Rise of the Dragons (13 page)

Yet somehow, strangely enough, she had
no regrets, no doubts about what she had done. It was as if she felt destiny
coursing its way through her.

Kyra suddenly felt a searing pain on her
jaw line, and she heard the crack of her own jaw as she felt thick, calloused
knuckles meeting her skin and her world was filled with pain.

Kyra stumbled sideways and fell to her
hands and knees, seeing stars, her world spinning, realizing she’d been punched
in the jaw. Before she could collect herself she felt a kick in the ribs, then
felt a second soldier tackling her and pinning her face in the snow.

She gasped for breath until he jerked
her to her feet, and she stood there, in their grip, facing the two men she had
let live. Leo snarled not far away, still struggling with the other two.

Kyra, breathing hard, stared back at the
two soldiers, one bleeding from his nose, the other from his temple, and
realized she should have killed them. She struggled with all her might, to no
avail. She could see the look of death in their eyes.

One of them glanced back at his dead
commander, then stepped in close and sneered in her face.

“By morning, your village, your fort,
your people, will be razed to the ground.”

He backhanded her and her face filled
with pain as she went stumbling back.

The other soldier grabbed her firmly,
though, and pushed his dagger to her throat, while the other reached for his
belt buckle.

“Before you die, you’re going to
remember us,” he said. “The last memory of your life will be of us. For all
time.”

Kyra heard a whining and looked over her
shoulder to see one of the soldiers stab Leo. She winced as if she herself had
been stabbed, but Leo, fearless, turned and sunk his teeth into the soldier’s
wrist.

Kyra felt the blade at her throat, and
she knew she was on her own. Yet instead of fear, she felt liberated. She felt
her anger, her desire for vengeance against the Lord’s Men, well up inside her,
and in the man before her she had the perfect target. She might go down, but she
would go down a warrior, fighting for her cause.

As the soldier took a step closer,
unbuckling his pants, grabbing at her clothes, she waited until the last moment
and then, with all her might, she planted one foot, leaned back, and used her
great flexibility to kick straight up.

She felt her foot connecting between the
man’s legs with a great force and as she watched him cry out and drop to his
knees, she knew it was a perfect blow. At the same moment, Leo finished with
his attackers and turned and lunged for the man, leaping and pouncing on him
and sinking his fangs into his throat.

Kyra was suddenly backhanded, and as she
turned to face the other soldier, he drew a sword and faced her.

“You’re going to die this time,” he
said.

Kyra picked up her staff and faced off
with him—and he laughed.

“A staff against a sword,” he mocked.
“You stand no chance. Better to give up now—your death won’t be so painful.”

He charged and swung at her, and as he
did, Kyra’s instincts took over; she imagined herself back in the training
ground, and as he swung, she dodged left and right, using her speed to her
advantage. This soldier was big and strong, and he wielded a heavy sword—yet
she was light and unencumbered, and as he came down with a particularly fierce
blow meant to chop her in half, she sidestepped and it left him off balance;
she swung around with her staff and cracked him on the back of his wrist and he
dropped his weapon, losing it in the snow.

He looked back at her, shocked, then
sneered and charged her with his bare hands, as if to tackle her. Kyra waited,
then at the last moment crouched low and brought the tip of her staff straight
up, connecting with his chin. The blow snapped his neck back and sent him
landing flat on his back, dead.

Kyra, assuming all her attackers were,
finally, dead, was confused to hear movement behind her. She turned to see one
of the two soldiers Leo had attacked back on his feet, limping to his horse,
and drawing his sword from its saddle. He turned and rushed Leo, who still had
his fangs sunk in the other soldier’s throat, his back to him.

Kyra’s heart slammed in her chest; she
was too far away to reach him in time.

“LEO!” she cried out.

But the wolf, too busy snarling, biting,
did not realize.

Kyra knew she had to take drastic
action, or else watch Leo be killed before her eyes. Her bow was still in the
snow, too far from her.

