Rise of the Dragons (14 page)

Kyra stumbled through the snow, now past
her knees, trekking her way through the Wood of Thorns as she leaned heavily on
her staff, trying to fight her way through what had become a full-fledged
blizzard. The storm raged so strongly now, it had even reached inside the wood,
blowing back these huge trees so that they nearly bent in half, and allowing
gales of wind and snow to whip her in the face. As the wind continually picked
up, it took all her might just to walk a few steps, the wind so loud she could
barely hear herself think.

The blood-red moon was long gone, as if
it had been swallowed up by the storm, and now she had no light left to
navigate by. Even if she had, she could barely see before her. All she had to
ground her was Leo, walking slowly, wounded, leaning against her, his presence
her only solace. With each step her feet seemed to sink deeper and she wondered
if she were even making any progress.

Kyra tried to look up, squinting into
the wind, hoping to spot some distant landmark—anything—to make sure she was
going the right way. But there was nothing but snow and trees.

Her cheek burned from the dragon’s
touch, feeling as if it were on fire, even though it was just a scratch. She
reached up and touched it, and every time she did her hand was dotted with
blood, the only warm thing left in the universe. Her cheek throbbed,
nonetheless, as if the dragon had infected her with something, had changed her
somehow.

As a particularly strong gust of wind
knocked her backwards, off-balance, Kyra finally realized she had to find shelter.
She knew she needed to get back to her father, to her people, to warn them, but
if she continued hiking like this, she knew she would die out here. Perhaps the
squire, she hoped, was stuck with his horse out here, too.

But as she looked around, the wind so
cold it took her breath away, even finding shelter proved elusive. She began to
panic, to have visions of herself and Leo being found frozen out here in the
snow—or perhaps never discovered at all. She knew if she did not find
something, they would certainly be dead by morning. Her situation had crept up
on her, and now it had become desperate. Of all nights to venture out away from
the fort, she realized, she had probably picked the worst one.

Leo began to whine, as if sensing her
thoughts, and she watched as he turned and ran away from her. He crossed the
clearing and as he reached the other side, began to dig fiercely at a mound of
snow.

Kyra watched curiously as Leo howled,
scratching wildly, digging deeper and deeper in the snow—until finally, it gave
way. She was surprised to see that he had unearthed a small cave, carved out of
a huge boulder.

Kyra, heart pounding with hope, hurried
over and as she crouched down, saw that it was just wide enough to shelter
them. It was also, she was thrilled to see, dry—and protected from the wind.

She leaned down and kissed his head.

“You did it, boy.”

He licked her back.

She knelt down and crawled into the
cave, Leo beside her, and as she crawled deeper, she had an immediate sensation
of relief. Finally, it was quiet; the wind raged outside, muted, and for the
first time, it was not stinging her face, her ears; for the first time, she was
dry. She felt like she could breathe again.

Kyra crawled on pine needles, deeper and
deeper into the cave, wondering how deep it went, until finally she reached the
back wall. She sat and leaned against it and turned and saw occasional bursts
of snow come in here. But none reached this deep, and back here it was quiet
and dry. For the first time, she could truly relax.

Leo crawled up beside her, snuggling his
head in her lap, and she hugged him to her chest as she leaned back against the
stone, shivering, trying to keep warm. She brushed the snowflakes off of her
furs and off his coat, trying to get them dry. She examined his wound, using
the snow to clean it out, and he whined as she touched it. She was relieved to
see it was not deep.

“Shhh, it’s okay boy,” she said.

As she lay there in the dark, listening
to the raging of the wind outside the cave, watching the snow begin to pile up
again, slowly blocking her view, Kyra felt as if she were witnessing the end of
the world. She tried to close her eyes, feeling bone weary, frozen, desperately
needing to rest, but as she lay there, she felt the scratch on her cheek
throbbing.

