A Forge of Valor (17 page)

Kyle had rescued her, she realized. He had put her on Andor and had sent her away, far from the battlefield. But to where?

Kyra felt a rush of guilt at the thought of abandoning Kyle back there, leaving him alone to fight off both armies. There was no way he could survive—and he must have known that. He had remained behind as a distraction, so that she could flee safely. He had sacrificed himself so that she could live. The thought of it killed her. She would give anything to be back there now, by his side.

Kyra looked around and as the fog cleared, saw she was standing in the midst of endless stone, caving statues, crumbling walls. It was a sprawling ruin, she realized, an ancient city that no longer was. Only foundations were left intact. It was an eerie, abandoned place, a haunted place. It had all been perfectly preserved, untouched for thousands of years, and in some ways it felt like walking through a graveyard.

She stood there, wondering where she was. It was the most exotic place she had ever been, a place that had clearly not seen visitors for thousands of years, the blueprint of a city that was once magnificent. And, standing in the midst of it, she had never felt more alone.

Kyra took her first step, seeing only ruins in every direction, realizing she was far from anything and would have to navigate her way through this city. She walked slowly in the rubble, rocks crunching beneath her feet, Leo beside her and Andor following. She looked out and was amazed at how vast this place was. This city was mystical, breathtaking, stretching for miles in every direction. She could hear the faint crashing of waves in the distance, and on the horizon, could see the vast Sea of Sorrow, its waves crashing at the cliffs far below. This city, up high, on a plateau, was perched at the edge of the ocean.

Kyra took it all in as she walked, rubbing her hand along the smooth ancient stone, so grateful to be alive. Her body hurt with each step, filled with aches and pains from the battle, yet she had not died, and she had Kyle to thank for that.

As she passed through a crumbling stone arch, an ancient gateway, she turned and looked up, and in the distance, towering over everything, she saw the one tall structure that remained in the city. It appeared to be a large, stone temple, some of its walls collapsing, and it was framed on either side by hundred foot stone statues, of women wearing laurel headdresses and with arms stretched out and palms up to the sky. It seemed like a holy place.

Kyra suddenly realized: the Lost Temple. The place of her mother’s birth. The once-capital of Escalon. She had made it.

Kyra felt something special about this place, a mystical energy that hung in the air. It was like a vapor that clung to everything, the dirt, the stones. She could feel that this was a place of power, could feel that it had once been the greatest capital of the world. Yet she sensed something more. This was a sacred place. A place not inhabited by humans, but by those of another race. She could feel it in the very fabric of the air, in the touch of the stones, the electrifying feeling she got with each step she took.

Kyra had always heard of the Lost Temple growing up, a sacred place, the one place in Escalon where mortals feared to go. It was said that spirits walked the grounds here, lingered in the air, and that those few who were brave enough to venture here never returned.

Gales of wind whipped through, whistling off the ocean, off the rocks, and Kyra turned frequently, every time thinking she heard someone behind her, someone whispering at her. Yet there was no one.

She felt a chill. This was, indeed, a city of ghosts.

Kyra walked and walked, crisscrossing the city, making her way toward the temple, lured by the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. She did not know exactly what she was searching for, yet she knew, somehow, that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

As she hiked, Kyra could not help but feel that she was searching for her mother. She felt her mother’s spirit hanging in the air here, guarding her, guiding her steps. Had her mother truly lived here? The thought thrilled her. Could she be here now?

As Kyra walked, she felt as if she were tracing the steps of her mother’s life, and she wondered what life had been like for her mother here. Images flashed through her mind. She saw her most recent battle, killing Pandesians; she saw Theos, the powerful beast she had loved, flying somewhere high above; she saw her training with Alva; and she saw, most of all, persistent images of her mother, just out of reach. Her mother was here in this place, Kyra could feel it, and she felt closer to her than ever.

As she walked, winding her way through partial walls of collapsed stone, running her hand along them, Kyra spotted shards of ancient pottery on the ground—and she stopped as she saw an unusual object hidden in the debris. She picked it up, wiped years of dust off it, and she was stunned to realize she was holding an ancient sword. She raised it high, and it crumbled to pieces in her hand, collapsing into a cloud of dust. It must have sat there, she realized, for thousands of years.

