by Morgan Rice
Alec had at first assumed that, since they were all in this together, all drafted against their will to serve at The Flames, there would be a solidarity amongst them. But he’d learned quickly that was not the case. Each boy was his own island, and if Alec received any sort of communication, it was only hostility. They were rough faces, unshaven, scars across them, noses that looked like they had been broken in too many fights, and it was beginning to dawn on Alec that not every boy in this carriage had just reached his eighteenth year—some were older, more broken down by life, looking like criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, thrown in with the others, all of them being sent to keep The Flames.
Alec, sitting on the hard wood, jammed in, feeling as if he were on a journey to hell, was certain it could not get any worse; but the carriage stops never ended, and to his amazement, they crammed more and more boys in here. When he had first entered, a dozen boys had seemed tight, with no room to maneuver; but now, with over two dozen and counting, Alec could barely breathe. The boys who piled in after him were all forced to stand, trying to grab onto the ceiling, to anything, but mostly slipping and falling onto each other with each bump of the cart. More than one angry boy shoved back, and endless scuffles broke out, all night long, boys constantly elbowing and shoving each other. Alec watched in disbelief as one boy bit another’s ear off. The only saving grace was that they had no room to maneuver, to even bring their shoulders back to throw a punch, so the fights had no choice but to defuse quickly, with vows to continue at a later time.
Alec heard birds chirping, and he looked out, bleary-eyed, to spot the first light of dawn creeping through the iron bars. He marveled that day had broke, that he had survived this, the longest night of his life.
As the sun lit the carriage, Alec began to get a better look at all the new boys that had come in. He was by far the youngest of the lot—and, it appeared, the least dangerous. It was a savage group of muscle-bound, irascible boys, all scarred, some tattooed, looking like the forgotten boys of society. They were all on edge, bitter from the long night, and Alec felt the carriage was ripe for an explosion.
“You look too young to be here,” came a deep voice.
Alec looked over to see a boy, perhaps a year or two older, sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He was the presence, Alec realized, that he had felt squished up against him all night long, a boy with broad shoulders, strong muscles and the innocent, plain face of a farmer. His face was unlike the others, open and friendly, perhaps even a bit naïve, and Alec sensed in him a kindred soul.
“I took my brother’s slot,” Alec replied flatly, wondering how much to tell him.
“He was afraid?” the boy asked, puzzled.
Alec shook his head.
“Lame,” Alec corrected.
The boy nodded, as if understanding, and looked at Alec with a new respect.
They fell into silence, and Alec looked the boy over.
“And you?” Alec asked. “You don’t appear to be eighteen, either.”
“Seventeen,” the boy said.
Alec wondered.
“Then why are you here?” he asked.
“I volunteered.”
Alec was stunned.
“Volunteered? But why?”
The boy looked at the floor and shrugged.
“I wanted to get away.”
“To get away from what?” Alec asked, baffled.
The boy fell silent and Alec could see a gloom pass over his face. He fell silent and he did not think he would respond—but finally, the boy mumbled: “Home.”
Alec saw the sadness in his face, and he understood. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong at this boy’s home, and from the bruises on the boy’s arms, and the look of sadness mixed with anger, Alec could only guess.
“I am sorry,” Alec replied.
The boy looked at him with a surprised expression, as if not expecting any compassion in this cart. Suddenly, he extended a hand.
“Marco,” he said.
“Alec.”
They shook hands, the boy’s twice as large as Alec’s, with a strong grip that left his hand hurting. Alec sensed he had met a friend in Marco, and it was a relief, given the sea of faces before him.
“I suspect you are the only one who volunteered,” Alec said.
Marco looked around and shrugged.
“I suspect you’re right. Most of these were drafted or imprisoned.”
“Imprisoned?” Alec asked, surprised.
Marco nodded.
“The Keepers are comprised not only of draftees, but a good amount of criminals, too.”
“Who you calling a criminal, boy?” came a savage voice.
They both turned to see one of the boys, prematurely aged from his hard life, looking forty years old though not older than twenty, with a pockmarked face and beady eyes. He squatted down low, and stared into Marco’s face.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Marco replied, defiant.
“Well, now you are,” the boy seethed, clearly looking for a fight. “Say it again. You want to call me a criminal to my face?”
Marco reddened and clenched his jaw, getting angry himself.
“If the shoe fits,” Marco said.
The other boy flushed with rage, and Alec admired Marco’s defiance, his fearlessness. The boy lunged at Marco, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing with all his might.
It all happened so fast, Marco was clearly caught off guard—and in these close quarters, he had little room to maneuver. His eyes bulged wide as he was losing air, trying unsuccessfully to pry the boy’s hands off. Marco was bigger, but the boy had wiry hands, calloused, probably from years of murdering, and Marco could not loosen his grip.
“FIGHT! FIGHT!” the other boys called out.
The others looked over, half-heartedly watching the violence, one of a dozen fights that had erupted throughout the night.
Marco, struggling, leaned forward quickly and head-butted the other boy, smashing him in the nose. There came a cracking noise and blood gushed from the boy’s nose.
