 
Morgan rice: 4 BEGINNINGS

turned (book #1 in the vampire journals)

ARENA ONE: SLAVERUNNERS  (BOOK #1 OF THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY)

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1 of the sorcerer's ring)

R I S E    O F   T H E    D R A G O N S (KINGS AND SORCERERS--BOOK 1)

## turned

(book #1 in the vampire journals)

morgan rice

Smashwords Edition

About Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

"Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting....Nicely written and an extremely fast read."

\--Black Lagoon Reviews (regarding Turned)

"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist...Refreshing and unique. The series focuses around one girl...one extraordinary girl!...Easy to read but extremely fast-paced... Rated PG."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Turned)

"Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild (regarding Turned)

"Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again."

\--vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens."

\--The Dallas Examiner (regarding Loved)

"A book to rival TWILIGHT and VAMPIRE DIARIES, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"

\--Vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller....This would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Loved)

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

Listen to THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS series in audio book format!

Copyright © 2011 by Morgan Rice

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

"Is it physical

To walk unbraced and suck up the humors

Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,

And will he steal out of his wholesome bed

To dare the vile contagion of the night?"

\--William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

# Chapter One

Caitlin Paine always dreaded her first day at a new school. There were the big things, like meeting new friends, the new teachers, learning new hallways. And there were the small things, like getting a new locker, the smell of a new place, the sounds it made. More than anything, she dreaded the stares. She felt that everyone in a new place always stared at her. All she wanted was anonymity. But it never seemed meant to be.

Caitlin couldn't understand why she was so conspicuous. At five foot five she wasn't especially tall, and with her brown hair and brown eyes (and normal weight) she felt she was average. Certainly not beautiful, like some of the other girls. At 18, she was a bit older, but not enough to make her stand out.

There was something else. There was something about her that made people look twice. She knew, deep down, that she was different. But she wasn't exactly sure how.

If there was anything worse than a first day, it was starting in mid-term, after everyone else already had time to bond. Today, this first day, in mid-March, was going to be one of the worst. She could feel it already.

In her wildest imagination, though, she never thought it would be this bad. Nothing she had ever seen--and she had seen a lot--had prepared her for this.

Caitlin stood outside her new school, a vast New York City public school, in the freezing March morning, and wondered, Why me? She was way underdressed, in just a sweater and leggings, and not even remotely prepared for the noisy chaos that greeted her. Hundreds of kids stood there, clamoring, screaming, and shoving each other. It looked like a prison yard.

It was all too loud. These kids laughed too loud, cursed too much, shoved each other too hard. She would have thought it was a massive brawl if she didn't spot some smiles and mocking laughter. They just had too much energy, and she, exhausted, freezing, sleep-deprived, couldn't understand where it came from. She closed her eyes and wished it would all go away.

She reached into her pockets and felt something: her ipod. Yes. She put her headphones in her ears and turned it up. She needed to drown it all out.

But nothing came. She looked down and saw the battery was dead. Perfect.

She checked her phone, hoping for some distraction, anything. No new messages.

She looked up. Looking out at the sea of new faces, she felt alone. Not because she was the only white girl--she actually preferred that. Some of her closest friends at other schools had been black, Spanish, Asian, Indian--and some of her meanest frenemies had been white. No, that wasn't it. She felt alone because it was urban. She stood on concrete. A loud buzzer had rang to admit her into this "recreational area," and she had had to pass through large, metal gates. Now she was boxed in--caged in by massive metal gates, topped by barbed-wire. She felt like she'd gone to prison.

Looking up at the massive school, bars and cages on all the windows, didn't make her feel any better. She always adapted to new schools easily, large and small--but they had all been in suburbia. They had all had grass, trees, sky. Here, there was nothing but city. She felt like she couldn't breathe. It terrified her.

Another loud buzzer sounded and she shuffled her way, with hundreds of kids, towards the entrance. She was jostled roughly by a large girl, and dropped her journal. She picked it up (messing up her hair), and then looked up to see if the girl would apologize. But she was nowhere to be seen, having already moved on in the swarm. She did hear laughter, but couldn't tell if it was directed at her.

She clutched her journal, the one thing that grounded her. It had been with her everywhere. She kept notes and drawings in every place she went. It was a roadmap of her childhood.

She finally reached the entrance, and had to squeeze in just to walk through. It was like entering a train at rush hour. She had hoped it would be warm once she got inside, but the open doors behind her kept a stiff breeze blowing down her back, making the cold even worse.

Two large security guards stood at the entrance, flanked by two New York City policemen, in full uniform, guns conspicuously at their side.

"KEEP MOVING!" commanded one of them.

She couldn't fathom why two armed policemen would have to guard a high school entrance. Her feeling of dread grew. It got much worse when she looked up and saw that she'd have to pass through a metal detector with airport-style security.

Four more armed policemen stood on either side of the detector, along with two more security guards.

"EMPTY YOUR POCKETS!" snapped a guard.

Caitlin noticed the other kids filling small plastic containers with items from their pockets. She quickly did the same, inserting her ipod, wallet, keys.

She shuffled through the detector, and the alarm shrieked.

"YOU!" snapped a guard. "Off to the side!"

Of course.

All the kids stared as she was made to raise her arms, and the guard ran the handheld scanner up and down her body.

"Are you wearing any jewelry?"

She felt her wrists, then her neckline, and suddenly remembered. Her cross.

"Take it off," snapped the guard.

It was the necklace her grandmother gave her before she passed, a small, silver cross, engraved with a description in Latin which she never had translated. Her grandmother told her it was passed down by her grandmother. Caitlin wasn't religious, and didn't really understand what it all meant, but she knew it was hundreds of years old, and it was by far the most valuable thing she owned.

Caitlin lifted it from her shirt, holding it up, but not taking it off.

"I'd rather not," she answered.

The guard stared at her, cold as ice.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out. There was shouting as a cop grabbed a tall, thin kid and shoved him against a wall, removing a small knife from his pocket.

The guard went to assist, and Caitlin took the opportunity to slip into the crowd moving its way down the hall.

Welcome to New York public school, Caitlin thought. Great.

She was already counting the days to graduation.

*

The hallways were the widest she'd ever seen. She couldn't imagine that they could ever be filled, yet somehow they were completely packed, with all the kids crammed in shoulder to shoulder. There must have been thousands of kids in these halls, the sea of faces stretching endlessly. The noise in here was even worse, bouncing off the walls, condensed. She wanted to cover her ears. But she didn't even have elbow space to raise her arms. She felt claustrophobic.

The bell rang, and the energy increased.

Already late.

She scanned her room card again and finally spotted the room in the distance. She tried to cut across the sea of bodies, but wasn't getting anywhere. Finally, after several attempts, she realized she just had to get aggressive. She started elbowing and jostling back. One body at a time, she cut through all the kids, across the wide hall, and pushed the heavy door open to her classroom.

She braced herself for all the looks as she, the new girl, walked in late. She imagined the teacher scolding her for interrupting a silent room. But she was shocked to discover that was not the case at all. This room, designed for 30 kids but holding 50, was packed. Some kids sat in their seats, and others walked the aisles, shouting and yelling at each other. It was mayhem.

The bell had rang five full minutes ago, yet the teacher, disheveled, wearing a rumpled suit, hadn't even started the class. He actually sat with his feet up on the desk, reading the paper, ignoring everyone.

Caitlin walked over to him and placed her new I.D. card on the desk. She stood there and waited for him to look up, but he never did.

She finally cleared her throat.

"Excuse me."

He reluctantly lowered his newspaper.

"I'm Caitlin Paine. I'm new. I think I'm supposed to give you this."

"I'm just a sub," he replied, and raised his paper, blocking her.

She stood there, confused.

"So," she asked, "....you don't take attendance?"

"Your teacher's back on Monday," he snapped. "He'll deal with it."

Realizing the conversation was over, Caitlin took back her I.D. card.

She turned and faced the room. The mayhem hadn't stopped. If there was any saving grace, at least she wasn't conspicuous. No one here seemed to care about her, or to even notice her at all.

On the other hand, scanning the packed room was nerve-wracking: there didn't seem like any place left to sit.

She steeled herself and, clutching her journal, walked tentatively down one of the aisles, flinching a few times as she walked between unruly kids screaming at each other. As she reached the back, she could finally see the entire room.

Not one empty seat.

She stood there, feeling like an idiot, and felt other kids starting to notice her. She didn't know what to do. She certainly wasn't going to stand there the entire period, and the substitute teacher didn't seem to care either way. She turned and looked again, scanning helplessly.

She heard laughter from a few aisles away, and felt sure it was directed at her. She didn't dress like these kids did, and she didn't look like them. Her cheeks flushed as she started to feel really conspicuous.

Just as she was getting ready to walk out of the class, and maybe even out of this school, she heard a voice.

"Here."

She turned.

In the last row, beside the window, a tall boy stood from his desk.

"Sit," he said. "Please."

The room quieted a bit as the others waited to see how she'd react.

She walked up to him. She tried not to look up into his eyes--large, glowing green eyes--but she couldn't help it.

He was gorgeous. He had smooth, olive skin--she couldn't tell if he was Black, Spanish, White, or some combination--but she had never seen such smooth and soft skin, complimenting a chiseled jaw line. His hair was short and brown, and he was thin. There was something about him, something so out of place here. He seemed fragile. An artist, maybe.

It was unlike her to be smitten by a guy. She'd seen her friends have crushes, but she'd never really understood. Until now.

"Where will you sit?" she asked.

She tried to control her voice, but it didn't sound convincing. She hoped he couldn't hear how nervous she was.

He smiled wide, revealing perfect teeth.

"Right over here," he said, and moved to the large window sill, just a few feet away.

She looked at him, and he returned her stare, their eyes fully locking. She told herself to look away, but she couldn't.

"Thanks," she said, and was instantly mad at herself.

Thanks? That's all you could manage? Thanks!?

"That's right, Barack!" yelled a voice. "Give that nice white girl your seat!"

Laughter followed, and the noise in the room suddenly picked up again, as everyone ignored them once again.

Caitlin saw him lower his head, embarrassed.

"Barack?" she asked. "Is that your name?"

"No," he answered, reddening. "That's just what they call me. As in Obama. They think I look like him."

She looked closely and realized that he did look like him.

"It's because I'm half black, part white, and part Puerto Rican."

"Well, I think that's a compliment," she said.

"Not the way they say it," he answered.

She observed him as he sat on the window sill, his confidence deflated, and she could tell that he was sensitive. Vulnerable, even. He didn't belong in this group of kids. It was crazy, but she almost felt protective of him.

"I'm Caitlin," she said, reaching out her hand and looking him in the eye.

He looked up, surprised, and his smile returned.

"Jonah," he answered.

He shook her hand firmly. A tingling sensation ran up her arm as she felt his smooth skin envelop her hand. She felt like she melted into him. He held her grip a second too long, and she couldn't help smiling back.

*

The rest of the morning was a blur, and Caitlin was hungry by the time she reached the cafeteria. She opened the double doors and was taken aback by the enormous room, the incredible noise of what seemed like a thousand kids, all screaming. It was like entering a gymnasium. Except that every twenty feet there stood another security guard, in the aisles, watching carefully.

As usual, she had no idea where to go. She searched the huge room, and finally found a stack of trays. She took one, and entered what she thought was the food line.

"Don't you cut me, bitch!"

Caitlin turned and saw a large, overweight girl, half a foot taller than her, scowling down.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know--"

"Line's back there!" snapped another girl, pointing with her thumb.

Caitlin looked and saw that the line stretched back at least a hundred kids. It looked like a twenty minute wait.

As she started heading to the back of the line, a kid on the line shoved another one, and he went flying in front of her, hitting the ground hard.

The first kid jumped on top of the other and started punching him in the face.

The cafeteria erupted in a roar of excitement, as dozens of kids gathered around.

"FIGHT! FIGHT!"

Caitlin took several steps back, watching in horror at the violent scene at her feet.

Four security guards finally came over and broke it up, separating the two bloody kids and carting them off. They didn't seem to be in any hurry.

After Caitlin finally got her food, she scanned the room, hoping for a sign of Jonah. But he was nowhere in sight.

She walked down the aisles, passing table after table, all packed with kids. There were few free seats, and the ones that were free didn't seem that inviting, adjacent to large cliques of friends.

Finally, she took a seat at an empty table towards the back. There was just one kid at the far end of it, a short, frail Chinese boy with braces, poorly dressed, who kept his head lowered and focused on his food.

She felt alone. She looked down and checked her phone. There were a few Facebook messages from her friends from her last town. They wanted to know how she liked her new place. Somehow, she didn't feel like answering. They felt so far away.

Caitlin barely ate, a vague feeling of first-day nausea still with her. She tried to change her train of thought. She closed her eyes. She thought of her new apartment, a fifth floor walkup in a filthy building on 132nd street. Her nausea worsened. She breathed deeply, willing herself to focus on something, anything good in her life.

Her little brother. Sam. 14 going on 20. Sam never seemed to remember that he was the youngest: he always acted like her older brother. He'd grown tough and hardened from all the moving around, from their Dad's leaving, from the way their Mom treated them both. She could see it was getting to him and could see that he was starting to close himself off. His frequent school fights didn't surprise her. She feared it would only get worse.

But when it came to Caitlin, Sam absolutely loved her. And she him. He was the only constant in her life, the only one she could rely on. He seemed to retain his one soft spot left in the world for her. She was determined to do her best to protect him.

"Caitlin?"

She jumped.

Standing over her, tray in one hand and violin case in the other, was Jonah.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Yes--I mean no," she said, flustered.

Idiot, she thought. Stop acting so nervous.

Jonah flashed that smile of his, then sat across from her. He sat erect, with perfect posture, and put his violin down carefully beside him. He gently laid out his food. There was something about him, something she couldn't quite place. He was different than anyone she'd ever met. It was like he was from a different era. He definitely did not belong in this place.

"How's your first day?" he asked.

"Not what I expected."

"I know what you mean," he said.

"Is that a violin?"

She nodded to his instrument. He kept it close, and kept one hand resting on it, as if afraid someone might steal it.

"It's a viola, actually. It's just a little bigger, but it's a much different sound. More mellow."

She'd never seen a viola, and hoped that he'd put it on the table and show her. But he didn't make a move to, and she didn't want to pry. He was still resting his hand on it, and he seemed protective of it, like it was personal and private.

"Do you practice a lot?"

Jonah shrugged. "A few hours a day," he said casually.

"A few hours!? You must be great!"

He shrugged again. "I'm OK, I guess. There are a lot of players much better than me. But I am hoping it's my ticket out of this place."

"I always wanted to play the piano," Caitlin said.

"Why don't you?"

She was going to say, I never had one, but stopped herself. Instead, she shrugged and looked back down at her food.

"You don't need to own a piano," Jonah said.

She looked up, startled that he'd read her mind.

"There's a rehearsal room in this school. For all the bad here, at least there's some good. They'll give you lessons for free. All you have to do is sign up."

Caitlin's eyes widened.

"Really?"

"There's a signup sheet outside the music room. Ask for Mrs. Lennox. Tell her you're my friend."

Friend. Caitlin liked the sound of that word. She slowly felt a happiness welling up inside of her.

She smiled wide. Their eyes locked for a moment.

Staring back into his glowing, green eyes, she burned with a desire to ask him a million questions: Do you have a girlfriend? Why are you being so nice? Do you really like me?

But, instead, she bit her tongue and said nothing.

Afraid that their time together would run out soon, she scanned her brain for something to ask him that would prolong their conversation. She tried to think of something that would assure her that she'd see him again. But she got nervous and froze up.

She finally opened her mouth, and just as she did, the bell rang.

The room erupted into noise and motion, and Jonah stood, grabbing his viola.

"I'm late," he said, gathering his tray.

He looked over at her tray. "Can I take yours?"

She looked down, realizing she'd forgotten it, and shook her head.

"OK," he said.

He stood there, suddenly shy, not knowing what to say.

"Well...see you."

"See you," she answered lamely, her voice barely above a whisper.

*

 Her first school day over, Caitlin exited the building into the sunny, March afternoon. Although a strong breeze was blowing, she didn't feel cold anymore. Although all the kids around her were screaming as they streamed out, she was no longer bothered by the noise. She felt alive, and free. The rest of the day had gone by in a blur; she couldn't even remember the name of a single new teacher.

She could not stop thinking about Jonah.

She wondered if she had acted like an idiot in the cafeteria. She had stumbled over her words; she barely even asked him any questions. All she could think of to ask him was about that stupid viola. She should have asked where he lived, where he was from, where he was applying to college.

Most of all, if he had a girlfriend. Someone like him had to be dating someone.

Just at that moment, a pretty, well-dressed Hispanic girl brushed by Caitlin. Caitlin looked her up and down as she passed, and wondered for a second if it was her.

Caitlin turned down 134th street, and for a second, forgot where she was going. She'd never walked home from school before, and for a moment, she blanked on where her new apartment was. She stood there on the corner, disoriented. A cloud covered the sun and a strong wind picked up, and she suddenly felt cold again.

"Hey, amiga!"

Caitlin turned, and realized she was standing in front of a filthy, corner bodega. Four seedy men sat in plastic chairs before it, seemingly oblivious to the cold, grinning at her as if she were their next meal.

"Come over here, baby!" yelled another.

She remembered.

132nd street. That's it.

She quickly turned and walked at a brisk pace down another side street. She checked over her shoulder a few times to see if those men were following her. Luckily, they weren't.

The cold wind stung her cheeks and woke her up, as the harsh reality of her new neighborhood started to sink in. She looked around at the abandoned cars, the graffitied walls, the barbed-wire, the bars on all the windows, and she suddenly felt very alone. And very afraid.

It was only 3 more blocks to her apartment, but it felt like a lifetime away. She wished she had a friend at her side--even better, Jonah--and she wondered if she could manage this walk alone every day. Once again, she felt angry at her Mom. How could she keep moving her, keep putting her in new places that she hated? When would it ever end?

Broken glass.

Caitlin's heart beat faster as she saw some activity up on the left, on the other side of the street. She walked quickly and tried to keep her head down, but as she got closer, she heard yells and grotesque laughter, and she couldn't help but notice what was going on.

Four huge kids--18 or 19, maybe--stood standing over another kid. Two of them held his arms, while the third stepped in and punched him in the gut, and the fourth stepped up and punched him in the face. The kid, maybe 17, tall, thin and defenseless, fell to the ground. Two of the boys stepped up and kicked him in the face.

Despite herself, Caitlin stopped and stared. She was horrified. She had never seen anything like it.

The other two kids took a few steps around their victim, then raised their boots high and brought them down.

Caitlin was afraid they were going to stomp the kid to death.

"NO!" she screamed.

There was a sick crunching sound as they brought their feet down.

But it wasn't the sound of broken bone--rather, it was the sound of wood. Crunching wood. Caitlin saw that they were stomping a small, musical instrument. She looked closely, and saw bits and pieces of a viola all over the sidewalk.

She raised her hand to her mouth in horror.

"Jonah!?"

Without thinking, Caitlin crossed the street, right to the pack of guys, who had by now begun to notice her. They looked at her and their evil smiles broadened as they elbowed each other.

She walked right up to the victim and saw that it was indeed Jonah. His face was bleeding and bruised, and he was unconscious.

She looked up at the pack of kids, her anger overpowering her fear, and stood between Jonah and them.

"Leave him alone!" she shouted to the group.

The kid in the middle, at least six-four, muscular, laughed back.

"Or what?" he asked, his voice very deep.

Caitlin felt the world rush by her, and realized that she'd just been shoved hard from behind. She raised her elbows as she hit the concrete, but that barely cushioned her fall. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her journal go flying, its loose papers spreading everywhere.

She heard laughter. And then footsteps, coming at her.

Heart pounding in her chest, her adrenaline kicked in. She managed to roll and scramble to her feet just before they reached her. She took off at a sprint down the alleyway, running for her life.

They followed close behind.

At one of her many schools, back when Caitlin thought she would have a long future somewhere, she took up Track, and realized she was good at it. The best on the team, actually. Not in long-distance, but in the 100 yard sprint. She could even outrun most of the guys. And now, it came flooding back to her.

She ran for her life, and the guys couldn't catch her.

Caitlin glanced back and saw how far behind they were, and felt optimistic that she could outrun them all. She just had to make the right turns.

The alleyway ended in a T, and she could either turn left or right. She wouldn't have time to change her decision if she wanted to maintain her lead, and she'd have to choose quick. She couldn't see what was around each corner, though. Blindly, she turned left.

She prayed it was the right choice. Come on. Please!

Her heart stopped as she made a sharp left and saw the dead end before her.

Wrong move.

A dead end. She ran right up to the wall, scanning for an exit, any exit. Realizing there was none, she turned to face her approaching attackers.

Out of breath, she watched them turn the corner and approach. She could see over their shoulders that if she had turned right, she would have been home free. Of course. Just her luck.

"All right, bitch," one of them said, "you're gonna suffer now."

Realizing she had no way out, they walked slowly towards her, breathing hard, grinning, and relishing the violence to come.

Caitlin closed her eyes and breathed deep. She tried to will Jonah to wake up, to appear around the corner, awake and all-powerful, ready to save her. But she opened her eyes and he wasn't there. Only her attackers. Getting closer.

She thought of her Mom, of how she hated her, of all the places she'd been forced to live. She thought of her brother Sam. She thought of what her life would be like after this day.

She thought of her whole life, of how she'd always been treated, of how no one understood her, of how nothing ever went her way. And something clicked. Somehow, she had had enough.

I don't deserve this. I DON'T deserve this!

And then, suddenly, she felt it.

It was a wave, something unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was a wave of rage, flooding through her, flushing her blood. It centered in her stomach, and spread from there. She could feel her feet rooted to the ground, as if she and the concrete were one, and could then feel a primal strength overcome her, course through her wrists, up her arms, into her shoulders.

Caitlin let out a primal roar that surprised and scared even her. As the first kid approached her and laid his beefy hand on her wrist, she watched as her hand reacted on its own, grabbing hold of her attacker's wrist and twisting it backwards at a right angle. The kid's face contorted in shock as his wrist, and then arm, were snapped in two.

He dropped to his knees, screaming.

The three other boys' eyes opened wide in surprise.

The largest of the three charged right at her.

"You fuc--"

Before he could finish, she had jumped up in the air and planted her two feet squarely in his chest, sending him flying back about ten feet and slamming into a stack of metal garbage cans.

He lay there, not moving.

The other two kids looked at each other, shocked. And truly scared.

Caitlin stepped up and, feeling an inhuman strength course through her, and heard herself snarl as she picked up the two kids (each twice her size), hoisting each several feet off the ground with a single hand.

As they hung dangling in the air, she swung them back, then swung them together, crushing each into the other with an incredible force. They both collapsed to the ground.

Caitlin stood there, breathing, foaming with rage.

All four boys were not moving.

She didn't feel relieved. On the contrary, she wanted more. More kids to fight. More bodies to throw.

And she wanted something else.

She suddenly had crystal clear vision, and was able to zoom in on their necks, exposed. She could see down to the tenth of an inch, and she could see, from where she stood, the veins pulsing in each. She wanted to bite. To feed.

Not understanding what was happening to her, she tossed her head back and let out an unearthly shriek, echoing off the buildings and down the block. It was a primal shriek of victory, and of unfulfilled rage.

It was the shriek of an animal that wanted more.

# Chapter Two

Caitlin stood before the door to her new apartment, staring, and suddenly realized where she was. She had no idea how she got there. The last thing she remembered, she'd been in the alley. Somehow, she'd got herself back home.

She remembered, though, every second of what happened in that alleyway. She tried to erase it from her mind, but couldn't. She looked down at her arms and hands, expecting to see them look different--but they were normal. Just as they had always been. The rage had swept through her, transforming her, then had just as quickly left.

But the after-effects remained: she felt hollowed out, for one. Numb. And she felt something else. She couldn't quite figure it. Images kept flashing through her mind, images of those bullies' exposed necks. Of their heartbeat pulsing. And she felt a hunger. A craving.

Caitlin really didn't want to return home. She didn't want to deal with her Mom, especially today, didn't want to deal with a new place, with unpacking. If it weren't for Sam being in there, she may have just turned around and left. Where she'd go, she had no idea--but at least she'd be walking.

She took a deep breath and reached out and placed her hand on the knob. Either the knob was warm, or her hand was as cold as ice.

Caitlin entered the too-bright apartment. She could smell food on the stove--or probably, in the microwave. Sam. He always got home early and made himself dinner. Her Mom wouldn't be home for hours.

"That doesn't look like a good first day."

Caitlin turned, shocked at the sound of her Mom's voice. She sat there, on the couch, smoking a cigarette, already looking Caitlin up and down with scorn.

"What did ya, ruin that sweater already?"

Caitlin looked down and noticed for the first time the dirt stains; probably from hitting the cement.

"Why are you home so early?" Caitlin asked.

"First day for me, too, ya know," she snapped. "You're not the only one. Light workload. Boss sent me home early."

Caitlin couldn't take her Mom's nasty tone. Not tonight. She was always being snotty towards her, and tonight, Caitlin had enough. She decided to give her a taste of her own medicine.

"Great," Caitlin snapped back. "Does that mean we're moving again?"

Her Mom suddenly jumped to her feet. "You watch that fresh mouth of yours!" she screamed.

Caitlin knew her Mom had just been waiting for an excuse to yell at her. She figured it was best to just bait her and get it over with.

"You shouldn't smoke around Sam," Caitlin answered coldly, then entered her tiny bedroom and slammed the door behind her, locking it.

Immediately, her Mom banged at the door.

"You come out here, you little brat! What kind of way is that to talk to your mother!? Who puts bread on your table...."

On this night, Caitlin, so distracted, was able to drown out her Mom's voice. Instead, she replayed in her mind the day's events. The sound of those kids' laughter. The sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. The sound of her own roar.

What exactly had happened? How did she get such strength? Was it just an adrenaline rush? A part of her wished it was. But another part of her knew it wasn't. What was she?

The banging on her door continued, but Caitlin barely heard it. Her cell sat on her desk, vibrating like crazy, lighting up with IMs, texts, emails, Facebook chats--but she barely heard that, too.

She moved to her tiny window and looked down at the corner of Amsterdam Ave, and a new sound rose in her mind. It was the sound of Jonah's voice. The image of his smile. A low, deep, soothing voice. She recalled how delicate he was, how fragile he seemed. Then she saw him lying on the ground, bloody, his precious instrument in pieces. A fresh wave of anger arose.

Her anger morphed into worry--worry if he was all right, if he'd walked away, if he made it home. She imagined him calling to her. Caitlin. Caitlin.

"Caitlin?"

A new voice was outside her door. A boy's voice.

Confused, she snapped out of it.

"It's Sam. Let me in."

She went to her door and leaned her head against it.

"Mom's gone," said the voice on the other side. "Went down for cigarettes. Come on, let me in."

She opened the door.

Sam stood there, staring back, concern etched on his face. At 15, he looked older than his age. He'd grown early, to almost six feet, but he hadn't filled out yet, and he was awkward and gangly. With black hair and brown eyes, his coloring was similar to hers. They definitely looked related. She could see the concern on his face. He loved her more than anything.

She let him in, quickly closing the door behind him.

"Sorry," she said. "I just can't deal with her tonight."

"What happened with you two?"

"The usual. She was on me the second I walked in."

"I think she had a hard day," Sam said, trying to make peace between them, as always. "I hope they don't fire her again."

"Who cares? New York, Arizona, Texas...Who cares what's next? Our moving won't ever end."

Sam frowned as he sat on her desk chair, and she immediately felt bad. She sometimes had a harsh tongue, spoke without thinking, and she wished she could take it back.

"How was your first day?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

He shrugged. "OK, I guess." He toed the chair with his foot.

He looked up. "Yours?"

She shrugged. There must have been something in her expression, because he didn't look away. He kept looking at her.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," she said defensively, and turned and walked towards the window.

She could feel him watching her.

"You seem...different."

She paused, wondering if he knew, wondering if her outside appearance showed any changes. She swallowed.

"How?"

Silence.

"I don't know," he finally answered.

She stared out the window, watching aimlessly as a man outside the corner bodega slipped a buyer a dime bag.

"I hate this new place," he said.

She turned and faced him.

"So do I."

"I was even thinking about..." he lowered his head, "...taking off."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged.

She looked at him. He seemed really depressed.

"Where?" she asked.

"Maybe...track down Dad."

"How? We have no idea where he is."

"I could try. I could find him."

"How?"

"I don't know.... But I could try."

"Sam. He could be dead for all we know."

"Don't say that!" he yelled, and his face turned bright red.

"Sorry," she said.

He calmed back down.

"But did you ever consider that, even if we found him, he may not even want to see us? After all, he left. And he's never tried to get in touch."

"Maybe cause Mom won't let him."

"Or maybe cause he just doesn't like us."

Sam's frown deepened as he toed the floor again. "I looked him up on Facebook."

Caitlin's eyes opened wide in surprise.

"You found him?"

"I'm not sure. There were 4 people with his name. 2 of them were private and had no picture. I sent them both a message."

"And?"

Sam shook his head.

"I haven't heard anything back."

"Dad would not be on Facebook."

"You don't know that," he answered, once again defensive.

Caitlin sighed and walked over to her bed and lay down. She stared up at the yellowing ceiling, paint peeling, and wondered how they all had reached this point. There were towns they'd been happy in, even times when their Mom seemed almost happy. Like when she was dating that guy. Happy enough, at least, to leave Caitlin alone.

There were towns, like the last one, where she and Sam both made a few good friends, where it seemed like they might actually stay--at least long enough to graduate in one place. And then it all seemed to turn so fast. Packing again. Saying goodbyes. Was it too much to ask for a normal childhood?

"I could move back to Oakville," Sam said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. Their last town. It was uncanny how he always knew exactly what she was thinking. "I could stay with friends."

The day was getting to her. It was just too much. She wasn't thinking clearly, and in her frustration, what she was hearing was that Sam was getting ready to abandon her, too, that he didn't really care about her anymore.

"Then go!" she suddenly snapped, without meaning to. It was as if someone else had said it. She heard the harshness in her own voice, and immediately regretted it.

Why did she just have to blurt things out like that? Why couldn't she control herself?

If she'd been in a better mood, if she'd been calmer and hadn't had so much thrown at her at once, she wouldn't have said it. Or she would have been nicer. She would have said something like, I know what you're trying to say is that you'd never leave this place, no matter how bad it got, because you wouldn't leave me alone to deal with all this. And I love you for it. And I'd never abandon you either. In this messed up childhood of ours, at least we have each other. Instead, her mood had gotten the worst of her. Instead, she acted selfish, and snapped.

She sat up and could see the hurt etched on his face. She wanted to take it back, to say she was sorry, but she was just too overwhelmed. Somehow, she couldn't get herself to open her mouth.

In the silence, Sam slowly stood up from her desk chair and exited the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Idiot, she thought. You're such an idiot. Why do you have to treat him the same way Mom treats you?

She lay back down, staring at the ceiling. She realized that there was another reason she snapped. He'd interrupted her thoughts, and he'd done so just at a moment when they were turning for the worse. A dark thought had crossed her mind, and he'd cut her off before she'd had a chance to resolve it.

Her Mom 's ex-boyfriend. Three towns ago. It had been the one time her Mom had actually seemed happy. Frank. 50. Short, beefy, balding. Thick as a log. Smelled like cheap cologne. She had been 16.

She had been standing in the tiny laundry room, folding her clothes, when Frank appeared at the door. He was such a creep, always staring at her. He reached down and picked up a pair of her underwear, and she could feel her cheeks flush in embarrassment and anger. He held them up and grinned.

"Dropped these," he said, grinning. She'd snatched them out of his hands.

"What do you want?" she'd snapped back.

"Is that any way to talk to your new step-dad?"

He took a half step closer.

"You're not my step-dad."

"But I will be--soon."

She tried to go back to folding her clothes, but he took another step closer. Too close. Her heart pounded in her chest.

"I think it's time we got to know each other a little bit better," he'd said, removing his belt. "Don't you?"

Horrified, she tried to squeeze past him and out the door in the small room, but as she did, he blocked her way, and roughly grabbed her and slammed her back against the wall.

That's when it happened.

A rage had flooded through her. A rage unlike anything she'd ever experienced. She felt her body heating up, on fire, from her toes to her scalp. As he approached her, she jumped straight up and kicked him, planting both feet squarely on his chest.

Despite being a third of his size, he flew backwards through the door, cracking the wood off its hinges, and kept going, ten feet into the next room. It was as if a cannon had blasted him through the house.

Caitlin had stood there, trembling. She had never been a violent person, had never so much as punched someone. Moreover, she was not that big, or strong. How had she known had to kick him like that? How had she even had the strength to do it? She had never seen anyone--much less a grown man--go flying through the air, or shatter a door. Where had her strength come from?

She had walked over to him, and stood over him.

He was knocked out cold, flat on his back. She wondered if she'd killed him. But at that moment, the rage still filling her, she didn't really care. She was more worried about herself, about who--or what--she really was.

She never saw Frank again. He broke up with her Mom the next day, and never came back. Her Mom had suspected something happened between the two of them, but she never said a word. She did, though, blame Caitlin for the breakup, for ruining the one happy time in her life. And she hadn't stopped blaming her since.

Caitlin looked back up at her peeling ceiling, heart pounding all over again. She thought of today's rage, and wondered if the two episodes were connected. She had always assumed that Frank had just been a crazy, isolated incident, some weird burst of strength. But now she wondered if it was something more. Was there some kind of power inside of her? Was she some kind of freak?

Who was she?

# Chapter Three

Caitlin ran. The bullies were back, and they were chasing her down the alleyway. A dead end lay before her, a massive wall, but she ran anyway, right towards it. As she ran, she picked up speed, impossible speed, and the buildings flew by in a blur. She could feel the wind rushing through her hair.

As she got closer, she leapt, and in a single bound she was at the top of the wall, thirty feet high. One more leap, and she flew through the air again, thirty feet, twenty, landing on the concrete without losing a stride, still running, running. She felt powerful, invincible. Her speed increased even more, and she felt like she could fly.

She looked down and before her eyes the concrete changed to grass--tall, swaying, green grass. She ran through a prairie, the sun shining, and she recognized it as the home of her early childhood.

In the distance, she could sense that her father stood on the horizon. As she ran, she felt she was getting closer to him. She saw him coming into focus. He stood with a large smile, and arms spread wide.

She ached to see him again. She ran for all she was worth. But as she got closer, he got further away.

Suddenly, she was falling.

A huge, medieval door opened, and she entered a church. She walked down a dimly-lit aisle, torches burning on either side of her. Before a pulpit, a man stood with his back to her, kneeling. As she got closer, he stood and turned.

It was a priest. He looked at her, and his face filled with fear. She felt the blood coursing through her veins, and she watched herself as she approached him, unable to stop herself. He raised a cross to her face, afraid.

She pounced on him. She felt her teeth grow long, too long, and watched as they plunged into the priest's neck.

He shrieked, but she didn't care. She felt his blood course through her teeth and into her veins, and it was the greatest feeling of her life.

Caitlin sat straight up in bed, breathing hard. She looked all around her, disoriented. Harsh morning sunlight streamed in.

Finally, she realized she had been dreaming. She wiped the cool sweat from her temples and sat on the edge of her bed.

Silence. Judging from the light, Sam and her Mom must have already left. She looked at the clock and saw that it was indeed late: 8:15. She'd be late for her second day of school.

Perfect.  
She was surprised that Sam hadn't woken her up. In all their years, he'd never let her oversleep--he'd always wake her if he was leaving first.

He must still be mad about last night.

She glanced at her cell: dead. She had forgot to charge it. It was just as well. She didn't feel like talking to anyone.

She threw on some clothes from the floor and ran her hands through her hair. She normally would just leave without eating, but this morning she felt thirsty. Unusually thirsty. She went to the fridge and grabbed a half gallon of red grapefruit juice. In a sudden frenzy, she tore off the top and gulped it right from the container. She didn't stop gulping until she'd downed the entire half gallon.

She looked at the empty container. Had she just drank all of that? In her life, she'd never drank more than a half a glass. She watched herself reach up and crush the cardboard container in a single hand, down to a tiny ball. She couldn't understand what this newfound strength was that coursed through her veins. It was exciting. And scary.

She was still thirsty. And hungry. But not for food. Her veins screamed for something more, but she couldn't understand what.

*

It was strange to see the hallways of her school so empty, the complete opposite of the day before. With class in session, there wasn't a soul in site. She glanced at her watch: 8:40. There were 15 minutes left to her third class of the day. She wondered whether it was worth it to even go at all, but then again, she didn't know where else to go. So she followed the hallway numbers towards the room.

She stopped outside the classroom door, and could hear the teacher's voice. She hesitated. She hated to interrupt, to be so conspicuous. But she didn't see what other choice she had.

She took a deep breath and turned the metal knob.

She entered, and the entire class stopped and looked up at her. Including the teacher.

Silence.

"Ms...." the teacher, forgetting her name, walked to her desk and picked up a piece of paper, scanning it, "....Paine. The new girl. You are 25 minutes late."

A stern, older woman, the teacher glared down at Caitlin.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

Caitlin hesitated.

"Sorry?"

"That's not good enough. It may be acceptable to be late to class wherever you are from, but it's certainly not acceptable here."

"Unacceptable," Caitlin said, and immediately regretted it.

An awkward silence covered the room.

"Excuse me?" the teacher asked, slowly.

"You said 'not acceptable.' You meant 'unacceptable.'"

"OH--SHIT!" exclaimed a noisy boy from the back of the room, and the entire class erupted into laughter.

The teacher's face turned bright red.

"You little brat. Report to the Principal's office right now!"

The teacher marched over and opened the door beside Caitlin. She stood inches away, close enough so that Caitlin could smell her cheap perfume. "Out of my classroom!"

Normally Caitlin would have slinked quietly out of the room--in fact, she would have never corrected a teacher to begin with. But something had shifted within her, something she didn't entirely understand, and she felt a defiance rising. She didn't feel that she had to show respect to anyone. And she no longer felt afraid.

Instead, Caitlin stood where she was, ignoring the teacher, and slowly scanned the classroom, looking for Jonah. The room was packed, and she looked row to row. No sign of him.

"Ms. Paine! Did you not hear what I said!?"

Caitlin looked defiantly back. Then she turned and slowly walked out of the room.

She could feel the door slam behind her, and then heard the muffled clamor in the room, followed by, "Quiet down, class!"

Caitlin continued down the empty hallway, wandering, not really sure where she was going.

She heard footsteps. In the distance, a security guard appeared. He walked right for her.

"Pass!" he barked at her, still a good twenty feet away.

"What?" she answered.

He got closer.

"Where's your hall pass? You're supposed to hold it out visibly at all times."

"What pass?"

He stopped and examined her. He was an ugly, mean-looking man, with a huge mole on his forehead.

"You can't walk the halls without a signed pass. You know that. Where is it?"

"I didn't know--"

He picked up his CB radio, and said into it, "Hall pass violation in wing 14. I'm bringing her to detention now."

"Detention?" Caitlin asked, confused. "What are you--"

He grabbed her roughly by the arm and yanked her down the hall.

"Not another word out of you!" he snapped.

Caitlin didn't like the feel of his fingers digging into her arm, leading her as if she were a child. She could feel the heat rising through her body. She felt the Rage coming on. She didn't quite know how, or why, but she knew. And she knew that, in moments, she wouldn't be able to control her anger--or her use of force.

She had to stop it before it was too late. She used every ounce of her will to make it stop. But as long as his fingers were on her, it would just not go away.

She flung her arm quickly, before the full power took over her, and watched as his hand went flying off of her, and as he stumbled several feet back.

He stared back at her, shocked that a girl her size could throw him several feet across the hall with just a slight jerk of her arm. He wavered between outrage and fear. She could see him debating whether to attack her or back off. He lowered his hand to his belt, on which hung a large can of pepper spray.

"Lay your hands on me again, young lady," he said in a cold rage, "and I will mace you."

"Then don't put your hands on me," she answered defiantly. She was shocked at the sound of her own voice. It had changed. It was deeper, more primal.

He slowly removed his hand from the spray. He gave in.

"Walk in front of me," he said. "Down the hall and up those stairs."

*

The security guard left her at the crowded entrance to the Principal's office, and as he did, his radio went off, and he hurried off to another location. Before he did, he turned to her.

"Don't let me see you in these hallways again," he snapped.

Caitlin turned and saw fifteen kids, all ages, sitting, standing, all apparently waiting to see the principal. They all seemed like misfits. They were being processed, one student at a time. A guard stood watch, but lackadaisically, nodding off as he stood.

Caitlin didn't feel like waiting half the day, and she certainly didn't feel like meeting the Principal. She shouldn't have been late to school, that's true, but she didn't deserve this. She'd had enough.

The hallway door opened and a security guard dragged in three more kids, fighting and shoving. Mayhem ensued in the small waiting area, which was completely packed. Then the bell rang, and beyond the glass doors, she could see the hallways filling up. It was now mayhem inside and out.

Caitlin saw her chance. As the door opened again, she ducked past another kid and slipped out into the hall.

She looked quickly over her shoulder, but didn't see anyone notice. She quickly cut across the thick crowd of kids, making it to the other side, then around the corner. She checked again: still no one coming.

She was safe. Even if the guards noticed her absence--which she doubted, since she was never even processed--she was already too far away to catch. She hurried even faster down the hall, putting more distance between them, and headed towards the cafeteria. She had to find Jonah. She had to know if he was all right.

The cafeteria was packed,  and she quickly walked up and down the aisles, looking for him. Nothing. She walked a second time, slowly scanning every table, and still couldn't find him.

She regretted not going back to him, not checking on his wounds, not calling an ambulance. She wondered if he had been really hurt. Maybe he was in the hospital. Maybe he wouldn't even come back to school.

Depressed, she grabbed a tray of food and found a table with a clear view of the door. She sat there, hardly eating, and watched every kid who came in, hoping for a sign of him each time the door swung open.

But he never came.

The bell rang, and the cafeteria emptied out. Still, she sat there waiting.

Nothing.

*

The final bell of the school day rang, and Caitlin stood before her assigned locker. She looked down at the combination printed in the piece of paper in her hand, turned the knob and pulled. It didn't work. She looked down and tried the combination again. This time, it opened.

She stared at the empty, metal locker. The inside door was lined with graffiti. Otherwise, it was completely bare. Depressing. She thought of all her other schools, of how she would rush to find her locker, to open it, to memorize the combination, and to line the door with pictures of boys from magazines. It was her way of gaining a little bit of control, of making herself at home, of finding her one spot in the school, of making something familiar.

But somewhere along the line, a few schools ago, she became less enthusiastic. She began to wonder what the point was in even bothering, since it was only a matter of time until she had to move again. She became slower and slower to decorate her locker.

This time, she wouldn't even bother. She closed the door with a bang.

"Caitlin?"

She jumped.

Standing there, a foot away, stood Jonah.

He wore large sunglasses. She could see that the skin beneath them was swollen.

She was shocked to see him standing there. And thrilled. In fact, she was surprised at how thrilled she was. A warm, nervous feeling centered in her stomach. She felt her throat go dry.

There was so much she wanted to ask him: if he got home OK, if he saw those bullies again, if he saw her there.... But somehow, the words couldn't get themselves from her brain to her mouth.

"Hey," was all she managed to say.

He stood there, staring. He looked unsure how to begin.

"I missed you in class today," she said, and immediately regretted her choice of words.

Stupid. You should have said, "I didn't see you in class." "Miss" sounds desperate.

"I came in late," he said.

"Me, too," she said.

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. She noticed his viola was not at his side. So it was real. It wasn't all just a bad dream.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

She gestured at his glasses.

He reached up and slowly took them off.

His face was purple and swollen. There were cuts and bandages on his forehead and beside his eye.

"I've been better," he said. He seemed embarrassed.

"Oh my god," she said, feeling terrible at the sight. She knew she should at least feel good about having helped him, about sparing him more damage. But instead she felt bad for not being there sooner, for not coming back for him. But after...it had happened, it had all been a blur. She couldn't really remember how she'd even gotten home. "I'm so sorry."

"Did you hear how it happened?" he asked.

He looked at her intently, with his bright green eyes, and she felt he was testing her. As if he was trying to get her to admit that she was there.

Had he seen her? He couldn't have. He was out cold. Or was he? Did he maybe see what happened afterwards? Should she admit that she had been there?

On the one hand, she was dying to tell him how she had helped him, to win his approval, and his gratitude. On the other, there was no way she could explain what she did without seeming like either a liar or some kind of freak.

No, she concluded internally. You can't tell him. You can't.

"No," she lied. "I don't really know anyone here, remember?"

He paused.

"I got jumped," he said. "Walking home from school."

"I'm so sorry," she said again. She sounded like an idiot, repeating the same stupid phrase, but she didn't want to say anything that would give too much away.

"Yeah, my Dad's pretty pissed," he continued. "They got my viola."

"That sucks," she said. "Will he get you a new one?"

Jonah shook his head slowly. "He said no. He can't afford it. And that I should have been more careful with it."

Concern crossed Caitlin's face. "But I thought you said that was your ticket out?"

He shrugged.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Maybe the cops will find it," she said. She remembered, of course, that it was broken, but she thought that by saying this, it would help prove to him that she didn't know.

He looked her over carefully, as if trying to judge if she were lying.

Finally, he said, "They smashed it." He paused. "Some people just feel the need to destroy other peoples' stuff, I guess."

"Oh my god," she said, trying her best not to reveal anything, "that's horrible."

"My Dad's pissed at me that I didn't fight back....But that's not who I am."

"What jerks. Maybe the cops will catch them," she said.

A small grin passed Jonah's face. "That's the weird thing. They already got theirs."

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to sound convincing.

"I found these guys down the alley, right after. They were beat down worse than me. Not even moving." His grin widened. "Someone got to them. I guess there is a God."

"That's so strange," she said.

"Maybe I have a guardian angel," he said, looking her over closely.

"Maybe," she answered.

He stared at her for a long time, as if waiting for her to volunteer something, to hint at something. But she didn't.

"And there was something even stranger than all that," he said, finally.

He reached down and pulled something out of his backpack, and held it out.

"I found this."

She stared down in shock. It was her journal.

She felt her cheeks redden as she took it, both delighted to have it back and horrified that he had this piece of evidence that she was there. He must know for sure now that she was lying.

"It has your name in it. It is yours, right?"

She nodded, surveying it. It was all there. She had forgotten about it.

"There were some loose pages. I gathered them all up and put them back in. I hope I got them all," he said.

"You did," she said softly, touched, embarrassed.

"I followed the trail of pages, and the funny thing is....they lead me down the alley."

She continued to look down at the book, refusing to make eye contact.

"How do you suppose your journal got there?" he asked.

She looked him in the eye, doing her best to keep a straight face.

"I was walking home last night, and I lost it somewhere. Maybe they found it."

He studied her.

Finally, he said, "Maybe."

They stood there, in silence.

"The weirdest thing of all," he continued, "is that, before I went completely unconscious, I could have sworn I saw you there, standing over me, yelling at those guys to leave me alone....Isn't that crazy?"

He studied her, and she looked him back, straight in the eye.

"I'd have to be pretty crazy to do a thing like that," she said. Despite herself, a small smile started at the corner of her mouth.

He paused, then broke into a wide grin.

"Yes," he answered, "you would."

# Chapter Four

Caitlin was on cloud nine as she walked home from school, clutching her journal. She hadn't been this happy in she didn't know when. Jonah's words replayed in her head.

"There's this concert tonight. At Carnegie Hall. I've got two free tickets. They're the worst seats in the house, but the vocalist is supposed to be amazing."

"Are you asking me out?" she'd said, smiling.

He'd smiled back.

"If you don't mind going with this lump of bruises," he'd said, smiling back. "After all, it is Friday night."

She practically skipped home, unable to contain her excitement. She didn't know anything about classical music--she'd never even really listened to it before--but she didn't care. She'd go anywhere with him.

Carnegie Hall. He said the dress was fancy. What would she wear? She checked her watch. She wouldn't have much time to change if she was going to meet him at that café before the concert. She doubled her pace.

Before she knew it, she was home, and even the dreariness of her building didn't bring her down. She bounded up the five flights of stairs and hardly even felt it as she walked into her new apartment.

Her Mom's scream came right away: "You fucking bitch!"

Caitlin ducked just in time, as her Mom threw a book right at her face. It went flying past her, and smashed into the wall.

Before Caitlin could speak, her Mom charged--fingernails out, aiming right for her face.

Caitlin reached up and caught her wrists just in time. She tangled with her, going back and forth.

Caitlin could feel her newfound power surging through her veins, and she felt that she could throw her Mom across the room without even trying. But she willed herself to control it, and she shoved her off, but only hard enough to send her onto the couch.

Her Mom, on the couch, suddenly broke into tears. She sat there, sobbing.

"It's your fault!" she screamed between her sobs.

"What's wrong with you?" Caitlin screamed back, completely off guard, having no idea what was going on. Even for her Mom, this was crazy behavior.

"Sam."

Her Mom held out a piece of notebook paper.

Caitlin's heart pounded as she took it, a feeling of dread washing over her. Whatever it was, she knew it couldn't be good.

"He's gone!"

Caitlin scanned the handwritten note. She couldn't really concentrate as she read, only picking out fragments--running away...don't want to be here...back with my friends...don't try to find me.

Her hands were shaking. Sam had done it. He'd really left. And he didn't even wait for her. Didn't even wait to say goodbye.

"It's because of you!" her Mom spat.

A part of Caitlin couldn't believe it. She ran through the apartment, opened Sam's door, half expecting to find him there.

But the room was empty. Immaculate. Not a single thing left. Sam had never kept his room that clean. It was true. He was really gone.

Caitlin felt the bile rise up in her throat. She couldn't help feeling that this time her Mom was right, that it was her fault. Sam had asked her. And she had said, "Just go."

Just go. Why did she have to say that? She planned on apologizing, on taking it back, the next morning, but he was already gone when she woke up. She was going to talk to him when she got home today. But now it was too late.

She knew where he must have gone. There's only one place he would go: their last town. He'd be OK. Better, probably, than he was here. He had friends there. The more it sank in, the less she worried. In fact, she was happy for him. He'd finally made it out. And she knew how to track him down.

But she'd have to deal with this later. She glanced at her watch and realized she was late. She ran into her room, quickly grabbed the nicest clothes and shoes she'd had, and threw them all in a gym bag. She'd have to go without makeup. There just wasn't time.

"Why do you have to destroy everything you touch!?" her Mom screamed, now right behind her. "I never should have taken you in!"

Caitlin stared back, shocked.

"What are you talking about!?"

"That's right," her Mom continued. "I took you in. You're not mine. You never were. You were his. You're not my real daughter. Do you hear me!? I'd be ashamed to have you as a daughter!"

Caitlin could see the venom in her black eyes. She'd never seen her Mom in this deep of a rage. Her eyes held murder.

"Why did you have to chase away the one thing that was good in my life!?" her Mom yelled.

This time her Mom charged her with two hands held out in front, and went right for her throat. Before Caitlin could react, she was being choked. Hard.

Caitlin fought for breath. But her Mom 's grip was iron. It was truly meant to kill.

The rage flooded Caitlin, and this time she couldn't stop it. She could feel the familiar, prickly heat, starting at her toes, and working its way up through her arms and shoulders. She let it envelop her. As it did, the muscles in her neck bulged. Without doing a thing, her Mom's grip loosened.

Her Mom must have seen the transformation begin, because she suddenly looked afraid. Caitlin threw her head back and roared. She had transformed into a thing of fear.

Her Mom dropped her grip, and took a step back and stared, mouth open.

Caitlin reached up with one hand and shoved her, and she went flying backwards with such force that she went through the wall, shattering it with a crash, and into the other room. She kept going, smashing into yet another wall, and collapsing, unconscious.

Caitlin breathed hard, trying to focus. She surveyed the apartment, asking herself if there was anything she wanted to take with her. She knew there was, but she couldn't think clearly. She grabbed her gym bag of clothes, and walked out of her room, through the rubble, past her mother.

Her Mom lay there, groaning, already starting to sit up.

Caitlin kept walking, right out of the apartment.

It was the last time, she vowed, she would see it again.

# Chapter Five

Caitlin walked quickly in the cold, March night down the side street, her heart still pounding from her episode with her mother. The cold air stung her face, and it felt good. Calming. She breathed deeply, and felt free. She would never have to go back to that apartment again, never have to retrace those grimy steps. Never have to see this neighborhood. And never have to step foot in that school. She had no idea where she was going, but at least it would be far from here.

Caitlin reached the avenue and looked up, scanning for a free cab. After a minute or so of waiting, she realized she wouldn't get one. The subway was her only option.

Caitlin marched towards the 135th Street station. She'd never taken a New York City subway before. She wasn't really sure which line to take, or where to get off, and this was the worst time to experiment. She dreaded what she might encounter down in the station on a cold, March night--especially in this neighborhood.

She descended the graffiti-lined steps and approached the booth. Luckily, it was manned.

"I need to get to Columbus Circle," Caitlin said.

The overweight agent behind the plexiglass ignored her.

"Excuse me," Caitlin said, "but I need to -"

"I said down the platform!" snapped the woman.

"No you didn't," Caitlin answered. "You didn't say anything!"

The agent just ignored her again.

"How much is it?"

"Two fifty," snapped the agent.

Caitlin dug into her pocket and extracted three crumpled dollar bills. She slid them under the glass.

The agent, still ignoring her, slid back a Metrocard.

Caitlin just swiped the card and entered the system.

The platform was poorly lit, and nearly deserted. Two homeless people occupied the bench, draped in blankets. One slept, but the other looked up at her as she walked by. He started mumbling. Caitlin walked faster.

She went to the edge of the platform and leaned over, looking for the train. Nothing.

Come on. Come on.

She glanced at her watch yet again. Already five minutes late. She wondered how much longer it would take. She wondered if Jonah would leave. She couldn't blame him.

She noticed something moving quickly out of the corner of her eye. She turned. Nothing.

As she looked closely, she thought she saw a shadow creep along the white tiled, linoleum wall, then slink down into the railway track. She felt like she was being watched.

But she looked again and saw nothing.

I must be seeing things.

Caitlin walked over to the large subway map. It was scratched and torn and covered in graffiti, but she could still make out the subway line. At least she was at the right place. It should take her right to Columbus Circle. She started to feel a bit better.

"You lost, baby?"

Caitlin turned and saw a large, black man standing over her. He was unshaven, and when he grinned, she noticed that he was missing teeth. He leaned in too close, and she could smell his terrible breath. Drunk.

She sidestepped him and walked several feet away.

"Hey bitch, I'm talking to you!"

Caitlin kept walking.

The man seemed high, and he staggered and swayed as he slowly headed her way. But Caitlin walked much faster, and it was a long platform, so there was still room between them. She really wanted to avoid another confrontation. Not here. Not now.

He got closer. She wondered how long it would be until she'd have no choice but to confront him. Please God, get me out of here.

Just then, a deafening noise filled the station, and the train suddenly arrived. Thank God.

She boarded, and watched with satisfaction as the doors closed on the man. Drunk, he cursed and banged on the metal casing.

The train took off, and in moments he was no more than a blur. She was on her way out of this neighborhood. On her way to a new life.

*

Caitlin exited at Columbus Circle and walked at a brisk pace. She checked her watch again. She was 20 minutes late. She swallowed.

Please be there. Please don't go. Please.

As she walked, just a few blocks away, she suddenly felt a pang in her stomach. She stopped, taken aback by the intense pain.

She bent over, clutching her stomach, unable to move. She wondered if people were staring at her, but she was in too much pain to care. She'd never experienced anything like this before. She struggled to catch her breath.

People passed quickly by on either side, but no one stopped to check if she was OK.

After about a minute, she finally, slowly, stood back up. The pain began to subside.

She breathed deeply, wondering what it could possibly have been.

She began walking again, heading in the direction of the café. But she now felt completely disoriented. And something else....Hunger. It wasn't a normal hunger, but a deep, unquenchable thirst. As a woman walked past her, walking her dog, Caitlin noticed herself turning and staring at the animal. She found herself craning her neck and watching the animal as it walked past, and staring at its neck.

To her surprise, she could see the details of the veins on the dog's skin, the blood coursing through it. She watched the heartbeat through the blood, and she felt a dull, numbing sensation in her own teeth. She wanted that dog's blood.

As if sensing itself being watched, the dog turned as it walked, and stared with fear up at Caitlin. It growled, and hurried away. The owner of the dog turned and looked at Caitlin, not understanding.

Caitlin walked on. She couldn't understand what was happening to her. She loved dogs. She would never want to harm an animal, much less a fly. What was happening to her?

The hunger pains disappeared as quickly as they had come, and Caitlin felt herself returning to normal. As she rounded the corner, the café came into sight, and she doubled her pace, breathed deep, and almost felt herself again. She checked her watch. 30 minutes late. She prayed he'd be there.

She opened the doors. Her heart was pounding, this time not from pain, but from the fear that Jonah would be gone.

Caitlin quickly scanned the place. She walked in fast, out of breath, and already felt conspicuous. She could feel all eyes on her, and scanned the row of diners to her left, and to her right. But there was no sign of Jonah. Her heart fell. He must have left.

"Caitlin?"

Caitlin spun around. There, grinning, stood Jonah. She fell her heart swell with joy.

"I am so sorry," she said in a rush. "I am usually never late. I just - it just -"

"It's OK," he said, gently laying his hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it, really. I'm just glad you're okay," he added.

She looked up into his smiling, green eyes, framed by a still bruised and swollen face, and for the first time that day, she felt at peace. She felt that everything could be all right after all.

"The only thing is, we don't have much time if we're going to make it," he said. "We only have about five minutes. So I guess we'll have to have that cup of coffee another time."

"That's fine," she said. "I'm just so happy that we didn't miss the concert altogether. I feel like such a -"

Caitlin suddenly looked down and was horrified to realize that she was still dressed in her casual clothing. She was still clutching her gym bag which held her nice clothes and shoes. She had meant to get to the café early, slip into the bathroom, change into her nice clothing, and be ready to meet Jonah. Now she was standing there, facing him, dressed like a slob, and clutching a gym bag. Her cheeks reddened. She didn't know what to possibly say.

"Jonah, I am so sorry that I am dressed like this," she said. "I meant to change before I came, but....Did you say we have five minutes?"

He looked at his watch, a flash of concern crossing his face.

"Yes, but--"

"I'll be right back," she said, and before he could answer, she raced through the restaurant, heading for the bathroom.

Caitlin burst into the bathroom and locked it behind her. She tore open her gym bag and yanked out all of her nice clothing, now rumpled. She yanked off her clothes and sneakers, and quickly put on her black velvet skirt, and a white silk blouse. She also took out her faux diamond earrings and put them on. They were cheap, but they worked. She finished the outfit off with black, high-heeled shoes.

She checked the mirror. She was a little bit rumpled, not as bad as she would have imagined. Her slightly open blouse displayed the small, silver cross she still wore about her neck. She had no time for makeup, but at least she was dressed. She quickly ran her hands through the water and dabbed her hair, putting some strands in place. She completed the outfit with her black, leather clutch.

She was about to run out, when she noticed her pile of old clothing and sneakers. She hesitated, debating. She really didn't want to carry those clothes with her the rest of the night. In fact, she didn't ever want to wear those clothes again.

She picked them all up in a ball, and with great satisfaction crammed them into the garbage can in the corner of the room. She was now wearing her one and only outfit left in the world.

She felt good walking into her new life dressed like this.

Jonah waited for her outside the café, tapping his foot, glancing at his watch. When she opened the door, he spun, and when he saw her, all dressed up, he froze. He stared at her, speechless.

Caitlin had never seen a guy look at her that way before. She never really thought of herself as attractive. The way that Jonah looked at her made her feel...special. It made her feel, for the first time, like a woman.

"You...look beautiful," he said softly.

"Thanks," she said. So do you, she wanted to answer, but she held herself back.

With her newfound confidence, she walked up to him, slipped her hand into his arm, and gently lead the way towards Carnegie Hall. He walked with her, quickening the pace, placing his free hand on top of hers.

It felt good to be in a boy's arms. Despite everything that had happened that day, and the day before, Caitlin now felt as if she were walking on air.

# Chapter Six

Carnegie Hall was absolutely packed. Jonah led the way as they fought through the thick crowd, towards Will Call. It was not easy getting there. It was a wealthy, demanding crowd, and everyone seemed like they were rushing to make the concert. She had never seen so many well-dressed people in one place. Most of the men were in black tie, and the women wore long evening gowns. Jewels glittered everywhere. It was exciting.

Jonah got the tickets and lead her up the stairs. He handed them to the usher, who tore them and handed back the stubs.

"Can I keep one?" Caitlin asked, as Jonah went to put the two ticket stubs in his pocket.

"Of course," he said, handing one to her.

She rubbed it with her thumb.

"I like hanging onto things like this," she added, blushing. "Sentimental, I guess."

Jonah smiled, as she stuck it in her front pocket.

They were directed by an usher down a luxurious hallway with thick, red carpeting. Framed pictures of artists and singers lined the walls.

"So, how did you score free tickets?" Caitlin asked.

"My viola teacher," he answered. "He has season tickets. He couldn't make it tonight, so he gave them to me. I hope it doesn't take away from it that I didn't pay for them myself," he added.

She looked at him, puzzled.

"Our date," he answered.

"Of course not," she said. "You brought me here. That's all that matters. This is awesome."

Caitlin and Jonah were directed by another usher into a small door, which opened up right into the concert hall. They were up high, maybe 50 feet, and in their small box area there were only 10 or 15 seats. Their seats were right on the edge of the balcony, flush against the railing.

Jonah opened the thick, plush chair for her, and she looked down at the massive crowd and at all of the performers. It was the classiest place she had ever been. She looked out at the sea of gray hair, and she felt 50 years too young to be here. But thrilled all the same.

Jonah sat, and their elbows touched, and she felt a thrill at the warmth of his body beside her. As they settled in and sat there, waiting, she wanted to reach over and take his hand, and hold it in hers. But she didn't want to risk being too bold. So she sat there, hoping that he would reach over and take hers. He didn't make any move. It was early. And maybe he was shy.

Instead, he pointed, leaning over the railing.

"The best violinists are seated closest to the lip of the stage," he said, pointing. "That woman there is one of the best in the world."

"Have you ever played here?" She asked.

Jonah laughed. "I wish," he said. "This hall is only 50 blocks away from us, but it might as well be a planet away in terms of talent. Maybe one day," he added.

She looked down at the stage, at the hundreds of performers tuning their instruments. They were all dressed in black tie, and they all seemed so serious, so focused. Against the back of the wall stood a huge choir.

Suddenly, a young man, maybe 20, with long, flowing black hair, dressed in a tux, strutted proudly onto the stage. He cut right through the aisle of performers, heading for the center. As he did, the entire audience rose to its feet and applauded.

 "Who's he?" Caitlin asked.

He reached the center and bowed repeatedly, smiling. Even from up here, Caitlin see that he was startlingly attractive.

"Sergei Rakov," Jonah answered. "He's one of the best vocalists in the world."

"But he seems so young."

"It's not about age, but about talent," Jonah answered. "There is talent, and then there is talent. To get that kind of talent, you need to be born with it--and you really need to practice. Not four hours a day, but eight hours a day. Every day. I'd do it if I could, but my dad won't let me."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't want the viola to be the only thing in my life."

She could hear the disappointment in his voice.

Finally, the applause began to die down.

"They're playing Beethoven's Ninth Symphony tonight," Jonah said. "It's probably his most famous piece. Have you heard it before?"

Caitlin shook her head, feeling stupid. She'd had a classical music class back in ninth grade, but she'd barely listened to a word the teacher had said. She didn't really get it, and they had just moved, and her mind had been somewhere else. Now she wished she would have listened.

"It requires a huge orchestra," he said, "and a huge chorus. It probably demands more performers on stage than just about any other piece of music. It's exciting to watch. That's why this place is so packed."

She surveyed the room. There were thousands of people there. And not an empty seat.

"This symphony, it was Beethoven's last. He was dying, and he knew it. He put it to music. It's the sound of death coming." He turned to her and grinned, apologetically. "Sorry to be so morbid."

"No, that's OK," she said, and meant it. She loved hearing him talk. She loved the sound of his voice. She loved what he knew. All of her friends had the most frivolous conversations, and she wanted something more. She felt lucky to be with him.

There was so much she wanted to say to Jonah, so many questions she wanted to ask--but the lights suddenly dimmed and a hush came over the audience. It would have to wait. She leaned back and settled in.

She looked down and to her surprise, there was Jonah's hand. He placed it on the armrest between them, palm up, inviting hers. She reached over, slowly, so as not to seem too desperate, and placed her hand into his. His hand was soft and warm. She felt her hand melting into it.

As the orchestra began and the first notes played--soft, soothing, melodious notes--she felt a wave of bliss rushing over her, and realized that she'd never been so happy. She forgot all about the events of the day before. If this was the sound of death, she wanted to hear more.

*

As Caitlin sat there, getting lost in the music, wondering why she had never heard it before, wondering how long she could make her date with Jonah last, it happened again. The pain suddenly struck. It hit her in the gut, like it had on the street, and it took all of her willpower to keep herself from keeling over in front of Jonah. She gritted her teeth silently, and struggled to breathe. She could feel the sweat break out on her forehead.

Another pang.

This time she squealed out in pain, just a little bit, enough to barely be heard above the music, which was reaching a crescendo. Jonah must have heard, because he turned and looked at her, concerned. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

She was not. Pain was overwhelming her. And something else: hunger. She felt absolutely ravenous. She had never been so overwhelmed by such a sensation in her life.

She glanced over at Jonah, and her eyes went straight for his neck. She fixated on the pulsing of his vein, tracked it as it went from his ear down towards his throat. She watched the throbbing. She counted the heartbeats.

"Caitlin?" he asked again.

The craving was overwhelming. She knew that if she sat there for even a second more, she would be unable to control herself. If left unrestrained, she would definitely sink her teeth into Jonah's neck.

With her last ounce of will, Caitlin suddenly bounded from her chair, climbing over Jonah in one swift leap, and racing up the stairs, for the door.

At that same moment, the lights in the room suddenly went on full blast, as the orchestra played its final note. Intermission. The entire audience leapt to its feet, clapping loudly.

Caitlin reached the exit door a few seconds before the masses could get out of their seats.

"Caitlin!?" Jonah yelled from somewhere behind her. He was probably getting out of his seat and following her.

She could not let him see her like this. More importantly, she could not allow him anywhere near her. She felt like an animal. She roved the empty hallways of Carnegie Hall, walking faster and faster, into she ran in a full-fledged sprint.

Before she knew it, she was running at impossible speed, tearing through the carpeted hallway. She was an animal on the hunt. She needed food. She knew enough to know that she had to get herself away from the masses. Fast.

She found an exit door and put her shoulder into it. It was locked, but she leaned into it with such force that it snapped off the hinges.

She found herself in a private stairwell. She raced down the steps, taking them three at a time, until she arrived at another door. She put her shoulder into that one too, and found herself in a new hallway.

This hallway was even more exclusive, and more empty, than the others. Even in her haze, she could tell that she had arrived in some sort of backstage area. She walked down the hallway, bending over in pain from the hunger, and knew that she could not last one second longer.

She raised her palm and shoved it into the first doorway she found, and it opened with one blow. It was a private dressing room.

Sitting before a mirror, admiring himself, was Sergei. The singer. This must be his backstage dressing area. Somehow, she had arrived back here.

He stood, annoyed.

"I am sorry, but no autographs right now," he snapped. "The security guards should have told you. This is my private time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare."

With a guttural roar, Caitlin leapt right for his throat, sinking her teeth in deeply.

He screamed. But it was too late.

Her teeth sank deep into his veins. She drank. She felt his blood rushing through her veins, felt her craving begin to be satisfied. It was exactly what she'd needed. And she could not have waited a second more.

Sergei slumped, unconscious, into his chair, Caitlin leaned back, face covered in blood, and smiled. She had discovered a new taste. And nothing would stand in her way of it again.

# Chapter Seven

New York Homicide detective Grace O'Reilly opened the doors to Carnegie Hall and knew right away that it was going to be bad. She had seen the press out of control before, but never anything like this. Reporters were 10 deep, and unusually aggressive.

"Detective!"

They screamed for her repeatedly as she entered, the room filling with flashes.

As Grace and her detectives cut through the lobby, the reporters barely give an inch. At 40, muscular and hardened, with short black and hair and matching eyes, Grace was tough, and used to pushing her way through. But this time, it was not easy. The reporters knew it was a huge story, and they weren't going to give. This was going to make life much harder.

A young, international star murdered at the height of his fame and power. Right in the middle of Carnegie Hall and right in the middle of his American debut. The press had been here regardless, ready to cover the debut. Without even the slightest hiccup, the news of this performance was going to splash across the newspaper pages in every country in the world. If he had merely tripped, or fell, or sprained his ankle, the story would have been bumped up to Page 1.

And now this. Murdered. In the middle of his goddamn performance. Right in the hall where he sang just minutes before. It was just too much. The press had grabbed this one by the throat and they would not let it go.

Several reporters shoved microphones into her face.

"Detective Grant! There are reports that Sergei was killed by a wild animal. Is that true?"

She ignored them as she elbowed her way past.

"Why wasn't there better security inside of Carnegie Hall, detective?" asked another reporter.

Another reporter yelled, "There are reports that this was a serial killer. They're dubbing him the 'Beethoven Butcher.' Do you have any comment?"

As she reached the back of the room, she turned and faced them.

The crowd grew silent.

"Beethoven Butcher?" she repeated. "Can't they do better than that?"

Before they could ask another question, she abruptly exited the room.

Grace wound her way up the back staircase of Carnegie Hall, flanked by her detectives, who kept feeding her information as she went. The truth was, she was barely listening. She was tired. She had just turned 40 last week, and she knew she shouldn't be this tired. But the long, March nights had gotten to her, and she needed some rest. This was the third murder this month, not counting the suicides. She wanted warm weather, some greenery, some soft sand beneath her feet. She wanted a place where no one murdered anyone, where they didn't even think of suicide. She wanted a different life.

She checked her watch as she entered the corridor leading to backstage. 1 A.M.. Without having to look, she could already tell the crime scene was soiled. Why hadn't they called her here earlier?

She should have married, like her mother told her to, at 30. She'd had someone. He wasn't perfect, but he could have done. But she had held onto her career, like her father. It was what she thought her father wanted. Now her father was dead, and she never really found out what he wanted. And she was tired. And alone.

"No witnesses," snapped one of the detectives walking beside her. "Forensics say it happened sometime between 10:15 and 10:28 P.M. Not much signs of a struggle."

Grace didn't like this crime scene. There were way too many people involved, already and too many people had gotten here before her. Every move she made would be on display. And no matter what great investigative work she did, the credit would end up being stolen by someone else. There were just too many departments involved, which meant too much politics.

She finally brushed past the rest of the reporters, and entered the taped off area, reserved for only the elite officers. As she headed down the next hallway, things finally quieted down. She could think again.

The door to his dressing room stood slightly ajar. She reached up, donned a latex glove, and gently nudged it open the rest of the way.

She had seen it all in her 20 years as a cop. She'd seen people murdered in just about every possible way, even ways she could not have come up with in her worst nightmares. But she had never seen anything like this.

Not because it was particularly bloody. Not because some horrific violence had taken place. It was something else. Something surreal. It was too quiet. Everything was in perfect place. Except, of course, for the body. He sat slumped backwards in his chair, his neck exposed. And there, under the light, were two perfect holes, right in his jugular vein.

No blood. No signs of struggle. No torn clothing. Nothing else out of place. It was as if a bat had descended, sucked his blood perfectly clean, then flew away, without touching anything else. It was eerie. And outright terrifying. If his skin hadn't turned completely white, she would have thought he was still alive, just taking a nap. She even felt tempted to go over and feel his pulse. But she knew that would be stupid.

Sergei Rakov. He was young. And from what she'd heard, he'd been an arrogant prick. Could he already have had enemies?

What in hell could have done this? She wondered. An animal? A person? A new sort of weapon? Or had he done it to himself?

"The angle of attack rules out suicide," Detective Ramos said, standing at her side with his notepad and, as always, reading her mind.

"I want everything you have on him," she said. "I want to know who he owed money to. I want to know who his enemies were--I want to know his ex-girlfriends, his future wives. I want it all. He may have pissed the wrong people off."

"Yes, mam," he said, and hurried from the room.

Why would they pick this exact time to murder him? Why intermission? Were they sending some sort of message?

She walked slowly in the heavily carpeted room, circling, looking at him from every possible angle. He had long, black wavy hair, and was strikingly attractive, even in death. What a waste.

At that moment, a sudden noise filled the room. All the officers turned at once. They looked up, and saw that the small TV in the corner had lit up. It played footage of the night's performance. Beethoven's Ninth filled the room.

One of the detectives approached the TV to turn it off.

"Don't," she said.

The detective stopped in mid-stride.

"I want to hear it."

She stood there, staring at Sergei, as his voice filled the room. His voice that had been alive only hours before. It was eerie.

Grace circled the room once more. This time she kneeled.

"We've already been over this room, detective," the FBI agent said, impatient.

She spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She reached down, far beneath one of the slick armchairs. She craned her neck and twisted her arm, and reached all the way under.

She finally found what she was looking for. She stood, red-faced, and held up a small piece of paper.

All of the other detectives stared back.

"A ticket stub," she said, examining it with her gloved hand. "Mezzanine Right, seat 3. From tonight's concert."

She looked up and stared hard at all of her detectives, who stared blankly back.

"You think it belonged to the killer?" one of the masked.

"Well, one thing I know," she said, taking one final look at the dead, Russian opera star. "It didn't belong to him."

*

Kyle walked down the red carpeted hallways, strutting through the thick crowd. He was annoyed, as usual. He hated crowds, and he hated Carnegie Hall. He had been to a concert here once, in the 1890s, and it had not gone well. He did not release a grudge easily.

As he marched down the hall, the high collars of his black tunic covering his neck and framing his face, people made way for him. Officers, security guards, press agents - the entire crowd parted ways.

Humans are too easy to control, he thought. The slightest bit of mindbending, and they scurry out of the way like sheep.

A vampire of the Blacktide Coven, Kyle had seen it all in his 3,000 plus years. He had been there when they killed Christ. He had witnessed the French Revolution. He had watched smallpox spread across Europe--and had even helped it spread. There was nothing left that could surprise them.

But this night surprised him. And he did not like to be surprised.

Normally, he would just let his usual, imposing presence speak for itself, and push his way through the crowd. Despite his years, he looked young and handsome, and people usually gave way. But he had no patience for that tonight, especially given the circumstances. He had burning questions left unanswered.

What sort of rogue vampire would be so audacious as to openly kill a human? Would choose to do so in such a public way, leaving no other possibility but for the body to be found? It went against every rule of their race. Whether you were on the good or bad side of that race, it was one line you did not cross. No one wanted that sort of attention drawn to the race. It was a breach of their creed that guaranteed only one punishment: death. A long, torturous death.

Who would be so bold to attempt such a thing? To draw so much unwanted attention from the press, the politicians, the police? And worse, to do so in his coven's territory? It made his coven look bad--worse than bad. It made them look defenseless. The entire vampire race would convene and hold them to account. And if they didn't find this rogue, it could mean an outright war. War at a time when they could not afford to have one, at just the moment they were about to execute their master plan.

Kyle walked past a female police detective, and she bumped him pretty hard. To top it off, she turned and stared at him. He was surprised. No other human in this crowd had the force of will to even take notice of him. She must be stronger than the others. Either that, or he was getting sloppy.

He doubled his mind strength, directing it right at her. She finally she shook her head, turned, and kept walking. He would have to take note of her. He looked down and saw her nameplate. Detective Grace Grant. She might end up being a problem.

Kyle continued down the hall, brushing past more reporters, past the tape, and finally past a new flock of FBI agents. He made his way to the ajar door, and looked inside. The room was filled with several more FBI agents. There was also a man in an expensive suit. From his shifting, ambitious eyes, Kyle guessed he was a politician.

"The Russian Embassy is not pleased," he snapped to the FBI agent in charge. "You realize that this is not just a matter for the New York police, or just for the American government. Sergei was a star among our national vocalists. His murder must be interpreted as an offense upon our country -"

Kyle held up his palm, and using his force of will, closed the politician's mouth. He hated listening to politicians speak, and he had heard more than enough from this one. He hated Russians, too. He hated most things, actually. But tonight, his hatred rose to a new level. His impatience was getting the best of him.

No one in the room seemed to realize that Kyle closed the politician's mouth, even the politician himself. Or perhaps they were thankful. In any case, Kyle stepped to the side, and used his mind power to suggest that everyone leave the room.

"I say that we all take a coffee break for a few minutes," the FBI agent in charge suddenly said. "Clear our heads a bit."

The crowd nodded in agreement and quickly fled from the room, as if that were the most natural thing to do. As one final step, Kyle had them close the door behind themselves. He hated the sound of human voices, and especially did not want to hear them now.

Kyle breathe deeply. Finally alone, he could let his thoughts settle entirely on this human. He went up close and pulled back Sergei's collar, revealing the bite marks. Kyle reached up and placed two pale, cold fingers over them. He held them up and took note of the distance between them.

A smaller bitespan than he would have guessed. It's a she. The rogue vampire was female. And young. The teeth were not that deep.

He placed his fingers back over the bite and closed his eyes. He tried to feel the nature of the blood, the nature of the vampire that did the biting. Finally, he opened his eyes wide in shock. He withdrew his fingers quickly. He did not like what he felt. He couldn't recognize it. It was definitely a rogue vampire. Not of his clan, or of any Clan he knew. More troubling, he could not detect what breed of vampire she was at all. In his 3,000 years, this had never happened to him before.

He raised his fingers, and tasted them. Her scent overwhelmed him. Usually, that would be enough--he'd know exactly where to find her. But still, he was at a loss. Something was obscuring his vision.

He frowned. They would have no choice in this case. They would have to rely on the human police to find her. His superiors would not be pleased.

Kyle was even more annoyed than before, if possible. He stared at Sergei, and debated what to do with him. In a few hours' time he would awake, another clan-less vampire on the loose. He could kill him right now, for good, and get it over with. He would actually quite enjoy that. The vampire race hardly needed a new addition.

But that would be granting Sergei a great gift. He would not have to suffer immortality, suffer thousands of years of survival and despair. Of endless nights. No, that would be too kind. Instead, why not make Sergei suffer along with him?

He thought about it. An opera singer. Yes. His coven would quite enjoy that. This little, Russian boy could entertain them whenever they felt like it. He would bring him back. Convert him. And have yet another minion at his disposal.

Plus, Sergei could help them find her. Her scent now ran in his blood. He could lead them to her. And then they would make her suffer.

# Chapter Eight

Caitlin woke to burning pain. Her skin felt on fire, and when she tried to open her eyes, a stabbing pain forced them shut. It exploded into her skull.

She kept her eyes closed, and instead used her hands to feel around. She was lying on top of something. It felt soft, yet firm. Uneven. It couldn't be a mattress. She ran her fingers along it. It felt like plastic.

Caitlin opened her eyes, more slowly this time, and peeked down at her hands. Plastic. Black plastic. And that smell. What was it? She turned her head just a little, opened her eyes a little more, and then she realized. She was sprawled out, on her back, on a pile of garbage bags. She craned her neck. She was inside a dumpster.

She sat up with a start. The pain exploded, her neck and head splitting with pain. The stench was unbearable. She looked around, eyes open now, and was horrified. How the hell had she wound up here?

She rubbed her forehead, trying to piece together the events that got her here. She drew a blank. She tried to remember last night. She used all her force of will to summon it back. Slowly, it came...

Her fight with her mother. The subway. Meeting Jonah. Carnegie Hall. The concert. Then....then....

The hunger. The craving. Yes, the craving. Leaving Jonah. Rushing out. Roaming the halls. Then... Blank. Nothing.

Where had she gone? What had she done? And how on Earth had she ended up here? Had Jonah drugged her? Did he have his way with her, then deposit her here?

She didn't think so. She couldn't imagine he was the type. In her last memory, roaming the halls, she was alone. She had left him far behind. No. It couldn't have been him.

Then what?

Caitlin kneeled slowly on the garbage, one of her feet slipping between two bags, as she sank down further into the pit. She yanked her foot out quickly and found some solid ground, plastic bottles crunching loudly.

She looked up and saw that the metal lid to the canister was open. Had she opened it last night and climbed in here? Why would she have done that? She reached up and just barely grabbed hold of the metal bar at the top. She worried she would be strong enough to pull herself up and out.

But she tried, and was amazed to find that she pulled herself out easily: one graceful motion, and she swung her legs over the side, dropped down several feet and landed on the cement. To her surprise, she landed with great agility, the shock barely hurting her at all. What was happening to her?

Just as Caitlin landed on the New York City sidewalk, a well-dressed couple had been walking past. She startled them. They turned and stared, mortified, not seeming to comprehend why a teenage girl would suddenly jump out of a huge garbage dumpster. They gave her the strangest look, then doubled their pace, hurrying to get as far away from her as possible.

Caitlin didn't blame them. She probably would have done the same. She looked down at herself, still dressed in her cocktail attire from last night, her clothing completely soiled and covered in garbage. She stank. She tried her best to wipe it off.

While she was at it, she ran her hands quickly over her body and pockets. No phone. Her mind raced, as she tried to remember if she had taken it from the apartment.

No. She had left it in her apartment, in her bedroom, on the corner of her desk. She had meant to grab it, but had been so flustered by her Mom that she'd left it behind. Shit. She had also left her journal. She needed them both. And she needed a shower, and a change of clothes.

Caitlin looked down at her wrist, but her watch was gone. She must have lost it somewhere during the night. She took a step out of the alley, into the busy sidewalk, and the sunlight hit her directly in the face. Pain radiated through her forehead.

She quickly stepped back into the shade. She couldn't understand what was going on. Thankfully, it was late in the afternoon. Hopefully this hangover, or whatever it was, would pass quickly.

She tried to think. Where could she go? She wanted to call Jonah. It was crazy, because she barely knew him. And after last night, whatever she'd done, she was sure he'd never want to see her again. But, still, he was the first one who came to her mind. She wanted to hear his voice, to be with him. If nothing else, she needed him to fill her in on what had happened. She desperately want to talk to him. She needed her phone.

She would go home one last time, get her phone and her journal, and get out. She prayed her Mom wouldn't be home. Maybe, just this one time, luck would be on her side.

*

Caitlin stood outside her building and looked up apprehensively. It was sunset now, and the light didn't bother her as much. In fact, as night approached, she felt stronger with each passing hour.

She bounded up the five-story walkup with lightning speed, surprising herself. She took the steps three at a time, and her legs weren't even tired. She couldn't fathom what was happening to her body. Whatever it was, she loved it.

Her good mood dimmed as she approached her apartment door. Her heart began to pound, as she wondered if her Mom would be home. How would she react?

But as she reached for the doorknob, she was surprised to see that the door was already open, slightly ajar. Her foreboding increased. Why would it be open?

Caitlin walked tentatively into the apartment, the wood creaking beneath her feet. She slowly stepped through the foyer and into the living room.

As she entered she turned her head--and suddenly raised her hands to her mouth in shock. A horrible wave of nausea hit her. She turned and vomited.

It was her Mom. Lying there, slumped against the floor, eyes open. Dead. Her mother. Dead. But how?

Blood oozed from her neck, and collected in a small puddle on the floor. There was no way she could have done it to herself. She had been killed. Murdered. But how? By who? As much as she hated her Mom, she never would have wanted her to end up like this.

The blood was still fresh, and Caitlin suddenly realized that it must have just happened. The ajar door. Had someone broken in?

She suddenly wheeled, looking all around her, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Was someone else in the apartment?

As if to answer her silent question, at that very moment, three people, dressed head to toe in black, appeared from the other room. They walked nonchalantly into the living room, heading right for Caitlin. Three men. It was hard to tell how old they were--they looked ageless--maybe, late 20s. They were all well-built. Muscular. Not an ounce of fat on them. Well groomed. And very, very pale.

One of them stepped forward.

Caitlin took a step back in fear. A new sense was coming over her, a feeling of dread. She didn't understand how, but she could sense this person's energy. And it was very, very bad.

"So," the leader said, in a dark, sinister voice. "The chicken comes home to roost."

"Who are you?" Caitlin asked, backing up. She scanned the room for a weapon of some sort. Maybe a pipe, or a bat. She started thinking of exit points. The window behind her. Did it lead to a fire escape?

"Precisely the question we wanted to ask of you," the leader said. "Your human friend had no answers," he said, gesturing at her Mom's body. "Hopefully, you will."

Human? What was this person talking about?

Caitlin took several more steps back. She didn't have much room left to go. She was almost flush against the wall. She remembered now: the window behind her did lead to a fire escape. She remembered sitting on it, her first day in the apartment. It was rusted. And rickety. But it seemed to work.

"That was quite a feed at Carnegie Hall," he said. The three of them slowly approached her, each taking a step forward. "Very dramatic."

Caitlin scanned her memories desperately.

Feed? Try as she could, she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"Why intermission?" he asked. "What was the message you were trying to send?"

She was against the wall, and had nowhere left to go. They took another step closer. She felt certain they would kill her if she did not tell them what they wanted.

She thought as hard as she could. Message? Intermission? She recalled roaming the halls, the carpeted hallways, going room to room. Searching. Yes, it was coming back to her. There was an open door. A dressing room. A man inside. He had looked up at her. There had been fear in his eyes. And then...

"You were in our territory," he said, "and you know the rules. You are going to have to answer for this."

They took another step closer.

Crash.

At just that moment, the apartment's front door shattered open, and several uniformed policeman rushed inside, guns drawn.

"Freeze, motherfucker!" a cop screamed.

The three wheeled and stared at the cops.

They then, slowly, walked towards them, completely unafraid.

"I said FREEZE!"

The leader kept walking, and the cop fired. The noise was deafening.

But, amazingly, the leader didn't even stop. He smiled even wider, simply reached out his hand, and caught the bullet in midair. Caitlin was shocked to see that he stopped it in mid-air, in his palm. He then held up his hand, slowly made a fist and crushed it. He opened his hand, and the dust slowly poured out onto the floor.

The cops, too, stared back in shock, mouths open.

The leader grinned even wider, reached out and grabbed the cop's shotgun. He yanked it from him, wound up and struck the cop across the face. The cop went flying backwards, knocking over several of his men.

Caitlin had seen enough.

Without hesitating, she turned, opened the window and climbed through. She jumped onto the fire escape and raced down the rickety, rusted steps.

She ran for all she was worth, twisting and turning. The old fire escape probably hadn't been used in years, and as she rounded a corner, a step gave way. She slipped and screamed, but then caught her balance. The entire fire escape shifted and swayed, but it didn't give completely.

She had descended three flights when she heard the noise. She looked up, and saw the three of them jump onto the fire escape. They started descending, impossibly fast. Much faster than her. She increased her pace.

She reached the first floor, and saw that there was nowhere to go: it was a 15 foot jump down to the sidewalk. She turned her neck, saw that they were coming. She looked back down. No choice. She jumped.

Caitlin braced herself for the impact, and expected it to be bad. But to her surprise, she landed she landed lithely on her feet, like a cat, with hardly any pain. She took off at a sprint, feeling confident she would leave her pursuers, whoever they were, far behind.

As she reached the end of the block, surprised by her incredible speed, she looked back, expecting to see them far away on the horizon.

But she was shocked to see that they were only a few feet behind her. How was that possible?

Before she could finish the thought, she felt bodies on top of her. They were already tackling her down to the ground.

Caitlin summoned all of her newfound strength to fight off her attackers. She elbowed one of them, and was pleasantly surprised to see him go flying several feet. Encouraged, she wheeled over and elbowed the other one, and was again happily surprised to see him go flying in the other direction.

The leader landed squarely on top of her, and began to choke her. He was stronger than the others. She looked up into his large, coal black eyes, and it was like staring into the eyes of a shark. Soulless. It was the look of death.

Caitlin used all her might, every last ounce of her strength, and managed to roll and throw him off of her. She jumped back to her feet, once again in a sprint.

But she hadn't gotten far before she felt herself tackled once again, by the leader. How could he be that fast? She had just thrown him across the alley.

This time, before she could fight back, she felt knuckles across her cheek, and realized he had just backhanded her. Hard. The world spun. She regained consciousness quickly, and prepared to fight back, when suddenly she saw the two others kneeling beside her, pinning her down. The leader extracted a cloth from his pocket.

Before she could react, the cloth was over her nose and mouth.

As she took one last, deep breath, the world spun, turned foggy.

Before the world turned to complete blackness, she could have sworn she heard a dark voice whisper in her ear: "You are ours, now."

# Chapter Nine

Caitlin woke to complete blackness. She felt a cold, metal pain on her wrists and ankles, and her limbs were sore. She realized she was chained. Standing. Her arms were outstretched, by her sides, and she tried to move them, but they didn't budge. Neither did her feet. She heard a rattle as she tried, and felt the cold, hard metal dig harder into her wrists and ankles. Where the hell was she?

Caitlin opened her eyes wider, heart pounding, trying to get a feel for where she was. It was cold. She was still dressed, but barefoot, and she could feel cold stone beneath her feet. She also felt stone along her back. She was up against a wall. Chained to a wall.

She looked hard about the room and tried to make something out. But the blackness was absolute. She was cold. And thirsty. She swallowed, and her throat was dry.

She tugged for all she was worth, but even with her newfound strength, the chains did not budge. She was completely stuck.

Caitlin opened her mouth to yell for help. The first attempt didn't work. Her mouth was too dry. She swallowed again.

"Help!" she screamed, her voice coming out raspy. "HELP!" she screamed again, and this time gained real volume.

Nothing. She listened hard. She heard a faint, swooshing noise somewhere in the distance. But from where?

She tried to remember. Where was she last?

She remembered going home. Her apartment. She frowned, remembering her Mom. Dead. She felt deeply sorry, as if somehow it were her fault. And she felt remorse. She wished that she could have been a better daughter, even if her Mom wasn't great to her. Even if, as her Mom had blurted out the day before, she wasn't really even her daughter. Had she really meant it? Or was it just something she had thrown out in a time of anger?

Then...those three people. Dressed in black. So pale. Approaching her. Then... The police. The bullet. How they had stopped the bullet? What were these men? Why had they used the word "human"? She would have thought that they were merely delusional, if she had not seen them stop that bullet in mid air.

Then...the alley. The chase.

And then.... Blackness.

Caitlin suddenly heard the creak of a metal door. She squinted, as a light appeared in the distance. It was a torch. Someone was coming towards her, carrying a torch.

As he got closer, the room lit up. She was in a large, cacophonous room, entirely carved from stone. It looked ancient.

As the man got close, Caitlin could see his features. He held the torch up, to his face. He stared at her as if she were an insect.

This man was grotesque. His face was distorted, making him look like an old, haggard witch. He grinned, and revealed rows of small, orange teeth. His breath stank. He came within inches of her, and stared. He raised a hand to her face, and she could see his long, curved, yellow fingernails. Like claws. He dragged them slowly along her cheek, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make her repulsed. He grinned even wider.

"Who are you?" Caitlin asked, terrified. "Where am I?"

He only grinned further, as if examining his prey. He stared at her throat, and licked his lips.

Just then, Caitlin heard the sound of another metal door opening, and saw several torches approaching.

"Leave her!" shouted a voice from the distance. The man standing before Caitlin quickly scurried away, backing up several feet. He lowered his head, admonished.

A whole group of torches approached, and as they got close, she could see their leader. The man who had chased her down the alley.

He stared back, offering a smile with the warmth of ice. He was beautiful, this man, ageless, but terrifying. Evil. His large, charcoal eyes stared at her.

He was flanked by five other men, all dressed in black like him, but none as large or as beautiful as he. There were also two women in the group, who stared back at her with equal coldness.

"You must excuse our attendant," the man said, his voice deep, cold, and matter-of-fact.

"Who are you?" Caitlin asked. "Why am I here?"

"Forgive these harsh accommodations," the man said, running his hand along the thick metal chain that held her to the wall. "We'd be more than happy to let you go," he said, "if only you would answer a few questions."

She looked back, unsure what to say.

"I will begin. My name is Kyle. I am Deputy Leader of the Blacktide Coven," he paused. "Your turn."

"I don't know what you want from me," Caitlin answered.

"To start with, your coven. Who do you belong to?"

Caitlin wracked her brain, trying to figure out if she had lost her mind. Was she imagining all of this? She thought she must be stuck in some sort of sick dream. But she felt the very real cold steel on her wrists and ankles, and knew she was not. She had no idea what to tell this man. What was he talking about? Coven? As in...vampire?

"I don't belong to anyone," she said.

He stared for a long while, then slowly shook his head.

 "As you wish. We have dealt with rogue vampires before. It's always the same: they come to test us. To see how secure our territory is. After that, more follow. That's how territory shifts begin.

"But you see, they never get away with it. Ours is the oldest strongest and coven in this land. No one kills here and gets away with it.

"So I ask again: who sent you? When do they plan to invade?"

Territory? Invasions? Caitlin couldn't understand how she was not dreaming. Maybe she had been slipped some sort of drug. Maybe Jonah had slipped her something. But she didn't drink. And she never did drugs. She was not dreaming. This was real. Too awfully, incredibly real.

She could've just dismissed them as a group of completely crazy people, as some weird cult or society that was completely delusional. But after all that had happened in the last 48 hours, she actually found herself thinking twice. Her own strength. Her own behavior. The way she felt her body changing. Could vampires be true? Was she one of them? Had she stumbled into the middle of some kind of vampire war? That would be just her luck.

Caitlin stared back, thinking. Had she really killed someone? Who? She couldn't remember, but she had this awful feeling that what he said was true. That she had killed someone. That, more than anything, made her feel terrible. She felt an awful feeling of pity and regret wash over her. If it was true, she was a murderer. She could never live that down.

She stared back at him.

"I wasn't sent by anyone," she said, finally. "I don't remember exactly what I did. But whatever I did, I did it on my own. I don't really know why I did it. I'm really sorry for whatever I did," she said. "I didn't mean it."

Kyle turned and looked at the others. They looked back at him. He shook his head, and turned back to her. His glare turned cold and hard.

"You take me for a fool, I see. Not wise."

Kyle gestured to his subordinates, and they hurried over and uncuffed her chains. She felt her arms drop, and was relieved to have the blood flow back to her wrists. They uncuffed her ankles next. Four of them, two on one each side, got a tight grip on her arms and shoulders.

"If you won't answer to me," Kyle said, "then you will answer to the Assembly. Just remember, you have chosen this. They will show no mercy, as I may have done."

As they led her away, Kyle added, "Make no mistake, you will be killed either way. But my way would have been quick and painless. Now you will see what suffering is."

Caitlin tried to resist as they dragged her forward. But it was useless. They were leading her somewhere, and there was nothing she could do but embrace her fate.

And pray.

*

When they opened the oak door, Caitlin could not believe her eyes. The room was enormous. Shaped in a huge circle, it was lined with hundred-foot-tall stone columns, ornately decorated. It was well lit, torches placed every 5 feet, all throughout the room. It looked like the Pantheon. It looked ancient.

As she was led in, the next thing she noticed was the noise. It was a huge crowd. She looked around and saw hundreds, if not thousands, of men and women dressed in black, moving quickly all about the room. There was a strangeness to how they moved: it was so fast, so random, so...inhuman.

She heard a swooshing noise, and looked up. Dozens of these people leapt, or flew, through the room, going from floor to ceiling, from ceiling to balcony, from column to ledge. That was the whooshing noise she had heard. It was as if she had entered a cave full of bats.

She took it all in and was completely, utterly, shocked. Vampires did exist. Was she one of them?

They led her to the center of the room, chains rattling, her bare feet cold on the stone. They led her to a spot in the center of the floor, designated by a large, tile circle.

As she reached the center, the noise gradually died down. The motion slowed. Hundreds of vampires took positions in a huge, stone amphitheater before her. It looked like a political assembly, like the pictures she had seen of the state of the union address--except, instead of hundreds of politicians, these were hundreds of vampires, all staring at her. Their order and discipline was impressive. Within seconds, they were all perfectly seated, quiet as can be. The room fell silent.

As she stood in the center of the room, held in place by the attendants, Kyle stepped off to the side, folded his hands, and lowered his head in reverence.

Before the assembly sat an immense stone chair. It looked like a throne. She looked up and saw that seated in it was a vampire who looked older than the others. She could tell that he was absolutely ancient. There was something about his cold, blue eyes. They stared down at her as if they had seen 10,000 years. She hated the feeling of his eyes on her. They were evil itself.

"So," he said, his voice a low rumble. "This is the one who breached our territory," he said. His voice was gravelly and had absolutely no warmth in it. It echoed in the huge chamber.

"Who is your coven leader?" he asked.

Caitlin stared back, debating how to answer. She had no idea what to say.

"I don't have a leader," she said. "And I don't belong to any coven. I am here by myself."

"You know the punishment for trespass," he stated, a smile growing at the corner of his mouth. "If there is anything worse than immortality," he continued, "it is immortality in pain."

He stared at her.

"This is your last chance," he said.

She stared back, having no idea what to say. Out of the corner of her eye, she scanned the room for an exit, wondering if there was any way out. She didn't see one.

"As you wish," he said, and nodded ever so slightly.

A side door opened, and out came a vampire in chains, dragged by two attendants. He was dragged to the center of the floor, only feet from where Caitlin stood. She watched in fear, unsure what was happening.

"This vampire broke the rule of mating," the leader said. "Not as severe a violation as yours. But still, one that must be punished."

The leader nodded again, and an attendant stepped forward with a small vial of liquid. He reached up and splashed it on the chained vampire.

The chained vampire started shrieking. Caitlin watched his skin bubble up all over his arm, welts appearing immediately, as if he were burned. His shrieks were horrific.

"This is not just any holy water," the leader said, staring down at Caitlin, "but specially charged water. From the Vatican. I assure you that it will burn through any skin, and that the pain will be horrific. Worse than acid."

He stared long and hard Caitlin. The room was completely silent.

"Tell us where you're from and you will be spared an awful death."

Caitlin swallowed hard, not wanting to feel that water on her skin. It looked horrific. Then again, if she were not truly a vampire, it shouldn't harm her. But it was not an experiment she wanted to take.

She pulled again at her chains, but they did not give way.

She could feel her heart pounding, and the sweat raising on her brow. What could she possibly tell him?

He stared at her, judging her up.

"You are brave. I admire your loyalty to your coven. But your time is up."

He nodded, and she heard the sound of chains. She looked over, and saw two attendants hoist a huge cauldron. With each pull, they raised it several feet in the air. When it was high, about 15 feet off the ground, they swung it over, so that it was directly over her head.

"There were but a few ounces of holy water splashed on that vampire," the leader said. "Above you sit gallons. When it washes over your body, it will give you the most horrific pain imaginable. You will be in this pain for a lifetime. But you will still be alive, immobile, helpless. Remember, you have chosen this."

The man nodded, and Caitlin felt her heart pounding ten times the speed. The attendants at her side hooked her chains into the stone and ran, rushing to get as far away from her as possible.

As Caitlin looked up, she saw the cauldron tilting, and the liquid begin to pour. She looked back down and closed her eyes.

Please God. Help me!

"No!" she screamed, her scream echoing through the chamber.

And then, she was immersed.

# Chapter Ten

The water covered her entire body, making it hard to breathe, or open her eyes. After about ten seconds, though, after her entire hair and body and clothes were completely drenched, Caitlin blinked her eyes. She braced herself for the pain.

But it didn't come.

She blinked, then looked up at the cauldron, wondering if it were completely empty. It was. She looked back down at herself, and saw she was drenched. But she was completely fine. Not an ounce of pain.

The leader, suddenly realizing, stood in his chair, jaw dropping. He was clearly shocked. Kyle, too, turned and looked, his mouth open. The entire assembly, hundreds of vampires, all stood, and a gasp spread through the room.

Caitlin could see that this was not the reaction they had been expecting. They were all dumbfounded.

Somehow, their water had not affected her. Maybe she wasn't a vampire after all?

Caitlin saw her chance.

While they all stood there, too shocked to react, she summoned her strength and in one motion, broke her chains. She then took off at a sprint away from the assembly, in the direction of that side door. She prayed it led somewhere.

She made it halfway across the room before anyone could get over their shock to react.

"Get her!" she finally heard the leader scream.

And then, the sound of hundreds of bodies rustling towards her. The noise bounced off the walls, came from everywhere, and she realized that they were not just running towards her, but jumping down off the ceilings, off the balconies, their wings spread, speeding towards her. They swept down towards her, like a vulture after its prey, and she doubled her speed, ran for everything she had.

She fumbled in the dark, led only by the torches, and as she rounded a bend, finally, in the distance, she saw the door. It was open. And light came from behind it. It was indeed an exit, and it would have been perfect. Except for that one, last vampire.

Standing before the door, blocking her path, was a large, well sculpted vampire, completely draped in black. He looked younger than the others, maybe 20, and his features were more chiseled. Even in her haste, even with her life in such danger, Caitlin could not help but noticing how strikingly attractive this vampire was. Still, he was blocking her only way out.

She could outrun the others, but she could not get past this man without going right through him. He opened the door even wider, as if making way for her to pass through it. Was he tricking her? She looked down and saw that he held a long spear in his hand.

As she got closer, he held it up and aimed it right for her. She was only feet from the door now, and she couldn't stop. They were on her tail, and if she even slowed, it would be the end of her. So she ran right for him, closing her eyes and bracing herself for the inevitable impact of his spear running through her body. At least it would be quick.

As she opened her eyes she saw him releasing his spear, and she reflexively ducked.

But he had aimed too high. Way too high. She craned her neck back, and saw that he had not been aiming at her after all, but at one of the vampires who had been swooping down at her. The silver-tipped spear pierced the vampire's throat, and a hideous screech filled the room, as the creature fell to the ground.

Caitlin stared at this new vampire in wonder. He had just saved her. Why?

"Go!" he screamed.

She picked up her pace and ran right through the open door.

As she turned around, he turned with her and yanked closed the door with all his might, closing it firmly behind them. He quickly reached up, foisted an enormous metal shaft, and placed it across the door, barring it. He took several steps back, standing next to her, watching the door.

She couldn't help looking up at him, studying the line of his jaw, his brown hair and brown eyes. He had saved her. Why?

But he wasn't looking back down at her. He was still watching the door, fear in his eyes. With good reason. Within a second of his having barred it, a body had hurled against it. The door was over six feet thick, pure steel, and the bars were even thicker. But it was no match. The bodies crashed into it from the other side, and the door was already almost completely caved in. It would only be seconds until they crashed through.

"Move!" he shouted, and before she could react, he grabbed her arm and led her away. He tugged at her, making her run faster than she ever had, faster than she knew she could, and within seconds they were down one hall, then another, then another, twisting and turning every which way. The only thing they had to see by were occasional torches. She never could have made it out of there on her own.

"What's going on?" Caitlin tried to ask as they ran, out of breath. "Where are we -"

"This way!" he yelled, yanking her suddenly in another direction.

Behind them, Caitlin heard a crashing, followed by the sound of a mob, bearing down on them.

They reached a circular staircase, made of stone, winding its way up along a wall. He ran full speed toward the steps, yanking her with him, and before she knew it they were racing up the steps, twisting in circles, taking them three at a time. They were ascending quickly.

As they reached the top, it seemed to end in a complete wall. A stone ceiling was above them, and she could see no other way out. It was a dead-end. Where had he led them?

He was confused, too. And angry. But he seemed determined. He took a few steps back, and with a running start, charged at the ceiling. It was incredible. With this superhuman strength, he smashed a hole right through. Stone crumbled, and light poured through. Real, electric light. Where were they?

"Come on!" he yelled.

He reached down and grabbed her arm, yanking her up and out, through the ceiling, and into the well-lit room.

She looked about. It looked like they were in a courthouse. Or a museum. It was a grand, beautiful structure. The floors were marble, the room was all stone, columns. It was round. It looked like a government building.

"Where are we?" she asked.

He grabbed her hand and took off at a sprint, tugging her through the room at lightning speed. He charged a set of two huge, steel doors. He let go of her wrist and ran right into them, leaning his shoulder hard. They flew open with a crash.

She followed close behind, this time not waiting. She heard the sound of stone moving behind her, and knew that the mob was close.

They were outside, finally, and the cold, night air struck her in the face. She was so grateful to be out from underground.

She tried to get her bearings. They were definitely in New York. But where? Her surroundings seemed vaguely familiar. She saw a city street, a passing taxi. She turned to look back, and saw the structure they had just left. City Hall. The coven had been beneath City Hall.

They ran down the steps and across the courtyard, heading for the street. They hadn't gotten far when there came the noise of doors opening behind him, and a mob of vampires.

They headed right for a large, iron gate. As they got close, two security officers. They turned around, and saw them running right for the gate. Their eyes opened wide in shock, and they reached for their guns.

"Don't move!" they yelled.

Before they could react, he grabbed her tight, took three long bounds, and leapt for all he was worth. She felt them flying through the air, 10 feet, 20, clearing the metal gate and landing on the other side with grace.

They hit the ground running. She looked at her protector in shock, wondering what the extent of his power was. Wondering why he cared about her. And wondering, why she felt so good beside him.

Before she could think much longer, there was the crash of metal behind them, followed by gunshots. The other vampires had broken through, taking the police officers down with them. They were already close behind.

They ran and ran but it was not working. The mob was fast closing in.

He suddenly grabbed her hand and turned the corner, taking them down a side street. It ended in a wall.

"It's a dead-end!" she yelled. But he kept running, dragging her with him.

He reached the end of the alley, dropped to a knee, and with a single finger reached in and yanked up a huge, iron manhole.

She turned, and saw the huge group of vampires heading right towards them, not more than 20 feet away

"Go!" he yelled, and before she could react, he grabbed her and shoved her into the hole.

She grabbed hold of the ladder, and as she looked up, she saw him get on his hands and knees, bracing himself. He raised the manhole cover as a shield.

He was descended upon by the mob. He swung wildly, and she heard the impact as he knocked vampire after vampire away with the heavy iron. He was trying to join her, to get into the hole, too, but he couldn't make it. He was surrounded.

She was about to climb up and help him, when suddenly, one of the vampires parted from the mob and slipped into the hole. He spotted Caitlin, hissed, and came right for her.

She scrambled down the ladder, taking them two rings of the time, but it wasn't fast enough. He landed on top of her, and they both started falling.

As she fell through the air, she braced herself for the impact. Luckily, they landed in water.

As she rose, she saw she was in up to her waist in filthy, sewage water.

She had barely time to think when the vampire landed beside her with a splash. With one motion, he wound back and backhanded her across the face, sending her flying several feet.

She landed on her back in the water, and looked up to see him pouncing again, right for her throat. She rolled out of the way just in time, springing back on her feet. He was fast, but so was she.

He fell flat on his face. He got up and spun around and squared off in a rage. He clawed his right hand right for her face. She dodged it, and his hand barely missed her, the wind of it passing right by her cheek. His hand hit the wall with such force that it lodged into the stone.

Caitlin was mad now. She felt the red-hot rage pulse in her veins. She walked over to the stuck vampire and wound back her leg and planted a strong kick right in his gut. He keeled over.

She then grabbed him from behind and threw him right into the wall, face first. His head hit the stone hard. She was proud of herself, figuring she had finished him off.

But she was shocked by a sudden pain in her face, and found herself backhanded once again. This vampire had recovered quickly--much more quickly than she had thought possible. Before she knew it, he was on top of her. He landed on her with a crash and brought her down. She had underestimated him.

His hand was on her throat, and on it for real. She was strong, but he was stronger. He had an ancient strength that ran through his body. His hand was cold and clammy. She tried to resist, but it was just too much. She dropped to one knee, and he kept squeezing. Before she knew it, he was pushing her head towards the water. At the last second, she managed a scream: "Help!"

A second later, her head was submerged.

*

Caitlin felt the disruption in the water, the waves rushing, and knew that someone else had landed in the water. She was losing oxygen fast, unable to fight back.

Caitlin felt strong arms under her, and felt herself being hoisted up and out of the water.

She jumped up and gasped for breath, sucking it in deeper than she ever had. She breathed again and again, hyperventilating.

"Are you okay?" he asked, holding her shoulders.

She nodded. That was all she could manage. She looked over and saw that her attacker lay there, floating in the water, on his back. Blood was oozing out of his neck. He was dead.

She looked up at him, his brown eyes looking down at her. He had saved her. Again.

"We've got to move," he said, grabbing her arm and leading her, sloshing, through the waist-high water. "That manhole won't hold very long."

As if on cue, the manhole above them was suddenly torn out.

They ran. They turned down tunnel after tunnel, and heard the sound of water sloshing behind them.

He made a sharp turn and the water level dropped down to their ankles. They picked up real speed.

They entered yet another tunnel, and found themselves in the midst of major New York City infrastructure. There were massive steam pipes here, letting off huge clouds of steam. The heat was unbearable.

He took her down yet another tunnel, and suddenly picked her up and placed her on his back, wrapping her arms around his chest, and ascended a ladder, taking three rungs at a time. They were rising, and as he reached the top, he punched a manhole and sent it flying out before them.

They were back above ground, on New York City streets. Where, she had no idea.

"Hold on tight," he said, and she tightened her grip around his chest, clasping her hands into each other. He ran, and ran, and it turned into a sprint, at a speed beyond which she had never experienced. She had a memory of riding on the back of a motorcycle once, years ago, and the feeling of the wind whipping through her hair at 60 miles an hour. It felt like that. But faster.

They must have been doing 80 miles an hour, then 100, then 120... It just kept going. The buildings, people, cars--it all became a blur. And before she knew it, they were off the ground.

They were in the air, flying. He opened his huge, black wings, flapping slowly beside her. They were up above the cars, above the people. She looked down and saw that they flew over 14th Street. Then, a few seconds later, 34th. A few more seconds, and they were above Central Park. It took her breath away.

He checked back over their shoulders, and so did she. She could barely see, with the wind whipping in her eyes, but she could see enough to know that no one, no creature, was following them.

He slowed a bit, and then dipped, lowering their height. Now they flew just above the tree line. It was beautiful. She had never seen Central Park this way, its pathways lit up, the treetops right below her. She felt like she could reach out and touch them. She had a feeling that it would never look as beautiful as it did right now.

She clasped her hands tighter around his chest, feeling his warmth. She felt safe. As surreal as all of this was, things felt back to normal in his arms. She wanted to fly like this forever. As she closed her eyes and felt the cool breeze caress her face, she prayed that this night would never end.

# Chapter Eleven

Caitlin felt them slow, and then begin to descend. She opened her eyes. She didn't recognize any of the buildings below them. It appeared that they were way uptown. Possibly, the Bronx somewhere.

As they descended, they flew over a small park, and in the distance, she thought she saw a castle. As they got closer, she realized that it definitely was a castle. What was a castle doing here, in New York City?

She wracked her brain, and realized that she had seen this castle before. On a postcard somewhere...Yes. It was a museum of some sort. As they ascended a small hill, flying over its ramparts, flying over its small, medieval walls, she suddenly remembered what it was. The Cloisters. The small museum. It had been brought over from Europe, piece by piece. It was hundreds of years old. Why was he taking her here?

They descended smoothly over the outer wall and onto a large, stone terrace, overlooking the Hudson river. They landed in darkness, but his feet touched down gracefully on the stone, and he gently let her off.

She stood there, facing him. She looked at him closely, hoping that he was still real, hoping that he wouldn't fly away. And hoping that he was as gorgeous as he was the first time she saw him.

He was. If anything, even more so. He stared down at her with his large, brown eyes, and at that moment she felt herself get lost.

There are so many questions she wanted to ask, she didn't even know where to begin. Who was he? How was he able to fly? Was he a vampire? Why had he risked his life for her? Why take her here? And most importantly, was everything she had seen just a wild hallucination? Or did vampires really exist, right here in New York City? And was she one of them?

She opened her mouth to speak, but all she managed was: "Why are we here?"

She knew it was a stupid question the moment she asked it, and hated herself for not asking something more important. But standing there in the cold, March night, face a bit numb, it was the best she could do.

He just stared back at her. His stare seemed to pierce her soul, as if he were seeing right through her. It looked as if he were debating how much to tell her.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Caleb!" shouted a voice, and they both turned.

A group of men - vampires? - dressed all in black, marched right for them. Caleb turned and faced them. Caleb. She liked that.

"We have no clearance for your arrival," the man in the middle said, deadly serious.

"It is unannounced," Caleb answered flatly.

"Then we will have to take you into custody," he said, nodding to his men, who slowly circled behind Caleb and her. "The rules."

Caleb nodded, unfazed. The man in the middle looked directly at Caitlin. She could see the disapproval in his eyes.

"You know we can't let her in," the man said to Caleb.

"But you will," Caleb answered flatly. He stared back at the man, equally determined. It was a meeting of the wills.

The man stood there, and she could see he was unsure what to do. A long, tense silence followed.

"Very well," he said, turning his back abruptly and leading the way. "It's your funeral."

Caleb followed, and Caitlin walked beside him, unsure what else to do.

The man opened a huge, medieval door, grabbing it by its round, brass ring. He then stepped aside, motioning for Caleb to enter. Two more men, in black, stood inside the doorway, standing at attention.

Caleb took Caitlin's hand and led her through. As she passed through the huge stone archway, she felt as if she were entering another century.

"Guess we don't have to pay admission," Caitlin said to Caleb, smiling.

He looked over at her, blinking. It took him a second to realize it was a joke. Finally, he smiled.

He had a beautiful smile.

It made her think of Jonah. She felt confused. It was unlike her to feel strong feelings for any boy--much less for two of them in the same day. She still felt for Jonah. But Caleb was different. Jonah was a boy. Caleb, although he looked young, was a man. Or was he...something else? There was something about him she could not explain, something that made her unable to look away. Something that made her not want to leave his side. She liked Jonah. But she needed Caleb. Being around him was all-encompassing.

Caleb's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He was clearly disturbed.

"I'm afraid there will be a much higher price for admission," he said, "if this meeting does not go as I would hope."

He led her through another stone archway, and into a small, medieval courtyard. Perfectly symmetrical, surrounded on four sides by columns and arches, this courtyard, lit by the moon, was very beautiful. She could not fathom how they were still in New York City. They could have been in a European countryside.

They walked across the courtyard and down a long stone hallway, the sound of their footsteps echoing. They were trailed by several more guards. Vampires? She wondered. If so, why were they so civil? Why didn't they attack Caleb, or her?

They walked down another stone corridor and through another medieval door. And then they suddenly stopped.

Standing there was another man, dressed in black, who looked startlingly similar to Caleb. He wore a large red cloak over his shoulders, and was flanked by several attendants. He seemed to hold a position of authority.

"Caleb," he said softly. He sounded shocked to see him.

Caleb stood there calmly, staring back.

"Samuel," Caleb answered, flatly.

The man stood there, staring, shaking his head just a little bit.

"Not even a hug for your long lost brother?" Caleb asked.

"You know this is very serious," Samuel answered. "You have violated many laws by coming here tonight. Especially by bringing her."

The man did not even bother looking over at Caitlin. She felt insulted.

"But I had no choice," Caleb said. "The day has arrived. War is here."

A hushed murmur erupted among the vampires standing behind Samuel, and among the growing group of vampires forming behind them. She turned, and saw that more than a dozen of them now encircled them. She was starting to feel claustrophobic. They were vastly outnumbered, and there was no way out. She had no idea what Caleb had done, but whatever it was, she hoped that he could talk his way out of it.

Samuel raised his hands, and the murmur died down.

"What's more," Caleb continued, "this woman here," he said, nodding towards Caitlin, "she is The One."

Woman. Caitlin had never been called that before. She liked it. But she didn't understand. The One? He had put a funny emphasis on the phrase, as if he were talking about the Messiah or something. She wondered if they were all crazy.

Another murmur arose, and all heads turned to stare at her.

"I need to see the Council," Caleb said, "And I must bring her with me."

Samuel shook his head.

"You know that I would not stop you. I can only advise. And I advise you to leave right now, return to your post and await the Council's summons."

Caleb stared back. "I'm afraid that is not possible," he said.

"You've always done as you wish," Samuel said.

Samuel stepped aside, and motioned with his hand that he was free to pass.

"Your wife will not be pleased," Samuel said.

Wife? Caitlin thought, and felt a cold chill run up her spine. Why did she suddenly feel so insanely jealous? How had her feelings for Caleb developed that quickly? What right did she have to feel so possessive of him?

She felt her cheeks turn red. She did care. It made no sense at all, but she completely cared. Why didn't he tell me-

"Don't call her that," Caleb answered, his cheeks also burning red. "You know that -"

"Know that what!?" came a woman's shriek.

They all turned to see a woman marching towards them from down the hallway. She, too, was dressed in all black, with long, flowing red hair that trailed past her shoulders, and large, shiny green eyes. She was tall, ageless, and strikingly beautiful.

Caitlin felt humbled in her presence, like she had just shrunk. This was a woman. Or was it...vampire? Whatever she was, she was a creature that Caitlin could never compete with. She felt deflated, prepared to concede Caleb to whoever she was.

"Know that what!?" the woman repeated, staring harshly at Caleb as she walked up to him, just a few feet away. She glanced over at Caitlin, and her mouth curled into a snarl. Caitlin had never seen anyone look at her with so much hatred before.

"Sera," Caleb said softly, "we have not been married for 700 years."

"In your eyes, maybe," she snapped back.

She started to pace, circling both Caitlin and Caleb. She looked her up and down as if she were an insect.

"How dare you bring her here," she spat. "Really. You know far better."

"She is The One," Caleb said flatly.

Unlike the others, this woman did not seem surprised. Instead, she just let out a short, mocking laugh.

"That's ridiculous," she answered. "You've brought war on us," she continued, "and all for a human. A simple infatuation," she said, her anger rising. With each sentence, the crowd behind her seemed to get bolstered, to grow with a concurring anger. It was becoming an angry mob.

"In fact," Sera continued, "we have the right to tear her apart."

The crowd behind her began to murmur in approval.

Anger flashed across Caleb's face.

"Then you would have to go through me," Caleb answered, staring back with equal determination.

Caitlin felt a warmth run through her. He was laying his life on the line for her. Again. Maybe he did care for her.

Samuel stepped forward, between them, and held out his hands. The crowd quieted.

"Caleb has requested an audience with the Council," he said. "We owe him at least that. Let him state his case. Let the Council decide."

"Why should we?" Sera snapped.

"Because that is what I said," Samuel answered, a steely determination in his voice. "And I give orders up here, Sera, not you." Samuel stared long and hard at her. Finally, she deferred.

Samuel stepped aside, and gestured towards the stone staircase.

Caleb reached out and took Caitlin's hand, and led her forward. They stepped down the wide  stone steps, and descended into the darkness.

Behind her, Caitlin heard a sharp laughter cut through the night.

"Good riddance."

# Chapter Twelve

Their footsteps echoed on the wide, stone staircase as they descended. It was dimly lit. Caitlin reached over and slipped her hand into Caleb's arm. She hoped that he would let it sit there. He did. In fact, he tightened his arm around hers. Once again, everything felt OK. She felt that she could descend into the depths of darkness, as long as they were together.

So many thoughts raced through her mind. What was this Council? Why had he insisted on taking her? And why did she feel so insistent on being at his side? She could have easily objected up there, told him that he did that she didn't want to go, that she'd rather wait upstairs. But she didn't want to wait upstairs. She wanted to be with him. She couldn't imagine herself anywhere else.

None of it made any sense. At every turn, instead of getting answers, all she got were new questions. Who were all those people upstairs? Were they really vampires? What were they doing here? In the Cloisters?

They turned the corner, into a large room, and she was struck by its beauty. It was incredible, like descending into a real medieval castle. Soaring ceilings capped rooms carved out of medieval stone. Off to her right there lay several sarcophagi, raised above the floor. Intricate, medieval figures were carved on their lids. Some of them were open. Was that where they slept?

She tried to think back to all the vampire lore she had ever heard. Sleeping in coffins. Awake at night. Superhuman strength and speed. Pain in the sunlight. It all seemed to add up. She herself felt some pain in the sun. But it wasn't unbearable. And she was impervious to the holy water. What's more, this place, the Cloisters, was filled with crosses: there were enormous crosses everywhere. Yet it didn't seem to affect these vampires. In fact, this seemed to be their home.

She wanted to ask Caleb about all of this, and more, but didn't know how to begin. She settled on the last one.

"The crosses," she said, nodding as they walked under another one. "Don't they bother you?"

He looked at her, not understanding. He looked like he'd been lost in thought.

"Don't crosses hurt vampires?" she asked.

Recognition crossed his face.

"Not all of us," he answered. "Our race is very fragmented. Much like the human race. There are many races within our race, and many territories--or covens--within each race. It is quite complex. They don't affect good vampires."

"Good?" she asked.

"Just like your human race, there are forces for good and forces of evil. We are not all the same."

He left it at that. As usual, the answers only raised more questions. But she held her tongue. She didn't want to pry. Not now.

Despite the high ceilings, the doorways were small. The arched, wooden doors were open, and they walked right through, ducking as they went. As they enter the new room, the height opened up again, and it was another magnificent room. She looked up and could see stained glass everywhere. To her right was some sort of pulpit, and before it, dozens of tiny, wooden chairs. It was stark, and beautiful. It truly looked like some sort of medieval cloister.

She saw no sign of life, and heard no movement. She heard absolutely nothing. She wondered where they all were.

They entered another room, the floor sloping gently downward, and she gasped. This small room was filled with treasures. It was a working museum, and they were all encased carefully behind glass. Right there before her, under sharp, halogen lights, were what must have been hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of ancient, priceless treasures. Gold crosses. Large, silver goblets. Medieval manuscripts....

She followed Caleb as he walked through the room and stopped before a long, vertical, glass case. Inside was a magnificent ivory staff, several feet long. He stared at it through the glass.

He was quiet for several seconds.

"What is it?" she finally asked.

He kept staring, quietly. Finally, he said, "An old friend."

That was it. He didn't offer any more. She wondered what sort of history he had with the object, and what sort of power it held. She read the plaque: early 1300s.

"It is known as a crozier. A bishop's staff. It is both a rod and a staff. A rod for punishment and a staff for leading the faithful. The symbol of our church. It has the power to bless, or to curse. It is what we guard. It is what keeps us safe."

Their church? What they guard?

Before she could ask more questions, he took her hand and led her through yet another doorway.

They reached a velvet rope. He reached out, unclasped it, and pulled it back for her to enter. He then followed right behind her, re-clasped it, and led her to a small, circular wooden staircase. It led down, seemingly right into the floor itself. She looked at it, puzzled.

Caleb knelt and undid a secret latch in the floor. A floor trap opened up, and she could see that the staircase continued downward, into the depths.

Caleb looked right into her eyes, "Are you ready?"

She wanted to say No. But instead, she took his hand.

*

This staircase was narrow and steep, and led into real blackness. After winding and winding, deeper and deeper, she finally saw a light in the distance, and started to hear movement. As they turned the corner, they entered another room.

This room was huge and brightly lit, torches everywhere. It mirrored the upstairs rooms identically, with soaring, stone, medieval ceilings, arched, covered in intricate detail. There were large tapestries on the walls, and the huge space was filled with medieval furniture.

It was also filled with people. Vampires. They were all dressed in black, and they moved casually about the room. Many of them sat in various seats, some talking to each other. In the other coven, under City Hall, she had felt evil, darkness, had felt in constant danger. Here, she felt strangely relaxed.

Caleb led her across the long room, right down the center. As they walked, the movement subsided, and a hush descended. She could feel all the eyes on them.

As they reach the end of the room, Caleb approached a large vampire, taller than he was, and with much broader shoulders. The man looked down, expressionless.

"I need an audience," Caleb said simply.

The vampire slowly turned and walked through the doorway, closing the door firmly behind him.

Caleb and Caitlin stood there, waiting. She turned, and surveyed the room. They were all - hundreds of vampires - staring at them. But no one moved to come close.

The door opened, and the large vampire gestured. They entered.

This small room was darker, dimly lit by only two torches at the far end of the room. It was also completely empty, save for a long table on the opposite side. Behind it sat seven vampires, all staring grimly back. It looked like a panel of judges.

There was something about these vampires which made them look much older. There was a harshness to their expressions. Definitely a panel of judges.

"Council in session!" the large vampire yelled, banging his staff on the floor, then quickly exiting the room. He closed the door firmly behind them. It was now just the two of them, facing the seven vampires.

She stood tentatively at Caleb's side, unsure what to do, or say.

An awkward silence followed, as the judges studied them. It felt as if they were staring through their souls.

"Caleb," came a gravelly voice, from the vampire in the center of the panel. "You have abandoned your post."

"I did not, sire," he answered. "I have kept my post faithfully for 200 years. I was forced to take action tonight."

"You take no action but for our command," he answered. "You have jeopardized us all."

"My duty was to alert us for the coming war," Caleb answered. "I believe that time has come."

A gasp came from the Council. There was a long silence.

"And what makes you think this?"

"They doused her in holy water, and it did not burn her skin. Doctrine tells us that the day will come when the One will arrive, and will be impervious to our weapons. And that she will herald war."

A hushed gasp spread across the room. They all stared at Caitlin, scrutinizing her. Several of the judges began talking amongst themselves, until finally the one in the middle slammed the table with his palm.

"Silence!" He yelled.

Gradually, the murmur died down.

"So. You risked us all to save a human?" he asked.

"I saved her to save ourselves," Caleb answered. "If she is the One, we are nothing without her."

Caitlin's head spun. She didn't know what to think. The One? Doctrine? What was he talking about? She wondered if he thought she was someone else, thought she was someone greater than she is.

Her heart sank, not because of the way that the Council looked at her, but because she began to worry that Caleb had only saved her for his own sake. That he didn't really care for her. And that his affection for her would disappear when he knew the truth. He would find out that she was just an average, ordinary girl, no matter what took place over the last few days, and he would abandon her. Just like all the other guys in her life.

As if to confirm her thoughts, the judge in the middle slowly shook his head, staring at Caleb with condescension.

"You have made a grave mistake," he said. "What you fail to see is that you are the one who began this war. Your departure is what has alerted them to our presence.

"Furthermore, she is not the one you think she is."

Caleb began, "Then how do you explain-"

Another council member spoke this time, "Many centuries ago there was a case like this. A vampire was immune to weaponry. People thought he was the Messiah then, too. He was not. He was just a half-breed."

"Half-breed?" Caleb asked. He suddenly sounded unsure.

"The vampire by birth," he continued, "one that was never turned. They are immune to some weaponry, but not to others. But that does not make them one of us. Nor does it make them immortal. I'll show you," he continued, and suddenly turned to Caitlin.

She felt nervous with his eyes staring through her. "Tell me young one, who turned you?"

Caitlin had no idea what he was talking about. She didn't even know what his question meant. Once again this night, she found herself wondering what the best answer was to give. She hesitated, feeling that whatever she said would have a great impact not just on her safety, but on Caleb's, too. She wanted to give the right answer for him, but she just didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I don't know what you're talking about. I was never turned. I don't even know what that means."

Another council member leaned forward. "Then who is your father?" he asked.

Of all questions, why had he had to ask her that? That was the question she had always asked herself, her whole life long. Who was he? Why had she never met him? Why did he leave her? It was an answer she wanted more than anything in life. And now, on demand, she certainly could not provide it.

"I don't know," she said, finally.

The council member leaned back, as if in victory. "You see?" he said. "Half-breeds are not turned. And they never know their parents. You are mistaken, Caleb. You have made a grave error."

"Doctrine states that a half-breed will be the Messiah, and that she will lead us to the lost sword," Caleb snapped back, defiantly.

"Doctrine states that a half-breed will bring the Messiah," the council member corrected. "Not be."

"You are parsing words," Caleb answered. "I am telling you that war has begun, and that she will lead us to the sword. Time is swift. We must have her lead us to it. It is the only hope we have."

"A child's tales," answered another council member. "The sword you speak of does not exist. And if it did, a half-breed would not be the one to lead us."

"If we don't, others will. They will capture her, and find it, and use it against us."

"You have committed a grave violation in bringing her here," another one of them said, from the far end of the panel.

"But I--" Caleb began.

"ENOUGH!" shouted the lead council member.

The room grew silent.

"Caleb. You have knowingly violated several laws of our coven. You have abandoned your post. You have disgraced your mission. You have sparked a war. And you have risked us all for a human. Not even a human, but a half-breed. Worse, you have brought her here, right into our midst, endangering us all.

"We sentence you to 50 years confinement. You will not leave these grounds. And you will cast this half-breed out of our walls at once.

"Now, leave us."

# Chapter Thirteen

Caitlin and Caleb stood together on the large, open terrace outside the Cloisters, looking out at the night. Far-off, she could see the Hudson River, peeking out between the bare trees of March. In the distance, she could even see the tiny lights of cars heading over the bridge. The night was completely silent.

"I need you to answer some questions for me, Caleb," she said softly, after several seconds of silence.

"I know," Caleb answered.

"What am I doing here? Who do you think I am?" Caitlin asked. It took her a few seconds more to summon the courage to ask the final question, "And why did you save me?"

Caleb stared off into the horizon for several seconds. She could not tell what he was thinking, or if he would even answer.

Finally, he turned to her. He stared right into her eyes, and the power of his stare was overwhelming. She couldn't look away if she tried.

"I am a vampire," he said, flatly. "Of the White Coven. I have lived for over 3,000 years, and I have been with this coven for 800 of them."

"Why am I here?"

"Vampire covens and races are always at war. They are very territorial. Unfortunately, you stumbled right into the middle of it."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "How?"

He looked at her, confused. "Don't you remember?"

She stared back, blankly.

"Your kill. It ignited all of this."

"Kill?"

He slowly shook his head. "So, you don't remember. Typical. First kills are always that way." He looked her in the eye. "You killed someone last night. A human. You fed on him. In Carnegie Hall."

Caitlin felt her world spinning. She could hardly believe she was capable of harming anyone, yet somehow, deep down, she felt it was true. She was afraid to ask who it was. Could it have been Jonah?

As if reading her mind, Caleb added, "The vocalist."

Caitlin could hardly take it all in. It felt too surreal. She felt like she had just been branded with a black mark that she could never undo. She felt awful. And out of control.

"Why did I do it?" she asked.

"You needed to feed," he answered. "Why you did it there, and then, that is what no one knows. That is what started this war. You were in another coven's territory. A very powerful coven."

"So, was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

He sighed, "I don't know. There may be more to it than that."

She looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe you were meant to be there. Maybe it was your destiny."

She thought. She thought hard, afraid to ask the next question. Finally, she summoned her courage. "So does that mean...I am a vampire?"

He turned away. After several seconds, he finally said, "I don't know."

He turned and looked at her.

"You are not a true vampire. But you are not a true human, either. You are somewhere in between."

"A half-breed?" she asked.

"That's what they would call it. I am not so sure."

"What is it, exactly?"

"It is a vampire who is born into it. It is against our law, our doctrine, for a vampire to breed with a human. Sometimes, though, a rogue vampire will do so. If the human should give birth, the result will be a half-breed. Not quite human, not quite vampire. It is very much looked down upon in our race. The penalty for interbreeding with a human is death. No exceptions. And the child is considered an outcast."

"But I thought you said that your Messiah will be a half breed? How can they look down on a half-breed it if will be their savior?"

"Such is the paradox of our religion," he answered.

"Tell me more," she prodded. "How exactly is a half-breed different?"

"True vampires feed from the moment they are turned. Half breeds usually don't begin to feed until they come of age."

She was afraid to ask the next question.

"When is that?"

"18."

Caitlin thought hard. It was starting to make sense. She had just turned 18. And her cravings had just begun.

"Half-breeds are also mortal," Caleb continued. "They can die, like regular humans. We, on the other hand, cannot.

 "In order to be a true vampire, one would have to be turned by a true vampire, one who fed with the intent. Vampires are not allowed to turn just anyone--it would inflate our race too greatly. They must receive permission in advance from the Master Council."

Caitlin furrowed her brow, trying to take it all in.

"You have some of our qualities, but not all. And since you are not a full breed, unfortunately, the vampire race will not accept you. Every vampire belongs to a coven. It is too dangerous not to. Normally, I could petition to accept you in our ranks. But given that you are mixed...they would never allow it. No coven will."

Caitlin thought hard. If there was anything worse than finding out that she was something other than human, it was finding out that she wasn't truly something. Finding out that she couldn't belong anywhere. She was neither here nor there, stuck between two worlds.

"So then what was all this talk about the Messiah? About me being...The One?"

 "Our doctrine, our ancient law, tells us that one day a messenger, a Messiah, will arrive, and lead us to the lost sword. It tells us that on that day, war will begin, a final, all-out war between the vampire races, a war which will even drag in the human race. It is our version of the Apocalypse. The only thing that can stop it, that can save us all, is this missing sword. And the only person that can lead us to that is the Messiah.

"When I witnessed what happened to you tonight, I felt certain that it was you. I have never seen any other vampire immune to such holy water."

She looked up at him.

"And now?" she asked.

He looked off into the horizon.

"I am not so sure."

Caitlin stared at him. She felt a desperation welling up.

"So," she asked, afraid for the answer, "is that the only reason you saved me? Because you thought I would lead you to some missing sword?"

Caleb stared back, and she could see the confusion in his face.

"What other reason would there be?" he answered.

She felt the wind sucked out of her, as if she had been hit by a bat. All the love that she had felt for him, the connection she thought they had, went rushing out in a single breath. She felt like crying. She wanted to turn and run, but didn't know where to go. She felt ashamed.

"Well," she said, fighting back tears, "at least your wife will be happy to know that you were just doing your job. That you don't have any feelings for anyone else. Or for anything but some stupid sword."

She turned and walked away. She didn't know where she was going, but she had to get away from him. Her feelings were just too overwhelming. She didn't know how to make sense of them.

She had only gone a few feet when she felt a hand on her arm. He turned her back around. He stood there, looking down into her eyes.

"She's not my wife," he said softly. "We were married once, yes, but that was 700 years ago. It only lasted a year. In the vampire race, unfortunately, they don't forget things easily. There are no annulments."

Caitlin tossed his hand off of her, "Well, whatever she is, she'll be happy to have you back."

Caitlin kept walking, right for the steps.

Again he stopped her, this time getting around her and standing directly in her path.

"I don't know how I've offended you," he said, "but whatever I did, I am sorry."

It's what you didn't do, Caitlin wanted to say. It's that you didn't care, that you don't really love me. That I was just an object, a means to an end. Just like every guy I've ever known. I had thought that this time, maybe, it was different.

But she didn't say that, instead, she just lowered her head, and did her best to suppress a tear. She couldn't, though. She felt the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. There was a hand on her chin, and he raised it, forcing her to look up at him.

"I am sorry," he said finally, sounding sincere. "You were right. It was not the only reason I saved you." He took a deep breath. "I do feel something for you."

Caitlin felt her heart swell.

"But you must understand, it is forbidden. The laws are very strict on this. A vampire can never, ever, be with a human, or a half breed, or anyone who is not a true vampire. The punishment would be death. There is no way around it."

Caleb looked down.

"So, you see," he finally continued, "if I were to feel something for you, if I were to act for some motive other than for the general good, then it would mean my death."

"So, then, what's to become of me?" she asked. She looked around, "Clearly, I'm not welcome here. Where am I supposed to go?"

Caleb looked down, shaking his head.

"I can't go home," she added. "I have no home left. The cops are looking for me. So are these evil vampires. What am I supposed to do? Go out there on my own? I don't even know what I am anymore."

"I wish I had the answer. I tried. I really did. But there is nothing more I can do. One cannot defy the Council. It would mean both of our deaths. I am sentenced to 50 years confinement. I cannot leave these grounds. If I did, I would be banished from my clan forever. You must understand."

Caitlin turned to go, but again he spun her around.

"You must understand! You are merely human. Your life will end in 80 years. But for me, it's thousands. Your suffering is short. Mine is endless. I cannot be banished for eternity. My coven is all that I have. I love you. I feel something for you. Something even I don't understand. Something I've never felt with anyone in 3,000 years. But I cannot risk leaving these walls."

"So," she said, "I'll ask you again. What's to come of me?"

He just looked down.

"I see," she answered. "I'm not your problem anymore."

Caleb opened his mouth to speak, but this time she was gone. Really gone.

She made her way quickly across the terrace, and down the stone staircase. This time she was really gone, heading into the Bronx in the dark, New York City night. She had never felt more alone.

# Chapter Fourteen

Kyle walked straight down the stone corridor, flanked by a small entourage of vampires. They headed quickly down the hall, their footsteps echoing, one of his aides holding a torch out in front.

They were heading deep into the corridor of command, a subterranean chamber which no vampire ever entered unless given permission. Kyle had never been down this deep before. But on this day, he was summoned by the supreme leader himself. It must have been serious. In 4,000 years, Kyle had never been summoned. But he had heard of others who had. They had gone down there, and had not come back up.

Kyle swallowed hard, and walked faster. He had always believed that it was best to greet bad news quickly, and get it over with.

They came to a large, open door, guarded by several vampires, who stared coldly back. Finally, they stepped aside and opened the door. But after Kyle passed, they held out their staffs, preventing his entourage from following. Kyle felt the door slam behind.

Kyle saw dozens of vampires lined up, at attention, along the wall, standing quietly on either side of the room. Front and center in the room, seated in a massive, metal chair was Rexus, his supreme leader.

Kyle took several steps forward and bowed his head, waiting to be addressed.

Rexus stared back with his cold, hard, icy blue eyes.

"Tell me everything you know about this human, or half-breed, or whatever she is," he began. "And about this spy. How did he infiltrate our ranks?"

Kyle took a deep breath, and began.

"We don't know much about the girl," he said. "We have no idea why the holy water did not affect her. But we do know that she was the one who attacked the singer. We have him in custody now, and as soon as he recovers, we expect him to lead us to her. He was turned by her. He has her scent in his blood."

"What coven does she belong to?" Rexus asked.

Kyle shuffled in the darkness, choosing his words carefully.

"We think she is just a rogue vampire."

"Think!? Do you know anything?"

Kyle, rebuked, felt his cheeks redden.

"So you brought her into our midst without knowing a thing about her," Rexus said. "You endangered our entire coven."

"I brought her in to interrogate her. I had no idea she would be immune-"

"And what of the spy?" Rexus asked, cutting him off.

Kyle swallowed.

"Caleb. We brought him in 200 years ago. He had proved his loyalty many times. We never had any reason to suspect him."

"Who had recruited him?" Rexus asked.

Kyle paused. He swallowed hard.

"I did."

"So," Rexus said. "Once again, you allowed a threat into our ranks."

Rexus glared back. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. And filled with condemnation.

"I am sorry, master," Kyle said, bowing his head. "But in my defense, no one here, not one vampire, ever suspected Caleb. On many occasions -"

Rexus raised his hand.

Kyle stopped.

"You have forced me to initiate the war. I will now have to re-direct all of our resources. Our master plan will have to be put on hold."

"I am sorry, master. I will do whatever I can to find them, and to make them pay."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that."

Kyle swallowed hard, bracing himself for what might come next. If it was death, he was prepared.

"I am no longer the one you need to answer to. I myself have been summoned. By the Supreme Council."

Kyle's eyes open wide. He had heard rumors all his life of the Supreme Council, the governing body of vampires who even the supreme leader had to answer to. And now he knew that it was real, and that they were summoning him. He swallowed hard.

"They are very unhappy with what went on here today. They want answers. You will explain the mistake you made, why she escaped, why a spy infiltrated our ranks, and our plans for purging other spies. You will then accept their judgment in sentence."

Kyle slowly nodded, terrified for what would come. None of it sounded good.

"We meet at the next new moon. That gives you time. In the meantime, I suggest you find this half-breed. If you can, it may just save your life."

"I promise, my master, I will summon every one of our vampires. And I will lead the charge myself. We will find her. And I will make her pay."

# Chapter Fifteen

Jonah sat in the police station, very afraid. One on side of him sat his Dad, looking more nervous than Jonah had ever seen him, and on the other, his newly-hired lawyer. Across from them, in the small, bright, interrogation, sat five police detectives. Behind them stood five more, all pacing and agitated.

It was the biggest news story of the day. Not only had an internationally-acclaimed vocalist been murdered, right during his debut performance, right in Carnegie Hall--not only had he been murdered in a suspicious way, but things had managed to get even worse. When the police followed up on the only lead they had, when they had visited her apartment, four policemen were killed. To say that things had escalated was to put it mildly.

Now, not only were they after the "Beethoven Butcher" (or "Carnegie Hall Killer," as some papers were calling her) but they were also after a cop killer. A four-cop killer. Every cop in the city was on the case, and no one would rest until it was solved.

And the only lead they had was sitting across the table from them. Jonah. Her guest for the evening.

Jonah sat wide-eyed, feeling the drops of sweat forming again on his forehead. This was his seventh hour in the room. During the first three hours he had continuously wiped the sweat from his hairline. Now he just let the sweat trickle down the side of his face. He slumped in his chair, defeated.

He just didn't know what else to add. Cop after cop had entered the room, all asking the same questions. All variations on a theme. He had no answers. He couldn't understand why they kept asking him the same thing, over and over. How long have you known her? Why did you bring her to this event? Why did she leave at intermission? Why didn't you follow her?

How had it all come to his? She had showed up looking so beautiful. She was so sweet. He loved being with her, and talking to her. He was sure it was going to be a dream date.

Then she had started acting strangely. Shortly after the music began, he had felt a restlessness building in her. She had seemed...sick wasn't the word. She had seemed...antsy. More than that: she had seemed like she was going to burst out of her skin. Like she had to get somewhere, and get somewhere fast.

At first he had thought it was just because she wasn't liking the concert. He had wondered if taking her there was a bad idea. Then he'd wondered if maybe she just didn't like him. But then it seemed to grow more intense, and he could almost feel the heat radiating out of her skin. He had then started to wonder if maybe she had some kind of sickness, maybe food poisoning.

When she actually burst out of the place, he'd wondered if she was running to the bathroom. He was puzzled, but he waited patiently by the doors, assuming she would come back after intermission. But after fifteen minutes, after the final bell rang, he had gone back to his seat alone, confused.

After another 15 minutes had gone by, the lights in the entire room had been raised. A man had come on stage and made an announcement that the concert would not continue. That refunds would be issued. He did not say why. The entire crowd had gasped, annoyed, but mostly puzzled. Jonah had been attending concerts his entire life, and had never seen one stopped at intermission. Had the vocalist taken sick?

"Jonah?" The detective snapped.

Jonah looked up at her, startled.

The detective stared back down, angrily. Grace was her name. She was the toughest cop he had ever met. And she was relentless.

"Did you not hear what I just asked you?"

Jonas shook his head.

"I want you to tell me again everything that you know about her," she said. "Tell me again how you met."

"I've answered that question a million times already," Jonah answered, frustrated.

"I want to hear it again."

"I met her in class. She was new. I gave her my seat."

"Then what?"

"We got to talking a little bit, saw each other in the cafeteria. I asked her out. She said yes."

"That was it?" The detective asked. "There are absolutely no other details, not one other thing to add?"

Jonah debated with himself over how much to tell them. Of course, there was more. There was his getting beat up by those bullies. There was her journal, lying mysteriously beside him. His suspicion that she had been there. That she had helped him. That she had even beat up those guys somehow. How, he had no idea.

But what was he supposed to tell these cops? That he had gotten himself beat up? That he thinks he remembered seeing her there? That he thinks he remembered seeing her beat up four guys twice her size? None of it made any sense, not even to him. It certainly wouldn't make sense to them. They would just think he was lying, making stuff up. They were out for her. And he wasn't going to help.

Despite everything, he felt protective of her. He couldn't really understand what had happened. A part of him didn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. Had she really killed that vocalist? Why? Were there really two holes in his neck, like the newspapers said? Had she bit him? Was she some kind of...

"Jonah," Grace snapped. "I said, is there anything else?"

The detective stared down at him.

"No," he said, finally. He hoped she couldn't tell he was lying.

A new detective stepped forward. He leaned over, stared right into Jonah's eyes. "Did anything she say that night indicate that she was mentally unstable?"

Jonah furrowed his brows.

"You mean, crazy? Why would I think that? She was great company. I really like her. She's smart, and nice. I like talking to her."

"Exactly what did you talk about?" It was that female detective again.

"Beethoven," Jonah answered.

The detectives looked at each other. By the confused, unpleasant expression on their faces, one would have imagined he had said "pornography."

"Beethoven?" one of the detectives, a beefy guy in his 50s, asked, in a mocking voice.

Jonah was exhausted, and felt like mocking him back.

"He's a composer," Jonah said.

"I know who Beethoven is, you little punk," the detective snapped.

Another detective, a beefy man in his 60s with large, red cheeks, took three steps forward, put his meaty palms on the table, and leaned in close enough so that Jonas could smell his bad coffee breath. "Look pal, this isn't a game. Four cops are dead because of your little girlfriend," he said. "Now we know that you know where she's hiding," he said. "You better start opening up and -"

Jonah's lawyer held up his hand. "That is conjecture, detective. You cannot accuse my client of-"

"I don't give a damn about your client!" the detective screamed back.

A tense silence fell over the room.

Suddenly, the door opened, and in walked another detective, wearing latex gloves. He carried Jonah's phone in one hand, and placed it on the table next to him. Jonah was happy to see it back.

"Anything?" one of the cops asked.

The cop with the gloves took them off and threw them in the wastebasket. He shook his head.

"Nothing. The kid's phone is clean. He got a few texts from her before the show, but that was it. We tried her number. Dead. We're pulling all her phone records now. Anyway, he's telling the truth. Before yesterday, she'd never called or texted him once."

 "I told you," Jonah snapped back at the cops.

"Detectives, are we through here?" Jonah's lawyer asked.

The detectives turned and looked at each other.

"My client has committed no crime, and done nothing wrong. He has cooperated entirely with this investigation, answering all of your questions. He has no intention of leaving the state, or even the city. He is available for questioning any time. I ask now that he be excused. He is a student, and he does have school in the morning." The lawyer looked down at his watch. "It is almost 1 AM, gentlemen."

At just that moment, a loud bell rang in the room, accompanied by a strong vibration. All eyes in the room suddenly turned to Jonah's phone, sitting there on the metal table. It vibrated again, and lit up. Before Jonah could reach for it, he saw who it was from. As did everyone else in the room.

It was from Caitlin.

She wanted to know where he was.

# Chapter Sixteen

Caitlin checked her phone again. It was 1 AM, and she had just texted Jonah. No response. He was probably asleep. Or if awake, he probably wouldn't even want to hear from her. But it was the only thing that she could think of doing.

As she walked away from the Cloisters, in the fresh, night air, her head started to clear. The further she got from that place, the better she felt. Caleb's presence, his energy, slowly lifted from her, and she began to feel like she could think clearly again.

When she had been with him, for some reason she'd been unable to think clearly for herself. His presence had been all-consuming. She'd found it impossible to think of anything, or anyone, else.

Now that she was on her own again, and away from him, thoughts of Jonah flooded back to her. She felt guilty for liking Caleb at all--felt like somehow she had betrayed Jonah. Jonah had been so kind to her in school, so good to her on their date. She wondered how he felt about her now, running out like that. He probably hated her.

She walked through Fort Tryon park, and checked her phone again. Luckily, it was a tiny phone, and she had hidden it well in the tiny, inside pocket of her tight dress. Somehow, it has survived through all this.

But the battery had not. It had been almost two days without charging, and as she looked down, she saw it was redlining. There were only a few minutes left before it died completely. She hoped that Jonah would answer her before then. If not, she'd have no way left to reach him.

Was he sleeping? Was he ignoring her? She couldn't blame him. She would have ignored her, too.

Caitlin walked and walked, through the park. She had no idea where she was heading. All she knew was that she needed to get far away from that place. From Caleb. From vampires. From all of this. She just wanted her normal life back. In the back of her mind, she thought that, if she walked far enough, and long enough, maybe all of this would just disappear. Maybe the rising sun would bring a new day, and this would all be washed away as a bad, bad dream.

