by Morgan Rice
But as she looked over at her father, it brought back their awful reality. If there was anything that upset Kyra more, it was the look on her father’s face; she’d never seen him look so disturbed, so conflicted, as if for the first time in his life, he did not know what action to take. Her father was a proud man—all of his men were proud—and in the days of the united kingdom, when they had a king, a castle, a court to rally around, when they were all free men, each and every one of them would have given up their lives for their freedom, would have taken the battle to the enemy at the gates, however imposing. It was not her father’s way, or his men’s way, to surrender, to barter or negotiate a deal. But the old King who had sold them out, had surrendered them all, had left them in this terrible position, and as a fragmented, dispersed army they could not find an enemy who had already been allowed to lodge himself within their midst.
“It would have been better to have been defeated in battle, to have faced Pandesia nobly and lost,” her father said, his voice heavy, pained. “The old King’s surrender was as much a defeat—just a long, slow, cruel one. Day after day, year after year, one freedom after the next is stripped from us, each one making us less of a man.”
Kyra knew he was right; yet she also understood the old King’s decision: Pandesia spread across half the world. With their vast army of slaves they would have laid waste to Escalon until there was nothing left. They never would have given up, never would have backed down. At least now they were alive—if one could call this life.
“This is not about taking our girls,” her father continued, against the crackling fire. “This is about power. About subjugation. About crushing what is left of our souls.”
She examined her father, sitting there staring into the flames, a great warrior who had loved his king, now left to preside over what remained of a shattered, occupied kingdom. As he stared, she could see that he was staring into his past and his future all at once. He was debating what the price was for harmony.
As Kyra sat there, she hoped and prayed that he would come to some strong inner resolve, would turn and face her and tell her that the time had come to fight, to stand up for what they all believed in, for them to make a stand. That he would never let her be taken away.
But instead, to her increasing disappointment and anger, he sat there silently, staring, brooding, not offering her the assurances she needed. She had no idea what he was thinking, especially after their earlier argument, and she sensed a greater distance spreading between them.
“I remember a time when I served the King,” he said slowly, his deep, strong voice setting her at ease, as it always had, “when all the land was one, all of our knights together. Our Kingdom was invincible. We had only to man The Flames to hold back the trolls, and to defend the Southern Gate to hold back Pandesia. We had been a free people for centuries. That was always how it was supposed to be.”
He fell silent for a long time, the fire crackling, and Kyra waited impatiently for him to finish, stroking Leo’s head.
“If the old King had commanded us to defend the gate,” he continued, “we would have defended it to the last man. All of us would have gladly died, brothers in arms, side-by-side, for our freedom. But one morning we all woke up to find Pandesia amongst us, to discover he had brokered a deal, had opened the gate; by dawn, our lands were filled with them.”
“I know all of this,” Kyra reminded, impatient, tiring of hearing him repeating the story.
He turned to her, his eyes filled with defeat.
“When your own king has given up,” he asked, “when the enemy is already amongst you, what is there left to fight for?”
Kyra fumed.
“Maybe kings should not always be followed,” she said, no longer having patience for the story. “Kings are just men, after all. In some cases, the most honorable route might be to defy your king.”
Her father sighed, staring into the fire, not really hearing her.
“We here, of Volis, have lived well compared to the rest of our land. They allowed us to keep weapons—real weapons, unlike the others, who have been stripped of all steel under penalty of death. They gave us the illusion of freedom, just enough to keep us complacent. Do you know why they have given us such allowances?” he asked, turning to her.
“Because you were the King’s greatest knight,” she replied. “Because they want to afford you honors befitting your rank.”
“No,” he replied. “Their rationale is far more pragmatic. It is only because we are all that stands between them and The Flames. Pandesia fears the trolls more than us. It is only because we are the last fort between here and The Flames, between us and them, and because we know how to defend the wall. They have their own men, their own draftees, but none as vigilant as we. That’s why they want us happy: as guardsmen.”
Kyra thought.
“I always thought that our cause remains noble: we are not only defending for Pandesia,” he said, “but for our own people, our own homeland. After all, if the trolls invaded, they would kill us, too. And I always thought that we were somehow above it all, above the reach of Pandesia. But tonight,” he said gravely, turning to her, “I realize that is not true.”
He sighed.
“This news…I had expected something of the sort for years,” he said. “I did not realize how long I had been bracing myself for it. And despite all those years, now that it has arrived…there is nothing I can do.”
He hung his head and she stared back at him, appalled, feeling a furious indignation welling within her.
“Are you saying you would let them take me?” she asked. “Are you saying you would not fight for me?”
His face darkened.
“You are young,” he said, “naïve. You don’t understand the way of the world. You look at only this one fight—not the greater kingdom. If I fight for you, if my men fight for you, we might win one battle. But they will come back—they always come back—and not with a hundred men, or a thousand, or ten thousand—but many more. If I fight for you, I commit all of my people to death.”
