“You’re too fast,” she gasped, defeated, on her hands and knees.
He shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “It is your mind that is too fast. You use your mind, and not what lies inside you. You fear the powers within you.”
“Yes,” she admitted, realizing he was right.
Kyra stood and faced him, ashamed. She had never missed a target with her staff in her life, and she had missed him again and again. It was humbling. She was not the warrior she thought she was.
“There are parts of you that you have never explored,” he replied. “You cling to the warrior’s way. And that limits you.”
“Teach me,” Kyra said, eager, her heart pounding, realizing he was alluding to something that had always been just beyond her grasp. “Teach me how to get the power you speak of.”
“You know it yourself,” he replied. “You have felt it before.”
She remembered: Theos. Her fight against Pandesia. Those moments in battle that had been a blur, when she had not even been aware of what she had been doing.
“I have,” she said, realizing. “When I summoned Theos, he came. When I fought in Volis…I felt… bigger than myself.” She paused. “But I could not summon it again. I…lost that power.”
He was silent for a long time, then finally he spoke.
“Why doesn’t your dragon come now?” he asked.
She sensed that he knew the answer, and she desperately wanted to know. But she was at a loss. It was the very same question that had been burning through her mind all these days, ever since she had departed Argos.
“I…don’t know,” she replied.
She looked at him, hoping for an answer.
“Tell me,” she pleaded.
But Alva merely stared back, expressionless in the long silence that followed.
“Try to summon him now,” he said.
Kyra closed her eyes and with all her might, she tried once again to summon Theos.
Theos, she thought. I need you. Come to me. Wherever you are, come to me. I beg you.
After a long silence, Kyra opened her eyes, and was dismayed to feel nothing. There came no dragon on the horizon, no sound of screeching, no flapping of wings. Nothing but silence.
Kyra stood there, teary-eyed, feeling powerless. She realized the limitations of her power, and she wanted desperately to learn why.
“If you could summon your dragon,” Alva finally said, “if you could control him, you could end the war that rages inside you, and within Escalon. You could save your father right now. But you cannot. Why?”
She shook her head, unable to reply.
“That is why you are here. That is what you are here to learn. Not this,” he said, grabbing her staff and throwing it down to the ground. He stepped forward and touched her forehead, between her eyes. “But this. The true source of your power. You will never grasp it until you throw down your weapons and start fresh.”
As she pondered his words, she suddenly heard a snarl that raised the hair on the back of her neck. Alva stepped aside, and as she looked past him, into the woods, she saw, approaching, a Salic. She froze. It was a terrifying creature that she had only read about, with a black hide, red eyes, three red horns, and was the size of a rhinoceros. It drooled, revealing its sharpened fangs as it crept toward her.
Alva stood there, his back to it and somehow not caring. And for some reason, the beast fixed its gaze only on her.
“This forest brings forth what we fear the most,” Alva said calmly, not even turning to look. “What we fear to face. What do you fear to face? Who are you, Kyra?” Alva demanded, his voice suddenly booming, deep, filled with authority.
At the same moment the Salic pounced. It charged for her, and she raised her staff and slashed.
But with a single claw swipe it swatted it away.
Kyra stood there, defenseless, as it leapt into the air, its claws out for her chest, and she knew that, in moments, it would tear her apart.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Merk braced himself as he faced the group of trolls charging for him, snarling, curled fangs protruding from their cheeks, all raising their halberds as they emerged from the wood. He had trusted his instincts, had combed these woods while his fellow Watchers had turned back, and he had proved himself right. Yet it had also left him out here alone, vulnerable, far from the others. He realized with dread that he would have no choice but to take on the entire pack by himself.
Merk steeled himself as the first troll attacked, allowing his killer instincts to take over; he felt a sense of calm wash over him, entered that place he always returned to, where he could separate himself from the violence about to happen, could quiet his fear even in the face of mortal danger. He’d faced multiple attackers many times before, and even though they had not been trolls, he felt an odd sense of comfort in the situation. Fighting, after all, was what he had been born to do, as much as he tried to turn his back on it.
