by Morgan Rice
Alec immediately breathed a sigh of relief; it felt so good to rest his aching legs, to not be in motion. He felt secure with his back to the wall, in a corner, where he could not get easily ambushed, and having a view of the room. He saw hundreds of recruits milling about, all in some state of argument, and dozens more pouring in by the second. He also saw several being dragged out by their ankles, dead. This place was a vision of hell.
“Don’t worry, it gets worse,” said a voice beside him.
Alec turned to see a recruit lying in the shadows a few feet away, a boy he hadn’t noticed before, on his back, hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. He chewed on a piece of straw, and he had a deep, jaded voice.
“Hunger will probably kill you,” the boy added darkly. “It kills about half the boys that come through here. Disease kills most others. If that doesn’t get you, another boy will. Maybe you’ll fight over a piece of bread—or maybe for no reason at all. Maybe he won’t like the way you walk, or the way you look. Maybe you’ll remind him of someone. Or maybe it’ll just be pure hate for no reason. There’s a lot of that going around here.”
He sighed.
“And if all that doesn’t get you,” he added, “those flames will. Maybe not on your first patrol, or your second. But trolls break through when you least expect it, usually on fire, always looking to kill something. They’ve got nothing to lose and they come out of nowhere. I saw one the other night, sank its teeth in a boy’s throat before the others could do anything.”
Alec exchanged a look with Marco, each wondering what kind of life they’d signed up for.
“Nope,” the boy added, “I haven’t seen any boy survive more than one moon of duty.”
“You’re still here,” Marco observed.
The boy grinned, chewing on his straw, still looking up.
“That’s because I learned how to survive,” he replied.
“How long have you been here?” Alec asked.
“Two moons,” he replied. “The longest of all of them.”
Alec gasped, shocked. Two moons, and the oldest survivor. This really was a factory of death. He started to wonder if he had made a mistake in coming here; maybe he should have just fought the Pandesians when they’d arrived in Solis and died a quick, clean death back at home. He found his thoughts turning to escape; after all, his brother had been spared—what did he have to gain by staying here now?
Alec found himself searching the walls, checking the windows and doors, counting the guards, wondering if there was a way.
“That’s good,” the boy said, still staring at the ceiling, yet somehow observing him. “Think of escape. Think of anything but this place. That’s how you survive.”
Alec flushed, embarrassed the boy read his mind, and amazed he could do it without even looking directly at him.
“But don’t really try it,” the boy said. “I can’t tell you how many of us die each night trying. Better to be killed than to die that way.”
“Die what way?” Marco asked. “Do they torture you?”
The boy shook his head.
“Worse,” he replied. “They let you go.”
Alec stared back, confused.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“They chose this spot well,” he explained. “Those woods are filled with death. Boars, beasts, trolls—everything you can imagine. No boy ever survives.”
The boy grinned, and looked at them for the first time.
“Welcome, my friends,” he said, smiling wide, “to The Flames.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kyra walked through the winding streets of Volis, snow crunching beneath her boots, in a daze after her first battle. It had all happened so quickly, had been more vicious, more intense than she could have imagined. Men died—good men—men she had known all her life, in horrible and painful ways. Fathers and brothers and husbands now lay dead in the snow, their corpses piled outside of the fort’s gates, the ground too hard to bury them.
She closed her eyes and tried to shake out the images.
It had been a great victory, and yet it had also humbled her, made her see how real battle was, how fragile life could be. It had shown her how easily men could die—and how easily she could take a man’s life—both of which she found equally disturbing.
Being a great warrior was what she had always wanted; yet she could see now that it came with a heavy price. Valor was what she strived for, yet there was nothing easy, she was realizing, about valor. Unlike the spoils of war, it was not something she could hold in her grasp, not something she could hang on her wall. And yet it was what men strived for. Where was this thing called valor? Now that the battle was over, where had it gone?
More than anything, the day’s events forced Kyra to wonder about herself, her mysterious power, which came from nowhere and seemed to disappear just as quickly. She tried to summon it again, but could not. What was it? Where did it come from? Kyra did not like what she could not understand, what she could not control. She would rather be less powerful and understand where her talents came from.
As Kyra walked the streets, she was puzzled by her townsfolk’s reaction. After the battle, she had expected them to be panicked, to board up their homes or prepare to evacuate the fort. After all, many of the Lord’s Men had died, and surely they would also soon see the wrath of Pandesia. A great and terrible army would be coming for them all; it might be the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that—but surely it was coming. They were all the walking dead here. How could they be unafraid?
Yet as she mingled with her people, Kyra detected no fear. On the contrary, she saw a jubilant people, energized, rejuvenated; she saw a people that had been set free. They bustled in every direction, clapping each other on the back, celebrating—and preparing. They sharpened weapons, strengthened gates, piled rocks high, stored food, and hurried about with a great sense of purpose. The Volisians, following her father’s example, had an iron will. They were a people not easily deterred, and in fact, it seemed as if they looked forward to the next confrontation, whatever the cost and however grim the odds.
