A Realm of Shadows (5 page)

Duncan
, alone, hobbling
from the pain in his ankles and wrists, ran through the streets of Andros, ignoring the pain, spurred on by adrenaline as he thought of only one thing: saving
Kyra. Her cry for help echoed in his mind, his soul, made him forget his
injuries as he sprinted through the streets, sweating, toward the sound.

Duncan
twisted and
turned down Andros’ narrow alleyways, knowing Kyra lay just beyond those thick
stone walls. All around him the dragons dove, setting fire to street after
street, the tremendous heat radiating off the walls, so hot that Duncan could feel it even on the far side of the stone. He hoped and prayed they did not
descend to his alley—or else, he would be finished.

Despite the
pain, Duncan did not stop. Nor did he turn around. He could not. Driven by a
father’s instinct, he physically could not go anywhere but toward the sound of
his daughter. It crossed his mind that he was running to his death, losing any
chance he’d have of escape, yet it did not slow him. His daughter was trapped,
and that was all that mattered to him now.

“NO!” came the cry.

Duncan
’s hair stood on
end. There it was again, her shriek, and his heart received a jolt at the
sound. He sprinted faster, giving it all he had, turning down yet another alleyway.

Finally, as he
turned again, he burst through a low, stone arch, and the sky opened before
him.

Duncan
found himself
in an open courtyard, and as he stood at its edge, he was stunned at the sight
before him. Flames filled the far side of the courtyard as dragons
criss-crossed the air, breathing down, and beneath a stone ledge, barely
shielded from all the fire, sat his daughter.

Kyra.

There she was,
in the flesh, alive.

Even more
shocking than seeing her here, alive, was seeing the baby dragon lying beside
her. Duncan stared, confused by the sight. At first he assumed Kyra was
struggling to kill a dragon that had fallen from the sky. But then he saw that
the dragon was pinned down by a boulder. He was puzzled as he saw Kyra shoving at
it. What, he wondered, was she trying to do? Free a dragon? Why?

“Kyra!” he
shrieked.

Duncan
sprinted across
the open courtyard, avoiding columns of flame, avoiding the swipe of a dragon’s
talon, still running until finally he reached his daughter’s side.

As he did, Kyra
looked up and her face fell in shock. And then joy.

“Father!” she
called.

She ran into his
arms, and Duncan embraced her, as she embraced him back. As he held her in his
arms, he felt restored again, as if a part of himself had returned.

Tears of joy ran
down his cheeks. He could hardly believe Kyra was really here, and alive.

She clutched him
and he clutched her, and he was relieved most of all, as he felt her shaking in
his arms, that she was uninjured.

Remembering, he pushed
her back, turned to the dragon, drew his sword, and raised it, about to chop
off the dragon’s head to protect his daughter.

“No!” Kyra
shrieked.

She stunned Duncan by rushing forward and grabbing his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, and holding
back his blow. This was not the meek daughter he had left behind in Volis; she
was clearly a warrior now.

Duncan
looked back at
her, baffled.

“Do not harm him,”
she commanded, her voice confident, the voice of a warrior. “Theon is my
friend.”

Duncan
looked at her,
stunned.

“Your
friend
?”
he asked. “A dragon?”

“Please, Father,”
she said, “there is little time to explain. Help us. He is pinned down. I
cannot remove this boulder alone.”

Duncan
, as shocked as
he was, trusted her. He sheathed his sword, came up beside her, and pushed at
the boulder with all his might. Yet, try as he did, it barely budged.

“It’s too heavy,”
he said. “I can’t. I am sorry.”

Suddenly, there
came the rattling of armor behind him and Duncan turned and was overjoyed to
see Aidan, Anvin, Cassandra, and White all rush forward. They had come back for
him, had risked their lives, too, once again.

Without
hesitating, they all ran right up to the boulder and pushed.

It rolled a bit,
but still they could not get it off.

There came the
sound of gasping, and Duncan turned to see Motley rushing to catch up with the
others, out of breath. He joined them, throwing his weight into the boulder—and
this time, it began to really roll. Motley, the actor, the overweight fool, the
one they had expected the least of, made the difference in getting the boulder
off the dragon.