As the first troll swung the hatchet down for his head, a blow strong enough to cut a tree in half, Merk waited for the last moment then stepped aside, feeling the whoosh of the blade beside him. He smashed the troll in the solar plexus with the hilt of his sword and as it keeled over, he spun around and chopped off its head. It rolled onto his feet, the blood hot and sticky on his boots.
Another troll charged, halberd high, and Merk spun and swung his sword sideways, chopping off its head before it could reach him. Its halberd fell to the ground as the headless troll collapsed at his feet.
Another troll came, and another, and Merk twisted his sword, raised it high overhead with both hands, and thrust it straight down into the chest of the next one, driving it in so deep he was unable to extract it. The creature shrieked as it dropped to its knees, and as the other troll brought down his halberd, Merk, weaponless, dropped to his knees, ducking as the blade grazed his hair. He then reached down, grabbed the halberd off the ground, swung sideways, and chopped the troll’s legs out from under him. The troll shrieked as it fell to the ground, and Merk, not hesitating, swung around and chopped its back.
Another troll charged and swung his halberd for Merk’s face, and Merk, still on the ground, raised his halberd high overhead, turned it sideways, and blocked with the shaft as it came down. His arm shook from the blow, the steel shaft clanging and sparking as the blade struck it, the force of it knocking Merk onto his back. The troll landed on top of him and leaned in, its grotesque face snarling inches away, and Merk, struggling with all he had, leaned back and kicked it between its legs, dropping it. It nearly landed on top of Merk, but he rolled out of the way at the last second, then jammed the blade of his dagger into its throat.
The move, though, left Merk’s back exposed, and he sensed more trolls behind him. He glanced back and saw a fast and powerful troll racing for him, lowering the hatchet for his exposed back, and knew he could not react in time. He braced himself, already anticipating the pain of the blade cutting through his flesh. He knew he would die—yet he took some solace in the fact that he had taken many of these creatures with him, and had helped protect the realm.
As he braced himself, there came a sound of something whizzing by his head, and Merk spotted out of the corner of his eye a golden spear fly by, barely missing his ear. He heard a grunt and a cry as the troll behind him suddenly fell to his knees. It landed beside him on the ground, motionless, a spear impaled in its head.
Merk, stunned that his life had been saved, looked over and was amazed to see the last person he had ever expected to see out here: Kyle. He must have circled back for him, more aware than the others, and just in time to save his life. Merk was shocked at his prowess, at the speed and accuracy of his throw—and that he would care enough to save his life.
“DUCK!” Kyle yelled.
Merk ducked low and as he did, a halberd flew over his head, wielded by another troll whom Merk had not seen. Kyle raced across the clearing with a speed unlike any Merk had ever seen, a blur, a flash of light, as he reached the troll standing
over Merk and kicked it in the chest.
It was no mere kick: it sent the troll soaring through the air, fifty feet across the clearing, where it smashed into a tree with such force that it cracked the tree in half. The troll slid down, limp, dead.
Merk sat there, stunned, as he watched the boy in action. Kyle sprinted through the clearing, like a blur of light in the darkness, smashed one troll with his hands, elbowed another, kicked another. He crossed the clearing and snapped one’s neck, crossed back and punched another under the chin, sending it up into a tree. They were like molasses around him, and within moments, the trolls’ bodies piled up, dozens of them lying in the clearing, motionless.
Merk stood and stared in the silence, speechless. All was eerily still, just the two of them alone in this clearing with dozens of dead trolls. Merk breathed hard, amazed, most of all, at how Kyle stood there, looking so relaxed, as if he had exerted no effort at all. Who was he? Merk wondered. Where had he come from? What race was he? He realized he had vastly underestimated him.
