A Fate of Dragons

  Erec looked at Alistair, and she looked at him and nodded, her eyes wet.

  “It is true, my lord. You see, I am not such a good bride for you. I am indentured here. I must repay my debt before I am free to go.”

  Erec turned and scowled at this innkeeper. He hated him with a loathing he did not think possible.

  “And how much is her contract worth?” Erec asked.

  “That’s no business of yours—”

  “Answer me!” Erec growled, putting one hand on his dagger.

  The innkeeper must have detected Erec’s seriousness, because he swallowed and looked back.

  “The typical servant is paid room and board and 100 pence for a seven year contract,” he said.

  “If I win the jousting, and if she agrees to be my bride, I will buy her contract from you. In fact, I will pay you triple.”

  Erec took a sack of gold coins from his waist, and dropped it on the table. It landed with a clang.

  “300 pence of the king’s gold,” Erec announced.

  The innkeeper looked down, wide-eyed. He licked his lips in greed, looking from Erec to Alistair. Then he grabbed the sack, weighed it in his palm, and opened it, examining the contents.

  Finally, he stuffed the sack into his pocket. He shrugged.

  “Take her then,” he said. “It is your money to lose. Only a fool would throw away so much gold for a servant.”

  “Please, my Lord, don’t do this,” Alistair cried out to Erec. “It is too much money! I am not worth it!”

  The innkeeper was about to go, but stopped and turned.

  “And if you don’t win the competition? And if she doesn’t agree to be your bride?” he asked.

  “As long as she is set free,” Erec said, “the gold is yours to keep.”

  The innkeeper smiled, turned, and hurried from the room, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

  Finally, it was just Erec and Alistair, alone in the room.

  Erec Turned and looked at her.

  “Do you wish to marry me?” he asked her, with more seriousness than he had ever mustered.

  Alistair lowered her head in humility, and Erec’s heart pounded as he awaited her response. What if she said no?

  “My lord,” she said. “I could think of no greater honor, no greater dream for any maiden in the kingdom than to be your wife. But I do not deserve this. I am but a common servant girl. You would sully your great name to be with me.”

  Erec’s heart swelled with love for her, and he knew at that moment that he did not care what others thought—he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  “Will you marry me?” he asked her directly.

  She lowered her head, and Erec stepped forward, placed a hand gently on her chin, and raised it.

  She looked up at him, and her eyes were filled with tears.

  “You cry,” he said, crushed. “That is a no.”

  She shook her head.

  “They are tears of joy, my lord,” she said. “From the moment I laid eyes on you, I wanted nothing else,” she said. “My heart was too overwhelmed to say it. I dared not to dream.”

  They embraced, and he held her tight in a hug. The feel of her body enwrapped in his was greater than anything he had felt in his life.

  “Please, my lord,” she whispered into his ear. “Win this jousting. Win it for me.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Thor, drenched in sweat, stood with the other boys in the Legion, trying to catch his breath. The second sun was at its peak, beating down on him overhead, and it had been a relentless day already.

  After gaining permission from the Kavos and finally finding their way back to the other Legion members the night before, they had all crashed on the desert floor. It felt to Thor as if he had just closed his eyes when he had been awakened early, at the crack of dawn of another day—and since then, they had not stopped training all day long.

  It was the first day of training of The Hundred, and it was more grueling than anything he could imagine. They had been sparring since the morning, breaking off into groups with all different ages. They practiced throwing spears at moving targets; clanging shields for hours; sparring with extra-heavy swords; jumping over ravines; and wrestling with each other. As he turned and looked around, he saw that all the boys looked exhausted. It was as if they had crammed a week’s worth of training into a morning, without a rest between. Every muscle in his body ached. He could not imagine how they could possibly keep up this pace for a hundred days. Maybe that was the point.

  Finally, the commanders had summoned them all together, and he stood there with the others, catching his breath and staring back at Kolk, who paced among them.

