Morgan Rice - A feast of dragons

They had all barely made it to the cave, dripping wet, freezing, as dark settled in. Someone had built a fire, and Thor remembered laying down beside it, and falling fast asleep.

The next thing he knew, he had been awakened.

Thor’s stomach growled in the morning light, but he dared not say anything. He had slept in his clothes and boots, as did the others, and at least the fire had partially dried them out.

The commanders prodded one boy after another out the cave, and Thor felt himself being pushed from behind, and he stumbled out, into the strong light of the morning. The red mist still hung over the island, seemed to rise up from the island itself, but at least in the morning light Thor could see much more of this place. The island was even more eerie than he remembered-a desolate landscape of boulders and rocks, of small mountains and large craters. The horizon stretched forever and there were no trees anywhere in sight. Thor could hear the waves crashing, omnipresent, and knew that the ocean lay below, somewhere over the edge of the cliffs that demarcated the island in every direction. It was a fateful reminder that if one got too close to the edge, one would go hurling to one’s death.

Thor could hardly imagine how they would train here. This island was so empty, and there looked to be no training ground in sight-no targets, no weapons, no armor, no horses.

His brothers in arms filtered out of the cave and stood with him in the morning light, all of them huddling around, squinting, raising their hands to block the sun. Kolk marched before them, as angry and intense as ever.

“Don’t applaud yourselves just because you made it here,” Kolk said. “You must all really think you’re something special. Well, you’re not.”

Kolk paced.

“Being on this island is a privilege,” he continued. “Your staying here is not a right. It is not a gift. You will stay here if-and only if-you earn it. Every moment of every day. And that begins with your getting permission to be here in the first place. Before your training can begin, you must win permission from the locals.”

“The locals?” O’Connor asked.

“This island is inhabited by an ancient warrior tribe. The Kavos. They’ve lived and trained here a thousand years. Each and every warrior that comes here must ask and gain their permission. If you don’t, you’ll get shipped back to the Ring. You Legion members have been broken down into small groups, and you will each, separately, need to gain permission. You cannot count on the entire Legion now-only on the members in your group.”

Thor looked around at his group of eight and wondered.

“But where are they?” Elden asked, rubbing his eyes against the morning sun. “The Kavos?”

“Finding them will not be easy,” Kolk said. “They don’t want to be found. They don’t like you. And for many of you recruits, it will not go well. They are a belligerent people. They will challenge you. That is how your test of manhood begins.”

“But how do we find them?” Conven pressed.

Kolk frowned.

“This island is vast and unforgiving. You may not ever find them. You may starve trying to get there. You may get lost. You may not make it back.”

Kolk put his hands on his hips and smiled.

“Welcome to The Hundred.”

*

Thor turned and looked at his group: there were eight of them, standing there, in the middle of nowhere, looking at each other, dazed and confused. Exhausted. There was O’Connor, Reese, Elden, the twins-and two others. One he recognized-the coward, the boy who froze up on the ships, who Thor rescued. And there was one other, whom Thor did not recognize. He looked to be their age, and he stood apart from the rest, with dark hair and eyes, looking away from the others, and with a permanent scowl on his face. There was something about him that Thor did not like, something that seemed dark. Something … evil.

“So where now?” O’Connor asked.

The others grumbled and looked away.

“Where are the Kavos?” Elden asked.

Reese shrugged.

“I have no idea.”

“Well, to the South is the ocean, so we can’t go there,” Reese said. “We can head North, East, or West. That wasteland he spokes of looks like it’s to the north,” he said, squinting into the horizon.

“This entire island looks like a wasteland,” Elden said.

“I say we head north, and see what happens,” Reese said.

The others all seemed to be in agreement, and they set off, beginning their long march. Krohn, whining, marched beside Thor.

“I’m William,” said a boy, and Thor turned to see the boy he had saved in the waters, the one who had been afraid of the shield exercise. He walked beside Thor and looked at him gratefully. “I never had a chance to thank you for saving my life back there, in the sea.”

“I’m Thor,” he answered, “and you have nothing to thank me for.”

Thor liked him; he was a frail, thin boy with large hazel eyes and longish hair that fell over his eyes. There was something to his demeanor that worried Thor-he seemed fragile. He didn’t seem as strong as the others, and he seemed very on edge. Thor sensed that he wasn’t cut out to be here.

Thor hiked silently with the seven other boys across the wasteland for hours, the only sound that of their boots crunching on rocks and dirt, each lost in his own world of anticipation. It was unusually cold for a summer morning, even as the first sun began to rise, and the mist still lingered, up to their ankles. A persistent cold breeze swept through this place that never seemed to go away. The eight of them walked in silence, side-by-side, marching with nothing but more wasteland on the horizon. Thor swallowed, thirsty, nervous, wondering if they would find wherever it was they needed to go-and not sure he wanted to. It had been much more reassuring having dozens of his Legion members around-and with just the eight of them, he felt more prone to attack.

Thor heard the distant screech of an animal, and it was unlike any animal noise he’d ever heard. It sounded like an eagle crossed with a bear. The others turned and looked, too, and Thor saw real fear in William’s eyes. Thor looked around, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from, but it was impossible. There was nothing but wasteland, fading into the mist.

The others looked on edge-except for the final boy, the dark-haired one whose name, Thor remembered, was Malic. He still scowled, and he seemed preoccupied, lost in his own world. As Thor observed him, he began to dimly remember who he was. He remembered hearing rumors about him, the one boy who had joined the Legion by killing a man. If the rumors were true, they had come to his town for Selection and had skipped him over, and he rushed forward and killed a man twice his size in front of them. Impressed, they had decided to change their minds and accept him into the Legion. Apparently in every crop of the Legion, so Reese told him, they liked to take in one person who set everyone else on edge, who was a trained, ruthless killer. In this crop, that was Malic.

Thor looked away, and focused again on the landscape, on his surroundings, trying to stay vigilant. He looked up and realized there was a different hue to the sky, an orange green; there was a strange, thick feel to the mist, a different smell to the air, cool and crisp. This place was different than any place he’d ever been. Everything about it felt foreign. Whatever power he held within him was telling him something about this place, that it was different, primordial. He could feel the presence of the dragon, the force of its breath.

In fact, as they walked, he couldn’t help but feel as if they were inside a dragon’s lair, walking on the mist created by its breath. The place felt magical. It was like the feeling he’d had when crossing the Canyon-but it was different here. Here, it had a more ominous quality. Thor felt certain that other creatures lived here, too-and none that were welcoming.