Rise of the Valiant (27 page)

Kyra rode on the
back of Andor, charging up and down the hills of Ur, riding into the scarlet
sunset, her heart slamming with anticipation. She had been riding for hours,
farther out into the peninsula, the ocean crashing on both sides of her as the
land became increasingly barren. Now, finally, she was so close. Now, after her
journey across Escalon, after all she had been through, she could see before
her the object of her dreams. A tower she only dreamed existed.

There it was, on
the horizon, at the end of the lonely peninsula: what could only be the Tower
of Ur. It stood so majestic, so proud, alone on the barren, windswept
peninsula, its round tower rising straight into the air, hundreds of feet high,
capped by a shining, golden dome. It appeared to be built of an ancient stone,
an unusual shade of white, lit scarlet rays by the last rays of the sun. It was
magnificent, unlike anything she had ever seen, a place of dreams. She could
hardly believe that such places could exist in the world.

As the sun lit
up the tower, what caught her eye most were its doors—those incredible golden
doors, arched, soaring fifty feet high—looking like great works of art. They
were forbidding and welcoming at the same time. Framing the tower on all sides
was the majestic crashing of ocean waves, the Sea of Sorrow as its backdrop, blanketing
the horizon as far as she could see.

Kyra paused on a
hilltop, breathing hard as Andor did, too, taking a much needed rest as she
took it all in. She could feel a magical power, an incredible energy, emanating
off of this tower even from here, at once drawing her in and pushing her away.
She recalled all the tales her father had read her of this place, the ancient
bards who had sung of it, generation after generation, and she knew it held
some of the great secrets—and most guarded treasures—of Escalon. Centuries of
Watchers had inhabited it. It was a place of warriors, of creatures, of men and
of honor.

Kyra felt
light-headed as she pondered who awaited her. Her uncle, the man who would
reveal everything, who would teach her about her mother, her identity, her
destiny and her powers. The man who would train her. Was it possible, Kyra
dared to wonder, that her mother was alive? That she was here, too?

So many
questions raced through her mind, she did not know where to begin. She could
hardly stand the anticipation, and she prodded Andor and breathlessly took off,
the two of them galloping across the hills, down the final stretch.

As she neared
the tower, Kyra’s blood was coursing through her ears, making it hard to think.
She had somehow crossed Escalon all by herself, without her father’s
protection, or his men. She felt stronger from it already, and she had not even
begun her training. She realized that her journey had been necessary
preparation for her training. Now she understood why her father had sent her
alone. He had wanted to make her stronger, to prepare her, to make her worthy.

Kyra rode up and
down the hills and as she was perhaps a hundred yards away from the entrance,
she passed a curious marker. A circular staircase, carved of stone, rose
perhaps twenty feet high and ended in nothing. It was like a stairway leading
to the sky, an unfinished stairway that led to nothing, and she wondered what
it signified.

She continued
riding, drawn to the tall golden doors, like a magnet pulling her in. As she
approached the tower she looked everywhere, searching for any sign of her
uncle, of anyone awaiting her.

Yet, curiously,
there was none.

Finally, only
fifty feet away the entrance, Kyra stopped, dismounted, and stood there,
staring, breathing hard, taking it all in, wanted to approach it on foot. It
was even more awe-inspiring up close. The doors were etched in strange golden
carvings, filled with words, images. She walked slowly toward them, wanting to
take in their beauty, and as she neared she squinted and was able to read the
ancient script, once she had learned in her youth. It was a lost language of
Escalon, a language dead for thousands of years. It was a script the king’s
tutors had taught her well. She had been the only girl allowed to learn, and
she had always wondered why.

Kyra reached up
and ran her fingers along the etchings, the words, reading passages which
riveted her. Slowly, she pieced together their message. They were ancient
sayings and parables aimed about the nature of honor, of valor.

What is battle?
read one of
them.

Where does your
strength hail from?
read another.

Do you aim for
your foe or for yourself?
read another.

There were
secrets contained in these riddles, she felt, secrets that could take a
lifetime to ponder and decipher.

Kyra looked over
the arched doorway, and high above read something etched in gold over it:

Only the worthy
may enter here.

Kyra wondered
who had carved these. It looked as if it had been done centuries ago, yet it
resonated with her as if it had been written yesterday. She stepped forward and
placed her palms on the doors, feeling the energy radiating off of them, then
leaned back and craned her neck so that she could look straight up the tower.
From this angle, it seemed to stretch into the heavens themselves.

Kyra stepped
back and slowly turned, looking around, getting her bearings for this strange
place. It was utterly silent, except for the crashing of a wave, Leo’s whine,
or Andor’s snort. The wind ripped off the ocean, whistling and howling in her ears.
She looked everywhere, but to her surprise, saw no sign of her uncle—or of
anyone else. It was hardly the welcome she had expected. Had this place been
abandoned? Was she in the right place?

Finally, she
could wait no longer.

“Uncle!” she
cried out, unsure what to do.

Where could
everyone be? Was it possible that her uncle did not know she was coming? That
he did not want to see her? Or worse—that he was already dead?

Kyra drew her
staff and knocked on the golden doors, at first quietly, then with more and
more force.