She thought quick—she raised her staff
and broke it over her knee. It splintered in two, and she took one of the
halves, took aim, leaned back, and with its jagged end leading the way, she
hurled it like a spear.

It whistled through the air and she
prayed, like never before, that it find its target.

She breathed with relief as she watched
it find its target, piercing the soldier’s throat right before he could reach Leo
with his sword. The man stumbled and fell, grasping at it, and Leo, finished
killing the soldier on the ground, turned and leapt on the soldier, finishing
him off.

Kyra stood there in the silence,
breathing hard, seeing the carnage all around her, these five large warriors
sprawled out in the snow, staining it red, and she could hardly believe what
she had done.

But before she could even process it,
suddenly she detected motion out of the corner of her eye and she looked up and
saw the squire. He looked back at her in fear, then turned and ran for his
horse. He stumbled across the clearing until he jumped on it.

“Wait!” Kyra called out.

She knew she had to stop him. If he made
it back to the Lord’s Men, he would tell them what had happened. They would know
it was she who had done this, and her father and her people would be killed.
She had to stop him.

Kyra picked up her bow, took aim, and
waited until she had a good shot.

Finally, he broke into the clearing, and
as the clouds opened and the moon shone down, she knew she had her chance.

But something stopped her; the boy had
been innocent after all, and something within her just could not kill a fleeing
innocent boy.

She lowered her bow, watching him ride
off, feeling sick, knowing it would be her death sentence. She watched him
disappear with a sense of dread—surely, a war would come for this.

Kyra knew, with the squire on the run,
her time was short. She should run back through the wood, for her father’s
fort, and alert them all at once what had happened. They would need time to
prepare for war, to seal the fort—or to flee for their lives. She felt a
terrible sense of guilt, yet also, of duty.

Yet in the silence that followed, she
stood there and watched the dragon flap his good wing, and he looked to her,
eyes wide in a glowing, mesmerizing stare, and she knew she could be nowhere
else. She had to be by its side.

Kyra hiked quickly through the snow,
down the bank, toward the gushing river, until she stood before the dragon. It
lifted its neck just a bit and stared at her, their eyes meeting, as if they
had known each other before. The dragon stared back with an inscrutable
expression; in its eyes Kyra thought she saw gratitude, loyalty—yet also,
defiance, perhaps even fury. She did not understand.

Kyra stepped closer, Leo at her side,
growling, until she stood but a few feet away; her breath caught in her throat
to be so close to such a magnificent creature. She stood there and realized how
dangerous this was, how this dragon could kill her at any moment. Her mind
raced with questions as she stared up at it.

Kyra slowly lifted her hand, even as the
dragon appeared to be frowning at her, and, heart pounding with fear, she
reached out and touched its scales. Its skin was so rough, so thick, so
primordial—it was like touching the beginning of time. Her hand trembled as her
fingertips stroked it, and not from the cold.

“What hurt you?” Kyra asked, stroking
its scales. “What are you doing on this side of the world?”

Kyra suddenly heard a sound like a
growling emitting from deep within its throat, and she lowered her hand,
afraid. She could not read this beast, and even though she had just saved its
life, Kyra suddenly felt it was a very bad idea to get so close to it.

The dragon slowly raised a sharpened
claw until it touched Kyra’s throat. Kyra felt it touching and she stood
frozen, wondering whether it would slice her throat.

But then, suddenly, something flashed in
its eyes and it seemed to change its mind. It pulled back its claw and then, to
her surprise, in one quick motion it brought it down.

Kyra felt a sense of searing pain on her
face and she cried out as its claw sliced her cheek, drawing blood. It had only
grazed her, and yet it was enough to draw blood. Enough, Kyra knew, to leave
her with a thin scar running across her cheek.

Kyra reached up and touched the wound,
saw the fresh blood in her hands, and felt a deep sense of pain. As she looked
back into the dragon’s glowing yellow eyes, filled with defiance, it was not a
physical pain as much as a pain of betrayal. She could not understand this
creature. Did it hate her? Had she made a mistake to save its life?

