Rise of the Valiant (16 page)

“BLOOD EELS!” Seavig cried.

Duncan raised his sword and hacked at
the thick, red eels twisting their way up his leg, as the Lake of Ire seemed to
come alive with them. He felt them squeezing his flesh as all around him his
men cried out and fell into the waters, splashing, flailing; yet as he swung,
he was unable to gain enough momentum to slash through the thick waters and do
any real damage to the creatures.

Desperate, feeling himself being dragged
down, Duncan reached into his belt, grabbed his dagger and jabbed straight
down. There came a screeching noise, follow by bubbles shooting to the surface,
and the eel wrapped around him went limp.

“DAGGERS!” Duncan shouted to his men.

With the fog walkers gone, the fog
finally began to lift all around them, and Duncan could see, all around him,
his men following his command, jabbing their daggers at the eels as they were
being pulled down. Hisses and shrieks rose up, as one by one the eels were
killed and the men began to extricate themselves.

“MAKE FOR THE SHORE!” Duncan shouted,
realizing the fog had lifted.

The men all made for the shore,
splashing wildly as they waded their way out as quickly as they could. Duncan
was dismayed to see that many of his men, unable to stab the eels quickly
enough, were sucked down, shrieking, beneath the murky waters—dead before
anyone could reach them.

Duncan heard a shout and looked over to
see Anvin being dragged down behind him. He turned back and splashed for his
friend, leaping into action.

“Take my hand!” Duncan yelled, wading
into the eel-filled waters, hacking with one hand while extending a hand to
Anvin with the other. He knew he was risking his life, but he could not leave
his friend behind.

He finally grabbed Anvin’s hand and
pulled with all his might, trying to extricate him from the nest of eels. He
was making progress when suddenly several eels leapt from the water and wrapped
around Duncan’s forearm; instead of helping his friend, he felt himself being
sucked under.

There came a splashing, and Duncan
turned to see Arthfael and Seavig and several of their men rushing back to help
them. They swung with daggers and swords, chopping at the eels, swinging
expertly, just missing Duncan’s and Anvin’s arms. The eels hissed all around
them, and soon Duncan felt himself extricated again.

They all turned and waded back for
shore, splashing as fast as they could, and this time, Duncan reached it,
finding himself on shore, gasping for breath, aching all over from the sting of
those creatures. He dropped to his knees, exhausted, and kissed the sand. The
fog was gone, the eels hissed in the waters, a safe distance away, and Duncan
had never felt so grateful to be on dry land again.

Finally, one nightmare after the next
was behind them.

*

Duncan raised
his ax and hacked away at the small red tree before him, chopping as he had
been for hours, worked up into a sweat, his hands raw and calloused. All around
him the air was filled with the sound of his men chopping, of the small trees
falling in the clearing. With one final hack his tree fell, too, landing with a
whoosh before him.

Duncan leaned
back and rested on his ax handle, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his
forehead, and he surveyed his men. They were all hard at work, some chopping
trees, others carrying them and lining them up beside each other, and others
were binding the logs to each other with thick ropes, creating rafts.

Duncan grabbed
one end of his tree while Anvin grabbed the other, a log about fifteen feet
long, and they hoisted it, surprisingly heavy, onto their shoulders. They
marched through the muddy banks of the Thusius and dropped it in a pile by the
river’s edge.

Sprayed by the
gushing currents of the river, Duncan stood and examined his handiwork. That
log had been the final piece needed for his impromptu raft. All up and down the
banks of the Thusius, his men were engaged in the same activity, dozens of
rafts being hastily erected, all of them preparing. It would be a great army
moving downriver.

Duncan examined
the gushing currents of the Thusius, and he wondered if his boat would hold.
Yet he knew this was the only way, if he were to get all of his men to Kos
undetected. He turned and saw the last of the rafts being tied, and he knew the
time had come.

Seavig stepped
up beside him, flanked by several men and, hands on his hips, looked downriver.

“Will they
hold?” Duncan asked, surveying the rafts.

Seavig nodded.

“I’ve spent more
time on sea than land,” he replied. “Not to worry. If it’s one thing my people
understand, it is water. Those rafts may look shoddy, but they are secure. That
is Esephan twine, stronger than any Volis rope. And those logs may seem small,
but don’t be fooled: the Red Pine of the Thusius is the hardiest in the world.
It may bend, but will never give.”

Duncan looked at
his legions of men, battle-hardened, but few of them sailors. The rafts were
slippery, with not much to hold onto, and the men wore armor, too easy for them
to sink. Seavig was used to leading men at sea, but in Duncan’s eyes, the
conditions were far from ideal.

“How far to
Kos?” Duncan asked.

Seavig nodded to
the horizon.

“You see those
mountains?”

Duncan looked
out and on the horizon he saw the jagged, white peaks rising impossibly high,
disappearing into the clouds, higher than any mountain should ever reach. From
the looks of them, they appeared to be days away.

“If the current
flows,” Seavig replied, “we may reach the base in a day. That is, if we all
make it.”

Seavig gave him
a concerned look.

“Advise your men
to stay in the center of the rafts; the Thusius teems with creatures that make
those we left behind seem pleasant. Above all, have them avoid the swirls.”

“The swirls?”
Duncan asked, not liking the sound of it.

“Whirlpools
abound in this river,” Seavig said. “Stick close together, and we should be
fine.”

Duncan furrowed
his brow; he was a man of the land, and he did not like this.

“Is there no
safer way to Kos?” he asked again, studying the land.

Seavig shook his
head.

“There is no
more direct way, either,” he replied. “We can take the plains, if you wish, but
a Pandesian garrison guards it. That would mean a battle now. If you want to
reach Kos in peace, the Thusius is the only way.”

