Rise of the Valiant (7 page)

The few
Pandesian soldiers on duty noticed too late what was happening, finding
themselves caught in a wave of flame, and shrieking and jumping overboard.

Duncan knew it
was only a matter of time until the rest of the Pandesians woke.

“HORNS!” he
shouted.

Horns were
sounded up and down the ranks, the old rallying cry of Escalon, the short
bursts that he knew Seavig would recognize. He hoped it would rouse him.

Duncan
dismounted, drew his sword, and rushed for the harbor wall. Without hesitating,
he jumped over the low stone wall and onto the flaming ship, leading the way as
he charged forward. He had to finish the Pandesians off before they could
rally.

Anvin and
Arthfael charged at his side and his men joined in, all letting out a great
battle cry as they threw their lives to the wind. After so many years of
submission, their day of vengeance had come.

The Pandesians,
finally, were roused. Soldiers began to emerge from the decks below, streaming
forth like ants, coughing against the smoke, dazed and confused. They caught
sight of Duncan and his men, and they drew swords and charged. Duncan found
himself being confronted by streams of men—yet he did not flinch; on the
contrary, he attacked.

Duncan charged
forward and ducked as the first man slashed for his head, then came up and
stabbed the man in the gut. A soldier slashed at his back, and Duncan spun and
blocked it—then spun the soldier’s sword around and stabbed him in the chest.

Duncan fought
back heroically as he was attacked from all sides, recalling days of old as he
found himself immersed in battle, parrying on all sides. When men got too close
to reach with his sword, he leaned back and kicked them, creating space for
himself to swing; in other instances, he spun and elbowed, fighting hand to
hand in the close quarters when he needed to. Men dropped all around him, and
none could get close.

Duncan soon
found himself joined by Anvin and Arthfael as dozens of his men rushed forward
to help. As Anvin joined him, he blocked the blow of a solider charging Duncan
from behind, sparing him a wound—while Arthfael stepped forward, raised his
sword, and blocked a hatchet coming down for Duncan’s face. As he did, Duncan
simultaneously stepped forward and stabbed the solider in the gut, he and Arthfael
working together to fell him.

They all fought
as one, a well-oiled machine from all their years together, all guarding each
other’s backs as the clang of swords and armor pierced the night.

All around him,
Duncan saw his men boarding ships up and down the harbor, attacking the fleet
as one. Pandesian soldiers streamed forth, all fully roused, some of them on
fire, and the warriors of Escalon all fought bravely amidst the flames, none
backing down even as fires raged all around them. Duncan himself fought until
he could lift his arms no more, sweating, smoke stinging his eyes, swords
clanging all around him, dropping one soldier after the next that tried to
escape to shore.

Finally, the
fires grew too hot; Pandesian soldiers, in full armor, trapped by the flames,
leapt from their ships into the waters below—and Duncan led his men off the
ship and over the stone wall, back to the harbor side. Duncan heard a shout and
he turned and noticed hundreds of Pandesian soldiers trying to follow, to
pursue them off the ship.

As he stepped
down onto dry land, the last of his men to leave, he turned, raised his sword
high, and hacked at the great ropes binding the ships to shore.

“THE ROPES!”
Duncan yelled.

Up and down the
harbor his men followed his lead and severed the ropes anchoring the fleet to
shore. As the great rope before him finally snapped, Duncan placed his boot on
the deck and with a great kick, shoved the ship away from shore. He groaned
from the effort, and Anvin, Arthfael and dozens of others rushed forward,
joining him. As one, they all shoved the burning hull away from shore.

The flaming
ship, filled with shrieking soldiers, drifted inevitably toward the other ships
in the harbor—and as it reached them, it set them aflame, too. Men leapt from
ships by the hundreds, shrieking, sinking into the black waters.

Duncan stood
there, breathing hard and watching, his eyes aglow, as the whole harbor soon
lit in a great conflagration. Thousands of Pandesians, fully roused now,
emerged from the lower decks of other ships—but it was too late. They surfaced
to a wall of flame, and left with the choice of being burned alive or jumping
into a death by drowning in the freezing waters, they all chose the latter.
Duncan watched as the harbor soon filled with hundreds of bodies, bobbing in the
waters, crying out as they tried to swim for shore.

