The Weight of Honor (9 page)

The baby dragon emerged from his egg in a bout of rage, landing with his feet on the ground of Escalon, still breathing fire as the pack of wolves turned and fled. He arched his neck, his red scales still slimy, squinted, and breathed until his fire ceased.

He took his first wobbly steps, one foot after the next, learning how to walk, stretching, feeling his wings, beginning to get an understanding of himself. He could feel the fire coursing in his belly, through his veins, wanting to emerge. He could feel his strength slowly rising up within him. He leaned back and let loose the fire again.

The wolves ran, but not fast enough, and the dragon watched in satisfaction as the pack shrieked, in flames, flailing on the ground. He stepped forward, still wobbly, and breathed down on them again and again, unsatisfied.

The pack was soon burnt to a crisp, and the baby dragon turned and looked out at the forest. There, on its periphery, were several more wolves. They stood there, unsure.

The dragon wanted more. He ran forward, hobbling, slipping, falling to the ground face-first, then getting up again. He tried to flap his wings, but they were not strong enough, and after lifting into the air for a few feet, he fell back to the ground. He slipped and fell again, and yet he still charged for them.

He breathed fire as they all turned and fled, and suddenly, his flames ran out. Standing there, dry, parched, unable to fly or run, the baby dragon realized he had met the limit of his power. He tried again and again, and yet no flames came. How long would his flames take to regenerate? He wondered. How long would he be defenseless?

The dragon looked around with a new sense of appreciation for his surroundings. He was vulnerable; he felt it. He looked up and searched the sky for his father, but he was nowhere to be found. He felt the power in his veins that he would one day have—but right now, he did not have it yet.

No sooner had he had the thought when he heard a branch crack behind him. He turned and braced himself as he saw several soldiers approaching, wearing blue and yellow armor, face visors down, long shields held out before them, looking back warily.

“What have we here?” asked one.

Another soldier raised his visor, studied the baby dragon, then searched the skies for its father. Seeing nothing, he looked back to the dragon.

“Looks like someone forgot its baby,” he said cruelly.

A soldier stepped forward and examined the broken shell, puncturing it with his long spear. Slimy liquid emerged from it.

“Barely out of its shell,” he observed. “Weak, then. The better for us.”

The soldiers, emboldened, cruelty in their faces, approached.

The dragon stood its ground proudly, arched its back, and tried to breathe fire.

But this time, to his dismay, only a trickle came out.

The soldiers laughed as the dragon felt his first jolt of fear. Before he could react, a soldier stepped forward and smashed him on the side of his head with his shield.

The dragon stumbled as he felt a wave of pain rush through his body. He knew that one day he would be able to kill all these men with a single breath; yet that did him no good today.

Still, the dragon, born a fighter, was determined not to give up, no matter how outnumbered, how bleak his situation. As a soldier approached, the baby dragon waited, then, at the last second, he reached around with his sharp claws and sliced the soldier’s face. Blood gushed as he left a nasty wound, forcing the soldier, shrieking, to drop his shield and stumble back.

Yet another soldier charged from behind and jabbed the dragon in his back with his spear; the dragon shrieked as it punctured his still-soft scales.

“Don’t kill it!” commanded a voice.

A soldier, bigger than the others, with different markings, clearly their commander, stepped forward.

“We need it alive!” he continued. “This will be the greatest prize we have ever captured.”

Another soldier came forward with his shield, wound up, and smashed it across the jaw.

The dragon felt another jolt of pain as it swayed; yet somehow it mustered the strength to spin back around and claw the man across the stomach.

Another soldier smashed it from behind.

And another.

A dozen more soldiers pounced on it, smashing it from all sides, its ears filled with the clanging of metal. One blow at a time, his strength weakened, his world went dark.

Yet still he fought, lashing out, struggling to break free, screeching his young screech, managing to claw a few more soldiers in the face.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Soon, despite all his efforts, he found himself on his side, in the grass, losing consciousness. He looked up, searched the skies, and hoped, wished, for but one thing.

Father
, he called in his mind.
Why have you abandoned me?