Duncan still had
speed and surprise on his side, and he could not risk alarming Pandesia to his
revolt; it was a chance he simply could not take.

“The river,
then,” Duncan said, decided.

Duncan had one
thing left to do before they all embarked. He turned and walked over to his war
horse, a great friend to him in battle for as long as he could remember. It
pained him to leave his side—but they could not take their horses on the rafts.

“Good friend,”
Duncan said, stroking his mane, “lead the other horses. They are your army now.
Lead them south. To Kos. To the mountain base. Wait for us there, on the way to
Andros. I will be expecting you—and I know you will be waiting for me.”

Duncan spoke to
his horse as he would one of his men, and with a gentle nudge, he watched him
neigh, rear his fierce legs high in the air, then turn and suddenly gallop
proudly away, a leader in his own right. As he did, all the other
horses—hundreds of them—turned and followed him, a great stampede, all racing
south in one massive heard, the earth shaking with their rumble. They kicked up
a cloud of dust and Duncan watched them go with a mix of sadness and pride. His
horse understood him better than any man alive.

 “If only my men
would heed me the same way,” Seavig said wistfully, coming up by his side.

 “Let us hope he
has a master left for him when he arrives,” Duncan replied.

Duncan nodded
and Anvin sounded the horn as Seavig’s men sounded theirs. Their army came
alive, all the men stepping forward, shoving their rafts onto the waters, and
jumping aboard. Duncan shoved his, too; it was heavier than he thought, he and
several others pushing it through the mud until it floated in the water. As it
floated, he was relieved to see that Seavig had been right: the Red Pine became
buoyant in the water, and the twine held firm.

Duncan jumped
aboard with the others, then reached out with the long pole he had carved and
jabbed it into the dry ground, shoving, pushing them farther out, away from
shore, and into the middle of the river.

The Thusius,
perhaps fifty yards wide, ran with crystal clear water, and he could see
straight down to the bottom of it, perhaps twenty feet below, its bed sparkling
with rocks and gems of all different shapes and colors. It was a sight to see.
Soon the currents caught them, and they all began to move, slowly at first,
hundreds of rafts carrying thousands of men as one. They were a floating army.

They gained
momentum quickly and soon the pace quickened. Duncan was satisfied to feel the
waters moving at a fast pace beneath them, all of the rafts holding, gaining
more speed than they ever would have on land—and not having to strain any
horses or men. He searched the land and spotted his horse, galloping in the
distance, leading the army of horses, and he felt a wave of pride.

Duncan, standing
on the raft with several men, felt the river racing beneath him, the wind in
his hair, the spray of the water reaching him on occasion. He used the pole to
steer their raft, and they fell into a comfortable groove on the wide and
smooth river.

He eventually
relaxed and let down his guard as the river took them twisting around one bend
after the other. He looked out and studied the ever-changing landscape. They
passed purple forests and plains bleached white; they passed herds of exotic
creatures, looking like gazelles, but with heads at each end of their body.
They passed plains of rock, sprawled in odd shapes, as if some ancient
civilization had plopped them down and left. It was an uninhabited stretch of
Escalon, dominated more by nature than man.

Duncan looked up
and studied the mountains of Kos, their white peaks ever present, looming
larger the closer they came. Soon enough, they would reach them. If he could
rally the warriors who lived at its peak, it would be the turning point, what
he needed to stage an attack on the capital. He knew his chances were slim, but
that was what it meant, in his eyes, to be a warrior: to wage battle, despite
all odds.

His heart beat
faster at the idea of freeing Escalon, of ridding it of the Pandesians, of
waging the war they should have waged years ago. Win or lose, at least,
finally, he was riding into his destiny.

“How long since
you’ve seen Kos?” Seavig called out over the sound of the current, his raft
coming up beside Duncan’s as he steered it with his pole, the two rafts
cruising downriver side by side.

Duncan crouched
down low as his raft suddenly dropped two feet, rocking violently in the rapids
before leveling out again. The water was getting rougher, and as Duncan tried
to concentrate on the currents, he marveled at how poised Seavig and his men
were—water people, they stood tall, well-balanced, as if standing on dry land.

“Many years,”
Duncan finally called back. “I was a young man then. Still, it was a time I can
never forget. I remember…the climb…the altitude…its people—a hard people. Brave
warriors, fearless—but hard. They were reclusive. They were with us, but never
quite with us.”

Seavig nodded.

“Nothing has
changed,” he replied. “Now, they are more reclusive than ever. They were always
separatist—now, after Tarnis’ betrayal, they are like a nation of their own.”

“Maybe it’s the
mountain air,” joked Anvin, his raft coming up beside theirs. “Maybe they look
down on all of us.”

“They don’t,”
Seavig replied. “They just don’t have much interest in others.”

Duncan looked up
and studied the white peaks, getting closer with each bend in the river.

“They hide up
there,” Seavig replied, “from the Pandesian strongholds below. If they came
down, they would be attacked. And the Pandesians don’t dare breach those
heights—they know it would be folly. So the men of Kos fancy themselves
free—but they are not free. They are trapped.”

Duncan studied
the mountains, and he wasn’t so sure.

“The men of Kos
whom I met feared nothing,” Duncan replied. “Certainly no Pandesians. I doubt
they fear coming down.”

“Then why
haven’t they descended since the invasion?” Seavig asked.

It was a mystery
that Duncan had wondered at himself.

“Maybe they feel
the old king does not deserve their respect,” Anvin offered. “Maybe they feel
we are not worth coming down for after surrendering Escalon. The mountains are
their home—to come down would be to fight our battles.”

“To come down
would be to fight for Escalon, their land, too,” Seavig countered.

Duncan shrugged.