  “We have brought you to this island for a reason,” he boomed. “Training here is different than anywhere in the world. If we wanted to engage you in technical exercises, we would have kept you back in the Ring. Here, there are unique aspects to training, to becoming a warrior, which you will learn nowhere else in the world. This island is known as a training ground to the elite warriors of every kingdom—not just the Ring. They come here from all corners of the globe to train, to learn techniques from each other, to spar with each other. And now it is time to expose you to the best of the best.

  “IN FORMATION!” Kolk screamed.

  The boys fell into rows of two, side-by-side, Thor standing next to Reese, and began marching up the steep hill, Krohn walking beside them. Thor looked up and saw that this hill seemed to climb right into the sky, the sun beating into his eyes. He could hardly believe they were marching to the top. Even reaching the plateau they had been sparring on had taken hours; to reach the top of this mountain would likely take them hours more.

  Reese huffed beside him, out of breath.

  “You know not everyone comes back,” said Malic. He was speaking to William who marched beside him. Thor could see the terror in William’s eyes, and he guessed Malic’s point was to scare him. Malic must have sensed that William was more sensitive than the others, and it seemed he wanted to break him. Thor did not understand what Malic’s problem was. Did he hate everyone? Or was he born evil?

  “What do you mean?” William asked, fearful.

  “There’s a quota, you know,” Malic said. “To the Legion. Even if we do well, they have to leave some of us behind.”

  “That’s not true,” Reese said.

  “That’s what I heard,” Malic said.

  “Not everyone makes the Legion,” Elden corrected, turning around. “But that’s not because there’s a quota. That’s because they fail out. It’s based on performance.”

  “They wouldn’t leave us here, behind on this island, would they?” William asked, fear in his voice.

  “Of course they would,” Malic answered.

  William looked at his surroundings with a new sense of fear. There came an awful squawking noise, and they looked up as a huge bird swooped down low and circled over them. It looked like a buzzard, but had three heads and a long yellow tail. It seemed to stare right at William. It squawked again and raised its tail.

  “What’s that?” William asked.

  “A galtross,” Reese said. “A scavenger.”

  “They say it singles out the walking dead,” Malic added. “Whoever it follows will die next.”

  It squawked right at William, and Thor could see him overcome by fear.

  “Why don’t you leave him alone?” Thor said to Malic.

  “I will treat him anyway I wish,” Malic said. “And when I’m finished, I’ll turn to you.”

  Thor watched Malic’s hand slip down and rest on his belt, on his dagger.

  Krohn snarled at Malic.

  “Try anything against my friend, and it will be my knife you feel in your back,” Reese said to Malic.

  “And mine,” O’Connor added.

  But Malic, unfazed, only smiled. He actually let out a laugh as he turned back and continued to march.

  “The Hundred is long,” he said ominously, then fell silent.

/>   The group, filled with a tense silence, continued to march.

  The incline of the mountain became more steep, and soon they hand to nearly get down on their hands and knees and crawl their way up.

  After what felt like hours, Thor’s legs burning, finally, they reached a wide plateau at the very top of the mountain. All the boys collapsed, Thor among them.

  They lay there, breathing hard, engulfed in an actual cloud. It was impossible to see anything, enveloped in the mist. Thor lay there, gasping for air, more tired than he ever thought possible.

  “ON YOUR FEET!” came a scream.

  Somehow, Thor forced himself to his feet with all the other boys, and as they did, the cloud lifted. Thor was shocked to see, standing there, a large group of disparate warriors. At their head was the fiercest looking warrior Thor had ever seen. His skin was a light green, his head was bald, he was three times the size of any man, he wore no shirt and short pants, and his muscles bulged. He had three scars across his chest and was missing one eye, and on his weapons belt hung nearly every manner of weapon. He was a one-man army.

  Behind him stood a dozen warriors, of all different sizes and races and shapes. They were the most exotic looking warriors Thor had ever seen, and he could tell they had come from countries far and wide outside the Ring. He was breathless. Real warriors. These men were his heroes. He had never met anyone from outside the Ring, much less other warriors.

