Rise of the Valiant (11 page)

Torches were
extinguished, one by one, as the night sky slowly gave way to a breaking dawn,
the sky brilliant with a million colors, lightening with each step they took.
Duncan felt as if the world were being reborn.

 “It is a thing
of wonder,” said Seavig, strolling beside Duncan, his voice low and gruff.

Duncan turned
and looked at his old friend, with his long, wild black hair, beard and bushy
eyebrows, just as he remembered him. He looked windswept, his face chaffed from
too many days at sea under the open sun.

“What is that?”
Duncan asked.

“What speed and
surprise can do in battle,” Seavig replied. “It can turn prepared men into
objects of fear; it can allow a hundred to defeat a thousand.”

He turned to
Duncan.

“You were always
the greatest of us all,” he added. “What you did here, on this night, shall be
recorded for all time. You have freed our great city, a city that I did not
think could be freed. And you have done it in the face of a vast empire,
knowing that vengeance and death would be a certainty.”

Seavig clasped a
hand on his shoulder.

“You are a true
warrior,” he added, “and a true friend. My people thank you. I thank you.”

Duncan shook his
head humbly.

“What I did,” he
replied, “I did for justice. For freedom. No more than you did yourself. I did
what the old king should have done years ago. What I myself should have done
years ago. And we would not have won tonight, do not forget, if it hadn’t been
for you and your men.”

Seavig stopped
and sighed.

“And now?”
Seavig asked.

They came to a
stop toward the harbor’s end, and Duncan turned and studied his friend’s
earnest expression. Seavig’s face, filled with lines, bore the rough, hardened
look of the seasons, of this city by the sea and the rough waves and winds that
shaped it.

“And now,”
Duncan replied, “we have but one choice. What I began, I must finish. Retreat,
safety—these are things of the past. Most of Escalon remains occupied. I will
not be safe in Volis—nor you in Esephus—any longer. Soon, word shall spread,
the vast Pandesian army will assemble. I cannot wait; I must bring the battle
to them, before they can prepare. Every city in Escalon must be freed.”

Seavig slowly
raised his hands to his hips and studied the water, as the early morning sun
lit it a glowing aqua. They stood there and watched the dawn, two hardened
warriors enjoying a comfortable silence of victory, two warriors thinking the
same way.

“I know I will
die one day,” Seavig said. “That does not bother me. I only care to die well.”

Seavig paused,
examining the ebb and flow of the tide, lapping against the stone wall.

“I never knew if
I would have the strength to die in trying to win back my freedom. You’ve done
me a great service, my friend. You have allowed me to remember what matters
most in life.”

Seavig reached
up and clasped Duncan’s shoulder with his calloused hand.

“I am with you,”
he said, his voice solemn. “I and my men are with you. We shall ride by your
side, wherever you shall go. Across all of Escalon. Stronghold to stronghold.
Until every last one of us is free—even to the gates of death.”

Duncan’s heart
warmed at his words, and he slowly smiled back, thrilled to have his old friend
by his side.

“Where to next,
my friend?” Seavig asked.

Duncan
reflected.

“We must chop
off the head first,” he replied, “and the body shall follow.”

Seavig looked
back questioningly.

“You mean to
take the capital,” he then said knowingly.

Duncan nodded.

“And to take
Andros,” Duncan replied, “we will need the high ground. And the men who own the
heights.”

Seavig’s eyes
lit with recognition and excitement.

“Kos?” he asked.

Duncan nodded,
knowing his friend understood.

Seavig looked
off into the water and shook his head.

“Reaching Kos is
no easy thing,” Seavig replied. “The way is spotted with Pandesian garrisons.
You will find yourself enmeshed in battle before you even reach the cliffs.”

Duncan studied
him, appreciating his insight.

“I am a man of
Volis,” Duncan replied. “This is your region, old friend. You know your terrain
far better than I. What would you suggest?”

Seavig rubbed
his beard as he stared off into the sea, clearly deep in thought.

“If you aim for
Kos,” Seavig replied, “you must reach the Lake of Ire first. Skirt its shores,
and it will lead to The Thusius. It is the river you need. It is the only way.
Go by land and you’ll be trapped in a war.”

He turned and
looked meaningfully at Duncan.

“I know the
way,” Seavig said. “Let me show you.”

Duncan smiled
back, and clasped his friend’s arm.

“I and my men
will leave now,” Duncan replied, satisfied with the plan. “You can join us when
you are rested.”

Seavig laughed.

“Rested?” he
replied, smiling wider. “I fought all night—I am more rested than I’ve ever
been.”

