The War of the Masters

Cyrus decided to take a new route home today. Tucking his fishing knife into the sheath at his side, he let out a long sigh as he walked across the golden sands of the beach. Like most everyone in the country of Koh’Lah—including his father—Cyrus was a fisherman. But unlike the rest of the country, fishing wasn’t something he enjoyed. He loved the outdoors, but the same monotonous routine every day was driving him crazy. Barely sixteen years old, and it already seemed like his entire life was mapped out for him. He brushed his tousled brown hair back and turned his attention to the horizon.

The sun was just beginning to set, casting the sky a vibrant mixture of yellow, orange, and red hues with just a hint of violet. Cyrus closed his eyes and listened to the soothing waves as they washed onto the sand. Feeling the warm glow of the fading sun, he wondered if there was someone beyond the ocean watching it rise.

“Help! Help!” a woman’s voice suddenly cried out, jarring him from his thoughts.

Cyrus searched for the source of the distress. A young woman with shoulder-length black hair stood waist-deep in the water. A deadly serpent had coiled around her arm, snapping at her neck with its strong jaws. The woman, desperately trying to shake the creature loose, shrieked in terror.

Cyrus cast aside his sack of fish and yanked out the knife from his belt. Sprinting into the waves, he yelled, “Hang on! I’m coming!”

Adrenaline coursed through Cyrus’s veins as he waded through the ocean toward the woman. Trying to keep the serpent at bay was taking its toll on her, and her balance faltered.

Fearing he was too late, Cyrus yelled out, “I’m here! Don’t worry!”

Two more steps brought him just short of the wild serpent. Suddenly the woman’s struggling stopped. Her look of fear vanished, and the serpent made a quick lunge for Cyrus’s throat. He tried to move out of the way, but the sharp fangs pierced the skin of his neck. Immediately his body grew numb. His legs went slack and the knife fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The woman caught him by the back of the neck, holding his head above the water. With her other hand she snatched the knife before it could sink to the ocean floor and returned it to the sheath strapped to his belt.

“Now, T’Saunté!” the woman cried triumphantly.

The midnight blue serpent uncoiled from her arm and began to grow. Its muscles stretched and popped, the sounds reminding Cyrus of a rope pulled too tightly. Wings burst forth from its back, hovering over the top of the water. The beast grew larger and larger until it had morphed into its full form: a mighty dragon.

Cyrus would have gasped had he not been paralyzed. But though he couldn’t move, he could still see and hear everything going on around him. The young woman climbed onto her pet’s back. Despite Cyrus’s broad shoulders and athletic physique, the dragon picked him up in its talons like he was a toy.

“All right, let’s go!” she called out to her dragon.

The powerful creature roared and shot into the sky, flying quicker than Cyrus would ever have thought possible. Terror swept through his being as the waves of the ocean screamed by in a blur.

Where are they taking me? Why did they take me?!

Cyrus could only wonder in horror as he gazed over the crashing blue waves. Even the slightest slip of the dragon’s grasp and he would be dead in an instant. Hours passed during their flight. The full moon peeked through the clouds, casting a silver gleam over the vast ocean. At long last Cyrus saw a towering spire of rock zooming toward them in the distance.

Candore. The thought made his heart skip a beat. The massive island pillar comprised the smallest country in the known regions, but was home to the fabled Dragon Riders. With an army of about thirty of the mighty creatures, Candore was one of the strongest—if not the strongest—countries in the entire world.

The dragon, T’Saunté, swooped down low over the waves, building up speed before he rocketed into the sky, flying straight up the eminent wall of rock so close Cyrus thought he could reach out and touch it.

During the dragon’s ascent, he counted only three entries into the spire: one at the bottom, center, and just below the peak. T’Saunté burst through the clouds and touched down on the last, landing in a colossal stone chamber lit by an assortment of crackling torches. The massive rock formation had been completely hollowed out and refurbished to house the country’s needs. Every wall was painted a mixture of crimson, violet, and gold: the colors of Candore.

The woman jumped down from her steed, taking a moment to gently pull Cyrus out of the dragon’s claws and to the ground beside her.

