Rise of the Dragons (9 page)

Kyra could not fathom her father’s
words. She would never,
ever
, marry someone she did not love. She would
never give in and live a life like all the other women. She would rather die
first. Didn’t he know that? Didn’t he know his own daughter at all?

Kyra stopped by her chamber, put on her
winter boots, draped herself with her warmest furs, grabbed her bow and staff,
and kept walking.

“KYRA!” her father’s angry voice echoed
from somewhere down the corridor.

She would not give him a chance to catch
up.

Kyra kept marching, turning down
corridor after corridor, determined to never come back here again. Whatever
waited for her, out there in the world, she would face it head on. She might
die, she knew—but at least it would be
her
choice. At least she would be
free.

Kyra reached the main doors to the fort,
Leo at her side, and the servants, standing by dying torches so late in the
night, stared back at her, puzzled.

“My lady,” one said, “the storm rages.”

But she stood there, determined, until
finally they got the picture. They exchanged a look, then each reached out and
slowly pulled back the thick door.

The wind howled and a freezing gale hit
her in the face, the whipping snow ice-cold, and she looked out and saw the
snow up to her shins. But she did not care.

Kyra stepped out, right into the snow,
knowing it was unsafe out here at night, the woods filled with creatures,
seasoned criminals, and sometimes trolls. Especially on this night, the Winter
Moon, the night when all were supposed to stay indoors, to bar the gates, the
night when the dead crossed worlds and anything could happen. She looked up and
saw the huge, blood-red moon hanging on the horizon, as if tempting her to
venture outdoors, and, with the snow whipping her face, she did.

Kyra took the first step and did not
turn back, ready to face whatever the night had in store for her.

Alec sat in his father’s forge before
the great slab of iron, lifted his hammer, and pounded on the glowing-hot steel
of a sword, freshly removed from the flames, sweating as he tried to hammer out
his fury. Having just reached his sixteenth year, shorter than most boys his
age yet stronger than them, too, with broad shoulders, already emerging
muscles, and a big mat of wavy black hair that fell past his eyes, Alec was not
one to give up easily. His life had been hard-forged, like this iron, and as he
sat beside the flames, wiping hair from his eyes continually with the back of
his hand as sweat poured down off his forehead and hissed on the sword, he
thought of the news he had just received and realized he had never felt such a
sense of despair. He wanted to hammer it out, like this sword, and yet he knew
that some things could not be hammered away.

His entire life, Alec had been able to
control things, to step up and do whatever he had to do to make things right,
to work however hard he had to, to do whatever was necessary. But now, for the
first time in his life, he was being forced to sit back and watch as injustice
came to his town, to his family, and he could do nothing but stand by
helplessly and watch.

Alec hammered again and again, the metal
ringing in his ears, sweat stinging his eyes, and not caring. He wanted to
pound this iron until there was nothing left, and as he pounded he thought not
of the sword but of Pandesia. He would kill them all if he could, do anything
to make them go away. For on this day, they would be coming to his town—and
coming to take away his brother.

Alec slammed the forge again and again,
imagining it was their heads, wishing he could grab fate by the hands and shape
it to his will, wishing he were powerful enough to stand up to Pandesia
himself. But he knew he was not. Today was the day, the Winter Moon festival,
when Pandesia scoured all the villages, fanned out across the kingdom and
rounded up all eligible boys who had reached their eighteenth year, for service
at The Flames. Alec, two years shy, was still safe. But Ashton was not. Having
turned eighteen the last harvest season, Ashton was prime to be taken.

Alec pounded the hammer, wanting to
change the reality before him, to think of anything else. But he could not. His
older brother, Ashton, was his hero. Despite having a club foot, despite having
to walk with a limp, Ashton always had a smile on his face, always had a
cheerful disposition—more cheerful than Alec—and had always made the best of
life. He was the opposite of Alec, who felt everything very deeply, was always
caught up in some storm of emotions, no matter how hard he tried otherwise.
Alec could not always control his passions, and despite himself was often
brooding. He had been told quite often that he took life too seriously, that he
should lighten up; but for him, life was a hard, serious affair, and he simply
did not know how.

