Rise of the Dragons (10 page)

The soldier stopped before Ashton,
looked him up and down, and stopped at his foot.

“Roll up your pants,” he said, “and take
off your boot.”

Ashton did so, and as Alec watched him,
he knew his brother well enough to know that he was humiliated; his foot had
always been a source of shame for him, smaller than the other, twisted and
mangled, forcing him to hobble as he walked.

“He also works for me in the forge,”
Alec’s father chimed in. “He is our only source of income. If you take him, our
family will have nothing. We won’t be able to survive.”

The commander finally finished looking
at his foot, and gestured Ashton to put his boot back on. He then turned and
met their father’s eyes, his black eyes cold and firm.

“You live in our land now,” he said, his
voice like gravel. “Your son is our property to do with as we wish. Take him
away!” the commander called out, and soldiers rushed forward.

“NO!” Alec’s mother cried out in grief.
“NOT MY SON!”

She rushed forward and grabbed Ashton,
clinging to him, and a Pandesian soldier stepped forward and backhanded her
across the face.

Alec’s father rushed forward and grabbed
the Pandesian soldier’s arm, and as he did, several soldiers pounced on him and
pummeled him until he fell to the ground.

As Alec stood there and watched the
soldiers drag his brother away, he could stand it no more. The injustice of it
all was killing him, and he knew that this was something that he would be
unable to live with for the rest of his days, that the image of his brother
being dragged away would be imprinted on his mind. Something within him
snapped, and whatever the consequences, he could not allow it.

“Take me instead!” Alec suddenly found
himself crying out, involuntarily rushing forward and standing between Alec and
the soldiers.

They all stopped and looked to him,
clearly caught off guard.

“We are brothers of the same family!”
Alec continued. “The law says to take one boy from each family. Let me be that
boy.”

The soldier looked him up and down
warily.

“And how old are you, boy?”

“Just past my sixteenth year!” he said
proudly.

The soldiers laughed, while their
commander sneered.

“You’re too young for drafting,” he
concluded, dismissing him.

But as he turned to go, Alec rushed
forward, refusing to be dismissed.

“I am a greater soldier than he!” Alec
insisted. “I can throw a spear further and cut deeper with a sword. My aim is
truer with a bow, and I can wrestle any man. Please,” he pleaded. “Give me a
chance.”

As they all stared menacingly back at
him, Alec, despite his feigned confidence, was terrified inside. He knew he was
taking a great risk: he could easily be imprisoned or killed. But he felt he
had no choice.

The soldier stared him down for what
felt like an eternity, the entire village silent, until finally, he nodded back
at his men.

“Leave the cripple,” he commanded. “Take
the boy. I’ll enjoy pummeling this one into obedience myself.”

The soldiers shoved Ashton, reached
forward and grabbed Alec, and within moments, he felt himself being dragged
away. It was all happening so quickly, it was surreal.

“NO!” cried Alec’s mother, and he saw
her weeping as he felt himself being tossed roughly into the iron carriage.

“Leave my brother alone!” Ashton cried
out. “Take me!”

But there was no more listening. Alec
was shoved deep inside the carriage, which stunk of body odor and fear,
stumbling over other boys who shoved him back rudely, and the iron door was
slammed behind him, echoing. Alec felt a great sense of satisfaction and relief
at having saved his brother’s life, greater even than his fear. He had given
his life up for his brother’s—and whatever should come next would matter little
next to that.

As he sat on the floor and settled back
against the iron bars, the carriage already moving beneath him, he knew that he
probably would not survive this, as most boys did not.  He met the angry eyes
of the other boys, summing him up in the blackness, and as they continued,
jolting along the road, he knew that on the journey before him, there would be
a million ways to die—and wondered which would be his. Singed by The Flames?
Stabbed by a boy? Eaten by a troll?

Or would the least likely thing of all
happen: would he somehow, against all odds, survive?

Kyra hiked through the blinding snow,
Leo at her side rubbing up against her leg as she strained to see, the feel of
his body the only thing grounding Kyra in this sea of white. With the snow
whipping in her face, it was hard to see more than a few feet, the only light that
from the blood-red moon, glowing eerily against the clouds. The cold bit her to
the bone, and hardly hours from home, she already missed the warmth of her
father’s fort, imagining herself sitting by the fireplace now, in a pile of
furs, drinking melted chocolate and lost in a book.

Kyra forced those thoughts from her
mind, doubling her efforts to get away, determined. She would get away from the
life her father had carved out from her, whatever the cost, would not be forced
to marry a man she did not know or love, all from cowering in fear from
Pandesia. She would not live a life by a hearth to fulfill someone else’s ideas
and be forced to give up on her dreams. She would rather die out here in the
cold and the snow than live a life that other people dreamt for her.

Kyra trekked on, wading through snow up
to her knees, heading deeper into the black night, in the worst weather she had
ever been in. It felt surreal. She could feel a special energy in the air on
this night, the night when the dead were said to share the earth with the
living, when others feared to leave their homes, boarded windows and doors. The
air felt thick, and not only with snow: it felt as if there were spirits out
all around her. Watching her. It felt as if she were walking into her destiny—or
her death.

