by Morgan Rice
She then pulled back the staff, slid her grip all the way up so she could use it at close range and jabbed the other soldier on the bridge of the nose. He shrieked, gushing blood, and dropped to his knees.
Kyra knew this was her chance to finish these two men. They were now prone, and Leo had the other two pinned down and struggling.
But her heart was still with the dragon—it was all she could think of—and she knew there wasn’t time. So she instead ran for her bow, picked it up, placed an arrow, and with barely time to think, much less to aim, she prepared to fire. She had one shot, she knew, and it had to be true. It would be the first shot she had ever taken in action, in real battle, in the dark, in the blinding snow and wind, between trees and branches and with a target twenty yards off. It would be the first shot she had taken with her life at stake.
Kyra summoned all of her training, all of her long days and nights of shooting, everything she had within her, and forced herself to focus. She forced herself to become one with her weapon.
Kyra drew and released, and time slowed as she watched the arrow fly, hearing its whistle, unsure if it would hit. There were too many variables at play, from a gust of wind to the swaying branches to her frozen hands, to the movement of the soldier.
Kyra heard the satisfying thump of the arrow finding its mark, and she heard the soldier cry out. She watched his face in the moonlight, contorted in pain, and watched as he dropped the ax harmlessly at his side and collapsed, dead.
The dragon looked over at Kyra and their eyes met. Its huge yellow eyes, glowing even in the night, seemed to acknowledge what she had done, and in that moment she felt as if it knew she had saved it, and that they had just made a connection for life.
Kyra stood there in shock, hardly believing what she had done. Had she really just killed a man? And not just any man—but a Lord’s Man. She had broken Escalon’s sacred law. It was an act from which there was no return—an act which would spark a war and embroil all of her people. What had she done?
Yet somehow, she had no regrets, no doubts about what she had done. She felt as if she had stepped into destiny.
A searing pain on her jaw line snapped her out of it, as Kyra felt thick, calloused knuckles smash into her skin. Her world was filled with pain as she stumbled, punched in the face, and fell in the snow to her hands and knees, seeing stars, her world spinning. Before she could collect herself she felt a kick in the ribs, then felt a second soldier tackling her and pinning her face in the snow.
Kyra gasped for breath as a soldier jerked her to her feet. She stood there, facing the two men she had let live. Leo snarled, but he still struggled with the other two. One soldier bled from his nose and the other from his temple, and Kyra realized she should have killed them when she’d had the chance. She struggled with all her might to break free from their grip, but to no avail. She could see the look of death in their eyes.
One of them glanced back at his dead commander, then stepped in close and sneered.
“Congratulations,” he hissed. “By morning, your fort, your people, will be razed to the ground.”
He backhanded her, and her face filled with pain as she went stumbling back.
The other soldier grabbed her firmly and pushed his dagger to her throat, while the other reached for his belt buckle.
“Before you die, you’re going to remember us,” he said. “It will be the last memory of your short life.”
Kyra heard a whining and looked over her shoulder to see one of the soldiers stab Leo. She winced as if she herself had been stabbed, though Leo, fearless, turned and sunk his teeth into the soldier’s wrist.
Kyra felt the blade at her throat, and she knew she was on her own. Yet instead of fear, she felt liberated. She felt her anger, her desire for vengeance against the Lord’s Men, well up inside her. In this man, she had the perfect target. She might go down, but she would not do down without a fight.
She waited until the last moment as the soldier stepped closer, grabbing at her clothes—then she planted one foot, leaned back, and used her great flexibility to kick straight up, with all her might.
Kyra felt her foot connect between the man’s legs with a great force and as she watched him cry out and drop to his knees, knowing it was a perfect blow. At the same moment, Leo shook off his attackers and turned and lunged for the man she felled, pouncing and sinking his fangs into his throat.
She turned to face the other soldier, the last one standing, and he drew a sword and faced her. Kyra picked up her staff from the snow and faced off with him—and he laughed.