A commotion ensued as Merk’s fellow soldiers finally circled back and caught up, rushing into the clearing, and they all stopped and stared in amazement as they saw Merk and Kyle and the piles of dead trolls. Merk saw them looking at him with awe, as if they had clearly not expected something like this from Kyle. A look of respect crossed their faces as they realized what he had done, that he had faced them alone, and that his instincts had been right.
Kyle stepped through the carnage, reached down, and extracted his long golden spear from the chest of a troll, wiping the blood as he inspected the body. The others seemed impressed by him, too, yet not surprised.
“These are no mere trolls,” Kyle said, stepping forward and shoving one over with his boot. “Look at their dress, their weapons.”
Merk examined them, but could not understand.
“They are unsinged,” Kyle explained. “Somehow, they did not pass through The Flames.”
Merk looked back at the others, who all stared back, fear and intensity in their eyes, and slowly, the realization began to dawn on him, too.
“Marda,” he said, his voice grave in the black of night, “has broken through.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Anvin galloped through the stone gates of Thebus, several dozen warriors behind him, all kicking up a cloud of dust in this barren desert, struggling to breathe. It was so hot down here in the south, arid, desolate, nothing to breathe in but dust off the desert and waves of heat. Anvin had never been this far south, and he felt as if he were in a foreign country; he was amazed he was still in Escalon. It was hard to believe that, when he had set out from Volis, there had still been snow on the ground. The plains of Thebus, cut off by the mountains, had their own, desert climate, and had always been a separate region within Escalon.
It had been a long and hard journey, past Everfall, past the Devil’s Gulch, across the endless, dusty desert of Thebus, one that would break many other men. Anvin had not stopped since Duncan had dispatched him from Andros, leading this small, elite group of Duncan’s best men on this perilous mission. He knew the importance of this mission, knew what was at stake, and knew he could not let Duncan know, not with the fate of Escalon riding on it.
Joining Anvin were the elite of Duncan’s men, all willing to face death unblinking, exactly what Anvin needed for a mission that would more likely end in their deaths than not. After all, taking and holding the Southern Gate, the portal to all of Escalon, the only thing standing between them and Pandesia, would be no small undertaking. The strip of land, the chokehold at the gate, was narrow enough for a few thousand men to hold back one million—but the gate would have to be secured, closed in time, and held long enough for Duncan to arrive with reinforcements. And for that, he would have to reach Fort Thebus first, and rally the local soldiers.
As they finally rode through the high stone arch heralding the fort, this place which lay but a mere day’s ride from the Southern Gate, Anvin knew that Fort Thebus, as the southernmost stronghold of Escalon, was the key. Anvin glanced about and saw the harsh and bland buildings, the sand color blending in with the desert, a place of sand and wind and rock, built of squat, low buildings. It was a place with no beauty to it, as if it all had been sucked dry by the arid sand and sky. It was no place for people, a remote outpost that the warriors of Thebus had somehow managed to live in. Anvin shook his head, marveling at what strong stuff they must be made of to live such a bleak life, so cut off from Escalon. They were the last defense of the south, a place that had always remained loyal to Escalon. And, sadly, it had been betrayed more than any other place, when the weak King had opened the gates and surrendered Escalon.
As Anvin charged through the fort with his men, passing through dusty streets, a place its residents did not even bother to embellish, he saw the faces looking back at him, warriors lined up loosely, with their sandy hair and beards, blond from too much sun. They all watched him skeptically. They were men who squinted into the sun, with too many lines around their eyes, who had seen it all here. They watched, silent, like the plains around them, all their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, as if equally ready to embrace or kill their fellow countrymen.
Anvin continued riding to the main entry of the garrison, surprised to see there were no doors here, no gates. He rode through an open-air arch, the weather so warm here that there was never a need to close doors, a place so barren there was no need to defend it. After all, anyone approaching Thebus would be spotted a hundred miles away.
