Night of the Bold

by Morgan Rice

  Kyra flew and flew, feeling her destiny well up within her, feeling a surge of optimism, feeling more powerful with each passing moment. She reflected, and felt she had conquered something deep within herself. She recalled slicing that spider’s web, and she felt that, as she had sliced it, she had also severed something within her. She had been forced to survive on her own, and she had conquered the deepest demons within her. She was no longer the same girl who had grown up in Fort Volis; she was not even the same girl who had ventured into Marda. She returned now as a woman. As a warrior.

  Kyra looked down through the clouds, sensing the landscape shift beneath her, and saw they had finally reached the border where the Flames had once stood. As she examined the big scar upon the land, motion below caught her eye.

  “Lower, Theon.”

  They dove beneath the heavy clouds, and as the gloom dissolved, her heart lifted to see the land she had loved again. She was thrilled to see her own soil, the hills and trees which she recognized, to smell the air of Escalon.

  Yet as she looked again, her heart fell. There, below, were millions of trolls, flooding the land, racing south from Marda. It resembled a mass migration of beasts, their rumble audible even from here. Seeing this, she did not know how her nation could ever withstand such an attack. She knew her people needed her—and fast.

  Kyra felt the Staff of Truth buzz in her hands, then make a high-pitched whistling noise. She felt it calling her to action, demanding she strike. She did not know if she was commanding the staff, or if it was commanding her.

  Kyra aimed the staff toward the ground, and as she did, a cracking noise emanated from it. It was as if she were wielding thunder and lightning in her palm. She watched in fascination as an intense orb of light shot forth from the staff and raced down for the ground.

  Hundreds of trolls stopped and looked up, and she saw panic and terror in their faces as they looked at the ball of light coming down at them from the sky. They had no time to run.

  An explosion followed, so powerful that its shock waves rocked Theon and Kyra even from the ground. The orb of light hit the ground with the force of a comet hitting earth. As it rippled, thousands of trolls fell, flattened by the ever-expanding waves of light.

  Kyra examined the staff in awe. She prepared to slash it again, to wipe out the troll army—when suddenly, a horrific roar sounded above her. She looked up and was shocked to see the huge face of a scarlet dragon emerging from the clouds—and a dozen more behind it. She realized, too late, that these dragons had been looking for them.

  Before Kyra could strike at them with her staff, a dragon reached out and swiped at Theon with its talons. Theon was caught off guard, and was sent spinning through the air by the tremendous blow.

  Kyra hung on for dear life as they spun, nearly out of control. Theon’s wings were upside down as he tried to right himself, and he turned again and again, Kyra barely hanging on, clutching his scales, until he finally straightened.

  Theon roared in defiance and, despite being smaller than the bunch, he lunged upwards, fearless, at the dragon who had swiped him. The dragon was clearly surprised that the smaller Theon had rebounded, and before it could react, Theon sank his teeth into its tail.

  The large dragon shrieked as Theon bit its tail clean off. It flew for a moment without a tail, then lost its bearings and plummeted, face-first, straight for the ground below. It landed with a crash, creating a crater and a cloud of dust.

  Kyra raised her staff, feeling it burning in her palm, and swung it as three more dragons came for her. She watched as a ball of light shot forth and smashed the three dragons in the face. They screeched, stopped short in the air, then flailed. They became very still, then plummeted straight down, like rocks, until they, too, hit the ground with an explosion, dead.

  Kyra was amazed at her power. Had the Staff of Truth really just killed three dragons with a single slash?

  Kyra raised the staff again as a dozen more dragons appeared, and as she lowered it, expecting to fell them, she was suddenly surprised to feel a horrific pain in her hand. She turned and noticed out of the corner of her eye a dragon swooping down behind her, and its talons swiping the back of her hand. It slashed her hand, drawing blood, while in the same motion, it clutched the Staff of Truth and yanked it from her hands.

