by Morgan Rice
As the soldier took a step closer, unbuckling his pants, grabbing at her clothes, she waited until the last moment and then, with all her might, she planted one foot, leaned back, and used her great flexibility to kick straight up.
She felt her foot connecting between the man’s legs with a great force and as she watched him cry out and drop to his knees, she knew it was a perfect blow. At the same moment, Leo finished with his attackers and turned and lunged for the man, leaping and pouncing on him and sinking his fangs into his throat.
Kyra was suddenly backhanded, and as she turned to face the other soldier, he drew a sword and faced her.
“You’re going to die this time,” he said.
Kyra picked up her staff and faced off with him—and he laughed.
“A staff against a sword,” he mocked. “You stand no chance. Better to give up now—your death won’t be so painful.”
He charged and swung at her, and as he did, Kyra’s instincts took over; she imagined herself back in the training ground, and as he swung, she dodged left and right, using her speed to her advantage. This soldier was big and strong, and he wielded a heavy sword—yet she was light and unencumbered, and as he came down with a particularly fierce blow meant to chop her in half, she sidestepped and it left him off balance; she swung around with her staff and cracked him on the back of his wrist and he dropped his weapon, losing it in the snow.
He looked back at her, shocked, then sneered and charged her with his bare hands, as if to tackle her. Kyra waited, then at the last moment crouched low and brought the tip of her staff straight up, connecting with his chin. The blow snapped his neck back and sent him landing flat on his back, dead.
Kyra, assuming all her attackers were, finally, dead, was confused to hear movement behind her. She turned to see one of the two soldiers Leo had attacked back on his feet, limping to his horse, and drawing his sword from its saddle. He turned and rushed Leo, who still had his fangs sunk in the other soldier’s throat, his back to him.
Kyra’s heart slammed in her chest; she was too far away to reach him in time.
“LEO!” she cried out.
But the wolf, too busy snarling, biting, did not realize.
Kyra knew she had to take drastic action, or else watch Leo be killed before her eyes. Her bow was still in the snow, too far from her.
She thought quick—she raised her staff and broke it over her knee. It splintered in two, and she took one of the halves, took aim, leaned back, and with its jagged end leading the way, she hurled it like a spear.
It whistled through the air and she prayed, like never before, that it find its target.
She breathed with relief as she watched it find its target, piercing the soldier’s throat right before he could reach Leo with his sword. The man stumbled and fell, grasping at it, and Leo, finished killing the soldier on the ground, turned and leapt on the soldier, finishing him off.
Kyra stood there in the silence, breathing hard, seeing the carnage all around her, these five large warriors sprawled out in the snow, staining it red, and she could hardly believe what she had done.
But before she could even process it, suddenly she detected motion out of the corner of her eye and she looked up and saw the squire. He looked back at her in fear, then turned and ran for his horse. He stumbled across the clearing until he jumped on it.
“Wait!” Kyra called out.
She knew she had to stop him. If he made it back to the Lord’s Men, he would tell them what had happened. They would know it was she who had done this, and her father and her people would be killed. She had to stop him.
Kyra picked up her bow, took aim, and waited until she had a good shot.
Finally, he broke into the clearing, and as the clouds opened and the moon shone down, she knew she had her chance.
But something stopped her; the boy had been innocent after all, and something within her just could not kill a fleeing innocent boy.
She lowered her bow, watching him ride off, feeling sick, knowing it would be her death sentence. She watched him disappear with a sense of dread—surely, a war would come for this.
Kyra knew, with the squire on the run, her time was short. She should run back through the wood, for her father’s fort, and alert them all at once what had happened. They would need time to prepare for war, to seal the fort—or to flee for their lives. She felt a terrible sense of guilt, yet also, of duty.
Yet in the silence that followed, she stood there and watched the dragon flap his good wing, and he looked to her, eyes wide in a glowing, mesmerizing stare, and she knew she could be nowhere else. She had to be by its side.
