But then, to Kyra’s surprise, her father’s men raised their large shields, creating a wall as they all squatted down together, perfectly disciplined. She squatted behind one of them, and heard the thwack as a wall of deadly arrows were stopped.
“CHARGE!” her father yelled.
They all jumped to their feet and charged again, and she realized her father’s strategy—to get close enough to the Lord’s Men to render their arrows useless.
They reached the wall of soldiers and there came a great clang of metal as men clashed in battle, swords meeting swords, halberds meeting shields, spears meeting armor. For Kyra, it was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. She was right there, next to the men, all fighting hand-to-hand, grunting and groaning, throwing each other, slashing and blocking, the clang of metal deafening. Leo, at her side, lunged forward and tore off a man’s foot. One of her father’s men cried out beside her and she looked over to see him stabbed by a sword, blood dripping from his mouth. She saw Anvin head-butt a man, then plunge a sword into his gut. She saw her father use his shield as a weapon, smashing two men so hard he knocked them over the bridge and into the moat. She’d never before seen her father in action, and he was a fierce thing to watch. Even more impressive was how his men formed around him, followed him, and it was clear that they had fought by each other’s sides for years. They had a camaraderie she envied.
Her father’s men fought so well, they caught the Lord’s Men off guard, who clearly had not expected an organized resistance. The Lord’s Men fought for their Governor, who had already left them—while her father’s men fought for their home, their families and their very lives.
Kyra took up her staff in these close quarters, and she raised two hands overhead as one of the Lord’s Men came down at her with a long sword—hoping Brot’s steel held. To her relief, the sword clanged off the staff as it would against a shield.
Kyra then spun her staff around and smashed the soldier in the side of the head. He stumbled back, and she then kicked him, sending him tumbling backwards, shrieking, into the moat.
Another soldier charged her from the side, swinging a flail, and she realized she wouldn’t be able to react in time. But Leo rushed forward and pounced on his chest, pinning him down on all fours.
Another soldier came at her with an ax, swinging sideways at her; she barely had time to react, as she spun and used her staff to block it. She held her staff vertically, barely able to keep back the soldier’s strength, as the ax came closer to her. She gained a valuable lesson, realizing she should not try to meet these men head on. She could not overpower them; she had to fight to her strength, not to theirs.
Kyra realized she would have to take action and, remembering Brot’s contraption, she quickly twisted the staff. It split into two pieces, and she stepped back as the ax came whizzing past, missing her. The soldier was stunned, clearly not expecting it, and in the same motion, Kyra raised the two halves of the staff and plunged the blades into the soldier’s chest, killing him.
There came a shout, a rallying cry from behind her—and Kyra was surprised to hear that it did not come from the Lord’s Men’s side. She turned to see a mob of village folk—farmers, masons, blacksmiths, armorers, butchers—all of them wielding weapons—sickles, hatchets, anything and everything they had—and racing for the bridge. Within moments they joined her father’s men, all of them fed up, all of them ready to take a stand.
She watched as Thomak the butcher used a cleaver to sever a man’s arm, and as Brine the mason smashed a soldier with a hammer, felling him. The village folk encircled them, and as clumsy as they were, they caught them off guard. Kyra could see them releasing so many years of pent-up anger and frustration at their servitude, at being treated like second-class citizens. Now, finally, they had a chance to stand up for themselves—a chance for vengeance.
Their momentum pushed back the Lord’s Men, as they hacked their way through with brute force, felling men—and their horses—left and right. But hardly had a few minutes of intense fighting passed when these amateur warriors began to fall, the air filled with their cries as the better armed and better trained soldiers cut them down. The Lord’s Men pushed back, and the momentum swung back the other way.
The bridge became more crowded as more and more of the Lord’s Men charged onto it, seeming to have an endless supply of soldiers. Her father’s men were slipping and sliding in the snow, and she could see they were tiring. The tide of battle was beginning to turn against them. Kyra knew she had to do something, as more soldiers poured forth.
