by Colt, K. J.
He moaned, releasing his grip as he fell to his knees, and she turned and stood over him, he finally helpless as he looked up at her with shocked eyes filled with pain.
“Say hello to your father for me,” she said, raising back her staff and with all her might striking him in the head.
This time, he collapsed, unconscious, on the stone.
Kyra, still breathing hard, still enraged, surveyed her handiwork: three men, formidable men, lay unmoving on the floor. She, a defenseless girl, had done it.
“Kyra!” cried a voice.
She turned and remembered Dierdre, and without wasting another second ran across the room. Grabbing the keys from the guard’s waist, she unlocked the cell, and as she did, Dierdre ran into her arms, hugging her.
Kyra pulled her back and looked her in the eyes, wanting to know if she was mentally prepared to escape.
“It’s time,” Kyra said firmly. “Are you ready?”
Dierdre stood there, shell-shocked, staring at the carnage in the room.
“You beat him,” Dierdre said, staring at the bodies in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. You beat him.”
Kyra watched something shift in Dierdre’s eyes. All the fear drifted away, and Kyra saw a strong woman emerging from deep inside, a woman she had not recognized before. Seeing her attackers unconscious did something to her, infused her with a new strength.
Dierdre walked to one of the swords lying on the floor, picked it up, and walked back over to the son, still lying prone, unconscious. She stared down, and her face molded into a sneer.
“This is for everything you did to me,” she said.
She raised the sword with trembling hands, and Kyra could see a great battle going on within herself as she hesitated.
“Dierdre,” Kyra said softly.
Dierdre looked at her, a wild grief in her stare.
“If you do it,” Kyra said softly, “you will be just like him.”
Dierdre stood there, arms trembling, going through an emotional storm, and finally, she lowered the sword, dropping it on the stone. It clanged at her feet.
She spit in the son’s face, then leaned back and with her boot kicked him a mighty blow across the face. Dierdre, Kyra was beginning to see, was a much stronger person than she’d thought.
She looked back at Kyra with shining eyes, life restored in them, as if her old self were coming back.
“Let’s go,” Dierdre said, her voice filled with strength.
Kyra and Dierdre burst out of the dungeon into the early light of dawn, finding themselves smack in the middle of Argos, the Pandesian stronghold and the Lord Governor’s military complex. Kyra blinked in the light, feeling so good to see daylight again, despite its being cold out here, and as she got her bearings she saw they were in the center of a rambling complex of stone keeps, all of it encased by a high stone wall and a massive gate. The Lord’s Men were still slowly waking up, beginning to take positions all around the barracks; there must have been thousands of them. It was a professional army, and this place was more a city than a town.
The soldiers took positions along the walls, looking out toward the horizon; none looked inward. Clearly none were expecting two girls to escape from within their midst, and that gave them an advantage. It was still dark enough, too, to help obscure them, and as Kyra looked ahead, to the well-guarded entrance at the far end of the courtyard, she knew that if they had any chance of escape, it was now.
But it was a long courtyard to cross on foot, and she knew they might not make it—and even if they did, once they ran through it, they would be caught.
“There!” Dierdre said, pointing.
Kyra looked and saw, on the other side of the courtyard, a horse, tied up, a soldier standing beside it, holding its reins, his back to them.
Dierdre turned to her.
“We’ll need a horse,” she said. “It’s the only way.”
Kyra nodded, surprised they were thinking the same way, and that Dierdre was so perceptive. Dierdre, whom Kyra had at first thought would be a liability, she was coming to see was actually smart, quick, and decisive.
“Can you do it?” Dierdre asked, looking at the soldier.
Kyra tightened her grip on her staff and nodded.
As one, they ran out from the shadows and silently across the courtyard, Kyra’s heart slamming in her chest as she focused on the soldier, his back to her, getting closer with each step—and praying they weren’t discovered in the meantime.
Kyra ran so fast she could barely breathe, willing herself not to slip in the snow, no longer feeling the cold as adrenaline pumped through her veins.
