Rise of the Dragons (20 page)

Kyra stood outside her father’s fort,
Leo beside her, looking out at the wintry landscape, snow still falling, the
sky streaked with scarlet, and she leaned on the wall, breathing hard as she
plopped down yet another stone. She had joined the others in gathering these
huge stones from the river, in erecting yet another wall around the perimeter
of the fort. As the mason smeared the plaster, she plopped down one stone after
the next, and he smoothed it out. She was joined by rows of her people, all
building this wall higher, thicker, deeper, adding rings and rings to the
embankments. Others worked with shovels, digging layers of ditches; still
others dug graves for the dead and wounded. Kyra knew this was all futile, that
it would not hold back the Pandesian army, that no matter what they did, they would
all die in this place. But it gave them something to do, some sense of having
control over their looming deaths.

As Kyra took a break, she leaned against
the wall, looked out at the landscape, and wondered. All was so still, so
solemn, the snow muffling all sound. It seemed as if the world held nothing but
peace.

But she knew differently; she knew the
Pandesians were out there somewhere, gathering, preparing. She knew they would
return, in a deafening rumble, and destroy all that she held precious. It was
the calm before the storm. It was hard to understand how the world could be so
still, so perfect, one moment—and so filled with destruction and chaos the
next.

Kyra glanced back over her shoulder and
saw the people of the fort winding down their work for the day, laying down
their picks and shovels as night began to fall and filtering back toward their
homes. Smoke rose from chimneys, candles were lit in windows, and the fort
looked so cozy, as if it could not be touched by the greater world. She marveled
at the illusion.

As she stood there, her father’s words
rang in her ears, his request that she leave at once. She thought of her uncle,
of the journey, of the Tower of Ur; she thought of her mother, of the secrets
she had to learn; she thought of training, becoming a warrior—and that all
thrilled her.

And yet as she turned and looked about
at her people, she knew, even if it would save her life, she just could not
abandon them; it was just not who she was.

“Do you really think this wall will
help?”

Kyra turned and looked at Aidan beside
her, breathing hard as he plopped down a heavy stone next to hers and took a
break. She had told him to go inside and prepare for the feast, but he had
insisted on being out here with her, as attached to her as always.

“No,” she answered truthfully.

His brow furrowed.

“Then why are we building it?” he asked.

She sighed, wondering what to say.

“Work distracts,” she said. “It also
gives the illusion of progress. And sometimes, in wars, illusions are very
powerful things.”

He seemed confused by her response, but
he asked no more.

“I heard what happened today,” he said,
his voice hesitant. “On the bridge. What you did.”

She examined him, wondering.

“And what did you hear?” she asked.

He shrugged, looking away.

“I heard that you are different,” he
finally said, his voice glum.

“Look at me,” she said gently, and
raised his chin to her eye level. “I am your sister. I always will be. And I
will always be there for you. Nothing will ever change that. Do you
understand?” she said, wanting to reassure him.

He smiled wide and nodded, and gave her
a hug.

A horn sounded.

“Night comes,” said the mason, standing
beside her, laying down his trowel. “There is little we can do in the dark.
Your father’s men are to return to the fort, for the feast. Come now,” he said,
as the rows of people working the wall turned and headed across the drawbridge
back through the gates of the fort.

“I will come in a moment,” she said, not
yet ready, wanting more time to enjoy the peace, the silence. She was always
happiest alone, outdoors. “But bring Aidan.”

Aidan looked back at her, reluctant to
go without her, while Leo whined and licked his lips and she could sense he was
hungry.

“It’s OK,” she said to Aidan. “I’ll
follow shortly. Take Leo with you—he’s hungry—and give him a hunk of meat.”

But at the sound of the word “meat” Leo
had already leapt off after Aidan, who laughed, the two walking back to the
fort together.

Kyra stood outside the fort, closing her
eyes against the noise and becoming lost in her thoughts. It took quite a while
before all the others turned and left and finally, the sound of the hammers had
stopped. Finally, she had true peace.

She turned and looked out and studied
the horizon, the darkening woodline, the rolling gray clouds covering up the
scarlet, and she wondered. When were they coming?