  Kyra shrieked, more from the horror of losing the staff than from the pain. She watched, helpless, as the dragon flew off, taking the staff away from her. The dragon then dropped it, and she watched with horror as the staff tumbled through the air, falling end over end, down toward the ground. The staff, Escalon’s last hope, would be destroyed.

  And Kyra, defenseless now, faced a flock of dragons, all ready to tear her apart.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lorna, feeling a sense of urgency, walked briskly through the camp, Duncan’s men parting ways for her. Merk walked at her side, joined by Sovos and trailed by a dozen men of the Lost Isles, warriors who had forked off from the others and joined them on their journey out of the Bay of Death, back to land, and all the way out here, in the desert, past Leptus. Lorna had single-mindedly led them here, knowing that Duncan needed her.

  As she approached, Lorna saw Duncan’s men looking at her with wonder. They made room for her until she finally reached the small clearing where Duncan lay. Concerned warriors huddled around him, kneeling by his side, all gravely concerned for their dying commander. She saw Anvin and Aidan, weeping, White at their feet, emitting the only sound in the heavy silence.

  A hand stopped her as she approached Duncan, and she stopped and looked back. Merk and Sovos tensed, hands on their swords, but she gently laid a hand on them, not wanting a confrontation.

  “Who are you, and why do you come here?” Duncan’s warrior asked sternly.

  “I am King Tarnis’s daughter,” she replied with authority. “Duncan tried to save my father. I have come to return the favor.”

  The man looked surprised.

  “His wound is fatal,” the warrior said. “I have seen it many times in battle. He is past all healing.”

  It was Lorna’s turn to frown.

  “We waste time. Do you want Duncan to die here, bleeding? Or shall I attempt to heal him?”

  The warriors were clearly all skeptical since their encounter with Ra and his sorcery, and they looked at each other. Finally, Anvin nodded.

  “Let her through,” he said.

  They stepped aside, and as Merk and Sovos lowered their weapons, Lorna hurried forward and knelt at Duncan’s side.

  She examined him and knew immediately it was not good. She could sense the black aura of death around him, and knew, as she examined his closed, fluttering eyes, that the end was near. He was soon leaving this earth. Ra’s blow had done grievous damage—not so much because of the dagger, but because, she sensed, of Duncan’s feeling of betrayal behind it. Duncan still thought it was Kyra who had stabbed him, and she sensed in his aura that he no longer wished to live because of it. It was sapping his life force away.

  “Can you save my father?”

  Lorna looked over to see Aidan, red-eyed, cheeks wet with tears, staring up at her with hope and desperation. She took a deep breath.

  “I do not know,” she answered simply.

  Lorna lay one palm on Duncan’s forehead, and the other on his wound. She began to hum an ancient hymn, and slowly, the crowd fell silent. Aidan’s weeping stopped. She felt a tremendous heat course through her palms, confronting his sickness. She closed her eyes and summoned all the power she had, trying to read his destiny, to understand what had happened, what his fate held in store.

  Slowly, it all came to her. Duncan had been meant to die here today. That was his destiny. Here, in this place, on this battlefield, after his great victory in the canyon. She saw all the battles he had ever fought; saw his rise to warrior, to commander; saw his final and greatest battle here at the Canyon. He was not meant to survive the flooding. He was meant to die in its wake. He had taken the revolution as far as he was me
ant to take it.

  She sensed his daughter, Kyra, flying through the air, on her way here, meant to take over his command. Duncan was meant to die at this moment.

  Yet, as she knelt over him, Lorna summoned the power of the universe and begged it to change his fate, to change his destiny. After all, Duncan had been the one and only true friend to her father, King Tarnis, even when all others had turned his back on him. Duncan was the one her father had urged to come save her. For the sake of her father, she owed it to him. And she also, deep down, sensed that there might be within Duncan, still one epic battle left to be fought.

  Lorna wrestled with fate, feeling the struggle exhaust her. She felt an battle epic of spirits raging within her, as she wrestled with powers she was not supposed to wrestle with. Dangerous powers. Powers that could kill her. Fate, after all, was not a thing to be taken lightly.

