Rise of the Dragons (8 page)

Now he and all the other great warriors
were king-less, each left to his own devices, his own province, his own
stronghold, and each forced to bend the knee and answer to the Lord Governor
installed by the Pandesian Empire. Duncan could still recall the day he had
been forced to swear a new oath of fealty, the feeling he’d had when he was
made to bend the knee—it made him sick to think of it.

Duncan tried to think back to the early
days, when he had been stationed in Andros, when all the knights of all the
houses had been together, rallied under one cause, one king, one capital, one
banner, with a force ten times as great as the men he had here. Now they were
scattered to the far corners of the Kingdom, these men here all that remained
of a unified force.

King Tarnis had always been a weak king;
Duncan had known that from the start. As his chief commander, he’d had the task
of defending him, even if it was unmerited. A part of Duncan was not surprised
the King had surrendered—but he was surprised at how quickly it had all fallen
apart. All the great knights scattered to the wind, all returning to their own
houses, with no king left to rule and all the power ceded to Pandesia. It had
stripped lawfulness and had turned their Kingdom, once so peaceful, into a
breeding ground for crime and discontent. It was no longer safe to even travel
the roads, once so safe, outside of strongholds.

Hours passed, and as the meal wound
down, food was taken away and mugs of ale refreshed. Duncan grabbed several
chocolates and ate them, relishing them, as trays of Winter Moon delicacies
were brought to the table. Mugs of royal chocolate were passed around, covered
in the fresh cream of goats, and Duncan, head spinning from drink and needing
to focus, took one in his hands and savored its warmth. He drank it all at
once, the warmth spreading through his belly. The snow raged outside, stronger
with each moment, and jesters played games, bards told stories, musicians
offered interludes, and the night went on and on, all oblivious to the weather.
It was a tradition on Winter Moon to feast past midnight, to welcome the winter
as one would a friend. Keeping the tradition properly, as legend went, meant
the winter would not last as long.

Duncan, despite himself, finally looked
over and saw Kyra; she sat there, disconsolate, looking down, as if alone. She
had not changed from her warrior’s clothes, as he had commanded; for a moment,
his anger flared up, but then he decided to let it go. He could see she was upset,
too; she, like he, felt things too deeply.

Duncan decided it was time to make peace
with her, to at least console her if he could not agree with her, and he was
about to rise in his chair and go to her—when suddenly, the great doors of the
banquet hall burst open.

A visitor hurried into the room, a small
man in luxurious furs heralding another land, his hair and cloak covered in
snow, and he was escorted by attendants to the banquet table. Duncan was
surprised to receive a visitor this late in the night, especially in this
storm, and as the man removed his cloak, Duncan noted he wore the purple and
yellow of Andros. He had come, Duncan realized, all the way from the capital, a
good three-day ride.

Visitors had been arriving throughout
the night, but none this late, and none from Andros. Seeing those colors made
Duncan think of the old king, of better days.

The room quieted as the visitor stood
before his seat and bowed his head graciously to Duncan, waiting to be invited
to sit.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “I meant
to arrive sooner. The snow prevented that, I’m afraid. I mean you no
disrespect.”

Duncan nodded.

“I am no lord,” Duncan corrected, “but a
mere commander. And we are all equals here, high and low-born, men and women.
All visitors are welcome, whatever hour they arrive.”

The visitor nodded graciously and was
about to sit, when Duncan raised a palm.

“Our tradition holds for visitors from
far away be given an honored seat. Come, sit near me.”

The visitor, surprised, nodded
graciously and the attendants led him, a thin, short man with gaunt cheeks and
eyes, perhaps in his forties but appearing much older, to a seat near Duncan.
Duncan examined him and detected anxiety in his eyes; the man appeared to be
too on-edge for a visitor in holiday cheer. Something, he knew, was wrong.

The visitor sat, head down, eyes
averted, and as the room slowly fell back into cheer, the man gulped down the
bowl of soup and chocolate put before him, slurping it down with a big piece of
bread, clearly famished.

“Tell me,” Duncan said as soon as the
man finished, anxious to know more, “what news do you bring from the capital?”

The visitor slowly pushed away his bowl
and looked down, unwilling to meet Duncan’s eyes. The table quieted, seeing the
grim look on his face. They all waited for him to respond.

