by Morgan Rice
Alec put down his hammer, breathing hard, not realizing how much he had worked himself up, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked over to see his mother sticking her head disapprovingly through the door frame.
“I have been calling for ten minutes now!” she said harshly. “Dinner’s past ready! We haven’t much time before they arrive. We are all waiting for you. Come in at once!”
Alec, snapped out of his reverie, laid down the hammer, rose reluctantly, and weaved his way through the cramped workshop. He could no longer prolong the inevitable.
Alec stepped back into their cottage, through the open doorway, past his waiting mother, and he looked at their dinner table, set with their finest, which wasn’t much. It was a simple slab of wood and four wooden chairs, and one silver goblet had been placed in its center by his mother, the only nice thing the family owned. Around it, looking up at him, waiting, sat his brother and father, bowls of stew before them.
Ashton was tall and thin and bore the dark features of their father, while their father, beside him, was a large man, twice as wide as Alec, with a growing belly, a low brow, thick eyebrows, and the callused hands of a blacksmith. Neither resembled Alec, who had always been told, with his unruly, wavy hair and flashing green eyes, that he looked like his mother.
Ashton looked at them and he saw immediately the fear in his brother’s face, the anxiety in their father’s, both of them looking as if they were on a deathwatch. He felt a pit in his own stomach upon entering the room. Each had a bowl of stew set before them, and as Alec sat down across from his brother, his mother set a bowl before him, then sat down with one for herself.
Even though it was past dinner and he was usually starving, Alec could barely even smell it, his stomach churning.
“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, breaking the silence.
His mother gave him a sharp look.
“I care not if you’re hungry,” she said. “You will eat what is given you. This may well be our last meal together as a family—do not disrespect us.”
Alec turned to his mother, a plain-looking woman in her fifties, her face lined from a life of working too hard, and he saw the determination in her green eyes flashing back at him, the same eyes as his own, the same determined look. More than once he had been told he looked like her, with her wavy, uncontrollable hair, her fierce, intense gaze.
But he felt too antsy to eat.
“Shall we then just pretend nothing is happening?” he asked. “While my brother may be shipped off at any moment?”
“He is our son, too,” she snapped. “Not just your brother. You are not the only one here.”
Alec turned to his father, feeling a sense of desperation, of inevitability, rise over him.
“Will you let it happen, Father?” he asked.
His father frowned but remained silent.
“You’re ruining a lovely meal,” his mother said.
His father raised his hand, and she fell silent. He turned to Alec and gave him a look.
“What would you have me do?” he asked, his voice serious.
“We have weapons!” Alec insisted, hoping for a question such as this. “We have steel! We are one of the few that do! We can kill any soldier that comes near him! They’ll never expect it!”
His father shook his head slowly, disapprovingly.
“Those are the dreams of a young man,” he said. “You, who have never killed a man in your life. Let’s say you kill the man that grabs Ashton—and what of the two or three hundred behind him?”
Alec would not be deterred.
“We can hide Ashton then!” Alec insisted. “They would never find him.”
His father shook his head.
“They have a list of every boy in this village. They know he’s here. If we don’t turn him over, they will kill each and every one of us.” He sighed, annoyed. “Do you not think I haven’t thought through these things, boy? Do you think you’re the only one who cares? Do you think I want my only son to be shipped off?”
Alec paused, puzzled by his words.
“What do you mean, only son?” he asked. “Do I not exist?”
His father flushed.
“I did not say only—I said eldest.”
“No, you said only,” Alec insisted, wondering what he had meant.
His father reddened and raised his voice.
“Stop harping on points!” he shouted. “Not at a time like this. I said eldest and that’s what I meant and that’s the end of it. I do not want my boy taken, just as much as you don’t want your brother taken.”
“Alec, relax,” came a compassionate voice, the only levelheaded voice in the room. Alec looked across the table to see Ashton smiling back at him, even-keeled, well composed as always, good-mannered. “It will be fine, my brother. I will serve my duty and I will return.”
“Return?” Alec repeated. “The duty is seven years.”
Ashton smiled.
“Then I shall see you in seven years,” he replied, and smiled wide. “I suspect you shall be taller than me by then.”
That was Ashton, always trying to make Alec feel better, always thinking of others, even in a time like this.
Alec felt his heart breaking inside.
“Ashton, you can’t go,” he insisted. “You won’t survive The Flames.”
“I will—” Ashton began, but his words were interrupted by a great commotion outside. There came the sound of horses charging into the village, of men clamoring.
The whole family looked at each other at once, in fear. They sat there, frozen, as people began rushing to and fro outside the window. Alec could already see all the boys and families lining up outside.
“No sense prolonging it now,” his father said, standing, placing his palms on the table, his voice breaking the silence. “We should not suffer the indignity of their coming into our house and dragging him off. We shall line up outside with the others and stand proud, and let us pray that when they see Ashton’s foot, they shall do the humane thing and skip over him.”
Alec rose reluctantly from the table with the others, and they all shuffled outside the house, a death march.
