by Morgan Rice
“I said I owed her father a favor,” he said. “I fulfilled it. I won’t harm her. But what anyone else does with her, well….that’s not my business.”
Kyra lost all respect for the man as he slinked back into the crowd. Yet it also emboldened her. It was just her now, and she liked it that way. She needed to rely on no man.
As the men closed in on her, preparing to grab her and Dierdre, Kyra tightened her grip on her staff and steeled herself. No matter what happened, she would not be taken alive by these men.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Alec marched across the plains of northern Soli, the hills rising and falling, staring into the rising sun, bleary-eyed, weary with exhaustion, numb with cold, and no longer feeling the hunger in his belly. He and Marco, beside him, had hiked all night through Whitewood, neither, after their encounter with the Wilvox, willing to take a chance at sleep. Alec could feel the exhaustion in his legs, and as he hiked, watching the horizon, the clouds began to part and the morning sun broke through, lighting the green hills he remembered from childhood—and he felt so grateful to have emerged from the forest. There was nothing like being under open sky. He marveled that he had survived the long trek, so many long and nights, all the way from The Flames.
Alec, still smarting from his wounds, reached up and felt his stiffening leg and arm, the wounds still raw from where the Wilvox had bitten him. He walked more slowly than he had been, yet Marco was walking slowly now, too, he, too, recovering from wounds and slowed by exhaustion and hunger. Alec could not remember the last time he rested, the last time he ate, and he felt as if he were entering a dreamlike state.
Seeing the open sky, the breaking dawn, the familiar hills he knew so well, knowing he was, finally, close to home, Alec, overcome with exhaustion and emotion, felt tears run down his cheeks. It took him several minutes to realize he was crying. He quickly wiped the tears away. He supposed they had sprung from his delirium from his wounds, his hunger, and his joy at seeing his homeland—a place he had never thought to set eyes upon again. He felt as if he had escaped the jaws of death and had been given a second chance at life.
“Where is your village?” Marco’s voice rang out beside him, startling him in the deep silence.
Alec looked over and saw Marco studying the landscape with wonder, eyes filled with exhaustion, dark circles beneath them. They crested a hill and both paused, looking out, the grassy hills covered in a low mist, sparkling in the dawn. Before them lay three hills, identically shaped.
“My village lies beyond the third hill,” Alec said. “We are close,” he sighed with relief. “Hardly an hour’s hike away.”
Marco’s eyes lit with joy.
“And a very welcome arrival it will be,” Marco replied. “I doubt my legs could carry me much farther. Will your family have food for us?”
Alec smiled, reveling in the thought.
“Food and much more,” he replied. “A warm fire, a change of clothing, any weapons you could want, and—”
“And hay?” Marco asked.
Alec smiled wide.
“Hay enough to sleep a thousand years.”
Marco smiled back.
“That is all I want.”
The two set off at a brisk walk downhill, with renewed vigor, a bounce in their step. Alec could already, in his mind’s eye, smell the cooking from his mother’s kitchen, could already anticipate the look of approval in his father’s eyes as he came home a hero, having sacrificed his life for his brother’s. He envisioned the look on his brother’s face when he walked through the door, and he could already feel his embrace. He could see the look of wonder on his parents’ faces, the joy at seeing their son return. Now, perhaps, they would appreciate him. Before, he had been the second-born son, the one they always took for granted; but now, finally, they would realize how much he meant.
The final stretch of the hike flew by, Alec no longer feeling his pain or exhaustion, and before he knew it, they crested the final hill and he found himself looking down at Soli. He stopped, his heart pounding madly, looking out with great anticipation at the sight of his village below. He immediately recognized its familiar contours, the ramshackle stone cottages, and he searched for their brightly colored roofs, the usual activity of children playing, chickens and dogs chasing each other, cows being led through the streets.
But as he studied it closely, he realized immediately that something was awry. He felt a knot in his stomach as he peered down in confusion. Before him was not the sight of his village as he had expected—but rather a scene of devastation. It was an ugly picture, one he barely recognized. Instead of the familiar cottages, there were burnt-out structures, razed to the ground; instead of trees and paths, there was a field of ash and rubble, smoldering, smoke still rising.
His village was no more.
There was no sound of joyous screams of children playing, but rather the distant wails of old women, kneeling on the ground before mounds of dirt. Alec followed their glances and saw, with a jolt to his heart, that the mounds were all fresh graves, rows and rows of them, all marked with crooked crosses—and he felt himself sinking. He suddenly knew, with an awful premonition that swept over him, that everyone and everything he ever knew and loved was dead.
“NO!” Alec shrieked.
Without thinking, without even being aware of what he was doing, Alec stumbled down the hill at a sprint, nearly tripping over himself as he gained speed. It was as if he were stumbling toward a nightmare.
“Alec!” Marco called out behind him.
Alec tripped and fell in the grass, rolling, covered in mud but not caring as he got to his feet again and continued to run. He could barely feel the world around him, could hear only his own heart pounding madly as he ran.
“Ashton!” he cried out as he ran into what was once his village.
Alec ran past house after house, everything burnt to a crisp, nothing but smoldering fires. Nothing was recognizable. He could not fathom what on earth had happened here. Who could have done this? And why?