As dawn broke over
the fort of Volis, Aidan frantically paced its ramparts, searching the horizon
for any sign of his father, or Kyra, or his brothers—or any of the men. He had
been up most of the night in a state of unease, tormented by nightmares of his
sister falling into a pit, of his father being burned alive in a harbor. He had
paced these ramparts under the night’s sky, the stars aglow, and had not
stopped searching the countryside for them since, anxious for their return.

Deep down, Aidan
suspected they were not returning to Volis any time soon—if at all. Kyra was
heading west across Escalon, through a treacherous terrain, and his father,
brothers, and their men were heading somewhere south, into battle and likely
death. Aidan burned inside. He wanted more than anything to be with them,
especially at this time of war. He knew what was happening was once in a
lifetime, and he could not stand the thought, however young he was, of sitting
on the sidelines. Aidan knew he was smaller than them all, still young, weak,
and untrained; yet he still felt there was much he could do. He might not be
able to throw a spear, or fire an arrow, as well as the others, but he was
known for his smarts, his resourcefulness, for being able to look a situation
differently than everyone else, and he felt he could help his father somehow.

No matter what,
he knew for certain he didn’t want to be sitting here, in the nearly empty fort
of Volis, far from the action, safe behind these gates with the women and the
children and the geese running around the courtyard, as if nothing were
happening out there in the world. He was just waiting out his days, with
nothing to do but anticipate news of arriving death. He would rather die than
live this way.

As dawn broke
and the sky lighted, Aidan surveyed the fort, saw the dozen or so warriors his
father had left behind left behind to guard the place, a skeleton force. He had
been pestering these men half the night to tell him where exactly his father
had ridden. But none would tell. Aidan felt a fresh wave of determination to
find out.

Sensing motion
out of the corner of his eye, Aidan turned to see Vidar crossing the courtyard
with several men, they extinguishing torches as they went and he assigning each
their posts throughout the fort. Aidan burst into action, running down the
spiral staircase, twisting down level after level, determined to corner Vidar
until he had the answers he wanted.

Aidan hit the
ground running as he reached the snowy courtyard. He ran, ice crunching beneath
his boots in the frigid morning, breathing hard as he sprinted for Vidar, who
headed for the gates.

“Vidar!” he
cried.

Vidar turned
and, when he saw it was Aidan, looked away, rolling his eyes, clearly wanting
to avoid him. He began to walk away.

“I have no
answers for you, young Aidan,” he called back as he walked away, he and his men
marching for the gates, blowing on their hands to keep them warm.

But Aidan did
not slow, running to catch up.

“I must know
where my father is!” he shouted.

The men
continued to march, and Aidan doubled his speed, slipping on the ice, until
finally he reached Vidar’s side and tugged on his shirt.

“My father is
gone, and that makes me commander of this fort!” Aidan insisted, knowing he was
pushing his luck, but desperate.

Vidar stopped
and laughed with his men.

“Does it?” he
asked.

“Answer me!”
Aidan pressed. “Where is he? I can help him! My sword is as strong as yours and
my aim as true!”

Vidar laughed
heartily, and as all the men joined him, Aidan reddened. He shook his head and
clasped Aidan’s shoulder, his hand strong and reassuring.

“You are your
father’s son,” he said, smiling, “yet even so, I cannot tell you where he went.
I know that as soon as I do, you will venture after him—and that I cannot
allow. You are under my watch now, and I answer to your father. You would only
be a liability to him. Wait until you are older—there will be other battles to
fight.”

Vidar turned to
go, but Aidan grabbed his sleeve, insistent.

“There will be
no battle like this!” Aidan insisted. “My father needs me. My brothers need me!
And I will not stop until you tell me!” he insisted, stamping his foot.

Vidar looked
back at him a bit more seriously, as if surprised he could be so determined.
Finally, slowly, he shook his head.

“Then you shall
be waiting a long time,” Vidar finally replied.

Vidar shook off
Aidan’s grip and marched away with his men, back through the gates, their boots
crunching in the snow, each sound like a nail in Aidan’s heart.

Aidan felt like
crying as he stood there and watched helplessly as they all walked off, into
the lightening sky, leaving him alone in the fort, behind these walls, which
felt now like nothing more than a glorified tomb.

*

Aidan waited
patiently behind the massive iron gates of Volis, watching as the sun rose
higher in the sky and his father’s men patrolled. All around him, icicles
dripped as snow fell down the walls, the day slowly warming as birds began to
chirp. But he did not let this distract him. He intensely watched his father’s
men, waiting for the change of guard he knew would come.