Kyra hiked quickly through the snow, down the bank, toward the gushing river, until she stood before the dragon. It lifted its neck just a bit and stared at her, their eyes meeting, as if they had known each other before. The dragon stared back with an inscrutable expression; in its eyes Kyra thought she saw gratitude, loyalty—yet also, defiance, perhaps even fury. She did not understand.
Kyra stepped closer, Leo at her side, growling, until she stood but a few feet away; her breath caught in her throat to be so close to such a magnificent creature. She stood there and realized how dangerous this was, how this dragon could kill her at any moment. Her mind raced with questions as she stared up at it.
Kyra slowly lifted her hand, even as the dragon appeared to be frowning at her, and, heart pounding with fear, she reached out and touched its scales. Its skin was so rough, so thick, so primordial—it was like touching the beginning of time. Her hand trembled as her fingertips stroked it, and not from the cold.
“What hurt you?” Kyra asked, stroking its scales. “What are you doing on this side of the world?”
Kyra suddenly heard a sound like a growling emitting from deep within its throat, and she lowered her hand, afraid. She could not read this beast, and even though she had just saved its life, Kyra suddenly felt it was a very bad idea to get so close to it.
The dragon slowly raised a sharpened claw until it touched Kyra’s throat. Kyra felt it touching and she stood frozen, wondering whether it would slice her throat.
But then, suddenly, something flashed in its eyes and it seemed to change its mind. It pulled back its claw and then, to her surprise, in one quick motion it brought it down.
Kyra felt a sense of searing pain on her face and she cried out as its claw sliced her cheek, drawing blood. It had only grazed her, and yet it was enough to draw blood. Enough, Kyra knew, to leave her with a thin scar running across her cheek.
Kyra reached up and touched the wound, saw the fresh blood in her hands, and felt a deep sense of pain. As she looked back into the dragon’s glowing yellow eyes, filled with defiance, it was not a physical pain as much as a pain of betrayal. She could not understand this creature. Did it hate her? Had she made a mistake to save its life?
Then again, it could have killed her, but only scratched her instead. Why? She tried to get into its mind, but it was inscrutable.
“Who are you?” she asked, afraid.
Suddenly, she heard a voice, an ancient voice, rumbling in her mind’s eye:
Theos.
She was shocked. She waited, hoping it would tell her more—but then suddenly, without warning, Theos shattered the silence by shrieking, rearing its head, and struggling to get away from her. It flopped and hobbled and spun wildly, trying desperately to lift off.
Kyra could not understand why.
“Wait!” Kyra cried out. “You are wounded! Let me help you!”
It pained her to see him flopping so much, blood dripping from its wound, unable to get one wing to work. He was so massive that each flop raised a great cloud of snow, shaking the ground, making the earth rumble and shattering the stillness of this snowy night. He tried so hard to lift off into the air, but could not.
“Where is it you want to go?” Kyra called out, willing him to stay.
But Theos suddenly flopped and this time, rolled down the steep, snowy bank, spinning around, agai
n and again, out of control, unable to stop itself. He rolled right for the gushing rapids below.
Kyra watched with horror, helpless, as he rolled right into the raging waters of the river.
“NO!” she cried out, rushing forward.
But there was nothing she could do. The great rapids carried Theos, flopping, screeching, downriver, winding through the forest, around a bend and out of sight, off to God only knew where.
Kyra watched him disappear and as she did, her heart broke inside her. She had sacrificed everything, her life, the destiny of her people, to save this creature—and now he was gone. What had it all been for? Had any of it even been real?
Kyra looked out and saw the five dead men, still lying in the snow, saw Leo, wounded, beside her, reached up, felt the sting on her cheek, saw the blood—and knew this all had been very real. She could hardly believe it: she had survived an encounter with a dragon. Had killed five of the Lord’s Men, and she knew that after tonight, her life would never be the same again.
She looked over and saw the horse’s trail winding into the wood and remembered the boy, riding to alert his people. She knew that, after tonight, the Lord’s Men would come for her people, would kill them all.
