He turned and looked at Kyle, still in awe, and Kyle smiled back.
“That was the easy part,” he said.
*
Kyle and Merk marched, trekking in the silence, crossing the great plains of Escalon, heading invariably south and east, heading, somewhere in the distance for the Devil’s Finger, the ancient peninsula of Kos. They had been journeying for days, never stopping since their encounter with those baylors. Kyle tried to lose himself, to drown out his thoughts, in the landscape. Yet it was not easy to do. There flashed through his mind images of the Tower of Ur falling, of his fellow Watchers’ deaths. He burned with indignation and felt a stronger desire than ever to reach Kos, secure the Sword before Marda could arrive, and ensure Escalon’s survival.
Despite everything, Kyle had taken a liking to this human, his new traveling companion, Merk. He had displayed bravery in battle, in defending the tower, even when he had not needed to. There were very few humans whom Kyle liked, but this one, for some reason, he did. Kyle could sense in him, deep down, a struggle to change, to cast off his old life—and it was something Kyle could relate to. Kyle knew he could trust him and that he would make a fine brother-in-arms, even if he were not of his race.
Kyle studied the horizon as the sun lowered in the sky, contemplating the best way to approach the barren and inhospitable peninsula of the Devil’s Finger. In the distance he could already begin to see the icy peaks of Kos, the mountain range seeming to reach the sky, and he knew a formidable journey lay ahead of them. His mind swam with thoughts of the tower, the trolls—of Kyra—and he tried to push them away, to stay focused on his mission.
And yet as he was hiking, immersed in his thoughts, halfway across the great plains, something inside Kyle made him suddenly stop. He stood there, frozen, listening to something on the wind.
Merk stopped beside him, looking at him questioningly. It was the first time they had stopped in days.
Kyle turned and surveyed the plains before him. He turned slowly in the opposite direction and looked due south. As he did, he felt a pulse of energy course through his body, and he knew. Life and death was at stake. He was needed.
“What is it?” Merk asked.
Kyle stood there, silent for many minutes. He closed his eyes, listening to the wind, trying to understand.
And then, suddenly, like a spear in his back, he knew. Kyra. She was in grave danger; he felt it in every bone in his body.
He turned to Merk.
“I cannot continue with you,” he said, barely believing his own words.
Merk stared back, clearly shocked.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Kyra,” he said, still trying to understand what it was. “She needs me.”
Merk frowned, but Kyle reached out and clasped Merk’s arm and looked him in the eyes with all intensity.
“Continue without me,” Kyle told him. “When you reach Kos, secure the Sword. Do whatever you have to. I will catch up.”
Merk looked disappointed, clearly not understanding. Kyle wished he could explain, but how could he explain his love for Kyra? How could he explain that it was more important to him even than the fate of Escalon?
Without another word, Kyle, burning with urgency, turned and raced south, faster than he’d ever run, skipping across the plains, knowing he would save Kyra or die trying.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
His Glorious Ra, Most Holy and Supreme Leader of Pandesia, stood atop the battlements of Andros and looked out over the countryside of Escalon, taking it all in. It was now his. All of it. He grinned in satisfaction.
There, in the distance, he could see his armies charging north, pursuing the trolls, hacking them to death as they fled. It had been a rout. The nation of Marda was no doubt a vicious one, the trolls twice the size of his men, their strength legendary, and their leader, Vesuvius, high on the list of those that Ra wanted to capture and torture personally. And yet, still, he had prevailed. He had lost thousands of men fighting them—but he had merely sent in thousands more. It was the great convenience of having a slave army, gathered from all corners of the Empire. His people were dispensable.
Eventually, as Ra knew they would, the trolls buckled under his waves of manpower, realizing, as most conquered nations eventually do, that they were useless against his great might. Ra was, after all, invincible. He had never lost, and he never would. It had been written in the stars. He was the Great One, the One Who Had Never Been Touched, and the One Who Could Not Die.