She checked her phone. It was flashing now, almost completely dead. She knew from experience that she had about 30 seconds until it was done. She stared at it the entire time it flashed, hoping, praying, the Jonah would respond. That he would suddenly call and say, Where are you? I'll come right away. That he would rescue her from all of this.

But as she watched, it suddenly went black. Dead. Completely dead.

She tucked the phone back into her pocket, resigned. Resigned to her new life. Resigned to having no one left. She would just have to rely on herself. Like she had always done.

She exited Fort Tryon Park, and was in the Bronx, back on the city grid. It gave her a sense of normalcy. Of direction. She didn't know exactly where to go, but she liked that she was heading towards Midtown.

Yes. That was where she would go. Penn Station. She would catch a train, get far away from all this. Maybe go back to her previous town. Maybe her brother would still be there. She could start over again. Act as if all of this had never happened.

She looked around: graffiti everywhere, hustlers on every corner. But somehow, this time, they left her alone. Maybe they realized that she was at the end of her rope. That there was nothing left to take from her.

She saw a sign. 186th Street. It would be a far walk. 150 blocks to Penn Station. It would take all night. But that was what she wanted. To clear her head. Of Caleb, of Jonah. Of the events of the last two nights.

She saw another future ahead of her, and she was ready to walk all night.

# Chapter Seventeen

When Caitlin woke, it was morning. She could feel more than see the sunlight striking her, and she groggily raised her head to get her bearings. She felt cold stone touching the skin of her arms and forehead. Where was she?

As she raised her head and looked around, she realized she was in Central Park. She remembered now that she had stopped along the way, sometime during the night, to take a rest. She had been so tired, so weary. She must have fallen asleep sitting up, leaning over and resting her arms and head on the marble railing.

It was already mid-morning, and people streamed through the park. One lady, with her young daughter, walked by and gave her a strange look. She pulled her daughter close as they passed.

Caitlin sat up straighter, and looked around. A few people stared at her, and she wondered what they must have thought. She looked down at her dirty clothes. They were covered in grime. At this point, she didn't really care. She just wanted to get out this city, this place which she associated with everything going wrong.

Then it hit her. Hunger. A pang struck, and she felt hungrier than she ever had. But it wasn't a normal hunger. It was an insane, primal urge. To feed. Like she had felt in Carnegie Hall.

A small boy playing with a soccer ball, no older than six, kicked it, by accident, right near her. He came running over towards her. His parents were far ahead, at least 30 feet.

Now was her chance. Every bone in her body screamed to feed. She stared at his neck, zoomed in on the pulsing blood. She could feel it. Almost smell it. She wanted her to pounce.

But somewhere, some part of her stopped herself. She knew that she would starve if she didn't feed, and that she would die shortly. But she would rather die than harm him. She let him go.

The sunlight was bad, but bearable. Was that because she was a half-breed? How would it have affected other vampires? Maybe this gave her some kind of edge.

She looked around, blinking at the harsh sunlight, and felt dazed and confused. There were so many people. So much commotion. Why had she stopped here. Where had she been going? Yes... Penn Station.

She felt the pain in her weary feet, sore from all the walking. But she wasn't far now. Not more than 30 blocks. She would walk the rest of the way, catch a train, and get the hell out of here. She would urge herself, out of sheer will, to become normal again. If she got far enough from the city, maybe, just maybe that would happen.

Caitlin stood slowly, preparing to walk.

"Freeze!" a voice screamed.

"Don't you move!" yelled another voice.

Caitlin turned slowly.

Before her were at least a dozen uniformed New York police officers, all with guns drawn and pointed. They kept their distance, about 15 feet away, as if afraid to get any closer. As if she were some sort of wild animal.

She looked back at them, and strangely, was unafraid. Instead, she felt a strange sort of peace rise within her. She was beginning to feel stronger than the humans. And with every passing moment, she felt less and less a part of their race. She felt a strange sort of invincibility, felt that, no matter how many of them there were, or what weaponry they had, she could outrun them, or outfight them.

On the other hand, she felt tired. Resigned. A part of her really didn't want to run anymore. From the cops. From vampires. She didn't know where she was running to, or really what she was running from. In some weird way, she would welcome being hauled off by the police. Getting arrested would at least be something normal, rational. Maybe they would shake her up and make her realize that she was just human after all.

The officers slowly, warily approached her, guns drawn, moving with the utmost caution.

She watched them come closer, more interested than afraid. Her senses had heightened. She noticed every tiny detail. The detailed shape of their guns, the contour of the triggers, even how long their fingernails were.

"Get those hands up where can see them!" a cop screamed.

The closest cops were only feet away.

She wondered what her life would have been like. If her father had never left. If they had never moved. If she'd had a different Mom. If they'd stayed put in one of the towns. If she'd had a boyfriend. Would she have ever had been normal? Would life have ever been normal?

The closest cop was now only a foot away.

"Turn around and place your hands behind your back," said the cop. "Slowly."

She slowly lowered her arms, turned, and placed her arms behind her back. She could feel the cop grab her tightly around one wrist, then the other, jerking her arms behind her too roughly, too high, using unnecessary force. How petty. She felt the cold clasp of the handcuffs, and could feel the metal cut into her skin.

The cop grabbed her by the back of head, squeezed her hair, way too tight, and leaned in close, putting his mouth beside her ear. He whispered, "You're going to fry."

And then it happened.

Before she knew what was happening, there was a sickening noise of crunching bone, followed by the splatter of blood--and the feel and smell of warm blood all over her face.

She heard shouting, and screaming, and then shots fired, all in the fraction of a second. It wasn't until she instinctively dropped to her knees and hit the ground, spun around and looked up, that she realized what was happening.

The cop who had cuffed her was dead, decapitated, his head severed in half. The other cops were firing wildly, but they were outmatched. A mob of vampires - the same ones from City Hall - had descended. They were tearing the cops to pieces.

The cops managed to shoot some of them, but it didn't do any good. They kept on charging. It was a bloodbath.

Within a matter of seconds, the cops were torn to pieces.

Caitlin suddenly felt the warm, familiar rush through her blood, felt the power filling her, rising up from her feet, through her arms and shoulders. She reached back and snapped the handcuffs clean. She brought her hands in front of her and stared, shocked at her own strength. The metal dangled on each wrist, but her hands were now free.

She jumped to her feet, watching with fascination the grisly scene in front of her. The entire mob of vampires hunched over the cops' bodies. They seemed too distracted to notice her. She realized she needed to escape. Fast.

But just before she could finish the thought, she felt an icy, super strong grip on the back of her neck. She looked over and recognize the face. It was Kyle. And he had the look of death.

He grinned at her, more of a snarl.

"We are not saving you," said. "We are simply taking what is ours."

She tried to resist. She swung her arm around but he blocked it easily and grasped her by the throat. She was losing air. She was simply no match for him.

"You may be immune to some things," he said, "but you are not nearly as strong as I. Nor will you ever be."

At that moment there was another blur of motion, and Caitlin could suddenly breathe again. She was shocked to see Kyle suddenly stumbling backwards. He went hurling back with such force that he smashed backwards into the marble railing, shattering it, and went flying over its side.

She looked over and saw what had done it.

Caleb.

He was here.

Before she could even process what was happening, Caitlin felt his familiar, tight grip around her waist, his muscled arm and torso, and felt herself being held by him as they ran and ran, faster and faster, just as they had the night before. They ran through Central Park, heading south, and in moments, the trees became a blur. They lifted into the air. Once again, they were flying.

They were up in the air, over the city, when Caleb spread his wings and wrapped them around her.

"I thought you couldn't leave," Caitlin finally said.

"I can't," Caleb said.

"So...does that mean you'll be--"

"Banished. Yes."

She felt overcome with emotion. He had given it all up for her.

As they flew, higher and higher, almost into the clouds, Caitlin had no idea where they were going. She looked down and could see that they were leaving the city. She relaxed. She was so happy to be away from it all, so ready for a fresh start. Most of all, she was happy to be in Caleb's arms. The sky before them broke into a soft orange glow, and she only wished that this moment would never end.

Now available!

LOVED

(Book #2 in the Vampire Journals)

Caitlin and Caleb embark together on their quest to find the one object that can stop the imminent vampire and human war: the lost sword. An object of vampire lore, there is grave doubt over whether it even exists.

If there is any hope of finding it, they must first trace Caitlin's ancestry. Is she really the One? Their search begins with finding Caitlin's father. Who was he? Why did he abandon her? As the search broadens, they are shocked by what they discover about who she really is.

But they are not the only ones searching for the legendary sword. The Blacktide Coven wants it, too, and they are close on Caitlin and Caleb's trail. Worse, Caitlin's little brother, Sam, remains obsessed with finding his Dad. But Sam soon finds himself in way over his head, smack in the middle of a vampire war. Will he jeopardize their search?

Caitlin and Caleb's journey takes them on a whirlwind of historic locations--from the Hudson Valley, to Salem, to the heart of historic Boston--the very spot where witches were once hung on the hill of Boston Common. Why are these locations so important to the vampire race? And what do they have to do with Caitlin's ancestry, and with who she's becoming?

But they may not even make it. Caitlin and Caleb's love for each other is blossoming. And their forbidden romance may just destroy everything they've set out to achieve....

Books #3--#11 in the VAMPIRE JOURNALS are now also available!

"LOVED, the second book in the Vampire Journals series, is just as great as the first book, TURNED, and jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. This book is a wonderful addition to this series and will have you wanting more from Morgan Rice. If you loved the first book, get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again. This book can be read as the sequel, but Rice writes it in a way that you do not need to know the first book in order to read this wonderful installment."

\--Vampirebooksite.com

"THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS series has had a great plot, and LOVED especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens. As you can see, this book was a huge step up in the series and receives a solid A."

\--The Dallas Examiner

"In LOVED, Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller.... Engaging and fun, I found myself enjoying this book much more than the first and I am highly anticipating the next installment."

\--The Romance Reviews

LOVED

(Book #2 in the Vampire Journals)

About Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

"Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting....Nicely written and an extremely fast read."

\--Black Lagoon Reviews (regarding Turned)

"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist...Refreshing and unique. The series focuses around one girl...one extraordinary girl!...Easy to read but extremely fast-paced... Rated PG."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Turned)

"Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild (regarding Turned)

"Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again."

\--vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens."

\--The Dallas Examiner (regarding Loved)

"A book to rival TWILIGHT and VAMPIRE DIARIES, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"

\--Vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller....This would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Loved)

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

Listen to THE SORCERER'S RING series in audio book format!

## ARENA ONE

SLAVERUNNERS

 (BOOK #1 OF THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY)

MORGAN RICE

SMASHWORDS EDITION

About Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

"Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting....Nicely written and an extremely fast read."

\--Black Lagoon Reviews (regarding Turned)

"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist...Refreshing and unique. The series focuses around one girl...one extraordinary girl!...Easy to read but extremely fast-paced... Rated PG."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Turned)

"Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild (regarding Turned)

"Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again."

\--vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens."

\--The Dallas Examiner (regarding Loved)

"A book to rival TWILIGHT and VAMPIRE DIARIES, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"

\--Vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller....This would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Loved)

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

Listen to THE SURVIVAL TRLOGY series in audio book format!

Copyright © 2012 by Morgan Rice

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

"Had I but died an hour before this chance,  
I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant,

There's nothing serious in mortality."

\--Shakespeare, Macbeth

P A R T    I

# O N E

Today is less forgiving than most. The wind whips relentlessly, brushing clumps of snow off the heavy pine and right into my face as I hike straight up the mountain face. My feet, crammed into hiking boots a size too small, disappear in the six inches of snow. I slip and slide, struggling to find my footing. The wind comes in gusts, so cold it takes my breath away. I feel as if I'm walking into a living snow globe.

Bree tells me it's December. She likes to count down the days to Christmas, scratching off the numbers each day on an old calendar she found. She does it with such enthusiasm, I can't bring myself to tell her we're nowhere near December. I won't tell her that her calendar is three years old, or that we'll never get a new one, because they stopped making them the day the world ended. I won't deny her her fantasy. That's what big sisters are for.

Bree clings to her beliefs anyway, and she's always believed that snow means December, and even if I told her, I doubt it would change her mind. That's a ten-year-old for you.

What Bree refuses to see is that winter comes early up here. We're high up in the Catskills, and here, there's a different sense of time, a different turn to the seasons. Here, three hours north of what was once New York City, the leaves drop by the end of August, scattering across mountain ranges that stretch as far as the eye can see.

Our calendar was current once. When we first arrived, three years ago, I remember seeing the first snow and then checking it in disbelief. I couldn't understand how the page read October. I assumed such early snow was a freak. But I soon learned it wasn't. These mountains are just high enough, just cold enough, for winter to cannibalize fall.

If Bree would just flip back the calendar, she'd see it right there, the old year, in big, tacky letters: 2117. Obviously, three years old. I tell myself she's just too caught up in her excitement to check closely. This is what I hope. But lately, a part of me is beginning to suspect that she really knows, that she's just chosen to lose herself in fantasy. I can't blame her.

Of course, we haven't had a working calendar for years. Or cell phone, or computer, or TV, or radio, or internet, or technology of any kind--not to mention electricity, or running water. Yet somehow, we've managed to make it, just the two of us, for three years like this. The summers have been tolerable, with fewer hungry days. We can at least fish then, and the mountain creeks always seemed to carry salmon. There are also berries, and even a few wild apple and pear orchards that still, after all this time, bear fruit. Once in a while, we even manage to catch a rabbit.

But the winters are intolerable. Everything is frozen, or dead, and each year I am certain we will not make it. And this has been the worst winter of all. I keep telling myself things will turn around; but it's been days now without a decent meal, and winter has just begun. We are both weak from hunger, and now Bree is also sick. It doesn't bode well.

As I trudge up the mountain face, retracing the same luckless steps I took yesterday, searching for our next meal, I am beginning to feel our luck has run out. It is only the thought of Bree lying there, waiting at home, that urges me forward. I stop pitying myself and instead hold her face in my mind. I know I can't find medicine, but I am hoping it's just a passing fever, and that a good meal and some warmth are all she needs.

What she really needs is a fire. But I never light fires in our fireplace anymore; I can't risk the smoke, the smell, tipping off a slaverunner to our location. But tonight I will surprise her, and just for a little while, take the chance. Bree lives for fires, and it will lift her spirits. And if I can just find a meal to complement it--even something as small as a rabbit--it will complete her recovery. Not just physically. I've noticed her starting to lose hope these last few days--I can see it in her eyes--and I need her to stay strong. I refuse to sit back and watch her slip away, like Mom did.

A new gust of wind slaps me in the face, and this one is so long and vicious I need to lower my head and wait until it passes. The wind roars in my ears, and I would do anything for a real winter coat. I wear only a worn hoodie, one I found years ago by the side of the road. I think it was a boy's, but that's good, because the sleeves are long enough to cover my hands and almost double as gloves. At five-six I'm not exactly short, so whoever owned this must have been tall. Sometimes I wonder if he'd care that I'm wearing his clothing. But then I realize he's probably dead. Just like everybody else.

My pants aren't much better: I still wear the same pair of jeans, I'm embarrassed to note, that I've had on since we escaped the city all those years ago. If there's one thing I regret, it's leaving so hastily. I guess I'd assumed I'd find some clothes up here, that maybe a clothing store would still be open somewhere, or even a Salvation Army. That was stupid of me: of course, all the clothing stores had long ago been looted. It was as if, overnight, the world went from a place of plenty to a place of scarcity. I'd managed to find a few pieces of clothing scattered in drawers in my Dad's house. These I gave to Bree. I was happy that at least some of his clothes, like his thermals and socks, could keep her warm.

The wind finally stops, and I raise my head and hurry straight up before it can pick up again, forcing myself at double speed, until I reach the plateau.

I reach the top, breathing hard, my legs on fire, and slowly look around. The trees are more sparse up here and in the distance is a small mountain lake. It's frozen, like all the others, and the sun glares off of it with enough intensity to make me squint.

I immediately look over at my fishing rod, the one I'd left the day before, wedged between two boulders. It sticks out over the lake, a long piece of string dangling from it into a small hole in the ice. If the rod is bent, it means Bree and I will have dinner tonight. If not, I'll know it didn't work--again. I hurry between a cluster of trees, through the snow, and get a good look.

It's straight. Of course.

My heart sinks. I debate walking out onto the ice, using my small axe to chop a hole elsewhere. But I already know it won't make a difference. The problem is not its position--the problem is this lake. The ground is too frozen for me to dig up worms, and I don't even know where to look for them. I'm not a natural hunter, or trapper. If I'd known I'd end up here, I would have devoted my entire childhood to Outward Bound, to survival techniques. But now I find myself useless in most everything. I don't know how to set traps, and my fishing lines rarely catch a thing.

Being my father's daughter, a Marine's daughter, the one thing I am good at--knowing how to fight--is useless up here. If I am helpless against the animal kingdom, at least I can handle myself against the two-legged ones. From the time I was young, like it or not, Dad insisted I be his daughter--a Marine's daughter, and proud of it. He also wanted me to be the son he never had. He enrolled me in boxing, wrestling, mixed martial arts...there were endless lessons on how to use a knife, how to fire a gun, how to find pressure points, how to fight dirty. Most of all, he insisted I be tough, that I never show fear, and that I never cry.

Ironically, I have never had a chance to use a single thing he taught me, and it all couldn't be more useless up here; there is not another person in sight. What I really need to know is how to find food--not how to kick someone. And if I do ever run into another person, I'm not going to be flipping him, but asking for help.

I think hard and recall that there is another lake up here somewhere, a smaller one; I saw it once, one summer when I was adventurous and hiked farther up the mountain. It's a steep quarter-mile, and I haven't tried to go up there since.

I look up and sigh. The sun is already going down, a morose winter sunset cast in a reddish hue, and I'm already weak, tired, and frozen. It will take most of what I've got just to make it back down the mountain. The last thing I want is to hike farther up. But a small voice inside me urges me to keep climbing. The more time I spend alone these days, the stronger Dad's voice is becoming in my head. I resent it and want to block it out, but somehow, I can't.

Stop whining and keep pushing, Moore!

Dad always liked to call me by my last name. Moore. It annoyed me, but he didn't care.

If I go back now, Bree will have nothing to eat tonight. That lake up there is the best I can come up with, our only other source of food. I also want Bree to have a fire, and all the wood down here is soaked. Up there, where the wind is stronger, I might find wood dry enough for kindling. I take one more look straight up the mountain, and decide to go for it. I lower my head and begin the hike, taking my rod with me.

Each step is painful, a million sharp needles pulsing in my thighs, icy air piercing my lungs. The wind picks up and the snow whips, like sandpaper on my face. A bird caws way up high, as if mocking me. Just when I feel I can't take one more step, I reach the next plateau.

This one, so high up, is different than all the others: it is densely packed with pine trees, making it difficult to see more than ten feet. The sky is shut out under their huge canopy, and the snow is covered with green needles. The huge tree trunks manage to shut out the wind, too. I feel like I've entered a small private kingdom, hidden from the rest of the world.

I stop and turn, taking in the vista: the view is amazing. I'd always thought we had a great view from Dad's house, halfway up the mountain, but from here, up top, it is spectacular. Mountain peaks soar in every direction, and beyond them, in the distance, I can even see the Hudson River, sparkling. I also see the winding roads that cut their way through the mountain, remarkably intact. Probably because so few people ever come up here. I've never, in fact, seen a car, or any other vehicle. Despite the snow, the roads are clear; the steep, angular roads, basking in the sun, lend themselves perfectly to drainage, and amazingly, much of the snow has melted off.

I am struck by a pang of worry. I prefer when the roads are covered in snow and ice, when they are impassable to vehicles, because the only people who have cars and fuel these days are slaverunners--merciless bounty hunters that work to feed Arena One. They patrol everywhere, looking for any survivors, to kidnap them and bring them to the arena as slaves. There, I'm told, they make them fight to the death for entertainment.

Bree and I have been lucky. We haven't seen any slaverunners in the years we've been up here--but I think that's only because we live so high up, in such a remote area. Only once did I hear the high-pitched whine of a slaverunner's engine, far off in the distance, on the other side of the river. I know they are down there, somewhere, patrolling. And I don't take any chances--I make sure we keep a low profile, rarely burning wood unless we need to, and keeping a close eye on Bree at all times. Most of the times I take her hunting with me--I would have today if she weren't so sick.

I turn back to the plateau and fix my eyes on the smaller lake. Frozen solid, shining in the afternoon light, it sits there like a lost jewel, hiding behind a copse of trees. I approach it, taking a few tentative steps on the ice to make sure it doesn't crack. Once I feel it's solid, I take a few more. I find a spot, remove the small axe from my belt and chop down hard, several times. A crack appears. I remove my knife, take a knee and strike hard, right in the center of the crack. I work the tip of the knife in there and carve a small hole, just big enough to extract a fish.

I hurry back to shore, slipping and sliding, then wedge the fishing rod between two tree branches, unravel the string, and run back out and drop it in the hole. I yank it a few times, hoping that the flash of the metal hook might attract some living creatures beneath the ice. But I can't help feeling it's a futile endeavor, can't help suspecting that anything that ever lived in these mountain lakes died long ago.

It's even colder up here, and I can't just stand here, staring at the line. I have to keep moving. I turn and walk away from the lake, the superstitious part of me telling me I might just catch a fish if I don't stand there staring. I walk in small circles around the trees, rubbing my hands, trying to keep warm. It does little good.

That's when I remember the dry wood. I look down and search for kindling, but it is a futile task. The ground is covered in snow. I look up at the trees, and see the trunks and branches are mostly covered in snow, too. But there, in the distance, I spot a few wind-swept trees free of snow. I make my way over to them and inspect the bark, running my hand along it. I am relieved to see that some of the branches are dry. I take out my axe and chop one of the bigger branches. All I need is an armful of wood, and this large branch will do perfectly.

I catch it as it comes down, not wanting to let it hit the snow, then brace it against the trunk and chop it again, clean in half. I do this again and again, until I have a small stack of kindling, enough to carry in my arms. I set it down in the nook of a branch, safe and dry from the snow below.

I look around, inspecting the other trunks, and as I look closer, something gives me pause. I approach one of the trees, looking closely, and realize its bark is different than the others. I look up, and realize it's not a pine; it's a maple. I am surprised to see a maple so high up here, and even more surprised that I actually recognize it. In fact, a maple is probably the only thing in nature I would recognize. Despite myself, a memory comes flooding back.

Once, when I was young, my Dad got it into his head to take me on a nature outing. God knows why, but he took me to tap maple trees. We drove for hours to some godforsaken part of the country, me carrying a metal bucket, him carrying a spout, and then spent hours more roaming the woods with a guide, searching for the perfect maples. I remember the look of disappointment on his face after he tapped his first tree and a clear liquid oozed out into our bucket. He had been expecting syrup.

Our guide laughed at him, told him that maple trees didn't produce syrup--they produced sap. The sap had to be boiled down to syrup. It was a process that took hours, he said. It took about 80 gallons of sap to make a single quart of syrup.

Dad looked down at the overflowing bucket of sap in his hand and turned bright red, as if someone had sold him a rotten bill of goods. He was the proudest man I'd ever met, and if there was anything he hated more than feeling stupid, it was someone making fun of him. When the man laughed, he threw his bucket at him, barely missing him, took my hand, and we stormed off.

After that, he never took me out into nature again.

I didn't mind, though--and actually enjoyed the outing, even though he fumed silently in the car the whole way home. I'd managed to collect a small cup of the sap before he'd taken me away, and I remember secretly sipping it on the car ride home, when he wasn't looking. I loved it. It tasted like sugar water.

Standing here now, before this tree, I recognize it as I would a sibling. This specimen, so high up, is thin and scrawny, and I'd be surprised if it holds any sap at all. But I've got nothing to lose. I take out my knife and strike the tree, again and again, in the same spot. Then I burrow the knife into the hole, pushing deeper and deeper, twisting and turning. I don't really expect anything to happen.

I'm shocked when a drop of sap leaks out. And even more shocked when, moments later it turns into a small, trickling stream. I hold out my finger, touch it, and raise it to my tongue. I feel the sugar rush, and recognize the taste immediately. Just as I remembered. I can't believe it.

The sap leaks out at faster now, and I'm losing much of it as it drips down the trunk. I look around desperately for something to hold it in, a bucket of some kind--but of course there is none. And then I remember: my thermos. I pull my plastic thermos out of my waistband and turn it upside down, emptying it of water. I can get fresh water anywhere, especially with all this snow--but this sap is precious. I hold the empty thermos flush against the tree, wishing I had a proper spout. I cram the plastic against the trunk as close as I can, and manage to catch much of it. It fills more slowly than I'd like, but within minutes, I've managed to fill half the thermos.

The flow of sap stops. I wait for a few seconds, wondering if it will start again, but it doesn't.

I look around and spot another maple, about ten feet in the distance. I rush over to it, raise my knife excitedly and strike hard this time, envisioning myself filling the thermos, envisioning the look of surprise on Bree's face when she tastes it. It might not be nutritious, but it will sure make her happy.

But this time, when my knife strikes the trunk, there is a sharp splitting noise that I don't expect, and this is followed by the groaning of timber. I look up to see the entire tree leaning, and I realize, too late, that this tree, frozen over in a coat of ice, was dead. The plunging of my knife was all it needed to tip it over the edge.

A moment later the entire tree, at least twenty feet, falls over, crashing down to the ground. It stirs up an enormous cloud of snow and pine needles. I crouch down, nervous I might have alerted someone to my presence. I am furious with myself. That was careless. Stupid. I should have examined the tree more carefully first.

But after a few moments my heartbeat settles, as I realize there's no one else up here. I become rational again, realize that trees fall by themselves in the forest all the time, and its crash wouldn't necessarily give away a human presence. And as I look to the place where the tree once stood, I do a double-take. I find myself staring in disbelief.

There, in the distance, hiding behind a grove of trees, built right into the side of the mountain itself, is a small, stone cottage. It is a tiny structure, a perfect square, about fifteen feet wide and deep, built about twelve feet high, with walls made of ancient stone blocks. A small chimney rises from the roof, and small windows are set into the walls. The wooden front door, shaped in an arch, is ajar.

This little cottage is so well camouflaged, blends so perfectly with its surroundings, that even while staring at it, I can barely pick it out. Its roof and walls are covered in snow, and the exposed stone blends perfectly into the landscape. The cottage looks ancient, as if it were built hundreds of years ago. I can't understand what it's doing here, who would have built it, or why. Maybe it was built for a caretaker for a state park. Maybe it was home to a recluse. Or a survival nut.

It looks like it hasn't been touched in years. I carefully scan the forest floor, looking for footprints, or animal prints, in or out. But there are none. I think back to when the snow started falling, several days ago, and do the math in my head. No one has been in or out of here for at least three days.

My heart races at the thought of what could be inside. Food, clothing, medicine, weapons, materials--anything would be a godsend.

I move cautiously across the clearing, checking over my shoulder as I go just to make sure no one is watching. I move quickly, leaving big, conspicuous footprints in the snow. As I reach the front door, I turn and look one more time, then stand there and wait for several seconds, listening. There is no sound but that of the wind and a nearby stream, which runs just a few feet in front of the house. I reach out and slam the back of my axe handle hard on the door, a loud reverberating noise, to give any animals that might be hiding inside a final warning.

There is no response.

I quickly shove open the door, pushing back the snow, and step inside.

It's dark in here, lit only by the last light of day streaming in through the small windows, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I wait, standing with my back against the door, on guard in case any animals might be using this space as shelter. But after several more seconds of waiting, my eyes fully adjust to the dim light and it is clear that I'm alone.

The first thing I notice about this little house is its warmth. Perhaps it is because it is so small, with a low ceiling, and built right into the stone mountain itself; or perhaps because it is protected from the wind. Even though the windows are wide open to the elements, even though the door is still ajar, it must be at least fifteen degrees warmer in here--much warmer than Dad's house ever is, even with a fire going. Dad's house was built cheaply to begin with, with paper-thin walls and vinyl siding, built on a corner of a hill that always seems to be in the wind's direct path.

But this place is different. The stone walls are so thick and well-built, I feel snug and safe in here. I can only imagine how warm this place could get if I shut the door, boarded up the windows, and had a fire in the fireplace--which looks to be in working shape.

The inside consists of one large room, and I squint into the darkness as I comb the floor, looking for anything, anything at all, that I can salvage. Amazingly, this place looks like it's never been entered since the war. Every other house I've seen had smashed windows, debris scattered all over the place, and had clearly been picked clean of anything useful, down to the wiring. But not this one. It is pristine and clean and tidy, as if its owner just got up one day and walked away. I wonder if it was before the war even began. Judging from the cobwebs on the ceiling, and its incredible location, hidden so well behind the trees, I am guessing it was. That no one's been here in decades.

I see the outline of an object against the far wall, and I make my way towards it, hands in front of me, groping in the darkness. When my hands touch it, I realize it is a chest of drawers. I run my fingers over its smooth, wood surface and can feel them covered in dust. I run my fingers over small knobs--drawer handles. I pull delicately, opening them one at a time. It is too dark to see, so I reach into each drawer with my hand, combing the surface. The first drawer yields nothing. Neither does the second. I open them all, quickly, my hopes falling--when suddenly, at the fifth drawer, I stop. There, in the back, I feel something. I slowly pull it out.

I hold it up to the light, and at first I can't tell what it is; but then I feel the telltale aluminum foil, and I realize: it's a chocolate bar. A few bites were taken out of it, but it is still wrapped in its original wrapping, and mostly preserved. I unwrap it just a bit and hold it to my nose and smell it. I can't believe it: real chocolate. We haven't had chocolate since the war.

The smell brings a sharp hunger pang, and it takes all my willpower not to tear it open and devour it. I force myself to remain strong, carefully re-wrapping it and stowing it in my pocket. I will wait until I am with Bree to enjoy it. I smile, anticipating the look on her face when she takes her first bite. It will be priceless.

I quickly rummage through the remaining drawers, now hopeful I'll find all sorts of treasure. But everything else comes up empty. I turn back to the room and walk through its width and breadth, along the walls, to all four corners, looking for anything at all. But the place is deserted.

Suddenly, I step on something soft. I kneel down and pick it up, holding it to the light. I am amazed: a teddy bear. It is worn, and missing an eye, but still, Bree loves teddy bears and misses the one she left behind. She will be ecstatic when she sees this. It looks like this is her lucky day.

I cram the bear in my belt, and as I get up, I feel my hand brush something soft on the floor. I grab it and hold it up, and am delighted to realize it's a scarf. It's black and covered in dust, so I couldn't see it in the darkness, and as I hold it to my neck and chest, I can already feel its warmth. I hold it out the window and shake it hard, removing all the dust. I look at it in the light: it is long and thick--not even any holes. It is like pure gold. I immediately wrap it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt, and already feel much warmer. I sneeze.

The sun is setting, and as it seems I've found everything I'm going to, I begin to exit. As I head for the door, suddenly, I stub my toe into something hard, metal. I stop and kneel down, feeling for it in case it's a weapon. It's not. It's a round, iron knob, attached to the wooden floor. Like a knocker. Or a handle.

I yank it left and right. Nothing happens. I try twisting it. Nothing. Then I take a chance and stand off to the side and pull it hard, straight up.

A trap door opens, raising a cloud of dust.

I look down and discover a crawlspace, about four feet high, with a dirt floor. My heart soars at the possibilities. If we lived here, and there was ever trouble, I could hide Bree down here. This little cottage becomes even more valuable in my eyes.

And not only that. As I look down, I catch sight of something gleaming. I push the heavy wooden door all the way back and quickly scramble down the ladder. It is black down here, and I hold my hands in front of me, groping my way. As I take a step forward, I feel something. Glass. Shelves are built into the wall, and lined up on them are glass jars. Mason jars.

I pull one down and hold it up to the light. Its contents are red and soft. It looks like jam. I quickly unscrew the tin lid, hold it to my nose and smell it. The pungent smell of raspberries hits me like a wave. I stick a finger in, scoop it and hold it tentatively to my tongue. I can't believe it: raspberry jam. And it tastes as fresh as if it were made yesterday.

I quickly tighten the lid, cram the jar into my pocket, and hurry back to the shelves. I reach out and feel dozens more in the blackness. I grab the closest one, rush back to the light, and hold it up. It looks like pickles.

I am in awe. This place is a gold mine.

I wish I could take it all, but my hands are freezing, I don't have anything to carry it with, and it's getting dark out. So I put the jar of pickles back where I found it, scramble up the ladder, and, as I make it back to the main floor, close the trap door firmly behind me. I wish I had a lock; I feel nervous leaving all of that down there, unprotected. But then I remind myself this place hasn't been touched in years--and that I probably never would have even noticed it if that tree didn't fall.

As I leave, I close the door all the way, feeling protective, already feeling as if this is our home.

Pockets full, I hurry back towards the lake--but suddenly freeze as I sense movement and hear a noise. At first I worry someone has followed me; but as I slowly turn, I see something else. A deer is standing there, ten feet away, staring back at me. It is the first deer I've seen in years. Its large, black eyes lock onto mine, then it suddenly turns and bolts.

I am speechless. I've spent month after month searching for a deer, hoping I could get close enough to throw my knife at it. But I'd never been able to find one, anywhere. Maybe I wasn't hunting high enough. Maybe they've lived up here all along.

I resolve to return, first thing in the morning, and wait all day if I have to. If it was here once, maybe it will come back. The next time I see it, I will kill it. That deer would feed us for weeks.

I am filled with new hope as I hurry to the lake. As I approach and check my rod, my heart leaps to see that it's bent nearly in half.  Shaking with excitement, I scurry across the ice, slipping and sliding. I grab the line, which is shaking wildly, and pray that it holds.

I reach over and yank it firmly. I can feel the force of a large fish yanking back, and I silently will the line not to snap, the hook not to break. I give it one final yank, and the fish comes flying out of the hole. It is a huge Salmon, the size of my arm. It lands on the ice and flip-flops every which way, sliding across. I run over and reach down to grab it, but it slips through my hands and plops back on the ice. My hands are too slimy to catch hold of it, so I lower my sleeves, reach down, and grasp it more firmly this time. It flops and squirms in my hands for a good thirty seconds, until finally, it settles down, dead.

I am amazed. It is my first catch in months.

I am ecstatic as I slide across the ice and set it down on the shore, packing it in the snow, afraid it will somehow come back to life and jump back into the lake. I take down the rod and line and hold them in one hand, then grab the fish in the other. I can feel the mason jar of jam in one pocket, and the thermos of sap in the other, crammed in with the chocolate bar, and the teddy bear on my waist. Bree will have an abundance of riches tonight.

There is just one thing left to take. I walk over to the stack of dry wood, balance the rod in my arm, and with my free hand pick up as many logs as I can hold. I drop a few, and can't take as many as I'd like, but I'm not complaining. I can always come back for the rest of it in the morning.

Hands, arms, and pockets full, I slip and slide down the steep mountain face in the last light of day, careful not to drop any of my treasure. As I go, I can't stop thinking about the cottage. It's perfect, and my heart beats faster at the possibilities. This is exactly what we need. Our Dad's house is too conspicuous, built on a main road. I've been worrying for months that we're too vulnerable being there. All we'd need is one random slaverunner to pass by, and we'd be in trouble. I've been wanting to move us for a long time, but had no idea where. There are no other houses up here at all.

That little cottage, so high up, so far from any road--and built literally into the mountain--is so well camouflaged, it's almost as if it were built just for us. No one would ever be able to find us there. And even if they did, they couldn't come anywhere near us with a vehicle. They'd have to hike up on foot, and from that vantage point, I'd spot them a mile away.

The house also has a fresh water source, a running stream right in front of its door; I wouldn't have to leave Bree alone every time I go hiking to bathe and wash our clothes. And I wouldn't have to carry buckets of water one at a time all the way from the lake every time I prepare a meal. Not to mention that, with that huge canopy of trees, we would be concealed enough to light fires in the fireplace every night. We would be safer, warmer, in a place teeming with fish and game--and stocked with a basement full of food. My mind is made up: I'm going to move us there tomorrow.

It's like a weight off my shoulders. I feel reborn. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don't feel the hunger gnawing away, don't feel the cold piercing my fingertips. Even the wind, as I climb down, seems to be at my back, helping me along, and I know that things have finally turned around. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I know that now, we can make it.

Now, we can survive.

# T W O

By the time I reach Dad's house it is twilight, the temperature dropping, the snow beginning to harden and crunch beneath my feet. I exit the woods and see our house sitting there, perched so conspicuously on the side of the road, and am relieved to see that all looks undisturbed, exactly as I left it. I immediately check the snow for any footprints--or animal prints--in or out, and find none.

There are no lights on inside the house, but that is normal. I would be concerned if there were. We have no electricity, and lights would only mean that Bree has lit candles--and she wouldn't without me. I stop and listen for several seconds, and all is still. No noises of struggle, no cries for help, no cries of sickness. I breathe a sigh of relief.

A part of me is always afraid I will return to find the door wide open, the window shattered, footprints leading into the house, Bree abducted. I've had this nightmare several times, and always wake up sweating, and walk into the other room to make sure Bree is there. She always is, safe and sound, and I reprimand myself. I know I should stop worrying, after all these years. But for some reason, I just can't shake it: every time I have to leave Bree alone, it's like a little knife in my heart.

Still on alert, sensing everything around me, I examine our house in the fading light of day. It was honestly never nice to begin with. A typical mountain ranch, it sits as a rectangular box with no character whatsoever, festooned with cheap, aqua vinyl siding, which looked old from day one, and which now just looks rotted. The windows are small and far and few between and made of a cheap plastic. It looks like it belongs in a trailer park. Maybe fifteen feet wide by about thirty feet deep, it should really be a one bedroom, but whoever built it, in their wisdom, carved it into two small bedrooms and an even smaller living room.

I remember visiting it as a child, before the war, when the world was still normal. Dad, when he was home, would bring us up here for weekends, to get away from the city. I didn't want to be ungrateful, and I always put on a good face for him, but silently, I never liked it; it always felt dark and cramped, and had a musty smell to it. As a kid, I remember being unable to wait for the weekend to be over, to get far away from this place. I remember silently vowing that when I was older, I would never come back here.

Now, ironically, I am grateful for this place. This house saved my life--and Bree's. When the war broke out and we had to flee from the city, we had no options. If it weren't for this place, I don't know where we would have gone. And if this place weren't as remote and high up as it is, then we would have probably been captured by slaverunners long ago. It's funny how you can hate things so much as a kid that you end up appreciating as an adult. Well, almost adult. At 17, I consider myself an adult, anyway. I've probably aged more than most of them, anyway, in the last few years.

If this house wasn't built right on the road, so exposed--if it were just a bit smaller, more protected, deeper in the woods, I don't think I'd worry so much. Of course, we'd still have to put up with the paper-thin walls, the leaking roof, and the windows that let in the wind. It would never be a comfortable, or a warm house. But at least it would be safe. Now, every time I look at it, and look out at the sweeping vista beyond it, I can't help but think it's a sitting target.

My feet crunch in the snow as I approach our vinyl door, and barking erupts from inside. Sasha, doing what I trained her to do: protect Bree. I am so grateful for her. She watches over Bree so carefully, barks at the slightest noise; it allows me just enough peace of mind to leave her when I hunt. Although at the same time, her barking also sometimes worries me that she'll tip us off: after all, a barking dog usually means humans. And that's exactly what a slaverunner would listen for.

I hurriedly step into the house and quickly silence her. I close the door behind me, juggling the logs in my hand, and step into the blackened room. Sasha quiets, wagging her tail and jumping up on me. A chocolate lab, six years old, Sasha is the most loyal dog I could ever imagine--and the best company. If it weren't for her, I think Bree would have fallen into a depression long ago. I might have, too.

Sasha licks my face, whining, and seems even more excited than usual; she sniffs at my waistline, at my pockets, already sensing that I've brought home something special. I set down the logs so I can pet her, and as I do, I can feel her ribs. She's way too skinny. I feel a fresh pang of guilt. Then again, Bree and I are, too. We always share with her whatever we forage, so the three of us are a team of equals. Still, I wish I could give her more.

She pokes her nose at the fish, and as she does, it flies out of my hand and onto the floor. Sasha immediately pounces on it, her claws sending it sliding across the floor. She jumps on it again, this time biting it. But she must not like the taste of raw fish, so she lets it go. Instead, she plays with it, pouncing on it again and again as it slides across the floor.

"Sasha, stop!" I say quietly, not wanting to wake Bree. I also fear that if she plays with it too much, she might tear it open and waste some of the valuable meat. Obediently, Sasha stops. I can see how excited she is, though, and I want to give her something. I reach into my pocket, twist open the tin lid to the mason jar, scoop out some of the raspberry jam with my finger, and hold it out to her.

Without missing a beat she licks my finger, and in three big licks, she has eaten the whole scoop. She licks her lips and stares back at me wide-eyed, already wanting more.

I stroke her head, give her a kiss, then rise back to my feet. Now I wonder whether it was kind to give her some, or just cruel to give her so little.

The house is dark as I stumble through, as it always is at night. Rarely will I set a fire. As much as we need the heat, I don't want to risk attracting the attention. But tonight is different: Bree has to get well, both physically and emotionally, and I know a fire will do the trick. I also feel more open to throwing caution to the wind, given that we will move out of here tomorrow.

I cross the room to the cupboard and remove a lighter and candle. One of the best things about this place was its huge stash of candles, one of the very few good byproducts of my Dad's being a Marine, of his being such a survival nut. When we'd visit as kids, the electricity would go out during every storm, so he'd stockpile candles, determined to beat the elements. I remember I used to make fun of him for it, call him a hoarder when I discovered his entire closet full of candles. Now that I'm down to the last few, I wish he'd hoarded more.

I've been keeping our only lighter alive by using it sparingly, and by siphoning off a tiny bit of gasoline from the motorcycle once every few weeks. I thank God every day for Dad's bike, and I am also grateful he fueled it up one last time: it is the one thing we have that makes me think we still have an advantage, that we have something really valuable, some way of surviving if things go to hell. Dad always kept the bike in the small garage attached to the house, but when we first arrived, after the war, the first thing I did was remove it and roll it up the hill, into the woods, hiding it beneath bushes and branches and thorns so thick that no one could ever possibly find it. I figured, if our house is ever discovered, the first thing they'd do is check the garage.

I'm also grateful that Dad taught me how to drive it when I was young, despite Mom's protests. It was harder to learn than most bikes, because of the attached sidecar. I remember back when I was twelve, terrified, learning to ride while Dad sat in the sidecar, barking orders at me every time I stalled. I learned on these steep, unforgiving mountain roads, and I remember feeling like we were going to die. I remember looking out over the edge, seeing the drop, and crying, insisting that he drive. But he refused. He sat there stubbornly for over an hour, until I finally stopped crying and tried again. And somehow, I learned to drive it. That was my upbringing in a nutshell.

I haven't touched the bike since the day I hid it, and I don't even risk going up to look at it except when I need to siphon off the gas--and even that I will only do at night. I imagine that if ever one day we're in trouble and need to get out of here fast, I'll put Bree and Sasha in the sidecar and drive us all to safety. But in reality, I have no idea where else we'd possibly go. From everything I've seen and heard, the rest of the world is a wasteland, filled with violent criminals, gangs, and few survivors. The violent few who've managed to survive have congregated in the cities, kidnapping and enslaving whoever they can find, either for their own ends, or to service the death matches in the arenas. I am guessing Bree and I are among very few survivors who still live freely, on our own, outside the cities. And among the very few who haven't yet starved to death.

I light the candle, and Sasha follows as I walk slowly through the darkened house. I assume Bree is asleep, and this worries me: she normally doesn't sleep this much. I stop before her door, debating whether to wake her. As I stand there, I look up and am startled by my own reflection in the small mirror. I look much older, as I do every time I see myself. My face, thin and angular, is flush from the cold, my light brown hair falls down to my shoulders, framing my face, and my steel-grey eyes stare back at me as if they belong to someone I don't recognize. They are hard, intense eyes. Dad always said they were the eyes of a wolf. Mom always said they were beautiful. I wasn't sure who to believe.

I quickly look away, not wanting to see myself. I reach out and turn the mirror around, so that it won't happen again.

I slowly open Bree's door. The second I do, Sasha charges in and rushes to Bree's side, lying down and resting her chin on Bree's chest as she licks her face. It never ceases to amaze me how close those two are--sometimes I feel like they are even closer than we are.

Bree slowly opens her eyes, and squints into the darkness.

"Brooke?" she asks.

"It's me," I say, softly. "I'm home."

She sits up and smiles as her eyes light up with recognition. She lies on a cheap mattress on the floor and throws off her thin blanket and begins to get out of bed, still in her pajamas. She is moving more slowly than usual.

I lean down and give her a hug.

"I have a surprise for you," I say, barely able to contain my excitement.

She looks up wide-eyed, then closes her eyes and opens her hands, waiting. She is so believing, so trusting, it amazes me. I debate what to give her first, then settle on the chocolate. I reach into my pocket, pull out the bar, and slowly place it in her palm. She opens her eyes and looks down at her hand, squinting in the light, unsure. I hold the candle up to it.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Chocolate," I answer.

She looks up as if I'm playing a trick on her.

"Really," I say.

"But where did you get it?" she asks, uncomprehending. She looks down as if an asteroid has just landed in her hand. I don't blame her: there are no stores anymore, no people around, and no place within a hundred miles of here where I could conceivably find such a thing.

I smile down at her. "Santa gave it to me, for you. It's an early Christmas present."

She wrinkles her brows. "No, really," she insists.

I take a deep breath, realizing it's time to tell her about our new home, about leaving here tomorrow. I try to figure the best way to phrase it. I hope she will be as excited as I am--but with kids, you never know. A part of me worries she might be attached to this place, and not want to leave.

"Bree, I have some big news," I say, as I lean down and hold her shoulders. "I discovered the most amazing place today, high up. It's a small, stone cottage, and it's perfect for us. It's cozy, and warm, and safe, and it has the most beautiful fireplace, which we can light every night. And best of all, it has all kinds of food right there. Like this chocolate."

Bree looks back down at the chocolate, studying it, and her eyes open twice as wide as she realizes it's real. She gently pulls back the wrapper, and smells it. She closes her eyes and smiles, then leans in to take a bite--but suddenly stops herself. She looks up at me in concern.

"What about you?" she asks. "Is there only one bar?"

That's Bree, always so considerate, even if she's starving. "You go first," I say. "It's okay."

She pulls the wrapper back, and takes a big bite. Her face, hollowed-out from hunger, crumbles in ecstasy.

"Chew slowly," I warn. "You don't want to get a stomach-ache."

She slows down, savoring each bite. She breaks off a big piece and puts it in my palm. "Your turn," she says.

I slowly put it into my mouth, taking a small bite, letting it sit on the tip of my tongue. I suck on it, then chew it slowly, savoring every moment. The taste and smell of chocolate fills my senses. It is quite possibly the best thing I've ever eaten.

Sasha whines, pushing her nose close to the chocolate, and Bree breaks off a chunk and offers it to her. Sasha snaps it out of her fingers and swallows it in a single gulp. Bree laughs, delighted by her, as always. Then, in an impressive show of self-restraint, Bree wraps up the remaining half of the bar, reaches up, and wisely places it high on the dresser, out of Sasha's reach. Bree still looks weak, but I can see her spirits starting to return.

"What's that?" she asks, pointing at my waist.

For a moment I don't realize what she's talking about, then I look down and see the teddy bear. In all the excitement, I'd almost forgotten. I reach down and hand it to her.

"I found it in our new home," I say. "It's for you."

Bree's eyes open wide in excitement as she clutches the bear, wrapping it to her chest and rocking it back and forth.

"I love it!" Bree exclaims, her eyes shining. "When can we move? I can't wait!"

I am relieved. Before I can respond, Sasha leans in and sticks her nose against Bree's new teddy bear, sniffing it; Bree rubs it playfully in her face, and Sasha snatches it and runs out the room.

"Hey!" Bree yells, erupting in hysterical laughter as she chases after her.

They both run into the living room, already immersed in a tug-of-war over the bear. I'm not sure who enjoys it more.

I follow them in, cupping the candle carefully so that it doesn't blow out, and bring it right to my pile of kindling. I set a few of the smaller twigs in the fireplace, then snatch a handful of dry leaves from a basket beside the fireplace. I'm glad I collected these last fall to serve as fire-starters. They work like a charm. I place the dry leaves beneath the twigs, light them, and the flame soon reaches up and licks the wood. I keep feeding leaves into the fireplace, until eventually, the twigs are fully caught. I blow out the candle, saving it for another time.

"We're having a fire?" Bree yells excitedly.

"Yes," I say. "Tonight's a celebration. It's our last night here."

"Yay!" Bree screams, jumping up and down, and Sasha barks beside her, joining in the excitement. Bree runs over and grabs some of the kindling, helping me as I place it over the fire. We feed it carefully, allowing space for air, and Bree blows on it, fanning the flames. Once the kindling catches, I place a thicker log on top. I keep stacking bigger logs, until finally, we have a roaring fire.

In moments, the room is alight, and I can already feel the warmth. We stand beside the fire, and I hold out my hands, rubbing them, letting the warmth penetrate my fingers. Slowly, the feeling starts to return. I gradually thaw out from the long day outdoors, and I start to feel myself again.

"What's that?" Bree asks, pointing across the floor. "It looks like a fish!"

She runs over to it and grabs it, picking it up, and it slips right out of her hands. She laughs, and Sasha, not missing a beat, pounces on it with her paws, sending it sliding across the floor. "Where did you catch it?" Bree yells.

I pick it up before Sasha can do any more damage, open the door, and throw it outside, into the snow, where it will be better preserved and out of harm's way, before closing the door behind me.

"That was my other surprise," I say. "We're going to have dinner tonight!"

Bree runs over and gives me a big hug. Sasha barks, as if understanding. I hug her back.

"I have two more surprises for you," I announce with a smile. "They're for dessert. Do you want me to wait till after dinner? Or do you want them now?"

"Now!" she yells, excited.

I smile, excited, too. At least it will hold her over for dinner.

I reach into my pocket and extract the jar of jam. Bree looks at it funny, clearly uncertain, and I unscrew the lid and place it under her nose. "Close your eyes," I say.

She does. "Now, inhale."

She breathes deeply, and a smile crosses her face. She opens her eyes.

"It smells like raspberries!" she exclaims.

"It's jam. Go ahead. Try it."

Bree reaches in with two fingers, takes a big scoop, and eats it. Her eyes light up.

"Wow," she says, as she reaches in, takes another big scoop, and holds it up to Sasha, who runs over and without hesitation gulps it down. Bree laughs hysterically, and I tighten the lid and set the jar high on the mantle, away from Sasha.

"Is that also from our new house?" she asks.

I nod, relieved to hear that she already considers it our new home.

"And there is one last surprise," I say. "But this one I'm going to have to save for dinner."

I extract the thermos from my belt and place it higher up on the mantle, out of her sight, so she can't see what it is. I can see her craning her neck, but I hide it well.

"Trust me," I say. "It's gonna be good."

*

I don't want the house to stink like fish, so I decide to brave the cold and prepare the salmon outside. I bring my knife and set to work on it, propping it on a tree stump as I kneel down beside it in the snow. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I know enough to realize you don't eat the head or the tail. So I begin by slicing these off.

Then I figure we're not going to eat the fins either, so I chop these off--or the scales, either, so I remove them as best I can. Then I figure it has to be opened to eat it, so I slice what's left of it clean in half. It reveals a thick, pink inside, filled with lots of small bones. I don't know what else to do, so I figure it's ready to cook.

Before I head in, I feel the need to wash my hands. I just reach down, grab a handful of snow, and rinse my hands with it, grateful for the snow--usually, I have to hike to the closest stream, since we don't have any running water. I rise, and before going inside, I stop for a second and take in my surroundings. At first I am listening, as I always do, for any signs of noise, of danger. After several seconds, I realize the world is as still as can be. Finally, slowly, I relax, breathe deep, feel the snowflakes on my cheeks, take in the perfect quiet, and realize how utterly beautiful my surroundings are. The towering pines are covered in white, snow falls endlessly from a purple sky, and the world seems perfect, like a fairy tale. The fireplace glows through the window, and from here, our house looks like the coziest place in the world.

I come back inside the house with the fish, closing the door behind me, and it feels good to come into a place so much warmer, with the soft light of the fire reflecting off of everything. Bree has tended the fire well, as she always does, adding logs expertly, and now it roars to even greater heights. She is preparing place settings on the floor, beside the fireplace, with knives and forks from the kitchen. Sasha sits attentively beside her, watching her every move.

I carry the fish over to the fire. I don't really know how to cook it, so I figure I'll just put it over the fire for a while, let it roast, turn it over a few times, and hope that works. Bree reads my mind: she immediately heads to the kitchen and returns with a sharp knife and two long skewers. She skewers each piece of fish, then takes her portion and holds it over the flame. I follow her lead. Bree's domestic instincts have always been superior to mine, and I'm grateful for her help. We have always been a good team.

We both stand there, staring at the flames, transfixed, holding our fish over the fire until our arms grow heavy. The smell of fish fills the room, and after about ten minutes I get a pain in my stomach and grow impatient with hunger. I decide mine is done; after all, I figure people eat raw fish sometimes, so how bad could it be? Bree seems to agree, so we each put our portions on our plates and sit on the floor, beside each other, our backs to the couch and our feet to the fire.

"Careful," I warn. "There are still lots of bones inside."

I pull out the bones, and Bree does the same. Once I clear enough of them, I take a small chunk of the pink fish meat, hot to the touch, and eat it, bracing myself.

It actually tastes good. It could use salt, or some kind of seasoning, but at least it tastes cooked, and fresh as can be. I can feel the much-needed protein enter my body. Bree wolfs hers down, too, and I can see the relief on her face. Sasha sits beside her, staring, licking her lips, and Bree chooses a big chunk, carefully de-bones it and feeds it to Sasha. Sasha chews it thoroughly and swallows it, then licks her chops and stares back, eager for more.

"Sasha, here," I say.

She comes running over, and I take a scrap of my fish, de-bone it, and feed her; she swallows it down in seconds. Before I know it, my fish is gone--as is Bree's--and I am surprised to feel my stomach growling again. I already wish I had caught more. Still, this was a bigger dinner than we'd had in weeks, and I try to force myself to be content with what we have.

Then I remember the sap. I jump up, remove the thermos from its hiding place and hold it out to Bree.

"Go ahead," I smile, "the first sip is yours."

"What is it?" she asks, unscrewing it and holding it to her nose. "It doesn't smell like anything."

"It's maple sap," I say. "It's like sugar water. But better."

She tentatively sips, then looks at me, eyes open wide in delight. "It's delicious!" she cries. She takes several big sips, then stops and hands it to me. I can't resist taking several big sips myself. I feel the sugar rush. I lean over and carefully pour some into Sasha's bowl; she laps it all up and seems to like it, too.

But I am still starving. In a rare moment of weakness, I think of the jar of jam and figure, why not? After all, I assume there's lots more of it in that cottage on the mountaintop--and if this night isn't cause to celebrate, then when is?

I bring down the mason jar, unscrew it, reach in with my finger, and take out a big heaping. I place it on my tongue and let it sit in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing. It's heavenly. I hold out the rest of the jar, still half-full, to Bree. "Go ahead," I say, "finish it. There's more in our new house."

Bree's eyes open wide as she reaches out. "Are you sure?" she asks. "Shouldn't we save it?"

I shake my head. "It's time to treat ourselves."

Bree doesn't need much convincing. In moments, she eats it all, sparing just one more heaping for Sasha.

We lie there, propped against the couch, our feet to the fire, and finally, I feel my body start to relax. Between the fish, the sap and the jam, finally, slowly, I feel my strength return. I look over at Bree, who's already dozing off, Sasha's head on her lap, and while she still looks sick, for the first time in a while I detect hope in her eyes.

"I love you, Brooke," she says softly.

"I love you, too," I answer.

But by the time I look over, she is already fast asleep.

*

Bree lies on the couch opposite the fire, while I now sit in the chair beside her; it is a habit we've become accustomed to over the months. Every night before bed, she curls up on the couch, too scared to fall asleep alone in her room. I keep her company, waiting until she dozes off, after which I'll carry her to bed. Most nights we don't have the fire, but we sit there anyway.

Bree always has nightmares. She didn't use to: I remember a time, before the war, when she fell asleep easily. In fact, I'd even tease her for this, call her "bedtime Bree" as she'd fall asleep in the car, on a couch, reading a book in a chair--anywhere. But now it's nothing like that; now, she'll be up for hours, and when she does sleep, it's restless. Most nights I hear her whimpers or screams through the thin walls. Who can blame her? With the horror we've seen, it's amazing she hasn't completely lost it. There are too many nights when I can barely sleep myself.

The one thing that helps her is when I read to her. Luckily, when we escaped, Bree had the presence of mind to grab her favorite book. The Giving Tree. Every night, I read it to her. I know it by heart now, and when I am tired, sometimes I close my eyes and just recite it from memory. Luckily, it's short.

As I lean back in the chair, feeling sleepy myself, I turn back the worn cover and begin to read. Sasha lies on the couch beside Bree, ears up, and sometimes I wonder if she's listening, too.

"Once, there was a tree, and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come, and he would gather her leaves, and make them into crowns and play king of the forest."

I look over and see that Bree, on the couch, is fast asleep already. I'm relieved. Maybe it was the fire, or maybe the meal. Sleep is what she needs most now, to recover. I remove my new scarf, wrapped snugly around my neck, and gently drape it over her chest. Finally, her little body stops trembling.

I put one final log on the fire, sit back in my chair, and turn, staring into the flames. I watch it slowly die and wish I'd carried more logs down. It's just as well. It will be safer this way.

A log crackles and pops as I settle back, feeling more relaxed than I have in years. Sometimes, after Bree falls asleep, I'll pick up my own book and read for myself. I see it sitting there, on the floor: Lord of the Flies. It is the only book I have left and is so worn from use, it looks like it's a hundred years old. It's a strange experience, having only one book left in the world. It makes me realize how much I'd taken for granted, makes me pine for the days when there were libraries.

Tonight I'm too excited to read. My mind is racing, filled with thoughts of tomorrow, of our new life, high up on the mountain. I keep running over in my head all of the things I will need to transport from here to there, and how I will do it. There are our basics--our utensils, matches, what's left of our candles, blankets, and mattresses. Other than that, neither of us have much clothes to speak of, and aside from our books, we have no real possessions. This house was pretty stark when we arrived, so there are no mementos. I would like to bring this couch and chair, although I will need Bree's help for that, and I'll have to wait until she's feeling well enough. We'll have to do it in stages, taking the essentials first, and leaving the furniture for last. That's fine; as long as we're up there, safe and secure. That is what matters most.

I start thinking of all the ways I can make that little cottage even safer than it is. I will definitely need to figure out how to create shutters for its open windows, so I can close them when I need to. I look around, surveying our house for anything I can use. I would need hinges to make the shutters work, and I eye the hinges on the living room door. Maybe I can remove these. And while I'm at it, maybe I can use the wooden door, too, and saw it into pieces.

The more I look around, the more I begin to realize how much I can salvage. I remember that Dad left a tool chest in the garage, with a saw, hammer, screwdriver, even a box of nails. It is one of the most precious things we have, and I make a mental note to take that up first.

After, of course, the motorcycle. That is dominant in my mind: when to transport it, and how. I can't bear the thought of leaving it behind, even for a minute. So on our first trip up there I'll bring it. I can't risk starting it and attracting all that attention--and besides, the mountain face is too steep for me to drive it up. I will have to walk it up, straight up the mountain. I can already anticipate how exhausting that will be, especially in the snow. But I see no other way. If Bree wasn't sick, she could help me, but in her current state, she won't be carrying anything--I suspect I may even need to carry her. I realize we have no choice but to wait until tomorrow night, for the cover of darkness, before we move. Maybe I'm just being paranoid--the chances of anyone watching us are remote, but still, it's better to be cautious. Especially because I know there are other survivors up here. I am sure of it.

I remember the first day we arrived. We were both terrified, lonely, and exhausted. That first night, we both went to bed hungry, and I wondered how we were ever going to survive. Had it been a mistake to leave Manhattan, abandon our mother, leave all that we knew behind?

And then our first morning, I woke up, opened the door, and was shocked to find it, sitting there: the carcass of a dead deer. At first, I was terrified. I took it as a threat, a warning, assuming someone was telling us to leave, that we were not welcome there. But after I got over my initial shock, I realized that wasn't the case at all: it was actually a gift. Someone, some other survivor, must have been watching us. He must have seen how desperate we looked, and in an act of supreme generosity, decided to give us his kill, our first meal, enough meat to last for weeks. I can't imagine how valuable it must have been for him.

I remember walking outside, looking all around, up and down the mountain, peering into all the trees, expecting some person to pop out and wave. But no one ever did. All I saw were trees, and even though I waited for minutes, all I heard was silence. But I knew, I just knew, I was being watched. I knew then that other people were up here, surviving just like us.

Ever since then, I've felt a kind of pride, felt we were part of a silent community of isolated survivors that live in these mountains, keeping to ourselves, never communicating with each other for fear of being seen, for fear of becoming visible to a slaverunner. I assume that is how the others have survived as long as they have: by leaving nothing to chance. At first, I didn't understand it. But now, I appreciate it. And ever since then, while I never see anyone, I've never felt alone.

But it also made me more vigilant; these other survivors, if they are still alive, must surely by now be as starving and desperate as we. Especially in the winter months. Who knows if starvation, if a need to fend for their families, has pushed any of them over the line to desperation, if their charitable mood has been replaced by pure survival instinct. I know the thought of Bree, Sasha, and myself starving has sometimes lead me to some pretty desperate thoughts. So I won't leave anything to chance. We'll move at nighttime.

Which works out perfectly, anyway. I need to take the morning to climb back up there, alone, to scout it out first, to make sure one last time that no one has been in or out. I also need to go back to that spot where I found the deer and wait for it. I know it's a long shot, but if I can find it again, and kill it, it can feed us for weeks. I wasted that first deer that was given to us, years ago, because I didn't know how to skin it, or carve it up, or preserve it. I made a mess of it, and managed to squeeze just one meal out of it before the entire carcass went rotten. It was a terrible waste of food, and I'm determined to never do that again. This time, especially with the snow, I will find a way to preserve it.

I reach into my pocket and take out the pocket knife Dad gave me before he left; I rub the worn handle, his initials engraved and the Marine Corps logo emblazoned on it, as I've done every night since we arrived here. I tell myself he is still alive. Even after all these years, even though I know the chances of seeing him again are slim to none, I can't quite bring myself to let this idea go.

I wish every night that Dad had never left, had never volunteered for the war at all. It was a stupid war to begin with. I never really fully understood how it all began, and I still don't now. Dad explained it to me, several times, and I still didn't get it. Maybe it was just because of my age. Maybe I just wasn't old enough to realize how senseless the things are that adults can do to each other.

The way Dad explained it, it was a second American civil war--this time, not between the North and the South, but between political parties. Between the Democrats and Republicans. He said it was a war that was a long time coming. Over the last hundred years, he said, America had been drifting into a land of two nations: those on the far right, and those on the far left. Over time, positions hardened so deeply, it became a nation of opposing ideologies.

Dad said the people on the left, the Democrats, wanted a nation run by a bigger and bigger government, one that raised taxes to 70%, and could be involved in every aspect of people's lives. He said the people on the right, the Republicans, kept wanting a smaller and smaller government, one that would abolish taxes altogether, get out of people's hair, and allow them to fend for themselves. He said that over time, these two different ideologies, instead of compromising, just kept drifting further apart, getting more extreme--until they reached a point where they couldn't see eye-to-eye on anything.

Worsening the situation, he said, was that America had gotten so crowded, it had become harder for any politician to get national attention, and politicians in both parties began to realize that taking extreme positions was the only way to get national airtime--what they needed for their own personal ambition.

As a result, the most prominent people of both parties were the ones who were most extreme, each trying to outdo the other, taking positions they didn't even truly believe in themselves but that they were backed into a corner to take. Naturally, when the two parties debated, they could only collide with each other--and they did so with harsher and harsher words. At the beginning, it was just name-calling and personal attacks. But over time, the verbal warfare escalated. And then one day, it crossed a point of no return.

One day, about ten years ago, a fateful tipping point came when one political leader threatened the other with one fateful word: "secession." If the Democrats tried to raise taxes even one more cent, his party would secede from the union and every village, every town, every state would be divided in two. Not by land, but by ideology.

His timing couldn't have been worse: at that time, the nation was in an economic depression, and there were enough malcontents out there, fed up with the loss of jobs, to gain him popularity. The media loved the ratings he got, and they fed him more and more air time. Soon his popularity grew. Eventually, with no one to stop him, with the Democrats unwilling to compromise, and with momentum carrying itself, his idea hardened. His party proposed their nation's own flag, and even their own currency.

That was the first tipping point. If someone had just stepped up and stopped him then, it may all have stopped. But no one did. So he pushed further.

Emboldened, this politician proposed that the new union also have its own police force, its own courts, its own state troopers--and its own military. That was the second tipping point.

If the Democratic President at the time had been a good leader, he might have stopped things then. But he worsened the situation by making one bad decision after another. Instead of trying to calm things, to address the core needs that lead to such discontent, he instead decided that the only way to quash what he called "the Rebellion" was to take a hard line: he accused the entire Republican leadership of sedition. He declared martial law, and during the middle of the night, had them all arrested.

That escalated things, and rallied their entire party. It also rallied half the military. People were divided, within every home, every town, every military barracks; slowly, tension built in the streets, and neighbor hated neighbor. Even families were divided.

One night, those in the military leadership loyal to the Republicans followed secret orders and instituted a coup, breaking them out of prison. There was a standoff. And on the steps of the Capitol building, the first fateful shot was fired. A young soldier thought he saw an officer reach for a gun and fired first. Once the first soldier fell, there was no turning back. The final line had been crossed. An American had killed an American. A firefight ensued, with dozens of officers dead. The Republican leadership was whisked away to a secret location. And from that moment on, the military split in two. The government split in two. Towns, villages, counties, and states all split in two. This became known as the First Wave.

During the first few days, crisis managers and government factions desperately tried to make peace. But it was too little, too late. Nothing was able to stop the coming storm. A faction of hawkish generals took matters into their own hands, wanting the glory, wanting to be the first in war, wanting the advantage of speed and surprise. They figured that crushing the opposition immediately was the best way to put an end to all of this.

The war began. Battles ensued on American soil. Pittsburgh became the new Gettysburg, with two hundred thousand dead in a week. Tanks mobilized against tanks. Planes against planes. Every day, every week, the violence escalated. Lines were drawn in the sand, military and police assets were divided, and battles spread to every state in the nation. Everywhere, everyone fought against each other, friend against friend, brother against brother. It reached a point where no one even knew what they were fighting about anymore. The entire nation was spilled with blood, and no one seemed able to stop it. This became known as the Second Wave.

Up to that moment, as bloody as it was, it was still conventional warfare. But then came the Third Wave, the worst of all. The President, in desperation, operating from a secret bunker, decided there was only one way to quell what he still insisted on calling "the Rebellion." Summoning his best military officers, they advised him to use the strongest assets he had to quell the rebellion once and for all: local, targeted nuclear missiles. He consented.

The next day nuclear payloads were dropped in strategic Republican strongholds across America. Hundreds of thousands died on that day, in places like Nevada, Texas, Mississippi. Millions died on the second.

The Republicans responded. They seized hold of their own assets, ambushed NORAD, and launched their own nuclear payloads onto Democratic strongholds. States like Maine and New Hampshire were mostly eviscerated. Within the next ten days, nearly all of America was destroyed, one city after another. It was wave after wave of sheer devastation, and those who weren't killed by direct attack died soon after from the toxic air and water. Within a matter of a month, there was no one even left to fight. Streets and buildings emptied out one at a time, as people were marched off to fight against former neighbors.

But Dad didn't even wait for the draft--and that is why I hate him. He left way before. He'd been an officer in the Marine Corps for twenty years before any of this broke out, and he'd seen it all coming sooner than most. Every time he watched the news, every time he saw two politicians screaming at each other in the most disrespectful way, always upping the ante, Dad would shake his head and say, "This will lead to war. Trust me."

And he was right. Ironically, Dad had already served his time and had been retired from Corps for years before this happened; but when that first shot was fired, on that day, he re-enlisted. Before there was even talk of a full-out war. He was probably the very first person to volunteer, for a war that hadn't even started yet.

And that is why I'm still mad at him. Why did he have to do this? Why couldn't he have just let everyone else kill each other? Why couldn't he have stayed home, protected us? Why did he care more about his country than his family?

I still remember, vividly, the day he left us. I came home from school that day, and before I even opened the door, I heard shouting coming from inside. I braced myself. I hated it when Mom and Dad fought, which seemed like all the time, and I thought this was just another one of their arguments.

I opened the door and knew right away that this was different. That something was very, very wrong. Dad stood there in full uniform. It didn't make any sense. He hadn't worn his uniform in years. Why would he be wearing it now?

"You're not a man!" Mom screamed at him. "You're a coward! Leaving your family. For what? To go and kill innocent people?"

Dad's face turned red, as it always did when he got angry.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" he screamed back. "I'm doing my duty for my country. It's the right thing to do."

"The right thing for who?" she spat back. "You don't even know what you're fighting for. For a stupid bunch of politicians?"

"I know exactly what I'm fighting for: to hold our nation together."

"Oh, well, excuse me, Mister America!" she screamed back at him. "You can justify this in your head anyway you want, but the truth is, you're leaving because you can't stand me. Because you never knew how to handle domestic life. Because you're too stupid to make something of your life after the Corps. So you jump up and run off at the first opportunity--"

Dad stopped her with a hard slap across the face. I can still hear the noise in my head.

I was shocked; I'd never seen him lay a hand on her before. I felt the wind rush out of me, as if I'd been slapped myself. I stared at him, and almost didn't recognize him. Was that really my father? I was so stunned that I dropped my book and it landed with a thud.

They both turned and looked at me. Mortified, I turned and ran down the hall to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me. I didn't know how to react to it all and just had to get away from them.

Moments later, there was a soft knock on my door.

"Brooke, it's me," Dad said in a soft, remorseful voice. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Please, let me in."

"Go away!" I yelled back.

A long silence followed. But he still didn't leave.

"Brooke, I have to leave now. I'd like to see you one last time before I go. Please. Come out and say goodbye."

I started to cry.

"Go away!" I snapped again. I was so overwhelmed, so mad at him for hitting Mom, and even more mad at him for leaving us. And deep down, I was scared he would never come back.

"I'm leaving now, Brooke," he said. "You don't have to open the door. But I want you to know how much I love you. And that I'll always be with you. Remember, Brooke, you're the tough one. Take care of this family. I'm counting on you. Take care of them."

And then I heard my father's footsteps, walking away. They grew softer and softer. Moments later I heard the front door open, then close.

And then, nothing.

Minutes--it felt like days--later, I slowly opened my door. I already sensed it. He was gone. And I already regretted it; I wished I'd said goodbye. Because I already sensed, deep down, that he was never coming back.

Mom sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands, crying softly. I knew that things had changed permanently that day, that they would never be the same--that she would never be the same. And that I wouldn't, either.

And I was right. As I sit here now, staring into the embers of the dying fire, my eyes heavy, I realize that, since that day, nothing has ever been the same again.

*

I am standing in our old apartment, in Manhattan. I don't know what I'm doing here, or how I got here. Nothing seems to make sense, because the apartment is not at all as I remember. It is completely empty of furniture, as if we had never lived in it. I'm the only one here.

There is a sudden knock on the door, and in walks Dad, in full uniform, holding a briefcase. He has a hollow look to his eyes, as if he has just been to hell and back.

"Daddy!" I try to scream. But the words don't come out. I look down and realize I am glued to the floor, hidden behind a wall, and that he can't see me. As much as I struggle to break free, to run to him, to call out his name, I cannot. I'm forced to watch helplessly, as he walks into the empty apartment, looking all around.

"Brooke?" he yells out. "Are you here? Is anybody home?"

I try to answer again, but my voice won't work. He searches from room to room.

"I said I'd come back," he says. "Why didn't anyone wait for me?"

Then, he breaks into tears.

My heart breaks, and I try with all I have to call out to him. But no matter how hard I try, nothing comes out.

He finally turns and leaves the apartment, gently closing the door behind him. The click of the handle reverberates in the emptiness.

"DADDY!" I scream, finally finding my voice.

But it is too late. I know he is gone forever, and somehow it is all my fault.

I blink, and the next thing I know I am back in the mountains, in Dad's house, sitting in his favorite chair beside the fire. Dad sits on the couch, leaning forward, head down, playing with his Marine Corps knife. I am horrified to notice that half his face is melted away, all the way to the bone; I can actually see half his skull.

He looks up at me, and I am afraid.

"You can't hide here forever, Brooke," he says, in a measured tone. "You think you're safe here. But they'll come for you. Take Bree and hide."

He rises to his feet, comes over to me, grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, his eyes burning with intensity. "DID YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIER!?" he screams.

He disappears, and as he does, all the doors and windows crash open at once, in a cacophony of shattered glass.

Into our house rush a dozen slaverunners, guns drawn. They're dressed in their signature all-black uniforms, from head to toe, with black facemasks, and they race to every corner of the house. One of them grabs Bree off the couch and carries her away, screaming, while another runs right up to me, digs his fingers into my arm and aims his pistol right to my face.

He fires.

I wake screaming, disoriented.

I feel fingers digging into my arm, and confused between my dream state and reality, I am ready to strike. I look over and see that it's Bree, standing there, shaking my arm.

I am still sitting in Dad's chair, and now the room is flooded with sunlight. Bree is crying, hysterical.

I blink several times as I sit up, trying to get my bearings. Was it all just a dream? It had felt so real.

"I had a scary dream!" Bree cries, still gripping my arm.

I look over and see the fire went out long ago. I see the bright sunlight, and realize it must be late morning. I can't believe I have fallen asleep in the chair--I have never done this before.

I shake my head, trying to get the cobwebs out. That dream felt so real, it's still hard to believe it didn't happen. I've dreamt of Dad before, many times, but never anything with such immediacy. I find it hard to conceive that he's not still in the room with me now, and I look around the room again, just to make sure.

Bree tugs on my arm, inconsolable. I have never seen her quite like this either.

I kneel down and give her a hug. She clings to me.

"I dreamed these mean men came and took me away! And you weren't here to save me!" Bree cries, over my shoulder. "Don't go!" she pleads, hysterical. "Please, don't go. Don't leave me!"

"I'm not going anywhere," I say, hugging her tight. "Shhh.... It's OK.... There's nothing to worry about. Everything is fine."

But deep down, I can't help feeling that everything is not fine. On the contrary. My dream really disturbs me, and that Bree had such a bad dream, too--and about the same thing--doesn't give me much solace. I'm not a big believer in omens, but I can't help wondering if it's all a sign. But I don't hear any kind of noise or commotion, and if there was anybody with a mile of here, surely I would know.

I lift Bree's chin, wiping her tears. "Take a deep breath," I say.

Bree listens, slowly catching her breath. I force myself to smile. "See," I say. "I'm right here. Nothing's wrong. It was just a bad dream. Okay?"

Slowly, Bree nods.

"You're just overtired," I said. "And you have a fever. So you had bad dreams. It's all going to be fine."

As I kneel there, hugging Bree, I realize I need to get going, to climb the mountain, scout out our new house, and find us food. My stomach drops as I consider breaking the news to Bree, and how she'll react. Clearly, my timing couldn't be worse. How can I possibly tell her I need to leave her now? Even if only for an hour or two? A part of me wants to stay here, to watch over her all day; yet I also know I need to go, and the sooner I get it over with, the safer we will be. I can't just sit here all day and do nothing, waiting for nightfall. And I can't risk changing the plan and moving us during daylight just because of our silly dreams.

I pull Bree back, stroking her hair out of her face, smiling as sweetly as I can. I muster the strongest, most adult voice that I can.

"Bree, I need you to listen to me," I say. "I need to go out now, just for a little while--"

"NO!" she wails. "I KNEW it! It's just like my dream! You're going to leave me! And you're never going to come back!"

I hold her shoulders firmly, trying to console her.

"It's not like that," I say firmly. "I just need to go for an hour or two. I need to make sure our new house is safe for our move tonight. And I need to hunt for food. Please, Bree, understand. I would bring you with me, but you are too sick right now, and you need to rest. I'll be back in just a few hours. I promise. And then tonight, we'll go up there together. And do you know what the best part is?"

She looks up at me slowly, still crying, and eventually shakes her head.

"Starting tonight, we'll be up there together, safe and sound, and have a fire every night, and all the food you want. And I can hunt and fish and do everything I need to right there, in front of the cottage. I'll never have to leave you again."

"And Sasha can come, too?" she asks, through her tears.

"And Sasha, too," I say. "I promise. Please, trust me. I'll be back for you. I would never leave you."

"Do you promise?" she asks.

I muster all the solemnity I can, and look her dead in the eyes.

"I promise," I reply.

Bree's crying slows and eventually she nods, seeming satisfied.

It breaks my heart, but I quickly lean in, plant a kiss on her forehead, then get up, cross the room, and walk out the door. I know that if I stay for just one second more, I'll never summon the resolve to leave.

And as the door reverberates behind me, I just can't shake the sickening feeling that I'll never see my sister again.

# T H R E E

I hike straight up the mountain in the bright light of morning, an intense light shining off the snow. It is a white universe. The sun shines so strongly, I can barely see in the glare. I would do anything for a pair of sunglasses, or a baseball cap.

Today is thankfully windless, warmer than yesterday, and as I hike, I hear the snow melting all around me, trickling in small streams downhill and dropping in big clumps off of pine branches. The snow is softer, too, and walking is easier.

I check back over my shoulder, survey the valley spread out below, and see that the roads are partially visible again in the morning sun. This worries me, but then I chide myself, annoyed that I am allowing myself to be disturbed by omens. I should be tougher. More rational, like Dad.

My hood is up, but as I lower my head to the wind, which grows stronger the higher I get, I wish I'd worn my new scarf. I bunch my hands and rub them, wishing for gloves, too, and double my speed. I am resolved to get there quickly, scout out the cottage, search for that deer, and hurry back down to Bree. Maybe I'll salvage a few more jars of jam, too; that will cheer Bree up.

I follow my tracks from yesterday, still visible in the melting snow, and this time, the hike is easier. Within about twenty minutes, I'm back to where I was the day before, rounding the highest plateau.

I am sure I am in the same place as yesterday, but as I look for the cottage, I can't find it. It is so well hidden that, even though I know where to look, I still can't see it. I start to wonder if I'm in the right place. I continue on, following my footsteps, until I get to the exact spot I stood the day before. I crane my neck, and finally, I spot it. I'm amazed at how well-concealed it is, and am even more encouraged about living here.

I stand and listen. All is silent save for the sound of the trickling stream. I check the snow carefully, looking for any signs of prints going in or out (aside from mine), since yesterday. I find none.

I walk up to the door, stand in front of the house and do a 360, scanning the woods in every direction, checking the trees, looking for any signs of disturbance, any evidence that anyone else has been here. I stand for at least a minute, listening. There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Finally, I am satisfied, relieved that this place is truly ours, and ours alone.

I pull back the heavy door, jammed by the snow, and bright light floods the interior. As I duck my head and enter, I feel as if I'm seeing it for the first time in the light. It is as small and cozy as I remember. I see that it has original, wide-plank wood flooring, which looks to be at least a hundred years old. It is quiet in here. The small, open windows on either side let in a good deal of light, too.

I scan the room in the light, searching for anything I might have overlooked--but find nothing. I look down and find the handle to the trap door, kneel down and yank it open. It opens up with a whirl of dust, which swims in the sunlight.

I scramble down the ladder, and this time, with all the reflected light, I have a much better view of the stash down here. There must be hundreds of jars. I spot several more jars of raspberry jam, and grab two of them, cramming one in each pocket. Bree will love this. So will Sasha.

I do a cursory scan of the other jars, and see all sorts of foods: pickles, tomatoes, olives, sauerkraut. I also see several different flavors of jams, with at least a dozen jars of each. There is even more in the back, but I don't have time to look carefully. Thoughts of Bree are weighing heavily on my mind.

I scramble up the ladder, close the trap door and hurry out the cottage, closing the front door tight behind me. I stand there and survey my surroundings again, bracing myself for anyone who may have been watching. I am still afraid this is all too good to be true. But once again, there is nothing. Maybe I've just become too on-edge.

I head off in the direction where I spotted the deer, about thirty yards away. As I reach it, I take out Dad's hunting knife and hold it at my side. I know it's a long shot for me to see it again, but maybe this animal, like me, is a creature of habit. There's no way I'm fast enough to chase it down, or quick enough to pounce--nor do I have a gun or any real hunting weapons. But I do have one chance, and that is my knife. I've always been proud of my ability to hit a bull's-eye thirty yards away. Knife-throwing was the one skill of mine Dad always seemed impressed by--at least impressed enough to never try to correct or improve me. Instead, he took credit for it, saying my talent was due to him. In reality, though, he couldn't throw a knife half as well as I could.

I kneel in the place I was before, hiding behind a tree, watching the plateau, holding the knife in my hand, waiting. Praying. All I hear is the sound of the wind.

I run through in my head what I will do if I see the deer: I will slowly stand, take aim, and throw the knife. I first think I will aim for its eye, but then decide to aim for its throat: if I miss by a few inches, then there will still be a chance of hitting it somewhere. If my hands aren't too frozen, and if I'm accurate, I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can wound it. But I realize those are all big "ifs."

Minutes pass. It feels like ten, twenty, thirty.... The wind dies, then reappears in gusts, and as it does, I feel the fine flakes of snow being blown off the trees and into my face. As more time passes, I grow colder, more numb, and I begin to wonder if this is a bad idea. I get another sharp hunger pain, though, and know that I have to try. I will need all the protein I can get to make this move happen--especially if I'm going to push that motorcycle uphill.

After nearly an hour of waiting, I am utterly frozen. I debate whether to just give it up and head back down the mountain. Maybe I should try to fish again instead.

I decide to get up and walk around, to circulate my limbs and keep my hands nimble; if I had to use them now, they'd probably be useless. As I rise to my feet my knees and back ache from stiffness. I begin to walk in the snow, starting with small steps. I lift and bend my knees, twist my back left and right. I stick the knife back in my belt, then rub my hands over each other, blowing on them again and again, trying to restore the feeling.

Suddenly, I freeze. In the distance, a twig snaps, and I sense motion.

I turn slowly. There, over the hilltop, a deer comes into view. It steps slowly, tentatively, in the snow, gently lifting its hooves and placing them down. It lowers its head, chews on a leaf, then carefully takes another step forward.

My heart pounds with excitement. I rarely feel that Dad is with me, but today, I do. I can hear his voice in my head now: Steady. Breathe slowly. Don't let it know you're here. Focus. If I can bring down this animal, it will be food--real food--for Bree and Sasha and me for at least a week. We need this.

It takes a few more steps into the clearing and I get a better view of it: a large deer, it stands maybe thirty yards away. I'd feel a lot more confident if it were standing ten yards away, or even twenty. I don't know if I can hit it at this distance. If it were warmer out, and if it wasn't moving, then yes. But my hands are numb, the deer is moving, and there are so many trees in the way. I just don't know. I do know that if I miss it, it will never come back here again.

I wait, studying it, afraid to spook it. I will it to come closer. But it doesn't seem to want to.

I debate what to do. I can charge it, getting as close as I can, then throw. But that would be stupid: after just one yard, it would surely bolt. I wonder if I should try to creep up on it. But I doubt that will work, either. The slightest noise, and it will be gone.

So I stand there, debating. I take one small step forward, positioning myself to throw the knife, in case I need to. And that one small step is my mistake.

A twig snaps beneath my feet, and the deer immediately lifts its head and turns to me. We lock eyes. I know that it sees me, and that it's about to bolt. My heart pounds, as I know this is my only chance. My mind freezes up.

Then I burst into action. I reach down, grab the knife, take a big step forward, and drawing on all my skills, I reach back and throw it, aiming for its throat.

Dad's heavy Marine Corps knife tumbles end over end through the air, and I pray it doesn't hit a tree first. As I watch it tumbling, reflecting light, it is a thing of beauty. In that same moment, I see the deer turn and begin to run.

It is too far away for me to see exactly what happens, but a moment later, I swear I hear the sound of the knife entering flesh. The deer takes off, though, and I can't tell if it's wounded.

I take off after it. I reach the spot where it was, and am surprised to see bright red blood in the snow. My heart flutters, encouraged.

I follow the trail of blood, running and running, jumping over rocks, and after about fifty yards, I find it: there it is, collapsed in the snow, lying on its side, legs twitching. I see the knife lodged in its throat. Exactly in the spot I was aiming for.

The deer is still alive, and I don't know how to put it out of its misery. I can feel its suffering, and I feel terrible. I want to give it a quick and painless death, but don't know how.

I kneel and extract the knife, then lean over, and in one swift motion, slice it deeply across the throat, hoping that will work. Moments later, blood comes rushing out, and within about ten more seconds, finally, the deer's legs stop moving. Its eyes stop fluttering, too, and finally, I know it's dead.

I stand over, staring down, holding the knife in my hand, and feel overwhelmed with guilt. I feel barbaric, having killed such a beautiful, defenseless creature. In this moment, it's hard for me to think of how badly we needed this food, how lucky I was to catch it at all. All I can think is that, just a few minutes before, it was breathing, alive like me. And now, it's dead. I look down at it, lying so perfectly still in the snow, and despite myself, I feel ashamed.

That is the moment when I first hear it. I dismiss it at first, assume I must be hearing things, because it is just not possible. But after a few moments, it rises a tiny bit louder, more distinct, and I know it's real. My heart starts pounding like crazy, as I recognize the noise. It is a noise I've heard up here only once before. It is the whine of an engine. A car engine.

I stand there in astonishment, too frozen to even move. The engine grows louder, more distinct, and I know it can only mean one thing. Slaverunners. No one else would dare drive this high up, or have any reason to.

I break into a sprint, leaving the deer, charging through the woods, past the cottage, down the hill. I can't go fast enough. I think of Bree, sitting there, alone in the house, as the engines grow louder and louder. I try to increase my speed, running straight down the snowy slope, tripping as I go, my heart pounding in my throat.

I run so fast that I fall, face-first, scraping my knee and elbow, and getting the wind knocked out of me. I struggle back to my feet, noticing the blood on my knee and arm, but not caring. I force myself back into a jog, then into a sprint.

Slipping and sliding, I finally reach a plateau, and from here, I can see all the way down the mountain to our house. My heart leaps into my throat: there are distinctive car tracks in the snow, leading right to our house. Our front door is open. And most ominous of all, I don't hear Sasha barking.

I run, farther and farther down, and as I do, I get a good look at the two vehicles parked outside our house: slaverunner cars. All black, built low to the ground, they look like muscle cars on steroids, with enormous tires and bars on all the windows. Emblazoned on their hoods is the emblem of Arena One, obvious even from here--a diamond with a jackal in its center. They are here to feed the arena.

I sprint farther down the hill. I need to get lighter. I reach into my pockets, pull out the jars of jam and throw them to the ground. I hear the glass smash behind me, but I don't care. Nothing else matters now.

I am barely a hundred yards away when I see the vehicles start up, begin to leave my house. They head back down the winding country road. I want to break into tears as I realize what has happened.

Thirty seconds later I reach the house, and run past it, right to the road, hoping to catch them. I already know the house is empty.

I'm too late. The car tracks tell the story. As I look down the mountain, I can see them, already a half-mile away, and gaining speed. There's no way I can ever catch them on foot.

I run back to the house, just in case, by some remote chance, Bree has managed to hide, or they left her. I burst through the open front door, and as I do, I am horrified by the sight before me: blood is everywhere. On the ground lies a dead slaverunner, dressed in his all-black uniform, blood pouring from his throat. Beside him lies Sasha, on her side, dead. Blood pours out her side from what looks like a bullet wound. Her teeth are still embedded in the corpse's throat. It becomes clear what happened: Sasha must have tried to protect Bree, lunging at the man as he entered the house and lodging her teeth in his throat. The others must have shot her. But still, she did not let go.

I run through the house, room to room, screaming Bree's name, hearing the desperation in my own voice. It is no longer a voice I recognize: it is the voice of a crazy person.

But every door is wide open, and everything is empty.

The slaverunners have taken my sister.

# F O U R

I stand there, in the living room of my Dad's house, in shock. On the one hand, I've always feared this day would come; yet now that it has, I can hardly believe it. I am overcome with guilt. Did last night's fire tip us off? Did they see the smoke? Why couldn't I have been more cautious?

I also hate myself for leaving Bree alone this morning--especially after we'd both had such bad dreams. I see her face, crying, pleading with me not to leave. Why didn't I listen to her? Trust my own instincts? Looking back, I can't help feeling that Dad really did warn me. Why didn't I pay attention?

None of that matters now, and I only pause for a moment. I am in action mode, and in no way prepared to give up and let her go. I am already running through the house so I do not lose any precious time in chasing down the slaverunners and rescuing Bree.

I run over to the corpse of the slaverunner and examine him quickly: he is dressed in their signature all-black, military uniform, with black combat boots, black military fatigues, and a long-sleeved black shirt covered by a tightly-fitting black bomber coat. He still wears a black face mask with the insignia of Arena One--the hallmark of a slaverunner--and also wears a small black helmet. Little good that did him: Sasha still managed to lodge her teeth into his throat. I glance over at Sasha and choke up at the sight. I'm so grateful to her for putting up such a fight. I feel guilty for leaving her alone, too. I glance at her corpse, and vow to myself that after I get Bree back, I will return and give her a proper burial.

I quickly strip the slaverunner's corpse for valuables. I begin by taking his weapons belt and clipping it around my own waist, fastening it tight. It contains a holster and a handgun, which I pull out and check quickly: filled with ammo, it appears to be in perfect working order. This is like gold--and now it is mine. Also on the belt are several backup clips of ammo.

I remove his helmet and see his face: I'm surprised to see he is much younger than I'd thought. He can't be older than 18. Not all slaverunners are merciless bounty hunters; some of them are pressed into service, at the mercy of the Arena makers, who are the real power-holders. Still, I don't feel any sympathy for him. After all, pressed into service or not, he'd come up here to take my sister's life--and mine, too.

I want to just run out and chase them down, but I discipline myself to stop and salvage what I can first. I know that I will need it out there, and that another minute or two spent here can end up making the difference. So I reach down and try his helmet on and am relieved to see that it fits. Its black visor will come in handy in blocking out the blinding light off the snow. I raid his clothing next, which I desperately need. I strip his gloves, made of an ultra-light, padded material, and am relieved to see they fit my hands perfectly. My friends always teased me about my big hands and feet and I always felt embarrassed by it--but now, for once, I am glad. I strip his jacket next and it fits too, though just a tad too big. I look down and see how small his frame is, and realize I am lucky. We are nearly the same size. The jacket is thick and padded, lined with some sort of down material. I have never worn anything as warm and luxurious in my life, and I am so grateful. Now, finally, I can brave the cold.

I look down and know I should strip his shirt, too--but I just can't bring myself to wear it. Somehow, it's too personal.

I hold my feet up to his, and am thrilled to see we are the same size. I waste no time stripping my old, worn boots, a size too small, then stripping his and putting them on my feet. I stand. They are a perfect fit, and feel amazing. Black combat boots with steel-tip toes, the inside lined with fur, they climb all the way up my shin. They are a thousand times warmer--and more comfortable--than my current boots.

Wearing my new boots, coat, gloves, and with his weapons belt snug around me, gun and ammo inside, I feel like a new person, ready for battle. I glance down at Sasha's corpse and then look over and, nearby, see Bree's new teddy bear, on the floor and covered in blood. I fight back tears. A part of me wants to spit in this slaverunner's face before I walk out the door, but I simply turn and run out the house.

I moved quickly, managing to strip him and dress myself in under a minute, and now I race out of the house at breakneck speed, making up for lost time. As I burst out the front door, I can still hear the distant whine of their engines. They can't have more than a mile on me, and I'm determined to close that gap. All I need is a small stroke of luck--for them to get stuck in just one snow bank, to hit one bad turn--and maybe, just maybe, I can catch them. And with this gun and ammo, I might even be able to give them a run for their money. If not, I will go down fighting. There is absolutely no way I'm ever coming back here without Bree by my side.

I run up the hill, into the woods, as fast as I can, racing for Dad's motorcycle. I glance over and see the garage doors blown open. The slaverunners must have searched it for a vehicle. I am so grateful I had the foresight to hide the bike long ago.

I scramble up the hill in the melting snow, and hurry to the bushes concealing the bike. The new gloves, thickly padded, come in handy: I grab hold of thorny branches and tear them out of my way. Within moments, I clear a path to the bike. I am relieved to find it's still there, and well-sheltered from the elements. Without wasting a beat, I tighten my new helmet, grab the key from its hiding place in the spoke, and jump onto the bike. I turn the ignition and kickstart it.

The engine turns over, but doesn't catch. My heart plummets. I haven't started it in years. Could it be dead? I try to start it, kicking and revving it again and again. It makes noise, louder and louder, but still nothing. I feel more and more frantic. If I can't get this started, I have no chance of catching them. Bree will be gone to me forever.

"Come on, COME ON!" I scream, my entire body shaking.

I kick it again and again. Each time it makes more and more noise, and I feel like I'm getting closer.

I raise my head back to the sky.

"DAD!" I scream. "PLEASE!"

I kick it again, and this time, it catches. I am flooded with relief. I rev it several times, louder and louder, and small black clouds of exhaust exit the tailpipe.

Now, at least, I have a fighting chance.

*

I turn the heavy handlebars and walk the bike back a few feet; it is almost more weight than I can manage. I turn the handlebars again and give it just a little bit of throttle, and the bike starts rolling down the steep mountain, still covered in snow and branches.

The paved road is about fifty yards ahead of me, and going down the mountain, through these woods, is treacherous. The motorcycle slips and slides, and even when I hit the brakes, I can't really control it. It is more of a controlled slide. I slide by trees, barely missing them, and get jolted as I ride over large holes in the dirt or bump hard over rocks. I pray I don't blow a tire.

After about thirty seconds of the roughest, bumpiest ride I can imagine, the bike finally clears the dirt and lands onto the paved road with a bang. I turn and give it gas, and it is responsive: it flies down the steep, paved mountain road. Now, I am rolling.

I gain some real speed, the engine roaring, wind racing over my helmet. It is freezing, colder than ever, and I am grateful I stripped the gloves and coat. I don't know what I would have done without them.

Still, I can't go too fast. This mountain road twists sharply and there is no shoulder; one turn too sharp and I will plummet, dropping hundreds of feet straight down the cliff. I go as fast as I can, yet slow before each turn.

It feels great to be driving again; I had forgotten what real freedom felt like. My new coat flaps like crazy in the wind. I lower the black visor, and the bright white of the snowy landscape changes to a subdued gray.

If I have one advantage over the slaverunners, it is that I know these roads better than anyone. I've been coming up here since I was a kid, and I know where the road bends, how steep it is, and shortcuts they could never possibly know. They're in my territory now. And even though I'm probably a mile or more behind them, I feel optimistic I can find a way to catch them. This bike, as old as it is, must be at least as fast as their muscle cars.

I also feel confident I know where they're going. If you want back on the highway--which they surely do--then there's only one way out of these mountains, and that's Route 23, heading east. And if they're heading for the city, then there's no other way but to cross the Hudson via the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. It's their only way out. And I'm determined to beat them to it.

I'm getting used to the bike and gaining good speed, good enough that the whine of their engines is becoming louder. Encouraged, I gun the motorcycle faster than I should: I glance down and see I am doing 60. I know it's reckless, since these hairpin turns force me to slow down to about 10 miles an hour if I want any chance of not wiping out in the snow. So I accelerate, and then decelerate, turn after turn. I finally gain enough ground that I can actually see, about a mile in the distance, the bumper of one of their cars, just disappearing around a bend. I am encouraged. I'm going to catch these guys--or die trying.

I take another turn, slowing down to about 10 and getting ready to speed up again, when suddenly, I almost run into a person, standing there in the road, right in front of me. He appears out of nowhere, and it's too late for me to even react.

I'm about to hit him, and I have no choice but to slam on the brakes. Luckily I'm not going fast, but my bike still slides in the snow, unable to gain traction. I do a 360, spinning twice, and finally come to a stop as my bike slams against the granite face of the mountainside.

I'm lucky. If I had spun the other way, I would have spun right off the cliff.

It all happened so fast, I am in shock. I sit there on the bike, gripping the bars, and turn and look up the road. My first instinct is that the man is a slaverunner, placed in the road to derail me. In one quick move, I kill the ignition and draw the gun, aiming it right at the man, who is still standing there, about twenty feet from me. I release the safety and pull back the pin, like Dad taught me so many times in the firing range. I aim it right for his heart, instead of his head, so if I miss, I'll still hit him somewhere.

My hands are shaking, even with the gloves on, and I realize how nervous I am to pull the trigger. I've never killed anyone before.

The man suddenly raises his hands, high into the air, and takes a step towards me.

"Don't shoot!" he yells.

"Stay where you are!" I yell back, still not quite prepared to kill him.

He stops in his tracks, obedient.

"I'm not one of them!" he yells. "I'm a survivor. Like you. They took my brother!"

I wonder if it's a trap. But then I raise my visor and look him up and down, see his worn jeans, filled with holes, just like mine, see that he's only wearing one sock. I look closer and see that he has no gloves, and that his hands are blue; he has no coat either and wears only a worn, grey thermal shirt, with holes in it. Most of all, I see that his face is emaciated, more hollowed-out than mine, and I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't shaved in a long time, either. I also can't help noticing how strikingly attractive he is, despite all of this. He looks to be about my age, maybe 17, with a big shock of light brown hair, and large, light blue eyes.

He's obviously telling the truth. He's not a slaverunner. He's a survivor. Like me.

"My name is Ben!" he yells out.

Slowly, I lower the pistol, relaxing just a bit, but still feeling on edge, annoyed that he stopped me, and feeling an urgency to continue on. Ben has lost me valuable time, and almost made me wipe out.

"You almost killed me!" I scream back. "What were you doing standing in the road like that?"

I turn the ignition and kickstart the bike, ready to leave.

But Ben takes several steps towards me, waving his hands frantically.

"Wait!" he screams. "Don't go! Please! Take me with you! They have my brother! I need to get him back. I heard your engine and I thought you were one of them, so I blocked the road. I didn't realize you were a survivor. Please! Let me come with you!"

For a moment, I feel sympathy for him, but my survival instinct kicks in, and I am unsure. On the one hand, having him might be helpful, given there is strength in numbers; on the other hand, I don't know this person at all, and I don't know his personality. Will he fold in a fight? Does he even know how to fight? And if I let him ride in the sidecar, it will waste more fuel, and slow me down. I pause, deliberating, then finally decide against it.

"Sorry," I say, closing my visor, and preparing to pull out. "You'll only slow me down."

I begin to rev the bike, when he screams out again.

"You owe me!"

I stop for a second, confused by his words. Owe him? For what?

"That day, when you first arrived," he continues. "With your little sister. I left you a deer. That was a week's worth of food. I gave it to you. And I never asked for a thing back."

His words hit me hard. I remember that day like it was yesterday, and how much that meant to us. I'd never imagined I'd run into the person who left it. He must have been here, all this time, so close--hiding in the mountains, just like us. Surviving. Keeping to himself. With his little brother.

I do feel indebted to him. And I reconsider. I don't like owing people. Maybe, after all, it is better to have strength in numbers. And I know how he feels: his brother was taken, just like my sister. Maybe he is motivated. Maybe, together, we can do more damage.

"Please," he pleads. "I need to save my brother."

"Get in," I say, gesturing to the sidecar.

He jumps in without hesitating.

"There's a spare helmet inside."

A second later, he is sitting and fumbling with my old helmet. I don't wait a moment longer. I tear out of their fast.

The bike feels heavier than it did, but it also feels more balanced. Within moments, I'm back up to 60 again, straight down the steep mountain road. This time, I won't stop for anything.

*

I race down the winding country roads, twisting and turning, and as I turn a corner, a panoramic view of the valley opens up before me. I can see all the roads from here, and I see the two slaverunner cars in the distance. They are at least two miles ahead of us. They must have hit Route 23 to be gaining that kind of speed, which means they are off the mountain and on a wide, straight road. It burns me to think that Bree is in the back of one of those cars. I think of how frightened she must be. I wonder if they're restraining her, if she's in pain. The poor girl must be in hysterics. I pray she didn't see Sasha die.

I crank the throttle with newfound energy, twisting and turning way too sharply, and I look over and notice that Ben is gripping the edge of the sidecar, looking terrified, hanging on for his life. After several more hairpin turns, we get off the country road and go flying onto 23. Finally, we are on a normal highway, on flat land. Now, I can gun the bike for all it has.

And I do. I shift, and turn the grip, giving it as much gas as it can handle. I've never driven this bike--or anything--this fast in my life. I watch it pass 100, then 110, then 120.... There is still snow on the road, and it comes flying up into my face, bouncing off the visor; I feel the flakes brushing against the skin on my throat. I know I should slow down, but I don't. I have to catch these guys.

130...140.... I can barely breathe we are going so fast, and I know that if for some reason I need to brake, I won't be able. We would spin and tumble so fast, there's no way we would make it. But I have no choice. 150...160....

"SLOW DOWN!" Ben screams. "WE ARE GOING TO DIE!"

I'm feeling the same exact thing: we are going to die. In fact, I feel certain of it. But I no longer care. All these years of being cautious, of hiding from everyone, have finally gotten to me. Hiding is not in my nature; I prefer to confront things head on. I guess I'm like Dad in that way: I'd rather stand and fight. Now, finally, after all these years, I have a chance to fight. And knowing that Bree is up there, just ahead of us, so close, has done something to me: it's made me mad. I just can't bring myself to slow down. I see the vehicles now, and I'm encouraged. I'm definitely gaining ground. They're less than a mile away, and for the first time, I really feel I'm going to catch them.

The highway curves, and I lose sight of them. As I follow the curve around, they are no longer on the highway; they seem to have disappeared. I am confused, until I look ahead and see what has happened. And it makes me hit the brakes hard.

In the distance, a huge tree has been felled and lies across the highway, blocking it. Luckily, I still have time to brake. I see the slaverunners' tracks veering off the main road and around the tree. As we come to a near-stop before the tree, veering off the road, following the slaverunners' tracks, I notice the bark is freshly cut. And I realize what happened: someone must have just felled it. A survivor, I am guessing, one of us. He must have seen what happened, seen the slaverunners, and he felled a tree to stop them. To help us.

The gesture surprises me, and warms my heart. I'd always suspected there was a silent network of us hiding out here in the mountains, watching each other's backs. Now I know for sure. Nobody likes a slaverunner. And nobody wants to see it happen to them.

The slaverunners' tracks are distinct, and I follow them as they turn along the shoulder and make a sharp turn back onto the highway. Soon I am back on 23, and I can see them clearly now, about half a mile up ahead. I have gained some distance. I gun it again, as fast as the bike can handle, but they are flooring it now, too. They must see me. An old, rusted sign reads "Cairo: 2." We are close to the bridge. Just a few miles.

It is more built-up here, and as we fly by I see the crumbling structures along the side of the road. Abandoned factories. Warehouses. Strip malls. Even houses. Everything is the same: burnt-out, looted, destroyed. There are even abandoned vehicles, just shells. It's as if there is nothing left in the world that's working.

On the horizon, I see their destination: the Rip Van Winkle bridge. A small bridge, just two lanes wide, encased by steel beams, it spans the Hudson River, connecting the small town of Catskill on the west with the larger town of Hudson on the east. A little-known bridge, once used by locals, now only slaverunners use it. It suits their purposes perfectly, leading them right to Route 9, which takes them to the Taconic Parkway and then, after 90 miles or so, right into the heart of the city. It is their artery.

But I've lost too much time, and no matter how much gas I give it, I just can't catch up. I won't be able to beat them to the bridge. I am closing the gap, though, and if I gain enough speed, maybe I can overtake them before they cross the Hudson.

A former toll-keeper's building sits at the base of the bridge, forcing vehicles to line up in a single lane and pass a toll booth. At one time there was a barricade that prevented cars from passing, but that has long since been rammed. The slaverunners fly through the narrow passageway, a sign hanging over them, rusted and dangling, reads "E-Z PASS."

I follow them through and race onto the bridge, now lined with rusted streetlamps that haven't worked in years, their metal twisted and crooked. As I gain speed, I notice one of the vehicles, in the distance, screech to a stop. I'm puzzled by this--I can't understand what they're doing. I suddenly see one of the slaverunners jump out of the car, plant something on the road, then jump back in his car and take off. This gains me precious time. I'm closing in on their car, a quarter mile away, and feel like I'm going to catch them. I still can't understand why they stopped--or what they planted.

Suddenly, I realize--and I slam on the brakes.

"What are you doing?" Ben yells. "Why are you stopping!?"

But I ignore him as I slam harder on the brakes. I brake too hard, too fast. Our bike can't gain traction in the snow, and we begin to spin and slide, around and around in big circles. Luckily, there are metal railings, and we slam hard into these instead of plunging into the icy river below.

We spin back towards the middle of the bridge. Slowly, we are braking, our speed reducing, and I only hope we can stop in time. Because now I realize--too late--what they've dropped on the road.

There is a huge explosion. Fire shoots into the sky as their bomb detonates.

A wave of heat comes right at us, and shrapnel goes flying. The explosion is intense, flames shooting everywhere, and the force of it hits us like a tornado, blowing us back. I can feel the heat, scorching my skin, even through the clothing, engulfing us. Hundreds of bits of shrapnel bounce off my helmet, the loud sound echoing in my head.

The bomb blew such a big hole that it cut the bridge in two, creating a ten yard gap between the sides. Now there is no way to cross it. And worse, we are sliding right to a hole that will send us plunging hundreds of feet below. It was lucky I slammed on the brakes when I did, when the explosion was still fifty yards ahead. But our bike won't stop sliding, bringing us right towards it.

Finally, our speed drops to thirty, then down to twenty, then ten.... But the bike won't fully stop on this ice, and I can't stop the sliding, right towards the center of the bridge--now just a gaping chasm.

I pull on the brakes as hard as I possibly can, trying everything. But I realize that none of that will do any good now, as we keep sliding, uncontrollably, to our deaths.

And the last thing I think, before we plunge, is that I hope Bree has a better death than I do.

P A R T   I I

# F I V E

Fifteen feet...ten...five.... The bike is slowing, but not enough, and we are just a few feet away from the edge. I brace myself for the fall, hardly conceiving that this is how I am going to die.

Then, the craziest thing happens: I hear a loud thump, and I am jolted forward as the bike slams into something and comes to a complete stop. A piece of metal, ripped in the explosion, juts up from the bridge, and has lodged itself in the spoke of our front wheel.

I'm in a state of shock as I sit there, on the bike. I slowly look down and my heart drops as I realize that I'm dangling in the air, over the edge of the chasm. There is nothing under me at all. Hundreds of feet below I see the white ice of Hudson. I'm confused as to why I am not plunging.

I turn and see that the other half of my bike--the sidecar--is still on the bridge. Ben, looking more dazed than I, still sits in it. He lost his helmet somewhere along the way, and his cheeks are covered in soot, charred form the explosion. He looks over at me, then down at the chasm, then back up at me in disbelief, as if amazed I'm still alive.

I realize that his weight, in the sidecar, is the only thing balancing me out, keeping me from falling. If I hadn't have taken him, I'd be dead right now.

I need to do something before the entire motorcycle tips over. Slowly, delicately, I pull my aching body off the seat and climb over onto the sidecar, on top of Ben. I then climb over him, set my feet down on the pavement, and slowly pull on the bike.

Ben sees what I'm doing and gets out and helps. Together, we back it off the edge and get the whole bike back onto safe ground.

Ben looks at me with his big blue eyes, and looks as if he's just been through a war.

"How did you know it was a bomb?" he asks.

I shrug. Somehow, I just knew.

"If you didn't slam on the brakes when you did, we'd be dead," he says, grateful.

"If you weren't sitting in the sidecar, I'd be dead," I respond.

Touché. We each owe each other.

We both look down at the chasm. I look up and in the distance spot the slaverunners' cars making it to the other side of the river.

"Now what?" he asks.

I look everywhere, frantic, weighing our options. I look down at the river again. It is completely white, frozen with ice and snow. I look up and down the expanse of the river, looking for any other bridges, any other crossings. I see none.

At this moment, I realize what I must do. It is risky. In fact, it probably will mean our deaths. But I have to try. I vowed to myself. I will not give up. No matter what.

I jump back onto the bike. Ben follows, jumping into the sidecar. I put my helmet back on and open the throttle, heading back in the direction from which we came.

"Where are you going?" he calls out. "We're going the wrong way!"

I ignore him, gunning it across the bridge, back to our side of the Hudson. As soon as I clear the bridge I make a left onto Spring Street, heading toward the town of Catskill.

I remember coming here as kid with Dad, and a road that led right to the river's edge. We used to fish there, pull right up to it and never even have to leave our truck. I remember being amazed that we could drive right up to the water. And now, a plan formulates in my mind. A very, very risky plan.

We pass a small, abandoned church and cemetery on our right, the gravestones sticking up out of the snow, so typical for a New England town. It amazes me that, with the whole world looted and destroyed, the cemeteries remain, seemingly untouched. It is as if the dead rule the earth.

The road comes to a T; I make a right on Bridge Street and go down a steep hill. After a few blocks, I come to the ruins of a huge marble building, "Greene County Court House" still emblazoned across its portico, make a left onto Main Street, and speed down what was once the sleepy river town of Catskill. It is lined with stores on either side, burnt-out shells, crumbled buildings, broken windows, and abandoned vehicles. There's not a soul in sight. I race down the center of Main Street, the electricity out, past stoplights that no longer work. Not that I'd stop if they did.

I pass the ruins of the post office on my left and swerve around a pile of rubble in the street, ruins of a townhouse that must have collapsed at some point. The street continues downhill, twisting, and the road thins out. I pass the rusted hulls of boats, now beached, their bodies destroyed. Behind them are the immense, corroded structures of what were once fuel depots, circular, rising a hundred feet high.

I make a left, toward the waterfront park, now covered in weeds. What's left of a sign reads "Dutchman's Landing." The park juts out, right into the river, and the only thing separating the road from the water are a few boulders with gaps in between them. I aim for one of those gaps, lower my visor, and gun the bike for all its worth. It's now or never. I can already feel my heart racing.

Ben must realize what I'm doing. He sits bolt upright, gripping the sides of the bike in terror.

"STOP!" he screams. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

But there's no stopping now. He enlisted for this ride, and there is no turning back. I'd offer to let him out, but there is no more time to lose; besides, if I stopped, I might not get up the nerve again to do what I'm about to do.

I check the speedometer: 60...70...80....

"YOU'RE GOING TO DRIVE US RIGHT INTO THE RIVER!" he screams.

"IT'S COVERED IN ICE!" I scream back.

"THE ICE WON'T HOLD!" he screams back.

90...100...110....

"WE'LL FIND OUT!" I respond.

He's right. The ice might not hold. But I see no other way. I have to cross that river, and I have no other ideas.

120...130...140....

The river is coming up on us fast.

"LET ME OUT!" he screams, desperate.

But there is no time. He knew what he signed up for.

I gun it one last time.

And then our world turns white.

# S I X

I drive the bike into the narrow gap between the rocks, and next thing I know, we go flying. For a second we are airborne, and I wonder if the ice will hold when we hit it--or whether we will crash right through it and plummet into the icy water, to a certain and brutal death.

A second later my entire body is jolted, as we hit something hard.

Ice.

We hit it at 140, faster than I can even imagine, and as we land, I lose control. The tires can't gain traction, and my driving becomes more like a controlled slide; I do my best to just steer the handlebars, which sway wildly. But, to my surprise and relief, at least the ice is holding. We go flying across the solid sheet of ice that is the Hudson River, veering left and right, but at least heading in the right direction. As we do, I pray to God the ice holds.

Suddenly I hear the horrific noise behind me of cracking ice, even louder than the roar of the engine. I check back over my shoulder and see an enormous fracture forming, following the trail of our bike. The river opens up right behind us. Our only saving grace is that we are going so fast the crack can't catch us, always a foot behind. If our engine and tires can hold for a few more seconds, maybe, just maybe, we can outrace it.

"HURRY!" screams Ben, eyes wide open with fear as he looks back over his shoulder.

I gun it as fast as I possibly can, just topping 150. We are thirty yards away from the opposite shore, and closing in.

Come on, come on! I think. Just a few more yards.

The next thing I know there is a tremendous crash, and my entire body is jerked front and back. Ben groans out in pain. My whole world shakes and spins, and it is then I realize we have arrived on the opposite shore. We slam into it doing 150, hitting the steep bank hard, which snaps our heads back on impact. But after a few vicious bumps, we clear the bank.

We made it. We are back on dry land.

Behind us, the river is now entirely split open, cracked in half, water spilling onto the ice. I don't think we could have made it a second time.

There is no time to think about that now. I try to gain control of the bike again, to slow it down, as we are going faster than I would like. But the bike is still fighting me, its tires still trying to gain traction--and suddenly we drive over something incredibly hard and uneven, which sends my jaw smashing into my teeth.

I look down: train tracks. I'd forgotten. There are still old tracks here, right along the river, from when trains used to run. We hit them hard as we cross the river, and as we jump them, the motorcycle shakes so violently, I almost lose hold of the grips. Amazingly, the tires still hold, and we cross the tracks on a country road, running parallel to the river. I am finally able to slow the bike, dropping down to 70. We pass the rusted hull of an old, huge train, lying on its side, burnt-out, and I bang a sharp left on a country road with an old sign that reads "Greendale." It is a narrow country lane with a sharp ascent uphill, away from the river.

We lose speed as we drive nearly straight up. I pray the bike will make it in the snow and not slide back down. I give it more gas as the speed drops. We are down to about 20 miles an hour when finally, we clear the hilltop. We even out on level land, and I gain speed again as we fly down this narrow country road, taking us alternately through woods, then farmland, then woods again, then past an old, abandoned firehouse. It continues, dipping and rising, twisting and turning, taking us past abandoned country houses, past herds of deer and flocks of geese, even over a small country bridge spanning a creek.

Finally, it merges with another road, Church Road, aptly named, as we pass the remnants of a huge Methodist church on our left and its adjoining graveyard--of course, still intact.

There is only one way the slaverunners can go. If they want the Taconic, which they must, then there's no way there without taking Route 9. They are heading North to South--and we are heading West to East. My plan is to cut them off. And now, finally, I have the advantage. I crossed the river about a mile farther south than they. If I can just go fast enough, I can beat them to the punch. Finally, I am feeling optimistic. I can cut them off--and they will never expect it. I will hit them perpendicularly and maybe I can take them out.

I gun the bike again, pushing it past 140.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" Ben yells out.

He still looks shell-shocked, but I have no time to explain: in the distance, I suddenly spot their cars. They are exactly where I thought they'd be. They don't see me coming. They don't see that I am lined up to smash right into them.

Their cars ride single file, about twenty yards between them, and I realize I can't take them both out. I am going to need to choose one. I decide to aim for the one in front: if I can run it off the road, perhaps it will cause the one behind it to slam on the brakes, or spin out and crash, too. It is a risky plan: the impact may very well kill us. But I don't see any other way. I can't exactly ask them to stop. I only pray that, if I am successful, Bree survives the crash.

I increase my speed, closing in on them. I am a hundred yards away...then 50...then 30....

Finally, Ben realizes what I'm about to do.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" he screams, and I can hear the fear in his voice. "YOU'RE GOING TO HIT THEM!"

Finally he gets it. That's exactly what I'm hoping to do.

I rev it one last time, topping 150, and barely catch my breath as we go racing at top speed on the country road. Seconds later, we go flying onto Route 9--and smash directly into the first vehicle. It is a perfect hit.

The impact is tremendous. I feel the crash of metal on metal, feel my body jerking to a stop, then feel myself fly off the bike and through the air. I see a world of stars, and as I'm soaring, I realize that this is what it feels like to die.

# S E V E N

I fly through the air, head over heels, and finally feel myself land in the snow, the impact crushing my ribs and knocking the wind out of me. I go tumbling, again and again. I roll and roll, unable to stop, bumped and bruised in every direction. The helmet is still fastened to my head, and I am grateful for it as I feel my head crack against rocks in the ground. Behind me is the loud sound of crashing metal.

I lay there, frozen, wondering what I have done. For a moment, I am unable to move. But then I think of Bree, and force myself to. Gradually, I move my leg, then raise an arm, testing it. As I do, I feel excruciating pain on my right, in my ribs, enough to take my breath away. I've cracked one of them. With a supreme effort, I am able to turn over to my side. I lift my visor, look over and take in the scene.

I hit the first car with such force that I knocked it on its side; it lays there, its wheels spinning. The other vehicle has spun out, but is still upright; it sits in a ditch on the side of the road, about fifty yards ahead of us. Ben is still in the sidecar; I can't tell if he's dead or alive. It seems I am the first one to regain consciousness. There appears to be no other signs of life.

I don't waste any time. I feel more achy than ever--as if I've just been run over by a Mack Truck--but I think again of Bree, and somehow summon the energy to move. I have the advantage now, while everyone else is recovering.

Limping, feeling a throbbing pain in my ribs, I hobble over to the car on its side. I pray that Bree is in there, that she's unhurt, and that I can get her out of here somehow. I reach down and take out the gun as I approach, holding it cautiously in front of me.

I look in and see that both slaverunners are slumped in their seats, covered in blood. One's eyes are open, clearly dead. The other appears to be dead, too. I quickly check the backseats, hoping to see Bree.

But she's not there. Instead, I find two other teenagers--a boy and a girl. They sit there, frozen with fear. I can't believe it. I hit the wrong car.

I immediately look over to the car on the horizon, the one in the ditch, and as I do, it suddenly revs its engine and its wheels spin. It is trying to get out. I start to sprint towards it, to reach it before it pulls out. My heart thumps in my throat, knowing Bree is right there, barely fifty yards away.

Just as I'm about to burst into action, I suddenly hear a voice.

"HELP ME!"

I look over and see Ben, sitting in the sidecar, trying to get out. Flames are spreading on the bike, behind the gas tank. My bike is on fire. And Ben is stuck. I stand there, torn, looking back and forth between Ben and the car that holds my sister. I need to go and rescue her. But at the same time, I can't let him die. Not like this.

Furious, I run to him. I grab him, feeling the heat from the flames behind him, and yank on him, trying to get him out. But the metal of the sidecar has bent in on his legs, trapping him. He tries to help, too, and I yank, again and again, the flames growing higher. I am sweating, grunting, as I pull with all I have. Finally, I pry him loose.

And just as I do, suddenly, the bike explodes.

# E I G H T

The explosion sends us both flying back through the air, and I land hard on my back in the snow. For the third time this morning, the wind is knocked out of me.

I look up at the sky, seeing stars, trying to clear my head. I can still feel the heat on my face from the force of the flames, and my ears ring from the noise.

As I struggle to my knees, I feel a searing pain in my right arm. I look over and see that a small piece of shrapnel is sticking through the edge of my bicep, maybe two inches long, a piece of twisted metal. It hurts like crazy.

I reach over and, without thinking, in one quick motion grab the end of it, grit my teeth and yank. For a moment, I am in the worst pain of my life, as the metal goes completely through my arm and out the other side. Blood rushes down my arm and into the snow, staining my coat.

I quickly take off one sleeve of the coat and see blood on my shirt. I tear off a piece of the sleeve with my teeth and take a strip of cloth and tie it tight over the wound, then put my coat back on. I hope it will staunch the flow of blood. I manage to sit up, and as I look over, I see what was once Dad's bike: it is now just a heap of useless, burning metal. Now we're stuck.

I look over at Ben. He looks dazed, too, on his hands and knees, breathing hard, his cheeks black with soot. But at least he is alive.

I hear the roar of an engine and look over and see that, in the distance, the other car has caught traction. It is already taking off down the highway, gaining speed, with my sister inside. I am furious at Ben for making me lose her. I have to catch them.

I turn to the slaverunner car before me, still on its side, and wonder if it runs. I run over to it, determined to try.

I push against it with all I have, trying to get it back on all four tires. But it's too heavy, barely rocking.

"Help me!" I yell to Ben.

He gets up and hurries to my side, limping. He takes position beside me, and together, we push with all we have. The car is heavier than I imagine, weighed down by all its iron bars. It rocks more and more, and finally, after one big heave, we get it back onto all four tires. It lands in the snow with a crash.

I waste no time. I open the driver's side door, reach in, grab the dead driver with both hands by the shirt, and yank him out of the seat. His torso is covered in blood, and my hands turn red as I throw him into the snow.

I lean in and examine the slaverunner in the passenger seat. His face is covered in blood, too, but I am not certain he is dead. In fact, as I look closer, I detect some signs of movement. Then he shifts in his seat. He's alive.

I lean across the car and take him by his shirt, tight in a fist. I hold my gun to his head and shake him roughly. Finally, his eyes bat open. He blinks, disoriented.

I assume the other slaverunners are heading to Arena One. But they have such a big head start on us, I need to know for sure. I lean in close.

He turns and looks at me, and for a moment, I am stunned: half his face is melted away. It is an old wound, not from the accident, which means he must be a Biovictim. I've heard rumors of these people, but I've never seen one. When the nuclear payloads were dropped in the cities, those few who survived a direct attack carried the scars, and were rumored to be more sadistic and aggressive than others. We call them the Crazies.

I have to be extra careful with this one. I tighten my grip on the gun.

"Where are they taking her?" I demand through gritted teeth.

He looks back blankly, as if trying to comprehend. I feel certain, though, that he understands.

I shove the barrel into his cheek, letting him know I mean business. And I do. Every passing moment is precious, and I can feel Bree getting farther away from me.

"I said, where are they taking her?"

Finally, his eyes open in what seems to be fear. I think he gets the message.

"The arena," he finally says, his voice raspy.

My heart flutters, my worst fears confirmed.

"Which one?" I snap.

I pray he does not say Arena One.

He pauses, and I can see he is debating whether or not to tell me. I jab the pistol tighter against his cheekbone.

"Tell me now or you're wasted!" I yell, surprising myself with the anger in my voice.

Finally, after a long pause, he answers: "Arena One."

My heart pounds, my worst fears confirmed. Arena One. Manhattan. It is rumored to be the worst of them all. That can only mean one thing: a certain death for Bree.

I feel a fresh rage towards this man, this bottom-feeder, this slaverunner, the lowest rung of society, who has come up here to kidnap my sister, and God knows who else, to feed the machine, just so that others can watch helpless people kill each other. All this senseless death, just for their own entertainment. It is enough to make me want to kill him on the spot.

But I take the gun out of his cheek, and loosen my grip. I know I should kill him, but can't bring myself to. He answered my questions, and somehow I feel killing him now wouldn't be fair. So instead, I will abandon him. I will kick him out of the car and leave him here, which will mean a slow death by starvation. There is no way a slaverunner can survive alone in nature. They are city dwellers--not survivors like us.

I lean back to tell Ben to yank this slaverunner out of the car, when suddenly, I detect motion out of the corner of my eye. The slaverunner is reaching for his belt, moving faster than I thought he was capable. He has tricked me: he is actually in fairly good shape.

He pulls out a gun faster than I could have ever thought possible. Before I can even register what's happening, he is already raising it in my direction. Stupidly, I've underestimated him.

Some instinct in me takes over, perhaps some instinct inherited from Dad, and without even thinking clearly, I raise my gun, and right before he shoots, I fire.

# N I N E

The gunshot is deafening, and a moment later, the car is splattered in blood. I am so overcome by adrenaline, I don't even know who fired first.

I am shocked as I look down and realize that I shot him in the head.

A screaming erupts. I look to the back seat and see the young girl sitting behind the driver's side, shrieking. She suddenly leans forward, pulls herself out from the back, jumps out, and hits the snow running.

For a moment, I debate whether to chase her down--she is clearly in shock, and in her state, I doubt she even knows where she's going. In this weather, and in this remote location, I doubt she can survive long.

But I think of Bree, and have to stay focused. She is what matters most now. I can't afford to waste time tracking this girl down. I turn and watch her run, and it feels odd to think of her as being so much younger than I am. In truth, she is probably close to my age.

I check the reaction of the captured boy in the backseat, maybe twelve. But he just sits there, staring, frozen, in a catatonic state. He's not even blinking. I wonder if he's had some kind of psychotic break. I stand and look over at Ben, who still stands there, staring down at the dead corpse. He doesn't say a word.

The gravity of what I have done suddenly hits me: I have just killed a man. Never in my life did I think I would. I have always felt bad even killing an animal, and I realize I should feel awful.

But I am too numb. Right now, all I feel is that I did what I had to to defend myself. He was a slaverunner after all, and he came up here to hurt us. I realize I should feel more remorse--but I don't. That frightens me. I can't help but wonder if I'm more like Dad than I care to admit.

Ben is useless, still standing there staring, so I run around to his side of the car, open the passenger door and begin to yank out the body. It is heavy.

"Help me!" I snap. I am annoyed by his inaction--especially while the other slaverunners are getting away.

Finally, Ben hurries over and helps me. We drag out the dead slaverunner, the blood staining our clothes, walk a few feet, then throw it into the snow, which turns red. I reach down and quickly strip the corpse of its gun and ammo, realizing Ben is either too passive or isn't thinking clearly.

"Take his clothes," I say. "You'll need them."

I don't waste any more time. I run back to the car, open the driver's side door and jump in. I go to turn the keys, when I suddenly look down and check the ignition. They are missing.

My heart drops. I search the floor of the car frantically, then the seats, then the dashboard. Nothing. The keys must have fallen out in the crash.

I look outside and notice some unusual markings in the snow that might indicate a trail from the keys. I kneel down and comb frantically through it, searching. I feel more and more desperate. It is like finding a needle in a haystack.

But suddenly, a miracle happens: my hand strikes something small. I comb the snow more carefully, and am flooded with relief to see the keys.

I jump back in the car, turn the ignition, and the car roars to life. This vehicle is some kind of modified muscle car, something like an old Camaro, and the engine roars way too loud; I can already tell it will be a fast ride. I only hope it's fast enough to catch the other one.

I am about to put it into gear and take off when I look over and see Ben, still standing there, staring down at the corpse. He still hasn't stripped the corpse's clothing, even though he is standing there, freezing. I guess seeing the death affected him more than it did me. I have lost all patience and consider just taking off; but it wouldn't be fair to leave him here alone, especially since he--or his body weight, at least--saved me back there on the bridge.

"I'M LEAVING!" I shriek at him. "GET IN!"

That snaps him out of it. He comes running over, jumps in, and slams the door. Just as I am about to gun it, he turns and looks in the backseat.

"What about him?" he asks.

I follow his gaze and see, in the backseat, the catatonic boy, still sitting there and staring.

"You want out?" I ask the boy. "Now's your chance."

But he doesn't respond. I don't have the luxury of time to figure it out; there have been too many delays already. If he won't decide, I'll decide for him. Coming along with us might kill him--but leaving him here will definitely kill him. He's coming with us.

I peel out, getting back onto the highway with a thud. I am pleased to see the car is still running, and is faster than I could imagine. I am also pleased to see it handles well on the snowy highway. I hit the clutch and give it gas and shift to second gear, then to third, then fourth.... I am grateful Dad taught me how to drive stick--another manly thing I probably never should have learned as a teenage girl, and another thing I resented at the time but am thankful for now. I watch the speedometer climb: 80...90...100...110...120.... I am unsure how hard to push it. I worry that if I go too fast I'll lose control in the snow, especially since this highway hasn't been maintained in years, and with the snow covering, I can't even see the potholes. If we hit just one big hole or patch of ice, we could be off the road. I get it up just a bit more, to 130, and decide to hold it there.

I look over at Ben, who has just finished buckling his seatbelt and is now gripping the dash, his knuckles white, looking straight ahead at the road in fear.

"You killed him," he says.

I can barely hear him over the roar of the engine, and I wonder if I just imagined it, or if it was my conscience speaking. But Ben turns to me and repeats it:

"You killed that man," he says louder, as if amazed such a thing could happen.

I'm not sure how to respond.

"Yes I did," I say finally, annoyed. I don't need him reminding me of it. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Slowly, he shakes his head. "I've just never seen a man killed before."

"I did what I had to do," I snap back, defensive. "He was reaching for a gun."

I give it more gas, hitting 135, and as we turn the bend, I am relieved to spot the other car on the horizon. I am catching up, speeding faster than they dare to. At this rate, in a few minutes I might just catch them. I am encouraged.

I am sure they spot us--I just hope they don't realize it's us. Maybe they think the other slaverunners got their car back on the road. I don't think they saw our encounter.

I give it even more gas, hitting 140, and the distance starts to close.

"What are you going to do when you catch them?" Ben screams, panic in his voice.

That is exactly what I have been wondering. I don't know yet. I just know I need to catch up to them.

"We can't shoot at their car, if that's what you're thinking," he says. "The bullet might kill my brother--or your sister."

"I know," I reply. "We're not going to shoot. We're going to run them off the road," I say, suddenly deciding.

"That's crazy!" he yells, gripping the dashboard tighter as we close the gap even more. Snow is bouncing off our windshield like crazy, and I feel like I'm in a videogame, going out of control. The Taconic twists, narrowing as we go.

"That could kill them!" he yells. "What good will that do? My brother will die in there!"

"My sister is in there, too!" I shout back. "You think I want her dead?"

"So then what are you thinking?" he screams.

"You have any other ideas!?" I shout back. "You expect me to just ask them to pull over?"

He is silent.

"We have to stop them," I continue. "If they reach the city, we'll never get them back. That's a certain death. At least this gives them a chance."

Just as I get ready to floor it one more time, the slaverunners surprise me by suddenly slowing down. In moments I am beside them. At first I can't understand why they are doing this, and then I realize: they think we are their partners. They still don't realize it's us.

We pull up and just as I prepare to turn hard on the wheel, to smash into them, their tinted passenger-side window opens to reveal the grinning face of a slaverunner, his facemask raised; he still assumes I am one of his.

I lower my window, scowling back: I want him to have one good look at me before I send him to hell.

His smile drops and his expression morphs into one of shock. I still have the element of surprise, and am about to turn hard on the wheel when I catch a glimpse of Bree in the backseat. She is alive. She looks back at me, fear in her eyes.

Suddenly, we hit a pothole. The sound is deafening, and our car shakes as if a bomb has gone off. It jolts me so hard that my head slams into the metal ceiling, and my teeth smash into each other. I feel as if I've lost a filling. Our car swerves wildly, and it takes me several seconds to regain control and straighten it out. It was a close call. It was stupid of me: I never should have taken my eyes off the road. We've lost speed, and the other vehicle has sped up and is now a good fifty yards ahead of us. Worse, now they know we're not one of theirs.

I floor it again: 130...140.... I step on the gas until the pedal is touching the floor, but it won't go any farther. The speedometer hits 150. I assume the car in front of me has the capacity to go as fast, but they, clearly, are being more sensible. The icy conditions on this road are risky at even 80 miles an hour, and they are not willing to take the extra risk. But I have nothing to lose. If I lose Bree, I have nothing left to live for anyway.

We are closing in on them again. They are thirty yards away...twenty.

Suddenly, their passenger window rolls down, and light reflects off of something shiny. I realize, too late, what it is: a gun.

I slam on the brakes, just as they fire several times. I duck as the bullets bounce off our hood and windshield, and the metallic sound of ricocheting bullets fills our ears. At first I think we're finished, but then I realize the bullets haven't penetrated: this car must be bulletproof.

"You're going to get us killed!" Ben yells. "Stop this! There has to be another way!"

"There's no other way!" I scream back, more to assure myself than him.

I have crossed some sort of line inside, and I absolutely refuse to back down.

"There is no other way," I repeat quietly to myself, my eyes locked on the road.

I step on it one more time, swerving to the side, coming up alongside them. With one strong pull on the wheel, I smash into them hard, just as the slaverunner is reaching out with his gun. My front fender hits their rear wheel. Their car swerves wildly, and so does mine. For a moment, we are both all over the road. They smash into a metal railing, then bounce back and crash into our car, sending us into the railing on our side.

The highway opens up and the railings disappear, flat farmland on either side of us. It is perfect. I know I can take them out now. I floor it one more time, preparing to swerve again. I have them perfectly in my sights and prepare to turn the wheel.

Suddenly, there is a gleam of metal as the slaverunner reaches out again, gun in hand.

"WATCH OUT!" Ben yells.

But it is too late. Gunshots ring out, and before I can swerve, the bullets rip into our front tires. I lose complete control of the car. Ben screams, as we go flying across the road. So, despite myself, do I.

My universe is upside down as the car tumbles, and we spin again and again.

My head smashes against the metal roof. I feel the sharp tug of the seatbelt digging into my chest, and the world is just a blur through the windshield. The sound of metal crunching in my ears is so loud I can hardly think.

The last thing I remember is wishing my Dad were here to see me now, to see how close I had come. I wonder if he would be proud.

And then, after one final crash, my world goes black.

# T E N

I don't know how long I'm out. I peel open my eyes, and wake to a tremendous pain in my head. Something is wrong, and I can't figure out what.

Then I realize: the world is upside down.

I feel blood rushing to my face. I look about, trying to figure out what happened, where I am, if I'm even still alive. And then, slowly, I begin to take it all in.

The car is sitting upside down, the engine has stopped, and I'm still buckled in the driver's seat. It's silent. I wonder how long I've been sitting here like this. I reach over, slowly moving my arm, trying to feel for injuries. As I do, I feel a sharp pain in my arms and shoulders. I don't know if I'm injured, or where, and I can't tell as long as I'm hanging upside down in the seat. I need to unbuckle myself.

I reach over and, unable to see the buckle, feel along the strap until I touch something cold and plastic. I dig my thumb into it. At first, it doesn't give.

I push harder.

Come on.

There is a sudden click. The belt snaps off and I go plummeting down, landing right on my face against the metal roof; the drop must be a foot, and makes my headache far worse.

It takes a few seconds to get my wits back about me, and slowly, I get to my knees. I look over and see Ben there beside me; he is still buckled and upside down. His face is covered in blood, which drips slowly from his nose, and I can't tell if he's alive or dead. But his eyes are closed, and I take that as a good sign--at least they're not open and unblinking.

I check the backseat for the boy--and as soon as do, I regret it. He lies on the bottom of the car, his neck twisted in an unnatural position, eyes open and frozen. Dead.

I feel responsible. Maybe I should have forced him out of the car earlier. Ironically, this boy might have been better off if he stayed with the slaverunners than me. But there's nothing I can do about it now.

Seeing this boy dead reinforces the gravity of the accident; I check my body again for injuries, not even knowing where to look, since everything hurts. But as I twist, I feel a searing pain in my ribs, and it hurts to take a deep breath. I reach over, and it's sensitive to the touch. It feels like I've cracked another rib.

I can move, but it hurts like hell. I also still have the burning pain in my arm from the shrapnel from our previous accident. My head feels heavy, as if it's in a vice, my ears are ringing, and I have a pounding headache that just won't quit. I probably have a concussion.

But there's no time to dwell on that now. I need to see if Ben is alive. I reach over and shake him. He doesn't respond.

I debate the best way to get him out and realize there's no easy way to do it. So I reach over and push hard on his seatbelt release button. The strap flies off and Ben plummets down and lands hard, face first, on the metal roof. He grunts loudly, and I'm flooded with relief: he's alive.

He lays there, curled up, groaning. I reach over and shove him hard, again and again. I want to wake him, see how badly he's hurt. He squirms, but still doesn't seem fully conscious.

I have to get out of this car: I feel claustrophobic in here, especially being so close to the dead boy, still staring at me with his unmoving eyes. I reach over, searching for the door handle. My vision blurs, making it hard to find, especially with everything upside down. I use two hands, groping the door, and finally find it. I pull on it, and nothing happens. Great. The door must be jammed shut.

I yank on it again and again, but still, nothing happens.

So I lean back, bring my knees to my chest, and kick the door as hard as I can with both feet. There is a crash of metal and a burst of cold air rushes in as the door flies open.

I roll out into a world of white. It is snowing again, and it is coming down as hard as ever. It feels good to be out of the car, though, and I get to my knees and slowly stand. I feel a rush of blood to my head, and for a moment, the world spins. Slowly, my headache lessens, and it feels good to be upright, back on my feet, breathing fresh air. As I try to stand straight, the pain in my ribs worsens, as does the pain in my arm. I roll my shoulders back and feel stiff, bruised all over. But nothing else feels broken, and I don't see any blood. I'm lucky.

I hurry over to the passenger door, get to one knee, and wrench it open. I reach in and grab Ben by the shirt and try to drag him out. He is heavier than I suspect, and I have to yank hard; I pull slowly but firmly, and finally get him out into the fresh snow. He enters the snow face first, and that finally wakes him. He rolls onto his side, wiping the snow off his face. He then gets to his hands and knees and opens his eyes, staring at the ground, breathing hard. As he does, blood drips from his nose and stains the white snow.

He blinks several times, disoriented, and turns and looks up at me, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the falling snow.

"What happened?" he asks, his speech slurred.

"We had an accident," I answer. "You okay?"

"I can't breathe," he says, sounding nasally, cupping his hands beneath his nose to catch the blood. As he leans back, I can finally see: he has a broken nose.

"Your nose is busted," I say.

He looks back at me, slowly comprehending, and his eyes flood with fear.

"Don't worry," I say, going over to him. I reach up with both hands, and place them on his nose. I remember when Dad taught me how to set a broken nose. It was late one night, after he'd come home from a bar fight. I couldn't believe it. He made me watch, said it would be good for me to learn something useful. He stood there in the bathroom as I watched, leaned into the mirror, and reached up and did it. I still remember the cracking noise it made.

"Hold still," I say.

In one quick motion, I reach up and push hard on both sides of his crooked nose, setting it straight. He screams out in pain, and I feel bad. But I know this is what he needs to get it back into place, and to staunch the flow of blood. I reach down and hand him a clump of snow, putting into his hands and guiding it up so that he holds it against his nose.

"This will stop the blood, and reduce the swelling," I say.

Ben holds the clump of snow to his nose, and within moments, it turns red. I look away.

I step back and survey our car: it sits there, upside down, its chassis visible to the sky. Its three intact tires are still spinning, very slowly. I turn and look back towards the highway. We're about thirty yards off the road--we must've really tumbled far. I wonder how big their lead is.

It's amazing we're even still alive, especially given our speed. Surveying this stretch of highway, I realize we got lucky: if we had tumbled back there, we would have plunged off a cliff. And if the thick snow hadn't sheltered us, I'm sure the impact would have been worse.

I survey our car, wondering if there's any way we can get it running again. It's doubtful. Which means I'll never find Bree, and which means we'll be stranded here, in the middle of nowhere, and probably dead within a day. We have no choice: we have to find a way to get it working.

"We have to flip it over," I say, with sudden urgency. "We have to get it back on its wheels and see if it still works. I need your help."

Ben slowly registers what I'm saying, then hurries over to my side, stumbling at first. The two of us stand beside each other, on one side of the car, and both begin to push.

We manage to rock it, and then, using our momentum, push it again and again. It takes all I have, and I can feel myself slipping in the snow, feel the pain tearing through my bicep, through my ribs.

The car rocks in bigger and bigger swings, and just as I wonder if I can go on, we give it one final heave. I reach up, above my head, pushing and pushing it, walking forward in the snow as I do.

It is just enough. The car reaches a tipping point, on its side, then suddenly lands with a crash on all four wheels. A huge cloud of snow rises up. I stand there catching my breath, as does Ben.

I survey the damage. It is extensive. The hood and roof and trunk look as if they've been worked over by a sledgehammer. But amazingly, the bones of it are still in shape. However, there is one glaring problem. One of the tires--the one that was shot out--is in such bad shape that there's no way we can drive on it.

"Maybe there's a spare," Ben says, reading my mind. I look over and he's already hurrying over to the trunk. I'm impressed.

I hurry over to it, too. He pushes the button several times, but it doesn't open.

"Look out," I say, and as he steps back I raise my knee and kick down hard with my heel. The trunk pops open.

I look down and am relieved to see a spare tire sitting there. Ben reaches in and grabs it, and I pull back the lining, and beneath it, find a jack and wrench. I take these and follow Ben, who carries the spare to the front. Without missing a beat, Ben takes the jack, jams it under the chassis, then takes the wrench and starts cranking it up. I'm impressed by how comfortable he is with the tools, and how quickly he gets the car jacked up. He removes all the bolts, pulls off the useless tire, and chucks it into the snow.

He puts on the new tire, and I hold it steady as he puts the bolts back in, one by one. He tightens them and lowers the car, and as we step back and look, it's like having a brand-new tire. Ben has surprised me with his mechanical skills; I never would have expected that from him.

I waste no time opening the driver's side door, jumping back in the car, and turning the keys. But my heart drops as I hear silence. The car is dead. I try the ignition again and again. But nothing. Nothing at all. It seems the accident destroyed the car somehow. A hopeless feeling sets in. Was this all for nothing?

"Pop the hood," Ben says.

I pull the lever. Ben hurries around to the front and I get out and join him. I stand over him as he reaches in and starts fiddling with several wires. I am surprised by his dexterity.

"Are you a mechanic?" I ask.

"Not really," he answers. "My Dad is. He taught me a lot, back when we had cars."

He holds two wires together, and there is a spark. "Try it now," he says.

I hurry back in and turn the ignition, hoping, praying. This time, the car roars to life.

Ben slams closed the hood, and I see a proud smile on his face, which is already swelling up from the broken nose. He hurries back and opens his door. He is about to get back in, when suddenly he freezes, staring into the backseat.

I follow his gaze, and I remember. The boy in the back.

"What should we do with him?" Ben asks.

There's no more time to waste. I get out, reach in and remove the boy as gently as I can, trying not to look. I drag him several feet, in the snow, over to a large tree, and lay him down beneath it. I look at him for just a moment, then turn and run back to the car.

Ben still stands there.

"That's it?" he asks, sounding disappointed.

"What do you expect?" I snap. "A funeral service?"

"It just seems...a bit callous," he says. "He died because of us."

"We don't have time for this," I say, at my wit's end. "We're all going to die anyway!"

I jump back into the running car, my thoughts fixed on Bree, on how far the other slaverunners have gone. While Ben is still closing his door, I peel out.

Our car goes flying across the snowy field, up a steep bank and back onto the highway with a bang. We skid, then catch traction. We are rolling again.

I step on the gas, and we start to gain real speed. I am amazed: this car is invincible. It feels as good as new.

In no time, we are doing over 100. This time I'm a bit more cautious, shell-shocked from the accident. I bring it up to 110, but don't press it past that. I can't risk wiping out again.

I figure they're probably at least ten minutes ahead of us, and we might not be able to catch them. But anything can happen. All I need is for them to hit one bad pothole, for just one mishap to happen to them.... If not, I'll just have to follow their tracks.

"We have to find them before they reach the city," Ben says, as if reading my mind. He has an annoying habit of doing that, I notice. "If they get there before us, we'll never find them again."

"I know," I respond.

"And if we enter the city, we'll never make it out. You know that, don't you?"

The very same thought has been going through my mind. He's right. From everything I've heard, the city is a deathtrap, filled with predators. We're hardly equipped to fight our way out.

I step on it, giving it a bit more gas. The engine roars, and we are now cruising at 120. The snow hasn't slowed, and bounces off the windshield. I think of the dead boy, see his face, his unblinking eyes; I remember how close we came to death, and a part of me wants to slow down. But I have no choice.

As we drive, time feels like it's crawling, going forever. We drive twenty miles, then thirty, then forty...on and on, forever into the snow. I'm gripping the steering wheel with both hands, leaning forward, watching the road more carefully than I have in my life. I'm swerving to avoid potholes left and right, like a videogame. Which is hard to do at this speed and in this snow. Still, I manage to miss nearly all of them. Once or twice I don't, though, and we pay the price dearly, my head slamming into the roof, and my teeth smashing into each other. But no matter what, I keep going.

As we round the bend, I spot something in the distance that worries me: the tracks of the slaverunner's car seem to veer off the road, into a field. It doesn't make any sense, and I wonder if I am seeing things correctly, especially in this blizzard.

But as we get closer, the more certain I become. I slow dramatically.

"What are you doing?" Ben asks.

My sixth sense tells me to slow down, and as we get close, I'm glad I do.

I slam on the brakes, and luckily I'm only doing 50 when I do. We slip and slide for about 20 yards, and finally, we come to a stop.

Just in time. The highway abruptly ends in a huge crater, plunging deep into the earth. If I hadn't stopped, we would surely be dead right now.

I look down, over the edge of the precipice. It is a massive crater, probably a hundred yards in diameter. It looks like a huge bomb had been dropped on this highway at some point during the war.

I turn the wheel and follow the slaverunners' tracks, which take me though a snowy field, then onto winding local roads. After several minutes, it leads us back onto the highway. I pick up speed again, this time bringing it up to 130.

I drive and drive and drive, and feel like I'm driving to the end of the earth. I probably cover another 40 miles and I begin to wonder how much farther this highway can go. The snowy sky begins to grow darker, and soon it will be nightfall. I feel the need to push and get the car up to 140. I know it's risky, but I need to catch up to them.

As we go, we pass some of the old signs for the major arteries, still hanging, rusting away: the Sawmill Parkway; the Major Deegan; 287; the Sprain.... The Taconic forks, and I merge onto the Sprain Parkway, then the Bronx River Parkway, following the slaverunners' tracks. We are getting closer to the city now, open sky gradually replaced by tall, crumbling buildings. We are in the Bronx.

I feel the need to catch them and push the car up to 150. It becomes so loud I can barely hear.

As we round another bend, my heart leaps: there, in the distance, I see them, a mile ahead.

"That's them!" Ben screams.

But as we close the gap, I see where they're headed. A crooked sign reads "Willis Avenue Bridge." It is a small bridge, encased in metal beams, barely wide enough for two lanes. At its entrance sit several Humvees, slaverunners sitting on the hoods, machine guns mounted and aimed towards the road. More Humvees sit on the far side of the bridge.

I gun it, pushing the gas pedal as far as it will go, and we top 150. The world flies by in a blur. But we are not catching up: the slaverunners are speeding up, too.

"We can't follow them in!" Ben yells. "We'll never make it!"

But we have no choice. They have at least a hundred yards on us, and the bridge is maybe a hundred yards away. We're not going to beat them there. I am doing all I can, and our car is shaking from the speed. There's no way around it: we're going to have to enter the city.

As we approach the bridge, I wonder if the guards realize we aren't one of theirs. I only hope we can get through fast enough, before they catch on and fire at us.

The slaverunner car flies between the guards, racing over the bridge. We follow, fifty yards behind, and as we do, the guards still don't realize. Soon, we are thirty yards away...then 20...then 10....

As we race onto the entrance, we are close enough that I can see the horrified expressions on the guards' faces. Now, they realize.

I look up, and the guards raise their machine guns our way.

A second later, shots ring out.

We are covered in automatic machine gun fire, bouncing off the hood and windshield, bullets spraying everywhere. I duck.

Worse, something starts to fall, impeding our way, and I see it is a spiked iron gate. It is being lowered on the bridge, to block our entrance to Manhattan.

We're going too fast, and I can't possibly stop in time. The gate is falling too fast, and I realize, too late, that in just a few moments, we will smash into it, and it will tear our car to pieces.

I prepare for impact.

# E L E V E N

I brace myself as we head for the descending gate. It's too late to turn back now, and too late to slam on the brakes. From the looks of those heavy, reinforced iron bars, with spikes at the end, I don't see how we can possibly drive through it. I figure our only chance is to outrace it, to go fast enough to slip through before it completely descends. So I floor it, the car roaring and shaking. As we get within feet of it, the guards jump out of the way, and I brace myself for impact.