Then again, it could have killed her,
but only scratched her instead. Why? She tried to get into its mind, but it was
inscrutable.

“Who are you?” she asked, afraid.

Suddenly, she heard a voice, an ancient
voice, rumbling in her mind’s eye:

Theos.

She was shocked. She waited, hoping it
would tell her more—but then suddenly, without warning, Theos shattered the
silence by shrieking, rearing its head, and struggling to get away from her. It
flopped and hobbled and spun wildly, trying desperately to lift off.

Kyra could not understand why.

“Wait!” Kyra cried out. “You are
wounded! Let me help you!”

It pained her to see him flopping so
much, blood dripping from its wound, unable to get one wing to work. He was so
massive that each flop raised a great cloud of snow, shaking the ground, making
the earth rumble and shattering the stillness of this snowy night. He tried so
hard to lift off into the air, but could not.

“Where is it you want to go?” Kyra
called out, willing him to stay.

But Theos suddenly flopped and this
time, rolled down the steep, snowy bank, spinning around, again and again, out
of control, unable to stop itself. He rolled right for the gushing rapids
below.

Kyra watched with horror, helpless, as
he rolled right into the raging waters of the river.

“NO!” she cried out, rushing forward.

But there was nothing she could do. The
great rapids carried Theos, flopping, screeching, downriver, winding through
the forest, around a bend and out of sight, off to God only knew where.

Kyra watched him disappear and as she
did, her heart broke inside her. She had sacrificed everything, her life, the
destiny of her people, to save this creature—and now he was gone. What had it
all been for? Had any of it even been real?

Kyra looked out and saw the five dead
men, still lying in the snow, saw Leo, wounded, beside her, reached up, felt
the sting on her cheek, saw the blood—and knew this all had been very real. She
could hardly believe it: she had survived an encounter with a dragon. Had
killed five of the Lord’s Men, and she knew that after tonight, her life would
never be the same again.

She looked over and saw the horse’s
trail winding into the wood and remembered the boy, riding to alert his people.
She knew that, after tonight, the Lord’s Men would come for her people, would
kill them all.

Without waiting another second she
turned and sprinted into the wood, Leo at her side, determined to make it home
in time to save her father, her brothers, all her people—if it were not already
too late.

Vesuvius stood in the enormous cave
beneath the earth, on a stone balcony a hundred feet off the ground, and he
looked down, surveying the work of his army of trolls beneath him. Thousands of
trolls labored in this huge cavern underground, hammering away at rock with
pickaxes and hammers, chopping away at earth and stone, the sound of mining
heavy in the air. Endless torches lined the walls, while the streams of lava
that crisscrossed the floor emitted a glow, brightening the cave and keeping it
hot. Trolls sweated and gasped in the heat below.

Vesuvius smiled wide, his troll face
grotesque, misshapen, twice the size of a human’s, with two long fangs, like
tusks, that emerged from his mouth, and beady red eyes, enjoying watching his
people suffer. He wanted them to toil, to work harder than they’d ever had, for
he, King of the trolls, was determined to achieve was his fathers could not.
Twice the size of a typical troll, and three times the size of a human,
Vesuvius was all muscle and rage, and he felt he could achieve what none before
him had. He had hatched a plan that even his ancestors did not conceive, a plan
that would bring glory to his nation forever. Below, his people chipped away at
what would be the greatest tunnel ever created—and with each passing fall of
the hammer, the tunnel became just a little bit deeper.

Not once, in centuries, had his people
figured out how to cross The Flames en masse; they were able to send individual
trolls through here and there, but most died on these suicide missions. That
was not what they needed. They needed an entire army of trolls to cross
together, at once, to destroy Escalon once and for all. His fathers could not
understand how to do it, and they had become complacent, resigned to a life
here in the wilds of Marda. But not he. He, Vesuvius, was wiser than all his
fathers, tougher, more determined. One day the idea had come to him that if he
could not go through The Flames, or over them, then perhaps he could go under
them. He had set his plan into motion at once and had not stopped since,
rallying thousands of his soldiers and slaves to build what would be the
greatest creation of the troll kingdom: a tunnel to pass beneath The Flames.