Kyra stood before Alva, her second uncle, and stared in disbelief. Despite herself, she felt supremely disappointed. Kolva had been everything she had ever hoped for in an uncle, had given her a sense of pride, of lineage; she had looked forward to spending time with him, to train with him, and she was proud to call him her mentor.

But this boy before her, Alva, hardly four feet tall, looking ancient, puny, sitting in a tree, appeared to be no mentor, no warrior, no sorcerer, wizard, or monk, no all-powerful being whom, she had imagined, would teach her everything she would need to know to become the greatest warrior of all time. Instead, there sat a mere boy, younger even than her little brother, Aidan, smiling down at her mysteriously, his face covered, prematurely aged. She felt as if she were being mocked. Had she crossed Escalon for this? To train not in the famed Tower of Ur, but rather here, in the woods, with a boy?

Kyra felt like crying. She also hated that this strange boy was her uncle, that she shared a bloodline with him. She had to admit, she felt ashamed. It made her wonder about herself.

She didn’t know what to say or do; she wanted to flee this place, to go back to the tower, to pound on the doors until a warrior let her in. Someone she could respect, someone who had the power to teach her, to help her master her powers. She felt as if she were wasting her time.

“You are ready to leave,” Alva observed, his voice like a child’s, still smiling. “You are tense. Your hand rests firmly on your staff, and you think of the bow on your back, the wolf and Andor at your side. You think of returning to the tower. Perhaps even of returning to your father.”

Kyra reddened as he read her mind perfectly. She felt violated; she had never experienced anything like it before. A long silence fell over them.

“I mean no offense,” she finally said. “But I have crossed Escalon to train. You are half my age and half my size.”

She expected him to take offense, but instead, to her surprise, he still smiled.

“And yet,” he said, sitting on the branches, cross-legged, looking down at her, “I have lived centuries longer than you have.”

She frowned, confused.

“Centuries?” she asked. “I don’t understand. You look young. And you look nothing like me.”

Kolva stood at the edge of the clearing, patiently awaiting Alva’s command, and Kyra looked from Kolva to Alva, her two uncles, saw the stark difference in appearance between them, and wondered how they could both share her bloodline.

“We don’t choose our relatives,” Alva replied. “Sometimes family can disappoint us. We search for pride in our ancestors, pride in our relatives. But this pride is meaningless. The pride you seek must come from within.”

Kyra shook her head, feeling overwhelmed. She wanted to discount this boy, and yet, as she stood there, she had to admit she sensed a tremendous energy coming off of him, a power she could not quite grasp.

“I must return to my father and help him,” she said.

“Maybe you
are
helping him,” Alva replied. “Right now. By standing here.”

Kyra was perplexed; she had no patience for riddles.

“I haven’t time for this,” she said. “I must train.”

“You are training right now,” he replied.

She raised her eyebrows.

“Training?” she asked, wondering if he were mocking her. “I’m standing in the woods, far from battle, talking to a boy sitting in a tree. Is this training? Can you teach me to wield a staff, to fire arrows, to become a great warrior?”

He smiled, unflappable.

“Is that all you wish to learn?” he asked. “I can teach you far more than that.”

She stared back, wondering.

“Those things of which you speak are trivial,” he continued. “They have little to do with true power. Any warrior can wield a weapon. What I teach is far more than that. What I teach is the source behind the weaponry; the hand that wields the sword; the spirit that guides the hand.”

She stared back, not understanding what he meant.  She did not know what to say or feel.

“I thought…” she began, then trailed off. “I thought…you would lead me to my mother. That, if you were my uncle, you would reveal who she is. Who
I
am.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head, his smile beginning to fade.

“Too many questions,” he replied. “Questions that cloud you. You are full of demands—from myself and from the universe. Sometimes the universe is not ready to yield answers. Your mother understood that.”

Kyra tensed at the mention of her mother.

“You knew her then?” Kyra pressed.

He nodded.

“Very well, indeed,” he replied. “We both did.”

Kyra looked to Kolva, who nodded back.

“And what was she like?” she asked, so eager to know.

Alva opened his eyes and looked down at her, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Just like you.”

Kyra felt a flood of excitement at the thought, eager to know more.

“Tell me more.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Release all questions and demands, or you will be unable to train. Let go of everything you have, everything you are.”