Finally, he turned and looked at Duncan,
his eyes bloodshot, watering.

“No news that any man should have to
bear,” he said.

Duncan braced himself, sensing as much.

“Out with it, then,” Duncan said. “Bad
news grows only more stale with time.”

The man looked back down at the table,
rubbing his fingers against it nervously.

“As of the Winter Moon, a new Pandesian
law is being enacted upon our land:
puellae nuptias
.”

Duncan felt his blood curdle at the
words, as a gasp of outrage emitted from up and down the table, an outrage he
shared himself.
Puellae Nuptias
. It was incomprehensible.

“Are you certain?” Duncan demanded.

The visitor nodded.

“As of today, the first unwed daughter
of every man, lord, and warrior in our Kingdom who has reached her fifteenth
year can be claimed for marriage by the local Lord Governor—for himself, or for
whomever he chooses.”

Duncan immediately looked at Kyra, and
he saw the look of surprise and indignation in her eyes. All the other men in
the room, all the warriors, also turned and looked to Kyra, all understanding
the gravity of the news. Any other girl’s face would have been filled with
terror, but she appeared to wear a look of vengeance.

 “They shall not take her!” Anvin called
out, indignant, his voice rising in the silence. “They shall not take any of
our girls!”

Arthfael drew his dagger and stabbed the
table with it.

“They can take our boar, but we shall
fight to the death before they take our girls!”

The warriors let out a shout of
approval, their anger fueled, too, by their drink. Immediately, the mood in the
room had turned rotten.

Slowly Duncan stood, his meal spoiled,
and the room quieted as he rose from the table. All the other warriors stood as
he did, a sign of respect.

“This feast is over,” he announced, his
voice heavy. Even as he said the words, he noted it was not yet midnight—a
terrible omen for the Winter Moon.

Duncan walked over to Kyra in the thick
silence, passing rows of soldiers and dignitaries. He stood over her chair, and
looked her in the eye, and she stared back, strength and defiance in her eyes,
a look which filled him with pride. Leo, beside her, looked up at him, too.

“Come, my daughter,” he said. “You and I
have much to discuss.”

Kyra sat in her father’s chamber, a
small stone room with high, tapered ceilings and a massive marble fireplace,
blackened from years of use, on the upper floors of their fort, as she and he
sat on opposite sides of the room, on piles of furs, staring at the crackling
fire in gloomy silence. Kyra’s mind spun from the news as she watched a log
crumble, and she stroked Leo’s fur, he curled up at her feet. Stunned that this
was really happening, she stared into the flames as if there were nothing left
to live for. It felt to her as if this were the day her life ended.

Kyra usually took comfort in being here,
this room where she had spent countless hours reading, getting lost in tales of
battle, of valor, and sometimes of myth, of legends which neither she nor her
father knew were real or fantasy. Her father would read to her, sometimes into
the early hours of the morning, chronicles of a different time, a different
place. Most of all, she loved the stories of the warriors, their great
challenges. Leo was always at her feet and Aidan would often join them, and on
more than one night, Kyra would return bleary-eyed in the morning from having
read or listened all night long. She loved to read, even more than she loved
weapons, and as she looked now at the walls of her father’s chamber, lined with
bookcases filled with scrolls and leather-bound volumes passed down for
generations, she wished she could get lost in some of them now.

But as she looked over at her father, it
brought back their awful reality. If there was anything that upset Kyra more,
it was the look on her father’s face; she’d never seen him look so disturbed,
so conflicted, as if for the first time in his life, he did not know what
action to take. Her father was a proud man—all of his men were proud—and in the
days of the united kingdom, when they had a king, a castle, a court to rally
around, when they were all free men, each and every one of them would have
given up their lives for their freedom, would have taken the battle to the
enemy at the gates, however imposing. It was not her father’s way, or his men’s
way, to surrender, to barter or negotiate a deal. But the old King who had sold
them out, had surrendered them all, had left them in this terrible position,
and as a fragmented, dispersed army they could not find an enemy who had
already been allowed to lodge himself within their midst.

“It would have been better to have been
defeated in battle, to have faced Pandesia nobly and lost,” her father said,
his voice heavy, pained. “The old King’s surrender was as much a defeat—just a
long, slow, cruel one. Day after day, year after year, one freedom after the
next is stripped from us, each one making us less of a man.”