Vesuvius watched with satisfaction a
taskmaster bring down a whip on a white slave, a human they had captured from
the West, chained to the hundreds of other slaves, toiling with the others. The
human cried out and fell, and he was lashed until he died. Vesuvius grinned,
taking pleasure in it, and was pleased to see the other humans work harder. His
trolls were nearly twice the size of the humans, much more grotesque-looking,
too, with bulging muscles and misshaped faces, and filled with a bloodlust that
was insatiable. The humans were a good target for them, a good way for his
people to vent their violence.

Yet as he watched, Vesuvius was still
frustrated: no matter how many people he enslaved, how many of his soldiers he
put to work, no matter how hard he lashed them, how much he tortured or killed
his own people to motivate them, the progress remained too slow. The rock was
too thick, too hard, and the job too massive. At this rate, he knew, they would
never complete this tunnel in his lifetime, and his dream of invading Escalon
would remain a dream. Of course, they had more than enough room here in their
own lands—but Vesuvius didn’t want room. He wanted to kill, to subjugate all
humans, to take all that was theirs, just for the fun of it. He wanted to have
it all. And he knew that if he was to get there, the time had come for more
drastic measures.

“My Lord and King?” came a voice.

Vesuvius turned to see several of his
soldiers standing there, wearing the distinctive green armor of the troll
nation, their insignia—a roaring boar’s head with a dog in its mouth—emblazoned
across the front. His men lowered their heads out of deference and looked to
the ground, as they had been trained to do when in his presence.

Vesuvius saw they were holding a troll
soldier between them, wearing tattered armor, his face covered in dirt and ash
and spotted with burn marks.

“You may address me,” he commanded.

Slowly, they raised their chins and
looked him in the eye.

“These two were captured inside Marda,
in Southwood,” one reported. “They were caught returning from beyond The
Flames.”

Vesuvius looked over the captive
soldier, shackled, and was filled with disgust. Every day he sent men west,
across Marda, on a mission to charge through The Flames and emerge on the other
side, in Escalon. If they survived the journey, they were ordered to wreak
terror amongst as many humans as they could—but more importantly, to seek out
the two Towers and steal the Sword of Flames, the mythical weapon that
supposedly held up The Flames. Most of his trolls never returned from the
journey—they were either killed by the passage through the Flames or
eventually, by the humans in Escalon. It was a one-way mission: they were
commanded
never
to return—unless they came back with the Sword of Flames
in hand.

But once in a while, some men sneaked
back, mostly disfigured from their journey through The Flames, unsuccessful in
their mission but seeking to return anyway, for safe harbor in their homeland.
Vesuvius had no stomach for these men, as good as deserters in his eyes.

“And what news do you bring from the
West?” he asked. “Did you find the Sword?” he added, already knowing the
answer.

The soldier gulped, looking terrified.

He slowly shook his head.

“No, my Lord and King,” he said, his voice
broken.

Vesuvius raged in the silence.

“Then why did you return to Marda?” he
demanded.

The troll kept his head lowered.

“I was ambushed by a party of humans,”
he said. “I was lucky to escape and make it back here.”

Vesuvius sighed.

“But why did you come back?” he asked.

The soldier looked at him, puzzled and
nervous.

“Because my mission was over, my Lord
and King.”

Vesuvius fumed.

“Your mission was to find the Sword, or
die trying.”

The soldier gulped.

“But I made it through The Flames!” he
pleaded. “I killed many humans! And I made it back!”

“And tell me,” he said kindly, stepping
forward and laying a hand on the troll’s shoulder as he slowly walked with him
toward the edge of the balcony. “Did you really think, upon coming back, that I
would let you live?”

Vesuvius suddenly grabbed the troll by
the back of his shirt, stepped forward, and hurled him over the edge.

