by Colt, K. J.
Kyra hiked up the hill with Leo, the glow getting brighter as she weaved between the trees. Finally she reached the ridge, and as she did, 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. Everything within her told her to turn and run, but she could not help herself as she stepped 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 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, and Kyra was 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 the woman would not respond. Or perhaps her wish was not possible.
“Can you help me?” Kyra asked, finally. “Can you change my destiny?”
The women looked back up, her eyes aglow, intense, scary.
“You’ve picked a 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 for it?”
Kyra thought, her heart pounding with the possibilities.
“I will give anything,” she said. “Anything.”
There came another long silence as 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, they perform a dance, your whole life long. There is a constant tug of war between the two. Which side wins…well, that depends.”
“Depends on what?” Kyra asked.
“Your force of will. How desperately you want something—and how graced you are by God. And perhaps most of all, what you are willing to give up.”
“I will sacrifice,” Kyra said, feeling the strength rising up within her. “I will sacrifice everything not to live the life that others have chosen for me.”
In the long silence that followed, the woman stared into her eyes with such an intensity, Kyra nearly had to turn away.
“Vow to me,” the old woman said. “On this night, vow to me 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 more than any words she had uttered in her life.
The certainty of her tone cut through the air, her voice carrying an authority 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.
“You will be a warrior—and more,” the woman proclaimed loudly, raising her palms out to her side, her voice booming, louder and louder as she continued. “You will be the greatest of all warriors. Greater than your father. More than this, you will be a great ruler. You will achieve power beyond what you could dream. Entire nations will look to you.”
Kyra’s heart was slamming in her chest as she listened to the woman’s proclamation, spoken with such authority, as if it had already happened.
“Yet you will also be tempted by darkness,” the woman continued. “There will be a great struggle within you, darkness battling light. If you can defeat yourself, then the world will be yours.”
Kyra stood there, reeling, hardly believing it all. How was it possible? Surely, she must have the wrong person. No one had ever told her she would be important, that she would be anything special. 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. She stepped in close, so close that Kyra shook with fear.
“Sometimes,” the old woman grinned, “your fate is waiting for you just around the corner, with your very next breath.”
There came a sudden flash of light, and Kyra shielded her eyes as Leo snarled and pounced for the old woman.
When Kyra opened her eyes, the light was gone. The woman was gone, Leo leaping at thin air. The forest clearing held nothing but blackness.
Kyra looked everywhere, baffled. Had she imagined the whole thing?
Suddenly, as if to answer her thoughts, there came a horrific, primordial shriek, as if the heavens themselves had cried out. Kyra stood there, frozen in place, and she thought of the lake. Of her reflection
Because, although she had never set eyes upon one, she knew, she just knew that was the shriek of a dragon. That it was waiting for her, just beyond the clearing.
Standing there alone, the woman gone, Kyra felt herself reeling as she tried to process what just happened, what it all could mean. Most of all, she tried to understand that noise. It was a roar, a sound unlike any she had ever heard, so primal, as if the earth were being born. It at once terrified her and drew her in, leaving her no place else to go. It resonated through her in a way she could not understand, and she realized it was a sound she had been hearing somewhere in the back of her head 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 it. For as it screeched again, Kyra knew it was a sound of distress.
The dragon, she knew, was dying—and it desperately needed her help.
CHAPTER TEN
MERK STOOD IN THE FOREST clearing, one man dead at his feet, and stared back at the seven other thieves, who gaped back. They now had a look of respect—and fear—in their eyes, clearly realizing they had made a mistake in taking him for just another vulnerable traveler.
“I’m tired of killing,” Merk said to them calmly, a smile on his face, “so today is your lucky day. You have one chance to turn and run.”
A long, tense silence fell over them as they all looked to each other, clearly debating what to do.
“That’s our friend you killed,” one seethed.
“Your ex-friend,” Merk corrected. “And if you keep talking, it will be you, too.”
The thief scowled and raised his club.
“There are still seven of us and one of you. Lay that knife down real slow and raise your hands, and maybe we won’t cut you to pieces.”
