by Morgan Rice
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.
“Before Pandesia invaded, it was a noble profession to guard The Flames,” he said, his voice glum. “The Keepers were honored, were armed and well-equipped. It was why I volunteered. But now…now it’s something else entirely. They don’t want the trolls coming through—but they don’t use their own men. They leave us to die here.”
“Perhaps we should let them through then,” Alec said, “and let them kill them all.”
“We should,” Marco said. “But they’d kill our families, too.”
They fell silent, the two of them standing there, staring into The Flames. Alec did not know how much time had passed as he stared, wondering. He could not help but feel as if he were looking into his death. What was his family doing right now? he wondered. Were they thinking of him? Did they even care?
Alec was getting lost in depressing thoughts and knew he had to change his mood. He forced himself to look away, to glance back over his shoulder and to study the dark woodline. The woods were pitch black, foreboding, the soldiers in the watchtowers not even bothering to watch them. Instead, they kept their eyes fixed on the recruits, on The Flames.
“They are afraid to stand guard themselves,” Alec observed, looking up at the soldiers. “Yet they don’t want us to leave. That is cowardly.”
Barely had Alec uttered the words when he suddenly felt a tremendous pain in his back, sending him stumbling forward. Before he knew what was happening, he felt a club being jammed into his back, and he landed face-first on the hard ground. He heard a sinister voice, one he recognized:
“I told you I’d find you, boy.”
Before he could react Alec felt rough hands grab him from behind and drag him forward, toward The Flames. There were two of them—the boy from the carriage and his friend—and Alec tried to resist, but it was useless. Their grip was too tight and they were carrying him closer and closer, until his face felt the intense heat of The Flames.
Alec heard struggling and he looked over and was surprised to see Marco wrapped up in chains, two other boys grabbing him from behind, holding him in place. They had planned this well, Alec realized. A coordinated attack. They really wanted him dead.
Alec struggled, but he could not gain leverage. They were getting closer and closer to The Flames, hardly ten feet away, the heat of it so intense he could already feel the pain, feel as if his face were going to melt. He knew that with but a few more feet, he would either be dead, or disfigured for life.
Alec bucked, but they had him in such a tight grip, he could not break free.
“NO!” he shrieked.
“Time for payback,” hissed the voice in his ear.
There suddenly came a horrific shriek, and Alec was shocked to realize it was not his own. He was surprised to feel the grip loosening on his arms, and as he did, he immediately pulled back from The Flames. At that same moment, he was amazed to see a huge burst of light, and he watched as a troll burst out of The Flames, on fire, and suddenly landed on the boy beside him, pinning him to the ground.
The troll, still on fire, rolled with the boy on the ground, then sank its fangs into his throat. The boy shrieked as he died instantly.
The troll turned and looked about, in a frenzy, and its eyes, large and red, met Alec’s. Alec was terrified. Still aflame, it breathed through its mouth, its long fangs covered in blood, and looked ravenous for a kill, like a wild beast.
Alec stood there, frozen with fear, unable to move even if he wanted to.
But it detected motion, saw the other boy from the carriage running away, and to Alec’s relief, it set its sights on him instead. It turned, lunged for him, and in one bound tackled him to the ground, landing on his back, and sank its fangs into the back of his neck. The boy cried out as it killed him.
Alec turned to see Marco shake off the stunned boys, grabbing the chain and swinging it around, smashing one in the face and the other between the legs, dropping them both.
Bells started to toll in all the watchtowers, and all around Alec, chaos ensued. All around him, boys gathered, came running from all up and down The Flames to fight the troll. They jabbed at it with spears, but most were inexperienced and were afraid to get too close, and the troll reached out, grabbed a spear and pulled a boy close, hugging him tight and, as the boy shrieked, setting him aflame.
“Now’s the time,” hissed an urgent voice.
Alec turned to see Marco running up beside him.
“They’re all distracted. This may be our only chance.”
Marco looked out and Alec followed his glance: he was looking at the woods. He meant to escape.
Black and ominous, the woodline was foreboding; Alec knew that even greater dangers likely lurked in there, but he knew Marco was right: this may be their only chance. And nothing better awaited them here.
Alec nodded, the two of them exchanged a knowing look, and without another word, they broke into a sprint together, running farther and farther from The Flames, toward the woods.
Alec’s heart slammed in his chest as he expected at any moment to be shot by a crossbow, to be hunted down and killed. He was running for his very life.
But as he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw everyone surrounding the troll, distracted, no eyes on them.
A moment later, they entered the woods, engulfed in blackness and into a world of dangers greater than he could ever imagine. He would probably die out here, he knew. But at least he was free.
Free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Kyra stood outside her father’s fort, Leo beside her, looking out at the wintry landscape, snow still falling, the sky streaked with scarlet, and she leaned on the wall, breathing hard as she plopped down yet another stone. She had joined the others in gathering these huge stones from the river, in erecting yet another wall around the perimeter of the fort. As the mason smeared the plaster, she plopped down one stone after the next, and he smoothed it out. She was joined by rows of her people, all building this wall higher, thicker, deeper, adding rings and rings to the embankments. Others worked with shovels, digging layers of ditches; still others dug graves for the dead and wounded. Kyra knew this was all futile, that it would not hold back the Pandesian army, that no matter what they did, they would all die in this place. But it gave them something to do, some sense of having control over their looming deaths.