With one last
heave it landed with a crash, in a cloud of dust, and the dragon was free.

Theon jumped to
his feet and screeched, arching his back, extending his talons. In fury, he
looked up at the sky. A big purple dragon had spotted them, was diving down
right for them, and Theon, without pausing, leapt into the air, opened his
jaws, and flew straight up, locking on the soft jugular of the unsuspecting
dragon.

Theon held on
with all his might. The huge dragon shrieked in fury, thrown off guard, clearly
not expecting as much from the baby dragon, and the two of them went smashing down
into a stone wall on the far side of the courtyard.

Duncan and the
others exchanged a look of shock as Theon wrestled the dragon, refusing to let
go of the squirming big dragon, pinning it down on the far side of the
courtyard. Theon, ferocious, writhed, snarling, and did not let go until the
much larger dragon finally went limp.

For a moment,
they all had a respite.

“Kyra!” Aidan
called out.

Kyra looked down
and noticed her little brother, and Duncan watched with joy as Aidan ran into Kyra’s
arms. She embraced him, while White jumped up and licked Kyra’s palms, clearly thrilled.

“My brother,” Kyra
gushed, her eyes filled with tears. “You are alive.”

Duncan
could hear the
relief in her voice.

Aidan’s eyes suddenly
lowered in sadness.

“Brandon and Braxton
are dead,” he announced to Kyra.

Kyra paled. She
turned and looked to Duncan, and he nodded in solemn confirmation.

Suddenly Theon
flew up and landed before them, flapping his wings and gesturing for Kyra to
climb on his back. Duncan heard the roars high above, and he looked up to see
them all circling, preparing to dive.

To Duncan’s awe, Kyra mounted Theon. There she sat, atop a dragon, strong, fierce, having all
the poise of a great warrior. Gone was the little girl he had once known; she
had been replaced by a proud warrior, a woman who could command legions. He had
never felt more pride until this day.

“We have no
time. Come with me,” she said to them. “All of you. Join me.”

They all looked at
each other in surprise, and Duncan felt a pit in his stomach at the idea of
riding a dragon, especially as it snarled down at them.

“Hurry!” she
said.

Duncan
, seeing the
flock of dragons descending and knowing they had little choice, jumped into
action. He hurried with Aidan, Anvin, Motley, Cassandra, Septin and White, as
they all leapt onto the dragon’s back.

He clutched the
heavy, ancient scales, marveling that he was really sitting on the back of a
dragon. It was like a dream.

He held on with
all he had as the dragon lifted into the air. His stomach lightened, and he
could hardly believe the feeling. For the first time in his life, he was flying
in the air, above the streets, faster than he had ever been.

Theon, faster
than them all, flew just above the streets, twisting and turning, so fast the
other dragons could not reach him amidst all the confusion and dust of the
capital. Duncan looked down and was amazed to see the city from above, to see the
tops of buildings, the winding streets laid out like a maze below.

Kyra directed Theon
brilliantly, and Duncan was so proud of his daughter, so amazed that she was able
to control a beast like this. Within moments, they were free, in the open sky, beyond
the capital walls, and soaring over the countryside.

“We must head south!”
Anvin yelled out. “There are rock formations there, beyond the perimeter of the
capital. All our men await us! They have retreated there.”

Kyra directed Theon,
and soon they were all flying south, toward a huge outcropping of rock on the
horizon. Duncan saw up ahead the hundreds of massive boulders, dotted with small
caves inside, on the horizon, south of the capital walls.

As they
approached, Duncan saw the armor and weaponry inside the caves, glistening in
the desert light, and his heart lifted to see hundreds of his men inside, awaiting
him at this rallying point.

As Kyra directed
Theon down, they landed at the entrance of a massive cave. Duncan could see the
fear in the faces of the men below as the dragon approached, bracing themselves
for an attack. But then they spotted Kyra and the others on his back, and their
expressions changed to one of shock. They let down their guard.

Duncan
dismounted with
Kyra and the others, and he ran to embrace his men, overjoyed to see them alive
again. There were Kavos and Bramthos, Seavig and Arthfael, men who’d risked
their lives for him, men he thought he’d never see again.