Merk smiled wider. He was tired, he realized, of resisting the urge to kill, of resisting who he was. It was so much easier just to stop fighting it, to become the old killer he was.
“You had your warning,” he said, shaking his head.
The thief charged, raising his club high and swinging wildly.
Merk was surprised. For a big man, he swung quicker than he would have imagined. Yet he was clumsy, and Merk merely ducked, stabbed him in the gut, and stepped aside, letting him fall face-first into the dirt.
Another thief 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 saw a thief raise a bow and take aim, and he quickly grabbed another thief charging him, spun him around, and used him as a human shield. His hostage cried out as the arrow pierced his chest instead.
Merk then shoved the dying man forward, right into the one with the bow, blocking his shot, then raised his dagger and threw it. It spun end over end, crossing the clearing until it impaled in the man’s neck, killing him.
That left three of them, and they now looked back at Merk with uncertain faces, as if debating whether to charge or run.
“There are three us and one of him!” one called out. “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.
Merk stood there, looking around at the eight dead men, taking stock of his work with a professional assassin’s eye. As he did he noticed one of them—the one with the club—was still alive, squirming on his stomach. The old Merk took over, and he could not help himself as he walked over to the man, still unsatisfied. Leave no enemies alive. Ever. Never let them see your face.
Merk walked casually over to the thief, reached out with his boot, and kicked him over, until he lay on his back. The thief looked up, bleeding from his mouth, eyes filled with fear.
“Please…don’t do it,” he begged. “I would have let you go.”
Merk smiled.
“Would you?” he asked. “Was that before you tortured me, or after?”
“Please!” the man called out, starting to cry. “You said you had renounced violence!”
Merk leaned back and thought about that.
“You’re right,” he said.
The man blinked up at him, hope in his eyes.
“I have,” Merk added. “But the thing is, you stirred something up in me today, something I would have quite rather suppressed.”
“Please!” the man shrieked, sobbing.
“I wonder,” Merk said, reflective, “how many innocent women, children, you have killed on this road?”
The man continued to sob.
“ANSWER ME!” Merk yelled.
“What does it matter?” the man called back, between sobs.
Merk lowered the tip of his sword to the man’s throat.
“It matters to me,” Merk said, “a great deal.”
“Okay, okay!” he called out. “I don’t know. Dozens? Hundreds? It is what I have been doing my whole life.”
Merk thought about that; at least it was an honest response.
“I myself have killed many men in my lifetime,” Merk said. “Not all I am proud of—but all for a cause, a purpose. Sometimes I was duped into killing an innocent—but in that case, I always killed the person who hired me. I never killed women, and I never killed children. I never preyed on the innocent, or the defenseless. I never robbed and I never cheated. I guess that makes me something of a saint,” Merk said, smiling at his own humor.
He sighed.
“But you,” he continued, “you are scum.”
“Please!” the man shouted. “You can’t kill an unarmed man!”
Merk thought about that.
“You’re right,” he said, and looked about. “See that sword lying next to you? Grab it.”
The man looked over, fear in his eyes.
“No,” he cried, trembling.
“Grab it,” Merk said, pushing the tip of his sword to the man’s throat, “or I will kill you.”
The thief finally reached over, grabbed the hilt of the sword, and held it with trembling hands.
“You can’t kill me!” the man shouted again. “You vowed to never kill again!”
Merk smiled wide, and in one quick motion, he plunged his sword into the man’s chest.
“The nice thing about starting over,” Merk said, “is that there’s always tomorrow.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KYRA RACED THROUGH THE SNOW, brushing back the thick branches in her way, the dragon’s cry still echoing in her ears, and burst into a clearing, when she suddenly stopped short. All of her anticipation could not prepare her for what she saw before her.
Her breath was taken away—not by the blizzard or the cold or the wind—but this time by the sight, unlike anything she’d seen in her life. She had heard the tales, night after night in her father’s chamber, the ancient legends of dragons, and had wondered if they were true. She had tried to imagine them in her mind’s eye, had stayed up many a sleepless night trying visualize, and yet still she could not believe it was true.
Not until now.
