by Morgan Rice
She stood there, taking in the sight, feeling as if she were seeing her future unfold before her—when suddenly, she heard a distant noise and detected motion out of the corner of her eye. She wheeled, gripping her staff, on guard.
As Kyra saw the sight before her she blinked several times, hardly comprehending what her eyes were showing her. She suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion as she watched the creature approach, walking slowly up the hill, his head down, covered in wounds, looking exhausted, but still marching on—all the while keeping his eyes fixed proudly on her. As he came closer, Leo did not snarl as he once had; instead, he whined in excitement. And in pride.
Kyra could hardly breathe. She stood upright, her mouth agape, hardly believing what she saw. She had never been so happily surprised in her life. There, approaching her, having crossed Escalon all by himself to find her, was her loyal friend: Andor.
Kyra’s eyes welled up at the sight of him. She was overjoyed, speechless. He had survived. And he had found her.
Kyra rushed forward and hugged Andor, throwing her arms around his neck. At first, proud, wild, and determined not to show emotions, he jerked away. But then he leaned his head into her chest and she kissed his mane several times and hugged him tight, tears rolling down her face, overwhelmed at his loyalty. She had been so heartbroken to leave him behind, as if she had left a piece of herself back there, and seeing him here, alive, made her feel whole again.
Leo, too, came up and rubbed against his leg, and Andor made a snorting noise, stomping, but not pulling away. Those two finally had reached some sort of peace.
“You killed them all by yourself, didn’t you?” Kyra asked in admiration, seeing his hide covered in blood.
Andor grunted as if in response, and Kyra’s heart broke as she examined his wounds. She could not believe that he had single-handedly killed all of those hornhogs, that he had made it all the way here with his injuries. She knew, after this, that they would be together for life.
“We have to get you fixed up,” she said.
Andor snorted, as if in defiance, and instead he lowered his body, gesturing for her to ride. She was in awe at his strength.
Kyra mounted, and vowed to never leave his side again.
“We shall be together forever now,” she said. “Nothing shall ever get between us again.”
He neighed and reared, as if in response.
Kyra turned and looked north and west, towards the tower, somewhere at the end of the peninsula, and with Andor beneath here, she felt her heart pounding with excitement. Now, she would be there in hours.
“Our destiny awaits us, Andor. Take us there!”
Without another word he took off at a gallop, Leo at their side, the three of them cutting through the countryside of Ur—and riding headlong into their destiny.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Alec trekked across the Plain of Thorns, Marco beside him, the gray landscape and endless rolling thorn bushes matching his somber mood. The sky was gray, the earth was gray, the thorn bushes, filling the landscape as far as he could see, were gray, scratching at him as he walked. Marco weaved his way between them, but Alec no longer cared; he let himself be scratched. In fact, he welcomed the pain. Having just come from burying his family, it was the only thing that made him feel alive.
They had hiked from Soli through these desolate plains, the most direct way, Marco had said, to Ur and avoid detection by Pandesia. Alec, though, was barely cognizant of where he was as he went. With each step there flashed through his mind images of his brother, his dying words, his plea for vengeance. Vengeance. That was the only thing that kept him going.
Alec put one foot before the other, feeling as if he had been walking for years. He was grateful for Marco’s companionship, who had allowed him his silence, who gave him his space to grieve, and who had given him a purpose to go on living.
The wind whistled through and another thorn bush whirled by and stuck to Alec’s leg; Alec felt the blood trickle down, but he didn’t care. Marco, though, leaned over and kicked it with his boot, sending it rolling away, and Alec felt the thorns dislodge from his leg. He watched it roll, skidding across the hard, baked earth, and turned to see a landscape filled with rolling thorn bushes, looking like a sea of creatures coming alive. He could no longer imagine grass, trees; it was as if the world had ended.
Alec felt a sudden hand on his chest and he came to a stop, as did Marco beside him. He looked down and was surprised to see, a step before them, a drop-off, a steep decline into a valley. As he looked out, in the distance he saw an entirely new landscape. There, before them, was a valley of rolling hills, lush with green, dotted with grazing sheep. And beyond that lay something he could hardly fathom. He brushed the dust from his eyes and blinked against the rays of the setting sun, and he saw the outline of a vast and beautiful city, its spires and domes and parapets rising into the sky. Beyond this city was the outline of an ocean, and Alec knew this was someplace special. The sight yanked him from his reverie.
“My home,” Marco said, standing beside him, looking out and sighing. “I hate my family,” he continued, “but I love my city.”
Alec saw Marco studying the city with what appeared to be a mix of emotions.
“I had planned to never return to Ur,” Alec said. “But life has a way of changing our plans. At least it’s a place I know. More importantly, I have friends there—friends who are like my real family. Friends who will give up their lives to fight Pandesia.”
Alec nodded, feeling a new sense of resolve, reminded of his purpose.
“I should like to meet your friends,” Alec said.
Marco smiled wide as he turned and nodded.
“You shall, my friend. You shall.”
