by Morgan Rice
Kyra’s detected motion, and she looked about her and in the distance, saw soldiers on patrol, carrying torches in the night, pacing along The Flames, scabbards at their hips. Her heart beat faster as she watched them, spread out every fifty yards or so, with such vast territory to cover. She had really made it.
Kyra stood there, feeling alive, feeling as if anything could happen at any time. At any moment, a troll could run through those flames, she thought. Of course, the fire killed most of them, but some, using shields, managed to burst through and live, at least long enough to kill as many soldiers as it could. Sometimes a troll even survived the passage and roamed the forest near her fort. She remembered once when one of her father’s men brought back a troll’s head. It was a sight she would never forget.
As Kyra stared at The Flames, so mysterious, she wondered at her own fate. What would become of her?
“Hey, what are you doing here?” came a voice.
Kyra looked over to see a soldier had spotted her, was walking toward her. One of her father’s men.
She did not want a confrontation. She was warm now, her spirits restored, and she had seen what she had come to see. It was time to move on. To where, she did not know, but she, inspired by The Flames, knew that her destiny lay out there somewhere, even if she could not see it yet.
“Come on, Leo,” she said.
She turned and headed back into the snow, toward the distant wood, knowing her destiny lay out there somewhere.
*
Kyra stumbled through the night, chilled to the bone, glad Leo was with her and wondering if she could go on. She had searched everywhere for shelter, for an escape from the biting wind and snow, and despite the risks, she had found herself gravitating toward the Wood of Thorns, the only place in sight to take shelter. The Flames were somewhere far behind her, no longer visible on the horizon, and the blood-moon had been nearly swallowed by the clouds, leaving her little light to see by. Barely able to feel her hands or toes, her situation seemed to grow more dire by the moment. She wondered if it had been foolish to leave the fort at all. She wondered if her father, or any of the others, even cared.
Kyra felt a fresh burst of anger as she continued through the snow, marching she was not sure where, but determined to get away from the life waiting for her at the fort. And as a gale of wind passed and Leo whined, she looked up and was surprised to see she had made it this far; before her were the towering pines of the Wood of Thorns. She paused, feeling a sense of apprehension, knowing how dangerous it was, even in the day, even in a group, to come here alone, and at night. And on a night like this, when spirits roamed, she was taking her life in her hands. Anything, she knew, could happen.
But another gale whipped through, sending snow down the back of her neck, chilling her to the bone, and Kyra marched on, past the first tree, its branches heavy with snow, and taking her first step into the wood.
As soon as she entered, Kyra immediately felt some relief. It was quieter in here: the thick branches sheltered her from the wind, the raging snow barely trickled down through all the trees, and for the first time since she had left her father’s fort, she could see again. Even in here the snow was up to her knees, but the wind, at least, was muted, and already she felt warmer. Kyra used the opportunity to shake the snow off of her arms and shoulders and legs and hair, while beside her, Leo shook himself off, too, snow flying everywhere.
Kyra, catching her breath, reached into her sack and pulled out a piece of dried meat for Leo, and he snatched it eagerly. She stroked his head.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find shelter for the night, my friend.”
Kyra continued deeper into the forest, looking for any sort of shelter she could find, determined to stay the night here, wake to a new day, and continue her trek in the morning. She looked for a boulder to lean against, or the nook of a tree, or ideally a cave—any place to take shelter—but found none.
She marched and marched, brushing against snowy branches in the thick wood, and as she went, there arose strange animal noises all around her. She heard a deep purring noise beside her, and she spun, hairs rising on her spine, and peered into the thick branches. But it was too dark to see anything. She hurried on, not wanting to contemplate what beasts might be lurking here, and in no mood for a confrontation. She clutched her bow tightly, unsure if she could even fire it, given how numb her hands were. She needed to find shelter, to at least have her back protected.