She’s stronger than she looks, he noted, trying to take in as many details about his captors as possible.

“Guards!” the woman shouted.

Cyrus couldn’t see who approached, but a moment later he heard the dutiful shuffling of footsteps.

“Yes, Princess?”

Princess?

Cyrus was surprised to learn she was royalty. She carried herself with the grace and poise of nobility, but he hadn’t expected a princess to leave her homeland, much less to abduct a simple fisherman.

“Carry this one to the dungeon,” she ordered. “Be gentle with him; my father wants him alive and unharmed.” Her tone seemed to carry a hint of concern, but whether this was for his behalf or for her father’s prize, he couldn’t say.

“Of course, Princess.”

Though Cyrus had no muscle control over his body, he still felt every jagged bump and painful rock he was dragged over.

Of all the paralyzing agents out there, I had to get one that—oof!—let’s all the pain through . . .

With no way to resist, he decided to memorize the route he was being taken. If by some miracle the venom paralyzing his muscles wore off early, he wanted to know exactly where each of the soldiers were stationed and where the three openings into the spire were located.

Minutes later the enforcer reached an unmarked metal door. Nodding to the guards posted outside, he opened it and dragged Cyrus through. The stone dungeon was small and damp, comprised of only three cells, all of which were empty. The guard threw him into the nearest one and hastily locked the door behind him. Grimacing against the pain, Cyrus made a mental note of the key’s size, shape, and the pocket it had been retrieved from. Without a word the soldier exited the dungeon, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

All this because I had to take a different way home . . . he chided himself.

Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with any reason why the King of Candore would have taken him. Their two nations were, in fact, allies; Koh’Lah supplied Candore with massive quantities of fish in exchange for their protection against the immense country looming on Koh’Lah’s opposite border: the Bergion Empire. The truce had held for decades—the only reason for which the Bergion Empire hadn’t conquered Koh’Lah and claimed the entire western continent as its own.

To his knowledge, nothing had yet broken the truce between their two nations. Certainly nothing that Cyrus had done, at any rate. He had never even seen a Candorian until today. So why would the King want him, a sixteen-year old nobody, of all people?

The clanging of a heavy metal door jarred him from his thoughts. He swiveled his head to see who had entered.

Wait a second, he thought suddenly. I turned my head! The venom must be wearing off!

Hiding his exhilaration, he watched and waited as eight armed guards entered the dungeon, none of whom he’d seen before. Immediately following them was the Princess, dressed in a stylish purple vest and black pants.

Cyrus felt a flash of anger rise through his chest, but he was careful not to move. If the guards still thought he was paralyzed he’d have one chance for a surprise attack. He wanted to make it count.

Cyrus noticed something different about the Princess, however. She looked timid—almost scared. The soldiers lined up on either side of the doorway. Then a massive, broad-shouldered man clad in gold armor and a crimson robe stepped into the dungeon. Powerful muscles rippled across his exposed arms, indicative of the man’s strength. A thick, dark beard hid most of his features but Cyrus could see a wild, untamed fire burning in his eyes.

This was Xyloth, the King of Candore. Or as he was better known: the Savage King.

“Well done, daughter,” Xyloth commended. His voice was deep and ominous, giving Cyrus the impression that everything he said sounded like a warning.

“Thank you, father,” the woman said with a short bow. “Now let’s go.”

“Not so fast.” The King drew a dagger with a curved blade from his side. The handle looked to be solid gold, and the pommel was shaped like the head of a dragon. “It’s time for the rest of the Ritual. After this, you will be considered an adult in the royal family.”

Marching to the Princess, he held out the dagger by the blade, extending the handle toward her. The woman hesitated, but reluctantly took the weapon from his hand.

“Now kill him,” he ordered.

Cyrus’s heart froze in his chest. His eyes went wide with panic. This was it.

He was about to die.

The Princess looked startled by the command. One of the guards stepped toward his cell, unlocked the door, and held it open for her.

But the Princess stood in silence, each second seeming like its own eternity to Cyrus as she pondered his fate. Ever so slowly she tapped the flat end of the dagger against her palm.