His words cut into her like a knife, left her shaking inside, not only his words, but the despair behind them. A part of her wanted to storm out of here, sickened, so disappointed in this man she had once idolized. She felt like crying inside at such betrayal from her own father.
She stood, trembling, and scowled down at him.
“You,” she seethed, “you, the greatest fighter of our land—yet afraid to protect the honor of his own daughter?”
She watched his face darkening, humiliated.
“Watch yourself,” he warned darkly.
But Kyra would not back down.
“I hate you!” she shouted.
Now he stood.
“Do you want all of our people to be killed? All for your honor?” he yelled back.
Kyra could not help herself. For the first time in as long as she could member, she burst into tears, so deeply wounded by her father’s lack of caring for her.
He stepped forward to console her, but she lowered her head and turned away as she cried. Then she caught hold of herself and quickly turned and wiped her tears away, looking to the fire with watery eyes.
“Kyra,” he said softly.
She looked up at him and saw that his eyes were watering, too.
“Of course I would fight for you,” he said. “I would fight for you until my heart stopped beating. I, and all of my men, would die for you. In the war that followed, you would die, too. Is that what you want?”
“And my slavery?” she shot back. “Is that what you want?”
Kyra knew she was being selfish, that she was putting herself first, and that was not her nature. Of course she would not allow all of her people to die on her behalf. But she just wanted to hear her father say the words: I will fight for you to the death. Whatever the consequences. You come first. You matter most.
But he remained silent, and his silence hurt her more than anything out there.
“I
shall fight for you!” came a voice.
Kyra turned, surprised, to see Aidan entering the room, holding a small spear, trying to put on his bravest look as he marched in.
“What are you doing here?” her father snapped. “I was speaking with your sister.”
“And I overheard it!” Aidan said, marching inside, determined. Leo jumped up and ran over to him, licking him, and he stroked his head.
Kyra could not help but smile. Aidan shared the same streak of defiance as she, even if he was too young and too small for his prowess to match his will.
“I will fight for my sister!” he added. “Even against all the trolls of the forest!”
She reached over and hugged him and kissed his forehead, wiping her tears.
She then turned back to her father, her glare darkening. She needed an answer; she needed to confront him and hear him say it.
“Do I not matter to you more than your men?” she asked him.
He stared back, his eyes filled with pain.
“You matter more to me than the world,” he said. “But I am not merely a father—I am a commander. My men are my responsibility, too. Can’t you understand that?”
She frowned.
“And where is that line drawn, Father? When exactly do your people matter more than your family? If the abduction of your only daughter is not that line, then what is? I am sure if one of your sons were taken, you would go to war.”
He scowled.
“This is not about men versus women,” he snapped.
“But isn’t it?” she shot back, determined to stand her ground. “Why is a boy’s life worth more than a girl’s?”
Her father fumed, breathing hard, and loosed his vest, more agitated than she’d ever seen him.
“There is another way,” he finally said.
She stared back, puzzled.
“Tomorrow,” he said slowly, his voice taking on a tone of authority, as if he were talking to his councilmen, “you shall choose a boy. Any boy you like from amongst our people. You shall wed by sundown. When the Lord’s Men come, you will be safe, here with us.”
Kyra stared back, aghast.
“Do you really expect me to marry some stranger?” she asked. “To just pick someone, just like that? Someone I don’t love?”
“You will!” her father yelled, his face red, equally determined. “If your mother were alive, she would handle this business—she would have handled it long ago, before it came to this. But she is not. You are not a warrior—you are a girl. And girls wed. And that is the end of the matter. If you have not chosen a husband by day’s end, I will choose one for you—and there is nothing more to say on the matter.”
Kyra stared back, disgusted, enraged at him. But most of all, she felt disappointment in her father.
“Is that how the great Commander Duncan wins battles?” she asked, wanting to hurt him. “By finding loopholes in the law so he can hide from his occupier?”
Kyra did not wait for a response, but turned and stormed from the room, Leo at her heels, slamming the thick oak door behind her.
“KYRA!” her father yelled after her—but the slammed door muffled his voice.
Kyra marched down the corridor, feeling her whole world shifting beneath her, like an earthquake. She felt as if she had no solid ground left to stand on. She realized, with each step she took, that she could no longer stay here, whatever the consequences. That her presence would endanger them all. And that was something she could not allow.
Kyra could not fathom her father’s words. She would never, ever, marry someone she did not love. She would never give in and live a life like all the other women. She would rather die first. Didn’t he know that? Didn’t he know his own daughter at all?
Kyra stopped by her chamber, put on her winter boots, draped herself with her warmest furs, grabbed her bow and staff, and kept walking.
“KYRA!” her father’s angry voice echoed from somewhere down the corridor.
She would not give him a chance to catch up.
Kyra kept marching, turning down corridor after corridor, determined to never come back here again. Whatever waited for her, out there in the world, she would face it head on. She might die, she knew—but at least it would be her choice. At least she would be free.