He rode into the inner courtyard of the fort, and as he did, he spotted more warriors standing about, waiting. Their leader, Durge, stood in their center, surrounded by dozens of his men, clearly having spotted them far off and anticipating their arrival.
Anvin finally came to a stop, breathing hard, every muscle in his body hurting from the long ride with no break. He dismounted, all his men with him, and he faced Durge.
Durge stood there, staring back, expressionless, with his sandy hair and wide jaw and broad shoulders, an inscrutable man, perhaps in his forties. Hand on his sword, as if ready to kill or embrace him, he stood there like a rock, a man who had seen it all, who trusted no one, and who did not care. A hard man for a hard place.
Anvin stepped forward in the silence, wondering if Durge remembered him.
“It has been many years since we fought side by side,” Anvin began.
Durge stared back silently, as the wind howled through this dusty place.
“The battle of Briarwood,” Durge finally replied, his voice slow and hoarse, scratchy, like the sand around him.
Anvin nodded, relieved.
“We killed many men,” Anvin replied.
“Not enough,” Durge added, meaning it.
Anvin studied him in the silence.
“It is curious that you have no door, no gate,” Anvin replied. “What do you do when an enemy approaches?”
For the first time, Durge smiled.
“We need no door,” he replied, “because we crave enemies. We would enjoy being attacked—it is, after all, what we live for. Why should we cower behind gates?”
Anvin smiled back, having no doubt that this warrior’s words were true.
“I bring urgent business from the capital,” Anvin continued.
Durge shrugged.
“Nothing is urgent here,” Durge replied. “And the capital’s business is not my business,” he concluded, his voice cold and hard.
Anvin knew he was facing an uphill battle, and that he had to phrase his next words carefully. Durge was clearly a proud man, and one not to be controlled.
“I know you are free,” Anvin replied. “And that you answer to no man. It is no command I bring, but a request—one that comes from our new King.”
Durge looked interested for the first time.
“What new King?” he asked.
“Tarnis is imprisoned,” Anvin said proudly. “Duncan stands as King.”
Durge seemed truly caught off gu
ard. He leaned back and stroked his long blond beard, thinking.
“Duncan,” he reflected. “A warrior I respect. A serious man. I never thought he would desire to be King.”
“He does not,” Anvin said. “He desires only freedom for Escalon.”
Thebus pondered.
“And what does Duncan request of us?” Durge asked, his tone a bit more accommodating.
“He wishes nothing of you,” Anvin replied. “He wishes to give you something.”
Durge’s eyes narrowed.
“And what is that?”
“Freedom,” Anvin replied. “The thing that no man can give you. The thing that you must take for yourself.”
Thebus watched him for a long time, as if pondering.
“And how is this new King going to give us our freedom?” he asked. “We stand but a day’s ride from the gate. Beyond that gate lie millions of Pandesians. We are flanked by the Sea of Sorrow on one side and the Sea of Tears on the other, and in those waters sit a million more men. What freedom does he speak of?”
Anvin took a deep breath, preparing.
“Duncan does not cower and hide, as Tarnis did,” Anvin replied. “He strikes his enemies harshly and quickly. We have freed Volis and Argos and Esephus and Kos—and now, Andros. Powerful cities. Half of Escalon is free—and the other half will soon be, too. But we need your help to secure the Southern Gate. If not, we will be invaded anew by the hordes of Pandesia, and all of Duncan’s efforts will be for naught.”
Thebus squinted, stroking his beard, then turned and walked to the edge of the courtyard, to an open arch, and looked out at the dusty plains. He stood stroking his beard for a long time in silence.
Anvin came up beside him, waiting, knowing he had to give him time.
“The Southern Gate, is it?” he said, still looking out.
Anvin waited patiently, as Durge stared, clearly mulling it all over in his mind. Anvin followed his gaze and in the distance, faintly on the horizon, he could see the golden arches of the Southern Gate, gleaming in the sun.