As she looked, she was surprised to
detect motion in the distance. Something caught her eye, just beyond the woods,
and as she watched, she saw a lone rider come into view, emerging from the wood
and taking the main road for their fort. Kyra reached back and gripped her bow
unconsciously, bracing herself, wondering if he were a scout, if he were
heralding an army; but as he came closer, she loosened her grip and relaxed as
she recognized him: it was one of her father’s men, Maltren. He galloped, and
as he did, he led a riderless horse beside him by the reins. It was a most
curious sight.

Maltren came to an abrupt stop before
her and looked down at her with urgency, appearing scared; she could not
understand what was happening.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “Is
Pandesia coming?”

He sat there, breathing hard, and shook
his head.

“It is your brother,” he said. “Aidan.”

Kyra’s heart plummeted at the mention of
her brother’s name, the person she loved most in the world, and she was
immediately on edge.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What’s
happened to him?”

Maltren caught his breath.

“He’s been badly injured,” he said.
“I’ve come to get help.”

Kyra’s heart started pounding. Aidan?
Injured? Her mind spun with awful scenarios—but mostly, confusion.

“How?” she demanded. “What was he doing
out there? I thought he was in the fort, preparing for the feast.”

Maltren shook his head.

“He went out with your brothers,” he
said. “Hunting. He took a bad fall from his horse—his legs are broken.”

Kyra felt a flash of determination rush
through her. Without wasting another moment, she rushed forward and mounted the
spare horse.

“Lead me to him,” she said, filled with
adrenaline, not even stopping to think through it all carefully. She could not
even think clearly: all she could think of was seeing Aidan.

If Kyra had taken just a moment to turn
around, to check the fort, she would have found Aidan, safely inside. But she
did not. Fueled by her urgency, she did not stop to question Maltren, but
rather rode off with him, the two of them an unlikely duo, as they charged off
together, away from her father’s fort and toward the blackening wood.

*

Kyra and Maltren galloped down the road,
over the rolling hills, toward the wood, as night fell all around them,
breathing hard as she dug her heels into her horse, anxious to save her
brother, a million nightmares swimming through her head. How could he have
broken his legs? she wondered. What were her brothers doing hunting out here,
close to nightfall, when all of her father’s people had been forbidden to leave
the fort? None of it made any sense.

They reached the edge of the wood, and
as Kyra prepared to enter it, she was puzzled to see Maltren suddenly bring his
horse to a stop before it. She stopped abruptly beside him and watched as he
dismounted and walked toward the edge of the wood. She dismounted, too, both
horses breathing hard, and followed him, baffled, as he stopped at the forest’s
edge.

“Why are you stopping?” she asked,
breathing hard. “I thought my brother was in the wood?”

Kyra looked all around, and as she did,
she had a feeling that something was terribly wrong—when suddenly, out of the
woods, she was horrified to see, stepped the Lord Governor himself, flanked by
two dozen men. She heard snow crunching behind her, and she turned to see two
dozen more men circle around behind her, all of them aiming bows at her, one
grabbing the reins to her horse. Her blood ran cold as she realized she had
walked into a trap.

She turned and looked over at Maltren in
fury, realizing he had betrayed her.

“Why?” she asked, disgusted at the sight
of him. “You are my father’s man. Why would you do this?”

The Lord Governor answered her question
as he walked over to Maltren and placed a large sack of gold in his hand, while
Maltren looked away guiltily.

“For enough gold,” the Governor said to
her, a haughty smile on his face, “you will find that men will do anything you
wish. Maltren here will be rich forever, richer than your father ever was, and
he will be spared from death.”

Kyra scowled at Maltren, hardly
fathoming his betrayal.

“You are a traitor,” she said.

He scowled back at her.

“Wrong,” he replied. “I am our savior.
They would have killed all of our people, thanks to your antics. Thanks to me, the
rest of us will be spared. I made a deal. You can thank me for their lives.” He
smiled, satisfied. “And, to think, all I had to do was hand over you.”

Kyra suddenly felt rough hands grab her
from behind, felt herself hoisted in the air. She bucked and writhed, but she
could not shake them as she felt her wrist and ankles bound, felt herself
thrown into the back of a carriage.