  “This is Kibotu,” Kolk announced. “He is the resident trainer on this island. Warriors seek him out from all corners of the globe. He has trained the very best, and he is among the very best himself.”

  Kibotu gave Kolk a brief nod of respect, then looked over the Legion members. Thor felt as if he were staring right through him, and felt inadequate in his presence.

  “Every year they bring to us a new crop of young warriors. Every year some of you make it, and some of you don’t. A warrior’s heart is strong. His spirit is stronger. This island is here to teach you the spirit of a warrior. It is an unforgiving place. Make no mistakes. Respect it, and it will respect you.”

  Thor looked over Kibotu’s shoulder, and beyond him he could make out a training ground. There were various structures, vast sparring grounds, and dozens of warriors hard at work, training with every weapon imaginable. He watched warriors shooting bows and arrows into targets, hurling spears, attacking dummies with swords, and charging each other with lances. This place was alive with the warrior’s spirit.

  “You will train with us here today, and every day, until your Hundred is finished, until your spirits are worthy. Waste no time. Get into place!”

  The boys looked at each other, puzzled.

  “Break into your groups of eight!” Kolk commanded. “You know who you are. You will each take up a skill, and you will not stop until I say so!”

  The Legion broke off and ran over to the training ground, and Thor was directed by the commanders, along with his group of eight, to the spear-hurling ground at the far end.

  Thor stood there and waited his turn as one after the other, the seven boys grabbed a spear, one at a time, and aimed for a distant target—a piece of wood cut into the shape of a circle and nailed to a tree. One by one, they each missed. The target was just too far, and too small. They all fell short.

  It was Thor’s turn. He lifted the long, bronze spear, longer and heavier than any spear he had ever held. He aimed for the target. But the target was so far away, farther than any target he had ever aimed for, he could not imagine how he would hit it.

  He took three steps and hurled it. He was embarrassed to watch it fall short, landing in the dirt by several feet.

  “You throw with your body,” came a harsh voice, “not your mind!”

  Thor turned to see Kibotu himself standing over him, frowning down.

  Kibotu stepped forward, grabbed a spear as if it were a toothpick, took one step, and hurled it. It soared through the air with lightning speed, and struck right in the middle of the bull’s-eye.

  Thor could not believe it. He felt like a boy next to this warrior. He wondered why Kibotu had singled him out, of all the boys.

  “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “I did not do that,” Kibotu answered harshly. “The spear did that. That is your problem. You live with a separation between you and your weapon. You and the weapon must be one.”

  Kibotu thrust another spear into Thor’s hand, yanked his shoulder back, turned his neck and positioned it to face the bull’s-eye.

  “Close your eyes,” he commanded.

  Thor did so.

  “When you step forward, see in your mind’s eye the spear entering the target. Do not release the spear. Let it release you.”

  Thor focused, and felt the spear in a way he never had before. He felt a tremendous energy coursing through his system. He breathed deep.

  He opened his eyes and took several steps and hurled it, and this time it felt different as he released it. It felt lighter. It felt perfect.

  Thor did not even need to look to know the result. He felt it. He saw what he already knew: it was a perfect bull’s eye. It was the only throw of all the boys to even hit the target.

  Thor turned and smiled up at Kibotu, expecting praise.

  But to his surprise, Kibotu had already turned and walked away. Thor did not know if that meant he was satisfied, or disappointed. And he still didn’t know why he had singled him out.

  The exercises continued all day long, going from one skill to the next, until finally a horn sounded, and pandemonium broke out. Before Thor could grasp what was happening, boys were crisscrossing the training ground in every direction, and he suddenly saw Malic, charging right for him, a dagger in his hand. Malic scowled, and Thor could see on his face the intent to kill, and he lunged at Thor, about to thrust the dagger into his heart.