Duncan
turned and saw Kyra,
and he was surprised to see she had not dismounted with the others.

“Why do you
still sit there?” he asked. “Won’t you join us?”

But Kyra sat
there, her back so straight and proud, and solemnly shook her head.

“I mustn’t, Father.
I have some solemn business elsewhere. On behalf of Escalon.”

Duncan
stared back,
baffled, marveling at the strong warrior his daughter had become.

“But where?” Duncan asked. “Where is more important than at our side?”

She hesitated.

“Marda,” she
replied.

Duncan
felt a chill at
the word.

“Marda?” he
gasped. “You? Alone? You shall never return!”

She nodded, and he
could see in her eyes that she already knew.

“I vowed to go,”
she replied, “and I cannot abandon my mission. Now that you are safe, my duty
calls. Haven’t you always taught me that duty comes first, Father?”

Duncan
felt his heart swell
with pride at her words. He stepped forward, reached up, and embraced her,
clutching her to him as his men circled around.

“Kyra, my
daughter. You are the better part of my soul.”

He saw her eyes
well with tears, and she nodded back, stronger, more powerful, without the
sentiments she used to have. She gave a little kick, and Theon was quickly up
in the air. Kyra flew proudly on his back, higher and higher, up in the sky.

Duncan’s heart
broke as he watched her go, heading north, wondering if he would ever see her
again as she flew somewhere toward the blackness of Marda.

Kyra leaned
forward and gripped Theon’s scales as they flew, holding tight as the wind
ripped through her hair. They flew in and out of clouds, her hands shaking from
the moisture, the cold, yet Kyra ignored it all as they raced across Escalon on
the way to Marda. Nothing would stop her now.

Kyra’s mind swam
with all she’d just been through, still trying to process it all. She recalled her
father, and was happy to think of him safe with his men outside of Andros. She felt a great sense of satisfaction. Time and again she had almost died trying
to reach him, had been warned to stay away at the cost of her life. Yet she had
not given up, sensing deep in her heart that he needed her. She had learned a
valuable lesson: she must always trust her instincts, no matter how many people
warned her away.

Indeed, as she
reflected on it, she realized now that that was precisely why Alva had warned
her away: it was a test. He had made it clear that she would die if she went
back for her father because he wanted to test her resolve, to test her courage.
He had known all along that she would live. He wanted to see if she would head
into battle, though, if she thought she would die.

Of course, at
the same time her father had saved her; if he had not arrived when he had,
Theon would still be pinned beneath that rubble and she would surely be dead. Thinking
of her father sacrificing everything for her lifted her heart, too. It brought
tears to her eyes as she thought of his braving the flames, and dragons, and
death, all just for her.

Kyra smiled as
she thought of her brother Aidan, so happy that he was alive and safe, too. She
thought of her two dead brothers, and as much strife and rivalry as they’d had
between them, it still pained her. She wished she could have been there to
protect them.

Kyra thought of Andros, the once great capital, now a cauldron of flame, and her heart fell. Would Escalon
ever return to its former glory?

So much had
happened at once, Kyra could barely process it. It was as if the world were
spinning out of control beneath her, as if the only constant these days was
change.

Kyra tried to
shake it all from her mind and focus on the journey before her: Marda. Kyra
felt infused with a sense of purpose as she flew, her heart pounding, anxious
to get there, to find the Staff of Truth. She dipped through clouds and looked
down as she flew, looking for markers, trying see how close she was to the
border, the Flames. As she searched the landscape, her heart fell to see what
had become of her homeland: she saw a land torn apart, scarred, burnt by flames.
She saw entire strongholds destroyed, whether by Pandesian soldiers, or marauding
trolls, or enraged dragons, she did not know. She saw a land so ravaged it was unrecognizable
from the place she had once known and loved. It was hard to believe. The Escalon
she knew was no more.

It all felt
surreal to her, hard to imagine that such change could come so drastically and
so quickly. It made her wonder. What if, on that one snowy night, she had never
encountered the wounded Theos? Would the fate of Escalon have taken a different
course?

Or had it all
been predestined? Was she the one responsible for all this, for all that she
saw below? Or was she just the vehicle? Would it all have happened some other
way regardless?