Kyra burst into action, jumped up on the stone rail at the edge of the bridge, gaining the vantage point she needed, several feet above the others, exposing herself but not caring. She was the only one of them nimble enough to leap all the way up here. She drew her bow, took aim, and fired again and again.
With her superior angle above all the men, she was able to take out one soldier after another. She took aim at one of the Lord’s Men bringing a hatchet down for her unsuspecting father’s back, and fired, hitting him in the side of his neck and felling him right before he put his blade in her father’s back. She then fired at a soldier swinging a flail, hitting him in the ribs right before he could impact Anvin’s head, sending him stumbling to the ground at Anvin’s feet.
Kyra felled a dozen men—until she was finally spotted. She felt a breeze as an arrowed whizzed by her face, and looked out to see the Lord’s Men firing at her. Before she could react, she gasped in horrific pain as an arrow grazed her arm, drawing blood.
Kyra reacted, jumping down from the rail and into the fray. She rolled and got to her hands and knees, and as she did, she knelt there, breathing hard, her arm killing her, and looked up and saw more and more reinforcements arriving for the Lord’s Men. She saw her people getting driven back on the bridge, and she watched as one of them, right beside her, a man she had known and loved, was stabbed in the gut and tumbled over the landing in the moat, dead.
As she knelt there, a fierce soldier raised his ax high overhead and brought it down for her; she could not block it in time, and she braced herself—when suddenly Leo lunged forward and sunk his fangs into his stomach, felling him.
But then Kyra sensed motion out of the corner of her eye and she turned to see a soldier raise his halberd and bring it down for the back of her neck. She couldn’t react in time, and she braced herself as the blow came, expecting to die.
There came a clang, and she looked up to see the blade hovering right before her head—stopped by a sword. She looked over and saw her father wielded the sword, had saved her from the deadly blow. He spun his sword around, twisting the halberd out of the way, then stabbed the soldier in the heart.
The move, though, left her father defenseless, and Kyra watched, horrified, as another soldier stepped forward and stabbed her father in the arm; he cried out and went stumbling back as the soldier bore down on him.
As Kyra knelt there, a feeling started to overcome her; it was a warmth, beginning in her solar plexus and radiating out from there. It was an unfamiliar feeling, yet one she embraced immediately, as she felt it giving her infinite strength, spreading through her body, one limb at a time, coursing through her veins. More than that, it gave her focus; she looked around and time was slowed, and she felt as if she were the only one moving on the battlefield. In a single glance, she took in all the enemy soldiers, saw all their vulnerabilities, saw how to kill each and every one.
She did not know what was happening to her, and she did not care. She embraced the new power that took over her body, allowed herself to succumb to its sweet rage and do with her as it willed.
Kyra stood, feeling invincible, as everyone else moved in slow motion around her, and she raised her staff and pounced into the crowd.
What happened next was a flash, a blinding blur that she could barely process and barely remember. She felt the power overtake her arms, teach her who to strike, where to strike, where to move, and she found herself striking enemy s
oldiers at various weak points as she cut through the crowd. She smashed one in the side of the head, then reached back and jabbed one in the throat; then leapt high and with two hands brought her staff straight down on two soldiers’ heads.
She twisted and spun her staff end over end as she cut through the mob like a whirlwind, felling soldiers left and right, leaving a trail in her wake. No one could catch her—and no one could stop her. The clang of her metal staff hitting armor echoed in the air like a thousand pings, all happening impossibly fast. For the first time in her life, she felt at one with the universe; she felt as if she were no longer trying to control—but allowing herself to be controlled. She felt as if she were outside of herself. She did not understand this new power, and it terrified and exhilarated her at the same time.
Within moments she had cleared all the soldiers off the bridge and found herself standing on the far side and jabbing one last soldier between the eyes, felling him. She stood there, breathing hard, and suddenly time became fast again. She looked around and saw the carnage, and she was more shocked than anyone else.
