Rise Of The Valiant (Book 2) Page 2

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why have you come to me? What do you want from me?”

  Theos lowered his head, snarling, and leaned forward, so close that his huge snout nearly touched her chest. His eyes, so huge, glowing yellow, seemed to look right through her. She stared into them, each nearly as big as her, and felt lost in another world, another time.

  Kyra waited for the answer. She waited for her mind to be filled with his thoughts, as it once was.

  But she waited and waited, and was shocked to find her mind was blank. Nothing was coming to her. Had Theos gone silent? Had she lost her connection to him?

  Kyra stared back, wondering, this dragon more of a mystery than ever. Suddenly, he lowered his back, as if beckoning her to ride. Her heart quickened as she imagined herself flying through the skies on his back.

  Kyra slowly walked to his side, reached up, and grabbed his scales, hard and rough, preparing to grab his neck and climb up.

  But no sooner had she touched him when he suddenly writhed away, making her lose her grip. She stumbled and he flapped his wings and in one quick motion, lifted off, so abrupt that her palms scraped against his scales, like sandpaper.

  Kyra stood there, stung, baffled—but most of all, heartbroken. She watched helplessly as this tremendous creature lifted into the air, screeching, and flew higher and higher. As quickly as he had arrived, Theos suddenly disappeared into the clouds, nothing but silence following in his wake.

  Kyra stood there, hollowed out, more alone than ever. And as the last of his cries faded away, she knew, she just knew, that this time, Theos was gone for good.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alec ran through the woods in the black of night, Marco at his side, stumbling over roots submerged in the snow and wondering if he would make it out alive. His heart pounded in his chest as he ran for his life, gasping for breath, wanting to stop but needing to keep pace with Marco. He glanced back over his shoulder for the hundredth time and watched as the glow from The Flames grew fainter the deeper into the woods they went. He passed a patch of thick trees, and soon the glow was entirely gone, the two of them immersed in near blackness.

  Alec turned and groped his way as he bumped off trees, trunks whacking his shoulders, branches scratching his arms. He peered into the blackness ahead of him, barely making out a path, trying not to listen to the exotic noises all around him. He had been duly warned about these woods, where no escapee survived, and he had a sinking feeling the deeper they went. He sensed the danger here, vicious creatures lurking everywhere, the wood so dense it was hard to navigate and growing more tangled which each step he took. He was starting to wonder if he might have been better off staying back at The Flames.

  “This way!” hissed a voice.

  Marco grabbed his shoulder and pulled him as he forked right, between two huge trees, ducking beneath their gnarled branches. Alec followed, slipping in the snow, and soon found himself in a clearing in the midst of the thick forest, the moonlight shining through, lighting their way.

  They both stopped, bent over, hands on their hips, gasping for breath. They exchanged a glance, and Alec looked back over his shoulder at the wood. He breathed hard, his lungs aching from the cold, his ribs hurting, and wondered.

  “Why aren’t they following us?” Alec asked.

  Marco shrugged.

  “Maybe they know this wood will do their job for them.”

  Alec listened for the sound of Pandesian soldiers, expecting to be pursued—but there came none. Instead, though, Alec thought he heard a different sound—like a low, angry snarl.

  “Do you hear that?” Alec asked, the hair rising on the back of his neck.

  Marco shook his head.

  Alec stood there, waiting, wondering if his mind were playing tricks on him. Then, slowly, he began to hear it again. It was a distant noise, a faint snarl, menacing, unlike anything Alec had ever heard. As he listened, it began to grow louder, as if coming closer.

  Marco now looked at him with alarm.

  “That’s why they didn’t follow,” Marco said, his voice dawning with recognition.

  Alec was confused.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Wilvox,” he answered, eyes now filled with fear. “They’ve unleashed them after us.”

  The word Wilvox struck terror in Alec; he had heard of them as a child, and he knew they were rumored to inhabit the Wood of Thorns, but he’d always assumed they were the stuff of legend. They were rumored to be the deadliest creatures of the night—the stuff of nightmares.

  The snarling intensified, sounding as if there were several of them.

  “RUN!” Marco implored.

  Marco turned and Alec joined him as the two of them burst across the clearing and back into the wood. Adrenaline pumped in his veins as Alec ran, hearing his own heartbeat in his ears, drowning out the sound of ice and snow crunching beneath his boots. Soon, though, he heard the creatures behind him closing in, and he knew they were being hunted by beasts they could not outrun.

  Alec stumbled over a root and slammed into a tree; he cried out in pain, winded, then bounced off it and continued to run. He scanned the woods for any escape, realizing their time was short—but there was nothing.

  The snarling grew louder, and as he ran, Alec looked back over his shoulder—and immediately wished he hadn’t. Bearing down on them were four of the most savage creatures he’d ever laid eyes upon. Resembling wolves, the Wilvox were twice the size, with small sharp horns sticking out the back of their heads, and one large, single red eye between the horns. Their paws were the size of a bear’s, with long, pointed claws, and their coats were slick and as black as night.

  Seeing them this close, Alec knew he was a dead man.