Without waiting another second she turned and sprinted into the wood, Leo at her side, determined to make it home in time to save her father, her brothers, all her people—if it were not already too late.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vesuvius stood in the enormous cave beneath the earth, on a stone balcony a hundred feet off the ground, and he looked down, surveying the work of his army of trolls beneath him. Thousands of trolls labored in this huge cavern underground, hammering away at rock with pickaxes and hammers, chopping away at earth and stone, the sound of mining heavy in the air. Endless torches lined the walls, while the streams of lava that crisscrossed the floor emitted a glow, brightening the cave and keeping it hot. Trolls sweated and gasped in the heat below.
Vesuvius smiled wide, his troll face grotesque, misshapen, twice the size of a human’s, with two long fangs, like tusks, that emerged from his mouth, and beady red eyes, enjoying watching his people suffer. He wanted them to toil, to work harder than they’d ever had, for he, King of the trolls, was determined to achieve was his fathers could not. Twice the size of a typical troll, and three times the size of a human, Vesuvius was all muscle and rage, and he felt he could achieve what none before him had. He had hatched a plan that even his ancestors did not conceive, a plan that would bring glory to his nation forever. Below, his people chipped away at what would be the greatest tunnel ever created—and with each passing fall of the hammer, the tunnel became just a little bit deeper.
Not once, in centuries, had his people figured out how to cross The Flames en masse; they were able to send individual trolls through here and there, but most died on these suicide missions. That was not what they needed. They needed an entire army of trolls to cross together, at once, to destroy Escalon once and for all. His fathers could not understand how to do it, and they had become complacent, resigned to a life here in the wilds of Marda. But not he. He, Vesuvius, was wiser than all his fathers, tougher, more determined. One day the idea had come to him that if he could not go through The Flames, or over them, then perhaps he could go under them. He had set his plan into motion at once and had not stopped since, rallying thousands of his soldiers and slaves to build what would be the greatest creation of the troll kingdom: a tunnel to pass beneath The Flames.
Vesuvius watched with satisfaction a taskmaster bring down a whip on a white slave, a human they had captured from the West, chained to the hundreds of other slaves, toiling with the others. The human cried out and fell, and he was lashed until he died. Vesuvius grinned, taking pleasure in it, and was pleased to see the other humans work harder. His trolls were nearly twice the size of the humans, much more grotesque-looking, too, with bulging muscles and misshaped faces, and filled with a bloodlust that was insatiable. The humans were a good target for them, a good way for his people to vent their violence.
Yet as he watched, Vesuvius was still frustrated: no matter how many people he enslaved, how many of his soldiers he put to work, no matter how hard he lashed them, how much he tortured or killed his own people to motivate them, the progress remained too slow. The rock was too thick, too hard, and the job too massive. At this rate, he knew, they would never complete this tunnel in his lifetime, and his dream of invading Escalon would remain a dream. Of course, they had more than enough room here in their own lands—but Vesuvius didn’t want room. He wanted to kill, to subjugate all humans, to take all that was theirs, just for the fun of it. He wanted to have it all. And he knew that if he was to get there, the time had come for more drastic measures.
“My Lord and King?” came a voice.
Vesuvius turned to see several of his soldiers standing there, wearing the distinctive green armor of the troll nation, their insignia—a roaring boar’s head with a dog in its mouth—emblazoned across the front. His men lowered their heads out of deference and looked to the ground, as they had been trained to do when in his presence.
Vesuvius saw they were holding a troll soldier between them, wearing tattered armor, his face covered in dirt and ash and spotted with burn marks.
“You may address me,” he commanded.
Slowly, they raised their chins and looked him in the eye.
“These two were captured inside Marda, in Southwood,” one reported. “They were caught returning from beyond The Flames.”
