by Colt, K. J.
He charged, and Kyra did not understand why, but for some reason, knowing what to do came easily to her. It was as if her instincts kicked in and took over for her. She found herself to be much lighter and more nimble than these men, with their heavy armor and thick, wooden swords. They all were fighting for power, and they all expected their foes to challenge and block them. Kyra, though, was happy to dodge them, and refused to fight on their terms. They fought for power—but she fought for speed.
Kyra’s staff moved in her hand like an extension of her; she spun it so quickly her opponents had no time to react, they still in mid-swing while she was already behind them. Her new opponent came at her with a lunge to the chest—but she merely sidestepped and swung her staff up, striking his wrist and dislodging his sword from his grip. She then brought the other end around and cracked him on the head.
The horn sounded, the point hers, and he looked at her in shock, holding his forehead, his sword on the ground. Kyra, examining her handiwork, realizing she was still standing, was a bit startled herself.
Kyra had become the person to beat, and now the men, no longer hesitant, lined up to test their skills against her.
The snowstorm raged on as torches were lit against the twilight and Kyra sparred with one man after the next. No longer did they wear smiles: their expressions were now deadly serious, perplexed, then outright annoyed, as no one could touch her—and each ended up defeated by her. Against one man, she leapt over his head as he thrust, spinning and landing behind him before whacking his shoulder; for another, she ducked and rolled, switched hands with her staff and landed the decisive blow, unexpectedly, with her left hand. For each, her moves were different, part gymnast, part swordsman, so none could anticipate her. These men did a walk of shame to the sidelines, each amazed at having to admit defeat.
Soon there remained but a handful of men. Kyra stood in the center of the circle, breathing hard, turning in each direction to search for a new foe. Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael watched her from the sidelines, all with smiles across their faces, looks of admiration. If her father could not be there to witness this and be proud of her, at least these men could.
Kyra defeated yet another opponent, this one with a blow behind the knee, yet another horn sounded, and finally, with none left to face her, Maltren stepped out into the circle.
“A child’s tricks,” he spat, walking toward her. “You can spin a piece of wood. In battle, that will do you no good. Against a real sword, your staff would be cut in half.”
“Would it, then?” she asked, bold, fearless, feeling the blood of her father flowing within her and knowing she had to confront this bully for all time, especially as all these men were watching her.
“Then why not try it?” she prodded.
Maltren blinked back at her in surprise, clearly not expecting that response. Then he narrowed his eyes.
“Why?” he shot back. “So you can run for your father’s protection?”
“I need not my father’s protection, nor anyone else’s,” she replied. “This is between you and me—whatever should happen.”
Maltren looked over at Anvin, clearly uncomfortable, as if he had dug himself into a pit which he could not get out of.
Anvin stared back, equally disturbed.
“We spar with wooden swords here,” he called out. “I won’t have anyone get hurt under my watch—much less, our commander’s daughter.”
But Maltren suddenly darkened.
“The girl wants real weapons,” he said, his voice firm, “then we shall give it to her. Perhaps she will learn a lesson for life.”
Without waiting any further, Maltren crossed the field, drew his real sword from its scabbard, the sound ringing in the air, and stormed back. The tension became thick in the air, as all grew silent, none sure what to do.
Kyra faced Maltren , feeling her palms sweating despite the cold, despite a gust of wind that blew the torches sideways. She could feel the snow turning to ice, crunching beneath her boots, and she forced herself to focus, to concentrate, knowing this would be no ordinary bout.
Maltren let out a sharp cry, trying to intimidate her, and charged, raising his sword high, it gleaming in the torchlight. Maltren, she knew, was a different fighter than the others, more unpredictable, less honorable, a man who fought to survive rather than to win. She was surprised to find him swinging right for her chest.
Kyra ducked out of the way as the blade passed right by.
The crowd of men gasped, outraged, and Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael stepped forward.
“Maltren!” Anvin called out, furious, as if ready to stop it.
“No!” Kyra called back, staying focused on Maltren, breathing hard as he came at her again. “Let us fight!”
Maltren immediately spun around and swung again—and again and again. Each time, she dodged, or stepped back, or leapt over his swings. He was strong, but not as quick as she.
He then raised his sword high and brought it straight down, clearly expecting her to block and expecting to slash her staff in two.
But Kyra saw it coming and she instead sidestepped and swung her staff sideways, hitting his sword on the side of its blade, deflecting it while protecting her staff. In the same motion, she took advantage of the opening, and swung around and jabbed him in the solar plexus.
He gasped and dropped to one knee as a horn sounded.
There came a great cheer, all the men looking to her with pride as she stood over Maltren, the victor.
Maltren, enraged, looked up at her—and instead of conceding defeat as all the others had, he suddenly charged for her, raising his sword and swinging.
It was a move Kyra had not expected, assuming he would concede honorably. As he came for her, Kyra realized there were not many moves left at her disposal with such short notice. She could not get out of the way in time.
Kyra dove to the ground, rolled out of the way, and at the same time, spun around with her staff and struck Maltren behind the knees, sweeping his legs out from under him.
