin rolled and summoned all his effort to regain his feet. The Pandesian was slower to get up, and Anvin, forcing himself to his feet, charged for the man, about twenty yards ahead, beneath the blistering heat of the sun. The Pandesian stumbled, and he bore down on him.
Anvin was but yards away, preparing to tackle the soldier, when suddenly the soldier did something Anvin could not expect: he turned, raised a small hidden spear, and threw it at him.
At the last second Anvin’s reflexes kicked in, and he dodged as it grazed his shoulder.
The soldier looked up and, fear in his eyes, turned to run,
weaponless. Anvin, knowing that a slippery chase on the slick rock could end poorly for them both, instead drew his sword, planted his feet, reached back, and threw it.
He watched the blade tumble end over end until it finally found a spot in the soldier’s back. He grunted and fell face-first on the rock. Dead.
Anvin walked over, breathing hard, stood over the soldier and grabbed his sword. He then turned and looked back at the shining gate in the distance. He saw all of his men, triumphant, the gate in their control. It was the most beautiful sight of his life.
All them cheered in the distance, and Anvin knew they had done it.
The gate was theirs.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Kyra stood in the forest clearing, breathing hard, overwhelmed with frustration. Her hands were raw, her quiver empty, already having fired all her arrows at her targets. She had missed them all.
Kyra felt like a failure. She could not understand how she had missed every single shot, as she had not missed a shot in years. Every time she fired, somehow the tree moved. The skinny trees were very much alive here, dodging her arrows; she could not even hit a leaf. Her arrows had whizzed by harmlessly, landing on the forest floor, while Alva had sat there and watched all morning, silent, expressionless. Failing in front of him had worsened her shame. He was never disapproving, and he never tried to correct her—in fact, he never said anything. He just observed, and his observing set her on edge. She never had any idea what he was thinking. Was this what it meant to train someone?
She stood there, reflecting, and she thought back to her encounter with the Salic. She had been certain, as it had pounced, that it was going to kill her; yet it had vanished just as its paws had touched her. Somehow, that was more unnerving to Kyra than anything. She didn’t understand this place, and she didn’t understand Alva. She just wanted to train somewhere with real warriors, real opponents and real teachers.
“I don’t understand,” she finally said, breathing hard, exasperated. “How am I missing? Why are you not correcting me?”
Alva stared back calmly, seated on the forest floor across the clearing.
“No one can correct you,” he replied. “And I, least of all. You must find your own way.”
She shook her head.
“How can I? I don’t know why I’m missing. Those should have been easy shots. I don’t understand this place.”
There came a long silence, the only sound that of the wind rustling through the trees, of the distant ocean waves, crashing somewhere far off. Finally, he took a deep breath.
“This place is you,” he said. “All that you see is a mere reflection of what lies inside you. A target too hard to reach; a fast-moving opponent.”
Kyra furrowed her brow, struggling to comprehend.
“I don’t understand,” she replied. “I feel as if I arrived here as a warrior, and yet now, I am nothing. I no longer know a thing.”
He smiled for the first time.
“Good,” he replied, to her surprise. “Very good. You are beginning to learn.”
She frowned.
“Beginning to learn?” she echoed. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I had thought you would introduce me to new weaponry—magical halberds and spears and axes and swords and shields. I thought I would learn and do all the things that warriors do in advanced training. But it feels like it’s been weeks here, and I’ve done none of that. I’ve chased moving targets; I’ve run up and down valleys; I’ve watched trees sway in the wind; I’ve followed a trail of ants. What kind of training is this? I don’t even believe that you are my uncle.”
She added emphasis to her final words, wanting to provoke some reaction from him, but Alva merely stared back calmly.
“Don’t you?” he asked.
“You won’t tell me anything about my mother,” she added. “Or about myself. I thought I would come here and find answers. Instead, you’ve raised more questions. I am wasting my time,” she concluded, unable to take any more. “I must leave. And I must return to my father. He is at war, and he needs me. It was a mistake to come here.”
Kyra stood there, breathing hard, upset with herself and at the end of her rope.
Alva, though, sat there calmly, unfazed, expressionless. Kyra felt on the verge of breaking down and crying, and yet nothing seemed to faze him.
“The only war that rages lies within yourself,” he finally replied, calm. “It is a far more interesting war, and a far more powerful one. Have you asked yourself why you cannot summon your dragon?”