The soldier flailed, shrieking through
the air, and all the workers down below stopped and looked up, watching as he
fell. He tumbled a hundred feet, then finally landed, with a splat, on the hard
rock below. Dead.

The workers all looked up at Vesuvius,
and he glared back down at them, knowing this would be a good reminder to all
who failed him.

They all went quickly back to work, as
if nothing had happened.

Vesuvius, still in a rage and needing to
let it out on someone, turned from the balcony and strutted down the winding
stone steps carved into the canyon wall, quickly followed by his men, who fell
in behind. He wanted to see the progress his men were making himself, up
close—and while he was down there, he figured he could find a pathetic slave to
beat to a pulp.

Vesuvius wound his way down the stairs,
carved into the black rock, descending flight after flight, all the way down to
the base of this vast cave, which was getting hotter the lower he went. Dozens
of his soldiers fell in behind him as he strutted across the cave floor,
weaving his way between the streams of lava, the hordes of workers. As he went,
thousands of soldiers and slaves stopped working and parted ways for him,
bowing their heads differentially.

It was hot down here, the base heated
not only from the sweat of men, but from the streaks of lava that crisscrossed
the room and oozed from the walls, from the sparks flying off the rocks as men
struck them everywhere with axes and picks.

Vesuvius marched across the vast cave
floor, until finally he reached the entrance of the tunnel. He stood before it
and stared: a hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall, the tunnel was being dug so
that it sloped down gradually, deeper and deeper beneath the earth, deep enough
to be able to support an army when the time came to burrow under The Flames.
One day they would penetrate Escalon, rise above the surface, and destroy the
country overnight, taking thousands of human slaves. It would, he knew, go down
as the greatest invasion in history.

Vesuvius marched forward, snatched a
whip from a soldier’s hands, reached high, and began lashing soldiers left and
right. They all went back to work, striking the rock twice as fast, smashing
the hard black rock until clouds of dust filled the air. He then made his way
to the human slaves, men and women they had abducted from the other side of The
Flames and had managed to bring back, even if badly burned. Those were missions
he relished most of all, those that were solely for the sake of terrorizing the
West, missions solely for the sake of searching for victims in the night and
bringing them back. Most died on the passage back through, but enough survived,
even if badly burnt and maimed, and these he worked to the bone in his tunnels.

Vesuvius zeroed in on them. He thrust
the whip into a man’s hand and pointed at a woman.

“Kill her!” he commanded.

The human stood there, shaking, and
merely shook his head.

Vesuvius snatched the whip back from his
hand and instead lashed the man, again and again, until he finally stopped
resisting, dead.

The others went back to work, averting
his gaze, while Vesuvius threw down the whip, breathing hard, and stared back
into the mouth of the cave. It was like staring at his nemesis. It was a
half-formed creation, going nowhere. It was all happening too slowly.

“My Lord and King,” came a voice behind
him.

Vesuvius turned slowly to see several
soldiers from the Mantra, his elite division of trolls, dressed in the black
and green armor reserved for his best troops. They stood their proudly, holding
halberds at their sides. These were some of the few men Vesuvius respected, and
seeing them made his heart quicken. It could only mean one thing: they had
brought news.

Vesuvius had dispatched the Mantra on a
mission many moons ago: to find the giant that lurked in Great Wood, rumored to
have killed thousands of men and beasts alike. His goal was to capture this
giant, bring it back, and use its brawn to complete his tunnel quickly.

Vesuvius had sent mission after mission,
and none had come back. All had been discovered dead, killed at the hands of
the beast.

So as Vesuvius stared at these men now,
standing here, alive, his heart beat faster with hope.

“Speak,” he commanded.

“My Lord and King, we have found the
beast. We have cornered him. Our men await your command.”

Vesuvius grinned slowly, pleased for the
first time in as along as he could recall. His smile grew wider as a plan
hardened in his mind. Finally, he realized, it would all be possible; finally,
he would have a chance to breach The Flames.

He stared back at his commander, filled
with resolve, ready to leave this instant.

“Lead me to him.”