by Colt, K. J.
Kyra reached out, slowly removed the red cloth, and gasped at what she saw: before her lay a beautiful longbow, its handle carved, ornate, and covered in a paper-thin sheet of shiny metal. It was unlike any bow she had ever seen.
“Alkan steel,” he explained, as she hoisted it and admired how light it was. “The strongest in the world—and also the lightest. Very scarce, used by kings. These men here have paid for it—and my men have been pounding it all night.”
Kyra turned and saw Anvin and the others looking back, smiling, and her heart filled with gratitude.
“Feel it,” Brot urged. “Go ahead.”
Kyra held up the bow and weighed it in her hand, in awe at how it fit in her hand.
“It is even lighter than my wood one,” she said, confused.
“That’s Beechum wood beneath,” he said. “Stronger than what you had—and lighter, too. This bow will never break—and your arrows shall go much further.”
She admired it, speechless, realizing this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. Brot reached out and handed her a quiver filled with arrows, all with shiny new heads, and as she fingered one she was amazed at how sharp they were. She inspected their intricate design.
“Barbed broadhead,” Brot said proudly. “You land one of these, and the head will not come out. They are designed to kill.”
Kyra looked up at Brot and the others, overwhelmed, not knowing what to say. What meant most to her were not the weapons but that these great men thought enough of her to go out of their way.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “I shall do my best to honor your work, and to be worthy of this weapon.”
“I’m not done yet,” he said, gruffly. “Hold out your arms.”
She did, puzzled, and he stepped forward and examined them, rolling up her sleeves and checking her forearms. He finally nodded, satisfied.
“That’s about right,” he said.
Brot nodded to an apprentice, who stepped forward holding two shiny objects and clasped them to her forearms. As the cold metal touched her skin, Kyra was shocked to see that they were bracers, long, thin forearm guards. They ran from her wrist to her elbow, and as they were clasped into place with a click, they fit perfectly.
Kyra bent her elbows in wonder, examining the bracers, and as she did, she felt invincible, as if they were a part of her new skin. They were so light, yet so strong, protecting her from wrist to elbow.
“Bracers,” Brot said. “Thin enough to allow you to move, yet strong enough to withstand the blow of any sword.” He looked right at her. “These are not only for protection from the string when firing that bow—these are extra-long, also made of Alkan steel. They are meant to replace a shield. This shall be your armor. If an enemy comes at you with a sword, you now have the means to defend yourself.”
He suddenly grabbed a sword off the table, raised it high, and brought it down right for her head.
Kyra, shocked, reacted, raising her forearms with her new bracers—and she was amazed as she stopped the blow, sparks flying.
Brot smiled, lowering his sword, pleased.
Kyra examined her bracers and felt an overwhelming joy.
“You have given me all I could ever want,” Kyra said, getting ready to embrace them.
But Brot held up a hand and stopped her.
“Not all,” he corrected.
Brot gestured to his third apprentice, who brought forth a long object wrapped in a black velvet cloth.
Kyra looked at it curiously, then draped the bow over her shoulder and reached out and took it. She unwrapped it slowly, and when she finally saw what was beneath it, she was breathless.
It was a staff, a work of beauty, even longer than her old one, and, most amazing of all, shiny. Like the bow, it was covered in a plate of Alkan steel, pounded paper-thin, light reflecting off of it. Yet even with all this metal, as she weighed it in her hands, it was lighter than her old staff.
“Next time,” Brot said, “when they strike your staff, it won’t break. And when you hit a foe, the blow will be more severe. It is a weapon and a shield in one. And that’s not all,” he said, pointing at it.
Kyra looked down, confused, not understand what he was pointing at.
“Twist it,” he said.
She did as he told her and as she did, to her shock, the staff unscrewed and split in two equal halves. In each end was embedded a pointy blade, several inches long.
Kyra looked up, agape, and Brot smiled.
“Now you have more ways to kill a man,” he said.
She looked up at the glistening blades, the finest work she had ever seen, and she was in awe. He had custom-forged this weapon for her, giving her a staff that doubled as two short spears, a weapon uniquely suited for her strengths. She twisted it closed again, smoothly locking it into place, so seamless she could not even tell there was a concealed weapon within.
She looked up at Brot, at all of the men, tears in her eyes.
“I shall never be able to thank you,” she said.
“You already have,” Anvin said, stepping forward. “You have brought a war upon us—a war that we ourselves were afraid to start. You have done us a great favor.”
Before she could process his words, suddenly, a series of horns sounded in the distance, one after the next, echoing off the fort.
All of them exchanged a glance, all knowing what this meant: battle had come.
The Lord’s Men were here.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MERK HIKED AND HIKED ON the forest trail, the shadows getting long as he wound his way through Whitewood, the dead thieves now a good day’s hike behind him. He hadn’t stopped hiking since, trying to clear his mind of the incident, to get back to the peaceful place he had once inhabited. It wasn’t easy. His legs growing weary, Merk was more anxious than ever to find the Tower of Ur, to walk into his new life as a Watcher, and he scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of it through the trees.