Vesuvius looked over the captive soldier, shackled, and was filled with disgust. Every day he sent men west, across Marda, on a mission to charge through The Flames and emerge on the other side, in Escalon. If they survived the journey, they were ordered to wreak terror amongst as many humans as they could—but more importantly, to seek out the two Towers and steal the Sword of Flames, the mythical weapon that supposedly held up The Flames. Most of his trolls never returned from the journey—they were either killed by the passage through the Flames or eventually, by the humans in Escalon. It was a one-way mission: they were commanded never to return—unless they came back with the Sword of Flames in hand.
But once in a while, some men sneaked back, mostly disfigured from their journey through The Flames, unsuccessful in their mission but seeking to return anyway, for safe harbor in their homeland. Vesuvius had no stomach for these men, as good as deserters in his eyes.
“And what news do you bring from the West?” he asked. “Did you find the Sword?” he added, already knowing the answer.
The soldier gulped, looking terrified.
He slowly shook his head.
“No, my Lord and King,” he said, his voice broken.
Vesuvius raged in the silence.
“Then why did you return to Marda?” he demanded.
The troll kept his head lowered.
“I was ambushed by a party of humans,” he said. “I was lucky to escape and make it back here.”
Vesuvius sighed.
“But why did you come back?” he asked.
The soldier looked at him, puzzled and nervous.
“Because my mission was over, my Lord and King.”
Vesuvius fumed.
“Your mission was to find the Sword, or die trying.”
The soldier gulped.
“But I made it through The Flames!” he pleaded. “I killed many humans! And I made it back!”
“And tell me,” he said kindly, stepping forward and laying a hand on the troll’s shoulder as he slowly walked with him toward the edge of the balcony. “Did you really think, upon coming back, that I would let you live?”
Vesuvius suddenly grabbed the troll by the back of his shirt, stepped forward, and hurled him over the edge.
The soldier flailed, shrieking through the air, and all the workers down below stopped and looked up, watching as he fell. He tumbled a hundred feet, then finally landed, with a splat, on the hard rock below. Dead.
The workers all looked up
at Vesuvius, and he glared back down at them, knowing this would be a good reminder to all who failed him.
They all went quickly back to work, as if nothing had happened.
Vesuvius, still in a rage and needing to let it out on someone, turned from the balcony and strutted down the winding stone steps carved into the canyon wall, quickly followed by his men, who fell in behind. He wanted to see the progress his men were making himself, up close—and while he was down there, he figured he could find a pathetic slave to beat to a pulp.
Vesuvius wound his way down the stairs, carved into the black rock, descending flight after flight, all the way down to the base of this vast cave, which was getting hotter the lower he went. Dozens of his soldiers fell in behind him as he strutted across the cave floor, weaving his way between the streams of lava, the hordes of workers. As he went, thousands of soldiers and slaves stopped working and parted ways for him, bowing their heads differentially.
It was hot down here, the base heated not only from the sweat of men, but from the streaks of lava that crisscrossed the room and oozed from the walls, from the sparks flying off the rocks as men struck them everywhere with axes and picks.
Vesuvius marched across the vast cave floor, until finally he reached the entrance of the tunnel. He stood before it and stared: a hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall, the tunnel was being dug so that it sloped down gradually, deeper and deeper beneath the earth, deep enough to be able to support an army when the time came to burrow under The Flames. One day they would penetrate Escalon, rise above the surface, and destroy the country overnight, taking thousands of human slaves. It would, he knew, go down as the greatest invasion in history.
Vesuvius marched forward, snatched a whip from a soldier’s hands, reached high, and began lashing soldiers left and right. They all went back to work, striking the rock twice as fast, smashing the hard black rock until clouds of dust filled the air. He then made his way to the human slaves, men and women they had abducted from the other side of The Flames and had managed to bring back, even if badly burned. Those were missions he relished most of all, those that were solely for the sake of terrorizing the West, missions solely for the sake of searching for victims in the night and bringing them back. Most died on the passage back through, but enough survived, even if badly burnt and maimed, and these he worked to the bone in his tunnels.