Ashton, on the other hand, was calm,
levelheaded, and happy, despite his position in life. He was also a fine
blacksmith, like their father, and he was now single-handedly, especially since
their father’s malady, providing for their family. If Ashton, his best friend
and companion, were taken away, Alec would be crushed; not only would he be sad
to see him go, but most of all, he knew that life as a draftee would lead to Ashton’s
death. With Ashton’s club foot, he could never survive a life as a soldier. It
would be cruel and unjust for Pandesia to take away a lame boy—but Alec had
heard stories, and he hadn’t much faith in their mercy. He had a sinking
feeling that today could be the last day his brother lived at home.

They were not a rich family and did not
live in a rich village. Their home was simple enough, a small, single-story
cottage with a forge attached, in the middle of the province of Soli, a day’s
ride north of the capital and a day’s ride south of Whitewood. It was a
landlocked, peaceful place of rolling countryside, far from most things, and
just how they wanted it. They had just enough bread to get through each day, no
more, no less. And that was all they wished for. They used their skills with
their hammers to bring iron to market, and it was just enough to provide them
what they needed.

Alec did not wish for much—but he did
crave justice. He shuddered at the thought of his brother being snatched away
to serve Pandesia, at how unjust it was. He had heard too many tales of what it
was like to be drafted, to serve guard duty at The Flames that burned all day
and all night, protecting their kingdom from the trolls. But the slaves who
manned The Flames, Alec had heard, were hard men, slaves from across the world,
draftees, criminals, and the worst of the Pandesian soldiers. The greatest
danger at The Flames, Alec had heard, was not the trolls, but your fellow
soldiers standing guard duty with you. Ashton would not be able to protect
himself. He was a fine blacksmith, but not a fighter.

“Alec!”

His mother’s shrill tone cut through the
air, rising even over the sound of his hammering.

Alec put down his hammer, breathing
hard, not realizing how much he had worked himself up, and wiped his forehead
with the back of his hand. He looked over to see his mother sticking her head
disapprovingly through the door frame.

“I have been calling for ten minutes
now!” she said harshly. “Dinner’s past ready! We haven’t much time before they
arrive. We are all waiting for you. Come in at once!”

Alec, snapped out of his reverie, laid
down the hammer, rose reluctantly, and weaved his way through the cramped
workshop. He could no longer prolong the inevitable.

Alec stepped back into their cottage,
through the open doorway, past his waiting mother, and he looked at their
dinner table, set with their finest, which wasn’t much. It was a simple slab of
wood and four wooden chairs, and one silver goblet had been placed in its
center by his mother, the only nice thing the family owned. Around it, looking
up at him, waiting, sat his brother and father, bowls of stew before them.

Ashton was tall and thin and bore the
dark features of their father, while their father, beside him, was a large man,
twice as wide as Alec, with a growing belly, a low brow, thick eyebrows, and
the callused hands of a blacksmith. Neither resembled Alec, who had always been
told, with his unruly, wavy hair and flashing green eyes, that he looked like
his mother.

Ashton looked at them and he saw
immediately the fear in his brother’s face, the anxiety in their father’s, both
of them looking as if they were on a deathwatch. He felt a pit in his own
stomach upon entering the room. Each had a bowl of stew set before them, and as
Alec sat down across from his brother, his mother set a bowl before him, then
sat down with one for herself.

Even though it was past dinner and he
was usually starving, Alec could barely even smell it, his stomach churning.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, breaking
the silence.

His mother gave him a sharp look.

“I care not if you’re hungry,” she said.
“You will eat what is given you. This may well be our last meal together as a
family—do not disrespect us.”

Alec turned to his mother, a
plain-looking woman in her fifties, her face lined from a life of working too
hard, and he saw the determination in her green eyes flashing back at him, the
same eyes as his own, the same determined look. More than once he had been told
he looked like her, with her wavy, uncontrollable hair, her fierce, intense
gaze.

But he felt too antsy to eat.

“Shall we then just pretend nothing is
happening?” he asked. “While my brother may be shipped off at any moment?”

“He is our son, too,” she snapped. “Not
just your brother. You are not the only one here.”

Alec turned to his father, feeling a
sense of desperation, of inevitability, rise over him.

“Will you let it happen, Father?” he
asked.

His father frowned but remained silent.

“You’re ruining a lovely meal,” his
mother said.

His father raised his hand, and she fell
silent. He turned to Alec and gave him a look.

