by Colt, K. J.
It was a move she did not expect, and Kyra felt the mighty blow smash her jaw and send her reeling down to the floor, beside Dierdre.
Kyra, stung, jaw aching, lay there and looked up, watching them all go. As they all left her cell, locking it behind them, the Lord Governor stopped, face against the bars, and looked down at her.
“I will wait for tomorrow to torture you,” he said, grinning. “I find that my victims suffer the most when they are given a full night to think about the hardship to come.”
He let out an awful laugh, delighted with himself, then turned with his men and left the dungeon, the massive iron door slamming behind them like a coffin on her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MERK HIKED THROUGH WHITEWOOD AT sunset, his legs aching, his stomach growling, trying to keep the faith that the Tower of Ur was out there on the horizon, that eventually he would reach it. He tried to focus on what his new life would be like once he arrived, how he would become a Watcher and start again.
But he couldn’t focus. Ever since he had met that girl, heard her story, it had been gnawing away at him. He wanted to push her from his mind, but try as he did, he could not. He was so sure he had been turning away from a life of violence. If he went back for her and helped kill those men, when would the killing ever end? Would there not be another job, another cause, right behind that one?
Merk hiked and hiked, poking the ground with his staff, leaves crunching beneath his feet, furious. Why had he had to run into her? It was a huge wood—why couldn’t they have missed each other? Why did life always have to throw things in his way? Things beyond his understanding?
Merk hated hard decisions, and he hated hesitation; his entire life he had always been so sure of everything, and he had regarded that as one of his strong points. He had always known what he was. But now, he was not so sure. Now, he found himself wavering.
He cursed the gods for having him run into that girl. Why couldn’t people take care of themselves, anyway? Why did they always need him? If she and her family were unable to defend themselves, then why did they deserve to live anyhow? If he saved them, wouldn’t some other predator, sooner or later, kill them?
No. He could not save them. That would be enabling them. People had to learn to defend themselves.
And yet perhaps, he pondered, there was a reason she had been put before his eyes. Maybe he was being tested.
Merk looked up at the skies, the sunset a thin strip on the horizon, barely visible through Whitewood, and he wondered at his new faith.
Tested.
It was a powerful word, a powerful idea, and one he did not like. He did not like what he did not understand, what he could not control, and being tested was precisely that. As he hiked and hiked, stabbing the leaves with his staff, Merk felt his carefully constructed world collapsing all around him. Before, his life had been easy; now, it life felt like an uncomfortable state of questioning. Being sure of things in life, he realized, was easy; questioning things was what was hard. He had stepped out of a world of black and white and into a world filled with shades of gray, and the uncertainty unsettled him. He did not understand who he was becoming, and that bothered him most of all.
Merk crested a hill, leaves crunching, breathing hard but not from exertion. As he reached the top, he stopped and looked out, and for the first time since embarking on this journey, he felt a ray of hope. He almost could not believe what he was seeing.
There it sat, on the horizon, glowing against the sunset. Not a legend, not a myth, but a real place: the Tower of Ur.
Nestled in a small clearing in the midst of a vast and dark wood, it rose up, an ancient stone tower, circular, perhaps fifty yards in diameter, and rising to the treeline. It was the oldest thing he had ever seen, older, even, than the castles in which he had served. It had a mysterious, impenetrable aura to it. He could sense it was a mystical place. A place of power.
Merk breathed a deep sigh of exhaustion and relief. He had made it. Seeing it here was like a dream. Finally, he would have a place to be in the world, a place to call home. He would have a chance to start life over, a chance to repent. He would become a Watcher.
He knew he should be ecstatic, should double his pace and set off on the final leg of the journey before nightfall. And yet, try as he did, for some reason he could not take the first step. He stood there, frozen, something gnawing away at him.
Merk turned around, able to see the horizon in every direction, and in the far distance, against the setting sun, he saw black smoke rising. It was like a punch in the gut. He knew where it was coming from: that girl. Her family. The murderers were setting fire to everything.
