Rise of the Dragons (7 page)

Maltren blinked back at her in surprise,
clearly not expecting that response. Then he narrowed his eyes.

“Why?” he shot back. “So you can run for
your father’s protection?”

“I need not my father’s protection, nor
anyone else’s,” she replied. “This is between you and me—whatever should
happen.”

Maltren looked over at Anvin, clearly
uncomfortable, as if he had dug himself into a pit which he could not get out
of.

Anvin stared back, equally disturbed.

“We spar with wooden swords here,” he
called out. “I won’t have anyone get hurt under my watch—much less, our
commander’s daughter.”

But Maltren suddenly darkened.

“The girl wants real weapons,” he said,
his voice firm, “then we shall give it to her. Perhaps she will learn a lesson
for life.”

Without waiting any further, Maltren
crossed the field, drew his real sword from its scabbard, the sound ringing in
the air, and stormed back. The tension became thick in the air, as all grew
silent, none sure what to do.

Kyra faced Maltren , feeling her palms
sweating despite the cold, despite a gust of wind that blew the torches
sideways. She could feel the snow turning to ice, crunching beneath her boots,
and she forced herself to focus, to concentrate, knowing this would be no
ordinary bout.

Maltren let out a sharp cry, trying to
intimidate her, and charged, raising his sword high, it gleaming in the
torchlight. Maltren, she knew, was a different fighter than the others, more
unpredictable, less honorable, a man who fought to survive rather than to win.
She was surprised to find him swinging right for her chest.

Kyra ducked out of the way as the blade
passed right by.

The crowd of men gasped, outraged, and
Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael stepped forward.

“Maltren!” Anvin called out, furious, as
if ready to stop it.

“No!” Kyra called back, staying focused
on Maltren, breathing hard as he came at her again. “Let us fight!”

Maltren immediately spun around and
swung again—and again and again. Each time, she dodged, or stepped back, or
leapt over his swings. He was strong, but not as quick as she.

He then raised his sword high and
brought it straight down, clearly expecting her to block and expecting to slash
her staff in two.

But Kyra saw it coming and she instead
sidestepped and swung her staff sideways, hitting his sword on the side of its
blade, deflecting it while protecting her staff. In the same motion, she took
advantage of the opening, and swung around and jabbed him in the solar plexus.

He gasped and dropped to one knee as a
horn sounded.

There came a great cheer, all the men
looking to her with pride as she stood over Maltren, the victor.

Maltren, enraged, looked up at her—and
instead of conceding defeat as all the others had, he suddenly charged for her,
raising his sword and swinging.

It was a move Kyra had not expected,
assuming he would concede honorably. As he came for her, Kyra realized there
were not many moves left at her disposal with such short notice. She could not
get out of the way in time.

Kyra dove to the ground, rolled out of
the way, and at the same time, spun around with her staff and struck Maltren
behind the knees, sweeping his legs out from under him.

He landed on his back in the snow, his
sword flying from his grip—and Kyra immediately gained her feet and stood over
him, holding the tip of her staff down on his throat and pushing. At the same
moment, Leo bounded over beside her and snarled over Maltren’s face, inches
away, his drool landing on Maltren’s cheek, just waiting for the order to
pounce.

Maltren looked up, blood on his lip,
stunned and finally humbled.

“You dishonor my father’s men,” Kyra
seethed, still enraged. “What do you think of my little stick now?”

A tense silence fell over them as she
kept him pinned down, a part of her wanting to raise her staff and strike him,
to let Leo loose on him. None of the men tried to stop it, or came to his aid.

Realizing he was isolated, Maltren
looked up with real fear.

“KYRA!”

A harsh voice suddenly cut through the
silence.

All eyes turned, and her father suddenly
appeared, marching into the circle, wearing his furs, flanked by a dozen men
and looking at her disapprovingly.

He stopped a few feet away from her,
staring back, and she could already anticipate the lecture to come. As they
faced each other, Maltren scrambled out from under her and scurried off, and
she wondered why he did not rebuke Maltren instead of her. That angered her,
leaving father and daughter looking at each other in a standoff of rage, she as
stubborn as he, neither willing to budge.