Kyra marched more quickly, ascending a gentle slope within the forest, and as she crested it, she stopped and looked out, afforded a view down below as the moon momentarily streaked through an opening in the trees. There sat a glistening lake, its waters ice-blue, translucent, and she immediately realized where she was: the Lake of Dreams. Her father had brought her here once, when she was a child. They had lit a candle and placed it on a lily pad, in honor of her mother. This was rumored to be a sacred place, a vast mirror to look into life above, and life below, a place where heartfelt wishes could not be ignored.
Filled with a burning desire, Kyra marched for the lake, feeling drawn to it. She stumbled down the steep hill, using her staff to steady herself, weaving between trees, avoiding rocks and roots, until she soon reached the shore. Oddly enough, even though the forest was thick with snow and snow continued to fall here, the shore, made of fine white sand, was snow-free. It was magical.
Kyra knelt by the water’s edge, shivering from the cold, and looked down. In the moonlight, she saw her reflection, her blonde hair falling by her cheeks, her light gray eyes, her high cheekbones, her delicate features, looking nothing like her father or brothers. Yet in her eyes, she saw the eyes of a warrior, the spirit of her father’s house. As she stared at her reflection, she recalled her father’s words from so many years ago: a heartfelt prayer at the Lake of Dreams cannot be refused.
Kyra, so torn over where to go, what to do, needed guidance now more than ever. She had never felt more at a crossroads, more confused, as if everything she had been so sure about her entire life was now in disarray.
She closed her eyes and prayed with all her might.
God, I don’t know who you are. But I ask your help. Give me something, and I shall give you whatever you ask for in return. Show me which path to take. Give me a life of honor and courage. Of valor. Allow me to become a great warrior, and to be at the mercy of no man. Allow me to have the freedom to do as I choose.
Kyra knelt there, numb to the cold and at her wits’ end, with nowhere left to turn in the world, praying with all her heart and all her soul.
She lost all sense of time and place and had no idea how much time had passed when she opened her eyes, snowflakes on her eyelids. She felt changed somehow, she did not know how, as if an inner peace had settled over her. She looked down into the lake, and this time, what she saw took her breath away.
Staring back up at her was not her own reflection—but the reflection of a dragon. It had fierce, glowing yellow eyes and ancient red scales, and she felt her blood run cold as it opened its mouth and roared at her.
Kyra, startled, wheeled, expecting to see a dragon standing over her. She looked everywhere, but saw nothing. It was only her, and Leo, who whined softly.
Kyra turned and looked down at the waters again, and this time, she saw only her face staring back.
Her heart slammed in her chest. Had it been some trick of the light? Of her own imagination? Of course, it could not have been possible—dragons had not visited Escalon in thousands of years. Was she losing her mind? What could this all mean?
Kyra jumped as she suddenly heard a terrifying noise coming from far off in the woods, something like a howl crossed with a cackle. Leo heard it, too, snarling, hair rising. Kyra searched the woods, and in the distance she saw a faint glow from behind the tree line. Like a fire—but there was no fire. Only an eerie, white glow.
Kyra felt the hair rise on the back of her neck, felt as if another world were beckoning her, as if she had opened some sort of portal to the spi
rit world. As much as every part of her screamed to turn and run, she found herself mesmerized, found her body acting for her as she got up and began to walk into the woods, making her way inextricably toward the light.
She hiked up the hill with Leo, the glow getting brighter as she weaved her way between the trees. Finally, she reached the ridge, and she stopped short, aghast. Before her, in a small clearing, was a sight she could have never expected—and one she would never forget.
An old woman, face whiter than the snow, grotesque, covered in warts and scars, stared down at what appeared to be a fire below her, holding her wrinkled hands to it. But the fire burned a bright white, and there were no logs beneath it. She looked up at Kyra with ice-blue eyes, eyes with no whites, all color, and no pupils. It was the scariest thing Kyra had ever seen, and her heart froze within her at the sight. Everything within her told her to turn and run, but she could not help herself as she stepped forward, closer.
