Rise of the Valiant (15 page)

He stepped even
closer, a few feet from Kyra, and Kyra saw the friend of her father look back
and forth from her to the foreigners, as if unsure whether to get involved.

“Don’t try to
protect her,” the foreigner said to him. “Unless you want to end up dead, too.”

Her father’s
friend, to Kyra’s disappointment, raised his hands and backed away.

“I said I owed
her father a favor,” he said. “I fulfilled it. I won’t harm her. But what
anyone else does with her, well….that’s not my business.”

Kyra lost all
respect for the man as he slinked back into the crowd. Yet it also emboldened
her. It was just her now, and she liked it that way. She needed to rely on no
man.

As the men
closed in on her, preparing to grab her and Dierdre, Kyra tightened her grip on
her staff and steeled herself. No matter what happened, she would not be taken
alive by these men.

Alec marched
across the plains of northern Soli, the hills rising and falling, staring into
the rising sun, bleary-eyed, weary with exhaustion, numb with cold, and no
longer feeling the hunger in his belly. He and Marco, beside him, had hiked all
night through Whitewood, neither, after their encounter with the Wilvox,
willing to take a chance at sleep. Alec could feel the exhaustion in his legs,
and as he hiked, watching the horizon, the clouds began to part and the morning
sun broke through, lighting the green hills he remembered from childhood—and he
felt so grateful to have emerged from the forest. There was nothing like being
under open sky. He marveled that he had survived the long trek, so many long
and nights, all the way from The Flames.

Alec, still
smarting from his wounds, reached up and felt his stiffening leg and arm, the
wounds still raw from where the Wilvox had bitten him. He walked more slowly
than he had been, yet Marco was walking slowly now, too, he, too, recovering
from wounds and slowed by exhaustion and hunger. Alec could not remember the
last time he rested, the last time he ate, and he felt as if he were entering a
dreamlike state.

Seeing the open
sky, the breaking dawn, the familiar hills he knew so well, knowing he was,
finally, close to home, Alec, overcome with exhaustion and emotion, felt tears
run down his cheeks. It took him several minutes to realize he was crying. He
quickly wiped the tears away. He supposed they had sprung from his delirium
from his wounds, his hunger, and his joy at seeing his homeland—a place he had
never thought to set eyes upon again. He felt as if he had escaped the jaws of
death and had been given a second chance at life.

“Where is your
village?” Marco’s voice rang out beside him, startling him in the deep silence.

Alec looked over
and saw Marco studying the landscape with wonder, eyes filled with exhaustion,
dark circles beneath them. They crested a hill and both paused, looking out,
the grassy hills covered in a low mist, sparkling in the dawn. Before them lay
three hills, identically shaped.

“My village lies
beyond the third hill,” Alec said. “We are close,” he sighed with relief.
“Hardly an hour’s hike away.”

Marco’s eyes lit
with joy.

“And a very
welcome arrival it will be,” Marco replied. “I doubt my legs could carry me
much farther. Will your family have food for us?”

Alec smiled,
reveling in the thought.

“Food and much
more,” he replied. “A warm fire, a change of clothing, any weapons you could
want, and—”

“And hay?” Marco
asked.

Alec smiled
wide.

“Hay enough to
sleep a thousand years.”

Marco smiled
back.

“That is all I
want.”

The two set off
at a brisk walk downhill, with renewed vigor, a bounce in their step. Alec
could already, in his mind’s eye, smell the cooking from his mother’s kitchen,
could already anticipate the look of approval in his father’s eyes as he came
home a hero, having sacrificed his life for his brother’s. He envisioned the
look on his brother’s face when he walked through the door, and he could
already feel his embrace. He could see the look of wonder on his parents’
faces, the joy at seeing their son return. Now, perhaps, they would appreciate
him. Before, he had been the second-born son, the one they always took for
granted; but now, finally, they would realize how much he meant.

The final
stretch of the hike flew by, Alec no longer feeling his pain or exhaustion, and
before he knew it, they crested the final hill and he found himself looking
down at Soli. He stopped, his heart pounding madly, looking out with great
anticipation at the sight of his village below. He immediately recognized its
familiar contours, the ramshackle stone cottages, and he searched for their
brightly colored roofs, the usual activity of children playing, chickens and
dogs chasing each other, cows being led through the streets.