Yet despite herself, her eyes grew heavy
and began to shut on her. The pine beneath her felt oddly comfortable, and as
her body morphed into the rock, she soon found herself succumbing to the
embrace of sweet sleep.

*

Kyra flew on the back of a dragon,
hanging on for dear life, moving faster than she knew was possible, as it
screeched and flapped its wings. They were so wide and magnificent, and they
grew wider as she watched them, seeming as if they would stretch over the
world.

She looked down and her stomach dropped
as she saw, far below, the rolling hills of Volis. She had never seen it from
this angle, and as they flew over it, the dragon swooping down, they passed
over a lush countryside, rolling green hills, stretches of woods, gushing
rivers, and fertile vineyards. They flew over familiar terrain, and soon she
saw her father’s fort, rambling, its ancient stone walls blanketing the
countryside, sheep roaming outside of it.

But as the dragon dove down, Kyra sensed
immediately that something was wrong. She saw smoke rising—not the smoke of
chimneys, but black, thick smoke—and even from up here it was hard to breathe.
As she looked closer, she was horrified to see her father’s fort aflame, waves
of flame engulfing everything. She saw an army of the Lord’s Men, stretching to
the horizon, surrounding the fort, invading it, torching it, and as she heard
the screams, she knew that everyone inside, everyone she knew and loved in the
world, was being slaughtered.

“NO!” she tried to shout.

But the words, stuck in her throat,
would not come out.

The dragon craned its neck, turned it
all the way back and looked her in the eye—and Kyra was surprised to see it was
the same dragon she had saved, its piercing yellow eyes staring right back at
her.

You saved me
, she heard it say
in her mind’s eye.
Now I shall save you
.
We are one now, Kyra. We are
one.

Suddenly, the dragon turned sharply, and
Kyra lost her balance and to her horror, fell off. She shrieked as she went
plummeting through the air, ready to die, not understanding what it all meant.

“NO!” Kyra shrieked.

Kyra sat up shrieking as she woke in the
blackness, unsure of where she was. Breathing hard, she looked all around,
disoriented, until she finally realized: she was in the cave.

Leo whined beside her, and outside the storm
still raged, the winds howled, and the snow piled up. The horrific throbbing in
her cheek continued, and she reached up and touched it and looked at her
fingers and saw fresh blood. She wondered if it would ever stop bleeding.

“Kyra!” called a voice, a mystical
voice, sounding almost like a whisper.

Kyra peered into the blackness, and
looked up to see an unfamiliar figure standing in the cave. He wore a long,
black robe and cloak, and held a staff; he appeared to be an older man, with
white hair peeking out of his hood. His staff glowed, emitting a soft light in
the blackness.

“Who are you?” she demanded, sitting up
straight, on guard. “How did you get here?”

He took a step forward, and she wanted
to see his face, but he was still obscured in shadow.

“What is it that you seek?” he asked,
his voice putting her at ease.

She thought about that, trying to
understand.

“I seek to be free,” she said. “I seek
to be a warrior.”

Slowly, he shook his head.

“You forget something,” he said. “The
most important thing of all. What is it that you seek?”

Kyra stared back, confused.

Finally, he took another step forward.

“You seek your destiny.”

Kyra finally understood.

“And more than this,” he said, “you seek
to know who you are.”

He stepped forward again, standing so close,
yet still obscured in shadow.

“Who are you, Kyra?” he asked. “Do you
even know?”

She stared back blankly, wanting to
answer, but in that moment, having no idea. She was no longer sure of anything.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice so
loud, echoing off the walls, Kyra felt as if it might tear apart the very
fabric of the stone.

Kyra raised her hands to her face,
bracing herself.

As Kyra opened her eyes again, she was
shocked to see that no one was there. She couldn’t understand what was
happening. She slowly lowered her hands, and as she did, she realized that this
time, she was fully awake.