There is the awful noise of metal smashing into metal, along with the noise of broken glass. It is deafening, as if a bomb has exploded right beside my ear. It sounds like one of those huge car-wrecking machines, crunching a car until it's flat.

Our car jerks violently on the impact, and for a moment, I feel as if I'm going to die. Shattered glass flies everywhere, and I do the best I can to hold the wheel steady while raising a hand to my eyes. And then, a second later, it's over. To my shock, we are still driving, flying over the bridge, into Manhattan.

I try to figure out what happened. I look up at our roof, and check back over my shoulder, and realize we outraced the bars--though they managed to lower just enough to perforate our roof, shearing it into bits. It looks as if it's been put through a bread slicer. It took out the top of our windshield, too, cracking it badly enough that my view is impaired. I can still drive, but it's not easy.

Bits of shattered glass are everywhere, as are bits of torn metal. Freezing air rushes in and snowflakes land on my head.

I look over and see that Ben is shaken, but unhurt. I saw him duck at the last second, just like I did, and that probably saved his life. I check over my shoulder and see the group of guards scrambling to rally and come after us; but the iron gate is all the way down, and they don't seem able to lift it up again. We are going so fast, we have a big lead on them anyway. Hopefully by the time they get their act together we'll be far gone.

I turn back to the road ahead and in the distance, maybe a quarter-mile ahead, I see the other slaverunners, speeding through Manhattan. We have passed the point of no return. I can hardly conceive that we are now on the island of Manhattan, have actually crossed the bridge--probably the only bridge still working in or out of here. There is no way back.

Up to this point, I had envisioned rescuing Bree and bringing her home. But now, I'm not so sure. I'm still determined to rescue her--but I'm not sure how to get us out of here. My feeling of dread is deepening. I am increasingly feeling this is a mission of no return. A suicide mission. But Bree is all that matters. If I have to go down trying, I will.

I floor the gas again, bringing it up past 140. But the slaverunners floor it too, still intent on evading us. They have a good head start, and unless something goes wrong, catching up to them won't be easy. I wonder what their destination is. Manhattan is vast, and they could be going anywhere. I feel like Hansel and Gretel heading into the woods.

The slaverunners make a sharp right onto a wide boulevard, and I look up and see a rusted sign which reads "125th Street." I follow them, and realize they're heading west, crosstown. As we go, I look around and see that 125th is like a postcard for the apocalypse: everywhere are abandoned, burnt-out cars, parked crookedly in the middle of the street. Everything has been stripped down and salvaged. The buildings have all been looted and the retail spaces smashed, leaving nothing but piles of glass on the sidewalks. Most buildings are just shells, burnt-out from the bomb-dropping campaigns. Others have collapsed. As I drive, I have to swerve around random piles of rubble. Needless to say, there are no signs of life.

The slaverunners make a sharp left, and as I follow them, a sign, upside down, reads "Malcolm X Boulevard." It is another wide street, and we head south, right through the heart of Harlem. Downtown. I wonder where they are heading. We turn so fast our tires screech, burning rubber, the sound louder than ever now that our roof is open to the elements. There is still snow on the streets, and our car slides a good ten feet before it straightens out again. I take the turn faster than the slaverunners and gain a few seconds' time.

Malcolm X Boulevard is as bad as 125th: everywhere is destruction. Yet this has something else, too: abandoned military tanks and vehicles. I spot a Humvee, turned on its side, just a shell now, and I wonder what battles took place here. A huge, bronze statue lies on its side, in the middle of the road. I swerve around it, then around a tank, driving on the sidewalk, taking out a mailbox with a huge crash. The box goes flying over our roof, and Ben ducks.

I swerve back onto the road and gun it. I'm getting closer. They are now only a hundred yards ahead of us. They swerve, too, avoiding rubble, potholes, shells of cars. They have to slow each time, but all I have to do is follow their tracks, so I can maintain speed. I'm gaining on them, and am starting to feel confident I can catch them.

"Take out their tires!" I yell to Ben, over the roar of the engine. I take the extra handgun from my waist, reach over and cram it into Ben's ribs, keeping my eyes on the road all the while.

Ben holds up the gun, examining it, and it's clear that he's never used one before. I can feel his anxiety.

"Aim low!" I say. "Make sure you don't hit the gas tank!"

"I'm not a good shot!" Ben says. "I might hit my brother. Or your sister!" he screams back.

"Just aim low!" I scream. "We have to try. We have to stop them!"

Ben swallows hard as he reaches over and opens his window. A tremendous noise and cold air race into the car as Ben leans out the window and holds out the gun.

We are closing in on them, and Ben is just beginning to take aim--when suddenly we hit an enormous pothole. Both of us jump, and my head slams into the ceiling. I look over and see the gun go flying from Ben's hand, out the window--and then hear it clattering as it lands on the pavement behind us. My heart drops. I can't believe he has dropped the gun. I am furious.

"You just lost our gun!" I scream.

"I'm sorry!" he yells back. "You hit that pothole! Why didn't you watch the road?"

"Why didn't you hold it with both hands?" I scream back. "You've just lost our one chance!"

"You can stop and go back for it," he says.

"There's no time!" I snap.

My face reddens. I'm starting to feel that Ben is completely useless, and regret taking him it all. I force myself to think of how he fixed the car, how he saved me with his body weight, back on the bridge. But it is hard to remember. Now, I'm just furious. I wonder if I can trust him with anything.

I reach into my holster, pull out my gun, and stick it into his ribs.

"This one's mine," I say. "You drop it, I'm kicking you out."

Ben holds it tight, with both hands, as he leans out the window again. He takes aim.

But at just that moment a park appears, and the slaverunners disappear right into it.

I can't believe it. Central Park lies right in front of us, marked by a huge, felled tree blocking its path. The slaverunners swerve around it and enter the park, and at the last second, I do, too. Ben leans back into the car, his chance lost--but at least he still holds the gun.

Central Park is nothing like what I remember. Covered in waist-high weeds that emerge from the snow, it has been left to grow wild these past years, and now looks like a forest. Trees have fallen sporadically in all different places. Benches are empty. Statues are smashed or toppled, leaning on their sides. There are also signs of battle: tanks and Humvees, burnt-out, upside down, lie throughout the park. All of this is blanketed by snow, giving it the feel of a surreal winter wonderland.

I try to take my eyes off it all, and focus instead on the slaverunners before me. They must know where they're going, as they stay on a twisting and turning service road which cuts through the park. I follow them closely as they zigzag their way through. On our right, near 110th street, we pass the remnants of a vast, empty pool. Soon after, we pass the remains of a skating rink, now just an empty shell, its small outbuilding smashed and looted.

They make a sharp turn onto a narrow road, really just a trail. But I am right behind them as we go into the heart of a thick forest, narrowly missing trees, dipping and rising up and down hills. I had never realized that Central Park could be so primitive. With no sight of the skyline, I feel like I could be in a forest anywhere.

Our car slips and slides in the snowy dirt trails, but I am able to stay with them. Soon we reach a large hilltop, and the park opens up, all laid out before us. We fly over the hilltop, airborne for a few seconds until we land with a crash. They race downhill, and I am right behind them, closing the gap.

We race through what were once massive ball fields. One after the other, we drive right down the center of the fields. The bases are no longer there--or if they are, they are hidden in the snow, but I can still spot what remains of the rusted, chain-link fencing that once marked their dugouts. It is a field of white, and our car slips and slides as we follow them. We are definitely closing in, now just 30 yards away. I wonder if their engine was affected, or if they are slowing on purpose. Either way, now is our chance.

"What are you waiting for!?" I scream to Ben. "Shoot!"

Ben opens his window and leans out, clutching the pistol with both hands and taking aim.

Suddenly, the slaverunners jerk hard to the left, making a sharp turn. And then I realize, too late, why they slowed: right before me is a pond, barely frozen. Their slowing had been a trap; they had been hoping I'd drive right into the water.

I tug the wheel hard, and we just manage to miss plunging into the water. But the turn was too sharp and too fast, and our car spins out in the field of snow, spinning in large circles again and again. I feel dizzy as the world spins around and around in a blur, and I pray we don't crash into anything.

Luckily, we don't. There are no structures anywhere around us--if there were, we surely would have crashed. Instead, after a few more 360s, we finally stop spinning. I sit there for a moment, the car stopped, breathing hard. It was a close call.

These slaverunners are smarter than I thought. It was a bold move, and they must know this terrain well. They know exactly where they're going. I'm guessing no one else has ever managed to follow them as far as we have. I look over and see that Ben has managed to hold onto the gun this time; another lucky break. I shake out the cobwebs, put it back in gear, and floor it.

Suddenly, there is a loud beeping noise, and I look down to see a red light flashing on the dash: GAS LOW.

My heart drops. Not now. Not after all we've been through. Not when we're this close.

Please God, just give us enough gas to catch them.

The beeping continues incessantly, loud in my ear, like a death knell. I've lost sight of the slaverunners and have to resort to following their tracks. I drive up a hill and come to an intersection, vehicle tracks crisscrossing in every direction. I'm not sure which way to fork, and it feels like it might be another trap. I decide to stay the course, straight ahead, but even as I do, I have a sinking feeling that these tracks are old and Bree's captors might've turned off somewhere.

Suddenly, the sky opens up, and I find myself driving on a narrow lane, beside what was once the Central Park Reservoir, looking like a huge crater in the Earth, now empty of water and lined with snow. Huge weeds grow up from the bottom. This lane is narrow and barely fits the width of my car, with a steep drop-off down the hill on my left. To my right is an even steeper drop-off to the bottom of the reservoir. One wrong move in either direction and we are toast. I wonder why the slaverunners would choose such a perilous route, but still see no sign of them.

Suddenly, there is a crash, and my head snaps forward. At first I'm confused, and then I realize: we've been hit from behind.

I look in the rearview and see they're right behind us, sadistic smiles on both of their faces. Their facemasks are lifted, and I can see that they're both Biovictims, with grotesque, unnatural faces, misshapen, and huge buck teeth. I can see the sadism, the joy they take as they speed up and ram us again from behind. My neck snaps forward on the impact. They are much smarter than I thought: somehow, they managed to get behind us, and now they have the advantage. I had not expected this. I have no room to maneuver, and I can't slam on the brakes.

They smash into us again, this time angling the car as they do, and our car slips to the side. We smash into the steel railing of the reservoir, then slide over the other way and almost fall off the cliff. They've got us in a bad position. If they smash us again like that, we will roll downhill and be finished.

I step on the gas; the only way to survive is to outrun them. But they are going just as fast, and they hit us again. This time, we smash into the metal divider and slide farther, about to go over the cliff. Luckily, we crash into a tree and it saves us, keeps us on the road.

I'm feeling increasingly desperate. I look over, and see that Ben seems stunned, too, looking more pale than before. Suddenly, I have an idea.

"Shoot them!" I scream.

He immediately opens his window and leans out with the gun.

"I can't hit their tires from here!" he screams over the wind. "They're too close! The angle is too steep!"

"Aim for the windshield!" I scream back. "Don't kill the driver. Take out the passenger!"

I can see in my rearview that they copy our idea: the passenger is lowering his window, taking out his gun, too. I only pray that Ben hits them first, that he's not afraid to fire. Suddenly, several shots ring out, deafening even above the noise.

I flinch, half-expecting to feel a bullet hit me in the head.

But I am surprised to realize that it is Ben who has fired. I check the rearview, and can't believe what I see: Ben's aim was perfect. He hit the passenger's side of the windshield several times--so many times, in the same spot, that he seems to have actually punctured the bulletproof glass. I see the red splattering the inside of the windshield, and that can only mean one thing. Blood.

I can't believe it: Ben has managed to shoot the passenger. Ben. The boy who just minutes ago was traumatized to see a dead body. I can't believe he actually hit him, and at this speed.

It works. Their car suddenly slows down dramatically, and I use the opportunity to floor it.

Moments later, we are out of the reservoir, and back into open fields. Now, the game has changed: they have a man down, and we have caught up to them. Now, finally, we have the advantage. If only the "low gas" gauge would stop beeping, I would actually feel optimistic.

Their car comes flying out behind us, and I slow, pull up beside them, and spot a worried look on the driver's face. That is the confirmation I need: I am relieved to know that the passenger was hit and not Bree. I catch a glimpse of Bree, alive, in the backseat, and my heart soars with hope. For the first time, I feel I can really do this. I can get her back.

We're now racing side-by-side, in the open field, and I pull hard on the wheel and smash into them. Their car flies across the field, swerving wildly. But it doesn't stop. And without missing a beat, their driver comes right back at me, smashing into us. Now we go swerving wildly. This guy just won't quit.

"Shoot!" I scream again to Ben. "Take out the driver!"

I realize their car will crash, but we have no choice. And if it has to crash anywhere, this open field, surrounded by trees, is the best place.

Ben immediately lowers his window and takes aim, more confident this time. We're driving alongside him, perfectly lined up, and we have a direct line of fire to the driver. This is our moment.

"SHOOT!" I scream again.

Ben pulls the trigger, and suddenly, I hear a sound that makes my stomach drop.

The click of an empty gun. Ben pulls the trigger again and again, but it is nothing but clicks. He used all of our ammo back at the reservoir.

I spot an evil, victorious smile on the slaverunner's face, as he swerves right into us. He smashes us hard, and we careen across the snowy field, onto a grassy hill. Suddenly, I see a wall of glass. Too late.

I brace myself as we crash into the wall, glass shattering like a bomb all around us, raining down shards through the holes in the roof. It takes a moment until I realize where we are: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Egyptian Wing.

I look over and can tell that nothing is left in the museum, looted long ago--nothing except for that huge pyramid, still in the room. I finally manage to swerve away, and stop driving through glass. The other slaverunner gained some distance, and is now about 50 yards ahead, to my right, and once again, I step on it.

I follow him as he races south through the park, up and down rolling hills. I worriedly check the gas gauge, which won't stop beeping. We pass the remnants of an amphitheater, beside a pond, in the shadow of the Belvedere Castle, now sitting as a ruin atop the hill. The theater is covered in snow and weeds, its bleachers rusted.

We race across what was once the Great Lawn, and I mimic his path in the snow, weaving, avoiding holes. I feel so bad for Bree as I consider what she must be going through. I only pray this hasn't traumatized her too much. I pray that some part of our Dad is with her, keeping her strong and tough through all of this.

Suddenly, I have a lucky break: up ahead, they hit a huge pothole. His car shakes, then swerves violently, and he loses control, doing a wide 360. I find myself flinching with them, hoping Bree doesn't get hurt.

Their car is okay. After a couple of spins, it regains traction, and they begin speeding again. But now I have narrowed the gap, and am closing in fast. In just a few more seconds, I'll be right behind him.

But I've been staring at his vehicle, and stupidly took my eyes off the road. I look back just in time, and find myself freezing up: a huge animal is right in front of us.

I swerve, but too late. It hits us square against the windshield, splattering, and tumbles over the roof. There are blood stains all over the glass, and I run the wipers, grateful they still work. The thick blood smears, and I can barely see.

I check the rearview, wondering what the hell it was, and see a huge, dead ostrich behind us. I am bewildered. But I have no time to process this, because suddenly, I am amazed to see a lion in front of us.

I swerve hard, barely missing it. I do a double take, and am shocked to see it's real. It is lean and looks malnourished. I am even more baffled. Then, finally, it makes sense: there, on my left, is the Central Park zoo, its gates and doors and windows all wide open. Milling nearby are a few animals, and lying in the snow are the dead carcasses of several more, their bodies long ago picked clean.

I step on the gas, trying not to look, as I follow the slaverunners' tracks. They lead up a small hill, then down a steep hill, right into a crater. I realize this was once a skating rink. A large sign hangs crookedly, its letters worn away, and reads "Trump."

In the distance, the park is coming to an end. He turns hard to the left, I follow him, and we both race up a hill. Moments later, we both burst out of Central Park--at the same time, side by side--exiting on 59th Street and Fifth Avenue. I go flying over the hill, and for a moment my car is airborne. We land with a crash, and I momentarily lose control, as we slide into a statue, toppling it.

Before us is a huge circular fountain; I swerve out of the way at the last second, and chase him around the circle. He jumps up onto the sidewalk, and I follow him, and he heads right for a massive building. The Plaza Hotel. Its former façade, once immaculate, is now covered in grime and neglect. Its windows all smashed, it looks like a tenement.

He smashes into the rusted rods holding the awning, and as he does, it comes crashing down, bouncing off his hood. I swerve out of the way, then follow him as he makes a sharp left and cuts across Fifth Avenue, clearly trying to shake me. He races up a small stone staircase, and I follow, our car shuddering violently with each step. He heads for the huge glass box of what was once the Apple Store. Amazingly, its façade is still intact. It is, in fact, the only intact thing I've seen anywhere since the war began.

Not anymore. At the last second he swerves out of the way, and it is too late for me to turn. Our car smashes right into the façade of the Apple box. There's a tremendous explosion of glass, and it rains down through the holes in our roof as I ride right through the Apple Store. I feel a little guilty to have destroyed the one thing left standing--but then again, I think of how much I paid for an iPad back in the day, and my guilt lessens.

I regain control as the slaverunner makes a left down Fifth Avenue. He's got about thirty yards on me, but I won't give up, like a dog chasing a bone. I just hope our gas lasts.

I am amazed at what Fifth Avenue has become. This famed avenue, once the beacon of prosperity and materialism, is now, like everything else, just an abandoned, dilapidated shell, its stores looted, its retail spaces destroyed. Huge weeds grow right down the middle of it, making it look like a marshland. Bergdorf's flies by, on my right, its floors completely empty, no windows left, like a ghost house. I swerve around abandoned cars, and as we hit 57th Street, I spot what was once Tiffany's. This place, once the hallmark of beauty, is now just another haunted mansion, like everything else. Not a single jewel remains in its empty windows.

I step on the gas and we cross 55th, then 54th, then 53rd Streets.... I pass a cathedral, Saint Patrick's, on my left, its huge arched doors torn off long ago, now lying flat, face down, on its staircase. I can see right into its open structure, right to the stained glass on the other side.

I have taken my eyes off the road too long, and suddenly the slaverunner makes a sharp right onto 48th Street. I'm going too fast, and when I try to make the turn I skid out, doing a 360. Luckily I don't hit anything.

I come back around and follow him, but his tricky move has gained him some distance. I follow him across 48th, heading west, crosstown, past what was once Rockefeller Center. I remember coming here with Dad, at Christmastime, remember thinking how magical it was. I can't believe it now: everywhere is rubble, crumbling buildings. Rock Center has become a massive wasteland.

Again, I take my eyes off the road too long, and as I look back, I slam on the brakes, but there isn't time. Right in front of me, lying on its side, is the huge Rockefeller Christmas tree. We are going to hit it. Right before we make impact, I can see some lights and ornaments still left on it. The tree is brown, and I wonder how long it's been laying here.

I smash right into it, doing 120. I hit it with such force, the entire tree shifts on the snow, and I'm pushing it, dragging it along. Finally, I manage to swerve hard to the right, getting around the narrow tip of it. Thousands of pine needles sprinkle down through the gaping holes in our roof. A bunch more stick to the blood still matted to our windshield. I can't imagine what our car looks like from the outside.

This slaverunner knows the city too well: his smart moves have gained him another advantage, and he is now out of sight. But I still see his tracks and up ahead, I see he's made a left on Sixth Avenue. I follow him.

Sixth Avenue is another wasteland, it streets filled with abandoned tanks and Humvees, most upside down, all stripped of anything that might be useful, including the tires. I swerve in and out of these as I see the slaverunner up ahead. I wonder for the millionth time where he could be heading. Is he crisscrossing the city just to lose me? Does he have a destination in mind? I think hard, trying to remember where Arena One is located. But I have no idea. Up until today, I was never even sure it really existed.

He guns it down Sixth and so do I, finally gaining speed. As we cross 43rd, on my left, I catch a glimpse of Bryant Park, and the rear of what was once the New York Public Library. My heart drops. I used to love going into that magnificent building. Now it is nothing but rubble.

The slaverunner makes a sharp right on 42nd street, and this time I'm right behind him. We both skid, then straighten out. We race down 42nd, heading west, and I wonder if he's heading for the West Side Highway.

The street opens up, and we are in Times Square. He bursts into the square and I follow, entering the vast intersection. I remember coming here as a kid, being so overwhelmed by the size and scope of it, by all the people. I remember being dazzled by all the lights, the flashing billboards. Now, like everything else, it is a ruin. Of course, none of the lights work, and there is not a single person in sight. All the billboards that used to hang so proudly now either dangle precariously in the wind, or lie face down on the street below. Huge weeds cover the intersection. In its center, where there was once an army recruiting center, now, ironically, lie the shells of several tanks, all twisted and blown up. I wonder what battle took place here.

Suddenly, the slaverunner makes a sharp left, heading down Broadway. I follow, and as I do, I am shocked by what I see before me: an enormous cement wall, like a prison wall, rises high into the sky, topped with barbed wire. The wall stretches as far as I can see, blocking off Times Square from whatever lies south of it. As if trying to keep something out. There is an opening in the wall, and the slaverunners drive right through it; as they pass through, a massive iron gate suddenly bangs down behind them, shutting them off from me.

I slam on the brakes, screeching to a halt right before we smash into the gate. Beyond it, the slaverunners are taking off. It is too late. I have lost them.

I can't believe it. I feel numb. I sit there, frozen, in the silence, our car stopped for the first time in hours, and feel my body trembling. I hadn't foreseen this. I wonder why this wall is here, why they would wall off a part of Manhattan. What they would need protection from.

And then, a moment later, I have my answer.

An eerie noise rises up all around me, the sound of screeching metal, and the hair raises on the back my neck. People rise up from the earth, popping up from manholes in every direction. Biovictims. All throughout Times Square. They are emaciated, dressed in rags, and look desperate. The Crazies.

They really do exist.

They rise from the earth, all around us, and head right for us.

# T W E L V E

Before I can even react, I sense movement high above, and look up. Standing up high, atop the wall, are several slaverunners, wearing their black facemasks, holding machine guns. They aim them down at us.

"DRIVE!" Ben screams, frantic.

I'm already stepping on the gas, tearing out of there, as the first gunshots ring out. A hail of fire pours down on the car, bouncing off the roof, off the metal, off the bulletproof glass. I only pray it doesn't slip through the cracks.

Simultaneously, the Crazies rush us from all sides. One of them reaches back and throws a glass bottle with a burning rag on it. A Molotov cocktail lands right before our car and explodes, the flames rising before us. I swerve just in time, and the flames graze the side of our car.

Another comes running up and jumps on the windshield. He grabs on and won't let go, his face snarling at me through the glass, inches away. I swerve again, scraping against a pole, knocking him off.

Several more jump on the hood and trunk, weighing us down. I floor it, trying to shake them as we continue west across 42nd.

But three of them manage to hold onto our car. One of them is dragging on the cement, and another is crawling his way up the hood. He raises a crowbar and prepares to bring it down on the windshield.

I make a sharp left on Eighth Avenue, and that does it. The three of them go flying off the car and sliding across the snow on the ground.

It was a close call. Too close.

I race down Eighth Avenue, and as I do, spot another opening in the wall. Several slaverunner guards stand before it, and I realize they might not know I'm not one of theirs. After all, the Times Square entrance is an entire avenue away. If I drive right for it, confidently, maybe they'll assume I'm one of theirs, and keep it open.

I aim right for it, going faster and faster, closing the distance. A hundred yards...fifty...thirty.... I race right for the opening, and so far, it's still open. There's no stopping now. And if they bring it down, we're dead.

I brace myself, and so does Ben. I'm almost expecting us to crash.

But a moment later, we are through. We made it. I exhale with relief.

We're in. I'm doing 100 now as I race down Eighth Avenue, against the one way. I am about to make a left, to try to catch them on Broadway, when suddenly, Ben leans forward and points.

"There!" he screams.

I squint, trying to see what he's pointing at. The windshield is still covered in blood and pine needles.

"THERE!" he screams again.

I look again, and this time I see it: there, ten blocks ahead. A group of Humvees, parked outside Penn Station. I see the slaverunner car I've been chasing, parked out front, exhaust still smoking. The driver is out of the car, hurrying down the steps to Penn Station, dragging Bree and Ben's brother, both of them handcuffed, chained together. My heart leaps at the sight of her.

The empty fuel gauge is beeping louder than ever, and I gun it. All I need is a few more blocks. Come on. Come on!

Somehow, we make it. I screech up to the entrance, and am about to pull to a stop and jump out, when I realize we have lost too much time. There is only one way we're going to catch them: I have to keep driving, right into Penn Station. It's a steep decline down narrow, stone steps to the entrance. It's not a staircase meant for cars, and I wonder if ours can handle it. It's going to be painful. I brace myself.

"HOLD ON!" I scream.

I make a sharp left and floor it, gaining speed. I'm up past 140. Ben clutches the dash, as he realizes what I'm doing. "SLOW DOWN!" he screams.

But it's too late now. We are airborne, flying over the ledge, then driving straight down the stone steps. My body is so jolted, the tires bouncing with every step, that I am unable to control the car. We fly faster and faster, carried by our own momentum, and I brace myself as we crash right through the doors of Penn Station. They fly off their hinges, and the next thing I know, we are inside.

We gain traction and I finally get control back of the car, as we drive on dry ground for the first time. We drive down another flight of steps, screeching through. There is a tremendous slam as we hit the ground floor.

We are in the huge Amtrak console, and I'm driving across the cavernous room, tires screeching as I try to even out the car. Up ahead are dozens of slaverunners, milling about. They turn and look at me with shock, clearly unable to comprehend how a car got down here. I don't want to give them time to gather themselves. I aim right for them, like bowling pins.

They try to run out of the way, but I speed up and smash into several of them. They hit our car with a thud, bodies twisting, flying over the hood.

I keep driving, and in the distance, I see the slaverunner who kidnapped my sister. I spot Ben's brother, being loaded onto a train. I assume Bree is already on it.

"That's my brother!" Ben screams.

The train door closes and I gun our car one last time, for all it's worth, aiming right for the slaverunner who stole her. He stands there like a deer in the headlights, having just shoved Ben's brother onto the train. He stares right at me as I close in.

I smash into him, sandwiching him against the train and cutting him in half. We hit the train doing 80, and my head slams into the dash. I feel the whiplash, as we grind to a halt.

My head is spinning, my ears ringing. Faintly, I can hear the sound of other slaverunners rallying, chasing after me. The train is still moving--our car didn't even slow it. Ben is sitting there, unconscious. I wonder if he's dead.

It takes a superhuman effort, but somehow I peel myself out of the car.

The train is gaining speed now, and I have to run to catch up to it. I run alongside the train and finally leap, gaining a foothold on the ledge and grabbing onto a metal bar. I stick my head in a window, looking for any sign of Bree. I scramble along its outside, looking window to window, making my way towards a train door to let myself in.

The train is going so fast, I can feel the wind in my hair, as I desperately try to reach the door. I look over and my heart drops to see that we are about to enter a tunnel. There is no room. If I don't get in soon, I will smash into the wall.

Finally, I reach over and grab the door handle. Just as I'm about to open it, a tremendous pain smashes the side of my head.

I fly through the air, landing hard on my back on the cement floor. It is a ten-foot drop, and the wind is knocked out of me as I lay there, watching the train speed away. Someone must have punched me, knocked me off the train.

I look up and see the face of a vicious slaverunner standing over me, scowling down. Several more slaverunners hurry over, too. They're closing in around me. I'm finished.

But it doesn't matter: the train is speeding away, and my sister is on it.

My life is already over.

P A R T   I I I

# T H I R T E E N

I wake to blackness. I am so disoriented, so achy, at first I wonder if I am dead or alive. I lie face-down on a cold, metal floor, twisted in an unnatural position. I turn, slowly reach out, place my palms down, and try to push myself up.

Every movement hurts. There doesn't seem to be any part of me that is spared from pain. As I slowly sit upright, my head is splitting. I feel dizzy, nauseous, weak, and hungry all at the same time. I haven't eaten in at least a day. My throat is parched. I feel like I've been put through a blender.

I sit there, my head spinning, and finally I realize that I'm not dead. Somehow, I am still alive.

I look around the room, trying to get my bearings, wondering where I am. It is black in here, and the only light filters in through a narrow slit underneath a door, somewhere on the far side of the room. It is not enough to see anything.

Gradually, I rise to one knee, holding my head, trying to alleviate the pain. Just this small gesture makes my world spin. I wonder if I've been drugged, or if I'm just dizzy from the endless string of injuries I sustained in the last 24 hours.

With a supreme effort, I force myself to my feet. Big mistake. All at once, I feel pain from at least a dozen different areas: the wound in my arm; my cracked ribs; my forehead, from where it smashed against the dashboard; and from the side of my face. I reach up and feel a big welt; that must be where the slaverunner punched me.

I try to remember.... Penn Station...running over slaverunners...smashing into the train...running for the train...jumping onto it...and then being hit.... I think back and realize Ben didn't accompany me. I remember him sitting in the car, unconscious. I wonder if he survived the crash at all.

"Ben?" I call out tentatively, into the darkness.

I wait, hoping for a response, hoping maybe he is in here with me. I squint into the blackness, but am unable to see anything. There is nothing but silence. My sense of dread deepens.

I wonder again if Bree was on that train, and where it was going. I recall seeing Ben's brother on it, but I can't remember actually seeing Bree. I am surprised any train still works these days. Could they be transporting them to Arena One?

None of that matters now. Who knows how many hours I've been out, how much time I've lost. Who knows where the train was headed, or how many hundreds of miles it has already gained. There is no way I can catch up to them--assuming I can even escape from here. Which I doubt. I feel a sense of anguish and despair as I realize that it was all for nothing. Now, it is just a matter of awaiting my punishment, my certain death, my retribution from the slaverunners. They will probably torture me, then kill me. I just pray it's over quickly.

I wonder if there is any possible way I can escape from here. I take a few tentative steps in the blackness, holding my hands out in front of me. Each step is agony, my body so weary, heavy with aches and pains. It is cold in here, and I am trembling; I haven't been able to get warm for days, and I feel like I'm running a fever. Even if by some chance I can find a way to escape, I doubt I'm in shape to get very far.

I come to a wall and run my hands along it as I move about the room, making my way toward the door. Suddenly, I hear a noise from outside. This is followed by the sound of footsteps, several pairs of combat boots marching along steel floors. They echo ominously in the darkness as they get closer.

There is a rattling of keys, and the door to my cell is pushed open. Light floods the interior, and I raise my hands to my eyes, blinded.

My eyes haven't adjusted yet, but I see enough to make out silhouettes of several figures in the entrance. They are tall and muscular, and looked to be dressed in slaverunner uniforms, with their black facemasks.

I slowly lower my hands as my eyes adjust. There are five of them. The one standing in the center silently holds out a pair of open handcuffs. He doesn't speak or move, and from his gesture, it seems clear I'm supposed to walk over and allow him to cuff me. It seems they are waiting to take me somewhere.

I quickly survey my cell, now that it is flooded with light, and see it is a simple room, ten by ten feet, with steel floors and walls, and nothing in it to speak of. And no way to escape. I slowly run my hands along my waist and feel that my weapon belt has been stripped and taken away. I'm defenseless. It would be no use in trying to fight these well-armed soldiers.

I don't see what I have to lose by allowing them to cuff me. It's not like I have a choice. Either way, this will be my ticket out of here. And if it's a ticket to my death, at least I'll get it over with.

I walk slowly to them and turn around. They clamp the cold, metal cuffs down on my wrists, way too tightly. Then they grab me from behind, by my shirt, and shove me into the corridor.

I stumble down the hallway, the slaverunners right behind me, their boots echoing like the Gestapo. The halls are sporadically lit by dim emergency lights, every twenty feet or so, each offering just enough light to see by. It is a long, sterile hallway with metal floors and walls. I am shoved again, and increase my pace. My body protests each step, but the more I walk, the more the stiffness begins to loosen.

The hall ends and I've no choice but to turn right. It opens in the distance. I'm shoved again as I am marched down this new corridor, and next thing I know, I am standing in a vast and open room filled with hundreds of slaverunners. They are lined up in neat rows along the walls, forming a semi-circle, dressed in their black uniforms and facemasks. We must still be underground somewhere, as I spot no windows or natural light, the gloomy room lit only by torches placed along the walls, crackling in the silence.

In the center of the room, on the far side, is what I can only describe as a throne--an enormous chair built atop a makeshift wooden platform. On this chair sits a single man, clearly their leader. He looks young, maybe in his 30s, yet has an odd shock of white hair, sticking straight up and extending out in every direction, like a mad scientist. He wears an elaborate uniform made of green velvet, with military buttons all along it, and high collars framing his neck. He has large, grey, lifeless eyes, which bulge open and stare back at me. He looks like a maniac.

The rows of slaverunners part ways, and I'm shoved from behind. I stumble forward, toward the center of the room, and am guided to stand before their leader.

I stand about ten yards away, looking up at him, the slaverunners standing guard behind me. I can't help wondering if they're going to execute me on the spot. After all, I've killed many of theirs. I scan the room for any sign of Bree, or Ben, or his brother. There is no one. I am alone.

I wait patiently in the tense silence, as the leader looks me up and down. There is nothing I can do but wait. Apparently, my fate is now in the hands of this man.

He looks at me as if I were a thing of prey, and then, after what feels like forever, he surprises me by slowly breaking into a smile. It is more of a sneer, marred by the huge scar running along his cheek. He begins to laugh, deeper and deeper. It is the coldest sound I've ever heard, and it echoes in the dim room. He stares down at me with glistening eyes.

"So, you are the one," he says finally. He voice is unnaturally gravelly and deep, as if it belongs to a hundred-year-old man.

I stare back, not knowing how to respond.

"You are the one that has wreaked such havoc among my men. You are the one that managed to chase us all the way into the city. Into MY city. New York is mine now. Did you know that?" he asks, his voice suddenly becoming sharp with fury, as his eyes bulge. His arms tremble as he clutches the chair. He looks like he's just escaped from a mental hospital.

Again, I don't know how to respond, so I remain silent.

He slowly shakes his head.

"A few others once tried--but no one has ever managed to cross into my city before. Or come all the way down to my home. You knew it would mean certain death. And yet still, you came." He looks me up and down.

"I like you," he concludes.

As he stares at me, summing me up, I feel more and more uncomfortable, bracing myself for whatever is to come.

"And look at you," he continues. "Just a girl. A stupid, young girl. Not even big, or strong. With hardly any weapons to speak of. How can it be that you killed so many of my men?"

He shakes his head.

"It is because you have heart. That is what is valuable in this world. Yes, that is what is valuable." He suddenly laughs. "Of course, you did not succeed, though. How could you? This is MY city!" he shrieks, his body shaking.

He sits there, trembling, for what feels like forever. My sense of apprehension deepens; clearly, my fate is the hands of a maniac.

Finally, he clears his throat.

"Your spirit is strong. Almost like mine. I admire it. It is enough to make me want to kill you quickly, instead of slowly."

I swallow hard, not liking the sound of this.

"Yes," he continues, staring. "I can see it in your eyes. A warrior's spirit. Yes, you are just like me."

I don't know what he sees in me, but I pray that I am nothing like this man.

"It is rare to find someone like you. Few have managed to survive out there, all these years. Few have such spirit.... So, instead of executing you now, as you deserve, I am going to reward you. I am going to offer you a great gift. The gift of free will. A choice.

"You can join us. Become one of us. A slaverunner. You will have every luxury you can imagine--more food than you can dream of. You will lead a division of slaverunners. You know your territory well. Those mountains. I can use you, yes. You will lead expeditions, capture all remaining survivors. You will help grow our army. And in return, you will live. And live in luxury."

He stops, staring me down, as if waiting for a response.

Of course, the thought of this makes me sick. A slaverunner. I can't think of anything I'd despise more. I open my mouth to respond, but at first my throat is so parched, nothing comes out. I clear my throat.

"And if I refuse?" I ask, the words coming out more softly than I want.

His eyes open wide in surprise.

"Refuse?" he echoes. "Then you will be put to death in the arena. You will die a vicious death, to all of our amusement. That is your other option."

I think hard, wracking my brain, trying to buy more time. There is no way I will ever accept his proposition--but I need to try to think of a way out.

"And what about my sister?" I ask.

He leans back and smiles.

"If you join us, I will free her. She will be free to return to the wilderness. If you refuse, of course, she will be put to death, too."

My heart pounds at the thought of it. Bree is still alive. Assuming he is telling the truth.

I think hard. Would Bree want me to become a slaverunner if it meant saving her life? She wouldn't. Bree would never want to be the one responsible for my kidnapping other young girls and boys, taking their lives away. I would do anything to save her. But I have to draw the line here.

"You will have to put me to death," I finally respond. "There is no way I would ever be a slaverunner."

There is a murmur among the crowd, and the leader reaches up and slams his palm on the chair of his arm. The room immediately quiets.

He stands, scowling down at me.

"You will be put to death," he snarls. "And I will I have a front row seat to watch it."

# F O U R T E E N

I am marched back down the corridor, still handcuffed. As I go, I can't help but wonder if I made the wrong decision. Not about giving up my life--but about giving up Bree's. Should I have said yes for her sake?

By refusing, I have effectively given her a death sentence. I feel torn by remorse. But ultimately, I can't help but think Bree would rather die, too, than see innocent people get hurt.

I feel numb as they shove me from behind, back down the corridor from which I came, and wonder what will become of me now. Are they marching me to the arena? What will it be like? And what will become of Bree? Will they really kill her? Have they already killed her? Will they put her into slavery? Or, worst of all, will she be forced to fight in the arena, too?

And then an even worse thought comes to mind: will she be forced to fight against me?

We turn the corner to find a group of slaverunners marching towards me, leading someone. I can't believe it. It is Ben. My heart floods with relief. He is alive.

His broken nose is swollen, there are bruises under his eyes, blood drips from his lip, and he looks as if he's been roughed up. He looks as weak and exhausted as I do. In fact, I hope I don't look as bad as him. He, too, stumbles down the hall, and I assume they are taking him to see their leader. I assume he will get the same offer. I wonder what he will decide.

As we walk toward each other, only a few feet away, his head hangs low and he doesn't even see me coming. He's either too weak, or too demoralized, to even look up. It appears he has already accepted his fate.

"Ben!" I call out.

He lifts his head, just as our paths cross, and his eyes open wide with hope and excitement. He is clearly shocked to see me. Maybe he's surprised I'm alive, too.

"Brooke!" he says. "Where are they taking you? Have you seen my brother?"

But before I can respond we are both shoved hard from behind. A slaverunner reaches over and clamps my mouth with his disgusting, smelly palm, muffling my words as I try to call out.

A door is opened, and I am pushed back into my cell. I stumble inside and the door is slammed behind me, the metal reverberating. I spin around and bang on the door, but it's no use.

"Let me out!" I scream, banging. "LET ME OUT!"

I realize it is no use, but somehow, I can't stop myself from screaming. I scream at the world, at these slaverunners, at Bree's absence, at my life--and I don't stop screaming until I don't know how much later.

At some point I lose my voice, tire myself out. Finally, I find myself slumped on the floor, against the wall, curled up.

My screams turn to sobs, and eventually, I cry myself to sleep.

*

I drift in and out of sleep. I lie curled up on the metal floor, resting my head in my hands, but it is so uncomfortable, I twist and turn. I have such fast, troubled dreams--of Bree being whipped as a slave, of myself being tortured in an arena--that, as exhausted as I am, I'd rather be awake.

I force myself up sit there, staring into the darkness, holding my head in my hands. I will myself to focus of anything that might take me away from this place.

I find myself thinking about life before the war. I am still trying to piece together exactly why Dad left, when he did, and why he never came back for us. Why Bree and I left. Why Mom wouldn't come with us. Why things changed so much overnight. If there is anything I could have done differently. It is like a puzzle I return to over and over again.

I find myself thinking back to one day in particular, before the war began. The day when everything changed--for the second time.

It was a warm September day, and I was still living in Manhattan with Mom and Bree. Dad had been gone for over a year, and every day we waited for some sign of him. But there was nothing.

And while we all waited, day after day, the war grew worse. One day a blockade was declared; weeks later, they declared a conservation of water; then, food rations. Food lines became the norm. And from there things became even worse, as people grew desperate.

It became more and more dangerous to walk the streets of Manhattan. People started doing anything they could to survive, to find food and water, to hoard medicine. Looting became the norm, and order broke down more each day. I didn't feel safe anymore. And more importantly, I didn't feel Bree was safe, either.

Mom clung to her denial; like most people, she kept insisting things would go back to normal soon.

But they only got worse. Battles came closer to home. One day I heard distant explosions. I ran to the roof and saw, on the horizon, battles on the cliffs of New Jersey. Tank against tank. Fighter jets. Helicopters. Entire neighborhoods on fire.

And then, one horrible day, on the far horizon, I saw a tremendous explosion, one that was different from the others, one that shook our whole building. A mushroom cloud rose. That was the day I knew things would never get better. That the war would never end. A line had been crossed. We would slowly and certainly die here, trapped on the blockaded island of Manhattan. My Dad would be in battles forever. And he would never return.

The time for waiting was over. I knew that, for the first time in his life, Dad would not be true to his word, and I knew then what I had to do. It was time to make a bold move for the survival of what was left of our family. To do what he would want his daughter to do: to get us off this island, far from here, and into the safety of the mountains.

I had been pleading with Mom for months to accept the fact that Dad would not come home. But she kept insisting we couldn't leave, that this was our home, that life would be even more dangerous outside the city. And most of all, that we couldn't abandon Dad. What if he came home and we were gone?

She and I would argue about it every day until we were both red in the face, screaming at each other. We reached a stalemate. We ended up hating each other, barely talking to one another.

Then came the mushroom cloud. My Mom, unbelievingly, still refused to leave. But I had made up my mind. We were leaving--with or without her.

I went downstairs to get Bree. She had snuck out to scavenge for food; I allowed her this, since she never went far, and always came back within the hour. But this time, she was late; she had been gone for hours, and it was unlike her. I had a sinking feeling in my chest as I ran down flight after flight, determined to find her and get the hell out of here. In my hand I held a homemade Molotov cocktail. It was the only real weapon I had, and I was prepared to use it if need be.

I ran into the streets screaming her name, looking for her everywhere. I checked down every alley she liked to play in--but she was nowhere to be found. My dread deepened.

And then I heard a faint screaming in the distance. I recognized her voice, and I sprinted towards it.

After a few blocks, the screaming grew louder. Finally, I turned down a narrow alleyway and saw her.

Bree was standing at the end of an alley, surrounded by a group of attackers. There were six of them, teenage boys. One of them reached out and tore her shirt while another pulled her ponytail. She swung her backpack to try to fend them off, but it did little good. I could tell that in a matter of moments, they would rape her. So I did the only thing I could do: I lit the Molotov cocktail and threw it at the foot of the largest boy I could find....

I am jolted out of my memories by the sudden sound of creaking metal, a door slowly opening, of light flooding the room, then the door slamming. I hear chains, then footsteps, and sense another body near me in the blackness. I look up.

I'm relieved to see that it is Ben. I don't know how much time has passed, or how long I've been sitting here. I sit up slowly.

Our cell is lit by dim, emergency bulbs, red, encased in metal, high up along the wall. It is just enough to see by. Ben stumbles into the cell, disoriented; he doesn't even realize I'm here.

"Ben!" I whisper, my voice hoarse.

He wheels and sees me, and his eyes open wide in surprise.

"Brooke?" he asks tentatively.

I struggle to get to my feet, aches and pains tearing through every part of my body as I take a knee. Ben runs over, grabs my arm, and helps me stand up. I know I should be grateful for his help, but instead, I find myself resenting it: it is the first time he has touched me, and it was uninvited, and that makes me feel funny. Plus, I don't like being helped by people in general--and especially by a boy.

So I shake off his arm and stand on my own.

"I can handle myself," I snap at him, and my words come out too harsh. I regret it, wishing that, instead, I told him how I really felt. I wish I'd said: I'm happy you're alive. I'm relieved that you're here, with me.

As I think about it, I realize that I don't quite understand why I am so happy to see him. Maybe I'm just happy to see another regular person like me, another survivor in the midst of all these mercenaries. Maybe it's because we've both suffered through the same ordeal in the last 24 hours, or maybe because we've both lost our siblings.

Or maybe, I hesitate to wonder, it's something else.

Ben stares back at me with his large blue eyes, and for a brief moment, I find myself losing my sense of time. His are eyes are so sensitive, so out of place here. They are the eyes of a poet, or painter--an artist, a tortured soul.

I force myself to look away. There's something about those eyes that makes me unable to think clearly when I look back at them. I don't know what it is, and that bothers me. I've never felt this way about a boy before. I can't help wondering if I just feel connected to Ben because of our shared circumstance, or if it's something else.

To be sure, there have been many moments when I was annoyed and angry with him--and I still find myself blaming him for everything that happened. For example, if I hadn't stopped and saved him on the highway, maybe I'd have rescued Bree and been back home by now. Or if he hadn't dropped my gun out the window, maybe I could have saved her in Central Park. And I wish he was stronger, more of a fighter. But at the same time, there is something about him which makes me feel close to him.

"I'm sorry," he says, flustered, and his voice is already that of a broken man. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Slowly, I soften. I realize it's not his fault. He's not the bad guy.

"Where did they take you?" I ask.

"To their leader. He asked me to join them."

"Did you accept?" I ask. My heart flutters as I wait for the answer. If he says yes, I would think so much less of him; in fact, I wouldn't even be able to look at him again.

"Of course not," he says.

My heart swells with relief and admiration. I know what a sacrifice that is. Like me, he has just written his own death sentence.

"Did you?" he asks.

"What do you think?" I say.

"No," he says. "I suspect not."

I look over and see that he cradles one of his fingers, which is bent out of shape. He looks like he's in pain.

"What happened?" I ask.

He looks down at his finger. "It's from the car accident."

"Which one?" I ask, and can't help but break into a small, wry smile, thinking of all the accidents we had in the last 24 hours.

He smiles back, even as he winces in pain. "The last one. When you decided to crash into a train. Nice move," he says, and I can't tell whether he means it or is being sarcastic.

"My brother was on the train," he adds. "Did you see him?"

"I saw him board," I say. "Then I lost him."

"Do you know where the train was going?"

I shake my head. "Did you see my sister on it?"

He shakes his head. "I couldn't really tell. It all happened so fast."

He looks down, distraught. A heavy silence follows. He seems so lost. The sight of his crooked finger bothers me, and my heart goes out to him. I decide to stop being so edgy, and to show him some compassion.

I reach out and take his injured hand in both of mine. He looks up at me, surprised.

His skin is smoother than I'd expected; it feels as if he's never worked a day in his life. I hold his fingertips gently in mine, and am surprised to feel slight butterflies in my stomach.

"Let me help you," I say, softly. "This is going to hurt. But it needs to be done. We have to straighten it before it sets," I add, lifting his broken finger and examining it. I think back to when I was young, when I'd fallen in the street and come in with a broken pinky finger. Mom had insisted on taking me to a hospital. Dad had refused, and had taken my finger in his hands and snapped it back into place in one quick motion, before my Mom could react. I had screamed in pain, and I remember even now how much it hurt. But it worked.

Ben looks back at me with fear in his eyes.

"I hope you know what you're doing--"

Before he can finish, I have already snapped his crooked finger back into place.

He screams out, and backs away from me, holding his hand.

"Damn it!" he screams, pacing around, holding his hand. Soon he calms, breathing hard. "You should have warned me!"

I tear a thin strip of cloth off of my sleeve, take his hand again, and tie the injured finger to its neighbor. It is a lame stint, but it will have to do. Ben stands inches away, and I can feel him looking down at me.

"Thanks," he whispers, and there is something in his voice, something intimate, that I haven't sensed before.

I feel the butterflies again, and suddenly feel I am too close to him. I need to stay clear-headed, strong, detached. I back away quickly, walking over to my side of the cell.

I glance over and see that Ben looks disappointed. He also looks exhausted, dejected. He leans back to the wall, and slowly slumps down to a sitting position, resting his head on his knees.

It's a good idea. I do the same, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in my legs.

I take a seat opposite him in the cell, and lower my head into my hands. I'm so hungry. So tired. Everything aches. I would do anything for food, water, painkillers, a bed. A hot shower. I just want to sleep--forever. I just want this whole thing behind me. If I'm going to die, I just want it to happen quickly.

We sit there for I don't know how long, both in silence. Maybe an hour passes, maybe two. I can't keep track anymore.

I hear the sound of his belabored breathing, through his broken nose, and my heart goes out to him. I wonder if he's fallen asleep. I wonder when they will come for us, when I will hear those boots again, marching us to our deaths.

Ben's voice fills the air, a soft, sad, broken voice: "I just want to know where they took my brother," he says, softly. I can hear the pain in his voice, how much he cares for him. It makes me think of Bree.

I feel the need to force myself to be tough, to force myself to stop all of this self-pitying.

"Why?" I snap back. "What good would it do? There's nothing we can do about it anyway." But in truth, I want to know the same thing--where they've taken her.

Ben shakes his head sadly, looking crushed.

"I just want to know," he says softly. "For my own sake. Just to know."

I sigh, trying not to think of it, not to think about what's happening to her right now. About whether she thinks I've let her down. Abandoned her.

"Did they tell you they're putting you in the arena?" he asks. I can hear the fear in his voice.

My heart flutters at the thought. Slowly, I nod.

"You?" I ask, already guessing the answer.

Grimly, he nods back.

"They say no one survives," he says.

"I know," I snap back. I don't need reminding of this. In fact, I don't want to think about it at all.

"So, what are you gonna do?" he asks.

I look back at him.

"What do you mean? It's not like I have any options."

"You seem to have a way out of everything," he says. "Some last-minute way of dodging things. What's your way out of this one?"

I shake my head. I've been wondering the same thing, but to no avail.

"I'm out of ways," I say. "I've got nothing."

"So that's it?" he snaps back, annoyed. "You're just going to give up? Let them bring you to the arena? Kill you?"

"What else is there?" I snap back, annoyed myself.

He squirms. "I don't know," he says. "You must have a plan. We can't just sit here. We can't just let them march us off to our deaths. Something."

I shake my head. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I'm hurt. I'm starving. This room is solid metal. There are hundreds of armed guards out there. We're underground somewhere. I don't even know where. We have no weapons. There's nothing we can do. Nothing.

Except one thing, I realize. I can go down fighting.

"I'm not letting them march me to my death," I suddenly say, in the darkness.

He looks up at me. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to fight," I say. "In the arena."

Ben laughs, more like a derisive snort.

"You're kidding. Arena One is filled with professional killers. And even those killers get killed. No one survives. Ever. It's just a prolonged death sentence. For their amusement."

"That doesn't mean I can't try," I snap back, my voice rising, furious at his pessimism.

But Ben just looks back down, head in his hands, and shakes his head.

"Well, I won't stand a chance," he says.

"If you think that way, then you won't," I snap back. It is a phrase that Dad often used with me, and I am surprised to hear those same words now coming out of my mouth. It disturbs me, as I wonder how much of him, exactly, I've absorbed. I can hear the toughness in my own voice, a toughness I never recognized until this day, and I almost feel as if he's speaking through me. It's an eerie feeling.

"Ben," I say. "If you think you can survive, if you can see yourself surviving, then you will. It's about what you force yourself to imagine in your head. About what you tell yourself."

"That's just lying to yourself," Ben says.

"No it's not," I answer. "It's training yourself. There's a difference. It's seeing your own future, the way you want it to be, and creating it in your head, and then making it happen. If you can't see it, then you can't create it."

"You sound like you actually believe you can survive," Ben says, sounding amazed.

"I don't believe it," I snap. "I know it. I am going to survive. I will survive," I hear myself saying, with growing confidence. I have always had an ability to psych myself up, to get myself so into a head that there's no turning back. Despite everything, I find myself swelling with a newfound confidence, a new optimism.

And suddenly, at that moment, I make a decision: I am determined to survive. Not for me. But for Bree. After all, I don't know that she is dead yet. She might be alive. And the only chance I have of saving her is if I can stay alive. If I survive this arena. And if that's what it takes, then that is what I will do.

I will survive.

I don't see why I wouldn't stand a chance. If there's one thing I can do, it's fight. That's what I've been raised to be good at. I've been in a ring before. I've gotten my butt kicked. And I've gotten stronger for it. I'm not afraid.

"So then how are you going to win?" Ben asks. This time his question sounds genuine, sounds as if he really believes I might. Maybe something in my voice has convinced him.

"I don't need to win," I say back, calmly. "That's the thing. I only need to survive."

Barely do I finish uttering the words when I hear the sound of combat boots marching down the hall. A moment later, there comes the sound of our door opening.

They have come for me.

# F I F T E E N

Our cell door groans open and light floods in from the hallway. I raise my hands to my eyes, shielding them, and see the silhouette of a slaverunner. I expect him to march over and take me away, but instead he leans down, drops something hard and plastic on the floor, and kicks it. It scrapes across the floor and stops abruptly as it slams against my foot.

"Your last meal," he announces in a dark voice.

Then he marches out and slams the door, locking it.

I can already smell the food from here, and my stomach reacts with a sharp hunger pang. I lean over and pick up the plastic container carefully, barely able to make it out in the dim light: it is long and flat, sealed with a foil top. I pull back the foil and immediately the smell of food--real, cooked food, which I haven't had in years--comes rushing up at me, even more powerful. It smells like steak. And chicken. And potatoes. I lean over and examine it: there is a large, juicy steak, two chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. It is the best smell of my life. I feel guilty that Bree is not here to share it.

I wonder why they've given me such an extravagant meal, and then I realize it's not an act of kindness, but a self-serving act: they want me strong for the arena. Perhaps they are also tempting me one last time, offering me a preview of what life would be like if I accept their offer. Real meals. Hot food. A life of luxury.

As the smell infiltrates every pore of my body, their offer becomes more tempting. I haven't smelled real food in years. I suddenly realized how hungry I am, how malnourished, and I seriously wonder if, without this meal, I would even have strength to fight.

Ben sits up and leans forward, looking over. Of course. I suddenly feel selfish for not thinking of him. He must be as starving as I am, and I am sure the smell, which fills the room, is driving him crazy.

"Share it with me," I say in the darkness. It takes all my willpower to make this offer--but it is the right thing to do.

He shakes his head.

"No," he says. "They said it was for you. Have it. When they come for me, they'll give me a meal, too. You need this now. You're the one that's about to fight."

He's right. I do need it now. Especially because I don't just plan on fighting--I plan on winning.

It doesn't take much convincing. The smell of the food overwhelms me, and I reach out and grab the chicken leg and devour it in seconds. I take bite after bite, barely slowing to swallow. It is the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. But I force myself to set one of the chicken legs aside, saving it for Ben. Ben might get his own meal--or he might not. Either way, after all we've been through, I feel it's only right to share.

I turn to the mashed potatoes, using my fingers to shovel them into my mouth. My stomach growls in pain, and I realize I need this meal, more than any meal I've ever had. My body screams out for me to take another bite, and another. I eat way too fast, and within moments, I've devoured more than half of them. I force myself to save the rest for Ben.

I lift the steak with my fingers and take big bites, chewing slowly, trying to savor each morsel. It is the best thing I've had in my life. If this turns out to be my last meal, I'd be content with it. I save half the steak and move on to the vegetables, eating only half of these. Within moments, I'm done--and I still don't feel satisfied. I look down at what I set aside for Ben and want to devour every last bite. But I summon my willpower, slowly rise to my feet, cross the room, and hold the tray out before him.

He sits there, head resting on his knees, not looking up. He's the most defeated-looking person I've ever seen. If it were me sitting there, I would have watched him eat every bite, would have imagined what it tasted like. But it seems that he just has no will left to live.

He must smell the food, so close, because he finally raises his head. He looks up at me, eyes open in surprise. I smile.

"You didn't really think I'd eat it all, did you?" I ask.

He smiles, but shakes his head and lowers it. "I can't," he says. "It's yours."

"It's yours now," I say, and shove it into his hands. He has no choice but to take it.

"But it's not fair--" he begins.

"I've had enough," I lie. "Plus, I need to stay light for the fight. I can't maneuver on a full stomach, can I?"

My lie isn't very convincing, and I can tell he doesn't really buy it. But I can also see the effect the smell of the food has on him, can see his primal urge taking over. It is the same impulse I felt just a few minutes ago.

He reaches down and devours it. He closes his eyes and leans back and breathes deeply as he chews, savoring each bite. I watch him finish, and can see how much he needed it.

Instead of crossing back to my side of the room, I take a seat on the wall beside him. I don't know how much longer I have until they come for me, and for some reason I feel like being closer to him in the last minutes we have together.

We sit there, silently beside each other, for I don't know how long. I am on edge, listening for any sound, constantly wondering if they are coming. As I think about what lies ahead, my heart begins to beat faster, and I try to put it out of my mind.

I had assumed they would take us both to the arena together and am surprised they are separating us. It makes me wonder what other surprises they have in store. I try not to think about them.

I can't help wondering if this is the last time I will see Ben. I haven't known him long, and I really shouldn't care either way. I know I should keep my head clear, my emotions calm, and focus just on the fight before me.

But for some reason I can't stop thinking about him. I'm not sure why, but somehow I am beginning to feel attached to him. I will miss him. It doesn't make any sense, and I am mad at myself for even thinking this way. I barely know him. It annoys me that I will be upset--more upset than I should be--about saying goodbye.

We sit there in a relaxed silence, a silence between friends. It is no longer awkward. We don't speak, but I feel that in the silence he is hearing me, hearing me say goodbye. And that he's saying goodbye, too.

I wait for him to say something--anything--to me. After a few minutes, a part of me starts to wonder if maybe he's not speaking for a reason, if maybe he doesn't feel the same way about me. Maybe he doesn't even care for me at all; maybe he even resents me for getting him into this mess. Suddenly, I doubt myself. I need to know.

"Ben?" I whisper, in the silence.

I wait, but all that I hear is the labored sound of his breathing, through his broken nose. I look over, and see that he is fast asleep. That explains the silence.

I study his face, and even as bruised up as it is, it is beautiful. I hate the idea of our being separated. And of his dying. He's too young to die. I guess I am, too.

The meal makes me sleepy, and in the darkness, despite myself, I find my eyes closing. Before I know it, I am slumped against the wall, sliding my head over until it rests on Ben's shoulder. I know I should wake, stay on edge, prepare myself for the arena.

But in moments, despite my efforts, I am fast asleep.

*

I am awakened by the echo of boots marching down the corridor. At first I think it's just a nightmare--but then I realize it's not. I don't know how many hours have passed. My body feels rested, though, and that tells me I must have been asleep for a long time.

The boots grow louder and soon stop at the door. There is a dangling of keys, and I sit up straighter, my heart pounding out of my chest. They have come for me.

I don't know how to say goodbye to Ben, and I don't know if he even wants me to. So instead, I just stand, every muscle in my body aching, and prepare to leave.

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my wrist. It is surprisingly strong, and the intensity of his grip ripples through me.

I'm afraid to look down at him, to look into those eyes--but I have no choice. He's staring right at me. His eyes radiate concern, and in that moment, I can see how much cares for me. The intensity of it scares me.

"You did good," he says, "getting us this far. We never should have lived this long."

I stare back, not knowing how to respond. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for all this. I also want to tell him that I care for him. That I hope he survives. That I survive. That I see him again. That we find our siblings. That we make it home.

But I feel that he knows this already. And so I end up not saying a word.

The door swings open, and in march the slaverunners. I turn to go, but Ben yanks on my wrist, forcing me to turn back to him.

"Survive," he says, with the intensity of a dying man.

I stare back.

"Survive. For me. For your sister. For my brother. Survive."

The words ring in the air, like a mandate, and I can't help but feel as if they come from Dad, channeled through Ben. It sends a shiver up my spine. Before, I was determined to survive. Now, I feel as if I have no choice.

The slaverunners march over and stand behind me.

Ben lets go and I turn and stand proudly, facing them. I feel a surge of strength from the meal and the sleep, and I stare back at them defiantly.

One of them holds out a key. At first, I don't understand why--but then I remember: my handcuffs. They have been on so long, I've forgotten they were there.

I reach out, and he unlocks them. There is a huge relief of tension, as the metal unclasps and is taken away. I rub my wrists where the circular marks are.

I march out the room before they can shove me, wanting the advantage. I know that Ben is watching me, but I can't bear to turn around and look at him. I have to be strong.

I have to survive.

# S I X T E E N

I am marched down the corridor by the slaverunners, and as I walk down the endless, narrow halls, I begin to hear a faint rumbling. At first, it is hard to make out. But as I get closer, it begins to sound like the noise of a crowd. A cheering crowd, with shouts coming in fits.

We turn down yet another hallway, and the noise becomes more distinct. There is a huge roar, followed by a rumbling, like an earthquake. The corridor actually trembles. It feels like the vibration of a hundred thousand people stomping their feet.

I am pushed to the right, down yet another hallway. I resent being poked and prodded by these slaverunners, especially as I am being marched to my death, and I would like nothing more than to turn around and deck one of them. But I'm unarmed, and they are bigger and stronger, and it would be a no-win situation. Besides, I need to conserve my strength.

I am prodded one last time, and the hallway opens up. In the distance there appears a harsh light, like a floodlight, and the noise of the crowd grows inconceivably loud, like a living thing. The hallway opens into a broad and high tunnel. The light gets brighter and brighter, and for a moment I wonder if I am walking out to daylight.

But the temperature hasn't changed. I am still underground and being walked down an entrance tunnel. To the arena. I think of the time Dad took me to a baseball game, when we were heading to our seats, walking inside the stadium--when we walked down a tunnel and suddenly the stadium opened up before us. As I walk out, down the ramp, it feels like that. Except this time, I am the star of the show. I stop and stare, in awe.

Spread out before me is an enormous stadium, packed with thousands and thousands of people. In its center is a ring, shaped like an octagon; it resembles a boxing ring, except instead of ropes around its perimeter, there is a metal cage. The cage rises high in the air, about fifteen feet, completely enclosing the ring except for its open roof. It reminds me of the cage ring once used by the Ultimate Fighting Championship, but bigger. And this cage, covered in blood stains, with spikes on the inside, protruding from it every ten feet or so, clearly is not meant for sport--but for death.

There is the sound of clanging metal. Two people are fighting inside the ring and one of them was just thrown against the cage. His body slams into the metal, narrowly missing a spike, and the crowd erupts into a cheer.

The smaller opponent, covered in blood, bounces off the cage, disoriented. The bigger one, enormous, looks like a sumo wrestler. He is Asian, and must be at least five hundred pounds. After throwing the small, wiry man, the sumo wrestler charges, grabs him with two hands and lifts him easily over his head, as if he were a doll. He walks him in slow circles, and the crowd cheers wildly.

He throws the man completely across the ring, who smashes sideways into the cage, again narrowly missing a spike. He lands on the hard floor, not moving.

The entire crowd erupts in a roar and jumps to its feet, screaming.

"FINISH HIM!" a crowd member screams, above the din.

"KILL HIM!" screams another.

"CRUSH HIM!"

Thousands of people start screaming, stomping their boots on the metal bleachers, and the noise becomes deafening. Sumo holds out his arms, taking it all in, slowly circling, savoring the moment. The cheers grow louder.

Sumo slowly, ominously, crosses the ring, heading towards the unconscious man, lying facedown  on the floor. As he gets close, he suddenly drops heavily to one knee, landing right on the small of the man's back. There is a sickening cracking noise as his 500 pounds make impact on the small man's spine, shattering it. The crowd groans, as it becomes clear that he's broken the small man's back.

I turn away, not wanting to look, feeling horrible for the small, defenseless man. I wonder why they don't end this. Clearly, the wrestler has won.

But apparently, they don't plan on ending it--and Sumo is not finished. He grabs the man's limp body with two hands, picks him up, and throws him face-first across the ring. The man smashes into the metal cage and collapses to the floor again. The crowd roars. His body lands in an unnatural position, and I can't tell whether he's dead or not.

The wrestler is still not satisfied. He raises his arms, slowly circling, as the crowd chants.

"SU-MO!  SU-MO!  SU-MO!"

The roar reaches a deafening pitch, until Sumo crosses the ring one last time, raises a foot, and lowers it on the defenseless man's throat. He stands with both feet on the man's throat, crushing it. The man's eyes open wide as he reaches up with both hands, trying to get the feet off his neck. But it is futile, and after a few seconds of struggle, he finally stops. His hands fall to his side, limp. He is dead.

The crowd jumps to its feet, roaring.

Sumo picks up the dead body, hoists it high above his head, then hurls it across the ring. This time he aims for one of the protruding spikes, and impales the body into it. The body clings to the side of the cage, a spike sticking through the stomach, blood dripping down.

The crowd roars even louder.

I'm shoved hard from behind, and I stumble out into the bright light, heading down the ramp, into the open stadium. As I enter, I finally realize where exactly I am: it is the former Madison Square Garden. Except now the place is dilapidated, the roof caving in, with sunlight and water getting in, the bleachers rusted and corroded.

The crowd must spot me, because they turn to me, and let out a cheer of anticipation. I look closely at the faces, screaming and cheering, and see they are all Biovictims. Their faces are deformed, melted away. Most are as thin as racks, emaciated. They comprise some of the most sadistic-looking types I've ever seen, and there are an endless array of them.

I am led down the ramp, towards the ring, and as I reach it, I can feel thousands of eyes fixate on me. There are jeers and boos. Apparently, they don't like newcomers. Or maybe they just don't like me.

I am marched ringside and prodded to a small metal ladder on one side of the cage. I look up at Sumo, who scowls down at me from inside the ring. I look over at the dead body, still impaled on the cage. I hesitate: I'm not eager to enter this ring.

I am prodded roughly by a gunpoint in the small of my back, and I have no choice but to take my first step on the ladder. Then another, and another. The crowd cheers, and I feel weak in the knees.

A slaverunner opens the cage door, and I take my first step in. He slams it behind me, and I can't help but flinch. The crowd cheers again.

I turn and survey the stadium, looking for any sign of Bree, of Ben, of his brother--of any friendly face. But there are none. I force myself to look across the ring, at my opponent. Sumo stands there, looking down at me. He smiles, then erupts into laughter at the sight of me. I'm sure he thinks I will be an easy kill. I don't blame him.

Sumo turns his back on me and raises his arms out wide, facing the crowd, craving adulation. Clearly, he is not troubled by me, and thinks this match is already over. He is already reveling in his victory to come.

Dad's voice suddenly fills my head:

Always be the one to start a fight. Never hesitate. Surprise is your best weapon. A fight starts when YOU start it. If you wait for your opponent to start it, you've already lost. The first three seconds of a fight always determine its outcome. Go. GO!

Dad's voice screams in my head, and I let it take over me. I don't stop to think how crazy this is, how outmatched I am. All I know is that, if I do nothing, I will die.

I let Dad's voice carry me away, and it is as if my body is being controlled by someone else. I find myself charging across the ring, focusing on Sumo. His back is still to me, his arms are still out, he is still enjoying the spectacle. And now, at least for this moment, he is exposed.

I race across the ring, every second feeling like an eternity. I focus on the fact that I am still wearing these combat boots, with their steel-tipped toes. I take three huge steps, and before Sumo can react, I leap into the air. I fly through the air, letting my momentum carry me, and aim carefully, right for the back of his left knee.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall, I hear Dad say.

I pray he's right.

I only have one shot at this.

I kick him in the back of his knee with all I have. I feel the impact of my steel-tipped toe in his soft flesh, and I pray it works.

To my amazement, his knee buckles out from under him, and he lands on one knee on the floor of the ring, his weight shaking it.

The crowd suddenly roars in delight and surprise, clearly not expecting this.

The biggest mistake you can make in a fight is to hit someone and walk away. You don't win a fight with a single punch, or a single kick You win it with combinations. After you kick him, kick him again. And again. And again. Don't stop until he can't get up.

Sumo begins to turn towards me, shock on his face. I don't wait.

I swing around and plant a roundhouse kick perfectly on the back of his neck. He goes down, face first, hitting the floor hard, shaking it with his weight. The crowd roars.

Again, I don't wait. I jump up high for a dropkick, digging the heel of my boot into the small of his back. Then, without pausing, I wind up and kick him hard in the side of the face, my steel tip aiming for his temple. The soft spot. I kick it again and again and again. Soon, he's covered in blood, and he's reaching up to protect his head.

The crowd goes insane. They jump to their feet, screaming.

"KILL HIM!" they scream. "FINISH HIM!"

But I hesitate. The sight of him lying there, limp, makes me feel bad. I know I shouldn't--he's a merciless killer--but still, I can't quite bring myself to finish him off.

And that is my big mistake.

Sumo takes advantage of my hesitation. Before I know it, he reaches out and grabs my ankle. His hand is huge, impossibly huge, wrapping around my leg as if it were a twig. With one easy motion, he pulls me by the leg, spins me, and sends me flying across the ring.

I slam into the metal cage, missing one of the sharp spikes by an inch, and fall to the floor.

The crowd cheers. I look up, stunned, my head spinning. Sumo is already getting to his feet and charging. Blood trickles down his face. I can't believe I did that. I can't believe he's even vulnerable. And now, he must be really pissed.

I'm shocked by how fast he is. In the flash of an eye he's almost on top of me, leaping into the air, preparing to land on top of me. If I don't get out of the way fast, I'll be crushed.

At the last second I roll and just barely manage to evade him as he lands hard beside me, shaking the floor so hard it actually bounces and sends me into the air.

I roll away, and keep rolling until I'm on the far side of the ring. I hurry to my feet while Sumo gets up, too. We stand there on opposite sides of the ring, facing each other, each breathing hard. The crowd is going crazy. I can't believe I've managed to live this long.

He's gearing up to charge, and I realize I'm out of options. There aren't many places to go in this ring, especially with a man this size. One wrong move, and I'm finished. I got lucky with the element of surprise. But now I actually have to fight.

Suddenly, something falls through the air. I look up and see that something is being dropped down through the open roof of the cage. It lands with a crash on the floor between us. It is a weapon. A huge battle axe. I never expected this. I guess this is their way of keeping the games even, prolonging their entertainment. The axe lands in the center, equidistant between us, about ten feet away.

I don't hesitate. I race for it, and am relieved to see I am faster than he is. I get there first.

But he is quicker than I'd anticipated, and just as I bend over and pick up the axe, I feel his huge hands around my rib cage, hoisting me from behind in a huge bear hug. He lifts me higher, effortlessly, as if I were an insect. The crowd roars.

He squeezes harder and harder, and I feel all the air crushed out of me, feel as if each one of my ribs is going to crack. I manage to hold onto the axe--but that does little good. I can't even maneuver my shoulders.

He spins me around, having fun with me. The crowd reacts, screaming in delight. If I can just get my arms free, I can use the axe.

But I can't. I feel all the air leaving my body. In another moment or two, I'll be suffocated.

My luck has finally run out.

# S E V E N T E E N

Sumo doesn't seem to want to kill me yet. Instead, it seems as if he's enjoying our fight--and that he wants to toy with me.

So instead of crushing me to death, he spins me around fast several times, then throws me. The axe goes flying from my hands and the world goes rushing by as I fly through the air. I smash, headfirst, into the metal wall of the cage.

I bounce off it and land hard on the ground. The crowd roars. Again I managed to miss one of the cage's protruding spikes, but barely. I look up and see the body of his last victim, still impaled on the cage wall, and realize I am lucky. The axe hits the ground with a clang several feet away from me.

My head is ringing, and I'm disoriented as I lay on my face. Out of the corner my eye, Sumo charges, but I'm too beat to move.

Move, soldier! MOVE!

Somehow, I force myself into motion. I scramble to my knees, crawl over to the axe as fast as I can, grab it with both hands, and spin around with it.

My timing is perfect. As Sumo is gearing up to stomp me, the axe comes flying around and connects with his calf. I feel the blade entering his flesh. Blood squirts all over me.

There is a tremendous roar from the crowd. I must've done some serious damage.

He falls over like a log and lands with a crash. He screams and reaches for where his foot once was, and I am shocked to see that my axe has chopped it off. Blood gushes everywhere while he screams and grabs at his stump.

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" the crowd chants.

I know this is my chance, and I should finish him off. But still, as I stand over him, holding the axe, I just can't bring myself to.

Instead, I just want to get far away from him. But I am stuck in one corner, and his body is blocking my path. So I run and jump over him, trying to get to the opposite side.

Another mistake. Once again, I have underestimated him. He reaches up and grabs my ankle in mid-air. I fall to the ground, face-first, hitting it hard. The crowd screams.

He grabs my ankle and drags me towards him, one hand at a time. I feel like I'm being pulled into a conveyor belt, as I slide on my stomach, inevitably towards him. In another second I'll be on top of him, and he'll crush me to death with his arms.

I am still clutching the axe handle, and with my final bit of energy, I manage to twist my upper body around and, with both hands, bring the axe down hard. There is a sickening noise as the blade lodges into his forehead.

For a moment, I freeze, as does the crowd. His hand still grips my ankle, and I wonder if the blade went deep enough. Then, finally, his hand releases and his eyes open wide. He is dead. I have killed him.

The crowd is completely silent. I scramble away from him, not trusting that anyone his size could actually be dead, that I could have actually killed him. I stand at the far end of the ring, breathing hard, warily looking down, waiting for him to resurrect. But he does not. He is dead. Really dead.

Suddenly, the crowd roars, jumps to its feet, erupts in a huge cheer. They whistle and clap and stomp, and it never ends.

And that is when I realize: I have won. I can really do it. I can survive.

*

I sense motion, and look up.

The leader sits high on his own pedestal, watching over all of us. Slowly, he stands, and as he does, the crowd begins to quiet. Even from here, I can see the look of surprise on his face. Clearly, he had not expected this.

He nods, and the cage door opens. In march a half dozen slaverunners, holding guns. Two of them march right for me, holding guns, and for a moment, I wonder if they're going to kill me. But then I see the other four going to drag out the bodies of the last two victims. These two are just standing guard, in case I make any rash moves. They aren't taking any chances.

The other four each grab hold of Sumo, and with a supreme effort drag his immense weight across the ring. It must be a real struggle for them, because they go slowly, and I can hear them straining. After about a minute, they finally managed to drag him off, trailing blood. One of them comes back and takes down the small man's impaled body from the cage, as if an afterthought. The other two slaverunners march out and slam the cage door behind them.

I now stand alone, wondering what might come next. I wait for a few moments, wondering if maybe they will release me now, although I know, even as I think it, that it's a silly idea. I know that there are no survivors in Arena One. Ever.

Sure enough, moments later, the crowd erupts into an enormous cheer as another contestant is marched towards the ring. I'm surprised to see that this one is a woman. She marches right to the metal ladder, looking confident and defiant, and as they open the door, she ascends the ladder in three quick steps and jumps in.

"SHI-RA!  SHI-RA!  SHI-RA!" the crowd roars.

With long black hair and black eyes, Shira looks to be in her thirties; she is incredibly well-built, her muscles bulging, with large breasts. She wears just a tight elastic top and tight black shorts, and her toned, muscular legs and arms ripple. She looks like a curvy, female action model. Curiously, she wears a small backpack on her back, and I wonder if it's part of her outfit, or if she wears it for a reason.

She stares at me coolly from the opposite side of the ring. Unlike Sumo, she doesn't seem to take me for granted, studies me as if I'm a serious contender. And that worries me. She seems much craftier. Oddly, I feel more on-edge facing her than I did him. I sense she has tricks up her sleeve.

She slowly begins to circle the perimeter of the ring, so I circle, too, keeping my distance. We circle each other, two wary opponents, each waiting for the other to make the first move. After a few seconds of this, she suddenly shrieks and charges, her hands held out before her like claws, aimed right for my face.

I wait until the last second, then sidestep her, holding out my foot as I do. It works: she charges right past me, trips, and falls on her face. The crowd screams in approval.

But she spins around in the same motion and with one hand grabs the back of my leg and with the other, grabs my hair from behind. It is a dirty trick, and she pulls me down, backwards, and I fall flat on my back, hitting the floor with a painful thud. In the same motion, she rolls over on top of me, and grabs me in a bear hug, like a wrestler. She holds me tight and won't let go, rolling over with me again and again.

She has my arms in a vice, and I can't wriggle free. I feel her slowly squeezing the life out of me, and my breathing becomes more shallow.

"BITE HER! BITE HER!" the crowd chants.

I don't understand why they're chanting this, until Shira leans her head back and opens her mouth wide. She's sharpened her teeth with a file to make fangs. She lowers her head, aiming right for my shoulder.

I struggle to get free, but she's deceptively strong, and she has me in a lock I just can't get out of. Next thing I know I'm in horrific pain, as her two teeth sink into my shoulder blade. I feel them puncturing my skin, feel hot blood pouring out of it, and I scream out in pain.

The intense pain gives me a newfound rush of adrenaline though, and in a sudden burst of strength I manage to get my hands down into her solar plexus and push for all I can. This time, it works. She flies off me.

I roll over quickly, my face red with exertion, my shoulder burning from the pain; I reach over and feel it, and my hand comes back red, covered in blood. Now I'm pissed.

I charge her, and before she can gain her knees I wind up and kick her hard, connecting in her midsection. There is a sound of cracking ribs, and the crowd ooohs. Without waiting, I wind up and kick her again, hard in the face.

She collapses, blood pouring from her face. She is confused, squarely on the ground, and now I have the advantage.

I know I should kick her in the head repeatedly, finish her off. But still, somehow, I can't bring myself to. I still feel bad killing this woman, lying there, defenseless. I stand there, hesitating, as the crowd erupts into a chant.

"KILL HER! KILL HER!"

Still, I can't bring myself to. I hesitate. And it is another stupid mistake.

I don't see her hand reaching slowly behind her back, unlatching her backpack. And by the time I realize what she's doing, it's too late.

Her pack opens and suddenly, out comes a bright, multi-colored snake.

It slithers right for me.

# E I G H T E E N

The snake hits the ground and darts at me in a flash. I'm so shocked, I don't even know how to react. The snake doesn't hesitate, though. It retracts its fangs and sinks them into my calf.

The pain is excruciating. I drop to one knee as the three-inch fangs pierce my flesh. It feels like my skin is on fire, as if it is going to burn off in pain.

My reflexes take over, and without thinking, I grab the snake by its head, yank it off, and hold it out in front of me. It hisses back as I pull back my arm and throw it across the ring. It slams into the metal cage and drops to the ground. The crowd cheers.

The snake immediately darts across the floor, coming right back at me. Now my calf is on fire, hurting so bad it makes me forget the pain in my shoulder. Making matters worse, Shira is beginning to get up again.

I hear a clang, and look down to see another weapon has been dropped: this time, it's a spear.

I run over and pick it up. As the snake slithers back towards me, I hurl the spear down at it. I miss.

The snake lunges at me, and I sidestep just in time. But the snake slithers around, coming back. I raise the spear again, spin around, and bring it down. This time, it's a perfect strike.

The spear lodges right in the snake's head, pinning it into the ground. It goes limp.

The crowd roars.

Just when I think I can relax, I am slammed from behind, an elbow hitting me hard, right on my spine. I fly forward, head smashing into the metal railing, barely missing a protruding spike. My head spins from the pain.

I turn around and see Shira charging, her face contorted with fury. She jumps high in the air, feet flying forward, to kick me in the chest. I notice that her toes have sharpened metal blades protruding from them: if she kicks me, it will be fatal.

I spin away at the last second, and she kicks the gate instead, bouncing off it and falling hard on her back. The crowd roars.

I try to run across the ring, to go for the spear, but as I move past her, she reaches out and grabs my foot with her hand, tripping me. I land hard, face-first, on the ground. A second later, I feel her on top of me, bear-hugging me from behind, wrapping her arms and legs around my body. The crowd roars.

I roll over, so now she is on her back on the floor, grabbing me from behind. She wraps her muscular legs around mine, and then reaches up with her forearm, solid muscle, and wraps it over my throat. She is going to choke me to death. I have no leverage to maneuver. Once again, I'm losing.

With my free hand, I try to reach back over my shoulder. Just a foot behind me, out of reach, is the spear, still lodged in the snake. I stretch as much as I can, reaching with my fingertips, and they just graze the spear shaft. I am so close. But I am losing air.

I bend my leg, still in excruciating pain from the snake bite, dig my heel into the floor and push, sliding us both back. I manage to move us an inch. Just enough to grab hold of the spear.

Finally, I have it. But the world is getting dizzy, and I am seeing stars as I lose oxygen. I know I only have a few seconds left to live.

With one last supreme effort, I lift the spear and bring it down towards me, and at the last second dodge my head out of the way. I bring it down hard, with both hands.

The spear barely misses my face and instead lodges into Shira's throat. I push down harder and harder, hearing the awful sound of metal penetrating flesh, until her grip around my throat finally loosens.

She goes limp beneath me, her hands and legs slowly letting go. I feel her hot blood pouring out of her neck, onto my own. Finally, I am able to break free, to roll away and jump to my feet.

I stand over her and look down, rubbing my throat, gasping for breath. Her eyes are open wide, staring off to the side.

After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd again jumps to its feet, roaring with approval, even more thunderous than before. Now, they love me.

*

As I look down at Shira's corpse, I don't feel a sense of pride; rather, I think only of the snakebite, the burning pain in my calf, and wonder if it's poisonous. My calf is already red and swollen, and each step I take brings a fresh stab of pain. I am guessing that if it was poisonous I'd already be dead, or at least paralyzed. Still, the pain is incredible, and walking is difficult. I don't know how I'll be able to continue fighting like this.

Not to mention the rest of me: my cracked ribs, the wound on my arm from the shrapnel, the new bite wound on my shoulder, my swollen face.... I cling to the fence and catch my breath. I really don't know how I'll be able to fight another person. Now I understand why Arena One has no survivors.

I sense motion and look up to see the leader scowling down. He does not look pleased. The crowd continues to cheer, and I can't help wondering if maybe I've embarrassed the leader in some way. Clearly, the arena bouts are designed to be quick, meant to be basically a glorified execution. They don't seem to be meant to last more than one round. Clearly, he had expected me to die sooner.

Making matters worse, people are trading money furiously in the crowd. I wonder if the leader and his people had placed bets against me--and if my victory has cost the house money. I wonder what the odds were. If I were betting, I'd guess it would be 500 to 1 against me.

His advisors huddle around him, looking flustered, whispering in his ear, as if devising a plan. Slowly, he nods in response.

As he does, the cage gate opens, and in march two slaverunners. They hurry to Shira's corpse and drag her dead body across the ring. One of them reaches down and grabs the spear and the limp carcass of the snake. More blood stains the floor, which is now red and slick. I take it all in, still catching my breath, when I hear a faint rumbling. This is followed by something more distinct, and the ground beneath me tremors, then shake. Soon, it becomes a deafening roar.

The entire crowd jumps to its feet, stomping like crazy as each person turns around to face one of the entrance tunnels. In march a dozen men, all holding torches. They clear a path for one obviously very special person. The crowd roars louder and louder, until their stomping grows deafening. I don't like the sound of this. They must know who it is.

After several more seconds, I catch a glimpse of what they're screaming about. Behind an entourage of a dozen torchbearers, I spot what can only be my new opponent. I gulp.

He is quite possibly the largest and most muscular man I have ever seen. He towers over the torchbearers by at least a foot, every square inch of his body bulging with muscles. He's easily three times the size of any man I've ever seen. He wears a black face mask, ominous and threatening, so I can't see his face. Maybe I'm better off.

His hands and forearms are each covered in black gauntlets, made of a hard material and covered in spikes. He is naked save for his tight, black shorts and black combat boots. The muscles in his thighs ripple with every step.

As he gets closer to the ring, the crowd goes crazy. Finally, they break into a chant:

"MAL-COLM!  MAL-COLM!  MAL-COLM!"

He seems impervious to the chanting; he just doesn't care. Surrounded by an entourage of two dozen people, he is a caged beast, ready to tear apart anything in his path. I can't even conceive that this person is coming to fight me. It is a joke. I don't stand a chance.

I got lucky with Sumo because he was overconfident and careless; I got lucky with Shira, too, but it nearly went the other way. But this man: it is obvious he can overpower me with a single hand. I'm not a pessimist. But as he climbs the ladder, enters the ring, and stands there, twice my size, it is enough to make my knees weak. He's not a man--he is a monster, something out of a fairy tale. I wonder if they save him for special occasions, to sic on people who have defied the games, who have embarrassed the leader. Or if perhaps they save him as a last resort, to put people to death quickly and easily, without taking any more chances.

He holds his arms out wide and throws back his head, and the crowd goes crazy. The roar is so loud it actually hurts my ears. The brute never takes his eyes off me, which I can see through the mask. I can feel them piercing me--soulless, black eyes. He slowly lowers his arms, still staring. I let go of the cage and stand on my own two feet, facing him. I do my best to stand upright, to appear fearless. I doubt it works.

I don't know what to do next. In this arena there is no official noise or signal to mark the start of a match. And if there was, I have a feeling no one would pay attention to it anyway. Matches seem to begin whenever the contestants decide they do. And I'm in no mood to start this match. He is taking his time, too, savoring each moment, trying to intimidate me. It's working.

My only hope is for the leaders to throw down another weapon. And as I look up at their scowling faces, I see no sign of that.

He moves. He saunters slowly towards me, as if he has all the time in the world. As if he wants to savor this. I study his physique, looking for any possible weakness. But I find none: he is a wall of solid muscle.

As he gets close I slowly back away, circling the wall of the cage. I realize this will make me seem weak, and probably embolden him. But I can't see how he could be more emboldened than he already is, and I still don't know how to fight this guy. Maybe, if I evade him long enough, I'll get an idea. Or they'll throw me a weapon. Or I'll tire him out. Although these all seem doubtful.

He slowly approaches, and I keep backing away. The crowd gets antsy, hissing and booing, heckling me. They want blood. And I am no longer their favorite.

He walks a bit faster towards me, and I retreat just as quickly. He sidesteps left so I sidestep right. I can't keep this up forever: he's getting closer.

He gets impatient and lunges at me, racing to grab me; at the last second, I sidestep and run to the side. I'm already on the other side of him; he grabs nothing but thin air.

The crowd laughs at him. He spins around, his neck turning a shade of crimson. Now he's really pissed. He charges me, sprinting with all he has. I have nowhere left to go.

At the last second, I try to sidestep to my right, but this time he sees it coming, and reaches out and grabs hold of my shirt. Without pausing, he turns and, with one hand, spins and throws me. I fly like a ragdoll across the ring, slamming into the metal cage. Luckily, I just miss a protruding spike.

The crowd roars in approval. I lie there, the wind knocked out of me, my calf and shoulder throbbing. With a supreme effort, I manage to get to my hands and knees, but as soon as I do, I feel his hands on my back, grabbing my shirt. He throws me again, headfirst.

I fly like a cannonball across the other side of the ring. I feel myself airborne, and then smash headfirst into the metal cage. The pain is deafening. I bounce off it, and land on my back, on the floor, and am winded again.

The crowd roars, stomping its feet.

I look up just in time to see a huge foot coming down, right at my face. At the last second I manage to roll out of the way, the air rushing by my ear as his foot slams into the floor just inches away. The crowd ooohs. It was a close call. A split-second more, and his foot would have crushed my face to bits.

I roll over and without thinking, sink my teeth into his foot. I feel them pierce his flesh, and taste his salty blood as it trickles down my lips. I hear him grunt in pain. He's human. I'm surprised by that. It's a dirty move, but it's all I can think of.

He snaps his leg away and kicks me hard across the face. I go flying, turning over several times, and slam into the corner of the cage.

He touches his bloody foot, examines his hand, and sneers down at me with a newfound hatred. I wonder if he has just decided to kill me slowly instead of quickly.

I scramble to my feet to face him, and this time, I feel I need the element of surprise. As crazy as it is, I charge him.

I leap into the air and do a flying front kick, aiming for his groin. I'm hoping that if I can kick him hard, in just the right spot, with my steel-tipped toes, maybe I can make an impact.

But he is too good a fighter for that. He must spot my telegraphed action a mile away, because without even making an effort, he reaches down and blocks my leg. His metal gauntlet smashes into my calf, right into my wound, before I can make an impact. The pain is numbing. It stops me cold, and I drop to the ground, grabbing my calf in agony.

I try to get up, but he backhands me with his other gauntlet, hard across the face, and the force of it knocks me back, face-down, to the ground. I taste blood in my mouth, and look down at the floor covered in dark red. The crowd cheers.

I try to get up again, but before I can, I feel his hands on my back as he picks me up, winds back, and throws me. He aims high, towards the top of the cage, and I fly across the ring right into it. This time, I think quickly.

I reach out and, as I hit it the wall, grab hold of the chain-link, clutching it. The wall sways a few times, but I manage to hang on. I'm up high on the metal cage, nearly fifteen feet off the ground, clinging for my life.

The brute looks annoyed. He charges towards me, reaching up to grab me and pull me down. But I scramble up, even higher. He reaches up to grab my leg, but I pull it up in the nick of time. I'm just out of his reach.

He looks perplexed, and I can see the skin on his neck redden with frustration. He hadn't expected this.

The crowd jumps to its feet, roaring its approval. Clearly, they haven't seen this tactic before.

But I don't know how long I can hang on. My muscles are already weak, and as I cling to the cage, it begins to sway. The brute is shaking it violently. I cling to it like a buoy in a storm-tossed sea. But no matter how much he shakes it, I refuse to let go.

The crowd screams its approval and laughs at him. I glance down and see his skin turn a darkening shade of red. He looks humiliated.

He begins to pull himself up. But he is slow, awkward. He is far too heavy to be agile, and this cage is not meant to hold someone of his bulk. He climbs toward me, but now I have the advantage. He uses both hands to pull himself up, and as he gets close, I swing back one leg and kick him hard in the face, connecting on the corner of his temple, right at the corner of his facemask, with my steel-tipped toe.

It is a solid kick, one he does not expect--and to my surprise, it works. He falls back off the fence, a good ten feet, and lands hard, flat on his back, on the ground. He lands with such force the entire ring shakes. It sounds as if a tree trunk has been dropped from the sky. The crowd roars, screaming its approval.

My kick has dislodged his facemask, which goes flying across the floor. He gets to his feet and scowls up at me, and for the first time, I can see his face.

I wish I hadn't.

It is hideous, grotesque, and barely looks human. Now I understand why he wears the mask. His face is entirely burnt and charred, with huge lumps all over it. He is a Biovictim, the worst I've ever seen. He's missing a nose and has slits for eyes. He looks more like a beast than a man.

He snarls and roars up at me, and if I wasn't afraid before, my heart pounds with fear now. I'm fighting something out of a nightmare.

But for now, at least, I am safe. I have outsmarted him. There is nothing he can do except stand down there and look up at me. We are at a stalemate.

Then everything changes.

Stupidly, I keep looking down, never bothering to look in front of me, never imagining there could be any danger from that direction. But one of the slaverunners outside the ring has managed to sneak up on me with a huge pole. He shocks me with it, right in the chest. An electric jolt runs through my entire body. It must be some sort of cattle prod; they probably reserve it for situations like this.

The shock sends me flying back, off the cage. I fall through the air and land flat on my back. The force of it knocks the wind out of me again, and I'm still shaking from being electrified. The crowd roars in delight as I'm back down on the floor of the ring, helpless.

I can barely breathe, or feel my fingertips. But I have no time to reflect. The brute charges right for me, looking madder than ever. He leaps into the air and raises his knees high, preparing to bring both feet down on my face, to stomp me to oblivion.

Somehow, at the last second, I manage to roll out of the way. The wind of his kick rushes past my ear, and then comes the thunderous stomp. It is enough to shake the floor, and I go bouncing off it like a plaything. I roll away, stand up, and run to the far side of the ring.

Another weapon suddenly drops from the sky, lands on the floor in the center of the ring. A medieval mace. It has a short wooden handle and a foot-long chain, at the end of which is a spiked, metal ball. I've seen these before, in pictures of knights in armor: it was a deadly weapon used in the Middle Ages.

I get to it before he can--not that he shows any interest. He doesn't even go for it, clearly feeling he doesn't need it. I don't blame him.

I grab hold of the shaft and swing it, filled with a newfound confidence. If I can connect with just one blow, maybe I can actually win. It is a weapon of beauty, and the spiked metal ball swings around and around at the end of the chain, establishing a perimeter before me, keeping him at bay. I swing it again and again, like a helicopter, and it manages to keep him off guard, wary.

But he still slowly approaches, and as he does, I back up. As I take another step, though, I slip on a pool of blood: my feet go out from under me, and I fall flat on my back. As I do, I lose my grip on the mace, and it goes flying across the cage. It actually by chance flies right at his head; but he is more agile than I suspect and ducks it easily. It goes over his head and smashes into the wall of the cage. The crowd ooohs at the close call.

I'm flat on my back, and before I can get up, he's standing over me. He uses both hands to pick me up by my chest. He lifts me up high, way over his head, like a wrestler, then parades me across the ring, before the thousands of revelers. They eat it up, going wild.

"MAL-COLM!  MAL-COLM!  MAL-COLM!"

Maybe this is his trademark move before he finishes people off for good. As I dangle there in the air, so high above his head, helpless, I squirm, but it is futile. There is nothing I can do. I am at his disposal. Any second could be my last.

He slowly walks me around the ring, again and again, savoring the adulation, the victory. The noise of the crowd grows to a deafening pitch. He lifts me, even higher, preparing to hurl me, and the last thing I think, before I go flying, is that I'm glad that Bree isn't here to see my death.

# N I N E T E E N

He throws me and I fly through the air at full speed, not knowing I could move that fast, landing hard on the floor on the opposite side of the ring. I feel another rib crack, while my head smashes into the metal and another welt forms on my forehead. I wonder how much more abuse my body can take.

I sense him coming at me again, and this time, I am just too beat up to move. I lay there face-down, struggling to catch my breath. He takes his time. It is clear he will kill me when he reaches me. It is a death walk.

I'm too tired and weak and delirious to do anything more than accept my fate. I am destined to die. Here, in this place. At this moment. I've failed. I've let Bree down.

As I lay there, breathing hard, blood coming from my mouth, slowly, over the sound of the ringing in my ears, over the din of the crowd, there gradually comes another sound. It is a voice. The voice of my Dad. It is a stern voice. The voice he always used to chastise me. To force me to push myself. To be more than I could be.

Be tough, Marine! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! If you think you're a failure, then you are! Be strong! BE STRONG!

His voice becomes deafening, drowning out everything. I look up, my vision blurry, and for a moment I swear I actually see Dad standing there, hands on his hips, scowling down. There is disapproval--even disgust--on his face. And that is what motivates me. That is what makes something snap inside.

I could never stand to have my father disapprove of me and would always do whatever it took just to silence him, just to prove him wrong. This time is no different. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I surge with anger, with the need to prove him wrong. I'm filled with a new fury, and it forces me to my hands and knees.

BE STRONG!

The brute takes three big steps, winding up to deliver a knockout kick to my face. If he connects, he will break every bone in my face.

But now I am ready. I surprise him by rolling out of the way at the last second, a split-second before the kick reaches me. He misses and instead kicks the metal fence with such force his foot lodges into the chain links.

I jump to my feet and in the same motion run across the ring and grab the mace. The brute yanks at his foot, trying to get it out of the cage--but he is stuck.

This time, I don't wait. This time, I don't hesitate. Finally, I have learned my lesson.

I charge across the ring, and with all I have, swing the mace, wind up the ball. I only have one shot at this, so I take aim for his huge, bald, muscular head.

I get closer to him. Ten feet...five.... I swing and let the ball go.

Suddenly, he frees his foot from the cage and wheels and faces me.

I've already set the chain in motion and the ball is already spinning, flying over my head, through the air. And just as he turns to face me, the ball swings around and lodges in his temple. Blood squirts out, and I let go of the shaft.

The crowd is stunned into silence.

The brute takes a step back, stumbles, then reaches up in shock, grabs the shaft, and yanks it out of his own head. As he does, brains and blood come out.

I stand there, horrified, frozen. I can't fathom how someone could continue to function after a blow like that.

But then, after a moment, he drops the shaft, and buckles to his knees. He falls forward on his face. His hands lay limp at his side, and a second later, to my shock, I realize he is dead. I have killed him.

After a second of stunned silence, the crowd suddenly leaps to its feet. It roars and screams louder than ever before. And this time, they chant my name.

"BROOKE!  BROOKE!  BROOKE!"

I barely even hear it. Whatever strength was left in me suddenly disappears, and a moment later, the world spins, my knees go weak, and I collapse. The last thing I see is the floor racing up towards me, striking me in the face.

And then my world is blackness.

# T W E N T Y

I'm not sure if I'm dead or alive. My body aches more than I could imagine, and I wonder if this is what it's like to be on the other side. Somehow, I feel as if I'm still alive: if I were dead, I am hoping it would not be this painful.

I peel open one eye and see I am lying, face down, on a metal floor, in a darkened room, lit by red emergency lights. I look up and struggle to make out the shape before me.

"Brooke?" a voice asks. It is a male voice, and I know I recognize it from somewhere, but can't remember where.

"Brooke?" he asks again, softly.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently prodding me.

I manage to open my eye a bit more, and finally recognize the face: Ben. He leans over me, gently prodding me, trying to see if I'm alive.

"This is for you," he says.

There is the sound of plastic scraping against the metal floor, and I am struck by the smell of food. But I'm too groggy to look at it, and I don't really register what's happening.

"I have to go now," he says. "Please. I want you to have this."

A second later comes the sound of a door opening, and light floods the room. There is the sound of marching boots, chains, handcuffs being released. Then footsteps recede and the door closes, and as it does, suddenly, I realize: they have just taken Ben away.

I want to raise my head, to open my eyes, to call out to him. To thank him. To warn him. To say goodbye.

But my head, too heavy, won't lift, and my eyes begin to shut of their own accord. Moments later, I fall back into a heavy sleep.

*

I don't know how much time has passed when I wake again. I feel the cold metal of the floor on the side of my face, and this time I am able to gradually lift my head, peel myself off. My head is splitting, and every ounce of my body is in pain.

As I sit up, I feel a sharp pain in my ribs, now on both sides. My face is swollen, welts and bruises all over it, and my shoulder is killing me. Worst of all, there's an intense throbbing in my calf, an unbearable pain as I attempt to straighten my leg. At first, I don't know what it's from, and then I remember: the snakebite.

Propping myself with one hand, I manage to sit halfway up. I look around the darkened room for any sign of Ben. But he is gone. I am alone.

There sits a tray of food before me, untouched. His food. I reach out and touch it: it is cold. I feel bad that he left it; I'm sure he needed it at least as much as me. I realize what it took to sacrifice this meal. If this was his last meal, then they've taken him away to fight. My heart leaps at the realization. Surely that means he is already dead.

I look down again at the tray, and it feels like the food of a dead man. I can't bring myself to touch it.

There is a sound of boots, and the metal door slams open. In march four slaverunners, who drag me to my feet and prod me out the room. The pain is indescribable as I stand and walk. My head is so heavy, and the room spins, and I don't know if I'm going to make it without collapsing.

I am pushed and prodded down the corridor, and as I go, the sound of a distant crowd grows louder. My heart drops as I realize I'm being led back to the arena.

If they think I can fight again, it is a joke. I can barely walk. Anyone who squares off with me will have easy pickings. I don't have any will left to fight--or any strength, even if I did. I've already given this arena everything I have.

I am shoved one last time as the tunnel to the arena opens up. The roar becomes deafening. I squint at the harsh light as I am led down the ramp, counting my final minutes.

The crowd jumps to its feet as they see me. They stomp violently. This time, instead of hisses and jeers, they seem to love me.

"BROOKE!  BROOKE!  BROOKE!"

It is a surreal feeling. I've achieved fame, but for actions I detest and in the last place on earth I'd ever want it.

I'm prodded again, all the way to ringside, back to the metal ladder. I look up and see the cage open, and climb and walk in helplessly.

As I enter, the crowd goes wild.

I am still half-asleep, and this is all so surreal, I can't help wondering if I did this before or if it was all a dream. I look down and see the huge welt on my calf, and know that it was real. I can't believe it. I am back here again. This time, for a certain death.

They weren't kidding when they said no survivors. Now I know there will be no exceptions.

I stand in the empty ring and survey the stadium, wondering who my next opponent will be, where he will enter from. As I do, there suddenly comes a cheer from the far side of the stadium. The tunnel opens up, and in marches another contestant. I can't see who it is, as he's blocked by an entourage of slaverunners. The crowd goes crazy as he gets closer. But my view is so obscured, it's not until he reaches the very edge of the ring, until he is climbing the ladder, until the cage opens, and he's actually pushed inside, that I see who it is.

As I do, any ounce of fight that is left in me falls away.

I am horrified.

It can't be.

Standing before me, staring back with equal shock, is Ben.

# T W E N T Y   O N E

I stand there in shock, staring back at Ben, who looks like a deer in headlights. I don't know how they could be so cruel. Of all the people they could pit me against, why did it have to be him?

The crowd seems to sense our connection--and they love it: they scream and holler as the cage slams shut with a bang. They place bets furiously, eager to see which one of us is willing to kill the other first.

Ben stands there looking so lost, so out of place. Our eyes lock, and we share a moment. His large blue eyes, so gentle, are tearing up. He looks like a lost little boy. I can already see that he would never lift a finger to harm me.

Before this moment, I was resigned to just go quietly to my grave. But now, seeing Ben here, caught in this same predicament, so helpless, my will to live returns. I have to find a way to get us out of here. I have to save us. If not for me, than for him.

I think quick, my heart racing a million miles an hour, as I try to concentrate, to drown out the deafening crowd.

The crowd bursts into boos and jeers, furious that neither of us are making a move to fight. Eventually their disappointment grows into a rage, and they start throwing things at the cage. Rotten tomatoes and all sorts of objects slam against the metal as the crowd hails things down on us.

I suddenly feel a sharp electric shock in my kidneys, and I wheel and see the cattle prod inserted through the chain-link. A slaverunner quickly retracts it as I try to snatch it away from him. They jab Ben at the same time. It is a dirty trick: they're trying to force us into action, to stir us into a rage, to prod us closer to each other. The crowd roars its approval.

But we still stand there, staring at each other, neither of us willing to fight.

"You gave me your last meal," I say to him, over the din of the crowd.

He nods back, slowly, too frozen with fear to speak.

Suddenly, something falls from the sky, lands before us. It is a weapon. A knife. I look down closely at it, and am horrified to see that it is my Dad's knife, the Marine Corps logo emblazoned on its side.

The crowd cheers as the object lands, assuming this will cause us to fight.

Seeing Dad's knife makes me think of Bree. And I realize, once again, that I have to survive. To save her. If she's still alive.

Suddenly, the crowd quiets. I look around, trying to understand what's happening. I haven't heard it quiet before. I look up and see the leader is standing, high up on his podium. Everyone has gone silent with rapt attention.

"I am declaring a change to the rules of the arena!" he announces, his deep voice booming. He speaks slowly, deliberately, and the crowd hangs on his every word. This is clearly a man who is used to being listened to.

"For the first time ever, we will allow a survivor. Just one!" he announces. "The winner of this match will be granted clemency. As will their siblings. After this match, they will be free to go."

The leader slowly sits back down, and as he does, the crowd bursts into an excited murmur. More bets are placed.

I look back down at the knife, and now I see that Ben glances at it, too.

A chance to survive. To be free. Not just for me--but for Bree. If I kill Ben, it will save her. It is my chance. It is my ticket out.

As I see Ben looking at the knife, I can see the same thoughts racing through his mind, too. It is a chance for him to save his little brother.

I lunge for it, and in a single motion, reach down and pick it up.

Getting it is easy. Ben never even makes a move for it.

But I'm cut from a different cloth than him. I need to do what I have to in order to survive. For Bree to survive.

So I lean back, take aim, and prepare to throw my Dad's knife.

Do it, Brooke! Save your sister! You have a responsibility! DO IT!

I lean forward and launch it with all my might.

And that is the moment that changes everything.

P A R T   I V

# T W E N T Y   T W O

I throw my Dad's knife with everything I have, and in that moment, the crowd holds its breath, completely silent. The blade glimmers in the light as it goes flying end over end, through the air, racing. It is the strongest and most accurate throw I've ever made. I already know it will find its target. And that it will mean certain death.

In moments, I will be free.

A second later, the sound of metal meeting flesh punctures the air, and I see that it was, indeed, a perfect strike.

The entire crowd gasps, horrified.

For once in my life, I have ignored my father's advice. I have not killed Ben.

I have killed their leader.

*

The knife lodges in the center of the leader's forehead; I'd managed to throw it perfectly, just high enough to clear the fence, by a millimeter, and yet still maintain the perfect angle to hit him, thirty yards away. It hits him so hard, it pins his head to the chair. He sits there, eyes wide open, frozen in shock, dead.

There is stunned silence in the arena. For several seconds, the crowd is too shocked to even react. I can hear a pin drop.

And then, pandemonium. Thousands of people jump up from their seats and run in every direction. Some, terrified, flee for their lives; others see this as their chance to be set free, and run for the exits; some start fighting among themselves, while others start fighting with the slaverunners. It is as if a violent energy, long contained, has been set loose.

Slaverunners scurry in every direction, trying to maintain order.

I look to the cage door, wondering if we can escape that way, but already guards are fiddling with its lock, trying to unchain it so that they can come and get us.

I run to Ben, who still stands there, shocked, and grab him by the arm.

"FOLLOW ME!" I scream.

I take his hand as I run across the ring, jump up onto the cage and scale its wall. I climb straight up, relieved to see Ben beside me.

Just in time. The slaverunners burst open the metal gate and rush right for us.

But we are already at the top of the cage, fifteen feet high. I look over the edge and hesitate for a moment: it is a steep drop, and a hard landing. Ben hesitates, too.

But we have no choice. It's now or never.

I jump.

I land hard on my feet, fifteen feet below on the concrete. My calf explodes in pain as I tumble to the ground. As I hit, rolling, my cracked ribs hurt just as much. The pain is excruciating, but at least I don't feel as if I've broken anything else. I've made it.

I look over, hoping to see Ben beside me in the chaos, as the crowd scurries in every direction around me. But my heart drops to see he's not there. He is still high on the cage wall, hesitating at the top. He's afraid to jump.

The slaverunners are reaching up, beginning to climb, about to get him. He is terrified, frozen in inaction.

I scramble to my feet and yell up at him.

"BEN!" I scream. "JUMP! DO IT!"

I can hear the panic in my voice. There is no time. If he doesn't jump now, I'll have to leave without him.

Suddenly, thankfully, Ben plunges into the crowd. He hits the ground hard, tumbling. And then, after a moment, he gets up. He looks dazed, but as far as I can tell, unhurt. I grab his arm and we run.

It is such pandemonium no one even notices us. People are brawling with each other, fighting to get out. I manage to weave through the masses, hiding in anonymity. I check back and see the group of slaverunners behind us, on our trail.

I head toward one of the exit tunnels where hundreds are fleeing, and we blend in with the stampede, ducking and weaving through the people. Behind us, I sense the slaverunners parting ways through the crowd, coming after us. I don't know how far we can make it. The thick crowd is barely moving.

I enter the blackness of one of the tunnels, and as I do, a hand grabs me hard around my mouth and yanks me backwards. Another hand clasps Ben by the mouth and drags him back, too.

We've been caught, pulled back into the blackness. I am being held tight in a recess in the wall, and my captor holds me in a strong, deadly grip. I'm unable to resist. As I stand there, I wonder if I'm about to die.

The group of slaverunners runs past us, down the tunnel, thinking they are following us. I can't believe it: we've lost them.

Now I'm thankful for being pulled aside. And as the grip around my mouth loosens, I wonder why my captor just did us a favor. He releases his grip completely, and I look back over my shoulder to see a large soldier, dressed in black but not wearing a mask. He looks different than the others. He looks to be about 22, and his chiseled features are perfect, with a strong jawline and short, cropped brown hair. He towers over us, and stares down with green eyes that are a surprising contrast to his demeanor: they exude softness, and are starkly out of place here.

"Come with me," he says urgently.

He turns and disappears into a side door, hidden in the wall. Ben and I exchange a glance, then instantly follow, ducking under the door and into the side chamber.

This man has just saved our lives. And I have no idea who he is.

*

The soldier closes and locks the door behind us. It is a small room, like a cell, with a tiny window at the top. No sunlight comes through, so I assume it's still night. The room is also lit only by a small red emergency light. He turns to us and we all stand there, facing each other.

"Why did you save us?" I ask.

"You're not saved yet," he answers, coldly. "There are still thousands of those things out there, looking for you. You'll have to sit tight, wait it out, until daylight. Then we can make a break for it. Our chances are slim. But we have no choice."

"But why?" I press. "Why are you doing this?"

He walks away, checking the lock on the door again. Then, his back to us, he murmurs, "Because I want out of here, too."

I stand quietly, Ben on one side of me and the soldier on the other. I listen to the stampede of footsteps just outside the door, racing down the hall. The screaming and hollering seem to go on forever, as the angry mob sounds as if it's alternately looking for us and beating each other up. I've opened Pandora's box: it's total mayhem outside that door. I pray no one else thinks to check in the recess of the wall--or if they do, that the lock holds.

My fear springs to life, as I hear a jiggling on the doorknob. The soldier slowly reaches out his gun, aims it at the door, and leans back. He hold it steady, leveling it at the door.

I stand there, trembling, sweat pouring down my back even though it's cold in here. Whoever is out there keeps fiddling with the knob. If it opens, we're finished. We might kill the first one, but the gunshot would alert the others, and the entire mob would find us. I hold my breath for what seems like forever, and finally the fiddling stops. I hear him turn and run away.

I breathe a sigh of relief. It was probably just a passerby, looking for shelter.

Slowly, the soldier relaxes, too. He lowers and holsters his gun.

"Who are you?" I ask, speaking in hushed tones for fear of being heard.

"Name's Logan," he says, not offering his hand.

"I'm Brooke and this is--" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I know," he says, curtly. "All contestants are announced."

Of course.

"You still haven't answered my question," I press. "I didn't ask your name. I asked who you are."

He looks back at me coldly, defiant.

"I'm one of them," he says reluctantly. "Or, at least, I used to be."

"A slaverunner?" Ben asks, his voice rising in surprise and disgust.

Logan shakes his head.

"No. A gamekeeper. I stood guard in the arena. I never went on slaverunning missions."

"But that still puts you on their side," I snap, and can hear the judgment in my voice. I know I should give him a break--after all, he just saved our lives. But still, I think of those people who took Bree, and it's hard to feel any sympathy.

He shrugs. "Like I said, not anymore."

I glare back at him.

"You don't understand," he says, by way of explanation. "Here, there are no options. Either you join them or you die. It's that simple. I had no choice."

"I would have chosen to die," I say, defiantly.

He looks at me and in the dim light I see the intensity in his green eyes. I can't help noticing, despite myself, how gorgeous they are. There is a nobility to him, a chivalrous quality I've never seen.

"Would you?" he asks. He looks me over. "Maybe you would," he says finally. "Maybe you're a better person than I. But I did what I had to in order to survive."

He paces, crossing to the far side of the room.

"But like I said, none of that matters now," he continues. "The past is the past. I'm getting out."

I realize how judgmental I'm being and I feel bad. Maybe he's right. Maybe if I was still living here, in the city, I would have joined them, too. I don't know what pressures he was under.

"So what now?" I say. "You're leaving them? Defecting?"

"I'm escaping," he says. "I've had enough. Watching you fight--it did something to me. You had such spirit. I knew this was my moment, that I had to leave, even if I die trying."

I hear the sincerity in his voice and know he speaks the truth. I'm surprised to hear that I've inspired him. I wasn't trying to inspire anyone--just to stay alive. And I am grateful for his help.

But based on the number of feet I hear charging outside the door, it sounds like a lost cause anyway. I don't see how we can ever get out of here.

"I know where there's a boat," he continues, as if reading my mind. "It's docked on the west side, at 42nd. It's a small motor boat. They use it to patrol the Hudson. But the first patrol doesn't leave until after dawn. If I get there at dawn, before them, I can steal it. Take it upriver."

"To where?" I ask.

He looks back at me blankly.

"Where would you go?" I press.

He shrugs. "I don't know. I don't care. Anywhere but here. As far as the river will take me, I guess."

"You think you can survive the mountains?" Ben suddenly asks. I can hear an edge to his voice, something unfamiliar, something I haven't heard before. If I didn't know better, it sounds to me like possessiveness. Like jealousy.

Suddenly, my face flushes as I realize: Ben has feelings for me. He's jealous of Logan.

Logan turns and stares Ben down coldly. "You managed to," he says. "Why couldn't I?"

"I'd hardly call what I did surviving," Ben says. "It was more like a slow death."

"It beats being here," Logan says. "Besides, I'm not a defeatist. I'll find a way to survive. I got weapons and ammo, and a few days' food. That's all I need. I'll do whatever I have to."

"I'm not a defeatist," Ben retorts, annoyed.

Logan just shrugs.

"The boat's meant for two," he says, looking away from Ben, to me. It is clear from his gaze he only wants me to come. I wonder if he likes me, or if it's just a guy thing, just plain old competition and jealousy for the sake of it. Logan must see the determination in my stare, because he adds, "But I guess, if it has to, it can hold three."

He paces.

"I'll help you guys escape. At dawn, you'll follow me. We'll take the boat up the Hudson. I'll drop you back at your homes, wherever they are, then I'll continue on my way."

"I'm not going anywhere without Bree," I say, firmly.

Logan turns and looks at me.

"Who's Bree?" he asks.

"My sister."

"And I'm not going without my brother," Ben adds.

"We came down here for a reason," I explain. "To rescue our siblings. And to bring them back. I'm not leaving without her."

Logan shakes head, as if annoyed.

"You don't know what you're saying," he says. "I'm giving you a way out. A free ticket. Don't you realize there's no other way out of here? They'll hunt you down before you go ten feet. And even if you find your sister--then what?"

I stand there and cross my arms, fuming. There's no way I'll let him talk me out of it.

"Besides, I hate to say this but..." he trails off, checking himself.

"But what?" I press.

He hesitates, as if debating whether to say anything. He takes a deep breath.

"There's no way you'll ever find them."

I feel my heart drop at his words. I stare at him, wondering what he's holding back.

"What aren't you telling us?" I ask.

He shifts his eyes from mine to Ben's to the floor, avoiding my gaze.

"What do you know?" I press. My heart is pounding--I am afraid he is going to tell me Bree is dead.

He hesitates, toeing the ground, looking down. Finally, he begins to talk.

"They were separated," he begins. "They were too young. They always separate the older from the younger. The stronger from the weaker. The boys from the girls. The stronger, older ones are set aside for the arena. But the younger, weaker ones..." He trails off.

My heart pounds, as I wonder what he's going to say.

"Well?" Ben prods.

"The young boys, they send to the mines."

"The mines?" Ben asks, stepping forward in indignation.

"The coal mines. Crosstown. Beneath Grand Central. They put them on a train crosstown. Put them down in the shafts, far beneath the earth. They use the coal for fire. That's where your brother is. That's where that train was going. I'm sorry," he says, and sounds genuine.

Ben suddenly marches for the door, his face red.

"Where are you going?" I ask, alarmed.

"To get my brother," Ben snaps back, not even slowing.

Logan steps up and holds out an arm, blocking Ben's way. Now that I look at them side by side, Logan towers over Ben, half a foot taller and twice as broad, with huge, muscular shoulders. Beside him, Ben seems tiny. They are starkly different-looking people, polar opposites: Logan is the all-American jock type, while Ben, thin and unshaven, with his longish hair and soulful eyes, is the sensitive, artist type. They couldn't be more different. But they each share a strong will, a streak of defiance.

"You're not going anywhere," Logan says in his deep, authoritative voice.

Ben looks up at him, scowling.

"You walk out that door," Logan continues, "and you give us away. Then we'll all be dead."

Ben's shoulders relax and he relents.

"You want to find your brother," Logan continues, "you can. But you need to wait till dawn, when we all bust out of here together. Just a few more hours. Then you can go to your death if you want."

Ben slowly turns his back and resentfully crosses to our side of the room.

"What about Bree?" I say, my voice steely cold. I am afraid to ask it. But I need to know. "Where did they take her?"

Logan slowly shakes his head, avoiding my gaze.

"WHERE?" I press, stepping forward, my voice venomous. My heart is pounding with terror.

He clears his throat.

"The young girls," he begins, "the ones who are too young for the arena...they ship them off to slavery," he says. He looks up at me. "The sex trade."

My heart rips in two. I want to run out the door, screaming, looking for her anywhere. But I know that would be futile. I need to know more. I feel my face redden, my entire body rise with heat, my fists clench with indignation.

"Where did they take her?" I press, my voice steely cold.

"They ship the sex slaves to Governors Island. They load them on buses and send them downtown. Then they put them on a boat. The next bus leaves at dawn. Your sister will be on it."

"Where are these buses?" I demand.

"Across the street," he says. "34th and 8th. They leave from the old post office."

Without thinking I march for the door, feeling the horrific pain in my leg as I go. Again, Logan holds out his arm and stops me. It is strong and muscular, like a wall.

"You have to wait, too," he says. "Until daybreak. It would do you no good to look for her now. She's not on the bus yet. They keep them underground until loading time, in a cell somewhere. I don't even know where. I promise you. At dawn, they'll bring them up and load them. If you want to go after her, that's when you can do it."

I stare into his eyes, scrutinizing them, and see the sincerity. Slowly, I relent, breathing deep to control myself.

"But you need to know it's a lost cause," he says. "You'll never bust her out. She'll be chained to a group of slaves, who will be chained to an armored bus. The bus will be flanked by dozens of soldiers and vehicles. You won't be able to get anywhere near it. You'll just end up killing yourself. Not to mention," he adds, "most of the buses don't even make it through the wasteland."

"The wasteland?" I press.

He clears his throat, reluctant.

"To reach the Seaport, the pier for Governors Island, the buses have to go downtown, have to leave the walled area. The wall starts at 23rd Street. South of that, it's the wasteland. That's where the Crazies live. Thousands of them. They attack every bus that goes through there. Most don't even make it. That's why they send lots of buses at once."

My heart drops at his words.

"That's why I'm telling you: leave with me in the morning. At least you'll be safe. Your siblings are already a lost cause. At least you can survive."

"I don't care what the odds are," I retort, my voice steely and determined. "I don't care if I die trying. I'm going after my sister."

"And I'm going after my brother," Ben adds. I'm surprised by his determination, too.

Logan shakes his head.

"Suit yourself. You guys are on your own. I'm taking that boat at dawn and I'll be long gone."

"You'll do what you have to do," I say, with disgust. "Just like you always have."

He sneers back at me, and I can see I've really hurt him. He turns away abruptly, crosses to the far side of the room, leans against the wall, and sits, sulking. He checks and cleans his pistol, not looking at me again, as if I no longer exist.

His sitting reminds me of the pain in my calf, of how exhausted I am. I go to the far wall, as far away from him as I can get, lean back against it, and sit, too. Ben comes over and sits beside me, his knees almost touching mine, but not quite. It feels good to have him there. He understands.

I can't believe we are both sitting here right now, alive. I never would have imagined this. I was sure we were being marched off to our deaths earlier, and now I feel as if I'm being given a second chance at life.

I think of my sister, and Ben's brother--and suddenly it strikes me that we will have to part ways, go to different parts of the city. The thought of it disturbs me. I look over and study him, as he sits there with his head down. He's just not cut out to be a fighter. He won't survive on his own. And somehow, I feel responsible.

"Come with me," I suddenly say. "It will be safer that way. We'll go downtown together, find my sister, and then find a way out of here."

He shakes his head.

"I can't leave my brother," he says.

"Stop and think about it," I say. "How will you ever find him? He's crosstown somewhere, hundreds of feet below ground, in a mine. And if you do find him, how will you get out of there? At least we know where my sister is. At least we have a chance."

"How will you get out after you find her?" he asks.

It is a good question, one for which I have no response.

I simply shake my head. "I'll find a way," I say.

"So will I," he answers. But I can detect the uncertainty in this voice, as if he already knows that he won't.

"Please, Ben," I plead. "Come with me. We'll get Bree and make it out of this. We'll survive together."

"I can say the same thing," he says. "I can ask you to come with me. Why is your sister more important than my brother?"

It is a good point. He loves his brother as much as I love my sister. And I understand. There's nothing I can say to that. The reality hits me that we will part ways at dawn. And I will probably never see him again.

"OK," I say. "But promise me one thing, will you?"

He looks at me.

"When you're done, head to the East River, make your way down to the pier at the South Street Seaport. Be there at dawn. I'll be there. I'll find a way. Meet me there, and we'll find a way to make it out together." I look at him. "Promise me," I command.

He studies me, and I can see him thinking.

"What makes you so sure you'll even make it downtown, to the Seaport?" he asks. "Past all the Crazies?"

"If I don't," I say, "that means I'm dead. And I don't plan on dying. Not after everything I've been through. Not while Bree's alive."

I can hear the determination in my own voice, and I barely recognize it--it sounds as if a stranger is speaking through me.

"That's our meeting place," I insist. "Be there. Promise me."

Finally, he nods.

"Okay," he says. "Fine. If I'm alive, I'll be there. At dawn. But if I'm not, that means I'm dead. And don't wait for me. Do you promise? I don't want you waiting for me," he insists. "Promise me."

Finally, I say, "I promise."

He reaches out his frail hand towards me. I slowly take it in mine.

We sit there, holding hands, our fingers intertwined, and I realize it is the first time I've held his hand--really held his hand. The skin is so soft, and it feels good to hold it. Despite myself, I feel small butterflies.

We sit there, our backs to the wall, beside each other in the dim room, holding hands for I don't know how long. We both look away, neither of us saying a word, each lost in our own world. But our hands never part, and as I sit there, falling asleep, I can't help but wonder if this is the last time I'll see him alive.

# T W E N T Y   T H R E E

I open my eyes as a rough hand shoves my shoulder.

"LET'S GO!" comes an urgent whisper.

I open my eyes with a jolt, disoriented, unsure if I'm awake or asleep. I look all around, trying to get my bearings, and see grey, pre-dawn daylight filtering in through the window. Daybreak. I've fallen asleep sitting on the floor, my head resting on Ben's shoulder. Logan wakes him roughly, too.

I jump into action, scurrying to my feet. As I do, the pain in my calf is excruciating, exploding in my leg.

"We're losing time!" Logan snaps. "Move! Both of you! I'm leaving. If you want to follow me out, now's your chance!"

Logan hurries to the door and leans his ear against it. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I cross the room, Ben now awake and beside me, and take a position behind Logan. We listen. All seems quiet outside. There are no more footsteps, no shouts or jeers...nothing. I wonder how many hours have passed. It sounds like everyone has disappeared.

Logan seems satisfied, too. Holding his gun in one hand, he slowly reaches out with his free hand, unlocks the door, and checks to see if we're ready. He gently pulls open the door.

Logan cautiously steps outside, rounds the corner sharply, ready to shoot.

He gestures for us to follow, and I come out and I see the corridors are empty.

"Move!" he whispers frantically.

He runs down the corridor and I run behind him for all I'm worth. Every step is a small explosion of pain in my calf. I can't help looking down at it, and as I do, I wish I hadn't: it's now swelled up to the size of a baseball. It's also bright red, and I worry it's infected. All my other muscles ache, too, from my ribs to my shoulder to my face--but it's my calf that concerns me most. The others are just injuries; but if my calf is infected, I'll need medicine. And fast.

But I can't focus on this now. I continue to run, hobbling down the corridor, Ben beside me and Logan about ten feet in front. The steel corridors are dimly lit by sporadic emergency lights, and I follow Logan in the darkness, relying on his knowledge of this place. Luckily, there is still no one in sight. I assume they are all out looking for us.

Logan makes a right down another corridor, then a left. We follow, trusting he knows his way out of here. He is our lifeline now, and I'll just have to put my trust in him. I have no choice.

After several more twists and turns, Logan finally comes to a stop before a door. I stop beside him, out of breath. He pushes it open, peeks out, then opens it all the way. He reaches back, grabs Ben by the shoulder and pulls him forward.

"There," he says, pointing. "See it?"

I lean forward. In the distance, across the vast, open terminal, are train tracks.

"That train, the one beginning to move. It goes to the mines. It leaves once a day. If you want to go, now's your chance. Catch it!"

Ben turns and looks at me one last time, eyes open wide with adrenaline. He surprises me by reaching out, grabbing my hand, and kissing the back of it. He holds it for another second and looks at me meaningfully, as if this might be the last time he sees me.

He then turns and sprints across the terminal, heading for the train.

Logan glances at me derisively, and I can feel his jealousy.

I don't know what to think of the kiss myself. As I watch him run for the train, I can't help but wonder again if this will be the last time I see him.

"This way!" Logan snaps, running down a different corridor.

But I sit there, frozen, watching Ben run.

Logan turns back to me, annoyed, impatient. "MOVE!" he whispers.

Ben runs across the entire open expanse of Penn Station, along the tracks, then jumps up onto the back of the slowly moving train. He holds tight onto the metal bars as the train disappears into a black tunnel. He's made it.

"I'm leaving!" Logan says, then turns and sprints down another corridor.

I snap out of it, sprinting after him. I go as fast as my legs will take me, but Logan is already far ahead and he turns again, out of sight. My heart pounds as I wonder if I've lost him.

I turn down another corridor, run up a ramp, and finally spot him again. He stands along a wall, beside a glass door, waiting for me. Through it, I can see outside. Eighth Avenue. It is a world of white. There is a raging blizzard out there.

I run up to Logan and stand beside him, my back against the wall, struggling to catch my breath.

"See there?" he asks, pointing.

I follow his gaze, trying to see between the sheets of snow.

"Across the street," he says, "in front of the old post office. Those buses parked out front."

I strain to look and spot three large buses, covered in snow. They look like school buses, but are modified, with thick bars built on every side, like armored vehicles. Two of them are painted yellow, and one is black. Dozens of young girls chained to each other are being loaded onto them. My heart leaps as I spot Bree a couple hundred yards away in the chain gang, being herded onto one of the two yellow buses.

"There she is!" I scream. "That's Bree!"

"Give it up," he says. "Come with me. You'll survive, at least."

But I am filled with a new resolve, and I look at him with dead seriousness.

"It's not about surviving," I reply. "Don't you realize that?"

Logan looks back into my eyes and I can see that, for the first time, he gets it. He really gets it. He sees that I'm determined, that nothing on earth is going to change my mind.

"Okay, then," he says. "This is it. Once we burst out those doors, I'm heading uptown, for the boat. You're on your own."

He reaches down and places something heavy in my palm. A gun. I am surprised, and grateful.

I am about to say goodbye, but suddenly hear an engine, and look out and see clouds of black exhaust exiting the buses' tailpipes. Before I know it, all three buses start to pull out in the thick snow.

"NO!" I scream. Before I even think it through, I kick open the door and burst outside. A wave of icy snow and wind hits me in the face, so cold and wet it takes my breath away.

I run out into the blinding blizzard, snow up to my knees. I run and run, heading across the white, open expanse towards the buses. Towards Bree.

I am too late. They have a good hundred yards on me, and are gaining speed in the snow. I sprint after them, my leg killing me, barely able to catch my breath, until I realize that Logan was right. It is useless. I watch the buses turn a corner, and they are soon out of sight. I can't believe it. I just missed her.

I check back over my shoulder, and Logan is gone. My heart drops. He must have taken off already. Now I'm completely alone.

Desperate, I try to think quickly, to come up with an idea. I scan my surroundings, and see, in front of Penn Station, a row of Humvees. Slaverunners sit on the roofs and hoods. They are all huddled in their coats against the snow, their backs to me. None of them look in my direction. They are all fixated on watching the buses leave.

I need a vehicle. It is my only chance to catch those buses.

I sprint, hobbling, towards the Humvee in the rear, the only one with no slaverunner sitting on its roof. The Humvee is running, exhaust coming from its tailpipe, a slaverunner sitting in the driver's seat, warming his hands.

I creep up to the driver's side door and yank it open, holding out my gun.

This slaverunner wears no facemask, and I can see the shock in his face.  He holds up his hands in fear, not wanting to be shot. I don't give him time to react, to alert the others. Pointing my gun to his face, I reach in, grab him by the shirt, and pull him out. He falls hard to the snow.

I'm about to jump into the driver's seat, when suddenly I feel a tremendous pain in the side of my head, the impact of something metal. Knocked over by the blow, I fall down to the snow.

Another slaverunner has snuck up on me and cracked me in the side of the head with his gun. I reach up, touch my head, and feel blood trickling onto my hand. It hurts like hell.

The slaverunner stands over me, and lowers his gun towards my face. He grins an evil grin, cocks the pin, and I know he's about to fire. Suddenly, I realize I'm about to die.

A gunshot rings, and I brace myself.

# T W E N T Y   F O U R

Blood splatters my face, the warmth of it sticking to my skin, and I wonder if I'm dead.

I slowly open my eyes, and then realize what has happened. I am not dead; I was not even fired upon. The slaverunner was shot from behind, in the back of the head, and his brains splattered all over me. Someone shot him. Someone saved me.

Logan stands behind him, his gun outstretched, still smoking. I can't believe it. He's come back for me.

Logan offers his hand. I take it. It's huge and rough, and he pulls me to my feet in one swift motion.

"GET IN!" he screams.

I run to the passenger side and jump in. Logan jumps into the driver's side, slams the door, and before I am barely in, he pulls out, gunning the Humvee. It slips and slides in the snow as we peel out.

The other slaverunners scramble, jumping off the hoods of their vehicles and taking off after us. One of them charges on foot. Logan reaches out his window, aims, and shoots him in the head, killing him before he can fire. Another charges us, hand outstretched with his gun, aiming right at us. I reach out my window and fire. It is a direct hit in the head, and he goes down.

I aim for another one, but suddenly go flying, as the torque of the car sends me backwards. Logan is flooring it, and we are all over the place in the snow. We turn the corner and gain speed quickly on the three bulky buses. They are only a few hundred yards ahead of us.

Behind us, though, a half dozen Humvees are on our tail. They will soon overtake us. We are outmanned.

Logan shakes his head. "You couldn't just come with me, could you?" he says in exasperation, as he puts it into fifth gear and floors it again. "You're more stubborn than I am."

We gain more speed as we follow the buses crosstown on 34th Street, heading east. We cross Seventh Avenue...then Sixth...then the buses make a sharp right on Fifth and we follow, only a hundred yards behind.

I check the rearview and see the Humvees right on us. One of the slaverunners reaches out his window and aims his gun, and next thing I know, bullets ricochet off our vehicle, echoing off the metal. I flinch, grateful it's bulletproof.

Logan steps on it, and the streets fly by:  32nd street...31st...30th.... I look up and am shocked to see an enormous wall right before us, blocking off Fifth Avenue. The narrow, arched opening in the middle is the only way in or out.

Several guards open its huge metal bars, allowing the three buses to pass through, single file.

"We have to stop!" Logan screams. "Beyond those gates is the wasteland! It's too dangerous!"

"NO!" I scream back. "You can't stop! Go! GO!"

Logan shakes his head, sweating. But to his credit, he sticks to the course.

The gate closes. Logan doesn't slow, though.

"Hold on!" he screams.

Our Humvee smashes into the iron gate, and the impact is tremendous. I brace myself, not thinking we're going to make it.

But luckily, this Humvee is built like a tank. I can't believe it, but the iron gate comes off its hinges and flies into the air. Our windshield is cracked and our hood badly dented, but luckily, we are unhurt. We are gaining on the buses, now only fifty yards ahead.

I check the rearview, expecting to see the other Humvees behind us--instead, they all slam on their brakes before the open gate. None of them dares follow us. I can't understand--it's as if they're afraid to pass through to this side of the wall.

"What are they doing?" I ask. "They're stopping! They stopped following us!"

Logan doesn't seem surprised--which I don't understand either.

"Of course they stopped."

"Why?"

"We crossed the wall. It's the wasteland. They're not that stupid."

I look at him, still not understanding.

"They're scared," he says.

I don't understand: how can a large group of armed warriors, in machinegun-mounted Humvees, be scared?

I look around us, take in our surroundings, and am suddenly more wary than I've ever been. A chill runs up my spine. What can be so dangerous about this place that a squadron of soldiers in Humvees are afraid to enter it?

As I lean forward and look closely, I suddenly spot movement. I look up high, and see the terribly scarred faces of Biovictims looking out from all the abandoned buildings. There are hundreds of them.

Suddenly, the manholes all around us begin to rise. Dozens more Biovictims rise up from the ground. We pass an abandoned subway station, and even more come running up the stairs right at us.

My heart starts to pound at the sight of these people. There are hundreds of them, charging from every direction. I've entered their territory, crossed a line into a place I'm not supposed to be. I have to get to Bree as soon as possible and get us the hell out of here.

A Crazy jumps up and reaches through my open window to grab at me. I lean back, then wind up and hit him in the face with the butt of my pistol. He falls, his body sliding in the snow.

The buses swerve erratically in front of us, and Logan follows their path. The motion makes me nauseous.

"Why are you swerving like that?" I ask.

"Mined!" Logan yells back. "This entire goddamn wasteland is mined!"

As if to hammer home his point, there is a small explosion in the road before us, and one of the buses manages to swerve out of the way at the last second. My heart drops. How much worse can this place get?

"Catch up to her bus!" I scream over the roaring of the engine.

He floors it, and we close the gap. We're maybe 30 yards away now, and I'm trying to formulate a plan. As we're closing in, suddenly, a Crazy rises from a manhole, raises an RPG to his shoulder, and fires.

The grenade races through the air and scores a direct hit on the black bus. It explodes right in front of us, forcing us to swerve at the last second.

The bus skids and lands on its side, then bursts into a huge ball of flames. I think of all the girls who boarded it, and my heart sinks. Now there are only two buses left. I thank God Bree was on one of the yellow ones. Now time is even more of the essence.

"HURRY!" I yell. "DRIVE UP TO HER BUS!"

We are heading right for the Flatiron building. Fifth Avenue forks, and one of the yellow buses bears left, heading down Broadway, while the other bears right, staying on Fifth. I have no idea which one carries Bree. My heart pounds with anxiety. I have to choose.

"Which one?" Logan screams, frantic.

I hesitate.

"WHICH BUS?" he screams again.

We are coming up on the intersection and I have to choose. I think hard, desperately trying to remember which one she boarded. But it is no use. My mind is a blur, and the two buses look identical to me. I just have to guess.

"Go right!" I scream.

As the last second, he swerves right. He guns it after one of the buses. I pray I have chosen the right one.

Logan floors it, and manages to speed up to the bus. We are now just yards behind it, sucking in its exhaust. The back windows are grimy and I can't really make out the faces inside, but I do see shapes, the bodies of all those young, chained girls. I pray that one of them is Bree.

"Now what?" Logan screams.

I am wondering the exact same thing.

"I can't run them off the road!" Logan adds. "I might kill her!"

I think fast, trying to formulate a plan.

"Get closer," I say. "Pull up beside it!"

He pulls up to the back, our bumpers nearly touching, and as he does, I lift myself out of the seat and crawl out the open window to sit on the door ledge. The wind is so strong it nearly knocks me off.

"What are you doing!?" Logan screams in concern. But I ignore it. There's no time for second-guessing.

Snow and wind whip my face as Logan pulls up right beside the bus. I steady myself, waiting for the perfect moment. The back of the bus is now only a foot away, and there is a wide, flat ledge by its bumper. I brace myself, my heart pounding.

And then I leap.

My shoulder slams into the side of the bus as I land on the ledge. I reach out and grab the thick, metal bars. The metal freezes my bare hands, but I hold on tight. The ground flies by beneath me in a blur. I can barely believe it. I made it.

The bus must be doing 80 in the snow, and it swerves erratically. I wrap one arm thoroughly around the bar, hugging it with all I have, just barely managing to hang on.

We hit a pothole and I slip, nearly losing my grip. One of my feet dips down and drags on the snow--it is my wounded leg, and I scream out in pain as it bumps along the ground. With supreme effort, I slowly pull myself back up.

I try to open the back door, but my heart drops to discover it is locked with a padlock and chain. My hand shaking, I manage to remove my gun from my belt. I lean back, brace myself, and fire.

Sparks fly. The padlock breaks, and the chain clatters and falls to the ground.

I try the door and it pops open with tremendous force, flying against the wind, nearly knocking me off. I pull myself through the opening and into the back of the bus.

I now stand inside, in the aisle of the school bus. I quickly hurry down it, looking back and forth frantically as I go. There are dozens of young girls in here, chained to each other and to their seats. They all look up at me, terrified. I scan each row quickly, from left to right, looking for any sign of my sister.

"BREE!" I yell out, desperate.

As the girls catch on to my presence and realize I might be a key to their salvation, they start crying, hysterical.

"HELP ME!" one of them screams.

"PLEASE, GET ME OUT OF HERE!" another screams.

The driver catches on to my presence; I look up and catch him starting at me in the rearview. He suddenly swerves the bus hard. As he does, I fly across the aisle and bang my head on the metal casing of the ceiling.

I regain my balance, but then he swerves in the other direction, and I fly across the other side of the bus.

My head is pounding, but I steady myself, this time clutching the seats as I pull myself carefully forward, going row to row. I look each way for Bree, and there are only a few rows left.

"BREE!" I scream out, wondering why she's not raising her head.

I check the next two rows, then the next two, then the next two.... Finally, I reach the last row, and my heart drops.

There's no sign of her.

The realization hits me like a hammer: I chose the wrong bus.

Suddenly, I glimpse motion out the window and hear an explosion. I turn to see our Humvee, Logan inside, flying up in the air as it hits a mine. It lands on its side, skidding through the snow. Then it stops.

My heart drops. Logan must be dead.

# T W E N T Y   F I V E

I take my eyes off the driver for too long, and it is a stupid mistake.

He pulls out a handgun and aims it right at me. He smiles a cruel smile. He has me.

He cocks back the trigger and is about to fire. I brace myself. There is nowhere to go. I'm dead.

Over the driver's shoulder, a Crazy jumps out of a manhole, aims an RPG, and fires. The missile sails through the air, coming right for us.

An explosion rocks our world. The noise is deafening, and I am thrown up into the air, smashing my head, as I feel the tremendous impact of the heat. Then my world turns sideways, as the bus crashes onto its side and skids.

Because I'm the only one standing, the only one not buckled or chained down, I'm the only one who goes flying across the bus. I go through an open window, propelled out of the bus just as it explodes, and the shockwave sends me even farther. I continue soaring through the air and land twenty yards away, face-first in a mound of snow.

Flames rip through the air, searing my back, but I roll in the snow and put them out. I feel the tremendous heat of the waves of fire behind me.

The entire bus is up in flames, on its side, in the snow. The flames must rise twenty feet high. It is an inferno. My heart drops as I realize that no one could possibly survive that. I think of all those innocent little girls, and I feel sick.

I lay there in the snow bank, trying to catch my breath from the smoke. My head spins, and I hurt more than ever. It is an effort to sit up. I turn and set my sights on our Humvee. It sits there in the distance, at the base of the Flatiron building, on its side, like a dead beast, two of its tires blown off.

Logan. I wonder if he is alive.

I claw myself to my feet with my last ounce of strength, and manage to hobble his way. He is a good fifty yards away, and it feels like I am crossing a desert to reach him.

As I get close, another manhole opens up, and a crazy suddenly sprints right for me, holding out a knife. I reach down and raise my gun, take aim and shoot him in the head. He lands on his back, dead. I take his knife and put it in my belt.

I check over my shoulder as I run, and several hundred yards back I spot a group of Crazies charging right towards me. There must be at least fifty of them. And all around them I see more manholes open up, more Crazies crawling up from the ground, running out of the subway stations, scurrying up from the steps. I wonder if they live in the subway tunnels. I wonder if any subways are even still running.

But there is no time to think about that now. I race for the Humvee and as I reach it, I find it's destroyed, useless. I climb up on it and open the driver's side door. I brace myself as I look in, praying I don't see Logan dead.

Luckily, I don't. He is still sitting in the driver's seat, buckled and unconscious. Blood is splattered on the windshield and he's bleeding from his forehead, but at least he's breathing. He's alive. Thank God he's alive.

I hear a distant noise, and turn to see the Crazies getting closer. I need to get Logan out of here--and fast.

I reach in, grab his shirt, and begin to yank him up. But he is heavier than I can manage.

"LOGAN!" I scream.

I pull harder, shaking him, afraid the Humvee will blow any minute. Slowly, he begins to wake.  He blinks and looks around.

"You okay?" I ask.

He nods back. He looks stunned, frightened, but not seriously injured.

"I can't get out," he says back in a weak voice. He struggles with the twisted metal of his seatbelt buckle.

I climb in, reach over him, and jab at the buckle. It's jammed. I check back over my shoulder and see the Crazies are even closer. Fifty yards and closing in. I use both hands, pushing it for all I have, sweating from the exertion. Come on. Come on!

Suddenly, the buckle snaps and the seatbelt whips back. Logan, free, rolls over, banging his head. He begins to pull himself out.

Just as Logan sits up, his eyes suddenly open wide, and he reaches out with one hand and roughly pushes me aside. He raises a gun with the other and takes aim just past my head and fires. The fire is deafening in my ear, which rings badly from it.

I turn and see he's just killed a Crazy, a few feet away. And the others are only thirty yards behind him.

The Crazies are closing in fast. And there's no way out.

# T W E N T Y   S I X

I think quickly. An RPG lies in the snow, a few feet away from the dead body of a Crazy. It looks intact, never fired. I run to it, my heart pounding. I only hope it works--and that I can figure out how to use it in the next few seconds.

I kneel down in the snow and scoop it up, my hands freezing, and hold it up against my shoulder. I find the trigger and take aim at the mob, now barely twenty yards away. I close my eyes, pray it works, and squeeze.

I hear a loud whooshing noise, and a moment later I'm knocked backwards off my feet. The force of it sends me about ten feet, landing flat on my back in the snow. There's an explosion.

I look up and am shocked at the damage I've done: I managed a direct hit on the mob, at close range. Where there were dozens of bodies a second ago, there is now nothing but body parts spread over the snow.

But there is no time to revel in my small victory. In the distance, dozens more crazies crawl up from the subway stations. I don't have any more RPGs to fire, and don't know what else to do.

Behind me I hear a noise of smashing metal and turn to see Logan standing on the hood of the Humvee. He lifts his leg and kicks at the machine gun mounted to its hood. Finally, it comes off. He picks it up. A chain of ammo dangles from it, which he wraps over his shoulder. The gun is massive, made to be mounted on a car--not carried--and looks like it weighs over fifty pounds. He holds it with both hands, and even as big as he is, I can see it weighing him down. He runs past me and takes aim at the new group of crazies. He fires.

The noise is deafening as the machine gunfire rips through the snow. The impact is remarkable: the huge bullets tear the incoming crowd in half. Bodies drop like flies wherever Logan aims the gun. Eventually he stops shooting, and the world returns to its still, snowy silence. We have killed them all. For now, at least, there are no more Crazies in sight.

I survey this canvas of destruction: there is the destroyed black school bus, taken out by the RPG, the destroyed yellow one, lying on its side, in flames, bodies are everywhere, and our Humvee is a shell beside us. It looks like the scene of an intense military battle.

I follow the tracks from the other bus, the one with Bree on it. They forked left at the Flatiron.

I chose the wrong bus. It's not fair. It's just not fair.

As I study the scene, catching my breath, all I can think of is Bree, those tracks. They lead to her. I have to follow them.

"Bree's on the other bus," I say, pointing at the tracks. "I have to find her."

"How?" he asks. "On foot?"

I examine our Humvee and see that it is useless. I have no other choice.

"I guess so," I say.

"The Seaport's at least fifty blocks south," Logan says. "That's a long walk--and in dangerous territory."

"You have any other ideas?"

He shrugs.

"There's no turning back," I say. "Not for me, anyway."

He examines me, debating.

"You with me?" I ask.

Finally, he nods.

"Let's move," he says.

*

We follow the tracks, walking side by side in the snow. Each step is a fresh burst of hell, as my calf, so swollen, is beginning to feel like a separate entity from my body. I hobble, doing my best to keep pace with Logan. He is weighed down by the heavy machine gun and is not walking too quickly himself. The snow is still coming down in sheets, the wind whipping it right into our faces. If anything, the storm feels like it's getting stronger.

Every few feet another Crazy pops out from behind a building and charges us. Logan fires at them as they come, mowing them down one at a time. They all hit the snow, staining it read.

"Logan!" I scream.

He turns just in time to see the small group of Crazies attacking us from behind and shoots them down. I pray he has enough ammo to get us wherever we need to go. My gun only has a single bullet left; I need to save it for a desperate moment. I feel so helpless and wish I had rounds of ammo myself.

As we pass another block, several Crazies jump out from behind a building and charge us at once. Logan fires, but doesn't see the other Crazy, attacking from the other side. He's coming too fast and Logan won't make it in time.

I pull out the knife from my belt, take aim, and throw it. It lodges in the Crazy's forehead and he drops to the snow at Logan's feet.

We continue down Broadway, gaining speed, moving as fast as we can. As we go, the crowd of Crazies seems to thin out. Maybe they see the damage we are doing and are wary of approaching. Or maybe they are just waiting, biding their time. They must know we will run out of ammo and will eventually have nowhere to go.

We pass 19th street, then 18th, then 17th...and suddenly, the sky opens up. Union Square. The square, once so pristine, is now one big, untended park filled with trees and waist-high weeds sprouting up through the snow. The buildings are all in ruin, the glass storefronts shattered and the facades blackened from flames. Several of the buildings have collapsed and are nothing but piles of rubble in the snow.

I look over, checking to see if the Barnes & Noble I once loved is still standing. I remember the days when I would take Bree there, when we would go up the escalator and lose ourselves for hours. Now I am horrified to see there is nothing left. Its old, rusted sign lies face-down on the ground, half covered in snow. There's not a single book left in the shell of its windows. In fact, there's no way of knowing what it once was.

We hurry across the square, sidestepping rubble as we follow the bus tracks. All has become eerily quiet. I don't like it.

We reach the southern side of the square, and I'm saddened to see the huge statue of George Washington mounted on a horse toppled, lying in pieces on its side, half-covered in snow. There is really nothing left. Anything and everything that was good in the city seems to have been ruined. It is astonishing.

I stop, grabbing onto Logan's shoulder, trying to catch my breath. My leg hurts so bad, I need to rest it.

Logan stops and is about to say something--when we both hear a commotion and turn. Across the square, dozens of Crazies suddenly rise up from the subway entrance, heading right for us. There seems to be a never-ending stream of them.

Worse, Logan takes aim and pulls the trigger, and this time we hear nothing but an empty, horrifying click. His eyes open wide in surprise and fear. Now we have nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. This huge group of Crazies, at least a hundred and growing, are closing in. I turn in every direction, looking frantically for any source of escape, any vehicles, any weapons. Any source of shelter. But I find none.

It seems we have reached the end of our luck.

# T W E N T Y   S E V E N

I frantically scan our surroundings and spot the façade of what was once a Whole Foods. It is abandoned, like everything else, completely gutted. But unlike the other stores, it appears the doors are still intact. I wonder if maybe we can get in and lock them behind us.

"This way!" I scream to Logan, who stands there, frozen in indecision.

We run to the entrance of the Whole Foods, the Crazies just 30 yards behind us. I expect them to be yelling, but they are dead silent. With all the snow, they don't even make a sound, and that somehow is even more eerie than if they were screaming.

We reach the doors and I try the handle and am relieved it's open. I run in, Logan behind me, then turn and slam it behind us. Logan removes the heavy machinegun from his shoulder and shoves it between the door handles, barring the doors. He wedges it in there, and it is a perfect fit. I test the doors, and they don't budge.

