Rise of the Valiant (24 page)

Duncan lowered
his head to the wind as he hiked up the steep mountainside of Kos, the wind
whipping his face with a fresh, driving snow, wondering how much worse
conditions could become. The sky, so clear but hours ago, had turned a dark,
angry gray, snow and wind driving them back, this mountain as unpredictable as
it was famed to be. They had been hiking for hours, but now the elevation had
become rapidly steeper.

Duncan, hiking
beside Seavig, Anvin and Arthfael, glanced back over his shoulder to check on
his men. They all hiked with heads down, side-by-side two men wide in the
narrow trail, all of them snaking their way up the mountain like a long line of
ants. The wind and snow had worsened enough so that Duncan could no longer see
all of his men, and he felt a pang of anxiety. He was for all of them, and a
part of him felt that this was madness, marching them all straight up a
mountain of ice and snow. There was a reason the Pandesians had never tried to
ascend and take Kos: it was folly.

Duncan ascended
through a narrow stretch of rock and as he emerged, he looked up and his
stomach dropped: the trail disappeared in a wall of ice. From here on in, it
was a climb—straight up. He and his men would have to switch from walking to
climbing by ice and pick. And they were still hardly halfway up the mountain.

“Can we climb
it?” Anvin asked, fear in his voice.

Duncan looked
up, squinted into the wind, and as he took stock, he thought he detected
motion. There came a loud cracking noise, and suddenly, a huge icicle, perhaps
twenty feet long, begin to separate. His heart plummeted as it released and
came straight down for them, like a bolt of lightning from the sky.

“MOVE!” Duncan
shrieked.

Duncan shoved
his men out of the way then jumped himself, rolling several feet down the
mountain as there came an enormous crash behind them. He looked back to see the
icicle, like a giant sword, thrust into the earth and shattering into pieces.
Fragments flew everywhere, and he covered his head with his hands, deflecting
them, the chips painfully scratching him.

The icicle then
tumbled down the cliff, towards his men, and Duncan looked back over his
shoulder and watched with dread as his men jumped left and right to get out of
its way. More than one man slipped to his death, while one soldier, he saw, was
impaled by it, his shrieks filling the air as he was crushed.

Duncan lay on
the ground, shaken, and looked over to Seavig, who exchanged a look with him.
It was a look of dread.

Duncan turned
and looked back up the cliff, and he noticed hundreds more icicles, all perched
warily along the edge, all with their tips pointing straight down at them. He
was finally beginning to understand just how treacherous this ascent was.

“No point
waiting here,” Seavig said. “Either we climb now, or we wait for more of those
things to come down and find us.”

Duncan knew he
was right, and he regained his feet. He turned and walked back down the
mountain and took stock of the dead and wounded. He knelt beside a soldier, a
boy hardly older than his own, and reached up and lowered his eyelids, a pain
in his heart.

“Cover him,”
Duncan ordered his men.

They rushed
forward and did so, and Duncan moved on to the wounded, kneeling beside a young
soldier whose ribs had been pierced by the icicle. He clasped his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,
sir,” the boy said. “I can’t make it up the mountain. Not like this.” He
gasped. “Leave me here. Go on without me.”

Duncan shook his
head.

“That’s not who
I am,” he replied, knowing that, if he did, the boy would die out here. He came
to a quick decision. “I shall carry you myself.”

The boy’s eyes
widened in surprise.

“You’d never
make it.”

“We’ll see about
that,” Duncan replied.

Duncan squatted
down, slung the soldier over his shoulder as he groaned, and then walked back
through his ranks of men, all of them looking at him with wonder and respect.

Seavig stared
back at him as he reached the front, as if wondering how he could attempt this.

“As you said,”
Duncan said to him, “we have no time to lose.”

Duncan continued
marching forward, right for the sheet of rock, the soldier groaning over his
shoulder. As he reached the ice, he motioned to his men, who stepped forward.

“Tie him to my
back,” Duncan said. “Make the ropes tight. It’s a long climb, and I don’t plan
on either of us dying.”

Duncan knew this
would make a hard climb even harder, yet he also knew he would find a way. He
had been through worse in his life, and he would rather die himself than leave
one of his men behind.

Duncan put on
his snow shoes, feeling the spikes beneath his feet, grabbed his icepicks,
threw back his arm and struck the ice wall. The pick settled into it nicely and
he pulled himself up and jammed his foot into the ice below, which also settled
in. He took another step, then slammed the ice pick in, and up he went, one
step at a time, surprised at the effort it took as he climbed and praying that
his tools held. He was, he realized, putting his very life into the fate of
their craftsmanship.

All around him
his men did the same, and the air was suddenly filled with the sound of a
thousand small picks chipping away at ice, rising up even over the howling of
the wind. Like an army of mountain goats, they slowly ascended the ice face
together. Each step was hard work for Duncan, especially with the wounded
soldier on his back, but he never considered turning back. Giving up was not an
option.