As Ra watched his forces spread north throughout the countryside, radiating in all directions, he realized he had been way too kind with Escalon. He had foolishly thought they would go the way of all his other conquered territories, would submit to the rule of his royal governors. He had given them too many liberties—and now it was time to change all that. Now it was time for them to learn who he was. Now it was time to make them suffer.
This petty war with Escalon had been a distraction for the Great and Awesome Ra, a nuisance that had diverted him from other pressing duties, from other wars. He would make these people of Escalon pay the price. This time, he would enslave the entire nation. He would cover every last inch of Escalon with soldiers, would murder all the men, torture all the women, put the children in labor camps, and leave his mark on every inch of this land. It would be unrecognizable when he was done. They would become an example for all nations that dared defy him.
Ra had been foolish to listen to his advisors, to listen to the people who boasted of the great warriors of Escalon, how independent they were, and the best way to rule them. He should have trusted his own instincts and done what he always did: crush everyone. Raze their towns. Leave them with nothing. After all, people who no longer existed could hardly defy you.
In the distance Ra could hear the reassuring sound of his cannons, booming somewhere on the horizon as his fleets attacked Ur. His armies and fleets were attacking Escalon from all sides and there would be no escape. Soon, any pockets of resistance would be wiped out. The leader of the resistance, the man they called Duncan, was already in the dungeon, and Ra looked forward to visiting him, to crushing the last of the last free spirits.
As he watched the trolls flee, Ra already knew where they were heading. Southeast. The Devil’s Finger, the Tower of Kos. They were after the Sword of Fire, were desperate to lower the Flames, to open the gates for the nation of Marda. How predictable. Did they not know the Great and Awesome Ra would never allow this? Indeed, his forces were already in motion, preparing to destroy all these trolls before they could cause any more trouble for him.
“A beautiful sight, isn’t it?” came a voice.
Ra turned and his smile fell as he saw Enis stepping up beside him, the boy who thought he was King. There he stood, resembling his father, the man he had sold out and killed. Ra fumed. The arrogance, to think he could stand this close to The Great and Holy Ra.
“It is a sight I never expected to see,” Enis continued. “Marda always threatened Escalon. And yet now they are fleeing from us.”
“Us?” Ra asked, looking down at him with disdain, fury rising within him. This arrogant, presumptuous boy clearly had no idea that no one ever approached Ra without kneeling and bowing his head to the ground—and that no one ever spoke to Ra until Ra had spoken first.
Yet there he stood, smiling back with his stupidity and arrogance.
“Escalon will be entirely under our rule soon enough,” Enis continued, “and my people will do exactly as we wish.”
“We?” Ra asked, standing taller with pride and indignation.
Enis looked back, equally proud and arrogant.
“I am King now, after all,” Enis replied, as if it were obvious. “I handed you your greatest victory, a victory that did not even cost you a soldier, thanks to me. I delivered my father, too, along with Duncan and all the great warriors. You have plenty to thank me for.”
Ra had never felt such disgust in his life, and deep inside he could feel himself abo
ut to blow. It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out and strangling the boy.
Adding insult to injury, Enis reached up and actually dared to lay a hand on Ra’s shoulder.
“You need me,” Enis continued, still not realizing the danger he was in. “These are my people. I know how to rule them. Without me, you have nothing.”
Ra took a deep breath, then spoke with a voice trembling with anger.
“Do you know how many kings I have instilled and deposed?” Ra asked in his deep, rumbling voice. “How many lands, how many nations, have been my plaything? And yet the kings, my kings, all think the same thing: they imagine that they have power. That it is their land. Their people. How quickly delusions grow. There is one thing that they always seem to forget.”
Ra reached up and with a quick and sudden motion, grabbed Enis by the back of his shirt, took several steps forward, dragging him, and with a great cry hurled him over the edge of the parapets.
Enis shrieked as he flailed and fell through the air. Finally, he landed with a splat, face first on the stone far below.