Bright sunlight shone into the cave,
light reflecting off the snow, off the cave walls, so harsh it was blinding.
She squinted, disoriented, trying to collect herself. The raging wind was gone;
the blinding snow was gone. Instead, there were just mounds of snow, partially
blocking the entrance, and a world with a crystal blue sky, birds singing. It
was as if, after a terrible storm, the world was reborn.

She had survived the night; she could
hardly fathom she had survived.

Leo nudged her hand with his nose, eager
for her to wake, to get up. He gently bit at her pants leg and prodded her,
impatient.

Kyra, disoriented, slowly stood and as
she did, she immediately reeled from the pain. Not only was her entire body
sore from the fighting, the tackling, the blows she had received, but most of
all, her cheek burned as if it were on fire. She immediately remembered the
dragon’s claw, and she reached up and felt it, and although just a scratch, it
was still mysteriously moist, caked with blood. And as she stood—she did not
know if it was from the room, or lack of food, or the dragon’s scratch— she
felt lightheaded. Unlike herself.

Kyra walked on unsteady legs as she
followed Leo, who led the way impatiently out of the cave and back into day.

Kyra stepped outside and found herself
immersed in a world of blinding white, and she raised her hands to her eyes,
her head splitting at the sight. It had warmed up, the wind was gone, birds
chirped, and the sun filtered through the trees here in this forest clearing.
She heard a whoosh and turned to see a huge clump of snow slide off a heavy
pine and make its way to the forest floor. She looked down and saw she stood in
snow up to her thighs.

Leo led the way, bounding through the
snow, back in the direction of her father’s fort, she was sure. She followed
him, struggling to keep up; but she licked her dry lips, and with each step she
took, she felt more and more lightheaded. The blood pulsed around her wound,
and she felt it had done something to her. She felt herself changing.

It was the strangest thing. She could
not explain it, but she felt as if the dragon’s blood were flowing through her.

“Kyra!”

She heard a distant voice, so distant, a
shout, sounding as if it were a world away. It was followed by several other
voices, shouting her name, their cries absorbed by the pines. It took her a
moment to understand what it was, that she wasn’t hearing things—that it was
the voice of her father’s men. They were out here, searching for her.

She felt a wave of relief to know, most
of all, that her father still cared for her.

“Here!” she called out, thinking she was
shouting, but surprised to hear her own voice barely above a whisper. At that
moment, she realized just how weak she was. The wound was doing something to
her, something she did not understand.

Suddenly, she felt her knees buckling
out from under her, and she felt herself falling into the snow, helpless to
resist.

Leo yelped, then turned and ran for the
distant voices.

She wanted to call to him, to call to
all of them, but she was too weak now. She lay there, deep in the snow, and
looked up at a world of white, at the blinding winter sun, and closed her eyes
as a slumber she could no longer resist embraced her.

Alec held his head in his hands, trying
to stop his headache, as the carriage, packed with boys, jolted roughly along
the country road, as it had been doing all night long. The bumps and ditches
and holes never seemed to end, and this primitive wooden cart, with its iron
bars and wooden wheels, seemed to have been constructed to inflict the maximum
possible discomfort. With each bump, Alec’s head slammed into the wood behind
him, and after the first bump, he was sure it could not last long, that the
road must end sometime soon.

But hour after hour had passed, and if
anything, the road only seemed to be getting worse. He had been awake all night
long, no hope of sleep, if not from the bumps then from the stink of the other
boys, from their elbowing and jolting him awake, as the cart stopped, taking in
more and more of them, and they fell on top of each other in the blackness. He
could feel them looking him over, summing him up, and as he opened his eyes, he
found a sea of dejected faces staring back at him, their eyes filled with wrath
and evil intention. They were all older, all miserable, and all looking for a
victim to take it out on.