Marco tried to stand to get better leverage—but as he did, a big boot pressed down on his shoulder from a different boy, pinning him down. At the same moment, the first boy, blood still gushing from his nose, reached into his waist and pulled out something shiny. It flashed in the pre-morning light, and Alec realized, shocked, it was a dagger. It was all happening so quickly, there was no time for Marco to react.
The boy thrust it forward, aiming for Marco’s heart.
Alec reacted. He lunged forward, grabbed the boy’s wrist with two hands, and pinned them down to the floor, sparing Marco from the deadly blow a moment before the blade touched his chest. The blade still grazed Marco, tearing open his shirt, but not touching his skin.
Alec and the boy went down to the wood, struggling for the blade, while Marco managed to reach up and twist the ankle of his other attacker, snapping it with a crack.
Alec felt greasy hands on his face, felt the first boy’s long fingernails scratching him, reaching for his eyes. Alec knew he had to act quick, and he let go of the hand with the dagger, spun around and threw his elbow, feeling a satisfying crunch as his elbow connected with the boy’s jaw.
The boy spun off of him, face-first to the ground.
Alec, breathing hard, his face stinging from the scratches, managed somehow to jump to his feet, as Marco stood beside him, sandwiched between all the other boys. The two stood side by side, looking down at their attackers lying on the floor, motionless. Alec’s heart slammed in his chest, and as he stood there, he decided he no longer wanted to sit; it left him too vulnerable to attack from above. He would rather stand the rest of the way, however long the journey was.
Alec looked out and saw all the hostile eyes glaring at him, and this time, instead of looking away he met them back, realizing he needed to project confidence if he were to survive amongst this lot. Finally, they all seemed to give him a look, something like respect, and then they look
ed away.
Marco looked down, examining the tear in his shirt where the dagger had almost punctured his heart. He looked at Alec, his face filled with gratitude.
“You have a friend for life,” Marco said sincerely.
He reached out for Alec’s arm and Alec clasped it, and it felt good. A friend: that was exactly what he needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kyra opened her eyes slowly, disoriented, wondering where she was. She saw a stone ceiling high above her, torchlight bouncing off its walls, and she felt herself lying in a bed of luxurious furs. She couldn’t understand; last she remembered, she had been falling in the snow, sure she was going to die.
Kyra lifted her head and looked all around, expecting to see the snowy forest all around her. But instead, she was shocked to see a group of familiar faces crowding around her—her father, her brothers Brandon and Braxton and Aidan, Anvin, Arthfael, Vidar, and a dozen of her father’s best warriors. She was back in the fort, in her chamber, in her bed, and they all looked down at her with concern. Kyra felt pressure on her arm, and she looked over to see Lyra, the court healer, with her large hazel eyes and long, silver hair, standing over her, examining her pulse.
Kyra opened her eyes fully, realizing she was not in the wood anymore. Somehow, she had made it back. She heard a whining beside her, felt Leo’s nose on her hand, and she realized: he must have led them to her.
“What has happened?” she asked, still confused, trying to piece it all together.
The crowd seemed vastly relieved to see her awake, speaking, and her father stepped closer, his face filled with remorse and relief as he held her hand firmly. Aidan rushed forward and grabbed her other hand, and she smiled to see her younger brother at her side.
“Kyra,” her father said, his voice filled with compassion. “You are home now. Safe.”
Kyra saw the guilt in her father’s face, and it all came back to her: their argument the night before. She realized he must have felt responsible. It was his words, after all, that had driven her away.
Kyra felt a sting and she cried out in pain as Lyra reached up and touched a cool cloth to her cheek; it had some sort of ointment in it, and her wound burned and then cooled.
“Water of the Lily,” Lyra explained soothingly. “It took me six ointments to figure out what would cure this wound. You are lucky we can treat it—the infection was bad already.”
Her father looked down at her cheek with an expression of concern.
“Tell us what happened,” he said. “Who did this to you?”
Kyra propped herself up on one elbow, her head spinning as she did, feeling all the eyes on her, all the men riveted, waiting in silence. She tried to remember, to piece it all together.
“I remember…” she began, her voice hoarse. “The storm….The Flames…the Wood of Thorns.”
Her father’s brow furrowed in concern.
“Why did you venture there?” he asked. “Why did you hike so far on such a night?”
She tried to remember.
“I wanted to see The Flames for myself,” she said. “And then…I needed shelter. I remember…the Lake of Dreams…and then…a woman.”
“A woman?” he asked. “In the Wood of Thorns?”
“She was…ancient…the snow did not reach her.”
“A witch,” gasped Vidar.
“Such things venture out on Winter Moon,” added Arthfael.
“And what did she say?” her father demanded, on edge.
Kyra could see the confusion and concern in all the faces, and she decided to refrain, not to tell them of the prophecy, of her future. She was still trying to process it all herself, and she feared that if they heard it, they might she think was crazy.
“I….can’t remember,” she said.
“Did she do this to you?” her father asked, looking at her cheek.
Kyra shook her head and swallowed, her throat dry, and Lyra rushed forward and gave her water from a sack. She drank it, realizing how parched she was.
