by Morgan Rice
And then, despite every ounce of common sense he had, he found himself turning away from the Tower, towards the farm. First it was a walk, then a jog—then a sprint.
As he ran, something deep within him was being set free. The Tower could wait. It was time for Merk to do right in the world. It was time for these murderers to meet their match.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kyra sat against the cold stone wall, her eyes bloodshot as she watched the first rays of dawn seep through the iron bars, cover the room in a pale light. She had been awake all night, as the Lord Governor had predicted, turning over in her mind the horrific punishment to come. She pondered what they had done to Dierdre, and tried not to think of the ways these cruel men would try to break her.
Kyra turned over in her mind a thousand schemes to resist, to escape. The warrior spirit in her refused to break—she would rather die first. Yet, as she mulled all possible ways of defiance, of escape, she kept returning to a feeling of hopelessness and despair. This place was more well-guarded than any place she had ever been. She was in the midst of the Lord Governor’s fort, a Pandesian stronghold, a massive military complex holding thousands of soldiers. She was far from Volis, and even if somehow she managed to escape, she knew she would never make it back before they hunted her down and killed her. Assuming Volis still stood for her to return to. Worse, her father had no idea where she was, and he never would. She was utterly alone in the universe.
“No sleep?” came a soft voice, shattering her reverie.
Kyra looked over to see Dierdre sitting against the far wall, her face illuminated with the first light of dawn, she looking too pale, dark circles under her eyes. She appeared utterly dejected, and she stared back at Kyra with haunted eyes.
“I didn’t sleep either,” Dierdre continued. “I was thinking all night of what they will do to you—the same they’ve done to me. But for some reason it hurts me worse to think of them doing it to you than me. I’m already broken; there’s nothing left of my life. But you’re still perfect.”
Kyra felt a deepening sense of dread as she contemplated her words. She could not imagine the horrors her newfound friend had gone through, and seeing her this way just made her more determined to fight back.
“There must be another way,” Kyra said.
Dierdre shook her head.
“There is nothing here but a miserable existence of life. And then death.”
There came the sudden sound of a door slamming across the dungeon hall, and Kyra stood, prepared to face whatever came at her, prepared to fight to the death if need be. Dierdre suddenly jumped to her feet and ran over to her, grabbing her elbow.
“Promise me one thing,” Dierdre insisted.
Kyra saw the desperation in her eyes, and she nodded back.
“Before they take you,” she said, “kill me. Strangle me if you have to. Do not let me live like this anymore. Please. I beg you.”
As Kyra stared back, she felt a sense of resolve bubbling up within her. She shook off her self-pity, all of her doubts. She knew, in that moment, that she had to live. If not for herself, then for Dierdre. No matter how bleak life seemed, she knew she could not give up.
The soldiers approached, their boots echoing, their keys clanging, and Kyra, knowing there remained little time, turned and grabbed Dierdre’s shoulders with a firm grip as she looked her in the eye.
“Listen to me,” Kyra implored. “You are going to live. Do you understand me? Not only are you going to live, but you are going to escape with me. You are going to start your life over—and it is going to be a beautiful life. We will wreak vengeance on all the scum that did this to you—together. Do you hear me?”
Dierdre stared back, wavering.
“I need you to be strong,” Kyra insisted, speaking also to herself, she realized. “Living is not for the weak. Dying, giving up, is for the weak—living is for the strong. Do you want to be weak and die? Or do you wish to be strong and live?”
Kyra kept staring at her intensely as light flooded the cell from the torches and soldiers came marching in—and finally, she thought she could see something shift in Dierdre’s eyes. It was like a tiny glimmer of hope, and it was followed by a tiny nod of affirmation.
There came a clanging of keys, the cell door opening and she turned to see the soldiers approach. Rough, callused hands grab her wrists, and Kyra was yanked out of the cell, as the cell door slammed behind her. She let herself go slack. She had to conserve her energy. Now was not the time to fight back. She had to catch them off guard, to find the perfect moment. Even a powerful enemy, she knew, always had one moment of vulnerability.
Two soldiers held her in place, and through the iron door there appeared a man whom Kyra dimly recognized: the governor’s son.
Kyra blinked, confused.
“My father sent me to get you,” he said as he approached, “but I am going to have you first. He won’t be pleased when he finds out, of course—but then again, what’s he to do when it is too late?”
The son’s face contorted in a cool, evil smile.
Kyra felt a cold dread as she stared back at this sick man, who licked his lips and examined her as if she were an object.
“You see,” he said, taking a step forward, beginning to take off his fur coat, his breath visible in the cold cell, “my father need not know all the goings-on of this fort. Sometimes I like to have first dibs on whatever passes through—and you, my dear, are a fine specimen. I’m going to have fun with you. Then I will torture you. I will keep you alive, though, so that I have something left to bring to him.”
He grinned, getting so close she could smell his foul breath.
“You and I, my dear, are going to become very familiar.”
The son nodded to his two guards, and she was surprised as they released their grip and backed off, each retreating to a side of the room to give him space.
She stood there, hands free, and furtively glanced across the room, summing up her odds. There were the two guards, each armed with a long sword, and the son himself, far taller and broader than she. She would be unable to overpower them all, even if armed, which she was not.