Alec had, at first, assumed that since
they were all in this together, all drafted against their will to serve at The
Flames, there would be a solidarity amongst them. But he’d learned quickly that
no one was interested in talking to him, or extending a smile, or showing any
courtesy. Each boy was an island, and if Alec received any sort of
communication, it was only hostility. The faces that stared back at him looked
as if they were hoping for a fight, rough faces, unshaven, scars across them,
noses that looked like they had been broken in too many fights. It was
beginning to dawn on Alec that not every boy in this carriage had just reached
his eighteenth year—some were older, more broken down by life, and, he
realized, criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, thrown in with the others,
all of them being sent to guard The Flames.

At first, Alec had been sure it could
not get any worse, sitting on the hard wood, jammed in, feeling as if he were
on a journey to hell and that it could not get any worse. But, to his shock, he
realized it could get much worse, as their carriage made endless stops in towns
along the way—and with each stop, it became more and more crowded. Alec could
not fathom how they could stuff more boys inside, but somehow they did. When he
had first entered, a dozen boys had seemed tight, with no room to maneuver; but
now, with over two dozen boys inside, and counting, Alec could barely breathe.
The boys who piled in after him were all forced to stand, trying to grab onto
the ceiling, to anything, but mostly unsuccessful, jolted with each bump of the
cart and falling onto each other. More than one angry boy, at the end of his
rope, shoved another back, and endless fights broke out, all night long, with
boys constantly elbowing and shoving each other. Alec watched in disbelief as
one boy bit another’s ear off.

Yet at the same time, not having any
room to maneuver, to bring your shoulder back to throw a punch, also turned out
to be a saving grace: fights had no choice but to defuse quickly, ended with
threats and vows to continue at a later time.

Alec opened his eyes as he heard birds
chirping, and he looked out, bleary-eyed, to spot the first light of dawn
creeping through the iron bars, and he marveled that day had broke, that he had
survived this, the longest night of his life. As the sunrays lit the carriage,
he began to get a better look at all the new boys that had come in. He was by
far the youngest of the lot—and, it appeared, the least dangerous. It was a
savage group of muscle-bound, irascible boys, all scarred, some tattooed,
looking like the forgotten boys of society. They were all on edge, bitter from
the long night, and Alec felt the carriage ripe for an explosion.

“You look too young to be here,” came a
deep voice.

Alec looked over to see a boy, perhaps a
year or two older, sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He was the
presence, Alec realized, that he had felt squished up against him all night
long, a boy, Alec saw, with large broad shoulders, strong muscles that rippled
against his shirt, and the innocent, plain face of a farmer. His face was
unlike the others, open and friendly, perhaps even a bit naïve, and Alec could
sense in him a kindred soul.

“I am,” Alec replied flatly, wondering
how much to tell him. “I took my brother’s slot.”

“He was afraid?” the boy asked, puzzled.

Alec shook his head.

“Lame,” he replied.

The boy nodded, as if understanding, and
looked at Alec with a new respect.

“And you?” Alec asked. “You don’t appear
eighteen either.”

“Seventeen,” he replied.

Alec looked at him, wondering.

“Then why are you here?”

“I volunteered.”

Alec looked at him, shocked.

“Volunteered?” he asked. “But why?”

The boy looked at the floor and
shrugged.

“I wanted to get away.”

“To get away from what?” Alec asked,
baffled.

The boy fell silent and Alec could see a
gloominess pass over his face, and he did not think he would respond. But then
finally, the boy replied, mumbling his words: “Home.”

Alec saw the sadness of his face, and he
understood. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong at this boy’s home, and
from the bruises on the boy’s arms, and the look of sadness mixed with anger in
his face, Alec could only wonder.

“I am sorry,” Alec replied.

The boy looked at him with a surprised
expression, as if not expecting any compassion in this cart, and suddenly held
out a hand.

“Marco,” he said.

“Alec.”

They shook hands, the boy’s twice as
large as Alec’s, with a strong grip that left his hand hurting. Alec sensed he
had met a friend in Marco, and it was a relief, given the sea of faces before
him. More than a few glared back, looking as if they would jump out across the
cart and kill him if they could.

