by Colt, K. J.
Now it was his turn to stand.
“Do you want all of our people killed?” he yelled back. “All for your honor?”
Kyra could not help herself. For the first time in as long as she could member, she burst into tears, so deeply wounded by her father’s lack of caring for her.
He stepped forward to console her, but she lowered her head and turned away as she cried. Then she caught hold of herself and quickly turned and wiped her tears away, looking to the fire with watery eyes.
“Kyra,” he said softly.
She looked up at him and saw that his eyes were watering, too.
“Of course I would fight for you,” he said. “I would fight for you until my heart stopped beating. I, and all of my men, would die for you. In the war that followed, you would die, too. Is that what you want?”
“And my slavery?” she shot back. “Is that what you want?”
Kyra knew she was being selfish, that she was putting herself first, and that was not her nature. Of course she would not allow all of her people to die on her behalf. But she just wanted to hear her father say the words: I will fight for you. Whatever the consequences. You come first. You matter most.
But he remained silent, and his silence hurt her more than anything.
“I shall fight for you!” came a voice.
Kyra turned, surprised, to see Aidan entering the room, holding a small spear, trying to put on his bravest look.
“What are you doing here?” her father snapped. “I am speaking with your sister.”
“And I overheard it!” Aidan said, marching inside, as Leo ran over to him, licking him.
Kyra could not help but smile. Aidan shared the same streak of defiance as she, even if he was too young and too small for his prowess to match his will.
“I will fight for my sister!” he added. “Even against all the trolls of Marda!”
She reached over and hugged him and kissed his forehead.
She then wiped her tears and turned back to her father, her glare darkening. She needed an answer; she needed to hear him say it.
“Do I not matter to you more than your men?” she asked him.
He stared back, his eyes filled with pain.
“You matter more to me than the world,” he said. “But I am not merely a father—I am a Commander. My men are my responsibility, too. Can’t you understand that?”
She frowned.
“And where is that line drawn, Father? When exactly do your people matter more than your family? If the abduction of your only daughter is not that line, then what is? I am sure if it were one of your sons taken, you would go to war.”
He scowled.
“This is not about that,” he snapped.
“But isn’t it?” she shot back, determined. “Why is a boy’s life worth more than a girl’s?”
Her father fumed, breathing hard, and loosed his vest, more agitated than she’d ever seen him.
“There is another way,” he finally said.
She stared back, puzzled.
“Tomorrow,” he said slowly, his voice taking on a tone of authority, as if he were talking to his councilmen, “you shall choose a boy. Any boy you like from amongst our people. You shall wed by sundown. When the Lord’s Men come, you will be wed. Untouchable. You will be safe, here with us.”
Kyra stared back, aghast.
“Do you really expect me to marry some strange boy?” she asked. “To just pick someone, just like that? Someone I don’t love?”
“You will!” her father yelled, his face red, equally determined. “If your mother were alive, she would handle this business—she would have handled it long ago, before it came to this. But she is not. You are not a warrior—you are a girl. And girls wed. And that is the end of the matter. If you have not chosen a husband by day’s end, I will choose one for you—and there is nothing more to say on the matter!”
Kyra stared back, disgusted, enraged—but most of all, disappointed.
“So is that how the great Commander Duncan wins battles?” she asked, wanting to hurt him. “Finding loopholes in the law to hide from his occupier?”
Kyra did not wait for a response, but turned and stormed from the room, Leo at her heels, and slammed the thick oak door behind her.
“KYRA!” her father yelled—but the slam muffled his voice.
Kyra marched down the corridor, feeling her whole world shifting beneath her, as if she were no longer walking on steady ground. She realized, with each passing step, that she could no longer stay here. That her presence would endanger them all. And that was something she could not allow.
Kyra could not fathom her father’s words. She would never, ever, marry someone she did not love. She would never just give in and live a domestic life like all the other women. She would rather die first. Didn’t he know that? Did he not know his own daughter at all?