  Alec burst forward with his last ounce of speed, his palms sweating even in the icy cold, his breath frozen in the air before him. The Wilvox were hardly twenty feet away and he knew from the desperate look in their eyes, from the drool hanging from their mouths, that they would tear him to pieces. He saw no means of escape. He looked to Marco, hoping for some sign of a plan—but Marco carried the same look of despair. He clearly had no idea what to do either.

  Alec closed his eyes and did something he had never done before: he prayed. Seeing his life flashing before his eyes, it changed him somehow, made him realize how much he cherished life, and made him more desperate than he’d ever been to keep it.

  Please, God, get me out of this. After what I did for my brother, don’t let me die here. Not in this place, and not by these creatures. I’ll do anything.

  Alec opened his eyes, looked up ahead, and as he did, this time he noticed a tree slightly different than the others. Its branches were more gnarled and hung lower to the ground, just high enough where he could grab one with a running jump. He had no idea if Wilvox could climb, but he had no other choice.

  “That branch!” Alec yelled to Marco, pointing.

  They ran for the tree together, and as the Wilvox closed in, but feet away, without pausing, they each jumped up and grabbed the branch, pulling themselves up.

  Alec’s hands slipped on the snowy wood, but he managed to hang on, and he pulled himself up until he was grabbing the next branch several feet off the ground. He then immediately jumped up to the next branch, three feet higher, Marco beside him. He had never climbed so fast in his life.

  The Wilvox reached them, the pack snarling viciously, jumping and clawing at their feet. Alec felt their hot breath on the back of his heel a moment before he raised his foot, the fangs coming down and missing him by an inch. The two of them kept climbing, propelled by adrenaline, until they were a good fifteen feet off the ground, and safer than they needed to be.

  Alec finally stopped, clutching a branch with all his might, catching his breath, sweat stinging his eyes. He looked back down, watching, praying the Wilvox could not climb, too.

  To his immense relief, they were still on the ground, snarling and snapping, jumping up for th
e tree, but clearly unable to climb. They scratched the trunk madly, but to no avail.

  The two sat on the branch, and as the reality sank in that they were safe, they each breathed a sigh of relief. Marco burst into laughter, to Alec’s surprise. It was a madman’s laugh, a laugh of relief, the laugh of a man who had been spared from a sure death in the most unlikely way.

  Alec, realizing how close they had come, could not help laughing, too. He knew they were still far from safety; he knew they could never leave this spot, and that they would even likely die in this place. But for now, at least, they were safe.

  “Looks like I owe you,” Marco said.

  Alec shook his head.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Alec said.

  The Wilvox were snarling viciously, raising the hair on the back of his neck, and Alec looked up at the tree, hands trembling, wanting to get even farther away and wondering how high they could climb, wondering if they had any way out of here.

  Suddenly, Alec froze. As he looked up, he flinched, struck by a terror unlike he had ever known. There, in the branches above him, looking down, was the most hideous creature he had ever seen. Eight feet long, with the body of a snake but with six sets of feet, all with long claws, and a head shaped like an eel’s, it had narrow slits for eyes, dull yellow, and they focused on Alec. Just feet away, it arched its back, hissed, and opened its mouth. Alec, in shock, could not believe how wide it opened—wide enough to swallow him whole. And he knew, from its rattling tail, that it was about to strike—and kill them both.

  Its mouth came down right for Alec’s throat, and he reacted involuntarily. He shrieked and jumped back as he lost his grip, Marco beside him, thinking only of getting away from those deadly fangs, that huge mouth, a sure death.

  He did not even think about what lay below. As he felt himself flying backwards through the air, flailing, he realized, too late, that he was heading from one set of fangs to another. He glanced back and saw the Wilvox salivating, opening their jaws, nothing he could do but brace himself for the descent.

  He had exchanged one death for another.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kyra walked slowly back through the gates of Argos, the eyes of all her father’s men upon her, and she burned with shame. She had misread her relationship with Theos. She had thought, stupidly, that she could control him—and instead, he had spurned her before all these men. For the eyes of all to see, she was powerless, had no dominion over a dragon. She was just another warrior—not even a warrior, but just a teenage girl who had led her people into a war they, abandoned by a dragon, could no longer win.

  Kyra walked back through the gates of Argos, feeling the eyes on her in the awkward silence. What did they think of her now? she wondered. She did not even know what to think of herself. Had Theos not come for her? Had he only fought this battle for his own ends? Did she have any special powers at all?

  Kyra was relieved as the men finally looked away, returned to their looting, all busy gathering weaponry, preparing for war. They rushed to and fro, gathering all the bounty left behind by the Lord’s Men, filling carts, leading away horses, the clang of steel ever present as shields and armor were tossed into piles by the handful. As more snow fell and the sky began to darken, they all had little time to lose.

  “Kyra,” came a familiar voice.

  She turned and was relieved to see Anvin’s smiling face as he approached her. He looked at her with respect, with the reassuring kindness and warmth of the father figure he had always been. He draped one arm affectionately around her shoulder, smiling wide beneath his beard, and he held out before her a gleaming new sword, its blade etched with Pandesian symbols.