Ra looked down, smiled, and took a deep breath. He was starting to feel better now, seeing that insolent boy’s mangled body so far below.
“Power,” Ra said down to the dead body, “is illusory.”
*
Bant strode down the capital streets, feeling a sense of euphoria, of the power to come lying just out of his grasp. He had not been this giddy since he was a boy. The capital was safely in the hands of the Pandesians now. The coup he had helped orchestrate had worked. The old King Tarnis was dead, Duncan was imprisoned, and Enis, the boy he had helped rise to power, sat as the new King.
Bant grinned widely. Enis owed him his title, his kingship, and with Pandesia ruling Escalon and Enis their instilled ruler, that meant that Bant would have unlimited power. With Enis in power, he and his people were untouchable. Pandesia could never harm him, never invade his canyon, his stronghold, and he had assured his and his people’s safety for years to come. More than that, he had assured their power in the new Escalon. With all the other strongholds invaded, Barris would be the last and only remaining bastion of freedom, of independence.
Soon enough, Escalon would look to him to lead. And he would kill Enis when he least expected it, and naturally rise to power.
Bant grinned wide, turning through a city gate, rushing to see Enis right now. He had gambled on the right side, indeed. He could only imagine if he had put his lot with Duncan, where he would be right now. Dead, by a Pandesian blade.
Sure, he had had to betray some of his people, Duncan most of all. But that barely bothered him. A conscience, he learned long ago, was something he had to let go of if he was determined to rise to power. And determined he was. One of the things he looked forward to the most, in fact, was watching Duncan hang from the gallows. Only then would he feel completely at ease.
Bant turned the corner, finally reaching the palace entrance, and he looked up in the early morning sun. He raised a hand to his eyes and could see, high up, there Enis stood, beside the battlements, Ra by his side. Bant grinned. The two of them were alone up there. That meant that, already, Ra was turning to Enis for council. Enis would be untouchable, and Bant would be, too.
Bant was about to rush to the stairs, ascend to speak to Enis, when suddenly he thought he detected motion out of the corner of his eye. He looked up, and for a moment he could not process what he saw. There was Enis. But he was no longer standing on the parapets. Instead, he was shrieking, falling, flying through the air.
Bant watched in horror as he hit the ground with a splat, but feet away from him. Dead.
He looked up, wondering if Enis had slipped. But he saw Ra looking down, grinning, and he knew he had not. Bant could not believe it. Enis was dead. And Ra had killed him.
Bant gulped. His hope for power, for safety, was already crushed. Already, Pandesia had gone back on their word. He, too, had been betrayed. No one was safe.
Bant jumped into the shadows, hoping Ra had not seen him. He stood there, his back to the wall, sweating, breathing hard.
Then, when enough time had passed, he darted from the shadows and ran. He ran and ran, out the gate, away from the capital, and somewhere into the day, determined to get as far away from the capital as he could.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kyra rode across Escalon, as she had all day and night, desperate to reach Andros, to free her father before it was too late. It had been a long, harrowing night of riding, guided only by the stars, and yet she had persevered, knowing every moment was precious, knowing there was no chance to stop.
Despite the sleepless night, Kyra felt stronger than ever. She rode, driven by a sense of purpose, and felt ready, ever since her healing, to take on the hordes of the world. She reflected on her training, her newfound ability to summon her powers, to move objects with just with her mind, and she knew they were real. She felt ready to confront whatever army faced her, to do whatever she had to do to save her father—even if it meant her own death. She only prayed that it was not too late.
As she emerged from the woods and crested a series of hills, finally the night sky gave way to a breaking dawn, and all of Escalon opened up before her. She looked out through the early morning mist, the countryside sparkling in the dawn, and her heart fluttered in anticipation as she finally spotted, on the horizon, the contours of the great capital of Andros, sprawling, it seemed, to the end of the world. Here was the city she remembered from her youth, with its massive, arched drawbridge, its imposing stone gates, its gatehouses, battlements, turrets, and imposing façade. Her heart beat faster. Her father, she knew, was behind those walls, and this time, nothing of this earth would stop her from getting him back.