As he followed the trail of smoke he they had not reached her farm yet. They were still on the outskirts of her fields. Soon enough, they would reach it. But for now, for these last precious minutes, she was safe.
Merk cracked his neck, as he was prone to do when torn by an inner conflict. He stood there, shifting in place, filled with a great sense of unease, unable to go forward. He turned and looked back at the Tower of Ur, the destination of his dreams, and he knew he should forge ahead. He had arrived, and he wanted to relax, to celebrate.
But for the first time in his life, a desire welled up within him. It was a desire to act selflessly, a desire to act purely for justice’s sake. For no fee and no reward. Merk hated the feeling.
Merk leaned back and shouted, at war with himself, with the world. Why? Why now, of all times?
And then, despite every ounce of common sense he had, he found himself turning away from the Tower, towards the farm. First it was a walk, then a jog—then a sprint.
As he ran, something deep within him was being set free. The Tower could wait. It was time for Merk to do right in the world. It was time for these murderers to meet their match.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
KYRA SAT AGAINST THE COLD stone wall, her eyes bloodshot as she watched the first rays of dawn seep through the iron bars, cover the room in a pale light. She had been awake all night, as the Lord Governor had predicted, turning over in her mind the horrific punishment to come. She pondered what they had done to Dierdre, and tried not to think of the ways these cruel men would try to break her.
Kyra turned over in her mind a thousand schemes to resist, to escape. The warrior spirit in her refused to break—she would rather die first. Yet, as she mulled all possible ways of defiance, of escape, she kept returning to a feeling of hopelessness and despair. This place was more well-guarded than any place she had ever been. She was in the midst of the Lord Governor’s fort, a Pandesian stronghold, a massive military complex holding thousands of soldiers. She was far from Volis, and even if somehow she managed to escape, she knew she would never make it back before they hunted her down and killed her. Assuming Volis still stood for her to return to. Worse, her father had no idea where she was, and he never would. She was utterly alone in the universe.
“No sleep?” came a soft voice, shattering her reverie.
Kyra looked over to see Dierdre sitting against the far wall, her face illuminated with the first light of dawn, she looking too pale, dark circles under her eyes. She appeared utterly dejected, and she stared back at Kyra with haunted eyes.
“I didn’t sleep either,” Dierdre continued. “I was thinking all night of what they will do to you—the same they’ve done to me. But for some reason it hurts me worse to think of them doing it to you than me. I’m already broken; there’s nothing left of my life. But you’re still perfect.”
Kyra felt a deepening sense of dread as she contemplated her words. She could not imagine the horrors her newfound friend had gone through, and seeing her this way just made her more determined to fight back.
“There must be another way,” Kyra said.
Dierdre shook her head.
“There is nothing here but a miserable existence of life. And then death.”
There came the sudden sound of a door slamming across the dungeon hall, and Kyra stood, prepare
d to face whatever came at her, prepared to fight to the death if need be. Dierdre suddenly jumped to her feet and ran over to her, grabbing her elbow.
“Promise me one thing,” Dierdre insisted.
Kyra saw the desperation in her eyes, and she nodded back.
“Before they take you,” she said, “kill me. Strangle me if you have to. Do not let me live like this anymore. Please. I beg you.”
As Kyra stared back, she felt a sense of resolve bubbling up within her. She shook off her self-pity, all of her doubts. She knew, in that moment, that she had to live. If not for herself, then for Dierdre. No matter how bleak life seemed, she knew she could not give up.
The soldiers approached, their boots echoing, their keys clanging, and Kyra, knowing there remained little time, turned and grabbed Dierdre’s shoulders with a firm grip as she looked her in the eye.
“Listen to me,” Kyra implored. “You are going to live. Do you understand me? Not only are you going to live, but you are going to escape with me. You are going to start your life over—and it is going to be a beautiful life. We will wreak vengeance on all the scum that did this to you—together. Do you hear me?”