No one answered.

She suspected no
one would. After all, would he not have seen her approaching?

Kyra, feeling
confused, defeated, did not know what else to do. Night was falling, and she
could not return to Volis. Not after all she’d been through.

Kyra turned, put
her back against the golden doors, and slowly slid down, until she sat on the
ground. Leo came and lay down beside her, resting his head in her lap, while
Andor stood close by, grazing.

She sat there,
looking at the last rays of the dying sun as darkness fell all around her, and
she wondered. Had her quest been for nothing?

Duncan walked
beside Seavig, Anvin and Arthfael, hundreds of their following close behind, as
they all entered the city of Kos. Duncan could hardly believe this place, this
vast plateau on top of the world, at least a mile wide, nestled amidst
snow-capped peaks. It was a perfect home for the people of Kos, a people strong
and silent, separatist and unflappable, a people who lived not in fear of the
elements around them. They approached massive arched gates, a hundred feet
high, soaring into the clouds and carved of ice—ice, Duncan realized, that
never melted. Duncan examined them in awe as they passed through them.

They walked over
a bridge of ice, and Duncan looked down and saw the chasm it spanned, twenty
feet wide, the fall that would kill any man. He looked ahead and saw the bridge
was leading them right into the city of Kos.

They entered the
city and as they did, the people of Kos emerged to watch them, hundreds of men,
women and children appearing out of the wind-whipped snow, staring back
expressionless, women standing over children, all watching wordlessly. They
were a people who was hard to read: Duncan could not tell if they were ready to
embrace them or kill them. Perhaps both.

Fires somehow
managed to burn in structures carved into the ice, curved to shelter them from
the wind, and the air here was filled with the welcome smell of roasting meat.
Duncan looked ahead and as a gust of wind drove away the clouds, he noticed a
singular structure built from the ice, around which the entire city revolved: a
temple. Shaped in a triangle, ending in a point, carved of ice, it rose a
hundred feet, etched in an elaborate design, its facade carved with the faces
of bearded warriors. The huge structure had a small opening, an arch just tall
enough for people to walk through. A door into a world of ice.

Bramthos led the
way and Duncan entered, and as he did, he was in awe at this place: carved entirely
of ice, this temple, with its translucent walls, filtered in sunlight, seemed
to be glowing, alive. A quiet, empty structure, so high in the sky, it felt
solemn, sacred. It was even colder in here, if possible, than outside, yet no
one seemed to mind.

A long walkway
stretched before him, its floor made up of hammered swords, leading to a
massive star-shaped altar at the far end of the temple, with a gleaming halberd
perched at the top, like some sort of ornament to war. And kneeling before it,
Duncan saw a dozen warriors, their backs to him, hands clasped. In the center
of the group knelt a man larger than them all, the only one wearing red furs,
with wild red hair, and a red beard. Even with his back to him, Duncan could
recognize his old friend anywhere. Kavos. Their leader. A man famed to have
killed more men in battle than anyone Duncan had ever met. A man whom Duncan
had seen stand still when a lion pounced on his chest, knocking the creature
back.

Kavos had a
mystique about him, and one that was justified. Duncan had personally witnessed
him receive dozens of vicious wounds, yet he had never heard him cry out once.
He did not know what stuff he was made of—he was just glad that they fought for
the same side.

Kavos, Duncan
knew, was a difficult man to read even in the most simple of times—and these
were not simple times. Unlike many leaders, whatever Kavos commanded his people
followed religiously. There was no questioning, ever. And Kavos never changed
his mind. Duncan knew he would only have one chance to convince him.

As Duncan slowly
crossed the temple, he felt a great sense of anticipation, knowing that
everything would ride on this encounter, all of his efforts and journeys up
until now, the very fate of his people. If Kavos refused to join them, the war,
Duncan knew, would be lost. Escalon would be lost.

He reached the
end of the long aisle, and Duncan stopped and waited patiently behind Kavos and
his men. He knew that Kavos was not a man to be rushed.

Duncan examined
the curious altar, the candles burning around it, and he wondered about the
gods of Kos. They were no gods that he prayed to. These men were different, in
all that they did, from the rest of Escalon, separatist enough to make Duncan
wonder if they would ever really join his cause. All the way up here, with
their own climate and culture and gods and city, they were, oddly, not even a
part of Escalon—and they never had been.

After a long
silence, Kavos slowly rose and faced Duncan, all of his men standing with him
on cue. Kavos stared back at Duncan, expressionless, his eyes dark and sunken,
holding within them, surely, the memory of thousands of foes he had defeated in
battle. He was as hard as these walls of ice, and he remained silent so long,
Duncan did not think he would ever speak.

Duncan then
recalled that it was
he
who would have to begin. Unlike the rest of
Escalon, it was the etiquette for the visitor to speak first.

“What do you
pray for?” Duncan asked. “Victory? Conquest? Glory?”

Kavos stared
back, silent for so long, Duncan wondered if he would ever respond. He began to
wonder if he even remembered him.

“If it is
victory you pray for,” Duncan added, after a long silence, “you shall not find
it here. Victory lies below. With me—with all of us—in ridding us of the
invaders. In serving Escalon.”