“ARCHERS!”
Duncan yelled.

His archers took
aim and fired volley after volley, aiming for the flailing soldiers. One by one
they found their marks, and the Pandesians sank.

The waters
became slick with blood, and soon there came snapping noises and the sound of
shrieking, as the waters were filled with glowing yellow sharks, feasting in
the blood-filled harbor.

Duncan looked
out and it slowly dawned on him what he had done: the entire Pandesian fleet, but
hours ago sitting so defiantly in the harbor, a sign of Pandesian conquest, was
no more. Its hundreds of ships were destroyed, all burning together in Duncan’s
victory. His speed and surprise had worked.

There came a
great shout amongst his men, and Duncan turned to see all of his men cheering
as they watched the ships burn, their faces black with soot, exhaustion from
having ridden through the night—yet all of them drunk with victory. It was a
cry of relief. A cry of freedom. A cry they had been waiting years to release.

Yet no sooner
had it sounded when another shout filled the air—this one much more
ominous—followed by a sound which made the hair rise on Duncan’s neck. He
turned and his heart dropped to see the great gates to the stone barracks
slowly opening. As they did, there appeared a frightening sight: thousands of
Pandesian soldiers, fully armed, in perfect ranks; a professional army,
outnumbering his men ten to one, was preparing. And as the gates opened, they
let out a cry and charged right for them.

The beast had
been roused. Now, the real war would begin.

Kyra, clutching
Andor’s mane, galloped through the night, Deidre beside her, Leo at her feet,
all racing through the snow-filled plains west of Argos like thieves fleeing
through the night. As she rode, hour passing hour, the sound of the horses
thumping in her ears, Kyra became lost in her own world. She imagined what
might lie ahead of her in the Tower of Ur, who her uncle might be, what he
would say about her, about her mother, and she could barely contain her
excitement. Yet she also had to admit, she felt fear. It would be a long trek
to cross Escalon, one she had never done before. And looming ahead of them, she
saw, was the Wood of Thorns. The open plains were coming to an end, and they
would soon be immersed in a claustrophobic wood filled with savage beasts. She
knew all rules were off once they crossed that tree line.

The snow whipped
her face as the wind howled across the open plains, and Kyra, her hands numb,
dropped the torch from her hand, realizing it had burned dead long ago. She
rode through the dark, lost in her own thoughts, the only sound that of the
horses, of the snow beneath them, and of Andor’s occasional snarl. She could
feel his rage, his untamed nature, unlike any beast she had ever ridden. It was
as if Andor was not only unafraid of what lay ahead—but openly hoping for a
confrontation.

Wrapped in her
furs, Kyra felt another wave of hunger pains, and as she heard Leo whine yet
again, she knew they could not all ignore their hunger much longer. They had
been riding for hours and had already devoured their frozen strips of meat; she
realized, too late, that they had not brought enough provisions. No small game
surfaced on this snowy night, and it did not bode well. They would have to stop
and find food soon.

They slowed as
they neared the edge of the Wood, Leo snarling at the dark tree line. Kyra
glanced back over her shoulder, at the rolling plains leading back to Argos, at
the last open sky she would see for a while. She turned back and stared at the
wood, and a part of her was loath to move ahead. She knew the reputation of the
Wood of Thorns, and this, she knew, was a moment of no turning back.

“You ready?” she
asked Dierdre.

Dierdre appeared
to be a different girl now than the one who had left prison. She was stronger,
more resolute, as if she had been to the depths of hell and back and was ready
to face anything.

“The worst that
can happen has already happened to me,” Deidre said, her voice cold and hard as
the wood before them, a voice too old for her age.

Kyra nodded,
understanding—and together, they set off, entering the tree line.

The moment they
did, Kyra immediately felt a chill, even in this cold night. It was darker
here, more claustrophobic, filled with ancient black trees with gnarled
branches resembling thorns, and thick, black leaves. The wood exuded not a
sense of peace, but one of evil.

They proceeded
at a quick walk, as fast as they could amidst these trees, snow and ice
crunching beneath their beasts. There slowly arose the sounds of odd creatures,
hidden in the branches. She turned and scanned them searching for the source,
but could find none. She felt they were being watched.