As Kyra took a break, she leaned against the wall, looked out at the landscape, and wondered. All was so still, so solemn, the snow muffling all sound. It seemed as if the world held nothing but peace.
But she knew differently; she knew the Pandesians were out there somewhere, gathering, preparing. She knew they would return, in a deafening rumble, and destroy all that she held precious. It was the calm before the storm. It was hard to understand how the world could be so still, so perfect, one moment—and so filled with destruction and chaos the next.
Kyra glanced back over her shoulder and saw the people of the fort winding down their work for the day, laying down their picks and shovels as night began to fall and filtering back toward their homes. Smoke rose from chimneys, candles were lit in windows, and the fort looked so cozy, as if it could not be touched by the greater world. She marveled at the illusion.
As she stood there, her father’s words rang in her ears, his request that she leave at once. She thought of her uncle, of the journey, of the Tower of Ur; she thought of her mother, of the secrets she had to learn; she thought of training, becoming a warrior—and that all thrilled her.
And yet as she turned and looked about at her people, she knew, even if it would save her life, she just could not abandon them; it was just not who she was.
“Do you really think this wall w
ill help?”
Kyra turned and looked at Aidan beside her, breathing hard as he plopped down a heavy stone next to hers and took a break. She had told him to go inside and prepare for the feast, but he had insisted on being out here with her, as attached to her as always.
“No,” she answered truthfully.
His brow furrowed.
“Then why are we building it?” he asked.
She sighed, wondering what to say.
“Work distracts,” she said. “It also gives the illusion of progress. And sometimes, in wars, illusions are very powerful things.”
He seemed confused by her response, but he asked no more.
“I heard what happened today,” he said, his voice hesitant. “On the bridge. What you did.”
She examined him, wondering.
“And what did you hear?” she asked.
He shrugged, looking away.
“I heard that you are different,” he finally said, his voice glum.
“Look at me,” she said gently, and raised his chin to her eye level. “I am your sister. I always will be. And I will always be there for you. Nothing will ever change that. Do you understand?” she said, wanting to reassure him.
He smiled wide and nodded, and gave her a hug.
A horn sounded.
“Night comes,” said the mason, standing beside her, laying down his trowel. “There is little we can do in the dark. Your father’s men are to return to the fort, for the feast. Come now,” he said, as the rows of people working the wall turned and headed across the drawbridge back through the gates of the fort.
“I will come in a moment,” she said, not yet ready, wanting more time to enjoy the peace, the silence. She was always happiest alone, outdoors. “But bring Aidan.”
Aidan looked back at her, reluctant to go without her, while Leo whined and licked his lips and she could sense he was hungry.
“It’s OK,” she said to Aidan. “I’ll follow shortly. Take Leo with you—he’s hungry—and give him a hunk of meat.”
But at the sound of the word “meat” Leo had already leapt off after Aidan, who laughed, the two walking back to the fort together.
Kyra stood outside the fort, closing her eyes against the noise and becoming lost in her thoughts. It took quite a while before all the others turned and left and finally, the sound of the hammers had stopped. Finally, she had true peace.
She turned and looked out and studied the horizon, the darkening woodline, the rolling gray clouds covering up the scarlet, and she wondered. When were they coming?
As she looked, she was surprised to detect motion in the distance. Something caught her eye, just beyond the woods, and as she watched, she saw a lone rider come into view, emerging from the wood and taking the main road for their fort. Kyra reached back and gripped her bow unconsciously, bracing herself, wondering if he were a scout, if he were heralding an army; but as he came closer, she loosened her grip and relaxed as she recognized him: it was one of her father’s men, Maltren. He galloped, and as he did, he led a riderless horse beside him by the reins. It was a most curious sight.
Maltren came to an abrupt stop before her and looked down at her with urgency, appearing scared; she could not understand what was happening.
“What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “Is Pandesia coming?”
He sat there, breathing hard, and shook his head.
“It is your brother,” he said. “Aidan.”
Kyra’s heart plummeted at the mention of her brother’s name, the person she loved most in the world, and she was immediately on edge.
“What is it?” she demanded. “What’s happened to him?”
Maltren caught his breath.
“He’s been badly injured,” he said. “I’ve come to get help.”
Kyra’s heart started pounding. Aidan? Injured? Her mind spun with awful scenarios—but mostly, confusion.
“How?” she demanded. “What was he doing out there? I thought he was in the fort, preparing for the feast.”
Maltren shook his head.
“He went out with your brothers,” he said. “Hunting. He took a bad fall from his horse—his legs are broken.”
Kyra felt a flash of determination rush through her. Without wasting another moment, she rushed forward and mounted the spare horse.