But as he
studied it closely, he realized immediately that something was awry. He felt a
knot in his stomach as he peered down in confusion. Before him was not the
sight of his village as he had expected—but rather a scene of devastation. It
was an ugly picture, one he barely recognized. Instead of the familiar
cottages, there were burnt-out structures, razed to the ground; instead of
trees and paths, there was a field of ash and rubble, smoldering, smoke still
rising.

His village was
no more.

There was no
sound of joyous screams of children playing, but rather the distant wails of
old women, kneeling on the ground before mounds of dirt. Alec followed their
glances and saw, with a jolt to his heart, that the mounds were all fresh
graves, rows and rows of them, all marked with crooked crosses—and he felt
himself sinking. He suddenly knew, with an awful premonition that swept over
him, that everyone and everything he ever knew and loved was dead.

“NO!” Alec
shrieked.

Without
thinking, without even being aware of what he was doing, Alec stumbled down the
hill at a sprint, nearly tripping over himself as he gained speed. It was as if
he were stumbling toward a nightmare.

“Alec!” Marco
called out behind him.

Alec tripped and
fell in the grass, rolling, covered in mud but not caring as he got to his feet
again and continued to run. He could barely feel the world around him, could
hear only his own heart pounding madly as he ran.

“Ashton!” he
cried out as he ran into what was once his village.

Alec ran past
house after house, everything burnt to a crisp, nothing but smoldering fires.
Nothing was recognizable. He could not fathom what on earth had happened here.
Who could have done this? And why?

Alec could not
find anything left of his own house as he sprinted by it with dread, now just a
pile of embers. All that remained was one stone wall of what used to be his
father’s forge.

Alec followed
the wailing and ran to the end of town. Finally, he reached the rows of freshly
dug graves, the air thick with the smell of soil, smoke, and death.

He reached the
rows of old women, kneeling, weeping, dirt on their hands, in their hair,
wailing their mournful prayers. Alec stumbled forward and scanned all the
bodies, his heart pounding inside, praying it couldn’t be.

Please
, he prayed.
Don’t
let my family be there. Please. I’ll give anything.

Alec suddenly
stopped cold and felt his knees go weak as he saw a sight he wished he had
never seen: there, laid out before him, untended, were the corpses of his
father and mother, too pale, frozen in a look of agony. He felt everything
inside him die at that moment.

“MOTHER!
FATHER!”

He collapsed by
their side in the dirt, embracing them, and his knees sank into the fresh earth
as he wept, unable to understand what was happening.

Alec suddenly
remembered his brother. He sat bolt upright and searched everywhere, and he
could not see him. He had a glimmer of hope: had he survived?

Desperate, he
ran over to a kneeling woman and grabbed her arm.

“Where is he!?”
he asked. “Where is my brother!?”

The woman looked
back at him and shook her head wordlessly, too overcome with grief to respond.

Alec jumped up
and ran, searching.

“ASHTON!” he
cried out.

Alec ran up and
down the graves, searching everywhere, his heart thumping, desperate to know,
wondering if he could have made it. Finally, he heard something.

“Alec!” called a
weak voice.

Alec felt a wave
of relief as he recognized his brother’s voice, albeit a weaker version of it,
and he turned and ran to the edge of the graves.

There lay his
brother, wounded, seeping blood, unmoving, and Alec’s heart sank as he saw him
lying in the dirt, blood trickling from his mouth, gravely wounded.

He rushed
forward and collapsed by his brother’s side, grabbing his limp, cold hand as he
wept. He saw the grievous gash across his brother’s stomach, and he knew
immediately that he was dying. He had never felt so helpless, seeing his
brother staring back up at him, looking partially at him and partially at the
sky, his eyes glazed, the life force leaving even as he watched.

“Brother,”
Ashton said, more of a whisper.

He smiled
weakly, despite his wounds, and Alec’s heart broke inside.

“I knew you
would come,” Ashton said, smiling. “I was waiting for you…before I died.”