Kyra stared back, unsure.

“I had expected to arrive at a place with a great training ground,” she replied. “With great warriors to train with.”

He shook his head.

“Still fixed on illusions,” he replied. “I offer you much more. I offer you this,” he said and spread his arms wide.

She looked around and saw nothing but trees.

“What is
this
?” she pressed.

“You do not see the trees before you,” he replied sadly.

Kyra could contain her impatience no longer. She felt sure she was being tricked, that she was being tested, that this was all somehow part of her test.

“I do not wish to offend you,” she repeated, “but my time is short. I cannot let my father die out there while I stand here, wasting time.”

Kyra turned, hurried across the clearing, and mounted Andor. She directed him toward the woods and prepared to kick and ride off, unsure where she would go—anywhere but here.

Yet as she prepared to ride off, she looked at the woods before her, and was shocked. Instead of trees she saw rolling hills, shining in the sun. She saw gold and silver castles, a fantastical landscape of waterfalls and rivers and lakes. She saw a place unlike anything she had ever seen.

Behind it, she saw a massive army, all black, forming on the horizon.

Then the landscape changed, and the woods reappeared.

She spun back around, her heart pounding, unsure what had just happened. Alva raised a hand, and as he did, Andor, to her shock, suddenly sat.

Kyra studied Alva in awe, and finally began to realize just how powerful he was. She realized, finally, that she had met her true teacher.

“What was that vision I saw?” she asked. Then, hesitant, “Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled wide.

“Soon, my niece,” he replied, “you shall find out.”

Dierdre sat proudly on her horse, leading the group of liberated girls through the familiar streets of Ur, and feeling a sense of pride at her homecoming. It felt good to be back in familiar terrain, back in her father’s stronghold, and it felt good, most of all, to be able to help these girls, to spare them the anguish that she had met herself.

Yet Dierdre felt a wave of mixed emotions as she rode these packed, familiar streets, each corner filled with a childhood memory, but also with a sense of sadness. It was here, after all, that the Pandesians had taken her away; it was here that her father and his men had done nothing to stop it, had allowed her to be given away like chattel in some cattle trade. All because some lord in some far off empire had declared that Escalon women were the property of men. It was here, in her own city, that she had been betrayed, where her father, whom she had idolized most of all, had let her down.

Dierdre rode on, determined, anticipating the confrontation to come with her father, looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. A part of her loved her home city, with its glistening canals, its cobblestones, steeples, domes and spires, its ancient temples, its air filled with the sound of foreign traders and the sight of foreign banners. Yet a part of her wanted to run from it all, to start fresh somewhere else. She passed through the arch of the ancient temple, and a part of her wanted to lead these girls elsewhere, anywhere else in Escalon.

Dierdre knew she couldn’t run from her fears. She had to confront her past, confront those who had betrayed her, teach them what it meant to sell away a life. These men, her father most of all, had to be held accountable for their actions. All through her life Dierdre had always been one to avoid confrontation, yet now she knew that to run away from it would be cowardly. If she did not face them, make them own what they did, it would endanger other daughters, and other girls would suffer the same fate she had.

As Dierdre turned into the crowded marketplace, people stopped and stared, looking up in wonder at the caravan of girls riding so proudly down the center of the streets. Ur was a city that had seen it all, given its exotic visitors from all corners of the world, yet this sight stunned people. After all, they were a group of young, beautiful girls, exhausted from their long journey perhaps, but riding proudly through the streets like a band of warriors. Dierdre felt intensely protective of each one of them and was determined to find each a home—or give them a spot fighting beside her, whatever they chose.

As Dierdre rode proudly down the center of the street, she knew the dangers of being so conspicuous; she knew the Pandesian presence was everywhere, and she knew that word would spread soon of her arrival, if it hadn’t already. They would come looking for her, to her father’s fort. But she refused to hide in her hometown. She reached down and tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword; if they came for her, she was ready.

As she rode, Dierdre thought of her friend, Kyra, alone, on her way to the Tower of Ur, and she wondered if she had made it. She vowed to herself that, as soon as she got these girls situated, as soon as she had the weapons and support she needed, she would find her somehow, join forces with her. She felt that Kyra was like a sister to her, the sister she never had, the two of them having suffered so much together at the hands of the Pandesians.

