The Rock of Ivanore

by Laurisa White Reyes

  Jayson pursued Arik, and their conflict continued across the town square toward the perimeter of Dokur. Each man, spurred on by his hatred of the other, struggled to get the upper hand. As they neared the edge of the plateau above the road, Arik began to show signs of weakness. Finally, his energy spent, Arik dropped to his knees and threw his sword over the cliff.

  “I concede,” he said, his chest heaving. “I am mortally wounded. Let me die with what dignity I have remaining.”

  Jayson thrust the point of his sword against Arik’s abdomen. “Dignity? What dignity is there in plotting to invade your own homeland and to slaughter your own people?”

  “My father’s people!” said Arik, the words spewing from his mouth like venom. “Dokur’s beloved Fredric is content to squander my inheritance! I was his heir until Ivanore bore a son. As a woman, Ivanore could never rule. But her son! Yes, I betrayed you. My jealousy drove me to it. I thought I would gain my father’s favor. How was I to know that Fredric would kill the child?”

  Arik raised his hands to his face as if to hide from the shame he felt. “I tried to stop him,” he continued, his voice breaking. “But in his rage, he exiled me and stripped me of my inheritance.”

  Jayson’s heart ached inside him. The anger that had consumed him moments before turned to compassion. “The child is not dead,” he said, lowering his sword. “Ivanore took him away. I don’t know where he is now, but I believe he is alive. Come with me and make amends with your father.”

  The effort was painful, but Arik rose to one knee. As Jayson reached out his hand to help him, a single arrow suddenly pierced Arik’s chest. He collapsed into Jayson’s arms. Jayson turned to identify the culprit but saw only the crowd of battling soldiers.

  Jayson looked back at Arik, whose breath now came in short, painful snatches. “Do you think . . . Fredric . . .” Arik’s words were broken as his body convulsed. He struggled to continue. “Will my father . . . forgive me?”

  Jayson nodded. He tried to utter the words he felt in his heart, but the tightness in his throat and chest prevented him from speaking. He nodded again, and Arik smiled slightly. As the life ebbed out of him, Arik’s eyes flickered and then shut forever.

  * * *

  The arrows in Clovis’s quiver were nearly gone. With them he had wounded seven Hestorian soldiers. Tristan had wounded four with his sword and received two shallow wounds of his own. They had found shelter behind the city’s fountain while Kaië saw to Tristan’s injuries.

  Zody knelt beside Tristan, offering words of encouragement. “Can’t be all that bad,” he said. “They’re just flesh wounds. Your arm will heal soon enough.”

  “Easy for you to say!” snapped Tristan, clenching his teeth while Kaië tied a strip of cloth just above his elbow. “You’ve managed quite well to stay clear of danger.”

  “I was never very good with a sword,” said Zody, examining the clean blade he held in his hand.

  Just then Clovis cried out. “Look over there! It’s Jayson and Arik!”

  He pointed toward the entrance to the city, where Jayson stood holding a sword to Arik’s chest. To their astonishment, however, Jayson did not kill Arik but lowered his sword, offering his hand to help the other man up. Suddenly, mere yards from where the boys sat watching, a lone archer turned and fired an arrow straight through Arik’s heart.

  “Did you see that?” said Clovis. “That guard just killed Arik!”

  “He had it coming,” said Zody.

  Before Jayson could even turn around, the archer drew another arrow, aiming it right at Jayson’s back.

  “He’s going to kill Jayson!” shouted Clovis.

  “Clovis, your bow!” said Tristan.

  Clovis began wheezing heavily. “I’ve only got one arrow left—and it’s broken!”

  Kaië grabbed Zody by his shirtsleeve and pulled him to his feet. “Go!” she told him. “You’re the only one with a sword in your hand, so go! Go now!”

  Zody leapt to his feet and threw himself across the space that separated him from Jayson’s attacker. There wasn’t a moment to hesitate or to think. In half a second, Zody’s sword came down on the archer’s forearm. The man screamed out in pain as his arrow shot wide. The culprit turned and ran, blending into the crowd of battling soldiers.