Kyra blinked, wondering. It was a question she had been grappling with herself.
“I…don’t know,” she admitted, feeling crushed. She was starting to wonder if she had ever been able to summon him to begin with, if she had ever had any true powers, or if it had all just been a dream.
“You cannot summon him,” he replied, “because you are too busy thinking, planning, training. You still think you can control the world around you—and that is your greatest failing. You cannot control anything. Not the woods around you, not the universe, and not even your skills. As soon as you realize that, as soon as you stop trying to control, you will allow the power in. You can never be one when you are in opposition—and when you try to control, you are in opposition.”
Kyra closed her eyes, trying to grasp the concept of his words. She understood what he was saying intellectually, yet she could not grasp it viscerally yet.
“Take me, for example,” he said, surprising her as he suddenly jumped up and walked over to her. “You hold a very fine staff, a staff that you love, a staff that could kill many warriors. And here I hold,” he said, picking up a stick off the floor, “a thin stick.”
He stopped about ten feet away in the clearing and held it behind his back with one hand.
“I am a small boy,” he continued, “with an aging disease. A harmless boy with a small stick. You are the great warrior Kyra, more powerful than most men I have encountered, and you wield a powerful weapon. You should be able to defeat me easily, should you not?”
She looked back, confused, appalled at the idea of fighting him.
“I would never harm you,” she said. “You are my teacher. Even if I don’t understand what it is you are teaching me.”
He shook his head.
“You must fight me,” he replied. “Because you look with your eyes, but not with your heart. You listen with your ears, but not with your mind. You still think that what you see is real. You still have not lifted the great veil of the universe.”
He sighed.
“Until you pull it back, you will never see for sure, never understand that all you see is the world of illusion.”
Kyra pondered his words as he stared back calmly.
“Attack me,” he finally commanded.
She shook her head, horrified.
“I will not,” she replied.
“I command you,” he said firmly, his voice darker, ancient, suddenly scary.
Kyra felt she could not disobey. She walked slowly toward him, a knot in her stomach, stepped forward and halfheartedly swung her staff at his shoulder.
To her surprise, Alva swung around with his stick and swatted her staff, knocking it from her hands. She looked at him in shock; an enemy had never made her drop her staff before.
“I said attack,” he commanded.
Kyra retrieved her staff and faced him again with trembling hands, unsure what to do. She stepped forward and attacked again, a little bit harder this time.
As she swung, though, he spun around, knocked it again from her hand, and leaned back and kicked her in the chest.
To her shock, his kick knocked her halfway across the clearing, and she landed on the forest floor, winded.
She sat there and stared back at the boy in wonder. He stood there, still smiling, looking as if he had not moved at all, and for the first time, she felt fear. She realized she had vastly underestimated him, and she wondered who he was. Finally, she was beginning to understand that all was
not what it seemed.
“The greatest warriors do not present their hand in battle,” he said. “They deceive. They project weakness, inexperience. They disarm foes who judge by appearance. Now—attack me.”
This time, Kyra, angry, still smarting from the blow, ran, grabbed her staff, and charged him with all her might, no longer holding back.
She swung, and to her surprise, she missed, hitting air as she stumbled forward. At the same time she felt a crack in her back, and she turned, red-faced, to see Alva standing behind her, stick in hand. She fumed, her back stinging from the blow.
“Good,” he said, “you no longer patronize me. Now let us see what you can do.”
Kyra let out a shout of frustration, raised her staff with both hands, and slashed at him. He raised his stick and blocked it easily. She swung left and right, pushing him back across the clearing with a dizzying array of blows, blows strong enough to take down a dozen warriors.
Yet each time he calmly raised his skinny stick with one hand and blocked, deflecting her blows as if he were wielding a steel shield.
As she thought she was gaining ground, driving him all the way back to the edge of the clearing, he slashed upwards, catching her staff from beneath and sending it flying up out of her hands. He then stepped forward and jabbed her in the solar plexus, and she fell to her knees, defenseless before him, her staff on the ground.
She knelt there, feeling like crying, feeling lower than she ever had in her life. She was defenseless, ashamed, and she felt as if she had no skills whatsoever. Had her skills been an illusion? Had she ever been good?
She slowly looked up at him in shame, but also in awe at his powers. Clearly, he was no mere human.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The question is not who I am,” he replied. “Who are you? That is what you fail to grasp.”