Kyra stopped by her chamber, put on her winter boots, draped herself with her warmest furs, grabbed her bow and staff, and kept walking.
“KYRA!” her father’s angry voice echoed from somewhere down the corridor.
She would not give him a chance to catch up. She kept marching, turning down corridor after corridor, determined to never see Volis again. Whatever lay out there, out in the real world, she would face it head on. She might die, she knew—but at least it would be her choice. At least she wouldn’t live according to someone else’s designs.
Kyra reached the main doors to the fort, Leo beside her, and the servants, standing there beneath the dying torches, stared back at her, puzzled.
“My lady,” one said. “It is late. The storm rages.”
But Kyra stood there, determined, until finally they realized she would not back down. They exchanged an unsure look, then each reached out and slowly pulled back the thick door.
The moment they did, a freezing gale of wind howled and struck her in the face, the wind carrying whipping snow. She pulled her furs tighter as she looked down and saw snow up to her shins.
Kyra stepped out into the snow, knowing it was unsafe out here at night, the woods filled with creatures, seasoned criminals, and sometimes trolls. Especially on this night of all nights, the Winter Moon, the one night of the year one was supposed to stay indoors, to bar the gates, the night when the dead crossed worlds and anything could happen. Kyra looked up and saw the huge, blood-red moon hanging on the horizon, as if tempting her.
Kyra breathed deep, took the first step and did not turn back, ready to face whatever the night had in store.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALEC SAT IN HIS FATHER’S forge, the great iron anvil before him, well-nicked from years of use, lifted his hammer and pounded on the glowing-hot steel of a sword, freshly removed from the flames. He sweated, frustrated, as he tried to hammer out his fury. Having just reached his sixteenth year, shorter than most boys his age yet stronger than them, too, with broad shoulders, already emerging muscles, and a big mat of wavy black hair that fell past his eyes, Alec was not one to give up easily. His life had been hard-forged, like this iron, and as he sat beside the flames, wiping hair from his eyes continually with the back of his hand, he brooded, contemplating the news he had just received. He had never felt such a sense of despair. He smashed the hammer again and again, and as sweat poured down his forehead and hissed on the sword, he wanted to hammer away all his troubles.
His entire life, Alec had been able to control things, to work however hard he needed to to make things right. But now, for the first time in his life, he would have to sit back and watch as injustice came to his town, to his family—and there was nothing he could do about it.
Alec hammered again and again, the metal ringing in his ears, sweat stinging his eyes and not caring. He wanted to pound this iron until there was nothing left, and as he pounded he thought not of the sword but of Pandesia. He would kill them all if he could, these invaders who were coming to take away his brother. Alec slammed the sword, imagining it was their heads, wishing he could grab fate by the hands
and shape it to his will, wishing he were powerful enough to stand up to Pandesia himself.
Today, Winter Moon, was his most hated day, the day when Pandesia scoured all the villages across Escalon and rounded up all eligible boys who had reached their eighteenth year for service at The Flames. Alec, two years shy, was still safe. But his brother, Ashton, having turned eighteen last harvest season, was not. Why Ashton, of all people? He wondered. Ashton was his hero. Despite being born with a club foot, Ashton always had a smile on his face, always had a cheerful disposition—more cheerful than Alec—and had always made the best of life. He was the opposite of Alec, who felt everything very deeply, who was always caught up in a storm of emotions. No matter how hard he tried to be happy, like his brother, Alec could not control his passions, and often caught himself brooding. He had been told that he took life too seriously, that he should lighten up; but for him, life was a hard, serious affair, and he simply did not know how.
Ashton, on the other hand, was calm, levelheaded and happy despite his position in life. He was also a fine blacksmith, like their father, and he was now single-handedly providing for their family, especially since their father’s malady. If Ashton were taken away, their family would fall into poverty. Worse, Alec would be crushed, for he had heard the stories, and he knew that life as a draftee would mean death for his brother. With Ashton’s club foot, it would be cruel and unjust for Pandesia to take him. But Pandesia was not famed for its compassion, and Alec had a sinking feeling that today could be the last day his brother lived at home.