“A staff against a sword,” he mocked. “Better to give up now—your death won’t be so painful.”
He charged and swung at her, and as he did, Kyra’s instincts took over; she imagined herself back in the training ground. As he swung, she dodged left and right, using her speed to her advantage. The soldier was big and strong and he wielded a heavy sword—yet she was light and unencumbered, and as he came down with a particularly fierce blow meant to chop her in half, she sidestepped and left him off balance; she swung around with her staff and cracked him on the back of his wrist and he dropped his sword, losing it in the snow.
He looked back at her, shocked, then sneered and charged her with his bare hands, as if to tackle her. Kyra waited, then at the last moment crouched low and brought the tip of her staff straight up, connecting with his chin. The blow snapped his neck back and sent him landing flat on his back, unmoving. Leo pounced on him and sank his fangs into his throat, making sure he was dead.
Kyra, assuming all her attackers were dead, was confused to hear movement behind her. She turned to see one of the two soldiers Leo had attacked somehow back on his feet, limping to his horse, drawing a sword from its saddle. The soldier rushed Leo, who still had his fangs in the other soldier’s throat, his back to him.
Kyra’s heart slammed in her chest; she was too far away to reach him in time.
“LEO!” she cried out.
But Leo, too busy snarling, did not realize.
Kyra knew she had to take drastic action or else watch Leo be killed before her eyes. Her bow was still in the snow, too far away from her.
She thought quick. She raised her staff and broke it over her knee and it broke in two. She took one of the halves, its tip jagged, took aim, leaned back and hurled it like a spear.
It whistled through the air and she prayed it find its target.
Kyra breathed with relief as she watched it pierce the soldier’s throat right before he reached Leo. The man stumbled and fell at Leo’s feet, dead.
Kyra stood there in the silence, breathing hard, seeing the carnage all around her, the five Lord’s Men sprawled out in the snow, staining it red, and she could hardly believe what she had done. But before she could finish processing it, she suddenly detected motion out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see the squire, running for his horse.
“Wait!” Kyra called out.
She knew she had to stop him. If he made it back to the Lord Governor he would tell them what had happened. They would know it was she who had done this, and her father and her people would be killed.
Kyra picked up her bow, took aim, and waited until she had a good shot. Finally, the boy broke into the clearing, and as the clouds opened and the moon shone down, she had her chance.
But she could not take the shot. The boy had not done anything, after all, and something within her just could not kill an innocent boy.
Kyra lowered her bow with shaking hands and watched him ride off, feeling sick, knowing it would be her death sentence. Surely, a war would come for this.
With the squire on the run, Kyra knew her time was short. She should run back through the wood, for her father’s fort, and alert them all as to what had happened. They would need time to prepare for war, to seal the fort—or to flee for their lives. She felt a terrible sense of guilt, yet also, of duty.
Yet Kyra could go nowhere. Instead, she stood there and watched, mesmerized, as the dragon
flapped its good wing and stared back at her. She felt she had to be by its side.
Kyra hiked quickly through the snow, down the bank, toward the gushing river, until she stood before the dragon. It lifted its neck just a bit and stared at her, their eyes meeting, and the dragon stared back at her with an inscrutable expression. In its look Kyra thought she spotted gratitude—yet also, fury. She did not understand.
Kyra stepped closer, Leo snarling beside her, until she stood but a few feet away. Her breath caught in her throat. She could hardly believe she was standing so close to such a magnificent creature. She knew how dangerous this was, knew this dragon could kill her at any moment if it chose.
Kyra slowly lifted her hand, even as the dragon appeared to be frowning and, heart pounding with fear, reached out and touched its scales. Its skin was so rough, so thick, so primordial—it was like touching the beginning of time. Her hand trembled as her fingertips stroked it, and not from the cold.
Its presence here was such a mystery, and her mind raced with a million questions.