Dierdre turned a corner and felt a rush of excitement as she saw her father’s stronghold, the ancient stone fort, low, crowned with parapets, on top of which stood many of her father’s men. They were unarmed, of course, given the Pandesian presence in the city and the law against Escalon men bearing weapons. Yet still they were allowed at least to inhabit the fort, her father having at least some semblance of the strength he once had here as a warlord. It was just a façade, though, she knew. With the Pandesians occupying them, they were hardly the free and proud warriors they had once been. And that was about to change—if she had any say in it.

Dierdre surveyed the fort’s familiar walls, its thick, ancient oak doors, studded with iron, saw her father’s men standing guard outside, dressed in the chain mail of Escalon warriors, and she felt at home. As she neared with her girls, they all stopped and looked over at her in shock. She stared back, cold and hard, realizing she was no longer the young, innocent girl who had left here. She was a woman now—a woman who had seen too much, who had been to hell and back. She was no longer willing to bow to the rights of men.

“Dierdre?” a soldier called out in surprise, rushing forward. “Why have you returned? Did your father not marry you off?”

“
Marry
,” she spat back with disgust, anger rising in her voice. “A convenient word.”

The soldier studied the girls with her, clearly amazed.

“And who are these girls?” he asked.

Dierdre dismounted, gestured to the girls, and they dismounted, too, as more of her father’s men gathered around in amazement.

“These are the liberated
women
of Escalon,” Dierdre replied. “They are under my protection.”

“Protection?” the guard asked with a smirk.

Dierdre’s face darkened.

“I shall see my father at once. Open those doors,” she commanded.

The men looked at each other in wonder, more, she could see, due to the newfound authority in her voice than anything else.

“Is he expecting you?” a soldier asked.

Dierdre glared back with steely eyes.

“I am not asking you to open the doors,” she replied. “I am telling you.”

The men hesitated, looking to each other, then finally one nodded and the others stepped back and opened the doors wide. They creaked as they slowly gave way.

“Let your father deal with you, then,” one of the guards said sternly, dismissing her as she walked past.

Dierdre paid him no mind. She walked proudly, leading the girls through the doors.

The ancient, musty smell of the place hit her as she walked in, that smell she recalled so well, the smell of a true fort. It was dim in here, as she remembered, lit only by sporadic tapered windows that let in narrow shafts of light.

They walked through the stone corridors, empty, and she looked up and saw the marks on the wall, the empty spots where her father’s trophies used to hang, his finest weapons, shields, suits of armor, banners from clans he had defeated in battle. Yet these, too, were gone now, vestiges of what once was, another insult from Pandesia.

Dierdre continued down a long corridor until she spotted the familiar set of arched doors that led to the Great Hall. Muffled sounds arose from the other side and a soldier stood guard before it—but when he saw the look of determination on her face, he did not hesitate—he stepped aside and opened the doors for her. As he did, a wave of sound and noise hit her like a wall.

Kyra steeled herself as she entered, the girls behind her.

Dozens of her father’s men lounged about the hall, furnished only with a long, square wooden table, open in the center, men passing in and out. A large fire burned on either side, dogs resting before it, fighting over scraps. Men were drinking, eating, clearly discussing matters of war. It was a group of warriors without a war, without a cause, idle, weaponless, stripped to the shell of what they once were.

At the head sat her father, seated before the huge square table which served as a place to feast, to meet, or alternately as a council table for matters of importance, matters of war. Matters they had not discussed in too many years.

As Dierdre and her girls entered, the men soon noticed, and a silence fell over the room. She had never thought to see such an amazed look on their faces, as one at a time they turned and watched her enter. They looked as if they were staring at a ghost.

Dierdre marched right up to the center of the table, to her father. He stopped talking to the warrior beside him and looked over at her, his jaw dropping in astonishment. He stood, rising to his full height.

“Dierdre,” he said weakly, shock in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

She noticed his face flush with concern, and she was reassured to see that, at least, he seemed to care. She had been forged by suffering, was no longer the same person, and her father clearly realized, even if these men with him could not. His face filled with concern and guilt as he hurried from his seat and stepped forward to embrace her.