Finally, her father wordlessly turned,
followed by his men, and marched back towards the fort, knowing she would
follow. The tension broke as all the men fell in behind him, and Kyra,
reluctantly, joined. She began to trudge back through the snow, seeing the
distant lights of the fort, knowing she’d be in for an earful—but no longer
caring.

Whether he accepted her or not, on this
day, she was accepted amongst his men—and for her, that was all that mattered.
From this day forward, she knew, everything would change.

Kyra marched beside her father down the
stone corridors of Fort Volis, a rambling fort the size of a small castle, with
smooth stone walls, tapered ceilings, thick, ornate wood doors, an ancient
redoubt that had served to house the Keepers of The Flames and protect Escalon
for centuries. It was a crucial fort for their Kingdom, she knew, and yet it
was also home to her, the only home she’d ever known. She would often fall
asleep to the sound of warriors, feasting down the halls, dogs snarling as they
fought over scraps, fireplaces hissing with dying embers and drafts of wind
finding their way through the cracks. With all its quirks, she loved every
corner of it.

As Kyra struggled to keep pace, she
wondered what was troubling her father. They walked quickly, silently, Leo
beside them, late for the feast, turning down corridors, soldiers and
attendants stiffening as they went. Her father walked more quickly than usual,
and though they were late, this, she knew, was unlike him. Usually he walked
side-by-side with her, had a big smile ready to flash behind his beard, clasped
an arm around her shoulder, sometimes told her jokes, recounted his day’s
events.

But now he walked somberly, his face
set, several steps ahead of her, and he wore what appeared to be a frown of
disapproval, one she had rarely seen him wear. He looked troubled, too, and she
assumed it could only be from the day’s events, her brothers reckless hunting,
the Lord’s Men snatching their boar—and perhaps even because she, Kyra, had
been sparring. At first she had assumed he was just preoccupied with the
feast—holiday feasts were always burdensome for him, having to host so many
warriors and visitors well past midnight, as was ancient tradition. When her
mother had been alive and hosting these events, Kyra had been told, it had been
much easier on him. He was not a social creature, and he struggled to keep up
with social graces.

But as their silence thickened, Kyra
started to wonder if it was something else entirely. Most likely, she figured,
it had something to do with her training with his men. Her relationship with
her father, which used to be so simple, had become increasingly complicated as
she grew up. He seemed to have a great ambivalence over what to do with her,
over what kind of daughter he expected her to be. On the one hand, he often taught
her of the principles of a warrior, of how a knight should think, should
conduct herself. They had endless conversations about valor, honor, courage,
and he oft stayed up late into the night recounting tales of their ancestor’s
battles, tales that she lived for, and the only tales she wanted to hear.

Yet at the same time, Kyra noticed him
catching himself now when he discussed such things, silencing himself abruptly,
as if he’d realized he shouldn’t be speaking of it, as if he realized that he
had fostered something within her and wanted to take it back. Talking about
battle and valor was second nature to him, but now that Kyra was no longer a
girl, now that she was becoming a woman, and a budding warrior herself, there
was a part of him that seemed surprised by it, as if he had never expected her
to grow up. He seemed to not quite know how to relate to a growing daughter,
especially one who craved to be a warrior, as if he did not know which path to
encourage her on. He did not know what to do with her, she realized, and a part
of him even felt uncomfortable around her. Yet he was secretly proud, she
sensed, at the same time. He just couldn’t allow himself to show it.

Kyra could not stand his silence
anymore—she had to get to the bottom of it.

“Do you worry for the feast?” she asked.

“Why should I worry?” he countered, not
looking at her, a sure sign he was upset. “All is prepared. In fact, we are
late. If I had not come to Fighter’s Gate to find you, I would be at the head
of my own table by now,” he concluded resentfully.

So that was it, she realized: her
sparring. The fact that he was angry made her angry, too. After all, she had
beaten his men and she deserved his approval. Instead, he was acting as if
nothing had happened, and if anything, was disapproving.

She demanded the truth and, annoyed, she
decided to provoke him.

“Did you not see me beat your men?” she
said, wanting to shame him, demanding the approval that he refused to give.