After he did not
know how long, his hands numb and his legs stiff, a new shift of men appeared.
The old guard relaxed as the new guard approached, and Aidan watched as Vidar
turned and headed back to the fort, joined by his men. In the disorder that
followed the change of shift, Aidan knew his opportunity had come.

Aidan stood and
walked through the gates, leaving the fort casually as if it were the most
natural thing in the world, whistling as he went to emphasize to anyone
watching that he was unafraid of being seen. The new soldiers standing guard
exchanged a puzzled glance, clearly unsure whether to stop him or not.

Aidan increased
his pace, hoping and praying they didn’t try to stop him. Because he was
determined to leave, no matter what happened.

“And where you
going?” called out one of them.

Aidan stopped,
his heart pounding, trying not to seem nervous.

“Didn’t Vidar
tell you?” Aidan snapped back in his most authoritative voice, prepared,
wanting to throw them off guard. “He asked me to get the rabbits.”

The soldiers
exchanged a questioning look.

“Rabbits?” one
called back.

Aidan tried his
best to appear confident.

“I laid traps
last night, in the wood,” he replied. “They are full. It shall be our lunch.
Stop delaying me, or the wolves will get them.”

With that, Aidan
turned and continued hiking off, walking quickly, confidently, not daring to
look back—and praying they bought it. He walked and walked, his back tingling,
terrified the guards would run out after him and detain him.

As he hiked farther
from the fort, he heard nothing behind him, and he began to breathe easy as he
finally realized they were not pursuing him. His ruse had worked. He felt a
thrill. He was free—and nothing would stop him now. His father was out there
somewhere, and until he found him, nothing would bring Aidan back to Volis.

Aidan hiked and
hiked and as he crested a hill, he saw a road stretched out before him, well-traveled
in the snow, heading south. Finally out of sight of the guards, he burst into a
sprint, determined to get as far away as he could before they found out and
came after him.

Aidan ran as
fast as his little lungs could take him, until he was gasping for air. Stung by
the cold, by the vast, empty landscape, he wished that Leo was by his side now,
and regretted giving him back to Kyra. He wondered how far he would get. He
never found out where his father was, but he knew, at least, that he had gone
south, and he would head in that direction. He had no idea how long his legs
could take him before they gave out, or before he froze to death. He had no
horse, and no provisions, and already he shook from the cold.

Yet he did not
care. Aidan felt the exhilaration of being free, of having a purpose. He was on
a journey, like his father and his brothers and Kyra. He was a real warrior
now, under the protection of no one. And if this was what it meant to be a
warrior, then this was what he would do. He would prove himself—even if he had
to die trying.

As he hiked and
hiked, it made him think of his sister. How could Kyra possibly cross all of
Escalon? he wondered. Was Leo still at her side?

Aidan ran and
ran, following the road until it took him to the edge of the Wood of Thorns. He
suddenly heard a noise behind him, and he took cover behind a tree.

Aidan peeked out
and saw a wagon approaching on the road, heading south. A farmer sat at its
head, the wagon pulled by two horses and trailing a cart full of hay. It
rattled and bumped on the rough road, and it looked terribly uncomfortable. But
Aidan didn’t care. That wagon was heading his direction, and as he pondered his
already-aching legs, he knew that was all that mattered.

Aidan quickly
pondered his options. He could ask the farmer for a ride. But the man would
likely refuse, and send him back to Volis. No. He would have to go about it
another way. His own way. After all, wasn’t that what it meant to be a warrior?
Warriors did not ask permission—when honor was at stake, they did what they had
to do.

Aidan waited for
the right moment, his heart pounding, as the wagon neared. He waited until it
passed him, barely able to contain his excitement, his impatience, the sound of
its jostling so loud it filled the air. Then, as soon as it passed him, he
jumped out from behind the tree and ran after it.

Determined not
to be discovered, he crouched low and realized how lucky he was that the
crunching of snow beneath his boots was drowned out by the sound of the
rattling wheels. The wagon moved just slow enough, given the pitted roads, for
him to catch up, and in one quick motion he leapt forward and jumped into the
back, landing in the hay.

Aidan ducked low
and glanced forward to make sure he hadn’t been discovered; to his immense
relief, the driver did not turn around.

Aidan quickly
hid beneath the hay, finding it more comfortable than he imagined—and warmer,
too, sheltering him from the cold and the steady wind. It even cushioned the
bumps to some extent.

Aidan sighed,
deeply relieved. Soon, he even began to allow himself to relax, feeling the
rhythms of the cart, banging his head against the wood, but no longer caring.
He even allowed himself a smile. He had done it. He was heading south, toward
his father, his brothers, the battle of his life. And nobody—
nobody
—would
hold him back.