Alec clutched
his brother’s hand, shaking his head, unwilling to accept this.

“You will not
die,” Alec said, knowing even as he said his words that they were untrue.

Ashton smiled
back.

“I never had a
chance to thank you,” Ashton said. “For going…to The Flames.”

Ashton tried to
swallow, while Alec blinked away tears.

“Who did this?”
Alec insisted. “Who did this to you?”

Ashton fell
silent for a long time, having difficulty swallowing.

“The
Pandesians…” he finally replied, his voice weaker. “They…came…to teach us …for
vengeance…”

Alec was
surprised to feel his brother’s sudden strong grip on his arm, to see his
brother clutching his forearm with a surprising strength. His brother stared up
at him with one last look of strength, of intensity, the desperation of a dying
man.

“Avenge me,” he
said, his voice a whisper. “Avenge…all of us. Our parents. Our folk.
Kill…Pandesians…. Vow to me…”

Alec felt a
fresh sense of purpose, of determination, rise up within him as he had never
felt in his life. He clasped his brother’s hand and looked back into his eyes
with an equal ferocity.

“I vow to you,”
Alec replied. “I vow to you with everything that I am. I will kill every last
Pandesian—or I shall die trying.”

His brother
looked at him with a fierceness in his eyes which Alec had never seen, for a
long time. Finally, his expression turned into one of satisfaction.

Ashton’s face
slackened, and he slid down and lay back his head, unmoving. He stared up at
the sky with blank eyes, and Alec felt himself dying inside as he knew that at
that moment, his brother was dead.

“NO!” Alec
shrieked.

He leaned back
and wailed to the heavens, wondering why everything he had loved in this world
had to be taken from him—and knowing that his life was about to be consumed, to
be driven, by one thing and nothing else.

Vengeance.

Kyra stared back
at the oaf confronting her, this foreigner with his low forehead, wide body and
black eyes, smiling creepily at her, his sharpened teeth showing.

“You have no one
to protect you,” he said to her. “Do not struggle: it will only make it worse
for you.”

Kyra forced
herself to breathe, to focus, drawing all the intensity she had when in battle.
Inside, her heart was thumping, fire pumping in her veins, as she prepared
herself for the confrontation of her life.

“If anyone needs
protection,” Kyra replied boldly, “it is you. I shall give you one chance to
step out of my way, before you learn what the people of Escalon are made of.”

The oaf stared
back and blinked in shocked silence.

Then a moment
later, he began laughing, a coarse, ugly sound, and all his men joined in.

“You are bold,”
he said. “That is good. More fun to break. I might even take you as my personal
slave. Yes, the men on my ship can use a good plaything. Our trips at sea can
be so very long.”

Kyra felt a
chill as he looked her up and down.

“Tell me
something,” he said. “There are ten of us and two of you. What makes you think
you can survive?”

An idea began to
form in Kyra’s mind; it was risky, but she had no choice. She turned her back
slowly on the man, determined to catch him off guard and to show him that she
was unafraid.

Kyra, heart
slamming, hoping he didn’t jump her from behind, turned to the barkeep, looked
out at the sacks of feed laid out on the bar, and out of the corner of her eye
gave Dierdre a knowing look as she slowly reached out and grabbed a sack.

“Are these
ours?” she asked the barkeep, casually.

He nodded back,
looking scared, sweating.

“Is my payment
sufficient?” she asked.

He nodded again.

“Girl,” barked
the foreigner behind her, annoyed, “you are about to be taken captive for life,
and all you care about is your feed? Are you mad?”

Kyra felt a fire
burning inside her, about to explode, but she forced herself to stay rooted in
place, to wait until the moment was right. Her back to him, she addressed him:

“I am not a
girl,” she replied. “But a woman. And those who assume they will win merely
because they are male, because they are bigger, because they outnumber their
victims, seem to forget the most important thing in battle.”

There came a
long silence, until finally, he asked:

“And what is
that?”

Kyra took a deep
breath, steeling herself, knowing the moment of truth had come.

“Surprise,” she
said flatly.

Kyra quickly
spun, still clutching the sack, and hurled it with all her might. As she did,
the sack opened and the feed went flying through the air, spraying all of her
attackers’ eyes.