“I suspect you are one of the only who
volunteered,” Alec said to Marco.

Marco looked around and shook his head.

“I suspect you’re right. Most were
drafted or imprisoned.”

“Imprisoned?” Alec asked, surprised.

Marco nodded.

“The Keepers are made up not only of
draftees and warriors—a good amount are criminals, too.”

“Who you calling a criminal, boy?” came
a savage voice.

They both turned to see one of the boys,
prematurely aged from his hard life, looking forty years old though not older
than twenty, with a pockmarked face and beady eyes. He turned, squatted down
low, and stared into Marco’s face.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Marco said to
him.

“Well, now you are,” he seethed, clearly
looking for a fight. “Say it again. You want to call me a criminal to my face?”

Marco reddened and clenched his jaw,
getting angry himself.

“If the shoe fits,” Marco said.

The other boy flushed with rage, and in
that moment, Alec admired Marco’s defiance, his fearlessness.

The boy lunged at Marco without warning,
reaching out, putting his hands around his throat, and squeezing with all his
might.

Marco was clearly caught off guard, and
in these close quarters, he had little room to maneuver. His eyes bulged wide
as he was losing air, trying unsuccessfully to pry the boy’s hands off. Marco
was bigger, but the boy had wiry hands, calloused, probably from years of
murdering, and Marco could not get them off.

 “FIGHT! FIGHT!” the other boys called
out.

The others looked over, half-heartedly
watching the violence, one of a dozen fights that had erupted throughout the
night.

Marco, struggling, leaned forward
quickly and head-butted the other boy, smashing him in the nose with a cracking
noise. Blood gushed from the boy’s nose, and Marco tried to stand to get better
leverage—but as he did, a big boot pressed down on his shoulder from a
different boy, pinning him down. At the same moment, the first boy, blood still
gushing from his nose, reached into his waist and pulled out something shiny.
It flashed in the pre-morning light, and Alec realized with a start it was a
dagger. It was all happening so quickly, there was no time for Marco to react.

The boy thrust it forward, aiming for
Marco’s heart.

Alec’s instincts kicked in and he
reacted. He dove forward, grabbed the boy’s wrist with two hands, and pinned
them down to the floor, sparing Marco from a deadly blow a moment before the
blade touched his chest. The blade still grazed Marco, tearing open his shirt,
but not touching his skin.

Alec and the boy went down to the wood,
struggling for the blade, while Marco managed to reach up and twist the ankle
of the other attacker, snapping it.

Alec felt greasy hands on his face, felt
the first boy’s long fingernails scratching him, reaching for his eyes. Alec
knew he had to act quick, and he let go of the hand with the dagger, spun
around and threw his elbow, feeling a satisfying crunch as his elbow connected
with the boy’s jaw.

The boy spun off of him, face-first to
the ground.

Alec, breathing hard, his face stinging from
the scratches, jumped to his feet, as Marco stood beside him, sandwiched
between all the other boys. The two stood side by side, looking down at their
attackers lying on the floor, motionless. Alec’s heart slammed in his chest,
and as he stood there, he decided he no longer wanted to sit; it left him too
vulnerable to attack from any of these boys. He would rather stand the rest of
the way, however long the journey was.

Alec looked out and saw all the hostile
eyes glaring at him, and this time, he met them back, realizing he needed to
project power and confidence if he were to survive amongst this lot. Finally,
they all seemed to get the message, as they began to give him a look, something
like respect, and then to look away.

Alec looked over and saw Marco looking
down, examining his own shirt in disbelief, looking at the tear where the
dagger had almost punctured his heart. He looked at Alec, his face filled with
admiration.

“You have a friend for life,” Marco
said, sincerity in his voice.

He reached out for Alec’s arm and Alec
clasped it, and it felt good. A friend: that was exactly what he would need
where they were going.