Duncan climbed
and climbed, arms shaking from the effort, the wind and snow occasionally
blinding him. As he was breathing harder and harder, trying not to look up and
see how much was left to go, he was relieved to see, after about fifty feet, a
plateau up ahead.

Duncan pulled
himself up on it and momentarily collapsed, breathing hard, resting his shaking
arms and shoulders.

“Sir, leave me
here,” the soldier implored, groaning on his back. “It’s too much for you.”

But Duncan
merely shook his head and got back to his knees, joined by others all around
him as they reached the plateau. He looked up and was grateful to see the
mountain face level off a bit, not such a steep climb. Duncan dug his pick and
shoes in again and continued on, taking it one step at a time, trying not to
think of the journey ahead.

Duncan wondered
how the men of Kos ever came down off this mountain. He had fought beside them
in battle more than once, yet he had never seen them up here, in their element,
in these mountains. They were truly a different breed of man, he realized,
living amidst such heights, winds and snow.

They climbed for
what felt like hours more, Duncan looking up now and again and checking, the
peak always seeming to be further and further away, always out of reach. As
they went, a cloud drifted in and consumed them, and before long, there was a
complete whiteout.

Duncan continued
to climb, knowing this was crazy but that now they had no choice. He hoped only
for the safety of his men below, and as soon as another gale blew the cloud
away, he looked down, checking on his men. There they were all still there,
hiking behind him, all slowly but surely scaling their way up the mountain. He
caught a glimpse of the magnificent view, all of Escalon spread out below,
between majestic peaks capped in white. He felt like a king up here, atop the
world, able to see the entire country from one end to the other. Escalon was a
beautiful country, with its rolling hills, wide-open plains, dotted with lakes,
intersected by rivers and waterfalls. It was a land of bounty and goodness, one
that had been robbed from them since the Pandesians had arrived. Duncan knew he
had to find a way to get it back.

Duncan looked
back up the mountain face, arms shaking as he slammed the pick in and pulled.
This appeared to be the last stretch of ice before him, the wall straight and
smooth, with perhaps another hundred feet to climb. Duncan, exhausted, was
dreading it, but it had to be done. He just prayed his arms did not give out.

Duncan climbed
higher, the wind picking up, when another cloud appeared, consuming them in a
whiteout, then disappeared just as quickly. He stepped with shaking legs, then
paused and let the sweat sting his eyes, not daring to wipe it. He looked up
and saw he had only gone a few feet, although it had felt like hours. These few
feet might as well have been a few miles.

Duncan stopped
and listened as, over the sound of the wind and snow, there slowly arose
another sound, like a squealing. It seemed to grow louder by the moment. He
froze, wondering what it could be.

Duncan detected
motion out of the corner of his eye, and as he turned, he was horrified to see
a swarm of creatures flying right for him, small, nearly translucent,
resembling a flock of bats. The creatures opened their jaws and squealed their
awful noise, revealing three crystal fangs. They flew in an odd way, leaning
from side to side, and thousands of them all suddenly descended right for
Duncan and his men, vulnerable, perched on the cliff.

“Ice bats!”
Seavig yelled out. “Take cover!”

Duncan ducked,
holding the pick with one hand and covering the back of his head with the other,
and a moment later he was engulfed. These creatures descended on him,
screeching in his ears, clawing at him. The wounded soldier on his back
shrieked out in pain.

Duncan looked
down below and was relieved to see most of his men taking cover on the plateau,
lying on their stomachs, raising their hands over their heads. But Duncan and
Seavig were too high up, way out in front of the group, and they could not make
it back down in time. Duncan knew he was alone up here, and that he would have
to fight it out on his own.

Duncan fought
back. He grasped the other pick and swung around his head, chopping at them,
swinging wildly. Screeching arose as he killed more than a few of them, the
things dropping all around him.

Yet, Duncan soon
realized, it was but a drop in the bucket; for every one he killed, ten more
appeared. He was getting scratched and bit in every direction, and as the pain
ripped through his body, Duncan, growing weaker, did not know how much longer
he could hang on.

An ice bat sunk
his fangs deep into his shoulder and Duncan shrieked out in pain, losing his
balance as he reached around with his free hand and pried it off him, crushing
its head. He was growing lightheaded, and, dizzy, felt himself about to fall.
He suddenly knew he would die here, in this place, beside his brothers. He did
not regret dying. He only regretted dying this way, up here, so far from the
home he loved. But death, he knew, came for you when it did, and it had come
knocking, definitively, for him.

Merk woke to the
smell of the ocean, to the feel of ocean mist spraying his face, to the sound
of crashing waves, and he opened his eyes slowly, disoriented, wondering where
he was. He tried to shake off the cobwebs of his mind, having had a long night
filled with dreams he did not understand. He had dreamt of rescuing the girl
from her burning farm, her family’s faces haunting him, pointing at him,
accusing him, only to see them all go up in flames—and he with them. His last
dream had been of his ascending the tower, running up a circular staircase for
what felt like hours, only to reach the top and slip and come hurtling down to
the ground.