“The men of Kos
serve no one,” Kavos replied, his voice deep, filled with finality, furrowing
his brow. “Escalon least of all.”

Duncan stared
back, unsure how to respond.

“The weak king
betrayed us,” Kavos said, “and the men of Kos do not lend their loyalty to weak
men—and we do not lend it twice.”

Duncan
understood his sentiment, having felt it many times himself.

“Yet still,”
Duncan countered, “it is Escalon in which you live—and the Pandesians block
your mountains at the base. They have you surrounded.”

Kavos smiled for
the first time, his face bunching up with lines, a hardened smile, more like a
scowl.

“Have you ever
considered that it is we who have them surrounded?” Kavos replied.

Duncan frowned,
frustrated, expecting that response.

“You are
untouchable up here,” Duncan admitted. “Yet no people are an island. Escalon is
meant for all of us. You should be able to roam freely about this entire land
which is yours, you and your men. If the trade routes were opened again, it
would help your people.”

Kavos  shrugged,
unimpressed.

“There is no
commodity we can’t live without,” he replied. “Honor is our most precious
commodity. And we have it in abundance.”

Duncan studied
his old friend, having a sinking feeling he would be refused. He was as
stubborn and implacable as he recalled.

“Are we not all
one Escalon?” Duncan finally asked, pleading to his sense of loyalty to the
other warriors.

Kavos sighed,
his expression softening.

“At one time we
were,” he finally said. “When you and I rode forth and crushed skulls together.
If you had taken the kingship, then yes, we would be. But now, we are nothing.
We are each warlords scattered to the corners, each for his own stronghold, his
own people. There is no king to bind us anymore, and no capital, except in
name.”

Kavos examined
him, an intensity in his eyes, as he took a step closer.

“Do you know why
the Pandesians were able to invade?” he asked. “Not because of our weak
king—but because of our weak
nation
. Because we are scattered. Because
we were
never
one. We never had a king strong enough to truly unite us
all.”

Duncan felt a
rush of determination, realizing the truth in this warrior’s words.

“What if we have
a chance to be?” Duncan asked, his voice filled with intensity. “What if we
have a chance now, for all time, to become one people? One Escalon? One people
under one banner? I do not know if we can ever be—but I do know that we shall
continue to be nothing if we do not, as one nation, attack the strangers
amongst us.”

Kavos examined
him for a long time.

“One people
needs one leader,” he countered. “Are you prepared to be that leader?”

Duncan’s heart
pounded at the question, the one question he did not expect, and the one
question he did not wish to ponder. Leadership was the last thing he craved;
but he needed Kavos, and he needed Kos. He did not want to risk losing him.

“Would you lend
us your men? Would you join us?” Duncan countered.

Kavos turned and
walked silently toward the exit of the temple, Duncan following as his men
gestured for him to do so. He walked beside him, wondering where they were
going, wondering what he was thinking.

Duncan was met
by a cold breeze as they exited the temple from a side door, the wind howling
here, atop the world. All of their men fell in together, mingling with each
other, trailing behind them.

As the two made
their way across the plateau, Duncan wondered what this man was thinking. They
finally came to a stop at the edge of a cliff, and as his friend looked out,
Duncan looked out with him. Below them there unraveled all of Escalon, the late
afternoon sun lighting up the snow-capped peaks and, in the distance, the
immense capital city of Andros.

A long,
comfortable silence fell between the two warlords as they surveyed their
homeland.

“It would be
madness to attack,” Duncan admitted. “After all, there are countless Pandesian
garrisons below. We would be outnumbered ten men to one, at least. They have
superior armor, weaponry, and have organized forces in every town in Escalon.
They also still control the Southern Gate—and the seas. It would be suicide.”

Kavos looked
down below, nodding.

“Keep talking,” he
finally said. “You’re convincing me.”

Duncan smiled.

“I doubt we’ll
win,” Duncan said. “But I vow to you that I shall not remain standing as long
as any last Pandesian stands, as along as any Pandesian banner sits in our
ground.”

Kavos finally
turned and studied him.

“If we ride with
you into battle,” Kavos said, “I will need you to vow something to me: the weak
King shall not reclaim his throne. If we win, you, and you alone, shall rule
Escalon.”

Duncan grimaced,
unsure how to respond. It was the last thing he wanted.

“I am no
politician,” Duncan replied. “Just a soldier. That is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Sometimes life
demands of us more than what we want,” Kavos countered. “I want our country
ruled by one of us—by a man I trust and respect. Vow to me—or my army stays
here.”

Duncan sighed,
long and hard, wishing it had not come to this. After a long silence, pondering
his options, punctuated only by the wind, he knew he had no choice.

Finally, he
turned to his friend and nodded.

They reached out
and clasped arms, and in that clasp, Duncan felt the fate of Escalon—the new
Escalon—being forged.

Kavos smiled
wide.

“Long life is
overrated,” he said. “I’ll take glory any day.”

“To Andros!” Kavos
shouted out, joy spreading across his face as all of their men gathered around,
raised their weapons, and shouted out, as one, behind them.

“TO ANDROS!”