We turn and run deeper into the store. It is cold in here, empty, gutted. There are no remnants of food, just torn and empty packaging all over the floor. No weapons, no supplies. No hiding places. Nothing. Whatever was once here was looted long ago. I scan for exits, but see none.

"Now what?" Logan asks.

There's a sudden crash against the metal door as dozens of Crazies slam into it. Our lock won't last long. I search the store again, frantic for an idea. And then, in the distance, I spot something: a stairwell.

"There!" I yell, pointing.

We both run across the store, burst through the door, and into the stairwell. Logan looks at me.

"Up or down?" he asks.

It's a good question. If we go down, maybe there's a basement. Maybe there are some sort of supplies, and maybe we can barricade ourselves in down there. Then again, it could be a death trap. And judging from the look of this place, I doubt there are any supplies. If we go up, maybe there's something on a higher floor. Maybe an exit through the roof.

My claustrophobic side gets the better of me.

"UP!" I say, despite the pain in my leg.

We start ascending the metal steps. Logan climbs so fast, it is a struggle for me to catch up. He runs back, wraps an arm around me, holds me tight, and pulls me up the steps faster than I can manage on my own. Each step is torture, feels like a knife entering my calf. I curse the day that snake was born.

We run up flight after flight. When we cross the fourth flight I have to stop, gasping for breath. My breath is raspy, and sounds scary even to me: I sound like a 90-year-old woman. My body has endured too much in the last 48 hours.

Suddenly, there is a horrific crash. We both look at each other, then look down the stairwell. We both realize at the same time that the Crazies have broken in.

"COME ON!" he screams.

He grabs me, and I feel a surge of adrenaline as we run twice as fast up the steps. We clear the sixth flight, then the seventh. I hear the sound of the Crazies barging into the stairwell. They're starting to sprint up the steps. They know exactly where we are.

We have only one more flight to go. I force myself, gasping for breath, up the last flight of steps. We reach the landing and race for the metal door to the roof. Logan puts a shoulder into it, but it won't open. It's locked. Apparently, from the outside. I can't believe it.

The mob of Crazies is getting closer, the sound of them on the metal stairwell deafening. In moments, we will be torn to bits.

"STAND BACK!" I scream to Logan, getting an idea.

This is as good a place as any to use my last round. I pull out my gun, take aim, and with the last round I have left, fire at the knob. I know it's risky to fire in such close quarters--but I don't see what choice we have.

The bullet ricochets off the metal, missing us by an inch, and the lock opens.

We run through the door, out into daylight. I survey the roof, wondering where we can go, if there's any possible escape. But I see nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Logan takes my hand and runs with me to the far corner. As we reach the edge I look over and see, below us, a huge stone wall. It spans University Place, running across 14th Street and blocking off everything south of it.

"The 14th Street wall!" Logan screams. "It separates the wasteland from the desert."

"The desert?" I ask.

"It's where the bomb went off. It's all radiated--everything south of 14th street. No one goes there. Not even the Crazies. It's too dangerous."

There's a sudden crash of metal, and the door to the roof slams open. The mob pours out, running right for us.

Far below I see a snow bank, about eight feet high. The snow is thick, and if we land just right, maybe, just maybe, it can cushion our fall. But it is a far jump, about fifty feet. And it would put us on the Desert side of the wall.

But I don't see what choice we have.

"That snow bank!" I yell, pointing. "We can jump for it!"

Logan looks down and shakes his head, looking scared.

I check over our shoulder: the Crazies are 30 yards away.

"We have no choice!" I yell.

"I'm scared of heights," he finally admits, looking very pale.

I reach over and take his hand, and step up on the ledge. He pauses for a second, fear his eyes, but then comes.

"Close your eyes!" I yell. "Trust me!"

And then, with the Crazies only a few feet away, we jump.

# T W E N T Y   E I G H T

As we plummet through the air, screaming, I hope my aim is accurate. We rush towards the ground so fast, if we miss, we will surely die.

A moment later we are immersed in a cloud of snow as we land dead center in the eight-foot snow bank, Logan still holding my hand. We hit it with tremendous speed and sink down into it, all the way to the bottom, until our feet hit hard on the cement. Luckily, the snow is thick, and it cushions most of the impact of the fall. When I hit bottom, it only feels as if I've jumped from a few feet up.

I sit at the bottom, snow piled high above my head, in complete shock. Sunlight pokes through the snow several feet above me. I sit there, frozen, afraid to move, to claw my way out of the mountain of snow, to find out if anything is broken. I feel like I'm on the beach, buried under a pile of sand.

Slowly, I move a hand, then an arm, then a shoulder.... I gradually pull myself out, free myself from the hole I'm in. It is awkward, but I claw my way up and out of the pile of snow. I stick my head out, like a gopher coming up from a hole in a lawn. I turn and see Logan doing the same.

I crane my neck and look up: all the way up there, still standing on the roof, looking down, is the mob of crazies. They are arguing amongst themselves, and it appears they aren't willing to do the jump we just did. I don't blame them: I look up at the height and marvel I had the guts to take such a leap myself. I probably wouldn't do it again if I stopped to think about it.

I stand, breaking free of the snow bank, and Logan does, too. I am completely covered in snow and reach up and brush it off. I take a few steps, testing myself, checking to see if anything is broken. My calf still hurts--worse than ever--but otherwise, remarkably, I think I survived relatively intact, with only a few more aches and bruises to show for it.

Logan is walking, and I am relieved to see he didn't break anything, either. Just as importantly, I'm relieved we are now on this side of the wall. The desert. It might mean a slow death--but at least we're safe for now.

I look down the desolate, abandoned University Place: all the stores are burnt out, some of them crumbled to the ground. There is no one and nothing here. As chaotic and violent as the wasteland was, the desert is quiet. Peaceful. Finally, for the first time in a while, I let my guard down.

But I know I shouldn't. If this part of the city really is radiated, then it holds more danger than all the other places combined. Every second here could contaminate us. And who knows who--or what--still survives in the zone. I'd hate to run into it.

"Let's move," Logan says, following the bus tracks, which go straight through the arch in the wall, and continue down University.

We walk at a quick pace down University, checking over our shoulders as we go. Now more than ever I wish I had a weapon. Logan checks his body habitually, and I can tell he wishes he had one, too. Our only hope now is just to follow these tracks, find Bree, and get out of here as soon as possible.

We pass 10th Street, then 9th, then 8th, and suddenly the sky opens up on our right. I look over and am shocked to see what was once Washington Square Park. I remember so many nights here, before the war, hanging out with friends, sitting around and watching the skateboarders do their tricks on the cement plaza. Now, as I look at it, I'm aghast: there is nothing left. The huge arch that marked its entrance is toppled and lies on the ground, crumbled, covered in snow. Even worse, where the park once was, there is now nothing but a vast crater, sinking hundreds of feet deep into the earth. It stretches as far as the eye can see. It is as if a whole section of the city has been scooped out.

Logan must see me staring.

"That's where the bomb hit," he explains. "The first to hit the city."

I can't believe it. It looks like the Grand Canyon. I can see the bomb's rippling effect, radiating out, building façades melted away in every direction. Everything I once knew is gone. It now looks more like the surface of Mars.

"Let's go," Logan says impatiently, and I realize that the sight disturbs him, too.

The bus tracks continue down University until it ends, then go left on West 4th. We follow them as they cut through the Village and turn right on Bowery. This avenue is wider, and it is desolate here, too. There is not a soul in sight.

I should feel more relaxed, yet oddly enough, I feel more on edge than ever. It is too ominous, too quiet. All I hear is the howling of the wind, the snow whipping into my face. I can't help feeling that at any moment something might jump out at me.

But nothing does. Instead, we walk and walk, block after block, always heading farther downtown. It's like we are crossing a vast desert, with no end in sight. And this, it turns out, is the real danger of this zone. The distance. The cold. The bus tracks never seem to end, and with each step, my leg gets worse and I grow weaker.

Slowly, the late afternoon sky, heavy with storm clouds, grows darker. As we cross the huge street I once knew as Houston, I wonder how much farther I can go.

If Logan is right, if they are really taking Bree to the South Street Seaport, then we still have a ways to go. I'm already feeling dizzy, delirious with hunger. My leg feels five times its size, and, ironically, this walking might be the worst trial of all.

Somehow I continue on, trekking further down Bowery. We hike in silence, hardly saying a word to each other. There is so much I want to say to him. I want to thank him for saving my life; he's already saved me three times in a single day, and I'm starting to wonder if it's a debt I can repay. I also want to thank him for giving up his boat and coming with me. I think of how much he's sacrificed for me, and it overwhelms me. I want to ask him why he did it.

I'm impressed by his fighting skills. Logan reminds me of what my Dad must have been like in battle--or, at least, my vision of him. I begin to wonder where Logan is from. If he is from here. If he has family here. Or family alive anywhere. I also want to ask him how he feels about me. Does he like me? Of course, I could never actually ask him. But still, I wonder. Does he have any feelings for me? Why didn't he escape when he had the chance? Why did he risk his life to follow me? Thinking about it, I feel guilty. I have endangered him. He could be safe somewhere right now.

And most of all, despite myself, I want to know if he has a girlfriend. Or ever did. I immediately chide myself, feeling disloyal to Ben, who, after all, I just left. But these two guys--Logan and Ben--are so different from each other. They are like two different species. I reflect on the feelings I have for Ben, and I realize they are still there, and still genuine: there is something about him, a sensitivity, a vulnerability, that I really like. When I look into Ben's large, suffering eyes, there is something I can relate to.

But when I look at Logan, I feel attracted to him in an entirely different way. Logan is big and strong and silent. He's noble, a man of action, and can clearly handle himself. He's a bit of a mystery to me, and I wish I knew more. But I like that.

I find myself really liking certain things about Ben, and certain, different, things about Logan. Somehow my feelings for both seem to be able to coexist, perhaps because they are so different that I don't feel like they are competing with each other.

I allow myself to get lost in these thoughts as we trek on, directly into the blizzard. It takes my mind away from the pain, the hunger, the cold.

The streets narrow again as we pass through a neighborhood I once knew as Little Italy. I remember coming here with Dad, having an Italian dinner in one of the small, crowded restaurants packed with tourists. Now, nothing remains. All the storefronts are destroyed. There is nothing but waste. Emptiness.

We trudge on, and walking gets harder as the snow reaches our knees. I am counting the steps now, praying for our arrival. We reach another broad street, and the crooked sign reads "Delancey." I look to my left, expecting to see the Williamsburg Bridge.

Incredibly, it is gone.

The enormous bridge is demolished, clearly destroyed in some battle, its metal entrance twisting up into the sky like some sort of modern sculpture. All that labor, all the design, all the manpower--all destroyed, and probably at a moment's notice. For what? For nothing.

I look away in disgust.

We continue farther downtown, crossing Delancey. After several more blocks we hit the main artery of Canal Street, and I'm almost afraid to look for the Manhattan Bridge. I force myself to. I wish I hadn't. Like the Williamsburg, this bridge is destroyed, too, nothing but shards of metal left, twisted and torn, leaving a gaping opening over the river.

We push on, my feet and hands so frozen I start to wonder if I have frostbite. We pass through what was once Chinatown, with its taller buildings and narrow streets, now unrecognizable. Like every other neighborhood, it is just an abandoned pile of rubble.

Bowery forks to the right, onto Park Row, and I'm breathing hard as we make it a few more blocks and finally reach a huge intersection. I stop and stare in awe.

To my right lies the structure that was one City Hall, now lying in ruins, a mere pile of rubble. It is awful. This incredible building, once so grand, is now nothing but a memory.

I'm afraid to turn around and look at the Brooklyn Bridge behind me--that beautiful work of art that I used to walk across with Bree on warm summer days. I pray it is still there, that at least one beautiful thing remains. I close my eyes and turn slowly.

I am horrified. Like the other two bridges, it is destroyed. Nothing remains, not even the base, leaving a gaping hole over the river. In its place, where it once stood, are huge piles of twisted metal sticking up out of the river.

Even more startling, lying there, in the midst of the river, jutting up at a crooked angle, are the remnants of a huge military plane, half-submerged, its tail pointing up. It looks like it took a nosedive and never came up. It is shocking see such a huge plane sticking up out of the river, as if a child threw his toy into a bath and never bothered to take it out.

It is darker now, almost twilight, and I can't go any farther. Amazingly, the winds and snow only continue to pick up. The snow is past my knees, and I feel as if I'm being slowly swallowed alive. I know the Seaport isn't far, but it is too painful to take another step.

I reach up and lay a hand on Logan's shoulder. He looks over at me, surprised.

"My leg," I say, through clenched teeth. "I can't walk."

"Put your arm over my shoulder," he says.

I do, and he leans over, places a hand behind my back and holds me tight, propping me up.

We walk together, and the pain lessens. I feel embarrassed, self-conscious: I never want to be dependent on a guy. On anyone. But now, I really need it.

We make a left, walking under the structure that once led to the bridge, and then make a right onto what was once Pearl Street. It is uncanny. After all this journeying, somehow we have ended up in the neighborhood I grew up in. It is so weird to be back here. On the day I left, I swore I'd never come back. Never. I was sure Manhattan would be destroyed and never even imagined I would see it again.

Walking back through here, down these narrow cobblestone streets, this old historic district, once teeming with tourists, with everything I knew, is the most painful of all. Memories come flooding back, places where, in every corner, Bree and I would play. I am flooded with memories of spending time here with Mom and Dad. When they were actually happy with each other.

Our apartment was in the shopping district, above one of the stores, in a small, historic building. I resented it growing up, all those annoying Saturday nights when the nightlife never seemed to end, when people would talk and smoke under my bedroom window until five in the morning. Now I would do anything for that noise, that activity. I would give anything to be able to walk across the street to a café and order breakfast. I get a sharp hunger pang just thinking of it.

As fate would have it, we turn down Water Street--the very block I used to live on. My heart flutters as I realize we're going to walk past my very apartment. I can't help wondering if Dad is looking down, guiding me. Or maybe it's Mom, if she's dead. Maybe she's the one looking down. Maybe, though, she's taunting me. Reprimanding me. After all, this is the place where I abandoned her, all those years ago. She could have come with me. But she wouldn't leave. And I knew that. Still, I feel I did what I had to do at the time--for me, and most importantly, for Bree. What else was I supposed to do? Just sit with her and wait for our deaths?

I can't help seeing the irony in all of it, though, in all the twists and turns life has taken. I took Bree and fled to safety, but now she is captured, and right back here, where we started, and I'll probably never get her back. And the way I feel now, I can't imagine surviving more than a few more hours myself. So what good did our departure do us after all? If I had just stayed put, with Mom, at least we would have all died together, in peace. Not the long slow, torturous death of starvation. Maybe Mom had it right all along.

We pass my apartment building and I brace myself, wondering what it will look like. I know it's ridiculous, but a part of me wonders if Mom is still there, sitting up in a window. Waiting.

My former building is now just a pile of rubble covered in snow. High weeds grow up between the rocks, and it looks like it collapsed long ago. I feel as if someone punched me in the gut. My home is gone. Mom is really gone.

"What's wrong?" Logan asks.

I've stopped. I'm standing there, staring. I lower my head, grab his shoulder, and continue on.

"Nothing," I respond.

We continue into the heart of the shopping district of the South Street Seaport. I remember sitting here, looking at the shining cobblestone, at all the expensive shops, feeling as if I were in the most pristine place in the world. A place impervious to change. Now I see nothing but devastation. There aren't even any signs, any markers to indicate what it once was.

We turn left on Fulton and in the distance I spot the waterfront. It is twilight now, thick gray clouds gathering on the horizon, and I finally feel a surge of hope as I see the water, just blocks away. The bus tracks turn down this road, coming to an end at the pier. We have made it.

We walk faster and I feel a surge of adrenaline as I wonder if Bree could still be there, on the pier. I subconsciously check my belt for weapons before remembering I have none left. No matter. If she's there, I will find a way to get her back.

We walk out onto the wooden pier of the Seaport, once teeming with tourists, now desolate. The tall, historic sailing ships are still there, bobbing in the water--but now they're just rotting hulls. At the end of the pier I see the bus. I hurry towards it, my heart pounding, hoping Bree is somehow still on it.

But of course the bus has been unloaded long ago. I reach the side of the bus and find it empty. I check the snow and see the tracks where the girls were unloaded, led down a ramp to a boat. I look out at the water, and in the distance, I spot a large, rusted barge, maybe half a mile off, docked on Governor's Island. A line of girls is being unloaded. Bree is among them. I can feel it.

I feel a surge of determination. But also of hopelessness. We have missed the boat. We're too late.

"There's another boat in the morning," Logan says. "At dawn. There always is, once a day. We just need to wait it out. Find shelter for the night."

"If you make it through the night," comes a strange voice from behind us.

We spin around.

Standing there, about ten feet away, is a group of about a dozen people, dressed in yellow military fatigues. In their center stands a person who looks like their leader. His face is melted, distorted, as are the faces of the others. He looks even worse than the Biovictims, if that's possible. Maybe it's from living in this radiated zone.

Somehow, they have managed to creep up on us. We are outnumbered, no match for the weapons in their belts, the guns in their hands. We have no chance.

"You're in our territory now," he continues. "Why shouldn't we kill you ourselves?"

"Please," I plead. "The slaverunners took my sister. I have to get her back."

"We don't like slaverunners any more than you do. They ride their buses through here like it's their territory. IT'S MY TERRITORY!" he shrieks, his face distorted, his eyes bulging. "DO YOU HEAR ME? IT'S MINE!"

I flinch at the sound of his voice, so distorted with rage. I am delirious with exhaustion, with pain, and can hardly even stand.

He takes a step toward us, and I brace myself for an attack. But before I can even finish the thought, my world starts to spin. It spins, again and again, and before I know it, I am falling.

And then, everything is black.

# T W E N T Y   N I N E

I open my eyes with effort. I'm not sure if I'm dead or alive, but if I'm alive, I didn't know life could feel this way: every muscle in my body is on fire. I am shaking and shivering and have never been so cold my life--yet at the same time I am also burning up, a cold sweat running down the back of my neck. My hair clings to the side of my face, and every joint in my body hurts more than I can describe. It is like the worst fever I've ever had--times a hundred.

The epicenter of pain is my calf: it throbs and feels like the size of a softball. The pain is so intense that I squint my eyes, clench my jaw, and pray silently that someone would just cut it off.

I look around and see I'm lying on a cement floor, on the upper story of an abandoned warehouse. The wall is lined with large factory windows, most of the glass panes shattered. Intermittent breezes of cold air rush in, along with gusts of snow, the flakes landing right in the room. Through the windows I can see the midnight sky, a full moon hanging low, amidst the clouds. It is the most beautiful moon I've ever seen, filling the warehouse with ambient light.

I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I lift my chin and manage to turn it just a bit. There, kneeling by my side, is Logan. He smiles down. I can't imagine how bad I must look, and I'm embarrassed for him to see me like this.

"You're alive," he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice.

I think back, trying hard to remember where I last was. I remember the Seaport...the pier.... I feel another wave of pain run up my leg, and a part of me wishes that Logan would just let me die. He holds up a needle, prepping it.

"They gave us medicine," he says. "They want you to live. They don't like the slaverunners any more than we do."

I try to register what he's saying, but my mind is not working clearly, and I shiver so much, my teeth are chattering.

"It's Penicillin. I don't know if it will work--or if it's even the real thing. But we have to try."

He doesn't have to tell me. I can feel the pain spreading and know there is no alternative.

He holds my hand, and I squeeze his. He then leans over and lowers the needle right to my calf. A second later, I feel the sharp sting of the needle entering my flesh. I breathe sharply and squeeze his hand harder.

As Logan pushes the needle in deeper, I feel the burning liquid enter. The pain is beyond what I can take, and despite myself, I hear my shriek echoing in the warehouse.

As Logan removes the needle, I feel another cold gust of wind and snow, cooling the sweat on my forehead. I try to breathe again. I want to look up at him, to thank him. But I can't help it: my eyes, so heavy, close on themselves.

And a moment later, I am out again.

*

It is summer. I am thirteen years old, Bree is six, and we skip hand-in-hand through the lively streets of the Seaport. They are jam-packed with life, everyone out and about, and Bree and I run down the cobblestone streets, laughing at all the funny people.

Bree plays a sort of hopscotch game on the cracks, half-hopping and half-skipping every few steps, and I try to follow in her path. She laughs hysterically at this, and then laughs even harder as I chase her around and around a statue.

Behind us, smiling, hand-in-hand, are my parents. It is one the few times I can remember them being happy together. It is also one of the few times I can remember my father actually being around. They trail behind us, watching over us, and I've never felt so safe in my life. The world is perfect. We will always be as happy as this moment.

Bree finds a seesaw and she's ecstatic, beelining for it and jumping on. She doesn't hesitate, knowing I will jump on the other side and even her out. Of course I do. She is lighter than me, and I make sure not to jump too hard, so that she can balance with me.

I blink. Time has passed, I'm not sure how much. We're now at a waterfront park somewhere. Our parents are gone, and we are alone. It is sunset.

"Push me harder, Brooke!" Bree squeals.

Bree is seated on a swing. I reach over and push her. She goes higher and higher, laughing hysterically.

Finally, she jumps off. She comes around and hugs me, wrapping her little hands tight around my thighs. I kneel down and give her a proper hug.

She leans back and looks at me, smiling.

"I love you, Brooke," she says, smiling.

"I love you too," I answer.

"Will you always be my big sister?" she asks.

"I will," I say.

"Do you promise?" she asks.

"I promise," I say.

*

I open my eyes, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am out of pain. It is amazing: I feel healthy again. The pain in my leg is mostly gone, the swelling shrunk down to the size of a golf ball. The medicine really worked.

My aches and pains have also reduced dramatically, and I sense that my fever has, too. I don't feel nearly as cold, and I'm not sweating as much. I've been given a second chance at life.

It is still dark. I can no longer see the moon and wonder how much time has passed. Logan is still sitting there, by my side. He sees me and reacts immediately, reaching over and brushing my forehead with a damp cloth. He's not wearing a coat; he has draped it over me. I feel terrible; he must be freezing.

I feel a fresh wave of appreciation for him, feel closer to him than ever. He must really care for me. I wish I could tell him how much I appreciate it. But right now, my mind is still moving slow, and doesn't seem able to form the words.

He reaches down and puts a hand behind my head and lifts it.

"Open your mouth," he says softly.

He places three pills on my tongue, then pours bottled water into my mouth. My throat is so dry that it takes a few tries to swallow--but finally, I feel it go down. I lift my head a bit more and take another long sip.

"Fever reducers," he says.

"I feel much better," I say, with new energy. I grab his hand and squeeze it tight in appreciation. He has saved my life. Again. I look up at him. "Thank you," I say earnestly.

He smiles, then suddenly pulls his hand away. I'm not sure how to interpret this. Does he not care for me as much as I think? Did he only do this out of obligation? Does he care for someone else? Did I overstep my boundaries in some way? Or is he just shy? Embarrassed?

I wonder why it bothers me so much, and suddenly it dawns on me: I have feelings for him.

He reaches down and removes something from a backpack.

"They gave us this," he says.

He pulls out a piece of dried fruit and hands it to me. I take it in awe, feeling a hunger pang already.

"What about you?" I ask.

He shakes his head, as if deferring. But I won't eat it otherwise. I tear mine in half and shove it into his hand. He grudgingly accepts it. I then devour mine, and it is quite possibly the best thing I've ever eaten. It tastes like cherries.

He smiles as he eats, then reaches into the pack and pulls out two pistols. He hands me one. I study it in awe.

"Fully loaded," he says.

"They must really hate those slaverunners," I say.

"They want us to get your sister. And they want us to inflict damage," he says.

The gun is heavy in my hand; it feels so good to have a weapon again. Finally, I don't feel defenseless. I have a fighting chance to get her back.

"Next boat leaves at dawn," he says. "A few hours to go. You up for it?"

"I'll be on that boat even if I'm a corpse," I say, and he smiles.

He examines his own gun, and I am suddenly overcome with a desire to know more about him. I don't want to pry, but he is so silent, so enigmatic. And I am feeling more and more attached to him. I want to know more.

"Where were you going to go?" I ask him. My voice is hoarse, my throat dry, and it comes out more scratchy than I would like.

He looks at me, puzzled.

"If you'd escaped, in the beginning. If you'd taken that boat."

He looks away and sighs. A long silence follows, and after a while, I wonder if he is going to answer.

"Anywhere," he finally says, "far away from here."

He's holding something back. I'm not sure why. But I just feel he's the type to have a more concrete plan.

"There must be somewhere," I say. "Some place you had in mind."

He looks away. Then, after a long silence, reluctantly, he says, "Yes, there was."

It is clear from his tone that he doesn't expect to be able to reach it now. After a long pause, I realize he's not going to volunteer it. I don't want to pry, but I have to know.

"Where?" I ask.

He looks away, and I can see he doesn't want to tell me for some reason. I wonder if maybe he still doesn't trust me. Then, finally, he speaks.

"There's supposed to be one town left. A safe place, untouched, where everything is perfect. Unlimited food and water. People live there as if there was never a war. Everyone's healthy. And it's safe from the world."

He looks at me.

"That's where I was going."

For a moment I wonder if he's pulling my leg. He must realize that it sounds incredulous--infantile, even. I can't believe that someone as mature and responsible as him would believe in such a place--or would make a plan to find it, no less.

"Sounds like a place of fairy tales," I say, smiling, half-expecting him to tell me he was just kidding.

But to my surprise, he suddenly scowls down at me.

"I knew I shouldn't have said anything," he says, sounding hurt.

I am shocked by his reaction. He really does believe it.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I thought you were joking."

He looks away, embarrassed. It's hard for me to even comprehend it: I gave up thinking of anything good still existing in the world long ago. I can't believe he still clings to this belief. Him, of all people.

"Where is it?" I finally ask. "This town?"

He pauses for a long time, as if debating whether to tell me.

Finally, he says: "It's in Canada."

I am speechless.

"I was going to take the boat all the way up the Hudson. Find out for myself."

I shake my head. "Well, I guess we all have to believe in something," I say.

The second I say it, I regret it. It comes out too harshly. That's always been my problem--I never seem able to say the right things. I can be too tough, too critical--just like Dad. When I get nervous, or embarrassed, or afraid to say what I really mean--especially around boys--sometimes it just comes out wrong. What I meant to say was: I think it's great that you still believe in something. I wish I did, too.

His eyes darken, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment. I want to retract it, but it's too late. The damage is done. I've screwed things up already.

I try to quickly think of something, anything, to change the subject. I'm not good at conversation. I never have been. And it might be too late to salvage it anyway.

"Did you lose anyone?" I ask. "In the war?"

I am such an idiot. What a stupid question. I've just gone from bad to worse.

He breathes deeply, slowly, and I feel as if now I've really hurt him. He bites his lower lip, and for a moment, it looks like he's holding back tears.

After an interminable silence, he finally says: "Everyone."

If I wake up in the morning and he's gone, I won't blame him. In fact, I'd be surprised if he sticks around. Clearly, I should just shut up and wait for dawn.

But there's one more thing I need to know, one thing that's burning inside. And I just can't stop myself from mouthing the words:

"Why did you save me?" I ask.

He looks at me with intensity, through red eyes, then slowly looks away. He turns, and I wonder if he's going to respond at all.

A long silence follows. The wind whistles through the empty windows, the snowflakes land on the floor. My eyes grow heavy and I'm beginning to fall back asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness. And the last thing I hear, before my eyes close for good, are his words. They are so faint and soft that I'm not even sure if he really says it, or if I just dream it:

"Because you remind me of someone."

*

I fall in and out of sleep for the next few hours, partly dreaming and partly flashing back. During one of my episodes, I finally remember what happened on that day we left the city. As much as I'd like to forget, it all comes flooding back to me.

When I found Bree in that alley, surrounded by those boys, and threw the Molotov cocktail--there was a small explosion, and then shrieks filled the air. I managed to hit their ringleader, and the boy lit up in a ball of fire. He ran about, frantic, as the others tried to put him out.

I didn't wait. In the chaos, I ran right past the flaming boy and right for Bree. I grabbed her hand and we ran away from them, through the back alleys. They chased us, but we knew those back streets better than anyone. We cut through buildings, in and out of hidden doors, over dumpsters, through fences. Within a few blocks, we'd thoroughly lost them and made it back to the safety of our apartment building.

It was the last straw. I was determined to leave the city right then and there. It was no longer safe--and if Mom couldn't see that, then we'd have to leave without her.

We burst into our apartment, and I ran straight to Mom's room. She was sitting there, in her favorite chair, staring out the window, as she always did, waiting for Dad to return.

"We're leaving," I said, determined. "It's too dangerous here now. Bree was almost killed. Look at her. She's hysterical."

Mom looked at Bree, then back to me, not saying a word.

"He's not coming back," I said. "Face it. He's dead."

Mom reached back and smacked me. I was stunned. I still remember the sting of it.

"Don't you ever say that," she snapped.

I narrowed my eyes, furious that she'd dare hit me. It is a hit I will never forgive her for.

"Fine," I seethed back to her. "You can live in your fantasy as long as you like. If you don't want to come, you don't have to. But we're leaving. I'm heading to the mountains, and I'm taking Bree."

She snorted back derisively. "That's ridiculous. The bridges are blocked."

"I'll take a boat," I answer, prepared. "I know someone who will take us. He's got a speedboat and he'll take us up the Hudson."

"And how can you afford that?" she asked me coldly.

I hesitated, feeling guilty. "I traded my gold watch."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "You mean Dad's gold watch," she snapped.

"He gave it to me," I corrected. "And I'm sure he'd want to see me put it to good use."

She looked away from me in disgust, staring back out the window.

"Don't you get it?" I continued. "In a few more weeks, this city will be destroyed. It's not safe here anymore. This is our last chance to get out."

"And how's your father going to feel when he comes home and finds us all gone? When he discovers that we have all abandoned him?"

I stared at Mom, incredulous. She was really lost in her fantasy.

"He left us," I spat. "He volunteered for this stupid war. No one asked him to go. He's not coming back. And this is exactly what he'd want us to do. He'd want us to survive. Not sit around some stupid apartment waiting to die."

Mom slowly turned and looked at me with her cold, steely-gray eyes. She had that awful determination, the same awful determination I have. Sometimes I hate myself for being so much like her. I could see in her eyes, at that moment, that she would never, ever, give in. She had gotten it into her head that waiting was the loyal thing to do. And once she got something into her head, there was no changing it.

But in my view, her loyalty was misplaced. She owed it to us. To her children. Not to a man who was more devoted to fighting than to his family.

"If you want to leave your father, go ahead. I'm not going. When your plans fall through and you don't make it upriver, you can come back. I'll be here."

I didn't wait a second longer. I grabbed Bree by the hand, turned and strutted with her to the door. Bree was crying, and I knew I had to get out of there quick. I stopped one last time before the door.

"You're making a mistake," I called out.

But she didn't even bother to turn, to say goodbye. And I knew she never would.

I opened the door, then slammed it behind me.

And that was the last I ever saw Mom alive again.

# T H I R T Y

I wake to blinding sunlight. It is as if the world is alive again. Sunlight streams in through the windows all around me, brighter than I've ever seen, bouncing off of everything. The wind has stopped. The storm is over. Snow melts off the window ledge, the sound of dripping water echoing all around me. There is a cracking noise, and a huge icicle crashes down onto the floor.

I look around, disoriented, and realize I'm still lying in the same place as last night, Logan's coat still draped over me. I feel completely rejuvenated.

Suddenly, I remember, and sit up with a shock. Dawn. We had to get up at dawn. The sight of the bright morning light terrifies me, as I look over and see Logan lying there, right beside me, eyes closed. He is fast asleep. My heart stops. We have overslept.

I scramble to my feet, feeling energetic for the first time, and roughly shake his shoulder.

"LOGAN!" I say urgently.

Immediately, his eyes open and he jumps to his feet. He looks around, alert.

"It's morning!" I plead. "The boat. We're going to miss it!"

His eyes open wide in surprise as he realizes.

We both jump into action, sprinting for the door. My leg still hurts, but I am pleasantly surprised to find I can actually run on it. I race down the metal staircase, footsteps echoing, right behind Logan. I grip the rusted metal railing, careful to pass over steps that are rotting away.

We reach the ground floor and burst out of the building, into the blinding light of snow. It is a winter wonderland. I wade into the snow up to my thighs, which slows my running, each step a struggle. But I follow Logan's tracks, and he plows through, making it easier.

The water is up ahead and we are only a block away. To my great relief I see the barge docked at the pier, and can barely see its loading ramp being lifted, as the last of a group of chained girls is led on board. The boat is about to leave.

I run harder, trudging through the snow as fast as I can go. As we reach the pier, still about a hundred yards away from the boat, the ramp is removed. I hear the roar of an engine, and a huge cloud of black exhaust billows from the back of the barge. My heart is pounding.

As we near the end of the pier, I suddenly think of Ben, of our promise to each other--to meet at the pier at dawn. As I run, I scan left and right, looking for any sign of him. But there is nothing. My heart sinks, as I realize that can only mean one thing: he didn't make it.

We close in on the barge, hardly thirty yards away, when suddenly it begins to move. My heart starts to pound. We're so close. Not now. Not now!

We are only twenty yards away, but the boat has departed from the pier. It is already about ten feet out into the water.

I increase my speed and am now running beside Logan, fighting my way through the thick snow. The barge is now a good fifteen feet off shore, and moving fast. Too far to jump.

But I continue to sprint, right up to the very edge, and as I do, I suddenly spot thick ropes, dangling from the boat to the pier, slowly dragging off the edge.

The ropes stretch behind it, like a long tail.

"THE ROPES!" I scream.

Logan apparently has the same idea. Neither of us slows--instead, we keep sprinting, and as I reach the end, without thinking, I aim for a rope and leap.

I go flying through the air, hoping, praying. If I miss, it would be a long fall, at least thirty feet, and I would land in icy cold water, with no way back up. The water is so cold and the tides so strong, I'm sure I would die within seconds of impact.

As I reach for the thick, knotted rope, I wonder if this could be my last moment on earth.

# T H I R T Y   O N E

My heart leaps in my throat as I reach out for the thick, knotted twine. I catch hold of it in the air, clutching onto it for life. Like a pendulum, I swing on it, racing through the air at full speed towards the immense hull of the rusted barge. The metal flies at me, and I brace myself for impact.

It is excruciatingly painful as I collide at full speed, the metal slamming into the side of my head, ribs, and shoulder. The pain and shock of impact is almost enough to make me drop the rope. I slip a few feet, but somehow manage to hang on.

I wrap my feet around the rope before I slip all the way down to the water. I cling to it, dangling there, as the barge continues to move, gaining speed. Logan has managed to catch his and hang on, too. He dangles a few feet away.

I look down at the rough waters a few feet below me, churning white as the barge cuts a path across the river. Those are big currents below, especially for a river, strong enough to lift this huge barge up and down.

To my right, the Statue of Liberty towers over us. Amazingly, it has survived intact. Seeing it, I feel inspired, feel as if maybe I can make it, too.

Luckily, Governors Island is close, barely a minute's ride. I remember taking ferry rides there with Bree on hot summer days, and how amazed we were that it was so close. Now, I'm so grateful it is: if it were any farther, I don't know if I'd be able to hang on. The wet rope digs into my freezing hands, making every second a struggle. I wonder how I will get out of this mess. There is no ladder on the side of the boat, and once we reach the island, there will be no way for me to get out except to drop down off the rope, into the water. Which would surely make me freeze to death.

I detect movement and look over and see that Logan is slowly climbing his way up the rope. He has devised an ingenious method of lifting his knees, clamping the insoles of his feet tightly against the thick rope, then using his legs to pull himself up.

I try it. I raise my knees and clamp my feet into the twine, and am happily surprised to see that my boot catches. I straighten my legs and pull myself up a notch. It works. I do it again and again, following Logan, and within a minute, the time it takes to reach the island, I'm at the top of the rope. Logan is there, waiting, hand outstretched. I reach up and grab it, and he pulls me quickly and silently over the edge.

We both crouch down behind a metal container and furtively survey the boat. Standing up front, their backs to us, are a group of guards holding machine guns. They herd a dozen young girls, directing them down a long ramp lowered from the boat. The sight makes me burn with indignation, and makes me want to attack them right now. But I force myself to wait, to stay disciplined. It would give me temporary satisfaction, but then I would never get Bree.

The group starts to move, chains rattling, until they are all off the ramp and on the island. When the boat is emptied, Logan and I nod to each other and silently make our way off the barge, running alongside the edge. We hurry down the ramp, a good deal behind everybody else. Luckily, no one is looking back for us.

In moments we are on land. We hurry through the snow and take shelter behind a small structure, hiding out of sight to watch where the girls are taken. The slaverunners head toward a large, circular brick structure which looks like a cross between an amphitheater and a prison. There are iron bars all around its perimeter.

We follow their trail, hiding behind a tree every twenty yards, running from tree to tree, careful not to be seen. I reach down and feel for my gun, in case I need to use it. Logan does the same. They might notice us at any moment, and we have to be ready. It would be a mistake to fire--it would draw too much attention, too soon. But if I need to, I will.

They herd the girls into the open doorway of the building and then disappear in the blackness.

We both break into action, running inside after them.

My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. To my right, around the bend, a group of slaverunners leads the girls, while to my left, a single slaverunner heads solo down a corridor. Logan and I exchange a knowing glance, and both wordlessly decide to go after the stray slaverunner.

We run silently down the corridor, just yards behind him, waiting for our chance. He reaches a large iron door, pulls out a set of keys, and begins to unlock it. The metal clangs, reverberating in the empty corridors. Before I can react, Logan pulls out a knife, charges the slaverunner, grabs him by the back of his head, and slices his throat in one quick motion. Blood spurts everywhere as he collapses, a lifeless heap on the ground below.

I grab his set of keys, still in the lock, turn it, and pull back the heavy iron door. I hold it open and Logan runs in, and I follow.

We are in a cell block, long, narrow, semi-circular, filled with small cells. I run down it, looking left and right, scanning the haunted, hollow faces of the young girls. They stare back at me, hopeless, desperate. It looks like they've been here forever.

My heart is thumping. I look desperately for any sign of my sister. I feel she is close. As I run through, the girls go to their cell doors and stick their hands through. They must realize we're not slaverunners.

"PLEASE!" one cries. "Help me!"

"LET ME OUT OF HERE!" another cries.

Soon, a chorus of shouts and pleas rises up. It is drawing too much attention, and it worries me. I want to help each one of these girls, but there's no way I can. Not now. I need to find Bree first.

"BREE!" I scream, desperate.

I increase my pace to a jog, running cell to cell.

"BREE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT'S ME! BROOKE! BREE? ARE YOU HERE!?"

As I race by a cell, a girl reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me to her.

"I know where she is!" she says.

I stop and stare at her. Her face is as frantic as the others.

"Let me out of here, and I'll tell you!" she says.

If I set her free, she might draw unwanted attention to us. Then again, she is my best bet.

I look at her cell number, then look down at the keys in my hand and find the number. I unlock it, and the girl comes running out.

"LET ME OUT, TOO!" another girl yells.

"ME TOO!"

All the girls start screaming.

I grab this girl by the shoulders.

"Where is she!?" I demand.

"She's in the mansion. They took her this morning."

"The mansion?" I ask.

"That's where they take the new girls. To be broken in."

"Broken in?" I ask, horrified.

"For sex," she answers. "For the first time."

My heart plummets at her words.

"Where?" I demand. "WHERE IS IT?"

"Follow me," she says, and begins to run.

I am about to follow her out, but suddenly I stop.

"Wait," I say, grabbing her wrist.

I know I shouldn't do this. I know I should just run out of here, focus on saving Bree. I know there's no time, and I know that helping the others can only cause unwanted attention and screw up my plans.

But something inside me, a deep sense of indignation, stirs. I just can't bring myself to leave them all here like this.

So, against my better judgment, I stop and turn back, running cell to cell. As I reach each one, I find the key and unlock it. One by one, I free all of the girls. They all come running out, hysterical, running every which way. The noise is deafening.

I run back to the first one I freed. Luckily, she is still waiting with Logan.

She runs and we follow her, racing down corridor after corridor. Moments later, we burst out into the blinding light of day.

As we run, I can hear the chorus of girls screaming behind us, bursting out to freedom. It won't be long until all the soldiers catch onto us. I run faster.

The girl stops and points across the courtyard.

"There!" she says. "That building! The big old house. On the water. The Governor's Mansion. That's it! Good luck!" she cries, and turns and runs off in the other direction.

I sprint for the building, Logan right beside me.

We run across the massive field, thigh-deep in snow, on the lookout for slaverunners. Luckily, they aren't on to us yet.

The cold air burns my lungs. I think of Bree, being taken somewhere for sex, and I can't possibly get there fast enough. I'm so close now. I can't let her be hurt. Not now. Not after all this. Not when I'm only feet away.

I force myself forward, never stopping to catch a breath. I reach the front door and am not even cautious. I don't stop to check, but just run into it and kick it open.

It bursts open and I continue running, right into the house. I don't even know where I'm going, but I see a staircase and my instinct tells me to go up. I run right for it, sensing Logan right behind me.

As I reach the landing at the top of the steps, a slaverunner bursts out of a room, his mask off. He looks at me, eyes open wide in shock, and reaches for a gun.

I don't hesitate. Mine is already drawn. I shoot him point blank in the head. He goes down, the gunshot deafening in this contained area.

I continue to charge down the hallway and pick a random room. I kick the door open and am horrified to find a man on top of a young girl, who is chained to a bed. It's not Bree, but still, the sight sickens me. The man--a slaverunner without his mask--jumps up, looks at me in fear, and scrambles for his gun. I shoot him between the eyes. The little girl screams as his blood splats over her. At least he is dead.

I run back down the hall, kicking open doors as I go from room to room, each one containing another man having sex with a chained girl. I move on, searching frantically for Bree.

I reach the end of the hall and there is one final door. I kick it open, Logan behind me, and charge inside. I freeze.

A four-poster bed dominates the room. On it lies a large, fat, naked man having sex with a young girl, tied to his bed with rope. I can see that the girl is unconscious, and wonder if she's been drugged. This man must be important, because beside him sits a slaverunner, standing guard.

I aim for the fat man, and as he turns I shoot him once in the stomach. He crashes to the ground, grunting, and I shoot him a second time--this time, in the head.

But I'm reckless. The guard aims his gun at me, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he's about to shoot. It was a stupid mistake. I should have taken him out first.

I hear a gunshot and flinch.

I am still alive. The guard is dead. Logan stands over him, gun drawn.

Across the room sit two young girls, both chained to their chairs. They sit fully clothed, shaking with fear, clearly next in line to be brought to the bed. My heart soars. One of them is Bree.

Bree sits there, chained, terrified, eyes open wide. But she's safe. Untouched. I made it just in time. A few more minutes and I'm sure she would have been at the mercy of that fat man.

"Brooke!" she screams, hysterical, and bursts into tears.

I run to her, kneeling down and hugging her. She hugs me back as best she can with the chains on, crying over my shoulder.

Logan appears and, having grabbed the key from the dead slaverunner's belt, unlocks them both. Bree jumps into my arms, giving me a hug, her whole body shaking. She clings to me as if she'll never let go.

I feel the tears pour down my cheeks as I hug her back. I can't believe it: it's really her.

"I told you I'd come back for you," I say.

I want to hold her forever, but I know we haven't time. Soon this place will be overrun.

I pull her back and take her hand. "Let's go," I say, preparing to run.

"Wait!" Bree yells, stopping.

I stop and turn.

"We have to bring Rose, too!" Bree says.

The girl beside Bree looks up at us, so hopeless, so lost. It is odd, but she actually resembles Bree; with her long black hair and large brown eyes, the two of them could pass for sisters.

"Bree, I'm sorry, but we can't. We don't have time and--"

"Rose is my friend!" Bree yells. "We can't just leave her. We can't!"

I look at Rose, and my heart wells up at the sight. I look at Logan who looks back disapprovingly--but with a look that says it's my call.

Bringing Rose will slow us down. And it will be another mouth to feed. But Bree, for the first time in her life, is insistent--and standing here will only slow us down. Not to mention, Rose seems so sweet, and reminds me so much of Bree, and I can see how close they already are. And it is the right thing to do.

Against my better judgment, I say, "Okay."

I run over to the unconscious girl, still tied to the bed, and use my knife to cut all four pieces of rope. Her hands and feet relax, plop down on the bed. She is still unconscious, and I can't tell if she's sick, drugged or dead. But I can't deal with that now. At least now, she's free.

The four of us burst out of the room, only to meet two guards charging us, reaching for their guns. I react quickly, shooting one in the head, while Logan shoots the other. The girls scream at the gunshots.

I grab Bree's hand and Logan grabs Rose's and we sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time. A moment later we burst out of the house, into the blinding snow. Guards charge us from across the yard, and I only hope we can find a way off this island before we are completely overrun.

# T H I R T Y   T W O

I look around frantically, trying to figure some way out of here. I scan for vehicles, but don't see any. Then I turn around completely, and find myself scanning the water, the shoreline. And that's when I see it: right behind the Governor's mansion, tied up to a solitary pier is a small, luxury powerboat. I'm sure it is reserved for the privileged few who use this island as their playground.

"There!" I say, pointing.

Logan sees it, too, and we sprint for the shoreline.

We run right up to the beautiful, shining motorboat, big enough to hold six people. It bobs wildly in the rough water and looks powerful, like a thing of luxury. I have a feeling that this boat was used by that fat, naked man. All the more vindication.

It is bobbing so wildly, I don't want to risk Bree and Rose trying to board themselves, so I lift Bree in, while Logan takes care of Rose.

"Cut the rope!" Logan says, pointing.

A thick rope tethers the boat to a wooden pole, so I run over to it, extract my knife, and cut it. I run back to the boat where Logan is already standing inside, grasping the pier to keep it from floating away. He reaches out a hand and helps me down into it. I check over my shoulder and see a dozen slaverunners charging us. They are only twenty yards away, and closing in fast.

"I got them," Logan says. "Take the wheel."

I hurry over to the driver's seat. Luckily, I've driven boats all my life. Logan shoves us off and takes a position at the back of the boat, kneeling and firing at the oncoming soldiers. They duck for cover, and it slows them down.

I look down, and my heart drops to see there are no keys in the ignition. I check the dash, then check the front seats frantically, my heart pounding. What will we do if they aren't here?

I look over my shoulder and see the slaverunners are closer now, barely ten yards away.

"DRIVE!" Logan screams, over the sound of his gunfire.

I get an idea and check the glove compartment, hoping. My heart soars to find them. I insert the key into the ignition, turn it, and the engine roars to life. Black exhaust comes billowing out, and the gas gauge pops all the way. A full tank.

I hit the throttle and am jerked backwards as the boat takes off. I can hear the bodies falling behind me, and I look back to find that Bree, Rose and Logan were all knocked over by the torque, too. I guess I gunned it too hard--luckily, no one fell overboard.

We are also lucky because the slaverunners are at the shore's edge, just ten feet away. I pulled out just in time. They fire back at us, and because everyone hit the deck, their bullets whiz over our heads. One of the bullets grazes the wood paneling, and another takes out my side view mirror.

"STAY DOWN!" Logan screams to the girls.

He takes a knee at the rear, pops up, and fires back. In the rearview I see him take out several of them.

I keep gunning it, pushing the engine with all it has, and within moments, we're far away from the island. Fifty yards, then a hundred, then two hundred.... Soon, we are safely out of range of their bullets. The slaverunners stand on shore helplessly, now just dots on the horizon, watching us tear away.

I can't believe it. We are free.

*

As we pull away, deeper and deeper into the river, I know I should stay in the middle of the waterway, far from either shore, and head upriver, getting as far from the city as I can. But something inside stops me. Thoughts of Ben come rushing back, and I can't let him go so easily. What if somehow he's made it down to the Seaport? What if he was late?

I just can't let it go. If by some chance he is there, I can't just abandon him. I have to see. I have to know.

So instead of turning upriver, I point the boat straight for the opposite shore--back towards the Seaport. Within moments the Manhattan shoreline rushes at us, getting closer and closer. My heart pounds at the potential danger that could be waiting--any number of armed slaverunners waiting on shore to fire on us.

Logan realizes I'm going the wrong way, and suddenly comes running up beside me, frantic.

"Where are you going!?" he screams. "You're heading back to the city!"

"I have to see something," I say, "before we go."

"See what!?"

"Ben," I answer. "He might be there."

Logan scowls.

"That's crazy!" he says. "You're bringing us right back into the hornet's nest. You're endangering us all! He had his chance. He wasn't there!"

"I have to check," I yell back. I am determined, and nothing will stop me. I realize that, in some ways, I'm just like my Mom.

Logan turns and sulks away, and I can feel how disapproving he is. I don't blame him. But I have to do this. I know that if it was Ben, he'd come back and check for me, too.

Within moments the Seaport comes into view. We get closer, 300 yards...200...and then, as we reach a hundred yards out, I swear I spot someone, standing alone on the end of the pier. He's looking out at the water, and my heart leaps.

It is Ben.

I can hardly believe it. He's really there. He's alive. He stands there, in the snow, up to his thighs, shivering. My heart drops to realize he is alone. That can only mean one thing: his brother didn't make it.

We are close now, maybe twenty yards out, close enough that I can see the lines of sorrow etched into Ben's face. In the distance, I see a caravan of slaverunner vehicles racing through the snow, heading right for the pier. There isn't much time.

I slow the boat and pull up to the pier; Ben, waiting, runs to the edge. We idle, rocking wildly in the waves, and I suddenly wonder how Ben will get in. It is a good ten foot drop from the pier. Ben looks down, fear in his eyes, and he must be thinking the same thing, trying to figure out how to jump.

"Don't jump!" Logan screams. "It might destroy the boat!"

Ben stops and looks at him, frozen in fear.

"Get on your hands and knees, turn around, and crawl down backwards," Logan commands. "Inch your way down. Grab onto the edge of the pier and dangle off it with your hands. I'll catch you."

Ben does as he's told and slowly slips and slides over the edge, until he's hanging by his hands. Logan, to his credit, reaches up and grabs him, lowers him into the boat. Just in time: the slaverunners are hardly fifty yards away, and closing in fast.

"MOVE!" Logan screams.

I gun the throttle and we take off, flying upriver. As we do, shots are fired out again, just grazing our boat, and sinking into the water in small splashes. Logan takes a knee and fires back.

Luckily, they are no match for our speed: within moments we're far from shore, in the middle of the river, out of firing range. I keep heading north, upriver, back in the direction of home.

Now, finally, there is nothing left to stop us.

Now, we are free.

*

We race up the East River and as we go, it is extraordinary to see the wreckage of the bridges up close. We race past the remains of the Brooklyn Bridge, its rusted metal sticking out of the water like a prehistoric thing. It towers above us, several stories high, like a skyscraper rising out of the water. I feel dwarfed as we drive under it, and can't help wondering if any of this will ever be rebuilt.

Nearby is the wreckage of the bomber plane sticking out of the water, and I swerve to keep a good distance from that, too. I don't know what sort of metal might be protruding from these freezing waters, and I don't want to test it.

We soon pass the remnants of the Manhattan Bridge, then the Williamsburg Bridge. I hit the throttle, wanting to get us past all these horrific sights as soon as possible.

We soon race by what was once Roosevelt Island, its thin strip of land now a wasteland, like everything else. I fork left and find the 59th Street Bridge has been destroyed, too--along with the tram that used to connect the island to Manhattan. The tram, rusted and demolished, bobs in the river like a huge buoy. I have to be careful to avoid it as the waterway narrows.

I continue racing upriver, farther and farther, passing nothing but destruction, until finally, I fork left into the waterway of the Harlem River. This is much more narrow, with land only fifty yards on either side of us. I feel much more on edge as we traverse it. I scan the shores, on the lookout for an ambush.

But I see nothing. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. If the slaverunners are going to mobilize after us--and I'm sure they are--we probably have at least an hour jump on them. Especially given all the snow. And by then, I'm hoping we'll be too far up the Hudson for them to catch us.

The Harlem River snakes between Manhattan and the Bronx, and finally dumps us out onto the vast, wide-open expanse of the Hudson River. The Hudson, by contrast, is as wide as ten football fields, and I feel like we have just entered an ocean. Finally, I feel at ease again. Finally, we are back on the river that I remember. The river that leads us home.

I turn right and point us north, and we race back in the direction of home, towards the Catskills. In just two hours, we will be there.

Not that I plan on returning home. I don't. Going back now would be foolish: the slaverunners know where we live, and it is surely the first place they will look for us. I want to stop at home, to bury Sasha, to say my goodbyes. But I won't be staying. Our destination will have to be much farther north. As far as we can get.

I think of the stone cottage I'd found, all the way up the mountain, and I feel a pang, as I feel how badly I wanted to live there. I know that one day it might make a great home for us. But that day is not now. It's too close to where we used to live, too dangerous right now. We have to let things cool down. Maybe, one day, we can come back. Besides, there are five of us now. Five mouths to feed. We need to find a place that can sustain us all.

As we head farther upriver, I finally begin to relax, to unwind. I feel the tension slowly leaving my neck, my shoulders. I breathe deeply for the first time. I can't believe we actually made it. It is more than I can even process. I feel the aches and pains and bruises all over my body, but none of that matters now. I'm just happy that Bree is safe. That we're together.

I take a moment to look around, to take stock and survey the others in the boat. I have been so focused on just getting us away from the city that I haven't even stopped to consider everyone else. I look over at Logan, sitting there, content, in the passenger seat beside me. I turn and see the others sitting in the rows behind me. Each person looks out at the water, each in his or her own direction, each lost in his or her own world.

I reach over and tap Logan on the shoulder. He turns towards me.

"Mind taking the wheel?" I ask.

He rises from his seat quickly, happy to accommodate me, and grabs the wheel as we switch places.

I climb over to the back of the boat. I'm dying to talk to Bree, and I'm also dying to talk to Ben, to find out what happened with his brother. As I head back, I see Ben sitting in what appears to be a catatonic state, staring out at the river. He looks as if he's aged ten years overnight, grief etched into his face. I can only imagine what hell he's been through, the guilt he must have from not saving his brother. If it were me, I don't know if I'd be able to handle it. I admire him for even being here.

I want to talk to him, but I need to see Bree first. I move to the back row and sit beside her, and her eyes light up at the sight of me. She gives me a big hug, and we embrace for a long time. She holds me tight, clearly not wanting to let go.

After several seconds, I finally pry her off. Tears roll down her cheeks.

"I was so scared," she says.

"I know, sweetheart," I answer. "I'm so sorry."

"Are we going home now?" she asks, hope in her eyes.

Home. What a funny word. I don't know what that means anymore. I once thought it meant Manhattan; then I thought it meant the mountains. Now I know it's neither of those places. Home is going to have to be a new place. Some place we haven't even been yet.

"We're going to find a new home, Bree," I say. "An even better one."

"Can Rose come, too?" she asks.

I look over and see Rose, sitting beside her, look up at me hopefully. They are already two peas in a pod.

"Of course," I say. "She's part of the family now."

I smile at Rose, and she surprises me by leaning over and giving me a hug. She clings to me, just like Bree, and I wonder where she came from, where her family us, where she was captured. I realize the hell that she must have gone through, too, and it hits home that we saved her, too. I think of an old saying: when you save a person's life, that person becomes your responsibility for life. I can't help feeling that somehow it's true, that I'm now responsible for Rose, too. In my mind, her and Bree are inextricably linked.

"Thank you," Rose whispers over my shoulder, into my ear.

I kiss her on the forehead, and she slowly pulls away. She reminds me of Bree in so many ways, it's scary.

"What about Sasha?" Bree asks. "Can she come?"

It is the question I've been dreading. I take a deep breath, trying to think of the best way to phrase it. I have to tell her the truth; after all she's been through, Bree deserves it.

"I'm so sorry, Bree," I say, looking down. "Sasha didn't make it."

Fresh tears rush to Bree's eyes, and she starts crying again, hysterical. Rose leans over and hugs her.

But after several seconds, to my surprise, Bree leans back, brushes away her tears, and looks back at me, red-eyed.

"I knew it," she says. "I had a dream. She was visiting me. Somehow, I already knew she was dead."

"This might cheer you up," suddenly comes a voice.

I turn and see Ben standing there. To my surprise, there is a slight smile on his face.

I look down and see that he is holding something. Something small, wrapped in a blanket. He's holding it out towards Bree.

Suddenly, a small dog pops its head out from the blanket. I can't believe it. It is a small Chihuahua, missing one eye. It shakes and trembles, looking terrified.

"OH MY GOD!" Bree and Rose both scream out at once, eyes open wide in surprise.

Bree grabs it and holds it tight, cradling it, and Rose bends over to pet it, too. They both lean down, and it cranes its neck and licks their faces. They scream out in delight.

"I found it in the boat," Ben says. "I almost sat on it. I guess someone left it. Or maybe it crawled its way on."

I'm shocked. I hadn't seen the dog, and now that I think of it, I realize I didn't spend any time examining the boat at all. I look around, wondering what else could be here.

I spot all the side compartments and hurry to each one, opening them one after the other. I am surprised and delighted as I begin to discover all sorts of surprises. I open a sealed crate and am breathless to see its contents: it is packed with chocolate bars, candy, cookies, crackers and delicacies of all types.

I reach down and grab a huge bag filled with chocolate-covered jelly rings. I hold open the bag for Bree, Rose, Ben and Logan, and they each, wide-eyed, reach in and grab a handful. I then grab a handful myself and stuff my mouth, chewing one after the other.

It is ecstasy, by far the greatest thing I've ever tasted. The sugar rush races through my body and I feel like I've gone to heaven. The others wolf them down, too, eyes closed, chewing slowly, savoring each bite. All of us, ravished.

I reach back into the crate and discover bags of gummy bears and Twizzlers. I am amazed. I never thought I'd see these again. These are like gold, and I know I should ration them.

But after what we've all been through, now is not the time to ration anything--and for once, I let my emotions overcome my rational side. I throw the small bags to everyone in the boat, distributing them equally, and each person catches them in the air with a cry of joy and surprise. As Logan catches his, taking his hand off the wheel, the boat swerves a bit, then quickly straightens out.

I tear open my bag of gummy bears and finish the whole thing in just a few seconds, shoveling them into my mouth. Then I turn to the Twizzlers. I try to take my time with these, forcing myself to chew each one slowly. I've barely eaten in days, and it is a shock to my stomach, which screams out in pain. I force myself to slow down.

I spot a small fridge in the back of the boat, and hurry over to open it. I can't believe it. It is stocked with everything from juice to champagne. The inequality of it all infuriates me: here we are, starving to death, while these fat slaverunners have been guzzling champagne. At least now it's time for revenge.

I grab a bottle of champagne, twist off the wire, and pop the cork. It goes flying through the air, overboard, and into the river. Everyone turns at the sound and sees me standing there, holding the bottle as foam sprays out the top and over my hand. It is icy cold, but I don't care. I put it to my lips, and take a swig. It goes right to my head.

I know I shouldn't, but after everything they've been through, I offer it to Bree and Rose; they each take a small sip, giggling. I then reach over and hand it to Ben, and he takes several swigs without stopping. He hands it back to me, but still won't look at me. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere on the water. I wonder if he is ashamed to look at me, ashamed for having not saved his brother.

I study him as he looks out over the water. His eyes are red, and I can see he's been crying. He reaches up and rubs one of them, wiping away a tear. I can hardly imagine what he's been through.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.

He shakes his head no.

I understand. If it were me, I wouldn't want talk about it either. He looks like he wants space, and I don't want to press him.

When he's ready, I think to myself.

I climb back to the front of the boat, sit in the passenger seat, and pass the bottle over to Logan. He takes a Twizzler out of his mouth, grabs the bottle, takes a long swig, then hands it back to me, never taking his eyes off the water. He then inserts another Twizzler into his mouth, chewing slowly.

I sit there in the plush leather passenger seat and lean back. We drive for a few minutes in silence, the only sound that of the whining engine. Finally, Logan turns to me.

"So, where to?" he asks.

I stare out at the water, thinking. I think about what Logan said before, about that perfect town, somewhere in Canada. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel hope. I wonder if maybe he's right, if maybe there could be some place left in the world that isn't ruined. I wonder if maybe it's good to dream.

I turn to him.

"I'm thinking Canada," I say.

He looks at me and his eyes open wide in surprise. He must realize what I'm really saying: Maybe you are right.

Slowly, he breaks into a smile, and I can't help smiling back.

He reaches down and leans on the throttle, and I feel the boat accelerate just a bit.

"Canada it is," he says.

I lean further back, starting to relax for the first time. For some reason, I think of Dad. I wonder if he's up there, looking down on us. If he is, would he be proud? I feel that he would. I can almost hear his voice: Brooke, you're in charge now. Do whatever you have to to keep them alive. Don't rest on your heels, soldier.

It will be a long road ahead of us. Soon, we'll run out of fuel. Then out of food. It will get dark, colder. The Hudson will turn to ice, and we'll have to find shelter. The slaverunners will be after us, and if we don't keep moving, they'll find us.

But I can worry about all of this later. For once in my life, I can just sit back and enjoy right now. The present moment. For the first time in my life, I finally realize that that is what really matters. Not later today. But right now.

I lean back in the plush leather seat and take another swig of champagne, and it goes right to my head. I haven't had a decent meal in days, and I know I shouldn't drink. But right now, I don't care. We're cruising up the Hudson, it's a sunny, beautiful morning, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, everything is good in the world. I look over and, surprisingly, see a patch of bright purple flowers, somehow surviving, sticking up in the snow. They are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, glowing in the sunlight. I wonder how they can even be real.

If these can survive, I think to myself, so can we.

I close my eyes and feel the salty air on my face. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think: this feels good. It feels really good.

NOW AVAILABLE!

ARENA TWO

(Book #2 in the Survival Trilogy)

From #1 Bestselling author Morgan Rice, comes Book Two in THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a new trilogy of dystopian fiction.

Having just escaped from the treacherous island that was once Manhattan, Brooke, Ben, Logan, Bree and Rose make their way up the Hudson river in their stolen boat, low on fuel, low on food, and desperately needing shelter from the cold. On their tails are the slaverunners, who will stop at nothing until they capture them and bring them back.

As they make their way upriver in this post-apocalyptic, action-packed thriller, on their way to try to find the mythical city in Canada, they will need to use all their ingenuity and survival skills to stay alive. Along the way they will encounter crazed survivors, roving gangs of predators, cannibals, wild animals, a desolate wasteland, and an unstoppable blizzard. They sustain injuries, get sick, and the Hudson freezes over as they do their best to salvage what they can and avoid the slaverunners' pursuit. They find a small island and think they have found respite--until events don't go their way. It is not until they board a mysterious train to nowhere that they find that things can always get worse.

Along the way, Brooke's feelings for Logan intensify, as do her feelings for Ben. Torn between these two boys, caught between their jealousy, she is unsure how she feels--until events choose for her.

As they find themselves thrown back into an arena, they are shocked to discover that Arena Two is even worse. Thrown into a barbaric fighting stage, equipped with weapons, pitted against other teenagers--and against themselves--Brooke and the others will be forced to choose what's important, and to make the most difficult sacrifices of their lives. Because in Arena Two, no one survives. Ever.

 "Addicting....ARENA ONE is one of those books that you read late into the night until your eyes start to cross because you don't want to put it down."

\--The Dallas Examiner

 "Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild {regarding Turned}

ARENA TWO

(Book #2 in the Survival Trilogy)

About Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

"Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting....Nicely written and an extremely fast read."

\--Black Lagoon Reviews (regarding Turned)

"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist...Refreshing and unique. The series focuses around one girl...one extraordinary girl!...Easy to read but extremely fast-paced... Rated PG."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Turned)

"Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild (regarding Turned)

"Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again."

\--vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens."

\--The Dallas Examiner (regarding Loved)

"A book to rival TWILIGHT and VAMPIRE DIARIES, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"

\--Vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller....This would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Loved)

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

Listen to THE SURVIVAL TRLOGY series in audio book format!

## A QUEST OF HEROES

(Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

Morgan Rice

SMASHWORD EDITION

About Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

"Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting....Nicely written and an extremely fast read."

\--Black Lagoon Reviews (regarding Turned)

"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist...Refreshing and unique. The series focuses around one girl...one extraordinary girl!...Easy to read but extremely fast-paced... Rated PG."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Turned)

"Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild (regarding Turned)

"Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again."

\--vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens."

\--The Dallas Examiner (regarding Loved)

"A book to rival TWILIGHT and VAMPIRE DIARIES, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"

\--Vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller....This would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Loved)

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

Listen to THE SORCERER'S RING series in audio book format!

Copyright © 2012 by Morgan Rice

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

"Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown."

--William Shakespeare  
Henry IV, Part II

# CHAPTER ONE

The boy stood on the highest knoll of the low country in the Western Kingdom of the Ring, looking north, watching the first of the rising suns. As far as he could see stretched rolling green hills, like camel humps, dipping and rising in a series of valleys and peaks. The burnt-orange rays of the first sun lingered in the morning mist, making them sparkle, lending the light a magic that matched the boy's mood. He rarely woke this early or ventured this far from home--and never ascended this high--knowing it would incur his father's wrath. But on this day, he didn't care. On this day, he disregarded the million rules and chores that had oppressed him for his fourteen years. For this day was different. It was the day his destiny had arrived.

The boy--Thorgrin of the Western Kingdom of the Southern Province of the clan McLeod--known to all he liked simply as Thor--the youngest of four boys, the least favorite of his father, had stayed awake all night in anticipation of this day. He had tossed and turned, bleary-eyed, waiting, willing, for the first sun to rise. For a day like this arrived only once every several years, and if he missed it, he would be stuck here, in this village, doomed to tend his father's flock the rest of his days. That was a thought he could not bear.

Conscription Day. It was the one day the King's Army canvassed the provinces, hand-picked volunteers for the King's Legion. As long as he had lived, Thor had dreamt of nothing else. For him, life meant one thing: joining The Silver, the king's elite force of knights, bedecked in the finest armor and the choicest arms anywhere in the two kingdoms. And one could not enter the Silver without first joining the Legion, the company of squires ranging from fourteen to nineteen years of age. And if one was not the son of a noble, or of a famed warrior, there was no other way to join the Legion.

Conscription Day was the only exception, that rare event every few years when the Legion ran low and the king's men scoured the land in search of new recruits. Everyone knew that few commoners were chosen--and that even fewer would actually make the Legion.

Thor stood there, studying the horizon intently, looking for any sign of motion. The Silver, he knew, would have to take this road, the only road into his village, and he wanted to be the first to spot them. His flock of sheep protested all around him, rose up in a chorus of annoying grunts, urging him to bring them back down the mountain, where the grazing was choicer. He tried to block out the noise, and the stench. He had to concentrate.

What had made all of this bearable, all these years of tending flocks, of being his father's lackey, his older brothers' lackey, the one cared for least and burdened most, was the idea that one day he would leave this place. One day, when the Silver came, he would surprise all those who had underestimated him, and be selected. In one swift motion, he would ascend their carriage and say goodbye to all of this.

His father, of course, had never considered him seriously as a candidate for the Legion--in fact, he had never considered him as a candidate for anything. Instead, his father devoted his love and attention to Thor's three older brothers. The oldest was nineteen and the others but a year behind each other, leaving Thor a good three years younger than any of them. Perhaps because they were closer in age, or perhaps because they looked alike and looked nothing like Thor, the three of them stuck together, barely acknowledging Thor's existence.

Worse, they were taller and broader and stronger than he, and Thor, who knew he was not short, nonetheless felt small beside them, felt his muscular legs frail beside their barrels of oak. His father made no move to rectify any of this--and in fact seemed to relish it--leaving Thor to attend the sheep and sharpen weapons, while his brothers were left to train. It was never spoken, but always understood, that Thor would spend his life in the wings, be forced to watch his brothers achieve great things. His destiny, if his father and brothers had their way, would be to stay here, swallowed by this village, and give his family the support they demanded.

Worse still was that Thor sensed that his brothers, paradoxically, were threatened by him, maybe even hated him. Thor could see it in their every glance, every gesture. He didn't understand how, but he aroused something in them, like fear or jealousy. Perhaps it was because he was different from them, didn't look like them or speak with their mannerisms; he didn't even dress like them, his father reserving the best garments--the purple and scarlet robes, the gilded weapons--for his brothers, while Thor was left wearing the coarsest of rags.

Nonetheless, Thor made the best of what he had, finding a way to make his clothes fit, tying the frock with a sash around his waist, and, now that summer was here, cutting off the sleeves to allow his toned arms to be caressed by the breezes. These were matched by coarse linen pants, his only pair, and boots made of the poorest leather, laced up his shins. They were hardly the leather of his brothers' shoes, but he made them work. He wore the typical uniform of a herder.

But he hardly had the typical demeanor: Thor stood tall and lean, with a proud jaw, noble chin, high cheekbones and gray eyes, looking like a displaced warrior. His straight, brown hair fell back in waves on his head, just past his ears, and behind them, his eyes glistened like a minnow in the light.

Thor knew that today his brothers would be allowed to sleep in, be given a hearty meal, sent off for the Selection with the finest weapons and his father's blessing--while he would not even be allowed to attend. He had tried to raise the issue with his father once. It had not gone well. His father had summarily ended the conversation, and he had not tried again. It just wasn't fair.

Thor was determined to reject the fate his father had planned for him: at the first sign of the royal caravan, he would race back to the house, confront his father, and, like it or not, make himself known to the King's Men. He would stand for selection with the others. His father could not stop him. He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of it.

The first sun rose higher, and when the second sun began to rise, a mint green, adding a layer of light to the purple sky, Thor spotted them.

He stood upright, hairs on end, electrified. There, on the horizon, came the faintest outline of a horse-drawn carriage, its wheels kicking dust into the sky. His heart beat faster as another came into view; then another. Even from here the golden carriages gleamed in the suns, like silver-backed fish leaping from the water.

By the time he counted twelve of them, he could wait no longer. Heart pounding in his chest, forgetting his flock for the first time in his life, he turned and stumbled down the hill, determined to stop at nothing until he made himself known.

*

Thor barely stopped to catch his breath as he sped down the hills, through the trees, scratched by branches and not caring. He reached a clearing and saw his village spread out below: a sleepy country town, packed with one-story, white clay homes with thatched roofs, there were but several dozen families amongst them. Smoke rose from chimneys, and he knew most were up early, preparing their morning meal. It was an idyllic place, just far enough--a full day's ride--from King's Court to deter passersby. Just another farming village on the edge of the Ring, another cog in the wheel of the Western Kingdom.

Thor burst down the final stretch, into the village square, kicking up dirt as he went. Chickens and dogs ran out of his way, and an old woman, squatting outside her home before a cauldron of bubbling water, hissed at him.

"Slow down boy!" she screeched, as he raced passed her, stirring dust into her fire.

But Thor would not slow--not for her, not for anybody. He turned down one side street, then another, twisting and turning the way he knew by heart, until he reached home.

It was a small, nondescript dwelling, like all the others, with its white clay walls and angular, thatched roof. Like most, its single room was divided, his father sleeping on one side, and his three brothers on the other; unlike most, it had a small chicken coop in the back, and it was here that Thor was exiled to sleep. At first he'd slept with his brothers; but over time they had grown bigger and meaner and more exclusive, and made a show of not leaving him room. Thor had been hurt, but now he relished his own space, preferring to be away from their presence. It just confirmed for him that he was the exile in his family that he already knew he was.

Thor ran to his front door and burst through it without stopping.

"Father!" he screamed, gasping for breath. "The Silver! They're coming!"

His father and three brothers sat, hunched over the breakfast table, already dressed in their finest. At his words they jumped up and darted past him, bumping his shoulders as they ran out of the house, into the road.

Thor followed them out, and they all stood there, watching the horizon.

"I see no one," Drake, the oldest, answered in his deep voice. With the broadest shoulders, hair cropped short like his brothers, brown eyes and thin, disapproving lips, he scowled down at Thor, as usual.

"Nor do I," echoed Dross, just a year below Drake, always taking his side.

"They're coming!" Thor shot back. "I swear!"

His father turned to him and grabbed his shoulders sternly.

"And how would you know?" he demanded.

"I saw them."

"How? From where?"

Thor hesitated; his father had him. He of course knew that the only place he could have spotted them was from the top of that knoll. Now Thor was unsure how to respond.

"I...climbed the knoll--"

"With the flock? You know they are not to go that far."

"But today was different. I had to see."

His father glowered down.

"Go inside at once and fetch your brothers' swords and polish their scabbards, so that they look their best before the king's men arrive."

His father, done with him, turned back to his brothers, who all stood in the road, looking out.

"Do you think they'll choose us?" asked Durs, the youngest of the three, a full three years ahead of Thor.

"They'd be foolish not to," his father said. "They are short on men this year. It has been a slim cropping--or else they wouldn't bother coming. Just stand straight, the three of you, keep your chins up and chest out. Do not look them directly in the eye, but do not look away, either. Be strong and confident. Show no weakness. If you want to be in the King's Legion, you must act as if you're already in it."

"Yes, father," his three boys answered at once, getting into position.

He turned and glared back at Thor.

"What are you still doing there?" he asked. "Get inside!"

Thor stood there, torn. He didn't want to disobey his father, but he had to speak with him. His heart pounded as he debated. He decided it would be best to obey, to bring the swords, and then confront his father. Disobeying outright wouldn't help.

Thor raced into the house, out though the back and to the weapons shed. He spotted his brothers' three swords, objects of beauty all of them, crowned with the finest silver hilts, precious gifts his father had toiled for for years. He grabbed all three, surprised as always at their weight, and ran back through the house with them.

He sprinted to his brothers, handed each their sword, then turned to his father.

"What, no polish?" Drake said.

His father turned to him disapprovingly, but before he could say anything, Thor spoke up.

"Father, please. I need to speak with you!"

"I told you to polish--"

"Please, father!"

His father glared back, debating. He must have seen the seriousness on Thor's face, because finally, he said: "Well?"

"I want to be considered. With the others. For the Legion."

His brothers' laughter rose up behind him, making his face burn red.

But his father did not laugh; on the contrary, his scowl deepened.

"Do you?" he asked.

Thor nodded back vigorously.

"I'm fourteen. I'm eligible."

"The cutoff is fourteen," Drake said disparagingly, over his shoulder. "If they took you, you'd be the youngest. Do you think they'd choose you over someone like me, five years your elder?"

"You are insolent," Durs said. "You always have been."

Thor turned to them. "I'm not asking you," he said.

He turned back to his father, who still frowned.

"Father, please," he said. "Allow me a chance. That's all I ask. I know I'm young, but I will prove myself, over time."

His father shook his head.

"You're not a soldier, boy. You're not like your brothers. You're a herder. Your life is here. With me. You will do your duties and do them well. One should not dream too high. Embrace your life, and learn to love it."

Thor felt his heart breaking, as he saw his life collapsing before his eyes.

No, he thought. This can't be.

"But father--"

"Silence!" he screamed, so shrill it cut the air. "Enough with you. Here they come. Get out of the way, and best mind your manners while they're here."

His father stepped up and with one hand pushed Thor to the side, as if he were an object he'd rather not see. His beefy palm stung Thor's chest.

A great rumbling arose, and townsfolk poured out from their homes, lining the streets. A growing cloud of dust heralded the caravan, and moments later they burst in, a dozen horse-drawn carriages, with a noise like a great thunder.

They came into town like a sudden army, and their caravan came to a halt close to Thor's home. Their horses stood there, prancing, snorting. It took too long for the cloud of dust to settle, and Thor anxiously tried to steal a peek of their armor, their weaponry. He had never been this close to the Silver before, and his heart thumped.

The soldier on the lead horse dismounted his stallion. Here he was, a real, actual member of the Silver, covered in shiny ring mail, a long sword on his belt. He looked to be in his 30s, a real man, stubble on his face, scars on his cheek, and a nose crooked from battle. He was the most substantial man Thor had ever seen, twice as wide as the others, with a countenance that said he was in charge.

The soldier jumped down onto the dirt road, his spurs jingling as he approached the lineup of boys.

All up and down the village stood dozens of boys, at attention, hoping. Joining The Silver meant a life of honor, of battle, of renown, of glory--along with land, title, and riches. It meant the best bride, the choicest land, a life of glory. It meant honor for your family, and entering the Legion was the first step.

Thor studied the large, golden carriages, and knew they could only hold so many recruits. It was a large kingdom, and they had many towns to visit. He gulped, realizing his chances were even more remote than he thought. He would have to beat out all these other boys--many of them substantial fighters--along with his own three brothers. He had a sinking feeling.

Thor could hardly breathe as he watched the soldier pace in the silence, surveying the rows of hopefuls. He began on the far side of the street, then slowly circled. Thor knew all of the other boys, of course. Some of them he knew secretly did not want to be picked, even though their families wanted to send them off. They were afraid; they would make poor soldiers.

Thor burned with indignity. He felt he deserved to be picked, as much as any of them. Just because his brothers were older and bigger and stronger, didn't mean he shouldn't have a right to stand and be chosen. He burned with hatred for his father, and nearly burst out of his skin as the soldier approached.

The soldier stopped, for the first time, before his brothers. He looked them up and down, and seemed impressed. He reached out, grabbed one of their scabbards and yanked it, as if to test how firm it was.

He broke into a smile.

"You haven't yet used your sword in battle, have you?" he asked Drake.

Thor saw Drake nervous for the first time in his life. He swallowed.

"No, my liege. But I've used it many times in practice, and I hope to--"

"In practice!"

The soldier roared in laughter and turned to the other soldiers, who joined in, laughing in Drake's face.

Drake turned bright red. It was the first time Thor had ever seen Drake embarrassed--usually, it was Drake embarrassing others.

"Well then I shall certainly tell our enemies to fear you--you who wields your sword in practice!"

The crowd of soldiers laughed again.

The soldier then turned to his other brothers.

"Three boys from the same stock," he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "That can be useful. You're all a good size. Untested, though. You'll need much training if you are to make the cut."

He paused.

"I suppose we can find room."

He nodded towards the rear wagon.

"Get in, and be quick of it. Before I change my mind."

Thor's three brothers sprinted for the carriage, beaming. Thor noticed his father beaming, too.

But he was crestfallen as he watched them go.

The soldier turned and moved on to the next home. Thor could stand it no longer.

"Sire!" Thor yelled out.

His father turned and glared at him, but Thor no longer cared.

The soldier stopped, his back to him, and slowly turned.

Thor took two steps forward, his heart beating, and stuck out his chest as far as he could.

"You haven't considered me, sire," he said.

The soldier, startled, looked Thor up and down as if he were a joke.

"Haven't I?" he asked, and burst into laughter.

His men burst into laughter, too. But Thor didn't care. This was his moment. It was now or never.

"I want to join the Legion!" Thor said.

The soldier turned and stepped towards Thor.

"Do you now?"

He looked amused.

"And have you even reached your fourteenth year?"

"I did, sire. Two weeks ago."

"Two weeks ago!"

The soldier shrieked with laughter, as did the men behind them.

"In that case, our enemies shall surely quiver at the sight of you."

Thor felt himself burning with indignity. He had to do something. He couldn't let it end like this. The soldier turned his back to walk away--but Thor could not allow it.

Thor stepped forward and screamed: "Sire! You are making a mistake!"

A horrified gasp spread through the crowd, as the soldier stopped and slowly turned.

Now, he was scowling.

"Stupid boy," his father said, grabbing Thor by his shoulder, "go back inside!"

"I shall not!" Thor yelled, shaking off his father's grip.

The soldier stepped towards Thor, and his father backed away.

"Do you know the punishment for insulting the Silver?" the soldier snapped.

Thor's heart pounded, but he knew he could not back down.

"Please forgive him, sire," his father said. "He's a young child and--"

"I'm not speaking to you," the soldier said. With a withering look, he forced his father to look away.

He turned back to Thor.

"Answer me!" he said.

Thor swallowed, unable to speak. This was not how he saw it going in his head.

"To insult the Silver is to insult the King himself," Thor said meekly, reciting what he'd learned from memory.

"Yes," the soldier said. "Which means I can give you forty lashes if I choose."

"I mean no insult, sire," Thor said. "I just want to be picked. Please. I've dreamt of this my entire life. Please. Let me join you."

The soldier stood there, and slowly, his expression softened. After a long while, he shook his head.

"You're young, boy. You have a proud heart. But you're not ready. Come back to us when you are weaned."

With that, he turned and stormed off, barely glancing at the other boys. He quickly mounted his horse.

Thor stood there, crestfallen, and watched as the caravan broke into action; as quickly as they'd arrived, they were gone.

The last thing Thor saw was his brothers, sitting in the back of the last carriage, looking out at him, disapproving, mocking. They were being carted away before his eyes, away from here, into a better life.

Inside, Thor felt like dying.

As the excitement faded all around him, villagers slinked back into their homes.

"Do you realize how stupid you were, foolish boy?" Thor's father snapped, grabbing his shoulders. "Do you realize you could have ruined your brothers' chances?"

Thor brushed his father's hands off of him roughly, and his father reached back and backhanded him across the face.

Thor felt the sting of it, and he glared back at his father. A part of him, for the first time, wanted to hit his father back. But he held himself.

"Go get my sheep and bring them back. Now! And when you return, don't expect a meal from me. You will miss your meal tonight, and think about what you've done."

"Maybe I shall not come back at all!" Thor yelled, as he turned and stormed off, away from his home, towards the hills.

"Thor!" his father screamed, as villagers stopped and watched.

Thor broke into a trot, then a run, wanting to get as far away from this place as possible. As he ran, he barely noticed he was crying, tears flooding his face, as every dream he'd ever had was crushed.

# CHAPTER TWO

Thor wandered for hours in the hills, seething, until finally he chose a hill and sat, arms crossed over his legs, and watched the horizon. He watched the carriages disappear, watched the cloud of dust that lingered for hours after.

There would be no more visits. Now he was destined to remain here, in this village, for years, awaiting another chance--if they ever returned. If his father ever allowed it. Now it would be just he and his father, alone in the house, and his father would surely let out the full breadth of his wrath on him. He would continue to be his father's lackey, years would pass, and he would end up just like him, stuck here, living a small, menial life--while his brothers gained glory and renown. His veins burned with the indignity of it all: this was not the life he was meant to live. He knew it.

Thor racked his brain for anything he could do, any way he could change it. But he knew there was nothing. These were the cards life had dealt him.

After hours of sitting, he rose dejectedly and began traversing his way back up the familiar hills, higher and higher. Inevitably, he drifted back towards the flock, to the high knoll. As he climbed, the first sun fell in the sky and the second reached its peak, casting a greenish tint. He took his time as he ambled, mindlessly removing his sling from his waist, its leather grip well-worn from years of use. He reached into his sack, tied to his hip, and fingered his collection of stones, each smoother than the next, hand-picked from the choicest creeks. Sometimes he fired on birds, other times, rodents. It was a habit he'd ingrained over years. At first, he missed everything; then, once, he hit a moving target. Since then, his aim was true. Now, hurling stones had become a part of him--and it helped to release some of his anger. His brothers might be able to swing a sword through a log--but they could never hit a flying bird with a stone like he could.

Thor mindlessly placed a stone in the sling, leaned back and hurled it with all he had, pretending he was hurling it at his father. He hit a branch on a far-off tree, taking it down cleanly. Once he'd discovered he could actually kill moving animals, he'd stopped, afraid at his own power and not wanting to hurt anything; now his targets were branches. Unless of course, it was one of the fox that came after his flock; over time, they had learned to stay clear. His flock, as a result, was the safest kept in the village.

Thor thought of his brothers, of where they were right now, and he steamed. After a day's ride they would arrive in King's Court. He could see it. He saw them arriving to great fanfare, people dressed in their finest greeting them. Warriors greeting them. Members of the Silver. They would be taken in, given a place to live in the Legion's barracks, a place to train in the King's fields, given the finest weapons. Each would be named squire to a famous knight. One day, they would become knights themselves, get their own horse, their own coat of arms, and have their own squire. They would partake in all the festivals, and dine at the King's table. It was a charmed life. And it had slipped from his grasp.

Thor felt physically sick, and tried to force it all from his mind. But he could not. There was a part of him, some deep part, that screamed at him. It told him not to give up, that he had a greater destiny than this. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't here. He felt he was different. Maybe even special. That no one understood him. And that they all underestimated him.

Thor reached the highest knoll and spotted his flock. Well-trained, they were all still gathered, gnawing away contentedly at whatever grass they could find. He counted them, looking for the red marks he had stained on their backs. But he froze as he finished. One sheep was missing.

He counted again, and again. He couldn't believe it: one was gone.

Thor had never lost a sheep before, and his father would not let him live this down. Worse, he hated the idea of one of his sheep lost, alone, vulnerable in the wilderness. He hated to see anything innocent suffer.

Thor scurried to the top of the knoll and scanned the horizon. He spotted it, far-off, several hills away: the lone sheep, the red mark on its back. It was the wild one of the bunch. His heart dropped as he realized the sheep had not only fled, but had chosen, of all places, to head west, to Darkwood.

Thor gulped. Darkwood was forbidden--not just for sheep, but for humans. It was beyond the village limit, and from the time he could walk, Thor knew not to venture there. He never had. Going there, legend told, was a sure death, its woods unmarked and filled with vicious animals.

Thor looked up at the darkening sky, debating. He couldn't let his sheep go. He figured if he could move fast, he could get it back in time.

After one final look back, he turned and broke into a sprint, heading west, for Darkwood, thick clouds gathering in the sky. He had a sinking feeling, yet his legs seemed to carry him on his own. He felt there was no turning back, even if he wanted to.

It was like running into a nightmare.

*

Thor sped down the series of hills without pausing, into the thick canopy of Darkwood. The trails ended where the wood began, and he ran into unmarked territory, summer leaves crunching beneath his feet.

The instant he entered the wood the sky darkened, blocked by the towering pines above. It was colder in here, too, and as he crossed the threshold, he felt a chill. The chill wasn't just from the dark, or the cold--it was from something else. Something he could not name. It was a sense of...being watched.

Thor looked up at the ancient branches, gnarled, thicker than he, swaying and creaking in the breeze. He had barely gone fifty paces into the wood when he began to hear odd animal noises. He turned and could hardly see the opening from which he'd entered; he felt already as if there were no way out. He hesitated.

Darkwood had always sat on the periphery of the town and on the periphery of his consciousness, something deep and mysterious. Every herder who ever lost a sheep to the wood had never dared venture after it. Even his father. The tales about this place were too dark, too persistent.

But there was something different about today that made Thor no longer care, that made him throw caution to the wind. A part of him wanted to push the boundaries, to get as far away from home as possible, and to allow life to take him where it may.

He ventured farther, then paused, unsure which way to go. He noticed markings, bent branches where his sheep must have gone, and turned in that direction. After some time, he turned again.

Before another hour had passed, he was hopelessly lost. He turned and tried to remember the direction from which he came--but was no longer sure. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, but he figured the only way out was forward, so he continued on.

In the distance, Thor spotted a shaft of sunlight, and made for it. He found himself before a small clearing, and stopped at its edge. He stood there, rooted: he could not believe what he saw before him.

Standing there, his back to him, dressed in a long, blue satin robe, was a man. No--not a man, Thor could sense it from here. He was something else. A druid, maybe. He stood tall and straight, head covered by a hood, perfectly still, as if he did not have a care in the world.

Thor stood there, not knowing what to do. He had heard of druids, but had never encountered one. From the markings on his robe, the elaborate gold trim, this was no mere druid: those were royal markings. Of the King's court. Thor could not understand it. What was a royal druid doing here?

After what felt like an eternity, the druid slowly turned and faced him, and as he did, Thor recognized the face. It took his breath away. It was one of the most famous faces in the kingdom: the King's personal druid. Argon, counselor to kings of the Western Kingdom for centuries. What he was doing here, far from the royal court, in the center of Darkwood, was a mystery. Thor wondered if he were imagining it.

"Your eyes do not deceive you," Argon said, staring right at Thor.

His voice was deep, ancient, as if spoken by the trees themselves. His large, translucent eyes seemed to bore right through Thor, summing him up. He felt an intense energy radiating off of him--as if he were standing opposite the sun.

Thor immediately took a knee and bowed his head.

"My liege," he said. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

Thor knew that disrespect towards a King's counselor would result in imprisonment or death. It had been ingrained in him since the time he was born.

"Stand up, child," Argon said. "If I wanted you to kneel, I would have told you."

Slowly, Thor stood and looked at him. Argon took several steps closer. He stood there and stared, until Thor began to feel uncomfortable.

"You have your mother's eyes," Argon said.

Thor was taken aback. He had never met his mother, and had never met anyone, aside from his father, who knew her. From what he was told, she had died in childbirth, something for which Thor always felt a sense of guilt. He had always suspected that that was why his family hated him.

"I think you're mistaking me for someone else," Thor said. "I don't have a mother."

"Don't you?" Argon asked with a smile. "Were you born by man alone?"

"I meant to say, sire, that my mother died in birth. I think you mistake me."

"You are Thorgrin, of the Clan McLeod. The youngest of four brothers. The one not picked."

Thor's eyes opened wide. He hardly knew what to make of this. That someone of Argon's stature should know who he was--it was more than he could comprehend. He didn't even imagine that he was known to anyone outside his village.

"How...do you know this?"

Argon smiled back, but did not respond.

Thor was suddenly filled with curiosity.

"How..." Thor added, fumbling for words, "...how do you know my mother? Have you met her? Who was she?"

Argon turned and walked away.

"Questions for another time," he said, his back to him.

Thor watched him go, puzzled. It was such a dizzying and mysterious encounter, and it was all happening so fast. He decided he could not let him leave; he hurried after him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, hurrying to catch up. Argon, using his staff, an ancient ivory thing, walked deceptively fast. "You were not waiting for me, were you?"

"Who else?" Argon asked.

Thor hurried to catch up, following him into the wood, leaving the clearing behind.

"But why me? How did you know I would be here? What is it that you want?"

"So many questions," Argon said. "You fill the air. You should listen instead."

Thor followed him as he continued through the thick wood, doing his best to remain silent.

"You come in search of your lost sheep," Argon stated. "A noble effort. But you waste your time. She will not survive."

Thor's eyes opened wide.

"How do you know this?"

"I know worlds you will never know, boy. At least, not yet."

Thor wondered as he hiked to catch up.

"You won't listen, though. That is your nature. Stubborn. Like your mother. You will continue after your sheep, determined to rescue her."

Thor reddened as Argon read his thoughts.

"You are a feisty boy," he added. "Strong-willed. Too proud. Positive traits. But one day it may be your downfall."

Argon began to hike up a mossy ridge, and Thor followed.

"You want to join the King's Legion," he said.

"Yes!" Thor answered, excitedly. "Is there any chance for me? Can you make that happen?"

Argon laughed, a deep, hollow sound that sent a chill up Thor's spine.

"I can make everything and nothing happen. Your destiny was already written. But it is up to you to choose it."

Thor did not understand.

They reached the top of the ridge, and as they did Argon stopped and faced him. Thor stood only feet away, and Argon's energy burned through him.

"Your destiny is an important one," he said. "Do not abandon it."

Thor's eyed widened. His destiny? Important? He felt himself well with pride.

"I do not understand. You speak in riddles. Please, tell me more."

Suddenly, Argon vanished.

Thor could hardly believe it. He looked every which way. He stood there, listening, wondering. Had he imagined it all? Was it some delusion?

Thor turned and examined the wood; from this vantage point, high up on the ridge, he could see farther than before. As he looked, he spotted motion, in the distance. He heard a noise, and felt sure it was his sheep.

He stumbled down the mossy ridge and hurried in that direction, back through the wood. As he went, he could not shake his encounter with Argon. He could hardly conceive it had happened. What was the King's druid doing here, of all places? He had been waiting for him. But why? And what had he meant about his destiny?

The more Thor tried to unravel it, the less he understood. Argon was both warning him not to continue and at the same time tempting him to do so. Now, as he went, Thor felt an increasing sense of foreboding, as if something momentous were about to happen.

As he turned a bend, he stopped cold in his tracks at the view before him. All of his worst nightmares were confirmed in a single moment. His hair stood on end, and he realized he had made a grave mistake in coming here, this deep into Darkwood.

There, opposite him, hardly thirty paces away, was a Sybold. Hulking, muscular, standing on all fours, nearly the size of a horse, it was the most feared animal of Darkwood, maybe even of the kingdom. Thor had never seen one, but had heard legends. It resembled a lion, but was bigger, broader, its hide a deep scarlet and its eyes a glowing yellow. Legend had it that its scarlet color came from the blood of innocent children.

Thor had heard of few sightings of this beast his entire life, and even these were thought to be dubious. Maybe that was because no one ever actually survived an encounter. Some considered the Sybold to be the God of the Woods, and an omen. What that omen was, Thor had no idea.

He took a careful step back.

The Sybold stood there, its huge jaws half-open, its fangs dripping saliva, staring back with its yellow eyes. In its mouth was Thor's missing sheep: screaming, hanging upside down, half of its body pierced by fangs. It was mostly dead. The Sybold seemed to revel in the kill, taking its time; it seemed to delight in torturing it.

Thor could not stand the sound of the cries. It wiggled, helpless, and he felt responsible.

Thor's first impulse was to turn and run; but he already knew that would be futile. He would never outrun this beast, which could outrun anything. Running would only embolden it. And he could not leave his sheep to die like that.

He stood there, frozen in fear, and knew he had to take action of some sort.

Thor felt his reflexes take over. He slowly reached down, extracted a stone, and placed it in his sling. With a trembling hand, he wound up, took a step forward, and hurled.

The stone sailed through the air and hit its mark. It was a perfect shot. It hit the sheep in its eyeball, driving through to its brain.

The sheep went limp. Dead. Thor had spared this animal its suffering.

The Sybold glared at Thor, enraged that Thor had killed its plaything. It slowly opened its immense jaws and dropped the sheep, which landed with a thump on the forest floor. Then it set its eyes on Thor.

It snarled, a deep, evil sound, rising up from its belly.

As it started hulking towards him, Thor, heart pounding, placed another stone in his sling, reached back, and prepared to fire once again.

The Sybold broke into a sprint, moving faster than anything Thor had ever seen in his life. Thor took a step forward and hurled the stone, praying that it hit, knowing he wouldn't have time to sling another before it arrived.

The stone hit the beast in its right eye, knocking it out. It was a tremendous throw, one that would've brought a lesser animal to its knees.

But this was no lesser animal. The beast was unstoppable. It shrieked at the damage, but never even slowed. Even without one eye, even with the stone lodged in its brain, it continued to charge mindlessly at Thor. There was nothing Thor could do.

A moment later, the beast was on him. It wound up with its huge claw, and swiped his arm.

Thor shrieked. It felt like three knives cutting across his flesh, as he felt hot blood gush out of it.

The beast pinned him to the ground, on all fours. The weight of it was immense, like an elephant standing on his chest. Thor felt his ribcage being crushed.

The beast pulled back its head, opened wide its jaws, revealed its fangs, and began to lower them for Thor's throat.

As it did, Thor reached up and grabbed its neck; it was like grabbing onto solid muscle. Thor could barely hang on. His arms started to shake, as the fangs descended lower. He felt its hot breath all over his face, felt the saliva drip down onto his neck. A rumble came from deep within the animal's chest, burning Thor's ears. He knew he would die.

Thor closed his eyes.

Please God. Give me strength. Allow me to fight this creature. Please. I beg you. I will do anything you ask. I will owe you a great debt.

And then, something happened. Thor felt a tremendous heat rise up within his body, course through his veins, like an energy field racing through him. As he opened his eyes, he saw something that surprised him: from his palms there emanated a yellow light, and as he pushed back into the beast's throat, amazingly, he was able to match its strength, to hold it at bay.

Thor continued to push, and realized he was actually pushing the beast back. His strength grew and he felt a cannonball of energy--and a moment later, the beast went flying backwards, Thor sending it a good ten feet. It landed on its back.

Thor sat up, not understanding what had happened.

The beast regained its feet. Then, in a rage, it charged again--but this time Thor felt different. He felt the energy course through him, and felt more powerful than he had ever been.

As the beast leapt into the air, Thor crouched down, grabbed it by its stomach and hurled it, letting its momentum carry it.

The beast flew through the wood, smashed into a tree, then collapsed to the floor.

Thor turned, amazed. Had he just thrown a Sybold?

The beast blinked twice, then looked at Thor. It charged again.

This time, as the beast pounced, Thor grabbed it by its throat. They both went to the ground, the beast on top of Thor. But Thor rolled over, on top of it. Thor held it, choking it with both hands, as the beast kept trying to raise its head, snap its fangs at him. It just missed. Thor, feeling a new strength, dug his hands in and did not let go. He let the energy course through him. And soon, amazingly, he felt himself stronger than the beast.

Moments later, he realized he was choking the beast to death. Finally, the beast went limp.

Thor did not let go for another full minute.

He stood slowly, out of breath, staring down, wide-eyed, as he held his wounded arm. He could not believe what had just happened. Had he, Thor, just killed a Sybold?

He felt it was a sign, on this day of all days. He felt as if something momentous had happened. He had just killed the most famed and feared beast of his kingdom. Single-handedly. Without a weapon. It did not seem real. No one would believe him.

He stood there, reeling, wondering what power had overcome him, what it meant, who he really was. The only people known to have power like that were Druids. But his father and mother were not druids, so he couldn't be one.

Or could he be?

Thor suddenly sensed someone behind him, and spun to see Argon standing there, staring down at the animal.

"How did you get here?" Thor asked, amazed.

Argon ignored him.

"Did you witness what happened?" Thor asked, still unbelieving. "I don't know how I did it."

"But you do know," Argon answered. "Deep inside, you know. You are different than the others."

"It was like...a surge of power," Thor said. "Like a strength I didn't know I had."

"The energy field," Argon said. "One day you will come to know it quite well. You may even learn to control it."

Thor clutched his shoulder, the pain excruciating. He looked down and saw his hand covered in blood. He felt lightheaded, worried what would happen if he didn't get help.

Argon took three steps forward, reached out, grabbed Thor's free hand, and placed it firmly on his wound. He held it there, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

As he did, Thor felt a warm sensation course through his arm. Within seconds, the sticky blood on his hand dried up, and he felt his pain begin to fade.

He looked down, and could not comprehend it: his arm was healed. All that remained were three scars where the claws had cut--but they looked to be several days old. They were sealed. There was no more blood.

Thor looked at Argon in astonishment.

"How did you do that?" he asked.

Argon smiled.

"I didn't. You did. I just directed your power."

"But I don't have the power to heal," Thor answered, baffled.

"Don't you?" Argon replied.

"I don't understand. None of this is making any sense," Thor said, increasingly impatient. "Please, tell me."

Argon looked away.

"Some things you must learn over time."

Thor thought of something.

"Does this mean I can join the King's Legion?" he asked, excitedly. "Surely, if I can kill a Sybold, then I can hold my own with other boys."

"Surely you can," he answered.

"But they chose my brothers--they didn't choose me."

"Your brothers couldn't have killed this beast."

Thor stared back, thinking.

"But they have already rejected me. How can I join them?"

"Since when does a warrior need an invitation?" Argon asked.

His words sunk in deep. Thor felt his body warming over.

"Are you saying I should just show up? Uninvited?"

Argon smiled.

"You create your destiny. Others do not."

Thor blinked--and a moment later, Argon was gone.

Thor couldn't believe it. He spun around the wood in every direction, but there was no trace of him.

"Over here!" came a voice.

Thor turned and saw a huge boulder before him. He sensed the voice came from up top, and he immediately climbed it.

He reached the top, and was puzzled to see no sign of Argon.

From this vantage point, though, he was able to see above the treetops of Darkwood. He saw where Darkwood ended, saw the second sun setting in a dark green, and beyond that, the road leading to King's Court.

"The road is yours to take," came the voice. "If you dare."

Thor spun but saw nothing. It was just a voice, echoing. But he knew Argon was there, somewhere, egging him on. And he felt, deep down, that he was right.

Without another moment's hesitation, Thor scrambled down the rock and set off, through the wood, for the distant road.

Sprinting for his destiny.

# CHAPTER THREE

King MacGil, stout, barrel chested, with a beard too thick with gray, long hair to match, and a broad forehead lined with too many battles, stood on the upper ramparts of his castle, his queen beside him, and overlooked the day's burgeoning festivities. His royal grounds sprawled out beneath him in all their glory, stretching as far as the eye could see, a thriving city walled in by ancient stone fortifications. King's Court. Interconnected by a maze of winding streets sat stone buildings of every shape and size--for the warriors, the caretakers, the horses, the Silver, the Legion, the guards, the barracks, the weapons house, the armory--and among these, hundreds of dwellings for the multitude of his people who chose to live within the city walls. Between these spanned acres of grass, royal gardens, stone-lined plazas, overflowing fountains. King's Court had been improved upon for centuries, by his father, and his father before him--and it sat now at the peak of its glory. Without doubt, it was now the safest stronghold within the Western Kingdom of the Ring.

MacGil was blessed with the finest and most loyal warriors any king had ever known, and in his lifetime, no one had dared attack. The seventh MacGil to hold the throne, he had held it well for his thirty two years of rule, had been a good and wise king. The land had prospered greatly in his reign, he had doubled his army's size, expanded his cities, brought his people bounty, and not a single complaint could be found among his people. He was known as the generous king, and there had never been such a period of bounty and peace since he took the throne.

Which, paradoxically, was precisely what kept MacGil up at night. For MacGil knew his history: in all the ages, there had never been as long a stretch without a war. He no longer wondered if there would be an attack--but when. And from whom.

The greatest threat, of course, was from beyond the Ring, from the empire of savages that ruled the outlying Wilds, which had subjugated all the peoples outside the Ring, beyond the Canyon. For MacGil, and the seven generations before him, the Wilds had never posed a direct threat: because of his kingdom's unique geography, shaped in a perfect circle, in a ring, and separated from the rest of the world by a deep canyon a mile wide, and protected by an energy shield within it that had been active since a MacGil first ruled, they had little to fear of the Wilds. The savages had tried many times to attack, to penetrate the shield, to cross the canyon; not once had they been successful. As long as he and his people stayed within the Ring, there was no outside threat.

That did not mean, though, that there was no threat from inside. And that was what had kept MacGil up at night lately. That, indeed, was the purpose of the day's festivities: the marriage of his eldest daughter. A marriage arranged specifically to appease his enemies, to maintain the fragile peace within the Eastern and Western Kingdoms of the Ring.

While the Ring spanned a good five hundred miles in each direction, it was divided down the middle by a mountain range. The Highlands. On the other side of the Highlands sat the Eastern Kingdom, ruling the other half of the Ring. And this kingdom, ruled for centuries by their rivals, the McClouds, had always tried to shatter its fragile truce with the MacGils. The McClouds were malcontents, unhappy with their lot, convinced their side of the kingdom sat on ground less fertile. They contested the Highlands, too, insisting the entire mountain range was theirs, when at least half of it was the MacGil's. There were perpetual border skirmishes, and perpetual threats of invasion.

As MacGil pondered it all, he was annoyed. The McClouds should be happy: they were safe inside the Ring, protected by the Canyon, they sat on choice land, and had nothing to fear. They should just be content with their own half of the Ring. It was only because MacGil had grown his army so strong that, for the first time in history, the McClouds had dared not attack. But MacGil, the wise king he was, sensed something on the horizon; he knew this peace could not last. Thus he had arranged this marriage of his eldest daughter to the eldest prince of the McClouds. And now the day had arrived.

As he looked down, he saw stretched below him thousands of minions, dressed in brightly colored tunics, filtering in from every corner of the kingdom, from both sides of the Highlands. Nearly the entire Ring, all pouring into his fortifications. His people had prepared for months, commanded to make everything look prosperous, strong. This was not just a day for marriage: it was a day to send a message to the McClouds.

MacGil surveyed his hundreds of soldiers, lined up strategically along the ramparts, in the streets, along the walls, more soldiers than he could ever need--and felt satisfied. It was the show of strength he wanted. But he also felt on edge: the environment was charged, ripe for a skirmish. He hoped no hotheads, inflamed with drink, rose up on either side. He scanned the jousting fields, the playing fields, and thought of the day to come, filled with games and jousts and all sorts of festivities. They would be charged. The McClouds would surely show up with their own small army, and every joust, every wrestle, every competition, would take on meaning. If one went awry, it could evolve into a battle.

"My king?"

He felt a soft hand on his, and turned and saw his queen, Krea, still the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. Happily married his entire reign, she had borne him five children, three of them boys, and had not complained once. Moreover, she had become his most trusted counselor. As the years had passed, he had come to learn that she was wiser than all of his men. Indeed, wiser than he.

"It is a political day," she said. "But also our daughter's wedding. Try to enjoy. It won't happen twice."

"I worried less when I had nothing," he answered. "Now that we have it all, everything worries me. We are safe. But I don't feel safe."

She looked back at him with compassionate eyes, large and hazel; they looked as if they held the wisdom of the world. Her eyelids drooped, as they always had, looking just a bit sleepy, and were framed by her beautiful, straight brown hair, which fell on both sides of her face, tinged with gray. She had a few more lines, but she hadn't changed a bit.

"That's because you're not safe," she said. "No king is safe. There are more spies in our court than you'll ever care to know. And that is the way of things."

She leaned in and kissed him, and smiled.

"Try to enjoy it," she said. "It is a wedding after all."

With that, she turned and walked off the ramparts.

He watched her go, then turned and looked back out over his court. She was right; she was always right. He did want to enjoy it. He loved his eldest daughter, and it was a wedding after all. It was the most beautiful day of the most beautiful time of year, spring at its height, and summer dawning, the two suns perfect in the sky, and the slightest of breezes astir. Everything was in full bloom, trees everywhere awash in a broad palette of pinks and purples and oranges and white. There was nothing he'd like more than to go down and sit with his men, watch his daughter get married, and drink pints of ale until he could drink no more.

But he could not. He had a long course of duties before he could even step out of his castle. After all, the day of a daughter's wedding meant obligation for a king: he had to meet with his council; with his children; and with a long a line of supplicants who had a right to see the king on this day. He would be lucky if he left his castle in time for the sunset ceremony.

*

MacGil, dressed in his finest royal garb, velvet black pants, a golden belt, a royal robe made of the finest purple and gold silk, donning his white mantle, shiny leather boots up to his calves, and wearing his crown--an ornate gold band with a large ruby set in its center--strutted down the castle halls, flanked by attendants. He strode through room after room, descending the steps from the parapet, cutting through his royal chambers, through the great arched hall, with its soaring ceiling and rows of stained glass. Finally, he reached an ancient oak door, thick as a tree trunk, and his attendants opened it and stepped aside. The Throne Room.

His advisers stood at attention as MacGil entered, the door slammed shut behind him.

"Be seated," he said, more abrupt than usual. He was tired, on this day especially, of the endless formalities of ruling the kingdom, and wanted to get them over with.

He strode across the Throne Room, which never ceased to impress him, its ceilings soaring fifty feet, one entire wall a panel of stained glass, floors and walls made of stone a foot thick. The room could easily hold a hundred dignitaries. But on days like this, when his council convened, it was just him and his handful of advisers in the cavernous setting. The room was dominated by a vast table, shaped in a semi-circle, behind which his advisors stood.

He strutted through the opening, right down the middle, to his throne. He ascended the stone steps, passed the carved golden lions, then sank into the red velvet cushion lining his throne, carved from a single block of gold. His father had sat on this throne, as had his father, and all the MacGils before him. When he sat, MacGil felt the weight of his ancestors, of all the generations, with him.

He surveyed the advisors in attendance. There was Brom, his greatest general, and advisor on military affairs; Kolk, the general of the boys' Legion; Aberthol, the oldest of the bunch, a scholar and historian, mentor of kings for three generations; Firth, his advisor on internal affairs of the court, a skinny man with short, gray hair and hollowed out eyes that never sat still. He was not a man that MacGil had ever trusted, and he never even understood his title. But his father, and his before him, kept an advisor for court affairs, and so he kept it out of respect for them. There was Owen, his treasurer; Bradaigh, his advisor on external affairs; Earnan, his tax collector; Duwayne, his advisor on the masses; and Kelvin, the representative of the nobles.

Of course, the King had absolute authority. But his kingdom was a liberal one, and his fathers had always taken pride in allowing the nobles a voice in all matters, channeled through their representative. It was historically an uneasy power balance between the kingship and the nobles. Now there was harmony, but during other times there had been uprisings, power struggles, between the nobles and royalty. It was a fine balance.

As MacGil surveyed the room he noticed one person missing: the very man he wanted to speak with most. Argon. As usual, when and where he showed up was unpredictable. It infuriated MacGil to no end, but he had no choice but to accept it. The way of druids was inscrutable to him. Without him present, MacGil felt even more haste. He wanted to get through this, get to the thousand other things that awaited him before the wedding.

The group of advisers sat, facing him around the semi-circular table, spread out every ten feet, each sitting in a chair of ancient oak with elaborate carved wooden handles.

"My liege, if I may begin," Owen called out.

"You may. And keep it short. My time is tight today."

"Your daughter will receive a great many gift today, which we all hope will fill her coffers. The thousands of people paying tribute, presenting gifts to you personally, and filling our brothels and taverns, will help fill the coffers, too. And yet the preparation for today's festivities will also deplete a good portion of the royal treasury. I recommend an increase of tax on the people, and on the nobles. A one-time tax, to alleviate the pressures of this great event."

MacGil saw the concern on his treasurer's face, and his stomach sank at the thought of the treasury's depletion. Yet he would not raise taxes again.

"Better to have a poor treasury and loyal subjects," MacGil answered. "Our riches come in the happiness of our subjects. We shall not impose more."

"But my liege, if we do not--"

"I have decided. What else?"

Owen sank back, crestfallen.

"My king," Brom said, in his deep voice. "At your command, we have stationed the bulk of our forces in court for today's event. The show of power will be impressive. But we are stretched thin. If there should be an attack elsewhere in the kingdom, we will be vulnerable."

MacGil nodded, thinking it through.

"Our enemies will not attack us while we are feeding them."

The men laughed.

"And what news from the Highlands?"

"There has been no reported activity for weeks. It seems their troops have drawn down in preparation for the wedding. Maybe they are ready to make peace."

MacGil was not so sure.

"That either means the arranged wedding has worked, or they wait to attack us at another time. And which do you think it is, old man?" MacGil asked, turning to Aberthol.

Aberthol cleared his throat, his voice raspy as it came out: "My liege, your father and his father before him never trusted the McClouds. Just because they lie sleeping, does not mean they will not wake."

MacGil nodded, appreciating the sentiment.

"And what of the Legion?" he asked, turning to Kolk.

"Today we welcomed the new recruits," Kolk answered, with a quick nod.

"My son among them?" MacGil asked.

"He stands proudly with them all, and a fine boy he is."

MacGil nodded, then turned to Bradaigh.

"And what word from beyond the Canyon?"

"My liege, our patrols have seen more attempts to bridge the Canyon in recent weeks. There may be signs that the Wilds are mobilizing for an attack."

A hushed whisper spread amongst the men. MacGil felt his stomach tighten at the thought. The energy shield was invincible; still, it did not bode well.

"And what if there should be a full-scale attack?" he asked.

"As long as the shield is active, we have nothing to fear. The Wilds have not succeeded in breaching the Canyon for centuries. There is no reason to think otherwise."

MacGil was not so certain. An attack from outside was long overdue, and he could not help but wonder when it might be.

"My liege," Firth said in his nasally voice, "I feel obliged to add that today our court is filled with many dignitaries from the McCloud kingdom. It would be considered an insult for you not to entertain them, rivals or not. I would advise that you use your afternoon hours to greet each one. They have brought a large entourage, many gifts--and, word is, many spies."

"Who is to say the spies are not already here?" MacGil asked back, looking carefully at Firth as he did--and wondering, as always, if he might be one himself.

Firth opened his mouth to answer, but MacGil sighed and held up a palm, having had enough. "If that is all, I will leave now, to join my daughter's wedding."

"My liege," Kelvin said, clearing his throat, "of course, there is one more thing. The tradition, on the day of your eldest's wedding. Every MacGil has named a successor. The people shall expect you to do the same. They have been buzzing about. It would not be advisable to let them down. Especially with the Dynasty Sword still immobile."

"Would you have me name an heir while I am still in my prime?" MacGil asked.

"My liege, I mean no offense," Kelvin stumbled, looking concerned.

MacGil held up a hand. "I know the tradition. And indeed, I shall name one today."

"Might you inform us as to who?" Firth asked.

MacGil stared him down, annoyed. He was a gossip, and he did not trust this man.

"You will learn of the news when the time is right."

MacGil stood, and the others rose, too. They bowed, turned, and hurried from the room.

MacGil stood there, thinking, for he did not know how long. It was on days like this that he wished he was not king.

*

MacGil stepped down from his throne, boots echoing in the silence, and crossed the room. He opened the ancient oak door himself, yanking the iron handle, and entered a side chamber.

He enjoyed the peace and solitude of this cozy room, as he always had, its walls hardly twenty paces in either direction yet with a soaring, arched ceiling. The room was made entirely of stone, with a small, round piece of stained glass on one wall. Light poured in through its yellows and reds, lighting up a single object in the otherwise bare room.

The Dynasty Sword.

There it sat, in the center of the chamber, lying horizontal, on iron prongs, like a temptress. As he had since he was a boy, MacGil walked close to it, circled it, examined it. The Dynasty Sword. The sword of legend, the source of strength and power of his entire kingdom, from one generation to the next. Whoever had the strength to hoist it would be the Chosen One, the one destined to rule the kingdom for life, to free the kingdom from all threats, in and outside the Ring. It had been a beautiful legend to grow up with, and as soon as he was anointed king, MacGil had tried to hoist it himself, as only MacGil kings were even allowed to try. The kings before him, all of them, had failed. He was sure he would be different. He was sure he would be The One.

But he was wrong. As were all the other MacGil kings before him. And his failure had tainted his kingship ever since.

As he stared at it now, he examined its long blade, made of a mysterious metal no one had ever deciphered. The sword's origin was even more obscure, rumored to have risen from the earth in the midst of a quake.

Examining it, he once again felt the sting of failure. He might be a good king; but he was not The One. His people knew it. His enemies knew it. He might be a good king, but no matter what he did, he would never be The One.

If he had been, he suspected there would be less unrest amongst his court, less plotting. His own people would trust him more and his enemies would not even consider attack. A part of him wished the sword would just disappear, and the legend with it. But he knew it would not. That was the curse--and the power--of a legend. Stronger, even, than an army.

As he stared at it for the thousandth time, MacGil couldn't help but wonder once again who it would be. Who of his bloodline would be destined to wield it? As he thought of what lay before him, his task of naming an heir, he wondered who, if any, would be destined to hoist it.

"The weight of the blade is heavy," came a voice.

MacGil spun, surprised to have company in the small room.

There, standing in the door, was Argon. MacGil recognized the voice before he saw him and was both irritated for his not showing up sooner and pleased to have him here now.

"You're late," MacGil said.

"Your sense of time does not apply to me," Argon answered.

MacGil turned back to the sword.

"Did you ever think I would be able to hoist it?" he asked reflectively. "That day I became king?"

"No," Argon answered flatly.

MacGil turned and stared at him.

"You knew I would not be able to. You saw it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

MacGil pondered this.

"It scares me when you answer directly. That is unlike you."

Argon stayed silent, and finally MacGil realized he wouldn't say anymore.

"I name my successor today," MacGil said. "It feels futile, to name an heir on this day. It strips a king's joy from his child's wedding."

"Maybe such joy is meant to be tempered."

"But I have so many years left to reign," MacGil pleaded.

"Perhaps not as many as you think," Argon answered.

MacGil narrowed his eyes at Argon, wondering. Was it a message?

But Argon added nothing more.

"Six children. Which should I pick?" MacGil asked.

"Why ask me? You have already chosen."

MacGil looked at him. "You see much. Yes, I have. But I still want to know what you think."

"I think you made a wise choice," Argon said. "But remember: a king cannot rule from beyond the grave. Regardless of who you think you choose, fate has a way of choosing for itself."

"Will I live, Argon?" MacGil asked earnestly, asking the question he had wanted to know since he had awakened the night before from a horrific nightmare.

"I dreamt last night of a crow," he added. "It came and stole my crown. Then another carried me away. As it did, I saw my kingdom spread beneath me. It turned black as I went. Barren. A wasteland."

He looked up at Argon, his eyes watery.

"Was it a dream? Or something more?"

"Dreams are always something more, aren't they?" Argon asked.

MacGil was struck by a sinking feeling.

"Where is the danger? Just tell me this much."

Argon stepped close and stared into his eyes, with such an intensity that MacGil felt as if he were staring into another realm itself.

Argon leaned forward, whispered:

"Always closer than you think."

# CHAPTER FOUR

Thor hid in the straw in the back of a wagon as it jostled him on the country road. He'd made his way to the road the night before and had waited patiently until a wagon came along large enough for him to board and not be noticed. It was dark by then, and the wagon trotted along just slowly enough for him to gain a good running pace and leap in from behind. He'd landed in the hay, and buried himself inside. Luckily, the driver had not spotted him. Thor hadn't known for certain if the wagon was going to King's Court, but it was heading in that direction, and a wagon this size, and with these markings, could be going few other places.

As Thor rode throughout the night, he had stayed awake for hours, thinking of his encounter with the beast. With Argon. Of his destiny. His former home. His mother. He felt that the universe had answered him, had told him that he had another destiny. He had lay there, hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the night sky, visible through the tattered canvas. He'd watched the universe, so bright, its red stars so far away. He was exhilarated. For once in his life, he was on a journey. He did not know where, but he was going. One way or the other, he would make his way to King's Court.

When Thor opened his eyes it was morning, light flooding in, and he realized he'd drifted off. He sat up quickly, looking all around, chiding himself for sleeping. He should have been more vigilant--he was lucky he had not been discovered.

The cart still moved, but did not jostle as much. That could only mean one thing: a better road. They must be close to a city. Thor looked down, and saw how smooth the road was, free of rocks, of ditches, and lined with fine white shells. His heart beat faster: they were approaching King's Court.

Thor looked out the back of the cart, and was overwhelmed: the immaculate streets were flooded with activity. Dozens of carts, of all shapes and sizes, carrying all manner of things, filled the roads; one was laden with furs; another, with rugs; another, with chickens. Amidst them walked hundreds of merchants, some leading cattle, others carrying baskets of goods on their heads. Four men carried a bundle of silks, balancing them on poles. It was an army of people, all heading in one direction.

Thor felt alive. He'd never seen so many people at once, so many goods, so much happening. He'd been in a small village his entire life, and now he was in a hub, engulfed in humanity.

He heard a loud noise, the groaning of chains, the slamming of a huge piece of wood, so strong the ground shook. Moments later, he heard a different sound, of horses' hooves clacking on wood. He looked down, and realized they were crossing a bridge; beneath them passed a moat. A drawbridge.

Thor stuck his head out and saw immense stone pillars, the spiked iron gate above. They were passing through King's Gate.

It was the largest gate he had ever seen. He looked up at the spikes, and marveled that if they came down, they would slice him in half. He spotted four of the king's Silver, guarding the entry, and his heart beat faster.

They passed through a long, stone tunnel, then moments later the sky opened again. They were inside King's Court.

Thor could hardly believe it. There was even more activity here, if possible--what seemed to be thousands of people, milling in every direction. There were vast stretches of grass, perfectly cut, and flowers blooming everywhere. The road widened, and alongside it were booths, vendors, and everywhere, stone buildings. And amidst all of these, the King's men. Soldiers, bedecked in armor. Thor had made it.

In his excitement, he unwittingly stood; as he did, the cart stopped short, and he went flying backwards, landing on his back in the straw. Before he could rise, there was the sound of wood lowered, and he looked up to see an angry old man, bald, dressed in rags, scowling. The cart driver reached in, grabbed Thor by the ankles with his bony hands, and dragged him out the back.

Thor went flying, landing hard on his back on the dirt road, raising up a cloud of dust. Laughter rose up around him.

"Next time you ride my cart, boy, it will be the shackles for you! You're lucky I don't summon the Silver now!"

The old man turned and spat, then hurried back on his cart and whipped his horses on.

Thor, embarrassed, slowly gained his wits and got to his feet. He looked around: one or two passersby chuckled, and Thor sneered back until they looked away. He brushed the dirt off and rubbed his arms; his pride was hurt, but not his body.

His spirits returned as he looked around, dazzled, and realized he should be happy that at least he'd made it this far. Now that he was out of the cart he could look around freely, and an extraordinary sight it was: the court sprawled as far as the eye could see. At its center sat a magnificent stone palace, surrounded by towering, fortified stone walls, crowned by parapets, atop which, everywhere, patrolled the King's army. All around him were fields of green, perfectly maintained, stone plazas, fountains, groves of trees. It was a city. And it was flooded with people.

Everywhere streamed all manner of people--merchants, soldiers, dignitaries--everyone in such a rush. It took Thor several minutes to realize that something special was happening. As he ambled along, he saw preparations being made, chairs placed, an altar erected. It looked like they were preparing for a wedding.

His heart skipped a beat as he saw, in the distance, a jousting lane, with its long dirt path and a rope dividing it. On another field, he saw soldiers hurling spears at far-off targets; on another, archers, aiming at straw. It seemed as if everywhere were games, contests. There was also music, lutes and flutes and cymbals, packs of musicians wandering; and wine, huge vats being rolled out; and food, tables being prepared, banquets stretching as far as the eye could see. It was as if he'd arrived in the midst of a vast celebration.

As dazzling as all this was, Thor felt an urgency to find the Legion. He was already late, and he needed to make himself known.

He hurried to the first person he saw, an older man who seemed, by his blood-stained frock, to be a butcher, hurrying down the road. Everyone here was in such a hurry.

"Excuse me, sir," Thor said, grabbing his arm.

The man looked down at Thor's hand disparagingly.

"What is it, boy?"

"I'm looking for the King's Legion. Do you know where they train?"

"Do I look like a map?" the man hissed, and stormed off.

Thor was taken aback by his rudeness.

He hurried to the next person he saw, a woman kneading flower on a long table. There were several women at this table, all working hard, and Thor figured one of them had to know.

"Excuse me, miss," he said. "Might you know where the King's Legion train?"

They looked at each other and giggled, some of them but a few years older than he.

The eldest turned and looked at him.

"You're looking in the wrong place," she said. "Here, we are preparing for the festivities."

"But I was told they trained in King's Court," Thor said, confused.

The women broke into another chuckle. The eldest put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

"You act as if this is your first time in King's Court. Have you no idea how big it is?"

Thor reddened as the other women laughed, then finally stormed off. He did not like being made fun of.

He saw before him a dozen roads, twisting and turning every which way through King's Court. Spaced out in the stone walls were at least a dozen entrances. The size and scope of this place was overwhelming. He had a sinking feeling he could search for days and still not find it.

An idea struck him: surely, a soldier would know where the others train. He was nervous to approach an actual king's soldier, but realized he had to.

He turned and hurried to the wall, to the soldier standing guard at the closest entrance, hoping he would not throw him out. The soldier stood erect, looking straight ahead.

"I'm looking for the King's Legion," Thor said, summoning his bravest voice.

The soldier continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring him.

"I said I'm looking for the King's Legion!" Thor insisted, louder, determined to be recognized.

After several seconds, the soldier glanced down, sneering.

"Can you tell me where it is?" Thor pressed.

"And what business have you with them?"

"Very important business," Thor urged, hoping the soldier would not press him.

The soldier turned back to looking straight ahead, ignoring him again. Thor felt his heart sinking, afraid he would never receive an answer.

But after what felt like an eternity, he replied: "Take the eastern gate, then head north as far as you can. Take the third gate to the left, then fork right, and fork right again. Pass through the second stone arch, and their ground is beyond the gate. But I tell you you waste your time: they do not entertain visitors."

It was all Thor needed to hear. Without missing another beat, he turned and ran across the field, following the directions, repeating them in his head, trying to memorize them. He noticed the sun higher in the sky, and only prayed that when he arrived, it would not already be too late.

*

Thor sprinted down the immaculate, shell-lined paths, twisting and turning his way through King's Court. He tried his best to follow the directions, hoping he was not being led astray. As he reached the far end of the courtyard, he saw all the gates, and chose the third one on the left. He ran through it and then followed the forks, turning down path after path. He ran against traffic, thousands of people pouring into the city, the crowd growing thicker by the minute. He brushed shoulders with lute players, jugglers, clowns, and all sorts of entertainers, everyone dressed in fineries.

Thor could not stand the thought of the selection process beginning without him, and he tried his best to concentrate as he turned down path after path, looking for any sign of the training ground. He passed through an arch, turned down another road, and then, far off, he spotted what could only be his destination: a mini colosseum, built of stone, in a perfect circle. It had a huge gate in its center, guarded by soldiers. Thor heard a muted cheering from behind its walls and his heart quickened. This was the place.

He sprinted, lungs bursting. As he reached the gate, two guards stepped forward and lowered their lances, barring the way. A third guard stepped forward and held out a palm.

"Stop there," he commanded.

Thor stopped short, gasping for breath, barely able to contain his excitement.

"You...don't...understand," he heaved, words tumbling out between breaths, "I have to be inside. I'm late."

"Late for what?"

"The selection."

The guard, a short, heavy man with pockmarked skin, turned and looked at the others, who looked back cynically. He turned and surveyed Thor with a disparaging look.

"The recruits were taken in hours ago, in the royal transport. If you were not invited, you cannot enter."

"But you don't understand. I must--"

The guard reached out and grabbed Thor by the shirt.

"You don't understand, you insolent little boy. How dare you come here and try to force your way in? Now go--before I shackle you."

He shoved Thor, who stumbled back several feet.

Thor felt a sting in his chest where the guard's hand had touched him--but more than that, he felt the sting of rejection. He was indignant. He had not come all this way to be turned away by a guard, without even being seen. He was determined to make it inside.

The guard turned back to his men, and Thor slowly walked away, heading clockwise, around the circular building. He had a plan. He waited until he was out of sight, then broke into a jog, creeping his way alongside the walls. He turned to make sure they weren't watching, then picked up speed, sprinting. He kept running until he was halfway around the building and spotted another opening into the arena: high up were arched openings in the stone, blocked by iron bars. One of them, he noticed, was missing its bars. He heard another roar, and lifted himself up onto the ledge and looked.

His heart quickened. There, spread out inside the huge, circular training ground, were dozens of recruits--including his brothers. Lined up, they all faced a dozen of the Silver. The king's men walked amidst them, summing them up.

Another group of recruits stood off to the side, under the watchful eyes of a soldier, hurling spears at a distant target. One of them missed.

Thor's veins burned with indignation. He could have hit those marks; he was just as good as any of them. Just because he was younger, a bit smaller, it wasn't fair that he was being left out.

Suddenly, Thor felt a hand on his back as he was yanked backwards, flying through the air. He landed hard on the ground below, winded.

He looked up and saw the guard from the gate, sneering down.

"What did I tell you, boy?"

Before he could react, the guard leaned back and kicked Thor hard. Thor felt a sharp thump in his ribs, as the guard wound up to kick him again.

This time, Thor caught the guard's foot in mid-air; he yanked it, knocking him off balance and making him fall.

He quickly gained his feet. At the same time, the guard gained his. Thor stood there, staring back, shocked by what he had just done. Across from him, the guard glowered.

"Not only will I shackle you," the guard hissed, "but I will make you pay. No one touches a king's guard! Forget about joining the Legion--now, you will wallow away in the dungeon! You'll be lucky if you're ever seen again!"

The guard pulled out a chain with a shackle at its end. He approached Thor, vengeance on his face.

Thor's mind raced. He could not allow himself to be shackled--yet he did not want to hurt a member of the King's Guard. He had to think of something--and fast.

He remembered his sling. His reflexes took over as he grabbed it, placed a stone, took aim, and hurled.

The stone flew through the air and knocked the shackles from the stunned guard's hand; it also hit the guard's fingers. The guard pulled back and shook his hand, screaming in pain, as the shackles went flying to the ground.

The guard looked up at Thor with a look of death. He pulled his sword from his scabbard. It came out with a distinctive, metallic ring.

"That was your last mistake," he threatened darkly, and charged.

Thor had no choice: this man would just not leave him be. He placed another stone in his sling and hurled it. He aimed deliberately: he did not want to kill him, but he had to stop him. So instead of aiming for his heart, nose, eye, or head, Thor aimed for the one place he knew would stop him, but not kill him.

He aimed between his legs.

He let the stone fly, not at full strength, but enough to put the man down.

It was a perfect strike.

The guard keeled over, dropping his sword, grabbing between his legs as he collapsed to the ground and curled up in a ball.

"You'll hang for this!" he groaned amidst grunts of pain. "GUARDS! GUARDS!"

Thor looked up and in the distance saw several of the King's Guards racing for him.

It was now or never.

Without wasting another moment, he sprinted for the window ledge. He would have to jump through, into the arena, and make himself known. And he would fight anyone who got in his way.

# CHAPTER FIVE

MacGil sat in the upper hall of his castle, in his intimate meeting hall, the one he used for personal affairs. He sat on his intimate throne, this one carved of wood, and looked out at his four children standing before him. There was his eldest son, Kendrik, at twenty five years a fine warrior and true gentleman. He, of all his children, resembled MacGil the most--which was ironic, since he was a bastard, MacGil's only issue by another woman, a woman he had long since forgotten. MacGil had raised Kendrik with his true children, despite his Queen's initial protests, on the condition he would never ascend the throne. Which pained MacGil now, since Kendrik was the finest man he'd ever known, a son he was proud to sire, and there would have been no finer heir to the kingdom.

Beside him, in stark contrast, stood his second-born son--yet his firstborn legitimate son--Gareth, twenty-three, thin, with hollow cheeks and large brown eyes which never stopped darting. His character could not be more different than his elder brother's. Gareth's nature was everything his elder brother's was not: where his brother was forthright, Gareth hid his true thoughts; where his brother was proud and noble, Gareth was dishonest and deceitful. It pained MacGil to dislike his own son, and he had tried many times to correct his nature; but after some point in his teenage years, he finally realized his nature was predestined: scheming, power-hungry, and ambitious in every wrong sense of the word. Gareth also, MacGil knew, had no love for women, and had many male lovers. Other kings would have ousted such a son, but MacGil was more open-minded, and for him, this was not a reason not to love him. He did not judge him for this. What he did judge him for was his evil, scheming nature, which was something he could not overlook.

Lined up beside Gareth stood his second-born daughter, Gwendolyn. Having just reached her sixteenth year, she was as beautiful a girl as he had ever laid eyes upon--and her nature outshone even her looks: she was kind, generous, honest--the finest young woman he had ever known. In this regard, she was similar to her eldest brother. She looked at MacGil with a daughter's love for a father, and he'd always felt her loyalty, in every glance. He was even more proud of her than of his sons.

Standing beside her was MacGil's youngest boy, Reece, a proud and spirited young lad who, at fourteen, was just becoming a man. MacGil had watched with great pleasure his initiation into the Legion, and could already see the man he was going to be. One day, he had no doubt, he would be his finest son, and a great ruler. But that day was not now. He was too young yet, and had too much to learn.

MacGil felt mixed feelings as he surveyed his four children, his three sons and daughter, standing before him, felt pride mingled with disappointment. He also felt anger and annoyance, for two of his children were missing. The eldest, his daughter Luanda, of course was preparing for her own wedding, and since she was being married off to another kingdom, she had no business being here, in this discussion of heirs. But his other son, Godfrey, the middle one, eighteen, was absent. MacGil reddened from the snub.

Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey showed such a disrespect for the kingship, it was always clear that he cared not for it, and would never rule. MacGil's greatest disappointment, Godfrey instead chose to waste away his days in ale houses, with miscreant friends, causing the royal family ever-increasing shame and dishonor. He was a slacker, sleeping most of his days, and filling the rest of them with drink. On the one hand, MacGil was relieved he wasn't here; on the other, it was an insult he could not suffer. He had, in fact, expected this, and had sent out his men early to comb the alehouses and bring him back. MacGil sat there silently, waiting, until they did.

The heavy oak door finally slammed open and in marched the royal guards, dragging Godfrey between them. They gave him a shove, and Godfrey stumbled into the room as they slammed the door behind him.

The children turned and stared. Godfrey was slovenly, reeking of ale, unshaven, and half dressed. He smiled back. Insolent. As always.

"Hello father," Godfrey said. "Did I miss all the fun?"

"You will stand with your siblings and wait for me to speak. If you don't, God help me, I'll chain you in the dungeons with the rest of the common prisoners, and you won't see food--much less ale--for three days entire."

Godfrey stood there, defiant, glaring back at his father. In that stare his father detected some deep reservoir of strength, something of himself, a spark of something that might one day serve him well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.

Defiant to the end, Godfrey waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the others.

As they all stood there, MacGil surveyed his five children: the bastard, the deviant, the drunkard, his daughter, and his youngest. It was a strange mix, and he could hardly believe they had all sprung from him. And now, on his eldest daughter's wedding day, the task had fallen on him to choose an heir from this bunch. How was it possible?

It was all, he felt, an exercise in futility: after all, he was in his prime, and could rule for thirty more years; whatever heir he chose today might not even ascend the throne for decades. The entire tradition irked him. It may have been relevant in the times of his fathers, but it had no place now.

He cleared his throat.

"We are gathered here today at the bequest of tradition. As you know, on this day, the day of my eldest's wedding, the task has fallen upon me to name a successor. An heir to rule this kingdom. Should I die, there is no one better fit to rule than your mother. But our kingdom's laws dictate that only the issue of a king may succeed. Thus, I must choose."

MacGil caught his breath, thinking. A heavy silence hung in the air, and he could feel the weight of anticipation. He looked in their eyes, and saw different expressions in each. The bastard looked resigned, knowing he would not be picked. The deviant's eyes were aglow with ambition, as if expecting the choice to naturally fall on him. The drunkard looked out the window; he did not care. His daughter looked back with love, knowing she was not part of this discussion, but loving him nonetheless. The same with his youngest.

"Kendrik, I have always considered you a true son. But the laws of our kingdom prevent me from passing the kingship to anyone of less than true legitimacy."

Kendrik bowed. "Father, I had not expected you would do so. I'm content with my lot. Please do not let this confound you."

MacGil was pained at his response, as he felt how genuine he was and wanted to name him heir all the more.

"That leaves four of you. Reece, you're a fine young man, the finest I've ever seen. But you are too young to be part of this discussion."

"I expected as much, father," Reece responded, with a slight bow.

"Godfrey, you are one of my three legitimate sons--yet you choose to waste your days in the ale house, with the filth. You were handed every privilege in life, and have spurned every one. If I have any great disappointment in this life, it is you."

Godfrey grimaced back, shifting uncomfortably.

"Well, then, I suppose I'm done here, and shall head back to the ale house, shan't I, father?"

With a quick, disrespectful bow, Godfrey turned and strutted across the room.

"Get back here!" MacGil screamed. "NOW!"

Godfrey continued to strut, ignoring him. He crossed the room and pulled open the door. Two guards stood there.

MacGil seethed with rage as the guards looked to him questioningly.

But Godfrey did not wait; he shoved his way past them, into the open hall.

"Detain him!" MacGil yelled. "And keep him from the Queen's sight. I don't want his mother burdened by the sight of him on her daughter's wedding day."

"Yes, my liege," they said, closing the door as they hurried off after him.

MacGil sat there, breathing, red-faced, trying to calm down. For the thousandth time, he wondered what he had done to warrant such a child.

He looked back at his remaining children. The four of them stood there, waiting in the thick silence. MacGil took a deep breath, trying to focus.

"That leaves but two of you," he continued. "And from these two, I have chosen a successor."

MacGil turned to his daughter.

"Gwendolyn, that will be you."

There was a gasp in the room; his children all seemed shocked, most of all Gwendolyn.

"Did you speak accurately, father?" Gareth asked. "Did you say Gwendolyn?"

"Father, I am honored," Gwendolyn said. "But I cannot accept. I am a woman."

"True, a woman has never sat on the throne of the MacGils. But I have decided it is time to change tradition. Gwendolyn, you are of the finest mind and spirit of any young woman I've met. You are young, but God be willing, I shall not die anytime soon, and when the time comes, you will be wise enough to rule. The kingdom will be yours."

"But father!" Gareth screamed, his face ashen, "I am the eldest born legitimate son! Always, in all the history of the MacGils, kingship has gone to the eldest son!"

"I am King," MacGil answered darkly, "and I dictate tradition."

"But it's not fair!" Gareth pleaded, his voice whining. "I am supposed to be King. Not my sister. Not a woman!"

"Silence your tongue, boy!" MacGil shouted, shaking with rage. "Dare you question my judgment?"

"Am I being passed over then for a woman? Is that what you think of me?"

"I have made my decision," MacGil said. "You will respect it, and follow it obediently, as every other subject of my kingdom. Now, you may all leave me."

His children bowed their heads quickly and hurried from the room.

But Gareth stopped at the door, unable to bring himself to leave.

He turned back, and, alone, faced his father.

MacGil could see the disappointment in his face. Clearly, he had expected to be named heir today. Even more: he had wanted it. Desperately. Which did not surprise MacGil in the least--and which was the very reason he did not give it to him.

"Why do you hate me, father?" he asked.

"I don't hate you. I just don't find you fit to rule my kingdom."

"And why is that?" Gareth pressed.

"Because that is precisely the thing you seek."

Gareth's face turned a dark shade of crimson. Clearly, MacGil had given him an insight into his truest nature. MacGil watched his eyes, saw them burn with a hatred for him that he had never imagined possible.

Without another word, Gareth stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.

In the reverberating echo, MacGil shuddered. He recalled his son's stare and sensed a hatred so deep, deeper than even than those of his enemies. In that moment, he thought of Argon, of his pronouncement, of danger being close.

Could it be as close as this?

# CHAPTER SIX

Thor sprinted across the vast field of the arena, running with all he had. Behind him he could hear the footsteps of the King's guards, close on his tail. They chased him across the hot and dusty landscape, cursing as they went. Before him were spread out the members--and new recruits--of the Legion, dozens of boys, just like him, but older and stronger. They were training and being tested in various formations, some throwing spears, others hurling javelins, a few practicing their grips on lances. They aimed for distant targets, and rarely missed. These were his competition, and they seemed formidable.

Among them were dozens of real knights, members of the Silver, standing in a broad semi-circle, watching the action. Judging. Deciding on who would stay and who would be sent home.

Thor knew he had to prove himself, had to impress these men. Within moments the guards would be upon him, and if he had any chance of making an impression, now was the time. But how? His mind raced as he dashed across the courtyard, determined not to be turned away.

As Thor raced across the field, others began to take notice. Some of the recruits stopped what they were doing and turned, and some of the knights did as well. Within moments, Thor felt all the attention focused on him. They looked bewildered, and he realized they must be wondering who he was, sprinting across their field, three of the King's guard chasing him. This was not how he had wanted to make an impression. His whole life, when he had dreamed of joining the Legion, this was not how he had envisioned it happening.

As Thor ran, debating what to do, his course of action was made plain for him. One large boy, a recruit, decided to take it upon himself to impress the others by stopping Thor. Tall, muscle-bound, he was nearly twice Thor's size, and he raised his wooden sword and blocked Thor's way. Thor could see he was determined to strike him down, to make a fool of him in front of everyone, and thereby gain himself advantage over the other recruits.

This made Thor furious. Thor had no bone to pick with this boy, and it was not his fight. But he was making it his fight, just to gain advantage with the others.

As they got closer, Thor could hardly believe this boy's size: he towered over him, scowled down with locks of thick black hair covering his forehead, and the largest, squarest jaw Thor had ever seen. He did not see how he could make a dent against this boy.

The boy charged him with his wooden sword, and Thor knew that if he didn't act quick, he would be knocked out.

Thor's reflexes kicked in. He instinctively took out his sling, reached back, and hurled a rock at the boy's hand. It found its target, and knocked the sword from his hand, just as the boy was bringing it down. It went flying and the boy, screaming, clutched his hand.

Thor wasted no time. He charged, taking advantage of the moment, leapt into the air, and kicked the boy, planting his two front feet squarely on the boy's chest. But the boy was so thick, it was like kicking an oak tree. The boy merely stumbled back a few inches, while Thor stopped cold in his tracks and fell at the boy's feet. This did not bode well, Thor thought, as he hit the ground with a thud, his ears ringing.

Thor tried to gain his feet, but the boy was a step ahead of him: he reached down, grabbed Thor by his back, and threw him, sending him flying, face first, into the dirt.

A crowd of boys quickly gathered in a circle around them and cheered. Thor reddened, humiliated.

Thor turned to get up, but the boy was too fast. He was already on top of him, pinning him down. Before Thor knew it, it had turned into a wrestling match, and the boy's weight was immense.

Thor could hear the muted shouts of the other boys as they formed a circle, screaming, anxious for blood. He looked up and saw the face of the boy, scowling down; the boy reached out his thumbs, and brought them down for Thor's eyes. Thor could not believe it: it seemed this boy really wanted to hurt him. Did he really want to gain advantage that badly?

At the last second, Thor rolled his head out of the way, and the boy's hands went flying by, plunging into the dirt. Thor took the chance to roll out from under him.

Thor gained his feet, and faced the boy, who gained his, too. The boy charged and swung for Thor's face, and Thor ducked at the last second; the air rushed by his face, and he realized if it had hit him, it would have broken his jaw. Thor reached up and punched the boy in the gut--but it hardly did a thing: it was like striking a tree.

Before Thor could react, the boy reached around and elbowed Thor in the face.

Thor stumbled back, reeling from the blow. It was like getting hit by a hammer, and his ears rang.

While he was stumbling, still trying to catch his breath, the boy charged and kicked Thor hard in the chest. Thor went flying backwards and crashed to the ground, landing on his back. The other boys cheered.

Thor, dizzy, began to sit up, but just as he began, the boy charged, reached down and swung and punched him again, hard in the face, knocking him flat on his back again--and down for good.

Thor lay there, hearing the muted cheers of the others, feeling the salty taste of blood running from his nose, the welt on his face. He groaned in pain. He looked up and could see the large boy turn away and walk back towards his friends, already celebrating his victory.

Thor wanted to give up. This boy was huge, fighting him was futile, and he could take no more punishment. But something inside him pushed him. He could not lose. Not in front of all these people.

Don't give up. Get up. Get up!

Thor somehow summoned the strength: groaning, he rolled over and got to his hands and knees, then, slowly, to his feet. He faced the boy, bleeding, his eyes swollen, hard to see, breathing hard, and raised his fists.

The huge boy turned around and stared down at Thor. He shook his head, unbelieving.

"You should have stayed down, boy," he threatened, as he began to walk back to Thor.

"ENOUGH!" yelled a voice. "Elden, stand back!"

A knight suddenly stepped up, getting between them, holding out his palm and stopping Elden from getting closer to Thor. The crowd quieted, as they all looked to the knight: clearly this was a man who demanded respect.

Thor looked up, in awe at his presence: he was tall, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, brown, well-kept hair, in his 20s. Thor liked him immediately. His first-rate armor, a chainmail made of a polished silver, was covered with royal markings: the falcon emblem of the MacGil family. Thor's throat went dry: he was standing before a member of the royal family. He could hardly believe it.

"Explain yourself, boy," he said to Thor. "Why have you charged into our arena uninvited?"

Before Thor could respond, suddenly, the three members of the King's guard broke through the circle. The lead guard stood there, breathing hard, pointing a finger at Thor.

"He defied our command!" the guard yelled. "I am going to shackle him and take him to the King's dungeon!"

"I did nothing wrong!" Thor protested.

"Did you now?" the guard yelled. "Barging into the King's property uninvited?"

"All I wanted was a chance!" Thor yelled, turning, pleading to the knight before him, the member of the royal family. "All I wanted was a chance to join the Legion!"

"This training ground is only for the invited boy," came a gruff voice.

Into the circle stepped a warrior, 50s, broad and stocky, with a bald head a short beard, and a scar running across his nose. He looked like he had been a professional soldier all his life--and from the markings on his armor, the gold pin on his chest, he looked to be their commander. Thor's heart quickened at the site of him: a general.

"I was not invited, sire," Thor said. "That is true. But it has been my life's dream to be here. All I want is a chance to show you what I can do. I am as good as any of these recruits. Just give me one chance to prove it. Please. Joining the Legion is all I've ever dreamt of."

"This battleground is not for dreamers, boy," came his gruff response. "It is for fighters. There are no exceptions to our rules: recruits are chosen."

The general nodded, and the King's guard approached Thor, shackles out.

But suddenly the knight, the royal family member, stepped forward and put out his palm, blocking the guard.

"Maybe, on occasion, an exception may be made," he said.

The guard looked up at him in consternation, clearly wanting to speak out, but having to hold his tongue in deference to a royal family member.

"I admire your spirit, boy," the knight continued. "Before we cast you away, I would like to see what you can do."

"But Kendrick, we have our rules--" the general said, clearly displeased.

"The royal family makes the rules," Kendrick answered sternly, "and the Legion answers to the royal family."

"We answer to your father, the King--not to you," the general retorted, equally defiant.

There was a standoff, the air thick with tension. Thor could hardly believe what he had ignited.

"I know my father, and I know what he would want. He would want to give this boy a try. And that is what we will do."

The general, after several tense moments, finally backed down.

Kendrick turned to Thor, eyes locking on his, brown and intense, the face of a prince, but also of a warrior.

"I will give you one chance," he said to Thor. "Let's see if you can hit that mark."

He gestured at a stack of hay, far across the field, with a small, red stain in its center. Several spears were lodged in the hay, but none inside the red.

"If you can do what none of these others boys could do--if you can hit that mark from here--then you may join us."

The knight stepped aside, and Thor could feel all eyes on him.

He spotted a rack of spears and looked them over carefully: they were of a finer quality than he'd ever seen, made of solid oak, wrapped in the finest leather. His heart was pounding as he stepped forward, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, feeling more nervous than he had in his life. Clearly, he was being given a nearly impossible task. But he had to try.

Thor reached over and picked one, not too long, or too short. He weighed it in his hand--it was heavy, substantial. Not like the ones he used back home. But it also felt right. He felt that maybe, just maybe, he could find his mark. After all, spear throwing was his finest skill, next to hurling stones, and many long days of roaming the wilderness had given him ample targets. He had always been able to hit targets even his brothers could not.

Thor closed his eyes and breathed deeply. If he missed, he would be pounced upon by the guards and dragged off to jail--and his chances of joining the Legion would be ruined forever. This one moment held everything he had ever dreamt of.

He prayed to God with all he had.

Without hesitating, Thor opened his eyes, took two steps forward, reached back and hurled the spear.

He held his breath as he watched it sail.

Please, God. Please.

The spear cut through the thick, dead silence, and Thor could feel the hundreds of eyes on it.

Then, after an eternity, there came the sound, the undeniable sound of a spear point piercing hay. Thor didn't even have to look. He knew, he just knew, that it was a perfect strike. It was the way the spear felt when it left his hand, the angle of his wrist, that told him it would hit.

Thor dared to look--and saw, with huge relief, that he was right. The spear found its place in the center of the red mark--the only spear in it. He'd done what the other recruits could not.

Stunned silence enveloped him, as he felt the other recruits--and knights--all gaping at him.

Finally, Kendrick stepped forward and clapped Thor hard on the back with his palm, with the sound of satisfaction. He grinned widely.

"I was right," he said. "You will stay!"

"What, my Lord!" screamed the King's guard. "It is not fair! This boy arrived uninvited!"

"He hit that mark. That's invitation enough for me."

"He is far younger and smaller than the others. This is no peewee squad," said the general.

"I would rather a smaller soldier who can hit his mark than an oaf who cannot," the knight replied.

"A lucky throw!" yelled the large boy who Thor had just fought. "If we had more chances, we would hit, too!"

The knight turned and stared down the boy.

"Would you?" he asked. "Shall I see you do it now? Shall we wager your staying here on it?"

