Rise of the Valiant (10 page)

Duncan raised
his sword high, let out a fierce battle cry, and led his men as he charged
forward fearlessly, ready to meet the Pandesian army pouring out of the Esephan
barracks. These men had clearly recovered from the initial shock of being
attacked in the middle of the night, of their fleet being set aflame in the
harbor, and Duncan was surprised himself at how much damage he had managed to
inflict. The night sky was ablaze behind him with what remained of their fleet,
lighting up the harbor and the night sky.

Yet however
great that blow was, there still remained this army before him, this Pandesian
garrison stationed on land, vastly outnumbering his men. An endless stream
poured out as the stone gates opened wider, all professional soldiers, fully
armed with superior weaponry, well-trained and eager for battle. Duncan knew
the true battle had not even begun.

Duncan was proud
to see none of his men back down, all riding beside him, joining him as he
hoped they would. They all re-mounted their horses and galloped bravely,
rushing to meet the enemy, swords raised, axes and halberds high, spears aimed,
prepared for death or honor.

Duncan always
prided himself on being first in battle, out in front of his men, and he was
determined that this night be no different. He surged ahead and let out a great
cry as he raised his sword high and brought it down on the shield of the lead
Pandesian soldier, a man who, by his armor, appeared to be an officer.

As Duncan’s
sword hit, a great clang rang out and sparks flew, the first sparks of battle.
The soldier swung back, and Duncan, anticipating it, parried, then swung around
and slashed the man across the chest, knocking him off his horse and onto the
ground—the first casualty of the battle.

The night air
was filled with the sudden clash of arms, swords meeting each other, shields
meeting swords, axes, halberds, men shouting and groaning and shrieking as they
fell from horses and hacked each other to death. The battle lines quickly
became blurred as the two sides melted into each other, each fighting viciously
for survival.

Duncan saw
Anvin, beside him, swing a flail and saw its spiked metal ball knock a soldier
backwards off his horse. He saw Arthfael hurl his spear and pierce the throat
of a soldier before him, a broad man who had raised a sword for Duncan. He
watched one of his largest soldiers, swing his halberd sideways, chop a Pandesian
in his shoulder, and knock him sideways off his horse. Duncan filled with pride
at his men. They were all formidable soldiers, the best Escalon had to offer,
and they all fought fiercely for their homeland. For their freedom.

The Pandesians,
though, rallied, and fought back just as fiercely. They were a professional
army, one that had been on the road in conquest for years, and not a force to
be deterred easily. Duncan’s heart fell as he saw many good men fall on his
side, too, men he had known and fought with his entire life. He watched one
man, a boy barely his son’s age, fall straight back beside him as a spear
pierced his shoulder. He saw another lose a hand as a battle axe came straight
down upon it.

Duncan fought
back with all he had, cutting a path through the carnage, slashing soldiers
left and right, urging his horse on, forcing himself forward at all costs, way
deeper than all his men. He knew that to stop meant death. He soon found
himself completely immersed in battle, surrounded by the enemy on all sides.
That was the way he liked to fight—for his very life.

Duncan spun and
slashed from side to side, and he caught the Pandesians off guard; they were
clearly surprised to find the enemy so deep in their ranks. When he was not
slashing, he raised his shield and used it to block blows from swords, maces,
clubs—and to smash men sideways off their horses. A shield, he knew, could
sometimes be the best—and most unexpected—weapon.

Duncan spun and
head-butted one soldier, then yanked a sword from another’s hand, pulled him
close and stabbed him in the gut with a dagger. Yet at the same moment Duncan
received a sword slash himself, a particularly painful one on his shoulder. A
moment later he received one on his thigh. He spun and killed both attackers. The
injuries were painful, but they were all surface wounds, he knew, and he had
suffered enough wounds in his life to not let them startle him. He had received
much worse in his lifetime.