As he stepped outside into the frigid night, Alec was struck at the sight: there was a commotion in his village like never before. The streets were aglow with lit torches, and all boys over eighteen were lined up, all their families standing by nervously, watching. Dust filled the streets as a caravan of Pandesians tore into town, dozens of soldiers in the scarlet armor of Pandesia, riding chariots driven by large stallions and towing carriages of iron, jolting roughly on the road. Alec examined these carriages lined with bars, and he saw they were already filled with boys from all corners of the land, staring out with scared faces. He gulped at the sight, thinking of what lay in store for his brother.
They all ground to a stop in the village, and a tense silence fell over them, as everyone waited, breathless.
The commander of the Pandesian soldiers jumped down from his carriage, a tall soldier with no kindness in his black eyes and a long scar across his nose. He walked slowly, surveying the ranks of boys, the town so quiet that one could hear his footsteps, his spurs jingling as he went.
As he went, the soldier looked over each boy, lifting their chins and looking them in the eyes, poking their shoulders, giving each a small shove to test their balance. He nodded as he went, and as he did, his soldiers in waiting quickly grabbed the boys and dragged them into the cart. Some boys went silently, not resisting; some protested, though, and these were quickly beat down by clubs and thrown into the carriage with the others. Sometimes a mother cried or a father yelled out—but nothing could stop Pandesia.
The lead soldier continued, past boy after boy, emptying the village of its most prized assets, until finally the commander came to a stop before Ashton, at the end of the line.
“My son is lame,” their mother quickly called out, pleading desperately to the commander. “You can’t take him. He won’t be of any good
to you.”
The soldier stopped before Ashton, looked him up and down, and stopped at his foot.
“Roll up your pants,” he said, “and take off your boot.”
Ashton did so, and as Alec watched him, he knew his brother well enough to know that he was humiliated; his foot had always been a source of shame for him, smaller than the other, twisted and mangled, forcing him to hobble as he walked.
“He also works for me in the forge,” Alec’s father chimed in. “He is our only source of income. If you take him, our family will have nothing. We won’t be able to survive.”
The commander finally finished looking at his foot, and gestured Ashton to put his boot back on. He then turned and met their father’s eyes, his black eyes cold and firm.
“You live in our land now,” he said, his voice like gravel. “Your son is our property to do with as we wish. Take him away!” the commander called out, and soldiers rushed forward.
“NO!” Alec’s mother cried out in grief. “NOT MY SON!”
She rushed forward and grabbed Ashton, clinging to him, and a Pandesian soldier stepped forward and backhanded her across the face.
Alec’s father rushed forward and grabbed the Pandesian soldier’s arm, and as he did, several soldiers pounced on him and pummeled him until he fell to the ground.
As Alec stood there and watched the soldiers drag his brother away, he could stand it no more. The injustice of it all was killing him, and he knew that this was something that he would be unable to live with for the rest of his days, that the image of his brother being dragged away would be imprinted on his mind. Something within him snapped, and whatever the consequences, he could not allow it.
“Take me instead!” Alec suddenly found himself crying out, involuntarily rushing forward and standing between Alec and the soldiers.
They all stopped and looked to him, clearly caught off guard.
“We are brothers of the same family!” Alec continued. “The law says to take one boy from each family. Let me be that boy.”
The soldier looked him up and down warily.
“And how old are you, boy?”
“Just past my sixteenth year!” he said proudly.
The soldiers laughed, while their commander sneered.
“You’re too young for drafting,” he concluded, dismissing him.
But as he turned to go, Alec rushed forward, refusing to be dismissed.
“I am a greater soldier than he!” Alec insisted. “I can throw a spear further and cut deeper with a sword. My aim is truer with a bow, and I can wrestle any man. Please,” he pleaded. “Give me a chance.”
As they all stared menacingly back at him, Alec, despite his feigned confidence, was terrified inside. He knew he was taking a great risk: he could easily be imprisoned or killed. But he felt he had no choice.
The soldier stared him down for what felt like an eternity, the entire village silent, until finally, he nodded back at his men.
“Leave the cripple,” he commanded. “Take the boy. I’ll enjoy pummeling this one into obedience myself.”
The soldiers shoved Ashton, reached forward and grabbed Alec, and within moments, he felt himself being dragged away. It was all happening so quickly, it was surreal.
“NO!” cried Alec’s mother, and he saw her weeping as he felt himself being tossed roughly into the iron carriage.
“Leave my brother alone!” Ashton cried out. “Take me!”
But there was no more listening. Alec was shoved deep inside the carriage, which stunk of body odor and fear, stumbling over other boys who shoved him back rudely, and the iron door was slammed behind him, echoing. Alec felt a great sense of satisfaction and relief at having saved his brother’s life, greater even than his fear. He had given his life up for his brother’s—and whatever should come next would matter little next to that.
As he sat on the floor and settled back against the iron bars, the carriage already moving beneath him, he knew that he probably would not survive this, as most boys did not. He met the angry eyes of the other boys, summing him up in the blackness, and as they continued, jolting along the road, he knew that on the journey before him, there would be a million ways to die—and wondered which would be his. Singed by The Flames? Stabbed by a boy? Eaten by a troll?