Finally she reached the soldier, and at the last second, he heard them and spun.
But Kyra was already in motion, raising her staff and jabbing him in the solar plexus. As he grunted and dropped to his knees, she swung it around and brought it down on the back of his head—knocking him face-first into the snow, unconscious.
Kyra mounted the horse while Dierdre untied it and jumped up behind her—and they both kicked and took off.
Kyra felt the cold wind through her hair as the horse charged across the snowy courtyard, heading for the gate at the far end, perhaps a hundred yards away. As they went, sleepy soldiers began to take notice, and to turn their way.
“Come on!” Kyra yelled to the horse, urging it faster, seeing the exit looming closer and closer.
A massive stone arch lay straight ahead, its portcullis raised, leading to a bridge, and beyond that, Kyra’s heart quickened to see, open land. Freedom.
She kicked the horse with all her might as she saw the soldiers at the exit taking notice.
“STOP THEM!” yelled a soldier from behind.
Several soldiers scurried to large iron cranks and, to Kyra’s dread, began to turn the cranks that lowered the portcullis. Kyra knew that if it closed before they reached it, their lives would be over. They were but twenty yards away and riding faster than she’d ever had—and yet the portcullis, thirty feet high, was lowering slowly, one foot at a time.
“Get as low as you can!” she shrieked to Dierdre, Kyra bending all the way over until her face was on the horse’s mane.
Kyra raced, heart pounding in her ears, as they charge through the arch, the portcullis lowering, so low that she had to duck. It was so close, she did not know if they would make it.
Then, just as she was sure they would die, their horse burst through, the portcullis slamming down right behind them with a great boom. A moment later they were across the bridge and, to Kyra’s immense relief, out under open sky.
Horns sounded behind them, and a moment later, Kyra flinched as she heard an arrow whiz by her head.
She glanced back and saw the Lord’s Men taking positions up and down the ramparts, firing at them. She zigzagged on the horse, realizing they were still within range, urging it faster.
They were making progress, perhaps a fifty yards out, far enough so most arrows fell short—when suddenly, to her horror, she watched an arrow land in their horse’s side. It immediately reared—throwing them both off.
Kyra’s world turned to chaos. She hit the ground hard, winded, as the horse rolled right next to her, luckily missing them by an inch.
Kyra knelt on her hands and knees, dazed, her head ringing, and looked over and saw Dierdre beside her. She glanced back and saw, in the distance, the portcullis being raised. Hundreds of soldiers were lined up, waiting, and as the portcullis opened, they tore out the gates. It was a full-scale army, on its way to kill them. She was confused as to how they could have assembled so quickly, but then she realized: they were already assembling, at dawn, to attack Volis.
Kyra, on foot, looked over at their dead horse, at the vast open plains before them, and she knew, finally, their time had come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AIDAN MARCHED FOR HIS FATHER’S chamber impatiently, Leo at his side, with a deepening premonition that something was wrong. He had been searching for his sister Kyra all over th
e fort, Leo at his side, checking all her usual haunts—the armory, the blacksmith’s, Fighter’s Gate—and yet she was nowhere to be found. He and Kyra had always had a close connection, ever since he was born, and he always knew when something was off with her—now, he felt warning signs inside. She had been absent from the feast, and he knew she would have not missed it.
Most concerning of all, Leo was not with her—which never, ever happened. Aidan had grilled Leo, but the wolf, clearly trying to tell him something, could not communicate. He only stuck to Aidan’s side, and would not leave it.
Aidan had spent the feast with a knot in his stomach, checking the door constantly for any sign of Kyra. He had tried to mention it to his father during the meal, but Duncan had been surrounded by too many men, all of them too focused on discussing the battle to come, and none taking him seriously.
At first light Aidan, awake all night, jumped up and ran to his window, checking the breaking dawn for any sign of her. There was none. He burst out of his chamber, down the corridor, past all his father’s men and into Kyra’s room and he did not even knock as he put a shoulder to it, running inside, looking for her.