Kyra wanted so
desperately to dive down, to land below, to stay here in Escalon and help wage
war against the Pandesians, the trolls, to help fix whatever she could. Yet,
despite a sense of looming dread, she forced herself to look up, to stay
focused on her mission, to keep flying north, somewhere toward the blackness of
Marda.

Kyra shivered. It
would be a journey, she knew, to the very essence of darkness. Marda had
always, since she had been young, been a place of legend, a place of such evil,
so off limits, that no one would ever entertain the idea of visiting it. It was,
on the contrary, a place to be sealed off from the world, to be protected from,
a place that her people thanked the universe every day was shielded by the
Flames. Now, unbelievably, a place she was seeking out.

On the one hand,
it was madness. Yet on the other, Kyra’s mother had sent her here, and she
sensed deep down that the mission was true. She sensed that Marda was where she
was needed, where her ultimate test lay. Where the Staff of Truth lay, that only
she could retrieve. It was crazy, but she could already feel the staff, deep in
her gut, summoning her, luring her to it like an old friend.

Still, Kyra, for
the first time in as long as she could remember, felt a wave of self-doubt
overwhelm her. Was she really strong enough to do this? To go to Marda, a place
even her father’s men feared to venture? She felt a battle raging within her
own soul. Everything inside her screamed that to go to Marda would be to go to
her death. And she did not want to die.

Kyra tried to
force herself to be strong, not to veer from the path. She knew this was a
journey she had to take, and she knew she could not shy away from what was
demanded of her. She tried to push from her mind the horrors that awaited her
on the far side of the Flames. A nation of trolls. Volcanoes, lava, ash. A
nation of evil, of sorcery. Unimaginable creatures and monsters. She tried not
to recall the stories she had heard as a child. A place where people tore each
other apart for fun, led by the demonic leader Vesuvius. A nation that lived
for blood, for cruelty.

They dipped down
beneath the clouds for a moment, and Kyra glanced down and saw, far below, that
they were passing over the northeastern corner of Escalon. Her heart leapt as
she began to recognize the countryside: Volis. There were the hills of her
hometown, once so beautiful, now a scab of what it once was. Her heart fell at
the sight. There in the distance lay her father’s stronghold, the fort, all now
in ruins. It was a great heap of rubble, scattered with untended corpses
sprawled in unnatural positions, visible even from here, looking up at the sky
as if to ask Kyra how she could have let this happen to them.

Kyra shut her
eyes and tried to push the image from her mind—yet she could not. It was too
hard to just fly over this place that had once meant so much to her. She looked
up toward the horizon, toward Marda, and she knew she should continue on, but something
inside her could not bring herself to just pass over her hometown. She had to
stop and see it for herself before she left Escalon, on what might be her final
journey.

Kyra directed
Theon to dive down, and she could feel him resisting—as if he, too, felt driven
to stick with their mission and head to Marda. Reluctantly, though, he gave in.

They dove and landed
in the center of what was once Volis, once a bustling stronghold filled with
life—children, dance, song, smells of food, her father’s proud warriors
strutting to and fro. Kyra’s breath caught as she dismounted and walked. She
let out an involuntary cry. There was nothing here now. Just rubble and
oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of Theon’s heavy breathing, of his
scraping the ground with his talons, as if he himself were enraged, as if eager
to leave. She could not blame him: this town was now a tomb.

Gravel crunched
beneath Kyra’s boots as she slowly walked through the place, a gust of wind
ripping through from the scorched plains surrounding the fort. She looked
everywhere, needing to see, yet also needing to look away: it was like a
nightmare. There was Shopkeepers Row, now nothing but a long pile of charred
rubble; on her other side was the armory, now completely destroyed, a heap of
stone, its front gate caved in. Before her, the great, towering fort, where her
father had held so many feasts, where she herself had lived, now lay as a ruin,
but a few walls left standing. Its gate was open, gaping, as if inviting the
world to enter and see what it had once been.