“What hurt you?” Kyra asked, stroking its scales. “What are you doing on this side of the world?”
There came a sound like a growling from deep within its throat, and Kyra withdrew her hand, afraid. She could not read this beast, and even though she had just saved its life, Kyra suddenly felt it was a very bad idea to be so close to it.
The dragon looked at Kyra and slowly raised a sharpened claw until it touched Kyra’s throat. Kyra stood there, frozen, terrified, wondering whether it would slice her throat.
Something flashed in its eyes and it seemed to change its mind. It withdrew its claw and then, to her surprise, in one quick motion slashed down.
Kyra felt a searing pain on her face and she cried out as the claw grazed her cheek, drawing blood. It was just a scratch, but it was enough, Kyra knew, to leave her with a scar.
Kyra reached up and touched the wound, saw the fresh blood in her hands, and felt a deep sense of betrayal and confusion. She looked back into the dragon’s glowing yellow eyes, filled with defiance, and she was at a loss to understand this creature. Did it hate her? Had she made a mistake to save its life? Why had it only scratched her when it could have killed her?
“Who are you?” she asked softly, afraid.
She heard a voice, an ancient voice, rumbling in her mind’s eye:
Theos.
She was shocked. She was sure it was the dragon’s voice.
Kyra waited, hoping it would tell her more—but then suddenly, without warning, Theos shattered the silence by shrieking, rearing its head, and struggling to get away from her. It flopped and spun wildly, trying desperately to lift off.
Kyra could not understand why.
“Wait!” Kyra cried out. “You are wounded! Let me help you!”
It pained her to see him flopping so much, blood dripping from its wound, unable to get one wing to work. He was so massive that each flop raised a great cloud of snow, shaking the ground, making the earth rumble and shattering the stillness of this snowy night. He tried so hard to lift off into the air, but could not.
“Where is it you want to go?” Kyra called out.
Theos flopped again and this time he rolled down the steep, snowy bank, rolling, again and again, out of control, unable to stop itself. He rolled right for the gushing rapids.
Kyra watched with horror, helpless, as the dragon splashed into the raging waters of the river below.
“NO!” she cried out, rushing forward.
But there was nothing she could do. The great rapids carried Theos, flailing, screeching, downriver, winding through the forest, around a bend and out of sight.
Kyra watched him disappear and as she did, her heart broke inside her. She had sacrificed everything, her life, the destiny of her people, to save this creature—and now he was gone. What had it all been for? Had any of it even been real?
Kyra turned and looked out and saw the five dead men, still lying in the snow, saw Leo, wounded, beside her; she reached up and felt the sting on her cheek, saw the blood—and knew it had all been very real. She had survived an encounter with a dragon. She had killed five of the Lord’s Men.
After tonight, she knew, her life would never be the same again.
Kyra noticed the horse’s trail, winding into the wood, and she remembered the boy, riding to alert his people. She knew the Lord’s Men would be coming for her people.
Kyra turned and sprinted into the wood, Leo at her side, determined to make it back to Volis, to alert her father and all her people—if it were not already too late.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vesuvius, King of the Trolls and Supreme Ruler of Marda, stood in the enormous cave beneath the earth, on a stone balcony a hundred feet high, and he looked down, surveying the work of his army of trolls beneath him. Thousands of trolls labored in this huge cavernous underground, hammering away at rock with pickaxes and hammers, chopping away at earth and stone, the sound of mining heavy in the air. Endless torches lined the walls while streams of lava crisscrossed the floor, sparking, emitting a glow, brightening the cave and keeping it hot while trolls sweated and gasped in the heat below.
