A Forge of Valor (11 page)

“I don’t like it,” Kyle said, coming up beside him.

“You have another idea?” Merk asked.

Kyle examined the currents, and the horizon beyond it, but fell silent.

Merk stepped into the small canoe, nearly falling out as it rocked wildly, and as Kyle got in beside him, he reached over and sliced the rope with his dagger. The boat swayed violently. He pushed off with the oar, and a moment later, they were caught up in the currents, racing downriver.

Merk and Kyle rowed, struggling to cut across the raging waters, as whitecaps crashed all around them. As they fought their way their small boat nearly turned sideways; Merk felt certain it would capsize.

Kyle looked in all directions, as if expecting something to attack them, and that kept Merk on edge.

Finally, though, they were able to get out ahead of the current. They cut across the river, and they reached the other side, dripping wet from the spray.

They jumped out onto the shore, and no sooner had they set down when the currents took away the boat. Merk turned to watch it shoot downstream, soon lost in a sea of white.

Kyle stood there and studied the tree line with a concerned expression, still appearing troubled.

“What is it?” Merk asked again, feeling on edge himself. “Surely if there were something, then—”

No sooner had he finished uttering the words than he suddenly froze. There came a noise, sounding like a snarl crossed with a howl, one that made his hairs stand. It came from something evil.

Kyle, still watching, raised his staff.

“Baylors,” he finally said, his voice ominous.

“What are—”

No sooner had Merk uttered the words when out of the tree line there appeared a pack of savage beasts, charging right for them. There were four of them, looking like rhinos, yet with six horns instead of one, and with thick black hides. They each had two long fangs, as sharp as swords, and intense white eyes, and they bore down on Kyle and Merk, the thunder of their hooves shaking the ground.

Merk turned and looked back at the gushing river, and realized they were trapped.

“We can swim,” Merk said, realizing it might be better to take their chances in the rapids.

“So can they,” Kyle replied.

Merk felt a cold dread climb up his back. The baylors closed in, now hardly twenty yards away, the sound thunderous, and Merk, not knowing what else to do, reached up with his dagger, took aim, and threw.

He watched it sail end over end, right for one of the beasts’ eyes.

Merk anticipated it puncturing his eye, dropping it to the ground—but the baylor merely reached up with its paw and knocked it away like a toothpick, barely even slowing.

Merk swallowed. He had just given it the best he had.

“Get down!” Kyle shouted as the first bore down on them.

The beast lifted its razor-sharp claws to slice Merk in half, and Merk dropped to the ground, praying that Kyle knew what he was doing. He ducked under the shadow of the great beast’s foot, about to crush him.

The beast went flying sideways, to Merk’s immense relief, as Kyle struck it with his staff. A sharp cracking noise tore through the air as Kyle sent the beast flying, then rolling side over side, the ground shaking. Merk breathed a sigh of relief, realizing how close he had come to death.

Kyle swung his staff at another baylor as it approached; he struck it in the chest and it flew backwards, up in the air a good twenty feet, landing on its back, rolling and taking out another one with it. Merk looked over at Kyle in awe, shocked at his power, wondering what else he could do.

“This way!” Kyle ordered.

Kyle ran for the beast that was on its back, while the other bore down on them and other two began to recover. Merk joined him, running faster than he had ever run in his life. They reached the beast and Merk was shocked as Kyle jumped on its back. It writhed and stood. Merk knew this was crazy, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he jumped on, too, grabbing onto the thick hide, slipping and clawing his way up for dear life as the baylor rose to its full height.

A moment later the baylor was bucking wildly, the two of them riding it. Merk, slipping, was certain he would die here. The other beasts charged right for them.

Then Kyle leaned down and whispered in the baylor’s ear, and suddenly, to Merk’s shock, it became still. It lifted its head, as if listening to Kyle, and as Kyle kicked it, the baylor shrieked, made a trumpeting sound like an elephant, and charged for its companions.