Kyra also noticed something else as she walked amongst her people, something which made her uncomfortable: the new way they looked at her. Clearly word had spread of what she had done, and she could feel the whispers behind her back. They looked at her as if she were not of them, these people she had known and loved her entire life. It made her feel as if she were a stranger here, and made her wonder where her true home was. Most of all, it made her wonder about her father’s secret.
Kyra walked over to the thick wall of the ramparts and climbed the stone steps, Leo right behind her, ascending to the upper levels. She passed all her father’s men, standing guard every twenty feet or so, and she could see they, too, all viewed her differently now, a new respect in their eyes. That look made it all worth it for her.
Kyra turned a corner and in the distance, standing above the arched gates, looking out over the countryside, she saw the man she had come for: her father. He stood there, hands on his hips, several of his men around him, gazing out into the rising snow. He blinked into the wind, unfazed by it—or by his fresh wounds from battle.
He turned at her approach and gestured to his men. They all walked off, leaving them alone.
Leo rushed forward and licked his hand, and her father stroked his head.
Kyra stood there, facing her father alone, and she did not know what to say. He looked back at her, expressionless, and she could not tell if he was angry with her, proud of her, or both. He was a complicated man in even the most simple of times—and these were not simple times. His face was hard, like the mountains beyond them, and as white as the snow that fell, and he looked like the ancient stone from which Volis had been quarried. She did not know if he was of this place, or if this place was of him.
He turned and looked back out at the countryside, and she stood beside him, looking out, too. They shared the silence, punctuated only by the wi
nd, as she waited for him to speak.
“I used to think that our safety, our secure life here, was more important than freedom,” he finally began, his voice a low rumble. “Today, I realized I was wrong. You have taught me what I have forgotten: that freedom, that honor, is worth more than all.”
He smiled as he looked over at her, and she was relieved to see warmth in his eyes.
“You have given me a great gift,” he said. “You have reminded me what honor means.”
She smiled, touched by his words, relieved he was not upset with her, feeling the rift in their relationship repaired.
“It is hard to see men die,” he continued, reflective, turning back to the countryside. “Even for me.”
A long silence followed, and Kyra wondered if he would bring up what had happened; she sensed that he wanted to. She wanted to bring it up herself but was unsure how.
“I am different, Father, aren’t I?” she finally asked, her voice soft, afraid to ask the question.
He continued to stare out at the horizon, inscrutable, until finally he nodded slightly.
“It has something to do with my mother, doesn’t it?” she pressed. “Who was she? Am I even your daughter?”
He turned and looked at her, sadness in his eyes, mixed with a nostalgic look she did not fully understand.
“These are all questions for another time,” he said. “When you are ready.”
“I am ready now,” she insisted.
He shook his head.
“There are many things you must learn first, Kyra. Many secrets I have had to withhold from you,” he said, his voice heavy with remorse. “It pained me to do so, but it was to protect you. The time is near for you to know everything, to know who you truly are.”
She stood there, her heart pounding, desperate to know, yet afraid at the same time.
“I thought I could raise you,” he sighed. “They warned me this day would come, but I did not believe it. Not until today, not until I saw your skill. Your talents…they are beyond me.”
She furrowed her brow, confused.
“I don’t understand, Father,” she said. “What are you saying?”
His face hardened with resolve.
“It is time for you to leave us,” he said, his voice filled with determination, taking on the tone he used when his mind was set. “You must leave Volis at once and seek out your uncle, your mother’s brother. Akis. In the Tower of Ur.”
“The Tower of Ur?” she repeated, shocked. “Is my uncle a Watcher, then?”
Her father shook his head.
“He is much more. It is he who must train you—and is he, and only he, who can reveal the secret of who you are.”
While learning the secret thrilled her, she was overwhelmed by the idea of leaving Volis.
“I don’t want to go,” she said. “I want to be here, with you. Especially now, of all times.”
He sighed.
“Unfortunately, what you and I want no longer matters,” he said. “This is no longer about you and me. This is about Escalon—all of Escalon. The destiny of our lands lies in your hand. Don’t you see, Kyra?” he said, turning to her. “It is you. You are the one who will lead our people out of the darkness.”
She blinked, shocked, hardly believing his words.
“How?” she asked. “How is that possible?”
But he merely fell silent, refusing to say anymore.
“I can’t leave your side, Father,” she pleaded. “I won’t. Not now.”
He studied the countryside, sadness in his eyes.
“Within a fortnight, all you see here will be destroyed. There is no hope for us. You must escape when you can. You are our only hope—your dying here, with us, will help no one.”
Kyra felt pained by his words. She could not bring herself to leave while her people died.
“They will come back, won’t they?” she asked.
It was more of a statement than a question.
“They will,” he replied. “They will cover Volis like a plague of locusts. All you have known and loved will soon be no more.”
She felt a pit in her stomach at his response, and yet she knew it was the truth, and was grateful at least for that.
“And what of the capital?” Kyra asked. “What of the old King? Could you not go to Andros and resurrect the old army and make a stand?”