The men
shrieked, clutching their eyes in the dust storm, all temporally blinded, while
Dierdre, picking up on Kyra’s cues, did the same, swinging the other sack in a
wide arc and blinding the rest of the men. It all happened so quickly, before
the startled men could react. Clearly, they had not anticipated that.

Without
hesitating, Kyra drew the staff from her back, stepped forward, and with a
great shout, brought it down hard on the leader’s head, smashing him in a
downward strike. The man fell to his knees and as soon as he did, she kicked
him in the chest, sending him to his back. She then brought her staff straight
down, breaking his nose.

In the same
motion, Kyra spun her staff sideways and behind her, cracking another oaf
across the jaw; she then sidestepped and jabbed straight back, breaking the
nose of another. She then clutched her staff with both hands, rushed forward,
raised it high overhead, and brought it down sideways into the faces of two men
before her, knocking them both down.

While the others
still clawed at their eyes, trying to extract the feed, Kyra rushed forward and
kicked one between the legs, then raised her staff back and struck him downward
across the face, knocking him down. She then grabbed her staff with both hands,
raised it high and brought it down like a knife into the chest of another man,
sending him stumbling back, crashing into a table and knocking it over.

Kyra whirled
through the group like lightning, so fast that the stunned men didn’t have a
chance to react. She was in such harmony with her weapon, all of her sparring
lessons with her father’s men coming back to her, it was as if she and her
staff were one. Her countless nights of sparring alone, long after the other
men had left, came flooding back. Her instincts took over, and within moments
several of her attackers, cracked by her staff, lay writhing on the floor,
bloodied, groaning.

After the chaos,
only two men were left standing, and these two, grain finally cleared from
their eyes, stared back at Kyra with death in their eyes. One drew a dagger.

“Let’s see how
that stick of yours does against a knife,” he growled, and charged.

Kyra braced
herself for the attack when suddenly there came a crashing noise and she was
surprised to see him collapse, face-first, at her feet. She looked up to see
Dierdre standing behind, holding a broken stool, hands shaking, staring down as
if in shock at what she had just done.

Kyra sensed
motion and turned to see the final attacker rush for Dierdre. He must have
realized that she was the weak point, and Kyra saw he was about to tackle her
and pin her to the ground. She could not allow that. If Dierdre were taken
hostage, Kyra knew, it would make defeating these men infinitely more
complicated.

Kyra, knowing
she had no time, raised her staff, took aim, stepped forward, and hurled it.

Her staff went
flying through the air like a spear, and Kyra watched with satisfaction as it
hit the running man in his temple, right in his pressure point. His legs fell
out from under him and he collapsed to the ground right before he reached Dierdre.

Dierdre looked
down in gratitude, then picked up Kyra’s staff and threw it back to her.

Kyra caught it
and stood in the silent room, surveying the damage, all the men laid out,
unmoving. She could hardly believe what she had just done. The rest of the
tavern-goers stared back, mouths agape, clearly not believing what they had
just witnessed, either. Her father’s friend gulped, looking scared.

“I would have
helped you,” he said lamely, fear in his voice.

Kyra ignored the
coward. Instead, she turned slowly, stepped over the unmoving bodies, and
walked casually back to the bar, where the barkeep still stood, staring back,
amazed. She grabbed her chickens and meat from the bar, while Dierdre took
their sacks of water. This time Kyra would not leave without food for her or
the others.

“Looks like I’ll
need more feed,” she said to the barkeep.

The bartender,
stunned, slowly reached down and handed her more sacks of feed.

The two girls
walked back across the room, through the tavern, and out the door, none of the
other men daring to approach them now.

As they walked
back outside, into the freezing, pelting rain, Kyra no longer felt the cold.
She was warm inside, warm with the certainty that she could defend herself,
that she was no longer her father’s little girl. Those men had underestimated
her, as had all the men in her life—and more importantly, she realized, she had
underestimated herself. Never again. She felt a confidence rising up within
her. She was becoming herself. She did not know what the road ahead held, but
she knew, no matter what, she would never back down to anyone again. She was as
strong as these men.

Even stronger.