Alec could not find anything left of his own house as he sprinted by it with dread, now just a pile of embers. All that remained was one stone wall of what used to be his father’s forge.
Alec followed the wailing and ran to the end of town. Finally, he reached the rows of freshly dug graves, the air thick with the smell of soil, smoke, and death.
He reached the rows of old women, kneeling, weeping, dirt on their hands, in their hair, wailing their mournful prayers. Alec stumbled forward and scanned all the bodies, his heart pounding inside, praying it couldn’t be.
Please, he prayed. Don’t let my family be there. Please. I’ll give anything.
Alec suddenly stopped cold and felt his knees go weak as he saw a sight he wished he had never seen: there, laid out before him, untended, were the corpses of his father and mother, too pale, frozen in a look of agony. He felt everything inside him die at that moment.
“MOTHER! FATHER!”
He collapsed by their side in the dirt, embracing them, and his knees sank into the fresh earth as he wept, unable to understand what was happening.
Alec suddenly remembered his brother. He sat bolt upright and searched everywhere, and he could not see him. He had a glimmer of hope: had he survived?
Desperate, he ran over to a kneeling woman and grabbed her arm.
“Where is he!?” he asked. “Where is my brother!?”
The woman looked back at him and shook her head wordlessly, too overcome with grief to respond.
Alec jumped up and ran, searching.
“ASHTON!” he cried out.
Alec ran up and down the graves, searching everywhere, his heart thumping, desperate to know, wondering if he could have made it. Finally, he heard something.
“Alec!” called a weak voice.
Alec felt a wave of relief as he recognized his brother’s voice, albeit a weaker version of it, and he turned and ran to the edge of the graves.
There lay his brother, wounded, seeping blood, unmov
ing, and Alec’s heart sank as he saw him lying in the dirt, blood trickling from his mouth, gravely wounded.
He rushed forward and collapsed by his brother’s side, grabbing his limp, cold hand as he wept. He saw the grievous gash across his brother’s stomach, and he knew immediately that he was dying. He had never felt so helpless, seeing his brother staring back up at him, looking partially at him and partially at the sky, his eyes glazed, the life force leaving even as he watched.
“Brother,” Ashton said, more of a whisper.
He smiled weakly, despite his wounds, and Alec’s heart broke inside.
“I knew you would come,” Ashton said, smiling. “I was waiting for you…before I died.”
Alec clutched his brother’s hand, shaking his head, unwilling to accept this.
“You will not die,” Alec said, knowing even as he said his words that they were untrue.
Ashton smiled back.
“I never had a chance to thank you,” Ashton said. “For going…to The Flames.”
Ashton tried to swallow, while Alec blinked away tears.
“Who did this?” Alec insisted. “Who did this to you?”
Ashton fell silent for a long time, having difficulty swallowing.
“The Pandesians…” he finally replied, his voice weaker. “They…came…to teach us …for vengeance…”
Alec was surprised to feel his brother’s sudden strong grip on his arm, to see his brother clutching his forearm with a surprising strength. His brother stared up at him with one last look of strength, of intensity, the desperation of a dying man.
“Avenge me,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Avenge…all of us. Our parents. Our folk. Kill…Pandesians…. Vow to me…”
Alec felt a fresh sense of purpose, of determination, rise up within him as he had never felt in his life. He clasped his brother’s hand and looked back into his eyes with an equal ferocity.
“I vow to you,” Alec replied. “I vow to you with everything that I am. I will kill every last Pandesian—or I shall die trying.”
His brother looked at him with a fierceness in his eyes which Alec had never seen, for a long time. Finally, his expression turned into one of satisfaction.
Ashton’s face slackened, and he slid down and lay back his head, unmoving. He stared up at the sky with blank eyes, and Alec felt himself dying inside as he knew that at that moment, his brother was dead.
“NO!” Alec shrieked.
He leaned back and wailed to the heavens, wondering why everything he had loved in this world had to be taken from him—and knowing that his life was about to be consumed, to be driven, by one thing and nothing else.
Vengeance.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kyra stared back at the oaf confronting her, this foreigner with his low forehead, wide body and black eyes, smiling creepily at her, his sharpened teeth showing.
“You have no one to protect you,” he said to her. “Do not struggle: it will only make it worse for you.”
Kyra forced herself to breathe, to focus, drawing all the intensity she had when in battle. Inside, her heart was thumping, fire pumping in her veins, as she prepared herself for the confrontation of her life.
“If anyone needs protection,” Kyra replied boldly, “it is you. I shall give you one chance to step out of my way, before you learn what the people of Escalon are made of.”
The oaf stared back and blinked in shocked silence.
Then a moment later, he began laughing, a coarse, ugly sound, and all his men joined in.
“You are bold,” he said. “That is good. More fun to break. I might even take you as my personal slave. Yes, the men on my ship can use a good plaything. Our trips at sea can be so very long.”
Kyra felt a chill as he looked her up and down.
“Tell me something,” he said. “There are ten of us and two of you. What makes you think you can survive?”