  Another second later, Zody once again dropped down beside Tristan, gasping for breath. Kaië squeezed his hand. Clovis patted him on the shoulder.

  “I did it! I can’t believe I actually did it,” said Zody, smiling proudly at his companions. “You know, saving someone’s life feels pretty good. I’ll have to try it again sometime.”

  * * *

  Jayson rose from Arik’s lifeless body and turned back toward Dokur. The scene before him filled him with sorrow, for many of his Agoran brethren lay wounded on the battlefield, far more than the number of Hestorians. The dragons, not content to set buildings and ships ablaze, had taken to scavenging upon the bodies of the dead and dying. It was a gruesome sight. Though the war waged on, Jayson could see the fear and desperation in the Agorans’ eyes.

  Not far off, Nathar, the Agoran slave, was engaged in combat with a heavily armored enemy. Wounded and weak, Nathar barely had strength to withstand the blows. Jayson ran to his aid, but he was too late. With one last strike, the Hestorian gained the final victory. Within moments a hungry dragon lumbered across the battlefield, its bloodstained talons leaving gaping holes in the earth as it came. From the depths of Jayson’s soul, a roar erupted. He ran toward his fallen comrade and threw himself before the beast.

  “Get away!” he shouted with inhuman fury. “Get away from him!”

  The dragon reared its head, unleashing a spray of sparks that fell around the Agoran warrior like an umbrella of fire. Jayson sprinted forward and lodged his sword in the beast’s throat. The dragon screeched in pain and then slashed at its attacker with a full set of razor-sharp talons. Jayson managed to jump free from the blow, but without a weapon, he was no match for the wounded dragon. The dragon beat its wings furiously as it worked the sword loose from its own throat and then crushed it between its massive teeth. It started toward Jayson, but then the dragon screeched again. A large tear appeared in its right wing. The glint of a sword slashed through the air and another tear appeared. The dragon tucked its wounded wing beneath its body. Behind it, Marcus held Xerxes’ blade in a feeble grip.

  As the dragon retreated, Marcus’s legs buckled beneath him. Jayson ran forward and caught him as he fell. He set Marcus gently on the ground and covered him with his cloak.

  “Despite all my efforts to free my people,” said Jayson as tears threatened to fall, “I have instead led them straight to hell. Maybe it would have been better to live as slaves than to die like this.”

  Marcus shivered and drew up Jayson’s cloak to his chin. “You’re wrong,” he said. “Some things are worth dying for.”

  Jayson was about to reply, but he realized that Marcus had once again slipped into unconsciousness. He turned again to Nathar. To his relief, the wounded Agoran was breathing. It was then that Jayson noticed what was clutched in Nathar’s fingers: the banner bearing Fredric’s royal seal. Though soiled and torn, the words he had written there were still legible. He carefully pulled the fabric free. Then he strode across the battlefield to the great fountain at the town center. Climbing to the highest point he could reach, he took up the banner and raised it above his head, shouting for all to hear. “For our families, our land, and our liberty!”

  On hearing Jayson’s words and seeing the banner raised, the Agorans’ determination was renewed. Though they might all die that day, it would be for a just cause. They would die for those things most dear to them. Theirs would be a worthy sacrifice, indeed.

  The ground beneath Jayson’s feet began to tremble. Thunder sounded, or something that sounded like thunder. In reality it was the sound of giant footsteps. Jayson hurried to the edge of the plateau and saw more than a dozen Cyclopes running across the valley. Once they reached the road le
ading to the city, they ascended it in a matter of seconds. Without hesitation, they joined the Agorans in battle.

  When Breah saw Jayson, he bent down for his customary rub behind the ears. Vos stood nearby, as well.

  “Are we too late?” Vos asked.

  “You’re just in time,” replied Jayson. “But how did you know to come? At the lake I dared not ask you to fight.”

  “Let us say a boy who didn’t want to become my supper said you might be in trouble.”

  “Your supper? But Cyclopes are vegetarians.”

  “Yes,” replied Vos, laughing. “But the boy didn’t know that.”