“There was a cry,” Kyra continued. “Unlike any I had heard.”
She sat up, feeling more lucid as it all rushed back to her. She looked her father directly in the eye, wondering how he would react.
“A dragon’s cry,” she said flatly, bracing herself for their reaction, wondering if they would even believe her.
The room broke into an audible gasp of disbelief, all the men gaping at her. An intense silence fell over the men, all of them looking more stunned than she had ever seen.
No one spoke for what felt like an eternity.
Finally, her father shook his head.
“Dragons have not visited Escalon for a thousand years,” he said. “You must have heard something else. Perhaps your ears played tricks on you.”
Thonos, the old king’s historian and philosopher and now a resident of Volis, stepped forward, with his long gray beard, leaning on his cane. He spoke rarely, and when he did, he always commanded great respect, a vault of forgotten knowledge and wisdom.
“On the Winter Moon,” he said, his voice frail, “such things are possible.”
“I saw it,” Kyra insisted. “I saved it.”
“Saved it?” her father asked, looking at her as if she were mad. “You, saved a dragon?”
All the men looked back at her as if she had lost her mind.
“It was the injury,” Vidar said. “It has touched her mind.”
Kyra blushed, desperately wanting them to believe her.
“It has not touched my mind,” she insisted. “I do not lie!”
She searched all their faces, desperate.
“When have any of you known me to lie?” she demanded.
They all stared back, unsure.
“Give the girl a chance,” Vidar called out. “Let’s hear her tale.”
Her father nodded back at her.
“Go on,” he prodded.
Kyra licked her lips, sitting upright.
“The dragon was wounded,” she recalled. “The Lord’s Men had it cornered. They were going to kill it. I could not let it die—not like that.”
“What did you do?” Anvin asked, sounding less skeptical than the others.
“I killed them,” she said, staring into space, seeing it again, her voice heavy, realizing how crazy her story sounded. She barely believed herself. “I killed them all.”
Another long silence fell over the room, even graver than the first.
“I know you won’t believe me,” she finally added.
Her father cleared his throat and squeezed her hand.
“Kyra,” he said, somber. “We found five dead men near you—Lord’s Men. If what you say is true, do you realize how serious this is? Do you realize what you have done?”
“I had no choice, Father,” she said. “The sigil of our house—we are forbidden to leave a wounded animal to die.”
“A dragon is not an animal!” he countered angrily. “A dragon is a….”
But his voice trailed off, he clearly unsure what to say as he stared off into space.
“If the Lord’s Men are all dead,” chimed in Arthfael, breaking the silence, rubbing his beard, “what does it matter? Who’s to know the girl killed them? How shall the trail lead back to us?”
Kyra felt a pit in her stomach, but knew she had to tell them the complete truth.
“There was one more,” she added, reluctant. “A squire. A boy. He witnessed it. He escaped, on horseback.”
They stared at her, their faces somber.
Maltren stepped forward, frowning.
“And why did you let this one live, then?” he demanded.
“He was just a boy,” she said. “Unarmed. Riding off, his back to me. Should I have put an arrow in it?”
“I doubt you put an arrow in any of them,” Maltren snapped. “But if so, is it better to let a boy live and leave us all to die?”
“No one has left us to die,” her father scolded Maltren, defending her.
“Hasn’t she?�
� he asked. “If she is not lying, then the Lord’s Men are dead, Volis is to blame, they have a witness, and we are all finished.”
Her father turned to her, his face heavier than she had ever seen.
“This is grave news indeed,” he said, sounding a million years old.
“I am sorry, Father,” she said. “I did not mean to cause you trouble.”
“Did not mean to?” Maltren countered. “No, you just accidentally killed five of the Lord’s Men? And all for what?”
“I told you,” she said. “To save the dragon.”
“To save an imaginary dragon,” Maltren snickered. “That makes it all worth it. One that, if it existed, would have gladly torn you apart.”
“It did not tear me apart,” she countered.
“No more talk of this dragon nonsense,” her father said, his voice rising, agitated. “Tell us now the truth. We are all men here. Whatever happened, tell us. We shall not judge you.”
She felt like crying inside.
“I have already told you,” she said.
“I believe her,” Aidan said, standing by her side. She so appreciated him for that.
But as she looked back out at the sea of faces, it was clear that no one else did. A long silence fell over the room.
“It is not possible, Kyra,” her father finally said softly.
“It is,” suddenly came a dark voice.
They all turned as the door to the chamber slammed open and in marched several of her father’s men, brushing the snow off their furs and hair. The man who spoke, face still red from cold, looked at Kyra as if awestruck.
“We found prints,” he said. “By the river. Near where the bodies were found. Prints too large for anything that walks this earth. Prints of a dragon.”
The men all looked back at Kyra, now unsure.
“And where is this dragon then?” Maltren said.
“The trail leads to the river,” the man reported.
“It couldn’t fly,” Kyra said. “It was wounded, like I said. It rolled into the rapids and I saw it no more.”
The room fell into a long silence, and now, it was clear, they all believed her. They looked at her in awe.
“You say you saw this dragon?” her father asked.
She nodded.