The other beasts were clearly not expecting this. They hardly knew what to do as their friend charged them. The first one could not react in time as the beast lowered its head and gored him in the side. The beast shrieked, dropping to its side, and the beast they were riding trampled over it, killing it.

The beast then raised its horns and lifted upward, goring another one in the throat, and rising up until it dropped, gurgling, dead.

Their beast then ran like thunder, aiming for the final beast.

But the final beast, seeing what was happening, charged back, infuriated. When the beast they were riding lunged for it, the final beast ducked and swiped. The beast beneath them shrieked as its legs were cut out from under it.

Merk felt himself sliding and a moment later he tumbled and fell, Kyle with him, smashing into rock and dirt, and losing his breath as he tumbled, sure he was breaking his ribs.

He lay there on the ground and watched the final beast attack, watched Kyle stunned, winded, too, and he was sure he would be crushed to death.

But then, somehow, the beast they were riding managed to regain strength enough for one last blow—it turned, swiped, and sliced the final beast through the chest.

The final beast dropped to the ground, dead, while the beast they were riding buckled and fell. It let out a great snort, and then a moment later, it, too, lay dead, atop its friend.

Merk stood there, breathing hard, looking out at the four dead beasts, hardly able to process it. They had survived. Somehow, they had survived.

He turned and looked at Kyle, still in awe, and Kyle smiled back.

“That was the easy part,” he said.

*

Kyle and Merk marched, trekking in the silence, crossing the great plains of Escalon, heading invariably south and east, heading, somewhere in the distance for the Devil’s Finger, the ancient peninsula of Kos. They had been journeying for days, never stopping since their encounter with those baylors. Kyle tried to lose himself, to drown out his thoughts, in the landscape. Yet it was not easy to do. There flashed through his mind images of the Tower of Ur falling, of his fellow Watchers’ deaths. He burned with indignation and felt a stronger desire than ever to reach Kos, secure the Sword before Marda could arrive, and ensure Escalon’s survival.

Despite everything, Kyle had taken a liking to this human, his new traveling companion, Merk. He had displayed bravery in battle, in defending the tower, even when he had not needed to. There were very few humans whom Kyle liked, but this one, for some reason, he did. Kyle could sense in him, deep down, a struggle to change, to cast off his old life—and it was something Kyle could relate to. Kyle knew he could trust him and that he would make a fine brother-in-arms, even if he were not of his race.

Kyle studied the horizon as the sun lowered in the sky, contemplating the best way to approach the barren and inhospitable peninsula of the Devil’s Finger. In the distance he could already begin to see the icy peaks of Kos, the mountain range seeming to reach the sky, and he knew a formidable journey lay ahead of them. His mind swam with thoughts of the tower, the trolls—of Kyra—and he tried to push them away, to stay focused on his mission.

And yet as he was hiking, immersed in his thoughts, halfway across the great plains, something inside Kyle made him suddenly stop. He stood there, frozen, listening to something on the wind.

Merk stopped beside him, looking at him questioningly. It was the first time they had stopped in days.

Kyle turned and surveyed the plains before him. He turned slowly in the opposite direction and looked due south. As he did, he felt a pulse of energy course through his body, and he knew. Life and death was at stake. He was needed.

“What is it?” Merk asked.

Kyle stood there, silent for many minutes. He closed his eyes, listening to the wind, trying to understand.

And then, suddenly, like a spear in his back, he knew. Kyra. She was in grave danger; he felt it in every bone in his body.

He turned to Merk.

“I cannot continue with you,” he said, barely believing his own words.

Merk stared back, clearly shocked.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Kyra,” he said, still trying to understand what it was. “She needs me.”

Merk frowned, but Kyle reached out and clasped Merk’s arm and looked him in the eyes with all intensity.

“Continue without me,” Kyle told him. “When you reach Kos, secure the Sword. Do whatever you have to. I will catch up.”

Merk looked disappointed, clearly not understanding. Kyle wished he could explain, but how could he explain his love for Kyra? How could he explain that it was more important to him even than the fate of Escalon?

Without another word, Kyle, burning with urgency, turned and raced south, faster than he’d ever run, skipping across the plains, knowing he would save Kyra or die trying.