She watched his face redden, ever so
subtly, but he held his tongue as they walked—which only increased her anger.

They continued to march, past the Hall
of Heroes, past the Chamber of Wisdom, and were nearly at the Great Hall when
she could stand it no more.

“What is it, Father?” she demanded. “If
you disapprove of me, just say it.”

He finally stopped right before the
arched doors to the feasting hall, turned and looked at her, stone-faced. His
look pained her. Her father, the one person she loved more than anyone in the
world, who always had nothing but a smile for her, now looked at her as if she
were a stranger. She could not understand it.

“I don’t want you on those grounds
again,” he said, a cold anger in his voice.

The tone of his voice hurt her even more
than his words, and she felt a shiver of betrayal rush through her. Coming from
anyone else it would hardly have bothered her—but from him, this man she loved
and looked up to so much, who was always so kind to her, his tone made her
blood run cold.

But Kyra was not one to back down from a
fight—a trait she had learned from him.

“And why is that?” she demanded.

His expression darkened.

“I do not need to give you a reason,” he
said. “I am your father. I am commander of this fort, of my men. And I do not
want you training with them.”

“Are you afraid I shall defeat them?” Kyra
said, wanting to get a rise out of him, refusing to allow him to close this
door on her forever.

He reddened, and she could see her words
hurt him, too.

“Hubris is for commoners,” he chided,
“not for warriors.”

“But I am no warrior, is that right,
Father?” she goaded.

He narrowed his eyes, unable to respond.

“It is my fifteenth year. Do you wish me
to fight against trees and twigs my whole life?”

“I do not wish you to fight at all,” he
snapped. “You are a girl—a woman now. You should be doing whatever women
do—cooking, sewing—whatever it is your mother would have raised you to do if
she were alive.”

Now Kyra’s expression darkened.

“I’m sorry I am not the girl you wish me
to be, Father,” she replied. “I am sorry I am not like all the other girls.”

His expression became pained now, too.

“But I am my father’s daughter,” she
continued. “I am the girl you raised. And to disapprove of me is to disapprove
of yourself.”

She stood there, hands on her hips, her
light-gray eyes, filled with a warrior’s strength, flashing back at his. He
stared back at her with his brown eyes, behind his brown hair and beard, and he
shook his head.

“This is a holiday,” he said, “a feast
not just for warriors but for visitors and dignitaries. People will be coming
from all over Escalon, and from foreign lands.” He looked her up and down
disapprovingly. “You wear a warrior’s clothes. Go to your chamber and change
into a woman’s fineries, like every other woman at the table.”

She flushed, infuriated—and he leaned in
close and raised a finger.

“And don’t let me see you on the field
with my men again,” he seethed.

He turned abruptly, as servants opened
the huge doors for him, and a wave of noise came tumbling out to greet them,
along with the smell of roasting meat, unwashed hounds and roaring fires. Music
carried in the air, and the din of activity from inside the hall was
all-consuming. Kyra watched her father turn and enter, attendants following.

Several servants stood there, holding
open the doors, waiting as Kyra stood there, fuming, debating what to do. She
had never been so angry in her life.

She finally turned and stormed off with
Leo, away from the hall, back for her chamber. For the first time in her life,
she hated her father at that moment. She had thought he was different, above all
this; yet now she realized he was a smaller man than she had thought—and that,
more than anything, hurt her. His taking away from her what she loved most—the
training grounds—was a knife in her heart. The thought of living her life
confined to silks and dresses left her feeling a greater sense of despair than
she had ever known.

She wanted to leave Volis—and never come
back.

*

Commander Duncan sat at the head of the
banquet table, in the massive feasting hall of fort Volis, and he looked out
over his family, warriors, subjects, counselors, advisors and visitors—more
than a hundred people, all stretched along the table for the holiday—with a
heavy heart. Of all these people before him, the one most on his mind was the
one he tried not to look at on principle: his daughter. Kyra. Duncan had always
had a special relationship with her, had always felt the need to be both father
and mother to her, to make up for the loss of her mother. But he was failing,
he knew, at being her father—much less a mother, too.

