Rise of the Valiant (21 page)

Duncan braced
himself as the enormous red shark—thirty feet long—leapt out of the river and
came down, jaws wide open, right for him. He knew that in a moment it would
land in his boat, smashing it to pieces and tearing him apart. Worse, all
around him a school of these sharks leapt through the air, aiming for his men
and their rafts on all sides.

Duncan reacted
instinctively, as he always did in battle. He drew his sword and prepared to
meet his foe head on. He would die with nobility, and if he could distract this
creature, have it focus only on him, then he might be able to save the other
men on his raft.

“JUMP!” Duncan
commanded his other men in his fiercest voice. The other soldiers on his raft
did as he commanded, leaping overboard, none needing any prodding as the
massive shark came their way.

Duncan grasped
his sword in two hands, stepped forward, and with a great battle cry raised his
sword and met the shark head-on. As the shark descended he squatted low and raised
his sword straight up, aiming beneath the shark’s lower jaw. He stood as he did
so, plunging his sword up through the shark’s lower jaw and through the roof of
his mouth, clamping its jaw shut with his long sword. He was surprised at how
tough its skin was, how enormous its weight, as it took all of his might to
drive the sword upward.

Blood gushed
down all over Duncan as the shark, flailing, began to fall on him. Duncan,
still holding the sword, could not get out of the way in time, and he saw its tremendous
weight coming down and he knew he would be crushed.

Duncan’s shout
was muffled as the shark landed on top of him. It must have weighed a thousand
pounds, and as it landed on him, Duncan felt himself being pounded into the
raft. It felt as if his ribs were being crushed as his world was engulfed in
black.

There came a
great splintering of wood as the raft beneath him shattered to pieces, and
Duncan suddenly felt himself, mercifully, plunging through the water, free of
the weight of the beast. If he were on land, he realized, he would have been
crushed to death, but because water was beneath him, and because the raft
shattered, he was still alive.

Submerged,
getting his bearings, still sinking beneath the shark, Duncan tried to swim
away as the shark continued to come at him. Luckily, with its jaws clamped
tight, it was unable to bite him.

Duncan kicked
and swam out from under it, releasing his sword and taking several strong
strokes away. He turned and expected it to follow, but blood gushed everywhere,
and he watched as the shark finally sank to the river bed.

Duncan swam
through the frigid waters, every part of his body aching, the current taking
him downriver as he looked up for sunlight and headed for the surface. As he
looked up through the clear water he could see the school of sharks leaping
through the air high above, could hear the muffled sounds of their crashing all
around him—and of his men shrieking. He flinched inside, seeing the waters turn
red with blood, watching the bodies begin to sink, knowing that good men up
there were dying.

Duncan finally
broke the surface, gasping, treading water, trying to orient himself. He looked
upriver and saw the school of sharks had already passed through, leaping like
salmon upriver, smashing into random rafts as they went. He was relieved to see
they weren’t targeting his men; rather, they just continued upriver, oblivious
to what lay before them, leaping and landing, smashing whatever was in their
way—eating a man if he was in their way, but if not, then continuing to swim.
They clearly were driven to go somewhere, and the school stuck together,
disappearing from sight as fast as it had appeared.

Duncan, treading
water in the currents, surveyed the damage. About a third of their fleet had
been destroyed, pools of blood filling the river, bodies floating, logs
everywhere. Dozens of men were dead or injured, some moaning, writhing, others
floating lifelessly on the surface. Duncan spotted the men from his own raft,
saw his sons, saw Seavig, Anvin and Arthfael, and was relieved to see they had
survived. Their rafts had been smashed, too, and they tread water not far from
him.

All around him
men fished out the survivors, yanking them up onto rafts, salvaging the wounded
and allowing the dead to float downstream. It was an awful scene of carnage, a
wave of death that had come out of a clear blue sky. Duncan realized that they
were lucky to have survived at all.

Duncan felt the
sting in his arm, and looked over to see that his right shoulder had been
scraped badly from the shark’s skin. It bled, and though it was painful, he
knew it was not life-threatening. He heard splashing and turned to see Seavig
treading next to him, and he was horrified to see blood pouring from his
friend’s hand, and to see he was missing two fingers.

“Your hand!”
Duncan called out, shocked that Seavig seemed so stoic.

Seavig shrugged.
He gritted his teeth as he tore a piece of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it
around his bleeding hand.

“Just a
scratch,” he replied. “You should see the shark,” he added with a grin.

Duncan felt
strong hands grabbing him from behind and soon he felt himself being pulled up
onto a raft. He sat there, breathing heavily, slowly regaining his composure.
He looked up to the skyline and saw, closer than ever, the mountains of Kos,
and he felt a fresh determination. His army, whatever of it survived, was still
floating inevitably downriver, and nothing would stop them now.

The Thusius
twisted and turned as they neared Kos, and the landscape changed dramatically.
The towering mountains dominated this region of Escalon, their snow-covered
peaks, covered in mist, looming over everything. The climate was colder here,
too, and Duncan felt as if he were entering a different country.

Duncan just
wanted to get off this river, to get back on land where he felt most at home.
He would fight any man, any army, any beast or creature—he only wanted to do it
on land. He did not like to fight where he could not stand his ground, and he
did not trust this cursed river, its creatures or its whirlpools. As
indomitable as those mountains appeared, he would choose them anytime and have
solid ground beneath his feet.

As the river
gushed on, they neared the base of the mountains and Duncan saw the vast, empty
plains surrounding it. On the horizon, stationed on these plains, Duncan was
concerned to see garrison after garrison of Pandesian troops. The river was
luckily far enough to keep his men shielded from view, especially with the
trees bordering its banks. Yet between the trees Duncan could spot the
Pandesian soldiers, far off, guarding the mountains as if they owned them.