She noticed in the far corner, leaning against the wall, her weapons—her bow and staff, her quiver of arrows—and her heart beat faster. What she wouldn’t give to have them now.
“Ahh,” the son said, smiling. “You look for your weapons. You still think you can survive this. I see the defiance in you. Don’t worry, I will break that soon enough.”
Unexpectedly, the son reached back and backhanded her so hard it took her breath away, her entire face stinging with pain. Kyra stumbled back, landing on her knees, blood dripping from her mouth, the pain rudely awaking her, ringing in her ear, her skull. She knelt there, on her hands and knees, trying to catch her breath, realizing this was a preview of what was to come.
“Do you know how we tame our horses, my dear?” asked the son, as he stood over her and smiled down cruelly. A guard threw him Kyra’s staff and the son caught it and without missing a beat raised it high and brought it down on Kyra’s exposed back.
Kyra shrieked, the pain unbearable, and collapsed face-first on the stone, feeling as if he had broken every bone in her body. She could barely breathe and she knew that if she did not do something soon, she would be crippled for life.
“Don’t!” cried Dierdre, pleading from behind the bars. “Don’t harm her! Take me instead!”
But the son ignored her.
“It begins with the staff,” he said to Kyra. “Wild horses resist, but if you break them, again and again, beat them mercilessly, day after day, one day they will submit. They will be yours. There is nothing better than inflicting pain on another creature, is there?”
Kyra sensed motion, and out of the corner of her eye she watched him raise the staff again with a sadistic look, preparing for an even mightier blow.
Kyra’s senses became heightened, and her world slowed. That feeling she’d had back on the bridge came rus
hing back, a familiar warmth, one that began in her solar plexus and radiated through her body. She felt it filling her with energy, with more strength and speed than she could ever dream.
Images flashed before her eyes. She saw herself training with her father’s men, recalled her endless sparring, her learning how to feel pain and not be stunned, how to fight several attackers at once. Anvin had drilled her relentlessly for hours, day after day, until she had perfected her technique, until it had finally became a part of her. She had insisted on the men teaching her everything, however hard the lesson, and now it all came rushing back to her. She had trained for a time exactly like this.
As she lay there, the shock of the pain behind her, the warmth taking over her body, Kyra looked up at the son and felt her instincts taking over. She would die—but not here, not today—and not by this man’s hand.
An early lesson came rushing back: The low ground can give you an advantage. The taller a man is, the more vulnerable he is. The knees are an easy target if you find yourself on the ground. Sweep them. They will fall.
As the staff came down for her, Kyra suddenly laid her palms flat on the stone, propped herself up enough to gain leverage, and swung her leg around quickly and decisively, aiming for the back of the son’s knees. With all of her might, she felt the satisfying feeling of kicking the soft spot behind them.
His knees buckled and he was airborne, landing flat on his back on the stone with a thump, the staff falling from his hands and rolling across the floor. She could hardly believe it had worked. As he fell, he landed on his skull and it was such a loud crack, she was sure she had killed him.
But he must have been invincible, for he immediately began to sit up, glaring at her with the venom of a demon, preparing to pounce.
Kyra did not wait. She gained her feet and lunged for the staff, lying on the floor several feet away, knowing that if she could just grab her weapon, she could have a fair chance against all these men. As she ran for it, though, the son jumped up and reached out to grab her leg, to try to hold her back.
Kyra reacted, her nimbleness taking over, and leapt like a cat over him, missing his grip, and landed on the stone in a roll behind him, grabbing her staff as she did.
She stood there, holding her staff cautiously before her, so grateful to have her weapon back, the staff fitting perfectly in her hands. The two guards approached with swords drawn and, encircled, she looked quickly about in every direction, like a wounded animal backed into a corner. She was lucky, she realized, that it had all happened so quickly, buying her time before the guards could join.
The son stood, wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand, and scowled back at her.
“That was the biggest mistake of your life,” he said. “Now not only will I torture you—”
Kyra had had enough of him, and she was not going to wait for him to strike first. Before he could finish speaking, she lunged forward, raised her staff and jabbed quickly, like a snake striking, right between his eyes. It was a perfect strike, and he cried out as she broke his nose, the crack echoing.
He dropped to his knees, whimpering, cradling his nose.
The two guards came at her, swords swinging for her head. Kyra turned her staff and blocked one blade, sparks flying as it clanged in the room, then immediately spun and blocked the other, right before it hit her. Back and forth she went, blocking one blow after the next, the two coming at her so fast she barely had time to react.
One of the guards swung too hard and Kyra found an opening: she raised her staff and brought it straight down on his exposed wrist, smashing it and loosening his grip on his sword. As it landed on the floor with a clang, Kyra jabbed sideways, into the other guard’s throat, stunning him, then she swung around and smashed the first guard in the temple, felling him.
Kyra took no chances: as one guard, on his back, tried to rise, she leapt high into the air and brought her staff down on his solar plexus—then as he sat straight up, she kicked him in the face, knocking him out for good. And as the other guard rolled, clutching his throat, beginning to get up again, Kyra jabbed down and struck him on the back of his head, knocking him out.