The boy, flustered, lowered his head in shame, clearly not willing to take up the offer.

"But this boy is a stranger," protested the general. "We don't even know where he hails from."

"He comes from the lowlands," came a voice.

The others turned to see who spoke, but Thor did not need to--he recognized the voice. It was the voice that had plagued him his entire childhood. The voice of his eldest brother: Drake.

Drake stepped forward, with his other two brothers, and glared down at Thor with a look of disapproval.

"His name is Thorgrin, of the clan McCleod of the Southern Province of the Eastern Kingdom. He is the youngest of four. We all hail from the same household. He tends our father's sheep!"

The entire group of boys and knights burst into a chorus of laughter.

Thor felt his face redden; he wanted to die at that moment. He had never been more ashamed. That was just like his brother, to take away his moment of glory, to do whatever he could to keep him down.

"Tends sheep, does he?" echoed the general.

"Then our foes will surely have to watch out for him!" yelled another boy.

There was another chorus of laughter, and Thor's humiliation deepened.

"Enough!" yelled Kendrick, sternly.

Gradually, the laughter subsided.

"I'd rather have a sheepherder any day who can hit a mark than the lot of you--who seem good at laughing but not much more," Kendrick added.

With that, a silence descended on the boys, who weren't laughing anymore.

Thor was infinitely grateful to Kendrick. He vowed to find out who he was, to pay him back any way he could. Regardless of what happened to him, this man had, at least, restored his honor.

"Don't you know, boy, that it is not a warrior's way to tattle on his friends--much less his own family, his own blood?" the knight asked Drake.

Drake looked down, flustered, one of the rare times that Thor had seen him out of sorts.

But one of his other brothers, Dress, stepped forward and protested: "But Thor wasn't even chosen. We were. He is merely following us here."

"I'm not following you," Thor insisted, finally speaking up. "I'm here for the Legion. Not for you."

"It doesn't matter why he's here," the general said, annoyed, stepping forward. "He's wasting all of our time. Yes it was a good hit of the spear, but he still cannot join us. Has no knight to sponsor him, and no squire willing to partner with him."

"I will partner with him," called out a voice.

Thor spun, along with the others. He was surprised to see, standing a few feet away, a boy his age, who actually looked like him, except with blond hair and bright green eyes, wearing the most beautiful royal armor he had ever seen, chainmail covered with scarlet and black markings--clearly, another member of the King's family.

"Impossible," the general said. "The royal family does not partner with commoners."

"I can do as I choose," the boy shot back. "And I say that Thorgrin will be my partner."

"Even if we sanctioned it," the general said. "It does not matter. He has no knight to sponsor him."

"I shall sponsor him," came a voice.

Everyone turned in the other direction, and there came a muffled gasp amongst the others.

Thor turned to see a knight, mounted on a horse, bedecked in the most beautiful shining armor he had ever seen, wearing all manner of weaponry on his belt. He positively shined, and it was like looking at the sun. Thor could tell by his demeanor, his bearing, and by the markings on his helmet, that he was different than the others. He was a champion.

Thor recognized this knight. He had seen paintings of him, and had heard of his legend. Erec. He couldn't believe it. He was the greatest knight in the Ring.

"But my lord, you already have a squire," the general protested.

"Then I shall have two," Erec answered, in a deep, confident voice.

A stunned silence pervaded the group.

"Then there is nothing left to say," Kendrick said. "Thorgrin has a sponsor and a partner. The matter is resolved. He is now a member of the Legion."

"But you have forgotten about me!" the King's guard screamed, stepping forward. "None of this excuses the fact that the boy has struck a member of the King's guard, and that he must be punished. Justice must be done!"

"Justice will be done," Kendrick responded, steely. "But it will be at my discretion. Not yours."

"But my liege, he must be put in the stocks! An example must be made of him!"

"If you keep up your talk, then you shall be the one going to the stocks," Kendrick said back to the guard, glaring him down, steel in his voice.

Finally, the guard backed down; reluctantly, he turned and walked away, red-faced, glaring at Thor.

"Then it is official," Kendrick called out in a loud voice. "Welcome, Thorgrin, to the King's Legion!"

The crowd of knights and boys let out a cheer. They then turned away, back to their training.

Thor felt numb with shock. He could hardly believe it. He was now a member of the King's Legion. It was like a dream.

Thor turned to Kendrick, more grateful to him than he could ever say. He had never had anyone in his life before who cared about him, who went out of his way to look out for him, to protect him. It was a funny feeling. He already felt closer to this man than to his own father.

"I don't know how to thank you," Thor said. "I am deeply indebted to you."

Kendrick smiled down. "Kendrick is my name. You shall get to know it well. I am the King's eldest son. I admire your courage. You shall be a fine addition to this lot."

Kendrick turned and hurried off, and as he did, the huge boy that Thor had fought shuffled by.

"Watch your back," the boy said. "We sleep in the same barracks, you know. And don't think for a moment you're safe."

The boy turned and stormed off before Thor could respond; he could hardly believe he had already made an enemy.

He was beginning to wonder what was in store for him here, when suddenly the King's youngest son hurried over to him.

"Don't mind him," he said to Thor. "He's always picking fights. I'm Reece."

"Thank you," Thor said, reaching out his hand, "for choosing me as your partner. I don't know what I would have done without it."

"I'm happy to choose anyone who stands up to that brute," Reece said happily. "That was a nice fight."

"Are you kidding?" Thor asked, wiping dried blood from his face and feeling his welt swell up. "He killed me."

"But you didn't give up," Reece said. "Impressive. Any of the others of us would have just stayed down. And that was one hell of a spear throw. How did you learn to throw like that? We shall be partners for life!" He looked at Thor meaningfully as he shook his hand. "And friends, too. I can sense it."

As Thor shook his hand, he couldn't help but feel that he was making a friend for life.

Suddenly, he was poked from the side.

He spun and saw an older boy standing there, with pockmarked skin and a long and narrow face.

"I am Feithgold. Erec's squire. You are now his second squire. Which means you answer to me. And we have a tournament in minutes. Are you going to just stand there when you been made squire to the most famous knight in the kingdom? Follow me! Quickly!"

Reece had already turned away, and Thor turned and hurried after the squire as he ran across the field. He had no idea where they were going--but he didn't care. He was singing inside. He had made it.

He could hardly believe it.

He had made it.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Gareth hurried across King's court, dressed in his royal fineries, pushing his way amidst the masses who poured in from all directions for his sister's wedding, and he fumed. He was still reeling from his encounter with his father. How was it possible that he was skipped over? That his father would not choose him as king? It made no sense. He was the firstborn legitimate son. That was the way it had always worked. He had always, from the time he was born, assumed he would reign--he had no reason to think otherwise.

It was unconscionable. Passing him over for a younger sibling--and a girl, no less. When word spread, he would be the laughingstock of the kingdom. As he walked, he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, and he did not know how to catch his breath.

He stumbled his way with the masses towards the wedding ceremony of his elder sister. He looked about, saw the multitude of colored robes, the endless streams of people, all the different folk from all the different provinces. He hated being this close to commoners. This was the one time when the poor could mingle with the rich, the one time those savages from the Eastern Kingdom, from the far side of the Highlands, had been allowed in, too. Gareth still could hardly conceive that his sister was being married off to one of them. It was a shrewd political move by his father, a pathetic attempt to make peace between the kingdoms.

Even stranger, somehow, his sister seemed to actually like this creature. Gareth could hardly conceive why. Knowing her, it was not the man she liked, but the title, the chance to be queen of her own province. She would get what she deserved: they were all savages, those on the other side of the Highlands. In Gareth's mind, they lacked his civility, his refinery, his sophistication. It was not his problem. If his sister was happy, let her be married off. It was just one less sibling to have around that might stand in his way to the throne. In fact, the farther away she was, the better.

Not that any of this was his concern anymore. After today, he would never be king. Now, he would be relegated to being just another anonymous prince in his father's kingdom. Now, he had no path to power; now he was doomed to a life of mediocrity.

His father had underestimated him--he always had. His father considered himself politically shrewd--but Gareth knew that he was much shrewder, and always had been. For instance, this marrying off of Luanda to a McCloud: his father thought himself a master politician. But Gareth was more far-sighted than his father, was able to consider more of the ramifications, and was already looking one step farther. He knew where this would lead. Ultimately, this marriage would not appease the McClouds, but embolden them. They were brutes, so they would see this peace offering not as a sign of strength, but of weakness. They would not care for a bond between the families, and as soon as his sister was taken away, Gareth felt certain they would plan an attack. It was all a ruse. He had tried to tell his father, but he would not listen.

Not that any of this was his concern anymore. After all, now he was just another prince, just another cog in the kingdom. Gareth positively burned at the thought of it, and he hated his father at that moment with a hatred he never knew was possible. As he crammed in, shoulder to shoulder with the masses, he imagined ways he could take revenge, and ways he could get the kingship after all. He could not just sit idly by, that was for certain. He could not let the kingship go to his younger sister.

"There you are," came a voice.

Gareth turned and saw Firth, walking up beside him, wearing a jolly smile, revealing his perfect teeth. 18, tall, thin, with a high voice and smooth skin and ruddy cheeks, Firth was his lover of the moment. Gareth was usually happy to see him, but was in no mood for him now.

"I think you have been avoiding me all day," Firth added, linking one arm around his as they walked.

Gareth immediately shook off his arm, and checked to make sure no one had seen.

"Are you stupid?" Gareth chastised. "Don't you ever link arms with me in public again. Ever."

Firth look down, red-faced. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think."

"That's right, you didn't. Do it again, and I shall never see you again," Gareth scolded.

Firth turned redder, and looked truly apologetic. "I'm sorry," he said.

Gareth checked again, felt confident no one had seen, and felt a little bit better.

"What gossip from the masses?" Gareth asked, wanting to change the subject, to shake his dark thoughts.

Firth immediately perked up and regained his smile.

"Everyone waits in expectation. They all wait for the announcement that you have been named successor."

Gareth's face dropped. Firth examined him.

"Haven't you?" Firth asked, skeptical.

Gareth reddened as he walked, not meeting Firth's eyes.

"No."

Firth gasped.

"He passed me over. Can you imagine? For my sister. My younger sister."

Now Firth's face fell. He looked astonished.

"That is impossible," he said. "You are firstborn. She is a woman. It's not possible," he repeated.

Gareth looked at him, stone cold. "I do not lie."

The two of them walked for some time in silence, and as it grew even more crowded, Gareth looked around, starting to realize where he was and really take it all in. King's Court was absolutely jammed--there must have been thousands of people swarming in, from every possible entrance. They all shuffled their way towards the elaborate wedding stage, around which were set at least a thousand of the nicest chairs, with thick cushions, covered in a red velvet, and with golden frames. An army of servants strode up and down the aisles, seating people, carrying drinks.

On either side of the endlessly long wedding aisle, strewn with flowers, sat the two families--the MacGils and McClouds--the line sharply demarcated. There were hundreds on either side, each dressed in their finest, the MacGils in the deep purple of their clan, and the McClouds in their burnt-orange. To Gareth's eye, the two clans could not look more different: though they were each dressed in fineries, he felt as if the McClouds were merely dressing up, pretending. They were brutes beneath their clothes--he could see it in their facial expressions, in the way they moved, jostled each other, the way they laughed too loudly. There was something beneath their surface that royal clothing could not hide. He resented having them within their gates. He resented this entire wedding. It was yet another foolish decision by his father.

If he were king, he would have executed a different plan: he would have called this wedding, too. But then he would have waited until late in the night, when the McClouds were steeped in drink, barred the doors to the hall, and burned them all in a great fire, killed them all in one clean swoop.

"Brutes," Firth said, as he examined the other side of the wedding aisle. "I can hardly imagine why your father let them in."

"It should make for interesting games, afterwards," Gareth said. "He invites our enemy into our gates, then arranges wedding day competitions. Is that not a recipe for skirmish?"

"Do you think?" Firth asked. "A battle? Here? With all these soldiers? On her wedding day?"

Gareth shrugged. He put nothing past the McClouds.

"The honor of a wedding day means nothing to them."

"But we have thousands of soldiers here."

"As do they."

Gareth turned and saw a long line of soldiers--MacGils and McClouds--lined up on either side of the battlements. They would not have brought so many soldiers, he knew, unless they were expecting a skirmish. Despite the occasion, despite the fine dress, despite the lavishness of the setting, the endless banquets of food, the summer solstice in full bloom, the flowers--despite everything, there still hung a heavy tension in the air. Everyone was on edge--Gareth could see it by the way they bunched up their shoulders, held out their elbows. No one trusted each other.

Maybe he would get lucky, Gareth thought, and one of them would stab his father in his heart. Then maybe he could become king after all.

"I suppose we can't sit together," Firth said, disappointment in his voice, as they approached the seating area.

Gareth shot him a look of contempt. "How stupid are you?" he spat, venom in his voice.

He was seriously beginning to wonder whether he had made a good idea to choose this stable boy as his lover. If he didn't get him over his sappy ways quick, he might just out them both.

Firth looked down in shame.

"I will see you afterwards, in the stables. Now be gone with you," he said, and gave him a small shove. Firth disappeared into the crowd.

Suddenly, Gareth felt an icy grip on his arm. For a moment his heart stopped, as he wondered if he was discovered; but then he felt the long nails, the thin fingers, plunge into his skin, and he knew it right away to be the grasp of his wife. Helena.

"Don't embarrass me on this day," she hissed, hatred in her voice.

He turned and studied her: she looked beautiful, all done up, wearing a long white satin gown, her hair piled high with pins, wearing her finest diamond necklace, and her face smoothed over with makeup. Gareth could see objectively that she was beautiful, as beautiful as she was on the day he married her. But still he felt no attraction to her. It had been another idea of his father's--to try to marry him out of his nature. But all it had done was give him a perpetually sour companion--and stir up even more court speculation about his true inclinations.

"It is your sister's wedding day," she rebuked. "You can act as if we are a couple--for once."

She locked one arm through his and they walked to a reserved area, roped off with velvet. Two royal guards let them through and they mingled with the rest of the royals, at the base of the aisle.

A trumpet was blown, and slowly, the crowd quieted. There came the gentle music of a harpsichord, and as it did, more flowers were strewn along the aisle, and the royal procession began to walk down, couples arm in arm. Gareth was tugged by Helena, and he began marching down the aisle with her.

Gareth felt more conspicuous, more awkward than ever, hardly knowing how to make his love seem genuine. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and couldn't help but feel as if they were all evaluating him, though he knew they were not. The aisle could not be short enough; he could not wait to reach the end and stand near his sister at the altar, and get this over with. He also could not stop thinking about his meeting with his father: he wondered if all these onlookers already knew the news.

"I received ill news today," he whispered to Helena as they finally reached the end, and the eyes were off him.

"Do you think I don't know that already?" she snapped.

He turned and looked at her, surprised.

She looked back with contempt. "I have my spies," she said.

He narrowed his eyes, wanting to hurt her. How could she be so nonchalant?

"If I am not king, then you shall never be queen," he said.

"I never expected to be queen," she answered.

That surprised him even more.

"I never expected him to name you," she added. "Why would he? You are not a leader. You are a lover. But not my lover."

Gareth felt himself reddening.

"Nor are you mine," he said to her.

It was her turn to redden. He was reminding her that she was not the only one that had a secret lover. He had heard rumors, had spies of his own that told him of her exploits. He had let her get away with it so far--as long as she kept it quiet, and left him alone.

"It's not like you give me a choice," she answered. "Do you expect me to remain celibate the rest of my life?"

"You knew who I was," he answered. "Yet you chose to marry me. You chose power, not love. Don't act surprised."

"Our marriage was arranged," she said. "I did not choose a thing."

"But you did not protest," he answered.

They were at a stalemate, and Gareth lacked the energy to argue with her today. She was a useful prop, a puppet wife. He could tolerate her, and she could be useful on occasion--as long as she did not annoy him too much.

Gareth watched with supreme cynicism as everyone turned to watch his eldest sister being walked down the aisle by his father, that creature. The gall of him--he even had the nerve to feign sadness, wiping a tear as he walked her. An actor to the last. But in Gareth's eyes, he was just a bumbling fool. He couldn't imagine his father felt any genuine sadness for marrying off his daughter, who, after all, he was throwing to the wolves of the McCloud kingdom. He felt an equal disdain for Luanda, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. She seemed to hardly care that she was being married off to a lesser people. She, too, was after power. Cold-blooded. Calculated. In this way, she, of all his siblings, was most like him. In some ways he could relate to her, though they never had much warmth for each other.

Gareth shifted on his feet, impatient, waiting for it all to end.

He suffered through the ceremony, as Argon presided over the blessings, reciting the spells, performing the rituals. It was all a charade, and it made him sick. It was just the union of two families for political reasons. Why couldn't they just call it what it was?

Soon enough, thank heavens, it was over. The crowd rose up in a huge cheer as the two kissed. A great horn was blown, and the perfect order of the wedding dissolved into controlled chaos. They all made their way back down the aisle, and over to the reception area.

Even Gareth, as cynical as he was, was impressed by the site: his father had spared no expense this time. Stretching out before them were all manner of tables, banquets, vats of wine, an endless array of roasting pigs and sheep and lamb.

Behind them, they were already preparing for the main event: the games. There were targets being prepared for stone hurling, spear throwing, bows and arrows--and, at the center of it all, the jousting lane. Already, the masses were crowding around it.

Crowds were already parting for the knights on both sides. For the MacGils, the first to enter, of course, was his brother, Kendrick, up on his horse, bedecked in armor, followed by dozens of the Silver. But it was not until Erec arrived, set back from the others, on his white horse, that the crowd quieted in awe. He was like a magnet for attention: even Helena leaned forward, and Gareth saw her lust for him, like all the other women.

"He's nearly of selection age, yet he's not married. Any woman in the kingdom would marry him. Why does he choose none of us?"

"And what do you care?" Gareth asked, feeling jealous, despite himself. He too, wanted to be up there, in armor, on a horse, jousting for his father's name. But he was not a warrior. And everyone knew it.

Helena ignored him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You are not a man," she said, derisively. "You do not understand these things."

Gareth blushed. He wanted to let her have it, but now was not the time. Instead, he accompanied her as she took a seat in the stands, with the others, to watch the day's festivities. This day was going from worse to worse, and Gareth already felt a pit in his stomach. It would be a very long day, a day of endless chivalry, of pomp, of pretense. Of men wounding or killing each other. A day he was completely excluded from. A day that represented everything he hated.

As he sat there, he brooded. He wished silently that the festivities would erupt into a full-fledged battle, that there would be full-scale bloodshed before him, that everything good about this place be destroyed, torn to bits.

One day he would have his way. One day he would be king.

One day.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Thor did his best to keep up with Erec's squire, hurrying to catch up as he weaved his way through the masses. It had been such a whirlwind since the arena, he could hardly process what was happening all around him. He was still trembling inside, could still hardly believe he had been accepted into the Legion, and he had been named second squire to Erec.

"I told you boy, keep up!" Feithgold snapped.

Thor resented him calling him "boy," especially as he was hardly a few years older. He nearly lost sight of him as he darted in out of the crowd, almost as if he were trying to lose Thor.

"Is it always this crowded here?" Thor called out, trying to catch up.

"Of course not!" Feithgold yelled back. "Today is not only the summer solstice, the biggest day of the year, but also the day the king chose for his daughter's wedding--and the only day in history we've opened our gates to the McClouds. There has never been such a crowd here as now. It is unprecedented. I hadn't expected this! I fear we will be late!" he said, all in a rush, as he sped through the crowd.

"Where are we going?" Thor asked.

"We're going to do what every good squire does: to help our knight prepare!"

"Prepare for what?" Thor pressed, nearly out of breath. It was getting hotter by the minute, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Why, the royal joust!"

They finally reached the edge of the crowd. They stopped before a king's guard, who recognized Feithgold and gestured to the others to let them pass.

They slipped under a rope and stepped into a clearing, free from the masses. Thor could hardly believe it: there, up close, were the jousting lanes. Behind the ropes stood mobs of spectators, and up and down the dirt lanes stood huge warhorses--the largest Thor had ever seen--mounted by knights in all manner of armor. Mixed among the Silver were knights from all over the two kingdoms, from every province, some in black armor, others in white, wearing helmets and donning weapons of every shape and size. It looked as if the entire world had descended on these jousting lanes.

There were already some competitions were in progress, knights from places Thor did not recognize charging each other, clanging lances and shields, followed always by a short cheer from the crowd. Up close, Thor could not believe the strength and speed of the horses, the sound the weapons made. It seemed like a deadly business.

"It hardly seems like a sport!" Thor said to Feithgold as he followed him along the perimeter of the lanes.

"That's because it is not," Feithgold yelled back, over the sound of a clang. "It is a serious business, masked as a game. People die here, every day. It is battle. Lucky are the ones who walk away unscathed. They are far and few between."

Thor looked up as two knights charged each other and moments later, collided at full speed. There was an awful crash of metal on metal, and one of them went flying off his horse, and landed on his back, just feet away from Thor.

The crowd gasped. The knight did not stir, and Thor looked down and saw a piece of a wooden shaft stuck in his ribs, piercing his armor. He cried out in pain, and blood poured from his mouth. Several squires ran over and attended him, dragging him off the field. The winning knight paraded slowly, raising his lance to the cheer of the crowd.

Thor was amazed. He had not envisioned the sport to be so deadly.

"What those boys just did--that is your job now," Feithgold said. "You are squire now. More precisely, second squire."

He stopped and came in close--so close, Thor could smell his bad breath.

"And don't you forget it. I answer to Erec. And you answer to me. Your job is to assist me. Do you understand?"

Thor nodded back, still trying to take it all in. He had imagined it all going differently in his head, and still didn't know exactly what was in store for him. He could feel how threatened Feithgold was by his presence, and felt he had made an enemy.

"It is not my intention to interfere with your being Erec's squire," Thor said.

Feithgold let out a short, derisive laugh.

"You couldn't interfere with me, boy, if you tried. Just stay out of my way and do as I tell you."

With that, Feithgold turned and hurried down a series of twisting paths behind the ropes. Thor followed as best he could, and soon found himself in a labyrinth of stables. He walked down a narrow corridor, all around him warhorses strutting, squires tending nervously to them. Feithgold twisted and turned and finally stopped before a giant, magnificent horse. Thor stopped and looked up, and had to catch his breath. He could hardly believe that something so big and beautiful was real, and that it could be contained behind a fence. It looked as if it were ready for war.

"Warkfin," Feithgold said. "Erec's horse. Or one of them--the one he prefers for jousting. Not an easy beast to tame. But Erec has managed. Open the gate," Feithgold ordered.

Thor looked at him, puzzled, then looked back at the gate, trying to figure it out. He stepped forward, pulled at a peg between the slats, and nothing happened. He pulled harder and it budged, and he gently swung open the wooden gate.

The second he did, Warkfin neighed, leaned back and kicked the wood, just grazing the tip of Thor's finger. Thor yanked back his hand in pain.

Feithgold laugh.

"That's why I had you open it. Do it quicker next time, boy. Warkfin waits for no one. Especially you."

Thor was fuming; Feithgold was already getting on his nerves, and he hardly saw how he would be able to put up with him.

He quickly open the wooden gates, stepping out of the way this time of the horse's flailing legs.

"Shall I bring him out?" Thor asked with trepidation, not really wanting to grab his reigns as he stomped and swayed.

"Of course not," Feithgold said. "That is my role. Your role is to feed him--when I tell you to. And to shovel his waist."

Feithgold grabbed Warkfin's reigns and began to lead him down the stables. Thor swallowed, watching him. This was not the initiation he had in mind. He knew he had to start somewhere, but this was degrading. He had pictured war and glory and battle, training and competition among boys his own age. He never saw himself as a servant in waiting. He was starting to wonder if he had made the right decision.

They finally burst out of the dark stables and back into the bright light of day, back in the jousting lanes. Thor squinted at the bright light, and was momentarily overcome by the thousands of people cheering, the noise of opposing knights as they smashed into one other. He'd never heard such a clang of metal, and the earth tremored from the horses' gait.

All around him were dozens of knights and their squires, preparing. Squires polished their knight's armor, greased up weapons, checked saddles and straps and double-checked weapons as knights mounted their steeds, grabbed their weapons, and waited for their names to be called.

"Elmalkin!" an announcer called out.

A knight from a province Thor did not recognize, a broad fellow in red armor, galloped out the gate. Thor turned and jumped out of the way just in time. He charged down the narrow lane, and Thor watched as his lance brushed off the shield of a competitor. They clanged, and the other knight's lance struck, and Elmalkin went flying backwards, landing on his back. The crowd cheered.

The knight immediately gathered himself, though, jumping to his feet, spinning around, and reaching out a hand to his squire, who stood beside Thor.

"My mace!" the knight yelled out.

The squire beside Thor jumped into action, grabbing a mace off the weapons rack and sprinting out towards the center of the lane. He ran towards his knight, but the other knight had circled back, and was charging again. Just as the squire was reaching him, just as he was placing the mace into his hand, the other knight thundered down upon them. The squire did not reach the knight in time: the other knight brought his lance down--and as he did, his lance swiped the squire's head. The squire, reeling from the below, spun around quickly and went down to the dirt, face first.

He was not moving. Thor could see blood oozing from his head, even from here, staining the dirt.

Thor swallowed.

"It's not a pretty sight, is it?"

Thor turned to see Feithgold standing beside them, staring back.

"Steel yourself boy. This is battle. And we're right in the middle of it."

The crowd suddenly grew quiet, as the main jousting lane was opened. Thor could sense anticipation in the air, as all the other jousts stopped in anticipation of this one. On one side, out came Kendrik, walking out on his horse, lance in hand.

On the far side, facing him, out walked a knight in the distinctive armor of the McClouds.

"MacGils versus McClouds," Feithgold whispered to Thor. "We've been at war for a thousand years. And I very much doubt this match will settle it."

Each knight lowered his visor, a horn sounded, and with a shout, the two charged each other.

Thor was amazed at how much speed they picked up, and moments later they collided with such a clang, Thor nearly raised his hands to his ears. The crowd gasped as both fighters fell from their horses.

They each jumped to their feet and threw off their helmets, as their squires ran out to them, handing them short swords. The two knights sparred with all they had. Watching Kendrick swing and slash had Thor mesmerized: it was a thing of beauty. But the McCloud was a fine warrior, too. Back and forth they went, each exhausting the other, neither giving ground.

Finally their swords met in one momentous clash, and they each knocked each other's swords from their hands. Their squires ran out, maces in hand, but as Kendrick was reaching for his mace, the McCloud's squire ran up behind him and struck him in the back with a mace, the blow sending him to the ground, to the horrified gasp of the crowd.

The McCloud knight stepped forward and pointed his sword to Kendrick's throat, pinning him to the ground. Kendrick was left with no choice.

"I concede!" he yelled.

There was a victorious shout among the McClouds--but a shout of anger from the MacGils.

"He cheated!" yelled out the MacGils.

"He cheated! He cheated!" echoed a chorus of angry cries.

The mob was getting angrier and angrier, and soon there was such a chorus of protests that the mob began to disperse, and both sides--the MacGils and McClouds--began to approach each other on foot.

"This isn't good," Feithgold said to Thor, as they stood on the side, watching.

Moments later, the crowd erupted: blows were thrown, and it became an all-out brawl. It was chaos. Men were swinging wildly, grabbing each other in locks, driving each other to the ground. The crowd was swelling, and it was threatening to blow up into an all-out war.

A horn sounded, and guards from both sides marched in, and managed to split up the crowd. Another, louder, horn sounded, and silence fell as King MacGil stood from his throne.

"There will be no skirmishers today!" he boomed in his kingly voice. "Not on this day of celebration! And not in my court!"

Slowly, the crowd calmed.

"If it is a contest you wish for between our two great clans, it will be decided by one fighter, one champion, from each side."

MacGil looked to King McCloud, who sat on the far side, seated with his entourage.

"Agreed?" MacGil yelled out.

McCloud stood solemnly.

"Agreed!" he echoed.

The crowd cheered on both sides.

"Choose your best man!" MacGil yelled.

"I already have," McCloud said.

There emerged from the McCloud side a formidable knight, the biggest man Thor had ever seen, mounted on his horse. He looked like a boulder, all bulk, with a long beard, and a scowl that looked permanent.

Thor sensed movement beside him, and right next to him, Erec stepped up, mounted Warfkin and walked forward. Thor swallowed. He could hardly believe this was happening all around him. He swelled with pride for Erec.

Then he was overcome with anxiety, as he realized that he was on duty. After all, he was squire and this was his knight who was about to fight.

"What do we do?" Thor asked Feithgold in a rush.

"Just stand back and do as I tell you," he answered.

Erec strode forward into the jousting lane, and the two knights stayed there, facing each other, their horses stomping in a tense standoff. Thor felt his heart pounding in his chest as he waited and watched.

A horn sounded, and the two charged each other.

Thor could not believe the beauty and grace of Warfkin as he watched him move. It was like watching a fish jump from the sea. The other man was huge, but Erec was the most graceful and sleek fighter Thor had ever seen. He cut through the air, his head low, his silver armor rippling, more polished than any armor he had laid his eyes upon.

As the two men met, Erec held his lance with perfect aim, and leaned to the side. He managed to knock the knight in the center of shield and at the same time, to dodge his blow.

The huge mountain of a man tumbled backwards, onto the ground. It was like a boulder landing.

The MacGil crowd cheered as Erec rode past, turned and circled back. He held the tip of his lance to the man's throat.

"Yield!" Erec yelled down.

The knight spit.

"Never!"

The knight then reached into a hidden satchel on his waist, pulled out a handful of dirt, and before Erec could react, he threw it up into Erec's face.

Erec, stunned, reached up and grabbed for his eyes, dropping his lance, and fell from his horse.

The MacGil crowd booed and hissed and cried in outrage as Erec fell, clutching his eyes. The knight, wasting no time, hurried over and kneed him in the ribs.

Erec rolled over, and the knight grabbed a huge rock, picked it up high and prepared to bring it down on Erec's skull.

"NO!" Thor screamed, stepping forward, unable to control himself.

Thor watched in horror as the knight brought down the rock. At the last second, Erec somehow rolled out of the way. The stone lodged deep into the ground, right where his skull had been.

Thor was amazed at Erec's dexterity. He was already back on his feet, facing this dirty fighter.

"Short swords!" the Kings cried out.

Feithgold suddenly wheeled and stared at Thor, wide-eyed.

"Hand it to me!" he yelled.

Thor's heart pounded in panic. He spun around, searching Erec's weapons rack, looking desperately for the sword. There was a dizzying array of weapons before him. He reached out, grabbed it, and thrust it into Feithgold's palm.

"Stupid boy! That is a medium sword!" Feithgold yelled.

Thor felt his throat go dry, felt the whole kingdom staring at him. His vision was blurry with anxiety, as he spiraled into panic, not knowing which sword to choose. He could barely focus.

Feithgold stepped forward, shoved Thor out of the way, and grabbed the short sword himself. He then raced out into the jousting lane.

Thor watched as he ran, feeling useless, horrible. He also tried to imagine if it were himself running out there, in front of all those people, and his knees grew weak.

The other knight's squire reached him first, and Erec had to jump out of the way, as the knight swung for him, unarmed, barely missing. Finally, Feithgold reached Erec and placed the short sword into his hand. As he did, the knight charged Erec. But Erec was too fast: he waited until the last moment, then jumped out of the way.

The knight kept charging, though, and ran right into Feithgold, standing, to his bad luck, in the place where Erec had just been. The knight, filled with rage at missing Erec, kept charging and grabbed Feithgold with both hands by his hair, and head butted him hard across the face.

There was a cracking of bone, as blood squirted from Feithgold's nose, and he collapsed to the ground, limp.

Thor stood there, mouth open in shock. He could not believe it. Neither could the crowd, which booed and hissed.

Erec swung around with his sword, just missing the knight, and the two faced each other again.

As Thor stood there, he suddenly realized: he was Erec's only squire now. He gulped. What was he supposed to be doing? He was not prepared for this. And the whole kingdom was watching.

The two knights attacked each other viciously, going blow for blow. Clearly the McCloud knight was much stronger than Erec--yet Erec was the better fighter, faster and more agile. They swung and slashed and parried, neither able to gain advantage.

Finally, MacGil stood.

"Long spears!" he yelled.

Thor's heart pounded. He knew this meant him: he was on duty.

He spun and looked at the rack, and grabbed the weapon that seemed most appropriate. As he grabbed its leather shaft, he prayed he chose correctly.

He burst onto the lane and could feel thousands of eyes on him. He ran and ran, for all he was worth, wanting to reach Erec, and finally placing it into his hand. He was proud to see he reached him first.

Erec took his spear and spun, prepared to face the other knight. Erec, being the honorable warrior that he was, waited until the other knight was armed before attacking. Thor hurried off to the side, out of the men's way, not wanting to repeat Feithgold's mistake. As he did, he grabbed Feithgold's limp body and dragged him back, out of harm's way.

As Thor watched, he sensed something was wrong. The knight took his spear, raised it straight up, then began to bring it down in a strange motion. As he did, suddenly, Thor felt his world go into focus in a way he never had. He intuited that something wrong. His eyes locked on the knight's spear tip, and as he looked closely, he realized it was loose. The knight was about to use the tip of his spear as a throwing knife.

As the knight brought down his spear, the tip became detached and went flying through the air. It tumbled through the air, end over end, and was heading right for Erec's heart. In moments, Erec would be dead--and there was no way he could react in time.

In that moment, Thor felt his whole body warming. He felt a tingling sensation--it was the same sensation he'd experienced back in Darkwood, before the Sybold. His whole world slowed. He was able to see the tip spinning in slow motion, was able to feel an energy, a heat, rising within him--one he didn't know he had.

He stepped forward and felt bigger than the spear. In his mind, he willed it to stop. He demanded it to stop. He did not want to see Erec hurt. Especially not this way.

"NO!"" Thor shrieked.

He took another step, and held out his palm, aimed at the spear tip.

As he did, suddenly, the tip stopped and hung there, in mid-air, right before reaching Erec's heart.

It then dropped harmlessly to the ground.

The two knights both turned and looked at Thor--as did the two kings, as did the thousands of spectators. He felt the whole world staring down at him, and realized they all just witnessed what he did. They all knew he was not normal, that he had some sort of power, that he had influenced the games, had saved Erec--and changed the fate of the kingdom.

Thor stood there, rooted in place, wondering what just happened.

He knew now that he wasn't the same as all these people. He was different.

But who was he?

# CHAPTER NINE

Thor found himself swept up, ushered through the crowd by Reece, the King's youngest son and his newfound sparring partner. Ever since the jousting match, it had been a blur. Whatever he had done back there, whatever power he had used to stop that spear point from killing Erec, it had caught the attention of the entire kingdom. The match had been stopped after that, called off by both kings, and a truce called. Each fighter retired to his side, the masses broke up in an agitated stir, and Thor had found himself grabbed by the arm, and ushered off by Reece.

He'd been swept away in a royal entourage, cutting the back way through the masses, Reece tugging at his arm as he went. Thor was still shaking from the day's events. He hardly understood what he had just done back there, how it had influenced things. He had just wanted to be anonymous, just another one of the King's legion. He had not wanted to be the center of attention.

Worse, he didn't know where he was being led, if he was going to be punished somehow for interfering. Of course, he had saved Erec's life--but he had also interfered with a Knight's battle, which he knew was forbidden for a squire. He didn't know if he would be rewarded or rebuked.

"How did you do that?" Reece asked, as he yanked him along. Thor followed blindly, trying to process it all himself. As he went, the masses gawked, staring at him as if he were some kind of freak.

"I don't know," Thor answered truthfully. "I just wanted to help him and...it happened."

Reece shook his head.

"You saved Erec's life. Do you realize that? He is our most famed knight. And you saved him."

Thor felt good as he turned Reece's words over in his head, felt a wave of relief. He had liked Reece from the moment he'd met him; he had a calming effect, always knowing what to say. As he pondered it, he realized maybe he was not in for punishment after all. Maybe, in some ways, they would view him as a sort of hero.

"I didn't try to do anything," Thor said. "I just wanted him to live. It was just...natural. It was no big deal."

"No big deal?" Reece echoed. "I couldn't have done it. None of us could have."

They turned the corner, and Thor saw before them the king's castle, sprawled out, reaching high into the sky. It looked monumental. The King's army stood at attention, lining the cobblestone road leading over the drawbridge, keeping the masses at bay. They stepped aside to allowed Reece and Thor past.

The two of them walked along the road, soldiers on either side, right to the huge arched doors, covered in iron bolts. Four soldiers pulled it open and stepped aside, at attention. Thor could not believe the treatment he was receiving: he felt as if he were a member of the royal family.

They entered the castle, the doors closing behind them, and Thor was amazed at the sight before him: the inside was immense, with soaring stone walls a foot thick and vast, open rooms. Before him milled hundreds of members of the royal court, rambling about in an excited stir. He could sense the buzz and excitement in the air, and all eyes turned and looked at him as he entered. He felt overwhelmed by the attention.

They all huddled close, seemed to gawk as he went with Reece down the castle corridors. He had never seen so many people dressed in such fineries. He saw dozens of girls, of all ages, dressed in elaborate outfits, locking arms and whispering in each other's ears and giggling at him as he went. He felt self-conscious. He couldn't tell if they liked him, or if they were making fun of him. He was not used to being the center of attention--much less in a royal court--and hardly knew how to handle himself.

"Why are they laughing at me?" he asked Reece.

Reece turned and chuckled. "They're not laughing at you," he said. "They have taken a liking to you. You're famous."

"Famous?" he asked, stunned. "What do you mean? I just got here."

Reece laughed and clasped a hand on his shoulder. He was clearly amused by Thor.

"Word spreads faster in the royal court than you might imagine. And a newcomer like yourself--well, this does not happen every day."

"Where are we going?" he asked, realizing he was being led somewhere.

"My father wants to meet you," he said, as they turned down a new corridor.

Thor swallowed.

"Your father? You mean...the King?" Suddenly, he was nervous. "Why would he want to meet me? Are you sure?"

Reece laughed.

"I am quite sure. Stop being so nervous. It's just my dad."

"Just your dad?" Thor said, unbelieving. "He's the King!"

"He's not that bad. I have a feeling it will be a happy audience. You saved Erec's life, after all."

Thor swallowed hard, his palms sweaty, as another large door opened, and they entered a vast hall. He looked up in awe at the ceiling, arched, covered in an elaborate design and soaring high. The walls were lined with arched, stained glass windows, and if possible, even more people were crammed into this room. There must have been a thousand of them, and the room positively swarmed. Banquet tables stretched across the room, as far as the eye could see, people sitting on endlessly long benches, dining. Between these was a narrow aisle with a long, red carpet, leading to a platform on which sat the royal throne. The crowd parted ways as Reece and Thor walked down the carpet, towards the King.

"And where do you think you're taking him?" came a hostile, nasally voice.

Thor looked up to see a man standing over him, not much older than he was, dressed in a royal garb, clearly a prince, blocking their way and scowling down.

"It's father's orders," Reece snapped back. "Better get out of our way, unless you want to defy them."

The prince stood his ground, frowning, looking as if he'd bit into something rotten as he examined Thor. Thor did not like him at all: there was something he did not trust about him, with his lean, unkind features and eyes which never stopped darting.

"This is not a hall for commoners," the prince replied. "You should leave the riffraff outside, where it came from."

Thor felt his chest tighten. Clearly this man hated him, and he had no idea why.

"Shall I tell father you said that?" Reece defended, standing his ground.

Grudgingly, the prince turned and stormed away.

"Who was that?" Thor asked Reece, as they continued walking.

"Never mind him," Reece replied. "He's just my older brother--or one of them. Gareth. The oldest. Well, not really the oldest--he's just the oldest legitimate one. Kendrick, who you met on the battleground--he is really the oldest."

"Why does Gareth hate me? I don't even know him."

"Don't worry--he doesn't only reserve his hate for you. He hates everybody. And anyone who gets close to the family, he sees as a threat. Never mind him. He is but one of many."

As they continued walking, Thor felt increasingly grateful to Reece, who, he was realizing, was becoming a true friend.

"Why did you stand up for me?" Thor asked, curious.

Reece shrugged.

"I was ordered to bring you to father. Besides, you're my sparring partner. And it's been a long time since someone came through my age here who I thought could be worthy."

"But what makes me worthy?" Thor asked.

"It's the fighter's spirit. It cannot be faked."

As they continued to walk down the aisle, towards the king, Thor felt as if he'd always known him--it was strange, but in some ways he felt as if he were his own brother. He had never had a brother--not a real brother, and it felt good.

"My other brothers are not like him, don't worry," Reece said as people flocked around them, trying to catch a glimpse of Thor. "My brother Kendrick, the one you met--he's the best of all. He's my half-brother, but I consider him a true brother--even more than Gareth. Kendrick is like a second father to me. He will be to you, too, I am sure of it. There is nothing he would not do for me--or for anyone. He is the most loved of our royal family among the people. It is a great loss that he is not allowed to become king."

"You said 'brothers.' You have another brother, too?" Thor asked.

Reece took a deep breath.

"I have one other, yes. We are not that close. Godfrey. Unfortunately, he wastes his days in the alehouse, with the commoners. He's not a fighter, like us. He's not interested in it--he's not interested in anything, really. Except ale--and the ladies."

Suddenly, they stopped short, as a girl blocked their way. Thor stood there, transfixed. Perhaps a couple of years older than him, she stared back with blue, almond eyes, perfect skin, and long, strawberry hair. She was dressed in a white satin dress, bordered by lace, and her eyes positively glowed, dancing with joy and mischief. She locked her eyes on his, and it held him completely captivated. He couldn't move if he wanted to. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth--and as if he weren't transfixed already, her smile held him there, lit up his heart in a single gesture. He never felt so alive.

Thor stood there, speechless, unable to speak. Unable to breathe. It was the first time in his life that he'd ever felt this way.

"And aren't you going to introduce me?" she asked Reece. Her voice went right into him--it was even more sweet than her appearance.

Reece sighed.

"And then there's my sister," he said with a smile. "Gwen, this is Thor. Thor, Gwen."

Gwen curtsied.

"How do you do?" she asked with a smile.

Thor stood there, frozen. Finally, Gwen giggled.

"Not so many words at once, please," she said with a laugh.

Thor felt himself redden; he cleared his throat.

"I am...I... am...sorry," he said. "I'm Thor."

Gwen giggled.

"I know that already," she said. She turned to her brother. "My, Reece, your friend certainly has a way with words."

"Father wants to meet him," he said impatiently. "We are going to be late."

As Thor stood there, he wanted to speak to her, to tell her how beautiful she was, how happy he was to meet her, how grateful he was that she had stopped. But his tongue was completely tied. He had never been this nervous in his life. So, instead, all that came out was:

"Thank you."

Gwen giggled, laughing harder.

"Thank you for what?" she asked. Her eyes lit up. Clearly, she was enjoying this.

Thor felt himself redden again.

"Um...I don't know," he mumbled.

Gwen laughed harder, and Thor felt humiliated. Reece elbowed him, prodded him on, and the two continued to walk. After a few steps, Thor checked back over his shoulder. Gwen still stood there, staring back at him.

Thor felt his heart pounding. He wanted to talk to her, to find out everything about her. He was so embarrassed for his loss of words. But he had never been exposed to girls, really, in his small village--and certainly never exposed to a girl so beautiful. He had never been taught exactly what to say, how to act.

"She talks a lot," Reece said, as they continued, approaching the king. "Never mind her."

"What is her name?" Thor asked.

Reece gave him a funny look. "She just told you!" he said with a laugh.

"I'm sorry...I...uh...I forgot," Thor said, embarrassed.

"Gwendolyn. But everyone calls her Gwen."

Gwendolyn. Thor turned her name over and over in his head. Gwendolyn. Gwen. He did not want to let it go. He wanted it to linger in his consciousness. He wondered if he would have a chance to see her again. He guessed probably not, being a commoner. The thought hurt him.

The crowd grew quiet as Thor looked up and realized they were now close to the King. King MacGil sat on his throne, dressed in his royal purple mantle, wearing his crown, and looked imposing.

Reece kneeled before him, and the crowd quieted. Thor followed. A silence blanketed the room.

The king cleared his throat, a deep, hearty noise. As he spoke, his voice boomed throughout the room.

"Thorgrin of the Lowlands of the Southern Province of the Western Kingdom," he began. "Do you realize that today you interfered with the King's royal joust?"

Thor felt his throat go dry. He hardly knew how to respond; it was not a good way to begin. He wondered if he was going to be punished.

"I am sorry, my liege," he finally said. "I didn't mean to."

MacGil leaned forward and raised one eyebrow.

"You didn't mean to? Are you saying you didn't mean to save Erec's life?"

Thor was flustered. He realized he was just making it worse.

"No my liege. I did mean to--"

"So then you admit you did mean to interfere?"

Thor felt his heart pounding. What could he say?

"I am sorry, my liege. I guess I just...wanted to help."

"Wanted to help?" MacGil boomed, then leaned back and roared with laughter.

"You wanted to help! Erec! Our greatest and most famed knight!"

The room erupted with laughter, and Thor felt his face redden, one too many times for one day. Could he do nothing right here?

"Stand and come closer boy," MacGil ordered.

Thor looked up in surprise to see the king smiling down, studying him, as he stood and approached.

"I spot nobility in your face. You are not a common boy. No, not common at all...."

MacGil cleared his throat.

"Erec is our most loved knight. What you have done today is a great thing. A great thing for us all. As a reward, from this day, I take you in as part of my family, with all the same respects and honors due to any of my sons."

The King leaned back and boomed: "Let it be known!"

There came a huge cheer and stomping of feet throughout the room.

Thor looked around, flustered, hardly able to process all that was happening to him. Part of the king's family. It was beyond his wildest dreams. All he had wanted was to be accepted, to be given a spot in the Legion. Now, this. He was so overwhelmed with gratitude, with joy, he hardly knew what to do.

Before he could respond, suddenly the room broke into song and dance and feast, people celebrating all around him. It was mayhem. He looked up at the king, saw the love in his eyes, the adoration and acceptance, and hardly knew what he had done to deserve it. He had never felt the love of a father figure in his life. And now here he was, loved not just by a man, but by the King no less. Overnight, his world had changed. He only prayed that all of this was real.

*

Gwendolyn hurried through the crowd, pushing her way, wanting to catch site of the boy before he was ushered out of the royal court. Thor. Her heart beat faster at the thought of him, and she could not stop turning his name over in her head. She had been unable to stop thinking about him from the moment she had encountered him. He was younger than her, but not by more than a year or two-- and besides, he had an air about him that made him seem older, more mature than the others, more profound. From the moment she had seen him, she had felt she had known him. She smiled to herself as she remembered meeting him, how flustered he was. She could see in his eyes that he felt the same way about her.

Of course, she did not even know the boy. But she had witnessed what he had done on the jousting lane, had seen what a liking her younger brother had taken to him. She had watched him ever since, sensing there was something special about him, something different than the others. When she met him, it had only confirmed it. He was different than all these royal types, different than all the people born and bred here. There was something refreshingly genuine about him. He was an outsider. A commoner. But oddly, with a royal bearing. It was as if he were too proud for what he was.

Gwen shoved her way to the upper balcony's edge, and looked down: below was spread out the royal court, and she caught a last glimpse of the boy as he was ushered out, her brother, Reece, by his side. They were surely heading to the barracks, to train with the other boys. She felt a pang of regret, already wondering, scheming, how she could arrange to see him again.

Gwen had to know more about him. She had to find out. For that, she would have to speak to the one woman who knew everything about anyone and everything going on in the kingdom: her mother.

Gwen turned and cut her way back through the crowd, twisting through the back corridors of the castle she knew by heart. Her head spun. It had been a dizzying day. First, the morning's meeting with her father, his shocking news that he wanted her to rule his kingdom. She was completely caught off guard, had never expected it in a million years. She still could hardly process it now. How could she ever possibly rule a kingdom? She pushed the thought from her mind, hoping that day would never come. After all, her father was healthy and strong, and more than anything, all she wanted was for him to live. To be here, with her. To be happy.

But she could not push the meeting from her mind. Somewhere, back there, lurking, was the seed planted that one day, whenever that day should come, she would be next. She would succeed him. Not any of her brothers. But her. It terrified her; it also gave her a sense of importance, of confidence, unlike any she'd ever had. He had found her fit to rule, her--her--to be the wisest of them all. She wondered why.

It also, in some ways, worried her. She assumed it would stir up a huge amount of resentment and envy, her, a girl, being chosen to rule. Already, she could feel Gareth's envy. And that scared her. She knew her older brother to be terribly manipulative, and completely unforgiving. She knew he would stop at nothing until he got what he wanted. And she hated the idea of being in his sights. She had tried to talk to him after the meeting, but he would not even look at her.

Gwen ran down the spiral staircase, twisting and turning, her shoes echoing on the stone. She turned down another corridor, passed through the rear chapel, through another door, passed several guards, and entered the private chambers of the castle. She had to speak with her mother, and she knew she would be resting here, as she saw her slipping out of the feast. Her mother had little tolerance for these long social affairs anymore. She knew that she liked to slip out to her private chambers and rest as often as possible.

Gwen passed another guard, went down another hall, then finally stopped before the door to her mother's dressing room. She was about to open it, but then she stopped. Behind the open door, she heard muted voices, their pitch rising, and sensed something wrong. It was her mother, arguing. She listened closely, and heard her father's voice. They were fighting. But why?

Gwen knew she should not be listening--but she could not help herself. She reached out and gently pushed open the heavy oak door, grabbing it by its iron knocker. She opened it just a crack and listened.

"He won't stay in my house," her mother snapped, on edge.

"You rush to judgment, when you don't even know the entire story."

"I know the story," she snapped back. "Enough of it."

Gwen heard venom in her mother's voice, and was taken aback. She rarely heard her parents fight--just a few times in her life--and she had never heard her mother so worked up. She could not understand why.

"He will stay in the barracks, with the other boys. I do not want him under my roof. Do you understand?" she pressed.

"It is a big castle," her father spat back. "His presence will not be noticed by you."

"I don't care if it is noticed or not. I don't want him here. He's your problem. It was you who chose to bring him in."

"You are not so innocent either," her father retorted.

She heard footsteps, watched her father strut across the room and out the door on the other side, slamming it behind him so hard that the room shook. Her mother stood there, alone in the center of the room, and began to cry.

Gwen stood there and felt terrible. She didn't know what to do. On the one hand, she thought it best to slip away, but on the other, she couldn't stand the sight of her mother crying, couldn't stand to leave her there like that. She also, for the life of her, could not understand what they were arguing about. She assumed they were arguing about Thor. But why? Why would her mother even care? Dozens of people lived under their roof.

Gwen couldn't bring herself to just walk away, not with her mother in that state. She had to comfort her. She reached up and gently pushed the door open.

It creaked, and her mother wheeled, caught off guard. She scowled back.

"Do you not knock?" she snapped. Gwen could see how upset she was, and felt terrible.

"What's wrong mother?" Gwen asked, walking towards her gently. "I don't mean to pry, but I heard you arguing with father."

"You are right: you shouldn't pry," her mother retorted.

Gwen was surprised: her mother was often a handful, but was rarely like this. The force of her anger made Gwen stop in her tracks, a few feet away, unsure.

"Is it about the new boy? Thor?" she asked.

Her mother turned and looked away, wiping a tear.

"I don't understand," Gwen pressed. "Why would you care where he stayed?"

"My matters are of no concern to you," she said coldly, clearly wanting to end the matter. "What do you want? Why have you come here?"

Gwen was nervous now. She wanted her mother to tell her everything about Thor, but she couldn't have picked a worse moment. She cleared her throat, hesitant.

"I...actually wanted to ask you about him. What do you know of him?"

Her mother turned and narrowed her eyes at her, suspicious.

"Why?" she asked, with deadly seriousness. Gwen could feel her summing her up, looking right through her, and seeing with her uncanny perception that Gwen liked him. She tried to hide her feelings, but knew it was no use.

"I'm just curious," she said, unconvincingly.

Suddenly, the queen took three steps towards her, grabbed her arms roughly, and stared into her face.

"Listen to me," she hissed. "I'm only going to say this once. Stay away from that boy. Do you hear me? I don't want you anywhere near him, under any circumstance."

Gwen was horrified.

"But why? He's a hero."

"He is not one of us," her mother answered. "Despite what your father might think. I want you to keep away from him. Do you hear me? Vow to me. Vow to me right now."

"I will not vow," Gwen said, yanking her arm away from her mother's too strong grip.

"He is a commoner, and you are Princess," her mother yelled. "You are a Princess. Do you understand? If I hear of you going anywhere near him, I will have him exiled from here. Do you understand?"

Gwen hardly knew how to respond. She had never seen her mother like this.

"Do not tell me what to do, mother," she said, finally.

Gwen did her best to put on a brave voice, but deep inside she was trembling. She had come here wanting to know everything; now, she felt terrified. She did not understand what was happening.

"Do as you wish," her mother said. "But his fate lies in your hands. Don't forget it."

With that, her mother turned, strutted from the room, and slammed it behind her, leaving Gwen all alone in the reverberating silence, her good mood shattered. She stood there and wondered. What could possibly elicit such a strong reaction from her mother and her father?

Who was this boy?

# CHAPTER TEN

MacGil sat in the banquet hall, watching over his subjects, he at one end of the table and Cloud at the other, and hundreds of men from both clans between them. The wedding revelries had been going on for hours, and finally, the tension between the clans had settled down from the day's jousting. As MacGil suspected, all the men needed was wine and meat--and women--to make them forget their differences. Now they all mingled at the same table, like brothers in arms. In fact, looking them over, MacGil could no longer even tell they were of two separate clans.

MacGil felt vindicated: his master plan was working after all. Already, the two clans seemed closer. He had managed to do what a long line of MacGil kings before him could not: to unify both sides of the ring, to make them, if not friends, then at least peaceful neighbors. He spotted his daughter, Luanda, arm in arm with her new husband, the McCloud prince, and she seemed content. His guilt lessened. He might have given her away--but he did, at least, give her a queenship.

MacGil thought back to all the planning that preceded this event, recalled the long days of arguing with his advisors. He had gone against the advice of all his counselors in arranging this union. He knew it was not an easy peace. He knew that, in time, the McLouds would settle in on their side of the Highlands, that this wedding would be long forgotten, and that one day they would stir with unrest. He was not naïve. But now, at least, there was a blood tie between the clans--and especially when a child was born, that could not be so easily ignored. If that child flourished, and one day even ruled, a child born of two sides of the Ring, then perhaps, one day, the entire ring could be united, the Highlands would no longer be a border of contention, and the land could prosper under one rule. That was his dream. Not for himself, but for his descendants. After all, the Ring had to stay strong, needed to stay unified in order to protect the Canyon, to fight off the hordes of the world beyond. As long as the two clans remained divided, they presented a weakened front to the rest of the world.

"A toast," MacGil shouted, and stood.

The table grew quiet as hundreds of men stood, too, raising their casks.

"To the wedding of my eldest child! To the union of the MacGils and McClouds! To peace throughout the Ring!"

"HERE HERE!" came a chorus of shouts, and everyone drank and the room once again filled with the noise of laughter and feasting.

MacGil sat back and surveyed the room, looking for his other children. There, of course, was Godfrey, drinking with two fists, a girl on each shoulder, surrounded by his miscreant friends. This was probably the one royal event he had ever willingly attended. There was Gareth, sitting too closely to his lover, Firth, whispering in his ear; MacGil could see from his darting, restless eyes, that he was plotting something. The thought of it made his stomach turn, and he looked away. There, on the far side of the room, was his youngest son, Reece, feasting at the squires' table, with the new boy, Thor. He already felt like a son, and he was pleased to see his youngest was fast friends with him.

He scanned the faces for his younger daughter, Gwendolyn, and finally found her, sitting off to the side, surrounded by her handmaids, giggling. He followed her gaze, and noticed she was watching Thor. He examined her for a long time, and realized she was smitten. He had not foreseen this, and he was not quite sure what to make of it. He sensed trouble there. Especially from his wife.

"All things are not what they seem," came a voice.

MacGil turned to see Argon sitting by his side, watching the two clans dining together.

"What do you make of all this?" MacGil asked. "Will there be peace in the kingdoms?"

"Peace is never static," Argon said. "It ebbs and flows, like the tides. What you see before you is the veneer of peace. You see one side of its face. You're trying to force peace on an ancient rivalry. But there are hundreds of years of spilled blood. The souls cry out for vengeance. And that cannot be appeased with a single marriage."

"What are you saying?" MacGil asked, taking another gulp of his wine, feeling nervous, as he often did around Argon.

Argon turned and stared at him with an intensity so strong, it struck panic into MacGil's heart.

"There will be war. The McClouds will attack. Prepare yourself. All of the house guests you see before you will soon be doing their best to murder your family."

MacGil gulped.

"Did I make the wrong decision to marry her off to them?"

Argon was silent for a while, until finally he said: "Not necessarily."

Argon looked away, and MacGil could see that he was finished with the topic. He was disappointed, because there were a million questions he wanted answered: but he knew his sorcerer would not answer them until he was ready. So instead, he watched Argon's eyes, and realized that they were watching his other daughter. Gwendolyn. He looked, too, and saw Gwendolyn watching Thor.

"Do you see them together?" MacGil asked, suddenly curious to know.

"Perhaps," Argon answered. "There is still much yet to be decided."

"You speak in riddles."

Argon shrugged and looked away, and MacGil realized he wouldn't get any more from him.

"You saw what happened on the field today?" MacGil prodded. "With the boy?"

"I saw it before it happened," Argon replied.

"And what do you make of it? What are the source of the boy's powers? Is he like you?"

Argon turned and stared into MacGil's eyes, and the intensity of his stare almost made him look away.

"He is far more powerful than me."

MacGil stared back, shocked. He had never heard Argon speak like this.

"More powerful? Than you? How is that possible? You are the king's sorcerer--there is no one more powerful than you in all the land."

Argon shrugged.

"Power does not only come in one form," he said. "The boy has powers beyond what you can imagine. Powers beyond what he knows. He has no idea who he is. Or where he hails from."

Argon turned and stared at MacGil.

"But you do," he added.

MacGil stared back, wondering.

"Do I?" MacGil asked. "Tell me. I need to know."

Argon shook his head.

"Search your feelings. They are true."

"What will become of him?" MacGil asked.

"He will become a great leader. And a great warrior. He will rule kingdoms in his own right. Far greater kingdoms than you. And he will be a far greater king than you. It is his destiny."

For a brief moment, MacGil burned with envy. He turned and examined the boy, laughing harmlessly with his son, at a table for squires, the commoner, the weak outsider, the youngest of the bunch. He didn't imagine how it was possible. Looking at him now, he looked barely eligible to join the Legion. He wondered for a moment if Argon was wrong.

But he knew that Argon had never been wrong, and that he never made pronouncements without a reason.

"Why are you telling me this?" MacGil asked.

Argon turned and stared at him.

"Because it is your time to prepare. The boy needs to be trained. He needs to be given the best of everything. It is your responsibility."

"Mine? And what of his father?"

"What of him?" Argon asked.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Thor peeled open his eyes, disoriented, wondering where he was. He lay on the floor, on a mound of straw, his face planted sideways, his arms dangling over his head. He lifted his face, wiping the drool off, and immediately felt a stab of pain in his head, behind his eyes. It was the worst headache of his life. He remembered the night before, the king's feast, the drinking, his first taste of ale. The room was spinning. His throat was dry, and at that moment he vowed he would never drink again.

Thor looked around, trying to get his bearings in the cavernous barracks. Everywhere were bodies, lying on heaps of straw, the room filled with snoring; he turned the other way, and saw Reece, a few feet away, passed out, too. It was then he realized: he was in the barracks. The Legion's barracks. All around him were boys about his age, and there looked to be about fifty of them.

Thor vaguely remembered Reece showing him the way, in the late hours of the morning, and his crashing on the mound of straw. Early morning light flooded in through the open windows, and Thor soon realized he was the only one yet awake. He looked down and saw he had slept in his clothes, and reached up and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He would give anything for a chance to bathe--although he had no idea where. And he would do anything for a pint of water. His stomach rumbled, and he wanted food, too.

It was all so new to him. He barely knew where he was, where life would take him next, what the routines were of the king's Legion. He was happy. It had been a dazzling night, one of the finest of his life. He had found a close friend in Reece, and he had caught Gwendolyn looking at him once or twice. He had tried to speak with her, but each time he approached, his courage failed. He felt the pain of regret as he thought about it. There had been too many people around. If it was ever just the two of them, he would gain the courage. But would there be a next time?

Before Thor could finish the thought, there was a sudden banging on the wooden doors of the barracks, and a moment later, they crashed open, light flooding in.

"To your feet, squires!" came a shout.

In marched a dozen members of the King's Silver, chain mail rattling, banging on the wooden walls with metal staffs. The noise was deafening, and all-around Thor, the other boys jumped to their feet.

Leading the group was a particularly fierce-looking soldier, the one Thor recognized from the arena of the day before, the one Reece had told him was named Kolk, broad and stocky, with a bald head a short beard, and a scar running across his nose.

He seemed to be scowling right at Thor as he raised a finger and pointed it at him.

"You there boy!" he screamed. "I said on your feet!"

Thor was confused. He was already standing.

"But I'm already on my feet, sire," Thor answered.

Kolk stepped forward and backhanded Thor across the face. Thor stung with the indignation of it, as all eyes were on him.

"Don't you talk back to your superior again!" Kolk reprimanded.

Before Thor could respond the men moved on, roaming through the room, yanking one boy after another to his feet, kicking some in the ribs who were too slow to get up.

"Don't worry," came a reassuring voice.

He turned and saw Reece standing there.

"It is not personal to you. It is just their way. Their way of breaking us down."

"But they didn't do it to you," Thor said.

"Of course, they won't touch me, because of my father. But they won't exactly be polite, either. They want us in shape, that's all. They think this will toughen us up. Don't pay much attention to them."

The boys were all marched out of their barracks and Thor and Reece fell in with them. As they stepped outside, the bright sunlight struck Thor and he squinted and held up his hands. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a wave of nausea, and he turned, bent over, and threw up.

He could hear the snicker of boys all around him. A guard pushed him, and Thor stumbled forward, back in line with the others, wiping his mouth. Thor had never felt more awful.

Beside him, Reece smiled.

"Rough night, was it?" he asked Thor, grinning widely, elbowing him in the ribs. "I told you to stop after the second cask."

Thor felt queasy as the light pierced his eyes; it had never felt so strong as today. It was a hot day already, and he could feel drops of sweat forming beneath his leathermail.

Thor tried to remember back, to Reece's warning of the night before--but for the life of him, he could not remember.

"I don't remember any such advice," Thor retorted.

Reece grinned wider. "Precisely. That is because you did not listen."

Reece chuckled.

"And those ham-handed attempts to speak to my sister," he added. "It was positively pathetic," laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen a boy so fearful of a girl in my life."

Thor reddened as he tried to remember. But he could not. It was all hazy to him.

"I mean you no offense," Thor said. "With your sister."

"You cannot offend me. If she should choose you, I would be thrilled."

The two of them marched faster, as the group turned up a hill. The sun seemed to be getting stronger with each step.

"But I must warn you: every hand in the kingdom is after her. The chances of her choosing you... Well, let's just say they are remote."

As they walked faster, marching across the rolling green hills of King's Court, Thor felt reassured. He felt accepted by Reece. It was amazing to Thor, but he continued to feel that Reece was more of a brother to him than he'd ever had. As they walked, Thor noticed his three real brothers, marching close by. One of them turned and scowled back to him, then nudged his other brother, who looked back with a mocking grin. They shook their heads, and turned away. They had not so much as one kind word for Thor. But he hardly expected anything else.

"Get in line, Legion! Now!"

Thor looked up and saw several more of the Silver crowd around them, pushing the fifty of them into a tight line, double file. One man came up behind and struck the boy in front of Thor with a large bamboo rod, cracking him hard on the back; the boy cried out, and fell more tightly in line. Soon they were in two neat rows, marching steadily through the King's ground.

"When you march into battle, you march as one!" called out Kolk, walking up and down the sides. "This is not your mother's yard. You are marching to war!"

Thor marched and marched beside Reece, sweating in the sun, wondering where they were being led. His stomach still turned from the ale, and he wondered when he would have breakfast, when he would get something to drink. Once again, he cursed himself for drinking the night before.

As they went up and down the hills, through an arched stone gate, they finally reached the surrounding fields. They passed through another arched stone gate, and finally entered a coliseum of sorts. Clearly, the training ground for the Legion.

Before them were all sorts of targets, for throwing spears, firing arrows, hurling rocks, and piles of straw for slashing swords. Thor's heart quickened at the sight of it. He wanted to get in there, to use the weapons, to train.

But as Thor made his way towards the training area, suddenly he was elbowed in the ribs from behind, and a small group of six boys, most of them younger, like Thor, were herded off the main line. He found himself being split from Reece, being led to the other side of the field.

"Think you're going to train?" Kolk asked mockingly as they forked from the others, away from the targets. "It's horses for you today."

Thor looked up, and saw where they were headed: on the far side of the field, several horses pranced about. Kolk smiled down with an evil smile.

"While the others hurl spears and wield swords, today you will tend horses and clean their waste. We all have to start somewhere. Welcome to the Legion."

Thor's heart fell. This was not how he had seen it going at all.

"You think you're special boy?" Kolk asked, walking beside him, getting close to his face. Thor sensed that he was trying to break him. "Just because the king and his son have taken a liking to you, doesn't mean crap to me. You're in my command now. You understand me? I don't care about whatever fancy you pulled on the jousting ground. You're just another little boy. Do you understand me?"

Thor swallowed as he sensed that he was in for a long, hard training.

Making matters worse, as soon as Kolk drifted away to torture someone else, the boy in front of Thor, a short stocky kid with a flat nose, turned and sneered at him.

"You don't belong here," he said. "You cheated your way in. You weren't selected. You're not one of us. Not really. None of us like you."

The boy beside him also turned and sneered at Thor.

"We're going to do everything we can to make sure you drop out," he said. "Getting in is easy next to staying in."

Thor recoiled at their hatred. He couldn't believe he already had enemies, and didn't understand what he'd done to deserve it. All he'd ever wanted was to join the Legion.

"Why don't you mind for yourself," came a voice.

Thor looked over and saw a tall, skinny redhead boy, with freckles across his face and small green eyes, sticking up for him. "You two are stuck here shoveling with the rest of us," he added. "You're not so special, either. Go pick on someone else."

"You mind your business, lackey," one of the boys shot back, "or we'll be after you, too."

"Try it," the redhead snapped.

"You'll talk when I tell you to," Kolk yelled at one of the boys, smacking him hard upside the head. The two boys in front of Thor, thankfully, turned back around.

Thor hardly knew what to say; he fell in beside the redhead, so grateful to him.

"Thank you," Thor said.

The redhead turned and smiled at him.

"Name is O'Connor. I'd shake your hand, but they'd smack me if I did. So take this as an invisible handshake."

He smiled wider, and Thor instantly liked him.

"Don't mind them," he added. "They're just scared. Like the rest of us. None of us quite knew what we were signing up for."

Soon their group reached the end of the field, and Thor looked up and saw six horses, prancing about.

"Take up the reins!" Kolk commanded. "Hold them steady, and walk them around the arena until they break. Do it now!"

Thor stepped forward to grab the reins from the horse's mouth, and as he did, the horse stepped back and pranced, nearly kicking him. Thor, startled, stumbled back, and the others in the group laughed at him. He felt himself smacked hard in the back of the head, and saw Kolk, and felt like turning and hitting him back.

"You are a member of the Legion now. You never retreat. From anybody. No man, no beast. Now take those reins!"

Thor steeled himself, stepped forward, and grabbed the reins from the prancing horse. He managed to hang on, while the horse yanked and pulled, and began to lead him around the wide dirt field, getting in line with the others. His horse tugged at him, resisting, but Thor tugged back, not giving up so easily.

"It gets better, I hear."

Thor turned to see O'Connor coming up beside him, smiling. "They want to break us, you know?"

Suddenly, Thor's horse stopped. No matter how much he yanked it, this time, it would not budge. Then Thor smelled something awful; he looked back, and saw more waste coming from the horse than he ever imagined possible. It did not seem to end.

Thor felt a small shovel cast into his palm, and looked over to see Kolk beside him, smiling down.

"Clean it up!" he snapped.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Gareth stood in the crowded marketplace, wearing a cloak despite the midday sun, sweating beneath it, and trying to remain anonymous. He always tried to avoid this part of King's Court, these crowded alleyways, which stank of humanity and common man. All around him were people haggling, trading, trying to get one up on each other. Gareth stood at a corner stall, feigning interest in a vendor's fruit, keeping his head low, his cloak on. Standing just a few feet away was Firth, at the end of the dark alleyway, doing what they had come here to do.

Gareth stood within earshot of the conversation, keeping his back to him so as not to be seen. Firth had told him of a man, a mercenary, who would sell him a poison vial. Gareth wanted something strong, something certain to do the trick. No chances could be taken. After all, his own life was on the line.

It was hardly the sort of thing he could ask the local apothecary for. He had set Firth to the task, who had reported back to him after testing out the black market. After much pointing of the way, Firth had lead them to this slovenly character, who he spoke with now, furtively, at the end of the alleyway. Gareth had insisted on coming along for their final transaction, to make sure everything went smoothly, to make sure he was not being swindled and given a false potion. Plus, he was still not completely assured of Firth's competence. Some matters, he just had to take care of himself.

They had been waiting for this man for half an hour now, Gareth getting jostled in the busy market, praying he was not recognized. Even if he was, he figured, as long as he kept his back to the alley, if someone should know who he was, he could merely walk away, and no one would make the connection.

"Where is the vial?" Firth, just a few feet away, asked the cretin.

Gareth turned just a bit, so as not to be noticed, and peaked from the corner of his cloak. Standing there, opposite Firth, was an evil-looking man, slovenly, too thin, with sunken cheeks and huge black eyes. He looked something like a rat. He stared down at Firth, unblinking.

"Where's the money?" he responded.

Gareth hoped Firth would handle this well: he usually managed to screw things up somehow.

"I shall give you the money when you give me the vial," Firth held his ground.

Good, Gareth thought, impressed.

There was a thick moment of silence, then:

"Give me half the money now, and I will tell you where the vial is."

"Where it is?" Firth echoed, his voice rising in surprise. "You said I would have it."

"I said you would have it, yes. I did not say I would bring it. Do you take me for a fool? Spies are everywhere. I know not what you intend--but I assume it is not trivial. After all, why else buy a vial of poison?"

Firth paused, and Gareth knew he was caught off guard.

Finally, Gareth heard the distinct noise of coins clacking, and peeked over and saw the royal gold pouring from Firth's pouch, into the man's palm.

Gareth waited, the seconds stretching forever, increasingly worried they were being had for.

"You'll take the Blackwood," the man finally responded. "At your third mile, fork on the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left. You will go through the darkest would you have ever seen, then arrive at a small clearing. The witch's cottage. She will be waiting for you--with the vial you desire."

Gareth peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man reached out, and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.

"The money," the man growled. "It is not enough."

Gareth could see the fear spread across Firth's face, and regretted having sent him for this task. This slovenly character must have detected his fear--and now he was taking advantage. Firth was just not cut out for the sort of thing.

"But I gave you precisely what you asked for," Firth protested, his voice rising too high. He sounded effeminate. And this seemed to embolden the man.

The man grinned back, evil.

"But now I ask for more."

Firth's eyes opened wide with fear, and uncertainty. Then, suddenly, Firth turned and looked right at him.

Gareth turned away, hoping it was not too late, hoping he was not spotted. How could Firth be so stupid? He prayed he had not given him away.

As Gareth stood there, his back to them, his heart pounded as he waited. He anxiously fingered the fruit, pretending to be interested. There was an interminable silence behind him, as Gareth imagined all the things that might go wrong.

Please, don't let him come this way, Gareth prayed to himself. Please. I'll do anything. I'll abandon the plot.

Then, suddenly, he felt a rough palm slap him on his back. He spun and looked.

The cretin stared back, his large black, soulless eyes staring into his.

"You didn't tell me you had a partner," the man growled. "Or are you a spy?"

The man reached out before Gareth could react, and yanked down Gareth's hood. He got a good look at Gareth's face, and his eyes opened wide in shock.

"The Royal Prince," the man stumbled. "What are you doing here?"

A second later, the man's eyes narrowed in recognition, and he answered himself, with a small, satisfied smile, piecing together the whole plot instantly. He was much smarter than Gareth had hoped.

"I see," the man said. "This vial--it was for you, wasn't it? You aim to poison someone, don't you? But who? Yes, that is the question..."

Gareth's face flushed with anxiety. This man--he was too quick. It was too late. His whole world was unraveling around him. Firth had screwed it up. If this man gave Gareth away, he would be sentenced to death.

"Your father, maybe?" the man asked, his eyes lighting in recognition. "Yes, that must be it, mustn't it? You were passed over. Your father. You aim to kill your father."

Gareth had had enough. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, pulled a small dagger from inside his cloak, and plunged it into the man's chest. The man gasped.

Gareth didn't want any passersby to witness this: he grabbed the man by his tunic and pulled him close, ever closer, until their faces were almost touching, until he could smell his rotten breath. With his free hand, he reached up and clamped the man's mouth shut, before he could cry out. Gareth felt the man's hot blood trickling on his palm, running through his fingers.

Firth came up beside him and let out a horrified cry.

Gareth held the man there, like that, for a good sixty seconds, until finally, he felt him slumping in his arms. He let him collapse, limp, a heap on the ground.

Gareth spun all around, wondering if he had been seen; luckily, no heads turned in this busy marketplace, in this dark alley. He removed his cloak, and threw it over the lifeless heap.

"I am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry," Firth kept repeating, like a little girl, crying hysterically and shaking as he approached Gareth. "Are you okay? Are you okay?"

Gareth reached up and backhanded him.

"Shut your mouth and be gone from here," he hissed.

Firth turned and hurried off.

Gareth prepared to leave, but then stopped and turned back. He had one thing left to do: he reached down, grabbed his sack of coins from the dead man's hand, and stuffed it back into his waistband.

The man would not be needing this.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gareth walked quickly through the forest trail, Firth beside him, his hood pulled over his head, despite the heat. He could hardly conceive that he now found himself in exactly the situation he had wanted to avoid. Now there was a dead body, a trail. Who knows who that man may have talked to. Firth should have been more circumspect in his dealings with the man. Now, the trail could end up leading back to Gareth.

"I'm sorry," Firth said, hurrying to catch up beside him.

Gareth ignored him, doubling his pace, seething.

"What you did was foolish, and weak," Gareth said. "You never should have glanced my way."

"I didn't mean to. I didn't know what to do when he demanded more money."

Firth was right: it was a tricky situation. The man was a selfish, greedy pig and he changed the rules of the game and deserved to die. Gareth shed no tears over him. He only prayed that no one had witnessed the murder. The last thing he needed was a trail. There would be tremendous scrutiny in the wake of his father's assassination, and he could not afford even the smallest trail of clues left to follow.

At least they were now in Blackwood. Despite the summer sun, it was nearly dark in here, the towering eucalyptus trees blocking out every shaft of light. It matched his mood. Gareth hated this place. He continued hiking down the meandering trail, following the dead man's directions. He hoped the man was telling the truth, not leading them astray. The whole thing could be a lie. Or it could be he was leading them to a trap, to some friend of his waiting to rob them of more money.

Gareth chided himself. He had put too much trust in Firth. He should have handled this all himself. Like he always did.

"You better just hope that this trail leads us to the witch," Gareth quipped, "and that she has the poison."

They continued down trail after trail, until finally they reached a fork, just as the man said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood that Gareth had ever seen. The trees were impossibly thick, mangled.

Gareth entered them, and felt an immediate chill up his skin, could feel the evil hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.

Just as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke through the wood. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch's cottage.

Gareth's heart quickened. As he entered the clearing, he looked around to make sure no one was watching, to make sure it was not a trap.

"You see, he was telling the truth," Firth said, excitement in his voice.

"That means nothing," Garrett chided. "Remain outside, and stand guard. Knock if anyone enters. And keep your mouth shut."

Gareth didn't bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he grabbed the iron handle, yanked open the two-foot thick door, and ducked his head as he entered, closing it behind him.

It was dark in here, lit only by scattered candles in the room. It was a single room cottage, devoid of windows, and he immediately felt enveloped by a heavy energy. He stood there, stifled by the thick silence, preparing himself for anything. He could feel the evil in here. It made his skin crawl.

From out of the shadows he detected motion, then a noise.

Hobbling towards him there appeared an old woman, shriveled up, hunchback. She raised a candle and lit her face, and he could see it was covered in warts and lines. She looked ancient, older than the gnarled trees that hovered over her cottage.

"You wear a hood, even in blackness," she said, wearing a sinister smile, her voice sounding like crackling wood. "Your mission is not innocent."

"I've come for a vial," Gareth said quickly, trying to sound brave and confident, but hearing the quivering in his voice. "Sheldrake Root. I'm told you have it."

There was a long silence, followed by a horrific hackle. It echoed in the small room.

"Whether or not I have it is not the question. The question is: why do you want it?"

Gareth's heart pounded as he tried to formulate an answer.

"Why should you care?" he finally asked.

"It amuses me to know who you are killing," she said.

"That's no business of yours. I've brought money for you."

Gareth reached into his waistband, took out the bag of gold, in addition to the bag of gold he had given the dead man, and banged them both down on her small wooden table. The sound of metallic coins rang in the room.

He prayed it would pacify her, that she would give him what he wanted and he could leave this place.

The witch reached out a single finger with a long, curved nail, picked up one of the bags and inspected it. Gareth held his breath, hoping she would ask no more.

"This might be just enough to buy my silence," she said.

She turned and hobbled into the darkness. There was a hissing noise, and beside a candle Gareth could see her mixing liquid into a small, glass vial. It bubbled over, and she put a cork on it. Time seemed to slow as Gareth waited, increasingly impatient. A million worries raced through his mind: what if he was discovered? Right here, right now? What if she gave him the wrong vial? What if she told someone about him? Had she recognized him? He couldn't tell.

Gareth was having increasing reservations about this whole thing. He never knew how hard it could be to assassinate someone.

After what felt like an interminable silence, finally, she returned. She held out the vial, so small it nearly disappeared into his palm.

"Such a small vial?" he asked. "Can this do the trick?"

She smiled.

"You'd be amazed at how little it takes to kill a man."

Gareth turned and began to head for the door, when suddenly he felt a cold finger on his shoulder. He had no idea how she had managed to cross the room so quickly, and it terrified him. He stood there, frozen, afraid to turn and look at her.

She stood there, inches away, grinning back. She leaned in so close, an awful smell emanating from her, then suddenly reached up with both hands, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him, pressing her shriveled lips hard against his.

Gareth was revolted. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to him. Her lips were like the lips of a lizard, her tounge, which she pressed onto his, like that of a reptile. He tried to pull away, but she held his face tight, pulling him harder, kissing him on the mouth.

Finally, he managed to yank himself away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as she leaned back and chuckled.

"The first time you kill a man is the hardest," she said. "You will find it much easier the next time around."

*

Gareth burst out of the cottage, back into the clearing, to find Firth standing there, waiting for him.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Firth asked, concerned. "You look as if you've been stabbed. Did she hurt you?"

Gareth stood there, breathing hard, wiping his mouth again and again. He hardly knew how to respond.

"Let's get away from this place," he said. "Now!"

As they began to move, to head out of the clearing into the black wood, suddenly the sun was obscured by clouds, racing across the sky, making the beautiful day cold and dark. Gareth looked up, and had never seen such thick, black clouds appear so quickly. He knew that whatever was happening, it was not normal. He worried about how deep the powers were of this witch, as he felt the cold wind rise in the summer day, creep up the back of his neck. He couldn't help but think that she had somehow possessed him with that kiss, cast some sort of curse on him.

"What happened in there?" Firth pressed.

"I don't want to talk about it," Gareth said. "I don't want to think about this day--ever again."

The two of them hurried back down the trail, down the hill, soon entering the main forest trail to head back towards King's Court. Just as Gareth was beginning to feel more relieved, preparing to shove the whole episode to the back of his mind, suddenly, he heard another set of boots. He turned and saw a group of men walking towards them. He couldn't believe it.

His brother. Godfrey. The drunk. He was walking towards them, laughing, surrounded by the villainous Harry, and two other of his miscreant friends. Of all times and places, for his brother to run into him here. In the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Gareth felt as if his whole plot were cursed.

Gareth turned away, pulled the hood over his face, and hiked twice as fast, praying he had not been discovered.

"Gareth?" called out the voice.

Gareth had no choice. He froze in his tracks, pulled back his hood, and turned and looked at his brother, who came waltzing merrily towards him.

"What are you doing here?" Godfrey asked.

Gareth opened his mouth, but then closed it, stumbling, at a loss for words.

"We were going for a hike," Firth volunteered, rescuing him.

"A hike, were you?" one of Godfrey's friends mocked Firth, in a high, feminine voice. His friends laughed, too. Gareth knew that his brother and his friends all judged him for his predisposition--but he hardly cared about that now. He just needed to change the topic. He didn't want them to wonder what he was doing out here.

"What are you doing out here?" Gareth asked, turning the tables.

"A new tavern opened, by Southwood," Godfrey answered. "We had just been trying it out. The best ale in all the kingdom. Want some?" he asked, holding out a cask.

Gareth shook his head quickly. He knew he had to distract him, and he figured the best way was to change the topic, to rebuke him.

"Father would be furious if he caught you drinking during the day," Gareth said. "I suggest you set down that and return to court."

It worked. Godfrey glowered, and clearly he was no longer thinking about Gareth, but about father, and himself.

"And since when did you care about father's needs?" he retorted.

Gareth had had enough. He hadn't time to waste with a drunkard. He succeeded in what he wanted, distracting him, and now, hopefully, he wouldn't think too deeply about why he had run into him here.

Gareth turned and hurried down the trail, hearing their mocking laughter behind him as he went. He no longer cared. Soon, it would be he who had the last laugh.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thor sat before the wooden table, working away at the bow and arrow laid out in pieces. Beside him sat Reece, along with several other members of the Legion. They were all hunched over their weapons, hard at work on carving the bows and tightening the strings.

"A warrior knows how to string his own bow," Kolk yelled out, as he walked up and down the rows of boys, leaning over, examining each one's work. "The tension must be just right. Too little, and your arrow will not reach its mark. Too much, and your aim will not be true. Weapons break in battle. Weapons break on journeys. You must know how to repair them as you go. The greatest warrior is also a blacksmith, a carpenter, a cobbler, a mender of all things broken. And you don't really know your own weapon until you've repaired it yourself."

Kolk stopped behind Thor and leaned over his shoulder. He reached out and yanked the wooden bow out of Thor's grasp, the string hurting his palm as he did.

"The string is not taught enough," he chided. "It is crooked. Use a weapon like this in battle, and you will surely die. And your partner will die besides you."

Kolk slammed the bow back down, then moved on; several other boys snickered. Thor reddened as he grabbed the string again, pulled it as taught as he possibly could, and wrapped it around the notch in the bow. He'd been at work on this for hours, the cap to an exhausting day of labor and menial tasks.

Most of the others were out and about, training, sparring, sword fighting. He looked out and in the distance saw his brothers, the three of them, laughing as they clacked wooden swords; as usual, Thor felt that they were gaining the upper hand and he was being left behind, in their shadow. Thor thought it unfair. He felt increasingly that he was unwanted here, as if he were not a true member of the Legion.

"Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it," O'Connor said beside him.

Thor's palms were chafed from trying; he pulled back the string one last time, this time with all his might, and finally, to his surprise, it clicked. The string fit neatly in the notch, as he pulled with all his might, sweating. He felt a great sense of satisfaction, as the bow finally felt as strong as it should be.

The sun grew longer in the sky and he looked up, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and wondered how much longer this would go on. He contemplated what it meant to be a warrior. In his head, he had seen it differently. He had only imagined training, all the time. But, he guessed, this was also a form of training.

"This was not what I signed up for, either," O'Connor said, as if reading his mind.

Thor turned, and was reassured to find his constant smile.

"I come from the Northern Province," he continued. "I, too, dreamed of joining the Legion my entire life. I guess I imagined constant sparring, battle. Not all of these menial tasks. But it will get better. It is just because we are new. It is a form of initiation. There seems to be a hierarchy here. We are also the youngest. I don't see the nineteen-year-olds doing this. This can't last forever. Besides, it's a useful skill to learn."

A horn sounded. Thor looked over and saw the rest of the Legion gathering together, beside a huge stone wall in the middle of the field. Ropes were draped across it, spaced every ten feet. The wall must have rose thirty feet and piled at its base were stacks of hay.

"What are you waiting for?" Kolk screamed. "MOVE!"

The Silver appeared all around them, screaming, and before Thor knew it he and all the others jumped from their benches and ran across the field, for the wall.

Soon they were all gathered there, standing before the ropes. There was an excited buzz in the air, as all of the Legion members stood there, together. Thor was ecstatic to finally be included with the others, and he found himself gravitating to Reece, who stood with another friend of his. O'Connor joined them.

"You will find in battle that most towns are fortified," Kolk boomed out, looking over the faces of the boys. "Breaching fortifications is the work of a soldier. In a typical siege, ropes and grappling hooks are used, much like the ones we have thrown over this wall, and climbing a wall is one of the most dangerous things you will encounter in battle. In few cases will you be more exposed, more vulnerable. The enemy will pour down molten lead on you. They will shoot down arrows. Drop rocks. You don't climb a wall until the moment is perfect. And when you do, you must climb for your life--or else risk death."

Kolk took a deep breath, then screamed out: "BEGIN!"

All around him the boys broke into action, each charging for a rope. Thor sprinted for a free rope; he was about to grab it, when an older boy reached it first, bumping him out of the way. Thor scrambled, and grabbed the closest one he could find. He grabbed the thick knotted twine, his heart pounding, as he began to scramble his way up the wall.

The day had turned misty, and Thor's feet slipped on the stone as he climbed. Still, he made good time, and he couldn't help but notice that he was faster than many of the others, nearly taking the lead as he scrambled his way up. He was, for the first time today, starting to feel good, starting to feel a sense of pride.

Suddenly, he felt something hard slam into his shoulder. He looked up, and saw members of the Silver at the top of the wall, throwing down small rocks, sticks, all manner of debris. The boy on the rope beside Thor reached up with one hand to block his face and lost his grip and fell backwards, down to the ground. He fell a good twenty feet, and landed in the pile of hay below.

Thor was losing his grip, too, but somehow managed to hang on. A club hailed down and hit Thor hard on the back, but he continued to climb. He was making good time and was starting to think he might even be the first one to the top, when suddenly, he felt himself kicked hard in the ribs. He couldn't even understand where it came from, until he looked over and saw one of the boys beside him, swinging sideways. Before Thor could react, the boy kicked him again.

Thor lost his grip this time and found himself hurling backwards, through the air, flailing. He landed on his back in the hay, shocked, but unhurt.

Thor scrambled to his hands and knees, catching his breath, and looked about: all around him, boys were dropping like flies from the ropes, landing in the hay, kicked or shoved by each other--or if not, then kicked off by members of the Silver up top. Those who weren't had their ropes cut, so they went flying, too. Not a single member reached the top.

"On your feet!" yelled Kolk. Thor jumped up, as did the others.

"SWORDS!"

The boys ran as one to a huge rack of wooden swords. Thor joined them and grabbed one, shocked at how heavy it was. It weighed twice as much as any weapon he had lifted. He could barely hold it.

"Heavy swords, begin!" came a shout.

Thor looked up and saw that huge oaf, Elden, the one who had first attacked him when he met the Legion. Thor remembered him too well: his face was still hurting from the bruises he had given him. He was bearing down on him, sword held high, a look of fury on his face.

Thor raised his sword at the last moment; he managed to block Elden's blow, but the sword was so heavy, he was barely able to hold it back. Elden, bigger and stronger, reached around and kicked Thor hard in the ribs.

Thor dropped to his knees, in pain. Elden swung around again, to crack him in the face, but Thor managed to reached up and block the blow with a moment to spare. But Elden was too quick and strong, and he swung around and slashed Thor in the leg, knocking him down on his side.

A small crowd of boys gathered around them, cheering and hollering, as clearly their fight was becoming the center of attention. It seemed as if they were all rooting for Elden.

Elden came down with his sword again, slashing down hard, and Thor rolled out of the way, the blow barely missing his back. Thor had a moment's advantage, and he took it: he swung around and hit the oaf hard behind the knee. It was a soft spot, and enough to knock him back, then down, stumbling onto his rear.

Thor used the chance to scramble to his feet. Elden rose, red-faced, more furious than ever, and now the two faced off.

Thor knew he couldn't just stand there; he charged and swung. But this practice sword was made of a strange wood and just too heavy; his move was telegraphed. Elden blocked it easily, then jabbed Thor hard in the ribs.

It hit a soft spot, and Thor keeled over and dropped his sword, the wind knocked out of him.

The other boys screamed in delight. Thor kneeled there, unarmed, and felt the tip of Elden's sword jammed into the base of his throat.

"Yield!" Elden demanded.

Thor glared up at him, feeling the salty taste of blood on his lip.

"Never," he muttered, defiant.

Elden grimaced, raised his sword, and prepared to bring it down. There was nothing Thor could do. He knew that he was in for a mighty blow.

As the sword came down, Thor closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt the world slowing down, felt himself transported to another realm. He was suddenly able to feel the swing of the sword in the air, its motion, and he willed the universe to stop it.

He felt his body warming, tingling, and as he focused, he felt something happening. He felt himself able to control it.

Suddenly the sword freezed in mid-air. Thor had somehow managed to stop it using his power.

As Elden stood there, holding the sword, confused, Thor then used his mind power to grasp and squeeze Elden's wrist. He squeezed harder and harder in his mind, and in moments, Elden cried out and dropped the sword.

All the boys quieted, as they stood there, frozen, looking down at Thor, wide-eyed in surprise and fear.

"He's a demon!" one yelled out.

"A sorcerer," another yelled.

Thor was overwhelmed. He had no grasp of what he had just done. But he knew it was normal. He was both proud and embarrassed, emboldened and afraid.

Kolk stepped forward, into the circle, standing between Thor and Elden.

"This is no place for spells, boy, whoever you are," he chastised Thor. "It is a place for battle. You defied our rules of fighting. You will think about what you have done. I will send you to a place  of true danger, and we shall see how well your spells defend you there. Report to guard patrol at the Canyon."

There was a gasp among the Legion, and they all quieted. Thor did not understand exactly what that meant, but he knew that whatever it was, it could not be good.

"You can't send him to the Canyon!" Reece protested. "He is too new. He could get hurt."

"I shall do whatever I choose to boy," Kolk grimaced at Reece. "Your father is not here to protect you now. Or him. And I run this Legion. And you better mind your tongue--just because you are royalty, don't think you can speak out of line again."

"Fine," Reece responded. "Then I shall join him!"

"As will I!" O'Connor chimed in, stepping forward.

Kolk looked them over, and slowly shook his head.

"Fools. That is your choice. Join him if you wish."

Kolk turned and looked at Elden. "Don't think you get off so easy, either," he said to him. "You started this fight. You must pay the price, too. You will join them on patrol tonight."

"But sire, you can't send me to the Canyon!" Elden protested, eyes wide in fear. It was the first time Thor had seen him afraid of anything.

Kolk took a step forward, close to Elden, and raised his hands on his hips. "Can't I?" he said. "Not only can I send you there-- I can also send you away for good, out of this Legion, and to the farthest reaches of our kingdom, if you continue to talk back to me."

Elden looked away, too flustered to respond.

"Anyone else want to join them?" Kolk called out.

The other boys, bigger and older and stronger, all looked away in fear. Thor gulped as he looked around at the nervous faces, and wondered just how bad the Canyon could be.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Thor walked along the well-trodden, dirt road, flanked by Reece, O'Connor and Elden. The four of them had barely said a word to each other since they left, still in shock. Thor looked over at Reece and O'Connor with a feeling of gratitude he had never known before. He could hardly believe that they had put themselves on the line for him like that. He felt that he had found true friends, more like brothers. He had no idea what lay in store for them at the Canyon, but whatever they should face, he was happy to have them at his side.

Elden, he tried not to look at. He could see him, kicking rocks, smoldering with rage, could see how annoyed and upset he was to be here, on patrol with them. But Thor felt no pity for him. As Kolk had said, he had started the whole thing. It served him right.

The four of them, a ragtag group, proceeded down the road, following directions. They had been walking for hours, it was getting late in the afternoon, and Thor's legs were growing weary. He was also hungry. Had been given only a small bowl of barley for lunch, and he hoped some food might be waiting for them wherever they were going.

But he had bigger worries than that. He looked down at his new armor, and knew that it would not have been given to him if there were not an important reason. Before sending them off, the four of them had been given new squire's armor, leather, dressed in chainmail, given short swords of a course metal. It was hardly the fine iron used to forge a knight's sword, but it was certainly better than nothing. It felt good to have a substantial weapon at his waist--in addition, of course, to his sling, which he still carried. Though he knew that if they were to encounter real trouble tonight, the weapons and armor they were given might not suffice. He longed for the superior armor and weapons of his cohorts in the Legion: medium and long swords of the finest metal, short spears, maces, daggers, halberds. But these belonged to the boys of fame and honor, from famous families, who could afford such a thing. This was not Thor, a simple shepherd's son.

As they all marched down the interminable road, into the second sunset, far from the welcoming gates of King's Court, towards the distant divide of the Canyon, Thor could not help but feel as if this were all his fault. For some reason, some of the other members of the Legion had seemed to not taking a liking to him, as if they resented his presence. It didn't make any sense. And it gave him a sinking feeling. His whole life he had wanted nothing more than to join them. Now, he felt he had crashed into it by cheating, and he wondered if he would ever be truly accepted by his peers.

Now, on top of everything, he was singled out to be marched away for Canyon duty. It was unfair. He hadn't started the fight, and when he had used his powers, whatever they were, it had not been on purpose. He still didn't understand them, didn't know where they came from, how he summoned them, or how to turn them off. He shouldn't be punished for that.

Thor had no idea what Canyon duty meant, but from the looks of the others, clearly, it was not desirable. He wondered if he were being marched off to be killed, if this was their way of forcing him out of the Legion. He was determined not to give up.

"How much farther can the Canyon be?" O'Connor asked, breaking the silence.

"Not far enough," answered Elden. "We wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for Thor."

"You started the fight, remember?" Reece interrupted.

"But I fought cleanly, and he did not," Elden protested. "Besides, he deserved it."

"Why?" Thor asked, wanting to know the answer that had been burning inside for a while. "Why did I deserve it?"

"Because you don't belong here, with us. You stole your position in the Legion. The rest of us, we were picked. You fought your way in."

"But isn't that what the Legion is about? Fighting?" Reece answered. "I would argue that Thor deserves his spot more than any of us. We were merely picked. He struggled and fought to gain what was not given him."

Elden shrugged, unimpressed.

"The rules are the rules. He was not picked. He shouldn't be with us. That's why I fought him."

"Well, you are not going to make me go away," Thor responded, shakiness in his voice, determined to be accepted.

"We'll see about that," Elden muttered darkly.

"And just what you mean by that?" O'Connor asked.

But Elden did not volunteer anymore; he continued walking silently. Thor's stomach tightened. He couldn't help but feel as if he had made too many enemies, and he did not understand why. He did not like the feeling.

"Don't pay any attention to him," Reece said to Thor, loudly enough to be heard. "You did nothing wrong. They sent you to Canyon duty because they see potential in you. They want to toughen you up. Or else they wouldn't bother. You're also on the radar because my father singled you out. That's all."

"But what is Canyon duty?" he asked.

Reece cleared his throat, looking anxious.

"I've never been on it myself. But I've heard stories. From some of the older kids, and from my brothers. It is patrol duty. But on the other side of the Canyon."

"The other side?" O'Connor asked, terror in his voice.

"What do you mean the other side?" Thor asked, not understanding.

Reece studied him.

"Have you never been to the Canyon?"

Thor could feel the others looking at him, and he shook his head, self-conscious.

"You're kidding," Elden snapped.

"Really?" O'Connor pressed. "Not once in your life?"

Thor shook his head, reddening. "My father never took us anywhere. I've heard of it."

"You've probably never been outside your village, boy," Elden said. "Have you?"

Thor shrugged, silent. Was it that obvious?

"He hasn't," Elden added, incredulous. "Unbelievable."

"Shut up," Reece said. "Leave him alone. That doesn't make you any better than him."

Elden sneered at Reece and raised his hand briefly to his scabbard; but then relaxed it. Apparently, even though he was bigger than Reece, he didn't seem to want to provoke the king's son.

"The Canyon is the only thing keeping our kingdom of the Ring safe," Reece explained. "Nothing else stands between us and the hordes of the world. If the savages of the Wilds were to breach it, we would all be finished. The entire Ring looks to us, the King's men, to protect them. We have patrols guarding it all the time--mostly on this side, and occasionally, on the other. There is only one bridge across, only one way in or out, and the most elite of the Silver stand watch around-the-clock."

Thor had heard of the Canyon his entire life, had heard horrifying stories of the evils that lurked on the other side, the massive evil empire that surrounded the Ring, and how close they all lived to terror. It was one of the reasons why he had wanted to join the King's Legion: to help protect his family and his kingdom. He hated the idea that other men were out there, protecting him around-the-clock, while he lived comfortably in the arms of the kingdom. He wanted to do his service and help fight off the evil hordes. He could imagine nothing braver than those men who guarded the Canyon passageway.

"The Canyon is a mile wide, and surrounds the entire Ring," Reece explained. "It is not easy to breach. But of course our men are not the only thing keeping the hordes at bay. There are millions of those creatures out there, and if they wanted to overrun this Canyon, by sheer force of will, they could in a moment. Our manpower only helps supplement the energy shield of the Canyon. The real power that keeps them at bay is the power of the Sword."

Thor turned. "The Sword?"

Reece looked at him.

"The Destiny Sword. You know the legend?"

"This country rube probably never even heard of it," Elden chimed in.

"Of course I know it," Thor snapped back, defensive. Not only did he know it, but he had spent many days pondering the legend throughout his life. He had always wanted to see it. The fabled Destiny Sword, the magical sword whose energy protected the Ring, filled the Canyon with a potent force that protected the Ring from invaders.

"The sword lives in King's Court?" Thor asked.

Reece nodded.

"It has lived amongst the royal family for generations. Without it, the kingdom would be nothing. The Ring would be overrun."

"If we are protected, then why bother patrol the Canyon at all?" Thor asked.

"The Sword only blocks the major threats," Reece explained. "A small and isolated evil creature can slip in, here and there. That is why our men are needed. A single creature could cross the Canyon, or even a small group of them--they might be so bold as to try to cross the bridge, or they may act with stealth and climb down the Canyon walls on one end and up on the other. It is our job to keep them out. A single creature can cause a lot of damage. Years ago, one of them slipped in, and murdered half the children of a village before he was caught. The Sword does the bulk of the work, but we are an indispensable part."

Thor took it all in, wondering. The Canyon seemed so grand, their duty so important, he could hardly believe that he would be part of this great purpose.

"But even with all that, I haven't explained it very well," Reece said. "There's more to the Canyon than just that," he said, then fell silent.

Thor looked at him and saw something like fear or wonder in his eyes.

"How can I explain it?" Reece said, clearly struggling. He cleared his throat. "The Canyon is far bigger than all of us. The Canyon is..."

"The Canyon is a place for men," came a resounding voice.

They all turned at the sound of the voice, the sound of a horse.

Thor could not believe it. There, trotting up beside them, bedecked in full chainmail, with long gleaming weapons hanging over the side of his incredible horse, was Erec. He smiled down at them, keeping his eyes fixed on Thor.

Thor looked up, in shock.

"It is a place that will make you a man," Erec added, "if you are not one already."

Thor had not seen Erec since his jousting match, and felt so relieved at his presence, to have a real knight here with them as they headed for the Canyon--no less, Erec himself. He felt invincible having him, and prayed he was coming with them.

"What are you doing here?" Thor asked. "Are you accompanying us?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound too eager.

Erec leaned back and laughed.

"Not to worry, young one," he said. "I'm going with you."

"Really?" Reece asked.

"It is tradition for a member of the Silver to accompany members of the Legion on their first patrol. I volunteered."

Erec turned and looked down at Thor.

"After all, you helped me yesterday."

Thor felt his heart warm, buoyed by Erec's presence. He also felt lifted up in the eyes of his friends. Here he was, being accompanied by the greatest knight of the kingdom, as they headed towards the Canyon. Much of his fear was falling away.

"Of course, I shall not go out on patrol with you," Erec added. "But I will lead you across the bridge, and to your camp. It will be your duty to venture out on patrol, alone, from there."

"It is a great honor, sire," Reece said.

"Thank you," O'Connor and Elden echoed.

Erec looked down at Thor and smiled.

"After all, if you're going to be my first squire, I can't let you die just yet."

"First?" Thor asked, his heart skipping a beat.

"Feithgold broke his leg in the jousting match. He will be out for at least eight weeks. You are my first squire now. And our training might as well begin, shan't it?"

"Of course, sire," Thor responded.

Thor's mind was swimming. He could hardly believe it. For the first time in a while, he felt as if luck was finally turning his way. Now he was first squire to the greatest knight of all. He felt as if he had leapfrogged over all his friends; he could hardly believe it.

The five of them continued on, heading west into the setting sun, Erec walking slowly on his horse beside them.

"I assume you have been to the Canyon, sire?" Thor asked.

"Many times," Erec responded. "My first patrol, I was your age, in fact."

"And how did you find it?" Reece asked.

All four boys turned and stared at him as they went, rapt with attention. Erec rode on for some time in silence, looking straight ahead, his jaw set.

"Your first time is an experience you never forget. It is hard to explain. It is a strange and foreign and mystical and beautiful place. On the other side lie unimaginable dangers. The bridge to cross it is long and steep. There are many of us patrolling--but always, you feel alone. It is nature at its best. It crushes man to be in its shadow. Our men have patrolled it for hundreds of years. It is a rite of passage. You do not fully understand danger without it; you cannot become a knight without it."

He fell back into silence. The four boys looked at each other, queasy.

"Should we expect a skirmish on the other side then?" Thor asked.

Erec shrugged.

"Anything is possible, once you reach the Wilds. Unlikely. But possible."

Erec looked down at Thor.

"Do you want to be a great squire, and one day, a great knight?" he asked, looking right at Thor.

Thor's heart beat faster.

"Yes, sire, more than anything."

"Then there are things you must learn," Erec said. "Strength is not enough; agility is not enough; being a great fighter is not enough. There is something else, something more important than all of them."

Erec fell back into silence, and Thor could wait no longer.

"What?" Thor asked. "What is most important?"

"You must be of a sound spirit," Erec replied. "Never afraid. You must enter the darkest wood, the most dangerous battle, with complete equanimity. You must carry this equanimity with you, always, whenever and wherever you go. Never fearful, always on guard. Never restful, always diligent. You don't have the luxury of expecting others to protect you anymore. You're no longer a citizen. You're now one of the King's men. The greatest qualities for a warrior are courage, and equanimity. Be not afraid of danger. Expect it. But do not seek it.

"This Ring we live in," Erec added, "our kingdom. It seems as if we, with all our men, protect it against the hordes of the world. But we do not. We are protected only by the Canyon, and only by the sorcery within it. We live in a sorcerer's ring. Don't forget it. We live and die by magic. There is no security here, boy, on either side of the canyon. Take away sorcery, take away magic, and we have nothing."

They walked on in silence for quite some time, as Thor turned Erec's words over in his head, again and again. He felt as if Erec were giving him a hidden message: he felt as if he were telling him that, whatever power he had, whatever magic he might be summoning, it was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it was something to be proud of, and the source of all energy in the kingdom. Thor felt better. He had felt he was being sent out here, to the Canyon, as a punishment for his using his magic, and had felt guilty about it; but now he felt that his powers, whatever they were, might become a source of pride.

As the other boys drifted ahead, and Erec and Thor fell back, Erec looked down at him.

"You've already managed to make some powerful enemies at Court," he said, an amused smile on his face. "As many enemies as you have friends, it seems."

Thor reddened, shamed.

"I don't know how, sire. I didn't intend to."

"Enemies are not gained by intentions. They are often gained by envy. You have managed to create a great deal of it. That is not necessarily a bad thing. You are the center of much speculation."

Thor scratched his head, trying to understand.

"But I don't know why."

Erec still looked amused.

"The queen herself is chief among your adversaries. You have somehow managed to get on her wrong side."

"My mother?" Reece asked, turning. "Why?"

"That is the very question I've been wondering myself," Erec said.

Thor felt terrible. The Queen? An enemy? What had he done to her? He could hardly conceive it. How could he even be important enough for her to take notice of? He hardly knew what was happening around him.

Suddenly, something dawned on him.

"Is she the reason that I was sent out here? To the Canyon?" he asked.

Erec turned and looked straight ahead, his face growing serious.

"She might be," he said, contemplative. "She just might be."

Thor wondered at the extent and depth of the enemies he had made. He had stumbled into a court he knew nothing about. He had just wanted to belong. He had just followed his passion and his dream, and had done whatever he could to achieve it. He did not think that by doing so, he might raise envy or jealousy. He turned it over and over in his mind, like a riddle, but could not get to the bottom of it.

As Thor was mulling these thoughts, they reached the top of a knoll, and as the site spread out before them, all thoughts of anything else fell away. Thor's breath was taken away--and not just by the strong gust of wind.

There, stretching out before them, as far as the eye could see, lay the Canyon. It was the first time Thor had ever seen it, and the site shocked him so thoroughly, he stood rooted to his place, unable to move. It was the grandest and most majestic thing he had ever seen. The huge chasm in the earth seemed to stretch for eternity, and was spanned only by a single, narrow bridge, lined with soldiers. The bridge seemed to stretch to the end of the earth itself.

The Canyon was alight with greens and blues from the second setting sun, and they bounced off its walls, sparkling. As he felt his legs again, Thor began to walk with the others, closer and closer to the bridge, and was able to look down, deep into the Canyon's cliffs: they seemed to plummet down into the bowels of the earth. Thor could not even see the bottom, and didn't know if that was because it had no bottom, or if it was because it was covered in mist. The rock that lined the cliffs looked to be a million years old, formed with patterns that storms must have left centuries before. It was the most primordial place he had ever seen. He had no idea his planet was so vast, so vibrant, so alive.

It was as if he had come to the beginning of creation.

Thor heard the others gasp all around him, too.

The thought of the four of them patrolling this Canyon seemed laughable. They were dwarfed even by the site of it.

As they walked towards the bridge, soldiers stiffened on either side, at attention, making way for the new patrol. Thor felt his heart quicken.

"I don't see how the four of us can possibly patrol this?" O'Connor said.

Elden snickered.

"There are tons of patrols beside us. We are merely one cog in the machine."

As they walked across the bridge, the only sound to be heard was that of the whipping wind, and of their boots, and Erec's horse, walking along. The hoofs left a hollow and reassuring sound, the only real thing that Thor could hang onto in this surreal place.

None of the soldiers, who all stiffened at attention in Erec's presence, said a word as they stood guard. They must have passed hundreds of them.

As they went, Thor could not help but notice, on either side of them, impaled on spikes every few feet along the railing, were the heads of barbarian invaders. Some still fresh, still dripping with blood.

Thor looked away. It made it all too real. He did not know if he was ready for this. He tried not to imagine the many skirmishes that must have produced those heads, the lives that had been lost, what awaited them on the other side. For the first time, he wondered if they would make it back. Was that the purpose of this whole expedition? To kill him off?

He looked over the edge, at the endlessly disappearing cliffs, and heard the screech of a distant bird; it was a sound he had never heard before. He wondered what kind of bird it was, and what other exotic animals lurked on the other side.

But it was not really the animals that bothered him, or even the heads on spikes. More than anything, it was the feeling of this place. He could not tell if it was the mist, or the howling wind, or the vastness of the open sky, or the light of the setting sun--but something about this place was so surreal, it transported him. Enveloped him. He felt a heavy magical energy hanging over them. He wondered if it was the protection of the Sword, or some other ancient energy. He felt as if he were crossing not just a mass of land, but crossing into another realm of existence.

He could hardly believe that, for the first time in his life, he would spend the night, unprotected, on the other side of the Canyon.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As the sun began to fade from the sky--a dark scarlet mixed with blue that seemed to envelop the universe--Thor walked with Reece, O'Connor, and Elden down the trail that led into the forest of the Wilds. Thor had never been so on edge in his life. Now it was just the four of them, Erec having remained behind at camp, and despite all their bickering with each other, Thor sensed they now needed each other more than ever. They had to bond, and to learn how to do it on their own, without Erec. Before they'd parted, Erec had told them not to worry, that he would stay at base and hear their screams, and would be there if they needed him.

That gave Thor little assurance now.

As the woods narrowed in on them, Thor looked around at this exotic place, the forest floor lined with thorns and strange fruits. The branches were gnarled and ancient, nearly touching each other, so close that Thor needed to duck his head in places. They had thorns instead of leaves, and they protruded everywhere. Yellow vines hung down in places, and Thor had made the mistake of reaching up to push a vine from his face only to realize it was a snake. He had yelled and jumped out of the way, just in time.

He had expected the others to laugh at him, but they, too, were humbled with fear. All around them were the foreign noises of exotic animals. Some were low and guttural, some high-pitched and shrieking. Some of them echoed from far-off; others seemed impossibly close. Twilight came on too fast, as they all headed deeper into the forest. Thor felt certain that at any moment they could be ambushed. As the sky grew darker, it was getting harder to even see the faces of his compatriots. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly, his knuckles white. His other hand clutched his slingshot. He saw the others gripping their weapons, too.

Thor willed himself to be strong, to be confident and courageous as a good knight should. As Erec had instructed him. It was better for him to face death now, he figured, in the face, then to always live in fear of it. He tried to lift his chin and walk boldly forward, even increasing his pace and going a few feet out in front of the others. His heart was pounding, but he felt as if he were facing his fears.

"What are we patrolling for exactly?" Thor asked.

As soon as he said it, he realized it might be a dumb question, and he expected Elden to make fun of him.

But to his surprise, there was only silence in return. He looked over and saw the whites of Elden's eyes, and realized he was even more afraid. This, at least, gave Thor some confidence. Thor was younger and smaller than him, and he was not giving in to his fear.

"The enemy, I guess," Reece finally said.

"And who is that?" Thor asked. "What does he look like?"

"There are all sorts of enemies out here," Reece said. "We are in the Wilds now. There are nations of savages, and all manner and races of evil creatures."

"But what is the point of our patrol?" O'Connor asked. "What difference can we possibly make by doing this? Even if we kill one or two, is that going to stop the million behind it?"

"We are not here to make a dent," Reece answered. "We are here to make our presence known, on behalf of our King. To let them know not to come too close to the Canyon."

"I think it would make more sense to wait till they try to cross it and deal with them then," O'Connor said.

"No," Reece said. "It is better to deter them from even approaching. That is why these patrols. At least, that is what my older brother says."

Thor's heart was pounding, as they continued deeper into the forest.

"How far are we supposed to go?" Elden asked, speaking up for the first time, his voice quivering.

"Don't you remember what Kolk said? We have to retrieve the red banner and bring it back," Reece said. "That is our proof that we've gone far enough for our patrol."

"I have not seen a banner anywhere," O'Connor said. "In fact, I can barely see a thing. How are we supposed to get back?"

No one answered. Thor was thinking the same thing. How can they possibly find a banner in the black of night? He started to wonder if this was all a trick, an exercise, another one of the psychological games the Legion played on the boys. He thought again of Erec's words, of his many enemies at court. He had a sinking feeling about this patrol. Were they being set up?

Suddenly there came a horrific screeching noise, followed by movement inside the branches--and something large ran across their path. Thor pulled his sword, and the others did, too. The sound of swords leaving scabbards, of metal on metal, filled the air, as they all stood there, holding their swords out in front of them, looking nervously in every direction.

"What was that?" Elden cried out, his voice cracking with fear.

The animal once again crossed their path, racing from one side of the forest to the other, and this time they got a good look at it.

Thor's shoulders relaxed, as he recognized it.

"Just a deer," he said, greatly relieved. "The strangest looking deer I've seen--but a deer nonetheless."

Reece laughed, a reassuring noise, a laugh too mature for his age. As Thor heard it, he realized it was the laugh of a future King. He felt better having his friend at his side. And then, he laughed, too. All that fear, all for nothing.

"I never knew that your voice cracked when you caved in to fear," Reece mocked Elden, laughing again.

"If I could see you, I would pummel you," Elden said.

"I can see you fine," Reece said. "Come try it."

Elden glared back at him, but didn't dare make a move. Instead he put his sword back in his scabbard, as did the others. Thor admired Reece for giving Elden a hard time; Elden mocked everybody else--he deserved to get some back himself. He admired Reece's fearlessness in doing so: after all, Elden was still twice their size.

Thor finally felt some of the tension leaving his body. They'd had their first encounter, the ice was broken, and they were still alive. He leaned back and laughed, too, happy to be alive.

"Keep laughing, stranger boy," Elden said. "We'll see who has the last laugh."

I'm not laughing at you, as Reece is, Thor thought. I'm just relieved to be alive.

But he didn't bother saying it; he knew that nothing he could say would change Elden's hatred for him.

"Look!" O'Connor screamed. "There!"

Thor squinted but could barely see what he was pointing at in the thickening night. Then he saw it: the banner of the Legion. It hung from one of the branches.

They all began to run for it.

 Elden ran past all of them, brushing them aside roughly.

"That flag is mine!" he yelled.

"I saw it first!" O'Connor yelled.

"But I will get it first, and I will be the one to bring it back!" Elden yelled.

Thor fumed; he could barely believe Elden's actions. He recalled what Kolk had said--that whoever got the banner would be rewarded, and realized why Elden sprinted. But that did not excuse him: they were supposed to be a team, a group--not every man for himself. Elden's true colors were coming out--none of the others ran for it, tried to outdo the others. It made Thor hate Elden even more.

Elden sprinted past after elbowing O'Connor, and before the others could react, he gained several feet on them and snatched the banner.

As he did, a huge net appeared out of nowhere, rising from the ground, springing up into the air, entrapping Elden and hoisting him up high. He swung back and forth before their eyes, just feet away, like an animal caught in a trap.

"Help me! Help me!" he screamed, terrified.

They all slowed as they walked up close to him; Reece began to laugh.

"Well, who is the coward now?" Reece yelled out, amused.

"Why you little crap!" he yelled. "I will kill you when I'm down from this!"

"Oh really?" Reece retorted. "And when will that be?"

"Set me down!" Elden yelled, turning and spinning in the net. "I command you!"

"Oh, you command us, do you?" Reece said, bursting into laughter.

Reece turned and looked at Thor.

"What do you think?" Reece asked.

"I think that he owes all of us an apology," O'Connor said. "Especially Thor."

"I agree," Reece said. "I'll tell you what," he said to Elden. "Apologize, and make it sincere, and I will consider cutting you down."

"Apologize?" Elden echoed, horrified. "Not in one million suns."

Reece turned to Thor.

"Maybe we should just leave this lump here for the night. It would be great food for the animals. What do you think?"

Thor smiled wide.

"I think that's a fine idea," O'Connor said.

"Wait!" Elden screamed out.

O'Connor reached up and snatched the banner from Elden's dangling finger.

"Guess you didn't beat us to the banner after all," O'Connor said.

The three of them turned, and began to walk away.

"No, wait!" Elden cried. "You can't leave me here. You wouldn't!"

The three of them continued to walk away.

"I'm sorry!" Elden began to sob. "Please! I'm sorry!"

Thor stopped, but Reece and O'Connor continued to walk. Finally, Reece turned.

"What are you doing?" Reece asked Thor.

"We can't leave him here," Thor said. As much as Thor disliked Elden, he didn't think it right to leave him there.

"Why not?" Reece asked. "He brought it on himself."

"If the tables were turned," O'Connor said, "you know that he would gladly leave you there. Why should you care?"

"I understand," Thor said. "But that doesn't mean we should act like him."

Reece put his hands on his hips and sighed deeply as he leaned in and whispered to Thor.

"I wasn't going to leave him there all night. Maybe just half the night. But you do have a point. He's not cut out for this. He'd probably piss himself and have a heart attack. You're too kind. That's a problem," Reece said as he put a hand on Thor's shoulder. "But that's why I chose you for a friend."

"And I," O'Connor said, putting his hand on Thor's other shoulder.

Thor turned, marched towards the net, reached out and cut it down.

Elden went flying, hitting the ground hard, with a thud. He scrambled to his feet, threw the net off and frantically searched the ground.

"My sword!" he yelled, frantic. "Where is it?"

Thor looked down at the ground, but it was too dark out. He could not see it.

"It must have went flying into the trees when you were hoisted up," Thor answered.

"Wherever it is, it's gone now," Reece said. "You'll never find it."

"But you don't understand," Elden pleaded. "The Legion. There is just one rule. Never leave your weapon behind. I can't return without it. I would be ousted!"

Thor turned and searched the ground again, searched the trees, looking everywhere. But he could see absolutely no sign of it. Reece and O'Connor just stood there, not bothering to look.

"I'm sorry," Thor said, "I don't see it."

Elden scrambled everywhere, then finally gave up.

"It's your fault," he, pointing at Thor. "You got us into this mess!"

"No I didn't," Thor replied. "You did! You ran for the flag. You pushed us all out of the way. You have no one to blame but yourself."

"I hate you!" Elden screamed.

He charged Thor, grabbing him by the shirt, knocking him down to the ground. The weight of him caught Thor off guard. Thor managed to spin around, But Elden spun again and pinned Thor down. Elden was just too big and strong, and it was too hard to hold him back.

Suddenly, though, he let go. Thor heard the sound of a sword being extracted from his scabbard, and looked up and saw Reece standing over Elden, holding the tip of his sword at his throat.

O'Connor reached over and gave Thor a hand, and yanked him quickly to his feet. Thor stood, with his two friends, looking down on Elden, who remained pinned to the ground, Reece's sword at his throat.

"You touch my friend again," Reece, deadly serious, said slowly to Elden, "and I assure you, I will kill you."

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Thor, Reece, O'Connor, Elden, and Erec all sat on the ground, before a fire, forming a circle around it. The five of them sat glum and silent, Thor surprised to realize that it could be this cold on a summer night. There was just something about this canyon, the cold, mystical winds that swirled around, down his back, and which mingled with the fog that never seemed to go away, which left him damp to the bone. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands against the fire, unable to get them warm.

Thor chewed on the piece of dried meat that the others were passing around; it was tough and salty, but somehow nourished him. Erec reached over and handed him something and Thor felt a soft wineskin being pressed into his hand, the liquid sloshing in it. It was surprisingly heavy as he raised it to his lips and squirted it into the back of his mouth, for too long a time. He felt warm for the first time.

Everyone was quiet, staring into the flames. Thor was still on edge, being on this side of the Canyon, in enemy territory, still felt as if he should be on guard at every moment, and marveled at how calm Erec seemed to be, as if he were casually sitting in his own backyard. Thor was relieved, at least, to be out of the Wilds, reunited with Erec, and sitting around the reassurance of a fire. Erec watched the forest line, attentive to every little noise, yet confident and relaxed. Thor knew that if any danger was coming, Erec would protect them all.

Thor felt content around the flames, and he looked around and saw that the others seemed content, too--except, of course, for Elden, glum ever since returning from the forest. He had lost his confident swagger from earlier in the day, and he sat there, sour, without his sword. Thor knew that the commanders would never forgive such a mistake, and that Elden would be kicked out of the Legion upon their return. He wondered what Elden would do. He had a feeling he would not go down so easily, that he had some trick, some backup plan, up his sleeve. Thor assumed that, whatever it was, it would not be good.

Thor turned and followed Erec's gaze to the distant horizon, in the southern direction. There was a faint glow, an endless line as far as the eye could see, that lit up the night. Thor wondered.

"What is it?" he finally asked Erec. "That glow? The one you keep staring at?"

Erec was silent for a long time, and the only sound was that of the whipping of the wind. Finally, without turning, he said: "The Gorals."

Thor exchanged a glance with the others, who looked back, fearful. Thor's stomach tightened at the thought of it. The Gorals. So close. There was nothing in between them and him except for a simple forest and a vast plain. There was no longer the great Canyon separating them, keeping them safe. All his life he had heard tales of these violent savages from the Wilds who had no ambition except to attack the Ring. And now, there was nothing between them. He couldn't believe how many of them there were. It was a vast and waiting army.

"Aren't you afraid?" he asked Erec. "There is nothing between us."

Erec shook his head.

"The Gorals move as one. Their army camps out there every night. They have for years. They would only attack the Canyon if they mobilized the entire army and attacked as one. And they wouldn't dare try. The power of the Sword acts as a shield. They know they cannot breach it."

"So then why do they camp out there?" Thor asked.

"It is their way of intimidating. And preparing. There have been many times throughout the course of history, in the time of our fathers, when they attacked, tried to breach the canyon. But it hasn't happened in my time."

Thor looked up at the black sky, the yellow and blue and orange stars twinkling high overhead, and he wondered. He could hardly believe he was out here, on this side of the canyon. It was a place of nightmares, and had been ever since he could walk. The thought of it made him fearful, but he forced fearful thoughts from his mind. He was a member of the Legion now, and knew he had to act like it.

"Do not worry," Erec said, as if reading his thoughts. "They will not attack while we have the Destiny Sword."

"Have you ever held it?" Thor asked Erec, suddenly curious. "The Sword?"

"Of course not," Erec retorted sharply. "No one is allowed to grasp it, except for descendants of the King."

Thor looked at him, confused.

"I don't understand? Why?"

Reece cleared his throat.

"May I?" he interceded.

Erec nodded back.

"There is a legend around the Sword. It has never actually been hoisted by anyone. Legend has it that one man, the chosen one, will be able to hoist it by himself. Only the King is allowed to try, or one of the King's descendants, if named King. So there it sits, untouched."

"And what of our current King? Your father?" Thor asked. "Can't he try to hoist it?"

Reece looked down.

"He tried to hoist it once. When he was crowned. So he tells us. He could not. It sits there like an object of rebuke for him. He hates it. It weighs on him like a living thing.

"When the chosen one arrives," Reece added, "he will free the Ring from its enemies all around and lead us to a greater destiny than we've ever known. All wars will end."

"Fairytales and nonsense," Elden interceded. "That sword will be lifted by no one. It is too heavy. It is not possible. And there is no 'chosen one.' It's all hogwash. That legend was invented just to keep the common man down, to keep us all waiting for the supposed 'chosen one.' To embolden the line of MacGils. It is a very convenient legend for them."

"Shut your tongue, boy," Erec snapped. "You will always speak respectfully of your King."

Elden looked down, humbled.

Thor thought about everything, trying to take it all in. It was so much to process at once. All his life he had dreamt of seeing the Destiny Sword. He had heard stories of its perfect shape. It was rumored to be crafted from a material no one understood, was supposed to be a magical weapon. Thor looked around, at the Canyon, and could hardly imagine its energy protected the entire Ring. It made Thor wonder what would happen if they didn't have the sword to protect them. Would the King's army then be vanquished by the Empire? Thor looked out at the glowing fires on the horizon. They seemed to stretch for an eternity.

"Have you ever been out there?" Thor asked Erec. "Far out there? Beyond the forest? Into the Wilds?"

The others all turned and look at Erec, as Thor anxiously awaited his reply. In the thick silence, Erec stared at the flames for a long time--so long that Thor began to doubt he would ever answer. Thor hoped he had not been too nosy; he felt so grateful and indebted to Erec, and certainly didn't want to get on his bad side. Thor also wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Just when Thor was wishing he could retract his question, Erec responded:

"Yes," he said, solemn.

That single word hung in the air for too long, and in it, Thor heard the gravity that told him all he needed to know.

"What is it like out there?" O'Connor asked.

Thor was relieved that he was not the only one asking the questions.

"It is controlled by one ruthless empire," Erec said. "But the land is vast and varied. There is the land of the savages. The land of the slaves. And the land of the monsters. Monsters unlike any you can imagine. And there are deserts and mountains and hills as far as you can see. There are the marshes and the swamps and the great ocean. There is the land of the Druids. And the land of the Dragons."

Thor's eyes opened wide at the mention of it.

"Dragons?" he asked, surprised. "I thought they didn't exist."

Erec looked at him, deadly serious.

"I assure you, they do. And it is a place you never want to go. A place that even the Garlons fear."

Thor swallowed at the thought. He could hardly imagine venturing out that deep into the empire. He wondered how Erec had ever made it back alive. He made a note mental note to ask him at another time.

There were so many questions Thor wanted to ask him--about the nature of the evil empire, who ruled it; why they wanted to attack; when he had ventured out; when he had returned. But as Thor stared into the flames it grew colder and darker, and as all his questions swirled in his head, he felt his eyes grow heavy. He knew this was not the right time to ask.

Instead, he let sleep carry him away. He felt his eyes grow heavy, and lay his head down on the ground. Before his eyes closed for good, he looked over at the foreign soil, and wondered when--or if--he would ever return home again.

*

Thor opened his eyes, confused, wondering where he was and how he had gotten here. He looked down and saw a thick fog up to his waist, so thick he could not see his feet. He turned and saw dawn breaking over the canyon before him. Far, on the other side, was his homeland. He was still on this side, the wrong side, of the divide. His heart quickened.

Thor looked at the bridge, but strangely, it was now empty of soldiers. The whole place, in fact, seemed desolate. He could not understand what was happening. As he watched the bridge, its wooden planks fell one after another, like dominoes. Within moments the bridge collapsed, dropped down into the precipice. The bottom was so far down, he never even heard the planks hit.

Thor swallowed and turned, looking for the others--but they were nowhere in sight. He had no idea what to do. Now he was stuck. Here, alone, on the other side of the canyon, with no way to get back. He could not understand where everyone had gone.

He heard something and turned and looked into the forest. He detected movement. He rose to his feet and walked towards it, his feet sinking into the earth as he went. As he got closer, he saw a net hanging from a low lying branch. There, inside it, was Elden. He was spinning around and around in circles, the branches creaking as he moved.

A falcon sat perched on his head, a distinct looking creature with a body which gleamed of silver and a single back stripe running down its forehead, between its eyes. It bent over and plucked out his eye, and held it there. It turned to Thor, holding the eye in its mouth.

Thor wanted to look away, but could not. Just as he was realizing that Elden was a corpse, suddenly, the entire wood came to life. Charging out of it, from every direction, came an army of Gorals. Huge, wearing only loins, with immense muscled chests, three noses placed in a triangle on their face, and two long, curved sharp fangs, they hissed and snarled as they sprinted right for him. It was a hair-raising sound, and there was nowhere for Thor to go. He reached down and grabbed for his sword--but looked down to discover it was gone.

Thor screamed.

He woke sitting straight up, breathing hard, looking frantically in every direction. All around him was silence. But it was a real, alive silence, not the silence of his dream. It was then that he realized that he had, indeed, been dreaming.

Beside him, in the first light of dawn, Reece, O'Connor, and Erec slept sprawled out on the ground, the dying embers of the fire near them. On the ground, hopping, there was a falcon. It turned and cocked its head at Thor. It was large and silver and proud, with the single black stripe running down its forehead, and it stared back at him, looking him right in the eye, and screeched. The sound made him shiver. Thor could not believe it: it was the same falcon from his dream.

It was then he realized the bird was a message--that his dream had been more than a dream. That something was wrong. He could feel it, a slight vibration on his back, running up his arms.

He quickly got to his feet, looked all around, wondering what it could be. He heard nothing wrong, and nothing seemed out of place; he turned and saw that the bridge was still there, and in the distance, the soldiers were all on it.

What was it? he wondered.

And then he realized what it was. One of them was missing. Elden.

At first Thor wondered if maybe he had left them, headed back across the bridge to the other side of the Canyon. Maybe he was ashamed over losing his sword, and had left the region altogether.

But then Thor turned and looked to the forest, and he could see the fresh indentation in the moss, the footprints heading towards the trail in the morning dew. There was no doubt that those were Elden's. Elden had not left them. He had gone back into the forest. Alone. Maybe to relieve himself. Or maybe, Thor realized with a shock, to try to retrieve his sword.

It was a stupid move, to go alone like that, and it proved how desperate he was. Thor sensed right away that there was great danger. He could feel that Elden's life was at stake.

The falcon screeched at that moment, as if to confirm Thor's thoughts. Then it picked up and flew, diving right for Thor's face. Thor ducked his head, and its talons just missed, and it rose in the air, flying away.

Thor leapt into action. Without thinking, without even contemplating what he was doing, he sprinted off into the woods, following the footprints.

Thor didn't stop to feel the fear as he sprinted alone, deep into the Wilds. If he had paused to think how crazy it was, he probably would have frozen, would have felt himself flooded with panic. But instead, he just reacted. He felt a pressing need to help Elden. He ran and ran, alone, deeper into the wood in the early light of dawn.

"Elden!" he screamed.

He couldn't explain it, but somehow he sensed that Elden was about to die. He knew he shouldn't care, based on the way that Elden had treated him, but he couldn't help himself: he did. If it were he in this situation, Elden would certainly not come to rescue him. It was crazy to put his life on the line for someone who cared nothing for him--and, in fact, would gladly see him die. But he could not help it. He'd never felt a sensation like this one before, where his senses were screaming to him to react--especially over something he could not possibly have known. He was changing somehow, and he did not know how. He felt as if his body were being controlled by some new, mysterious power, and it made him feel uneasy, out of control. Was he losing his mind? Was he overreacting? Was it all just from his dream? Should he turn around?

But he did not. He let his feet lead him, and did not give in to fear or doubts. He ran and ran, until his lungs were bursting.

Thor turned a bend, and what he saw made him stop short in his tracks. He stood there, trying to catch his breath, trying to reconcile the image before him, which did not make any sense. It was enough to strike terror into any hardened warrior.

 There stood Elden, holding his short sword and looking up at a creature unlike any Thor had ever seen. It was horrific. It towered over them both, at least nine feet tall, and as wide as four men. It leaned back and raised its muscular, red arms, with three long fingers, like nails, at the end of each hand, and a head like that of a demon, with four horns, a long jaw, and a broad forehead. It had two large yellow eyes and fangs curled like tusks. It leaned back and screeched.

Beside him, a thick tree, hundreds of years old, split in two at the sound.

Elden stood there, frozen in fear. He dropped his sword, and the ground beneath him went wet; Thor realized Elden must have peed his pants.

The creature drooled and snarled, and took a step towards Elden.

Thor, too, was filled with fear, but unlike Elden, it did not immobilize him. For some reason, the fear heightened him. It heightened his senses, made him feel more alive. It gave him tunnel vision, allowed him to focus supremely on the creature before him, on its position to Elden, on its width and breadth and strength and speed. On its every movement. It also allowed him to focus on his own body position, his own weapons.

Thor fearlessly burst into action. He charged forward, past Elden, and came between him and the beast. The beast roared, its breath so hot, Thor could feel it even from here. The sound raised every hair on Thor's spine, and made him want to turn around. But he heard Erec's voice in his head, telling him to be strong. To be fearless. To retain equanimity. And he forced himself to stand his ground.

Thor raised his sword high and charged, plunging it into the beast's ribs, aiming for his heart.

The beast shrieked in agony, its blood pouring down Thor's hand as Thor plunged the sword all the way in, to the hilt.

But to Thor's surprise, it did not die. The beast seemed invincible.

Without missing a beat, the beast swung around and swiped Thor so hard that he felt his ribs cracking. Thor went flying, through the air, all the way across the clearing, and smashed into a tree before collapsing to the ground. He felt a terrible headache as he lay there.

Thor looked up, dazed and confused, the world spinning. The beast reach down and extracted Thor's sword from its stomach. The sword seemed tiny in its hands, like a toothpick, and the beast reached back and hurled it; it went flying through the trees, taking down branches, and disappeared into the wood.

It turned its full attention on Thor, and began to bear down on him.

Elden stood there, still frozen in fear. But as the beast charged Thor, suddenly, Elden burst into action. He charged the beast from behind, and jumped onto its back. It slowed the beast just enough for Thor to sit up; the beast, furious, flung back his arms and threw Elden. He went flying across the clearing, smashed into a tree, and slumped to the ground.

The beast, still bleeding, panting heavily, turned its attention back to Thor. It snarled and widened its fangs, as it bore down on him.

Thor was out of options. His sword was gone, and there was nothing between him and the monster. The monster dove down for him, and at the last second, Thor rolled out of the way. The monster hit the tree were Thor had been with such force that it uprooted it from the ground.

The beast raised its foot, and brought it down for Thor's head. Thor rolled out of the way and it left a footprint were Thor's head had been.

Thor rolled to his feet, placed a stone in his sling and hurled.

He hit the monster square between the eyes, a fiercer throw than he had ever made, and the creature staggered back. Thor was certain he had killed it.

But to his amazement, the beast did not stop.

Thor tried his best to summon his power, whatever power it was that he had. He charged the beast, leaping forward, crashing into it, aiming to tackle it and drive it down to the ground with a superhuman power.

But to Thor's shock, this time his power never kicked in. He was just another boy. A frail boy, next to this massive beast.

The beast merely reached down, grabbed Thor by his waist and hoisted him high above its head. Thor felt so helpless, dangling high in the air--and then he was thrown. He went flying like a missile across the clearing, and smashed again into a tree.

Thor lay there, stunned, his head splitting, his ribs feeling cracked in two. The beast raced for him, and he knew that this time he was finished. It raised its red, muscular foot, bringing it down right for Thor's head. Thor looked up, and prepared to die.

Then, for some reason, the beast froze in midair. Thor blinked, trying to understand why.

The beast reached up and clutched its throat, and Thor saw an arrow, piercing through it. A moment later, the beast keeled over, dead.

Erec came running into view, followed by Reece and O'Connor. Thor saw Erec looking down on him, asking if he was okay, and he wanted to answer, more than anything. But the words would not come out. A moment later, his eyes closed on him, and then his world was blackness.

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Thor opened his eyes slowly, dizzy at first, trying to figure out where he was. He was laying on straw, and for a moment wondered if he was back in the barracks. He propped himself up on one elbow, on alert, looking for the others.

He realized he was somewhere else. From the looks of it, he was in a very elaborate stone room. It looked as if he were in a castle. A royal castle.

Before he could figure it all out, a large, oak door swung open and in strutted Reece. In the distance, Thor could hear the muted noise of a crowd.

"Finally, he lives," Reece announced with a smile, as he rushed forward and grabbed Thor's hand and yanked him to his feet.

Thor raised a hand to his head, trying to slow his terrible headache from rising too fast.

"Come on, let's go, everyone's waiting for you," he urged, yanking Thor.

"Wait a minute, please," Thor said, trying to collect himself. "Where am I? What happened?"

"We're back in King's Court--and you are about to be celebrated as the hero of the day!" Reece said merrily, as they headed for the door.

"Hero? What do you mean? And...how did I get here?" he asked, trying to remember.

"That beast knocked you out. You've been out for quite a while. We had to carry you back across the Canyon bridge. Quite dramatic. Not exactly how I expected you to return to the other side!" he said with a laugh.

They walked out into the corridors of the castle, and as they went, Thor could see all sorts of people--women, men, squires, guards, knights--staring at him, as if they had been waiting for him to wake. He also saw something new in their eyes, something like respect. It was the first time he had seen it. Up until now, he had seen something else in people's eyes: something like disdain. Now they looked at him as if he were one of them.

"What exactly happened?" Though racked his brain, trying to remember.

"Don't you remember any of it?" Reece asked.

Thor tried to think.

"I remember running into the wood. Fighting with that beast. And then..." He tried to think, but was drawing a blank.

"You saved Elden's life," Reece said. "You ran fearlessly into the wood, on your own. I don't know why you wasted energy on saving that prim's life. But you did. The King is very, very pleased with you. Not because he cares about Elden. But he cares very much about bravery. He loves to celebrate. It's important to him, to celebrate stories like this, to inspire the others. And it reflects well on the king, and on the Legion. He wants to celebrate. You're here because he's going to reward you."

"Reward me?" Thor asked, dumbfounded. "But I didn't do anything!"

"You saved Elden's life."

"I only reacted. I only did what came naturally."

"And that's exactly why the King wants to reward you."

Thor felt embarrassed. He didn't think that his actions deserved rewarding. After all, if it hadn't have been for Erec, Thor would be dead right now. Thor thought about it, and his heart filled with gratitude for Erec, once again. He hoped that one day he could repay him.

"But what about our patrol duty?" Thor asked. "We didn't finish it."

Reece put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Friend, you saved a boy's life. A member of the Legion. That's more important than our patrol." Reece laughed. "So much for an uneventful first patrol!" he added.

They finished walking down yet another corridor, and two guards opened a door for them, and Thor blinked and found himself in the royal chamber. There must have been a hundred knights standing about the room, with its soaring cathedral ceilings, stained glass, its weapons and suits of armor hung everywhere on the walls, like trophies. The Hall of Arms. It was the place where all the greatest warriors met, all the men of the Silver. Thor's heart raced as he surveyed the walls, all the famous weaponry, the armor of heroic and legendary knights. Thor had heard rumors of this place, his entire life. It had been his dream to see it for himself one day. He could hardly believe he was here. He knew that normally no squires were allowed here--no one but the Silver.

Even more surprising, as he entered, real knights turned and looked at him--him--from all sides. And they wore looks of admiration. Thor had never seen so many knights in one room, and he had never felt so accepted. It was like walking into a dream. Especially since just moments before, he had been fast asleep.

Reece must have noticed Thor's dumbfounded face.

"The finest of the Silver have gathered here to honor you."

Thor felt himself well with pride and disbelief. "Honor me? But I've done nothing."

"Wrong," came a voice.

Thor turned and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Erec, grinning down.

"You have displayed bravery and honor and courage, beyond what was expected of you. You nearly gave up your life to save one of your brethren. That is what we look for in the Legion, and this is what we look for in the Silver."

"You saved my life," Thor said to Erec. "If it weren't for you, that beast would have killed me. I don't know how to thank you."

Erec grinned down.

"You already have," he answered. "Don't you remember the joust? I believe we are even."

Thor marched down the walkway towards MacGil's throne, at the far end of the hall, Reece on one side of him and Erec on the other. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and it all felt like a dream.

Standing around the King were his dozens of counselors, along with his eldest son, Kendrick. As Thor approached, his heart swelled with pride. He could hardly believe the King was granting him an audience for the second time in as many days--and that so many important men were here to witness it.

They reached the king's throne, MacGil stood, and a muted hush overcame the room. MacGil's ponderous expression broke into a wide smile, as he took three steps forward and to Thor's surprise, gave him a hug.

A great cheer rose up in the room.

He pulled back, held Thor firmly by the shoulders, and grinned down.

"You served the Legion well," he said.

A servant handed the king a goblet, and the King raised it and looked all around. In a loud voice, he called out:

"TO COURAGE!"

"TO COURAGE!" shouted back the hundreds of men in the room. An excited murmur followed, then the room once again fell quiet.

"In honor of your exploits today," the King bellowed, "I grant you a great gift."

The King gestured, and an attendant stepped forward, wearing a long, black gauntlet, on which sat a magnificent falcon. It sat there, its claws resting on the gauntlet, and turned, and stared right Thor--as if he knew him.

It took Thor's breath away. He could hardly believe it. It was the exact falcon from his dream, with its silver body and the single black stripe running down its forehead.

"The falcon is the symbol of our kingdom, and of our Royal family," MacGil boomed. "It is a bird of prey, of pride and honor. Yet it is also a bird of skill, of cunning. It is loyal, and fierce, and it soars above all other animals. It is also a sacred creature. It is said that he who owns a falcon is also owned by one. It will guide you on all your ways. It will leave you, but it will always come back. And now, it is yours."

The falconer stepped forward, placed a heavy, chainmail gauntlet onto Thor's hand and wrist, then reached out, picked up the bird, and placed it on Thor's gauntlet. Thor felt electrified, having it on his arm. He could hardly move. He was shocked by its weight, a struggle just to keep it up as it fidgeted on his wrist. He felt its claws digging in, though luckily he only felt pressure, as he was protected by the gauntlet. The bird turned, stared right at him, and screeched. Thor felt it looking into his eyes, and he felt a mystical connection to the animal. He just knew that it would be with him all his days.

"And what shall you name her?" the King asked, in the thick silence of the room.

Thor racked his brain, too frozen to even work.

He tried to think quick. He summoned in his mind all the names of all the famed warriors of the kingdom. He turned and scanned the walls, and saw a series of plaques with all the names of battles, all the places of the kingdom. His eyes rested on one particular place. It was a place in the Ring which he had never been, but which he had always heard was a mystical, powerful place. It sounded right to him.

"I shall call her Estopheles," Thor called out.

"Estopheles!" the crowd echoed, sounding pleased.

The falcon screeched, as if in response.

Suddenly, Estopheles flapped her wings and flew up high, all the way to the peak of the cathedral ceiling, and out an open window. Thor watched her go.

"Don't worry," the falconer said, "she shall always return to you."

Thor turned and looked at the King. He had never been given a gift in his life, much less one of this stature. He hardly knew what to say, how to thank him. He was overwhelmed.

"My liege," he said, lowering his head. "I don't know how to thank you."

"You already have," MacGil said.

The crowd cheered, and the tension in the room was broken. A spirited conversation broke out among the men, and so many knights approached Thor, he hardly knew which way to turn.

"That is Algod, of the Eastern Province," Reece said, introducing him to one.

"And this is Kamera, of the Low Marshes.... And this, Basikold, of the Northern Forts...."

Soon, the names became a blur. Thor was overwhelmed. He could hardly believe that all these knights wanted to meet him. He had never felt so accepted or honored anytime in his life and he had a feeling that a day like this would never come again. It was the first time in his life he had a feeling of self-worth.

And he could not stop thinking of Estopheles.

As Thor turned every which way, greeting people whose names flowed by, names he could hardly grasp onto, a messenger hurried over, slipping between the Knights. He carried a small scroll, which he pressed into Thor's palm.

Thor rolled it open, and read the fine, delicate handwriting. He could hardly imagine who it was from. He had never been handed a message before in his life:

Meet me in the back courtyard. Behind the gate.

Thor could smell the delicate fragrance coming off the pink scroll, and was puzzled as he tried to figure out who it was from. It bore no signature.

Reece leaned over, read it over his shoulder, and laughed.

"It seems my sister has taken a fancy to you," he said, smiling. "I would go if I were you. She hates to be kept waiting."

Thor felt himself blush.

"The rear courtyard is through those gates. Hurry. She's known to change her mind quickly," Reece smiled as he looked at him. "And I'd love to have you in my family."

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thor tried to follow Reece's directions as he wound his way through the crowded castle, but it was not easy. This castle had too many twists and turns, too many hidden back doors, and too many long corridors that seemed to only lead to more corridors.

He ran through Reece's directions in his head as he descended yet another small set of steps, turned down another corridor, and finally, he stopped before a small arched door with a red handle, the one that Reece had told him about, and pushed it open.

Thor hurried outside and was struck by the strong light of the summer day; it felt good to be outdoors, out of that stuffy castle, breathing fresh air, the sun on his face. He squinted, his eyes adjusting in the bright light, and took in the site: before him sprawled the royal gardens, stretching as far as the eye could see, hedges perfectly trimmed in different shapes, forming neat rows of gardens, trails winding amidst them. There were fountains, unusual trees of all types, fruit orchards, ripe with early summer fruits, and fields of flowers, of every size and shape and color. The site took his breath away. It was like walking into a painting.

Thor looked everywhere for a sign of Gwendolyn, his heart pounding. This rear courtyard was empty, and Thor assumed it was probably reserved for the royal family, set off from the public with its high, stone garden walls. And yet, he looked everywhere and could not find her.

He wondered if her note was a hoax. That was probably it. She was probably just making fun of him, the country bumpkin, amusing herself at his expense. After all, how could someone of her rank, really have any interest in him?

Thor looked down and read her note again, then rolled it back up in shame. He had been made fun of. What a fool he was to get his hopes up like that. It hurt him deeply.

Thor turned and prepared to head back into the castle, head lowered. Just as he reached for the door, a voice rang out.

"And where are you going?" came the joyful voice. It sounded like a bird's song.

Thor wondered if he was imagining it. He spun, searching, and there she was, sitting in the shade beneath a castle wall. She smiled back, dressed in her royal finest, layers of white satin dress, with pink trim, and she looked even more beautiful than he'd remembered.

It was her. Gwendolyn. The girl he had been dreaming about since they had met, with her almond, blue eyes and long strawberry hair, with her smile that lit his heart. She wore a large white-and-pink hat, shading her from the sun, beneath which her eyes sparkled; he could hardly believe she was looking at him. For a moment he felt like turning around to make sure that there was no one else standing behind him that she could be looking at.

"Um..." Thor began. "I...um...don't know. I...um...was going inside."

Once again, he was finding himself flustered around her, finding it hard to collect his thoughts and articulate them.

She laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

"And why would you be doing that?" she asked, playful. "You just arrived."

Thor was flustered. His tongue was tied.

"I...um...couldn't find you," he said, embarrassed.

She laughed again.

"Well, I'm right here. Aren't you going to come and get me?"

She held out a single hand, and Thor rushed over to her, reached down and took her hand. He was electrified by the touch of her skin, so smooth and soft, her frail hand fitting perfectly inside of his. She looked up at him and let her hand linger there a moment, before slowly rising. He loved the feel of her fingertips in his palm, and hoped she would never take them away.

She withdrew her hand, then placed her arm in his, locking arms. She began to walk, leading the way down the series of winding trails. They walked along a small cobblestone path, and soon they were inside a labyrinth of hedges, protected from outside view.

Thor was nervous. He did not know if he, a commoner, would get in trouble, walking like this with the King's daughter. He felt a light sweat break out on his forehead, and did not know if it was from the heat or from her touch.

He wasn't sure what to say.

"You've caused quite a stir here, haven't you?" she asked with a smile. He was grateful that she broke the awkward silence.

Thor shrugged. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

She laughed. "And why wouldn't you mean to? Isn't it good to cause a stir?"

Thor was stymied. He hardly knew how to respond. It seemed as if he always said the wrong thing.

"This place is so stuffy and boring anyway," she said. "It's nice to have a newcomer. My father seems to have taken quite a liking to you. So has my brother."

"Um...thanks," Thor replied.

He was kicking himself, dying inside. He knew he should say more, and he wanted to. He just did not know what to say.

"Do you..." he began, racking his brain for the right thing to say, "like it here?"

She leaned back and laughed.

"Do I like it here?" she. "But I should hope so. I live here!"

She laughed again and Thor felt himself redden. He felt that he was really messing things up. But he wasn't raised around girls, he had never had a girlfriend in his village, and he just didn't know what to say to her. What could he ask her? Where are you from? He already knew where she was from. He started to wonder why she bothered with him; was it just for her amusement?

"Why do you like me?" he asked.

She looked back at him, and made a funny sound.

"You are a presumptuous boy," she chuckled. "Who says I like you?" she asked with a huge smile. Clearly, everything he said amused her.

Thor now felt as if he'd gotten himself into deeper trouble.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I was just wondering. I mean...um...I know you don't like me."

She laughed harder.

"You are amusing, I have to give you that. I take it you've never had a girlfriend, have you?"

Thor looked down and shook his head, humiliated.

"I assume no sisters, either?" she pressed.

Thor shook his head.

"I have three brothers," he blurted out. Finally, at least, he had managed to say something normal.

"Do you?" she asked. "And where are they? Back in your village?"

Thor shook his head. "No, they are here, in the Legion, with me."

"Well that must be comforting."

Thor shook his head.

"No. They don't like me. They wish I wasn't here."

It was the first time her smile dropped.

"And why wouldn't they like you?" she asked, horrified. "Your own brothers?"