“The men of Kos
may be some of the best warriors of Escalon,” Seavig said, drifting up beside
him in his raft, “but they are trapped up there. The Pandesians have been waiting
for them to descend ever since they invaded.”

“The Pandesians
will never risk ascent,” added Anvin, drifting in close. “Those cliffs are too
treacherous.”

“They don’t need
to,” added Arthfael. “Pandesia has them trapped and will wait until they force
their surrender.”

Duncan studied
the landscape, pondering.

“Then perhaps
it’s time we liberate them,” he finally said.

“Shall we not
have a fight on our hands before we reach the mountains?” Anvin asked.

Seavig shook his
head.

“This river
winds to the mountain’s base, through the narrow pass,” he replied. “We shall
disembark on the other side and climb the mountains unseen. It will spare us a
confrontation with the Pandesians.”

Duncan nodded,
satisfied.

“I wouldn’t mind
confronting them now,” Anvin said, hand on his sword as he peered out through
the trees towards the distant plains.

“All in good
time, my friend,” Duncan said. “First we rally Kos—then we attack Pandesia.
When we fight them, I want us to be unified, one force—and I want it be on our
own terms. It is as important to choose
when
and
where
to fight
as it is
who
.”

As the boats
drifted underneath a natural stone outcropping, the river narrowing, Duncan
looked up and studied the mountains, reaching straight up to the sky.

“Even if we
reach the peaks,” Arthfael said, turning to Duncan, “do you really think Kos
will join us? They are mountain people—they are famed to never come down.”

Duncan sighed,
wondering the same thing. He knew the warriors of Kos to be a stubborn lot.

“For freedom,”
he finally replied, “a true warrior will do what is right. Your homeland lies
in your heart—not where you live.”

The men fell
silent as they pondered his words and studied the ever-changing river before
them. The mountains closed in on them now, blocking them completely from the
open plains, from the Pandesian garrisons, as the river continued to gush its
way south.

“Do you remember
when we rode the Thusius to the end?”

Duncan turned to
see Seavig looking out at the waters before him, lost in memory. He nodded,
having a memory he’d rather forget.

“Too well,” he
replied.

Duncan
remembered the awful journey, all the way to the Devil’s Finger and on to the
Tower of Kos. He tried to shake it from his mind, the memories of that barren
wasteland in which he’d almost died. They called it the devil’s country—and for
good reason. He had vowed to never return.

Duncan studied
the mountains closing in on the river banks, white with snow and ice. They had
arrived, and he wondered where Seavig would disembark. Seavig, too, studied the
landscape, on alert. Finally, he nodded, and Duncan held up a fist, signaling
to his men to stop—and not to sound the horns.

One raft at a
time steered over to the river bank, the air filled with the gentle sound of
wood rafts bumping against each other, then grounding on a rocky shore. Duncan
jumped ashore the second they did, thrilled to be back on dry land, and his men
followed his lead. He turned and kicked his raft back out into the water,
making room for the other rafts to follow, as did all of his men, and he
watched as the now-empty rafts drifted away with the current.

“Will we not
need our rafts?” Arthfael asked with concern.

Duncan shook his
head.

“We will descend
these cliffs on foot,” he replied, “on the other side, with an army in tow and
attacking the capital—or not at all. There is no retreat—we succeed or we die.”

Duncan knew the
power of burning his bridges when he needed to—it sent a powerful signal to his
men that there would be no turning back—and he could see that they respected
it.

Hundreds of his
men soon congregated at the base of the mountains, and Duncan took stock: he
could see they were all shaken, exhausted, cold and hungry. He felt the same,
but did not dare show it: after all, the worst of their journey still lay
before them.

“MEN!” Duncan
called out as they gathered around him. “I know you have all suffered much. I
shall not lie to you: the worst is yet to come. We must climb these cliffs, and
do it quickly, and we may not find a hospitable welcome at the top. There will
be no rest, and the hiking will be hard. I know some of you are wounded, and I
know you have lost close friends. But ask yourselves as you climb: what is the
price of freedom?”

Duncan examined
all of their faces, and could see them reassured by his words.

“If there is any
man here who is not up for the journey ahead, step forward now,” he called out,
studying them all.

He waited in the
thick silence and there was not a single man, he was relieved to see, who came
forward. He knew there would not be. These were his men, and they would follow
him to the death.

Satisfied,
Duncan turned and prepared to climb the cliffs—when suddenly, there came a
noise, and he turned to see there emerge from the trees a dozen boys. They held
in their arms hundreds of large snowshoes, spikes at the bottom, along with icepicks
and bundles of rope.

Duncan shot a
curious look at Seavig, who looked back knowingly.

“Mountain
traders,” he explained. “This is how they make their living. They want to sell
us their wares.”

One boy stepped
forward.

“You will need
these,” he said, holding out a snowshoe. “Anyone who climbs these mountains
needs these.”

Duncan took it
and examined its sharp spikes. He looked up at the cliffs and pondered the icy
ascent.

“And how much do
you wish for these?” Duncan asked.

“One sack of
gold for the whole lot,” one boy said, stepping forward, his face covered in
dirt.

Duncan looked at
the boy, near the age of his own sons, looking as if he hadn’t eaten in days,
and his heart broke for him; clearly, he had a hard life here.

“One sack for
this junk?” asked Brandon derisively, stepping forward.

“Just take them
from them, Father,” added Braxton, stepping up beside him. “What are they going
to do—stop us?”