No sooner had he
killed his attackers than he received a powerful blow as a Pandesian clubbed
him in the ribs—and a moment later he found himself falling sideways off his
horse and into the throng of men.

Duncan shook off
stars and gained his feet, sword in hand, ready to go, and found himself facing
a mix of soldiers, some on foot, others on horseback. He reached up, grabbed a
soldier by his leg, and dragged him off his horse; the man fell and immediately
Duncan mounted his horse. He snatched his lance in the process and swung it
around, knocking three soldiers off their horses and clearing a space.

The battle raged
on. A seemingly endless array of Pandesian soldiers poured out of the barracks,
and with each company of men that appeared, Duncan knew his odds were
worsening. He saw his men beginning to falter: one of his younger warriors took
a spear in the ribs, blood gushing from his mouth—and a warrior who had just
joined his ranks took a fatal sword slash to the chest.

Duncan, though,
would not give up; that was not who he was. There would be no retreat, whatever
the odds. He had been through many a battle that had seemed bleak, and never
once had he turned and fled, as had many of his compatriots. It was what had
earned him his reputation, and the respect of the men of Escalon. He might lead
them to death, they knew, but he would never lead them to dishonor.

Duncan redoubled
his efforts: he charged forward, let out a great cry, and leapt down from his
horse holding his lance sideways before him—and taking down several men. He
charged, on foot, deeper into the crowd, using the lance and knocking over
soldiers in every direction. It was a suicide charge, but he no longer
cared—and in that moment of no longer caring, he felt a great liberation, a
greater freedom than he had ever experienced.

When Duncan’s
lance was chopped in half by a soldier, he used its jagged end to stab a
soldier, then dropped it, drew his sword and swung with both hands, foregoing
his shield and throwing caution to the wind. He slashed and hacked until his
shoulders grew tired and sweat stung his eyes, faster than all the others
around him—but quickly losing steam. It was a final death charge, and while he
knew he would not make it, he took solace in the fact that at least he would
die giving it all he had.

As Duncan’s
shoulders grew tired and several soldiers charged him, as he knew he was
looking death in the face, suddenly, there came a whistling sound, like an
arrow, followed by a single thwack. To Duncan’s shock, the soldier before him
fell on his back, an arrow lodged in his chest.

There came
another. Then another. Soon the air was filled with the noise, and as the cries
of Pandesians rang out, Duncan looked behind him and was amazed at what he saw:
the moonlit sky was filled with arrows, a sea of them flying high overhead and
landing on the Pandesian side. Pandesians, pierced by the sea of arrows,
dropped like flies, falling one by one from their horses. Some fell back, while
others keeled over sideways from their horses, landing in the bloody field of
battle, their arming clanging and their horses, riderless, bucking wildly.

Duncan was
confused; at first, he had assumed that his men were under attack. But then he
realized he was being helped. But by whom?

Duncan turned
and looked to the source of the arrows and saw, high upon the ramparts of the
city of Esephus, scores of men, lit up by torchlight. They were, his heart
lifted to see, Esephan warriors, bows drawn, placing arrows and firing down in
a high arc toward the Pandesian side. Duncan cried out with joy. Seavig, after
all, had decided to risk it all and join him.

Suddenly, the
gates of Esephus opened and there appeared, with a great battle cry, Seavig,
riding out before hundreds of his men, all proud warriors of Escalon. Duncan
was thrilled at the sight of his old friend, a man he had ridden into battle
with countless times, riding at the head of his small army. Here was a soldier
who had been subjugated by Pandesia for years, and who was finally making a
stand. He had returned, was back to being the warrior Duncan once knew he was.

With a great surge
of momentum, Seavig charged forward and joined Duncan’s men, and they began to
push the Pandesians back. Duncan’s men let out a great shout, rushing forward,
invigorated, and Duncan could see the newfound fear on the faces of the
Pandesians. Clearly, they had expected the men of Esephus to toe the line and
roll over. They realized that Duncan’s force had just doubled in size, and they
were beginning to panic. He had seen it one too many times on his enemies’
faces—and he knew what that meant: now was his chance.