Kyra knew he was right; yet she also
understood the old King’s decision: Pandesia spread across half the world. With
their vast army of slaves they would have laid waste to Escalon until there was
nothing left. They never would have given up, never would have backed down. At
least now they were alive—if one could call this life.

“This is not about taking our girls,”
her father continued, against the crackling fire. “This is about power. About
subjugation. About crushing what is left of our souls.”

She examined her father, sitting there
staring into the flames, a great warrior who had loved his king, now left to
preside over what remained of a shattered, occupied kingdom. As he stared, she
could see that he was staring into his past and his future all at once. He was
debating what the price was for harmony.

As Kyra sat there, she hoped and prayed
that he would come to some strong inner resolve, would turn and face her and
tell her that the time had come to fight, to stand up for what they all
believed in, for them to make a stand. That he would never let her be taken
away.

But instead, to her increasing
disappointment and anger, he sat there silently, staring, brooding, not
offering her the assurances she needed. She had no idea what he was thinking,
especially after their earlier argument, and she sensed a greater distance
spreading between them.

“I remember a time when I served the
King,” he said slowly, his deep, strong voice setting her at ease, as it always
had, “when all the land was one, all of our knights together. Our Kingdom was
invincible. We had only to man The Flames to hold back the trolls, and to
defend the Southern Gate to hold back Pandesia. We had been a free people for
centuries. That was always how it was supposed to be.”

He fell silent for a long time, the fire
crackling, and Kyra waited impatiently for him to finish, stroking Leo’s head.

“If the old King had commanded us to
defend the gate,” he continued, “we would have defended it to the last man. All
of us would have gladly died, brothers in arms, side-by-side, for our freedom.
But one morning we all woke up to find Pandesia amongst us, to discover he had
brokered a deal, had opened the gate; by dawn, our lands were filled with
them.”

“I know all of this,” Kyra reminded,
impatient, tiring of hearing him repeating the story.

He turned to her, his eyes filled with
defeat.

“When your own king has given up,” he
asked, “when the enemy is already amongst you, what is there left to fight
for?”

Kyra fumed.

“Maybe kings should not always be
followed,” she said, no longer having patience for the story. “Kings are just
men, after all. In some cases, the most honorable route might be to defy your
king.”

Her father sighed, staring into the
fire, not really hearing her.

“We here, of Volis, have lived well
compared to the rest of our land. They allowed us to keep weapons—
real
weapons, unlike the others, who have been stripped of all steel under penalty
of death. They gave us the illusion of freedom, just enough to keep us
complacent. Do you know why they have given us such allowances?” he asked,
turning to her.

“Because you were the King’s greatest
knight,” she replied. “Because they want to afford you honors befitting your
rank.”

“No,” he replied. “Their rationale is
far more pragmatic. It is only because we are all that stands between them and
The Flames. Pandesia fears the trolls more than us. It is only because we are the
last fort between here and The Flames, between us and them, and because we know
how to defend the wall. They have their own men, their own draftees, but none
as vigilant as we. That’s why they want us happy: as guardsmen.”

Kyra thought.

“I always thought that our cause remains
noble: we are not only defending for Pandesia,” he said, “but for our own
people, our own homeland. After all, if the trolls invaded, they would kill us,
too. And I always thought that we were somehow above it all, above the reach of
Pandesia. But tonight,” he said gravely, turning to her, “I realize that is not
true.”

He sighed.

“This news…I had expected something of
the sort for years,” he said. “I did not realize how long I had been bracing
myself for it. And despite all those years, now that it has arrived…there is
nothing I can do.”

He hung his head and she stared back at
him, appalled, feeling a furious indignation welling within her.

“Are you saying you would let them take
me?” she asked. “Are you saying you would not fight for me?”

His face darkened.

“You are young,” he said, “naïve. You
don’t understand the way of the world. You look at only this one fight—not the
greater kingdom. If I fight for you, if my men fight for you, we might win one
battle. But they will come back—they always come back—and not with a hundred
men, or a thousand, or ten thousand—but many more. If I fight for you, I commit
all of my people to death.”

His words cut into her like a knife,
left her shaking inside, not only his words, but the despair behind them. A
part of her wanted to storm out of here, sickened, so disappointed in this man
she had once idolized. She felt like crying inside at such betrayal from her
own father.