Thor shrugged. "I wish I knew."

They walked a while more in silence. He was suddenly afraid that he was killing their happy mood.

"But don't worry, it doesn't bother me. It's always been that way. In fact, actually, I've met good friends here. Better friends than I've ever had."

"My brother? Reece?" she asked.

Thor nodded.

"Reece is a good one," she said. "He's my favorite in some ways. I have four brothers, you know. Three are true, and one is not. The eldest is my dad's son from another woman. My half-brother. You know him, Kendrick?"

Thor nodded. "I owe him a great debt. It is thanks to him that I have a spot in the Legion. He's a fine man."

"It's true. He's one of the finest men in the kingdom. I love him, as much as a true brother. And then there's Reece, who I love just as much. The other two...well.... You know how families are. Not everyone gets along. Sometimes I wonder how the four of us all come from the same people."

Now Thor was curious. He wanted to know more about who they were, her relationship to them, why they were weren't close. He wanted to ask her, but didn't want to pry. And she didn't seem to want to dwell on it, either. She seemed to be a happy person, a person who only liked to focus on happy things.

As they finished the labyrinth trail, the courtyard opened up, and Thor was amazed to see a new garden, where the grass was perfectly trimmed and designed into shapes, with huge wooden pieces placed on it. It was a massive game board of some sort, sprawling at least fifty feet in each direction, with huge wooden pieces, higher than Thor, placed throughout.

Gwen cried out in delight.

"Will you play?" she asked.

"What is it?" he asked.

She turned, her eyes opened wide in amazement.

"You've never played Racks?" she asked.

Thor shook his head, embarrassed, feeling more like a country rube than ever.

"It is the finest game!" she exclaimed.

She reached out with her two hands and yanked his, dragging him onto the field. She bounded off with delight and he couldn't help but smile himself, as she tugged him. More than anything, more than the field, more than this beautiful place, it was the feel of her hands on his that electrified him. The feeling of being wanted. She wanted him to go with her. She wanted to spend time with him. He could hardly believe it. Why would anyone care about him? Especially someone like her? He still felt as if this were all a dream.

"Stand over there," she said. "Behind that piece. You have to move it, and you have only ten seconds to do so."

"What do you mean move it?" Thor asked.

"Choose a direction, quickly!" she cried out.

Thor picked up the huge wooden block, surprised at its weight. He carried it several steps, and put it down on another square.

Without hesitating, Gwen pushed her own piece over, and it landed on Thor's, knocking his down to the ground.

She cried out in delight.

"That was a bad move!" she said. "You got right in my way! You lost!"

Thor looked at the two pieces on the ground, puzzled. He didn't understand this game at all.

She laughed, taking his arm as she continued to lead him down the trails.

"Don't worry, I'll teach you," she said.

His heart soared at her words. She'd teach him. He could hardly believe it. She would teach him. She wanted to see him again. To spend time with him. Was he imagining all of this?

"So tell me, what do you think of this place?" she asked, as she led him into another series of labyrinths. This one was decorated with flowers, eight feet high, bursting with color, strange insects hovering over their tips.

"It is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," Thor answer truthfully.

"And why do you want to be a member of the Legion?"

"It is all I ever dreamed of," he replied.

"But why?" she asked. "Because you want to serve my father?"

Thor thought about that. He'd never really wondered why--it was always just there.

"Yes," answered. "I do. And the Ring."

"But what about life?" she asked. "Don't you want to have a family? Land? A wife?"

She stopped and looked at him; it threw him. He was frazzled. He had never considered these things before, and he hardly knew how to respond. Her eyes sparkled as she glanced back at him.

"Um...I...I don't know. I never really thought about it."

"And what would your mother say about that?" she asked, playfully.

Thor's smile lowered.

"I don't have a mother," he said.

Her smile dropped, for the first time.

"What happened to her?" she asked.

Thor was about to answer her, to tell her everything. It would be the first time in his life that he had ever spoken about her, to anyone. And the crazy thing was, he wanted to. He wanted, desperately, to open up to her, this stranger, and to let her know everything about his deepest feelings.

But as he opened his mouth to speak, suddenly a harsh voice came from out of nowhere.

"Gwendolyn!" shrieked the voice.

They both spun to see her mother, the Queen, dressed in her finest, accompanied by her handmaids, marching right for her daughter. Her face was livid.

She walked right up to her, grabbed her roughly by the arm, and yanked her away.

"You get back inside right now. What did I tell you? I don't want you speaking to him ever again. Do you understand me?"

Gwen's face reddened, then transformed with anger and pride.

"Get off of me!" she yelled at her mother. But it was no use: her mother kept dragging her away, and her handmaids encircled her, too.

"I said get off of me!" Gwen yelled. She turned and took one look back at Thor, with a desperate, sad look, one of pleading.

Thor understood the feeling. It was one that he felt himself. He wanted to call out to her, and felt his heart breaking as he watched her get dragged away. It was like watching a future life get taken away from him, right before his eyes.

He stood there for long after she disappeared from view, staring, rooted to the place, breathless. He didn't want to leave, didn't want to forget all of this.

Most of all, he did not want to imagine that he might not ever see her again.

*

As Thor ambled back to the castle, still reeling from his encounter with Gwen, he was barely even aware of his surroundings. His mind was consumed by thoughts of her; he could not stop seeing her face. She was magnificent. The most beautiful and kind and sweet and gentle and loving and funny person he had ever met. He needed to see her again. He actually felt pained at the absence of her presence. He didn't understand his feelings for her, and that scared him. He barely knew her, yet he knew already that he could not be without her.

Yet at the same time, he thought back to her mother, yanking her way, and his stomach sank to think of the powerful forces standing between them. Forces that did not want them to be together, for some reason.

As he racked his brain, trying to get to the bottom of it, suddenly he felt a stiff hand on his chest, stopping him hard in his tracks.

He looked up to see a boy, maybe a couple of years older than him, tall and thin, dressed in the most expensive clothes he had ever seen--in royal purple and green and scarlet silks, with an elaborate feathered hat--grimacing down. The boy looked dainty, spoiled, as if raised in the lap of luxury, with softened hands and high arched eyebrows that peered down disdainfully.

"They call me Alton," the boy began. "I am the son of Lord Alton, first cousin to the King. We have been lords of the realm for seven centuries. Which entitles me to be a Duke. You, by contrast, are a commoner," he said, nearly spitting the word. "The royal court is for royalty. And for men of rank. Not for your kind."

Thor stood there, having no idea who this boy was or what he had done to upset him.

"What do you want of me?" Thor asked.

Alton snickered.

"Of course, you would not know. You probably don't know anything, do you? How dare you barge in here and pretend to be one of us!" he spat.

Thor hardly knew how to respond.

"I'm not pretending anything," he said.

"Well, I don't care whatever wave you washed in on. I just want to warn you, before you get any more fantasies in your head, that Gwendolyn is mine."

Thor stared back, shocked. His? He hardly knew what to say.

"Our marriage has been arranged since birth," Alton continued. "We are of the same age, and of the same rank. Plans are already in motion. Don't you dare think, even for instant, that it will be any different."

Thor felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him; he didn't even have the strength to respond.

Alton took a step closer, and stared down.

"You see," he said in a soft voice, "I allow Gwen her flirtations. She has many. Every once in a while she'll take pity on a commoner, or perhaps a servant. She will allow them to be her entertainment, her amusement. You might have come to the conclusion that it is something more. But that's all it is for Gwynn. You are just another acquaintance, another amusement. She collects them, like dolls. They don't mean anything to her. She's excited by the newest commoner, and after a day or two, she gets bored. She shall drop you quickly. You're nothing to her, really. And by year's end she and I will be wed. Forever."

The boy's eyes opened wide, and Thor could see his fierce determination.

Thor felt his heart breaking at his words. Were they true? Was he really nothing to Gwynn? Now he was confused; he hardly knew what to believe. She had seemed so genuine. But maybe Thor had just been jumping to the wrong conclusion?

"You're lying," Thor finally said back.

Alton sneered, and then raised a single, pampered finger, and jabbed it into Thor's chest.

"If I see you near your again, I'll use my authority to call the royal guard. They will have you imprisoned!"

"On what grounds!?" Thor asked.

"I need no grounds. I have rank here. I will make one up, and it is me they will believe. By the time I'm done slandering you, half the kingdom will believe you are a criminal."

Alton smiled, self-satisfied; Thor felt sick.

"You lack honor," Thor said, uncomprehending that anyone could act with such indecency.

Alton laughed, a high-pitched sound.

"I never had it to begin with," he said. "Honor is for fools. I have what I want. You can keep your honor. And I will have Gwendolyn."

# CHAPTER TWENTY

Thor walked with Reece out the arched gate of King's Court and onto the country road that led to the Legion's barracks. The guards stood at attention for them as they passed and Thor felt a great sense of belonging. He was finally starting to feel like he wasn't such an outsider. He thought back to just a few days before, when a guard had chased him out of here. How much had changed, so quickly.

Thor heard a screeching and looked up to see, high overhead, Estopheles, circling, looking down. She dove, and Thor, excited, held out his wrist, still wearing the metal gauntlet. But she rose again, and flew off. She flew higher and higher, never completely out of sight. Thor wondered. She was a mystical animal, and he felt an intense connection to her that was hard to explain.

Thor and Reece continued in silence, keeping a quick pace towards the barracks. Thor knew his brethren would be awaiting him, and wondered what sort of reception he would receive. Would there be envy, jealousy? Would they be mad that he got all this attention? Would they make fun of him for being carried back across the canyon? Or would they finally accept him?

Thor hoped it was the latter. He was tired of struggling with the rest of the Legion and just wanted, more than anything, to belong. To be accepted as one of them.

The barracks came into sight in the distance, and Thor's mind began to be preoccupied with something else.

Gwendolyn.

Thor didn't know how much he could talk to Reece about this, given that it was his sister. But he could not get her out of his mind. He couldn't stop thinking of his encounter with that menacing royal, Alton, and wondered how much of what he said was true. A part of him feared to discuss it with Reece, not wanting to risk upsetting him somehow and losing his new friend over his sister. But another part of him had to know what he thought.

"Who is Alton?" Thor finally asked, hesitant.

"Alton?" Reece repeated. "Why do you ask of him?"

Thor shrugged, unsure how much to say.

Luckily, Reece continued.

"He's but a menacing, lesser royal. Third cousin to the king. Why? Has he been after you about something?" Then Reece narrowed his eyes. "Gwen? Is that it? I should've warned you."

Thor turned and looked at Reece, eager to hear more.

"What do you mean?"

"He's a lout. He's been after my sister since he could walk. He's certain the two of them will be wed. My mother seems to think so, too."

"Will they?" Thor asked, surprised by the urgency in his own voice.

Reece looked at him and smiled.

"My, my, you have fallen for her, haven't you?" He chuckled. "That was fast."

Thor reddened, hoping it wasn't so obvious.

"Whether or not they do would depend on my sister's feelings for him," Reece finally answered. "Unless they forced her into marriage. But I doubt my father would do that."

"And how does she feel for him?" Thor pressed, afraid he was being too nosy, but needing to know.

Reece shrugged. "You'd have to ask her, I guess. I never talk to her about it."

"But would he force her into marriage?" Reece pressed. "Could he really do such a thing?"

"My father can do anything he wants. But that's between him and Gwyn."

Reece turned and looked at Thor.

"Why all these questions? What did you talk about?"

Thor blushed, unsure what to say.

"Nothing," he said finally.

"Nothing!" Reece laughed. "Sounds like a lot of nothing to me!"

Reece laughed harder, and Thor was embarrassed, wondering if he was just imagining that Gwen liked him. Reece reached over and put a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Listen old mate," Reece said, "the only thing you can know for sure about Gwen is that she knows what she wants. And she gets what she wants. That's always been the case. She's as strong-willed as my father. No one can force her to do anything--or like anyone--she doesn't want. So don't worry. If she chooses you, trust me, she'll let you know. Okay?"

Thor nodded, feeling better, as always, after he talked to Reece.

He looked up and saw the huge gates to the Legion's barracks before him. He was surprised to see several of the other boys standing at the gate, as if waiting for them, and even more surprised to see them grinning, and let out a cheer at the sight of him. They rushed forward, grabbed Thor by the shoulders, draped their arms around him, and pulled him inside. Thor was amazed as he was swept inside in an embrace of goodwill by the others.

"Tell us about the Canyon. What's it like on the other side?" one asked.

"What was the creature like? The one that you killed?" another asked.

"I didn't kill him," Thor protested. "Erec did."

"I heard you saved Elden's life," one said.

"I heard you attacked the creature head-on. Without any real weapons."

"You're one of us now!" one yelled out, and the other kids cheered, ushering him along, as if he were their long-lost brother.

Thor could hardly believe it. The more he heard their words, the more he realized that maybe they did have a point. Maybe he had been brave after all. He never really thought about it. For the first time in a long while, he was starting to feel good about himself. Most of all because now, finally, he felt like he belonged with these boys. He felt tension releasing from his shoulders.

Thor was ushered out into the main training ground, and before him stood dozens more of the legion, along with dozens of the Silver. They, too, let out a cheer at the sight of him. They all came forward, and patted him on the back.

Thor was amazed. He hardly knew how to react.

Kolk stepped forward, and the others quieted. Thor braced himself, since Kolk never had anything but contempt for Thor. But now, to Thor's surprise, he looked down at him with a different sort of expression. While he still couldn't quite bring himself to smile, he wasn't scowling, either. And Thor could have sworn he detected something like admiration in his eyes.

Kolk stepped forward, held up a small pin of a black falcon, and pinned it on Thor's chest.

Thor looked down and could hardly believe it. The pin of the Legion. He had been accepted. Finally, he was one of them.

"Thorgrin of the Southern Province of the Western Kingdom," Kolk said, gravely. "We welcome you to the Legion."

The boys let out a shout, then all rushed in, draping their arms around Thor and swaying him this way and that.

Thor couldn't even take it all in. He tried not to. He just wanted to enjoy this moment. Now, finally, there was somewhere he belonged.

Kolk turned and faced the other boys.

"Okay boys, calm yourselves," he commanded. "Today is a special day. No more pitchforks and polish and horse crap for you. Now it's time to really train. It's weapons day."

The boys returned an excited shout, and followed Kolk as he trotted across the training field, towards a huge circular building made of oak, with shining bronze doors. Thor walked with the group as they approached, an excited buzz in the air. Reece was by his side, and O'Connor came up and joined them.

"Never thought I'd see you alive again," O'Connor said, smiling and clapping a hands on his shoulder. "Next time, let me wake up first, will you?"

Thor smiled back.

"What is that building?" Thor asked Reece, as they got closer. There were immense iron rivets all over the door, and the place had an imposing presence.

"The weapons house," Reece answered. "It's where they store all our arms. Every once in a while they let us get a peek, even train with some of them. Depends what lesson they want to impart."

Thor's stomach tightened as he noticed Elden, coming over to them. Thor braced himself, expecting a threat--but this time, to Thor's amazement, Elden wore a look of appreciation.

"I have to thank you," he said, looking down, humbled. "For saving my life."

Thor was stumped: he had never expected this from him.

"I was wrong about you," Elden added. "Friends?" he asked.

He held out a hand.

Thor was not one to hold a grudge, and he gladly reached over and met his hand.

"Friends," Thor said.

"I don't take that word lightly," Elden said. "I will always have your back. And I owe you one."

With that, he turned and hurried off, back into the crowd.

Thor barely knew what to make of it. He was amazed at how quickly things had changed.

"I guess he's not a complete creep," O'Connor said. "Maybe he's okay after all."

They reached the weapons house, the immense doors swung open, and Thor was in awe as he entered. He walked slowly, neck craned, surveying the place in a broad circle, taking it all in. There were hundreds of weapons, weapons he didn't even recognize, hanging on the walls. The other kids hurried forward in an excited rush, running up to weapons, picking them up, handling them, examining them. Thor followed their example, and felt like a kid in a candy store.

He hurried over to a large halberd, hoisted the wooden shaft with two hands, and felt its weight. It was massive, well oiled. The blade was worn and notched, and he wondered if it had killed any men in battle.

He set it down and picked up a mace, a studded metal ball attached to a short staff by a long chain. He held the studded wooden shaft, and felt the metal spike dangle on the end of the chain. Beside him, Reece handled a battle ax, and beside him, O'Connor tested the weight of a long pike, jabbing into the air at an imaginary enemy.

"Listen up!" Kolk yelled, and they all turned.

"Today we will learn about fighting your enemy from a distance. Can anyone here tell me what weapons can be used? What can kill a man from thirty paces away?"

"A bow and arrow," somebody yelled.

"Yes," Kolk answered. "What else?"

"A spear!" someone shouted.

"What else? There are more than just these. Let's hear them."

"A slingshot," Thor added.

"What else?"

Thor racked his brain, but was running out of options.

"Throwing knives," Reece yelled.

"What else?"

The other boys hesitated. No one had any ideas left.

"There are throwing hammers," Kolk yelled, "and throwing axes. There is the crossbow. Pikes can be thrown. So can swords."

Kolk paced the room, looking over the faces of the boys, who stood rapt with attention.

"That is not all. A simple rock from the ground can be your best friend. I've seen a man, big as a bull, a war hero, killed on the spot by a throw from a rock by a craftier soldier. Soldiers often don't realize that armor can be used as a weapon, too. The gauntlet can be taken off and thrown in an enemy's face. This can stun him, several feet away. In that moment, you can kill him. Your shield can be thrown, too."

Kolk took a breath.

"It is crucial that when you learn to fight, you don't just learn to fight in the distance between you and your opponent. You must expand your fight to a much greater distance. Most people fight with three paces. A good warrior fights with thirty. Understood?"

"Yes sir!" came the chorus of shouts.

"Good. Today, we will sharpen your throwing skills. Canvas the room and grab what throwing devices you see. Each grab one and be outside in thirty seconds. Now move!"

The room erupted into a scramble, and Thor ran for the wall, searching for something to grab. He was bumped and pushed every which way by other excited boys, until he finally saw what he wanted and grabbed it. It was a small throwing axe. O'Connor grabbed a dagger, Reece a sword, and the three of them raced out, with the other boys, into the field.

They followed Kolk to the far side of the field, where there were lined up a dozen shields on posts.

All the boys, holding their weapons, gathered around Kolk expectantly.

"You will stand here," he boomed out, gesturing to a line in the dirt, "and aim for those shields when throwing your weapons. You will then run to the shields, grab a weapon that was not yours, and practice throwing that. Never choose the same weapon. Always aim for the shield. For those of you who miss a shield, you will be required to run one lap around the field. Begin!"

The boys lined up, shoulder to shoulder, behind the dirt line, and began to throw their weapons at the shields, which must have been a good thirty yards away. Thor fell in line with them. The boy beside him reached back and threw his spear, and it missed by a hair.

The boy turned and began to jog around the arena. As he did, a member of the King's men ran up beside him, and laid a heavy mantle of chainmail over his shoulders, weighing him down.

"Run with that, boy!" he ordered.

The boy, weighed down, already sweating, continued to run in the heat.

Thor did not want to miss the target. He leaned back, concentrated, pulled his throwing axe back, and let it go. He closed his eyes and hoped it hit its mark, and was relieved to hear the sound of it embedding itself in the leather shield. He barely made it, hitting a lower corner, but at least he did. All around him, several boys missed and broke off into laps. The few that hit raced for the shields to grab a new weapon.

Thor reached the shields and found a long, slim throwing dagger, which he extracted, then ran back to the throwing line.

They continued to throw for hours, until Thor's arm was killing him and he had run one too many laps himself. He was dripping in sweat, as were others around him. It was an interesting exercise, to throw all sorts of weapons, to get used to the feel and weight of all different shafts and blades. Thor felt himself getting better, more used to it, with each throw. But still, the heat was oppressive, and he was getting tired. There were only a dozen boys still standing before the shields, with most of them broken off into laps. It was just too hard to hit so many times, with so many different weapons, and the laps and the heat were making accuracy even worse. Thor was gasping, and didn't know how much longer he could go on. Just when he felt he was about to collapse, suddenly, Kolk stepped forward.

"Enough!" he yelled.

The boys returned from their laps and collapsed on the grass. They lay there, panting, breathing hard, removing the heavy coats of chain mail that had been draped on them. Thor, too, sat down in the grass, arm exhausted, dripping with sweat. Some of the King's men came around with buckets of water and dropped them on the grass. Reece reached out, grabbed one, drank from it, then handed it to O'Connor, who drank and handed it to Thor. Thor drank and drank, the water dripping down his chin and chest. The water felt amazing. He breathed hard as he handed it back to Reece.

"How long can this go on?" he asked.

Reece shook his head, gasping. "I don't know."

"I swear they're trying to kill us," came the voice. Thor turned and saw Elden, who had come up and sat beside him. Thor was surprised to see him there, and it sank in that Elden truly wanted to be friends. It was odd to see such a change in his behavior.

"Boys!" Kolk yelled, walking slowly between them. "More of you are missing your marks now, late in the day. As you can see, it is harder to be accurate when you're tired. That's the point. During battle, you will not be fresh. You will be exhausted. Some battles can go on for days. Especially if you are attacking a castle. And it is when you're at your most tired that you must make your most accurate throw. Often you will be forced to throw whatever weapon is at your disposal. You must be an expert in every weapon, and in every state of exhaustion. Is that understood?"

"YES SIR!" they shouted back.

"Some of you can throw a knife, or a spear. But that same person is missing with a hammer or axe. Do you think you can survive by throwing one weapon?"

"NO SIR!"

"Do you think this is just a game?"

"NO SIR!"

Kolk grimaced as he paced, kicking boys in the back who he felt were not sitting up straight enough.

"You've rested long enough," he said. "Back on your feet!"

Thor scrambled to his feet with the others, his legs weary, not sure how much more of this he could stand.

"There are two sides to distance fighting," Kolk continued. "You can throw--but so can your enemy. He may not be safe at thirty paces away--but you may not be, either. You must learn how to defend yourself at thirty paces. Is that understood?"

"YES SIR!"

"To defend yourself from a throwing object, you will need to not only be aware and quick on your feet, to duck, or roll, or dodge--but to also be adept at protecting yourself with a large shield."

Kolk gestured, and a soldier brought out a huge, heavy shield. Thor was amazed: it was nearly twice the size of him.

"Do I have a volunteer?" Kolk asked.

The group of boys was quiet, hesitant, and without thinking, Thor, swept up in the moment, raised his hand.

Kolk nodded, and Thor hurried forward.

"Good," Kolk said. "At least one of you is dumb enough to volunteer. I like your spirit, boy. A stupid decision. But good."

Thor was beginning to wonder if he had made a bad decision as Kolk handed him the huge metal shield. He fastened it to one arm, and could not believe how heavy it was. He was barely able to lift it.

"Thor, your mission is to run from this end of the field to the other. Unscathed. See those fifty boys facing you?" Kolk said to Thor. "They are all going to throw weapons at you. Real weapons. Do you understand? If you do not use your shield to protect you, you may die before you make it to the other side."

Thor stared back, unbelieving. The crowd of boys grew very quiet.

"This is not a game," Kolk continued. "This is very serious. Battle is serious. It is life-and-death. Are you sure you still want to volunteer?"

Thor nodded, too frozen in terror to say anything else. He could hardly change his mind at this point, not in front of everyone.

"Good."

Kolk gestured to an attendant, who stepped forward and blew a horn.

"Run!" Kolk screamed.

Thor hoisted the heavy shield with two hands, grasping it with all that he had. As he did, he felt a resounding thud, so severe it shook his skull. It must have been a metal hammer. It didn't pierce the shield, but it sent an awful shock throughout his system. He nearly dropped the shield, but forced himself to grasp it, and to move on.

Thor began to run, hobbling as fast as he could with the shield. As weapons and missiles flew past him, he forced himself to huddle within the shield as best he could. The shield was his lifeline. And as he ran, he learned how to stay within it.

An arrow flew by him, missing him by a fraction of an inch, and he pulled his chin back tighter. Another heavy object slammed against the shield, hitting him so hard that he stumbled back several feet and collapsed to the ground. But Thor stumbled back to his feet, and continued to run. With a supreme effort, gasping for air, finally he crossed the field.

"Yield!" Kolk yelled.

Thor dropped the shield, dripping in sweat. He was beyond grateful that he had reached the other side: he didn't know if he could've held that shield for another moment.

Thor hurried back to the others, many of whom gave him looks of admiration. He wondered how he had survived.

"Nice work," Reece whispered to him.

"Any other volunteers?" Kolk called out.

There was dead silence among the boys. Clearly, after watching Thor, no one else wanted to try.

Thor felt proud of himself. He wasn't sure if he would have volunteered knowing what was entailed, but now that it was over, he was glad that he did it.

"Fine. Then I will volunteer for you," Kolk yelled. "You! Saden!" he called out, pointing to someone.

An older, thin boy stepped forward, looking terrified.

"Me?" Saden said, his voice cracking.

The other boys laughed at him.

"Of course you. Who else?" Kolk said.

"I'm sorry sir, but I would rather not."

A horrified gasp arose among the Legion.

Kolk stepped forward, approaching him, grimacing.

"You don't do what you want," Kolk growled. "You do what I tell you to do."

Saden stood there, frozen, looking scared to death.

"He shouldn't be here," Reece whispered to Thor.

Thor turned and looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"He comes from a noble family, and they placed them here. But he doesn't want to be here. He's not a fighter. Kolk knows that. I think they're trying to break him. I think they want him out."

"I'm sorry sir, but I cannot," Saden said, sounding terrified.

"You can," Kolk screamed, "and you will!"

There was a frozen, tense standoff.

Saden looked down to the ground, hanging his chin in shame.

"I am sorry, sir. Give me some other task, and I will gladly do it."

Kolk turned red in the face, storming towards him until he was inches from his face.

"I will give you another task, boy. I don't care who your family is. From now on, you will run. You will run around this field until you collapse. And you will not come back until you volunteer to take up this shield. Do you understand me?"

Saden looked as if he were about to burst into tears, as he nodded back.

A soldier came over, draped chainmail over Saden, and then a second arrived and draped another set of chainmail on him. Thor could not understand how he could bear the weight of it. He could barely run with one of them on.

Kolk leaned back and kicked Saden hard in the rear, and he went stumbling forward and began his long, slow jog around the field. Thor felt bad for him. As he watched him hobble around, he couldn't help but wonder if the boy would survive the Legion.

Suddenly a horn was sounded, and Thor turned to see a company of the King's men ride up on horseback, a dozen of the Silver with them, holding long spears, wearing feathered helmets. They rode up and stopped before the legion.

"In honor of the king's daughter's wedding day, and in honor of the summer solstice, the king has declared the rest of today a hunting day!"

All the boys around Thor erupted into a huge cheer. As one, they all broke off into a sprint, following the horses as they turned and charged across the field.

"What's happening?" Thor asked Reece, as he began to run with the others.

Reece wore a huge smile on his face.

"It's a godsend!" he said. "We're off for the day! We get to hunt!"

# CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Thor jogged down the forest trail with the others, holding the spear that had been handed to him for the hunt. Beside him were Reece, O'Connor and Elden, along with at least fifty other members of the Legion. In front of them rode a hundred Silver, on horseback and in light armor, some carrying short spears, but most with bows and arrows slung over their backs. Running on foot amongst them were dozens of squires and attendants.

Riding at the front was King MacGil, looking as huge and proud as ever, an excited grin on his face. He was flanked by his sons, Kendrick and Gareth, and, Thor was surprised to see, even Godfrey. Dozens of pages ran amidst them, a few of them leaning back and blowing horns made of long ivory tusks; others yanked at baying dogs, who anxiously ran forward to keep up with the horses. It was complete mayhem. As the huge group charged through the forest, they began to split off in every direction, and Thor hardly knew where they were going, or which group to follow.

Erec rode close by, and Thor and the others decided to follow his trail. Thor came running up beside Reece.

"Where are we going?" he asked Reece, out of breath as they ran.

"Deep into the wood," Reece called back. "The King's men aim to bring back days' worth of foul."

"Why are some of the Silver on horses and others on foot?" O'Connor asked Reece.

"Those on horses are hunting the easier kill, such as deer and fowl," Reece responded. "They use their bows. Those on foot aim for the more dangerous animals. Like the yellowtail boar."

Thor was both excited and nervous at the mention of the animal. He had seen one growing up: it was a nasty and dangerous creature, known to tear a man in two with little provocation.

"The oldest warriors tend to stay on horseback and go after deer and birds," Erec added, looking down. "The younger tend to stay on foot, and go after the bigger game. You have to be in better shape for it, of course."

"Which is why we allow this hunt for you boys," Kolk, running with the others, not far away, yelled out, "it is training for you, too. You will have to be on foot the entire hunt, keep up with the horses. As we go, you will break off into smaller groups, and each fork down your own path, and each hunt down your own animal. You will find the most vicious animal you can--and you will fight it to the death. These are the same qualities that make you a soldier: stamina, fearlessness, and not backing down from your adversary, no matter how big or how vicious. Now go!" he screamed.

Thor ran faster, as did all of his brethren, racing to catch up to the horses as they tore through the forest. He hardly knew which way to go, but he figured if he stuck close to Reece and O'Connor, he would be okay.

"An arrow, quick!" Erec yelled down.

Thor burst into action, running up beside Erec's horse, grabbing an arrow from the quiver on the saddle, and handing it up to him. Erec placed it on his bow as he rode, slowed and took steady aim at something in the woods.

"The dogs!" Erec screamed.

One of the King's attendants released a barking dog, which dove into the bushes. To Thor's surprise, a large bird flew up, and as it did, Erec let loose the arrow.

It was a perfect shot, right to the neck, and the bird fell down, dead. Thor was amazed at how Erec had spotted it.

"The bird!" Erec yelled out.

Thor ran, grabbed the dead bird, warm, blood still oozing from its neck, and ran back to Erec. He slung it on Erec's saddle, and it hung there as he rode.

All around Thor, many knights on horseback were doing the same, flushing birds and shooting at them, their squires retrieving them. Most used arrows; some used spears. Thor watched as Kendrick pulled back his spear, took aim and hurled it at a deer. It was a perfect strike, right into its throat, and it fell, too.

Thor was amazed at the abundance of game in these woods, the amount of bounty they would be bringing home. It would be enough to feed King's Court for days.

"Have you been on a hunt before?" Thor called out to Reece, narrowly avoiding being trampled by one of the King's men as they ran. It was hard to hear, with the barking of the dogs, the horns sounding, the screams of men, laughing, victorious, as they took down animal after animal.

Reece had a big smile on his face as he jumped over a log and continued running.

"Many times! But only because of my father. They don't let us join the hunt until a certain age. It's a thrilling thing--although no one tends to get out of it unscathed. More than one man has been hurt, or killed, chasing boar."

Reece gasped as he ran. "But I've always ridden on horseback," he added. "I've never been allowed to be on foot before, with the Legion, never allowed to hunt boar. It is a first for me!"

The forest suddenly changed, with dozens of trails stretching out before them, splitting in a dozen ways. Another horn sounded, and the huge group began to break up into smaller groups.

As they all split up, Thor stuck close to Erec, and Reece and O'Connor joined them; they all turned onto a narrow path that curved sharply downward. They ran and ran, Thor clutching his spear and jumping a small creak. Their small group comprised Erec and Kendrick on horseback, Thor, Reece, O'Connor, and Elden on foot, making six of them--and as Thor turned, he noticed two more members of the legion running up behind them, joining them. They were large and broad, with wavy sandy hair that fell past their eyes, and big smiles. They looked to be a couple of years older than Thor--and they were identical twins.

"I am Conval," one of them called out to Thor.

"And I Conven."

"We are brothers," Conval said.

"Twins!" Conven added.

"Hope you don't mind if we join you," Conval said to Thor.

Thor had seen them around, in the Legion, but had never met them before. He was happy to meet new members, especially members who were friendly to him.

"Happy to have you," Thor called out.

"The more hands the better," Reece echoed.

"I hear the boars in this wood are huge," Conval remarked.

"And deadly," Conven answered.

Thor looked at the long spears that the twins carried, three times longer than his, and wondered. He noticed them looking at his short spear

"That spear won't be long enough," Conval said

"These boars have big tusks. You need something longer," Conven said.

"Take mine," Elden said, and ran over beside him, and tried to hand it to him.

"I can't take yours," Thor said. "What would you use?"

Elden shrugged. "I'll be okay."

Thor was touched at his generosity, and marveled at how different their friendship was now.

"Take one of mine," ordered a voice.

Thor looked up and saw Erec ride up beside him, gesturing to the saddle, which held two long spears.

Thor reached out and grabbed a long spear from the saddle, so grateful to have it. It was heavier, and more awkward to run with--but he did feel more protected, and it sounded like he would need it.

They ran and ran, until the air burned in Thor's lungs and he did not know if he could go any farther. He was alert, looking about him for any sign of an animal. He felt protected with these other men around him, and invincible with a long spear. But he was still very much on edge. He had never hunted a boar before, and had no idea what to expect.

As his lungs burned, the forest broke open into a clearing and thankfully, Erec and Kendrick pulled their horses to a stop. Thor assumed that granted them all permission to stop, too. They all stood there, the eight of them in the forest clearing, the boys on foot gasping for air, and Erec and Kendrick dismounting from their horses. The horses panted, but otherwise it was quiet, the only sound the wind in the trees. The noise of the hundreds of other men racing through the forest was now gone, and Thor realized they must be very far from the others.

He stood there, panting, looking around the clearing.

"I haven't seen any markings of animals," Thor said to Reece. "Have you?"

Reece shook his head.

"The boar is a crafty animal," Erec said, stepping forward. "He won't always show himself. Sometimes he'll be the one watching you. He might wait until you're caught off guard, and then he'll charge. Always keep your guard up."

"Look out!" O'Connor yelled.

Thor spun and suddenly a large animal burst out it into the clearing with a huge commotion; Thor flinched, thinking they were being attacked by a boar. O'Connor screamed, and Reece turned and hurled a spear at it. It missed, and the animal flew up into the air. It was then that Thor realized it was just a turkey, disappearing back into the wood.

They all laughed, the tension broken. O'Connor reddened, and Reece laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry, friend," he said.

O'Connor looked away, embarrassed.

"There are no boar here," Elden said. "We chose a bad path. The only thing down this path are fowl. We will come back empty-handed."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing," said Conval. "I hear a boar fight can be life-and-death."

Kendrick stood there, calmly surveying the wood, and Erec did the same. Thor could see on the faces of these two men that something was out there. He could tell from their experience and wisdom that they were on guard.

"Well, the trail seems to end here," Reece said. "So if we go on, the wood will be unmarked. We won't find our way back."

"But if we go back, our hunt is over," O'Connor said.

"What would happen if we should return empty-handed?" Thor asked. "Without a boar?"

"We would be the laughing stock of the others," Elden said.

"No we wouldn't," Reece said. "Not everyone finds a boar. In fact, it's more rare to find one than not."

As the group of them stood there in silence, breathing hard, watching the woods, Thor suddenly realized that he had drank too much water. He had been holding it in the entire hunt and now he had such a pain in his bladder, he could barely contain it.

"Excuse me," he said, and began make to his way into the woods.

"Where are you going?" Erec asked, cautious.

"I just have to relieve myself. I'll be right back."

"Don't go far," Erec cautioned.

Thor, self-conscious, hurried into the woods and went about twenty paces from the others, until he found a spot just out of view.

Just as he finished relieving himself, suddenly, he heard a twig snap. It was loud and distinct, and he knew, he just knew, it was from no human.

He turned slowly, the hair rising on the back of his neck, and looked. Up ahead, maybe another ten paces, was another small clearing, a boulder in its center. And there, at the base of the boulder, was movement. A small animal, he could not tell what.

Thor stood there, debating whether to go back to his people or to see what it was. Without thinking, he crept forward. Whatever the animal was, he didn't want to lose it, and if he headed back, it might be gone when he returned.

Thor stepped closer, hairs on edge as the woods got thicker and there was less room to maneuver. He could see nothing but dense woods, the sun cutting at sharp angles. Finally, he reached the clearing. As he approached, he loosened his grip on his spear, and lowered it down to his hip. He was taken aback by what he saw before him, in the clearing, in a patch of sunlight.

There, squirming in the grass, beside the rock, was a small leopard cub. It sat there, squirming and whining, squinting into the sun. It looked as if it had just been born, barely a foot long, small enough to fit inside Thor's shirt.

Thor stood there, amazed. The pup was all white, and he knew it must be the pup of the White Leopard, the rarest of all animals.

He heard a sudden rustling of leaves behind him, and turned to see the entire group rushing towards him, Reece out front, looking worried. In moments, they were upon him.

"Where did you go?" he demanded. "We thought you were dead."

As they all came up beside him and looked down at the pup, he could hear them gasp in shock.

"A momentous omen," Erec said to Thor. "You have found the find of a lifetime. The rarest of all animals. It has been left alone. It has no one to care for it. That means it's yours. It is your obligation to raise it."

"Mine?" Thor asked, perplexed.

"It is your obligation," Kendrick added. "You found it. Or, I should say, it found you."

Thor was baffled. He had tended sheep, but he had never raised an animal in his life, and he had no idea what to do.

But at the same time, he already felt a strong kinship with the animal. Its small, light blue eyes opened and seemed to stare only at him.

He approached it, bent down, and picked it up in his arms. The animal reached up and licked his cheek.

"How does one care for a leopard cub?" Thor asked, overwhelmed.

"I suppose the same way one cares for anything else," Erec said. "Feed it when it's hungry."

"You must name it," Kendrick said.

Thor racked his brain, amazed that this was his second time having to name an animal in as many days. He remembered a story from his childhood, about a lion that terrorized a village.

"Krohn," Thor said.

The others nodded back in approval.

"Like the legend," Reece said.

"I like it," O'Connor said.

"Krohn it is," Erec said.

As Krohn lowered its head into Thor's chest, Thor felt a stronger connection to it than to anything he'd ever had. He couldn't help but feel as if he'd already known Krohn for lifetimes as the animal squirmed and squealed at him.

Suddenly there came a distinct sound, one that raised the hair on the back of Thor's neck, and made him turn quickly and stare up at the sky.

There, high above, was Estopheles. It suddenly dove down low, right for Thor's head, screeching as it did, before lifting at the last second.

At first Thor wondered if it was jealous of Krohn. But then, with a split second to spare, Thor realized: his falcon was warning him.

A moment later there came a distinct noise from the other side of the wood. It was a rustling, followed by a charging--and it all happened too fast.

Because of the warning, Thor had an advantage: he saw it coming and leapt out of the way with a second to spare, as a massive boar charged right for him. It missed him by a hair.

The clearing broke into chaos. The boar charged the others, ferocious, swinging its tusks every which way. In one swipe, it managed to slice O'Connor's arm, and blood burst out as he clutched it, screaming.

It was the biggest and most ferocious animal Thor had ever seen. It was like trying to fight a bull, but without the proper weapons. Elden tried to jab it with his long spear, but the boar merely turned its head, clamp down on it, and in one clean motion snapped it in two. Then it turned and charged Elden, hitting him in the ribs; luckily for Elden, he narrowly missed its tusks tearing him apart.

This boar was unstoppable. It was out for blood, and it would clearly not leave them alone until it had it.

The others rallied and broke into action. Erec and Kendrick extracted their swords, as did Thor, Reece and the others.

They all encircled it, but it was hard to hit, especially with its three-foot long tusks that kept them from getting anywhere close to it. It ran in circles, chasing them around the clearing. As they each took turns attacking, Erec scored a direct hit, slashing it on its side; but this boar must have been made of steel, because it just kept going.

That was when everything changed. For a brief moment, something caught Thor's eyes, and he turned and looked into the forest. In the distance, hidden behind the trees, he could have sworn he saw a man with a black, hooded cloak; he saw him raise a bow and arrow, and aim it right for the clearing. He seemed to be aiming not at the boar, but at the men.

Thor wondered if he were seeing things. He could hardly believe it. Could they be under attack? Here? In the middle of nowhere? By who?

Thor allowed his instincts to take over. He sensed that the others were in danger, and he raced for them. He saw the man aiming his bow for Kendrick.

Thor dove for Kendrick. He tackled him hard, knocking him to the ground, and as he did so, a moment later the arrow flew by, just missing him.

Thor immediately looked back to the forest, looking for signs of the attacker. But he was gone.

But he had no time to think: the boar was still sprinting madly about the clearing, only feet away from them. Now it turned in their direction, and Thor had no time to react. He braced himself for the impact, as the long, sharp tusks bore down directly for him.

A moment later there came a high-pitched squeal; Thor turned to see Erec, leaping onto the beast's back, raising his sword high with both hands, and plunging it into the back of its neck. The beast roared, blood squirting from its mouth, as it buckled to its knees, then crashed down to the ground, Erec on top of it. It ground to a halt, just feet away from Thor.

All of them stood there, frozen in place, looking at each other--and wondering what on earth just happened.

# CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Thor, carrying Krohn inside his shirt, was overwhelmed by the noise as Reece opened the door to the alehouse. A huge group of waiting Legion members and soldiers, crammed inside, met them with a shout. It was packed, and hot in here, and Thor was immediately sandwiched in between his brethren, shoulder to shoulder. It had been a long day of hunting, and they had all gathered here, at this alehouse deep in the woods, to celebrate. The Silver had led the way, and Thor, Reece and the others followed.

Behind Thor, the twins, Conval and Conven, carried their prize possession, the boar, bigger than anyone else's, on a long pole over their shoulders. They had to set it down outside the tavern doors before coming in. As Thor took a last glance back, it looked so fierce, it was hard to conceive they had killed it.

Thor felt a squirm inside his jacket, and he looked down to see his new companion, Krohn. He could hardly believe that he was actually carrying a white leopard pup. It stared up at him with its crystal blue eyes, and squeaked. Thor sensed that he was hungry.

Thor was jostled inside the alehouse, dozens more men streaming in behind him, and he proceeded deeper into the small, crowded place, which must have been twenty degrees warmer in here--not to mention, more humid. He followed Erec and Kendrick, and he in turn was followed by Reece, Elden, the twins and O'Connor, whose arm was bandaged from the boar's slice, and had finally stopped bleeding. O'Connor seemed more dazed than hurt, his good spirits had returned, and their whole group shuffled deep into the room.

It was packed shoulder to shoulder, so tight that there was barely room to even turn. There were long benches, and some men stood, while others sat, singing drinking songs and banging their casks into their friends', or banging them on the table. It was a rowdy, festive environment, and Thor had never seen anything like it.

"First time in an alehouse?" Elden asked, practically shouting to be heard.

Thor nodded back, feeling like a rube once again.

"I bet you've never even had a cask of ale, have you?" asked Conven, clapping him on the shoulder with a laugh.

"Of course I have," Thor shot back defensively.

He was blushing, though, and hoped no one could tell, because, in fact, he never had. His father had never allowed it. And even if he did, he was sure he couldn't afford it.

"Very good then!" cried out Conval. "Bartender, give us a round of your strongest. Thor here is an old pro!"

One of the twins put down a gold coin, and Thor was amazed at the money these boys carried; he wondered what family they hailed from. That coin could have lasted his family a month back in his village.

A moment later a dozen casks of foaming ale were slid across the bar, and the boys pushed their way through and grabbed them; a cask got shoved into Thor's hand. The foam dripped over the side of his hand, and his stomach twisted in anticipation. He was nervous.

"To our hunt!" Reece called out.

"TO OUR HUNT!" the others echoed.

Thor followed the others, trying to act natural as he raised the foaming cask to his lips. He took a sip, and hated the taste, but saw the others gulping theirs down, not removing them from their lips until they finished. Thor felt obliged to do the same, or else look like a coward. He forced himself to drink it, gulping it down as fast he could, until finally, halfway through, he set it down, coughing.

The others looked at him, and roared with laughter. Elden clapped him on the back.

"It is your first time, isn't it?" he asked.

Thor reddened as he wiped foam from his lips. Luckily, before he could reply, there came a shout in the room, and they all turned to see several musicians shove their way in. They started playing on lutes and flutes, clanging cymbals, and the rowdy atmosphere heightened.

"My brother!" came a voice.

Thor turned to see a boy a few years older than him, with a small belly yet broad shoulders, unshaven, looking somewhat slovenly, step forward and embrace Reece in an awkward hug. He was joined by three companions, who seemed equally slovenly.

"I never thought I'd find you here!" he added.

"Well, once in a while I need to follow in my brother's footsteps, don't I?" Reece shouted back with a smile. "Thor, do you know my brother, Godfrey?"

Godfrey turned and shook Thor's hand, and Thor could not help but notice how smooth and plump it was. It was not a warrior's hand.

"Of course I know the newcomer," Godfrey said, leaning in too close and slurring his words. "The whole kingdom is alive with talk of him. A fine warrior I hear," he said to Thor. "Too bad. What a waste of a talent for the alehouse!"

Godfrey leaned back and roared with laughter, and his three companions joined him. One of them, a head taller than the others, with a huge belly, bright red cheeks, and flush with drink, leaned forward and clamped a hand on Thor's shoulder.

"Bravery is a fine trait. But it sends you to the battlefield, and keeps you cold. Being a drunk is a better trait: it keeps you safe and warm--and assures a warm lady by your side!"

He roared with laughter, as did the others, and the bartender set down fresh casks of ale for all of them. Thor hoped he wouldn't be asked to drink; he could already feel the ale rushing to his head.

"It was his first hunt today!" Reece yelled out to his brother.

"Was it then?" Godfrey replied. "Well then that calls for a drink, doesn't it?"

"Or two!" his tall friend echoed.

Thor looked down as another cask was shoved into his palm.

"To firsts!" Godfrey called out.

"TO FIRSTS!" the others echoed.

"May your life be filled with firsts," the tall one echoed, "except for the first time being sober!"

They all roared with laughter, as they drank their casks.

Thor sipped his, then tried to get away with lowering it--but Godfrey caught him.

"That's not the way you drink it boy!" Godfrey yelled. He stepped forward, grabbed the cask, put it to Thor's lips, and pushed it down his mouth. The men all laughed as Thor gulped it down. He set it down, empty, and they cheered.

Thor felt lightheaded. He was beginning to feel out of control, and it was harder to focus. He didn't like the feeling.

Thor felt another squirm in his shirt, as Krohn reared his head.

"Well, what have we here!" Godfrey shouted in delight.

"It's a leopard cub," Thor said.

"We found it on the hunt," Reece added.

"He's hungry," Thor said. "I'm not sure what to feed him."

"Why, of course, ale!" the tall man yelled.

"Really?" Thor asked. "Is that healthy for him?"

"Of course!" Godfrey yelled. "It is just hops, boy!"

Godfrey reached out, dipped his finger into the foam, and held it out; Krohn leaned forward and licked it up. He licked again and again.

"See, he likes it!"

Godfrey suddenly retracted his finger with a scream. He held it up and showed blood.

"Sharp teeth on that one!" he yelled out--and the others all broke into laughter.

Thor reached down, stroked Krohn's head, and tilted the remnant of his cask into his mouth. Krohn lapped it up, and Thor resolved to find him real food. He hoped that Kolk would let him stay in the barracks, and hoped none of the Legion objected.

The musicians changed their song, and several more friends of Godfrey's appeared. They came over, joined them in a fresh round of drinks, and led Godfrey away, back into the crowd.

"I will see you later young man," Godfrey said to Reece, before leaving. Then he turned to Thor: "Hopefully, you'll spend more time in the alehouse!"

"Hopefully you'll spend more time on the battlefield," Kendrick called back.

"I very much doubt that!" Godfrey said and roared with laughter with the rest of his compatriots, as he disappeared into the crowd.

"Do they always celebrate like this?" Thor asked Reece.

"Godfrey? He's been in the alehouse since he could walk. A disappointment to my father. But he's happy with himself."

"No, I mean the King's men. The Legion. Is there always a trip to the alehouse?"

Reece shook his head.

"Today is a special day. The first hunt, and the summer solstice. This doesn't happen that often. Enjoy it while it does."

Thor was feeling increasingly disoriented as he looked around the room. This was not where he wanted to be. He wanted to be back in the barracks, training. And his thoughts drifted, once again, to Gwendolyn.

"Did you get a good look at him?" Kendrick asked, as he came up to Thor.

Thor looked at him, puzzled.

"The man, in the woods, who shot the arrow?" Kendrick added.

The others crowded around close, trying to hear as the mood grew serious.

Thor tried again to remember, but he could not. Everything was fuzzy.

"I wish I did," he said. "It all happened so fast."

"Maybe it was just one of the king's other men, shooting in our direction by accident," O'Connor said.

Thor shook his head.

"He wasn't dressed like the others. He wore all-black, and a cloak and hood. And he only shot one arrow, aimed right for Kendrick, then disappeared. I'm sorry. I wish I saw more."

Kendrick shook his head, trying to think.

"Who would want you dead?" Reece asked Kendrick.

"Was it an assassin?" O'Connor asked.

Kendrick shrugged. "I have no enemies that I know of."

"But father has many," Reece said. "Maybe someone wants to kill you to get to him."

"Or maybe someone wants you out of the way for the throne," Elden postulated.

"But that's absurd! I'm illegitimate! I cannot inherit the throne!"

While they all shook their heads, sipping their ale and trying to figure it out, there came another shout in the room, and all the men's attention turned towards the staircase leading upstairs. Thor looked up, and saw a string of ladies walk out of an upper hallway, stand by a bannister, and look down at the room. They were all scantily dressed, and wore too much makeup.

Thor blushed.

"Well, hello men!" called the lady in front, with a large bosom and wearing a red lace outfit.

The men cheered.

"Who's got money to spend tonight?" she asked.

The men cheered again.

Thor's eyes opened wide in surprise.

"Is this also a brothel?" he asked.

The others turned and looked at him in stunned silence, then all broke into laughter.

"My God, you are naïve, aren't you!" Conval said.

"Tell me you've never been to a brothel?" Conven said.

"I bet he's never been with a woman!" Elden said.

Thor felt them all looking at him, and he felt his face turn red as a beet. He wanted to disappear. They were right: he had never been with a woman. But he would never tell them that. He wondered if it was obvious from his face.

Before he could respond, one of the twins reached up, clasped a firm hand on his back, and threw a gold coin up to the woman on the stairs.

"I believe you have your first customer!" he yelled.

The room cheered, and Thor, despite his pushing and pulling and resisting, felt himself shoved forward by dozens of men, through the crowd, and up the staircase. As he went, his mind filled with thoughts of Gwen. Of how much he loved her. Of how he didn't want to be with anyone else.

He wanted to turn and run. But there was literally no escape. Dozens of the biggest men he had ever seen shoved him forward, and did not allow retreat. Before he knew it, he was up the steps, on the landing, staring at a woman taller than he, who were too much perfume, and smiled down at him. Making matters worse, Thor was drunker than he had ever been. The room was positively spinning out of control, and he felt that in another moment he would collapse.

The woman reached down, pulled Thor's shirt, led him firmly into a room, and slammed the door behind them. Thor was determined not to be with her. He held in his mind thoughts of Gwen, forcing them to the front. This was not how he wanted his first experience to be.

But his mind was not listening. He was so drunk, he could barely see now. And the last thing he remembered, before he blacked out, was being led across the room, towards a lady's bed, and hoping he made it before he hit the floor.

# CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

MacGil peeled open his eyes, awakened by the relentless pounding on his door, and immediately, he wished he hadn't. His head was splitting. Harsh sunlight shone in through the open castle window, and he realized his face was planted in his sheepskin blanket. Disoriented, he tried to remember. He was home, in his castle. He tried to summon the night before. He remembered the hunt. Then, an alehouse, in the woods. Drinking way too many casks. Somehow, he must have made it back here.

He looked over and saw his wife, the Queen, sleeping beside him, under the covers and slowly rousing.

The pounding came again, the awful noise of an iron knocker slamming.

"Who could that be at this hour?" she asked, annoyed.

MacGil was wondering the same thing. He specifically remembered leaving instructions with his servants not to wake him--especially after the hunt. There'd be hell to pay for this.

It was probably his steward, with another petty financial matter.

"Stop that bloody banging!" MacGil finally bellowed, rolling out of bed, sitting with his elbows on his knees, hand in his head. He ran his hands through his unwashed hair and beard, then over his face, trying to wake himself up. The hunt--and the ale--had taken a lot out of him. He wasn't as limber as he used to be. The years had taken their toll; he was exhausted. At this moment, he felt like never drinking again.

With a supreme effort he pushed himself off his knees, and to his feet. Dressed only in his robe, he quickly crossed the room, and finally reached the door, a foot thick, grabbing the iron handle and yanking it back.

Standing there was his greatest general, Brom, flanked by two attendants. They lowered their heads in deference, but his general stared right at him, a grim look on his face. MacGil hated it when he wore that look. It always meant somber news. It was at moments like these that he hated being King. He had been having such a good day yesterday, a great hunt, and it had reminded him of when he was young, carefree. Especially wasting the night away like that in the alehouse. Now, to be rudely awakened like this, it took away any illusion of peace he had had.

"My liege, I am sorry to wake you," Kolk said.

"You should be sorry," MacGil growled. "This better be important."

"It is," he said.

He spotted the seriousness of his face, and turned and checked back over his shoulder for his queen. She was still asleep.

MacGil gestured for them to enter, then led them through his vast bedroom, and through another arched door, to a side chamber, shutting the door behind them so as not to disturb her. He sometimes used this smaller room, no greater than twenty paces in each direction, with a few comfortable chairs and a big stained-glass window, when he didn't feel like going down to the Great Hall.

"My liege, our spies have told us of a McCloud contingent of men, riding east, for the Fabian Sea. And our scouts in the south report a caravan of empire ships, heading north. Surely they must be heading there to meet the McClouds."

MacGil tried to process this information, his brain moving too slowly in his drunken state.

"And?" he prodded, impatient, tired. He was so exhausted by the endless machinations and speculations and subterfuges of his court.

"If the McClouds are truly meeting with the Empire, there can only be one purpose," Brom continued. "To conspire to breach the Canyon and overthrow the Ring."

MacGil looked up at his old commander, a man who we had fought with for thirty years, and could see the deadly seriousness in his eyes. He could also see fear. That disturbed him: this was not a man he had ever seen fear anything.

MacGil slowly rose, to his full height, which was still considerable, and turned and walked across the room, until he reached the window. He looked out, surveying his court below, empty in the early morning, and thought to himself. He knew, all along, that one day a day like this would come. He just had not expected it to come so soon.

"That was quick," he said. "It's been but hours since I married off my daughter to their prince. And now you think they already conspire to overthrow us?"

"I do, my liege," Brom responded sincerely. "I see no other reason. All indications are it is a peaceful meeting. Not a military one."

MacGil slowly shook his head.

"But it does not make sense. They could not let the Empire in. Why would they? Even if for some reason they managed to help lower the Shield on our side and open a breach, then what would happen? The Empire would overwhelm them as well. They would not be safe, either. Surely, they know this."

"Maybe they are going to strike a deal," Brom retorted. "Maybe they will let the Empire in, in return for their attacking us only, so that the McClouds can control the Ring."

MacGil shook his head.

"The McClouds are too smart for that. They are crafty. They know that the Empire cannot be trusted."

His general shrugged.

"Maybe they want control of the Ring so badly, they are willing to take that chance. Especially now that they have your daughter as their queen."

MacGil thought about this. His head was pounding. He did not want to deal with this now. Not so early in the morning.

"So then what do you propose?" he asked, short with him, tired of all the speculation.

"We could preempt this, sire, and attack the McClouds. The time is now."

MacGil could hardly believe it.

"Right after I gave my daughter to them in a wedding? I don't think so."

"If we don't," Brom countered, "we allow them to dig our grave. Surely they will attack us. If not now, then later. And if they join with the empire, we would be finished."

"They cannot cross the Highlands so easily. We control all the choke points. It would be a slaughter. Even with the empire in tow."

"The empire have millions of men to spare," Kolk responded. "They can afford to be slaughtered."

"Even with the shield down," MacGil said, "it would not be so easy to just march millions of soldiers across the Canyon--or across the Highlands, or to approach by ship. We would spot such mobilization far in advance. We would have warning."

MacGil thought.

"No, we will not attack. But for now, we can take a prudent step: double our patrols at the Highlands. Strengthen our fortifications. And double our spies. That will be all."

"Yes, my liege," Brom said, turning, with his lieutenants and hurrying from the room.

MacGil turned back to the window, his head pounding. He sensed war on the horizon, coming at him with the inevitability of a winter storm. He sensed, further, that there was nothing he could do about it. He looked all around him, at his castle, at the stone, at the pristine royal court spread out beneath him, and he could not help but wonder how long all of this would last.

What he would give now for another drink.

# CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Thor felt a foot nudging him in his ribs, and he slowly peeled opened his eyes. He lay face down, on a mound of straw, and for a moment had no idea where he was. His head felt like it weighed a million pounds, his throat was drier than it had ever been, and his eyes and head were killing him. He felt as if he'd fallen off a horse.

He was nudged again, and he sat up, the room spinning violently. He leaned over and threw up, gagging again and again.

A chorus of laughter erupted all around him, and he looked up to see Reece, O'Connor, Elden and the twins hovering close by, looking down.

"Finally, sleeping beauty wakes!" Reece called out, smiling.

"We didn't think you'd ever rise," O'Connor said.

"Are you okay?" Elden asked.

Thor sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to process it all. As he did, Krohn, lying a few feet away, whimpered and ran over to him, jumping into his arms and burying his head in his shirt. Thor was relieved to see him, and happy to have him at his side. He tried to remember.

"Where am I?" Thor asked. "What happened last night?"

The three of them laughed.

"I'm afraid you had one drink too many, my friend. Someone can't hold his ale. Don't you remember? The alehouse?"

Thor closed his eyes, rubbing his temples, and tried to bring it all back. It came in flashes. He remembered the hunt...entering the alehouse...the drinks. He remembered being led upstairs...the brothel. After that, it was all black.

His heart quickened, as he thought of Gwendolyn. Had he done anything stupid with that girl? Had he ruined his chances with Gwen?

"What happened?" he pressed Reece, serious, as he clasped his wrist. "Please, tell me. Tell me I didn't do anything with that woman."

The others laughed, but Reece stared back at his friend earnestly, realizing how upset he was.

"Don't worry, friend," he answered. "You did nothing at all. Except for throw up and collapse on her floor!"

The others laughed again.

"So much for your first time," Elden said.

But Thor felt deeply relieved. He had not alienated Gwen.

"Last time I buy you a woman!" said Colven.

"Perfectly good waste of money," said Caven. "She wouldn't even return it!"

The boys laughed again. Thor was humiliated, but so relieved he had not ruined anything.

He took Reece's arm and pulled him aside.

"Your sister," he whispered, urgently. "She doesn't know about any of this, does she?"

Reece broke into a slow smile, as he put an arm around his shoulder.

"Your secret is safe with me, even though you didn't do anything. She doesn't know. And I can see how deeply you care for her, and I appreciate that," he said, his face morphing into a serious expression. "I can see now that you really do care for her. If you had gone whoring, that would not be the kind of brother-in-law I would want. In fact, I have been asked to deliver you this message."

Reece shoved a small scroll into Thor's palm, and Thor looked down, confused. He saw the royal stamp on it, the pink paper, and he knew. His heart quickened.

"From my sister," Reece added.

"Whoa!" came a chorus of voices.

"Someone's got a love letter!" O'Connor said.

"Read it to us!" Elden yelled.

The others chimed in with laughter.

But Thor, wanting privacy, hurried off to the side of the barracks, away from the others. His head was splitting, and the room still spun--but he didn't care anymore. He unrolled the delicate parchment and read the note with trembling hands.

"Meet me at Forest Ridge at midday. Don't be late. And don't call attention to yourself."

Thor stuffed the note into his pocket.

"What does it say, lover boy?" Calven called out.

Thor hurried over to Reece, knowing he could trust him.

"The Legion has no exercises today, right?" Thor asked.

Reece shook his head. "Of course not. It's a holiday."

"Where is Forest Ridge?" Thor asked.

Reece smiled. "Ah, Gwen's favorite place," he said. "Take the eastern road out of the court and stay right. Climb the hill, and it begins after the second knoll."

Thor looked at Reece.

"Please, I don't want anyone to know."

Reece smiled.

"I'm sure she does not either. If my mother found out, she would kill you both. She would lock my sister in her room, and exile you to the southern end of the kingdom."

Thor gulped at the thought of it.

"Really?" he asked

Reece nodded back.

"She doesn't like you. I don't know why, but her mind is set. Go quickly, and don't tell a soul. And don't worry," he said, clasping his hand. "I won't either."

*

Thor walked quickly in the early morning, Krohn trotting along beside him, trying his best not to be seen. He followed Reece's directions as best he could, repeating them in his head, as he hurried past the outskirts of the royal court, up a small hill, and along the edge of a thick forest. To his left, the ground fell off below him, leaving him walking on a narrow trail on the edge of a steep ridge, a cliff to his left, and the forest to his right. Forest Ridge. She had told him to meet her there. Was she serious? Or was she just playing with him?

Was that prissy royal, Alton, right? Was he just entertainment for her? Would she tire of him soon? He hoped, more than anything, that that was not the case. He wanted to believe her feelings for him were genuine; yet he still had a hard time conceiving how that could be the case. She barely knew him. And she was royalty. What interest could she possibly have in him? Not to mention that she was a year or two older, and he had never had an older girl take an interest in him; in fact, he had never had any girl take an interest in him. Not that there were many girls to choose from in his small village.

Thor had never thought about girls that much. He hadn't been raised with any sisters, and there weren't many girls to choose from in his village. At his age, none of the other boys seemed too concerned. Most of the boys seemed to wed around their eighteenth year, in arranged marriages--really, more like business arrangements. Those of high rank, who weren't married off by their twenty fifth year, reached their Selection Day: they were obligated to either choose a bride, or go out and find one. But that did not apply to Thor. He was of poor means, and people of his rank usually were just married off in ways that benefited the families. It was like trading cattle.

But when Thor had seen Gwendolyn for the first time, all that had changed. For the first time, he had been struck by something, a feeling so deep and strong and urgent, that it allowed him to think of nothing else. Every time he saw her, that feeling deepened. He hardly understood it, but it pained him to be away from her.

Thor doubled his pace along the ridge, looking for her everywhere, wondering exactly where she would meet him--or if she would meet him at all. The sun grew higher and the first bead of sweat formed on his forehead, he still feeling ill from the effects of the night before, queasy. As the sun grew even higher, and his search for her was proving futile, he began to wonder if she was really going to meet him at all. He also began to wonder just how much danger he was putting them in: if her mother, the Queen, really was so against this, would she truly have him deported from the kingdom? From the Legion? From everything he's come to know and love? Then what would he do?

As he thought about it, he realized that it was still all worth it, for the chance to be with her. He was willing to risk it all for that chance. He only hoped he wasn't being made a fool of, or rushing to any premature conclusions about how strong her feelings were for him.

"Were you just going to walk right by me?" came a voice, followed by a giggle.

Thor jumped, caught off guard, and stopped and turned. He could hardly believe it: there, standing in the shade of a huge pine tree, smiling back, was Gwendolyn. His heart lifted at that smile. He could see the love in her eyes, and all his worries and fears instantly melted away. He chided himself for how he could have been so stupid to ever second-guess her.

Khron squeaked at the sight of her.

"And what do have we here!?" she cried out in delight.

She knelt down and Khron came running to her, leaping into her arms with a whimper; she picked him up and held him, caressing him.

"He's so cute!" she said, hugging him. She leaned back, and he licked her face. She giggled, and kissed him back.

"And what's your name, little fellow?" she asked.

"Khron," Thor said. Finally, this time, he was not as tongue-tied as before.

"Khron," she echoed, looking into the cub's eyes.

"And is it every day that you travel with a leopard friend?" she asked Thor with a laugh.

"I found him," Thor said, feeling self-conscious beside her, as he always did. "In the wood--on the hunt. Your brother said I should keep him, because I found him. That it was destined."

She looked at him, and her expression became serious.

"Well, he is right. Animals are very sacred things. You don't find them. They find you."

"I hope you don't mind if he joins us," Thor said.

She giggled.

"I would be sad if he didn't," she answered.

She looked both ways, as if to make sure no one was watching, then reached out, grabbed Thor's hand and pulled him into the wood.

"Let's go," she whispered. "Before someone spots us."

Thor was exhilarated at the feel of her touch, as she yanked him onto the forest trail. They headed quickly into the woods, the path twisting and turning amidst the huge pines. She let go of his hand, but he did not forget the feel of it.

He was beginning to feel more confident that she actually liked him, and it was obvious that she did not want to be spotted, either, probably by her mother. Clearly she took this seriously, because she had something to risk by seeing him, too.

Then again, Thor thought, maybe she just didn't want to be spotted by Alton--or by any other boys she might be with. Maybe Alton had been right. Maybe she was ashamed to be seen with Thor.

Thor felt all these mixed emotions swirl within him, and hardly knew what to do.

"Cat has your tongue, does it?" she asked, finally breaking the silence.

Thor felt torn: he didn't want to risk messing things up by telling her what was on his mind--but at the same time he felt like he needed to put all his worries to rest. He needed to know where she really stood. He could contain it no longer.

"When I left you last time, I ran into Alton. He confronted me."

Gwendolyn's expression darkened, her high spirits suddenly ruined--and Thor immediately felt guilty that he had brought it up. He cherished her good nature, her joy, and he wished he could take it back. He wanted to stop, but it was too late. There was no turning back now.

"And what did he say?" she said, her voice dropping.

"He told me to stay away from you. He told me you didn't really care about me. He told me that I was just amusement for you. That you would tire of me in a day or two. He also said that you and he were set to be wed, and that your marriage was already arranged."

Gwendolyn let out an angry, mocking laugh.

"Did he then?" she snorted. "That boy is the most arrogant, unbearable little pip," she added, angry. "He's been a thorn in my side since the time I could walk. Just because our parents are cousins, he thinks he's part of the royal family. I've never met anyone so entitled who deserved it less. Making things worse, he's got it into his head somehow that the two of us are destined to wed. As if I would just go along with whatever my parents forced me to do. Never. And certainly not with him. I can't stand the sight of him."

Thor felt so relieved at her words, he felt a million pounds lighter; he felt like singing from the rooftops. It was exactly what he had needed to hear. Now he felt sorry he had darkened their mood, all over nothing. But he wasn't completely satisfied yet; he noticed she still hadn't said anything about whether she truly liked him, Thor.

"As far as you are concerned," she said, stealing a glance him, then looking away. "I barely know you. I hardly need to be pressed to commit my feelings now. But I would say that I don't think I would be spending time with you if I hated you that much. Of course it is my right to change my mind as I wish, and I can be fickle--but not when it comes to love."

That was all Thor needed to hear. He was impressed by her seriousness, and even more impressed by her choice of word: "love." He felt restored.

"And incidentally, I might also ask the same of you," she said, turning the tables. "In fact, I think I have a lot more to lose than you do. After all, I am royalty, and you are commoner. I am older and you are younger. Don't you think I should be the one who is more guarded? Whispers come to me in the court of your agenda, your social climbing, of your just using me, being hungry for rank. Your wanting favor with the King. Should I believe all this?"

Thor was horrified.

"No, my lady. Never. These things never even entered my mind. I'm with you only because I cannot think of being anywhere else. Only because I want to be. Only because when I'm not with you, I think of nothing else."

A small smile played at the corner of her mouth, and he could see her expression starting to lighten.

"You are new here," she said. "You are new to King's Court, to royal life. You need time to see how things really work. Here, nobody means what they say. Everyone has an agenda. Everyone is angling for power--or rank or wealth or riches or titles. No one can ever be taken for face value. Everyone has their own spies, and factions, and agendas. When Alton told you that my marriage has already been arranged, for instance, what he was really doing was trying to find out how close you and I are. He is threatened. And he might be reporting to someone. For him, marriage doesn't mean love. It means a union. Purely for financial gain, for rank. For property. In our royal court, nothing is what it seems."

Suddenly, Khron sprinted past them, down the forest trail, and into a clearing.

Gwen looked at Thor and giggled; she reached out, grabbed his hand, and ran with him.

"Come on!" she yelled, excited.

The two of them ran down the trail, and burst into the huge clearing, laughing. Thor was taken aback by the site: it was the most beautiful place he had ever seen, a forest meadow, filled with wildflowers of every possible color, up to their knees. Birds and butterflies of every color and size danced and flew in the air, and the meadow was alive with the sound of chirping. The sun shone down brilliantly, and it felt like a secret place, hidden here in the midst of this tall dark wood.

"Have you ever played Hangman's Blind?" she asked with a laugh.

Thor shook his head, and before he could respond, she took a handkerchief from her neck, reached up, and wrapped it over Thor's eyes, tying it behind him. He couldn't see, and she giggled loudly in his ear.

"You're it!" she said.

Then he heard her run away in the grass.

He smiled.

"But what do I do?" he called out.

"Find me!" she called back.

Her voice was already far away.

Thor, blindfolded, began to run after her, tripping as he went. He listened carefully to the rustle of her dress, trying to follow her direction. It was hard, and he ran with his hands out before him, thinking always that he might run into a tree, even though he knew it was an open meadow. Within moments, he was disoriented, and felt as if he were running in circles.

But he continued to listen, and heard the sound of her giggle, far away, and kept adjusting, running for it. Sometimes it seemed to get closer, then farther. He was beginning to feel dizzy.

He heard Khron running beside him, yelping, and he listened instead to Khron, following his footsteps. As he did, Gwyn's giggle got louder, and Thor realized that Krohn was leading him to her. He was amazed at how smart Khron was, to join in their game.

Soon he could hear her just feet away from him, and he chased her, zigzagging every which way, through the field. He reached out, and she screamed in delight as he caught the corner of her dress. As he grabbed her, he tripped, and the two of them went crashing down, into the soft field. He spun at the last second, so that he would fall first and she on top of him, cushioning her fall.

Thor landed on the ground, and she on top of him, screaming out in surprise. She was still giggling as she reached up and pulled back the kerchief.

Thor's heart was pounding as he saw her face just inches from his. He felt the weight of her body on his, in her thin summer dress, felt every contour of her body. The full weight of her pressed down on him, and she made no move to resist. She was staring into his eyes, their breathing shallow, and she did not look away. He did not either. Thor's heart pounded so fast, he was having a hard time focusing.

Suddenly, she leaned in and planted her lips on his. They were softer than he could possibly imagine, and as they met, for the first time in his life, he felt truly alive.

He closed his eyes, and she closed hers, and they did not move, their lips meeting for he did not know how long. He wanted to freeze this time.

Finally, slowly, she pulled away. She still smiled, as she slowly opened her eyes, and she still lay there, her body on his.

They lay like that for a long time, staring into each other's eyes.

"Where did you come from?" she asked, softly, smiling.

He smiled back. He did not know how to answer.

"I'm just a regular boy," he said.

She shook her head and smiled.

"No you are not. I can sense it. I suspect you are far, far more than that."

She leaned in and kissed him again, and his lips met hers, this time, for a much longer time. He reached up and ran his hand through her hair, and she ran hers through his. He could not stop his mind from racing.

He already wondered how this would end. Could they possibly be together, with all the forces between them? Was it possible for them to really be a couple?

Thor hoped, more than anything in his life, that they could. He wanted to be with her now, even more than he wanted to be in the Legion.

As he was thinking these thoughts, there came a sudden rustling in the grass, and the two of them, startled, turned. Khron leapt through the grass, just feet away, and there came another rustling noise. Khron yelped, then growled--then their came a hissing noise. Finally, it was quiet.

Gwen rolled off Thor as they both sat up and looked. Thor jumped to his feet, protective of Gwen, wondering what it could be. He didn't see anyone for miles. But someone--or something--must be there, just feet away, in the tall grass.

Khron appeared before them, and in his mouth, in his small, razor-sharp teeth, there dangled a huge, limp white snake. It must have been ten feet long, its hide a brilliant, shining white, as thick as a large tree branch.

Thor realized in an instant what had happened: Khron had spared the two of them from an attack by this deadly animal. His heart rushed with gratitude for the cub.

Gwen gasped.

"A Whiteback," she said. "The most lethal animal of the entire kingdom."

Thor stared at it, in awe.

"I thought this snake did not exist. I thought it was just a legend."

"It is very rare," Gwen said. "I've only see one in my lifetime. The day my father's father was killed. It is an omen."

She turned and looked at Thor.

"It means a death is coming. A death of someone very close."

Thor felt a chill on his spine. A sudden cold breeze ran through the meadow on this summer day, he knew, with absolute certainty, that she was right.

# CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Gwendolyn walked alone through the castle, taking the spiral staircase, twisting and turning her way to the top. Her mind raced with thoughts of Thor. Of their walk. Of their kiss. And then, of that snake.

She burned with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she had been elated to be with him; on the other, she was terror-stricken by that snake, and she knew it meant a death was coming. But she did not know for whom, and she could not get that out of her mind either. She feared it was for someone in her family. Could it be one of her brothers? Godfrey? Kendrick? Could it be her mother? Or, she shuddered to even think, her father?

The site of that snake had cast a somber shadow on their joyous day, and once their mood had been shattered, they had been unable to get it back. They had made their way back together to the court, parting ways right before they came out of the woods, so they would not be seen. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to catch them together. But Gwen would not give up Thor so easily, and she would find a way to combat her mother; she needed time to figure out her strategy.

It had been painful to part with Thor; thinking back on it, she felt badly. She had meant to ask him if he would see her again, had meant to make a plan for another day. But she had been in a daze, so distraught by the site of that snake that she had forgotten. Now she wondered if he thought she didn't care for her.

The second she had arrived at King's Court, her father's servants had summoned her. She had been ascending the steps ever since, her heart beating, wondering why he wanted to see her. Had she had been spotted with Thor? There could be no other reason her father wanted to see her so urgently. Was he, too, going to forbid her to see him? She could hardly imagine that he would. He had always taken her side.

Gwen, nearly out of breath, finally reached the top. She hurried down the corridor, passed the attendants who snapped at attention and opened the door for her to her father's chamber. Two more servants, waiting inside, bowed at her presence.

"Leave us," her father said to them.

They bowed and hurried from the room, closing the door behind them with a reverberating echo.

Her father rose from his desk, a big smile on his face, and ventured towards her across the vast chamber. She felt at ease, as she always did, at the sight of him, and felt relieved to see no anger in his expression.

"My Gwendolyn," he said.

He held out his arms and embraced her in a big hug. She embraced him back, and he directed her to two huge chairs, placed on an angle beside the roaring fire. Several large dogs, wolfhounds, most of whom she had known since childhood, got out of their way as they walked towards the fire. Two of them followed her, and rested their heads in her lap. She was glad the fire was on: it had become unusually cold for a summer day.

Her father leaned in towards the fire, staring at the flames as the fire crackled before them.

"You know why I have summoned you?" he asked.

She searched his face, but still was not sure.

"I do not, father."

He looked back in surprise.

"Our discussion the other day. With your siblings. About the kingship. That is what I wanted to discuss with you."

Gwen's heart soared with relief. This was not about Thor. It was about politics. Stupid politics, which she could care less about. She sighed in relief.

"You look relieved," he said. "What did you think we were going to discuss?"

Her father was too perceptive; he always had been. He was one of the few people who could read her like a book. She had to be careful around him.

"Nothing, father," she said quickly.

He smiled again.

"So, then tell me. What do you think of my choice?" he asked.

"Choice?" she asked.

"For my heir! To the kingdom!"

"You mean me?" she asked.

"Who else?" he laughed.

She blushed.

"Father, I was surprised, to say the least. I am not the firstborn. And I am a woman. I know nothing of politics. And care nothing for them--or for ruling a kingdom. I have no political ambition. I do not know why you chose me."

"It is precisely for those reasons," he said, his expression deadly serious. "It is because you don't aspire to the throne. You don't want the kingship. And you know nothing of politics."

He took a deep breath.

"But you know human nature. You are very perceptive. You got it from me. You have your mother's quick wit, but my skill with people. You know how to judge them; you can see right through them. And that is what a king needs. To know human nature. There is nothing more you need. All else is artifice. Know who your people are. Understand them. Trust your instincts. Be good to them. This is all."

"Surely, there must be more to ruling a kingdom than that," she said.

"Not really," he said. "It all stems from that. Decisions stem from that."

"But father, you are forgetting that, first, I have no desire to rule, and second, you're not going to die. This is all just a silly tradition, on your eldest's wedding day. Why dwell on this? I'd rather not even speak of it, or think of it. I hope the day should never come when I see you pass--so this is all irrelevant."

He cleared his throat, looking grave.

"I have spoken to Argon, and he sees a dark future for me. I have felt it myself. I must prepare," he said.

Gwen felt her stomach tighten.

"Argon is a fool. A sorcerer. Half of what he says doesn't come to pass. Ignore him. Don't give in to his silly omens. You are fine. You will live forever."

But he slowly shook his head, and she could see the sadness in his face, and she felt her stomach tighten even more.

"Gwendolyn, my daughter, I love you. I need you to be prepared. I want you to be the next ruler of the Ring. I am serious in what I say. It is not a request. It is a command."

He looked at her with such seriousness, his eyes darkening, it scared her. She had never seen that look on her father's face before.

She felt herself tearing up, and reached up and brushed back a tear.

"I am sorry to have upset you," he said.

"Then stop talking of this," she said, crying. "I don't want you to die."

"I am sorry, but I cannot. I need you to answer me."

"Father, I do not want to insult you."

"Then say yes."

"But how can I possibly rule?" she pleaded.

"It is not as hard as you think. You will be surrounded by advisors. The first rule is to trust none of them. Trust yourself. You can do this. Your lack of knowledge, your naïveté--that is what will make you great. You will make genuine decisions. Promise me," he insisted.

She looked into his eyes, and saw how much this meant to him. She wanted to get off this topic, if for no other reason than to appease his morbidity and cheer him up.

"Okay, I promise you," she said in a rush. "Does that make you feel better?"

He leaned back, and she could see him greatly relieved.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you."

"Good, now can we talk of other things? Things that might actually happen?" she asked.

Her father leaned back and roared with laughter; he seemed a million pounds lighter.

"That is why I love you," he said. "Always so happy. Always able to make me laugh."

He examined her, and she could sense he was searching for something.

"You seem unusually happy yourself," he said. "Is there a boy in the picture?"

Gwen blushed. She stood up and walked to the window, turning from him.

"I'm sorry father, but that is a private affair."

"It is not private if you will be ruling my kingdom," he said. "But I won't pry. However, your mother has requested an audience with you, and I assume she will not be so lenient. I will let it go. But prepare yourself."

Her stomach tightened, and she turned away, looking out the window. She hated this place. She wished she were anywhere but here. In a simple village, on a simple farm, living a simple life with Thor. Away from all of this, from all of these forces trying to control her.

She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and turned to see her father standing there, smiling down.

"Your mother can be fierce. But whatever she decides, know that I will take your side. In matters of love, one must be allowed to choose freely."

Gwen reached up and hugged her dad. At that moment, she loved him more than anything. She tried to push the omen of that snake from her mind, and prayed, with all she had, that it was not meant for her father.

*

Gwen twisted and turned down corridor after corridor, past rows of stained-glass, heading towards her mother's chamber. She hated being summoned by her mother, hated her controlling ways. In many ways, her mother was really the one who ruled the kingdom. She was stronger than her father in many ways, stood her ground more, gave in less easily. Of course the kingdom had no idea: he put on a strong face, seemed to be the wise one. But when he returned to the castle, behind closed doors, it was she who he turned to for advice. She was the wiser one. The colder one. The more calculating one. The tougher one. The fearless one. She was the rock. And she ruled their large family with an iron fist. When she wanted something, especially if she got it into her head that it was for the good of the family, she made sure it happened.

And now, Gwen sensed, her mother's iron will was about to be turned towards her; she was already bracing herself for the confrontation. She sensed it had something to do with her romantic life, and feared she had been spotted with Thor. But she was resolved not to back down. No matter what it took. If she had to leave this place, she would. Her mother could put her in the dungeon for all she wanted.

As Gwen approached her mother's chamber, the large oak door was opened by her servants, who stepped out of the way as she entered and closed it behind her.

Her mother's chamber was much smaller than her father's, more intimate, with large rugs, a small tea set and gaming board set up beside a roaring fire, several delicate, yellow velvet chairs beside them. Her mother sat in one of the chairs, her back to Gwen, even though she was expecting her. She faced the fire, sipped her tea, and moved one of the pieces on the game board. Behind her were two ladies in waiting, one tending her hair, and the other tightening her strings on the back of her dress.

"Come in, child," came her mother's stern voice.

Gwen hated when her mother did this--held court in front of her servants. She wished she would dismiss them, like her father did when they spoke. It was the least she could do for privacy and decency. But her mother never did. Gwen concluded it was a power-play, keeping her servants hovering around, listening, in order to keep Gwen on edge.

Gwen had no choice but to cross the room and take a seat in one of the velvet chairs opposite her mother, too close to the fire. Another one of her mother's power plays: it kept her company too warm, caught off guard by the flames.

Her mother did not look up; rather she stared down at her board game, pushing one of the ivory pieces in the complex maze.

"Your turn," her mother said.

Gwen looked down at the board; she was surprised her mother still had this game going. She recalled she had the brown pieces, but she hadn't played this game with her mother in weeks. Her mother was an expert at Pawns--but Gwen was even better. Her mother hated to lose, and she clearly had been analyzing this board for quite a while, hoping to make the perfect move. Now that Gwen was here, she moved.

But, unlike her mother, Gwen didn't need to study the board. She merely glanced at it and saw the perfect move in her head. She reached up and moved one of the brown pieces sideways, all the way across the board. It put her mother one move away from losing.

Her mother stared down, expressionless except for a flicker of her eyebrow, which Gwen knew indicated dismay. Gwen was smarter, and her mother would never accept that.

Her mother cleared her throat, studying the board, still not looking at her.

"I know all about your escapades with that common boy," she said derisively. "You defy me." Her mother looked up at her. "Why?"

Gwen took a deep breath, feeling her stomach tighten, trying to frame the best response. She would not give in. Not this time.

"My private affairs are not your business," Gwen responded.

"Aren't they? They are very much by business. Your private affairs will affect kingships. The fate of this family. Of the Ring. Your private affairs are political--as much as you would like to forget. You are not a commoner. Nothing is private in your world. And nothing is private from me."

Her mother's voice was steely and cold, and Gwen resented every moment of it. There was nothing Gwen could do but sit there and wait for her to finish. She felt trapped.

Finally, her mother cleared her throat.

"Since you refuse to listen to me, I will have to make decisions for you. You will not see that boy ever again. If you do, I will have him transferred out of the Legion, out of King's Court, and back to his village. Then I will have him put in stocks--along with his whole family. He will be cast out in disgrace. And you will never know him again."

Her mother looked at her, her lower lip trembling in rage.

"Do you understand me?"

Gwen breathed in sharply, for the first time comprehending the evil her mother was capable of. She hated her more than she could say. Gwen also caught the nervous glances of the attendants. It was humiliating.

Before she could respond, her mother continued.

"Furthermore, in order to prevent more of your reckless behavior, I have taken steps to arrange a rational union for you. You will be wed to Alton, on the first day of next month. You may begin your wedding preparations now. Prepare for life as a married woman. That is all," her mother said dismissively, turning back to the board as if she had just mentioned the most common of matters.

Gwen seethed and burn inside, and wanted to scream.

"How dare you," Gwen said back, a rage building inside. "Do you think I am some puppet on a string, to be played by you? Do you really think I will marry whomever you tell me to?"

"I don't think," her mother replied. "I know. You are my daughter, and you answer to me. And you will marry exactly who I say you will."

"No I won't!" Gwen screamed back. "And you can't make me! Father said you can't make me!"

"Arranged unions are still the right of every parent in this kingdom--and they are certainly the right of the king and queen. Your father postures, but you know as well as I do that he will always concede to my will. I have my ways."

Her mother glared at her.

"So, you see, you will do as I say. Your marriage is happening. Nothing can stop it. Prepare yourself."

"I won't do it," Gwen responded. "Never. And if you talk to me anymore of this, I will never speak to you again."

Her mother looked up and smiled at her, a cold, ugly smile.

"I don't care if you never speak to me. I'm your mother, not your friend. And I am your Queen. This may very well be our last encounter together. It does not matter. At the end of the day you will do as I say. And I will watch you from afar, as you live out the life I plan for you."

Her mother turned back to her game.

"You are dismissed," she said with a wave of her hand, as if Gwen were another servant.

Gwen so boiled over with rage, she could not take it anymore. She took three steps, marched to her mother's game board, and threw it over with both hands, sending the ivory pieces and the big ivory table crashing down and shattering in pieces.

Her mother jumped back in shock as it did.

"I hate you," Gwen hissed.

With that, Gwen turned, red-faced, and stormed from the room, brushing off the attendants' hands, determined to walk out on her own volition--and to never see her mother's face again.

# CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Thor walked for hours through the winding trails of the forest, thinking about his encounter with Gwen. He could not shake her from his mind. Their time together had been magical, way beyond his expectations, and he no longer worried about the depth of her feelings for him. It was the perfect day--except, of course, for what happened at the end of their encounter.

That white snake, so rare, and such a bad omen. It was lucky they had not been bit; Thor looked down at Krohn, walking loyally beside him, happy as ever, and wondered what would've happened if he had not been there, had not killed the snake and saved their lives. Would they both be dead right now? He was forever grateful to Krohn, and knew he had a lifelong, trusted companion in him.

Yet the omen still bothered him: that snake was exceedingly rare, and didn't even live in this portion of the kingdom. It lived farther south, in the marshes and swamps. How could it have traveled so far? Why did it have to come upon them at just that moment? It was too mystical: he felt absolutely certain that it was a sign. Like Gwen, he felt it was a bad omen, a harbinger of death to come. But whose?

Thor wanted to push the image from his mind, to forget about it, to think of other things--but he could not. It plagued him, gave him no rest. He knew he should return to the barracks, but he had not been able to. Today was still their day off, and so instead he had walked for hours, circling the forest trails, trying to clear his mind. He felt certain that the snake held some deep message, just for him, that he was being urged to take some action.

Making things worse, his departure with Gwen had been abrupt. When they'd reach the forest's edge, they had parted ways quickly, with barely a word. She had seemed distraught. He assumed it was because of the snake, but he could not be sure. She had made no mention of their meeting again. Had she changed her mind about him? Had he done something wrong?

The thought tore Thor apart. He hardly knew what to do with himself, as he wandered in circles for hours. He felt that he needed to talk to someone, someone who understood these things, who understood signs and omens.

Thor stopped in his tracks. Of course. Argon. He would be perfect. He could explain it all to him, and set his mind at ease.

Thor looked out: he was standing at the northern end of the farthest ridge and from here had a sweeping view of the royal city below him. He stood near a crossroads, and he knew that Argon lived alone, in a stone cottage, on the northern outskirts of Boulder Plains. He knew that if he forked left, away from the city, one of these trails would lead him there. He began his journey.

It was far from here, and there was a good chance, Thor knew, that Argon would not even be there. But he had to try. He could not rest until he had answers.

Thor walked with a new bounce to his step, walking double-time, heading towards the plains. Morning turned into afternoon, as he walked and walked. It was a beautiful summer day, and the light shone brilliantly on the fields all around him. Krohn bounced along at his side, stopping every now and again to pounce on a squirrel, which he carried triumphantly in his mouth.

The trail became steeper, windier, and the meadows faded, giving way to a desolate landscape of rocks and boulders. Soon, the trail, too, faded. It became colder and windier up here, as the trees dropped away too, and the landscape turned rocky, craggy. It was eerie up here, nothing but small rocks, dirt and boulders as far as the eye could see; Thor felt like he was journeying on a wasted earth. As the trail completely disappeared, Thor found himself walking on gravel and rock.

Beside him, Krohn began to whine. There was a creepy feeling in the air, and Thor felt it, too. It wasn't necessarily evil: it was just different. Like a heavy spiritual fog.

Just as Thor was beginning to wonder if he was heading in the right direction, he spotted on the horizon, high up on a hill, a small stone cottage. It was perfectly round, shaped as a ring, built of a black, solid stone and low to the ground. It had no windows, and just a single door, shaped in an arch--yet with no knocker or handle. Could Argon really live here, in this desolate place? Would he be upset that Thor had come uninvited?

Thor was beginning to have second thoughts, but forced himself to stay on the path. As he approached the door, he felt the energy in the air, so thick he could hardly breathe. His heart beat faster with trepidation as he reached out to knock with his fist.

Before he could touch it, the door opened by itself, a crack. It looked black in there, and Thor could not tell if only the wind had pushed it open. It was so dark, he could not see how anyone could be inside.

Thor reached out, gently pushed open the door, and stuck his head in:

"Hello?" he called out.

He pushed it wider. It was black in here, save for a soft glow on the far side of the dwelling.

"Hello?" he called out, louder. "Argon?"

Beside him, Krohn whined. It seemed obvious to Thor that this was a bad idea, that Argon was not at home. But still he forced himself to look. He took two steps in, and as he did, the door slammed close behind him.

Thor spun, and there, standing on the far wall, was Argon.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," Thor said, his heart pounding.

"You come uninvited," Argon said.

"Forgive me," Thor said. "I did not mean to intrude."

Thor looked around, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and saw several small candles, laid out in a circle, around the periphery of the stone wall. The room was lit mostly by a single shaft of light, which came in through a small, circular opening in the ceiling. This place was overwhelming, stark and surreal.

"Few people have been here," Argon replied. "Of course, you would not be here now unless I allowed you to be. That door only opens for whom it is intended. For whom it is not, it would never open--not with all the strength of the world."

Thor felt better, and yet he also wondered how Argon had known he was coming. Everything about this man was mysterious to him.

"I had an encounter I did not understand," Thor said, needing to let it all out, and to hear Argon's opinion. "There was a snake. A Whiteback. It nearly attacked us. We were saved by my leopard, Krohn."

"We?" Argon asked.

Thor flushed, realizing he had said too much. He didn't know what to say.

"I was not alone," he said.

"And who were you with?"

Thor bit his tongue, not knowing how much to say. After all, this man was close to her father, the king, and perhaps he would tell.

"I don't see how that is relevant to the snake."

"It is entirely relevant. Have you not wondered if that is why the snake came to begin with?"

Thor was completely off guard.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Not every omen you see is meant for you. Some are meant for others."

Thor examined Argon in the dim light, starting to understand. Was Gwen fated for something evil? And if so, could he stop it?

"Can you change fate?" Thor asked.

Argon turned, slowly crossing his room.

"Of course, that is the question we have been asking for centuries," Argon replied. "Can fate be changed? On the one hand, everything is destined, everything is written. On the other hand, we have free will. Our choices also determine our fate. It seems impossible for these two--destiny and free will--to live together, side by side, yet they do. It is where these two intercede--where destiny meets free will--that human behavior comes into play. Destiny can't always be broken, but sometimes it can be bent, or even changed, by a great sacrifice and a great force of free will. Yet most of the time, destiny is firm. Most of the time, we are just bystanders, put her to watch it play out. We think we play a part in it, but usually we don't. We are mostly observers, not participants."

"So then why does the universe bother showing us omens, if there's nothing we can do about them?" Thor asked.

Argon turned and smiled.

"You are quick boy, I will give you that. Mostly, we are shown omens to prepare ourselves. We are shown our fate to give us time to prepare. Sometimes, rarely, we are given an omen to enable us to take action, to change what will be. But this is very rare."

"Is it true that the Whiteback foretells death?"

Argon examined him.

"It is," he said, finally. "Without fail."

Thor's heart pounded at the response, at the confirmation of his fears. He was also surprised by Argon's straightforward response.

"I encountered one, today," Thor said, "but I don't know who will die. Or if there is some action I can take to prevent it. I want to put it out of my mind, but I cannot. Always, that image of the snake's head is with me. Why?"

Argon examined him a very long time, and sighed.

"Because whomever will die, it will affect you directly. It will affect your destiny."

Thor was increasingly agitated; he felt that every answer bred more questions.

"But that's not fair," Thor said. "I need to know who it is that will die. I need to warn them!"

Slowly, Argon shook his head.

"It may not be for you to know," he answered. "And if you do know, there may still be nothing you can do about it. Death finds its subject--even if someone is warned."

"Then why was I shown this?" Thor asked, tormented. "And why can't I get it from my head?"

Argon stepped forward, so close, inches away; the intensity of his eyes burned bright in this dim place, and it frightened Thor. It was like looking into the sun, and it was all he could do not to look away. Argon raised a hand and placed it on Thor's shoulder. It was ice to the touch and sent a chill through him.

"You are young," Argon said, slowly. "You are still learning. You feel things too deeply. Seeing the future is a great reward. But it can also be a great curse. Most humans who live out their destiny have no awareness of it. Sometimes the most painful thing is to have an awareness of your destiny, of what will be. You have not even begun to understand your powers. But you will. One day. Once you understand where you are from."

"Where I'm from?" Thor asked, confused.

"Your mother's home. Far from here. Beyond the Canyon, on the outer reaches of the Wilds. There is a castle, high up in the sky. It sits alone on a cliff, and to reach it, you walk along a windy stone road. It is a magical road--like ascending into the sky itself. It is a place of profound power. That is where you hail from. Until you reach that place, you will never fully understand. Once you do, all your questions will be answered."

Thor blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself, to his amazement, standing outside Argon's dwelling. He had no idea how he got here.

The wind whipped through the rocky crag, and Thor squinted at the harsh sunlight. Beside him stood Krohn, whining.

Thor went back to Argon's door and pounded on it with all his might. There came nothing but silence in return.

"Argon!" Thor screamed.

He was answered only by the whistling of the wind.

He tried the door, even putting his shoulder to it--but it would not budge.

Thor waited a long time, he was not sure how long, until finally the day grew late. Finally, he realized that his time here was over.

He turned and began to walk back down the rocky slope, wondering. He felt more confused than ever, and also felt more certain that a death was coming--yet more helpless to stop it.

As he hiked in that desolate place, he began to feel something cold on his ankles and he looked down and saw a thick fog forming. It rose, growing thicker and rising higher by the moment. Thor did not understand what was happening. Krohn whined.

Thor tried to speed up, to continue his way back down the mountain, but in moments the fog grew so thick, he could barely see before his eyes. At the same time, he felt his limbs grow heavy, and, as if by magic, the sky grew dark. He felt himself growing exhausted. He could not take another step. He curled up in a ball on the ground, right where he stood, enveloped in the thick fog. He tried to open his eyes, to move, but he could not. In moments, he was fast asleep.

*

Thor saw himself standing at the top of a mountain, staring out over the entire kingdom of the Ring. Before him was King's Court, the castle, the fortifications, the gardens, the trees and rolling hills as far as he could see--all in full bloom of summer. The fields were filled with fruits and colored flowers, and there was the sound of music and festivities.

But as Thor turned slowly, surveying everything, the grass began to turn black. Fruits fell off the trees. Then the trees themselves shriveled up to nothing. All the flowers dried up to crisps, and, to his horror, one building after the next crumbled, until the entire kingdom was nothing but desolation, heaps of rubble and stone.

Thor looked down and suddenly saw a huge Whiteback, slithering between his legs. He stood there, helpless, as it coiled around his legs, then his waist, then arms. He felt himself being suffocated, the life squeezed out of him, as the snake coiled all the way around and stared at him in the face, inches away, hissing, its long tongue nearly touching Thor's cheek. And then it opened its mouth so wide, revealing huge fangs, leaned forward, and swallowed Thor's face.

Thor shrieked, and then found himself standing alone inside the king's castle. The castle was completely empty, no throne left where one used to be, and the Destiny Sword lying on the ground, untouched. The windows were all shattered, stained-glass lying in heaps on the stone. He heard distant music and turned and walked through empty room after empty room. Finally he reached huge double doors, a hundred feet tall, and he opened them with all his might.

Thor stood at the entrance to the royal feasting hall. Before him were two long feasting tables, stretching across the room, overflowing with food--yet empty of men. At the far end of the hall sat one man. King MacGil. He sat on his throne, staring right at Thor. He seemed so far away.

Thor felt he had to reach him. He began to walk through the great room, towards him, between the two feasting tables. As he went, all the food on either side of him went bad, becoming rotten with each step he took, turning black and covered with flies. Flies buzzed and swarmed all around him, tearing apart the food.

Thor walked faster. The king was getting close now, hardly ten feet away, when a servant appeared out of a side chamber carrying a huge, golden goblet of wine. It was a distinct goblet, made of solid gold and covered in rows of rubies and sapphires. While the king wasn't looking, Thor saw the servant slip a white powder into the goblet. Thor realized it was poison.

The servant brought it closer, and MacGil reached down and grabbed it with both hands.

"No!" Thor screamed.

Thor lunged forward, trying to knock the wine away from the king.

But he was not fast enough. MacGil leaned back and drank the wine in big gulps. It poured down his cheeks, down his chest, as he finished it.

MacGil then turned and looked at Thor, and as he did, his eyes opened wide. He reached up and grabbed his throat until, gagging, he keeled over and fell off his throne; he fell sideways, landing on the hard stone floor. His crown rolled off it, hit the stone floor with a clang, and rolled several feet.

He lay there, motionless, eyes open, dead.

Ephistopheles swooped down, landed on MacGil's head. It sat there, looked right at Thor and screeched. The sound was so shrill, it sent a shiver up Thor's spine.

"No!" Thor screamed.

*

Thor woke screaming.

He sat up, looking all around, sweating, breathing hard, trying to figure out where he was. He was still lying on the ground, on Argon's mountain. He could not believe it: he must have fallen asleep here. The fog was gone, and as he looked up and saw that it was daybreak. A blood red sun was breaking over the horizon, lighting up the day. Beside him, Khron whined, jumped into his lap and licked his face.

Thor hugged Khron with one hand as he breathed hard, trying to figure out if he was awake or asleep. It took him a long time to realize it had just been a dream. It had felt so real.

Thor heard a screech and turned to see Ephistopheles, perched on a rock, just a foot away. He looked right at him and screeched, again and again.

The sound sent a chill up Thor's spine. It was the sound from his dream, and at that moment he knew, with every ounce of his body, that his dream had been a message. The king was going to be poisoned.

Thor jumped to his feet and, in the breaking light of dawn, sprinted down the mountain, heading for King's Court. He had to get to the king. He had to warn him. The king might think he was crazy, but he had no choice: he would do whatever he could to save the king's life.

*

Thor raced across the drawbridge, sprinting for the castle's outer gate, and luckily, the two guards recognized him from the Legion. They let him through without stopping him, and he continued running, Khron by his side.

Thor sprinted across the royal courtyard, past the fountains, and ran right to the inner gate of the king's castle. There stood four guards, who blocked his way.

Thor stopped, gasping for air.

"What is your purpose, boy?" one of them asked.

"You don't understand, you have to let me in," Thor gasped. "I need to see the King."

The guards looked at each other, skeptical.

"I am Thorgrin, of the King's Legion. You must let me through."

"I know who he is," one guard said to the other. "He's one of us."

But the lead guard stepped forward.

"What business have you with the king?" he pressed.

Thor still fought to catch his breath.

"Very urgent business. I must see him at once."

"Well he must not be expecting you, because you are ill-informed. Our King is not here. He left with his caravan hours ago, on court business. They won't be returning until tonight, until the royal feast."

"Feast?" Thor asked, his heart thumping. He remembered his dream, the feasting tables, and eerily felt it all coming to life.

"Yes, feast. If you are of the Legion, I am sure you will be there. But now he is gone, and there is no way you can see him. Come back tonight, with the others."

"But I must get him a message!" Thor insisted. "Before the feast!"

"You can leave the message with me if you like. But I can't deliver it any sooner than you."

Thor did not want to leave such a message with a guard; he realized it would seem crazy. He had to deliver it himself, tonight, before the feast. He only prayed it would not be too late.

# CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Thor hurried back to the Legion's barracks at the crack of dawn, luckily arriving before the day's training began. He was winded when he arrived, Khron at his side, and he ran into the other boys just as they were waking, beginning to file out for the day's assignments. He stood there, gasping, more troubled than ever. He hardly knew how he would make it through the day's training; he would be counting down the minutes until the night's feast, until he could warn the king. He felt certain that the omen came to him so that he could warn him, that the fate of the kingdom rested on his shoulders.

Thor ran up beside Reece and O'Connor as they made their way out to the field, looking exhausted, and began to line up.

"Where were you last night?" Reece asked.

Thor wished he knew how to respond--but he didn't really know where he had been himself. What was he supposed to say? That he had fallen asleep outside on the ground, on Argon's mountain? It made no sense, not even to him.

"I don't know," he answered, not knowing how much to tell them.

"What do you mean you don't know?" O'Connor asked.

"I got lost," Thor said.

"Lost?"

"Well you're lucky you made it back when you did," Reece said.

"If you had come back late for the day's assignments, they wouldn't have let you back into the Legion," Elden added, coming up beside them, clapping a beefy hand on his shoulder. "Good to see you. You were missed yesterday."

Thor was still shocked at the difference in how Elden treated him since their time on the far side of the Canyon.

"How did things go with my sister?" Reece asked, in hushed tones.

Thor blushed, unsure how to respond.

"Did you see her?" Reece prodded.

"Yes, I did," he began. "We had a great time. Although we had to leave abruptly."

"Well," Reece continued, as they all lined up side-by-side before Kolk and the King's men, "you will get to see more of her tonight. Put on your finest. It's the King's feast."

Thor's stomach dropped. He thought of his dream and felt as if destiny were dancing before his eyes--and that he was helpless, fated to do nothing but just watch it unfold.

"QUIET!" screamed Kolk, as he began to pace before the boys.

Thor stiffened, with the others, as they all fell silent.

Kolk walked slowly up and down the lines, surveying them all.

"You had your fun yesterday. Now it's back to training. And today, you will learn the ancient art of ditch digging."

A collective groan rose up among the boys.

"SILENCE!" he yelled.

The boys fell quiet.

"Ditch digging is hard work," Kolk continued. "But it is important work. You will one day find yourself out there, protecting our kingdom, in the wilderness, with no one to help you. It will be freezing, so cold you can't feel your toes, the black of night, and you will do anything to keep warm. Or you may find yourself in a battle, in which you need to take cover, to save yourself from the enemies' arrows. There may be a million reasons why you need a ditch. And a ditch may be your best friend.

"Today," he continued, clearing his throat, "you will spend all day digging, until your hands are red with calluses and your back is breaking, and you can't take it anymore. Then, on the day of battle, it will not seem as bad.

"FOLLOW ME!" Kolk yelled.

There came another groan of disappointment as the boys broke down into a line of two, and began marching across the field, following Kolk.

"Great," Elden said. "Ditch digging. Exactly how I wanted to spend the day."

"Could be worse," O'Connor said. "It could be raining."

They looked up at the sky, and Thor spotted threatening clouds overhead.

"It just might," Reece said. "Don't jinx it."

"THOR!" came a shout.

Thor turned to see Kolk glaring at him, off to the side. He ran over to him, wondering what he had done wrong.

"Yes, sire."

"Your knight has summoned you," he said, curt. "Report to Erec at the castle grounds. You're lucky: you're off-duty for today. You will serve your knight instead, as all good squires should. But don't think you're getting out of ditch digging: when you return tomorrow, you will be digging ditches by yourself. Now go!" he yelled.

Thor turned and saw the envious looks of the others, then ran from the field, heading for the castle. What could Erec want from him? Had it something to do with the King?

*

Thor ran through King's Court, turning down a path he had never gone down before: towards the barracks of the Silver. Their barracks were much more grand than those of the Legion's, their buildings twice the size, lined with copper, and their pathways paved with new stone. To get there, Thor had to pass through an arched gate twice the size of any other, a dozen of the King's men standing guard. The path then broadened, stretching out across a huge, open field, and culminating in a complex of stone buildings, encircled by a fence, and guarded by dozens more knights. It was an imposing site, even from here.

Thor raced down the path, conspicuous in the open field, and knights already prepared for his approach, even though he was so far away, stepping forward and crossing their lances, looking straight ahead, ignoring him, as they blocked his path.

"What business have you here?" one of them asked.

"I am reporting for duty," Thor responded. "I am Erec's squire."

The knights exchanged a wary look, but another knight stepped forward and nodded. They stepped back, uncrossed their weapons, and the gate slowly opened, its metal spikes rising, creaking. The gate was immense, at least two feet thick, and Thor thought that this place was even more fortified than even the King's Castle.

"The second building on the right." the knight yelled. "You'll find him in the stables."

Thor turned and hurried down the path through the courtyard, passing a compound of stone buildings, taking it all in. Everything was gleaming here, spotless, perfectly maintained. The whole place exuded an aura of strength.

Thor found the building, and was dazzled by the sight before him: dozens of the biggest and most beautiful horses he'd ever seen were tied up in neat rows outside the building, most of them covered in armor. The horses gleamed. Everything here was bigger, grander. He was inside the Silver's home; he could hardly believe it.

Real knights trotted by in every direction, carrying various weapons, passing through the courtyard on their way in or out of various gates. It was a busy place, and Thor could feel the presence of battle here. This place was not about training: it was about war. Life and death.

Thor passed through a small, arched entranceway, down a darkened corridor of stone, and continued hurrying through, passing by stable after stable, searching for Erec. But he reached the end of it, and he was nowhere to be found.

"Looking for Erec, are you?" a guard asked.

Thor turned and nodded.

"Yes, sire. I am his squire."

"You are late. He is already outside, preparing his horse. Move quickly, then."

Thor ran down the corridor and burst out of the stables into an open field. There was Erec, standing before a giant, valiant stallion, a gleaming black horse with a white nose. The horse snorted as Thor arrived, and Erec turned.

"I am sorry, sire," Thor said, out of breath. "I came as fast as I could. I did not mean to be late."

"You are just in time," Erec said with a gracious smile. "Thor, meet Lannin," he added, gesturing to the horse.

Lannin snorted and pranced, as if in response. Thor stepped up and reached out a hand and stroked his nose; he whinnied softly in return.

"He is my journey horse. A knight of rank has many horses, as you will learn. There is one for jousting, one for battle, and one for the long, solitary journey. This is the one you forge the closest friendship with. He likes you. That is good."

Lannin leaned forward and stuck his nose in Thor's palm. Thor was overwhelmed by the magnificence of this creature. He could see intelligence shining in his eyes. It was eerie: he felt as if he understood everything.

But something Erec said threw Thor off.

"Did you say a journey, sire?" he asked surprised.

Erec stopped tightening the harness, turned and looked at him.

"Today is the day of my birth. I have reached my twenty fifth year. That is a special day. Do you know about Selection Day?"

Thor shook his head. "Very little, sire; only what others tell me."

"We knights of the Ring must always continue on, generation after generation," Erec began. "We have until our twenty fifth year to choose a bride. If one is not chosen by then, law dictates for us to find one. We are given one year to find her, and to bring her back. If we return without one, then one is given to us by the king, and we forfeit our right to choose.

"So today, I must embark on my journey to find my bride."

Thor stared back, speechless.

"But sire, you are leaving? For one year?"

Thor's stomach dropped at the thought of it. He felt his world crumbling around him. It wasn't until this moment that he realized what a liking he had taken to Erec; in some ways, he had become like a father to him--certainly more of a father than the one he'd had.

"But then who shall I be squire to?" Thor asked. "And where will you go?"

Thor recalled how much Erec had stuck up for him, how he had saved his life. His heart sank at the idea of his leaving.

Erec laughed, a carefree laugh.

"Which question shall I answer first?" he said. "Do not worry. You have been assigned a new knight. You will be squire to him until my return. Kendrick, the king's eldest son."

Thor's heart soared to hear that; he felt an equally strong attachment to Kendrick who, after all, was the first one to look out for him and assure him a spot in the Legion.

"As far as my journey...." Erec continued, "...I do not yet know. I know I will head south, towards the kingdom that I hail from, and search for a bride in that direction. If I do not find one within the Ring, then I may even cross the sea to my own kingdom to search for one there."

"Your own kingdom, sire?" Thor asked.

Thor realized that he didn't really know that much about Erec, about where he came from. He had always just assumed he had come from within the Ring.

Erec smiled. "Yes, far from here, across the sea. But that is a tale for another time. It will be a far journey, and a long one, and I must prepare. So help me now. Time is quick. Harness my horse, and stock it with all manner of weapons."

Thor's head was spinning as he sprang into action, running to the stables, to the horse armory, and grabbing the distinct black and silver armor he knew belonged to Lannin. He ran back with one piece at a time, first placing the mailcoat on the horse's back, reaching up to drape it around his huge body. Then Thor ran and grabbed the shaffron, the thin, plated metal for the horse's head.

Lannin whinnied as he did so, and he seemed to like it. He was a noble horse, a warrior, Thor could tell, and he seemed just as comfortable in armor as a knight would.

Thor ran back and retrieved Erec's golden spurs, and helped attach one to each foot as Erec mounted the horse.

"Which weapons will you need, sire?" Thor asked.

Erec looked down, seeming huge from this perspective.

"It's hard to anticipate what battles I might encounter throughout a year. But I need to be able to hunt, and to defend myself. So of course, I need my longsword. I also should bring my shortsword, a bow, a quiver of arrows, a short spear, a mace, a dagger, and my shield. I suspect that will do."

"Yes, sire," Thor said, and broke into action. He ran to Erec's weapons rack, beside Lannin's stable, and looked over the dozens of weapons. There was an impressive arsenal to choose from.

He carefully removed all the weapons that Erec needed, and brought them back one at a time, handing them to Erec or placing them securely in the harness.

As Erec sat there, tightening his leather gauntlets, preparing to leave, Thor could not stand to watch him go.

"Sire, I feel it is my duty to accompany you on this journey," Thor said. "I am your squire after all."

Erec shook his head.

"It is a journey I must take alone."

"Then may I at least accompany you to the first crossing?" Thor pressed. "If you are heading south, those are roads that I know well. I am from the south."

Erec looked down, considering.

"If you want to accompany me to the first crossing, I see no harm in that. But it is a hard day's ride, so we must leave now. Take my squire's horse, in the rear of the stable. The brown one, with the red mane."

Thor ran back to the stable and found the horse. As he mounted it, Khron stuck his head out of his shirt and looked up and whined.

"It's okay, Khron," Thor reassured.

Thor leaned forward, kicked the horse, and they burst out of the stable. Erec had barely waited for him to catch up when he kicked Lannin and raced off at a gallop. Thor kicked his horse and followed Erec as best he could.

They rode together out of King's Court, through the gate, as several guardsmen pulled it back and stood to the side. Several members of the Silver were lined up, watching, waiting, and as Erec rode by, they raised their fists in salute.

Thor was proud to ride beside him, to be his squire, and excited to accompany him, even if it was only to the first crossing.

There was so much Thor had left to say to Erec, so many things he wanted to ask him--and so much he wanted to thank him for. But there wasn't time, as the two of them galloped south, bursting across the plains, the terrain constantly changing as their horses charged down the King's road in the late morning sun. As they passed a hill, in the distance Thor could see all the Legion members on a field, breaking their backs as they dug trenches. Thor was glad he was not among them. As Thor looked, in the distance he saw one of them stop, raise a fist in the air, towards him. It was hard to see in the sun, but he felt sure it was Reece, saluting. Thor raised a fist back, as they rode on.

The well-paved roads gave way to untended country roads. The roads became more narrow, rougher, and eventually became hardly more than well-trodden paths, cutting through the countryside. Thor knew it was dangerous for common folk to ride these roads alone--especially at night, with all the thieves that lurked on them. But Thor had little worry of this himself, especially with Erec at his side--in fact, if a robber should confront them, Thor feared more for the robber's life. Of course, it would be crazy for any thief to attempt to stop a member of the Silver.

They rode all day, hardly taking a break, until Thor was exhausted, out of breath. He could hardly believe Erec's stamina--yet he dared not let Erec know he was tired, for fear of seeming weak.

They passed a major crossroads, and Thor recognized it. He knew that if they bore right, it would bring them to his village. For a moment, Thor felt overwhelmed with nostalgia, and a part of him wanted to take the road, to see his father, his village. He wondered what his father was doing right now, who was tending the sheep, how irate his father must have been at his not returning. Not that he cared for him much. He just, momentarily, missed what was familiar. He was, in fact, relieved he had escaped from that small village, and another part of him wanted to never return.

They continued galloping on, farther and farther south, to territory even Thor had never been to. He had heard of the southern crossing, though he had never had reason to be there himself. It was one of three major crossroads that led to the southern reaches of the Ring. He was a good half day's ride now from King's court, and already the sun was getting long in the sky. Thor, sweating, out of breath, was starting to wonder, with trepidation, if he would make it back in time for the king's feast tonight. Had he made a mistake to accompany Erec this far?

They rounded a hilltop, and finally Thor saw it, there on the horizon: the unmistakable sign of the first crossing. It was marked by a large, skinny tower, the King's flag draped from it in all four directions, and members of the Silver standing guard atop its parapets. At the site of Erec, the knight atop the tower blew his trumpet. Slowly, the gatehouse rose.

They were but a few hundred yards away, and Erec slowed his horse to a walk. Thor had a knot in his stomach as he realized these were his last few minutes with Erec until who knew how long. Who knew, indeed, if he would even return. One year is a long time, and anything could happen. He was glad, at least, that he had had this chance to accompany him. He felt as if he had fulfilled his duty.

The two of them walked side-by-side, their horses breathing hard, the men breathing hard, as they approached the tower.

"I may not see you for many moons," Erec said. "When I return, I will have a bride in tow. Things may change. Though no matter what happens, know that you will always be my squire."

Erec took a deep breath.

"As I leave you, there are some things I want you to remember. A knight is not forged by strength--but by intelligence. Courage alone does not make a knight, but courage and honor and wisdom together. You must work always to perfect your spirit, your mind. Chivalry is not passive--it is active. You must work on it, better yourself, every moment of every day.

"Over these moons, you will learn all manner of weapons, all manner of skills. But remember: there is another dimension to our fighting. The sorcerer's dimension. Seek out Argon. Learn to develop your hidden powers. I have sensed them in you. You have great potential. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sire," Thor answered, welling with gratitude for his wisdom and understanding.

"I chose to take you under my wing for a reason. You are not like the others. You have a greater destiny. Greater, perhaps, even than mine. But it remains unfulfilled. You must not take it for granted. You must work at it. To be a great warrior, you must not only be fearless and skilled. You must also have a warrior's spirit, and carry that always in your heart and your mind. You must be willing to lay down your life for others. The greatest knight does not quest for riches or honor or fame or glory. The greatest knight takes the hardest quest of all: the quest to make yourself a better person. Every day, you must strive to be better. Not just better than others--but better than yourself. You must quest to take up the cause of those lesser than yourself. You must defend those who cannot defend themselves. It is not a quest for the light-hearted. It is a quest of heroes."

Thor's mind spun as he took it all in, pondering Erec's words carefully. He was overwhelmed with gratitude for him, and hardly knew how to respond. He sensed that it would take many moons for the full message of these words to sink in.

They reached the gate of the first crossing, and as they did, several members of the Silver came out to greet Erec. They rode up to him, big grins on their faces, and as he dismounted they clapped him hard on the back, as old friends.

Thor jumped down, took Lannin's reins and led him to the keeper at the gate, to feed and wash him down. Thor stood there, as Erec turned and looked at him, one last time.

In their final goodbye, there was too much Thor wanted to say. He wanted to thank him. But he also wanted to tell him everything. Of the omen. Of his dream. Of his fears for the king. He thought maybe Erec would understand.

But he could not bring himself to. Erec was already surrounded by knights, and Thor feared that Erec--and all of them--would think him crazy. So he stood there, tongue-tied, as Erec reached up and clasped his shoulder one last time.

"Protect our King," Erec said firmly.

The words sent a chill up Thor's spine, as if Erec had read his mind.

Erec turned, walked through the gate with the other knights, and as they passed through, their backs to him, Thor watched as the metal spikes slowly lowered behind him.

Erec was gone now. Thor could hardly believe it, felt a pit in his stomach. It could be an entire year until he saw him again.

Thor mounted his horse, tightened its reins, and kicked hard. The sun was nearly falling, and he had a good half day's ride to make it back for the feast. He felt Erec's final words reverberating in his head, like a mantra.

Protect our king.

Protect our king.

# CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Thor rode hard in the darkness, racing through the final gate of King's Court, barely slowing his horse as he jumped off it, breathing hard, and handed the reins to an attendant. He had been riding all day, the sun had fallen hours before, and he could see immediately from all the torchlight inside, hear from all the reverie behind the gates, that the king's feast was in full swing. He kicked himself for being away for as long as he did, and only prayed that he was not too late.

He ran to the nearest attendant.

"Is all in order inside?" he asked in a rush. He had to know that the king was okay--though of course he couldn't directly ask if he had been poisoned.

The attendant looked at him, baffled.

"And why shouldn't it be? All is in order, except that you are late. Members of the King's Legion should always be on time. And your clothes are filthy. You reflect poorly on your peers. Wash your hands, and hurry inside."

Thor rushed through the gate, sweating, put his hands in a small stone lavender of water, splashed it on his face, and ran it through his longish hair. He had been in constant motion since early in the morning, he was covered in dust from the road, and it felt as if it had been ten days in one. He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself and seem orderly, and strode quickly down corridor after corridor, towards the vast doors of the feasting hall.

As he stepped inside, through the huge arched doors, it was just like his dream: before him were the two feasting tables, at least a hundred feet long, at the far end of which sat the king, at the head of his own table, surrounded by men. The noise struck Thor like a living thing, the hall absolutely packed with people. There were not only the King's men, members of the Silver and of the Legion seated at the feasting tables, but also hundreds of others, bands of traveling musicians, groups of dancers, of clowns, dozens of women from the brothels.... There were also all manners of servants, of guards, dogs running about. It was a madhouse.

Men drank from huge casks of wine and beer, and many of them stood, singing drinking songs, arms about each other, clinking casks. There were heaps of food laid out on the tables, and boar and deer and all sorts of animals roasting on spits before the fireplace. Half the room gorged themselves, while the other half mingled about the room. Looking at the chaos in the room, seeing how drunk the men were, Thor realized that if he'd arrived earlier, when it began, it would have been more orderly. Now, at this late hour, it seemed to have evolved into more of a drunken bash.

Thor's first reaction, aside from being overwhelmed, was deep relief to see that the king was alive. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was okay. He wondered again if that omen meant nothing, if his dream meant nothing, if he was just overreacting to fancies, making something bigger in his head than it should be. But still, he just could not shake the feeling. He still felt a pressing urgency to reach the king, to warn him.

Protect our king.

Thor pushed his way into the thick crowd, trying to make it the long way towards the king. It was slow going. The men were drunk and rowdy, packed shoulder to shoulder, and MacGil sat hundreds of feet away.

Thor managed to get about halfway through the crowd when he stopped, suddenly spotted Gwendolyn. She sat at one of the small tables, off to the side of the hall, surrounded by her handmaids. She looked glum, and it seemed unlike her. Her food and drink were untouched, and she sat off to the side, separated from the others. Thor wondered what could be wrong.

Thor broke from the crowd and hurried over to her.

She looked up and saw him coming, but instead of smiling, as she always did, her face darkened. For the first time, Thor saw anger in her eyes.

Gwen slid her chair, got up, turned her back, and began to march away.

Thor felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart. He could not understand her reaction. Had he done something wrong?

He raced around the table, hurrying over to her, and grabbed her wrist gently.

She surprised him by throwing it off roughly, turning and scowling at him.

"Don't you touch me!" she screamed.

Thor took a step back, shocked at her reaction. Was this the same Gwendolyn he knew?

"I'm sorry," he said. "I meant you no harm. And no disrespect. I just wanted to talk to you."

"I have no words left for you," she seethed, her eyes aglow with fury.

Thor could hardly breathe; he had no idea what he had done wrong.

"My lady, please tell me, what have I done to offend you? Whatever it is, I apologize."

"What you have done is beyond remedy. No apology will suffice. It is who you are."

She started to walk away again, and a part of Thor thought he should let her be; but another part of him couldn't stand to just walk away, not after what they'd had. He had to know; he had to know the reason why she hated him so much.

Thor ran in front of her, blocking her way. He could not let her go. Not like this.

"Gwendolyn, please. Just please give me one chance to at least know what it is that I have done. Please, just give me this."

She stared back, seething, hands on her hips.

"I think you know. I think you know very well."

"I do not," Thor stated earnestly.

She stared, as if summing him up, and finally, seemed to believe him.

"The night before you saw me, I am told that you visited the brothels. That you had your way with many women. And you delighted in them all night long. Then, as the sun broke, you came to me. Does that remind you? I'm disgusted by your behavior. Disgusted that I ever met you, that you ever touched me. I hope I shall never see your face again. You've made a fool of me--and no one makes a fool of me!"

"My lady!" Thor yelled out, trying to stop her, wanting to explain. "It isn't true!"

But a band of musicians got between them, and she darted off, slipping through the crowd so fast that he could not find her. Within moments, he completely lost trace of her.

Thor was burning inside. He could not believe that someone had gotten to her, had told her these lies about him, had turned her against him. He wondered who was behind it. It hardly mattered: his chances with her were now ruined. He felt that he was dying inside.

Thor turned and began to stagger through the room, remembering the King, feeling hollowed out, as if he had nothing left to live for.

Before he'd gone a few feet, Alton suddenly appeared, blocked his way, and sneered down with a satisfied smile. He wore silk leggings, a velvet blazer, and a feathered hat. He looked down at Thor, with his long nose and chin, and with the utmost arrogance and self-pride.

"Well well," he said. "If it's not the commoner. Have you found your bride-to-be here yet? Of course you have not. I think rumors have spread already far and wide of your exploits in the brothel." He smiled and leaned in close, revealing small, yellow teeth. "In fact, I'm sure they have."

"You know what they say: if there's a glimmer of truth, it helps spark a rumor. I found that glimmer. And now your reputation is ruined, boy."

Thor, seeing with rage, could take it no longer. He charged and punched Alton in the gut, making him keel over.

Moments later, bodies were on him, fellow Legion members, soldiers, getting in their way, pulling them apart.

"You have overstepped your bounds, boy!" Alton yelled out, pointing at him over the bodies. "No one touches a royal! You will hang in the stocks for the rest of your life! I will have you arrested! Be sure of it! At first light I will have them come from you!" Alton yelled, and turned and stormed away.

Thor could care less about Alton, or his guards. He thought only of the King. He brushed the Legion members off, and turned back for MacGil. He shoved people out of the way as he hurried for the King's table. His mind was swimming with emotions, and he could hardly believe this turn of events. Here he was, just as his reputation was rising, only to have it ruined by some malignant snake, to have his love cheated away from him. And now, tomorrow, the threat of his being imprisoned. And with the Queen aligned against him, he feared that just maybe he would be.

But Thor didn't care about any of that now. All he cared about was protecting the King.

He pushed harder as he weaved his way through the crowd, bumping into a jester, walking right through his act, and finally, after pushing through three more attendants, making it to the King's table.

MacGil sat there, in the center of the table, a huge sack of wine in one hand, his cheeks red, laughing at the entertainment. He was surrendered by all of his top generals, and Thor stood before them, pushing his way right up to the bench, until finally, the King noticed him.

"My liege," Thor yelled out, hearing the desperation in his own voice. "I must speak with you! Please!"

A guard came to pull Thor away, but the King raised a palm.

"Thorgrin!" MacGil bellowed in his deep, kingly voice, drunk with wine. "My boy. Why have you approached our table? The Legion's table is there."

Thor bowed low.

"My king, I am sorry. But I must speak with you."

A musician clanged a cymbal in Thor's ear, and finally, MacGil gestured for him to stop.

The music quieted, and all the generals turned and looked at Thor. Thor could feel all the attention on him.

"Well, young Thorgrin, now you have the floor. Speak. What is it that cannot wait till tomorrow?" MacGil said.

"My liege," Thor began, but then stopped. What could he say exactly? That he had a dream? That he saw an omen? That he felt the King would be poisoned? Would it sound absurd?

But he had no choice. He had to press on.

"My liege, I had a dream," he began. "It was about you. In this feasting hall, in this place. The dream was...that you should not drink."

The King leaned forward, eyes opened wide.

"That I should not drink?" he repeated, slowly and loudly.

Then, after a moment of stunned silence, MacGil leaned back and roared with laughter, bellowing, shaking the whole table.

"That I should not drink!" MacGil repeated. "What a dream is this! I should call it a nightmare!"

The King leaned back and bellowed with laughter, and all of his men joined in. Thor reddened, but he could not back down.

MacGil gestured, and a guard stepped forward and grabbed Thor and began to take him away--but Thor roughly yanked the guard off of him. He was determined. He had to give the King this message.

Protect our King.

"My King, I demand that you listen!" Thor screamed, red-faced, pressing forward and banging the table with his fist.

It shook the table, and all the men's turned and stared at Thor.

There was a stunned silence, as the King's face dropped into a scowl.

"YOU demand?" MacGil yelled. "You demand nothing of me boy!" he screamed, his anger rising.

The table quieted even more, and Thor felt his cheeks redden in humiliation.

"My king, forgive me. I mean no disrespect. But I am concerned for your safety. Please. Do not drink. I dreamt you were poisoned! Please. I care very much about you. That is the only reason for my saying so."

Slowly, MacGil's scowl lifted. He stared deeply into Thor's eyes and took a deep breath.

"Yes, I can see that you do care. Even if you are foolish boy. I forgive you your disrespect. Go on now. And don't let me see your face again until the morning."

He gestured to his guards, and they yanked Thor away, strongly this time. The table slowly resumed its merriment, as they all went back to drinking.

Thor, dragged several feet away, burned with indignation. He feared for what he had done here tonight, and had a sinking feeling that tomorrow he would pay the price. Maybe even be asked to leave this place. Forever.

As the guards gave him one last shove, Thor found himself at the Legion's table, maybe twenty feet away from the King. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun to see Reece standing there.

"I've been searching for you all day. What happened to you?" Reece asked. "You look as if you have seen a ghost!"

Thor was too overwhelmed to respond. He hardly knew what to do now.

"Come sit with me--I saved you a seat," Reece said.

Reece pulled Thor down beside him, at a table set aside for the King's family. He saw Reece's brother, Godfrey, drinking with both hands, and beside him sat Gareth, watching with shifting eyes. Thor hoped beyond hope that Gwendolyn might be there, too, but she was not.

"What is it, Thor?" Reece prodded, as he sat down beside him. "You stare at this table as if it will bite you."

Thor shook his head.

"If I told you, you would not believe me. So best I just keep my mouth shut."

"Tell me. You can tell me anything," Reece urged with intensity.

Thor saw the look in his eyes, and realized, that finally, someone was taking him seriously. He took a deep breath, and began. He had nothing to lose.

"The other day, in the forest, with your sister, we saw a Whiteback. She said it was an omen of death, and I believe it is. I saw Argon, and he confirmed that a death is coming. Shortly after, I had a dream that your father would be poisoned. Here. Tonight. In this hall. I know it in my bones. He will be. Someone is trying to assassinate him," Thor said.

He said it all in a rush, and it felt good to get it off his chest. It felt good to have someone actually listen.

Reece was quiet as he stared back into his eyes for a long time. Finally, he spoke.

"You seem genuine. I have no doubt. And I appreciate your caring for my father. I believe you. I do. But dreams are tricky things. Not always what we think."

"I told the King," Thor said. "And they laughed at me. Of course, he will drink tonight."

"Thor, I believe you dreamt this. And I believe you feel this. But I've had terrible dreams, too, my entire life. The other night, I dreamt I was pushed out the castle, and I woke feeling that I was. But I was not. Do you understand? Dreams are strange things. And Argon speaks in riddles. You must not take it all so seriously. My father is fine. I am fine. We're all fine. Try to just sit back and drink and relax. And enjoy."

With that, Reece leaned back in his chair, covered in furs, and drank. He flagged a waiter, who put a huge portion of venison before Thor, along with a drinking goblet.

But Thor just sat there, staring at his food He felt his whole life dissolving around him. He didn't know what to do.

He could still think of nothing but his dream. It was like being in a waking nightmare, sitting there, watching everyone drink and feast around him. All he could do was watch the servers, all the drinks, all the goblets, heading for the King. He watched closely every server, every goblet of wine. Every time the King drank, Thor flinched.

But Thor was obsessed. He could not look away. He watched and watched, for what felt like hours.

Finally, Thor spotted one particular server. He approached the king with a goblet unlike the others. It was large, made of a very distinct gold, covered in rows of rubies and sapphires.

It was the exact goblet of Thor's dream.

Thor, his heart pounding in his chest, watched as if in slow motion as the servant came closer to the king. When he was just feet away, Thor could stand it no longer. Every ounce of his body screamed that this was the poisoned chalice.

Thor leapt from his table, shoved his way through the thick crowd, elbowed everyone roughly who was in his way.

Just as the King took the chalice into his hands, Thor leapt up onto his table, reached out, and swiped the goblet from the king's hands.

A horrified gasp filled the entire hall as the goblet flew from the king's hands, landed on the stone with a hard clink.

The entire hall went dead silent. Every musician, every juggler, stopped. Hundreds of men and women all turned and stared.

The king slowly stood, and glowered down at Thor.

"How dare you!" shrieked the King. "You insolent little boy!" he screamed. "I will put you in the stocks for this!"

Thor stood there, horrified, hardly believing what he had just done. He felt the entire world crashing down on him. He just wanted to disappear.

Suddenly, a hound walked over to the puddle of wine now forming on the floor, and lapped it up. Before Thor could respond, before the room could move again, all eyes went to the hound, who started making awful, horrible noises.

A moment later, the hound froze up, and fell on its side, dead. The entire room looked at the dog with a horrified gasp.

"You knew the drink was poison!" yelled a voice.

Thor turned and saw the Prince Gareth, standing there, coming up beside the king, pointing accusingly at Thor.

"How could you have possibly have known it was poisoned? Unless you are the one who did it! Thor tried to poison the king!" Gareth yelled out.

The entire crowd cheered in outrage.

"Take him to the dungeon," the king commanded.

A moment later, Thor felt guards grabbing him hard from behind, dragging him through the hall. He squirmed, and tried to protest.

"No!" he screamed out. "You don't understand!"

But no one listened. He was dragged through the crowd, fast and quick, and as he went, he watched them all disappear from him, his whole life disappear from him. They crossed the hall and out a side door, a door slamming shut behind them.

It was quiet here. A moment later, Thor felt himself descending. He was being pulled by several hands down a winding stone staircase. It grew darker and darker, and soon he could hear the cries of prisoners.

An iron cell door opened, and he realized where he was being taken. The dungeon.

He squirmed, trying to protest, to break free.

"You don't understand!" he yelled.

Thor looked up and saw a guard step forward, a large, crude man with an unshaven face, and yellow teeth.

He scowled down at Thor.

"Oh I understand very well," came his raspy voice.

He reached back his fist, and the last thing Thor saw was his fist, coming down right for his face.

Then his world was blackness.

NOW AVAILABLE!

A MARCH OF KINGS  
(Book #2 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

A MARCH OF KINGS takes us one step further on Thor's epic journey into manhood, as he begins to realize more about who he is, what his powers are, and as he embarks to become a warrior.

After he escapes from the dungeon, Thor is horrified to learn of another assassination attempt on King MacGil. When MacGil dies, the kingdom is set into turmoil. As everyone vies for the throne, King's Court is more rife than ever with its family dramas, power struggles, ambitions, jealousy, violence and betrayal. An heir must be chosen from among the children, and the ancient Dynasty Sword, the source of all their power, will have a chance to be wielded by someone new. But all this might be upended: the murder weapon is recovered, and the noose tightens on finding the assassin. Simultaneously, the MacGils face a new threat by the McClouds, who are set to attack again from within the Ring.

Thor fights to win back Gwendolyn's love, but there may not be time: he is told to pack up, to prepare with his brothers in arms for The Hundred, a hundred grueling days of hell that all Legion members must survive. The Legion will have to cross the Canyon, beyond the protection of the Ring, into the Wilds, and set sail across the Tartuvian Sea for the Isle of Mist, said to be patrolled by a dragon, for their initiation into manhood.

Will they make it back? Will the Ring survive in their absence? And will Thor finally learn the secret of his destiny?

With its sophisticated world-building and characterization, A MARCH OF KINGS is an epic tale of friends and lovers, of rivals and suitors, of knights and dragons, of intrigues and political machinations, of coming of age, of broken hearts, of deception, ambition and betrayal. It is a tale of honor and courage, of fate and destiny, of sorcery. It is a fantasy that brings us into a world we will never forget, and which will appeal to all ages and genders. It is 60,000 words. Book #3 in the series will be published soon.

"Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild {regarding Turned}

"Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again."

\--vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens."

\--The Dallas Examiner {regarding Loved}

A MARCH OF KINGS  
(Book #2 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

About Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!
Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

"Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting....Nicely written and an extremely fast read."

\--Black Lagoon Reviews (regarding Turned)

"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist...Refreshing and unique. The series focuses around one girl...one extraordinary girl!...Easy to read but extremely fast-paced... Rated PG."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Turned)

"Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go....This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found."

\--Paranormal Romance Guild (regarding Turned)

"Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and fall in love all over again."

\--vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens."

\--The Dallas Examiner (regarding Loved)

"A book to rival TWILIGHT and VAMPIRE DIARIES, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"

\--Vampirebooksite.com (regarding Turned)

"Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller....This would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked."

\--The Romance Reviews (regarding Loved)

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

Listen to THE SORCERER'S RING series in audio book format!

## R I S E    O F   T H E    D R A G O N S

(KINGS AND SORCERERS--BOOK 1)

MORGAN RICE

Smashwords edition

Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

"If you thought that there was no reason left for living after the end of THE SORCERER'S RING series, you were wrong. In RISE OF THE DRAGONS Morgan Rice has come up with what promises to be another brilliant series, immersing us in a fantasy of trolls and dragons, of valor, honor, courage, magic and faith in your destiny. Morgan has managed again to produce a strong set of characters that make us cheer for them on every page....Recommended for the permanent library of all readers that love a well-written fantasy."

\--Books and Movie Reviews

Roberto Mattos

"RISE OF THE DRAGONS succeeds--right from the start.... A superior fantasy...It begins, as it should, with one protagonist's struggles and moves neatly into a wider circle of knights, dragons, magic and monsters, and destiny....All the trappings of high fantasy are here, from soldiers and battles to confrontations with self....A recommended winner for any who enjoy epic fantasy writing fueled by powerful, believable young adult protagonists."

\--Midwest Book Review

D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer

"[RISE OF THE DRAGONS] is a plot-driven novel that's easy to read in a weekend...A good start to a promising series."

\--San Francisco Book Review

"An action packed fantasy sure to please fans of Morgan Rice's previous novels, along with fans of works such as THE INHERITANCE CYCLE by Christopher Paolini.... Fans of Young Adult Fiction will devour this latest work by Rice and beg for more."

\--The Wanderer, A Literary Journal (regarding Rise of the Dragons)

"A spirited fantasy that weaves elements of mystery and intrigue into its story line. A Quest of Heroes is all about the making of courage and about realizing a life purpose that leads to growth, maturity, and excellence....For those seeking meaty fantasy adventures, the protagonists, devices, and action provide a vigorous set of encounters that focus well on Thor's evolution from a dreamy child to a young adult facing impossible odds for survival....Only the beginning of what promises to be an epic young adult series."

\--Midwest Book Review (D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer)

"THE SORCERER'S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

"Rice's entertaining epic fantasy [THE SORCERER'S RING] includes classic traits of the genre--a strong setting, highly inspired by ancient Scotland and its history, and a good sense of court intrigue."

--Kirkus Reviews

"I loved how Morgan Rice built Thor's character and the world in which he lived. The landscape and the creatures that roamed it were very well described...I enjoyed [the plot]. It was short and sweet....There were just the right amount of minor characters, so I didn't get confused. There were adventures and harrowing moments, but the action depicted wasn't overly grotesque. The book would be perfect for a teen reader... The beginnings of something remarkable are there..."  
\--San Francisco Book Review

"In this action-packed first book in the epic fantasy Sorcerer's Ring series (which is currently 14 books strong), Rice introduces readers to 14-year-old Thorgrin "Thor" McLeod, whose dream is to join the Silver Legion, the elite knights who serve the king.... Rice's writing is solid and the premise intriguing."  
\--Publishers Weekly

"[A QUEST OF HEROES] is a quick and easy read. The ends of chapters make it so that you have to read what happens next and you don't want to put it down. There are some typos in the book and some names are messed up, but this does not distract from the overall story. The end of the book made me want to get the next book immediately and that is what I did. All nine of the Sorcerer's Ring series can currently be purchased on the Kindle store and A Quest of Heroes is currently free to get you started! If you are looking for a something quick and fun to read while on vacation this book will do nicely."

\--FantasyOnline.net

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING  
A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)  
A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)  
A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)  
A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)  
A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)  
A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)  
A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)  
A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)  
AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)  
A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)  
THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY  
ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)  
ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)  
BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)  
BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)  
CRAVED (Book #10)  
FATED (Book #11)

Listen to KINGS AND SORCERERS in its Audiobook edition!

Copyright © 2014 by Morgan Rice

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

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 "Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

\--William Shakespeare

Julius Caesar

# CHAPTER ONE

Kyra stood atop the grassy knoll, the frozen ground hard beneath her boots, snow falling around her, and tried to ignore the biting cold as she raised her bow and focused on her target. She narrowed her eyes, shutting out the rest of the world--a gale of wind, the sound of a distant crow--and forced herself to see only the skinny birch tree, far-off, stark-white, standing out amidst the landscape of purple pine trees. At forty yards, this was just the sort of shot her brothers couldn't make, that even her father's men couldn't make--and that made her all the more determined--she being the youngest of the bunch, and the only girl amongst them.

Kyra had never fit in. A part of her wanted to, of course, wanted to do what was expected of her and spend time with the other girls, as was her place, attending to domestic affairs; but deep down, it was not who she was. She was her father's daughter, had a warrior's spirit, like he, and she would not be contained to the stone walls of their stronghold, would not succumb to a life beside a hearth. She was a better shot than these men--indeed, she could already outshoot her father's finest archers--and she would do whatever she had to to prove to them all--most of all, her father--that she deserved to be taken seriously. Her father loved her, she knew, but he refused to see her for who she was.

Kyra did her best training far from the fort, out here on the plains of Volis, alone--which suited her well, since she, the only girl in a fort of warriors, had learned to be alone. She had taken to retreating here every day, her favorite spot, high atop the plateau overlooking the fort's rambling stone walls, where she could find good trees, skinny trees hard to hit. The thwack of her arrows had become an ever-present sound echoing over the village; not a tree up here had been spared from her arrows, their trunks scarred, some trees already leaning.

Most of her father's archers, Kyra knew, took aim at the mice that covered the plains; when she had first started, she had tried that herself, and had found she could kill them quite easily. But that had sickened her. She was fearless, but sensitive, too, and killing a living thing with no purpose displeased her. She had vowed then that she would never take aim at a living thing again--unless it were dangerous, or attacking her, like the Wolfbats that emerged at night and flew too close to her father's fort. She had no qualms about dropping them, especially after her younger brother, Aidan, suffered a Wolfbat bite that left him ill for half a moon. Besides, they were the fastest moving creatures out there, and she knew that if she could hit one, especially at night, then she could hit anything. She had once spent an entire night by a full moon firing away from her father's tower, and had run out eagerly at sunrise, thrilled to see scores of Wolfbats littering the ground, her arrows still in them, villagers crowding around and looking with amazed faces.

Kyra forced herself to focus. She played through the shot in her mind's eye, seeing herself raising her bow, pulling it back quickly to her chin and releasing without hesitation. The real shooting, she knew, happened before the shot. She had witnessed too many archers her age, on their fourteenth year, draw their strings and waver--and she knew then that their shots were lost. She took a deep breath, raised her bow, and in one decisive motion, pulled back and released. She did not even need to look to know she had hit the tree.

A moment later she heard its thwack--but she had already turned away, already looking for another target, one further off.

Kyra heard a whining at her feet and she looked down at Leo, her wolf, walking beside her as he always did, rubbing against her leg. A full-grown wolf, nearly up to her waist, Leo was as protective of Kyra as Kyra was of him, the two of them an inseparable sight in her father's fort. Kyra could not go anywhere without Leo hurrying to catch up. And all that time he clung to her side--unless a squirrel or rabbit crossed his path, in which case he could disappear for hours.

"I didn't forget you, boy," Kyra said, reaching into her pocket and handing Leo the leftover bone from the day's feast. Leo snatched it, trotting happily beside her.

As Kyra walked, her breath emerging in mist before her, she draped her bow over her shoulder and breathed into her hands, raw and cold. She crossed the wide, flat plateau and looked out. From this vantage point she could see the entire countryside, the rolling hills of Volis, usually green but now blanketed in snow, the province of her father's stronghold, nestled in the northeastern corner of the kingdom of Escalon. From up here Kyra had a bird's-eye view of all the goings-on in her father's fort, the comings and goings of the village folk and warriors, another reason she liked it up here. She liked to study the ancient, stone contours of her father's fort, the shapes of its battlements and towers stretching impressively through the hills, seeming to sprawl forever. Volis was the tallest structure in the countryside, some of its buildings rising four stories and framed by impressive layers of battlements. It was completed by a circular tower on its far side, a chapel for the folk, but for her, a place to climb and look out at the countryside and be alone. The stone complex was ringed by a moat, spanned by a wide main road and an arched stone bridge; this, in turn, was ringed by layers of impressive outer embankments, hills, ditches, walls--a place befitting one of the King's most important warriors--her father.

Though Volis, the final stronghold before The Flames, was several days' ride from Andros, Escalon's capital, it was still home to many of the former King's famed warriors. It had also become a beacon, a place that had become home to the hundreds of villagers and farmers that lived in or near its walls, under its protection.

Kyra looked down at the dozens of small clay cottages nestled in the hills on the outskirts of the fort, smoke rising from chimneys, farmers hurrying to and fro as they prepared for winter, and for the night's festival. The fact that villagers felt safe enough to live outside the main walls, Kyra knew, was a sign of great respect for her father's might, and a sight unseen elsewhere in Escalon. After all, they were a mere horn sounding away from protection, from the instant rallying of all her father's men.

Kyra looked down at the drawbridge, always packed with throngs of people--farmers, cobblers, butchers, blacksmiths, along with, of course, warriors--all rushing from fort to countryside and back again. For within the fort's walls was not only a place to live and train, but also an endless array of cobblestone courtyards which had become a gathering place for merchants. Every day their stalls were lined up, people selling their wares, bartering, showing off the day's hunt or catch, or some exotic cloth or spice or candy traded from across the sea. The courtyards of the fort were always filled with some exotic smell, be it of a strange tea, or a cooking stew; she could get lost in them for hours. And just beyond the walls, in the distance, her heart quickened to see the circular training ground for her father's men, Fighter's Gate, and the low stone wall surrounding it, and she watched with excitement as his men charged in neat lines with their horses, trying to lance targets--shields hanging from trees. She ached to train with them.

Kyra suddenly heard a voice cry out, one as familiar to her as her own, coming from the direction of the gatehouse, and she turned, immediately on alert. There was a commotion in the crowd, and she watched as through the bustle, spilling out of the throng and out onto the main road, there emerged her younger brother, Aidan, led by her two older brothers, Brandon and Braxton. Kyra tensed, on guard. She could tell from the sound of distress in her baby brother's voice that their older brothers were up to no good.

Kyra's eyes narrowed as she watched her older brothers, feeling a familiar anger rise up within her and unconsciously tightening her grip on her bow. There came Aidan, marched between them, each taller by a foot, each grabbing his arm and dragging him unwillingly away from the fort and into the countryside. Aidan, a small, thin, sensitive boy, barely ten, looked extra vulnerable sandwiched between his two brothers, overgrown brutes of seventeen and eighteen. They all had similar features and coloring, with their strong jaws, proud chins, dark brown eyes, and wavy brown hair--though Brandon and Braxton wore theirs cropped short, while Aidan's still fell, unruly, past his eyes. They all looked alike--and none like her, with her light blonde hair and light gray eyes. Dressed in her woven tights, woolen tunic, and cloak, Kyra was tall and thin, too pale, she was told, with a broad forehead and a small nose, blessed with striking features that had led more than one man to look twice. Especially now that she was turning fifteen, she noticed the looks increasing.

It made her uncomfortable. She did not like calling attention to herself, and she did not view herself as beautiful. She cared nothing for looks--only for training, for valor, for honor. She would rather have resembled her father, as her brothers did, the man she admired and loved more than anyone in the world, than have her dainty features. She always checked the mirror for something of himself in her eyes, yet no matter how hard she looked, she could not find it.

"I said, get off of me!" Aidan shouted, his voice carrying all the way up here.

At her baby brother's call of distress, a boy who Kyra loved more than anyone in the world, she stood ramrod straight, like a lion watching its cub. Leo, too, stiffened, the hair rising on his back. With their mother long gone, Kyra felt obliged to watch over Aidan, to make up for the mother he never had.

Brandon and Braxton dragged him roughly down the road, away from the fort, on the lone country road toward the distant wood, and she saw them trying to get him to wield a spear, one too big for him. Aidan had become a too-easy target for them to pick on; Brandon and Braxton were bullies. They were strong and somewhat brave, but they had more bravado than real skills, and they always seemed to get into trouble they could not quite get out of themselves. It was maddening.

Kyra realized what was happening: Brandon and Braxton were dragging Aidan with them on one of their hunts. She spotted the sacks of wine in their hands and knew they'd been drinking, and she fumed. It was not enough that they were going to kill some senseless animal, but now they were dragging their younger brother along with them, despite his protests.

Kyra's instincts kicked in and she leapt into action, running downhill to confront them, Leo running by her side.

"You're old enough now," Brandon said to Aidan.

"It's past time you became a man," Braxton said.

Bounding down the grass hills she knew by heart, it did not take Kyra long to catch up to them. She ran out onto the road and stopped before them, blocking their path, breathing hard, Leo beside her, and her brothers all stopped short, looking back, stunned.

Aidan's face, she could see, fell in relief.

"Are you lost?" Braxton mocked.

"You're blocking our way," Brandon said. "Go back to your arrows and your sticks."

The two of them laughed derisively, but she frowned, undeterred, as Leo, beside her, snarled.

"Get that beast away from us," Braxton said, trying to sound brave but fear apparent in his voice as he tightened his grip on his spear.

"And where do you think you're taking Aidan?" she asked, dead serious, looking back at them without flinching.

They paused, their faces slowly hardening.

"We're taking him wherever we please," Brandon said.

"He's going on a hunt to learn to become a man," Braxton said, emphasizing that last word as a dig to her.

But she would not give in.

"He's too young," she replied firmly.

Brandon scowled.

"Says who?" he asked.

"Says me."

"And are you his mother?" Braxton asked.

Kyra flushed, filled with anger, wishing their mother was here now more than ever.

"As much as you are his father," she replied.

They all stood there in the tense silence, and Kyra looked to Aidan, who looked back with scared eyes.

"Aidan," she asked him, "is this something you wish to do?"

Aidan looked down at the ground, ashamed. He stood there, silent, avoiding her glance, and Kyra knew he was afraid to speak out, to provoke the disapproval of his older brothers.

"Well, there you have it," Brandon said. "He doesn't object."

Kyra stood there, burning with frustration, wanting Aidan to speak up but unable to force him.

"It is unwise for you to bring him on your hunt," she said. "A storm brews. It will be dark soon. The wood is filled with danger. If you want to teach him to hunt, take him when he's older, on another day."

They scowled back, annoyed.

"And what do you know of hunting?" Braxton asked. "What have you hunted beside those trees of yours?"

"Any of them bite you lately?" Brandon added.

They both laughed, and Kyra burned, debating what to do. Without Aidan speaking up, there wasn't much she could do.

"You worry too much, sister," Brandon finally said. "Nothing will happen to Aidan on our watch. We want to toughen him up a bit--not kill him. Do you really imagine you're the only one who cares for him?"