His Glorious Ra, Most Holy and Supreme Leader of Pandesia, stood atop the battlements of Andros and looked out over the countryside of Escalon, taking it all in. It was now his. All of it. He grinned in satisfaction.

There, in the distance, he could see his armies charging north, pursuing the trolls, hacking them to death as they fled. It had been a rout. The nation of Marda was no doubt a vicious one, the trolls twice the size of his men, their strength legendary, and their leader, Vesuvius, high on the list of those that Ra wanted to capture and torture personally. And yet, still, he had prevailed. He had lost thousands of men fighting them—but he had merely sent in thousands more. It was the great convenience of having a slave army, gathered from all corners of the Empire. His people were dispensable.

Eventually, as Ra knew they would, the trolls buckled under his waves of manpower, realizing, as most conquered nations eventually do, that they were useless against his great might. Ra was, after all, invincible. He had never lost, and he never would. It had been written in the stars. He was the Great One, the One Who Had Never Been Touched, and the One Who Could Not Die.

As Ra watched his forces spread north throughout the countryside, radiating in all directions, he realized he had been way too kind with Escalon. He had foolishly thought they would go the way of all his other conquered territories, would submit to the rule of his royal governors. He had given them too many liberties—and now it was time to change all that. Now it was time for them to learn who he was. Now it was time to make them suffer.

This petty war with Escalon had been a distraction for the Great and Awesome Ra, a nuisance that had diverted him from other pressing duties, from other wars. He would make these people of Escalon pay the price. This time, he would enslave the entire nation. He would cover every last inch of Escalon with soldiers, would murder all the men, torture all the women, put the children in labor camps, and leave his mark on every inch of this land. It would be unrecognizable when he was done. They would become an example for all nations that dared defy him.

Ra had been foolish to listen to his advisors, to listen to the people who boasted of the great warriors of Escalon, how independent they were, and the best way to rule them. He should have trusted his own instincts and done what he always did: crush everyone. Raze their towns. Leave them with nothing. After all, people who no longer existed could hardly defy you.

In the distance Ra could hear the reassuring sound of his cannons, booming somewhere on the horizon as his fleets attacked Ur. His armies and fleets were attacking Escalon from all sides and there would be no escape. Soon, any pockets of resistance would be wiped out. The leader of the resistance, the man they called Duncan, was already in the dungeon, and Ra looked forward to visiting him, to crushing the last of the last free spirits.

As he watched the trolls flee, Ra already knew where they were heading. Southeast. The Devil’s Finger, the Tower of Kos. They were after the Sword of Fire, were desperate to lower the Flames, to open the gates for the nation of Marda. How predictable. Did they not know the Great and Awesome Ra would never allow this? Indeed, his forces were already in motion, preparing to destroy all these trolls before they could cause any more trouble for him.

“A beautiful sight, isn’t it?” came a voice.

Ra turned and his smile fell as he saw Enis stepping up beside him, the boy who thought he was King. There he stood, resembling his father, the man he had sold out and killed. Ra fumed. The arrogance, to think he could stand this close to The Great and Holy Ra.

“It is a sight I never expected to see,” Enis continued. “Marda always threatened Escalon. And yet now they are fleeing from us.”

“Us?” Ra asked, looking down at him with disdain, fury rising within him. This arrogant, presumptuous boy clearly had no idea that
no on
e ever approached Ra without kneeling and bowing his head to the ground—and that no one
ever
spoke to Ra until Ra had spoken first.

Yet there he stood, smiling back with his stupidity and arrogance.

“Escalon will be entirely under our rule soon enough,” Enis continued, “and my people will do exactly as we wish.”

“
We?
” Ra asked, standing taller with pride and indignation.

Enis looked back, equally proud and arrogant.

“I am King now, after all,” Enis replied, as if it were obvious. “I handed you your greatest victory, a victory that did not even cost you a soldier, thanks to me. I delivered my father, too, along with Duncan and all the great warriors. You have plenty to thank me for.”