Kyra walked and walked, drawn inexorably to the temple, keeping it in her line of vision and making her way toward it. As she approached, she looked up at the hundreds of worn stone steps at its base, the temple perched atop them on a wide stone plateau, looking as if it reached the sky. Kyra began to ascend, putting one foot before the other, the stone so smooth, clearly worn from thousands of years of use, and of ocean spray.

The more she ascended, the more Kyra was afforded a towering view of the city, the cliffs, and the ocean beyond. Finally reaching the top, she turned and saw the entire city spread out beneath her. It was breathtaking. Kyra felt as if she were on top of the world. Even amidst its decay, she could see the lines of the city that once was, its beautiful symmetry, and she could only imagine how grand a capital it was. Beyond it the beautiful waters of the Sorrow sparkled in the sunset, as if alive, framing it all.

Kyra turned and looked up and examined the temple, a massive stone structure rising still higher into the sky. Before her was a huge arch, carved into the stone, an entry into the temple. If there was ever a door, it disappeared centuries ago. Strangely enough, she could see two torches burning inside. She wondered how they could be lit, and she realized it was magic. She wondered at just how mystical this place was. She felt as if she were in another realm, wrangling with forces she did not understand.

Kyra turned, standing on the broad stone plateau, and looked out over the city. The ocean winds caressed her as she stared out into the sunset.

“Mother!” she called out, her voice echoing, carried by the wind. “Where are you?”

There came nothing but the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves.

“Who am I?” she cried out.

Again, no response.

“Mother! I’ve come all this way to find you. Show yourself to me! Tell me who I am. Teach me!”

And yet still, to Kyra’s dismay, there came nothing but silence.

Kyra, exhausted, weary from the battles, still covered with bruises, sank to her knees on the stone. She sat back on her feet, resting her hands in her lap, and closed her eyes. Feeling the cool ocean winds caress her face, she sat there as the sun sank.

She closed her eyes and tried to go inside herself. She did not understand this place; yet she sensed it was the key. It was the key to finding her mother. To unlocking her power. To understanding herself, her destiny. To saving Escalon.

Yet she did not know how to unravel it.

Kyra did not know how many hours passed as she knelt there. She sensed day turn to night, and against the monotony of crashing waves and howling wind, she rocked slowly and began to lose all track of time. She felt herself entering a deep meditation, going deeper within than she ever had before.

When she finally, slowly, opened her eyes, the sky was black. She looked up, and in the blackness she saw a sky filled with twinkling stars, and a rising full moon, the color of blood. Behind her, the two flickering torches never died.

Kyra knelt there, feeling hopelessly lost. Unsure of everything she knew. She reached the depths of uncertainty.

And in that moment of true uncertainty, a voice began to come to her. She began to see something in the darkness, slowly emerging, ascending the stairs, approaching her.

It was a person.

She saw her face, and, with a shock, she knew.

It was her mother.

Kavos led the charge as hundreds of Duncan’s men rallied behind him, all liberated after their escape from prison. They had the carefree shouts and cries of men who knew they had nothing to lose, who knew they could lose their lives at any moment—and likely would—as they charged recklessly into the heart of the capital, to a near certain death against thousands of better-armed Pandesians.

But that was what valor was all about, Kavos felt. Beside him charged Bramthos, Seavig and Arthfael, and he could see on their faces that they would not flinch from the enemy, either, would not even hesitate to throw themselves into battle. Indeed, since they had broken loose, they had already had several skirmishes with Pandesian battalions, fighting dozens of men here and there. A few of their own men had fallen, but mostly they had swept through the city like a wave of destruction, catching the Pandesians off guard, none of them slowing, using their momentum to kill and run and kill again.