She crested a hill, and as she did, Kyra
caught a glimpse of the horizon, and for the first time in this trek, she was
filled with hope. There, in the distance, were The Flames, lighting up the
night despite the blizzard, the only glimmer of hope and warmth in this dreary
world. In the black night they called to her like a magnet, this place which
her father had strictly forbidden her to go. She was surprised she had gotten
so close, and wondered if she had been unconsciously marching toward them since
she left.

She stopped and took it in, gasping for
breath. The Flames. The great wall of fire that stretched fifty miles across
the northeastern border of Escalon, the only thing blocking her country from
the vast lands of Marda, the kingdom of the trolls. The famed place where her
father and his father before him had served dutifully, protecting their
homeland, the place where all of her father’s men went to serve their duty in
rotation.

Kyra had never been this close, and she
was in awe at the flames’ height, their brightness—it was all that everyone had
claimed and more. She wondered at what magical force kept them lit—and wondered
if they would ever burn out. Indeed, seeing them in person only raised more
questions than it answered.

Kyra knew thousands of men were
stationed along them, all sorts of men, some of her own people, some slaves,
some Pandesians, some draftees, and some criminals. She knew that on the other
side were lurking thousands of trolls, desperate for any opportunity to break
through. It was a dangerous place. A haunting place. A mystical place. It was a
place for the desperate, the bold, and the fearless. And a place which, on a
night like this, she could not look away from. She could go no place else, even
if she tried, if for no other reason than to warm up and feel her hands again.

Leo at her side, Kyra used her staff to
steady herself as she hiked downhill through the snow, making her way for The
Flames, using it as her compass. Though it could hardly have been a mile away,
it felt like ten, and what should have been a ten-minute hike took her over an
hour as she hiked and hiked, the cold biting her to the bone. She had never
known she could feel this cold. She turned and glanced back over her shoulder
to see her father’s fort somewhere on the horizon, but it was long gone, lost
in world of white. She knew she was too cold to make it back anyway. She looked
again ahead of her, at The Flames: there was no turning back.

Finally, her legs trembling from the
cold, her toes growing numb, her hand stuck to the staff, and leaning on Leo
for support, Kyra stumbled down a dip in the hill and she felt a sudden burst
of heat as The Flames spread out before her.

The sight took her breath away. Hardly a
hundred yards away, the light was so bright that it lit up the entire night,
making it feel like day, and The Flames rose so high, when she looked up, she
could not see where they ended. The heat was so strong, so intense, that even
from here, it warmed her, and the crackling and hissing noise of the fire so
intense, it drowned out even the howl of the wind.

Kyra was drawn to it, mesmerized,
walking closer and closer, feeling more and more warmth, as if walking onto the
surface of the sun. She felt herself thaw as she approached, began to feel her
toes and fingers again, tingling as the feeling came back. It was like standing
before a huge fireplace, and she felt its presence restoring her, bringing her
back to life.

She stood before it, hypnotized, like a
moth to a flame, staring at this wonder of the world, the greatest wonder in
their land, the one thing keeping them safe—and the one thing no one
understood. Not the historians, and not the sorcerers. Kings didn’t even have
an answer. When had it begun? What kept it going? When would it end?

The legend was that the Sword of Fire,
closely guarded in one of the two towers—no one knew which one—kept The Flames
alive. The Towers, guarded by a cult-like group of men, the Watchers, an
ancient order, part man, part something else, were well-hidden and guarded on
two opposite ends of Escalon, one on the far western shore, in Ur, and the
other in the southeastern corner of Kos. The Watchers were joined, too, by the
finest knights the kingdom had to offer, all intent on keeping the Sword of
Flames hidden and The Flames alive. More than one troll, her father had told
her, who had breached The Flames, had tried to find the towers, to steal the
Sword, but none had ever been successful. The Watchers were too good at what
they did. After all, even Pandesia, with all its might, dared not try to occupy
the Towers, risk angering the Watchers and lowering The Flames.

Kyra’s detected motion, and she looked
about her and in the distance, saw soldiers on patrol, carrying torches in the
night, pacing along The Flames, scabbards at their hips. Her heart beat faster
as she watched them, spread out every fifty yards or so, with such vast
territory to cover. She had really made it.

Kyra stood there, feeling alive, feeling
as if anything could happen at any time. At any moment, a troll could run
through those flames, she thought. Of course, the fire killed most of them, but
some, using shields, managed to burst through and live, at least long enough to
kill as many soldiers as it could. Sometimes a troll even survived the passage
and roamed the forest near her fort. She remembered once when one of her
father’s men brought back a troll’s head. It was a sight she would never
forget.

As Kyra stared at The Flames, so
mysterious, she wondered at her own fate. What would become of her?

“Hey, what are you doing here?” came a
voice.

Kyra looked over to see a soldier had
spotted her, was walking toward her. One of her father’s men.

She did not want a confrontation. She
was warm now, her spirits restored, and she had seen what she had come to see.
It was time to move on. To where, she did not know, but she, inspired by The
Flames, knew that her destiny lay out there somewhere, even if she could not
see it yet.