But his heart had fallen to find her bed empty, still made from the day before. He knew then, for certain, something was wrong.
Aidan ran all the way down the corridors to his father’s chambers, and now he stood before the giant door and looked back at the two guards before it.
“Open the door!” Aidan ordered urgently.
The guards exchanged an unsure look.
“It was a long night, boy,” one guard said. “Your father won’t take kindly to being awakened.”
“Today could bring battle,” said the other. “He needs to be rested.”
“I will not say it again,” Aidan insisted.
They looked at him, skeptical, and Aidan, unable to wait, rushed forward and slammed the knocker.
“Whoa, boy!” one of them said.
Then realizing his determination, the other guard said, “All right—but it’s your head if anything happens. And the wolf stays here.”
Leo snarled, but the guard reluctantly pushed open the door just enough for Aidan to step inside, closing it behind him.
Aidan rushed to his father’s bed to find him sleeping in his furs, snoring, a half-dressed serving girl lying beside him. He grabbed his father’s shoulder and shoved him, again and again.
Finally, his father opened his eyes with a fierce look, staring back as if he were going to whack him. But Aidan would not be deterred.
“Father, you must wake up now!” Aidan urged. “Kyra is missing!”
His father’s look morphed into one of confusion, and he stared back, eyes bloodshot, as if in a drunken haze.
“Missing?” he said, his voice deep, gravelly, rumbling in his chest. “What do you mean?”
“She did not return to her chamber last night. Something has happened to her—I’m certain of it. Alert your men at once!”
His father sat up, this time looking more alert, rubbing his face and trying to shake off the sleep.
“I am sure your sister is fine,” he said. “She’s always fine. She survived an encounter with a dragon—do you think a small snowstorm blew her away? She’s just somewhere you cannot find her—she likes to go off by herself. Now go on. Be on your way before you end up with a good spanking.”
But Aidan stood there, determined, red-faced.
“If you won’t find her, I’ll find her myself,” he yelled and turned and ran from the chamber, hoping that somehow he had gotten through to him.
Aidan stood outside the gates of Volis, Leo beside him, standing proudly on the bridge and watching dawn spread across the countryside. He checked the horizon for any signs of Kyra, hoping perhaps she’d return from firing arrows, but he found none. His foreboding worsened. He had spent the last hour waking everyone from his brothers to the butcher, asking who had seen her last. Finally, one of his father’s men had reported that he had seen her riding off toward the Wood of Thorns with Maltren.
Aidan had combed the fort for Maltren and had been told he was out for his morning hunt. And now he stood here, watching for Maltren to return, eager to confront him and find out what happened to his sister.
Aidan stood there, shin deep in snow, shivering but ignoring it, hands on his hips, waiting, watching, until finally, he squinted as he saw a figure appearing on the horizon, charging forward in the snow, galloping, wearing the armor of his father’s men, the dragon’s crest shining on his breastplate. His heart lifted to see it was Maltren.
Maltren galloped toward the fort, a deer draped over the back of his horse, and as he neared, Aidan saw his disapproval. He looked down at Aidan and came to a reluctant stop before him.
“Out of the way, boy!” Maltren called out. “You’re blocking the bridge.”
But Aidan stood his ground, confronting him.
“Where is my sister?” Aidan demanded.
Maltren stared back, and Aidan saw a moment of hesitation cross his face.
“How should I know?” he barked back. “I am a warrior—I don’t keep track of the frolicking of girls.”
But Aidan held his ground.
“I was told she was with you last. Where is she?” he repeated more firmly.
Aidan was impressed by the authority in his own voice, reminding him of his own father, though he was still too young and lacked the deepness of tone he so badly craved.
He must have gotten through to Maltren, because he slowly dismounted, anger and impatience flashing in his eyes, and walked toward Aidan in a threatening matter, armor rattling as he went. As he neared, Leo snarled, so viciously that Maltren stopped, a few feet away, looking from the wolf to Aidan.