  “Finest steel I’ve held in years,” he noted with a broad grin. “Thanks to you, we have enough weapons here to start a war. You have made us all more formidable.”

  Kyra took comfort in his words, as she always did; yet she still could not cast off her feeling of depression, of confusion, of being spurned by the dragon. She shrugged.

  “I did not do all this,” she replied. “Theos did.”

  “Yet Theos returned for you,” he replied.

  Kyra glanced up at the gray skies, now empty, and she wondered.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  They both studied the skies in the long silence that followed, broken only by the wind sweeping through.

  “Your father awaits you,” Anvin finally said, his voice serious.

  Kyra joined Anvin as they walked, snow and ice crunching beneath their boots, winding their way through the courtyard amidst all the activity. They passed dozens of her father’s men as they trekked through the sprawling fort of Argos, men everywhere, finally relaxed for the first time in ages. She saw them laughing, drinking, jostling each other as they gathered weapons and provisions. They were like children on All Hallow’s Day.

  Dozens more of her father’s men stood in a line and passed sacks of Pandesian grain, handing them to each other as they piled carts high; another cart clambered by, overflowing with shields that clanked as it went. It was stacked so high that a few fell over the side, soldiers scrambling to gather them back in. All around her carts were heading out of the fort, some on the road back to Volis, others forking off on different roads to places her father had directed, all filled to the brim. Kyra took some solace in the sight, feeling less bad for the war she had instigated.

  They turned a corner and Kyra spotted her father, surrounded by his men, busy inspecting dozens of swords and spears as they held them out for his approval. He turned at her approach and as he gestured to his men, they dispersed, leaving them alone.

  Her father turned and looked at Anvin, and Anvin stood there for a moment, unsure, seemingly surprised at her father’s silent look, clearly asking him to leave, too. Finally, Anvin turned and joined the others, leaving Kyra alone with him. She was surprised, too—he never asked Anvin to leave before.

  Kyra looked up at him, his expression inscrutable as always, wearing the distant, public face of a leader among men, not the intimate face of the father she knew and loved. He looked down at her, and she felt nervous as so many thoughts raced through her head at once: was he proud of her? Was he upset that she had led them into this war? Was he disappointed that Theos had spurned her and abandoned his army?

  Kyra waited, accustomed to his long silence before speaking, and she could not tell anymore; too much had changed between them too fast. She felt as if she had grown up overnight, while he had been changed by recent events; it was as if they no longer knew how to relate to each other. Was he the father she had always known and loved, who would read her stories late into the night? Or was he her commander now?

  He stood there, staring, and she realized that he did not know what to say as the silence hung heavy between them, the only sound that of the wind whipping through, the torches flickering behind them as men began to light them to ward off night. Finally, Kyra could stand the silence no longer.

  “Will you bring all this back to Volis?” she asked, as a cart rattled by filled with swords.

  He turned and examined the cart and seemed to snap out of his reverie. He didn’t look back at Kyra, but rather watched the cart as he shook his head.

  “Volis holds nothing for us now but death,” he said, his voice deep and definitive. “We head south now.”

  Kyra was surprised.

  “South?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Espehus,” he stated.

  Kyra’s heart flooded with excitement as she pictured their journey to Espehus, the ancient stronghold perched on the sea, their biggest neighbor to the south. She became even more excited as she realized—if he was going there it could only mean one thing: he was preparing for war.

  He nodded, as if reading her mind.

  “There is no turning back now,” he said.

  Kyra looked back at her father with a sense of pride she had not felt in years. He was no longer the complacent warrior, living his middle years in the security of a sm
all fort—but now the bold commander she once knew, willing to risk it all for freedom.

  “When do we leave?” she asked, her heart pounding, anticipating her first battle.

  She was surprised to see him shake his head.

  “Not we,” he corrected. “I and my men. Not you.”

  Kyra was crestfallen, his words like a dagger in her heart.

  “Would you leave me behind?” she asked, stammering. “After all that has happened? What else must I do to prove myself to you?”

  He shook his head firmly, and she was devastated to see the hardened look in his eyes, a look which she knew meant he would not bend.

  “You shall go to your uncle,” he said. It was a command, not a request, and with those words she knew where she stood: she was his soldier now, not his daughter. It hurt her.

  Kyra breathed deep—she would not give in so quickly.

  “I want to fight alongside you,” she insisted. “I can help you.”

  “You will be helping me,” he said, “by going where you’re needed. I need you with him.”

  She furrowed her brow, trying to understand.

  “But why?” she asked.

  He was silent for a long time, until he finally sighed.

  “You possess…” he began, “…skills I do not understand. Skills that we will need to win this war. Skills that only your uncle will know how to foster.”

  He reached out and held her shoulder meaningfully.

  “If you want to help us,” he added, “if you want to help our people, that is where you are needed. I don’t need another soldier—I need the unique talents you have to offer. The skills that no one else has.”

  She saw the earnestness in his eyes, and while she felt awful at the prospect of being unable to join him, she felt some reassurance in his words—along with a heightened sense of curiosity. She wondered what skills he was referring to, and wondered who her uncle might be.

  “Go and learn what I cannot teach you,” he added. “Come back stronger. And help me win.”