An idea began to form in Kyra’s mind; it was risky, but she had no choice. She turned her back slowly on the man, determined to catch him off guard and to show him that she was unafraid.
Kyra, heart slamming, hoping he didn’t jump her from behind, turned to the barkeep, looked out at the sacks of feed laid out on the bar, and out of the corner of her eye gave Dierdre a knowing look as she slowly reached out and grabbed a sack.
“Are these ours?” she asked the barkeep, casually.
He nodded back, looking scared, sweating.
“Is my payment sufficient?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“Girl,” barked the foreigner behind her, annoyed, “you are about to be taken captive for life, and all you care about is your feed? Are you mad?”
Kyra felt a fire burning inside her, about to explode, but she forced herself to stay rooted in place, to wait until the moment was right. Her back to him, she addressed him:
“I am not a girl,” she replied. “But a woman. And those who assume they will win merely because they are male, because they are bigger, because they outnumber their victims, seem to forget the most important thing in battle.”
There came a long silence, until finally, he asked:
“And what is that?”
Kyra took a deep breath, steeling herself, knowing the moment of truth had come.
“Surprise,” she said flatly.
Kyra quickly spun, still clutching the sack, and hurled it with all her might. As she did, the sack opened and the feed went flying through the air, spraying all of her attackers’ eyes.
The men shrieked, clutching their eyes in the dust storm, all temporally blinded, while Dierdre, picking up on Kyra’s cues, did the same, swinging the other sack in a wide arc and blinding the rest of the men. It all happened so quickly, before the startled men could react. Clearly, they had not anticipated that.
Without hesitating, Kyra drew the staff from her back, stepped forward, and with a great shout, brought it down hard on the leader’s head, smashing him in a downward strike. The man fell to his knees and as soon as he did, she kicked him in the chest, sending him to his back. She then brought her staff straight down, breaking his nose.
In the same motion, Kyra spun her staff sideways and behind her, cracking another oaf across the jaw; she then sidestepped and jabbed straight back, breaking the nose of another. She then clutched her staff with both hands, rushed forward, raised it high overhead, and brought it down sideways into the faces of two men before her, knocking them both down.
While the others still clawed at their eyes, trying to extract the feed, Kyra rushed forward and kicked one between the legs, then raised her staff back and struck him downward across the face, knocking him down. She then grabbed her staff with both hands, raised it high and brought it down like a knife into the chest of another man, sending him stumbling back, crashing into a table and knocking it over.
Kyra whirled through the group like lightning, so fast that the stunned men didn’t have a chance to react. She was in such harmony with her weapon, all of her sparring lessons with her father’s men coming back to her, it was as if she and her staff were one. Her countless nights of sparring alone, long after the other men had left, came flooding back. Her instincts took over, and within moments several of her attackers, cracked by her staff, lay writhing on the floor, bloodied, groaning.
After the chaos, only two men were left standing, and these two, grain finally cleared from their eyes, stared back at Kyra with death in their eyes. One drew a dagger.
“Let’s see how that stick of yours does against a knife,” he growled, and charged.
Kyra braced herself for the attack when suddenly there came a crashing noise and she was surprised to see him collapse, face-first, at her feet. She looked up to see Dierdre standing behind, holding a broken stool, hands shaking, staring down as if in shock at what she had just done.
Kyra sensed motion and turned to see the final attacker rush for Dierdre. He must have realized that she was the weak point, and Kyra saw he was about to tackle her and pin her
to the ground. She could not allow that. If Dierdre were taken hostage, Kyra knew, it would make defeating these men infinitely more complicated.
Kyra, knowing she had no time, raised her staff, took aim, stepped forward, and hurled it.
Her staff went flying through the air like a spear, and Kyra watched with satisfaction as it hit the running man in his temple, right in his pressure point. His legs fell out from under him and he collapsed to the ground right before he reached Dierdre.
Dierdre looked down in gratitude, then picked up Kyra’s staff and threw it back to her.
Kyra caught it and stood in the silent room, surveying the damage, all the men laid out, unmoving. She could hardly believe what she had just done. The rest of the tavern-goers stared back, mouths agape, clearly not believing what they had just witnessed, either. Her father’s friend gulped, looking scared.
“I would have helped you,” he said lamely, fear in his voice.
Kyra ignored the coward. Instead, she turned slowly, stepped over the unmoving bodies, and walked casually back to the bar, where the barkeep still stood, staring back, amazed. She grabbed her chickens and meat from the bar, while Dierdre took their sacks of water. This time Kyra would not leave without food for her or the others.
“Looks like I’ll need more feed,” she said to the barkeep.
The bartender, stunned, slowly reached down and handed her more sacks of feed.
The two girls walked back across the room, through the tavern, and out the door, none of the other men daring to approach them now.
As they walked back outside, into the freezing, pelting rain, Kyra no longer felt the cold. She was warm inside, warm with the certainty that she could defend herself, that she was no longer her father’s little girl. Those men had underestimated her, as had all the men in her life—and more importantly, she realized, she had underestimated herself. Never again. She felt a confidence rising up within her. She was becoming herself. She did not know what the road ahead held, but she knew, no matter what, she would never back down to anyone again. She was as strong as these men.