Kyra suddenly felt rough arms squeezing her in a hug from behind and realized the son was back; he was trying to squeeze the life out of her, to make her drop her staff.
“Nice try,” he whispered in her ear, his mouth so close she could feel his hot breath on her neck.
Kyra, a flash of energy coursing through her, found a new strength within her, just enough to reach forward with her arms, lock her elbows, and burst free from the man’s hug. She then grabbed her staff and swung behind her, upwards, with two hands, driving it between the son’s legs.
He moaned, releasing his grip as he fell to his knees, and she turned and stood over him, he finally helpless as he looked up at her with shocked eyes filled with pain.
“Say hello to your father for me,” she said, raising back her staff and with all her might striking him in the head.
This time, he collapsed, unconscious, on the stone.
Kyra, still breathing hard, still enraged, surveyed her handiwork: three men, formidable men, lay unmoving on the floor. She, a defenseless girl, had done it.
“Kyra!” cried a voice.
She turned and remembered Dierdre, and without wasting another second ran across the room. Grabbing the keys from the guard’s waist, she unlocked the cell, and as she did, Dierdre ran into her arms, hugging her.
Kyra pulled her back and looked her in the eyes, wanting to know if she was mentally prepared to escape.
“It’s time,” Kyra said firmly. “Are you ready?”
Dierdre stood there, shell-shocked, staring at the carnage in the room.
“You beat him,” Dierdre said, staring at the bodies in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. You beat him.”
Kyra watched something shift in Dierdre’s eyes. All the fear drifted away, and Kyra saw a strong woman emerging from deep inside, a woman she had not recognized before. Seeing her attackers unconscious did something to her, infused her with a new strength.
Dierdre walked to one of the swords lying on the floor, picked it up, and walked back over to the son, still lying prone, unconscious. She stared down, and her face molded into a sneer.
“This is for everything you did to me,” she said.
She raised the sword with trembling hands, and Kyra could see a great battle going on within herself as she hesitated.
“Dierdre,” Kyra said softly.
Dierdre looked at her, a wild grief in her stare.
“If you do it,” Kyra said softly, “you will be just like him.”
Dierdre stood there, arms trembling, going through an emotional storm, and finally, she lowered the sword, dropping it on the stone. It clanged at her feet.
She spit in the son’s face, then leaned back and with her boot kicked him a mighty blow across the face. Dierdre, Kyra was beginning to see, was a much stronger person than she’d thought.
She looked back at Kyra with shining eyes, life restored in them, as if her old self were coming back.
“Let’s go,” Dierdre said, her voice filled with strength.
*
Kyra and Dierdre burst out of the dungeon into the early light of dawn, finding themselves smack in the middle of Argos, the Pandesian stronghold and the Lord Governor’s military complex. Kyra blinked in the light, feeling so good to see daylight again, despite its being cold out here, and as she got her bearings she saw they were in the center of a rambling complex of stone keeps, all of it encased by a high stone wall and a massive gate. The Lord’s Men were still slowly waking up, beginning to take positions all around the barracks; there must have been thousands of them. It was a professional army, and this place was more a city than a town.
The soldiers took positions along the walls, looking out toward the horizon; none looked inward. Clearly none were expecting two girls to escape from within their midst, and that gave them an advantage. It was stil
l dark enough, too, to help obscure them, and as Kyra looked ahead, to the well-guarded entrance at the far end of the courtyard, she knew that if they had any chance of escape, it was now.
But it was a long courtyard to cross on foot, and she knew they might not make it—and even if they did, once they ran through it, they would be caught.
“There!” Dierdre said, pointing.
Kyra looked and saw, on the other side of the courtyard, a horse, tied up, a soldier standing beside it, holding its reins, his back to them.
Dierdre turned to her.
“We’ll need a horse,” she said. “It’s the only way.”
Kyra nodded, surprised they were thinking the same way, and that Dierdre was so perceptive. Dierdre, whom Kyra had at first thought would be a liability, she was coming to see was actually smart, quick, and decisive.
“Can you do it?” Dierdre asked, looking at the soldier.
Kyra tightened her grip on her staff and nodded.
As one, they ran out from the shadows and silently across the courtyard, Kyra’s heart slamming in her chest as she focused on the soldier, his back to her, getting closer with each step—and praying they weren’t discovered in the meantime.
Kyra ran so fast she could barely breathe, willing herself not to slip in the snow, no longer feeling the cold as adrenaline pumped through her veins.
Finally she reached the soldier, and at the last second, he heard them and spun.
But Kyra was already in motion, raising her staff and jabbing him in the solar plexus. As he grunted and dropped to his knees, she swung it around and brought it down on the back of his head—knocking him face-first into the snow, unconscious.
Kyra mounted the horse while Dierdre untied it and jumped up behind her—and they both kicked and took off.
Kyra felt the cold wind through her hair as the horse charged across the snowy courtyard, heading for the gate at the far end, perhaps a hundred yards away. As they went, sleepy soldiers began to take notice, and to turn their way.
“Come on!” Kyra yelled to the horse, urging it faster, seeing the exit looming closer and closer.