But there was no sign of it. This trek was beginning to feel more like a pilgrimage, one that would never end. The Tower of Ur was more remote, more well-hidden, than he had imagined.
Encountering those thieves had awakened something deep within him, had made Merk realize how hard it might be to shake off his old self. He did not know if he had the discipline. He only hoped that the Watchers would accept him in their order; if not, with nowhere else to turn, he would surely go back to being the man he once was.
Up ahead, Merk saw the wood change, saw a grove of ancient white trees, trunks as wide as ten men, reaching high into the sky, their branches spreading out like a canopy with shimmering red leaves. One of the trees, with a broad, curved trunk, looked particularly inviting, and Merk, feet aching, sat down beside it. He leaned back and felt an immediate sense of relief, felt the pain leaving his back and legs from hours of hiking. He kicked off his boots and felt the pain throbbing in his feet, and he sighed as a cool breeze soothed him, leaves rustling above.
Merk reached into his sack and extracted what remained of the dried strips of meat from the rabbit he had caught the other night. He took a bite and chewed slowly, closing his eyes, resting, wondering what the future had in store for him. Sitting here, against this tree, beneath these rustling leaves, felt good enough for him.
Merk’s eyes felt heavy and he let them close, just for a moment, needing the rest.
When he opened them, Merk was surprised to see the sky had grown darker, to realize that he had fallen asleep. It was already twilight, and he realized with a start that he would have slept all night—if he had not been awakened by a noise.
Merk sat up and took stock, immediately on guard as his instincts kicked in. He clutched the hilt of his dagger, hidden in his waist, and waited. He did not want to resort to violence—but until he reached the Tower, he was starting to feel that anything was possible.
The rustling became louder, and it sounded like someone running, bursting through the forest. Merk was puzzled: what was someo
ne else doing out here, in the middle of nowhere, in twilight? From the sound of the leaves, Merk could tell it was one person, and that it was light. Maybe a child, or a girl.
Sure enough, a moment later there burst into his sight a girl, emerging from the forest, running, crying. He watched her, surprised, as she ran, alone, stumbled, and fell, but feet away from him. She landed face-first in the dirt. She was pretty, perhaps eighteen, but disheveled, her hair a mess, dirt and leaves in it, her clothes ragged and torn.
Merk stood, and as she scrambled to get back to her feet she saw him and her eyes widened in panic.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she cried, standing, backing away.
Merk raised his hands.
“I mean you no harm,” he said slowly, standing to his full height. “In fact, I was just about to be on my way.”
She backed up several feet in terror, still crying, and he could not help but wonder what had happened. Whatever it was, he did not want to get involved—he had enough problems of his own.
Merk turned back on the trail and began to walk away, when her voice cried out behind him:
“No, wait!”
He turned and saw her standing there, desperate.
“Please. I need your help,” she pleaded.
Merk looked at her and saw how beautiful she was beneath her disheveled appearance, with unwashed blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a face with perfect features, covered in tears and in dirt. She wore simple farmer’s clothes, and he could tell she was not rich. She looked as if she had been on the run for a long time.
He shook his head.
“You don’t have the money to pay me,” Merk said. “I cannot help you, whatever it is you need. Besides, I’m on my way for my own mission.”
“You don’t understand,” she begged, stepping closer. “My family—our home was raided this morning. Mercenaries. My father’s been hurt. He chased them away, but they’ll be back soon—and with a lot more men—to kill him, to kill my whole family. They said they will burn our farm to the ground. Please!” she begged, stepping closer. “I’ll give you anything. Anything!”
Merk stood there, feeling sorry for her, but determined not to get involved.
“There are many problems in the world, miss,” he said. “And I can’t fix them all.”
He turned once again to walk away, when her voice rang out again:
“Please!” she cried. “It is a sign, don’t you see? That I would run into you here, in the middle of nowhere? I expected to find no one—and I found you. You were meant to be here, meant to help me. God is giving you a chance for redemption. Don’t you believe in signs?”
He stood there and watched her sobbing, and he felt guilty, but mostly detached. A part of him thought of how many people he’d killed in his lifetime, and wondered: what’s a few more? But there were always just a few more. It never seemed to end. He had to draw the line somewhere.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “But I am not your savior.”
Merk turned again and began to walk off, determined this time not to stop, to drown out her sobs and grief by rustling the leaves loudly with his feet, blocking out the noise.
But no matter how hard he rustled the leaves, her cries continued, ringing somewhere in the back of his head, summoning him. He turned and watched her run off, disappearing back into the wood, and he wanted to feel a sense of relief. But more than anything, he felt haunted—haunted by a cry he did not want to hear.
He cursed as he hiked, enraged, wishing he’d never met her. Why? he wondered. Why him?
It kept gnawing away at him, would not let him be, and he hated the feeling. Was this what it was like, he wondered, to have a conscience?
CHAPTER TWENTY
KYRA’S HEART POUNDED AS SHE walked with her father and brothers, Anvin and all the warriors, all marching solemnly through the streets of Volis, all preparing for war. There was a solemn silence in the air, the skies heavy with gray, a light snow falling once again as their boots crunched through the snow, approaching the main gate of the fort. Horns sounded again and again, and her father led his men stoically, Kyra surprised at how calm he was, as if he had done this a thousand times before.