"Besides, Father is watching," Braxton said. "Do you want to disappoint him?"

Kyra immediately looked up over their shoulders, and high up, in the tower, she spotted her father standing at the arched, open-aired window, watching. She felt supreme disappointment in him for not stopping this.

They tried to brush past, but Kyra stood there, doggedly blocking their way. They looked as if they might shove her, but Leo stepped between them, snarling, and they thought better of it.

"Aidan, it's not too late," she said to him. "You don't have to do this. Do you wish to return to the fort with me?"

She examined him and could see his eyes tearing, but she could also see his torment. A long silence passed, with nothing to break it up but the howling wind and the quickening snow.

Finally, he squirmed.

"I want to hunt," he muttered half-heartedly.

Her brothers suddenly brushed past her, bumping her shoulder, dragging Aidan, and as they hurried down the road, Kyra turned and watched, a sickening feeling in her stomach.

She turned back to the fort and looked up at the tower, but her father was already gone.

Kyra watched as her three brothers faded from view, into the brewing storm, toward the Wood of Thorns, and she felt a pit in her stomach. She thought of snatching Aidan and bringing him back--but she did not want to shame him.

She knew she should let it go--but she could not. Something within her would not allow her to. She sensed danger, especially on the eve of the Winter Moon. She did not trust her elder brothers; they would not harm Aidan, she knew, but they were reckless, and too rough. Worst of all, they were overconfident in their skills. It was a bad combination.

Kyra could stand it no longer. If her father wouldn't act, then she would. She was old enough now--she did not need to answer to anyone but herself.

Kyra burst into a jog, running down the lone country path, Leo by her side, and heading right for the Wood of Thorns.

# CHAPTER TWO

Kyra entered the gloomy Wood of Thorns, just west of the fort, a forest so thick one could barely see through it. As she walked through it slowly with Leo, snow and ice crunching beneath their feet, she looked up. She was dwarfed by the thorn trees that seemed to stretch forever. They were ancient black trees with gnarled branches resembling thorns, and thick, black leaves. This place, she felt, was cursed; nothing good ever came out of it. Her father's men returned from it injured from hunts, and more than once a troll, having broken through The Flames, had taken refuge here and used it as a staging ground to attack a villager.

As Kyra entered, immediately she felt a chill. It was darker in here, cooler, the air wetter, the smell of the thorn trees heavy in the air, smelling like decaying earth, and the massive trees blotting out what remained of daylight. Kyra, on guard, was furious at her older brothers. It was dangerous to venture here without the company of several warriors--especially at dusk. Every noise startled her. There came a distant cry of an animal, and she flinched, turning and looking for it. But the wood was dense, and she could not find it.

Leo, though, snarled beside her and suddenly bounded off after it.

"Leo!" she called out.

But he was already gone.

She sighed, annoyed; it was always his way when an animal crossed. He would return, though, she knew--eventually.

Kyra continued on, alone now, the wood growing darker, struggling to follow her brothers' trail--when she heard distant laughter. She snapped to attention, turning to the noise and weaving past thick trees until she spotted her brothers up ahead.

Kyra lingered back, keeping a good distance, not wanting to be spotted. She knew that if Aidan saw her, he would be embarrassed and would send her away. She would watch from the shadows, she decided, just making sure they did not get into trouble. It was better for Aidan not to be shamed, to feel like he was a man.

A twig snapped beneath her feet and Kyra ducked, worried the sound would give her away--but her drunk older brothers were oblivious, already a good thirty yards ahead of her, walking quickly, the noise drowned out by their own laughter. She could see from Aidan's body language that he was tense, almost as if he were about to cry. He clutched his spear tightly, as if trying to prove himself a man, but it was an awkward grip on a spear too big, and he struggled under the weight of it.

"Get up here!" Braxton called out, turning to Aidan, who trailed a few feet behind.

"What are you so afraid of?" Brandon said to him.

"I'm not afraid--" Aidan insisted.

"Quiet!" Brandon suddenly said, stopping, holding out a palm against Aidan's chest, his expression serious for the first time. Braxton stopped, too, all of them tense.

Kyra took shelter behind a tree as she watched her brothers. They stood at the edge of a clearing, looking straight ahead as if they had spotted something.

She crept forward, on alert, trying to get a better look, and as she weaved between two large trees, she stopped, stunned, as she caught a glimpse of what they were seeing. There, standing alone in the clearing, rooting out acorns, was a boar. It was no ordinary boar; it was a monstrous, Black-Horned Boar, the largest boar she had ever seen, with long, curled white tusks and three long, sharpened, black horns, one protruding from its nose and two from its head. Nearly the size of a bear, it was a rare creature, famed for its viciousness and its lightning-quick speed. It was an animal widely feared, and one that no hunter wanted to meet.

It was trouble.

Kyra, hair rising on her arms, wished Leo were here--yet was also grateful he was not, knowing he would bound off after it and unsure if he would win the confrontation. Kyra stepped forward, slowly removing her bow from her shoulder while instinctively reaching down to grab an arrow. She tried to calculate how far the boar was from the boys, and how far away she was--and she knew this was not good. There were too many trees in the way for her to get a clean shot--and with an animal this size, there was no room for error. She doubted one arrow could even fell it.

Kyra noticed the flash of fear on her brothers' faces, then saw Brandon and Braxton quickly cover up their fright with a look of bravado--one she felt sure was fueled by drink. They both raised their spears and took several steps forward. Braxton saw Aidan rooted in place, and he turned, grabbed the small boy's shoulder, and made him step forward, too.

"There's a chance to make a man of you," Braxton said. "Kill this boar and they'll sing of you for generations."

"Bring back its head and you'll be famed for life," Brandon said.

"I'm...scared," Aidan said.

Brandon and Braxton scoffed, then laughed derisively.

"Scared?" Brandon said. "And what would Father say if he heard you say that?"

The boar, alerted, lifted its head, revealing glowing yellow eyes, and stared at them, its face bunching up in an angry snarl. It opened its mouth, revealing fangs, and drooled, while at the same time emitting a vicious growl that erupted from somewhere deep in its belly. Kyra, even from her distance, felt a pang of fear--and she could only imagine the fear Aidan was feeling.

Kyra rushed forward, throwing caution to the wind, determined to catch up before it was too late. When she was just a few feet behind her brothers, she called out:

"Leave it alone!"

Her harsh voice cut through the silence, and her brothers all wheeled, clearly startled.

"You've had your fun," she added. "Let it be."

While Aidan looked relieved, Brandon and Braxton each scowled back at her.

"And what do you know?" Brandon shot back. "Stop interfering with real men."

The boar's snarl deepened as it crept toward them, and Kyra, both afraid and furious, stepped forward.

"If you are foolish enough to antagonize this beast, then go ahead," she said. "But you will send Aidan back here to me."

Brandon frowned.

"Aidan will do just fine here," Brandon countered. "He's about to learn how to fight. Aren't you, Aidan?"

Aidan stood silent, stunned with fear.

Kyra was about to take another step forward and snatch Aidan's arm when there came a rustling in the clearing. She saw the boar edge its way closer, one foot at a time, threateningly.

"It won't attack if it's not provoked," Kyra urged her brothers. "Let it go."

But her brothers ignored her, both turning and facing it and raising spears. They walked forward, into the clearing, as if to prove how brave they were.

"I'll aim for its head," Brandon said.

"And I, its throat," Braxton agreed.

The boar snarled louder, opened its mouth wider, drooling, and took another threatening step.

"Get back here!" Kyra yelled out, desperate.

But Brandon and Braxton stepped forward, raised their spears, and suddenly threw them.

Kyra watched in suspense as the spears flew through the air, bracing herself for the worst. She saw, to her dismay, Brandon's spear graze its ear, enough to draw blood--and to provoke it--while Braxton's spear sailed past, missing its head by several feet.

For the first time, Brandon and Braxton looked afraid. They stood there, open-mouthed, a dumb look on their faces, the glow from their drink quickly replaced by fear.

The boar, infuriated, lowered its head, snarled a horrific sound, and suddenly charged.

Kyra watched in horror as it bore down on her brothers. It was the fastest thing she'd ever seen for its size, bounding through the grass as if it were a deer.

As it approached, Brandon and Braxton ran for their lives, darting away in opposite directions.

That left Aidan standing there, rooted in place, all alone, frozen in fear. His mouth agape, he loosened his grip and his spear fell from his hand, sideways to the ground. Kyra knew it wouldn't make much difference; Aidan could not have defended himself if he tried. A grown man could not have. And the boar, as if sensing it, set its sights on Aidan, aiming right for him.

Kyra, heart slamming, burst into action, knowing she would only have one chance at this. Without thinking, she bounded forward, dodging between the trees, already holding her bow before her, knowing she had one shot and that it had to be perfect. It would be a hard shot, even if the boar weren't moving, in her state of panic--yet it would have to be a perfect shot if they were to survive this.

"AIDAN, GET DOWN!" she shouted.

At first, he did not move. Aidan blocked her way, preventing a clean shot, and as Kyra raised her bow and ran forward, she realized that if Aidan did not move, her one shot would be lost. Stumbling through the wood, her feet slipping in the snow and damp earth, for a moment she felt all would be lost.

"AIDAN!" she shouted again, desperate.

By some miracle, he listened this time, diving down to the earth at the last second and leaving the shot open for Kyra.

As the boar charged for Aidan, time suddenly slowed for Kyra. She felt herself entering an altered zone, something rising up within her which she had never experienced and which she did not fully understand. The world narrowed and came into focus. She could hear the sound of her own heart beating, of her breathing, of the rustling of leaves, of a crow cawing high above. She felt more in tune with the universe than she ever had, as if she had entered some realm where she and the universe were one.

Kyra felt her palms begin to tingle with a warm, prickly energy she did not understand, as if something foreign were invading her body. It was as if, for a fleeting instant, she had become somebody bigger than herself, somebody much more powerful.

Kyra entered into a state of non-thinking, and she allowed herself to be driven by pure instinct, and by this new energy flowing through her. She planted her feet, raised the bow, placed an arrow, and let it fly.

She knew the second she released it that it was a special shot. She did not need to watch the arrow sail to know it was going exactly where she wanted it to: in the beast's right eye. She shot with such force that it lodged itself nearly a foot before stopping.

The beast suddenly grunted as its legs buckled out from under it, and it fell face-first in the snow. It slid across what remained of the clearing, writhing, still alive, until it reached Aidan. It finally came to a stop but a foot away from him, so close that, when it finally stopped, they were nearly touching.

It twitched on the ground, and Kyra, already with another arrow on her bow, stepped forward, stood over the boar, and put another arrow through the back of its skull. It finally stopped moving.

Kyra stood in the clearing, in the silence, her heart pounding, the tingling in her palms slowly receding, the energy fading, and she wondered what had just happened. Had she really taken that shot?

She immediately remembered Aidan, and as she spun and grabbed him he looked up to her as he might have to his mother, eyes filled with fear, but unharmed. She felt a flash of relief as she realized he was okay.

Kyra turned and saw her two older brothers, each still lying in the clearing, staring up at her with shock--and awe. But there was something else in their looks, something which unsettled her: suspicion. As if she were different from them. An outsider. It was a look Kyra had seen before, rarely, but enough times to make her wonder at it herself. She turned and looked down at the dead beast, monstrous, huge, stiff at her feet, and she wondered how she, a fifteen-year-old girl, could have done this. It went beyond skills, she knew. Beyond a lucky shot.

There had always been something about her that was different from the others. She stood there, numb, wanting to move but unable. Because what had shaken her today was not this beast, she knew, but rather the way her brothers had looked at her. And she could not help wondering, for the millionth time, the question she had been afraid to confront her entire life:

Who was she?

# CHAPTER THREE

Kyra walked behind her brothers as they all hiked the road back to the fort, watching them struggle under the weight of the boar, Aidan beside her and Leo at her heels, having returned from chasing his game. Brandon and Braxton labored as they carried the dead beast between them, tied to their two spears and draped across their shoulders. Their grim mood had changed drastically since they had emerged from the wood and back into open sky, especially now with their father's fort in sight. With each passing step, Brandon and Braxton became more confident, nearly back to their arrogant selves, now at the point of laughing, heckling each other as they boasted of their kill.

"It was my spear that grazed it," Brandon said to Braxton.

"But," countered Braxton, "it was my spear that incited it to veer for Kyra's arrow."

Kyra listened, her face reddening at their lies; her pig-headed brothers were already convincing themselves of their own story, and now they seemed to actually believe it. She already anticipated their boasting back in their father's hall, telling everyone of their kill.

It was maddening. Yet she felt it was beneath her to correct them. She believed firmly in the wheels of justice, and she knew that, eventually, the truth always came out.

"You're liars," Aidan said, walking beside her, clearly still shaken from the event. "You know Kyra killed the boar."

Brandon glanced over his shoulder derisively, as if Aidan were an insect.

"What would you know?" he asked Aidan. "You were too busy pissing your pants."

They both laughed, as if hardening their story with each passing step.

"And you weren't running scared?" Kyra asked, sticking up for Aidan, unable to stand it a second longer.

With that, they both fell silent. Kyra could have really let them have it--but she did not need to raise her voice. She walked happily, feeling good about herself, knowing within herself that she had saved her brother's life; that was all the satisfaction she needed.

Kyra felt a small hand on her shoulder, and she looked over to see Aidan, smiling, consoling her, clearly grateful to be alive and in one piece. Kyra wondered if her older brothers also appreciated what she had done for them; after all, if she hadn't appeared when she had they would have been killed, too.

Kyra watched the boar bounce before her with each step, and she grimaced; she wished her brothers had let it remain in the clearing, where it belonged. It was a cursed animal, not of Volis, and it didn't belong here. It was a bad omen, especially coming from the Wood of Thorns, and especially on the eve of the Winter Moon. She recalled an old adage she had read: do not boast after being spared from death. Her brothers, she felt, were tempting the fates, bringing darkness back into their home. She could not help but feel it would herald bad things to come.

They crested a hill and as they did, the stronghold spread out before them, along with a sweeping view of the landscape. Despite the gust of wind and increasing snow, Kyra felt a great sense of relief at being home. Smoke rose from the chimneys that dotted the countryside and her father's fort emitted a soft, cozy glow, all lit with fires, fending off the coming twilight. The road widened, better maintained as they neared the bridge, and they all increased their pace and walked briskly down the final stretch. The road was bustling with people, eager for the festival despite the weather and falling night.

Kyra was hardly surprised. The festival of the Winter Moon was one of the most important holidays of the year, and all were busy preparing for the feast to come. A great throng of people pressed over the drawbridge, rushing to get their wares from vendors, to join the fort's feast--while an equal number of people rushed out of the gate, hurrying to get back to their homes to celebrate with their families. Oxen pulled carts and carried wares in both directions, while masons banged and chipped away at yet another new wall being built to ring the fort, the sound of their hammers steady in the air, punctuating the din of livestock and dogs. Kyra wondered how they always worked in this weather, how they kept their hands from going numb.

As they entered the bridge, merging with the masses, Kyra looked up ahead and her stomach tightened as she saw, standing near the gate, several of the Lord's Men, soldiers for the local Lord Governor appointed by Pandesia, wearing their distinctive scarlet chain mail armor. She felt a flash of indignation at the sight, sharing the same resentment as all of her people. The presence of the Lord's Men was oppressive at any time--but on the Winter Moon it was especially so, when they could surely only be here to demand whatever gleanings they could from her people. They were scavengers, in her mind, bullies and scavengers for the despicable aristocrats that had lodged themselves in power ever since the Pandesian invasion.

The weakness of their former King was to blame, having surrendered them all--but that did them little good now. Now, to their disgrace, they had to defer to these men. It filled Kyra with fury. It made her father and his great warriors--and all of her people--nothing better than elevated serfs; she desperately wanted them all to rise up, to fight for their freedom, to fight the war their former King had been afraid to. Yet she also knew that, if they were to rise up now, they would face the wrath of the Pandesian army. Perhaps they could have held them back if they had never let them in; but now that they were entrenched, they had few options.

They reached the bridge, merging with the mob, and as they passed, people stopped, stared, and pointed at the boar. Kyra took a small satisfaction in seeing that her brothers were sweating under the burden of it, huffing and puffing. As they went, heads turned and people gaped, commoners and warriors alike, all impressed by the massive beast. She also spotted a few superstitious looks, some of the people wondering, as she, if this were a bad omen.

All eyes, though, looked to her brothers with pride.

"A fine catch for the festival!" a farmer called out, leading his ox as he merged onto the street with them.

Brandon and Braxton beamed proudly.

"It shall feed half your father's court!" called out a butcher.

"How did you manage it?" asked a saddler.

The two brothers exchanged a look, and Brandon finally grinned back at the man.

"A fine throw and a lack of fear," he replied boldly.

"If you don't venture to the wood," Braxton added, "you don't know what you'll find."

A few men cheered and clapped them on the back. Kyra, despite herself, held her tongue. She did not need these people's approval; she knew what she had done.

"They did not kill the boar!" Aidan called out, indignant.

"You shut up," Brandon turned and hissed. "Any more of that and I will tell them all that you pissed your pants when it charged."

"But I did not!" Aidan protested.

"And they will believe you?" Braxton added.

Brandon and Braxton laughed, and Aidan looked to Kyra, as if wanting to know what to do.

She shook her head.

"Don't waste your effort," she said to him. "The truth always prevails."

The throngs thickened as they crossed over the bridge, soon shoulder to shoulder with the masses as they passed over the moat. Kyra could feel the excitement in the air as twilight fell, torches lit up and down the bridge, the snowfall quickening. She looked up before her and her heart quickened, as always, to see the huge, arched stone gate to the fort, guarded by a dozen of her father's men. At its top were the spikes of an iron portcullis, now raised, its sharpened points and thick bars strong enough to keep out any foe, ready to be closed at the mere sound of a horn. The gate rose thirty feet high, and at its top was a broad platform, spreading across the entire fort, wide stone battlements manned with lookouts, always keeping a vigilant eye. Volis was a fine stronghold, Kyra had always thought, taking pride in it. What gave her even more pride were the men inside it, her father's men, many of Escalon's finest warriors, slowly regrouping in Volis after being dispersed since the surrender of their King, drawn like a magnet to her father. More than once she had urged her father to declare himself the new King, as all his people wanted him to--but he would always merely shake his head and say that was not his way.

As they neared the gate, a dozen of her father's men charged out on their horses, the masses parting for them as they rode out for the training ground, a wide, circular embankment in the fields outside the fort ringed by a low, stone wall. Kyra turned and watched them go, her heart quickening. The training grounds were her favorite place. She would go there and watch them spar for hours, studying every move they made, the way they rode their horses, the way they drew their swords, hurled spears, swung flails. These men rode out to train despite the coming dark and falling snow, even on the eve of a holiday feast, because they wanted to train, to better themselves, because they would all rather be on a battlefield than feasting indoors--like her. These, she felt, were her true people.

Another group of her father's men came out, these on foot, and as Kyra approached the gate with her brothers, these men stepped aside, with the masses, making room for Brandon and Braxton as they approached with the boar. They whistled in admiration and gathered around, large, muscle-bound men, standing a foot taller than even her brothers who were not small, most of them wearing beards peppered with gray, all hardened men in their thirties and forties who had seen too many battles, who had served the old King and had suffered the indignity of his surrender. Men who would have never surrendered on their own. These were men who had seen it all and who were not impressed by much--but they did seem taken with the boar.

"Kill that on your own, did you?" one of them asked Brandon, coming close and examining it.

The crowd thickened and Brandon and Braxton finally stopped, taking in the praise and admiration of these great men, trying not to show how hard they were breathing.

"We did!" Braxton called out proudly.

"A Black-Horned," exclaimed another warrior, coming up close, running his hand along the back of it. "Haven't seen one since I was a boy. Helped kill one myself, once--but I was with a party of men--and two of them lost fingers."

"Well, we lost nothing," Braxton called out boldly. "Just a spear head."

Kyra burned as the men all laughed, clearly admiring the kill, while another warrior, their leader, Anvin, stepped forward and examined the kill closely. The men parted for him, giving him a wide berth of respect.

Her father's commander, Anvin was Kyra's favorite of all the men, answering only to her father, presiding over these fine warriors. Anvin had been like a second father to her, and she had known him as long as she could remember. He loved her dearly, she knew, and he looked out for her; more importantly to her, he always took time for her, showing her the techniques of sparring and weaponry when others would not. He had even let her train with the men on more than one occasion, and she had relished each and every one. He was the toughest of them all, yet he also had the kindest heart--for those he liked. But for those he didn't, Kyra feared for them.

Anvin had little tolerance for lies, though; he was the sort of man who always had to get to the absolute truth of everything, however gray it was. He had a meticulous eye, and as he stepped forward and examined the boar closely, Kyra watched him stop and examine its two arrow wounds. He had an eye for detail, and if anyone would recognize the truth, it would be him.

Anvin examined the two wounds, inspecting the small arrowheads still lodged inside, the fragments of wood where her brothers had broken off her arrows. They had snapped it close to the tip, so no one would see what had really felled it. But Anvin was not just anyone.

Kyra watched Anvin study the wounds, saw his eyes narrow, and she knew he had summed up the truth in a glance. He reached down, removed his glove, reached into the eye, and extracted one of the arrowheads. He held it up, bloody, then slowly turned to her brothers with a skeptical look.

"A spear point, was it?" he asked, disapproving.

A tense silence fell over the group as Brandon and Braxton looked nervous for the first time. They shifted in place.

Anvin turned to Kyra.

"Or an arrowhead?" he added, and Kyra could see the wheels turning in his head, see him coming to his own conclusions.

Anvin walked over to Kyra, drew an arrow from her quiver, and held it up beside the arrowhead. It was a perfect match, for all to see. He gave Kyra a proud, meaningful look, and Kyra felt all eyes turn to her.

"Your shot, was it?" he asked her. It was more a statement than a question.

She nodded back.

"It was," she replied flatly, loving Anvin for giving her recognition, and finally feeling vindicated.

"And the shot that felled it," he concluded. It was an observation, not a question, his voice hard, final, as he studied the boar.

"I see no other wounds besides these two," he added, running his hand along it--then stopping at the ear. He examined it, then turned and looked at Brandon and Braxton disdainfully. "Unless you call this grazing of a spearhead here a wound."

He held up the boar's ear, and Brandon and Braxton reddened while the group of warriors laughed.

Another of her father's famed warriors stepped forward--Vidar, close friend to Anvin, a thin, short man in his thirties with a gaunt face and a scar across his nose. With his small frame, he did not look the part, but Kyra knew better: Vidar was as hard as stone, famed for his hand-to-hand combat. He was one of the hardest men Kyra had ever met, known to wrestle down two men twice his size. Too many men, because of his diminutive size, had made the mistake of provoking him--only to learn their lesson the hard way. He, too, had taken Kyra under his wing, always protective of her.

"Looks like they missed," Vidar concluded, "and the girl saved them. Who taught you two to throw?"

Brandon and Braxton looked increasingly nervous, clearly caught in a lie, and neither said a word.

"It's a grievous thing to lie about a kill," Anvin said darkly, turning to her brothers. "Out with it now. Your father would want you to tell the truth."

Brandon and Braxton stood there, shifting, clearly uncomfortable, looking at each other as if debating what to say. For the first time she could remember, Kyra saw them tongue-tied.

Just as they were about to open their mouths, suddenly a foreign voice cut through the crowd.

"Doesn't matter who killed it," came the voice. "It's ours now."

Kyra turned with all the others, startled at the rough, unfamiliar voice--and her stomach dropped as she saw a group of the Lord's Men, distinctive in their scarlet armor, step forward through the crowd, the villagers parting for them. They approached the boar, eyeing it greedily, and Kyra saw that they wanted this trophy kill--not because they needed it, but as a way to humiliate her people, to snatch away from them this point of pride. Beside her, Leo snarled, and she laid a reassuring hand on his neck, holding him back.

"In the name of your Lord Governor," said the Lord's Man, a portly soldier with a low brow, thick eyebrows, a large belly, and a face bunched up in stupidity, "we claim this boar. He thanks you in advance for your present on this holiday festival."

He gestured to his men and they stepped toward the boar, as if to grab it.

As they did, Anvin suddenly stepped forward, Vidar by his side, and blocked their way.

An astonished silence fell over the crowd--no one ever confronted the Lord's Men; it was an unwritten rule. No one wanted to incite the wrath of Pandesia.

"No one's offered you a present, as far as I can tell," he said, his voice steel, "or your Lord Governor."

The crowd thickened, hundreds of villagers gathering to watch the tense standoff, sensing a confrontation. At the same time, others backed away, creating space around the two men, as the tension in the air grew more intense.

Kyra felt her heart pounding. She unconsciously tightened her grip on her bow, knowing this was escalating. As much as she wanted a fight, wanted her freedom, she also knew that her people could not afford to incite the wrath of the Lord Governor; even if by some miracle they defeated them, the Pandesian Empire stood behind them. They could summon divisions of men as vast as the sea.

Yet, at the same time, Kyra was so proud of Anvin for standing up to them. Finally, somebody had.

The soldier glowered, staring Anvin down.

"Do you dare defy your Lord Governor?" he asked.

Anvin held his ground.

"That boar is ours--no one's giving it to you," Anvin said.

"It was yours," the soldier corrected, "and now it belongs to us." He turned to his men. "Take the boar," he commanded.

The Lord's Men approached and as they did, a dozen of her father's men stepped forward, backing up Anvin and Vidar, blocking the Lord's Men's way, hands on their weapons.

The tension grew so thick, Kyra squeezed her bow until her knuckles turned white, and as she stood there she felt awful, felt as if somehow she were responsible for all this, given that she had killed the boar. She sensed something very bad was about to happen, and she cursed her brothers for bringing this bad omen into their village, especially on Winter Moon. Strange things always happened on the holidays, mystical times when the dead were said to be able to cross from one world to the other. Why had her brothers had to provoke the spirits in this way?

As the men faced off, her father's men preparing to draw their swords, all of them so close to bloodshed, a voice of authority suddenly cut through the air, booming through the silence.

"The kill is the girl's!" came the voice.

It was a loud voice, filled with confidence, a voice that commanded attention, a voice that Kyra admired and respected more than any in the world: her father's. Commander Duncan.

All eyes turned as her father approached, the crowd parting ways for him, giving him a wide berth of respect. There he stood, a mountain of a man, twice as tall as the others, with shoulders twice as wide, an untamed brown beard and longish brown hair both streaked with gray, wearing furs over his shoulders and bearing two long swords on his belt and a spear across his back. His armor, the black of Volis, had a dragon carved into its breastplate, the sign of their house. His weapons bore nicks and scrapes from one too many battle and he projected experience. He was a man to be feared, a man to be admired, a man who all new to be just and fair. A man loved and, above all, respected.

"It is Kyra's kill," he repeated, glancing disapprovingly at her brothers as he did, then turning and looking at Kyra, ignoring the Lord's Men. "It is for her to decide its fate."

Kyra was shocked at her father's words. She had never expected this, never expected him to put such responsibility in her hands, to leave to her such a weighty decision. For it was not merely a decision about the boar, they both knew, but about the very fate of her people.

Tense soldiers lined up on either side, all with hands on swords, and as she looked out at all the faces, all turning to her, all awaiting her response, she knew that her next choice, her next words, would be the most important she had ever spoken.

# CHAPTER FOUR

Merk hiked slowly down the forest path, weaving his way through Whitewood, and he reflected on his life. His forty years had been hard ones; he had never before taken the time to hike through a wood, to admire the beauty around him. He looked down at the white leaves crunching beneath his feet, punctuated by the sound of his staff as he tapped the soft forest floor; he looked up as he walked, taking in the beauty of the Aesop trees, with their shining white leaves and glowing red branches, glistening in the morning sun. Leaves fell, showering down on him like snow, and for the first time in his life, he felt a real sense of peace.

Of average height and build, with dark black hair, a perpetually unshaven face, a wide jaw, long, drawn-out cheekbones, and large black eyes with black circles under them, Merk always looked as if he hadn't slept in days. And that was always how he felt. But now. Now, finally, he felt rested. Here, in Ur, in the northwest corner of Escalon, there came no snow. The temperate breezes off the ocean, but a day's ride west, assured them of warmer weather and allowed leaves of every color to flourish. It also allowed Merk to sojourn wearing but a cloak, with no need to cower from the freezing winds, as they did in much of Escalon. He was still getting used to the idea of wearing a cloak instead of armor, of wielding a staff instead of a sword, of tapping the leaves with his staff instead of piercing his foes with a dagger. It was all new to him. He was trying to see what it felt like to become this new person he yearned to be. It was peaceful--but awkward. As if he were pretending to be someone he was not.

For Merk was no traveler, no monk--nor was he a peaceful man. He was still, in his blood, a warrior. And not just any warrior; he was a man who fought by his own rules, and who had never lost a battle. He was a man who was unafraid to take his battles from the jousting lanes to the back alleys of the taverns he loved to frequent. He was what some people liked to call a mercenary. An assassin. A hired sword. There were many names for him, some even less flattering, but Merk didn't care for labels, or about what other people thought. All he cared about was that he was one of the best.

Merk, as if to fit his role, had gone by many names himself, changing them at his whim. He didn't like the name his father had given him--in fact, he didn't like his father, either--and he wasn't about to go through life with a name someone else slapped on him. Merk was the most frequent name change, and he liked it, for now. He did not care what anyone called him. He cared only about two things in life: finding the perfect spot for the point of his dagger, and that his employers pay him in freshly minted gold--and a lot of it.

Merk had discovered at a young age that he had a natural gift, that he was superior to all others at what he did. His brothers, like his father and all his famed ancestors, were proud and noble knights, donning the best armor, wielding the best steel, prancing about on their horses, waving their banners with their flowery hair and winning competitions while ladies threw flowers at their feet. They could not have been more proud of themselves.

Merk, though, hated the pomp, the limelight. Those knights had all seemed clumsy at killing, vastly inefficient, and Merk had no respect for them. Nor did he need the recognition, the insignias or banners or coats of arms that knights craved. That was for people who lacked what mattered most: the skill to take a man's life, quickly, quietly, and efficiently. In his mind, there was nothing else to talk about.

When he was young and his friends, too small to defend themselves, had been picked on, they had come to him, already known to be exceptional with a sword, and he had taken their payment to defend them. Their bullies never tormented them again, as Merk went that extra step. Word had spread quickly of his prowess, and as Merk accepted more and more payments, his abilities in killing progressed.

Merk could have become a knight, a celebrated warrior like his brothers. But he chose instead to work in the shadows. Winning was what interested him, lethal efficiency, and he had discovered quickly that knights, for all their beautiful weapons and bulky armor, could not kill half as fast or effectively as he, a lone man with a leather shirt and a sharp dagger.

As he hiked, poking the leaves with his staff, he recalled one night at a tavern with his brothers, when swords had been drawn with rival knights. His brothers had been surrounded, outnumbered, and while all the fancy knights stood on ceremony, Merk did not hesitate. He had darted across the alley with his dagger and sliced all their throats before the men could draw a sword.

His brothers should have thanked them for their lives--instead, they all distanced themselves from him. They feared him, and they looked down on him. That was the gratitude he received, and the betrayal hurt Merk more than he could say. It deepened his rift with them, with all nobility, with all chivalry. It was all hypocrisy in his eyes, self-serving; they could walk away with their shiny armor and look down on him, but if it hadn't been for him and his dagger they would all be lying dead in that back alley today.

Merk hiked and hiked, sighing, trying to release the past. As he reflected, he realized he did not really understand the source of his talent. Perhaps it was because he was so quick and nimble; perhaps it was because he was fast with his hands and wrists; perhaps it was because he had a special talent for finding men's vital points; perhaps it was because he never hesitated to go that extra step, to take that final thrust that other men feared; perhaps it was because he never had to strike twice; or perhaps it was because he could improvise, could kill with any tool at his disposal--a quill, a hammer, an old log. He was craftier than others, more adaptable and quicker on his feet--a deadly combination.

Growing up, all those proud knights had distanced themselves from him, had even mocked him beneath their breath (for no one would mock him to his face). But now, as they were all older, as their powers waned and as his fame spread, he was the one enlisted by kings, while they were all forgotten. Because what his brothers never understood was that chivalry did not make kings kings. It was the ugly, brutal violence, fear, the elimination of your enemies, one at a time, the gruesome killing that no one else wanted to do, that made kings. And it was he they turned to when they wanted the real work of being a king done.

With each poke of his staff, Merk remembered each of his victims. He had killed the King's worst foes--not by poison--for that, they brought in the petty assassins, the apothecaries, the seductresses. The worst ones they often wanted killed with a statement, and for that, they needed him. Something gruesome, something public: a dagger in the eye; a body left strewn in a public square, dangling from a window, for all to see the next sunrise, for all to be left in wonder as to who had dared oppose the King.

When the old King Tarnis had surrendered the kingdom, had opened the gates for Pandesia, Merk had felt deflated, purposeless for the first time in his life. Without a King to serve he had felt adrift. Something long brewing within him had surfaced, and for some reason he did not understand, he began to wonder about life. All his life he had been obsessed with death, with killing, with taking life away. It had become easy--too easy. But now, something within him was changing; it was as if he could hardly feel the stable ground beneath his feet. He had always known, firsthand, how fragile life was, how easily it could be taken away, but now he started to wonder about preserving it. Life was so fragile, was preserving it not a greater challenge than taking it?

And despite himself, he started to wonder: what was this thing he was stripping away from others?

Merk did not know what had started all this self-reflection, but it made him deeply uncomfortable. Something had surfaced within him, a great nausea, and he had become sick of killing--he had developed as great a distaste for it as he had once enjoyed it. He wished there was one thing he could point to that triggered all of this-- the killing of a particular person, perhaps--but there was not. It had just crept up on him, without cause. And that was most disturbing of all.

Unlike other mercenaries, Merk had only taken on causes he believed in. It was only later in life, when he had become too good at what he did, when the payments had become too large, the people who requested him too important, that he had begun to blur the lines, to accept payment for killing those who weren't necessarily at fault--not necessarily at all. And that was what was bothering him.

Merk developed an equally strong passion for undoing all that he had done, for proving to others that he could change. He wanted to wipe out his past, to take back all that he had done, to make penitence. He had taken a solemn vow within himself never to kill again; never to lift a finger against anyone; to spend the rest of his days asking God for forgiveness; to devote himself to helping others; to become a better person. And it was all of this that had led him to this forest path he walked right now with each click of his staff.

Merk saw the forest trail rise up ahead then dip, aglow with white leaves, and he checked the horizon again for the Tower of Ur. There was still no sign of it. He knew eventually this path must lead him there, this pilgrimage that had been calling to him for months now. He had been captivated, ever since he was a boy, by tales of the Watchers, the secretive order of monks/knights, part men and part something else, whose job was to reside in the two towers--the Tower of Ur in the northwest and the Tower of Kos in the southeast--and to watch over the Kingdom's most precious relic: the Sword of Fire. It was the Sword of Fire, legend had it, that kept The Flames alive. No one knew for sure which tower it was in, a closely kept secret known by none but the most ancient Watchers. If it were ever to be moved, or stolen, The Flames would be lost forever--and Escalon would be vulnerable to attack.

It was said that watching over the towers was a high calling, a sacred duty and honorable duty--if the Watchers accepted you. Merk had always dreamed of the Watchers as a boy, had gone to bed at night wondering what it would be like to join their ranks. He wanted to lose himself in solitude, in service, in self-reflection, and he knew there was no better way than to become a Watcher. Merk felt ready. He had discarded his chain mail for leather, his sword for a staff, and for the first time in his life, he had gone a solid moon without killing or hurting a soul. He was starting to feel good.

As Merk crested a small hill, he looked out, hopeful, as he had been for days, that this peak might reveal the Tower of Ur somewhere on the horizon. But there was nothing to be found--nothing but more woods, reaching as far as the eye could see. Yet he knew he was getting close--after so many days of hiking, the tower could not be that far off.

Merk continued down the slope of the path, the wood growing thicker, until, at the bottom, he came to a huge, felled tree blocking the path. He stopped and looked at it, admiring its size, debating how to get around it.

"I'd say that's about far enough," came a sinister voice.

Merk recognized the dark intention in the voice immediately, something he had become expert in, and he did not even need to turn to know what was coming next. He heard leaves crunching all around him, and out of the wood there emerged faces to match the voice: cutthroats, each more desperate looking than the next. They were the faces of men who killed for no reason. The faces of common thieves and killers who preyed on the weak with random, senseless violence. In Merk's eyes, they were the lowest of the low.

Merk saw he was surrounded and knew he had walked into a trap. He glanced around quickly without letting them know it, his old instincts kicking in, and he counted eight of them. They all held daggers, all dressed in rags, with dirty faces, hands, and fingernails, all unshaven, all with a desperate look that showed they hadn't eaten in too many days. And that they were bored.

Merk tensed as the lead thief got closer, but not because he feared him; Merk could kill him--could kill them all--without blinking an eye, if he chose. What made him tense was the possibility of being forced into violence. He was determined to keep his vow, whatever the cost.

"And what do we have here?" one of them asked, coming close, circling Merk.

"Looks like a monk," said another, his voice mocking. "But those boots don't match."

"Maybe he's a monk who thinks he's a soldier," one laughed.

They all broke into laughter, and one of them, an oaf of a man in his forties with a missing front tooth, leaned in with his bad breath and poked Merk in the shoulder. The old Merk would have killed any man who had come half as close.

But the new Merk was determined to be a better man, to rise above violence--even if it seemed to seek him out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

Do not resort to violence, he told himself again and again.

"What's this monk doing?" one of them asked. "Praying?"

They all burst into laughter again.

"Your god won't save you now, boy!" another exclaimed.

Merk opened his eyes and stared back at the cretin.

"I do not wish to harm you," he said calmly.

Laughter rose up, louder than before, and Merk realized that staying calm, not reacting with violence, was the hardest thing he had ever done.

"Lucky for us, then!" one replied.

They laughed again, then all fell silent as their leader stepped forward and got in Merk's face.

"But perhaps," he said, his voice serious, so close that Merk could smell his bad breath, "we wish to harm you."

A man came up behind Merk, wrapped a thick arm around his throat, and began squeezing. Merk gasped as he felt himself being choked, the grip tight enough to put him in pain but not to cut off all air. His immediate reflex was to reach back and kill the man. It would be easy; he knew the perfect pressure point in the forearm to make him release his grip. But he forced himself not to.

Let them pass, he told himself. The road to humility must begin somewhere.

Merk faced their leader.

"Take of mine what you wish," Merk said, gasping. "Take it and be on your way."

"And what if we take it and stay right here?" the leader replied.

"No one's asking you what we can and can't take, boy," another said.

One of them stepped up and ransacked Merk's waist, rummaging greedy hands through his few personal belongings left in the world. Merk forced himself to stay calm as the hands rifled through everything he owned. Finally, they extracted his well-worn silver dagger, his favorite weapon, and still Merk, as painful as it was, did not react.

Let it go, he told himself.

"What's this?" one asked. "A dagger?"

He glared at Merk.

"What's a fancy monk like you carrying a dagger?" one asked.

"What are you doing, boy, carving trees?" another asked.

They all laughed, and Merk gritted his teeth, wondering how much more he could take.

The man who took the dagger stopped, looked down at Merk's wrist, and yanked back his sleeve. Merk braced himself, realizing they'd found it.

"What's this?" the thief asked, grabbing his wrist and holding it up, examining it.

"It looks like a fox," one said.

"What's a monk doing with a tattoo of a fox?" another asked.

Another stepped forward, a tall, thin man with red hair, and grabbed his wrist and examined it closely. He let it go and looked up at Merk with cautious eyes.

"That's no fox, you idiot," he said to his men. "It's a wolf. It's the mark of a King's man--a mercenary."

Merk felt his face flush as he realized they were staring at his tattoo. He did not want to be discovered.

The thieves all remained silent, staring at it, and for the first time, Merk sensed hesitation in their faces.

"That's the order of the killers," one said, then looked at him. "How did you get that mark, boy?"

"Probably gave it to himself," one answered. "Makes the road safer."

The leader nodded to his man, who released his grip on Merk's throat, and Merk breathed deep, relieved. But the leader then reached up and held a knife to Merk's throat and Merk wondered if he would die here, today, in this place. He wondered if it would be punishment for all the killing he had done. He wondered if he was ready to die.

"Answer him," their leader growled. "You give that to yourself, boy? They say you need to kill a hundred men to get that mark."

Merk breathed, and in the long silence that followed, debated what to say. Finally, he sighed.

"A thousand," he said.

The leader blinked back, confused.

"What?" he asked.

"A thousand men," Merk explained. "That's what gets you that tattoo. And it was given to me by King Tarnis himself."

They all stared back, shocked, and a long silence fell over the wood, so quiet that Merk could hear the insects chirping. He wondered what would happen next.

One of them broke into hysterical laughter--and all the others followed. They laughed and guffawed as Merk stood there, clearly thinking it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

"That's a good one, boy," one said. "You're as good a liar as you are a monk."

The leader pushed the dagger against his throat, hard enough to begin to draw blood.

"I said, answer me," the leader repeated. "A real answer. You want to die right now, boy?"

Merk stood there, feeling the pain, and he thought about the question--he truly thought about it. Did he want to die? It was a good question, and an even deeper question than the thief supposed. As he thought about it, really thought about, he realized that a part of him did want to die. He was tired of life, bone tired.

But as he dwelled on it, Merk ultimately realized he was not ready to die. Not now. Not today. Not when he was ready to start anew. Not when he was just beginning to enjoy life. He wanted a chance to change. He wanted a chance to serve in the Tower. To become a Watcher.

"No, actually I don't," Merk replied.

He finally looked his captor right in the eye, a resolve growing within him.

"And because of that," he continued, "I'm going to give you one chance to release me, before I kill you all."

They all looked at him in silent shock, before the leader scowled and began to break into action.

Merk felt the blade begin to slice his throat, and something within him took over. It was the professional part of him, the one he had trained his entire life, the part of him that could take no more. It meant breaking his vow--but he no longer cared.

The old Merk came rushing back so fast, it was as if it had never left--and in the blink of an eye, he found himself back in killer mode.

Merk focused and saw all of his opponents' movements, every twitch, every pressure point, every vulnerability. The desire to kill them overwhelmed him, like an old friend, and Merk allowed it to take over.

In one lightning-fast motion, Merk grabbed the leader's wrist, dug his finger into a pressure point, snapped it back until it cracked, then snatched the dagger as it fell and in one quick move, sliced the man's throat from ear to ear.

Their leader stared back at him with an astonished look before slumping down to the ground, dead.

Merk turned and faced the others, and they all stared back, stunned, mouths agape.

Now it was Merk's turn to smile, as he looked back at all of them, relishing what was about to happen next.

"Sometimes, boys," he said, "you just pick the wrong man to mess with."

# CHAPTER FIVE

Kyra stood in the center of the crowded bridge, feeling all eyes on her, all awaiting her decision for the fate of the boar. Her cheeks flushed; she did not like to be the center of attention. She loved her father for acknowledging her, though, and she felt a great sense of pride, especially for his putting the decision in her hands.

Yet at the same time, she also felt a great responsibility. She knew that whatever choice she made would decide the fate of her people. As much as she loathed the Pandesians, she did not want the responsibility of throwing her people into a war they could not win. Yet she also did not want to back down, to embolden the Lord's Men, to disgrace her people, make them seem weak, especially after Anvin and the others had so courageously made a stand.

Her father, she realized, was wise: by putting the decision in her hands, he made it seemed as if the decision was theirs, not the Lord's Men, and that act alone had saved his people face. She also realized he had put the decision in her hands for a reason: he must have knew this situation required an outside voice to help all parties save face--and he chose her because she was convenient, and because he knew her not to be rash, to be a voice of moderation. The more she pondered it, the more she realized that was why he chose her: not to incite a war--he could have chosen Anvin for that--but to get his people out of one.

She came to a decision.

"The beast is cursed," she said dismissively. "It nearly killed my brothers. It came from the Wood of Thorns and was killed on the eve of Winter Moon, a day we are forbidden to hunt. It was a mistake to bring it through our gates--it should have been left to rot in the wild, where it belongs."

She turned derisively to the Lord's Men.

"Bring it to your Lord Governor," she said, smiling. "You do us a favor."

The Lord's Men looked from her to the beast, and their expressions morphed; they now looked as if they had bitten into something rotten, as if they didn't want it anymore.

Kyra saw Anvin and the others looking at her approvingly, gratefully--and her father most of all. She had done it--she had allowed her people to save face, had spared them from a war--and had managed a jibe at Pandesia at the same time.

Her brothers dropped the boar to the ground and it landed in the snow with a thud. They stepped back, humbled, their shoulders clearly aching.

All eyes now fell to the Lord's Men, who stood there, not knowing what to do. Clearly Kyra's words had cut deep; they now looked at the beast now as if it were something foul dragged up from the bowels of the earth. Clearly, they no longer wanted it. And now that it was theirs, they seemed to have also lost the desire for it.

Their commander, after a long, tense silence, finally gestured to his men to pick up the beast, then turned, scowling, and marched away, clearly annoyed, as if knowing he had been outsmarted.

The crowd dispersed, the tension gone, and there came a sense of relief. Many of her father's men approached her approvingly, laying hands on her shoulder.

"Well done," Anvin said, looking at her with approval. "You shall make a good ruler someday."

The village folk went back to their ways, the hustle and bustle returning, the tension dissipated, and Kyra turned and searched for her father's eyes. She found them looking back, he standing but a few feet away. In front of his men, he was always reserved when it came to her, and this time was no different--he wore an indifferent expression, but he nodded at her ever so slightly, a nod, she knew, of approval.

Kyra looked over and saw Anvin and Vidar clutching their spears, and her heart quickened.

"Can I join you?" she asked Anvin, knowing they were heading to the training grounds, as the rest of her father's men.

Anvin glanced nervously at her father, knowing he would disapprove.

"Snow's thickening," Anvin finally replied, hesitant. "Night's falling, too."

"That's not stopping you," Kyra countered.

He grinned back.

"No, it's not," he admitted.

Anvin glanced at her father again, and she turned and saw him shake his head before turning and heading back inside.

Anvin sighed.

"They're preparing a mighty feast," he said. "You'd best go in."

Kyra could smell it herself, the air heavy with fine meats roasting, and she saw her brothers turn and head inside, along with dozens of villagers, all rushing to prepare for the festival.

But Kyra turned and looked longingly out at the fields, at the training grounds.

"A meal can wait," she said. "Training cannot. Let me come."

Vidar smiled and shook his head.

"You sure you're a girl and not a warrior?" Vidar asked.

"Can I not be both?" she replied.

Anvin let out a long sigh, and finally shook his head.

"Your father would have my hide," he said.

Then, finally, he nodded.

"You won't take no for an answer," he concluded, "and you've got more heart than half my men. I suppose we can use one more."

*

Kyra ran across the snowy landscape, trailing Anvin, Vidar and several of her father's men, Leo by her side as usual. The snowfall was thickening and she did not care. She felt a sense of freedom, of exhilaration, as she always did when passing through Fighter's Gate, a low, arched opening cut into the stone walls of the training ground. She breathed deep as the sky opened up and she ran into this place she loved most in the world, its rolling green hills, now covered in snow, encased by a rambling stone wall, perhaps a quarter mile wide and deep. She felt everything was as it should be as she saw all the men training, crisscrossing on their horses, wielding lances, aiming for distant targets and bettering themselves. This, for her, was what life was about.

This training ground was reserved for her father's men; women were not allowed here and neither were boys who had not yet reached their eighteenth year--and who had not been invited. Brandon and Braxton, every day, waited impatiently to be invited--yet Kyra suspected that they never would. Fighter's Gate was for honorable, battle-hardened warriors, not for blowhards like her brothers.

Kyra ran through the fields, feeling happier and more alive here than anywhere else on earth. The energy was intense, it packed with dozens of her father's finest warriors, all wearing slightly different armor, warriors from all regions of Escalon, all of whom had over time gravitated to her father's fort. There were men from the south, from Thebus and Leptis; from the Midlands, mostly from the capital, Andros, but also from the mountains of Kos; there were westerners from Ur; river men from Thusis and their neighbors from Esephus. There were men who lived near the Lake of Ire, and men from as far away as the waterfalls at Everfall. All wore different colors, armor, wielded different weapons, all men of Escalon yet each representing his own stronghold. It was a dazzling array of power.

Her father, the former King's champion, a man who commanded great respect, was the only man in these times, in this fractured kingdom, that men could rally around. Indeed, when the old King had surrendered their kingdom without a fight, it was her father that people urged to assume the throne and lead the fight. Over time, the best of the former King's warriors had sought him out, and now, with the force growing larger each day, Volis was achieving a strength that nearly rivaled the capital. Perhaps that was why, Kyra realized, the Lord's Men felt the need to humble them.

Elsewhere throughout Escalon, the Lord Governors for Pandesia did not allow knights to gather, did not allow such freedoms, for fear of a revolt. But here, in Volis, it was different. Here, they had no choice: they needed to allow it because they needed the best possible men to keep The Flames.

Kyra turned and looked out, beyond the walls, beyond the rolling hills of white, and in the distance, on the far horizon, even through the snowfall, she could see, just barely, the dim glow of The Flames. The wall of fire that protected the eastern border of Escalon, The Flames, a wall of fire fifty feet deep and several hundred high, burned as brightly as ever, lighting up the night, their outline visible on the horizon and growing more pronounced as night fell. Stretching nearly fifty miles wide, The Flames were the only thing standing between Escalon and the nation of savage trolls to the east.

Even so, enough trolls broke through each year to wreak havoc, and if it weren't for The Keepers, her father's brave men who kept The Flames, Escalon would be a slave nation to the trolls. The trolls, who feared water, could only attack Escalon by land, and The Flames was the only thing keeping them at bay. The Keepers stood guard in shifts, patrolled in rotation, and Pandesia needed them. Others were stationed at The Flames, too--draftees, slaves and criminals--but her father's men, The Keepers, were the only true soldiers amongst the lot, and the only ones who knew how to keep The Flames.

In return, Pandesia allowed Volis and their men their many small freedoms, like Volis, these training grounds, real weapons--a small taste of freedom to make them still feel like free warriors, even if it was an illusion. They were not free men, and all of them knew it. They lived with an awkward balance between freedom and servitude that none could stomach.

But here, at least, in Fighter's Gate, these men were free, as they had once been, warriors who could compete and train and hone their skills. They represented the best of Escalon, better warriors than any Pandesia had to offer, all of them veterans of The Flames--and all serving shifts there, but a day's ride away. Kyra wanted nothing more than to join their ranks, than to prove herself, to be stationed at The Flames, to fight real trolls as they came through and to help guard her kingdom from invasion.

She knew, of course, that it would never be allowed. She was too young to be eligible--and she was a girl. There were no other girls in the ranks, and even if there were, her father would never allow it. His men, too, had looked upon her as a child when she had started visiting them years ago, had been amused by her presence, like a spectator watching. But after the men had left, she had remained behind, alone, training every day and night on the empty fields, using their weapons, targets. They had been surprised at first to arrive the following day to find arrow marks in their targets--and even more surprised when they were in the center. But over time, they had become used to it.

Kyra began to earn their respect, especially on the rare occasions she had been allowed to join them. By now, two years later, they all knew she could hit targets most of them could not--and their tolerating her had morphed to something else: respecting her. Of course, she had not fought in battles, as these other men had, had never killed a man, or stood guard at The Flames, or met a troll in battle. She could not swing a sword or a battle axe or halberd, or wrestle as these men could. She did not have nearly their physical strength, which she regretted dearly.

Yet Kyra had learned she had a natural skill with two weapons, each of which made her, despite her size and sex, a formidable opponent: her bow, and her staff. The former she had taken to naturally, while the latter she had stumbled upon accidentally, moons ago, when she could not lift a double-handed sword. Back then, the men had laughed at her inability to wield the sword, and as an insult, one of them had chucked her a staff derisively.

"See if you can lift this stick instead!" he'd yelled, and the others had laughed. Kyra had never forgotten her shame at that moment.

At first, her father's men had viewed her staff as a joke; after all, they used it merely for a training weapon, these brave men who carried double-handed swords and hatchets and halberds, who could cut through a tree with a single stroke. They looked to her stick of wood as a plaything, and it had given her even less respect than she already had.

But she had turned a joke into an unexpected weapon of vengeance, a weapon to be feared. A weapon that now even many of her father's men could not defend against. Kyra had been surprised at its light weight, and even more surprised to discover that she was quite good with it naturally--so fast that she could land blows while soldiers were still raising their swords. More than one of the men she had sparred with had been left black and blue by it and, one blow at a time, she had fought her way to respect.

Kyra, through endless nights of training on her own, of teaching herself, had mastered moves which dazzled the men, moves which none of them could quite understand. They had grown interested in her staff, and she had taught them. In Kyra's mind, her bow and her staff complemented each other, each of equal necessity: her bow she needed for long-distance combat, and her staff for close fighting.

Kyra also discovered she had an innate gift that these men lacked: she was nimble. She was like a minnow in a sea of slow-moving sharks, and while these aging men had great power, Kyra could dance around them, could leap into the air, could even flip over them and land in a perfect roll--or on her feet. And when her nimbleness combined with her staff technique, it made for a lethal combination.

"What is she doing here?" came a gruff voice.

Kyra, standing to the side of the training grounds beside Anvin and Vidar, heard the approach of horses, and turned to see Maltren riding up, flanked by a few of his soldier friends, still breathing hard as he held a sword, fresh from the grounds. He looked down at her disdainfully and her stomach tightened. Of all her father's men, Maltren was the only one who disliked her. He had hated her, for some reason, from the first time he'd laid eyes upon her.

Maltren sat on his horse, and seethed; with his flat nose and ugly face, he was a man who loved to hate, and he seemed to have found a target in Kyra. He had always been opposed to her presence here, probably because she was a girl.

 "You should be back in your father's fort, girl," he said, "preparing for the feast with all the other young, ignorant girls."

Leo, beside Kyra, snarled up at Maltren, and Kyra laid a reassuring hand on his head, keeping him back.

"And why is that wolf allowed on our grounds?" Maltren added.

Anvin and Vidar gave Maltren a cold, hard look, taking Kyra's side, and Kyra stood her ground and smiled back, knowing she had their protection and that he could not force her to leave.

"Perhaps you should go back to the training ground," she countered, her voice mocking, "and not concern yourself with the comings and goings of a young, ignorant girl."

Maltren reddened, unable to respond. He turned, preparing to storm off, but not without taking one last jab at her.

"It's spears today," he said. "You'd best stay out of the way of real men throwing real weapons."

He turned and rode off with the others and as she watched him go, her joy at being here was tempered by his presence.

Anvin gave her a consoling look and lay a hand on her shoulder.

"The first lesson of a warrior," he said, "is to learn to live with those who hate you. Like it or not, you will find yourself fighting side-by-side with them, dependent on them for your lives. Oftentimes, your worst enemies will not come from without, but from within."

"And those who can't fight, run their mouths," came a voice.

Kyra turned to see Arthfael approaching, grinning, quick to take her side, as he always was. Like Anvin and Vidar, Arthfael, a tall, fierce warrior with a stark bald head and a long, stiff black beard, had a soft spot for her. He was one of the best swordsmen, rarely bested, and he always stood up for her. She took comfort in his presence.

"It's just talk," Arthfael added. "If Maltren were a better warrior, he'd be more concerned with himself than others."

Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael mounted their horses and took off with the others, and Kyra stood there watching them, thinking. Why did some people hate? she wondered. She did not know if she would ever understand it.

As they charged across the grounds, racing in wide loops, Kyra studied the great warhorses in awe, eager for the day when she might have one of her own. She watched the men circle the grounds, riding alongside the stone walls, their horses sometimes slipping in the snow. The men grabbed spears handed to them by eager squires, and as they rounded the loop, they threw them at distant targets: shields hanging from branches. When they hit, the distinct clang of metal rang out.

It was harder than it looked, she could see, to throw while on horseback, and more than one of the men missed, especially as they aimed for the smaller shields. Of those who hit, few hit in the center--except for Anvin, Vidar, Arthfael and a few others. Maltren, she noticed, missed several times, cursing under his breath and glaring over at her, as if she were to blame.

Kyra, wanting to keep warm, pulled out her staff and began spinning and twirling it in her hands, over her head, around and around, twisting and turning it like a living thing. She thrust at imaginary enemies, blocked imaginary blows, switching hands, over her neck, around her waist, the staff like a third arm for her, its wood well-worn from years of molding it.

While the men circled the fields, Kyra ran off to her own little field, a small section of the training grounds neglected by the men but which she loved for herself. Small pieces of armor dangled from ropes in a grove of trees, spread out at all different heights, and Kyra ran through and, pretending each target was an opponent, struck each one with her staff. The air filled with her clanging as she ran through the grove, slashing, weaving and ducking as they swung back at her. In her mind she attacked and defended gloriously, conquering an army of imaginary foes.

"Kill anyone yet?" came a mocking voice.

Kyra turned to see Maltren ride up on his horse, laughing derisively at her, before he rode off. She fumed, wishing that someone would put him in his place.

Kyra took a break as she saw the men, done with their spears, dismount and form a circle in the center of the clearing. Their squires rushed forward and handed them wooden training swords, made of a thick oak, weighing nearly as much as steel. Kyra kept to the periphery, her heart quickening as she watched these men square off with each other, wanting more than anything to join them.

Before they began, Anvin stepped into the middle and faced them all.

"On this holiday, we spar for a special bounty," he announced. "To the victor shall go the choice portion of the feast!"

A cry of excitement followed, as the men charged each other, the click-clack of their wooden swords filling the air, driving each other back and forth.

The sparring was punctuated by the blasts of a horn, sounding every time a fighter was struck by a blow, and sending him to the sidelines. The horn sounded frequently, and soon the ranks began to thin, most of the men now standing to the side and watching.

Kyra stood on the sidelines with them, burning to spar, though she was not allowed. Yet today was her birthday, she was fifteen now, and she felt ready. She felt it was time to press her case.

"Let me join them!" she pleaded to Anvin, who was standing nearby, watching.

Anvin shook his head, never taking his eyes off the action.

"Today marks my fifteenth year!" she insisted. "Allow me to fight!"

He glanced over at her skeptically.

"This is a training ground for men," chimed in Maltren, standing on the sidelines after losing a point. "Not young girls. You can sit and watch with the other squires, and bring us water if we demand it."

Kyra flushed.

"Are you so afraid that a girl might defeat you?" she countered, standing her ground, feeling a rush of anger within her. She was her father's daughter, after all, and no one could speak to her like that.

Some of the men snickered, and this time, Maltren blushed.

"She has a point," Vidar chimed in. "Maybe we should let her spar. What's to lose?"

"Spar with what?" Maltren countered.

"My staff!" Kyra called out. "Against your wooden swords."

Maltren laughed.

"That would be a sight," he said.

All eyes turned to Anvin, as he stood there, debating.

"You get hurt, your father will kill me," he said.

"I won't get hurt," she pleaded.

He stood there for what felt like forever, until finally he sighed.

"I see no harm in it then," he said. "If nothing else, it will keep you silent. As long as these men have no objection," he added, turning to the soldiers.

"AYE!" called out a dozen of her father's men in unison, all enthusiastically rooting for her. Kyra loved them for it, more than she could say. She saw the admiration they held for her, the same love they reserved for her father. She did not have many friends, and these men meant the world to her.

Maltren scoffed.

"Let the girl make a fool of herself then," he said. "Might teach her a lesson once and for all."

A horn sounded, and as another man left the circle, Kyra rushed in.

Kyra felt all eyes on her as the men stared, clearly not expecting this. She found herself facing her opponent, a tall man of stocky build in his thirties, a powerful warrior she had known since her father's days at court. From having observed him, she knew him to be a good fighter--but also overconfident, charging in the beginning of each fight, a bit reckless.

He turned to Anvin, frowning.

"What insult is this?" he asked. "I shall not fight a girl."

"You insult yourself by fearing to fight me," Kyra replied, indignant. "I have two hands, and two legs, just as you. If you will not fight me, then concede defeat!"

He blinked, shocked, then scowled back.

"Very well then," he said. "Don't go running to your father after you lose."

He charged at full speed, as she knew he would, raised his wooden sword hard and high, and came straight down, aiming for her shoulder. It was a move she had anticipated, one she had seen him perform many times, one he clumsily foreshadowed by the motion of his arms. His wooden sword was powerful, but it was also heavy and clumsy next to her staff.

Kyra watched him closely, waited until the last moment, then sidestepped, allowing the powerful blow to come straight down beside her. In the same motion, she swung her staff around and whacked him in the side of his shoulder.

He groaned as he stumbled sideways. He stood there, stunned, annoyed, having to concede defeat.

"Anyone else?" Kyra asked, smiling wide, turning and facing the circle of men.

Most of them wore smiles, clearly proud of her, proud of watching her grow up and reach this point. Except, of course, Maltren, who frowned back. He looked as if he were about to challenge her when suddenly another soldier appeared, facing off with a serious expression. This man was shorter and wider, with an unkempt red beard and fierce eyes. She could tell by the way he held his sword that he was more cautious than her previous opponent. She took that as a compliment: finally, they were beginning to take her seriously.

He charged, and Kyra did not understand why, but for some reason, knowing what to do came easily to her. It was as if her instincts kicked in and took over for her. She found herself to be much lighter and more nimble than these men, with their heavy armor and thick, wooden swords. They all were fighting for power, and they all expected their foes to challenge and block them. Kyra, though, was happy to dodge them, and refused to fight on their terms. They fought for power--but she fought for speed.

Kyra's staff moved in her hand like an extension of her; she spun it so quickly her opponents had no time to react, they still in mid-swing while she was already behind them. Her new opponent came at her with a lunge to the chest--but she merely sidestepped and swung her staff up, striking his wrist and dislodging his sword from his grip. She then brought the other end around and cracked him on the head.

The horn sounded, the point hers, and he looked at her in shock, holding his forehead, his sword on the ground. Kyra, examining her handiwork, realizing she was still standing, was a bit startled herself.

Kyra had become the person to beat, and now the men, no longer hesitant, lined up to test their skills against her.

The snowstorm raged on as torches were lit against the twilight and Kyra sparred with one man after the next. No longer did they wear smiles: their expressions were now deadly serious, perplexed, then outright annoyed, as no one could touch her--and each ended up defeated by her. Against one man, she leapt over his head as he thrust, spinning and landing behind him before whacking his shoulder; for another, she ducked and rolled, switched hands with her staff and landed the decisive blow, unexpectedly, with her left hand. For each, her moves were different, part gymnast, part swordsman, so none could anticipate her. These men did a walk of shame to the sidelines, each amazed at having to admit defeat.

Soon there remained but a handful of men. Kyra stood in the center of the circle, breathing hard, turning in each direction to search for a new foe. Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael watched her from the sidelines, all with smiles across their faces, looks of admiration. If her father could not be there to witness this and be proud of her, at least these men could.

Kyra defeated yet another opponent, this one with a blow behind the knee, yet another horn sounded, and finally, with none left to face her, Maltren stepped out into the circle.

"A child's tricks," he spat, walking toward her. "You can spin a piece of wood. In battle, that will do you no good. Against a real sword, your staff would be cut in half."

"Would it, then?" she asked, bold, fearless, feeling the blood of her father flowing within her and knowing she had to confront this bully for all time, especially as all these men were watching her.

"Then why not try it?" she prodded.

Maltren blinked back at her in surprise, clearly not expecting that response. Then he narrowed his eyes.

"Why?" he shot back. "So you can run for your father's protection?"

"I need not my father's protection, nor anyone else's," she replied. "This is between you and me--whatever should happen."

Maltren looked over at Anvin, clearly uncomfortable, as if he had dug himself into a pit which he could not get out of.

Anvin stared back, equally disturbed.

"We spar with wooden swords here," he called out. "I won't have anyone get hurt under my watch--much less, our commander's daughter."

But Maltren suddenly darkened.

"The girl wants real weapons," he said, his voice firm, "then we shall give it to her. Perhaps she will learn a lesson for life."

Without waiting any further, Maltren crossed the field, drew his real sword from its scabbard, the sound ringing in the air, and stormed back. The tension became thick in the air, as all grew silent, none sure what to do.

Kyra faced Maltren , feeling her palms sweating despite the cold, despite a gust of wind that blew the torches sideways. She could feel the snow turning to ice, crunching beneath her boots, and she forced herself to focus, to concentrate, knowing this would be no ordinary bout.

Maltren let out a sharp cry, trying to intimidate her, and charged, raising his sword high, it gleaming in the torchlight. Maltren, she knew, was a different fighter than the others, more unpredictable, less honorable, a man who fought to survive rather than to win. She was surprised to find him swinging right for her chest.

Kyra ducked out of the way as the blade passed right by.

The crowd of men gasped, outraged, and Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael stepped forward.

"Maltren!" Anvin called out, furious, as if ready to stop it.

"No!" Kyra called back, staying focused on Maltren, breathing hard as he came at her again. "Let us fight!"

Maltren immediately spun around and swung again--and again and again. Each time, she dodged, or stepped back, or leapt over his swings. He was strong, but not as quick as she.

He then raised his sword high and brought it straight down, clearly expecting her to block and expecting to slash her staff in two.

But Kyra saw it coming and she instead sidestepped and swung her staff sideways, hitting his sword on the side of its blade, deflecting it while protecting her staff. In the same motion, she took advantage of the opening, and swung around and jabbed him in the solar plexus.

He gasped and dropped to one knee as a horn sounded.

There came a great cheer, all the men looking to her with pride as she stood over Maltren, the victor.

Maltren, enraged, looked up at her--and instead of conceding defeat as all the others had, he suddenly charged for her, raising his sword and swinging.

It was a move Kyra had not expected, assuming he would concede honorably. As he came for her, Kyra realized there were not many moves left at her disposal with such short notice. She could not get out of the way in time.

Kyra dove to the ground, rolled out of the way, and at the same time, spun around with her staff and struck Maltren behind the knees, sweeping his legs out from under him.

He landed on his back in the snow, his sword flying from his grip--and Kyra immediately gained her feet and stood over him, holding the tip of her staff down on his throat and pushing. At the same moment, Leo bounded over beside her and snarled over Maltren's face, inches away, his drool landing on Maltren's cheek, just waiting for the order to pounce.

Maltren looked up, blood on his lip, stunned and finally humbled.

"You dishonor my father's men," Kyra seethed, still enraged. "What do you think of my little stick now?"

A tense silence fell over them as she kept him pinned down, a part of her wanting to raise her staff and strike him, to let Leo loose on him. None of the men tried to stop it, or came to his aid.

Realizing he was isolated, Maltren looked up with real fear.

"KYRA!"

A harsh voice suddenly cut through the silence.

All eyes turned, and her father suddenly appeared, marching into the circle, wearing his furs, flanked by a dozen men and looking at her disapprovingly.

He stopped a few feet away from her, staring back, and she could already anticipate the lecture to come. As they faced each other, Maltren scrambled out from under her and scurried off, and she wondered why he did not rebuke Maltren instead of her. That angered her, leaving father and daughter looking at each other in a standoff of rage, she as stubborn as he, neither willing to budge.

Finally, her father wordlessly turned, followed by his men, and marched back towards the fort, knowing she would follow. The tension broke as all the men fell in behind him, and Kyra, reluctantly, joined. She began to trudge back through the snow, seeing the distant lights of the fort, knowing she'd be in for an earful--but no longer caring.

Whether he accepted her or not, on this day, she was accepted amongst his men--and for her, that was all that mattered. From this day forward, she knew, everything would change.

# CHAPTER SIX

Kyra marched beside her father down the stone corridors of Fort Volis, a rambling fort the size of a small castle, with smooth stone walls, tapered ceilings, thick, ornate wood doors, an ancient redoubt that had served to house the Keepers of The Flames and protect Escalon for centuries. It was a crucial fort for their Kingdom, she knew, and yet it was also home to her, the only home she'd ever known. She would often fall asleep to the sound of warriors, feasting down the halls, dogs snarling as they fought over scraps, fireplaces hissing with dying embers and drafts of wind finding their way through the cracks. With all its quirks, she loved every corner of it.

As Kyra struggled to keep pace, she wondered what was troubling her father. They walked quickly, silently, Leo beside them, late for the feast, turning down corridors, soldiers and attendants stiffening as they went. Her father walked more quickly than usual, and though they were late, this, she knew, was unlike him. Usually he walked side-by-side with her, had a big smile ready to flash behind his beard, clasped an arm around her shoulder, sometimes told her jokes, recounted his day's events.

But now he walked somberly, his face set, several steps ahead of her, and he wore what appeared to be a frown of disapproval, one she had rarely seen him wear. He looked troubled, too, and she assumed it could only be from the day's events, her brothers reckless hunting, the Lord's Men snatching their boar--and perhaps even because she, Kyra, had been sparring. At first she had assumed he was just preoccupied with the feast--holiday feasts were always burdensome for him, having to host so many warriors and visitors well past midnight, as was ancient tradition. When her mother had been alive and hosting these events, Kyra had been told, it had been much easier on him. He was not a social creature, and he struggled to keep up with social graces.

But as their silence thickened, Kyra started to wonder if it was something else entirely. Most likely, she figured, it had something to do with her training with his men. Her relationship with her father, which used to be so simple, had become increasingly complicated as she grew up. He seemed to have a great ambivalence over what to do with her, over what kind of daughter he expected her to be. On the one hand, he often taught her of the principles of a warrior, of how a knight should think, should conduct herself. They had endless conversations about valor, honor, courage, and he oft stayed up late into the night recounting tales of their ancestor's battles, tales that she lived for, and the only tales she wanted to hear.

Yet at the same time, Kyra noticed him catching himself now when he discussed such things, silencing himself abruptly, as if he'd realized he shouldn't be speaking of it, as if he realized that he had fostered something within her and wanted to take it back. Talking about battle and valor was second nature to him, but now that Kyra was no longer a girl, now that she was becoming a woman, and a budding warrior herself, there was a part of him that seemed surprised by it, as if he had never expected her to grow up. He seemed to not quite know how to relate to a growing daughter, especially one who craved to be a warrior, as if he did not know which path to encourage her on. He did not know what to do with her, she realized, and a part of him even felt uncomfortable around her. Yet he was secretly proud, she sensed, at the same time. He just couldn't allow himself to show it.

Kyra could not stand his silence anymore--she had to get to the bottom of it.

"Do you worry for the feast?" she asked.

"Why should I worry?" he countered, not looking at her, a sure sign he was upset. "All is prepared. In fact, we are late. If I had not come to Fighter's Gate to find you, I would be at the head of my own table by now," he concluded resentfully.

So that was it, she realized: her sparring. The fact that he was angry made her angry, too. After all, she had beaten his men and she deserved his approval. Instead, he was acting as if nothing had happened, and if anything, was disapproving.

She demanded the truth and, annoyed, she decided to provoke him.

"Did you not see me beat your men?" she said, wanting to shame him, demanding the approval that he refused to give.

She watched his face redden, ever so subtly, but he held his tongue as they walked--which only increased her anger.

They continued to march, past the Hall of Heroes, past the Chamber of Wisdom, and were nearly at the Great Hall when she could stand it no more.

"What is it, Father?" she demanded. "If you disapprove of me, just say it."

He finally stopped right before the arched doors to the feasting hall, turned and looked at her, stone-faced. His look pained her. Her father, the one person she loved more than anyone in the world, who always had nothing but a smile for her, now looked at her as if she were a stranger. She could not understand it.

"I don't want you on those grounds again," he said, a cold anger in his voice.

The tone of his voice hurt her even more than his words, and she felt a shiver of betrayal rush through her. Coming from anyone else it would hardly have bothered her--but from him, this man she loved and looked up to so much, who was always so kind to her, his tone made her blood run cold.

But Kyra was not one to back down from a fight--a trait she had learned from him.

"And why is that?" she demanded.

His expression darkened.

"I do not need to give you a reason," he said. "I am your father. I am commander of this fort, of my men. And I do not want you training with them."

"Are you afraid I shall defeat them?" Kyra said, wanting to get a rise out of him, refusing to allow him to close this door on her forever.

He reddened, and she could see her words hurt him, too.

"Hubris is for commoners," he chided, "not for warriors."

"But I am no warrior, is that right, Father?" she goaded.

He narrowed his eyes, unable to respond.

"It is my fifteenth year. Do you wish me to fight against trees and twigs my whole life?"

"I do not wish you to fight at all," he snapped. "You are a girl--a woman now. You should be doing whatever women do--cooking, sewing--whatever it is your mother would have raised you to do if she were alive."

Now Kyra's expression darkened.

"I'm sorry I am not the girl you wish me to be, Father," she replied. "I am sorry I am not like all the other girls."

His expression became pained now, too.

"But I am my father's daughter," she continued. "I am the girl you raised. And to disapprove of me is to disapprove of yourself."

She stood there, hands on her hips, her light-gray eyes, filled with a warrior's strength, flashing back at his. He stared back at her with his brown eyes, behind his brown hair and beard, and he shook his head.

"This is a holiday," he said, "a feast not just for warriors but for visitors and dignitaries. People will be coming from all over Escalon, and from foreign lands." He looked her up and down disapprovingly. "You wear a warrior's clothes. Go to your chamber and change into a woman's fineries, like every other woman at the table."

She flushed, infuriated--and he leaned in close and raised a finger.

"And don't let me see you on the field with my men again," he seethed.

He turned abruptly, as servants opened the huge doors for him, and a wave of noise came tumbling out to greet them, along with the smell of roasting meat, unwashed hounds and roaring fires. Music carried in the air, and the din of activity from inside the hall was all-consuming. Kyra watched her father turn and enter, attendants following.

Several servants stood there, holding open the doors, waiting as Kyra stood there, fuming, debating what to do. She had never been so angry in her life.

She finally turned and stormed off with Leo, away from the hall, back for her chamber. For the first time in her life, she hated her father at that moment. She had thought he was different, above all this; yet now she realized he was a smaller man than she had thought--and that, more than anything, hurt her. His taking away from her what she loved most--the training grounds--was a knife in her heart. The thought of living her life confined to silks and dresses left her feeling a greater sense of despair than she had ever known.

She wanted to leave Volis--and never come back.

*

Commander Duncan sat at the head of the banquet table, in the massive feasting hall of fort Volis, and he looked out over his family, warriors, subjects, counselors, advisors and visitors--more than a hundred people, all stretched along the table for the holiday--with a heavy heart. Of all these people before him, the one most on his mind was the one he tried not to look at on principle: his daughter. Kyra. Duncan had always had a special relationship with her, had always felt the need to be both father and mother to her, to make up for the loss of her mother. But he was failing, he knew, at being her father--much less a mother, too.

Duncan had always made a point of watching over her, the only girl in a family of boys, and in a fort full of warriors--especially given that she was a girl unlike the other girls, a girl, he had to admit, who was too much like him. She was very much alone in a man's world, and he went out of his way for her, not only out of obligation, but also because he loved her dearly, more than he could say, perhaps even more, he hated to admit, than his boys. Because of all his children, he had to admit that he, oddly, even though she was a girl, saw himself most in her. Her willfulness; her fierce determination; her warrior's spirit; her refusal to back down; her fearlessness; and her compassion. She always stood up for the weak, especially her younger brother, and always stood up for what was just--whatever the cost.

Which was another reason why their conversation had irked him so badly, had left him in such a mood. As he had watched her on the training ground this evening, wielding her staff against those men with a remarkable, dazzling skill, his heart had leapt with pride and joy. He hated Maltren, a braggart and a thorn in his side, and he was elated that his daughter, of all people, had put him in his place. He was beyond proud that she, a girl of just fifteen, could hold her own with his men--and even beat them. He had wanted so badly to embrace her, to shower her with praise in front of all the others.

But as her father, he could not. Duncan wanted what was best for her and deep down, he felt she was going down a dangerous road, a road of violence in a man's world. She would be the only woman in a field of dangerous men, men with carnal desires, men who, when their blood was up, would fight to the death. She did not realize what true battle meant, what bloodshed, pain, death was like, up close. It was not the life he wanted for her--even if it were allowed. He wanted her safe and secure here in the fort, living a domestic life of peace and comfort. But he did not know how to make her want that for herself.

It had all left him feeling confused. By refusing to praise her, he figured, he could dissuade her. Yet deep down, he had a sinking feeling he could not--and that his withdrawal of praise would only alienate her further. He hated how he had to act tonight, and he hated how he felt right now. But he had no idea what else to do.

What upset him even more than all this, was what echoed in the back of his head: the prophecy proclaimed about her the day she was born. He had always disregarded it as nonsense, a witch's words; but today, watching her, seeing her prowess, made him realize how special she was, made him wonder if it could really be true. And that thought terrified him more than anything. Her destiny was fast approaching, and he had no way to stop it. How long would it be until everyone knew the truth about her?

Duncan closed his eyes and shook his head, taking a long swig from his sack of wine and trying to push it all from his mind. This was supposed to be a night of celebration, after all. The Winter solstice had arrived, and as he opened his eyes he saw the snow raging through the window, now a full-fledged blizzard, snow piled high against the stone, as if arriving on cue for the holiday. While the wind howled outside, they were all secure here in this fort, warm from the fires raging in the fireplaces, from the body heat, from the roasting food and from the wine.

Indeed, as he looked around, everyone looked happy--jugglers, bards and musicians made their rounds as men laughed and rejoiced, sharing battle stories. Duncan looked with appreciation at the awesome bounty before him, the banquet table covered with every sort of food and delicacy. He felt pride as he saw all the shields hanging high along the wall, each one hand-hammered with a different crest, each insignia representing a different house of his people, a different warrior who had come to fight with him. He saw all the trophies of war hanging, too, memories of a lifetime fighting for Escalon. He was a lucky man, he knew.

And yet as much as he liked to pretend otherwise, he had to face that his was a Kingdom under occupation. The old king, King Tarnis, had surrendered his people to all of their shame, had laid down arms without even a fight, allowing Pandesia to invade. It had spared casualties and cities--but it had also robbed their spirit. Tarnis had always argued that Escalon was indefensible anyway, that even if they held the Southern Gate, the Bridge of Sorrows, Pandesia could surround them and attack by sea. But they all knew that was a weak argument. Escalon was blessed with shores made of cliffs a hundred feet high, crashing waves and jagged rocks at their base. No ship could get close, and no army could breach them without a heavy price. Pandesia could attack by sea, but the price would be far too great, even for such a great empire. Land was the only way--and that left only the bottleneck of the Southern Gate, which all of Escalon knew was defensible. Surrendering had been a choice of pure weakness and nothing else.

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."

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Kyra sat in her father's chamber, a small stone room on the upper floors of their fort with high, tapered ceilings and a massive marble fireplace, blackened from years of use, and they each stared in the gloomy silence. They sat on opposite sides of the fire, each on a pile of furs, staring at the crumbling logs as they crackled and hissed.

Kyra's mind spun from the news as she stroked Leo's fur, curled up at her feet, and it was still hard to believe it was true. Change had finally come to Escalon, and it felt as if this were the day her life had ended. She stared into the flames, wondering what was left to live for if Pandesia would snatch her away from her family, her fort, from all she knew and loved and wed her to some grotesque Lord Governor. She would rather die.

Kyra usually took comfort in being here, this room, where she had spent countless hours reading, getting lost in tales of valor and sometimes of legends, tales which she never quite knew were fact or fantasy. Her father liked to comb his ancient books and read them aloud, sometimes into the early hours of the morning, chronicles of a different time, a different place. Most of all, Kyra loved the stories of the warriors, of the great battles. Leo was always at her feet and Aidan often joined them; on more than one sunrise, Kyra would return bleary-eyed to her chamber, drunk on the stories. She loved to read even more than she loved weapons, and as she looked 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 them now.

But as she glanced at her father, his grim face, it brought back their awful reality. This was no night for reading. She had never seen her father look so disturbed, so conflicted, as if for the first time he was unsure what action to take. Her father, she knew, was a proud man--all of his men were proud--and in the days when Escalon had a king, a capital, a court to rally around, all would have given up their lives for their freedom. It was not her father's way to surrender, to barter. But the old King had sold them out, had surrendered on their behalf, had left them all in this terrible position. As a fragmented, dispersed army, they could not fight an enemy already lodged in their midst.

"It would have been better to have been defeated that day in battle," her father said, his voice heavy, "to have faced Pandesia nobly and lost. The old King's surrender was a defeat anyway--just a long, slow, cruel one. Day after day, year after year, one freedom after the next is taken from us, each one making us slightly less of a man."

Kyra knew he was right; yet she could also understand King Tarnis's decision: Pandesia covered half the world. With their vast army of slaves they could have laid waste to Escalon until there was nothing left. They never would have backed down, however many millions of men it took. At least now Escalon was intact, its people alive--if one could call this life.

"For them, this is not about taking our girls," her father continued, his speech punctuated by the crackling fire. "This is about power. About subjugation. About crushing what is left of our souls."

Her father stared into the flames and she could see he was staring into his past and his future all at once. Kyra prayed that he would turn and tell her that the time had come to fight, to stand up for what they all believed in, 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.

"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. Escalon was invincible. We had only to man The Flames to hold back the trolls and the Southern Gate to hold back Pandesia. We were a free people for centuries, and 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 Tarnis 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 for our freedom. But one morning we all woke to find out lands already filled with men," he said, his eyes widening with agony as if reliving it again before his eyes.

"I know all of this," Kyra reminded, impatient, tiring of hearing the same 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 do not always merit the title," she said, no longer having patience. "Kings are just men, after all. And men make mistakes. Perhaps, sometimes, the most honorable route is 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 Escalon. They allow us to keep weapons--real weapons--unlike the others, who are stripped of all steel under penalty of death. They let us train, they give us the illusion of freedom--just enough to keep us complacent. Do you know why they have?" 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."

He shook his head.

"No," he replied. "It is only because they need us. They need Volis to man The Flames. We are all that stands between Marda and them. Pandesia fears Marda more than we. It is only because we are the Keepers. They patrol The Flames with their own men, their own draftees, but none are as vigilant as we."

Kyra thought about that.

"I always thought we were above it all, above the reach of Pandesia. But tonight," he said gravely, turning to her, "I realize that is not true. This news...I have been waiting for something of the sort for years. I did not realize how long. And despite all those years of preparation, now that it has arrived...there is nothing I can do."

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

"Are you saying you will let them take me?" she asked. "Are you saying you would not fight for me?"

His face darkened.

"You are young," he said, angry, "naïve. You don't understand the way of the world. You look at 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, not with a hundred men, or a thousand, or ten thousand--but a sea of men. 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.

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 redden, humiliated.

"Watch yourself," he warned darkly.

But Kyra would not back down.

"I hate you!" she shouted.

Now it was his turn to stand.

"Do you want all of our people killed?" he yelled back. "All for your honor?"

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. Whatever the consequences. You come first. You matter most.

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

"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.

"What are you doing here?" her father snapped. "I am speaking with your sister."

"And I overheard it!" Aidan said, marching inside, as Leo ran over to him, licking him.

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 Marda!"

She reached over and hugged him and kissed his forehead.

She then wiped her tears and turned back to her father, her glare darkening. She needed an answer; she needed to 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 it were one of your sons taken, you would go to war."

He scowled.

"This is not about that," he snapped.

"But isn't it?" she shot back, determined. "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 wed. Untouchable. You will be safe, here with us."

Kyra stared back, aghast.

"Do you really expect me to marry some strange boy?" 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--but most of all, disappointed.

"So is that how the great Commander Duncan wins battles?" she asked, wanting to hurt him. "Finding loopholes in the law to hide from his occupier?"

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

"KYRA!" her father yelled--but the slam muffled his voice.

Kyra marched down the corridor, feeling her whole world shifting beneath her, as if she were no longer walking on steady ground. She realized, with each passing step, that she could no longer stay here. That her presence would endanger them all. And that was something she could not allow.

Kyra could not fathom her father's words. She would never, ever, marry someone she did not love. She would never just give in and live a domestic life like all the other women. She would rather die first. Didn't he know that? Did he not 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. She kept marching, turning down corridor after corridor, determined to never see Volis again. Whatever lay out there, out in the real world, she would face it head on. She might die, she knew--but at least it would be her choice. At least she wouldn't live according to someone else's designs.

Kyra reached the main doors to the fort, Leo beside her, and the servants, standing there beneath the dying torches, stared back at her, puzzled.

"My lady," one said. "It is late. The storm rages."

But Kyra stood there, determined, until finally they realized she would not back down. They exchanged an unsure look, then each reached out and slowly pulled back the thick door.

The moment they did, a freezing gale of wind howled and struck her in the face, the wind carrying whipping snow. She pulled her furs tighter as she looked down and saw snow up to her shins.

Kyra stepped out 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 of all nights, the Winter Moon, the one night of the year one was supposed to stay indoors, to bar the gates, the night when the dead crossed worlds and anything could happen. Kyra looked up and saw the huge, blood-red moon hanging on the horizon, as if tempting her.

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

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Alec sat in his father's forge, the great iron anvil before him, well-nicked from years of use, lifted his hammer and pounded on the glowing-hot steel of a sword, freshly removed from the flames. He sweated, frustrated, 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, he brooded, contemplating the news he had just received. He had never felt such a sense of despair. He smashed the hammer again and again, and as sweat poured down his forehead and hissed on the sword, he wanted to hammer away all his troubles.

His entire life, Alec had been able to control things, to work however hard he needed to to make things right. But now, for the first time in his life, he would have to sit back and watch as injustice came to his town, to his family--and there was nothing he could do about it.

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, these invaders who were coming to take away his brother. Alec slammed the sword, 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.

Today, Winter Moon, was his most hated day, the day when Pandesia scoured all the villages across Escalon 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 his brother, Ashton, having turned eighteen last harvest season, was not. Why Ashton, of all people? He wondered. Ashton was his hero. Despite being born with a club foot, 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, who was always caught up in a storm of emotions. No matter how hard he tried to be happy, like his brother, Alec could not control his passions, and often caught himself brooding. He had been told 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 providing for their family, especially since their father's malady. If Ashton were taken away, their family would fall into poverty. Worse, Alec would be crushed, for he had heard the stories, and he knew that life as a draftee would mean death for his brother. With Ashton's club foot, it would be cruel and unjust for Pandesia to take him. But Pandesia was not famed for its compassion, and Alec 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 fringes of Soli, a day's ride north of the capital and a day's ride south of Whitewood. It was a landlocked, peaceful village, in a rolling countryside, far from most things--a place most people looked over on the way to Andros. Their family had just enough bread to get through each day, no more, no less--and that was all they wished for. They used their skills to bring iron to market, and it was just enough to provide them what they needed.

Alec did not wish for much in life--but he did crave justice. He shuddered at the thought of his brother being snatched away to serve Pandesia. 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, to become a Keeper. The Pandesian 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. Most of them were not noble Escalon warriors, not the noble Keepers of Volis. The greatest danger at The Flames, Alec had heard, was not the trolls, but your fellow Keepers. Ashton, he knew, would be unable 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 his hammer, rose reluctantly, and weaved his way through the cramped workshop. He could no longer prolong the inevitable.

He stepped back into their cottage through the open doorway, past his disapproving mother, and he stopped and 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, the only nice thing the family owned.

Seated around the table, looking up at him, waiting, sat his brother and father, bowls of stew before them.

Ashton was tall and thin with dark features, 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. They resembled each other--and 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 noted 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 by this time 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," she snapped. "You will eat what is given you. This may well be our last meal together as a family--do not disrespect your brother."

Alec turned to his mother, a plain-looking woman in her fifties, her face lined from a life of hardship, and he saw the determination in her green eyes flashing back at him, the same determined look he wore himself.

"Shall we just pretend then that nothing is happening?" he asked.

"He is our son, too," she snapped. "You are not the only one here."

Alec turned to his father, feeling a sense of desperation.

"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 disapprovingly.

"Those are the dreams of a young man," he said. "You, who have never killed a man in your life. Let's pretend you kill the soldier that grabs Ashton--and what of the two hundred behind him?"

"Let us hide Ashton, then!" Alec insisted.

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.

His father flushed.

"I did not say only--I said eldest."

"No, you said only," Alec insisted, wondering.

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 calm one in the room.

Alec looked across the table to see Ashton smiling back at him, even-keeled, well composed as always.

"It will be fine, my brother," Ashton said. "I shall serve my duty and I shall return."

"Return?" Alec repeated. "They take Keepers for 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--" 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, 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 proudly, and let us pray that when they see Ashton's foot, they shall do the humane thing and skip him over."

Alec rose reluctantly from the table as the others all shuffled outside the house.

As he stepped outside into the cold night, Alec was struck at the sight: there was a commotion in his village like never before. The streets were aglow with torches, and all boys over eighteen were lined up, all their families standing by nervously, watching. Clouds of dust filled the streets as a caravan of Pandesians charged into town, dozens of soldiers in the scarlet armor of Pandesia, riding chariots driven by large stallions. Behind them they towed carriages made of iron bars, jolting roughly on the road.

Alec examined the carriages and saw they were filled with boys from across the land, staring out with scared and hardened faces. He gulped at the sight, imagining what lay in store for his brother.

They all came to a stop in the village, and a tense silence fell, 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 one eyebrow. He walked slowly, surveying the ranks of boys, the town so quiet that one could hear his spurs jingling 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 to the cart. Some boys went silently; 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 the Pandesians.

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

"My son is lame," their mother quickly called out, pleading desperately. "He'd be useless to you."

The soldier looked Ashton up and down, and stopped at his foot.

"Roll up your pants," he said, "and take off your boot."

Ashton did so, leaning on Alec for balance, and as Alec watched him, he knew his brother well enough to know he was humiliated; his foot had always been a source of shame for him, smaller than the other, twisted and mangled, forcing him to hobble as he walked.

"He also works for me in the forge," Alec's father chimed in. "He is our only source of income. If you take him, our family will have nothing. We won't be able to survive."

The commander, finished looking at his foot, gestured for Ashton to put his boot back on. He then turned and looked at their father, his black eyes cold and firm.

"You live in our land now," he said, his voice like gravel, "and your son is our property to do with as we wish. Take him away!" the commander called out, and as he did, soldiers rushed forward.

"NO!" Alec's mother cried out in grief. "NOT MY SON!"

She rushed forward and grabbed Ashton, clinging to him, and as she did, a Pandesian soldier stepped forward and backhanded her across the face.

Alec's father grabbed the soldier's arm and as he did several soldiers pounced and pummeled him to the ground.

As Alec stood there, watching the soldiers drag Ashton away, he could stand it no more. The injustice of it all killed him--he knew he would be unable to live with it for the rest of his days. The image of his brother being dragged away would be imprinted in his mind forever.

Something within him snapped.

"Take me instead!" Alec found himself crying out, involuntarily rushing forward and standing between Alec and the soldiers.

They all stopped and looked at him, clearly caught off guard.

"We are brothers of the same family!" Alec continued. "The law says to take one boy from each family. Let me be that boy!"

The commander came and looked him over warily.

"And how old are you, boy?" he demanded.

"I've passed my sixteenth year!" he exclaimed proudly.

The soldiers laughed, while their commander sneered.

"You're too young for drafting," he concluded, dismissing him.

But as he turned to go, Alec rushed forward, refusing to be dismissed.

"I am a greater soldier than he!" Alec insisted. "I can throw a spear further and cut deeper with a sword. My aim is truer, and I am stronger than boys twice my age. Please," he pleaded. "Give me a chance."

As the commander stared back, Alec, despite his feigned confidence, was terrified inside. He knew he took a great risk: he could easily be imprisoned or killed for this.

The commander stared him down for what felt like an eternity, the entire village silent, until finally, he nodded back at his men.

"Leave the cripple," he commanded. "Take the boy."

The soldiers shoved Ashton, reached forward and grabbed Alec, and within moments, Alec felt himself being dragged away. It all happened so quickly, it was surreal.

"NO!" cried Alec's mother.

He saw her weeping as he felt himself being dragged and then tossed roughly into the iron carriage full of boys.

"No!" Ashton cried out. "Leave my brother alone! Take me!"

But there was no more listening. Alec was shoved deep inside the carriage, which stank of body odor and fear, stumbling over other boys who shoved him back rudely, and the iron door was slammed behind him, echoing. Alec felt a great sense of relief at having saved his brother's life, greater even than his fear. He had given his life up for his brother's--and whatever should come next would matter little next to that.

As he sat on the floor and settled back against the iron bars, the carriage already moving beneath him, he knew that he probably would not survive this.  He met the angry eyes of the other boys, summing him up in the blackness, and as they jolted along the road, he knew that on the journey to come, there would be a million ways to die. He wondered which would be his. Singed by The Flames? Stabbed by a boy? Eaten by a troll?

Or would the least likely thing of all happen: would he somehow, against all odds, survive?

# CHAPTER NINE

Kyra hiked through the blinding snow, Leo leaning against her leg, the feel of his body the only thing grounding her in a sea of white. Snow whipping in her face, she could see hardly more than a few feet, the only light that from the blood-red moon, glowing eerily against the clouds when they did not consume the moon completely. The cold bit her to the bone, and only hours from home, she already missed the warmth of her father's fort. She imagined sitting by the fireplace now, in a pile of furs, drinking melted chocolate and lost in a book.

Kyra forced those thoughts from her mind and instead doubled her efforts, determined. She would get away from the life her father had carved out from her, whatever the cost. She would not be forced to marry a man she did not know or love, especially to appease Pandesia. She would not be ordered to a life by a hearth, would not be forced to give up on her dreams. She would rather die out here in the cold and the snow than live a life that other people had planned for her.

Kyra trekked on, wading through snow up to her knees, heading deeper into the black night, in the worst weather she had ever been in. It felt surreal. She could feel a special energy in the air on this night, when the dead were said to share the earth with the living, when others feared to leave their homes, when villagers boarded windows and doors, even in the best of weather. The air felt thick, and not only with snow: she could feel the spirits all around her. It felt as if they were watching her, as if she were walking into her destiny--or to her death.

Kyra crested a hill and caught a glimpse of the horizon, and for the first time in this trek, she was filled with hope. There, in the distance, lighting the sky despite the storm, sat The Flames, the only beacon in a world of white. In this black night they summoned her like a magnet, this place which she had wondered about her entire life and which her father had strictly forbidden her to go. She was surprised she had hiked this far, and she wondered if she had been unconsciously marching towards it since she'd set out.

Kyra stopped, gasping for breath, and took it in. The Flames. The great wall of fire that stretched fifty miles across the eastern border of Escalon, the only thing blocking her country from the vast lands of Marda, the kingdom of the trolls. The place where her father and his father before him had served dutifully, protecting their homeland, where all of her father's men, all of the Keepers, went to serve their duty in rotation.

They were higher, brighter, than she had imagined--all the men had boasted of and more--and she wondered what magical force kept them lit, how they could burn all day and night, if they would ever burn out. Seeing them in person only raised more questions than it answered.

Kyra knew thousands of men were stationed along The Flames, all sorts of men, the professionals from Volis, but also Pandesians, slaves, draftees, and criminals. All of them, technically, were Keepers, though none of the others had the skill her father's people had, having manned The Flames for generations. On the other side lurked thousands of trolls, desperate to break through. It was a dangerous place. A mystical place. A place for the desperate, the bold, and the fearless.

Kyra had to see it, up close. If nothing else, she needed to get her bearings in this storm, to warm her hands, and to decide where to go next.

Kyra hiked downhill through the snow, using her staff to steady herself, Leo beside her, marching for The Flames. Though it could hardly have been a mile away, it felt like ten, and what should have been a ten-minute hike took her over an hour as the snow worsened, the cold biting her to the bone. She turned and looked back for Volis, but it was long gone, lost in a world of white. She was too cold to make it back anyway.

Legs trembling from the cold, her toes growing numb, her hand stuck to the staff, Kyra finally stumbled down the hill and felt a sudden burst of heat as The Flames spread out before her. The sight took her breath away. Hardly a hundred yards away, the light was so bright that it lit up the entire night, making it feel like day, and The Flames rose so high, when she looked up, she could not see the end. The heat was so strong that even from here it warmed her, her body slowing coming back to life as she felt her hands and toes again. The crackling and hissing noise of the fire was so intense, it drowned out even the howl of the wind.

Mesmerized, Kyra came closer, feeling more and more warmth, as if walking towards the surface of the sun. She felt herself thaw as she approached, began to feel her toes and fingers again, tingling as the feeling came back. It was like standing before a huge fireplace, and she felt it bring her back to life. She stood before it, hypnotized, like a moth to a flame, staring at this wonder of the world, the greatest wonder in their land, the one thing keeping them safe--and the one thing no one understood. Not the historians, not the kings, and not even the sorcerers. When had it begun? What kept it going? When would it end?

It was said the Watchers knew the answers. But they, of course, would never reveal them. Legend had it the Sword of Fire, closely guarded in one of the two towers--no one knew which--kept The Flames alive. The Towers, guarded by a cult-like group of men, the Watchers, an ancient order, part man, part something else, were each well-hidden and guarded on two opposite ends of Escalon, one on the far western shore, in Ur, and the other in the southeastern corner of Kos. The Watchers were joined, too, by the finest knights the kingdom had to offer, all intent on keeping the Sword of Fire hidden and The Flames alive.

More than one troll, her father had told her, who breached The Flames had tried to find the towers, to steal the Sword--but none had ever been successful. The Watchers were too good at what they did. After all, even Pandesia, with all its might, dared not try to occupy the Towers, dared not risk angering the Watchers and lowering The Flames.

Kyra detected motion, and in the distance spotted soldiers on patrol, carrying torches in the night, pacing along The Flames, swords at their hips. They were spread out every fifty yards or so, with such vast territory to cover. Her heart beat faster as she watched them. She had really made it.

Kyra stood there, feeling alive, knowing anything could happen at any time. At any moment, a troll could burst through those flames, she knew. Of course, the fire killed most of them, but some, using shields, managed to burst through and live, at least long enough to kill as many soldiers as they could. Sometimes a troll even survived the passage and roamed the woods and terrorized villages. She remembered once when one of her father's men brought back a troll's head; it was a sight she would never forget.

As Kyra stared into The Flames, so mysterious, she wondered at her own fate, so far from home. What would become of her now?

"Hey, what are you doing here?" shouted a voice.

A soldier, one of her father's men, had spotted her, and was walking towards her.

Kyra did not want a confrontation. She was warm again, her spirits restored, and it was time to move on.

She whistled to Leo, and the two of them turned and headed back into the storm, towards the distant wood. She did not know where she would go next, but, inspired by The Flames, she knew that her destiny lay out there somewhere, even if she could not see it yet.

*

Kyra stumbled through the night, chilled to the bone, glad Leo was with her and wondering how much longer she could go on. She had searched everywhere for shelter, for an escape from the biting wind and snow, and despite the risks, she had found herself gravitating toward the Wood of Thorns, the only place in sight. The Flames were far behind her by now, their glow no longer visible on the horizon, and the blood-moon had long ago been swallowed by the clouds, leaving her no light to see by. Fingers and toes numb again, her situation seemed to grow more dire by the moment. She began to wonder if it had been foolish to leave the fort at all. She wondered if her father, willing to give her away, would even care.

Kyra felt a fresh burst of anger as she continued through the snow, marching she was not sure where, but determined to get away from the life waiting for her. As another gale of wind passed and Leo whined, Kyra looked up and was surprised to see she had made it: before her lay the towering Wood of Thorns.

Kyra paused, feeling apprehensive, knowing how dangerous it was--even in the day, even in a group. To come here alone, and at night--and on Winter Moon, when spirits roamed--would be reckless. Anything, she knew, could happen.

But another gale whipped through, sending snow down the back of her neck and chilling her to the bone, and it drove Kyra forward, past the first tree, its branches heavy with snow, and into the wood.

As she entered, Kyra immediately felt relief. The thick branches sheltered her from the wind, and it was quieter in here. The raging snow was but a flurry in here, its fall broken by the thick branches, and for the first time since being outside, Kyra could see again. Even Already, she felt warmer.

Kyra used the opportunity to shake the snow off her arms and shoulders and hair, while Leo shook himself, too, snow flying everywhere. She reached into her sack and pulled out a piece of dried meat for him, and he snatched it eagerly as she stroked his head.

"Don't worry, I'll find us shelter, my friend," she said.

Kyra continued deeper into the wood, looking for any shelter she could find, realizing she'd need to stay the night here to wait out the storm, wake to a new day, and continue her trek in the morning. She searched for a boulder to take shelter against, or the nook of a tree, or ideally a cave--anything--but found none.

Kyra trekked deeper, snow up to her knees, brushing against snowy branches in the thick wood; as she went, strange animal noises cried out all around her. She heard a deep purring noise beside her and she spun and peered into the thick branches--but it was too dark to see anything. Kyra hurried on, not wanting to contemplate what beasts might be lurking here, and in no mood for a confrontation. She clutched her bow tightly, unsure if she could even use it, given how numb her hands were.

Kyra ascended a gentle slope and as she crested it, she stopped and looked out, afforded a view down below as moonlight momentarily shone through an opening in the trees. Down below, before her, sat a glistening lake, its waters ice-blue, translucent, and she recognized it immediately: the Lake of Dreams. Her father had brought her here once, when she was a child, and they had lit a candle and placed it on a lily pad, in honor of her mother. This lake was rumored to be a sacred place, a vast mirror that allowed one to look into both life above and life below. It was a mystical place, a place you did not come without good reason, a place where heartfelt wishes could not be ignored.

Kyra hiked for the lake, feeling drawn to it. She stumbled down the steep hill, using her staff to steady herself, weaving between trees, slipping and steadying herself, until she reached its shore. Oddly enough, its shore, made of a fine white sand, was free of snow. It was magical.

Kyra knelt by the water's edge, shivering from the cold, and looked down. In the moonlight, she saw her reflection, her blonde hair falling by her cheeks, her light gray eyes, her high cheekbones, her delicate features, looking nothing like her father or brothers, staring back at her. In her eyes, she was surprised to see a look of defiance, the eyes of a warrior.

As she looked at her reflection, she recalled her father's words from so many years ago: a heartfelt prayer at the Lake of Dreams cannot be refused.

Kyra, at a crossroads in her life as never before, needed guidance now more than ever. She had never felt more confused as to what to do, where to go, next. She closed her eyes and prayed with all her might.

God, I don't know who you are. But I ask your help. Give me something, and I shall give you whatever you ask in return. Show me which path to take. Give me a life of honor and courage. Of valor. Allow me to become a great warrior, to be at the mercy of no man. Allow me to have the freedom to do as I choose--not as someone else would choose for me.

Kyra knelt there, numb to the cold, at her wits' end, with nowhere left to turn in the world, praying with all her heart and all her soul. She lost all sense of time and place.

Kyra had no idea how much time had passed when she opened her eyes, snowflakes on her eyelids. She felt changed somehow, she did not know how, as if an inner peace had settled over her. She looked down into the lake, and this time, what she saw took her breath away.

Staring back up at her she did not see her own reflection--but the reflection of a dragon. It had fierce, glowing yellow eyes, and ancient red scales, and she felt her blood run cold as it opened its mouth and roared at her.

Kyra, startled, wheeled, expecting to see a dragon standing over her. She looked everywhere, but saw nothing.

It was only her, and Leo, who whined softly.

Kyra turned and looked down at the lake again, and this time, saw only her face staring back.

Her heart slammed in her chest. Had it been some trick of the light? Of her own imagination? Of course, it could not have been possible--dragons had not visited Escalon in a thousand years. Was she losing her mind? What could this all mean?

Kyra flinched as she suddenly heard a terrifying noise from far off in the woods, something like a howl, or possibly a cackle. Leo heard it, as he turned and snarled, his hair rising. Kyra searched the woods and in the distance saw a faint glow from behind the tree line. It was as if there were a fire--but there was no fire. Only an eerie, white glow.

Kyra felt the hair rise on the back of her neck as she felt as if another world were beckoning her. She felt as if she had opened a portal to the other world. As much as every part of her screamed to turn and run, she found herself mesmerized, found her body acting for her as she got up and began to make her way inextricably toward the light.

Kyra hiked up the hill with Leo, the glow getting brighter as she weaved between the trees. Finally she reached the ridge, and as she did, she stopped short, aghast. Before her, in a small clearing, was a sight she could have never expected--and one she would never forget.

An old woman, face whiter than the snow, grotesque, covered in warts and scars, stared down at what appeared to be a fire below her, holding her wrinkled hands to it. But the fire burned a bright white, and there were no logs beneath it. She looked up at Kyra with ice-blue eyes, eyes with no whites, all color, and no pupils. It was the scariest thing Kyra had ever seen, and her heart froze within her. Everything within her told her to turn and run, but she could not help herself as she stepped closer.

"The Winter Moon," the old lady said, her voice unnaturally deep, as if a bullfrog had spoken. "When the dead are not quite alive and the alive not quite dead."

"And which are you?" Kyra asked, stepping forward.

The woman cackled, a horrific sound that sent a chill up her spine. Beside her, Leo snarled.

"The question is," the woman said, "which are you?"

Kyra frowned.

"I am alive," she insisted.

"Are you? In my eyes, you are more dead than me."

Kyra wondered what she meant, and she sensed it was a rebuke, a rebuke for not going forth boldly and following her own heart.

"What is it you seek, brave warrior?" the woman asked

Kyra's heart quickened at the term, and she felt emboldened.

"I want a bigger life," she said. "I want to be a warrior. Like my father."

The old woman looked back down into the light, and Kyra was relieved to have her eyes off of her. A long silence fell over them as Kyra waited, wondering.

Finally, as the silence stretched forever, Kyra's heart fell in disappointment. Perhaps the woman would not respond. Or perhaps her wish was not possible.

"Can you help me?" Kyra asked, finally. "Can you change my destiny?"

The women looked back up, her eyes aglow, intense, scary.

"You've picked a night when all things are possible," she replied slowly. "If you want something badly enough, you can have it. The question is: what are you willing to sacrifice for it?"

Kyra thought, her heart pounding with the possibilities.

"I will give anything," she said. "Anything."

There came another long silence as the wind howled. Leo began to whine.

"We are each born with a destiny," the old woman finally said. "Yet we must also choose it for ourselves. Fate and free-will, they perform a dance, your whole life long. There is a constant tug of war between the two. Which side wins...well, that depends."

"Depends on what?" Kyra asked.

"Your force of will. How desperately you want something--and how graced you are by God. And perhaps most of all, what you are willing to give up."

"I will sacrifice," Kyra said, feeling the strength rising up within her. "I will sacrifice everything not to live the life that others have chosen for me."

In the long silence that followed, the woman stared into her eyes with such an intensity, Kyra nearly had to turn away.

"Vow to me," the old woman said. "On this night, vow to me that you will pay the price."

Kyra stepped forward solemnly, her heart pounding, feeling her life was about to change.

"I vow," she proclaimed, meaning it more than any words she had uttered in her life.

The certainty of her tone cut through the air, her voice carrying an authority which surprised even her.

The old woman looked at her, and for the first time, she nodded, as her face morphed into what appeared to be a look of respect.

"You will be a warrior--and more," the woman proclaimed loudly, raising her palms out to her side, her voice booming, louder and louder as she continued. "You will be the greatest of all warriors. Greater than your father. More than this, you will be a great ruler. You will achieve power beyond what you could dream. Entire nations will look to you."

Kyra's heart was slamming in her chest as she listened to the woman's proclamation, spoken with such authority, as if it had already happened.

"Yet you will also be tempted by darkness," the woman continued. "There will be a great struggle within you, darkness battling light. If you can defeat yourself, then the world will be yours."

Kyra stood there, reeling, hardly believing it all. How was it possible? Surely, she must have the wrong person. No one had ever told her she would be important, that she would be anything special. It all seemed so foreign to her, so unattainable.

"How?" Kyra asked. "How is this possible? I am but a girl."

The woman smiled, an awful, evil smile that Kyra would remember for the rest of her life. She stepped in close, so close that Kyra shook with fear.

"Sometimes," the old woman grinned, "your fate is waiting for you just around the corner, with your very next breath."

There came a sudden flash of light, and Kyra shielded her eyes as Leo snarled and pounced for the old woman.

When Kyra opened her eyes, the light was gone. The woman was gone, Leo leaping at thin air. The forest clearing held nothing but blackness.

Kyra looked everywhere, baffled. Had she imagined the whole thing?

Suddenly, as if to answer her thoughts, there came a horrific, primordial shriek, as if the heavens themselves had cried out. Kyra stood there, frozen in place, and she thought of the lake. Of her reflection

Because, although she had never set eyes upon one, she knew, she just knew that was the shriek of a dragon. That it was waiting for her, just beyond the clearing.

Standing there alone, the woman gone, Kyra felt herself reeling as she tried to process what just happened, what it all could mean. Most of all, she tried to understand that noise. It was a roar, a sound unlike any she had ever heard, so primal, as if the earth were being born. It at once terrified her and drew her in, leaving her no place else to go. It resonated through her in a way she could not understand, and she realized it was a sound she had been hearing somewhere in the back of her head her entire life.

Kyra tore through the woods, Leo beside her, stumbling knee-deep in the snow, branches snapping her in the face and she not caring, feeling an urgency to reach it. For as it screeched again, Kyra knew it was a sound of distress.

The dragon, she knew, was dying--and it desperately needed her help.

# CHAPTER TEN

Merk stood in the forest clearing, one man dead at his feet, and stared back at the seven other thieves, who gaped back. They now had a look of respect--and fear--in their eyes, clearly realizing they had made a mistake in taking him for just another vulnerable traveler.

"I'm tired of killing," Merk said to them calmly, a smile on his face, "so today is your lucky day. You have one chance to turn and run."

A long, tense silence fell over them as they all looked to each other, clearly debating what to do.

"That's our friend you killed," one seethed.

"Your ex-friend," Merk corrected. "And if you keep talking, it will be you, too."

The thief scowled and raised his club.

 "There are still seven of us and one of you. Lay that knife down real slow and raise your hands, and maybe we won't cut you to pieces."

Merk smiled wider. He was tired, he realized, of resisting the urge to kill, of resisting who he was. It was so much easier just to stop fighting it, to become the old killer he was.

"You had your warning," he said, shaking his head.

The thief charged, raising his club high and swinging wildly.

Merk was surprised. For a big man, he swung quicker than he would have imagined. Yet he was clumsy, and Merk merely ducked, stabbed him in the gut, and stepped aside, letting him fall face-first into the dirt.

Another thief charged, raising his dagger, aiming for Merk's shoulder, and Merk grabbed his wrist, re-directed it, and plunged the man's own dagger into his heart.

Merk saw a thief raise a bow and take aim, and he quickly grabbed another thief charging him, spun him around, and used him as a human shield. His hostage cried out as the arrow pierced his chest instead.

Merk then shoved the dying man forward, right into the one with the bow, blocking his shot, then raised his dagger and threw it. It spun end over end, crossing the clearing until it impaled in the man's neck, killing him.

That left three of them, and they now looked back at Merk with uncertain faces, as if debating whether to charge or run.

"There are three us and one of him!" one called out. "Let's charge together!"

They all charged him at once, and Merk stood there, waiting patiently, relaxed. He was unarmed, and that was how he wanted it; often, he found, the best way to defeat foes, especially when outnumbered, was to use their weapons against them.

Merk waited for the first one to slash at him, an oaf of a boy who charged clumsily with a sword, all power and no technique. Merk stepped aside, grabbed the boy's wrist, snapped it, then disarmed him and sliced his throat. As the second attacker came, Merk spun backwards and slashed him across the chest. He then turned and faced the third thief and threw the sword--a move the man did not expect. It spun end over end and entered the man's chest, sending him flat on his back.

Merk stood there, looking around at the eight dead men, taking stock of his work with a professional assassin's eye. As he did he noticed one of them--the one with the club--was still alive, squirming on his stomach. The old Merk took over, and he could not help himself as he walked over to the man, still unsatisfied. Leave no enemies alive. Ever. Never let them see your face.

Merk walked casually over to the thief, reached out with his boot, and kicked him over, until he lay on his back. The thief looked up, bleeding from his mouth, eyes filled with fear.

"Please...don't do it," he begged. "I would have let you go."

Merk smiled.

"Would you?" he asked. "Was that before you tortured me, or after?"

"Please!" the man called out, starting to cry. "You said you had renounced violence!"

Merk leaned back and thought about that.

"You're right," he said.

The man blinked up at him, hope in his eyes.

"I have," Merk added. "But the thing is, you stirred something up in me today, something I would have quite rather suppressed."

"Please!" the man shrieked, sobbing.

"I wonder," Merk said, reflective, "how many innocent women, children, you have killed on this road?"

The man continued to sob.

"ANSWER ME!" Merk yelled.

"What does it matter?" the man called back, between sobs.

Merk lowered the tip of his sword to the man's throat.

"It matters to me," Merk said, "a great deal."

"Okay, okay!" he called out. "I don't know. Dozens? Hundreds? It is what I have been doing my whole life."

Merk thought about that; at least it was an honest response.

"I myself have killed many men in my lifetime," Merk said. "Not all I am proud of--but all for a cause, a purpose. Sometimes I was duped into killing an innocent--but in that case, I always killed the person who hired me. I never killed women, and I never killed children. I never preyed on the innocent, or the defenseless. I never robbed and I never cheated. I guess that makes me something of a saint," Merk said, smiling at his own humor.

He sighed.

"But you," he continued, "you are scum."

"Please!" the man shouted. "You can't kill an unarmed man!"

Merk thought about that.

"You're right," he said, and looked about. "See that sword lying next to you? Grab it."

The man looked over, fear in his eyes.

"No," he cried, trembling.

"Grab it," Merk said, pushing the tip of his sword to the man's throat, "or I will kill you."

The thief finally reached over, grabbed the hilt of the sword, and held it with trembling hands.

"You can't kill me!" the man shouted again. "You vowed to never kill again!"

Merk smiled wide, and in one quick motion, he plunged his sword into the man's chest.

"The nice thing about starting over," Merk said, "is that there's always tomorrow."

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kyra raced through the snow, brushing back the thick branches in her way, the dragon's cry still echoing in her ears, and burst into a clearing, when she suddenly stopped short. All of her anticipation could not prepare her for what she saw before her.

Her breath was taken away--not by the blizzard or the cold or the wind--but this time by the sight, unlike anything she'd seen in her life. She had heard the tales, night after night in her father's chamber, the ancient legends of dragons, and had wondered if they were true. She had tried to imagine them in her mind's eye, had stayed up many a sleepless night trying visualize, and yet still she could not believe it was true.

Not until now.

For before her, hardly twenty feet away, Kyra was stunned to find herself standing face to face with a real, breathing dragon. It was terrifying--yet magnificent. It screeched as it lay on its side, trying to get up but unable, one wing flapping and the other appearing to be broken. It was huge, massive, each of its scarlet-red scales the size of her. Krya noticed the dozens of flattened trees, and realized it must have fallen from the sky, creating this clearing. It lay on a steep snow bank, close to a gushing river.

As she stared, agape, Kyra tried to process the sight before her. A dragon. Here, in Escalon. In Volis, in the Wood of Thorns. It wasn't possible. Dragons, she knew, lived on the other side of the world, and never in her life, or her father's time, or her father's father's time, had one been spotted in Escalon--much less near Volis. It made no sense.

She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, thinking it must be an illusion.

And yet there it was, shrieking again, digging its claws in the snow, stained red with its blood. It was definitely wounded. And it was definitely a dragon.

Kyra knew she should turn and flee, and a part of her wanted to; after all, this dragon could surely kill her with a single breath, much less a stroke of its claws. She had heard tales of the damage a dragon could do, of their hatred for mankind, of their ability to tear a person to shreds in the blink of an eye, or wipe out an entire village with a single breath.

But something within Kyra made her hold her ground. She did not know if it was courage or foolishness or her own desperation--or something deeper. For deep down, as crazy as it was, she felt a primal connection to this creature she could not understand.

It blinked, slowly, staring back at her with equal surprise and as it did, what terrified Kyra most were not its fangs or its claws or its size--but its eyes. They were huge, glowing yellow orbs, so fierce, so ancient, so soulful and they looked right into hers. The hair raised on her arms as she realized they were the exact eyes she had seen in her own reflection in the Lake of Dreams.

Kyra braced herself, expecting to be killed--but the dragon did not breathe fire. Instead, it just stared at her. It was bleeding, its blood running down the snow bank into the river, and it pained Kyra to see it. She wanted to help it, and even more so, she was obliged to. Every clan in the kingdom had an oath they lived by, a sacred family law they had to uphold, at the risk of bringing a curse on their family. Her family's law, passed down for generations, was to never kill a wounded animal--indeed, it was the very insignia of her father's house: a knight holding a wolf. Her family had taken it further over the generations, taking it upon themselves as a law to help any wounded animal they encountered.

As Kyra watched its labored breathing, gasping, her heart went out to it and she thought of her family's obligation. She knew that to turn her back on it would bring a terrible curse upon her family, and she was determined to make it well again, whatever the risk.

As Kyra stood there, transfixed, unable to move, she realized she could not walk away for another reason: she felt a stronger connection to this beast than she had to any animal she had ever encountered, more so even than to Leo, who was like a brother to her. She felt as if she had just been reunited with a long-lost friend. She could sense the dragon's tremendous power and pride and fierceness, and just being around it inspired her. It made her feel as if the world were so much bigger.

As Kyra stood at the edge of the clearing, debating what action to take, she was startled by the snap of a branch, followed by laughter--a cruel man's laughter. As she watched, she was shocked to see a soldier, dressed in the scarlet armor and important furs of the Lord's Men, saunter into the clearing, wielding a spear and standing over the dragon.

Kyra flinched as the soldier suddenly jabbed the dragon in its ribcage, making it shriek and curl up; she felt as if she had been stabbed herself. Clearly the soldier was taking advantage of this wounded beast, preparing to kill it but torturing it first. The thought pained Kyra to no end.

"My ax, boy!" the soldier yelled.

A boy, perhaps thirteen, warily entered the clearing, leading a horse. He looked like a squire, and he seemed terrified as he approached, eyeing the dragon warily. He did as commanded and drew a long ax from the saddle and placed it in his master's hand.

Kyra watched with a sense of dread as the soldier came closer, the blade glistening in the moonlight.

"I'd say this will make a fine trophy," he said, clearly proud of himself. "They will sing songs of me for generations, this kill of all kills."

"But you did not kill it!" the squire protested. "You discovered it wounded!"

The soldier turned and raised the blade to the boy's throat threateningly.

"I killed it, boy, do you understand?"

The boy gulped, and slowly nodded.

The soldier turned back to the beast, raised his ax, and studied the dragon's exposed neck. The dragon struggled to get away, to lift itself up, but it was helpless.

The dragon suddenly turned and looked directly at Kyra, as if remembering her, its yellow eyes aglow, and she could feel it pleading to her.

Kyra could hold herself back no longer.

"NO!" she cried.

Without thinking, Kyra ran into the clearing, rushing down the slope, slipping in the snow, Leo at her side. She did not stop to consider that confronting a Lord's Man was a crime punishable by death, or that she was alone out here, exposed, that her actions could likely get her killed. She thought only of saving the dragon's life, of protecting what was innocent.

As she rushed forward, she instinctively pulled the bow from her shoulder, placed an arrow, and aimed for the Lord's Man.

The soldier looked truly stunned to see another person out here, in the middle of nowhere--much less a girl, and holding a bow at him. He stood holding his ax, frozen in midair, then slowly lowered it as he turned and faced her.

Kyra's arms shook as she held the bowstring and aimed at the man's chest, not wanting to fire if she didn't have to. She had never killed a man before, and was not sure if she could.

"Lower your ax," she commanded, trying to use her fiercest voice. She wished, at a time like this, that she possessed the deep, commanding voice of her father.

"And who commands me?" the man called back in a mocking voice, appearing amused.

"I am Kyra," she called out, "daughter of Duncan, Commander of Volis." She added the last bit with emphasis, hoping to scare him into backing down.

But he only grinned wider.

"An empty title," he countered. "You are serfs to Pandesia, as the rest of Escalon. You answer to the Lord Governor--like everybody else."

He looked her up and down and licked his lips, then took a threatening step toward her, clearly unafraid.

"Do you know the penalty for aiming a weapon at a Lord's Man, girl? I could imprison you and your father and all of your people just for this."

The dragon suddenly breathed hard, labored, gasping, and the soldier turned back and glanced at it, remembering. It was clearly trying to breathe fire, but unable to.

The soldier glanced back at Kyra.

"I have work to do!" he snapped at her, impatient. "This is your lucky day. Run off now, back to your father, and count your blessings I let you live. Now piss off!"

He turned his back on her derisively, ignoring her completely, as if she were harmless. He raised his ax again, took a step forward, and held it over the dragon's throat.

Kyra felt herself flush with rage.

"I will not warn you again!" she called out, her voice lower this time, filled with meaning, surprising even her.

She drew her bow further back, and the soldier turned and looked at her, and this time he did not smile, as if realizing she were serious. Kyra was puzzled as she saw him look over her shoulder, as if watching something behind her. Just then she suddenly detected motion out of the corner of her eye--but it was too late.

Kyra felt herself slammed from the side. She went flying sideways and dropped her bow, its arrow shooting harmlessly up in the air, as a heavy body landed on top of her and tackled her down to the ground. She landed in snow so deep she could hardly breathe.

Disoriented, Kyra struggled her way back to the surface to find a soldier on top of her, pinning her down. She saw four of the Lord's Men standing over her, and she realized: there had been more of them, hiding in the wood. How stupid of her, she realized, for assuming that solider was alone. These other men must have been lurking out there all that time. That's why, she realized now, the first soldier had been so brazen, even with a bow trained on him.

Two of the men roughly dragged her to her feet, while the other two stepped in close. They were cruel-looking men, with boorish faces, unshaven, eager for bloodlust--or worse. One began to unbuckle his belt.

"A girl with a little bow, are you?" asked one, mocking.

"You should have stayed home in your daddy's fort," said another.

Barely had he finished speaking when there came a snarling noise--and Leo leapt through the snow, pouncing on one and pinning him down.

Another one of the men turned and kicked Leo, but Leo turned and bit his ankle, felling him. Leo went back and forth between the two soldiers, snarling and biting as they kicked him back.

The two other soldiers, though, stayed focused on Kyra, and with Leo tied up, she felt a wave of panic. Strangely enough, though, despite her circumstances, she realized she did not feel panic for herself but for the dragon. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the first soldier once again raise his ax high and turn and approach the beast, and she knew that in a moment, it would be dead.

Kyra reacted instinctively. As one of the soldiers momentarily loosened his grip on her arm, caught off guard by Leo, she reached behind her, drew the staff sheathed to her back, and brought it down on an angle with lightning speed. She struck one of them perfectly in the pressure point in his temple, felling him before he could react.

She then pulled back the staff, slid her grip all the way up so she could use it at close range and jabbed the other soldier on the bridge of the nose. He shrieked, gushing blood, and dropped to his knees.

Kyra knew this was her chance to finish these two men. They were now prone, and Leo had the other two pinned down and struggling.

But her heart was still with the dragon--it was all she could think of--and she knew there wasn't time. So she instead ran for her bow, picked it up, placed an arrow, and with barely time to think, much less to aim, she prepared to fire. She had one shot, she knew, and it had to be true. It would be the first shot she had ever taken in action, in real battle, in the dark, in the blinding snow and wind, between trees and branches and with a target twenty yards off. It would be the first shot she had taken with her life at stake.

Kyra summoned all of her training, all of her long days and nights of shooting, everything she had within her, and forced herself to focus. She forced herself to become one with her weapon.

Kyra drew and released, and time slowed as she watched the arrow fly, hearing its whistle, unsure if it would hit. There were too many variables at play, from a gust of wind to the swaying branches to her frozen hands, to the movement of the soldier.

Kyra heard the satisfying thump of the arrow finding its mark, and she heard the soldier cry out. She watched his face in the moonlight, contorted in pain, and watched as he dropped the ax harmlessly at his side and collapsed, dead.

The dragon looked over at Kyra and their eyes met. Its huge yellow eyes, glowing even in the night, seemed to acknowledge what she had done, and in that moment she felt as if it knew she had saved it, and that they had just made a connection for life.

Kyra stood there in shock, hardly believing what she had done. Had she really just killed a man? And not just any man--but a Lord's Man. She had broken Escalon's sacred law. It was an act from which there was no return--an act which would spark a war and embroil all of her people. What had she done?

Yet somehow, she had no regrets, no doubts about what she had done. She felt as if she had stepped into destiny.

A searing pain on her jaw line snapped her out of it, as Kyra felt thick, calloused knuckles smash into her skin. Her world was filled with pain as she stumbled, punched in the face, and fell in the snow to her hands and knees, seeing stars, her world spinning. Before she could collect herself she felt a kick in the ribs, then felt a second soldier tackling her and pinning her face in the snow.

Kyra gasped for breath as a soldier jerked her to her feet. She stood there, facing the two men she had let live. Leo snarled, but he still struggled with the other two. One soldier bled from his nose and the other from his temple, and Kyra realized she should have killed them when she'd had the chance. She struggled with all her might to break free from their grip, but to no avail. She could see the look of death in their eyes.

One of them glanced back at his dead commander, then stepped in close and sneered.

"Congratulations," he hissed. "By morning, your fort, your people, will be razed to the ground."

He backhanded her, and her face filled with pain as she went stumbling back.

The other soldier grabbed her firmly and pushed his dagger to her throat, while the other reached for his belt buckle.

"Before you die, you're going to remember us," he said. "It will be the last memory of your short life."

Kyra heard a whining and looked over her shoulder to see one of the soldiers stab Leo. She winced as if she herself had been stabbed, though Leo, fearless, turned and sunk his teeth into the soldier's wrist.

Kyra felt the blade at her throat, and she knew she was on her own. Yet instead of fear, she felt liberated. She felt her anger, her desire for vengeance against the Lord's Men, well up inside her. In this man, she had the perfect target. She might go down, but she would not do down without a fight.

She waited until the last moment as the soldier stepped closer, grabbing at her clothes--then she planted one foot, leaned back, and used her great flexibility to kick straight up, with all her might.

Kyra felt her foot connect between the man's legs with a great force and as she watched him cry out and drop to his knees, knowing it was a perfect blow. At the same moment, Leo shook off his attackers and turned and lunged for the man she felled, pouncing and sinking his fangs into his throat.

She turned to face the other soldier, the last one standing, and he drew a sword and faced her. Kyra picked up her staff from the snow and faced off with him--and he laughed.

"A staff against a sword," he mocked. "Better to give up now--your death won't be so painful."

He charged and swung at her, and as he did, Kyra's instincts took over; she imagined herself back in the training ground. As he swung, she dodged left and right, using her speed to her advantage. The soldier was big and strong and he wielded a heavy sword--yet she was light and unencumbered, and as he came down with a particularly fierce blow meant to chop her in half, she sidestepped and left him off balance; she swung around with her staff and cracked him on the back of his wrist and he dropped his sword, losing it in the snow.

He looked back at her, shocked, then sneered and charged her with his bare hands, as if to tackle her. Kyra waited, then at the last moment crouched low and brought the tip of her staff straight up, connecting with his chin. The blow snapped his neck back and sent him landing flat on his back, unmoving. Leo pounced on him and sank his fangs into his throat, making sure he was dead.

Kyra, assuming all her attackers were dead, was confused to hear movement behind her. She turned to see one of the two soldiers Leo had attacked somehow back on his feet, limping to his horse, drawing a sword from its saddle. The soldier rushed Leo, who still had his fangs in the other soldier's throat, his back to him.

Kyra's heart slammed in her chest; she was too far away to reach him in time.

"LEO!" she cried out.

But Leo, too busy snarling, did not realize.

Kyra knew she had to take drastic action or else watch Leo be killed before her eyes. Her bow was still in the snow, too far away from her.

She thought quick. She raised her staff and broke it over her knee and it broke in two. She took one of the halves, its tip jagged, took aim, leaned back and hurled it like a spear.

It whistled through the air and she prayed it find its target.

Kyra breathed with relief as she watched it pierce the soldier's throat right before he reached Leo. The man stumbled and fell at Leo's feet, dead.

Kyra stood there in the silence, breathing hard, seeing the carnage all around her, the five Lord's Men sprawled out in the snow, staining it red, and she could hardly believe what she had done. But before she could finish processing it, she suddenly detected motion out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see the squire, running for his horse.

"Wait!" Kyra called out.

She knew she had to stop him. If he made it back to the Lord Governor he would tell them what had happened. They would know it was she who had done this, and her father and her people would be killed.

Kyra picked up her bow, took aim, and waited until she had a good shot. Finally, the boy broke into the clearing, and as the clouds opened and the moon shone down, she had her chance.

But she could not take the shot. The boy had not done anything, after all, and something within her just could not kill an innocent boy.

Kyra lowered her bow with shaking hands and watched him ride off, feeling sick, knowing it would be her death sentence. Surely, a war would come for this.

With the squire on the run, Kyra knew her time was short. She should run back through the wood, for her father's fort, and alert them all as to what had happened. They would need time to prepare for war, to seal the fort--or to flee for their lives. She felt a terrible sense of guilt, yet also, of duty.

Yet Kyra could go nowhere. Instead, she stood there and watched, mesmerized, as the dragon flapped its good wing and stared back at her. She felt she had to be by its side.

Kyra hiked quickly through the snow, down the bank, toward the gushing river, until she stood before the dragon. It lifted its neck just a bit and stared at her, their eyes meeting, and the dragon stared back at her with an inscrutable expression. In its look Kyra thought she spotted gratitude--yet also, fury. She did not understand.

Kyra stepped closer, Leo snarling beside her, until she stood but a few feet away. Her breath caught in her throat. She could hardly believe she was standing so close to such a magnificent creature. She knew how dangerous this was, knew this dragon could kill her at any moment if it chose.

Kyra slowly lifted her hand, even as the dragon appeared to be frowning and, heart pounding with fear, reached out and touched its scales. Its skin was so rough, so thick, so primordial--it was like touching the beginning of time. Her hand trembled as her fingertips stroked it, and not from the cold.

Its presence here was such a mystery, and her mind raced with a million questions.

"What hurt you?" Kyra asked, stroking its scales. "What are you doing on this side of the world?"

There came a sound like a growling from deep within its throat, and Kyra withdrew her hand, afraid. She could not read this beast, and even though she had just saved its life, Kyra suddenly felt it was a very bad idea to be so close to it.

The dragon looked at Kyra and slowly raised a sharpened claw until it touched Kyra's throat. Kyra stood there, frozen, terrified, wondering whether it would slice her throat.

Something flashed in its eyes and it seemed to change its mind. It withdrew its claw and then, to her surprise, in one quick motion slashed down.

Kyra felt a searing pain on her face and she cried out as the claw grazed her cheek, drawing blood. It was just a scratch, but it was enough, Kyra knew, to leave her with a scar.

Kyra reached up and touched the wound, saw the fresh blood in her hands, and felt a deep sense of betrayal and confusion. She looked back into the dragon's glowing yellow eyes, filled with defiance, and she was at a loss to understand this creature. Did it hate her? Had she made a mistake to save its life? Why had it only scratched her when it could have killed her?

"Who are you?" she asked softly, afraid.

She heard a voice, an ancient voice, rumbling in her mind's eye:

Theos.

She was shocked. She was sure it was the dragon's voice.

Kyra waited, hoping it would tell her more--but then suddenly, without warning, Theos shattered the silence by shrieking, rearing its head, and struggling to get away from her. It flopped and spun wildly, trying desperately to lift off.

Kyra could not understand why.

"Wait!" Kyra cried out. "You are wounded! Let me help you!"

It pained her to see him flopping so much, blood dripping from its wound, unable to get one wing to work. He was so massive that each flop raised a great cloud of snow, shaking the ground, making the earth rumble and shattering the stillness of this snowy night. He tried so hard to lift off into the air, but could not.

"Where is it you want to go?" Kyra called out.

Theos flopped again and this time he rolled down the steep, snowy bank, rolling, again and again, out of control, unable to stop itself. He rolled right for the gushing rapids.

Kyra watched with horror, helpless, as the dragon splashed into the raging waters of the river below.

"NO!" she cried out, rushing forward.

But there was nothing she could do. The great rapids carried Theos, flailing, screeching, downriver, winding through the forest, around a bend and out of sight.

Kyra watched him disappear and as she did, her heart broke inside her. She had sacrificed everything, her life, the destiny of her people, to save this creature--and now he was gone. What had it all been for? Had any of it even been real?

Kyra turned and looked out and saw the five dead men, still lying in the snow, saw Leo, wounded, beside her; she reached up and felt the sting on her cheek, saw the blood--and knew it had all been very real. She had survived an encounter with a dragon. She had killed five of the Lord's Men.

After tonight, she knew, her life would never be the same again.

Kyra noticed the horse's trail, winding into the wood, and she remembered the boy, riding to alert his people. She knew the Lord's Men would be coming for her people.

Kyra turned and sprinted into the wood, Leo at her side, determined to make it back to Volis, to alert her father and all her people--if it were not already too late.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Vesuvius, King of the Trolls and Supreme Ruler of Marda, stood in the enormous cave beneath the earth, on a stone balcony a hundred feet high, and he looked down, surveying the work of his army of trolls beneath him. Thousands of trolls labored in this huge cavernous underground, hammering away at rock with pickaxes and hammers, chopping away at earth and stone, the sound of mining heavy in the air. Endless torches lined the walls while streams of lava crisscrossed the floor, sparking, emitting a glow, brightening the cave and keeping it hot while trolls sweated and gasped in the heat below.

Vesuvius smiled wide, his troll face grotesque, misshapen, twice the size of a human's, with two long fangs, like tusks, that emerged from his mouth, and beady red eyes which enjoyed watching people suffer. He wanted them his people to toil, to work harder than they'd ever had, for he knew it was only through extreme toil that he would achieve what his fathers could not. Twice the size of a typical troll, and three times the size of a human, Vesuvius was all muscle and rage, and he knew he was different, knew he could achieve what none before him had. He had hatched a plan that even his ancestors could not conceive, a plan that would bring glory to his nation forever. It would be the greatest tunnel ever created, a tunnel to bring them beneath The Flames, all the way into Escalon--and with each fall of the hammer, the tunnel became just a little bit deeper.

Not once, in centuries, had his people figured out how to cross The Flames en masse; individual trolls were able to pass through here and there, but most died on these suicide missions. What Vesuvius needed was an entire army of trolls to cross together, at once, to destroy Escalon once and for all. His fathers could not understand how to do it, and they had become complacent, resigned to a life here in the wilds of Marda. But not he. He, Vesuvius, was wiser than all his fathers, tougher, more determined--and more ruthless. One day, while brooding, he had thought, if he could not go through The Flames, or over them, then perhaps he could go under them. Captivated by the idea, he had set his plan into motion at once and had not stopped since, rallying thousands of his soldiers and slaves to build what would be the greatest creation of the troll kingdom: a tunnel beneath The Flames.

Vesuvius watched with satisfaction as one of his taskmasters whipped a human slave, one they had captured from the West, chained to the hundreds of other slaves. The human cried out and fell, and he was lashed until he died. Vesuvius grinned, pleased to see the other humans work harder. His trolls were nearly twice the size of the humans, much more grotesque-looking, too, with bulging muscles and misshaped faces, filled with a bloodlust that was insatiable. The humans, he'd found, were a good way for his people to vent their violence.

Yet as he watched, Vesuvius was still frustrated: no matter how many people he enslaved, how many of his soldiers he put to work, no matter how hard he lashed them, how much he tortured or killed his own people to motivate them, the progress remained too slow. The rock was too hard, the job too massive. At this rate, he knew, they would never complete this tunnel in his lifetime, and his dream of invading Escalon would remain but a dream.

Of course, they had more than enough room here in Marda--but it was not room that Vesuvius wanted. He wanted to kill, to subjugate all humans, to take all that was theirs, just for the fun of it. He wanted it all. And he knew that if he was to get there, the time had come for more drastic measures.

"My Lord and King?" came a voice.

Vesuvius turned to see several of his soldiers standing there, wearing the distinctive green armor of the troll nation, their insignia--a roaring boar's head with a dog in its mouth--emblazoned across the front. His men lowered their heads out of deference, looking to the ground, as they had been trained to do when in his presence.

Vesuvius saw they were holding a troll soldier between them, wearing tattered armor, his face covered in dirt and ash and spotted with burn marks.

"You may address me," he commanded.

Slowly, they raised their chins and looked him in the eye.

"This one was captured inside Marda, in Southwood," one reported. "He was caught returning from beyond The Flames."

Vesuvius looked over the captive soldier, shackled, and was filled with disgust. Every day he sent men west, across Marda, on a mission to charge through The Flames and emerge on the other side, in Escalon. If they survived the journey, they were ordered to wreak terror amongst as many humans as they could. If they survived that, their orders were to seek out the two Towers and steal the Sword of Fire, the mythical weapon that supposedly held up The Flames. Most of his trolls never returned from the journey--they were either killed by the passage through the Flames or eventually, by the humans in Escalon. It was a one-way mission: they were commanded never to return--unless they came back with the Sword of Fire in hand.

But once in a while some of his trolls sneaked back, mostly disfigured from their journey through The Flames, unsuccessful in their mission but seeking to return anyway, for safe harbor back in Marda. Vesuvius had no stomach for these trolls, whom he considered to be deserters.

"And what news do you bring from the West?" he asked. "Did you find the Sword?" he added, already knowing the answer.

The soldier gulped, looking terrified.

He slowly shook his head.

"No, my Lord and King," he said, his voice broken.

Vesuvius raged in the silence.

"Then why did you return to Marda?" he demanded.

The troll kept his head lowered.

"I was ambushed by a party of humans," he said. "I was lucky to escape and make it back here."

"But why did you come back?" Vesuvius pressed.

The soldier looked at him, puzzled and nervous.

"Because my mission was over, my Lord and King."

Vesuvius fumed.

"Your mission was to find the Sword--or die trying."

"But I made it through The Flames!" he pleaded. "I killed many humans! And I made it back!"

"And tell me," Vesuvius said kindly, stepping forward and laying a hand on the troll's shoulder as he slowly walked with him toward the edge of the balcony. "Did you really think, upon coming back, that I would let you live?"

Vesuvius suddenly grabbed the troll by the back of his shirt, stepped forward, and hurled him over the edge.

The soldier flailed, shrieking through the air as much as his shackles would allow. All the workers down below stopped and looked up, watching as he fell. He tumbled a hundred feet then finally landed with a splat on the hard rock below.

The workers all looked up at Vesuvius, and he glared back down at them, knowing this would be a good reminder to all who failed him.

They quickly went back to work.

Vesuvius, still in a rage and needing to let it out on someone, turned from the balcony and strutted down the winding stone steps carved into the canyon wall, followed by his men. He wanted to see their progress himself, up close--and while he was down there, he figured he could find a pathetic slave to beat to a pulp.

Vesuvius wound his way down the stairs, carved into the black rock, descending flight after flight, all the way down to the base of this vast cave, which became hotter the lower he went. Dozens of his soldiers fell in behind him as he strutted across the cave floor, weaving his way between the streams of lava, between hordes of workers. As he went, thousands of soldiers and slaves stopped working and parted ways for him, bowing their heads differentially.

It was hot down here, the base heated not only from the sweat of men, but from the streaks of lava that crisscrossed the room and oozed from the walls, from the sparks flying off the rocks as men struck them everywhere with axes and picks. Vesuvius marched across the vast cave floor, until finally he reached the entrance of the tunnel. He stood before it and stared: a hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall, the tunnel was being dug so that it sloped down gradually, deeper and deeper beneath the earth, deep enough to be able to support an army when the time came to burrow under The Flames. One day they would penetrate Escalon, rise above the surface, and take thousands of human slaves. It would, he knew, be the greatest day of his life.

Vesuvius marched forward, snatched a whip from a soldier's hands, reached high, and began lashing soldiers left and right. They all went back to work, striking the rock twice as fast, smashing the hard black rock until clouds of dust filled the air. He then made his way to the human slaves, men and women they had abducted from Escalon and had managed to bring back. Those were the missions he relished most of all, missions solely for the sake of terrorizing the West. Most humans died on the passage back, but enough survived, even if badly burnt and maimed--and these he worked to the bone in his tunnels.

Vesuvius zeroed in on them. He thrust the whip into a human's hand and pointed at a woman.

"Kill her!" he commanded.

The human stood there, shaking, and merely shook his head.

Vesuvius snatched the whip back from his hand and instead lashed the man, again and again, until he finally stopped resisting, dead.

The others went back to work, averting his gaze, while Vesuvius threw down the whip, breathing hard, and stared back into the mouth of the cave. It was like staring at his nemesis. It was a half-formed creation, going nowhere. It was all happening too slowly.

"My Lord and King," came a voice behind him.

Vesuvius turned slowly to see several soldiers from the Mantra, his elite division of trolls, dressed in the black and green armor reserved for his best troops. They stood their proudly, holding halberds at their sides. These were the few trolls Vesuvius respected, and seeing them made his heart quicken. It could only mean one thing: they had brought news.

Vesuvius had dispatched the Mantra on a mission many moons ago: to find the giant that lurked in Great Wood, rumored to have killed thousands of trolls. His dream was to capture this giant, bring it back, and use its brawn to complete his tunnel. Vesuvius had sent mission after mission, and none had come back. All had been discovered dead, killed by the giant.

As Vesuvius stared at these men, his heart beat faster with hope.

"Speak," he commanded.

"My Lord and King, we have found the giant," one reported. "We have cornered him. Our men await your command."

Vesuvius grinned slowly, pleased for the first time in as along as he could recall. His smile grew wider as a plan hardened in his mind. Finally, he realized, it would all be possible; finally, he would have a chance to breach The Flames.

He stared back at his commander, filled with resolve, ready to do what he had to.

"Lead me to him."

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kyra stumbled through the snow, now past her knees, trekking her way through the Wood of Thorns as she leaned on her staff, trying to fight her way through what had become a full-fledged blizzard. The storm raged so strongly now, it had even penetrated the thick branches of the wood, blowing back these huge trees, gusts of wind so strong that they nearly bent them in half. Gusts of wind and snow whipped her face, making it hard to see again--hard to even keep her footing. As the wind continually picked up, it took all her might just to walk a few steps.

The blood-red moon was long gone, as if it had been swallowed up by the storm, and now she had no light left to navigate by. Even if she had, she could barely see a thing. All she had left to ground her was Leo, walking slowly, wounded, leaning against her, his presence her only solace. With each step her feet seemed to sink deeper and she wondered if she were even making any progress. She felt an urgency to get back to her people, to warn them, making each step all the more frustrating.

Kyra tried to look up, squinting into the wind, hoping to find some distant landmark--anything--trying to see if she was even going the right way. But she was lost in a world of white. Her cheek burned from the dragon's scratch, feeling as if it were on fire. She reached up and touched it, and her hand was dotted with blood, the only warm thing left in the universe. Her cheek throbbed, nonetheless, as if the dragon had infected her.

As a particularly strong gust of wind knocked her backwards, Kyra finally realized she could not go on; they had to find shelter. She was desperate to reach Volis before the Lord's Men, but she knew that if she continued hiking like this, she knew she would die out here. Her only comfort was the fact that the Lord's Men would not be able to attack in this weather--if the squire even made it home.

Kyra looked around, this time for shelter--but even finding that proved elusive. Seeing nothing but white, the wind howling so loudly she could barely think, Kyra began to panic, to have visions of herself and Leo being found frozen out here in the snow, never discovered at all. She knew if she did not find something soon, they would certainly be dead by morning. This situation had crept up on her, and now it had become desperate. Of all nights to leave Volis, she realized now, she had picked the worst one.

As if sensing her new intention, Leo began to whine and he suddenly turned and ran away from her. He crossed a clearing and as he reached the other side, began to dig fiercely at a mound of snow.

Kyra watched curiously as Leo howled, scratching wildly, digging deeper and deeper in the snow, wondering what he had found. Finally, it gave way, and she was surprised to see he had unearthed a small cave, carved into the side of a huge boulder. Heart pounding with hope, she hurried over and crouched down and saw it was just wide enough to shelter them. It was also, she was thrilled to see, dry--and protected from the wind.

She leaned down and kissed his head.

"You did it, boy."

He licked her back.

She knelt down and crawled into the cave, Leo beside her, and as she entered, she had an immediate sensation of relief. Finally, it was quiet; the wind's noise was muted and for the first time it was not stinging her face, her ears; for the first time, she was dry. She felt like she could breathe again.

Kyra crawled on pine needles, deeper and deeper into the cave, wondering how deep it went, until finally she reached the back wall. She sat and leaned against it and looked out. Occasional bursts of snow came in here, but the cave remained mostly dry, none reaching as deep as she. For the first time, she could truly relax.

Leo crawled up beside her, snuggling his head in her lap, and she hugged him to her chest as she leaned back against the stone, shivering, trying to keep warm. She brushed the snowflakes off of her furs and off his coat, trying to get them dry, and she examined his wound. Luckily, it wasn't deep.

Kyra used the snow to clean it out and he whined as she touched it.

"Shhh," she said.

She reached into her pocket and gave him her last piece of dried meat; he ate it greedily.

As she leaned back and sat there in the dark, listening to the raging wind, watching the snow begin to pile up again, blocking her view, Kyra felt as if it were the end of the world. She tried to close her eyes, feeling bone weary, frozen, desperately needing to rest, but the scratch on her cheek kept her awake, throbbing.

Eventually, her eyes grew heavy and began to shut on her. The pine beneath her felt oddly comfortable, and as her body morphed into the rock, she soon found herself, despite her best efforts, succumbing to the embrace of sweet sleep.

*

Kyra flew on the back of a dragon, hanging on for dear life, moving faster than she knew was possible, as it screeched and flapped its wings. They were so wide and magnificent, and they grew wider as she watched them, seeming as if they would stretch over the world.

She looked down and her stomach dropped as she saw, far below, the rolling hills of Volis. She had never seen it from this angle, so high up. They flew over a lush countryside, with rolling green hills, stretches of woods, gushing rivers, and fertile vineyards. It was familiar terrain, and soon Kyra recognized her father's fort, rambling, its ancient stone walls blanketing the countryside, sheep roaming outside of it.

But as the dragon dove down, Kyra sensed immediately that something was wrong. She saw smoke rising--not the smoke of chimneys, but black, thick smoke. As she looked closer, she was horrified to see it was her father's fort aflame, waves of flame engulfing everything. She saw an army of the Lord's Men, stretching to the horizon, surrounding the fort, torching it, and as she heard the screams, she knew that everyone she knew and loved in the world was being slaughtered.

"NO!" she tried to shout.

But the words, stuck in her throat, would not come out.

The dragon craned its neck, turned it all the way back and looked her in the eye--and Kyra was surprised to see it was the same dragon she had saved, its piercing yellow eyes staring right back at her. Theos.

You saved me, she heard it say in her mind's eye. Now I shall save you. We are one now, Kyra. We are one.

Suddenly, Theos turned sharply, and Kyra lost her balance and fell.

She shrieked as she plummeted through the air, the ground coming for her fast.

"NO!" Kyra shrieked.

Kyra sat up shrieking in the blackness, unsure of where she was. Breathing hard, she looked all around, until she finally realized: she was in the cave.

Leo whined beside her, his head in her lap, licking her hand. She breathed deep, trying to remember where she was. It was still dark out, and outside the storm still raged, the winds howled, and the snow piled up. The throbbing in her cheek was worse, and she reached up and looked at her fingers and saw fresh blood. She wondered if it would ever stop bleeding.

"Kyra!" called out a mystical voice, sounding almost like a whisper.

Kyra, startled, wondering who could be in this cave with her, peered into the blackness, on alert. She looked up to see an unfamiliar figure standing over her in the cave. He wore a long, black robe and cloak and he held a staff; he appeared to be an older man, with white hair peeking out of his hood. His staff glowed, emitting a soft light in the blackness.

"Who are you?" she asked, sitting up straight, on guard. "How did you get in here?"