He landed on his back in the snow, his sword flying from his grip—and Kyra immediately gained her feet and stood over him, holding the tip of her staff down on his throat and pushing. At the same moment, Leo bounded over beside her and snarled over Maltren’s face, inches away, his drool landing on Maltren’s cheek, just waiting for the order to pounce.
Maltren looked up, blood on his lip, stunned and finally humbled.
“You dishonor my father’s men,” Kyra seethed, still enraged. “What do you think of my little stick now?”
A tense silence fell over them as she kept him pinned down, a part of her wanting to raise her staff and strike him, to let Leo loose on him. None of the men tried to stop it, or came to his aid.
Realizing he was isolated, Maltren looked up with real fear.
“KYRA!”
A harsh voice suddenly cut through the silence.
All eyes turned, and her father suddenly appeared, marching into the circle, wearing his furs, flanked by a dozen men and looking at her disapprovingly.
He stopped a few feet away from her, staring back, and she could already anticipate the lecture to come. As they faced each other, Maltren scrambled out from under her and scurried off, and she wondered why he did not rebuke Maltren instead of her. That angered her, leaving father and daughter looking at each other in a standoff of rage, she as stubborn as he, neither willing to budge.
Finally, her father wordlessly turned, followed by his men, and marched back towards the fort, knowing she would follow. The tension broke as all the men fell in behind him, and Kyra, reluctantly, joined. She began to trudge back through the snow, seeing the distant lights of the fort, knowing she’d be in for an earful—but no longer caring.
Whether he accepted her or not, on this day, she was accepted amongst his men—and for her, that was all that mattered. From this day forward, she knew, everything would change.
CHAPTER SIX
KYRA MARCHED BESIDE HER FATHER down the stone
corridors of Fort Volis, a rambling fort the size of a small castle, with smooth stone walls, tapered ceilings, thick, ornate wood doors, an ancient redoubt that had served to house the Keepers of The Flames and protect Escalon for centuries. It was a crucial fort for their Kingdom, she knew, and yet it was also home to her, the only home she’d ever known. She would often fall asleep to the sound of warriors, feasting down the halls, dogs snarling as they fought over scraps, fireplaces hissing with dying embers and drafts of wind finding their way through the cracks. With all its quirks, she loved every corner of it.
As Kyra struggled to keep pace, she wondered what was troubling her father. They walked quickly, silently, Leo beside them, late for the feast, turning down corridors, soldiers and attendants stiffening as they went. Her father walked more quickly than usual, and though they were late, this, she knew, was unlike him. Usually he walked side-by-side with her, had a big smile ready to flash behind his beard, clasped an arm around her shoulder, sometimes told her jokes, recounted his day’s events.
But now he walked somberly, his face set, several steps ahead of her, and he wore what appeared to be a frown of disapproval, one she had rarely seen him wear. He looked troubled, too, and she assumed it could only be from the day’s events, her brothers reckless hunting, the Lord’s Men snatching their boar—and perhaps even because she, Kyra, had been sparring. At first she had assumed he was just preoccupied with the feast—holiday feasts were always burdensome for him, having to host so many warriors and visitors well past midnight, as was ancient tradition. When her mother had been alive and hosting these events, Kyra had been told, it had been much easier on him. He was not a social creature, and he struggled to keep up with social graces.
But as their silence thickened, Kyra started to wonder if it was something else entirely. Most likely, she figured, it had something to do with her training with his men. Her relationship with her father, which used to be so simple, had become increasingly complicated as she grew up. He seemed to have a great ambivalence over what to do with her, over what kind of daughter he expected her to be. On the one hand, he often taught her of the principles of a warrior, of how a knight should think, should conduct herself. They had endless conversations about valor, honor, courage, and he oft stayed up late into the night recounting tales of their ancestor’s battles, tales that she lived for, and the only tales she wanted to hear.
Yet at the same time, Kyra noticed him catching himself now when he discussed such things, silencing himself abruptly, as if he’d realized he shouldn’t be speaking of it, as if he realized that he had fostered something within her and wanted to take it back. Talking about battle and valor was second nature to him, but now that Kyra was no longer a girl, now that she was becoming a woman, and a budding warrior herself, there was a part of him that seemed surprised by it, as if he had never expected her to grow up. He seemed to not quite know how to relate to a growing daughter, especially one who craved to be a warrior, as if he did not know which path to encourage her on. He did not know what to do with her, she realized, and a part of him even felt uncomfortable around her. Yet he was secretly proud, she sensed, at the same time. He just couldn’t allow himself to show it.
Kyra could not stand his silence anymore—she had to get to the bottom of it.
“Do you worry for the feast?” she asked.
“Why should I worry?” he countered, not looking at her, a sure sign he was upset. “All is prepared. In fact, we are late. If I had not come to Fighter’s Gate to find you, I would be at the head of my own table by now,” he concluded resentfully.
So that was it, she realized: her sparring. The fact that he was angry made her angry, too. After all, she had beaten his men and she deserved his approval. Instead, he was acting as if nothing had happened, and if anything, was disapproving.
She demanded the truth and, annoyed, she decided to provoke him.