“You said all I would have to do is capture him,” she said calmly and deliberately.

“I lied,” the King shot back with a snarl. “I know you. You’re weaker than your siblings. If I’d told you the truth from the beginning you wouldn’t have come this far.”

Beads of sweat formed across Cyrus’s brow, and his heart hammered in his ears. Desperately he searched the room for any kind of escape route, still careful not to move a muscle. His only hope now was to somehow snatch the dagger away as she drew near.

But even that isn’t really an option, is it? There’s no way I can fight off a single armed guard, let alone eight.

His throat felt dry and clogged. It was true. There was nothing he could do. His life rested solely upon her next words.

The Princess’s eyes flickered back and forth. Her gaze turned to the dungeon’s entrance, then to Cyrus, and finally to the King. Steadily the anxiety etched across her features changed to a fiery resolve. She set her jaw and spoke at last.

“I won’t do it, father.”

She pushed the dagger back into the King’s hands.

Her father paused, clearly surprised by her stand. Then his eyes narrowed in rapidly mounting anger. He took one menacing step forward, towering over her. “You will kill him, you will finish this Ritual, and at last join the royal family!” he threatened.

The Princess stood tall and straight, her shoulders squared as she looked defiantly in his eyes. “I made the mistake of listening to you once when I kidnapped him. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The King’s hand balled into a fist at his side. His teeth clenched, and his eyes burned like embers. Abruptly he turned toward the open cell, bearing down on Cyrus like a cheetah after wounded prey.

The young fisherman lay still as the King reared back a meaty fist, waiting until the last possible second before he rolled out of harm’s way. A flash of surprise crossed the King’s face, and Cyrus stole the opportunity to drive his boot into the back of Xyloth’s knee.

The King growled in fury but barely budged from the attack. Moving faster than anyone Cyrus had ever seen, the angry father hefted him up with one hand and struck him square in the chest with bone-cracking force.

“Daddy, stop!” the Princess cried, but her father didn’t let up.

Blow after blow rained down on Cyrus, smashing his ribs like they were made of glass. The fisherman tried to defend himself but the onslaught was too much. Another bone snapped, but there was no longer any pain—his body had passed into a state of shock.

Finally the King slowed his savage beating. He took Cyrus by the hair and yanked his head back to show the Princess. Cyrus dangled like a rag doll in the King’s grip. Blood smeared his vision but he could just barely make out the Princess. Fresh tears were streaming down her face.

“Finish him!” the King roared. “He’s lost so much blood he’s going to die, anyway. Do him a favor and end his misery!”

Trembling, the woman looked down at the stone floor and answered in a meek voice.

“I. Will. Not.”

For a moment the King didn’t respond. A hushed silence fell over the room. Then Xyloth let out a bestial yell and hurled Cyrus against his cell wall. As he sank to the stone floor, Cyrus saw the King storm out of the dungeon.

He knew Xyloth was right: he was going to die. His breathing was coming in labored rasps. One of his broken ribs must have punctured a lung, slowly starving his brain of oxygen. He probably had a few hours at most.

Memories rushed through his foggy mind: his father teaching him to fish; birthday parties; his mother smiling from across the kitchen; he and his friend Tegrev racing outside.

Open your eyes, came the Princess’s voice, crisp and clear, cutting through the haze. But something about it seemed different.

Look up at me, her voice came again.

Forcing his swollen eyes open, he saw the woman kneeling just outside the bars of his cell.

I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t know . . . Her mouth didn’t move as she spoke. Somehow she was projecting her thoughts into his mind.

Her tear-filled eyes seemed to gaze into the depths of his soul, and somehow, amidst the pain and suffering he had just endured, he felt soothed.

I’m not going to leave you like this. I’m coming for you tonight. You’ll be okay, I promise.

Cyrus heard the words but the meaning was lost to him. He couldn’t think. He could barely even breathe . . .

The Princess gave him a strong nod, then stood up to leave. Cyrus could faintly make out the sound of the prison door slamming shut.

Then the darkness overtook him.