A moment later the iron bars slammed on
her and the cart jostled away, bumping over the countryside. She knew that,
wherever they were taking her, no one would ever see or hear from her again.
And as they entered the wood, blocking out all view of the night falling over
the countryside, she knew that her life as she knew it was over.

The giant lay at Vesuvius’s feet, bound
by a thousand ropes, held down by a hundred trolls, and Vesuvius stood over it,
feet from its fangs, and studied it in awe. The beast craned its neck,
snarling, trying to reach out and kill him—but it could not budge. Vesuvius
grinned, delighted. He took pride in having power over helpless things—and he
loved watching things suffer.

Seeing the beast here, back in
Vesuvius’s own cave, in his own territory, the beast his prisoner of war, gave
him a thrill. Being able to stand so close to it made him feel all powerful,
made him feel as if there were nothing in the world he could not conquer.
Finally, after all these years, his dream had been realized. Finally, he would
be able to achieve his lifelong goal: to carve out the tunnel that would lead his
nation under The Flames, into the west, and allow them to destroy everything in
sight.

Vesuvius sneered down at the creature.

“I have vanquished you,” he said,
standing over it. “You see, you are not as strong as I. No one is as strong as
I.”

The beast roared, an awful sound, and
struggled in vain, and as it did, all the trolls holding it swayed left and
right, the ropes shifting—but not giving. Vesuvius knew it would tear him to
pieces if it could—he also knew their time was short. If they were going to do
this, the time was now.

Vesuvius turned and surveyed the cave.
It was filled with thousands of workers, trolls filling the cave, stopping
their labor to watch the giant. At the far end sat the unfinished tunnel, and
Vesuvius knew this would be the tricky part. He would have to put the giant to
work. Somehow, he would have to goad it to enter the tunnel and smash through
the rock. But how?

Vesuvius stood there, racking his brain,
until finally an idea came to him.

He turned to the giant and drew his sword,
a long ceremonial sword, aglow against the flames of the cave.

“I will cut your ropes,” Vesuvius said
to the beast, “because I do not fear you. You will be free, and you shall
follow my command. You will smash through the rock of that tunnel, and you shall
not stop until you have burrowed beneath The Flames of Escalon.”

The giant let out a roar of defiance.

Vesuvius looked out at his army of
trolls, awaiting his command.

“When my sword comes down,” he called
out, his voice booming in the nervous silence, “you shall cut all of its ropes,
at once. You shall then prod it with your weapons until you have forced it into
the tunnel.”

His men looked back nervously, all
clearly terrified at the idea of freeing it; Vesuvius feared it, too, though he
would never show it—and yet he knew there was no other way.

Vesuvius wasted no time. He stepped
forward decisively, raised his sword, and slashed the first of the thick ropes
binding the giant’s neck.

Immediately, hundreds of his soldiers
stepped forward, raised their swords high, and severed its ropes, the sound of
ropes snapping filling the air.

Vesuvius quickly retreated, backing off
but not too obviously, so his men would not see his fear. He slithered back
behind his ranks of men, into the shadows of the rock, out of reach of the
beast after it gained its feet. He would wait to see what happened first.

A horrific roar filled the canyon as the
beast rose to its feet, enraged, and without wasting a second, swiped down with
its claws in both directions, scooped up four trolls in each hand, raised them
high overhead and threw them. The trolls went flying end over end through the
air, across the cave, until they smashed into the far wall and collapsed,
sliding limply down, dead.

The giant, unsatisfied, bunched its
hands into fists, raised them high and suddenly smashed the ground, using them
like hammers, aiming for the trolls who scurried about. Trolls fled for their
lives, but not in time. He crushed them like ants, the cave shaking with each
smash.

As trolls tried to run between its legs,
the giant then raised his feet and stomped, flattening others beneath its feet.
It was on a rampage, and killing trolls in every direction. No one seemed able
to escape its wrath.

Vesuvius watched with a mounting dread.
He signaled to his commander, and immediately, a horn sounded.

On cue, hundreds of his soldiers marched
forward from the shadows toward the giant, long pikes and whips in hand, all of
them ready to poke and prod the beast. They encircled it, rushing forward from
all directions, doing their best to prod it to across the cave and towards the
tunnel. Vesuvius was certain it would work.

