Tested.
It was a powerful word, a powerful idea, and one he did not like. He did not like what he did not understand, what he could not control, and being tested was precisely that. As he hiked, Merk felt his carefully constructed world collapsing all around him. Before, his life purpose had been easy; now, he could no longer see it. Being sure of things in life, he realized, was easy; questioning things was what was hard. He had stepped out of a world of black and white, and into a world filled with shades of gray, and the uncertainty, the lack of any definite answers, unsettled him. He did not understand who he was becoming—and that was what bothered him most of all.
Merk crested a hill, leaves crunching, using his staff, breathing hard, but not from exertion, and as he reached its peak, he stopped and looked out, and for the first time, his heart quickened. He almost could not believe what he was seeing.
There it sat, on the horizon, not a legend, not a myth, but the real thing: the Tower of Ur.
Nestled in a small clearing in the midst of a vast and dark wood, it was an ancient stone tower, circular, perhaps fifty yards in diameter, and rising straight up to the treeline. It was the oldest thing he had ever seen, looked older, even, than the castles in which he had served. It rose up perfectly, and had a mysterious aura to it. Even from here it felt impermeable.
He breathed a deep sigh of exhaustion and relief. He had made it. Seeing it here, in the flesh, this object of his fantasy, was like a dream. He would have a place to be in the world, a purpose, a chance to repent. Finally, he would start life anew and become a Watcher of the tower.
Merk knew that he would normally be ecstatic, would double his pace and set off on the final leg of the journey before nightfall. And yet, try as he did, he could not take the first step. He stood there, frozen in place, something still gnawing away him.
Merk turned, able to see out over the woodline here, able to see the horizon in every direction, and in the far distance, against the setting sun, he saw black smoke rising. It was like a punch in the gut. He knew where it hailed from: that girl. Her family. All of them being attacked, the murderers setting fire to everything.
Yet as he looked carefully, he saw her farm, and saw they had not reached it yet. The smoke was a trail, a warpath leading to it. Soon enough, they would reach it. But for now, for these last precious minutes, she was safe.
Merk twisted and cracked his neck, an old habit when he was at his wits’ end. He stood there and shifted, filled with a great sense of unease, unable to go forward. He turned and looked back at the Tower of Ur, the destination of his dreams, and he knew his journey was over. He had arrived, and he wanted to relax, to celebrate.
But for the first time in his life, a desire welled up within him. It was a desire to set wrongs right, to act purely for justice’s sake. Not for a fee, and not for a reward. But just because it was the right thing to do.
Merk hated that feeling. He wanted desperately to erase it.
He leaned back and shouted, irate, at war with himself, with the world. Why? Why now of all times?
Merk found himself turning, though, despite every ounce of common sense he had, away from the Tower, towards the farm. First it was a walk, then a jog, then a sprint.
The Tower could wait. He was going to do right in the world—and it was going to start with this girl.
As he ran, he began to feel a great sense rise up, something he had never experienced before. Finally, he realized, something deep within him was being set free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
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 go
vernor’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 strengt
h 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.
He moaned, releasing his grip, as he fell to his knees, and she turned and stood over him, the son finally helpless as he looked up at her with shocked eyes filled with pain.
“Say hello to your father for me,” she said, raising back her staff and with all her might jabbing him in the head.
This time, he collapsed, unconscious, on the stone.
Kyra, still breathing hard, still enraged, surveyed her handiwork: three men, formidable men, armed men, lay unmoving on the floor. She, starting out a weaponless, defenseless girl, had done it.
“Kyra!” cried out a voice.
She turned and remembered Dierdre, and without wasting another second, ran across the room. Grabbing the keys from the guard’s waist, she unlocked the cell, and as she did, Dierdre ran into her arms, hugging her.
Kyra pulled her back and looked her in the eyes, wanting to know if she was mentally prepared to escape.
“It’s time,” Kyra said firmly. “Are you ready?”
Dierdre stood there, shell-shocked, staring at the carnage in the room, clearly unable to believe it.
“You beat him,” she said, staring at the bodies in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. You beat him.”
As Kyra examined her, she watched something shift in Dierdre’s eyes. All the fear drifted away, and Kyra saw a strong woman emerging from deep inside, a woman she had not recognized before and a woman she respected. Seeing her attackers unconscious, finally weak themselves, did something to her, gave her a new strength, a new hope.
Dierdre walked slowly over to one of the swords lying on the floor, picked it up, and walked back over to the son, still lying prone, unconscious.