He sneered down at Aidan, stinking of sweat, and even though he tried not to show it, Aidan had to admit he was afraid. He thanked God he had Leo at his side.
“Do you know what the punishment is for defying one of your father’s men?” Maltren asked, his voice sinister.
“He is my father,” Aidan insisted. “And Kyra is his daughter, too. Now where is she?”
Inside, Aidan was trembling—but he was not about to back down—not with Kyra in danger.
Maltren looked about, over his shoulder, apparently checking to see if anyone were watching. Satisfied that no one was, he leaned in close, smiled, and said:
“I sold her to the Lord’s Men—and for a handsome price. She was a traitor and a troublemaker—just like you.”
Aidan’s eyes widened in shock, furious at his betrayal.
“As for you,” Maltren said, reaching in and grabbing Aidan’s shirt, pulling him close. Aidan’s heart jumped as he saw him slip his hand on a dagger in his belt. “Do you know how many boys die in this moat each year? It’s a very unfortunate thing. This bridge is too slippery, and those banks too steep. No one will ever suspect this was anything but another accident.”
Aidan tried to wiggle his way free, but Maltren’s grip was too tight. He felt flushed with panic, as he knew he was about to die.
Suddenly, Leo snarled and leapt for Maltren, sinking his fangs into his ankle. Maltren let go of Aidan and raised his dagger to stab the wolf.
“NO!” Aidan shouted.
There came the sound of a horn, followed by horses bursting through the gate, galloping across the bridge, and Maltren stopped, dagger in mid-air. Aidan turned and his heart lifted with relief to see his father and two brothers approaching, joined by a dozen men, their bows already drawn and pointed for Maltren chest.
Aidan broke free and Maltren stood there, looking afraid for the first time, holding his dagger in his hand, caught red-handed. Aidan snapped his fingers, and Leo reluctantly backed off.
Duncan dismounted and stepped forward with his men, and as they did, Aidan turned to them.
“You see, Father! I told you! Kyra is missing. And Maltren has betrayed her—he has sold her to the Lord Governor!”
Duncan stepped forward and a tense silence overcame them a
s his men surrounded Maltren. He looked nervously over his shoulder to his horse, as if contemplating escape, but the men came forward and grabbed its reins.
Maltren looked back at Duncan, clearly nervous.
“You were going to lay your hands on my boy, were you?” his father asked, looking Maltren in the eye, his tone hard and cold.
Maltren gulped and said nothing.
Duncan slowly raised his sword and held the point to Maltren’s throat, death in his eyes.
“You will lead us to my daughter,” he said, “and it will be the last thing you do before I kill you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
KYRA AND DIERDRE RAN FOR their lives across the snowy plains, gasping for breath, as they slipped and slid on the ice. They sprinted through the icy morning, steam rising from their mouths, the cold burning Kyra’s lungs, her hands numb as she gripped her staff. The rumble of a thousand horses filled the air, and she looked back and wished she hadn’t: on the horizon charged the Lord’s Men, thousands of them bearing down. She knew there was no point in running. With no shelter on the horizon, nothing but open plains before them, they were finished.
Yet still they ran, driven on by some instinct to survive.
Kyra slipped, falling face first in the snow, winded, and she immediately felt a hand under her arm, pulling her up; she looked over to see Dierdre yanking her back to her feet.
“You can’t stop now!” Dierdre said. “You didn’t leave me—and I won’t leave you. Let’s go!”
Kyra was surprised by the authority and confidence in Dierdre’s voice, as if she had been reborn since she had left prison, her voice filled with hope, despite their circumstances.
Kyra broke back into a run, both of them heaving, as they finally began to crest a hill. She tried not to think of what would happen when this army caught up with them, when they reached Volis and slaughtered her people. And yet, Kyra had been trained not to give up—however bleak.