The two of them set off down the steep ridge, away from the Plain of Thorns and toward the city, and as they did, Alec felt himself slowly welling with a new feeling. The feeling of grief and emptiness that had taken over his spirit was now being replaced by one of anticipation. Of purpose. Of determination. Of vengeance.
Ur.
Perhaps, after all, he had reason to live again.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Merk leaned against the cold silver doors of the Tower of Ur, seated on the ground as he had been for days, despite the cold, the stiffness of his limbs, the hunger, refusing to leave. He would not accept the Watchers’ rejection. He felt, deep inside, more than he had ever felt anything, that this place was home, that he was meant to be here.
He also could not walk away in the face of the great riddle posed to him. Above all, Merk hated riddles. He loved reason and order, expected all things to follow a logical and rational pattern. He had always lived life as a rational man, even when he killed people. He did not like mysteries, and he did not like things that could not be explained—especially when they had to do with him.
And this mysterious riddle tormented him. He had entered a different realm in this place, and he was not on his own terms anymore. He realized that. Yet he was not used to being posed questions that had no simple answers. He did not like questions that could be answered in different ways for different people. He preferred to see the world as black and white, right and wrong, good and evil.
Merk grappled with their question as he sat there, his head hung in his hands, turning it over again and again. It reverberated in his mind again and again.
Are you worthy?
It was a question that made him ponder not only his reason for being here, but struck at the core of his entire life. It was a question that, he realized, had lingered at the edge of his consciousness for all his life. Why was he worthy? So many people had told him he was worthless in life, starting with his father. What made him worthy of serving Escalon? To be feared by other men? To have the skills that he had? Why was he, indeed, worthy of living?
The more he pondered it, the more he realized that, deep down, he did not feel worthy at all. He never had. Since he was a child, his parents had made it clear to him that he was not worthy
of his brothers and sisters, not worthy of their great family name. He had never felt worthy in his own eyes or anyone else’s. So this question that the Watchers had posed to him had struck him in more ways than one. Had they known that it would? Was the question different for each person who knocked?
Merk realized, as he pondered it, that the riddles were designed to make petitioners go away. They did not want anyone here who did not truly want to be here. They wanted people so desperate to be here that they were willing to not just give up everything, but to also grapple with their own demons, to face their own worst fears.
Merk leaned back and shrieked in frustration. He stood and slammed his palms against the silver doors until he could stand it no longer.
Why was he worthy?
Merk paced back and forth, determined to get to the bottom of this answer that had tortured him his whole life. He was not worthy because of his skills. That had been the wrong answer, he realized it now. Many other skilled contenders desired to be here, too. They were turned away, too, despite their skills.
His whole life Merk had taken pride in his skills. But the Watchers wanted something more. But if not skills, then what?
The more Merk dwelled on it, the more his mind went numb and began to, finally, go blank. As it did, he began to experience a new place in his mind, a place of calm, of a quiet unlike any he’d ever known. It was a strange place, a place where he no longer tried to rationally think of the answers. It was a place of a deep stillness, where he no longer grappled for answers, but waited to allow the answers to come to him.
As he stood there, breathing deep, slowly, an answer began to come to him. The less he tried to figure it out, the more clear it became, like a flower blossoming in his mind.
Perhaps he was worthy not because of his past but because of his present. Because of who he was right now.
And the person who he was right now could not be worthy. Not yet. After all, he had never been here, had never served here.
That was the answer: he was not worthy. They demanded someone with the awareness to know that he was unworthy. That awareness, after all, was the foundation one needed in order to learn, in order to become worthy.
Merk turned, heart pounding with excitement, and slammed the door with his palm, knowing he had the answer this time, feeling it as certain as he felt he was alive. He also knew somehow that this time, they would answer the door.
Merk was not surprised when the slot in the door slid back instantly. Whoever was behind that door seemed to sense the shift in him.
“I am not worthy!” Merk called out quickly, in a rush, thrilled by his realization. “And that is precisely why I am worthy to enter here—because I know I am not. Because I am willing to become worthy. None of us are born worthy. Only those who realize this have the chance to become worthy. I am worthy because I am…nothing.”
Merk stared back at the fierce yellow eyes, which seemed to examine him for a long time, expressionless. He sensed something shift between them as a long, tense silence followed. He knew his whole future depended on these next few moments, on whether this man would let him through those doors.
But Merk’s heart slammed like a lid on a coffin as the metal latch slammed closed again.
He was crestfallen. A long silence ensued, an echoing silence that seemed to last forever.
Merk stood there, shocked. He could not understand. He had been so sure he had been right, had felt it without a doubt. He stood there, staring. He had no idea where to go, no idea what else to do with his life.
Suddenly, to his shock, there came the sound of multiple latches opening, echoing behind the silver doors—and soon, the silver doors began to open slowly. First they opened just a crack; then the crack widened.