Yet as he reached for her, she held out a palm and stopped him.

He looked at her questioningly, his face filled with pain.

“You do not deserve a daughter’s embrace,” she said coldly, her voice deep, filled with an authority which surprised even her. “Not a daughter you gave away.”

His face darkened with guilt, yet it also became set, as it sometimes did, with stubbornness.

“I had no choice,” he countered, defensive. “I was obliged by law.”

“Whose law?” she asked.

He furrowed his brow, clearly not appreciating being questioned. He was not used to her standing up to him like this.

“The law thrust upon all of us, all of Escalon,” he replied.

“The law you
allowed
to be thrust upon you,” she countered, unwilling to back down.

His face flushed red with anger and shame.

“Dierdre, my daughter,” he said, his voice broken. “Why have you returned? How did you leave? How did you cross Escalon alone? What has happened to you? I don’t know the voice of this woman who is speaking to me.”

She stared back, feeling a mix of sorrow and defiance, recalling how much she had once loved this man and how badly he had betrayed her.

“That is right, Father. You don’t know me anymore. I am not the same girl who left you. Not since you gave me away like a piece of property. Not after what I have suffered. I am a woman now. Tell me, Father, would you have given away one of your sons as easily as I? Or would you have fought to the death if they had come to take them?”

He stared at her, and she stared back. As she did, she felt, for the first time, rooted in place, no longer feeling a need to be quiet, to back down, as she always had. For the first time, she realized she had equal strength, equal fierceness, to her father. She no longer needed to recoil from his steely brown eyes, eyes which she herself had.

And then, slowly, the most amazing thing happened. For the first time since she had known him, her father’s look of defiance morphed to one of guilt, of sorrow, as his eyes welled with tears.

“I am sorry,” he said, his voice broken. “For whatever has happened to you. I never meant for anything bad to come of it.”

She felt like crying, but she would not give in; instead, she turned and faced all the other warriors in the room as she spoke.

“Do you know the daily beatings I suffered? How they tortured me? How they locked me in a cell? How they passed me from one lord to the next? I was left for dead. And how I wish I had died. If it had not been for a dear friend, I would be dead right now. She saved me. A girl, a
woman
, who had more strength and courage than all of you men. No one else came for me—not one of you. Every day I woke and I was sure you would come—I was sure that there was not one of you who wouldn’t risk his life to save a girl from torture.”

She sighed.

“And yet, not one of you came. You, brave warriors, who pretend to be the bearers of chivalry.”

She looked at all of the faces, and one at a time, she could see them all look away or look down, all shamed, all with nothing they could say.

Her father’s face fell, pained, as he stepped forward.

“Who hurt you?” he demanded. “I did not give you over to be tortured; I gave you to be nobly wed to a Pandesian lord.”

Dierdre threw a glance of hatred back at him.

“
Nobly wed?
” she seethed. “Is that what you call it? A fancy term to justify your spinelessness.”

His face reddened with shame, he unable to respond, and as she surveyed all the other men in the room, they hung their heads low, none able to say a word.

“Pandesia has done what they have done not just to me,” she called out, her voice stronger, “but to all of you. You should know this. You should know that when you hand off your daughters, you hand them off not to be wed, but to be beaten, tortured. They torture them even now, as we speak, in all corners of Escalon, in the name of their great law. And you all sit here and allow it to happen. Tell me: when did you all stop becoming men? When did you stop standing up for what was right?”

She looked at all their faces and could see them begin to transform with indignation.

“You all, great warriors, men whom I respected more than any in the world, have become weak, cowardly men. Tell me, when did you forget your oaths? Was it the day you laid down your weapons? How long do you think it will be until Pandesia comes not just for your women, but for you, too? Is that when it will mean something to you? When the sword is at your throat?”

She stared them all down, and not one of these men was able to say a word in response. The room hung thick with a heavy silence, as she could see their minds turning.

“You all disgust me,” she said, indignation coursing through her veins. “It is not Pandesia I blame, but
you
—you who allowed this to happen. You don’t deserve the right to be called warriors. Not even men.”