  As she struggled, Lorna felt Duncan’s life hanging in the balance. Finally, she collapsed in exhaustion, breathing hard, and as she did, an answer came to her: it was both victory and failure. Duncan’s life would be extended—but only for a short while. He would be allowed one last battle, allowed to see his daughter’s face again, his real daughter, allowed to die in her arms. That, at least, was something.

  Lorna shook, feeling sick, overwhelmed by the powers she had fought with. Her palms burned, and finally there came a flash, a feeling unlike any she’d ever felt, and she was thrown back by the power of it. She landed on her back a few feet away.

  Merk quickly pulled her up, and she knelt there, weak, in a cold sweat.

  A few yards away, Duncan lay unmoving, and Lorna felt overpowered by the magic of what she had summoned.

  “My lady, what has happened?” Anvin demanded.

  She struggled to clear her mind, to find her words.

  In the silence, Aidan stepped forward and desperately confronted her.

  “Will my father live?” he pleaded. “Please, tell me.”

  Lorna, passing out from exhaustion, summoned the energy to nod back weakly right before she did.

  “He will live, boy,” she said. “But not for long.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Aidan was ashamed, yet try as he did, he could not help himself from crying. He had retreated to the far ends of the camp, to a cave on the outskirts of the field, hoping to be alone, not wishing for the other men to see his tears. Only White sat at his feet, whining beside him. He wished he could stop his tears but he could not, overwhelmed with grief over his father’s injury.

  He will live, but not for long.

  Lorna’s words echoed in his head, and Aidan wished he could erase those words. He would give anything for his father to be able to live forever.

  Head in his hands, Aidan sobbed quietly. He replayed in his head the moment when Ra, disguised as his sister, had stabbed his father. Aidan had been galloping down the hill, had thrown a dagger, and had prevented Ra from stabbing him a second time. Yet, still, it had been but a moment too late. Why couldn’t he have arrived a few minutes earlier?

  Aidan blamed himself. If only he’d ridden faster, perhaps his father would not lay dying right now. Aidan felt that he was just reaching the age where he and his father could understand one another, as father to son, and as man to man. And yet just as he was beginning to know him, his father had been snatched away from him.

  It was unfair. Aidan was too young; his father was too young; it was not supposed to be this way. His father was supposed to rise, to free Escalon, to become its new King, and Aidan was supposed to be there, by his side. Aidan had already seen it all happening in his head, had seen them moving back to the capital, had seen his father’s coronation, his new legion. Who would be the King now? Who would be the new commander now? Who would lead the Escalon forces now? What would life in Escalon look like without his father?

  Aidan felt completely lost without his father, adrift, especially in the wake of the loss of his brothers. Kyra was the only family he had left now.

  “Your father still lives, boy,” came a voice.

  Aidan looked over, and was ashamed to see Motley and Cassandra enter the cave, a few feet away. They had clearly sought him out wishing to console him, yet seeing them only deepened his shame and guilt.

  Aidan blinked back with bloodstained eyes.

  “Did you not hear Lorna’s words?” Aidan snapped, harsher than he wished to be. “He lives but for a short while.”

  Motley stepped closer.

  “Yet he lives now,” Motley insisted, one of the few moments Aidan had ever seen him serious. “And now is all we have. We live in dangerous times. You might die on this day, and I might as well. Your father is lucky to at least have another chance.”

  “And that is because of you,” Cassandra chimed in, stepping close and holding his wrist. “You threw the dagger. You saved him. You and that dog of yours.”

  At his feet, White whined, licking Cassandra’s hand.

  “You should be very proud,” she concluded.

  Aidan shook his head glumly.

  “I was too late,” he replied.

  Aidan did not want them to see him like this. He was a warrior now, after all, and this was not how warriors should behave. He wished he could be stronger.