The dozen or so soldiers who remained of the Lord’s Men looked out at her and, panic in their eyes, turned and ran, slipping in the snow. There came a shout, and Kyra’s father led the charge as his men pursued them. They hacked them down, left and right, until finally there were no survivors.
A horn sounded as all the villagers, all her father’s men, all of them realized they had achieved the impossible: the battle was over.
Yet, oddly, there wasn’t the jubilant outcry that normally would follow such a battle, the cheering and embracing of men, the shouts of victory. Instead, the air was strangely silent, the mood somber; they had lost many good brothers on this day, their bodies scattered before them, and perhaps that caused men to pause.
But it was more than that, Kyra knew. That wasn’t what caused the silence. It wasn’t what caused all of those around her, every eye on the battlefield, to turn and look at Kyra. Even Leo looked up at her, fear in his eyes, as if he didn’t recognize her.
Kyra stood there, still breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, and she could feel them all staring at her. They all looked at her in awe, and perhaps suspicion. They looked at her as if she were a stranger in their midst. All of them, she knew, were asking themselves the same question. It was a question which she herself wanted answered, and one that terrified her more than anything:
Who was she?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alec drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming fast, troubled dreams as he stood, leaning into the mass of boys, jammed into the cart. More and more stops were made and more boys were crammed in as the cart jolted along its way, all day long for a second day, up and down hills, weaving in and out of the woods. Alec was on his feet ever since the confrontation, feeling it was safer to stand, and his back was killing him, but he longer cared. He found it easier to doze off while standing, especially while next to Marco where he was less likely to attacked, even though the boys who had attacked him had retreated to the far side of the carriage.
The jolting of the cart had become a part of Alec’s consciousness; he felt as if he were on a ship, and forgot what it was like to stand on steady ground. He thought of his brother, Ashton, and took solace in the fact that at least he didn’t have to be standing here right now. It gave him the courage to be strong, to go on, to bear whatever life gave him.
As the day grew long, the shadows longer, it felt like a journey to the end of the world, a journey that would never end. Alec began to lose hope, to feel as if they would never reach The Flames.
After more time passed, and he dozed off several more times, he felt a nudge in his ribs. He opened his eyes to see it was Marco, gesturing with his head. Alec looked out, disoriented, and saw they had rounded yet another bend. He sensed a motion rippling through the crowd of boys, and this time he sensed something was different. It was a wave of excitement.
All the boys suddenly perked up as they began to turn as one and look through the iron bars. Alec, wondering, turned, but could not see through the thick crowd of bodies.
“You’ve got to see this,” Marco said, looking through the bars beside him.
Marco shifted out of the way just enough for Alec to be able to lean in and peek through. As he did, he saw a sight which he would never forget:
The Flames.
Alec had heard about them his entire life, but he had somehow never believed they could really be true. It was one of those things that was so hard to imagine that, try as he did, he just could not picture how it could be possible. How could flames really reach the sky? How could they burn forever?
Now, as he laid eyes upon it for the first time, he realized it was all true. It took his breath away. There, on the horizon, sat The Flames, rising, as legend had it, to the clouds, so thick he could not see where they ended. He could hear the crackling of it, feel the heat of it, even from here. It was awe-inspiring and terrifying at once.
Up and down The Flames, Alec saw stationed hundreds of soldiers, boys, criminals—a mix—patrolling, spread out every hundred feet or so. And on the horizon, at the end of the road they took, he spied a tall, black, stone tower, around which sat several outbuildings and a hub of activity.
“Looks like our new home,” Marco observed.
Alec saw the rows of squalid barracks, packed with boys, wearing savage looks, covered in soot. He felt a pit in his stomach, realizing it was a sorry glimpse of his future, of hell, and of his awful life to come.