Dierdre stared back, wavering.
“I need you to be strong,” Kyra insisted, speaking also to herself, she realized. “Living is not for the weak. Dying, giving up, is for the weak—living is for the strong. Do you want to be weak and die? Or do you wish to be strong and live?”
Kyra kept staring at her intensely as light flooded the cell from the torches and soldiers came marching in—and finally, she thought she could see something shift in Dierdre’s eyes. It was like a tiny glimmer of hope, and it was followed by a tiny nod of affirmation.
There came a clanging of keys, the cell door opening and she turned to see the soldiers approach. Rough, callused hands grab her wrists, and Kyra was yanked out of the cell, as the cell door slammed behind her. She let herself go slack. She had to conserve her energy. Now was not the time to fight back. She had to catch them off guard, to find the perfect moment. Even a powerful enemy, she knew, always had one moment of vulnerability.
Two soldiers held her in place, and through the iron door there appeared a man whom Kyra dimly recognized: the governor’s son.
Kyra blinked, confused.
“My father sent me to get you,” he said as he approached, “but I am going to have you first. He won’t be pleased when he finds out, of course—but then again, what’s he to do when it is too late?”
The son’s face contorted in a cool, evil smile.
Kyra felt a cold dread as she stared back at this sick man, who licked his lips and examined her as if she were an object.
“You see,” he said, taking a step forward, beginning to take off his fur coat, his breath visible in the cold cell, “my father need not know all the goings-on of this fort. Sometimes I like to have first dibs on whatever passes through—and you, my dear, are a fine specimen. I’m going to have fun with you. Then I will torture you. I will keep you alive, though, so that I have something left to bring to him.”
He grinned, getting so close she could smell his foul breath.
“You and I, my dear, are going to become very familiar.”
The son nodded to his two guards, and she was surprised as they released their grip and backed off, each retreating to a side of the room to give him space.
She stood there, hands free, and furtively glanced across the room, summing up her odds. There were the two guards, each armed with a long sword, and the son himself, far taller and broader than she. She would be unable to overpower them all, even if armed, which she was not.
She noticed in the far corner, leaning against the wall, her weapons—her bow and staff, her quiver of arrows—and her heart beat faster. What she wouldn’t give to have them now.
“Ahh,” the son said, smiling. “You look for your weapons. You still think you can survive this. I see the defiance in you. Don’t worry, I will break that soon enough.”
Unexpectedly, the son reached back and backhanded her so hard it took her breath away, her entire face stinging with pain. Kyra stumbled back, landing on her knees, blood dripping from her mouth, the pain rudely awaking her, ringing in her ear, her skull. She knelt there, on her hands and knees, trying to catch her breath, realizing this was a preview of what was to come.
“Do you know how we tame our horses, my dear?” asked the son, as he stood over her and smiled down cruelly. A guard threw him Kyra’s staff and the son caught it and without missing a beat raised it high and brought it down on Kyra’s exposed back.
Kyra shrieked, the pain unbearable, and collapsed face-first on the stone, feeling as if he had broken every bone in her body. She could barely breathe and she knew that if she did not do something soon, she would be crippled for life.
“Don’t!” cried Dierdre, pleading from behind the bars. “Don’t harm her! Take me instead!”
But the son ignored her.
“It begins with the staff,” he said to Kyra. “Wild horses resist, but if you break them, again and again, beat them mercilessly, day after day, one day they will submit. They will be yours. There is nothing better than inflicting pain on another creature, is there?”
Kyra sensed motion, and out of the corner of her eye she watched him raise the staff again with a sadistic look, preparing for an even mightier blow.
Kyra’s senses became heightened, and her world slowed. That feeling she’d had back on the bridge came rushing back, a familiar warmth, one that began in her solar plexus and radiated through her body. She felt it filling her with energy, with more strength and speed than she could ever dream.