She stood, trembling, and scowled down
at him.

“
You
,” she seethed, “
you
,
the greatest fighter of our land—yet afraid to protect the honor of his own
daughter?”

She watched his face darkening,
humiliated.

“Watch yourself,” he warned darkly.

But Kyra would not back down.

“I
hate
you!” she shouted.

Now he stood.

“Do you want all of our people to be
killed? All for your honor?” he yelled back.

Kyra could not help herself. For the
first time in as long as she could member, she burst into tears, so deeply
wounded by her father’s lack of caring for her.

He stepped forward to console her, but she
lowered her head and turned away as she cried. Then she caught hold of herself
and quickly turned and wiped her tears away, looking to the fire with watery
eyes.

“Kyra,” he said softly.

She looked up at him and saw that his
eyes were watering, too.

“Of course I would fight for you,” he
said. “I would fight for you until my heart stopped beating. I, and all of my
men, would die for you. In the war that followed, you would die, too. Is that
what you want?”

“And my slavery?” she shot back. “Is
that what you want?”

Kyra knew she was being selfish, that
she was putting herself first, and that was not her nature. Of course she would
not allow all of her people to die on her behalf. But she just wanted to hear
her father say the words:
I will fight for you to the death. Whatever the
consequences. You come first. You matter most.

But he remained silent, and his silence
hurt her more than anything out there.

“I shall fight for you!” came a voice.

Kyra turned, surprised, to see Aidan
entering the room, holding a small spear, trying to put on his bravest look as
he marched in.

“What are you doing here?” her father
snapped. “I was speaking with your sister.”

“And I overheard it!” Aidan said,
marching inside, determined. Leo jumped up and ran over to him, licking him, and
he stroked his head.

Kyra could not help but smile. Aidan
shared the same streak of defiance as she, even if he was too young and too
small for his prowess to match his will.

“I will fight for my sister!” he added.
“Even against all the trolls of the forest!”

She reached over and hugged him and
kissed his forehead, wiping her tears.

She then turned back to her father, her
glare darkening. She needed an answer; she needed to confront him and hear him
say it.

“Do I not matter to you more than your
men?” she asked him.

He stared back, his eyes filled with
pain.

“You matter more to me than the world,”
he said. “But I am not merely a father—I am a commander. My men are my
responsibility, too. Can’t you understand that?”

She frowned.

“And where is that line drawn, Father?
When exactly do your people matter more than your family? If the abduction of
your only daughter is not that line, then what is? I am sure if one of your
sons were taken, you would go to war.”

He scowled.

“This is not about men versus women,” he
snapped.

“But isn’t it?” she shot back,
determined to stand her ground. “Why is a boy’s life worth more than a girl’s?”

Her father fumed, breathing hard, and
loosed his vest, more agitated than she’d ever seen him.

“There is another way,” he finally said.

She stared back, puzzled.

“Tomorrow,” he said slowly, his voice
taking on a tone of authority, as if he were talking to his councilmen, “you
shall choose a boy. Any boy you like from amongst our people. You shall wed by
sundown. When the Lord’s Men come, you will be safe, here with us.”

Kyra stared back, aghast.

“Do you really expect me to marry some
stranger?” she asked. “To just pick someone, just like that? Someone I don’t
love?”

 “You
will
!” her father yelled,
his face red, equally determined. “If your mother were alive, she would handle
this business—she would have handled it long ago, before it came to this. But
she is not. You are not a warrior—you are a girl. And girls wed. And that is
the end of the matter. If you have not chosen a husband by day’s end, I will
choose one for you—and there is nothing more to say on the matter.”

Kyra stared back, disgusted, enraged at
him. But most of all, she felt disappointment in her father.

“Is that how the great Commander Duncan
wins battles?” she asked, wanting to hurt him. “By finding loopholes in the law
so he can hide from his occupier?”

Kyra did not wait for a response, but
turned and stormed from the room, Leo at her heels, slamming the thick oak door
behind her.

“KYRA!” her father yelled after her—but
the slammed door muffled his voice.

Kyra marched down the corridor, feeling
her whole world shifting beneath her, like an earthquake. She felt as if she
had no solid ground left to stand on. She realized, with each step she took,
that she could no longer stay here, whatever the consequences. That her
presence would endanger them all. And that was something she could not allow.