Duncan surged
forward, taking advantage of their fear, driving them back further as he led
his men. Whatever Pandesians were spared by the arrows, Duncan and his men
hacked down. Chaos began to ensue as the tide of battle began to swing the
other way. The Pandesians, faltering, began backtracking—and then turned and
ran.

Duncan pursued
them, his men close behind, Seavig nearby as he led his men in a charge, too,
the air filled with their victorious shouts. As the Pandesians tried to make it
back to the safety of their stone barracks, to close the gate, Duncan reached
the gate first, hacking down the soldiers who tried to yank it closed. He
stabbed one in the gut, butted another in the face with the hilt of his sword,
then kicked a third.

The Pandesians
soon abandoned the idea of closing the gate and merely ran back for their
barracks. Duncan searched for their commander, realizing he had to cut off the
army’s head, and he spotted him amidst the crowd, decorated with Pandesian
insignias.

Duncan cut his
way through the ranks of soldiers, heading for him, until finally he reached
him and forced him to face off with him. They stood opposite each other, each
holding out his sword, while a space was cleared and a small crowd formed
around them. Duncan could feel all the eyes upon them, and he knew their match
would determine the outcome of this battle.

They each
charged and fought viciously. This man was a far better fighter than the
others, and Duncan was surprised at the strength and speed of his blows. Sparks
flew as back and forth their swords met, neither able to gain an edge, driving
each other from one end to the other. Here, finally, was an opponent whom
Duncan could respect; he regretted not having him as a warrior of Escalon.

Finally, Duncan,
losing strength, slipped; yet as he did, he found his opening. The leader
raised his sword, and Duncan lunged forward and tackled him, driving his
shoulder into the man’s stomach.

Duncan drove him
down to the snow-covered ground, pinned him down, and drew his short sword,
pressing it to his throat.

“YIELD!” Duncan
commanded, as the crowd grew quiet, a lull in the fighting forming around them.
“Yield, and be our prisoners, and I shall not kill you or your men!”

“Yield to you?”
the man spat back. “You are no king! You are a mere slave of Escalon!”

“I shall not ask
again,” Duncan warned darkly.

The commander
blinked several times, gasping for breath, clearly realizing Duncan’s
seriousness.

Finally, he
nodded.

“WE YIELD!” he
cried.

There came a
great shout of victory amidst Duncan’s and Seavig’s men, as all the Pandesian
soldiers, their backs to the wall, quickly laid down their arms, looking all
too happy to accept the offer. None, clearly, had any heart left in the fight.

Duncan felt
several strong hands clasp him on the back in admiration, as his men rushed
forward and stripped the enemy of their swords and armor. One cheer after
another rose, as his men all began to realize that they had achieved the
impossible: Pandesia had been defeated. Esephus, one of the most important
cities in Escalon, had been liberated.

The unthinkable
had happened.

Against all
odds, Escalon was winning.

*

Duncan walked
alongside the Esephus harbor, joined by Seavig, Anvin, Arthfael and dozens of
their men, all inspecting the damage. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air
as the Pandesian fleet still burned, their embers sparking in the night,
punctuated by the occasional whoosh of a beam as a mast collapsed. It was like
the entire harbor was alight in a great bonfire.

All about them
Duncan’s and Seavig’s men corralled the hundreds of captive Pandesian soldiers,
shepherding them, in shackles, toward the fort’s dungeon. His men were also
occupied with reaching over the harborside with long hooks, pulling in floating
debris, valuable treasures and weaponry; they occasionally pulled in a floating
corpse, too, before letting it go.

Duncan looked
all up and down the shoreline, littered with bloated corpses, the greatest
destruction he’d ever seen to Pandesian soldiers, and probably the greatest damage
he’d ever inflicted on an invading army—and he felt a great sense of
satisfaction.