  His father was his rock, the one person he looked up to, whom he admired most in the world. Even more, his father was the strongest man he knew, stronger than all these great warriors. If he could die, then any of them could. Including Aidan. And that struck Aidan to the core. It changed the way he looked at the world. It even changed the way he viewed life: fleeting, cruel, tragic, without warning—and supremely unfair.

  Justice, Aidan felt, had not been served. Why should an evil creature like Ra be able to even touch a fine man like his father?

  “It’s not fair,” Aidan said, overwhelmed with grief.

  Motley sighed, coming over and sitting with his great bulk on the rock beside him.

  “True, young Aidan,” Motley replied. “You finally get to see a glimpse of what life is about. Life is unfair. No one—none of us—is born with an assurance of a fair life. You will find that many more things in your life will happen which are unfair. The question isn’t whether these things will happen to you, because they will. The question, rather, is: how will you will react to the injustices in your life? Will you cave in and let them consume you? Will you become bitter, cynical, self-pitying? Or will you remain strong? Will you fight back at the injustices, the unfairness of life?”

  Motley sighed.

  “Life’s unfairness must be fought back against, daily, just like any foe. And most of that fighting must happen internally. You must never fold. And you must search for fairness even in the face of great unfairness. That is what makes a warrior.”

  Aidan slowly stopped crying as he considered Motley’s words. He felt, deep down, that they were true, even while he resisted them.

  “Yet there is supposed to be justice in the world,” Aidan insisted. “You commit a crime, you get punished. You are good to others, they are good to you. Is that not how the world is supposed to work?”

  Motley slowly shook his head.

  “Life may show us glimpses of justice. But the vast majority of it, you will find, will be unruled, unregulated, and unjust. You must create your own sense of justice and act from it. Not because the world is just—but because you are just. After all, you are a microcosm of the world. You cannot prevent what the world shall give to you. But you can control yourself.”

  Aidan pondered his words in the long silence, sensing their truth.

  “My father was fair and just,” Aidan replied, calmer now, hollowed out. “And yet where did that get him? He ended up being treated unjustly.”

  “Your father is fair and just,” Motley corrected, “and he was treated unjustly. That is true. But don’t you see? It does not take away from the life he has led. He led a life of justice. And no single act of injustice will ever strip that from him.”

  Motley laid a hand on Aidan’s sho
ulder, and Aidan turned to him.

  “Dwell on the injustice of life, and you will only create more of it,” he concluded. “Ignore it, and act justly yourself, and you will create a life of justice.”

  Aidan considered Motley’s words, his tears gone now, as he began to see the truth in them. Cassandra reached over and held his hand, and he looked back at her. Her eyes were brimming with tears as she stared back.

  “I love your father as the father I never had,” she said softly, sadly. “He may die before his time, yet he lives right now. Cherish your time with him. I never had a father. You still have more time, in your brief window, than I ever had. Do not give in to self-pity. There are many people, like myself, who have it worse than you.”

  Aidan took a deep breath and felt foolish, realizing she was right.

  “Be strong,” she added, “for him. He needs you now. His fate has been written. Now you must decide what to do. Will you collapse? Or will you be at his side?”

  Slowly Aidan felt a calm arise within him. He felt a new sense of purpose, of determination. And he began to feel a new desire.

  For vengeance.

  Aidan stood, wiped away his final tear, and felt cold, strong inside. He knew that something had shifted within him. He knew now that he was no longer a boy, but a man. A man who would soon be without a father. A man who would need to stand on his own two feet, and to avenge him.

  It was time to leave boyish ways behind.

  “It is time to go,” Aidan said, taking that first step, “and avenge my father.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Seavig galloped west, leading hundreds of warriors of Esephus, determined to fulfill Duncan’s command and wage war against the Pandesian fleet. He knew the odds were stacked against him and that the battle at sea would likely end in his death, yet it gave him no pause: it was the honorable thing to do for his country. And for Duncan, he would do anything.