They were not a rich family and did not live in a rich village. Their home was simple enough, a small, single-story cottage with a forge attached, in the fringes of Soli, a day’s ride north of the capital and a day’s ride south of Whitewood. It was a landlocked, peaceful village, in a rolling countryside, far from most things—a place most people looked over on the way to Andros. Their family had just enough bread to get through each day, no more, no less—and that was all they wished for. They used their skills to bring iron to market, and it was just enough to provide them what they needed.
Alec did not wish for much in life—but he did crave justice. He shuddered at the thought of his brother being snatched away to serve Pandesia. He had heard too many tales of what it was like to be drafted, to serve guard duty at The Flames that burned all day and all night, to become a Keeper. The Pandesian slaves who manned The Flames, Alec had heard, were hard men, slaves from across the world, draftees, criminals, and the worst of the Pandesian soldiers. Most of them were not noble Escalon warriors, not the noble Keepers of Volis. The greatest danger at The Flames, Alec had heard, was not the trolls, but your fellow Keepers. Ashton, he knew, would be unable to protect himself; he was a fine blacksmith, but not a fighter.
“ALEC!”
His mother’s shrill tone cut through the air, rising even over the sound of his hammering.
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 his hammer, rose reluctantly, and weaved his way through the cramped workshop. He could no longer prolong the inevitable.
He stepped back into their cottage through the open doorway, past his disapproving mother, and he stopped and 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, the only nice thing the family owned.
Seated around the table, looking up at him, waiting, sat his brother and father, bowls of stew before them.
Ashton was tall and thin with dark features, 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. They resembled each other—and 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 noted 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 by this time 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,” she snapped. “You will eat what is given you. This may well be our last meal together as a family—do not disrespect your brother.”
Alec turned to his mother, a plain-looking woman in her fifties, her face lined from a life of hardship, and he saw the determination in her green eyes flashing back at him, the same determined look he wore himself.
“Shall we just pretend then that nothing is happening?” he asked.
“He is our son, too,” she snapped. “You are not the only one here.”
Alec turned to his father, feeling a sense of desperation.
“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 disapprovingly.
“Those are the dreams of a young man,” he said. “You, who have never killed a man in your life. Let’s pretend you kill the soldier that grabs Ashton—and what of the two hundred behind him?”
“Let us hide Ashton, then!” Alec insisted.
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.
His father flushed.
“I did not say only—I said eldest.”
“No, you said only,” Alec insisted, wondering.
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 calm one in the room.
Alec looked across the table to see Ashton smiling back at him, even-keeled, well composed as always.
“It will be fine, my brother,” Ashton said. “I shall serve my duty and I shall return.”
“Return?” Alec repeated. “They take Keepers for 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—” Ashton began.
But h
is 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, 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 proudly, and let us pray that when they see Ashton’s foot, they shall do the humane thing and skip him over.”
Alec rose reluctantly from the table as the others all shuffled outside the house.
As he stepped outside into the cold night, Alec was struck at the sight: there was a commotion in his village like never before. The streets were aglow with torches, and all boys over eighteen were lined up, all their families standing by nervously, watching. Clouds of dust filled the streets as a caravan of Pandesians charged into town, dozens of soldiers in the scarlet armor of Pandesia, riding chariots driven by large stallions. Behind them they towed carriages made of iron bars, jolting roughly on the road.
Alec examined the carriages and saw they were filled with boys from across the land, staring out with scared and hardened faces. He gulped at the sight, imagining what lay in store for his brother.
They all came to a stop in the village, and a tense silence fell, 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 one eyebrow. He walked slowly, surveying the ranks of boys, the town so quiet that one could hear his spurs jingling 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 to the cart. Some boys went silently; 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 the Pandesians.