“The Winter Moon,” the old lady said, her voice unnaturally deep, as if a bullfrog had spoken. “When the dead are not quite alive and the alive are not quite dead.”
“And which are you?” Kyra asked, stepping forward.
The woman cackled, a horrific sound that sent a chill up her spine. Beside her, Leo snarled.
“The question is,” the woman said, “which are you?”
Kyra frowned.
“I am alive,” she insisted.
“Are you? In my eyes, you are more dead than me.”
Kyra wondered what she meant, and she sensed it was a rebuke, a rebuke for not going forth boldly and following her own heart.
“What is it you seek, brave warrior?” the woman asked
Kyra’s heart quickened at the term, and she felt emboldened.
“I want a bigger life,” she said. “I want to be a warrior. Like my father.”
The old woman looked back down into the light, Kyra relieved to have her eyes off of her. A long silence fell over them as Kyra waited, wondering.
Finally, as the silence stretched forever, Kyra’s heart fell in disappointment. Perhaps it was not possible.
“Can you help me?” Kyra asked. “Can you change my destiny?”
The women looked back up, her eyes aglow, intense, scary.
“This is the night when all things are possible,” she replied slowly. “If you want something badly enough, you can have it. The question is: what are you willing to sacrifice?”
Kyra thought, her heart pounding with the possibilities.
“I will give anything,” she said. “Anything.”
There came another long silence as the light crackled and the wind howled. Leo began to whine.
“We are each born with a destiny,” the old woman finally said. “Yet we must also choose it for ourselves. Fate and free will do a dance, and they will do that dance your whole life long. It is a tug of war between the two. Who will win—that depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Your strength. Your discipline. Your force of will. How badly you want something—and how graced you are by God. And perhaps most of all, what you are willing to sacrifice.”
“I will sacrifice,” Kyra said, feeling the strength rising up within her. “I will sacrifice anything. Everything.”
The woman stared into her eyes so long, Kyra nearly had to turn away.
“Vow to me,” the old woman said. “On this night, vow to me. Vow that you will pay the price.”
Kyra stepped forward solemnly, her heart pounding, feeling her life was about to change.
“I vow,” she proclaimed, meaning it, meaning it more than any words she had uttered in her life.
The certainty of her tone cut through the air, her voice carrying an authority, a finality, which surprised even her.
The old woman looked at her, and for the first time, she nodded, as her face morphed into what appeared to be a look of respect. She looked as if she were satisfied, as if she had come to a decision.
“You will be a warrior, and more,” the woman said. “You will be the greatest of all warriors. Greater than your father ever was. You will be a great ruler, too. You will achieve power beyond what you could dream, and entire nations will look to you.”
Kyra’s heart slammed, her hands trembling, as she pondered the words.
“Yet you will also be drawn to darkness,” the woman continued. “There will be a great struggle within you. If you can defeat yourself, the world will be yours.”
Kyra stood there, reeling, hardly believing it all. How was it possible? Surely, she must have the wrong girl. No one had ever told her she would be important, would be anything special, her entire life. It all seemed so foreign to her, so unattainable.
“How?” Kyra asked. “How is this possible? I am but a girl.”
The woman smiled, an awful, evil smile that Kyra would remember for the rest of her life, as she stepped in close, so close that Kyra shook with fear.
“Sometimes,” the old woman grinned, “your fate lies just around the corner.”
Suddenly there came an intense flash of light, and Kyra shielded her eyes as Leo snarled and snapped, pouncing at the old woman.
But when Kyra opened them, the light was gone. The woman was gone. The clearing was nothing but blackness, lit by the black moon, Leo leaping at air.
Kyra looked everywhere, baffled. Had she imagined the whole thing?
Suddenly, as if in answer to her thoughts, there came a horrific, primordial shriek, as if the very heavens themselves had opened up and cried out. Kyra stood there, frozen in place, and thought of the lake.