But he was horrified to see that he was
gravely mistaken. Before his eyes, his plans collapsed. He watched in horror as
the beast leaned back and kicked a dozen soldiers away at once; it then swung
its forearm around and swatted fifty more soldiers, smashing them into a wall;
it stomped others, killing so many so quickly that none could get near it.

They were, Vesuvius quickly realized,
useless against this creature, even with their numbers and even with all their
weapons. Shrieks filled the canyon, as trolls died left and right, his army
dissolving before his eyes.

Vesuvius thought quickly. He could not
kill the beast—he needed it alive, needed to harness its power. He needed it to
obey him. But how? How could he get it into the tunnel?

Suddenly, he had an idea: if he could
not prod it, then he could entice it.

He turned and grabbed the shoulder of
the soldier beside him.

“You,” he ordered, “you will run for the
tunnel. Make sure the giant sees you.”

The solder stared back, wide-eyed with
fear.

“But, my Lord and King, what if it
follows me into the cave?”

Vesuvius grinned.

“That is exactly my point.”

The soldier stood there, panic-stricken,
too scared to obey.

Vesuvius stabbed him in the heart, then
stepped up to the next soldier and held the dagger to his throat.

“You can die here now,” he said, “by the
edge of my blade—or you can run for that tunnel and have a chance to live. You
choose.”

Vesuvius pushed the blade tighter
against his throat, and the soldier, realizing he meant it, turned and ran off.
Vesuvius watched as he ran across the cave, zigzagging his way amidst all the
destruction, between all the dying soldiers, through the beast’s legs, and
continued to run for the entrance to the tunnel.

The giant spotted him, and he swatted
down and missed him. In a rage, and attracted to the one soldier running away
from him, the giant, as Vesuvius had hoped, immediately followed. It ran
through the cave, each step shaking the earth, the walls.

The troll ran for his life and finally
entered the massive tunnel. The tunnel, though wide and tall, did not go very
deep, though, ending after a mere fifty yards despite years of work—and as the
troll ran inside, he soon reached a wall of rock. The giant, enraged, charged
in after it, never even slowing.

As the giant reached the troll it swiped
for him with its massive fists and claws; the troll ducked out of the way, and
instead the beast smashed into rock. The ground shook, a great rumble followed,
and Vesuvius watched, in awe, as the wall crumbled, and as an avalanche of
rocks came pouring out in a massive cloud of dust.

Vesuvius felt his heart quicken. This
was it—it was exactly what he needed, exactly what he had dreamt of his entire
life, what he had envisioned from the day he set out to find this beast. It
swiped again, and smashed out another huge chunk of rock, taking out a good
fifty feet in a single swipe—more than Vesuvius’s slaves had been able to do in
an entire year of digging. Vesuvius was overjoyed, realizing it could work.

But then the giant found the troll,
grabbed it, lifted it into the air, and bit off its head.

Vesuvius knew this was his chance.

“CLOSE THE TUNNEL!” he commanded,
rushing forward and directing his soldiers.

Hundreds of trolls, waiting on standby,
rushed forward and began pushing the slab of Altusian rock that Vesuvius had
positioned before the entrance to the tunnel, a rock so thick that no beast,
not even this creature, could puncture. The sound of stone scraping stone
filled the air as Vesuvius watched the tunnel slowly get sealed up.

The giant, seeing the entrance being
closed, turned and charged for it.

The entrance was sealed a moment before
the giant slammed into it. The entire cave shook with the impact, but he was
unable to smash it.

Vesuvius smiled; the giant was right
where he wanted him.

“Send the next man in!” Vesuvius
ordered.

A human slave was kicked forward, lashed
by his captors, again and again, toward a tiny opening in the stone slab. The
human, realizing, refused to go, kicking and struggling; but they beat him
savagely, until finally, he stopped—and they ran him through the opening,
giving him one last shove through.

From inside there came the muffled
shouts of the slave, clearly running for his life, trying to get away from the
beast. Vesuvius stood there and listened with glee as he heard the sound of the
enraged giant, trapped, swatting and smashing at rock, digging his tunnel for
him.

One swipe at a time, his tunnel would be
dug—each swipe, he knew, bringing him closer and closer to The Flames. He would
turn Escalon into a nation of trolls, turn the humans into a nation of slaves.

Finally, victory would be his.