Merk stood outside, mouth agape, as an intense light began to flood him, to beckon him. He knew that once he passed through those doors his life would change forever, and as they widened all the way and the light flooded over him, he was breathless. As he took that first, fateful step, he could hardly believe what he saw before him.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Duncan braced himself as the ice bats engulfed him, squealing in his ears, clawing him in every direction. His skin scratched, the bats swarmed him, pulling at his hair, slicing him anywhere they could find, and with each cut he felt himself growing weaker. On his back the wounded soldier groaned, while beside him, Seavig cried out as he swatted at them unsuccessfully. Separated up here from the rest of his men, far from the plateau, and getting weaker with each moment, Duncan knew he would not survive.
There suddenly came the sound of picks chipping away at ice, and Duncan looked over and was surprised to see his commanders, Anvin and Arthfael, appearing beside him, joined by dozens of others, all of them picking their way up the mountain despite the swarm of bats attacking them. They had all come, he realized, to save him.
The men swung wildly with their picks, dropping bats from the sky, the screeches rising up. They came close and shielded Duncan and Seavig with their bodies, slashing at the beasts to divert the ice bats’ attack. Duncan found himself momentarily relieved from the swarm as some of the bats shifted to attack the others—and he was overwhelmed by their loyalty: they’d all risked their lives for him.
Yet no sooner had they made headway when the bats regrouped, more and more arriving. He joined his men in swatting at them, but it did little good. His men, Duncan was horrified to see, were now also getting clawed and bitten to death. Duncan knew there wasn’t much time before they were all finished. He felt a bat bite his shoulder and he shrieked, as more and more landed on his back, the bats getting bolder as the sky turned white with their translucent bodies. His hands were shaking, and he felt himself losing his grip.
Suddenly, the bats let out a chorus of shrieks. It was not a shriek of victory—but one of agony, carrying a different pitch to it. As Duncan felt them begin to back away, he could not understand what was happening. And then, he realized: something was attacking them.
Duncan heard a whooshing noise beside him and felt a rush of wind and he looked up the mountain face, blinking into the snow, and was amazed at what he saw: high above were what dozens of soldiers, hardened warriors with long beards and fierce, square faces. They peered down over the mountaintop and tilted huge cauldrons, leaning them over the edge of the mountain face. As they did, a black liquid came gushing down the mountain like a waterfall, just far out enough so that it just missed Duncan—yet close enough to be able to douse the swarm of bats. Whatever was in that liquid must have hurt the bats, because many of them dropped limply, killed on the spot—and the ones that survived, screeched and flew off, the entire flock lifting, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.
Duncan breathed hard as he clung to the ice, scratched and bleeding, arms shaking, yet somehow still alive. He turned and looked for his men, taking stock, and was relieved to see they were still there. A sense of quiet and calm had finally descended over them, and despite his wounds, Duncan felt, for the first time, that he was going to make it. The men of Kos were in sight. He would have another chance at life. They would reach the top.
Adrenaline pumping in his veins, Duncan reached up and with a renewed strength slammed his ice pick into the mountain face, then his feet, stepping up, climbing again. The men all around him did the same, and soon the air was, once again, filled with the sound of ice chipping, and of men climbing.
With each pick, one step at a time, his army ascended the mountain face.
Duncan pulled himself up with one last heave as he reached the top, then collapsed onto the floor of snow, beyond exhausted, breathing hard, hardly believing he had made it. Every muscle in his body burned.
Duncan rolled to the side and released the injured soldier on his back, freeing himself of the weight. The young soldier groaned beside him, and looked at him with a look of gratitude beyond any Duncan had ever seen.
“You saved my life at the risk of your own,” the man said, his voice weak, “when you had e
very reason not to.”
Duncan felt a wave of relief as he saw his men ascend all around him, all gratefully collapsing on the mountain top, and he slowly rose to his hands and knees, gasping for air, feeling all the bat wounds, his arms still shaking. Sensing a presence, Duncan looked up to see before him a broad, muscular hand reaching down for him.
Duncan let himself be pulled up, and as he stood, he was amazed by what he saw. Standing there before him were the proud warriors of Kos, men adorned with furs, with long beards sprinkled with white, thick eyebrows, broad shoulders and faces of earnest men who had lived hard lives. The broad plateau atop the mountain stretched as far as he could see, and he stared back at these men admiringly, men who did not bother to wipe away the ever-present snow accumulating on their faces, beards, eyelashes, men with wild, long hair, filled with snow. They wore all-white armor beneath their furs, clearly prepared for battle at all times, even in their home. These were the men he remembered.
The warriors of Kos.
A warrior stepped forward, a man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, shoulders twice as broad as any man, and who wielded a great war hammer as if it were a child’s stick. Duncan remembered him fondly from years ago, recalling a battle they had fought in together, side by side, until the sun had set and all their enemies were dead. Bramthos. Duncan was surprised to see him still alive—he could have sworn he had seen him get killed in a battle years later.
“Last I saw you you had a sword in your gut,” Duncan said, surprised to find his friend alive. “I should have known.”
Bramthos beamed, turning side to side, proudly displaying the scar across his nose.
“Lovely thing about battle,” Bramthos replied. “Your foe never knows if you’re going to live long enough to kill him back.”
Duncan shook his head, wondering at the stuff these men of Kos were made of.