Because, although she had never set eyes upon one, she knew, she just knew that it was the shriek of a dragon. And that it lay, waiting for her, just beyond the clearing.
Standing there alone, the old woman gone, Kyra felt herself reeling as she tried to process what just happened, the woman’s prophecy, what it all could mean. Most of all, she tried to understand that noise. It was a screech, a roar, a sound unlike any she had ever heard, so primal, as if the very earth were being born. She wondered what it could mean, on the heels of that prophecy. It at once terrified her and drew her to it, so that she knew there was nowhere else she could possibly go. In a strange way, she felt as if it were summoning her, and it resonated through her in a way she could not understand. It was so foreign and yet so familiar, as if it were a sound she had been hearing somewhere in the back of her mind her entire life.
Kyra tore through the woods, Leo beside her, stumbling knee-deep in the snow, branches snapping her in the face and she not caring, feeling an urgency to reach the sound. For as it screeched again, Kyra could not help but feel that it was also a sound of distress. Whatever it was, she sensed in her bones that it desperately needed her help. That it was dying.
And that it was summoning her.
CHAPTER TEN
Merk stood there in the forest clearing, one man dead at his feet, and stared back at the seven other thieves, who gaped back. They now gave him a look of respect—and fear—it was clear that they had mistook him for another sojourner, another person they could take advantage of. They had vastly underestimated him. Even though they outnumbered him seven to one, as they looked down at their leader lying dead at his feet, killed so quickly, they seemed to realize that the odds might not be in their favor.
“I’m tired of killing,” Merk said, “so this is your lucky day. I’ll give you one chance to turn and run.”
A long, tense silence fell over the wood, as they all stood there, looking to each other, clearly debating what to do.
“That’s our friend you killed,” one seethed.
“That’s right,” Merk said. “Your ex-friend. And if you keep talking, it will be you, too.”
The thief scowled.
“You little wench,” he snapped, raising his club. “There are still seven of us and one of you. Now lay that knife down slowly and raise your hands, before we cut you to pieces.”
Merk smiled; he was so tired of resisti
ng the urge to kill, resisting who he was. It was so much easier, he realized, just to give in, to become the old killer he was.
He shook his head.
“Well, you had your warning,” he said. “There’s no cure for stupid.”
The thief shouted and charged, raising his club high overhead and swinging at him wildly.
Merk was surprised. For a big man, he brought the club down quicker than he would have thought; yet still, he was clumsy, and Merk merely sidestepped, leaned back, and kicked the man in the ribs, sending him flying face-first into the dirt.
Another charged, raising his dagger, aiming for Merk’s shoulder, and Merk grabbed his wrist, re-directed it, and plunged the man’s own dagger into his heart.
Merk spotted a thief raise a bow and take aim, and he quickly stepped up, grabbed another thief who was charging him, spun him around, and used him as a human shield. The thief cried out as the arrow pierced his chest instead of Merk’s.
Merk then shoved the dying man forward, right into the man with the bow, blocking his shot, then raised his dagger and threw it. It spun end over end, crossing the clearing, until it impaled the man in the neck, killing him.
That left three of them, and they now looked at Merk with uncertain faces, filled with fear, as if debating whether to charge or run.
“There are three us and one of him!” one called out to the others. “Let’s charge together!”
They all charged him at once, and Merk stood there, waiting patiently, relaxed. He was unarmed, and that was how he wanted it; often, he found, the best way to defeat foes, especially when outnumbered, was to use their weapons against them.
Merk waited for the first one to slash at him, an oaf of a boy who charged clumsily with a sword, all power and no technique. Merk stepped aside, grabbed the boy’s wrist, snapped it, then disarmed him and sliced his throat. As the second attacker came, Merk spun backwards and slashed him across the chest. He then turned and faced the third thief and threw the sword—a move the man did not expect. It spun end over end and entered the man’s chest, sending him flat on his back.