“Come on, Leo,” she said.

She turned and headed back into the
snow, toward the distant wood, knowing her destiny lay out there somewhere.

*

Kyra stumbled through the night, chilled
to the bone, glad Leo was with her and wondering if she could go on. She had
searched everywhere for shelter, for an escape from the biting wind and snow,
and despite the risks, she had found herself gravitating toward the Wood of
Thorns, the only place in sight to take shelter. The Flames were somewhere far
behind her, no longer visible on the horizon, and the blood-moon had been
nearly swallowed by the clouds, leaving her little light to see by. Barely able
to feel her hands or toes, her situation seemed to grow more dire by the
moment. She wondered if it had been foolish to leave the fort at all. She
wondered if her father, or any of the others, even cared.

Kyra felt a fresh burst of anger as she
continued through the snow, marching she was not sure where, but determined to
get away from the life waiting for her at the fort. And as a gale of wind
passed and Leo whined, she looked up and was surprised to see she had made it
this far; before her were the towering pines of the Wood of Thorns. She paused,
feeling a sense of apprehension, knowing how dangerous it was, even in the day,
even in a group, to come here alone, and at night. And on a night like this, when
spirits roamed, she was taking her life in her hands. Anything, she knew, could
happen.

But another gale whipped through,
sending snow down the back of her neck, chilling her to the bone, and Kyra
marched on, past the first tree, its branches heavy with snow, and taking her
first step into the wood.

As soon as she entered, Kyra immediately
felt some relief. It was quieter in here: the thick branches sheltered her from
the wind, the raging snow barely trickled down through all the trees, and for
the first time since she had left her father’s fort, she could see again. Even
in here the snow was up to her knees, but the wind, at least, was muted, and
already she felt warmer. Kyra used the opportunity to shake the snow off of her
arms and shoulders and legs and hair, while beside her, Leo shook himself off,
too, snow flying everywhere.

Kyra, catching her breath, reached into
her sack and pulled out a piece of dried meat for Leo, and he snatched it
eagerly. She stroked his head.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find shelter for the
night, my friend.”

Kyra continued deeper into the forest,
looking for any sort of shelter she could find, determined to stay the night
here, wake to a new day, and continue her trek in the morning. She looked for a
boulder to lean against, or the nook of a tree, or ideally a cave—any place to
take shelter—but found none.

She marched and marched, brushing
against snowy branches in the thick wood, and as she went, there arose strange
animal noises all around her. She heard a deep purring noise beside her, and
she spun, hairs rising on her spine, and peered into the thick branches. But it
was too dark to see anything. She hurried on, not wanting to contemplate what
beasts might be lurking here, and in no mood for a confrontation. She clutched
her bow tightly, unsure if she could even fire it, given how numb her hands
were. She needed to find shelter, to at least have her back protected.

Kyra marched more quickly, ascending a
gentle slope within the forest, and as she crested it, she stopped and looked
out, afforded a view down below as the moon momentarily streaked through an
opening in the trees. There sat a glistening lake, its waters ice-blue,
translucent, and she immediately realized where she was: the Lake of Dreams.
Her father had brought her here once, when she was a child. They had lit a
candle and placed it on a lily pad, in honor of her mother. This was rumored to
be a sacred place, a vast mirror to look into life above, and life below, a
place where heartfelt wishes could not be ignored.

Filled with a burning desire, Kyra
marched for the lake, feeling drawn to it. She stumbled down the steep hill,
using her staff to steady herself, weaving between trees, avoiding rocks and
roots, until she soon reached the shore. Oddly enough, even though the forest
was thick with snow and snow continued to fall here, the shore, made of fine
white sand, was snow-free. It was magical.

Kyra knelt by the water’s edge,
shivering from the cold, and looked down. In the moonlight, she saw her
reflection, her blonde hair falling by her cheeks, her light gray eyes, her
high cheekbones, her delicate features, looking nothing like her father or
brothers. Yet in her eyes, she saw the eyes of a warrior, the spirit of her
father’s house. As she stared at her reflection, she recalled her father’s
words from so many years ago:
a heartfelt prayer at the Lake of Dreams
cannot be refused.

Kyra, so torn over where to go, what to
do, needed guidance now more than ever. She had never felt more at a
crossroads, more confused, as if everything she had been so sure about her
entire life was now in disarray.

She closed her eyes and prayed with all
her might.

God, I don’t know who you are. But I ask
your help. Give me something, and I shall give you whatever you ask for in
return. Show me which path to take. Give me a life of honor and courage. Of
valor. Allow me to become a great warrior, and to be at the mercy of no man.
Allow me to have the freedom to do as I choose.

Kyra knelt there, numb to the cold and
at her wits’ end, with nowhere left to turn in the world, praying with all her
heart and all her soul.

She lost all sense of time and place and
had no idea how much time had passed when she opened her eyes, snowflakes on
her eyelids. She felt changed somehow, she did not know how, as if an inner
peace had settled over her. She looked down into the lake, and this time, what
she saw took her breath away.