Or would the least likely thing of all happen: would he somehow, against all odds, survive?
CHAPTER NINE
Kyra hiked through the blinding snow, Leo at her side rubbing up against her leg as she strained to see, the feel of his body the only thing grounding Kyra in this sea of white. With the snow whipping in her face, it was hard to see more than a few feet, the only light that from the blood-red moon, glowing eerily against the clouds. The cold bit her to the bone, and hardly hours from home, she already missed the warmth of her father’s fort, imagining herself sitting by the fireplace now, in a pile of furs, drinking melted chocolate and lost in a book.
Kyra forced those thoughts from her mind, doubling her efforts to get away, determined. She would get away from the life her father had carved out from her, whatever the cost, would not be forced to marry a man she did not know or love, all from cowering in fear from Pandesia. She would not live a life by a hearth to fulfill someone else’s ideas and be forced to give up on her dreams. She would rather die out here in the cold and the snow than live a life that other people dreamt for her.
Kyra trekked on, wading through snow up to her knees, heading deeper into the black night, in the worst weather she had ever been in. It felt surreal. She could feel a special energy in the air on this night, the night when the dead were said to share the earth with the living, when others feared to leave their homes, boarded windows and doors. The air felt thick, and not only with snow: it felt as if there were spirits out all around her. Watching her. It felt as if she were walking into her destiny—or her death.
She crested a hill, and as she did, Kyra caught a glimpse of the horizon, and for the first time in this trek, she was filled with hope. There, in the distance, were The Flames, lighting up the night despite the blizzard, the only glimmer of hope and warmth in this dreary world. In the black night they called to her like a magnet, this place which her father had strictly forbidden her to go. She was surprised she had gotten so close, and wondered if she had been unconsciously marching toward them since she left.
She stopped and took it in, gasping for breath. The Flames. The great wall of fire that stretched fifty miles across the northeastern border of Escalon, the only thing blocking her country from the vast lands of Marda, the kingdom of the trolls. The famed place where her father and his father before him had served dutifully, protecting their homeland, the place where all of her father’s men went to serve their duty in rotation.
Kyra had never been this close, and she was in awe at the flames’ height, their brightness—it was all that everyone had claimed and more. She wondered at what magical force kept them lit—and wondered if they would ever burn out. Indeed, seeing them in person only raised more questions than it answered.
Kyra knew thousands of men were stationed along them, all sorts of men, some of her own people, some slaves, some Pandesians, some draftees, and some criminals. She knew that on the other side were lurking thousands of trolls, desperate for any opportunity to break through. It was a dangerous place. A haunting place. A mystical place. It was a place for the desperate, the bold, and the fearless. And a place which, on a night like this, she could not look away from. She could go no place else, even if she tried, if for no other reason than to warm up and feel her hands again.
Leo at her side, Kyra used her staff to steady herself as she hiked downhill through the snow, making her way for The Flames, using it as her compass. Though it could hardly have been a mile away, it felt like ten, and what should have been a ten-minute hike took her over an hour as she hiked and hiked, the cold biting her to the bone. She had never known she could feel this cold. She turned and glanced back over her shoulder to see her father’s fort somewhere
on the horizon, but it was long gone, lost in world of white. She knew she was too cold to make it back anyway. She looked again ahead of her, at The Flames: there was no turning back.
Finally, her legs trembling from the cold, her toes growing numb, her hand stuck to the staff, and leaning on Leo for support, Kyra stumbled down a dip in the hill and she felt a sudden burst of heat as The Flames spread out before her.
The sight took her breath away. Hardly a hundred yards away, the light was so bright that it lit up the entire night, making it feel like day, and The Flames rose so high, when she looked up, she could not see where they ended. The heat was so strong, so intense, that even from here, it warmed her, and the crackling and hissing noise of the fire so intense, it drowned out even the howl of the wind.
Kyra was drawn to it, mesmerized, walking closer and closer, feeling more and more warmth, as if walking onto the surface of the sun. She felt herself thaw as she approached, began to feel her toes and fingers again, tingling as the feeling came back. It was like standing before a huge fireplace, and she felt its presence restoring her, bringing her back to life.
She stood before it, hypnotized, like a moth to a flame, staring at this wonder of the world, the greatest wonder in their land, the one thing keeping them safe—and the one thing no one understood. Not the historians, and not the sorcerers. Kings didn’t even have an answer. When had it begun? What kept it going? When would it end?
The legend was that the Sword of Fire, closely guarded in one of the two towers—no one knew which one—kept The Flames alive. The Towers, guarded by a cult-like group of men, the Watchers, an ancient order, part man, part something else, were well-hidden and guarded on two opposite ends of Escalon, one on the far western shore, in Ur, and the other in the southeastern corner of Kos. The Watchers were joined, too, by the finest knights the kingdom had to offer, all intent on keeping the Sword of Flames hidden and The Flames alive. More than one troll, her father had told her, who had breached The Flames, had tried to find the towers, to steal the Sword, but none had ever been successful. The Watchers were too good at what they did. After all, even Pandesia, with all its might, dared not try to occupy the Towers, risk angering the Watchers and lowering The Flames.