Merk opened his
eyes to see the sun rise over the windy, desolate peninsula that housed the
Tower of Ur and slowly, he remembered where he was. The vast Sea of Sorrow
stretched out to the horizon, its waves rolling and smashing into the soaring
cliffs that framed Escalon high above the sea. Feeling a stiffness in his back
and neck, Merk sat up and looked around, trying to get his bearings. He felt
cold hard metal against his back, and he turned and saw what he had slept
against all night: the silver doors of Ur.

It all came
rushing back: after being rejected from the tower, Merk had circled around,
searching for another way in, and he had found this other set of doors, on the
far side of the tower, identical to the doors in the front, except these made
of silver. These, too, were carved with writing and symbols he could not read.
He remembered slamming against these doors half the night, refusing to be
turned away. But no one had answered his slamming—and finally, he had fallen
asleep.

Merk rose to his
feet, his knees stiff from the long night, his body aching, and as he looked at
the morning sun he felt a fresh determination. He was not a quitter. He had
known it would not be easy to enter here—after all, the Watchers were an elite,
sacred sect, famed for turning people away. He sensed, though, that this was
part of their ritual, their way of weeding out those who were not meant to be
here.

Merk looked back
up at the tower, awe-inspiring, rising to the sky, its ancient stone so smooth,
its silver doors shining, tinted scarlet in the morning sun, and he knew he had
no choice but to try again, however long it took.

Merk raised his
dagger and once again slammed its hilt on the door, pounding again and again
and again. The slams echoed in the still morning air, the tower sounding
hollow. He slammed and slammed until his arms were weary, falling into a
monotonous rhythm. The vibrations shook his hand, his wrist, his arms and
shoulders until they were numb. He no longer cared.

As he slammed,
Merk pondered his previous encounter, pondered the words of the creature who
had opened the slot in the door:
Only the worthy may enterhere
the man
had said. What had he meant? What did it mean to be worthy? What was the answer
they were hoping for? What answer would open those doors?

The riddle
circled in his mind, again and again, echoing with each slam. Merk was
determined to answer correctly next time it opened—if it ever opened again.

After hours of
slamming, so long that he could no longer think straight, suddenly, to Merk’s
surprise, a slot slid open in the door, as it had in the front.

Merk stopped,
stunned, and he stared back, his heart pounding to see the two yellow eyes
appear again, realizing he had another chance and determined not to lose it.
The eyes were filled with intensity as they stared back, silently summing him
up.

“Please,” Merk
said, breathing heavily. “Let me in. Let me join you. I demand to be let it!”

There came a
long silence, so long that Merk began to wonder if the man would ever respond.

Then finally, he
spoke:

“Only the worthy
can enter here. Are you worthy?” he asked, his voice deep, ancient.

Merk felt a rush
of excitement.

“I
am
worthy!” he called back confidently.

“Why?” the voice
asked. “Why are you worthy?”

Merk wracked his
brain, thinking, desperate to say the right thing.

“I am worthy
because I am a fearless warrior. Because I am loyal. Because I want to join your
ranks and help your cause. I am worthy because I want to protect the tower and
protect the sword. I am worthy because I am a better killer than anyone here.
Let me in and allow me to prove it to you.”

The eyes stared
back for a long time, and Merk stood there, heart pounding, feeling certain he
had answered correctly and that the man would let him in.

But to his shock
and disappointment, the slot slammed closed as quickly as it had opened, and he
heard footsteps walking away. He could not believe it. He was crestfallen.

Merk stared back
at the silver doors, shaken. It couldn’t be possible.

“No!” Merk cried
in anguish. “You must let me in!”

Merk slammed on
the door again and again, wondering what he had done wrong.

Why was he
worthy?

Merk pondered
what worthiness meant. What did it really mean to be worthy? Was anyone really
worthy? Who could even determine that?

Merk, torn up
inside, turned his back on the tower. Without this place, without this chance
at a new start in life, he could not imagine any other life for himself, any
other place to go.

Merk strutted
across the plateau, burning with frustration, until he reached the edge of the
cliff. He stood there, looking down at the crashing of the great waves beneath
him and suddenly, in a bout of frustration, he hurled his dagger, his most
precious possession, his only means of slamming on those doors.

He watched as it
tumbled down over the cliff, falling hundreds of feet below into the sea,
disappearing in a great crashing of waves.

He leaned back
and shrieked a cry of agony, of loneliness. It rose to the heavens, echoed by a
lonely seagull, and disappeared into the next crashing wave, as if mocking him,
as if letting him know that, no matter what he did, he would never be allowed
into the Tower of Ur.