*
Alec braced himself as he was yanked off the cart by Pandesian handlers and went tumbling down, with a mass of boys, into the hard ground below. Boys landed on top of him, and as he struggled to breathe, it shocked him how hard the ground was, covered in snow. He wasn’t used to this northeastern weather, and he realized immediately that his clothes, too thin, would be useless here. Back in Soli, though it was but a few days’ ride south, the ground was soft, covered in green moss, lush; it never snowed there and the air smelled of flowers. Here it was cold and hard, bland, lifeless—and the air smelled only of fire.
As Alec disentangled himself from the mass of bodies, he had barely gained his feet when he was shoved in the back. He stumbled forward and turned to see a handler behind him, shoving him, herding all the boys like cattle across the open field and toward the barracks.
Alec looked around, getting his bearings, and saw several dozen boys emerging from his cart; more than one fell out limply, dead. Alec marveled that he’d managed to survive the journey, so crammed in. He ached in every bone in his body, his joints stiff, and as he marched, he had never felt more weary. He felt as though he hadn’t slept in months, and as he marched in this cold, harsh place, he felt as if he’d arrived at the end of the world.
The crackling noise filled the air, and Alec looked up and saw in the distance, perhaps a hundred yards away, The Flames; he walked right toward them, and they loomed larger and larger. They were awe-inspiring in person, up close with an unimpeded view, and he appreciated their heat, growing warmer with each step he took. Yet he feared how hot it would be when he got up close, like the others on patrol who stood hardly twenty yards away from it. He saw they wore unusual protective armor, and even with that, some of them outright collapsed.
“See those flames, boy?” came a sinister voice.
Alec turned to see the boy he’d had the confrontation with in the carriage, along with his friend, coming up beside him, sneering.
“When I take your face to them no one’s gonna recognize you—not even your mama. I’m gonna burn your hands off in them until they’re nothing but stumps. So appreciate what you got now before you lose it.”
He laughed, a dark, mean noise sounding like a cough.
Alec stared back with defiance, Marco now beside him.
“Try whatever you want,” Alec replied. “You couldn’t beat me in the carriage, and you won’t beat me now.”
The boy snickered.
“This ai
n’t no carriage, boy,” he said. “You’ll be sleeping with me tonight. Those barracks are all of ours. One night, one roof. It’s you and me. And I’ve got all the time in the world. It might be tonight or it might be tomorrow—but one of these nights, when you least expect it, you’ll be sleeping and we’ll get you. You’ll wake up to find your face in those flames. Sleep tight,” he concluded with a laugh.
“If you’re so tough,” Marco said, beside him, “what are you waiting for? Here we are. Try something.”
The two boys looked at each other, and Alec saw hesitation in their eyes as they glanced over at the Pandesian handlers.
“Don’t worry,” one said. “We will.”
They slinked away into the crowd.
“Don’t worry,” Marco said. “You’ll sleep when I wake, and I’ll do the same for you. If that scum come near us, they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
Alec nodded in agreement, grateful, as he looked out at the barracks before them and wondered if they would be an improvement from the carriage. A few feet from the packed entrance, Alec could already smell the body odor coming out of the building, mixed with urine. He recoiled as he was shoved forward into the building, the barracks dark, lit only by the weak light coming through the few windows.
Alec stepped onto the dirt floor and realized immediately that, somehow, standing in that carriage was better than this. He saw rows of suspicious, hostile faces, only the whites of their eyes visible, staring back, judging him up. They started to hoot and holler, clearly trying to intimidate them, the newbies, and to stake out their territory, and the barracks became filled with loud voices.
“Fresh meat!” called one.
“More fodder for The Flames,” cried another.
“There’s not room enough in here for all of us,” called out another. “Tonight, we’ll clear it out.”
Alec felt a deepening sense of apprehension as they were all shoved deeper and deeper into the one big room. He finally stopped, Marco beside him, before an open patch of straw on the ground—only to be immediately shoved from behind.