“Lead me to him,” she said, filled with adrenaline, not even stopping to think through it all carefully. She could not even think clearly: all she could think of was seeing Aidan.
If Kyra had taken just a moment to turn around, to check the fort, she would have found Aidan, safely inside. But she did not. Fueled by her urgency, she did not stop to question Maltren, but rather rode off with him, the two of them an unlikely duo, as they charged off together, away from her father’s fort and toward the blackening wood.
*
Kyra and Maltren galloped down the road, over the rolling hills, toward the wood, as night fell all around them, breathing hard as she dug her heels into her horse, anxious to save her brother, a million nightmares swimming through her head. How could he have broken his legs? she wondered. What were her brothers doing hunting out here, close to nightfall, when all of her father’s people had been forbidden to leave the fort? None of it made any sense.
They reached the edge of the wood, and as Kyra prepared to enter it, she was puzzled to see Maltren suddenly bring his horse to a stop before it. She stopped abruptly beside him and watched as he dismounted and walked toward the edge of the wood. She dismounted, too, both horses breathing hard, and followed him, baffled, as he stopped at the forest’s edge.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked, breathing hard. “I thought my brother was in the wood?”
Kyra looked all around, and as she did, she had a feeling that something was terribly wrong—when suddenly, out of the woods, she was horrified to see, stepped the Lord Governor himself, flanked by two dozen men. She heard snow crunching behind her, and she turned to see two dozen more men circle around behind her, all of them aiming bows at her, one grabbing the reins to her horse. Her blood ran cold as she realized she had walked into a trap.
She turned and looked over at Maltren in fury, realizing he had betrayed her.
“Why?” she asked, disgusted at the sight of him. “You are my father’s man. Why would you do this?”
The Lord Governor answered her question as he walked over to Maltren and placed a large sack of gold in his hand, while Maltren looked away guiltily.
“For enough gold,” the Governor said to her, a haughty smile on his face, “you will find that men will do anything you wish. Maltren here will be rich forever, richer than your father ever was, and he will be spared from death.”
Kyra scowled at Maltren, hardly fathoming his betrayal.
“You are a traitor,” she said.
He scowled back at her.
“Wrong,” he replied. “I am our savior. They would have killed all of our people, thanks to your antics. Thanks to me, the rest of us will be spared. I made a deal. You can thank me for their lives.” He smiled, satisfied. “And, to think, all I had to do was hand over you.”
Kyra suddenly felt rough hands grab her from behind, felt herself hoisted in the air. She bucked and writhed, but she could not shake them as she felt her wrist and ankles bound, felt herself thrown into the back of a carriage.
A moment later the iron bars slammed on her and the cart jostled away, bumping over the countryside. She knew that, wherever they were taking her, no one would ever see or hear from her again. And as they entered the wood, blocking out all view of the night falling over the countryside, she knew that her life as she knew it was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The giant lay at Vesuvius’s feet, bound by a thousand ropes, held down by a hundred trolls, and Vesuvius stood over it, feet from its fangs, and studied it in awe. The beast craned its neck, snarling, trying to reach out and kill him—but it could not budge. Vesuvius grinned, delighted. He took pride in having power over helpless things—
and he loved watching things suffer.
Seeing the beast here, back in Vesuvius’s own cave, in his own territory, the beast his prisoner of war, gave him a thrill. Being able to stand so close to it made him feel all powerful, made him feel as if there were nothing in the world he could not conquer. Finally, after all these years, his dream had been realized. Finally, he would be able to achieve his lifelong goal: to carve out the tunnel that would lead his nation under The Flames, into the west, and allow them to destroy everything in sight.
Vesuvius sneered down at the creature.
“I have vanquished you,” he said, standing over it. “You see, you are not as strong as I. No one is as strong as I.”
The beast roared, an awful sound, and struggled in vain, and as it did, all the trolls holding it swayed left and right, the ropes shifting—but not giving. Vesuvius knew it would tear him to pieces if it could—he also knew their time was short. If they were going to do this, the time was now.
Vesuvius turned and surveyed the cave. It was filled with thousands of workers, trolls filling the cave, stopping their labor to watch the giant. At the far end sat the unfinished tunnel, and Vesuvius knew this would be the tricky part. He would have to put the giant to work. Somehow, he would have to goad it to enter the tunnel and smash through the rock. But how?
Vesuvius stood there, racking his brain, until finally an idea came to him.
He turned to the giant and drew his sword, a long ceremonial sword, aglow against the flames of the cave.
“I will cut your ropes,” Vesuvius said to the beast, “because I do not fear you. You will be free, and you shall follow my command. You will smash through the rock of that tunnel, and you shall not stop until you have burrowed beneath The Flames of Escalon.”
The giant let out a roar of defiance.
Vesuvius looked out at his army of trolls, awaiting his command.
“When my sword comes down,” he called out, his voice booming in the nervous silence, “you shall cut all of its ropes, at once. You shall then prod it with your weapons until you have forced it into the tunnel.”