Kavos raised his pilfered halberd as they turned a corner and surprised several dozen Pandesian soldiers, all with their backs to him. He hacked two of them down, as did Bramthos, Seavig and Arthfael beside him, before the others began to take notice and face them. Kavos, leading the fray, found himself defending as several Pandesians swung at him. He raised his halberd and turned it sideways, blocking blows from two sides. He leaned back and kicked one soldier in the chest, then spun around and chopped off another Pandesian’s head. He was fighting for his life, and there was no time to lose.

The battle was vicious, hand to hand, the fighting thick. At first, the Pandesians rushed forward boldly, filled with their typical arrogance, clearly thinking the battle was theirs, that they would quickly dispatch these rogue prisoners crazy enough to make one last desperate charge into the city. However, Kavos and his men were determined, their backs to the wall. They rushed forward, in row after row, all giving it their all, hurling spears, slashing swords, smashing soldiers with shields. They came in like a wave, fast and furious, and they disregarded the body space between the lines. They came in so fast and so close, they actually wrestled some Pandesians down to the ground, preventing the Pandesians from having the time and space they needed to regroup.

The strategy worked. Soon, the Pandesians were in disarray. Half of their ranks were dead, compared to only a handful of Kavos’ men, and the men that remained began to panic. They fought half-heartedly, until finally they turned, stumbling over each other, and fled.

Kavos and his men chased them down, not giving them a second chance to regroup, hurling spears into their backs and hacking them down. They fought like men possessed, men fighting for their lives.

Soon all was still, as the group of Pandesians lay dead, their bodies strewn throughout the capital. Kavos’ men wasted no time in scouring the battlefield and salvaging their weapons, dropping their crude swords and shields for even nicer ones. Step by step, body by body, Duncan’s men were becoming a professional army again.

Reinvigorated, Duncan’s men let out a shout of victory and continued running throughout the capital, turning down street after street in the thick night, determined that nothing should stop them until they reached Duncan’s dungeon and freed their commander.

Merk pulled his shirt tight around his neck as he hiked, lowering his head, trying to shield himself from the incessant gales of wind that tore at his skin. The wind howled off the Sea of Tears on one side of him and the Bay of Death on the other, swaying him back and forth like a rag doll as he trekked endlessly, as he had been for days, between the two bodies of water, down the narrow, barren peninsula known as the Devil’s Finger.

It was a name that inspired fear in most of Escalon, the one place that most Escalonites feared to go. They had little reason to. It was a barren, rock-strewn appendage to the bountiful land, a place one went to slip to one’s death. Merk slipped and slid on its moss-covered boulders, all slick with ocean spray, making his way slowly and treacherously down the most notorious stretch of land in all of Escalon. Barely able to steady himself, he looked up at this bizarre peninsula of boulders stretching to the horizon, and wondered if this hell would ever end. He doubted he would survive it. This peninsula, if possible, was even worse than its reputation.

A place of legend—and of fear—the Devil’s Finger was one of the few places in Escalon that Merk had never yearned to go. It jutted out of the mainland and reached to the far southeastern corner of Escalon like an appendage that never should have existed. “Peninsula” was too hospitable a name for it. It was nothing more than a barren stretch of rock, mostly slick and jagged, sandwiched between two bodies of tumultuous water.

Merk cursed as he slipped again, scraping a knee for the hundredth time. He had already twisted both ankles and wrists as he fell time and again, picking his way through each rock. He had created a sort of system, turning his ankles and raising his arms to give himself balance, leaning forward to catch himself on his hands when he slipped. This was an awful, nasty place, a place that no humans should ever live. It was too aptly named.

Merk knew, though, that he had no choice but to venture on. After crossing all of Escalon, this was the final leg to his trip, the last stretch between him and the Tower of Kos. Just reaching this peninsula had taken nearly all he had, his having to cross southeastern Escalon alone after he parted ways with Kyle, then skirt the peaks of Kos and hike alongside the Thusius. All of that trekking, just to arrive here, on this peninsula. This was probably why, he reasoned, most pilgrimaged to the Tower of Ur, not Kos. Kos was always rumored to be too barren, too desolate, too forgotten, to hold the Sword. Everyone had always assumed that it was the tower of distraction.