For before her, hardly twenty feet away, Kyra was stunned to find herself standing face to face with a real, breathing dragon. It was terrifying—yet magnificent. It screeched as it lay on its side, trying to get up but unable, one wing flapping and the other appearing to be broken. It was huge, massive, each of its scarlet-red scales the size of her. Krya noticed the dozens of flattened trees, and realized it must have fallen from the sky, creating this clearing. It lay on a steep snow bank, close to a gushing river.
As she stared, agape, Kyra tried to process the sight before her. A dragon. Here, in Escalon. In Volis, in the Wood of Thorns. It wasn’t possible. Dragons, she knew, lived on the other side of the world, and never in her life, or her father’s time, or her father’s father’s time, had one been spotted in Escalon—much less near Volis. It made no sense.
She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, thinking it must be an illusion.
And yet there it was, shrieking again, digging its claws in the snow, stained red with its blood. It was definitely wounded. And it was definitely a dragon.
Kyra knew she should turn and flee, and a part of her wanted to; after all, this dragon could surely kill her with a single breath, much less a stroke of its claws. She had heard tales of the damage a dragon could do, of their hatred for mankind, of their ability to tear a person to shreds in the blink of an eye, or wipe out an entire village with a single breath.
But something within Kyra made her hold her ground. She did not know if it was courage or foolishness or her own desperation—or something deeper. For deep down, as crazy as it was, she felt a primal connection to this creature she could not understand.
It blinked, slowly, staring back at her with equal surprise and as it did, what terrified Kyra most were not its fangs or its claws or its size—but its eyes. They were huge, glowing yellow orbs, so fierce, so ancient, so soulful and they looked right into hers. The hair raised on her arms as she realized they were the exact eyes she had seen in her own reflection in the Lake of Dreams.
Kyra braced herself, expecting to be killed—but the dragon did not breathe fire. Instead, it just stared at her. It was bleeding, its blood running down the snow bank into the river, and it pained Kyra to see it. She wanted to help it, and even more so, she was obliged to. Every clan in the kingdom had an oath they lived by, a sacred family law they had to uphold, at the risk of bringing a curse on their family. Her family’s law, passed down for generations, was to never kill a wounded animal—indeed, it was the very insignia of her father’s house: a knight holding a wolf. Her family had taken it further over the generations, taking it upon themselves as a law to help any wounded animal they encountered.
As Kyra watched its labored breathing, gasping, her heart went out to it and she t
hought of her family’s obligation. She knew that to turn her back on it would bring a terrible curse upon her family, and she was determined to make it well again, whatever the risk.
As Kyra stood there, transfixed, unable to move, she realized she could not walk away for another reason: she felt a stronger connection to this beast than she had to any animal she had ever encountered, more so even than to Leo, who was like a brother to her. She felt as if she had just been reunited with a long-lost friend. She could sense the dragon’s tremendous power and pride and fierceness, and just being around it inspired her. It made her feel as if the world were so much bigger.
As Kyra stood at the edge of the clearing, debating what action to take, she was startled by the snap of a branch, followed by laughter—a cruel man’s laughter. As she watched, she was shocked to see a soldier, dressed in the scarlet armor and important furs of the Lord’s Men, saunter into the clearing, wielding a spear and standing over the dragon.
Kyra flinched as the soldier suddenly jabbed the dragon in its ribcage, making it shriek and curl up; she felt as if she had been stabbed herself. Clearly the soldier was taking advantage of this wounded beast, preparing to kill it but torturing it first. The thought pained Kyra to no end.
“My ax, boy!” the soldier yelled.
A boy, perhaps thirteen, warily entered the clearing, leading a horse. He looked like a squire, and he seemed terrified as he approached, eyeing the dragon warily. He did as commanded and drew a long ax from the saddle and placed it in his master’s hand.
Kyra watched with a sense of dread as the soldier came closer, the blade glistening in the moonlight.
“I’d say this will make a fine trophy,” he said, clearly proud of himself. “They will sing songs of me for generations, this kill of all kills.”
“But you did not kill it!” the squire protested. “You discovered it wounded!”
The soldier turned and raised the blade to the boy’s throat threateningly.