He took a step forward, and she wanted to see his face, but he was still obscured in shadow.

"What is it that you seek?" he asked, his ancient voice somehow putting her at ease.

She thought about that, trying to understand.

"I seek to be free," she said. "I seek to be a warrior."

Slowly, he shook his head.

"You forget something," he said. "The most important thing of all. What is it that you seek?"

Kyra stared back, confused.

Finally, he took another step forward.

"You seek your destiny."

Kyra wondered at his words.

"And more," he said, "you seek to know who you are."

He stepped forward again, standing so close, yet still obscured in shadow.

"Who are you, Kyra?" he asked.

She stared back blankly, wanting to answer, but in that moment she had no idea. She was no longer sure of anything.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice so loud, echoing off the walls, hurting her eardrums.

Kyra raised her hands to her face, bracing herself as he came closer.

Kyra opened her eyes again and she was shocked to see that no one was there. She couldn't understand what was happening. She slowly lowered her hands, and as she did, she realized that this time, she was fully awake.

Bright sunlight shone into the cave, light reflecting off the snow, off the cave walls, blinding. She squinted, disoriented, trying to collect herself. The raging wind was gone; the blinding snow was gone. Instead, there was snow partially blocking the entrance and beyond it a world with a crystal blue sky, birds singing. It was as if the world had been reborn.

Kyra could hardly fathom it: she had survived the long night.

Leo gently bit at her pants leg and prodded her, impatient.

Disoriented, Kyra slowly stood and as she did, she immediately reeled from the pain. Not only was her entire body sore from the fighting, the blows she had received, but most of all, her cheek burned as if it were on fire. She recalled the dragon's claw, and she reached up and felt it; although just a scratch, it was still mysteriously moist, caked with blood.

As she stood she felt lightheaded , and she did not know if it was from her exhaustion, her hunger, or the dragon's scratch. She walked on unsteady legs, feeling unlike herself, as she followed Leo, who led the way impatiently out of the cave and back into day, clawing at the snow to widen their exit.

Kyra crouched down and stepped outside and as she stood, found herself immersed in a world of blinding white. She raised her hands to her eyes, her head splitting at the sight. It had warmed considerably, the wind was gone, birds chirped, and the sun filtered through trees in the forest clearing. She heard a whoosh and turned to see a huge clump of snow slide off a heavy pine and make its way to the forest floor. She looked down and saw she stood in snow up to her thighs.

Leo led the way, bounding through the snow, back in the direction of Volis, she was sure. She followed him, struggling to keep up.

Kyra, though, found herself struggling with each step she took. She licked her lips and felt more and more lightheaded. The blood pulsed in her cheek, and she began to wonder if the wound had infected her. She felt herself changing. She could not explain it, but she felt as if the dragon's blood were pulsing through her.

"Kyra!"

There came a distant shout, sounding as if it were a world away. It was followed by several other voices, shouting her name, their cries absorbed by the snow and the pines. It took her a moment to realize, to recognize the voices: her father's men. They were out here, searching for her.

Kyra felt a surge of relief.

"Here!" she called out, thinking she was shouting, but surprised to hear her own voice was barely above a whisper. At that moment, she realized just how weak she was. Her wound was doing something to her, something she did not understand.

Suddenly, her knees buckled out from under her, and Kyra found herself falling into the snow, helpless to resist.

Leo yelped, then turned and ran for the distant voices.

She wanted to call to him, to call to all of them, but she was too weak now. She lay there, deep in the snow, and looked up at a world of white, at the blinding winter sun, and closed her eyes as a slumber she could no longer resist carried her away.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Alec held his head in his hands, trying to stop his headache, as the carriage, packed with boys, jolted roughly along the country road, as it had been doing all night long. The bumps and ditches never seemed to end, and this primitive wooden cart, with its iron bars and wooden wheels, seemed to have been constructed to inflict the maximum possible discomfort. With each bump, Alec's head slammed into the wood behind him. After the first bump, he had been sure it could not go on like this for long, that the road must end sometime soon.

But hour after hour had passed, and if anything, the road only seemed to worsen. He had been awake all night long, with no hope of sleep, if not from the bumps then from the stink of the other boys, from their elbowing and jostling him awake. All night long the cart made stops in villages, picking up more and more boys, cramming them all in here in the blackness. Alec could feel them looking him over, summing him up, a sea of dejected faces staring back at him, their eyes filled with wrath. They were all older, miserable, and looking for a victim.

Alec had at first assumed that, since they were all in this together, all drafted against their will to serve at The Flames, there would be a solidarity amongst them. But he'd learned quickly that was not the case. Each boy was his own island, and if Alec received any sort of communication, it was only hostility. They were rough faces, unshaven, scars across them, noses that looked like they had been broken in too many fights, and it was beginning to dawn on Alec that not every boy in this carriage had just reached his eighteenth year--some were older, more broken down by life, looking like criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, thrown in with the others, all of them being sent to keep The Flames.

Alec, sitting on the hard wood, jammed in, feeling as if he were on a journey to hell, was certain it could not get any worse; but the carriage stops never ended, and to his amazement, they crammed more and more boys in here. When he had first entered, a dozen boys had seemed tight, with no room to maneuver; but now, with over two dozen and counting, Alec could barely breathe. The boys who piled in after him were all forced to stand, trying to grab onto the ceiling, to anything, but mostly slipping and falling onto each other with each bump of the cart. More than one angry boy shoved back, and endless scuffles broke out, all night long, boys constantly elbowing and shoving each other. Alec watched in disbelief as one boy bit another's ear off. The only saving grace was that they had no room to maneuver, to even bring their shoulders back to throw a punch, so the fights had no choice but to defuse quickly, with vows to continue at a later time.

Alec heard birds chirping, and he looked out, bleary-eyed, to spot the first light of dawn creeping through the iron bars. He marveled that day had broke, that he had survived this, the longest night of his life.

As the sun lit the carriage, Alec began to get a better look at all the new boys that had come in. He was by far the youngest of the lot--and, it appeared, the least dangerous. It was a savage group of muscle-bound, irascible boys, all scarred, some tattooed, looking like the forgotten boys of society. They were all on edge, bitter from the long night, and Alec felt the carriage was ripe for an explosion.

"You look too young to be here," came a deep voice.

Alec looked over to see a boy, perhaps a year or two older, sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He was the presence, Alec realized, that he had felt squished up against him all night long, a boy with broad shoulders, strong muscles and the innocent, plain face of a farmer. His face was unlike the others, open and friendly, perhaps even a bit naïve, and Alec sensed in him a kindred soul.

"I took my brother's slot," Alec replied flatly, wondering how much to tell him.

"He was afraid?" the boy asked, puzzled.

Alec shook his head.

"Lame," Alec corrected.

The boy nodded, as if understanding, and looked at Alec with a new respect.

They fell into silence, and Alec looked the boy over.

"And you?" Alec asked. "You don't appear to be eighteen, either."

"Seventeen," the boy said.

Alec  wondered.

"Then why are you here?" he asked.

"I volunteered."

Alec was stunned.

"Volunteered? But why?"

The boy looked at the floor and shrugged.

"I wanted to get away."

"To get away from what?" Alec asked, baffled.

The boy fell silent and Alec could see a gloom pass over his face. He fell silent and he did not think he would respond--but finally, the boy mumbled: "Home."

Alec saw the sadness in his face, and he understood. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong at this boy's home, and from the bruises on the boy's arms, and the look of sadness mixed with anger, Alec could only guess.

"I am sorry," Alec replied.

The boy looked at him with a surprised expression, as if not expecting any compassion in this cart. Suddenly, he extended a hand.

"Marco," he said.

"Alec."

They shook hands, the boy's twice as large as Alec's, with a strong grip that left his hand hurting. Alec sensed he had met a friend in Marco, and it was a relief, given the sea of faces before him.

"I suspect you are the only one who volunteered," Alec said.

Marco looked around and shrugged.

"I suspect you're right. Most of these were drafted or imprisoned."

"Imprisoned?" Alec asked, surprised.

Marco nodded.

"The Keepers are comprised not only of draftees, but a good amount of criminals, too."

"Who you calling a criminal, boy?" came a savage voice.

They both turned to see one of the boys, prematurely aged from his hard life, looking forty years old though not older than twenty, with a pockmarked face and beady eyes. He squatted down low, and stared into Marco's face.

"I wasn't talking to you," Marco replied, defiant.

"Well, now you are," the boy seethed, clearly looking for a fight. "Say it again. You want to call me a criminal to my face?"

Marco reddened and clenched his jaw, getting angry himself.

"If the shoe fits," Marco said.

The other boy flushed with rage, and Alec admired Marco's defiance, his fearlessness. The boy lunged at Marco, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing with all his might.

It all happened so fast, Marco was clearly caught off guard--and in these close quarters, he had little room to maneuver. His eyes bulged wide as he was losing air, trying unsuccessfully to pry the boy's hands off. Marco was bigger, but the boy had wiry hands, calloused, probably from years of murdering, and Marco could not loosen his grip.

"FIGHT! FIGHT!" the other boys called out.

The others looked over, half-heartedly watching the violence, one of a dozen fights that had erupted throughout the night.

Marco, struggling, leaned forward quickly and head-butted the other boy, smashing him in the nose. There came a cracking noise and blood gushed from the boy's nose.

Marco tried to stand to get better leverage--but as he did, a big boot pressed down on his shoulder from a different boy, pinning him down. At the same moment, the first boy, blood still gushing from his nose, reached into his waist and pulled out something shiny. It flashed in the pre-morning light, and Alec realized, shocked, it was a dagger. It was all happening so quickly, there was no time for Marco to react.

The boy thrust it forward, aiming for Marco's heart.

Alec reacted. He lunged forward, grabbed the boy's wrist with two hands, and pinned them down to the floor, sparing Marco from the deadly blow a moment before the blade touched his chest. The blade still grazed Marco, tearing open his shirt, but not touching his skin.

Alec and the boy went down to the wood, struggling for the blade, while Marco managed to reach up and twist the ankle of his other attacker, snapping it with a crack.

Alec felt greasy hands on his face, felt the first boy's long fingernails scratching him, reaching for his eyes. Alec knew he had to act quick, and he let go of the hand with the dagger, spun around and threw his elbow, feeling a satisfying crunch as his elbow connected with the boy's jaw.

The boy spun off of him, face-first to the ground.

Alec, breathing hard, his face stinging from the scratches, managed somehow to jump to his feet, as Marco stood beside him, sandwiched between all the other boys. The two stood side by side, looking down at their attackers lying on the floor, motionless. Alec's heart slammed in his chest, and as he stood there, he decided he no longer wanted to sit; it left him too vulnerable to attack from above. He would rather stand the rest of the way, however long the journey was.

Alec looked out and saw all the hostile eyes glaring at him, and this time, instead of looking away he met them back, realizing he needed to project confidence if he were to survive amongst this lot. Finally, they all seemed to give him a look, something like respect, and then they looked away.

Marco looked down, examining the tear in his shirt where the dagger had almost punctured his heart. He looked at Alec, his face filled with gratitude.

"You have a friend for life," Marco said sincerely.

He reached out for Alec's arm and Alec clasped it, and it felt good. A friend: that was exactly what he needed.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kyra opened her eyes slowly, disoriented, wondering where she was. She saw a stone ceiling high above her, torchlight bouncing off its walls, and she felt herself lying in a bed of luxurious furs. She couldn't understand; last she remembered, she had been falling in the snow, sure she was going to die.

Kyra lifted her head and looked all around, expecting to see the snowy forest all around her. But instead, she was shocked to see a group of familiar faces crowding around her--her father, her brothers Brandon and Braxton and Aidan, Anvin, Arthfael, Vidar, and a dozen of her father's best warriors. She was back in the fort, in her chamber, in her bed, and they all looked down at her with concern. Kyra felt pressure on her arm, and she looked over to see Lyra, the court healer, with her large hazel eyes and long, silver hair, standing over her, examining her pulse.

Kyra opened her eyes fully, realizing she was not in the wood anymore. Somehow, she had made it back. She heard a whining beside her, felt Leo's nose on her hand, and she realized: he must have led them to her.

"What has happened?" she asked, still confused, trying to piece it all together.

The crowd seemed vastly relieved to see her awake, speaking, and her father stepped closer, his face filled with remorse and relief as he held her hand firmly. Aidan rushed forward and grabbed her other hand, and she smiled to see her younger brother at her side.

"Kyra," her father said, his voice filled with compassion. "You are home now. Safe."

Kyra saw the guilt in her father's face, and it all came back to her: their argument the night before. She realized he must have felt responsible. It was his words, after all, that had driven her away.

Kyra felt a sting and she cried out in pain as Lyra reached up and touched a cool cloth to her cheek; it had some sort of ointment in it, and her wound burned and then cooled.

"Water of the Lily," Lyra explained soothingly. "It took me six ointments to figure out what would cure this wound. You are lucky we can treat it--the infection was bad already."

Her father looked down at her cheek with an expression of concern.

"Tell us what happened," he said. "Who did this to you?"

Kyra propped herself up on one elbow, her head spinning as she did, feeling all the eyes on her, all the men riveted, waiting in silence. She tried to remember, to piece it all together.

"I remember..." she began, her voice hoarse. "The storm....The Flames...the Wood of Thorns."

Her father's brow furrowed in concern.

"Why did you venture there?" he asked. "Why did you hike so far on such a night?"

She tried to remember.

"I wanted to see The Flames for myself," she said. "And then...I needed shelter. I remember...the Lake of Dreams...and then...a woman."

"A woman?" he asked. "In the Wood of Thorns?"

"She was...ancient...the snow did not reach her."

"A witch," gasped Vidar.

"Such things venture out on Winter Moon," added Arthfael.

"And what did she say?" her father demanded, on edge.

Kyra could see the confusion and concern in all the faces, and she decided to refrain, not to tell them of the prophecy, of her future. She was still trying to process it all herself, and she feared that if they heard it, they might she think was crazy.

"I....can't remember," she said.

"Did she do this to you?" her father asked, looking at her cheek.

Kyra shook her head and swallowed, her throat dry, and Lyra rushed forward and gave her water from a sack. She drank it, realizing how parched she was.

"There was a cry," Kyra continued. "Unlike any I had heard."

She sat up, feeling more lucid as it all rushed back to her. She looked her father directly in the eye, wondering how he would react.

"A dragon's cry," she said flatly, bracing herself for their reaction, wondering if they would even believe her.

The room broke into an audible gasp of disbelief, all the men gaping at her. An intense silence fell over the men, all of them looking more stunned than she had ever seen.

No one spoke for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, her father shook his head.

"Dragons have not visited Escalon for a thousand years," he said. "You must have heard something else. Perhaps your ears played tricks on you."

Thonos, the old king's historian and philosopher and now a resident of Volis, stepped forward, with his long gray beard, leaning on his cane. He spoke rarely, and when he did, he always commanded great respect, a vault of forgotten knowledge and wisdom.

"On the Winter Moon," he said, his voice frail, "such things are possible."

"I saw it," Kyra insisted. "I saved it."

"Saved it?" her father asked, looking at her as if she were mad. "You, saved a dragon?"

All the men looked back at her as if she had lost her mind.

"It was the injury," Vidar said. "It has touched her mind."

Kyra blushed, desperately wanting them to believe her.

"It has not touched my mind," she insisted. "I do not lie!"

She searched all their faces, desperate.

"When have any of you known me to lie?" she demanded.

They all stared back, unsure.

"Give the girl a chance," Vidar called out. "Let's hear her tale."

Her father nodded back at her.

"Go on," he prodded.

Kyra licked her lips, sitting upright.

"The dragon was wounded," she recalled. "The Lord's Men had it cornered. They were going to kill it. I could not let it die--not like that."

"What did you do?" Anvin asked, sounding less skeptical than the others.

"I killed them," she said, staring into space, seeing it again, her voice heavy, realizing how crazy her story sounded. She barely believed herself. "I killed them all."

Another long silence fell over the room, even graver than the first.

"I know you won't believe me," she finally added.

Her father cleared his throat and squeezed her hand.

"Kyra," he said, somber. "We found five dead men near you--Lord's Men. If what you say is true, do you realize how serious this is? Do you realize what you have done?"

"I had no choice, Father," she said. "The sigil of our house--we are forbidden to leave a wounded animal to die."

"A dragon is not an animal!" he countered angrily. "A dragon is a...."

But his voice trailed off, he clearly unsure what to say as he stared off into space.

"If the Lord's Men are all dead," chimed in Arthfael, breaking the silence, rubbing his beard, "what does it matter? Who's to know the girl killed them? How shall the trail lead back to us?"

Kyra felt a pit in her stomach, but knew she had to tell them the complete truth.

"There was one more," she added, reluctant. "A squire. A boy. He witnessed it. He escaped, on horseback."

They stared at her, their faces somber.

Maltren stepped forward, frowning.

"And why did you let this one live, then?" he demanded.

"He was just a boy," she said. "Unarmed. Riding off, his back to me. Should I have put an arrow in it?"

"I doubt you put an arrow in any of them," Maltren snapped. "But if so, is it better to let a boy live and leave us all to die?"

"No one has left us to die," her father scolded Maltren, defending her.

"Hasn't she?" he asked. "If she is not lying, then the Lord's Men are dead, Volis is to blame, they have a witness, and we are all finished."

Her father turned to her, his face heavier than she had ever seen.

"This is grave news indeed," he said, sounding a million years old.

"I am sorry, Father," she said. "I did not mean to cause you trouble."

"Did not mean to?" Maltren countered. "No, you just accidentally killed five of the Lord's Men? And all for what?"

"I told you," she said. "To save the dragon."

"To save an imaginary dragon," Maltren snickered. "That makes it all worth it. One that, if it existed, would have gladly torn you apart."

"It did not tear me apart," she countered.

"No more talk of this dragon nonsense," her father said, his voice rising, agitated. "Tell us now the truth. We are all men here. Whatever happened, tell us. We shall not judge you."

She felt like crying inside.

"I have already told you," she said.

"I believe her," Aidan said, standing by her side. She so appreciated him for that.

But as she looked back out at the sea of faces, it was clear that no one else did. A long silence fell over the room.

"It is not possible, Kyra," her father finally said softly.

"It is," suddenly came a dark voice.

They all turned as the door to the chamber slammed open and in marched several of her father's men, brushing the snow off their furs and hair. The man who spoke, face still red from cold, looked at Kyra as if awestruck.

"We found prints," he said. "By the river. Near where the bodies were found. Prints too large for anything that walks this earth. Prints of a dragon."

The men all looked back at Kyra, now unsure.

"And where is this dragon then?" Maltren said.

"The trail leads to the river," the man reported.

"It couldn't fly," Kyra said. "It was wounded, like I said. It rolled into the rapids and I saw it no more."

The room fell into a long silence, and now, it was clear, they all believed her. They looked at her in awe.

"You say you saw this dragon?" her father asked.

She nodded.

"I came as close to it as you and I are now," she replied.

"And how did you survive?" he asked.

She gulped, unsure herself.

"It was how I received this wound," she said, touching her cheek.

They all looked at her cheek in a new light, all seeming stunned.

As Kyra ran her fingers along it, she sensed that it would scar, that it would change her appearance forever; yet somehow, strangely, she did not care.

"But I don't think it meant to hurt me," she added.

They stared at her as if she were mad. She wanted to explain to them the connection she had with the creature, but she did not think they would understand.

They all stared at her, all these grown men stumped, and finally her father asked:

"Why would you risk your life to save a dragon? Why would you endanger us all?"

It was a good question, one which Kyra did not have the answer to. She wished she did. She could not put into words the feelings, the emotions, the sense of destiny she had when near the beast--and she did not think these men would ever understand. Yet she knew she had endangered them all, and she felt terribly for it.

All she could do was hang her head and say: "Forgive me, Father."

"It is not possible," Maltren said, agitated. "It is impossible to confront a dragon and live."

"Unless," Anvin said, looking at Kyra strangely, then turned to her father. "Unless your daughter is the--"

Her father suddenly shot Anvin a look, and Anvin immediately stopped himself.

Kyra looked back and forth between the two, puzzled, wondering what Anvin was about to say.

"Unless I am what?" Kyra demanded.

But Anvin looked away and would say no more. Indeed, the entire room fell silent, and as she searched all the faces she realized that all the men averted their gaze from her, as though they were all in on some secret about her.

Her father suddenly rose from her bedside and released his grip on her hand. He stood erect, in a way that signaled that the meeting was over.

"You must rest now," he said. Then he turned gravely to his men. "An army comes," he said gravely, his voice filled with authority. "We must prepare."

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kyra stood alone in the warm, summer field, in awe at the world around her. Everything was in bloom, in dazzling color, the hills so green, so vibrant, dotted with glowing yellow and red flowers. Trees were in bloom everywhere, their foliage so thick, swaying in the wind, heavy with fruit. The hills rolled with vineyards, ripe, and the smell of flowers and grapes hung heavy in the summer air. Kyra wondered where she was, where her people had gone--where winter had gone.

There came a screech, high in the sky, and Kyra looked up to see Theos circling overhead. He swooped down, landing in the grass but a few feet away, and stared back at her with his intense, glowing yellow eyes. Something unspoken passed between them, their connection so intense, as if no words need be said.

Theos suddenly reared his head, shrieked, and breathed fire, right for her.

For some reason, Kyra was unafraid. She did not flinch as the flames approached her, somehow knowing he would never harm her. The fire forked, spreading out to the left and right of her, igniting the landscape all around her yet leaving her unscathed.

Kyra turned and was horrified to see the flames spread across the countryside, to see all the lush green, all the summer bounty, turn to black. The landscape changed before her eyes, the trees burned to a crisp, the grass replaced with soil.

The flames rose higher and higher, spread farther, faster, and in the distance, she watched with horror as they consumed Volis--until there was nothing left but rubble and ash.

Theos finally stopped, and Kyra turned and stared back at him. Kyra stood there, in the dragon's shadow, humbled by its massive size and she did not know what to expect. He wanted something from her, but she could not sense what it was.

Kyra reached out to touch its scales, and suddenly it raised a claw, screeched, and sliced open her cheek.

Kyra sat up in bed, shrieking, clutching her cheek, the awful pain spreading through her. She flailed, trying to get away from the dragon--but was surprised to feel human hands on her instead, calming her, trying to restrain her.

Kyra blinked and looked up to see a familiar face standing over her, holding a compress to her cheek.

"Shh," said Lyra, consoling her.

Kyra looked around, disoriented, and finally realized she had been dreaming. She was home, in her father's fort, still in her chamber.

"Just a nightmare," Lyra said.

Kyra realized she must have fallen back asleep, how long ago, she did not know. She checked the window and saw the sunlight had been replaced by blackness. She sat bolt upright, alarmed.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Late in the night, my lady," Lyra replied. "The moon has already risen and set."

"And what of the coming army?" she asked, her heart pounding.

"No army has come, my lady," she replied. "The snow is still high, and it was nearly dark when you woke. No army can march in this. Don't worry--you have only slept for hours. Rest now."

Kyra leaned back and exhaled; she felt a wet nose on her hand and she looked over to see Leo, licking her hand.

"He hasn't left your bedside, my lady," Lyra smiled. "And neither has he."

She gestured and Kyra looked over and was touched to see Aidan lying there, slumped in a pile of furs beside the fire, a leather-bound book in his hand, fast asleep.

"He read to you while you slept," she added.

Kyra was overwhelmed with love for her younger brother--and it made her all the more alarmed at the trouble to come.

"I can feel your tension," Lyra added as she pressed a compress on her cheek. "You dreamt troubled dreams. It is the mark of a dragon."

Kyra saw her looking back meaningfully, in awe, and she wondered.

"I don't understand what is happening to me," Kyra said. "I have never dreamt before. Not like this. They feel like more than dreams--it is as if I am really there. As if I am seeing through the dragon's eye."

The nurse looked at her with her soulful eyes, and laid her hands in her lap.

"Is a very sacred thing to be marked by an animal," Lyra said. "And this is no ordinary animal. If a creature touches you, then you share a synergy--forever. You might see what it sees, or feel what it feels, or hear what it hears. It may happen tonight--or it may be next year. But one day, it shall happen."

Lyra looked at her, searching.

"Do you understand, Kyra? You are not the same girl you were yesterday, when you set out from here. That is no mere mark on your cheek--it is a sign. You now carry within you the mark of a dragon."

Kyra furrowed her brow, trying to understand.

"But what does that mean?" Kyra asked, trying to make sense of it all.

Lyra sighed, exhaling a long time.

"Time will show you."

Kyra thought of the Lord's Men, of the coming war, and she felt a wave of urgency. She threw off her furs and rose to her feet and as she did, she felt wobbly, unlike herself. Lyra rushed over and held her shoulder, steadying her.

"You must lie down," Lyra urged. "The fever is not yet past."

But Kyra felt a pressing urgency to help and she could stay in bed no longer.

"I shall be fine," she replied, grabbing her cloak and draping it over her shoulders to ward off the draft. As she moved to go, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Drink this, at least," Lyra urged, handing her a mug.

Kyra looked down and saw a red liquid inside.

"What is it?"

"My own concoction," she replied with a smile "It will calm the fever, and relieve the pain."

Kyra took a long sip, holding it with both hands, and it felt thick as it went down, hard to swallow. She made a face and Lyra smiled.

"It tastes like earth," Kyra observed.

Lyra smiled wider. "It's not known for its taste."

But already Kyra felt better from it, her whole body immediately warmer.

"Thank you," she said. She went over to Aidan, leaned over and kissed his forehead, careful not to wake him. She then turned and hurried from the room, Leo beside her.

Kyra twisted and turned down Volis's endless corridors, all dim, lit only by the flickering torches along the walls. Only a few men stood guard at this late hour, the rest of the fort quiet, fast asleep. Kyra ascended the spiral, stone staircase and stopped before her father's chamber, blocked by a guard. He looked at her, something like reverence in his eyes, and she wondered how far the story had already spread. He nodded to her.

"My lady," he said.

She nodded back.

"Is my father in his chamber?"

"He could not sleep. Last I saw he was pacing toward his study."

Kyra hurried down the stone corridors, ducking her head beneath a low, tapered archway and down a spiral staircase until finally she made her way to the far end of the fort. The hall ended in the thick, arched wooden door to his library, and she reached out to open them, but found the doors already ajar. She stopped herself as she heard urgent, strained voices coming from inside.

"I tell you that is not what she saw," came the angry voice of her father.

He was heated, and she stopped herself from entering, figuring it would be best to wait. She stood there, waiting for the voices to stop, curious who he was speaking to and what they were talking about. Were they talking about her? she wondered.

"If she did indeed see a dragon," came a crackly voice, which Kyra immediately recognized as Thonos, her father's oldest advisor, "there remains little hope for Volis."

Her father muttered something she could not understand, and there followed a long silence, as Thonos sighed.

"The ancient scrolls," Thonos replied, his voice labored, "tell of the rise of the dragons. A time we shall all be crushed under their flames. We have no wall to keep them out. We have nothing but hills and sky. And if they have come, they are here for a reason."

"But what reason?" her father asked. "What would compel a dragon to cross the world?"

"Perhaps a better question, Commander," Thonos replied, "is what could wound it?"

A long silence followed, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire, until finally Thonos spoke again.

"I suspect it is not the dragon that troubles you most, is it?"  Thonos asked.

There followed another long silence, and Kyra, though she knew she should not listen in, leaned forward, unable to help herself, and peered through the crack. Her heart felt heavy to see her father sitting there, head in his hands, brooding.

"No," he said, his voice thick with exhaustion. "It is not," he admitted.

Kyra wondered what they could be talking about.

"You dwell on the prophecies, do you not?" he asked. "The time of her birth?"

Kyra leaned in, her heart pounding in her ears, sensing they were speaking about her, but not understanding what they meant.

There came no response.

"I was there, Commander," Thonos finally said. "As were you."

Her father sighed, but would not raise his head.

"She is your daughter. Do you not think it fair to tell her? About her birth? Her mother? Does she not have a right to know who she is?"

Kyra's heart slammed in her chest; she hated secrets, especially about her. She was dying to know what they meant.

"The time is not right," her father finally said.

"But the time is never right, is it?" the old man said.

Kyra breathed sharply, feeling stung.

She suddenly turned and ran off, a heaviness in her chest as her father's words rang in her ears. They hurt her more than a million knives, more than anything the Lord's Men could throw at her. She felt betrayed. He was withholding a secret from her, some secret he'd been hiding her entire life. He had been lying to her.

Does she not have a right to know who she is?

Her entire life Kyra had felt that people had looked at her differently, as if they knew something about her which she did not, as if she were an outside, and she had never understood why. Now, she understood. She didn't just feel different than everyone else--she was different. But how?

Who was she?

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Vesuvius marched, a hundred trolls on his heels, through Great Wood, up the sharply rising terrain, too steep for the horses to follow. He marched with a sense of determination, and for the first time, optimism. He hacked through the thick brush with his blade and knew he could have passed through without cutting them, but he wanted to: he enjoyed killing things.

With each passing step Vesuvius heard the roar of the captured giant, growing louder, making the ground beneath them tremble. He noted the fear in the faces of his fellow trolls--and it made him smile. That fear was what he had been hoping to see for years--it meant that finally, after all the rumors, the giant had been found.

He chopped through the last of the brush and crested the ridge, and as he did, the forest opened up into a vast clearing before him. Vesuvius stopped in his tracks, caught off guard by the sight. At the far side of the clearing lay a huge cave, its arched opening a hundred feet high, and chained to its rock, by chains fifty feet long and three feet thick, one to each ankle and wrist, was the most immense, hideous creature he had ever laid eyes upon. It was a true giant, a nasty piece of creation, standing at least a hundred feet high and thirty feet wide, with a body built like a man but with four eyes, no nose, and a mouth that was all jaw and teeth. It opened its mouth in a roar, an awful sound, and Vesuvius, who feared nothing, who had faced the most gruesome creatures alive, had to admit that even he was afraid. It opened its mouth wider and wider, its teeth sharpened to a point five feet long, and looked as if it were ready to swallow the world.

It also looked enraged. It roared again and again, stomping its feet, fighting at the chains that bound it, and the ground shook, the cave shook, the entire mountainside shook. It was as if this beast, with all its power, was moving the entire mountain by itself, as if it had so much energy that it could not be contained. Vesuvius grinned; this was exactly what he needed. A creature like this could blast through the tunnel, could do what an army of trolls could not.

Vesuvius stepped forward and entered the clearing, noticing the dozens of dead soldiers, their corpses littering the ground, and as he did, his hundreds of waiting soldiers lined up at attention. He could see the fear in all their faces, as if they had no idea what to do with the giant now that they had captured him.

Vesuvius stopped at the edge of the clearing, just out of range of the giant's chains, not wanting to end up like the corpses, and as he did, it turned and charged for him, swiping at him with its long claws and missing by only a few feet.

Vesuvius stood there, staring back at it, while his commander came running up beside him, keeping his distance along the perimeter so as to be out of the giant's range.

"My Lord and King," the commander said, bowing deferentially. "The giant has been captured. It is yours to bring back. But we cannot bind it. We have lost many soldiers trying. We are at a loss for what to do."

Vesuvius stood there, hands on his hips, feeling the eyes of all his trolls on him as he surveyed the beast. It was an awesome specimen of creation, and as it glared down and snarled at him, anxious to tear him apart, Vesuvius could see what the problem was. He realized at once, as he usually did, how to fix it.

Vesuvius lay a hand on his commander's shoulder and leaned in close.

"You are trying to approach it," he said softly. "You must let it come to you. You must catch it off guard, and only then can you bind it. You must give it what it wants."

His commander looked back, confused.

"And what is it that it wants, my Lord and King?"

Vesuvius began to walk, leading his commander forward as they stepped deeper into the clearing, toward the giant.

"Why, you," Vesuvius finally replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world--and then shoved his commander with all his might, sending the unsuspecting soldier stumbling forward into the clearing.

Vesuvius backed up, safely out of range, and watched as the giant blinked down, surprised. The soldier leapt to his feet, trying to run, but the giant reacted immediately, swooping down with its claws, scooping him up and squeezing his hands around his waist as he raised him to eye level. He pulled him close and bit off the troll's head, swallowing his screams.

Vesuvius smiled, pleased to be rid of an inept commander.

"If I need to teach you what to do," he said to the corpse that was once his commander, "then why bother having a commander?"

Vesuvius turned and looked over the rest of his soldiers, and they all stood there, petrified, staring back in shock. He pointed to a soldier standing nearby.

"You," he said.

The troll stared back nervously.

"Yes, my Lord and King?"

"You are next."

The troll's eyes widened, and he dropped to his knees and clasped his hands out before him.

"I cannot, my Lord and King!" he wept. "I beg you! Not me! Choose someone else!"

Vesuvius stepped forward and nodded amicably.

"Okay," he replied. He stepped forward and sliced the troll's throat with his dagger, and the troll fell face-first, dead, at his feet. "I will."

Vesuvius turned to his other soldiers.

"Pick him up," he commanded, "and throw him in the giant's range. When it approaches, have your ropes ready. You will bind him as he goes for the bait."

A half dozen soldiers grabbed the corpse, rushed forward, and threw him into the clearing. The other soldiers followed Vesuvius's command, rushing forward on either side of the clearing with their massive ropes at the ready.

The giant studied the fresh troll at its feet, as if debating. But finally, as Vesuvius had gambled, it exhibited its limited intelligence and lunged forward, grabbing the corpse--exactly as Vesuvius knew it would.

"NOW!" he shrieked.

The soldiers threw the ropes, casting them over the back of the giant, grabbing hold on either side and pulling, pinning it down. More soldiers rushed forward and threw more ropes, dozens of them, again and again, binding its neck, its arms, its legs. They pulled with all their might as they encircled it, and the beast strained and struggled and roared in fury--but there was soon nothing it could do. Bound by dozens of thick ropes, held down by hundreds of men, it lay face down in the dirt, roaring helplessly.

Vesuvius walked close and stood over it, unimaginable just moments ago, and looked down, satisfied at his conquest.

Finally, after all these years, he grinned wide.

"Now," he said slowly, savoring each word, "Escalon is mine."

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kyra stood at the window of her chamber watching dawn break over the countryside with a sense of anticipation and dread. She had spent a long night plagued by nightmares, tossing and turning after overhearing her father's conversation. She could still hear the words ringing in her head:

Does she not have a right to know who she is?

All night long she had dreamt of a woman with an obscured face, wearing a veil, a woman she felt certain was her mother. She reached for her, again and again, only to wake grasping at the bed, at nothing.

Kyra no longer knew what was real and what was a dream, what was a truth and what was a lie. How many secrets had they been keeping from her? What couldn't they tell her?

Kyra finally woke at dawn, clutching her cheek, still stinging from the wound, and she wondered about her mother. All of her life she had been told that her mother had died in childbirth, and she had no reason to believe otherwise. Kyra felt she did not really resemble anyone in her family or in this fort, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that everyone had always looked at her a bit differently, as if she didn't quite belong here. But she had never imagined that there was anything to it, that her father had been lying to her, keeping some secret from her. Was her mother still alive? Why did they have to hide it from her?

Kyra stood at the window, trembling inside, marveling at how her life had changed so drastically in the last day. She also felt a fire burning in her veins, running from her cheek to her shoulder and down to her wrist, and she knew she was not the same person she was. She could sense the warmth of the dragon coursing through her, pulsating inside her. She wondered what it all meant. Would she ever be the same person again?

Kyra looked down at the people below, hundreds hurrying to and fro so early, and she marveled at all the activity. Usually this time of day was quiet. But not now. The Lord's Men were coming for them, like a brewing storm, and her people knew there would be retribution. The spirit in the air was different this time, too. Her people had always been quick to back down. But their spirit seemed to have hardened this time, and she was thrilled to see them preparing to fight. Scores of her father's men were securing the earthen banks, doubling the guard at the gates, lowering the portcullis, taking positions on the ramparts, barring windows and digging ditches. Men selected and sharpened weapons, filled quivers with arrows, prepared horses, and assembled in the courtyard nervously. They were all preparing.

Kyra could hardly believe she was the catalyst for all this; she felt a sense of guilt and of pride all at once. Most of all, she felt dread. Her people, she knew, could not survive a direct attack by the Lord's Men, whom, after all, had the Pandesian Empire behind them. They could put up a stand, but when Pandesia arrived with all its might, they would all surely die here.

"Glad to see you're up," came a cheerful voice.

Kyra spun, startled, as did Leo beside her, not realizing anyone else was awake in the fort this early, and she was relieved to see Anvin standing in the doorway, a grin on his face, joined by Vidar, Arthfael, and several more of her father's men. As the group stood looking back at her, she could see they looked at her differently this time. There was something different in their eyes: respect. They no longer looked at her as if she were a young girl, an observer, but rather, as if she were one of them. An equal.

That look restored her heart, made her feel as if it had all been worth it. There was nothing she had ever wanted more than to gain the respect of these men.

"You're better, then?" asked Vidar.

Kyra thought about that, and as she opened and closed her fists and stretched her arms, she realized she was, indeed, better--in fact, stronger than ever before. As she nodded back to them, she could see they also looked at her with something else: a touch of fear. As if she held some sort of power they did not know or trust.

"I feel reborn," she replied.

Anvin grinned wide.

"Good," he said. "You're going to need it. We'll need every hand we can get."

She looked back, surprised and thrilled.

"Are you offering me a chance to fight with you?" she asked, her heart thumping. No news could be more thrilling to her.

Arthfael smiled and stepped forward, clasping her shoulder.

"Just don't tell your father," he said.

Leo stepped forward and licked these men's hands and they all stroked his head.

"We have a little present for you," Vidar said.

Kyra was surprised.

"A present?" she asked.

"Consider it a homecoming," Arthfael said, "just a little something to help you forget that scratch on your cheek."

He stepped aside, as did the others, and Kyra realized they were inviting her to follow. There was nothing she wanted more. She smiled back, joyful for the first time in as long as she could remember.

"Is that what it takes to be invited to join your lot?" she asked with a smile. "I had to kill five of the Lord's Men?"

"Three," Arthfael corrected. "As I recall, Leo here killed two of them."

"Yes," Anvin said. "And surviving an encounter with a dragon counts for something, too."

*

Kyra marched with the men across the grounds of her father's fort, Leo at her side, their boots crunching on the snow, energized by the industry all around her, the fort so busy, filled with a sense of purpose, stunningly alive in the dawn. She passed carpenters, cobblers, saddlers, masons, all hard at work on their craft, while endless men sharpened swords and other blades along stones. As they walked, Kyra sensed people stopped and staring at her; her ears burned. They all must have known why the Lord's Men were coming, what she had done. She felt so conspicuous, and feared her people would hate her.

But she was surprised to see that they looked at her with admiration--and something else, perhaps fear. They must have discovered she'd survived an encounter with a dragon, and it seemed they did not know what to make of her.

Kyra looked up and searched the skies, hoping beyond hope that she might see Theos, recovered, flying high, circling her. But as she searched the skies, she saw nothing. Where was he? she wondered. Had he survived? Would he ever fly again? Was he already halfway across the world?

As they walked, crossing the fort, Kyra became curious as to where they were leading her and what gift they could possibly have in store for her.

"Where are we going?" she asked Anvin, as they turned down a narrow cobblestone street. They passed villagers digging out from the snow, while huge slabs of ice and snow slid off clay roofs. Smoke rose from chimneys all throughout the village, the smell of it crisp on the winter day.

They turned down another street and Kyra spotted a wide, low stone dwelling, covered in snow, with a red oak door, one set apart from the others, which she recognized immediately.

"Is that not the blacksmith's forge?" she asked.

"It is," Anvin replied, still walking.

"But why do you lead me here?" she asked.

They reached the door, and Vidar smiled as he opened the door and stepped aside.

"You shall see."

Kyra ducked through the low doorway then stood up straight in the forge, Leo following, the others filing in behind her, and as she entered, she was struck by the heat, the fires from the forge making it warm in here. She immediately noticed all the weapons laid out on the blacksmith's anvils, and she studied them with admiration: swords and axes still in progress, some still red-hot, still being molded.

The blacksmith sat there with his three apprentices, faces covered in soot, and looked up, expressionless, through his thick black beard. His place was packed with weapons--laid out on every surface, on the floor, hanging from hooks, and it appeared he was working on dozens at once. Kyra knew Brot, the blacksmith, a short man, stocky, with a low brow perpetually furrowed in concentration, to be a serious man who spoke few words, and who lived for his weapons. He was known to be gruff, not to care much for men--only for a piece of steel.

The few times Kyra had spoken with him, though, Brot had proved, beneath his gruff exterior, to be a kindhearted man, and passionate when talking about weaponry. He must have recognized a kindred soul in Kyra, as they had a mutual love for weaponry.

"Kyra," he said, seeming pleased to see her. "Sit."

She sat across form him at the empty bench, her back to the forge, feeling its heat. Anvin and the others crowded around them, and they all watched as Brot tinkered with his weaponry: a lance, a sickle, a mace in progress, its chain still waiting to be hammered out. Kyra saw a sword, its edges still rough, waiting to be sharpened. Behind him his apprentices worked, the noise of their tools filling the air. One hammered away at an ax, sparks flying everywhere, while another reached out with his long tongs and pulled a strip of white-hot steel from the forge, laying it on the anvil and preparing to hammer. The third used his tongs to take a halberd off his anvil and place it in the large, iron slack tub, its waters hissing the second it was submerged and emitting a cloud of steam.

For Kyra, this forge had always been the most exciting place in Volis.

As she watched him, her heart beat faster, wondering what present these men had in store.

"I heard of your exploits," Brot said, not meeting her eye, looking down at a long sword as he examined it, testing its weight. It was one of the longest swords she had ever seen, and he frowned and narrowed his eyes as he held its blade, seeming unsatisfied.

She knew better than to interrupt him, and she waited patiently in the silence for him to continue.

"A shame," he finally said.

Kyra stared back, confused.

"What?" she asked.

"That you did not kill the boy," he said. "We wouldn't all be in this mess if you had, would we?"

He still did not meet her eyes, weighing the sword, and she flushed, knowing he was right but not regretting her actions.

"A lesson for you," he added. "Kill them all, always. Do you understand me?" he asked, his tone hard as he looked up and met her eyes, dead serious. "Kill them all."

Despite his harsh tone and blunt quality, Kyra admired Brot for always saying what he believed, and what others were afraid to say. She also admired him for his fearlessness: owning weapons of steel was outlawed by Pandesia, on punishment of death. Her father's men's weapons were sanctioned only because they kept The Flames--but Brot also illegally forged weapons for dozens of others, helping to supply a secret army. He could be caught and killed at any moment, and yet he never flinched in the face of duty.

"Is that why you've summoned me?" she asked, puzzled. "To give me advice on killing men?"

He hammered away at a sword on the anvil before him, working for a while, ignoring her until he was ready. Still looking down, he said:

"No. To help you kill them."

She blinked, confused, and Brot reached back and gestured to one of his apprentices, who rushed over and handed him an object.

Brot looked at her.

"I heard you lost two weapons last night," he said. "A bow and a staff, was it?"

She nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

Brot shook his head disapprovingly.

"That is because you play with sticks. A child's weapons. You've killed five of the Lord's Men and have faced off with a dragon and lived, and that is more than anyone in this room. You are a warrior now, and you deserve a warrior's weapons."

He reached back as one of his apprentices handed him something, then turned back and laid a long object down on the table, covered in a red, velvet cloth.

She looked up at him questioningly, her heart beating with anticipation, and he nodded back.

Kyra reached out, slowly removed the red cloth, and gasped at what she saw: before her lay a beautiful longbow, its handle carved, ornate, and covered in a paper-thin sheet of shiny metal. It was unlike any bow she had ever seen.

"Alkan steel," he explained, as she hoisted it and admired how light it was. "The strongest in the world--and also the lightest. Very scarce, used by kings. These men here have paid for it--and my men have been pounding it all night."

Kyra turned and saw Anvin and the others looking back, smiling, and her heart filled with gratitude.

"Feel it," Brot urged. "Go ahead."

Kyra held up the bow and weighed it in her hand, in awe at how it fit in her hand.

"It is even lighter than my wood one," she said, confused.

"That's Beechum wood beneath," he said. "Stronger than what you had--and lighter, too. This bow will never break--and your arrows shall go much further."

She admired it, speechless, realizing this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. Brot reached out and handed her a quiver filled with arrows, all with shiny new heads, and as she fingered one she was amazed at how sharp they were. She inspected their intricate design.

"Barbed broadhead," Brot said proudly. "You land one of these, and the head will not come out. They are designed to kill."

Kyra looked up at Brot and the others, overwhelmed, not knowing what to say. What meant most to her were not the weapons but that these great men thought enough of her to go out of their way.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said. "I shall do my best to honor your work, and to be worthy of this weapon."

"I'm not done yet," he said, gruffly. "Hold out your arms."

She did, puzzled, and he stepped forward and examined them, rolling up her sleeves and checking her forearms. He finally nodded, satisfied.

"That's about right," he said.

Brot nodded to an apprentice, who stepped forward holding two shiny objects and clasped them to her forearms. As the cold metal touched her skin, Kyra was shocked to see that they were bracers, long, thin forearm guards. They ran from her wrist to her elbow, and as they were clasped into place with a click, they fit perfectly.

Kyra bent her elbows in wonder, examining the bracers, and as she did, she felt invincible, as if they were a part of her new skin. They were so light, yet so strong, protecting her from wrist to elbow.

"Bracers," Brot said. "Thin enough to allow you to move, yet strong enough to withstand the blow of any sword." He looked right at her. "These are not only for protection from the string when firing that bow--these are extra-long, also made of Alkan steel. They are meant to replace a shield. This shall be your armor. If an enemy comes at you with a sword, you now have the means to defend yourself."

He suddenly grabbed a sword off the table, raised it high, and brought it down right for her head.

Kyra, shocked, reacted, raising her forearms with her new bracers--and she was amazed as she stopped the blow, sparks flying.

Brot smiled, lowering his sword, pleased.

Kyra examined her bracers and felt an overwhelming joy.

"You have given me all I could ever want," Kyra said, getting ready to embrace them.

But Brot held up a hand and stopped her.

"Not all," he corrected.

Brot gestured to his third apprentice, who brought forth a long object wrapped in a black velvet cloth.

Kyra looked at it curiously, then draped the bow over her shoulder and reached out and took it. She unwrapped it slowly, and when she finally saw what was beneath it, she was breathless.

It was a staff, a work of beauty, even longer than her old one, and, most amazing of all, shiny. Like the bow, it was covered in a plate of Alkan steel, pounded paper-thin, light reflecting off of it. Yet even with all this metal, as she weighed it in her hands, it was lighter than her old staff.

"Next time," Brot said, "when they strike your staff, it won't break. And when you hit a foe, the blow will be more severe. It is a weapon and a shield in one. And that's not all," he said, pointing at it.

Kyra looked down, confused, not understand what he was pointing at.

"Twist it," he said.

She did as he told her and as she did, to her shock, the staff unscrewed and split in two equal halves. In each end was embedded a pointy blade, several inches long.

Kyra looked up, agape, and Brot smiled.

"Now you have more ways to kill a man," he said.

She looked up at the glistening blades, the finest work she had ever seen, and she was in awe. He had custom-forged this weapon for her, giving her a staff that doubled as two short spears, a weapon uniquely suited for her strengths. She twisted it closed again, smoothly locking it into place, so seamless she could not even tell there was a concealed weapon within.

She looked up at Brot, at all of the men, tears in her eyes.

"I shall never be able to thank you," she said.

"You already have," Anvin said, stepping forward. "You have brought a war upon us--a war that we ourselves were afraid to start. You have done us a great favor."

Before she could process his words, suddenly, a series of horns sounded in the distance, one after the next, echoing off the fort.

All of them exchanged a glance, all knowing what this meant: battle had come.

The Lord's Men were here.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

Merk hiked and hiked on the forest trail, the shadows getting long as he wound his way through Whitewood, the dead thieves now a good day's hike behind him. He hadn't stopped hiking since, trying to clear his mind of the incident, to get back to the peaceful place he had once inhabited. It wasn't easy. His legs growing weary, Merk was more anxious than ever to find the Tower of Ur, to walk into his new life as a Watcher, and he scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of it through the trees.

But there was no sign of it. This trek was beginning to feel more like a pilgrimage, one that would never end. The Tower of Ur was more remote, more well-hidden, than he had imagined.

Encountering those thieves had awakened something deep within him, had made Merk realize how hard it might be to shake off his old self. He did not know if he had the discipline. He only hoped that the Watchers would accept him in their order; if not, with nowhere else to turn, he would surely go back to being the man he once was.

Up ahead, Merk saw the wood change, saw a grove of ancient white trees, trunks as wide as ten men, reaching high into the sky, their branches spreading out like a canopy with shimmering red leaves. One of the trees, with a broad, curved trunk, looked particularly inviting, and Merk, feet aching, sat down beside it. He leaned back and felt an immediate sense of relief, felt the pain leaving his back and legs from hours of hiking. He kicked off his boots and felt the pain throbbing in his feet, and he sighed as a cool breeze soothed him, leaves rustling above.

Merk reached into his sack and extracted what remained of the dried strips of meat from the rabbit he had caught the other night. He took a bite and chewed slowly, closing his eyes, resting, wondering what the future had in store for him. Sitting here, against this tree, beneath these rustling leaves, felt good enough for him.

Merk's eyes felt heavy and he let them close, just for a moment, needing the rest.

When he opened them, Merk was surprised to see the sky had grown darker, to realize that he had fallen asleep. It was already twilight, and he realized with a start that he would have slept all night--if he had not been awakened by a noise.

Merk sat up and took stock, immediately on guard as his instincts kicked in. He clutched the hilt of his dagger, hidden in his waist, and waited. He did not want to resort to violence--but until he reached the Tower, he was starting to feel that anything was possible.

The rustling became louder, and it sounded like someone running, bursting through the forest. Merk was puzzled: what was someone else doing out here, in the middle of nowhere, in twilight? From the sound of the leaves, Merk could tell it was one person, and that it was light. Maybe a child, or a girl.

Sure enough, a moment later there burst into his sight a girl, emerging from the forest, running, crying. He watched her, surprised, as she ran, alone, stumbled, and fell, but feet away from him. She landed face-first in the dirt. She was pretty, perhaps eighteen, but disheveled, her hair a mess, dirt and leaves in it, her clothes ragged and torn.

Merk stood, and as she scrambled to get back to her feet she saw him and her eyes widened in panic.

"Please don't hurt me!" she cried, standing, backing away.

Merk raised his hands.

"I mean you no harm," he said slowly, standing to his full height. "In fact, I was just about to be on my way."

She backed up several feet in terror, still crying, and he could not help but wonder what had happened. Whatever it was, he did not want to get involved--he had enough problems of his own.

Merk turned back on the trail and began to walk away, when her voice cried out behind him:

"No, wait!"

He turned and saw her standing there, desperate.

"Please. I need your help," she pleaded.

Merk looked at her and saw how beautiful she was beneath her disheveled appearance, with unwashed blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a face with perfect features, covered in tears and in dirt. She wore simple farmer's clothes, and he could tell she was not rich. She looked as if she had been on the run for a long time.

He shook his head.

"You don't have the money to pay me," Merk said. "I cannot help you, whatever it is you need. Besides, I'm on my way for my own mission."

"You don't understand," she begged, stepping closer. "My family--our home was raided this morning. Mercenaries. My father's been hurt. He chased them away, but they'll be back soon--and with a lot more men--to kill him, to kill my whole family. They said they will burn our farm to the ground. Please!" she begged, stepping closer. "I'll give you anything. Anything!"

Merk stood there, feeling sorry for her, but determined not to get involved.

"There are many problems in the world, miss," he said. "And I can't fix them all."

He turned once again to walk away, when her voice rang out again:

"Please!" she cried. "It is a sign, don't you see? That I would run into you here, in the middle of nowhere? I expected to find no one--and I found you. You were meant to be here, meant to help me. God is giving you a chance for redemption. Don't you believe in signs?"

He stood there and watched her sobbing, and he felt guilty, but mostly detached. A part of him thought of how many people he'd killed in his lifetime, and wondered: what's a few more? But there were always just a few more. It never seemed to end. He had to draw the line somewhere.

"I'm sorry, miss," he said. "But I am not your savior."

Merk turned again and began to walk off, determined this time not to stop, to drown out her sobs and grief by rustling the leaves loudly with his feet, blocking out the noise.

But no matter how hard he rustled the leaves, her cries continued, ringing somewhere in the back of his head, summoning him. He turned and watched her run off, disappearing back into the wood, and he wanted to feel a sense of relief. But more than anything, he felt haunted--haunted by a cry he did not want to hear.

He cursed as he hiked, enraged, wishing he'd never met her. Why? he wondered. Why him?

It kept gnawing away at him, would not let him be, and he hated the feeling. Was this what it was like, he wondered, to have a conscience?

# CHAPTER TWENTY

Kyra's heart pounded as she walked with her father and brothers, Anvin and all the warriors, all marching solemnly through the streets of Volis, all preparing for war. There was a solemn silence in the air, the skies heavy with gray, a light snow falling once again as their boots crunched through the snow, approaching the main gate of the fort. Horns sounded again and again, and her father led his men stoically, Kyra surprised at how calm he was, as if he had done this a thousand times before.

Kyra looked straight ahead, and through the iron bars of the lowered portcullis she caught a glimpse of the Lord Governor, leading his men, a hundred of them, dressed in their scarlet armor, the yellow and blue Pandesian banners flapping in the wind. They galloped through the snow on their massive black horses, wearing the finest armor and donning the finest weaponry, all heading directly for the gates of Volis. The rumble of their horses was audible from here, and Kyra felt the ground tremble beneath her.

As Kyra marched, her heart pounding, she held her new staff, had her new bow strapped over her shoulder, and she wore hew new bracers--and she felt reborn. Finally, she felt like a real warrior, with real weapons. She was elated to have them.

As they marched, Kyra was pleased her to see her people rallying, unafraid, all joining them on their march to meet the enemy.  She saw all the village folk looking to her father and his men with hope, and she was honored to be marching with them. They all seemed to have an infinite trust in her father, and she suspected that if they were under any other leadership, the village folk would not be as calm.

The Lord's Men came closer, a horn sounded yet again, and Kyra's heart slammed.

"No matter what happens," Anvin said, coming up beside her, talking quietly, "no matter how close they get, do not take any action without your father's command. He is your commander now. I speak to you not as his daughter, but as one of his men. One of us."

She nodded back, honored.

"I do not wish to be the cause of death for our people," she said.

"Don't worry," Arthfael said, coming up on her other side. "This day has been a long time coming. You didn't start this war--they did. The second they crossed the Southern Gate and invaded Escalon."

Kyra, reassured, tightened her grip on her staff, ready for whatever might come. Perhaps the Lord Governor would be reasonable. Perhaps he would negotiate a truce?

Kyra and the others reached the portcullis, and they all stopped and looked to her father.

He stood there, looking out, expressionless, his face hard, ready. He turned to his men.

"We shall not cower behind iron gates in fear of our enemies," he boomed, "but meet them, as men, beyond the gate. Raise it!" he commanded.

A groaning noise followed as soldiers slowly raised the thick iron portcullis. Finally, it stopped with a bang, and Kyra joined the others as they all marched through.

They marched across the hollow wood bridge, their boots echoing, crossed over the moat, and all came to a stop at the opposite side, waiting.

A rumble filled the air as the Lord's Men came to a stop a few feet before them. Kyra stood several feet behind her father, grouped in with the others, and she pushed her way to the front lines, wanting to stand by his side--and to stare down the Lord's Men, face to face.

Kyra saw the Lord Governor, a middle-aged, balding man with wisps of gray hair and a large belly, sitting smugly on his horse a dozen feet away, staring down at all of them as if he were too good for them. A hundred of his men sat on horseback behind him, all wearing serious expressions and bearing serious weaponry. These men, she could see, were all prepared for war and death.

Kyra was so proud to see her father standing there, before all his men, unflinching, unafraid. He wore the face of a commander at war, one she had never seen before. It was not the face of the father she knew, but the face he reserved for his men.

A long, tense silence filled the air, punctuated only by the howling of the wind. The Lord Governor took his time, examining them for a full minute, clearly trying to intimidate them, to force her people to look up and take in the awesomeness of their horses and weapons and armor. The silence stretched so long that Kyra started to wonder if anyone would break it, and she began to realize that her father's silence, his greeting them silently, coldly, standing with all his men at arms, was in itself an act of defiance. She loved him for it. He was not a man to back down to anyone, whatever the odds.

Leo was the only one to make a sound, snarling quietly up at them.

Finally, the Lord Governor cleared his throat, as he stared at her father.

"Five of my men are dead," he announced, his voice nasally. He remained on his horse, not coming down to meet them at their level. "Your daughter has broken the sacred Pandesian law. You know the consequence: touching a Lord's Man means pain of death."

He fell silent, and her father did not respond. As the snow and wind picked up, the only sound that could be heard was the flapping of the banners in the wind. The men, equally numbered on both sides, stared at each other in a tense silence.

Finally, the Lord Governor continued.

"Because I am a merciful Lord," he said, "I will not execute your daughter. Nor will I kill you and your men and your people, which is my right. I am, in fact, willing to put all this nasty business behind us."

The silence continued as the Governor, taking his time, slowly surveyed all their faces, until he stopped on Kyra. She felt a chill as his greedy, ugly eyes settled on her.

"In return, I will take your daughter, as is my right. She is unwed, and of age, and as you know, Pandesian law permits me. Your daughter--all of your daughters--are our property now."

He sneered at her father.

"Consider yourself lucky I do not exact a harsher punishment," he concluded.

The Lord Governor turned and nodded to his men, and two of his soldiers, fierce-looking men, dismounted and began to cross the bridge, their boots and spurs echoing over the hollow wood as they went.

Kyra's heart slammed in her chest as she saw them coming for her; she wanted to take action, to draw her bow and fire, to wield her staff. But she recalled Anvin's words about awaiting her father's command, about how disciplined soldiers should act, and as hard as it was, she forced herself to wait.

As they came closer, Kyra wondered what her father would do. Would he give her away to these men? Would he fight for her? Whether they won or lost, whether they took her or not, did not matter to her--what mattered more to her was that her father cared enough to make a stand.

As they neared, though, her father did not react. Kyra's heart pounded in her throat. She felt a rush of disappointment, realizing he was going to let her go. It made her want to cry.

Leo snarled furiously, standing out in front of her, hair raised; yet still they didn't stop. She knew that if she commanded him to pounce, he would; yet she did not want him to be harmed by those weapons, and she did not want to defy her father's command and spark a war.

The men were but a few feet away from her when, suddenly, at the last second, her father nodded to his men, and six of them stepped forward, Kyra was elated to see, and lowered their halberds, blocking the soldiers' approach.

The soldiers stopped short, their armor clanging against the metal halberds, and they looked to her father with surprise, clearly not expecting this.

"You'll be going no further," he said. His voice was strong, dark, a voice no one would dare defy. It carried the tone of authority--not of a serf.

In that moment, Kyra loved him more than she'd ever had.

He turned and looked out at the Lord Governor.

"We are all free men here," he said, "men and women, old and young alike. The choice is hers. Kyra," he said, turning to her, "do you wish to leave with these men?"

She stared back at him, suppressing a smile.

"No," she answered firmly.

He turned back to the Lord Governor.

"There you have it," he said. "The choice is hers to make. Not yours, and not mine. If you wish to have some property or gold of mine as recompense for your loss," he said to the Governor, "then you may have it. But you shall not have my daughter--or any of our daughters--regardless of what a scribe has set down as Pandesian law."

The Lord Governor glowered down at him, shock in his face, clearly not used to being spoken to that way--or defied. He looked like he did not know what to do. Clearly, this was not the reception he had been expecting.

"You dare to block my men?" he asked. "To turn down my offer?"

"It is no offer at all," Duncan replied.

"Think carefully, serf," he chided. "I shall not offer it twice. If you refuse me, you will face death--you and all of your people. Surely you know that I am not alone--I speak for the vast Pandesian army. Do you imagine you can face Pandesia alone--when your own King has surrendered your kingdom? When the odds are so stacked against you?"

Her father shrugged.

"I don't fight for odds," he replied. "I fight for causes. Your number of men does not matter to me. What matters is our freedom. You may win--but you will never take our spirit."

The governor's face hardened.

"When all your women and children are taken from you screaming," he said, "remember the choice you made today."

The Lord Governor turned, kicked his horse, and rode off, followed by several attendants, heading back on the road on which he'd came, into the snowy countryside.

His soldiers, though, remained behind, and their commander raised his banner high and ordered: "ADVANCE!"

The Lord's Men all dismounted, lined up in a row, and marched in perfect discipline, over the bridge and right for them.

Kyra, heart pounding, turned and looked at her father, as did all the others, awaiting his command--and suddenly he raised one fist high, and with a fierce battle cry, lowered it.

Suddenly, the sky filled with arrows. Kyra looked over her shoulder to see several of her father's archers take aim from the battlements and fire. Arrows whizzed by her ear and she watched as they hit the Lord's Men left and right.

Cries filled the air as men died all around her. It was the first time she had seen so many men die up close, and the sight stunned her.

Her father, at the same time, drew a short sword from each side of his waist, stepped forward, and stabbed the two soldiers who had come for his daughter, each dropping, dead, at his feet.

At the same moment, Anvin, Vidar, and Arthfael raised spears and hurled them, each felling a soldier who charged across the bridge. Brandon and Braxton stepped forward and hurled spears, too, one grazing a soldier's arm and the other grazing a soldier's leg, wounding them, at least.

More men charged and Kyra, inspired, set aside her staff, raised her new bow for the first time, placed an arrow, and fired. She aimed for the commander, leading his men in a charge on horseback, and she watched with great satisfaction as her arrow sailed through the air and impaled his chest. It was her first shot with the new bow, and her first time killing a man in formal combat--and as their commander fell to the ground, she looked down in shock at what she had just done.

At the same time, a dozen of the Lord's Men raised their bows and fired back, and Kyra watched in horror as arrows whizzed by her from the opposite direction--and as some of her father's men cried out, wounded, dropping all around her.

"FOR ESCALON!" her father yelled.

He drew his sword and led a charge across the bridge, into the thick of the Lord's Men. His soldiers followed close behind, and Kyra drew her staff and joined in, too, exhilarated at rushing into battle and wanting to be by her father's side.

As they charged, the Lord's Men prepared another round of arrows and fired once again--and soon a wall of arrows came at them.

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 deadly arrows were stopped.

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 soon 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. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same moment.

Squeezed into the bridge with nowhere to go, the men fought hand-to-hand, groaning, slashing and blocking, the clang of metal deafening. Leo lunged forward and sunk his teeth into a man's foot, while 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.

Kyra watched Anvin head-butt a man, then plunge a sword into his gut. She watched 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, and it was clear 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, all right here. Their passion, their stakes, gave them momentum.

In close quarters with little room to maneuver, Kyra saw a soldier come at her, sword raised high, and she immediately grabbed her staff with both hands, turned it sideways and raised it overhead as a shield. The man came at her with a long sword, and she prayed Brot's Alkan steel would hold.

The sword clanged off the staff as it would against a shield, and to her relief, the staff did not break.

Kyra spun the 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.

Losing strength as the ax blade came closer, Kyra remembered Brot's contraption. She 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 this, 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 turned to see a mob of village folk--farmers, masons, blacksmiths, armorers, butchers--all wielding weapons--sickles, hatchets, anything and everything--racing for the bridge. Within moments they joined her father's men, all of them ready to take a stand.

Kyra watched as Thomak the butcher used a cleaver to sever a man's arm, while Brine the mason smashed a soldier in the chest with a hammer, felling him. The village folk brought a fresh burst of energy to the battle, and as clumsy as they were, they caught the Lord's Men off guard. They fought with passion, releasing years of pent-up anger at their servitude. Now, finally, they had a chance to stand up for themselves--a chance for vengeance.

They pushed back the Lord's Men as they hacked their way through with brute force, felling men--and their horses--left and right. But after a few minutes of intense fighting 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 of the Lord's Men reinforcements charged onto it. Her father's men, slipping in the snow, were tiring, more than one crying out and falling, killed by the Lord's Men. The tide of battle was turning against them, and Kyra knew she had to do something quickly.

Kyra eyed her surroundings and had an idea: she 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 no longer caring. She was the only one of them nimble enough to leap all the way up here, and she drew her bow, took aim, and fired.

With her superior angle, Kyra was able to take out one soldier after the next. She took aim at one of the Lord's Men, bringing a hatchet down for her unsuspecting father's back, and hit him in the neck, felling him right before he put a 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.

Firing arrow after arrow, Kyra felled a dozen men--until she was finally spotted. She felt an arrowed whizz by her face, and she looked out to see archers firing back at her. Before she could react, she gasped in horrific pain as an arrow grazed her arm, drawing blood.

Kyra jumped down from the rail and back into the fray. She rolled to her hands and knees, and she knelt there, breathing hard, her arm killing her, and looked up and saw more reinforcements arriving onto the bridge. She watched her people get driven back, and watched as one of them, right beside her, a man she had known and loved, was stabbed in the gut and tumbled over the railing, into the moat, dead.

As she knelt there, a fierce soldier raised his ax high overhead and brought it down for her. She knew she could not react it in time and she braced herself--when suddenly Leo lunged forward and sunk his fangs into the man's stomach.

Kyra sensed motion out of the corner of her eye and she turned to see another soldier raise his halberd and bring it down for the back of her neck. Unable to react in time, she braced herself for the blow, expecting to die.

There came a clang, and she looked up to see the blade hovering right before her head--stopped by a sword. Her father stood over her, wielding the sword, saving 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, an unfamiliar feeling began to overcome her; it was a warmth, beginning in her solar plexus and radiating from there. It was a foreign sensation, 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 strength, it gave her focus; as she looked around, it was as if time slowed. In a single glance, she took in all the enemy soldiers, saw all their vulnerabilities, saw how to kill each and every one.

Kyra did not understand what was happening to her--and she did not care. She embraced the new power that took over her and allowed herself to succumb to its sweet rage and do with her as it would.

Kyra stood, feeling invincible, feeling as if everyone else moved in slow motion around her. 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, felt it instruct her who to strike, where to move, and she found herself attacking enemy soldiers in a blur as she cut through the crowd. She smashed one soldier 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, 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 Lord's Men off the bridge. She found herself standing on the far side and jabbing one last soldier between the eyes.

Kyra stood there, breathing hard, and suddenly time became fast again. She looked around and saw the damage she had done, and she was more shocked than anyone else.

The dozen or so soldiers who remained of the Lord's Men, on the far side of the bridge, looked back at her, panic in their eyes, and 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 there were no survivors left.

A horn sounded. The battle was over.

All her father's men, all the villagers, stood there, stunned, realizing they had achieved the impossible. Yet, oddly, there wasn't the jubilant outcry that normally would follow such a victory; there came no cheering and embracing of men, no shouts of joy. 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 the men to pause.

But it was more than that, Kyra knew. That wasn't what caused the silence. What caused it, she knew, was her.

Every eye on the battlefield turned and looked at her. Even Leo looked up at her, fear in his eyes, as if he no longer knew her.

Kyra stood there, still breathing hard, her cheeks still flush, and felt them all staring. They looked at her with awe--but also with 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 as he stood in the cart, sandwiched between the mass of boys, dreaming fast, troubled dreams. He saw himself being squeezed to death in a coffin filled with boys, the lid being slammed on him.

He woke with a start, breathing hard, realizing he was standing in the cart. More stops had been 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 wood. Alec had been on his feet ever since the confrontation, feeling safer to stand, and his back was killing him. But he longer cared. He found it easier to doze off while standing, especially with Marco beside him. The boys who had attacked him had retreated to the far side of the carriage, but at this point, he did not trust anybody.

The jolting of the cart had sunk into Alec's consciousness, and he forgot what it was like to stand on steady ground. He thought of Ashton and took solace in the fact that at least his brother wasn't standing here right now. It gave him a sense of purpose, and gave him the courage to go on.

As the shadows grew longer, no end in sight to their journey, Alec began to lose hope, to feel as if they would never reach The Flames.

More time passed, and after he dozed off several times, he felt a nudge in his ribs. He opened his eyes to see it was Marco, gesturing with his head.

Alec felt a wave of excitement rippling through the crowd of boys, and this time he sensed something was different. All the boys perked up as they began to turn and look through the iron bars. Alec turned and tried to look out, disoriented, but he could not see through the thick crowd of bodies.

"You've got to see this," Marco said, looking out.

Marco shifted out of the way so Alec could peek through. As he did, Alec saw a sight which he would never forget:

The Flames.

Alec had heard about The Flames his entire life, but he had never imagined they could exist. It was one of those things 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?

But now, as he laid eyes upon them 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 and men, standing guard, spread out every hundred feet or so. On the horizon, at the end of the road, he saw a black, stone tower, around which sat several outbuildings. It was a hub of activity.

"Looks like our new home," Marco observed.

Alec saw the rows of squalid barracks, packed with boys covered in soot. He felt a pit in his stomach, realizing this was a sorry glimpse of his future, of the hell his life would become.

*

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--and that it was covered in snow. He wasn't used to this northeastern weather, and he realized immediately that his Midland 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, 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, herding all the boys like cattle toward the barracks.

Behind him Alec watched as several dozen boys emerged from his cart; more than one, he was surprised to see, fell out limply, dead. He marveled that he'd survived the journey, crammed in as he'd been. 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 felt as if he'd arrived at the end of the world.

Crackling filled the air and Alec looked up and saw, perhaps a hundred yards away, The Flames. They walked toward them, and they loomed larger and larger. They were awe-inspiring in person, up close, and he appreciated their heat, growing warmer with each step he took. He feared, though, how hot it would become when he got up close, as the others on patrol who stood hardly twenty yards away. He noticed they wore unusual protective armor. Even so, some lay there, limp, having clearly collapsed.

"See those flames, boy?" came a sinister voice.

Alec turned to see the boy he'd confronted in the carriage coming up beside him, his friend beside him, sneering.

"When I take your face to them no one's gonna recognize you--not even your mama. I'll burn your hands off until they're nothing but stumps. Appreciate what you got before you lose it."

He laughed, a dark, mean noise, sounding like a cough.

Alec stared back with defiance, Marco now beside him.

"You couldn't beat me in the carriage," Alec replied, "and you won't beat me now."

The boy snickered.

"This ain'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 it."

Alec saw the boy hesitate as he glanced back at the Pandesian handlers.

"When the time is right," he replied.

With that, 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 and wondered. A few feet from the packed entrance, Alec could already smell the body odor emanating from the building. He recoiled as he was shoved inside.

Alec tried to adjust to the dark barracks, lit only by the weak light coming through a few windows, high up. He looked down at the dirt floor and realized immediately that the carriage, as bad as it was, was better than this. He saw rows of suspicious, hostile faces, only the whites of their eyes visible, 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.

"Fodder for The Flames!" cried another.

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.

"That's my spot, boy."

Alec turned to see an older recruit glaring at him, holding a dagger.

"Unless you want me to cut your throat," he warned.

Marco stepped forward.

"Keep your hay," he said. "It stinks anyway."

The two of them turned and continued deeper into the barracks, until, in a far corner, Alec found a small patch of hay deep in the shadows. He saw no one nearby, and he and Marco sat, a few feet away from each other, their backs against the wall.

Alec immediately breathed a sigh of relief; it felt so good to rest his aching legs, to not be in motion. He felt secure with his back to the wall, in a corner, where he could not get easily ambushed, and having a view of the room. He saw hundreds of recruits milling about, all in some state of argument, and dozens more pouring in by the second. He also saw several being dragged out by their ankles, dead. This place was a vision of hell.

"Don't worry, it gets worse," said a voice beside him.

Alec turned to see a recruit lying in the shadows a few feet away, a boy he hadn't noticed before, on his back, hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. He chewed on a piece of straw, and he had a deep, jaded voice.

"Hunger will probably kill you," the boy added darkly. "It kills about half the boys that come through here. Disease kills most others. If that doesn't get you, another boy will. Maybe you'll fight over a piece of bread--or maybe for no reason at all. Maybe he won't like the way you walk, or the way you look. Maybe you'll remind him of someone. Or maybe it'll just be pure hate for no reason. There's a lot of that going around here."

He sighed.

"And if all that doesn't get you," he added, "those flames will. Maybe not on your first patrol, or your second. But trolls break through when you least expect it, usually on fire, always looking to kill something. They've got nothing to lose and they come out of nowhere. I saw one the other night, sank its teeth in a boy's throat before the others could do anything."

Alec exchanged a look with Marco, each wondering what kind of life they'd signed up for.

"Nope," the boy added, "I haven't seen any boy survive more than one moon of duty."

"You're still here," Marco observed.

The boy grinned, chewing on his straw, still looking up.

"That's because I learned how to survive," he replied.

"How long have you been here?" Alec asked.

"Two moons," he replied. "The longest of all of them."

Alec gasped, shocked. Two moons, and the oldest survivor. This really was a factory of death. He started to wonder if he had made a mistake in coming here; maybe he should have just fought the Pandesians when they'd arrived in Solis and died a quick, clean death back at home. He found his thoughts turning to escape; after all, his brother had been spared--what did he have to gain by staying here now?

Alec found himself searching the walls, checking the windows and doors, counting the guards, wondering if there was a way.

"That's good," the boy said, still staring at the ceiling, yet somehow observing him. "Think of escape. Think of anything but this place. That's how you survive."

Alec flushed, embarrassed the boy read his mind, and amazed he could do it without even looking directly at him.

"But don't really try it," the boy said. "I can't tell you how many of us die each night trying. Better to be killed than to die that way."

"Die what way?" Marco asked. "Do they torture you?"

The boy shook his head.

"Worse," he replied. "They let you go."

Alec stared back, confused.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"They chose this spot well," he explained. "Those woods are filled with death. Boars, beasts, trolls--everything you can imagine. No boy ever survives."

The boy grinned, and looked at them for the first time.

"Welcome, my friends," he said, smiling wide, "to The Flames."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Kyra walked through the winding streets of Volis, snow crunching beneath her boots, in a daze after her first battle. It had all happened so quickly, had been more vicious, more intense than she could have imagined. Men died--good men--men she had known all her life, in horrible and painful ways. Fathers and brothers and husbands now lay dead in the snow, their corpses piled outside of the fort's gates, the ground too hard to bury them.

She closed her eyes and tried to shake out the images.

It had been a great victory, and yet it had also humbled her, made her see how real battle was, how fragile life could be. It had shown her how easily men could die--and how easily she could take a man's life--both of which she found equally disturbing.

Being a great warrior was what she had always wanted; yet she could see now that it came with a heavy price. Valor was what she strived for, yet there was nothing easy, she was realizing, about valor. Unlike the spoils of war, it was not something she could hold in her grasp, not something she could hang on her wall. And yet it was what men strived for. Where was this thing called valor? Now that the battle was over, where had it gone?

More than anything, the day's events forced Kyra to wonder about herself, her mysterious power, which came from nowhere and seemed to disappear just as quickly. She tried to summon it again, but could not. What was it? Where did it come from? Kyra did not like what she could not understand, what she could not control. She would rather be less powerful and understand where her talents came from.

As Kyra walked the streets, she was puzzled by her townsfolk's reaction. After the battle, she had expected them to be panicked, to board up their homes or prepare to evacuate the fort. After all, many of the Lord's Men had died, and surely they would also soon see the wrath of Pandesia. A great and terrible army would be coming for them all; it might be the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that--but surely it was coming. They were all the walking dead here. How could they be unafraid?

Yet as she mingled with her people, Kyra detected no fear. On the contrary, she saw a jubilant people, energized, rejuvenated; she saw a people that had been set free. They bustled in every direction, clapping each other on the back, celebrating--and preparing. They sharpened weapons, strengthened gates, piled rocks high, stored food, and hurried about with a great sense of purpose. The Volisians, following her father's example, had an iron will. They were a people not easily deterred, and in fact, it seemed as if they looked forward to the next confrontation, whatever the cost and however grim the odds.

Kyra also noticed something else as she walked amongst her people, something which made her uncomfortable: the new way they looked at her. Clearly word had spread of what she had done, and she could feel the whispers behind her back. They looked at her as if she were not of them, these people she had known and loved her entire life. It made her feel as if she were a stranger here, and made her wonder where her true home was. Most of all, it made her wonder about her father's secret.

Kyra walked over to the thick wall of the ramparts and climbed the stone steps, Leo right behind her, ascending to the upper levels. She passed all her father's men, standing guard every twenty feet or so, and she could see they, too, all viewed her differently now, a new respect in their eyes. That look made it all worth it for her.

Kyra turned a corner and in the distance, standing above the arched gates, looking out over the countryside, she saw the man she had come for: her father. He stood there, hands on his hips, several of his men around him, gazing out into the rising snow. He blinked into the wind, unfazed by it--or by his fresh wounds from battle.

He turned at her approach and gestured to his men. They all walked off, leaving them alone.

Leo rushed forward and licked his hand, and her father stroked his head.

Kyra stood there, facing her father alone, and she did not know what to say. He looked back at her, expressionless, and she could not tell if he was angry with her, proud of her, or both. He was a complicated man in even the most simple of times--and these were not simple times. His face was hard, like the mountains beyond them, and as white as the snow that fell, and he looked like the ancient stone from which Volis had been quarried. She did not know if he was of this place, or if this place was of him.

He turned and looked back out at the countryside, and she stood beside him, looking out, too. They shared the silence, punctuated only by the wind, as she waited for him to speak.

"I used to think that our safety, our secure life here, was more important than freedom," he finally began, his voice a low rumble. "Today, I realized I was wrong. You have taught me what I have forgotten: that freedom, that honor, is worth more than all."

He smiled as he looked over at her, and she was relieved to see warmth in his eyes.

"You have given me a great gift," he said. "You have reminded me what honor means."

She smiled, touched by his words, relieved he was not upset with her, feeling the rift in their relationship repaired.

"It is hard to see men die," he continued, reflective, turning back to the countryside. "Even for me."

A long silence followed, and Kyra wondered if he would bring up what had happened; she sensed that he wanted to. She wanted to bring it up herself but was unsure how.

"I am different, Father, aren't I?" she finally asked, her voice soft, afraid to ask the question.

He continued to stare out at the horizon, inscrutable, until finally he nodded slightly.

"It has something to do with my mother, doesn't it?" she pressed. "Who was she? Am I even your daughter?"

He turned and looked at her, sadness in his eyes, mixed with a nostalgic look she did not fully understand.

"These are all questions for another time," he said. "When you are ready."

"I am ready now," she insisted.

He shook his head.

"There are many things you must learn first, Kyra. Many secrets I have had to withhold from you," he said, his voice heavy with remorse. "It pained me to do so, but it was to protect you. The time is near for you to know everything, to know who you truly are."

She stood there, her heart pounding, desperate to know, yet afraid at the same time.

"I thought I could raise you," he sighed. "They warned me this day would come, but I did not believe it. Not until today, not until I saw your skill. Your talents...they are beyond me."

She furrowed her brow, confused.

"I don't understand, Father," she said. "What are you saying?"

His face hardened with resolve.

"It is time for you to leave us," he said, his voice filled with determination, taking on the tone he used when his mind was set. "You must leave Volis at once and seek out your uncle, your mother's brother. Akis. In the Tower of Ur."

"The Tower of Ur?" she repeated, shocked. "Is my uncle a Watcher, then?"

Her father shook his head.

"He is much more. It is he who must train you--and is he, and only he, who can reveal the secret of who you are."

While learning the secret thrilled her, she was overwhelmed by the idea of leaving Volis.

"I don't want to go," she said. "I want to be here, with you. Especially now, of all times."

He sighed.

"Unfortunately, what you and I want no longer matters," he said. "This is no longer about you and me. This is about Escalon--all of Escalon. The destiny of our lands lies in your hand. Don't you see, Kyra?" he said, turning to her. "It is you. You are the one who will lead our people out of the darkness."

She blinked, shocked, hardly believing his words.

"How?" she asked. "How is that possible?"

But he merely fell silent, refusing to say anymore.

"I can't leave your side, Father," she pleaded. "I won't. Not now."

He studied the countryside, sadness in his eyes.

"Within a fortnight, all you see here will be destroyed. There is no hope for us. You must escape when you can. You are our only hope--your dying here, with us, will help no one."

Kyra felt pained by his words. She could not bring herself to leave while her people died.

"They will come back, won't they?" she asked.

It was more of a statement than a question.

"They will," he replied. "They will cover Volis like a plague of locusts. All you have known and loved will soon be no more."

She felt a pit in her stomach at his response, and yet she knew it was the truth, and was grateful at least for that.

"And what of the capital?" Kyra asked. "What of the old King? Could you not go to Andros and resurrect the old army and make a stand?"

He shook his head.

"The King surrendered once," he said, wistfully. "The time to fight has passed. Andros is run by politicians now, not soldiers, and none are to be trusted."

"But surely they would stand up for Escalon, if not for Volis," she insisted.

"Volis is but one stronghold," he said, "one they can afford to turn their backs on. Our victory today, as great as it was, was too small for them to risk rallying all of Escalon."

They both fell into silence as they studied the horizon, Kyra pondering his words.

"Are you scared?" she asked.

"A good leader must always know fear," he replied. "Fear sharpens our senses, and helps us to prepare. It is not death I fear, though--it is only not dying well."

They stood there, studying the skies, as she realized the truth in his words. A long, comfortable silence fell over them.

Finally, he turned to her.

"Where is your dragon now?" he asked, then suddenly turned and walked off, as he sometimes did.

Kyra, alone, stood there and studied the horizon; strangely enough, she had been wondering the same thing. The skies were empty, thick with rolling clouds, and she kept hoping, in the back of her mind, to hear a screech, to see its wings dip down from the clouds.

But there was nothing. Nothing but emptiness and silence, and her father's lingering question:

Where is your dragon now?

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Alec felt himself rudely awakened by a kick in the ribs and he opened his eyes, exhausted, disoriented, trying to get his bearings. He pulled hay from his mouth, saw he was lying face-first on the ground, and he remembered: the barracks. He had been up most of the night, watching his and Marco's back as the night was filled the sounds of boys fighting, creeping in and out of the shadows, calling out to each other threateningly. He had watched more than one boy get dragged out, feet first, dead--but not before boys pounced on his corpse and raided it for anything they could salvage.

Alec was kicked again, and this time, alert, he rolled over, ready for anything. He looked up, blinking in the blackness, and was surprised to see not another boy but rather two Pandesian soldiers. They were kicking boys all up and down the line, grabbing them, yanking them to their feet. Alec felt rough hands beneath his arms, felt himself yanked up, too, then pushed and prodded out of the barracks.

"What's happening? What's going on?" he mumbled, still unsure if he was awake.

"Time for duty," the soldier snapped back. "You're not here for pleasure, boy."

Alec had wondered when he would be sent to patrol The Flames, but it had never occurred to him it would be in the middle of the night, and so soon after such a long ride. He stumbled forward, drunk with exhaustion, wondering how he could survive this. They had given them nothing to eat since he had arrived, and he still felt weak from the long journey.

Before him a boy collapsed, perhaps from hunger, or from exhaustion, it didn't matter--the soldiers pounced on him, kicking him viciously until he stopped moving altogether. They left him on the frozen ground, dead, and continued marching.

Realizing he did not want to end up like that boy, Alec strengthened his resolve and forced himself wide awake. Marco came up beside him.

"Sleep much?" Marco asked with a wry smile.

Alec shook his head gloomily.

"Don't worry," Marco said. "We'll sleep when we're dead--and we'll be dead soon enough."

They turned a bend and Alec was momentarily blinded by The Flames, hardly fifty yards away, their heat tremendous even from here.

"If trolls come through, kill them," an Empire soldier called out. "Otherwise, don't kill yourselves. At least not until morning. We want this place well-guarded."

Alec was given a final shove, and he and the group of boys were left near The Flames, while the soldiers turned and marched off. He wondered why they trusted them to stand guard, not to run--but then he turned and saw the watchtowers everywhere, manned with soldiers with crossbows, fingers on the trigger, all waiting eagerly for a boy to make a run for it.

Alec stood there, with no armor and no weapons, and wondered how they could expect him to be an effective guard. He looked over and saw some of the other boys had swords.

"Where did you get that?" Alec called out to a boy nearby.

"When a boy dies, get it from him," he called back. "If someone else doesn't beat you to it."

Marco frowned.

"How do they expect us to stand guard with no weapons?" he asked.

One of the other boys, face black with soot, snickered.

"Newbies don't get weapons," he said. "They expect you to die anyway. If you're still here after a few nights, you'll find a way to get one."

Alec stared at The Flames, crackling so intensely, the heat warming his face, and he tried not to think about what lay on the other side, waiting to burst through.

"What do we do in the meantime?" he asked. "If a troll breaks through?"

One boy laughed.

"Kill them with your bare hands!" he called out. "You might survive--but then again, you might not. He'll be on fire, and will probably burn you with him."

The other boys turned their backs and dispersed, each spreading out for their own stations, and Alec, weaponless, turned and looked at The Flames with a despairing feeling.

"We have been set up to die," he said to Marco.

Marco, about twenty feet away from him, staring at The Flames, looked disillusioned.

"Keeping the Flames was once a noble calling," he said, his voice glum. "Before Pandesia invaded. The Keepers were once honored, well-armed and well-equipped. It was why I volunteered. But now...it seems to be something else entirely. The Pandesians don't want the trolls coming through--but they don't use their own men. They want us to guard it--and they leave us to die here."

"Perhaps we should let them through then," Alec said, "and let them kill them all."

"We could," Marco said. "But they'd raid Escalon and kill our families, too."

They fell silent, the two of them standing there, staring into The Flames. Alec did not know how much time had passed while he stared, wondering. He could not help but feel as if he were staring into his own death. What was his family doing right now? he wondered. Were they thinking of him? Did they even care?

Alec found himself getting lost in depressing thoughts and knew he had to change his mood. He forced himself to look away, to glance back over his shoulder and to study the dark woodline. The woods were pitch black, foreboding, the soldiers in the watchtowers not even bothering to watch them. Instead, they kept their eyes fixed on the recruits, on The Flames.

"They are afraid to stand guard themselves," Alec observed, looking up at the soldiers. "Yet they don't want us to leave. Cowardly."

Barely had Alec uttered the words when he suddenly felt a tremendous pain in his back, sending him stumbling forward. Before he knew what was happening, he felt a club being jammed into his ribs and found himself landing face-first on the ground.

He heard a sinister voice in his ear, one he recognized:

"I told you I'd find you, boy."

Before he could react Alec felt rough hands grab him from behind and drag him forward, toward The Flames. There were two of them--the boy from the carriage and his friend--and Alec tried to resist, but it was useless. Their grip was too tight and they carried him closer and closer, until his face felt the intense heat of The Flames.

Alec heard struggling and he looked over and was surprised to see Marco wrapped up in chains, two other boys grabbing him from behind, holding him in place. They had planned this well. They really wanted them dead.

Alec struggled, but he could not gain leverage. They dragged him closer and closer to The Flames, hardly ten feet away, the heat of it so intense he could already feel the pain, feel as if his face were going to melt. He knew that with but a few more feet, he would be disfigured for life--if not dead.

Alec bucked, but they had him in such a tight grip, he could not break free.

"NO!" he shrieked.

"Time for payback," hissed the voice in his ear.

There suddenly came a horrific shriek, and Alec was shocked to realize it was not his own. The grip loosened on his arms and as it did he immediately pulled back from The Flames. At the same moment, he saw a burst of light and he watched, transfixed, as a creature burst forth from The Flames, on fire, and suddenly landed on the boy beside him, pinning him to the ground.

The troll, still on fire, rolled with the boy on the ground, sinking its fangs into his throat. The boy shrieked as he died instantly.

The troll turned and looked about, in a frenzy, and its eyes, large and red, met Alec's. Alec was terrified. Still aflame, it breathed through its mouth, its long fangs covered in blood, and looked ravenous for a kill, like a wild beast.

Alec stood there, frozen with fear, unable to move even if he wanted to.

The other boy ran, and the troll, detecting motion, turned and, to Alec's relief, lunged for him instead. In one bound it tackled him to the ground, still on fire, and sank its fangs into the back of his neck. The boy cried out as it killed him.

Marco shook off the stunned boys, grabbed their chain and swung it around, smashing one in the face and the other between the legs, dropping them both.

Bells started to toll in the watchtowers and chaos ensued. Boys came running from up and down The Flames to fight the troll. They jabbed at it with spears, but most, inexperienced, were afraid to get too close. The troll reached out, grabbed a spear and pulled a boy close, hugging him tight and, as the boy shrieked, setting him aflame.

"Now's our time," hissed an urgent voice.

Alec turned to see Marco running up beside him.

"They're all distracted. This may be our only chance."

Marco looked out and Alec followed his glance: he looked to the woods. He meant to escape.

Black and ominous, the woodline was foreboding. Alec knew that even greater dangers likely lurked in there, but he knew Marco was right: this was their chance. And nothing but death awaited them here.

Alec nodded and without another word they broke into a sprint together, running farther and farther from The Flames, toward the woods.

Alec's heart slammed in his chest as he expected at any moment to be shot in the back by a crossbow, and he ran for his very life. But as he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw everyone surrounding the troll, distracted.

A moment later, they entered the woods, engulfed in blackness, entering, he knew, a world of dangers greater than he could ever imagine. He would probably die here, he knew. But at least, finally, he was free.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Kyra stood outside the gates of Volis, studying the wintry landscape as the snow fell, the sky streaked with scarlet as if the sun were struggling to break through, and she leaned forward on the emerging wall, breathing hard as she plopped down yet another stone. Kyra had joined the others in gathering these huge stones from the river to erect yet another wall around the perimeter of Volis. As the mason beside her smeared the plaster, she plopped down one stone after the next. Now, arms trembling, she needed a break.

Kyra was joined by hundreds of her people, lined up all along the wall, all building it higher, deeper, adding rings to the embankments. Others, beyond the wall, worked with shovels, digging fresh ditches, while others still dug graves for the dead. Kyra knew that all of this was futile, that it would not hold back the great Pandesian army when it came, that no matter what they did, they would all die in this place. They all knew it. But they built it anyway. It gave them something to do, some sense of having control while staring death in the face.

As Kyra took a break, she leaned against the wall, looked out at the landscape, and wondered. All was so still now, the snow muffling all sound, as if the world contained nothing but peace. But she knew differently; she knew the Pandesians were out there somewhere, preparing. She knew they would return, in a deafening rumble, and destroy all that she held precious. What she saw before her was an illusion: it was the calm before the storm. It was hard to understand how the world could be so still, so perfect, one moment--and so filled with destruction and chaos the next.

Kyra glanced back over her shoulder and saw her people winding down their work for the day, laying down trowels and shovels as night began to fall and filtering back toward their homes. Smoke rose from chimneys, candles were lit in windows, and Volis looked so cozy, so protected, as if it could not be touched by the world. She marveled at the illusion.

As she stood there, she could not help but hear her father's words, ringing in her ears, his request that she leave at once. She thought of her uncle, whom she had never met, of the journey it would require, across Escalon, through Whitewood, all the way to the Tower of Ur. She thought of her mother, of the secret being withheld from her. She thought of her uncle training her to become more powerful--and it all thrilled her.

And yet as she turned and looked at her people, she knew she just could not abandon them in their time of strife, even if it meant saving her life. It was just not who she was.

Suddenly, a low, soft horn sounded, one signaling the end of the work day.

"Night falls," said the mason, standing beside her, laying down his trowel. "There is little we can do in the dark. Our people return for the meal. Come now," he said, as rows of people turned and headed back across the bridge, through the gates.

"I will come in a moment," she said, not yet ready, wanting more time to enjoy the peace, the silence. She was always happiest alone, outdoors.

Leo whined and licked his lips.

"Take Leo with you--he's hungry."

Leo must have understood because he already leapt off after the mason while she was still speaking, and the mason laughed and returned with him for the fort.

Kyra stood outside the fort, closing her eyes against the noise and becoming lost in her thoughts. Finally, the sound of the hammers had stopped. Finally, she had true peace.

She looked out and studied the horizon, the darkening woodline, the rolling gray clouds covering up the scarlet, and she wondered. When were they coming? What size force would they bring? What would their army look like?

As she looked out, she was surprised to detect motion in the distance. Something caught her eye and as she watched, she saw a lone rider materialize, emerging from the wood and taking the main road for their fort. Kyra reached back and gripped her bow unconsciously, bracing herself, wondering if he were a scout, if he were heralding an army.

But as he neared, she loosened her grip and relaxed as she recognized him: it was one of her father's men. Maltren. He galloped, and as he did, led a riderless horse beside him by the reins. It was a most curious sight.

Maltren came to an abrupt stop before her and looked down at her with urgency, appearing scared; she could not understand what was happening.

"What is it?" she asked, alarmed. "Is Pandesia coming?"

He sat there, breathing hard, and shook his head.

"It is your brother," he said. "Aidan."

Kyra's heart plummeted at the mention of her brother's name, the person she loved most in the world. She was immediately on edge.

"What is it?" she demanded. "What's happened to him?"

Maltren caught his breath.

"He's been badly injured," he said. "He needs help."

Kyra's heart started pounding. Aidan? Injured? Her mind spun with awful scenarios--but mostly, confusion.

"How?" she demanded. "What was he doing in the wood? I thought he was in the fort, preparing for the feast?"

Maltren shook his head.

"He went out with your brothers," he said. "Hunting. He took a bad fall from his horse--his legs are broken."

Kyra felt a flash of determination rush through her. Filled with adrenaline, not even stopping to think it all through carefully, she rushed forward and mounted the spare horse.

If she had taken just a moment to turn around, to check the fort, she would have found Aidan, safely inside. But fueled by urgency, she did not stop to question Maltren.

 "Lead me to him," she said.

The two of them, an unlikely duo, charged off together, away from Volis and, as night fell, toward the blackening wood.

*

Kyra and Maltren galloped down the road, over the rolling hills, toward the wood, she breathing hard as she dug her heels into her horse, anxious to save Aidan. A million nightmares swarmed through her head. How could Aidan have broken his legs? What were her brothers doing hunting out here, close to nightfall, when all of her father's people had been forbidden to leave the fort? None of it made any sense.

They reached the edge of the wood, and as Kyra prepared to enter it, she was puzzled to see Maltren suddenly bring his horse to a stop before it. She stopped abruptly beside him and watched as he dismounted. She dismounted, too, both horses breathing hard, and followed him, baffled, as he stopped at the forest's edge.

"Why are you stopping?" she asked, breathing hard. "I thought Aidan was in the wood?"

Kyra looked all around, and as she did, she suddenly had a feeling that something was terribly wrong--when suddenly, out of the woods, she was horrified to see, there stepped the Lord Governor himself, flanked by two dozen men. She heard snow crunching behind her, and she wheeled to see a dozen more men encircle her, all aiming bows at her, one grabbing the reins to her horse. Her blood ran cold as she realized she had walked into a trap.

She looked at Maltren in fury, realizing he had betrayed her.

"Why?" she asked, disgusted at the sight of him. "You are my father's man. Why would you do this?"

The Lord Governor walked over to Maltren and placed a large sack of gold in his hand, while Maltren looked away guiltily.

"For enough gold," the Lord Governor turned and said to her, a haughty smile on his face, "you will find that men will do anything you wish. Maltren here will be rich forever, richer than your father ever was, and he will be spared from your fort's looming death."

Kyra scowled at Maltren, hardly fathoming this.

"You are a traitor," she said.

He scowled back at her.

"I am our savior," he replied. "They would have killed all of our people, thanks to you. Thanks to me, Volis will be spared. I made a deal. You can thank me for their lives." He smiled, satisfied. "And, to think, all I had to do was hand over you."

Kyra suddenly felt rough hands grab her from behind, felt herself hoisted in the air. She bucked and writhed, but she could not shake them as she felt her wrist and ankles bound, felt herself thrown into the back of a carriage.

A moment later, iron bars slammed on her and her cart jostled away, bumping over the countryside. She knew that, wherever they were taking her, no one would ever see or hear from her again. And as they entered the wood, blocking out all view of the falling night, she knew that her life, as she knew it, was over.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The giant lay at Vesuvius's feet, bound by a thousand ropes, held down by a hundred trolls, and as Vesuvius stood over it, so close to its fangs, he studied it in awe. The beast craned its neck, snarling, trying to reach out and kill him--but it could not budge.

Vesuvius grinned, delighted. He took pride in having power over helpless things, and more than anything, he loved watching trapped things suffer.

Seeing this giant here, back in his cave, in his own territory, gave him a thrill. Being able to stand so close to it made him feel all powerful, made him feel as if there were nothing in the world he could not conquer. Finally, after all these years, his dream had been realized. Finally, he would be able to achieve his lifelong goal, to create the tunnel that would lead his people under The Flames and into the West.

Vesuvius sneered down at the creature.

"You see, you are not as strong as I," he said, standing over it. "No one is as strong as I."

The beast roared, an awful sound, and struggled in vain. As it did, all the trolls holding it swayed left and right, the ropes shifting, but not giving. Vesuvius knew their time was short. If they were going to do this, the time was now.

Vesuvius turned and surveyed the cave: thousands of workers stopped their labor to watch the giant. At the far end sat the unfinished tunnel, and Vesuvius knew this would be the tricky part. He would have to put the giant to work. Somehow, he would have to goad it to enter the tunnel and smash through the rock. But how?

Vesuvius stood there, racking his brain, until an idea came to him.

He turned to the giant and drew his sword, aglow against the flames of the cave.

"I will cut your ropes," Vesuvius said to the beast, "because I do not fear you. You will be free, and you shall follow my command. You will smash through the rock of that tunnel, and you shall not stop until you have burrowed beneath The Flames of Escalon."

The giant let out a roar of defiance.

Vesuvius turned and surveyed his army of trolls, awaiting his command.

"When my sword lowers," he called out, his voice booming, "you shall cut all of its ropes at once. You shall then prod it with your weapons until it reaches the tunnel."

His trolls looked back nervously, all clearly terrified at the idea of freeing it. Vesuvius feared it, too, though he would never show it. And yet he knew there was no other way--this moment would have to come.

Vesuvius wasted no time. He stepped forward decisively, raised his sword, and slashed the first of the thick ropes binding the giant's neck.

Immediately, hundreds of his soldiers stepped forward, raised their swords high and slashed the ropes, and the sound of ropes snapping filled the air.

Vesuvius quickly retreated, backing off, but not too conspicuously, not wanting his men to see his fear. He slithered back behind his ranks of men, into the shadows of the rock, out of reach of the beast after it gained its feet. He would wait to see what happened first.

A horrific roar filled the canyon as the giant rose to its feet, enraged, and without wasting a second, swiped down with its claws in each direction. It scooped up four trolls in each hand, raised them high overhead and threw them. The trolls went flying end over end through the air, across the cave, until they smashed into the far wall and collapsed, sliding limply down, dead.

The giant bunched its hands into fists, raised them high and suddenly smashed the ground, using them like hammers, aiming for the trolls who scurried about. Trolls fled for their lives, but not in time. He crushed them like ants, the cave shaking with each smash.

As trolls tried to run between its legs, the giant raised its feet and stomped, flattening others.

Enraged, it killed trolls in every direction. No one seemed able to escape its wrath.

Vesuvius watched with a mounting dread. He signaled to his commander, and immediately, a horn sounded.

On cue, hundreds of his soldiers marched forward from the shadows, long pikes and whips in hand, all preparing to poke and prod the beast. They encircled it, rushing forward from all directions, doing their best to prod it towards the tunnel.

But Vesuvius was horrified to watch his plan collapse before his eyes. The beast leaned back and kicked a dozen soldiers away at once; it then swung its forearm around and swatted fifty more soldiers, smashing them into a wall along with their pikes. It stomped others, holding whips, killing so many so quickly that none could get near it. They were useless against this creature, even with their numbers and with all their weapons. Vesuvius' army was dissolving before his eyes.

Vesuvius thought quickly. He could not kill the beast--he needed it alive, needed to harness its strength. Yet he needed it to obey him. But how? How could he goad it into the tunnel?

Suddenly, he had an idea: if he could not prod it in, then perhaps he could entice it.

He turned and grabbed the troll beside him.

"You," he commanded. "Run for the tunnel. Make sure the giant sees you."

The solder stared back, wide-eyed with fear.

"But, my Lord and King, what if it follows me?"

Vesuvius grinned.

"That is exactly the point."

The soldier stood there, panic-stricken, too scared to obey--and Vesuvius stabbed him in the heart. He then stepped up to the next soldier and held the dagger to his throat.

"You can die here now," he said, "by the edge of my blade--or you can run for that tunnel and have a chance to live. You choose."

Vesuvius pushed the blade tighter against his throat, and the troll, realizing he meant it, turned and darted off.

Vesuvius watched as he ran across the cave, zigzagging his way amidst all the chaos, between all the dying soldiers, through the beast's legs, and ran for the entrance to the tunnel.

The giant spotted him, and he swatted down and missed him. In a rage, and attracted to the one soldier running away from him, the giant, as Vesuvius had hoped, immediately followed. It ran through the cave, each step shaking the earth, the walls.

The troll ran for his life and finally entered the massive tunnel. Though wide and tall, the tunnel was shallow, ending after a mere fifty yards despite years of work, and as the troll ran inside, he soon reached the dead end, a wall of rock.

The giant, enraged, charged in after it, never even slowing. As it reached the troll it swiped for him with its massive fists and claws. The troll ducked and the giant instead smashed into rock. The ground shook, a great rumble followed, and Vesuvius watched in awe as the wall crumbled, as an avalanche of rocks came pouring out in a massive cloud of dust.

Vesuvius' heart quickened. That was it. It was exactly what he had always dreamt, exactly what he needed, what he had envisioned from the day he set out to find this beast. It swiped again, and smashed out another chunk of rock, taking out a good fifty feet in a single swipe--more than Vesuvius's slaves had been able to do in an entire year of digging.

Vesuvius was overjoyed, realizing it could work.

But then the giant found the troll, grabbed it, lifted it into the air, and bit off its head.

"CLOSE THE TUNNEL!" Vesuvius commanded, rushing forward and directing his soldiers.

Hundreds of trolls, waiting on standby, rushed forward and began pushing the slab of Altusian rock that Vesuvius had positioned before the entrance to the tunnel, a rock so thick that no beast, not even this creature, could break it. The sound of stone scraping stone filled the air as Vesuvius watched the tunnel slowly seal up.

The giant, seeing the entrance being closed, turned and charged for it.

But the entrance sealed a moment before the giant reached it. The entire cave as it slammed into it--but luckily the stone held.

Vesuvius smiled; the giant was trapped. He was right where he wanted him.

"Send the next one in!" Vesuvius ordered.

A human slave was kicked forward, lashed by his captors, again and again, toward a tiny opening in the stone slab. The human, realizing what was about to happen, refused to go, kicking and struggling; but they beat him savagely, until finally they were able to run him through the opening, giving him one last shove through.

From inside there came the muffled shouts of the slave, clearly running for his life, trying to get away from the giant. Vesuvius stood there and listened with glee as he heard the sound of the enraged giant, trapped, swatting and smashing at rock, digging his tunnel for him.

One swipe at a time, his tunnel was being dug--each swipe, he knew, bringing him closer to The Flames, to Escalon. He would turn the humans into a nation of slaves.

Finally, victory would be his.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Kyra opened her eyes to blackness, lying on a cold stone floor, her head splitting, her body aching, and wondered where she was. Shivering from the cold, her throat parched, feeling as if she hadn't eaten in days, she reached out and felt the cobblestone floor beneath her fingers, and she tried to remember.

Images flooded her mind, and she was unsure at first if they were memories or nightmares. She recalled being captured by the Lord's Men, thrown into a cart, a metal gate slamming on her. She remembered a long, bumpy ride, remembered resisting as the gate opened, struggling to break free and being clubbed on the head. After that, all had, mercifully, been blackness.

Kyra reached up and felt the lump on the back of her head and she knew it had not been a dream. It had all been real. The reality sunk in like a stone: she had been captured by the Lord's Men, carted off, and imprisoned.

Kyra was furious at Maltren for his betrayal, furious at herself for being so stupid as to have believed him. She was also scared, pondering what would come next. Here she lay, alone, in the Governor's custody, and only terrible things could be coming for her. She felt sure that her father and her people had no idea where she was. Perhaps her father would assume she had heeded him and ventured to the Tower of Ur. Maltren would surely lie and report back that he had seen her fleeing Volis for good.

As Kyra scrambled in the dark, she instinctively reached for her bow, her staff--but they had all been stripped. She looked up and saw a dim glow coming through the cell bars, and she sat up and saw torches lining the stone walls of a dungeon, beneath which stood several soldiers, at attention. There sat a large iron door in the center of it, and it was silent down here, the only sound that of a dripping coming from somewhere in the ceiling, and of rats scurrying in some dark corner.

Kyra sat up against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest, trying to get warm. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, forcing herself to imagine herself someplace else, anywhere. As she did, she saw Theos' intense yellow eyes staring back at her. She could hear the dragon's voice in her mind's eye.

Strength is not defined in times of peace. It is defined in hardship. Embrace your hardship, do not shy from it. Only then can you overcome it.

Kyra opened her eyes, shocked at the vision, looking around and expecting to see Theos in front of her.

"Did you see him?" a girl's voice suddenly cut through the darkness, making Kyra jump.

Kyra wheeled, stunned to hear the voice of another person here in this cell with her, coming from somewhere in the shadows--and even more stunned to hear it was a girl's voice. She sounded about her age, and as a figure emerged from the shadows, Kyra saw she was right: there sat a pretty girl, perhaps fifteen, with brown hair and eyes, long tangled hair, face covered in dirt, clothes in tatters. She looked terrified as she stared back at Kyra.

"Who are you?" Kyra asked.

"Have you seen him?" the girl repeated, urgently.

"Seen who?"

"His son," she replied.

"His son?" Kyra asked, confused.

The girl turned and looked outside the cell, terror-stricken, and Kyra wondered what horrors she had seen.

"I haven't seen anyone," Kyra said.

"Oh God, please don't let them kill me," the girl pleaded. "Please. I hate this place!"

The girl began to weep uncontrollably, curled up on the stone floor, and Kyra, her heart breaking for her, got up, went over and draped an arm around her shoulder, trying to soothe her.

"Shhh," Kyra said, trying to calm her. Kyra had never seen anyone in such a broken state; this girl looked positively terrified about whoever it was she was talking about. It gave Kyra a sinking feeling for what was to come.

"Tell me," Kyra said. "Who are you talking about? Who hurt you? The Governor? Who are you? What are you doing here?"

She saw the bruises on the girl's face, the scars on her shoulders, and she tried not to think of what they had done to this poor girl. She waited patiently for her to stop weeping.

"My name is Dierdre," she said. "I've been here...I don't know. I thought it was a moon cycle, but I have lost track of time. They took me from my family, ever since the new law. I tried to resist, and they took me here."

Dierdre stared into space as if reliving it all again.

"Every day there await new tortures for me," she continued. "First it was the son, then the father. They pass me off like a doll and now...I am... nothing."

She stared back at Kyra with an intensity that scared her.

"I just want to die now," Dierdre pleaded. "Please, just help me die."

Kyra looked back, horrified.

"Don't say that," Kyra said.

"I tried to take a knife the other day to kill myself--but it slipped from my hands and they captured me again. Please. I'll give you anything. Kill me."

Kyra shook her head, aghast.

"Listen to me," Kyra said, feeling a new inner strength rise up within her, a new determination as she saw Dierdre's plight. It was the strength of her father, the strength of generations of warriors, coursing through her. And more than that: it was the strength of the dragon. A strength she did not know she had until this day.

She grabbed Dierdre's shoulders and looked her in the eye, wanting to get through to her.

"You are not going to die," Kyra said firmly. "And they are not going to hurt you. Do you understand me? You are going to live. I will make sure of it."

Dierdre seemed to calm, drawing strength from Kyra's strength.

"Whatever they have done to you," Kyra continued, "that is in the past now. Soon you are going to be free--we are going to be free. You are going to start life over again. We will be friends and I will protect you. Do you trust me?"

Dierdre stared back, clearly shocked. Finally, she nodded, calm.

"But how?" Dierdre asked. "You don't understand. There is no escape from here. You don't understand what they're like--"

They both flinched as the iron door slammed open. Kyra watched as the Lord Governor strutted in, trailed by a half dozen men, and joined by a man who was his spitting image, with that same bulbous nose and smug look, perhaps in his thirties. He must have been his son. He had his father's same sneering, stupid face, his same look of arrogance.

They all crossed the dungeon and neared the cell bars, and his men approached with torches, lighting up the cell. Kyra looked around in the bright light and was horrified to see her accommodations for the first time, to see the bloodstains all over the floor. She did not want to think of who else had been here--or of what had happened to them.

"Bring her here," the Governor ordered his men.

The cell door opened, his men marched in and Kyra found herself hoisted to her feet, arms yanked behind her back, unable to break free as much as she tried. They brought her close to the Lord Governor and he looked her up and down like an insect.

"Did I not warn you?" he said softly, his voice low and dark.

Kyra frowned.

"Pandesian law allows you to take unwed girls as wives, not prisoners," Kyra said, defiant. "You violate your own law to imprison me."

The Lord Governor exchanged a look with the others, and they all broke into laughter.

"Do not worry," he said, glowering at her, "I will make you my wife. Many times over. And my son's, too--and anyone else's whom I wish. And when we're done with you, if we haven't killed you yet, then I'll let you live out your days down here."

He grinned an evil grin, clearly enjoying this.

"As for your father and your people," he continued, "I've had a change of heart: we are going to kill every last one of them. They will be a memory soon enough. Not even that, I'm afraid: I will see to it that Volis is erased from the history books. As we speak, an entire division of the Pandesian army approaches to avenge my men and destroy your fort."

Kyra felt a great indignation bubbling up within her. She tried desperately to summon her power, whatever it was that had helped her on the bridge, but to her dismay, it would not come. She writhed and bucked, but could not break free.

"You have a strong spirit," he said. "That is good. I shall enjoy breaking that spirit. I shall enjoy it very much."

He turned his back on her, as if to leave, when suddenly, without warning, he wheeled and backhanded her with all his might.

It was a move she did not expect, and Kyra felt the mighty blow smash her jaw and send her reeling down to the floor, beside Dierdre.

Kyra, stung, jaw aching, lay there and looked up, watching them all go. As they all left her cell, locking it behind them, the Lord Governor stopped, face against the bars, and looked down at her.

"I will wait for tomorrow to torture you," he said, grinning. "I find that my victims suffer the most when they are given a full night to think about the hardship to come."

He let out an awful laugh, delighted with himself, then turned with his men and left the dungeon, the massive iron door slamming behind them like a coffin on her heart.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Merk hiked through Whitewood at sunset, his legs aching, his stomach growling, trying to keep the faith that the Tower of Ur was out there on the horizon, that eventually he would reach it. He tried to focus on what his new life would be like once he arrived, how he would become a Watcher and start again.

But he couldn't focus. Ever since he had met that girl, heard her story, it had been gnawing away at him. He wanted to push her from his mind, but try as he did, he could not. He was so sure he had been turning away from a life of violence. If he went back for her and helped kill those men, when would the killing ever end? Would there not be another job, another cause, right behind that one?

Merk hiked and hiked, poking the ground with his staff, leaves crunching beneath his feet, furious. Why had he had to run into her? It was a huge wood--why couldn't they have missed each other? Why did life always have to throw things in his way? Things beyond his understanding?

Merk hated hard decisions, and he hated hesitation; his entire life he had always been so sure of everything, and he had regarded that as one of his strong points. He had always known what he was. But now, he was not so sure. Now, he found himself wavering.

He cursed the gods for having him run into that girl. Why couldn't people take care of themselves, anyway? Why did they always need him? If she and her family were unable to defend themselves, then why did they deserve to live anyhow? If he saved them, wouldn't some other predator, sooner or later, kill them?

No. He could not save them. That would be enabling them. People had to learn to defend themselves.

And yet perhaps, he pondered, there was a reason she had been put before his eyes. Maybe he was being tested.

Merk looked up at the skies, the sunset a thin strip on the horizon, barely visible through Whitewood, and he wondered at his new faith.

Tested.

It was a powerful word, a powerful idea, and one he did not like. He did not like what he did not understand, what he could not control, and being tested was precisely that. As he hiked and hiked, stabbing the leaves with his staff, Merk felt his carefully constructed world collapsing all around him. Before, his life had been easy; now, it life felt like an uncomfortable state of questioning. Being sure of things in life, he realized, was easy; questioning things was what was hard. He had stepped out of a world of black and white and into a world filled with shades of gray, and the uncertainty unsettled him. He did not understand who he was becoming, and that bothered him most of all.

Merk crested a hill, leaves crunching, breathing hard but not from exertion. As he reached the top, he stopped and looked out, and for the first time since embarking on this journey, he felt a ray of hope. He almost could not believe what he was seeing.

There it sat, on the horizon, glowing against the sunset. Not a legend, not a myth, but a real place: the Tower of Ur.

Nestled in a small clearing in the midst of a vast and dark wood, it rose up, an ancient stone tower, circular, perhaps fifty yards in diameter, and rising to the treeline. It was the oldest thing he had ever seen, older, even, than the castles in which he had served. It had a mysterious, impenetrable aura to it. He could sense it was a mystical place. A place of power.

Merk breathed a deep sigh of exhaustion and relief. He had made it. Seeing it here was like a dream. Finally, he would have a place to be in the world, a place to call home. He would have a chance to start life over, a chance to repent. He would become a Watcher.

He knew he should be ecstatic, should double his pace and set off on the final leg of the journey before nightfall. And yet, try as he did, for some reason he could not take the first step. He stood there, frozen, something gnawing away at him.

Merk turned around, able to see the horizon in every direction, and in the far distance, against the setting sun, he saw black smoke rising. It was like a punch in the gut. He knew where it was coming from: that girl. Her family. The murderers were setting fire to everything.

As he followed the trail of smoke he they had not reached her farm yet. They were still on the outskirts of her fields. Soon enough, they would reach it. But for now, for these last precious minutes, she was safe.

Merk cracked his neck, as he was prone to do when torn by an inner conflict. He stood there, shifting in place, filled with a great sense of unease, unable to go forward. He turned and looked back at the Tower of Ur, the destination of his dreams, and he knew he should forge ahead. He had arrived, and he wanted to relax, to celebrate.

But for the first time in his life, a desire welled up within him. It was a desire to act selflessly, a desire to act purely for justice's sake. For no fee and no reward. Merk hated the feeling.

Merk leaned back and shouted, at war with himself, with the world. Why? Why now, of all times?

And then, despite every ounce of common sense he had, he found himself turning away from the Tower, towards the farm. First it was a walk, then a jog--then a sprint.

As he ran, something deep within him was being set free. The Tower could wait. It was time for Merk to do right in the world. It was time for these murderers to meet their match.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kyra sat against the cold stone wall, her eyes bloodshot as she watched the first rays of dawn seep through the iron bars, cover the room in a pale light. She had been awake all night, as the Lord Governor had predicted, turning over in her mind the horrific punishment to come. She pondered what they had done to Dierdre, and tried not to think of the ways these cruel men would try to break her.

Kyra turned over in her mind a thousand schemes to resist, to escape. The warrior spirit in her refused to break--she would rather die first. Yet, as she mulled all possible ways of defiance, of escape, she kept returning to a feeling of hopelessness and despair. This place was more well-guarded than any place she had ever been. She was in the midst of the Lord Governor's fort, a Pandesian stronghold, a massive military complex holding thousands of soldiers. She was far from Volis, and even if somehow she managed to escape, she knew she would never make it back before they hunted her down and killed her. Assuming Volis still stood for her to return to. Worse, her father had no idea where she was, and he never would. She was utterly alone in the universe.

"No sleep?" came a soft voice, shattering her reverie.

Kyra looked over to see Dierdre sitting against the far wall, her face illuminated with the first light of dawn, she looking too pale, dark circles under her eyes. She appeared utterly dejected, and she stared back at Kyra with haunted eyes.

"I didn't sleep either," Dierdre continued. "I was thinking all night of what they will do to you--the same they've done to me. But for some reason it hurts me worse to think of them doing it to you than me. I'm already broken; there's nothing left of my life. But you're still perfect."

Kyra felt a deepening sense of dread as she contemplated her words. She could not imagine the horrors her newfound friend had gone through, and seeing her this way just made her more determined to fight back.

"There must be another way," Kyra said.

Dierdre shook her head.

"There is nothing here but a miserable existence of life. And then death."

There came the sudden sound of a door slamming across the dungeon hall, and Kyra stood, prepared to face whatever came at her, prepared to fight to the death if need be. Dierdre suddenly jumped to her feet and ran over to her, grabbing her elbow.

"Promise me one thing," Dierdre insisted.

Kyra saw the desperation in her eyes, and she nodded back.

"Before they take you," she said, "kill me. Strangle me if you have to. Do not let me live like this anymore. Please. I beg you."

As Kyra stared back, she felt a sense of resolve bubbling up within her. She shook off her self-pity, all of her doubts. She knew, in that moment, that she had to live. If not for herself, then for Dierdre. No matter how bleak life seemed, she knew she could not give up.

The soldiers approached, their boots echoing, their keys clanging, and Kyra, knowing there remained little time, turned and grabbed Dierdre's shoulders with a firm grip as she looked her in the eye.

"Listen to me," Kyra implored. "You are going to live. Do you understand me? Not only are you going to live, but you are going to escape with me. You are going to start your life over--and it is going to be a beautiful life. We will wreak vengeance on all the scum that did this to you--together. Do you hear me?"

Dierdre stared back, wavering.

"I need you to be strong," Kyra insisted, speaking also to herself, she realized. "Living is not for the weak. Dying, giving up, is for the weak--living is for the strong. Do you want to be weak and die? Or do you wish to be strong and live?"

Kyra kept staring at her intensely as light flooded the cell from the torches and soldiers came marching in--and finally, she thought she could see something shift in Dierdre's eyes. It was like a tiny glimmer of hope, and it was followed by a tiny nod of affirmation.

There came a clanging of keys, the cell door opening and she turned to see the soldiers approach. Rough, callused hands grab her wrists, and Kyra was yanked out of the cell, as the cell door slammed behind her. She let herself go slack. She had to conserve her energy. Now was not the time to fight back. She had to catch them off guard, to find the perfect moment. Even a powerful enemy, she knew, always had one moment of vulnerability.

Two soldiers held her in place, and through the iron door there appeared a man whom Kyra dimly recognized: the governor's son.

Kyra blinked, confused.

"My father sent me to get you," he said as he approached, "but I am going to have you first. He won't be pleased when he finds out, of course--but then again, what's he to do when it is too late?"

The son's face contorted in a cool, evil smile.

Kyra felt a cold dread as she stared back at this sick man, who licked his lips and examined her as if she were an object.

"You see," he said, taking a step forward, beginning to take off his fur coat, his breath visible in the cold cell, "my father need not know all the goings-on of this fort. Sometimes I like to have first dibs on whatever passes through--and you, my dear, are a fine specimen. I'm going to have fun with you. Then I will torture you. I will keep you alive, though, so that I have something left to bring to him."

He grinned, getting so close she could smell his foul breath.

"You and I, my dear, are going to become very familiar."

The son nodded to his two guards, and she was surprised as they released their grip and backed off, each retreating to a side of the room to give him space.

She stood there, hands free, and furtively glanced across the room, summing up her odds. There were the two guards, each armed with a long sword, and the son himself, far taller and broader than she. She would be unable to overpower them all, even if armed, which she was not.

She noticed in the far corner, leaning against the wall, her weapons--her bow and staff, her quiver of arrows--and her heart beat faster. What she wouldn't give to have them now.

"Ahh," the son said, smiling. "You look for your weapons. You still think you can survive this. I see the defiance in you. Don't worry, I will break that soon enough."

Unexpectedly, the son reached back and backhanded her so hard it took her breath away, her entire face stinging with pain. Kyra stumbled back, landing on her knees, blood dripping from her mouth, the pain rudely awaking her, ringing in her ear, her skull. She knelt there, on her hands and knees, trying to catch her breath, realizing this was a preview of what was to come.

"Do you know how we tame our horses, my dear?" asked the son, as he stood over her and smiled down cruelly. A guard threw him Kyra's staff and the son caught it and without missing a beat raised it high and brought it down on Kyra's exposed back.

Kyra shrieked, the pain unbearable, and collapsed face-first on the stone, feeling as if he had broken every bone in her body. She could barely breathe and she knew that if she did not do something soon, she would be crippled for life.

"Don't!" cried Dierdre, pleading from behind the bars. "Don't harm her! Take me instead!"

But the son ignored her.

"It begins with the staff," he said to Kyra. "Wild horses resist, but if you break them, again and again, beat them mercilessly, day after day, one day they will submit. They will be yours. There is nothing better than inflicting pain on another creature, is there?"

Kyra sensed motion, and out of the corner of her eye she watched him raise the staff again with a sadistic look, preparing for an even mightier blow.

Kyra's senses became heightened, and her world slowed. That feeling she'd had back on the bridge came rushing back, a familiar warmth, one that began in her solar plexus and radiated through her body. She felt it filling her with energy, with more strength and speed than she could ever dream.

Images flashed before her eyes. She saw herself training with her father's men, recalled her endless sparring, her learning how to feel pain and not be stunned, how to fight several attackers at once. Anvin had drilled her relentlessly for hours, day after day, until she had perfected her technique, until it had finally became a part of her. She had insisted on the men teaching her everything, however hard the lesson, and now it all came rushing back to her. She had trained for a time exactly like this.

As she lay there, the shock of the pain behind her, the warmth taking over her body, Kyra looked up at the son and felt her instincts taking over. She would die--but not here, not today--and not by this man's hand.

An early lesson came rushing back: The low ground can give you an advantage. The taller a man is, the more vulnerable he is. The knees are an easy target if you find yourself on the ground. Sweep them. They will fall.

As the staff came down for her, Kyra suddenly laid her palms flat on the stone, propped herself up enough to gain leverage, and swung her leg around quickly and decisively, aiming for the back of the son's knees. With all of her might, she felt the satisfying feeling of kicking the soft spot behind them.

His knees buckled and he was airborne, landing flat on his back on the stone with a thump, the staff falling from his hands and rolling across the floor. She could hardly believe it had worked. As he fell, he landed on his skull and it was such a loud crack, she was sure she had killed him.

But he must have been invincible, for he immediately began to sit up, glaring at her with the venom of a demon, preparing to pounce.

Kyra did not wait. She gained her feet and lunged for the staff, lying on the floor several feet away, knowing that if she could just grab her weapon, she could have a fair chance against all these men. As she ran for it, though, the son jumped up and reached out to grab her leg, to try to hold her back.

Kyra reacted, her nimbleness taking over, and leapt like a cat over him, missing his grip, and landed on the stone in a roll behind him, grabbing her staff as she did.

She stood there, holding her staff cautiously before her, so grateful to have her weapon back, the staff fitting perfectly in her hands. The two guards approached with swords drawn and, encircled, she looked quickly about in every direction, like a wounded animal backed into a corner. She was lucky, she realized, that it had all happened so quickly, buying her time before the guards could join.

The son stood, wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand, and scowled back at her.

"That was the biggest mistake of your life," he said. "Now not only will I torture you--"

Kyra had had enough of him, and she was not going to wait for him to strike first. Before he could finish speaking, she lunged forward, raised her staff and jabbed quickly, like a snake striking, right between his eyes. It was a perfect strike, and he cried out as she broke his nose, the crack echoing.

He dropped to his knees, whimpering, cradling his nose.

The two guards came at her, swords swinging for her head. Kyra turned her staff and blocked one blade, sparks flying as it clanged in the room, then immediately spun and blocked the other, right before it hit her. Back and forth she went, blocking one blow after the next, the two coming at her so fast she barely had time to react.

One of the guards swung too hard and Kyra found an opening: she raised her staff and brought it straight down on his exposed wrist, smashing it and loosening his grip on his sword. As it landed on the floor with a clang, Kyra jabbed sideways, into the other guard's throat, stunning him, then she swung around and smashed the first guard in the temple, felling him.

Kyra took no chances: as one guard, on his back, tried to rise, she leapt high into the air and brought her staff down on his solar plexus--then as he sat straight up, she kicked him in the face, knocking him out for good. And as the other guard rolled, clutching his throat, beginning to get up again, Kyra jabbed down and struck him on the back of his head, knocking him out.

Kyra suddenly felt rough arms squeezing her in a hug from behind and realized the son was back; he was trying to squeeze the life out of her, to make her drop her staff.

"Nice try," he whispered in her ear, his mouth so close she could feel his hot breath on her neck.

Kyra, a flash of energy coursing through her, found a new strength within her, just enough to reach forward with her arms, lock her elbows, and burst free from the man's hug. She then grabbed her staff and swung behind her, upwards, with two hands, driving it between the son's legs.

He moaned, releasing his grip as he fell to his knees, and she turned and stood over him, he finally helpless as he looked up at her with shocked eyes filled with pain.

"Say hello to your father for me," she said, raising back her staff and with all her might striking him in the head.

This time, he collapsed, unconscious, on the stone.

Kyra, still breathing hard, still enraged, surveyed her handiwork: three men, formidable men, lay unmoving on the floor. She, a defenseless girl, had done it.

"Kyra!" cried a voice.

She turned and remembered Dierdre, and without wasting another second ran across the room. Grabbing the keys from the guard's waist, she unlocked the cell, and as she did, Dierdre ran into her arms, hugging her.

Kyra pulled her back and looked her in the eyes, wanting to know if she was mentally prepared to escape.

"It's time," Kyra said firmly. "Are you ready?"

Dierdre stood there, shell-shocked, staring at the carnage in the room.

"You beat him," Dierdre said, staring at the bodies in disbelief. "I can't believe it. You beat him."

Kyra watched something shift in Dierdre's eyes. All the fear drifted away, and Kyra saw a strong woman emerging from deep inside, a woman she had not recognized before. Seeing her attackers unconscious did something to her, infused her with a new strength.

Dierdre walked to one of the swords lying on the floor, picked it up, and walked back over to the son, still lying prone, unconscious. She stared down, and her face molded into a sneer.

"This is for everything you did to me," she said.

She raised the sword with trembling hands, and Kyra could see a great battle going on within herself as she hesitated.

"Dierdre," Kyra said softly.

Dierdre looked at her, a wild grief in her stare.

"If you do it," Kyra said softly, "you will be just like him."

Dierdre stood there, arms trembling, going through an emotional storm, and finally, she lowered the sword, dropping it on the stone. It clanged at her feet.

She spit in the son's face, then leaned back and with her boot kicked him a mighty blow across the face. Dierdre, Kyra was beginning to see, was a much stronger person than she'd thought.

She looked back at Kyra with shining eyes, life restored in them, as if her old self were coming back.

"Let's go," Dierdre said, her voice filled with strength.

*

Kyra and Dierdre burst out of the dungeon into the early light of dawn, finding themselves smack in the middle of Argos, the Pandesian stronghold and the Lord Governor's military complex. Kyra blinked in the light, feeling so good to see daylight again, despite its being cold out here, and as she got her bearings she saw they were in the center of a rambling complex of stone keeps, all of it encased by a high stone wall and a massive gate. The Lord's Men were still slowly waking up, beginning to take positions all around the barracks; there must have been thousands of them. It was a professional army, and this place was more a city than a town.

The soldiers took positions along the walls, looking out toward the horizon; none looked inward. Clearly none were expecting two girls to escape from within their midst, and that gave them an advantage. It was still dark enough, too, to help obscure them, and as Kyra looked ahead, to the well-guarded entrance at the far end of the courtyard, she knew that if they had any chance of escape, it was now.

But it was a long courtyard to cross on foot, and she knew they might not make it--and even if they did, once they ran through it, they would be caught.

"There!" Dierdre said, pointing.

Kyra looked and saw, on the other side of the courtyard, a horse, tied up, a soldier standing beside it, holding its reins, his back to them.

Dierdre turned to her.

"We'll need a horse," she said. "It's the only way."

Kyra nodded, surprised they were thinking the same way, and that Dierdre was so perceptive. Dierdre, whom Kyra had at first thought would be a liability, she was coming to see was actually smart, quick, and decisive.

"Can you do it?" Dierdre asked, looking at the soldier.

Kyra tightened her grip on her staff and nodded.

As one, they ran out from the shadows and silently across the courtyard, Kyra's heart slamming in her chest as she focused on the soldier, his back to her, getting closer with each step--and praying they weren't discovered in the meantime.

Kyra ran so fast she could barely breathe, willing herself not to slip in the snow, no longer feeling the cold as adrenaline pumped through her veins.

Finally she reached the soldier, and at the last second, he heard them and spun.

But Kyra was already in motion, raising her staff and jabbing him in the solar plexus. As he grunted and dropped to his knees, she swung it around and brought it down on the back of his head--knocking him face-first into the snow, unconscious.

Kyra mounted the horse while Dierdre untied it and jumped up behind her--and they both kicked and took off.

Kyra felt the cold wind through her hair as the horse charged across the snowy courtyard, heading for the gate at the far end, perhaps a hundred yards away. As they went, sleepy soldiers began to take notice, and to turn their way.

"Come on!" Kyra yelled to the horse, urging it faster, seeing the exit looming closer and closer.

A massive stone arch lay straight ahead, its portcullis raised, leading to a bridge, and beyond that, Kyra's heart quickened to see, open land. Freedom.

She kicked the horse with all her might as she saw the soldiers at the exit taking notice.

"STOP THEM!" yelled a soldier from behind.

Several soldiers scurried to large iron cranks and, to Kyra's dread, began to turn the cranks that lowered the portcullis. Kyra knew that if it closed before they reached it, their lives would be over. They were but twenty yards away and riding faster than she'd ever had--and yet the portcullis, thirty feet high, was lowering slowly, one foot at a time.

"Get as low as you can!" she shrieked to Dierdre, Kyra bending all the way over until her face was on the horse's mane.

Kyra raced, heart pounding in her ears, as they charge through the arch, the portcullis lowering, so low that she had to duck. It was so close, she did not know if they would make it.

Then, just as she was sure they would die, their horse burst through, the portcullis slamming down right behind them with a great boom. A moment later they were across the bridge and, to Kyra's immense relief, out under open sky.

Horns sounded behind them, and a moment later, Kyra flinched as she heard an arrow whiz by her head.

She glanced back and saw the Lord's Men taking positions up and down the ramparts, firing at them. She zigzagged on the horse, realizing they were still within range, urging it faster.

They were making progress, perhaps a fifty yards out, far enough so most arrows fell short--when suddenly, to her horror, she watched an arrow land in their horse's side. It immediately reared--throwing them both off.

Kyra's world turned to chaos. She hit the ground hard, winded, as the horse rolled right next to her, luckily missing them by an inch.

Kyra knelt on her hands and knees, dazed, her head ringing, and looked over and saw Dierdre beside her. She glanced back and saw, in the distance, the portcullis being raised. Hundreds of soldiers were lined up, waiting, and as the portcullis opened, they tore out the gates. It was a full-scale army, on its way to kill them. She was confused as to how they could have assembled so quickly, but then she realized: they were already assembling, at dawn, to attack Volis.

Kyra, on foot, looked over at their dead horse, at the vast open plains before them, and she knew, finally, their time had come.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Aidan marched for his father's chamber impatiently, Leo at his side, with a deepening premonition that something was wrong. He had been searching for his sister Kyra all over the fort, Leo at his side, checking all her usual haunts--the armory, the blacksmith's, Fighter's Gate--and yet she was nowhere to be found. He and Kyra had always had a close connection, ever since he was born, and he always knew when something was off with her--now, he felt warning signs inside. She had been absent from the feast, and he knew she would have not missed it.

Most concerning of all, Leo was not with her--which never, ever happened. Aidan had grilled Leo, but the wolf, clearly trying to tell him something, could not communicate. He only stuck to Aidan's side, and would not leave it.

Aidan had spent the feast with a knot in his stomach, checking the door constantly for any sign of Kyra. He had tried to mention it to his father during the meal, but Duncan had been surrounded by too many men, all of them too focused on discussing the battle to come, and none taking him seriously.

At first light Aidan, awake all night, jumped up and ran to his window, checking the breaking dawn for any sign of her. There was none. He burst out of his chamber, down the corridor, past all his father's men and into Kyra's room and he did not even knock as he put a shoulder to it, running inside, looking for her.

But his heart had fallen to find her bed empty, still made from the day before. He knew then, for certain, something was wrong.

Aidan ran all the way down the corridors to his father's chambers, and now he stood before the giant door and looked back at the two guards before it.

"Open the door!" Aidan ordered urgently.

The guards exchanged an unsure look.

"It was a long night, boy," one guard said. "Your father won't take kindly to being awakened."

"Today could bring battle," said the other. "He needs to be rested."

"I will not say it again," Aidan insisted.

They looked at him, skeptical, and Aidan, unable to wait, rushed forward and slammed the knocker.

"Whoa, boy!" one of them said.

Then realizing his determination, the other guard said, "All right--but it's your head if anything happens. And the wolf stays here."

Leo snarled, but the guard reluctantly pushed open the door just enough for Aidan to step inside, closing it behind him.

Aidan rushed to his father's bed to find him sleeping in his furs, snoring, a half-dressed serving girl lying beside him. He grabbed his father's shoulder and shoved him, again and again.

Finally, his father opened his eyes with a fierce look, staring back as if he were going to whack him. But Aidan would not be deterred.

"Father, you must wake up now!" Aidan urged. "Kyra is missing!"

His father's look morphed into one of confusion, and he stared back, eyes bloodshot, as if in a drunken haze.

"Missing?" he said, his voice deep, gravelly, rumbling in his chest. "What do you mean?"

"She did not return to her chamber last night. Something has happened to her--I'm certain of it. Alert your men at once!"

His father sat up, this time looking more alert, rubbing his face and trying to shake off the sleep.

"I am sure your sister is fine," he said. "She's always fine. She survived an encounter with a dragon--do you think a small snowstorm blew her away? She's just somewhere you cannot find her--she likes to go off by herself. Now go on. Be on your way before you end up with a good spanking."

But Aidan stood there, determined, red-faced.

"If you won't find her, I'll find her myself," he yelled and turned and ran from the chamber, hoping that somehow he had gotten through to him.

*

Aidan stood outside the gates of Volis, Leo beside him, standing proudly on the bridge and watching dawn spread across the countryside. He checked the horizon for any signs of Kyra, hoping perhaps she'd return from firing arrows, but he found none. His foreboding worsened. He had spent the last hour waking everyone from his brothers to the butcher, asking who had seen her last. Finally, one of his father's men had reported that he had seen her riding off toward the Wood of Thorns with Maltren.

Aidan had combed the fort for Maltren and had been told he was out for his morning hunt. And now he stood here, watching for Maltren to return, eager to confront him and find out what happened to his sister.

Aidan stood there, shin deep in snow, shivering but ignoring it, hands on his hips, waiting, watching, until finally, he squinted as he saw a figure appearing on the horizon, charging forward in the snow, galloping, wearing the armor of his father's men, the dragon's crest shining on his breastplate. His heart lifted to see it was Maltren.

Maltren galloped toward the fort, a deer draped over the back of his horse, and as he neared, Aidan saw his disapproval. He looked down at Aidan and came to a reluctant stop before him.

"Out of the way, boy!" Maltren called out. "You're blocking the bridge."

But Aidan stood his ground, confronting him.

"Where is my sister?" Aidan demanded.

Maltren stared back, and Aidan saw a moment of hesitation cross his face.

"How should I know?" he barked back. "I am a warrior--I don't keep track of the frolicking of girls."

But Aidan held his ground.

"I was told she was with you last. Where is she?" he repeated more firmly.

Aidan was impressed by the authority in his own voice, reminding him of his own father, though he was still too young and lacked the deepness of tone he so badly craved.

He must have gotten through to Maltren, because he slowly dismounted, anger and impatience flashing in his eyes, and walked toward Aidan in a threatening matter, armor rattling as he went. As he neared, Leo snarled, so viciously that Maltren stopped, a few feet away, looking from the wolf to Aidan.

He sneered down at Aidan, stinking of sweat, and even though he tried not to show it, Aidan had to admit he was afraid. He thanked God he had Leo at his side.

"Do you know what the punishment is for defying one of your father's men?" Maltren asked, his voice sinister.

"He is my father," Aidan insisted. "And Kyra is his daughter, too. Now where is she?"

Inside, Aidan was trembling--but he was not about to back down--not with Kyra in danger.

Maltren looked about, over his shoulder, apparently checking to see if anyone were watching. Satisfied that no one was, he leaned in close, smiled, and said:

"I sold her to the Lord's Men--and for a handsome price. She was a traitor and a troublemaker--just like you."

Aidan's eyes widened in shock, furious at his betrayal.

"As for you," Maltren said, reaching in and grabbing Aidan's shirt, pulling him close. Aidan's heart jumped as he saw him slip his hand on a dagger in his belt. "Do you know how many boys die in this moat each year? It's a very unfortunate thing. This bridge is too slippery, and those banks too steep. No one will ever suspect this was anything but another accident."

Aidan tried to wiggle his way free, but Maltren's grip was too tight. He felt flushed with panic, as he knew he was about to die.

Suddenly, Leo snarled and leapt for Maltren, sinking his fangs into his ankle. Maltren let go of Aidan and raised his dagger to stab the wolf.

"NO!" Aidan shouted.

There came the sound of a horn, followed by horses bursting through the gate, galloping across the bridge, and Maltren stopped, dagger in mid-air. Aidan turned and his heart lifted with relief to see his father and two brothers approaching, joined by a dozen men, their bows already drawn and pointed for Maltren chest.

Aidan broke free and Maltren stood there, looking afraid for the first time, holding his dagger in his hand, caught red-handed. Aidan snapped his fingers, and Leo reluctantly backed off.

Duncan dismounted and stepped forward with his men, and as they did, Aidan turned to them.

"You see, Father! I told you! Kyra is missing. And Maltren has betrayed her--he has sold her to the Lord Governor!"

Duncan stepped forward and a tense silence overcame them as his men surrounded Maltren. He looked nervously over his shoulder to his horse, as if contemplating escape, but the men came forward and grabbed its reins.

Maltren looked back at Duncan, clearly nervous.

"You were going to lay your hands on my boy, were you?" his father asked, looking Maltren in the eye, his tone hard and cold.

Maltren gulped and said nothing.

Duncan slowly raised his sword and held the point to Maltren's throat, death in his eyes.

"You will lead us to my daughter," he said, "and it will be the last thing you do before I kill you."

# CHAPTER THIRTY

Kyra and Dierdre ran for their lives across the snowy plains, gasping for breath, as they slipped and slid on the ice. They sprinted through the icy morning, steam rising from their mouths, the cold burning Kyra's lungs, her hands numb as she gripped her staff. The rumble of a thousand horses filled the air, and she looked back and wished she hadn't: on the horizon charged the Lord's Men, thousands of them bearing down. She knew there was no point in running. With no shelter on the horizon, nothing but open plains before them, they were finished.

Yet still they ran, driven on by some instinct to survive.

Kyra slipped, falling face first in the snow, winded, and she immediately felt a hand under her arm, pulling her up; she looked over to see Dierdre yanking her back to her feet.

"You can't stop now!" Dierdre said. "You didn't leave me--and I won't leave you. Let's go!"

Kyra was surprised by the authority and confidence in Dierdre's voice, as if she had been reborn since she had left prison, her voice filled with hope, despite their circumstances.

Kyra broke back into a run, both of them heaving, as they finally began to crest a hill. She tried not to think of what would happen when this army caught up with them, when they reached Volis and slaughtered her people. And yet, Kyra had been trained not to give up--however bleak.

They crested the hill and as they did, Kyra stopped in her tracks, stunned at the sight before her. From up here she had a view of the countryside, a huge plateau stretching before her, and her heart leapt with ecstasy as she saw, riding toward them, her father, leading a hundred men. She could not believe it: he had come for her. All of these men had come all this way, had risked their lives in a suicide mission, just for her.

Kyra burst into tears, overwhelmed with love and gratitude for her people. They had not forgotten her.

Kyra ran for them, and as she neared, she saw Maltren's severed head tied to his horse, and realized at once what had happened: they had discovered his treachery and had come for her. Her father seemed equally surprised to see her, running out here in the open; he had probably expected to free her from the fort, she realized.

They all stopped as they met in the middle, her father dismounting, rushing to her and meeting her in a strong embrace. As she felt his strong arms around her she was overwhelmed with relief, felt that everything would be well in the world, despite their overwhelming odds. She had never felt so proud of her father as she did in that moment.

Her father's expression suddenly changed, his face growing serious as he looked over her shoulder, and she knew he had seen it: the vast army of the Lord's Men, cresting the hill.

He gestured to a waiting horse, and another vacant one for Dierdre.

"Your horse is waiting for you," he said, pointing to a beautiful white stallion. "You will fight with us now."

With no time left for words, Kyra immediately mounted her horse as her father did his, and she fell in line with all his men, all of them facing the horizon. Before her, on the horizon, she saw the Lord's Men, spread out before them, thousands of men against their mere hundred. Yet her father's men sat proudly, and not one backed away.

"MEN!" her father yelled, his voice strong, booming. "WE FIGHT FOR ETERNITY!"

They let out a huge battle cry, sounded their horns, and as one, they all charged forward, rushing to meet the enemy.

Kyra knew this was suicide. Behind the thousand Lord's Men lay another thousand, and another thousand behind them. Her father knew that; all his men knew that. But no one hesitated. For they were not fighting for their land, but for something even more precious: their very existence. Their right to live as free men. Freedom meant more to these men than life, and while they could all be killed, they would all, at least, die by choice, die as free men.

As Kyra rode beside her father, beside Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael, she was exhilarated, overcome with a rush of adrenaline. In her haze, she felt her life pass before her eyes. She saw all the people she had known and loved, the places she had been, the life she had led, knowing it was all about to end. As the two armies neared, she saw the Lord Governor's ugly face, leading the way, and she felt a fresh sense of anger at Pandesia. Her veins burned for vengeance.

Kyra closed her eyes and made one last wish.

If I am truly prophesied to become a great warrior, let the time be now. If I truly have a special power, show me. Let it come out now. Allow me to crush my enemies. Just this one time, on this one day. Allow justice to be done.

Kyra opened her eyes, and she suddenly heard a horrific screech cut through the air. It raised the hair on the back of her neck, and she searched the skies and saw something that took her breath away.

Theos.

The immense dragon flew, swooping down right for her, staring at her with his large, glowing yellow eyes, the eyes she had seen in her dreams, and in her waking moments. They were the eyes she could not shake from her mind, the eyes that she had always known she would one day see again.

His wing healed, Theos lowered his claws and dove down, right for her head, as if to kill her.

Kyra watched as all of her father's men looked up, mouths agape with fear, crouching, preparing to die. But she herself felt unafraid. She felt the strength within the dragon, and she knew this time that she and the dragon were one.

Kyra watched in awe as Theos came right for her, his wings so wide they blocked the sun, and screeched a mighty screech, enough to terrify the men. He came so close, then rose back up at the last second, his claws nearly grazing their heads.

Kyra turned and watched Theos fly straight up, then turn around and circle back. This time he flew behind her men, rushing forward as if to fight with them, right for the Lord's Men.

It opened its great jaws and flew over them until finally it led the way, out in front of her father's men, racing single-handedly to meet the Lord's Men in battle first.

Kyra watched, awestruck, as the dragon approach and the Lord Governor's face morphed from arrogance to fear; indeed, she saw the terror in all their faces, all of them, finally, afraid, all realizing what was to come. Vengeance.

Theos opened its mouth overhead and with a great hissing and crackling noise breathed fire, a stream of flame lighting up the snowy morning. The shrieks of men filled the air, as a great conflagration spread through the army's ranks, killing row after row of men.

The dragon continued, flying again, circling, breathing fire, killing every enemy in sight until finally, there was no one left. Nothing but endless piles of ash where men and horses once stood.

Kyra watched it unfold with a surreal feeling. It was like watching her destiny unfold before her. At that moment she knew that she was different, she was special. The dragon had come just for her.

There was no turning back now: the Lord's Men were dead. Pandesia had been attacked, and Escalon had struck the first blow.

The dragon landed before them, in the fields of ash, as she and all of the men stopped, staring back, in awe. But Theos looked only at Kyra, with his glowing yellow eyes, transfixed on hers. He raised his wings, stretching forever, and shrieked, and awful shriek of rage that seemed to fill the entire universe.

The dragon knew.

It was time for the Great War to begin.

#

NOW AVAILABLE!

RISE OF THE VALIANT  
Kings and Sorcerers--Book #2

"An action packed fantasy sure to please fans of Morgan Rice's previous novels, along with fans of works such as The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini.... Fans of Young Adult Fiction will devour this latest work by Rice and beg for more."

\--The Wanderer, A Literary Journal (regarding Rise of the Dragons)

The #1 Bestselling series!

RISE OF THE VALIANT is book #2 in Morgan Rice's bestselling epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS (which begins with RISE OF THE DRAGONS)!

In the wake of the dragon's attack, Kyra is sent on an urgent quest: to cross Escalon and seek out her uncle in the mysterious Tower of Ur. The time has come for her to learn about who she is, who her mother is, and to train and develop her special powers. It will be a quest fraught with peril for a girl alone, Escalon filled with dangers from savage beasts and men alike--one that will require all of her strength to survive.

Her father, Duncan, must lead his men south, to the great water city of Esephus, to attempt to free his fellow countrymen from the iron grip of Pandesia. If he succeeds, he will have to journey to the treacherous Lake of Ire and then onto the icy peaks of Kos, where there live the toughest warriors of Escalon, men he will need to recruit if he has any chance of taking the capital.

Alec escapes with Marco from The Flames to find himself on the run through the Wood of Thorns, chased by exotic beasts. It is a harrowing journey through the night as he quests for his hometown, hoping to be reunited with his family. When he arrives, he is shocked by what he discovers.

Merk, despite his better judgment, turns back to help the girl, and finds himself, for the first time in his life, entangled in a stranger's affairs. He will not forego his pilgrimage to the Tower of Ur, though, and he finds himself anguished as he realizes the tower is not what he expects.

Vesuvius spurs his giant as he leads the Trolls on their mission underground, attempting to bypass The Flames, while the dragon, Theos, has his own special mission on Escalon.

With its strong atmosphere and complex characters, RISE OF THE VALIANT is a sweeping saga of knights and warriors, of kings and lords, of honor and valor, of magic, destiny, monsters and dragons. It is a story of love and broken hearts, of deception, ambition and betrayal. It is fantasy at its finest, inviting us into a world that will live with us forever, one that will appeal to all ages and genders.

Book #3 in KINGS AND SORCERERS will be published soon.

 "If you thought that there was no reason left for living after the end of the Sorcerer's Ring series, you were wrong. Morgan Rice has come up with what promises to be another brilliant series, immersing us in a fantasy of trolls and dragons, of valor, honor, courage, magic and faith in your destiny. Morgan has managed again to produce a strong set of characters that make us cheer for them on every page....Recommended for the permanent library of all readers that love a well-written fantasy."

\--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (regarding Rise of the Dragons)

"[The novel] succeeds--right from the start.... A superior fantasy...It begins, as it should, with one protagonist's struggles and moves neatly into a wider circle of knights, dragons, magic and monsters, and destiny....All the trappings of high fantasy are here, from soldiers and battles to confrontations with self....A recommended winner for any who enjoy epic fantasy writing fueled by powerful, believable young adult protagonists."

\--Midwest Book Review, D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer (regarding Rise of the Dragons)

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\--San Francisco Book Review (regarding Rise of the Dragons)

RISE OF THE VALIANT  
Kings and Sorcerers--Book #2

Listen to KINGS AND SORCERERS in its Audiobook edition!

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER'S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

About Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER'S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising two books (and counting). Morgan's books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