Vesuvius smiled wide, his troll face grotesque, misshapen, twice the size of a human’s, with two long fangs, like tusks, that emerged from his mouth, and beady red eyes which enjoyed watching people suffer. He wanted them his people to toil, to work harder than they’d ever had, for he knew it was only through extreme toil that he would achieve what his fathers could not. Twice the size of a typical troll, and three times the size of a human, Vesuvius was all muscle and rage, and he knew he was different, knew he could achieve what none before him had. He had hatched a plan that even his ancestors could not conceive, a plan that would bring glory to his nation forever. It would be the greatest tunnel ever created, a tunnel to bring them beneath The Flames, all the way into Escalon—and with each fall of the hammer, the tunnel became just a little bit deeper.
Not once, in centuries, had his people figured out how to cross The Flames en masse; individual trolls were able to pass through here and there, but most died on these suicide missions. What Vesuvius needed was an entire army of trolls to cross together, at once, to destroy Escalon once and for all. His fathers could not understand how to do it, and they had become complacent, resigned to a life here in the wilds of Marda. But not he. He, Vesuvius, was wiser than all his fathers, tougher, more determined—and more ruthless. One day, while brooding, he had thought, if he could not go through The Flames, or over them, then perhaps he could go under them. Captivated by the idea, he had set his plan into motion at once and had not stopped since, rallying thousands of his soldiers and slaves to build what would be the greatest creation of the troll kingdom: a tunnel beneath The Flames.
Vesuvius watched with satisfaction as one of his taskmasters whipped a human slave, one they had captured from the West, chained to the hundreds of other slaves. The human cried out and fell, and he was lashed until he died. Vesuvius grinned, pleased to see the other humans work harder. His trolls were nearly twice the size of the humans, much more grotesque-looking, too, with bulging muscles and misshaped faces, filled with a bloodlust that was insatiable. The humans, he’d found, were a good way for his people to vent their violence.
Yet as he watched, Vesuvius was still frustrated: no matter how many people he enslaved, how many of his soldiers he put to work, no matter how hard he lashed them, how much he tortured or killed his own people to motivate them, the progress remained too slow. The rock was too hard, the job too massive. At this rate, he knew, they would never complete this tunnel in his lifetime, and his dream of invading Escalon would remain but a dream.
Of course, they had more than enough room here in Marda—but it was not room that Vesuvius wanted. He wanted to kill, to subjugate all humans, to take all that was theirs, just for the fun of it. He wanted it all. And he knew that if he was to get there, the time had come for more drastic measures.
“My Lord and King?�
�� came a voice.
Vesuvius turned to see several of his soldiers standing there, wearing the distinctive green armor of the troll nation, their insignia—a roaring boar’s head with a dog in its mouth—emblazoned across the front. His men lowered their heads out of deference, looking to the ground, as they had been trained to do when in his presence.
Vesuvius saw they were holding a troll soldier between them, wearing tattered armor, his face covered in dirt and ash and spotted with burn marks.
“You may address me,” he commanded.
Slowly, they raised their chins and looked him in the eye.
“This one was captured inside Marda, in Southwood,” one reported. “He was caught returning from beyond The Flames.”
Vesuvius looked over the captive soldier, shackled, and was filled with disgust. Every day he sent men west, across Marda, on a mission to charge through The Flames and emerge on the other side, in Escalon. If they survived the journey, they were ordered to wreak terror amongst as many humans as they could. If they survived that, their orders were to seek out the two Towers and steal the Sword of Fire, the mythical weapon that supposedly held up The Flames. Most of his trolls never returned from the journey—they were either killed by the passage through the Flames or eventually, by the humans in Escalon. It was a one-way mission: they were commanded never to return—unless they came back with the Sword of Fire in hand.
But once in a while some of his trolls sneaked back, mostly disfigured from their journey through The Flames, unsuccessful in their mission but seeking to return anyway, for safe harbor back in Marda. Vesuvius had no stomach for these trolls, whom he considered to be deserters.
“And what news do you bring from the West?” he asked. “Did you find the Sword?” he added, already knowing the answer.
The soldier gulped, looking terrified.
He slowly shook his head.
“No, my Lord and King,” he said, his voice broken.