“Did you not see me beat your men?” she said, wanting to shame him, demanding the approval that he refused to give.
She watched his face redden, ever so subtly, but he held his tongue as they walked—which only increased her anger.
They continued to march, past the Hall of Heroes, past the Chamber of Wisdom, and were nearly at the Great Hall when she could stand it no more.
“What is it, Father?” she demanded. “If you disapprove of me, just say it.”
He finally stopped right before the arched doors to the feasting hall, turned and looked at her, stone-faced. His look pained her. Her father, the one person she loved more than anyone in the world, who always had nothing but a smile for her, now looked at her as if she were a stranger. She could not understand it.
“I don’t want you on those grounds again,” he said, a cold anger in his voice.
The tone of his voice hurt her even more than his words, and she felt a shiver of betrayal rush through her. Coming from anyone else it would hardly have bothered her—but from him, this man she loved and looked up to so much, who was always so kind to her, his tone made her blood run cold.
But Kyra was not one to back down from a fight—a trait she had learned from him.
“And why is that?” she demanded.
His expression darkened.
“I do not need to give you a reason,” he said. “I am your father. I am commander of this fort, of my men. And I do not want you training with them.”
“Are you afraid I shall defeat them?” Kyra said, wanting to get a rise out of him, refusing to allow him to close this door on her forever.
He reddened, and she could see her words hurt him, too.
“Hubris is for commoners,” he chided, “not for warriors.”
“But I am no warrior, is that right, Father?” she goaded.
He narrowed his eyes, unable to respond.
“It is my fifteenth year. Do you wish me to fight against trees and twigs my whole life?”
“I do not wish you to fight at all,” he snapped. “You are a girl—a woman now. You should be doing whatever women do—cooking, sewing—whatever it is your mother would have raised you to do if she were alive.”
Now Kyra’s expression darkened.
“I’m sorry I am not the girl you wish me to be, Father,” she replied. “I am sorry I am not like all the other girls.”
His expression became pained now, too.
“But I am my father’s daughter,” she continued. “I am the girl you raised. And to disapprove of me is to disapprove of yourself.”
She stood there, hands on her hips, her light-gray eyes, filled with a warrior’s strength, flashing back at his. He stared back at her with his brown eyes, behind his brown hair and beard, and he shook his head.
“This is a holiday,” he said, “a feast not just for warriors but for visitors and dignitaries. People will be coming from all over Escalon, and from foreign lands.” He looked her up and down disapprovingly. “You wear a warrior’s clothes. Go to your chamber and change into a woman’s fineries, like every other woman at the table.”
She flushed, infuriated—and he leaned in close and raised a finger.
“And don’t let me see you on the field with my men again,” he seethed.
He turned abruptly, as servants opened the huge doors for him, and a wave of noise came tumbling out to greet them, along with the smell of roasting meat, unwashed hounds and roaring fires. Music carried in the air, and the din of activity from inside the hall was all-consuming. Kyra watched her father turn and enter, attendants following.
Several servants stood there, holding open the doors, waiting as Kyra stood there, fuming, debating what to do. She had never been so angry in her life.
She finally turned and stormed off with Leo, away from the hall, back for her chamber. For the first time in her life, she hated her father at that moment. She had thought he was different, above all this; yet now she realized he was a smaller man than she had thought—and that, more than anything, hurt her. His taking away from her what she loved most—the training grounds—wa
s a knife in her heart. The thought of living her life confined to silks and dresses left her feeling a greater sense of despair than she had ever known.
She wanted to leave Volis—and never come back.
Commander Duncan sat at the head of the banquet table, in the massive feasting hall of fort Volis, and he looked out over his family, warriors, subjects, counselors, advisors and visitors—more than a hundred people, all stretched along the table for the holiday—with a heavy heart. Of all these people before him, the one most on his mind was the one he tried not to look at on principle: his daughter. Kyra. Duncan had always had a special relationship with her, had always felt the need to be both father and mother to her, to make up for the loss of her mother. But he was failing, he knew, at being her father—much less a mother, too.
Duncan had always made a point of watching over her, the only girl in a family of boys, and in a fort full of warriors—especially given that she was a girl unlike the other girls, a girl, he had to admit, who was too much like him. She was very much alone in a man’s world, and he went out of his way for her, not only out of obligation, but also because he loved her dearly, more than he could say, perhaps even more, he hated to admit, than his boys. Because of all his children, he had to admit that he, oddly, even though she was a girl, saw himself most in her. Her willfulness; her fierce determination; her warrior’s spirit; her refusal to back down; her fearlessness; and her compassion. She always stood up for the weak, especially her younger brother, and always stood up for what was just—whatever the cost.
Which was another reason why their conversation had irked him so badly, had left him in such a mood. As he had watched her on the training ground this evening, wielding her staff against those men with a remarkable, dazzling skill, his heart had leapt with pride and joy. He hated Maltren, a braggart and a thorn in his side, and he was elated that his daughter, of all people, had put him in his place. He was beyond proud that she, a girl of just fifteen, could hold her own with his men—and even beat them. He had wanted so badly to embrace her, to shower her with praise in front of all the others.