Kyra looked straight ahead, and through the iron bars of the lowered portcullis she caught a glimpse of the Lord Governor, leading his men, a hundred of them, dressed in their scarlet armor, the yellow and blue Pandesian banners flapping in the wind. They galloped through the snow on their massive black horses, wearing the finest armor and donning the finest weaponry, all heading directly for the gates of Volis. The rumble of their horses was audible from here, and Kyra felt the ground tremble beneath her.
As Kyra marched, her heart pounding, she held her new staff, had her new bow strapped over her shoulder, and she wore hew new bracers—and she felt reborn. Finally, she felt like a real warrior, with real weapons. She was elated to have them.
As they marched, Kyra was pleased her to see her people rallying, unafraid, all joining them on their march to meet the enemy. She saw all the village folk looking to her father and his men with hope, and she was honored to be marching with them. They all seemed to have an infinite trust in her father, and she suspected that if they were under any other leadership, the village folk would not be as calm.
The Lord’s Men came closer, a horn sounded yet again, and Kyra’s heart slammed.
“No matter what happens,” Anvin said, coming up beside her, talking quietly, “no matter how close they get, do not take any action without your father’s command. He is your commander now. I speak to you not as his daughter, but as one of his men. One of us.”
She nodded back, honored.
“I do not wish to be the cause of death for our people,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Arthfael said, coming up on her other side. “This day has been a long time coming. You didn’t start this war—they did. The second they crossed the Southern Gate and invaded Escalon.”
Kyra, reassured, tightened her grip on her staff, ready for whatever might come. Perhaps the Lord Governor would be reasonable. Perhaps he would negotiate a truce?
Kyra and the others reached the portcullis, and they all stopped and looked to her father.
He stood there, looking out, expressionless, his face hard, ready. He turned to his men.
“We shall not cower behind iron gates in fear of our enemies,” he boomed, “but meet them, as men, beyond the gate. Raise it!” he commanded.
A groaning noise followed as soldiers slowly raised the thick iron portcullis. Finally, it stopped with a bang, and Kyra joined the others as they all marched through.
They marched across the hollow wood bridge, their boots echoing, crossed over the moat, and all came to a stop at the opposite side, waiting.
A rumble filled the air as the Lord’s Men came to a stop a few feet before them. Kyra stood several feet behind her father, grouped in with the others, and she pushed her way to the front lines, wanting to stand by his side—and to stare down the Lord’s Men, face to face.
Kyra saw the Lord Governor, a middle-aged, balding man with wisps of gray hair and a large belly, sitting smugly on his horse a dozen feet away, staring down at all of them as if he were too good for them. A hundred of his men sat on horseback behind him, all wearing serious expressions and bearing serious weaponry. These men, she could see, were all prepared for war and death.
Kyra was so proud to see her father standing there, before all his men, unflinching, unafraid. He wore the face of a commander at war, one she had never seen before. It was not the face of the father she knew, but the face he reserved for his men.
A long, tense silence filled the air, punctuated only by the howling of the wind. The Lord Governor took his time, examining them for a full minute, clearly trying to intimidate them, to force her people to look up and take in the awesomeness of their horses and weapons and armor. The silence stretched so long that Kyra started to wonder if anyone would break it, and she began to realize that her father’s si
lence, his greeting them silently, coldly, standing with all his men at arms, was in itself an act of defiance. She loved him for it. He was not a man to back down to anyone, whatever the odds.
Leo was the only one to make a sound, snarling quietly up at them.
Finally, the Lord Governor cleared his throat, as he stared at her father.
“Five of my men are dead,” he announced, his voice nasally. He remained on his horse, not coming down to meet them at their level. “Your daughter has broken the sacred Pandesian law. You know the consequence: touching a Lord’s Man means pain of death.”
He fell silent, and her father did not respond. As the snow and wind picked up, the only sound that could be heard was the flapping of the banners in the wind. The men, equally numbered on both sides, stared at each other in a tense silence.
Finally, the Lord Governor continued.
“Because I am a merciful Lord,” he said, “I will not execute your daughter. Nor will I kill you and your men and your people, which is my right. I am, in fact, willing to put all this nasty business behind us.”
The silence continued as the Governor, taking his time, slowly surveyed all their faces, until he stopped on Kyra. She felt a chill as his greedy, ugly eyes settled on her.
“In return, I will take your daughter, as is my right. She is unwed, and of age, and as you know, Pandesian law permits me. Your daughter—all of your daughters—are our property now.”
He sneered at her father.
“Consider yourself lucky I do not exact a harsher punishment,” he concluded.
The Lord Governor turned and nodded to his men, and two of his soldiers, fierce-looking men, dismounted and began to cross the bridge, their boots and spurs echoing over the hollow wood as they went.
Kyra’s heart slammed in her chest as she saw them coming for her; she wanted to take action, to draw her bow and fire, to wield her staff. But she recalled Anvin’s words about awaiting her father’s command, about how disciplined soldiers should act, and as hard as it was, she forced herself to wait.