  At the sight of the giants, both the Agorans and Hestorians were equally petrified with fear. But seeing one of the Cyclopes lift Jayson to its shoulder gave the Agorans a surge of courage. The Cyclopes moved through the armies, picking out the Hestorians as though they were mere insects and flinging them into the sea. The dragons were swatted down like flies. Those that managed to escape the Cyclopes’ hands ran for the harbor. Soon the remaining enemy soldiers had all fled toward the shore. They could not board their boats fast enough. Those skiffs that got away in time managed to reach the safety of their ships. The others were capsized like toys in a child’s bath, their occupants thrown well out of the harbor and left to swim for it.

  The battle of Dokur was over.

  Sixty-one

  y the time Marcus regained consciousness, the Hestorians had deserted Dokur. Jayson held a cup of water to Marcus’s parched lips, and he drank it gratefully. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his shoulder was immense.

  “That’s Arik’s handiwork you feel,” said Jayson, cradling Marcus’s head in his hands. “It’s not as bad as it seems. A minor wound, but painful. I’ll take you to an inn where you can rest.”

  “No,” protested Marcus weakly. “I must—” His voice broke off, and he winced from the pain. “I must get to Kelvin. He needs a doctor.”

  The look on Jayson’s face did nothing to alleviate Marcus’s concern.

  “I’m sorry, Marcus, but there’s only one physician in Dokur, and he is overwhelmed with seeing to the soldiers. I cannot ask him . . .”

  Jayson averted his eyes from Marcus and hung his head. Marcus struggled to sit up and fought even harder to stand. He looked around him. The devastation that lay before him was far more than he could have imagined. Though the Cyclopes had managed to rid Dokur of its enemy, many of the buildings were nothing but blackened rubble. The glow from a few scattered fires cast shifting shadows among the dead. The stench of blood and ash filled the air.

  Only one image stood out among the rest as a beacon of hope: Fredric’s banner hoisted high on a makeshift pole. The words written there reassured Marcus that all would be well.

  “I must go to Kelvin,” Marcus said. He took a step forward, but his legs gave way beneath him. Jayson caught him by the arm to steady him. Then, finding Marcus’s sword on the ground nearby, he placed it in the boy’s hand. Marcus wrapped his grip around Xerxes and felt the comfort of his old companion. Leaning his weight against the sword, he took another step. He would have taken one more, but Jayson stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

  “Wait,” he said, “I’ll go with you.”

  * * *

  Darkness had settled on Dokur like a shroud. As the large fires were put out by trains of people with buckets, torches dotted the village, casting dancing phantoms against the buildings. The pile of bodies in the center of the marketplace grew to the height of the rooftops—and yet there were still more. On the morrow, they would be burned in a ceremonial pyre.

  Marcus leaned heavily on Xerxes as he led Jayson around the outer gate of the Fortress. With only a single torch to light their way, their path was more treacherous than it had been in daylight, making the journey much longer than Marcus would have preferred. Once the full moon rose overhead, however, the trail, illuminated by its silver glow, became easier to follow.

  Just when Marcus could stand the waiting no longer, the column of trees appeared before him in the distance. Nothing could hold him back now, and though he had not yet regained his full strength, he ran across the field, stumbling only once along the way.

  The children of Dokur were nestled quietly in their mothers’ laps beneath the canopy of green. The wind rustling through the leaves played a comforting lullaby. Jayson stopped to speak to the wives of those men who had fought so valiantly. Marcus continued on and finally found the old midwife hunched over Kelvin and applying a layer of ointment over his wounds.

  “Your friend is not well,” she told him. “I have done all I can, but I fear it is not enough.”

  Marcus knelt on the ground beside Kelvin and placed a hand on his cheek. Kelvin’s skin was moist and hot to the touch. His breath was shallow and irregular. At Marcus’s touch, Kelvin’s eyelids opened. His gaze wandered at first, but finally settled on Marcus’s face. “I’m glad you’re here,” whispered Kelvin. Forming the words was a struggle. “Take this.” With great effort he removed the Celestine pendant from around his neck and placed it in Marcus’s hand.

  “I can’t take it,” said Marcus, fighting back tears. Kelvin looked as though he wanted to say more, but his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  “Will he . . .?” Marcus began, though he could not finish the sentence.