As she walked,
her heart pounding in her chest, Kyra knew she needed to see this, needed to see
what become of her people in order to feel a sense of resolution. As much as
she didn’t want to, Kyra forced herself to look, to take it all in. She saw bodies
of women and children, all lying dead in the streets, bodies twisted in unnatural
positions. She saw a dozen of her father’s men, Vidar in their center, all
lying dead, face first by the castle’s gate. She could see from the way they
held their swords that they had all put up a fight, made a stand here. She
shook her head in admiration: these brave men had fought fearlessly, despite
the odds, facing off against an army.

Her eyes watered
at the sight. They were an inspiration to her. They died for the revolution
that
she
had sparked, and as she looked at them, she resolved that their
deaths not be in vain.

Kyra’s heart
broke as she continued to walk, the signs of death all around her. What
monsters could have done this? She looked closely and saw the huge claw marks
on the bodies, and she knew this to be a troll attack. It was a sneak glimpse
of what awaited her on the other side of the Flames.

Kyra slowly made
her way toward her old fort. She passed through the destroyed doorway and
entered the remnants of the building, eager to see this place she had once
inhabited, this place she had been so sure would never fall.

It was cool in
here, swirling with dust, unnaturally damp, as if spirits hung in the air. It felt
conspicuously abandoned, felt as if she were visiting some distorted version of
her past. It was as if her childhood memories had been destroyed and replaced.

Kyra passed what
remained of a gaping stairway, now shattered in half, unable to ascend. She continued
walking, straight ahead, in a daze, and entered what remained of her father’s Great
Hall, now nothing more than a pile of rubble. She passed behind a crack in the
stone wall and found the entrance, still hidden, to her father’s Chamber of Heroes.

Kyra entered and
as she did, she stood there, numb. This small, hidden chamber, to her great
relief, had been preserved. It was here where she had spent so many of her
childhood days, dreaming, yearning, craving to be a warrior. There, to her
relief, were the sculptures of the great warriors, still standing, the ones
that had spurred her imagination as a child, had spurred her to want to achieve
greatness. Sunlight poured in through gaps in the walls, high up, shining down
on the sarcophagi of her ancestors. The outlines of their bodies lay face up in
the stone, facing up proudly to the sky, staring into the heavens, eyes wide,
as if even death held no fear for them. They were supposed to reside here for
thousands of years. This room was supposed to stand the test of time.

“A powerful thing,
to face our own mortality.”

Kyra spun,
raising her staff, tense, ready for battle, shocked that someone else was alive
here, in the room with her.

But she relaxed
when she recognized who it was. Softis the Wise. Volis’s historian.

It felt so good
to see an old face. There he stood, but feet away, looking older than ever. He
had always looked old, but now he looked ancient. He stood hunched over in his
robe, leaning on his staff, looking, if possible, even older than when she had left
him.

“Softis.”

She rushed forward,
embracing him, and he hugged her back with his weak grip. It was like having a
piece of her childhood restored to her once again.

“You survived,”
she said with a rush of relief, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.

He nodded,
smiling weakly.

“My fate,” he
replied, his voice ancient and raspy, “my blessing and my curse. To survive
life at every turn. Long after everyone I have known and loved is dead.”

He sighed.

“They killed
them all,” he continued, shaking his head, looking to the floor with sadness. “Women
and children, young and old, strong and lame. They killed all that remained of
this fort.”

“Trolls?” she asked
warily, almost afraid to ask.

He nodded back
solemnly.

“Your father
could not have anticipated this,” he replied. “Now all that we have left,
ironically, are these tombs.”

Softis stepped
forward, limping through the room, running his hand along the bronze
sculptures, along the stone sarcophagi.

“Great men they
were,” he said. “Men to look up to. Men whose problems were as pressing in
their times as ours. They were men of valor. Men we must remember always.”

He turned to her,
his eyes aglow.

“They are
your
people, Kyra. Your blood. It runs through you, this blood of valor. Armis the Great:
a man who killed a dozen men with a single pull of a bow. Arcard the Strong: a
man who fought off a legion of soldiers with a single sword. Aseries the Lone:
a man who fought alone, refused to stand with an army, and killed more men on
his own than entire villages together.”

He turned to
her.

“These are
you
,
Kyra. You are not separate from them. You are one and the same. Your ancestors’
blood courses through you, and they all watch over you. They all depend on you
now. You are all they have left.”

He stepped forward
and grasped her shoulders with a surprising strength.