“What would you have me do?” he asked,
his voice serious.

“We have weapons!” Alec insisted, hoping
for a question such as this. “We have steel! We are one of the few that do! We
can kill any soldier that comes near him! They’ll never expect it!”

His father shook his head slowly,
disapprovingly.

“Those are the dreams of a young man,”
he said. “You, who have never killed a man in your life. Let’s say you kill the
man that grabs Ashton—and what of the two or three hundred behind him?”

Alec would not be deterred.

“We can hide Ashton then!” Alec
insisted. “They would never find him.”

His father shook his head.

“They have a list of every boy in this
village. They know he’s here. If we don’t turn him over, they will kill each
and every one of us.” He sighed, annoyed. “Do you not think I haven’t thought
through these things, boy? Do you think you’re the only one who cares? Do you
think I want my only son to be shipped off?”

Alec paused, puzzled by his words.

“What do you mean,
only
son?” he
asked. “Do I not exist?”

His father flushed.

“I did not say only—I said eldest.”

“No, you said only,” Alec insisted,
wondering what he had meant.

His father reddened and raised his
voice.

“Stop harping on points!” he shouted.
“Not at a time like this. I said eldest and that’s what I meant and that’s the
end of it. I do not want my boy taken, just as much as you don’t want your
brother taken.”

“Alec, relax,” came a compassionate
voice, the only levelheaded voice in the room. Alec looked across the table to
see Ashton smiling back at him, even-keeled, well composed as always,
good-mannered. “It will be fine, my brother. I will serve my duty and I will
return.”

“Return?” Alec repeated. “The duty is
seven years.”

Ashton smiled.

“Then I shall see you in seven years,”
he replied, and smiled wide. “I suspect you shall be taller than me by then.”

That was Ashton, always trying to make
Alec feel better, always thinking of others, even in a time like this.

Alec felt his heart breaking inside.

“Ashton, you can’t go,” he insisted.
“You won’t survive The Flames.”

“I will—” Ashton began, but his words
were interrupted by a great commotion outside. There came the sound of horses
charging into the village, of men clamoring.

The whole family looked at each other at
once, in fear. They sat there, frozen, as people began rushing to and fro
outside the window. Alec could already see all the boys and families lining up
outside.

“No sense prolonging it now,” his father
said, standing, placing his palms on the table, his voice breaking the silence.
“We should not suffer the indignity of their coming into our house and dragging
him off. We shall line up outside with the others and stand proud, and let us
pray that when they see Ashton’s foot, they shall do the humane thing and skip
over him.”

Alec rose reluctantly from the table
with the others, and they all shuffled outside the house, a death march.

As he stepped outside into the frigid
night, Alec was struck at the sight: there was a commotion in his village like
never before. The streets were aglow with lit torches, and all boys over
eighteen were lined up, all their families standing by nervously, watching.
Dust filled the streets as a caravan of Pandesians tore into town, dozens of soldiers
in the scarlet armor of Pandesia, riding chariots driven by large stallions and
towing carriages of iron, jolting roughly on the road. Alec examined these
carriages lined with bars, and he saw they were already filled with boys from
all corners of the land, staring out with scared faces. He gulped at the sight,
thinking of what lay in store for his brother.

They all ground to a stop in the
village, and a tense silence fell over them, as everyone waited, breathless.

The commander of the Pandesian soldiers
jumped down from his carriage, a tall soldier with no kindness in his black
eyes and a long scar across his nose. He walked slowly, surveying the ranks of
boys, the town so quiet that one could hear his footsteps, his spurs jingling
as he went.

As he went, the soldier looked over each
boy, lifting their chins and looking them in the eyes, poking their shoulders,
giving each a small shove to test their balance. He nodded as he went, and as
he did, his soldiers in waiting quickly grabbed the boys and dragged them into
the cart. Some boys went silently, not resisting; some protested, though, and
these were quickly beat down by clubs and thrown into the carriage with the
others. Sometimes a mother cried or a father yelled out—but nothing could stop
Pandesia.

The lead soldier continued, past boy
after boy, emptying the village of its most prized assets, until finally the
commander came to a stop before Ashton, at the end of the line.

“My son is lame,” their mother quickly
called out, pleading desperately to the commander. “You can’t take him. He
won’t be of any good to you.”