They proceeded
deeper and deeper into the wood, Kyra trying to head west and north, as her
father had told her, until she found the sea. As they went, Leo and Andor
snarled at hidden creatures Kyra could not see, while she dodged the branches
scratching her. Kyra pondered the long road ahead of her. She was excited at
the idea of her quest, yet she longed to be with her people, to be fighting at
their side in the war she had started. She already felt an urgency to return.

As hour followed
hour, Kyra peered into the wood, wondering how much further until they reached
the sea. She knew it was risky to ride in such darkness—yet she knew it was
also risky to camp out here alone—especially as she heard another startling
noise.

“Where is the
sea?” Kyra finally asked Dierdre, mainly to break the silence.

She could tell
from Dierdre’s expression that she had stirred her from her thoughts; she could
only imagine what nightmares she was lost in.

Dierdre shook
her head.

“I wish I knew,”
she replied, her voice parched.

Kyra was
confused.

“Didn’t you come
this way when they took you?” she asked.

Dierdre
shrugged.

“I was locked in
a cage in the back of the wagon,” she replied, “and unconscious most of the
trip. They could have taken me any direction. I don’t know this wood.”

She sighed,
peering out into the blackness.

“But as we near
Whitewood, I should recognize more.”

They continued
on, falling into a comfortable silence, and Kyra could not help but wonder
about Deidre and her past. She could feel her strength, yet also her profound
sadness. Kyra found herself getting consumed by dark thoughts of the journey
ahead, of their lack of food, of the biting cold and the savage creatures
awaiting them, and she turned to Dierdre, wanting to distract herself.

“Tell me of the
Tower of Ur,” Kyra said. “What’s it like?”

Dierdre looked
back, black circles beneath her eyes, and shrugged.

“I’ve never been
to the tower,” Dierdre replied. “I am from the city of Ur—and that is a good
day’s ride south.”

“Then tell me of
your city,” Kyra said, wanting to think of anything but here.

Dierdre’s eyes
lit up.

“Ur is a
beautiful place,” she said, longing in her voice. “The city by the sea.”

“We have a city
south of us that is near the sea,” Kyra said. “Esephus. It is a day’s ride from
Volis. I used to go there, with my father, when I was young.”

Dierdre shook
her head.

“That is not a
sea,” she replied.

Kyra was
confused.

“What do you
mean?”

“That is the Sea
of Tears,” Dierdre replied. “Ur is on the Sea of Sorrow. Our is a much more
expansive sea. On your eastern shore, there are small tides; on our western
coast, the Sorrow has waves twenty feet high that crash into our shores, and a
tide that can pull out ships in a glance, much less men, when the moon is high.
Ours is the only city in all of Escalon where the cliffs lower enough to allow
ships to touch to shore. Our has the only beach in all of Escalon. It is why
Andros was built but a day’s ride east of us.”

Kyra pondered
her words, glad to be distracted. She recalled all of this from some lesson in
her youth, but she had never pondered it all in detail.

“And your
people?” Kyra asked. “What are they like?”

Dierdre sighed.

“A proud
people,” she replied, “like any other in Escalon. But different, too. They say
those of Ur have one eye on Escalon and one on the sea. We look to the horizon.
We are less provincial than the others—perhaps because so many foreigners touch
down on our shores. The men of Ur were once famed warriors, my father foremost
amongst them. Now, we are subjects, like everyone else.”

She sighed, and
fell silent for a long time. Kyra was surprised when she started to speak
again.

“Our city is cut
with canals,” Dierdre continued. “When I was growing up, I would sit atop the
ridge and watch the ships come in and out for hours, sometimes days. They would
come to us from all over the world, flying all different banners and sails and
colors. They would bring in spices and silks and weapons and delicacies of
every manner—sometimes even animals. I would look at the people coming and
going, and I would wonder about their lives. I wanted desperately to be one of
them.”

She smiled, an
unusual sight, her eyes aglow, clearly remembering.

“I used to have
a dream,” Dierdre said. “When I came of age, I would board one of those ships
and sail away to some foreign land. I would find my prince, and we would live
on a great island, in a great castle somewhere. Anywhere but Escalon.”

Kyra looked over
to see Dierdre smiling.

“And now?” Kyra
asked.

Dierdre’s face
fell as she looked down at the snow, her expression suddenly filled with
sadness. She merely shook her head.