Kyra reached the main doors to the fort, Leo at her side, and the servants, standing by dying torches so late in the night, stared back at her, puzzled.
“My lady,” one said, “the storm rages.”
But she stood there, determined, until finally they got the picture. They exchanged a look, then each reached out and slowly pulled back the thick door.
The wind howled and a freezing gale hit her in the face, the whipping snow ice-cold, and she looked out and saw the snow up to her shins. But she did not care.
Kyra stepped out, right into the snow, knowing it was unsafe out here at night, the woods filled with creatures, seasoned criminals, and sometimes trolls. Especially on this night, the Winter Moon, the night when all were supposed to stay indoors, to bar the gates, the night when the dead crossed worlds and anything could happen. She looked up and saw the huge, blood-red moon hanging on the horizon, as if tempting her to venture outdoors, and, with the snow whipping her face, she did.
Kyra took the first step and did not turn back, ready to face whatever the night had in store for her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alec sat in his father’s forge before the great slab of iron, lifted his hammer, and pounded on the glowing-hot steel of a sword, freshly removed from the flames, sweating as he tried to hammer out his fury. Having just reached his sixteenth year, shorter than most boys his age yet stronger than them, too, with broad shoulders, already emerging muscles, and a big mat of wavy black hair that fell past his eyes, Alec was not one to give up easily. His life had been hard-forged, like this iron, and as he sat beside the flames, wiping hair from his eyes continually with the back of his hand as sweat poured down off his forehead and hissed on the sword, he thought of the news he had just received and realized he had never felt such a sense of despair. He wanted to hammer it out, like this sword, and yet he knew that some things could not be hammered away.
His entire life, Alec had been able to control things, to step up and do whatever he had to do to make things right, to work however hard he had to, to do whatever was necessary. But now, for the first time in his life, he was being forced to sit back and watch as injustice came to his town, to his family, and he could do nothing but stand by helplessly and watch.
Alec hammered again and again, the metal ringing in his ears, sweat stinging his eyes, and not caring. He wanted to pound this iron until there was nothing left, and as he pounded he thought not of the sword but of Pandesia. He would kill them all if he could, do anything to make them go away. For on this day, they would be coming to his town—and coming to take away his brother.
Alec slammed the forge again and again, imagining it was their heads, wishing he could grab fate by the hands and shape it to his will, wishing he were powerful enough to stand up to Pandesia himself. But he knew he was not. Today was the day, the Winter Moon festival, when Pandesia scoured all the villages, fanned out across the kingdom and rounded up all eligible boys who had reached their eighteenth year, for service at The Flames. Alec, two years shy, was still safe. But Ashton was not. Having turned eighteen the last harvest season, Ashton was prime to be taken.
Alec pounded the hammer, wanting to change the reality before him, to think of anything else. But he could not. His older brother, Ashton, was his hero. Despite having a club foot, despite having to walk with a limp, Ashton always had a smile on his face, always had a cheerful disposition—more cheerful than Alec—and had always made the best of life. He was the opposite of Alec, who felt everything very deeply, was always caught up in some storm of emotions, no matter how hard he tried otherwise. Alec could not always control his passions, and despite himself was often brooding. He had been told quite often that he took life too seriously, th
at he should lighten up; but for him, life was a hard, serious affair, and he simply did not know how.
Ashton, on the other hand, was calm, levelheaded, and happy, despite his position in life. He was also a fine blacksmith, like their father, and he was now single-handedly, especially since their father’s malady, providing for their family. If Ashton, his best friend and companion, were taken away, Alec would be crushed; not only would he be sad to see him go, but most of all, he knew that life as a draftee would lead to Ashton’s death. With Ashton’s club foot, he could never survive a life as a soldier. It would be cruel and unjust for Pandesia to take away a lame boy—but Alec had heard stories, and he hadn’t much faith in their mercy. He had a sinking feeling that today could be the last day his brother lived at home.
They were not a rich family and did not live in a rich village. Their home was simple enough, a small, single-story cottage with a forge attached, in the middle of the province of Soli, a day’s ride north of the capital and a day’s ride south of Whitewood. It was a landlocked, peaceful place of rolling countryside, far from most things, and just how they wanted it. They had just enough bread to get through each day, no more, no less. And that was all they wished for. They used their skills with their hammers to bring iron to market, and it was just enough to provide them what they needed.
Alec did not wish for much—but he did crave justice. He shuddered at the thought of his brother being snatched away to serve Pandesia, at how unjust it was. He had heard too many tales of what it was like to be drafted, to serve guard duty at The Flames that burned all day and all night, protecting their kingdom from the trolls. But the slaves who manned The Flames, Alec had heard, were hard men, slaves from across the world, draftees, criminals, and the worst of the Pandesian soldiers. The greatest danger at The Flames, Alec had heard, was not the trolls, but your fellow soldiers standing guard duty with you. Ashton would not be able to protect himself. He was a fine blacksmith, but not a fighter.
“Alec!”