Images flashed before her eyes. She saw herself training with her father’s men, recalled her endless sparring, her learning how to feel pain and not be stunned, how to fight several attackers at once. Anvin had drilled her relentlessly for hours, day after day, until she had perfected her technique, until it had finally became a part of her. She had insisted on the men teaching her everything, however hard the lesson, and now it all came rushing back to her. She had trained for a time exactly like this.
As she lay there, the shock of the pain behind her, the warmth taking over her body, Kyra looked up at the son and felt her instincts taking over. She would die—but not here, not today—and not by this man’s hand.
An early lesson came rushing back: The low ground can give you an advantage. The taller a man is, the more vulnerable he is. The knees are an easy target if you find yourself on the ground. Sweep them. They will fall.
As the staff came down for her, Kyra suddenly laid her palms flat on the stone, propped herself up enough to gain leverage, and swung her leg around quickly and decisively, aiming for the back of the son’s knees. With all of her might, she felt the satisfying feeling of kicking the soft spot behind them.
His knees buckled and he was airborne, landing flat on his back on the stone with a thump, the staff falling from his hands and rolling across the floor. She could hardly believe it had worked. As he fell, he landed on his skull and it was such a loud crack, she was sure she had killed him.
But he must have been invincible, for he immediately began to sit up, glaring at her with the venom of a demon, preparing to pounce.
Kyra did not wait. She gained her feet and lunged for the staff, lying on the floor several feet away, knowing that if she could just grab her weapon, she could have a fair chance against all these men. As she ran for it, though, the son jumped up and reached out to grab her leg, to try to hold her back.
Kyra reacted, her nimbleness taking over, and leapt like a cat over him, missing his grip, and landed on the stone in a roll behind him, grabbing her staff as she did.
She stood there, holding her staff cautiously before her, so grateful to have her weapon back, the staff fitting perfectly in her hands. The two guards approached with swords drawn and, encircled, she looked quickly about in every direction, like a wounded animal backed into a corner. She was lucky, she realized, that it ha
d all happened so quickly, buying her time before the guards could join.
The son stood, wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand, and scowled back at her.
“That was the biggest mistake of your life,” he said. “Now not only will I torture you—”
Kyra had had enough of him, and she was not going to wait for him to strike first. Before he could finish speaking, she lunged forward, raised her staff and jabbed quickly, like a snake striking, right between his eyes. It was a perfect strike, and he cried out as she broke his nose, the crack echoing.
He dropped to his knees, whimpering, cradling his nose.
The two guards came at her, swords swinging for her head. Kyra turned her staff and blocked one blade, sparks flying as it clanged in the room, then immediately spun and blocked the other, right before it hit her. Back and forth she went, blocking one blow after the next, the two coming at her so fast she barely had time to react.
One of the guards swung too hard and Kyra found an opening: she raised her staff and brought it straight down on his exposed wrist, smashing it and loosening his grip on his sword. As it landed on the floor with a clang, Kyra jabbed sideways, into the other guard’s throat, stunning him, then she swung around and smashed the first guard in the temple, felling him.
Kyra took no chances: as one guard, on his back, tried to rise, she leapt high into the air and brought her staff down on his solar plexus—then as he sat straight up, she kicked him in the face, knocking him out for good. And as the other guard rolled, clutching his throat, beginning to get up again, Kyra jabbed down and struck him on the back of his head, knocking him out.
Kyra suddenly felt rough arms squeezing her in a hug from behind and realized the son was back; he was trying to squeeze the life out of her, to make her drop her staff.
“Nice try,” he whispered in her ear, his mouth so close she could feel his hot breath on her neck.
Kyra, a flash of energy coursing through her, found a new strength within her, just enough to reach forward with her arms, lock her elbows, and burst free from the man’s hug. She then grabbed her staff and swung behind her, upwards, with two hands, driving it between the son’s legs.