“It’s too late
for me,” Dierdre said. “After what they’ve done to me.”

“It’s never too
late,” Kyra said, wanting to reassure her.

But Dierdre
merely shook her head.

“Those were the
dreams of an innocent girl,” she said, her voice heavy with remorse. “That girl
is long gone.”

Kyra felt
sadness for her friend as they continued in silence, deeper and deeper into the
wood. She wanted to take away her pain, but did not how. She wondered at the
pain that some people lived with. What was it her father had told her once?
Do
not be fooled by men’s faces. We all lead lives of quiet despair. Some hide it
better than others. Feel compassion for all, even if you see no outward reason.

“The worst day
of my life,” Dierdre continued, “was when my father conceded to Pandesian law,
when he let those ships enter our canals and let his men lower our banners. It
was a sadder day, even, than when he allowed them to take me.”

Kyra understood
all too well. She understood the pain Dierdre had gone through, the sense of
betrayal.

“And when you
return?” Kyra asked. “Will you see your father?”

Dierdre looked
down, pained. Finally, she said: “He is still my father. He made a mistake. I
am sure he did not realize what would become of me. I think he shall never be
the same when he learns what happened. I want to tell him. Eye to eye. I want
him to understand the pain I felt. His betrayal. He needs to understand what
happens when men decide the fate of women.” She wiped away a tear. “He was my
hero once. I do not understand how he could have given me away.”

“And now?” Kyra
asked.

Dierdre shook
her head.

“No more. I am
done making men my heroes. I shall find other heroes.”

“What about
you?” Kyra asked.

Dierdre looked
back, confused.

“What do you
mean?”

“Why look any
further than yourself?” Kyra asked. “Can you not be your own hero?”

Dierdre scoffed.

“And why would
I?”

“You are a hero
to me,” Kyra said. “What you suffered in there—I could not suffer. You
survived. More than that—you are back on your feet and thriving even now. That
makes you a hero to me.”

Dierdre seemed
to contemplate her words as they continued on in the silence.

“And you, Kyra?”
Dierdre finally asked. “Tell me something about you.”

Kyra shrugged,
wondering.

“What would you
like to know?”

Dierdre cleared
her throat.

“Tell me of the
dragon. What happened back there? I’ve never seen anything like it. Why did he
come for you?” She hesitated. “Who are you?”

Kyra was
surprised to detect fear in her friend’s voice. She pondered her words, wanting
to answer truthfully, and wished she had the answer.

“I don’t know,”
she finally answered, truthfully. “I suppose that is what I am going to find
out.”

“You don’t
know?” Dierdre pressed. “A dragon swoops down from the sky to fight for you,
and you don’t know why?”

Kyra thought
about how crazy that sounded, yet she could only shake her head. She looked up
reflexively at the skies, and between the gnarled branches, despite all hope,
she hoped for a sign of Theos.

But saw nothing
but gloom. She heard no dragon, and her sense of isolation deepened.

“You know that
you are different, don’t you?” Dierdre pressed.

Kyra shrugged,
her cheeks burning, feeling self-conscious. She wondered if her friend looked
at her as if she were some kind of freak.

“I used to be so
sure of everything,” Kyra replied. “But now…I honestly don’t know anymore.”

They continued
riding for hours, falling back into a comfortable silence, sometimes trotting
when the wood opened up, at other times the wood so dense they needed to
dismount and lead their beasts. Kyra felt on edge the entire time, feeling as
if they could be attacked at any moment, never able to relax in this forest.
She did not know what hurt her more: the cold or the hunger pains ripping
through her stomach. Her muscles ached, and she couldn’t feel her lips. She was
miserable. She could hardly conceive their quest had barely begun.

After hours more
passed, Leo began to whine. It was a strange noise—not his usual whine, but the
one he reserved for times when he smelled food. At the same moment Kyra, too,
smelled something—and Dierdre turned in the same direction and stared.

Kyra peered
through the wood, but saw nothing. As they stopped and listened, she began to
hear the faintest sound of activity somewhere up ahead.

Kyra was both
excited by the smell and nervous about what that could mean: others were
sharing this wood with them. She recalled her father’s warning, and the last
thing she wanted was a confrontation. Not here and not now.