He shook his head.
“The King surrendered once,” he said, wistfully. “The time to fight has passed. Andros is run by politicians now, not soldiers, and none are to be trusted.”
“But surely they would stand up for Escalon, if not for Volis,” she insisted.
“Volis is but one stronghold,” he said, “one they can afford to turn their backs on. Our victory today, as great as it was, was too small for them to risk rallying all of Escalon.”
They both fell into silence as they studied the horizon, Kyra pondering his words.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“A good leader must always know fear,” he replied. “Fear sharpens our senses, and helps us to prepare. It is not death I fear, though—it is only not dying well.”
They stood there, studying the skies, as she realized the truth in his words. A long, comfortable silence fell over them.
Finally, he turned to her.
“Where is your dragon now?” he asked, then suddenly turned and walked off, as he sometimes did.
Kyra, alone, stood there and studied the horizon; strangely enough, she had been wondering the same thing. The skies were empty, thick with rolling clouds, and she kept hoping, in the back of her mind, to hear a screech, to see its wings dip down from the clouds.
But there was nothing. Nothing but emptiness and silence, and her father’s lingering question:
Where is your dragon now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Alec felt himself rudely awakened by a kick in the ribs and he opened his eyes, exhausted, disoriented, trying to get his bearings. He pulled hay from his mouth, saw he was lying face-first on the ground, and he remembered: the barracks. He had been up most of the night, watching his and Marco’s back as the night was filled the sounds of boys fighting, creeping in and out of the shadows, calling out to each other threateningly. He had watched more than one boy get dragged out, feet first, dead—but not before boys pounced on his corpse and raided it for anything they could salvage.
Alec was kicked again, and this time, alert, he rolled over, ready for anything. He looked up, blinking in the blackness, and was surprised to see not another boy but rather two Pandesian soldiers. They were kicking boys all up and down the line, grabbing them, yanking them to their feet. Alec felt rough hands beneath his arms, felt himself yanked up, too, then pushed and prodded out of the barracks.
“What’s happening? What’s going on?” he mumbled, still unsure if he was awake.
“Time for duty,” the soldier snapped back. “You’re not here for pleasure, boy.”
Alec had wondered when he would be sent to patrol The Flames, but it had never occurred to him it would be in the middle of the night, and so soon after such a long ride. He stumbled forward, drunk with exhaustion, wondering how he could survive this. They had given them nothing to eat since he had arrived, and he still felt weak from the long journey.
Before him a boy collapsed, perhaps from hunger, or from exhaustion, it didn’t matter—the soldiers pounced on him, kicking him viciously until he stopped moving altogether. They left him on the frozen ground, dead, and continued marching.
Realizing he did not want to end up like that boy, Alec strengthened his resolve and forced himself wide awake. Marco came up beside him.
“Sleep much?” Marco asked with a wry smile.
Alec shook his head gloomily.
“Don’t worry,” Marco said. “We’ll sleep when we’re dead—and we’ll be dead soon enough.”
They turned a bend and Alec was momentarily blinded by The Flames, hardly fifty yards away, their heat tremendous even from here.
“If trolls come through, kill them,” an Empire soldier called out. “Otherwise, don’t kill yourselves. At least not until morning. We want this place well-guarded.”
Alec was given a final shove, and he and the group of boys were left near The Flames, while the soldiers turned and marched off. He wondered why they trusted them to stand guard, not to run—but then he turned and saw the watchtowers everywhere, manned with soldiers with crossbows, fingers on the trigger, all waiting eagerly for a boy to make a run for it.
Alec stood there, with no armor and no weapons, and wondered how they could expect him to be an effective guard. He looked over and saw some of the other boys had swords.
“Where did you get that?” Alec called out to a boy nearby.
“When a boy dies, get it from him,” he called back. “If someone else doesn’t beat you to it.”
Marco frowned.
“How do they expect us to stand guard with no weapons?” he asked.
One of the other boys, face black with soot, snickered.
“Newbies don’t get weapons,” he said. “They expect you to die anyway. If you’re still here after a few nights, you’ll find a way to get one.”
Alec stared at The Flames, crackling so intensely, the heat warming his face, and he tried not to think about what lay on the other side, waiting to burst through.
“What do we do in the meantime?” he asked. “If a troll breaks through?”
One boy laughed.
“Kill them with your bare hands!” he called out. “You might survive—but then again, you might not. He’ll be on fire, and will probably burn you with him.”
The other boys turned their backs and dispersed, each spreading out for their own stations, and Alec, weaponless, turned and looked at The Flames with a despairing feeling.
“We have been set up to die,” he said to Marco.
Marco, about twenty feet away from him, staring at The Flames, looked disillusioned.
“Keeping the Flames was once a noble calling,” he said, his voice glum. “Before Pandesia invaded. The Keepers were once honored, well-armed and well-equipped. It was why I volunteered. But now…it seems to be something else entirely. The Pandesians don’t want the trolls coming through—but they don’t use their own men. They want us to guard it—and they leave us to die here.”