Kyra kicked Andor and they rode even faster, heading for the city. She saw in the distance the garrison of Pandesian soldiers stationed before the city, a sea of yellow and blue, glistening in the dawn, and she tensed, prepared.
As she neared, they clearly noticed her approach; a horn sounded, and hundreds of troops broke off and began charging right for her, lances lowered, visors down.
Kyra tightened her grip on her staff, increasing her speed, ready for anything. Those soldiers stood between her and the gates, and that, she could not allow. Kyra let out a battle cry, knowing this charge was reckless, yet knowing she had no choice. She was stronger now, she could feel it; she had powers from her training, powers she had never had before. She felt she could fight this army.
Kyra charged, closing the gap as hundreds of Pandesians in their clanging armor rushed forward in rows to meet her. She would not shy away, but meet them fearlessly. She could see them all grinning, as if expecting a quick and easy victory—and she was determined to give them a different outcome.
As the first sword came down for her head, Kyra focused on her innate power. She felt an intense heat rise up within her, tingling in her arms, hands. She felt more alive than ever, and she swung her staff and knocked swords from three soldiers’ hands in one blow. She swung around again and slashed two more soldiers across the chest, knocking them off their horses. She felt a foreign, unknown power coursing through her, hinted at in her training with Alva, one that had always been just out of her reach. She felt, oddly, as if her mother were with her.
Kyra ducked as one soldier swung a flail at her head, then she cracked him in the ribs, felling him. She never slowed, charging forward into the thick of battle, slashing and jabbing soldiers every which way, dodging and ducking and weaving, feeling her supernatural power urge her forward, making her faster than all those around her as she cut a path through the ranks. She kept in her sights the contours of Andros, and kept in the forefront of her mind her father, imprisoned, needing her help—and she let her adrenaline push her on.
Leo and Andor fought as they went, too, Andor kicking viciously, knocking out other horses, felling their riders, Leo snarling and biting, killing any soldier who came too close to her. Kyra swung her staff again and again,
and as she did, she began to close her eyes, finding she could tune in better that way. She summoned her power and was able to summon a yellow orb of light, shooting forth from the end of the staff, and she killed a dozen soldiers in a single explosion.
Kyra swung again the staff again, and as she did, an orb flew in the other direction, taking out a dozen more soldiers.
She swung again—and again. Soon the battlefield was filled with dead soldiers, hundreds of them lying on the ground all around her. It was as if she were a tornado, cutting through their ranks.
Kyra continued to charge, getting ever closer to the bridge to Andros. She had to cross it. She swung her staff as she went, feeling invincible, shooting orbs of light in every direction and felling dozens of soldiers. She took aim and blew up the stone garrison, killing hundreds more Pandesian soldiers as they tried to exit, thinking of her father as she took vengeance for him.
As Kyra approached the bridge, she saw the portcullis beyond it open, and she watched as thousands more soldiers came charging out of the city, right for her. It was a sea of blue and yellow.
She swung her staff again, but this time, to her horror, no orb appeared. Somehow, her power had stopped—there was now nothing in her hand but an ordinary staff. Had Alva been right? Was she not ready yet?
Having felt so invincible but moments before, Kyra now looked out at the sight before her and felt more vulnerable than ever. She realized now that she was in grave danger. She looked out, struggling to understand what had happened, and as she did, she spotted a single dark sorcerer, wearing a scarlet cape, emerging from the city. She saw the red orb of light in his hand, and she sensed immediately that she was up against a power far greater than hers.
Suddenly, Kyra felt the first blow; a soldier charged and struck her on the shoulder with his shield. Knocked off her horse, she landed on the ground, winded, tumbling amidst the hostile army.