Duncan had always made a point of
watching over her, the only girl in a family of boys, and in a fort full of
warriors—especially given that she was a girl unlike the other girls, a girl,
he had to admit, who was too much like him. She was very much alone in a man’s
world, and he went out of his way for her, not only out of obligation, but also
because he loved her dearly, more than he could say, perhaps even more, he
hated to admit, than his boys. Because of all his children, he had to admit
that he, oddly, even though she was a girl, saw himself most in her. Her
willfulness; her fierce determination; her warrior’s spirit; her refusal to
back down; her fearlessness; and her compassion. She always stood up for the
weak, especially her younger brother, and always stood up for what was
just—whatever the cost.

Which was another reason why their
conversation had irked him so badly, had left him in such a mood. As he had
watched her on the training ground this evening, wielding her staff against
those men with a remarkable, dazzling skill, his heart had leapt with pride and
joy. He hated Maltren, a braggart and a thorn in his side, and he was elated
that his daughter, of all people, had put him in his place. He was beyond proud
that she, a girl of just fifteen, could hold her own with his men—and even beat
them. He had wanted so badly to embrace her, to shower her with praise in front
of all the others.

But as her father, he could not. Duncan
wanted what was best for her and deep down, he felt she was going down a dangerous
road, a road of violence in a man’s world. She would be the only woman in a
field of dangerous men, men with carnal desires, men who, when their blood was
up, would fight to the death. She did not realize what true battle meant, what
bloodshed, pain, death was like, up close. It was not the life he wanted for
her—even if it were allowed. He wanted her safe and secure here in the fort,
living a domestic life of peace and comfort. But he did not know how to make
her want that for herself.

It had all left him feeling confused. By
refusing to praise her, he figured, he could dissuade her. Yet deep down, he
had a sinking feeling he could not—and that his withdrawal of praise would only
alienate her further. He hated how he had to act tonight, and he hated how he
felt right now. But he had no idea what else to do.

What upset him even more than all this,
was what echoed in the back of his head: the prophecy proclaimed about her the
day she was born. He had always disregarded it as nonsense, a witch’s words; but
today, watching her, seeing her prowess, made him realize how special she was,
made him wonder if it could really be true. And that thought terrified him more
than anything. Her destiny was fast approaching, and he had no way to stop it.
How long would it be until everyone knew the truth about her?

Duncan closed his eyes and shook his
head, taking a long swig from his sack of wine and trying to push it all from
his mind. This was supposed to be a night of celebration, after all. The Winter
solstice had arrived, and as he opened his eyes he saw the snow raging through
the window, now a full-fledged blizzard, snow piled high against the stone, as
if arriving on cue for the holiday. While the wind howled outside, they were
all secure here in this fort, warm from the fires raging in the fireplaces,
from the body heat, from the roasting food and from the wine.

Indeed, as he looked around, everyone
looked happy—jugglers, bards and musicians made their rounds as men laughed and
rejoiced, sharing battle stories. Duncan looked with appreciation at the
awesome bounty before him, the banquet table covered with every sort of food
and delicacy. He felt pride as he saw all the shields hanging high along the
wall, each one hand-hammered with a different crest, each insignia representing
a different house of his people, a different warrior who had come to fight with
him. He saw all the trophies of war hanging, too, memories of a lifetime
fighting for Escalon. He was a lucky man, he knew.

And yet as much as he liked to pretend
otherwise, he had to face that his was a Kingdom under occupation. The old
king, King Tarnis, had surrendered his people to all of their shame, had laid
down arms without even a fight, allowing Pandesia to invade. It had spared
casualties and cities—but it had also robbed their spirit. Tarnis had always
argued that Escalon was indefensible anyway, that even if they held the
Southern Gate, the Bridge of Sorrows, Pandesia could surround them and attack
by sea. But they all knew that was a weak argument. Escalon was blessed with
shores made of cliffs a hundred feet high, crashing waves and jagged rocks at
their base. No ship could get close, and no army could breach them without a
heavy price. Pandesia could attack by sea, but the price would be far too
great, even for such a great empire. Land was the only way—and that left only
the bottleneck of the Southern Gate, which all of Escalon knew was defensible.
Surrendering had been a choice of pure weakness and nothing else.