  It all happened too quickly—Thor could not react in time. He braced himself, as he knew he was about to be killed.

  Suddenly Krohn appeared, leaping into the air and digging his fangs into Malic’s chest; Malic stumbled back, caught off guard, trying to get him off.

  Before Thor could react, he suddenly felt himself tackled and pinned down to the ground from behind, his face planted in the soil.

  Thor tried to get up, to figure out what was happening, as all around him others were hitting the ground, too. He spun around and realized there was someone on top of him. It was an exotic warrior, one he had never met, from a faraway kingdom. He was trying to pin him down.

  It was then that Thor realized the sound of that horn meant that the training grounds were being opened up to wrestling. But then why had Malic attacked him with a knife? None of the others were using weapons.

  Thor had never been taught how to wrestle, and he felt a searing pain in his shoulder as this warrior, a young warrior, maybe eighteen, with dark brown skin, large yellow eyes, a bald head and a scar running above his eyebrow, twisted him around and put one arm behind his back. He was stronger than Thor could ever dream, and Thor felt like his arm would snap.

  He squirmed and struggled, and could not break free of this man’s grip.

  “YIELD!” yelled the warrior.

  But Thor did not want to yield so quickly.

  Just as Thor thought his arm couldn’t bend anymore, just when he thought it was about to break, he heard a running noise, followed by a kick, and felt the warrior go flying off him.

  Thor looked up, wanting to thank whoever it was—but was confused as he blinked into the sun to see that it was Malic.

  Malic had freed himself from Krohn’s grasp and then had kicked the warrior hard in the back of his head with his boot while he was on the ground, then he extracted a dagger, jumped down, and as the warrior turned, he stabbed him in the heart.

  The warrior let out a horrified gasp, blood pouring out from his chest, all over the dagger. Thor sat there, horrified, hardly believing what was happening. He felt terrible: it had all happened too fast for him to react. Clearly, weapons were no
t supposed to be used in this training session. So why had Malic killed the man?

  Before Thor could process it, Malic rushed to him, thrust the bloody weapon into his palm, then took off.

  Another horn sounded, and suddenly Thor was surrounded by dozens of warriors, scowling down at him. Kibotu and Kolk walked over, and the other warriors cleared a path.

  “What have you done?” Kibtou shouted down. “You have murdered one of my warriors! In a training session!”

  “I killed no one!” Thor protested, looking down at the bloody dagger in his hand, and throwing it down to the soil. “I did not do this!”

  “Then why do you hold the weapon?” Kibotu shouted.

  “Malic did it!” Thor yelled.

  There was a gasp, as the others turned and looked at Malic.

  He appeared, being dragged by two warriors. Thor gained his feet, as more and more warriors gathered around, and he felt them all staring at him.

  “I did not kill this man!” Malic lied. “I saw Thor do it. After all, that is his dagger. He was attacked by that man.”

  “Do you deny that you were attacked by that man?” Kibotu pressed Thor.

  “He did attack me. We were wrestling. He was about to break my arm.”

  “So you admit you stabbed him,” Kibotu said.

  “No! I did not. I swear to you.”

  “Then I ask again: why do you hold the weapon?”

  One of the warriors stepped forward and snatched the dagger from Thor’s hand and handed it to Kibotu. Kibotu examined it, then handed it to Kolk.

  Kolk held it up to the light, inspecting it. He nodded grimly.

  “This is Thor’s dagger,” he confirmed.

  “But I did not kill him!” Thor pleaded. “Malic planted it!”

  Kibotu looked back and forth between Thor and Malic.

  “One of you is lying. Only the fates will know. The murderer must be punished. On this island there is a belief that the Cyclops is the determiner of all things. Whoever faces the Cyclops, and lives, he is the one who is innocent. Whoever dies by his hand, the fates hold guilty.”

  Kibotu stepped forward and sighed.

  “The two of you will fight the Cyclops. Whoever lives, he is innocent. Whoever dies, so be it. Blood must have blood.”