Rise of the Dragons (22 page)

Kyra sat against the cold stone wall,
blinking, her eyes bloodshot as she watched the first rays of dawn seeping
through the iron bars, spreading over the room in a pale light. She had been
awake all night, as the Governor had predicted, turning over in her mind the
horrific punishment to come, what they had done to her friend, how these cruel
men would try to break her. She turned over in her mind a thousand schemes to
resist, to try to escape. The warrior spirit in her refused to break—she would
rather die than be broken.

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 Governor’s stronghold, a massive military complex
holding thousands of soldiers; she was far from home, 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 there was even a fort to return to and that they
had not already destroyed her people. Her father’s people had no idea where she
was, and they never would. She was utterly alone in the universe.

“No sleep?” came a soft voice,
shattering her from her reverie.

Kyra looked over to see Dierdre sitting
there, against the far wall, her face illuminated with the first light of dawn,
too pale, dark circles under her eyes. She appeared utterly dejected, and she
stared back at Kyra with haunted, soulful eyes.

“I didn’t sleep either,” Dierdre added.
“I was thinking all night of what they will do to you. The same as what they’ve
done to me. 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, you’re still young.
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.

Slowly, 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 open, across the dungeon hall, and as Kyra stood, prepared to face
whatever came at her, to fight to the death if need be, Dierdre suddenly jumped
to her feet and ran over to her. She grabbed 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. Find a way. 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 from this place 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 want 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 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, a
slamming of the cell door opening, and they both turned to see the soldiers
approach. The men came at her, and Kyra felt rough, callused hands grab her
wrists, felt herself being yanked away, out of the cell, and heard the cell
door slam behind her. She would fight back, but now was not the time—she had to
conserve her energy. And find the perfect moment. Even a powerful enemy, she
knew, always had one moment of vulnerability.

Two soldiers held her in place, and in
through the outer door there strutted a man whom Kyra dimly recognized: the
governor’s son.

Kyra blinked, confused, while the son’s
face contorted in a cool, evil smile.

“My father sent me to get you,” he said,
approaching, “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?”

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 coat, his breath visible in the cold cell,
“my father need not know all the goings-on of his Kingdom. 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’ll make
sure I 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, giving 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.

Kyra 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 at her side 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 and cold, it all happening so quickly.

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 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. Kyra could barely breathe, and she knew that if she did not do
something soon, she would be crippled for life.

“Don’t!” cried out a voice. It was
Dierdre’s voice, pleading from behind the bars. “Don’t harm her! Take me
instead!”

But the son merely ignored her.

“It begins with the staff,” he said to
Kyra. “Wild horses resist, but if you break them, again and again and again,
beat them mercilessly, relentlessly, day after day, eventually, one day, they
will crack. They will be yours. There is nothing better than inflicting pain on
another creature, is there?” he asked.

Kyra sensed motion, and as she looked up
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 as her
world slowed. That feeling she’d had back on the bridge was back, a familiar
warmth, one that began in her solar plexus and spread its way throughout her
body. She felt it filling with energy, more strength than she could ever dream.

Images flashed before her eyes: training
with her father’s people, the endless sparring, learning how to get hit and to
keep on going, to feel pain and not be stunned, to fight several men at once.
They had drilled her relentlessly for hours and hours, day after day, until she
had perfected her technique, until it finally became a part of her. She had
insisted on the men teaching her everything, however hard the lesson, and now
it was all rushing back to her. She had trained for times exactly like this.

Now, as she lay there, the shock of the
pain behind her, the warmth taking over her body, she looked back 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.

Kyra’s was reminded of an early lesson:
The
low ground can give you an advantage. The taller a man is, the more vulnerable
he is. The knees are easy targets for someone on the ground, indefensible.
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 man’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 looked over in shock: she couldn’t believe
that it had worked. As he fell, he landed on his skull, and it hit the stone
with such a loud crack, she was sure she had killed him.

But the son 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 immediately
gained her feet and pounced 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, just missing his grip,
and landed on the stone in a roll, grabbing her staff as she did.

Kyra stood there, holding her staff
cautiously out before her, so grateful to have her weapon back, the staff fitting
perfectly in her hands. Encircled, she looked about quickly in every direction,
like a wounded animal backed into a corner, as the two guards against the wall
approached with their swords drawn. She was lucky, she realized, that it had
all happened so quickly, buying her time before the guards could join in.

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—”

But 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 it 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 off the walls. He dropped to his knees,
whimpering, cradling his nose.

The two guards came at her, their swords
swinging right for her head, and Kyra reacted. She 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.

As one of the guards swung too hard, Kyra
finally found an opening: she raised her staff and brought it straight down on
his exposed wrist, smashing it and forcing him to lose 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 was taking no chances. As one guard
dropped and 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 rushed forward 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. “But you’re finished
now.”

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.