  The midwife looked at him with a mother’s concern. “He will not live through the night,” she said.

  “But there must be something more we can do!”

  The midwife shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  For a fleeting moment, Marcus thought of Zyll’s key. With its power there must surely be some way to help, but it was gone—and with it all hope of saving Kelvin. Then a thought struck him.

  He found the staff where he had left it and sheathed his sword. When he rapped on Xerxes’ beak, the bird fluttered to life. “What do you mean, striking me that way?” he squawked irritably. “I’ve a good mind to mention this in my report to Zyll.”

  “Don’t be angry, Xerxes,” said Marcus. “I need you to tell me something about the key. Is it possible to do magic without it? Zyll doesn’t use any charm.”

  Xerxes ground his beak together while contemplating his answer. “That depends,” he replied finally.

  “Depends on what?” asked Marcus.

  “On you, of course,” answered Xerxes. “You are an enchanter-in-training, you know. Did you think you would need the key forever?”

  “Then I can perform magic on my own!” Marcus turned to Kelvin, whose pale face had the look of impending death upon it. “But how can I heal Kelvin when the magic only works on inorganic materials?”

  “Where did you hear that nonsense?” replied Xerxes.

  “I heard it from you,” said Marcus. “You said it was impossible to manipulate organic objects, that not even Zyll could do it.”

  “I said it was nearly impossible, which is entirely different.”

  “Then it can be done!”

  Marcus grasped Kelvin’s shirt in his hands and tore open the fabric, revealing his bruised and broken body. As he laid his hands on Kelvin’s chest, Xerxes squawked in protest.

  “Wait! I know how much you care for Kelvin. I’ve grown to tolerate him, as well. But you mustn’t use your powers this way! You’ve seen how magic drains you of energy. Transmuting an organic substance, especially someone on death’s door, would virtually require your life force in exchange for his!”

  “What are you saying, Xerxes?”

  “I’m saying you’re not strong enough. Few enchanters are! Even the mighty Zyll will not take such risks. And you are only an apprentice!”

  Marcus knew that Xerxes was right—he had felt weakened each time he used magic—but he could not bear to watch Kelvin die. “I have no choice,” he said. “I must try to save him.”

  With his palms against Kelvin’s chest, Marcus imagined in his mind how he could manipulate bone and flesh to mend itself. He tried to think
what command he should use, but then Kelvin’s body shuddered. His breath went out of him and his heart ceased beating.

  The midwife began to weep. By now Jayson had joined Marcus by Kelvin’s side. He placed a comforting hand on Marcus’s shoulder.

  “He’s gone,” he said.

  Marcus leaned over Kelvin and enfolded the lifeless body of his friend in his arms. The tears began slowly at first, then came faster. Marcus’s body shook, and he wept from more grief than he had ever known. As he wept, however, his grief turned to anger, the anger to rage.

  “No! I won’t let you die! You must live!” he shouted, his voice erupting in uncontrollable sobs. “Live! Do you hear me? I command it! Live! Live! LIVE!”

  The night was silent except for the intermittent sounds of children whimpering in their mothers’ arms as they slept. Jayson, the midwife, and a few women from Dokur stood by watching the anguished boy mourn the death of his friend. So quiet were they that when Kelvin took that first deep breath, they all heard it and were astonished. After the second breath, the midwife quickly fell to her knees beside him and felt his pulse.

  “His heart is beating!” she said. A quick examination of his chest found clean, new skin and solid bone where only wounds had been before. She clasped her hands together and praised the gods for the miracle. Only then did she notice the other boy on the ground, his body crumpled and unmoving.

  Sixty-two

  arcus opened his eyes and blinked against the bright light. While his eyes adjusted he tried to make out his surroundings. He was lying prone on the ground underneath a tall tree, the same tree beneath which he had knelt beside Kelvin. But Kelvin was gone. Everyone was gone.

  He stood up. His legs felt surprisingly strong. Everything looked the same: the trees, the meadow, the Fortress, even the sound of waves crashing on the shore. Yet it wasn’t the same, not quite.

  He called out. “Hello?” His voice sounded distant, as if it were someone else’s voice. “Where is everyone?”