Rise of the Valiant (5 page)

She stopped a
few feet away, facing him, and all grew silent as the men gathered around to
watch the exchange.

She smiled up at
him.

“Do not worry,
Father,” she said. “You raised me to be strong.”

He nodded back,
pretending to be reassured—yet she could see he was not. He was still, most of
all, a father.

He looked up,
searching the skies.

“If only your
dragon would come for you now,” he said. “You could cross Escalon in but a few
minutes. Or better—he could join you on your journey and incinerate anyone who
came in your path.”

Kyra smiled
sadly.

“Theos is gone
now, Father.”

He looked back
at her, eyes filled with wonder

“Forever?” he
asked, the question of a warlord leading his men into battle, needing to know
but afraid to ask.

Kyra closed her
eyes and tried to tune in, to get a response. She willed for Theos to answer
her.

Yet there came a
numbing silence. It made her wonder if her she had ever had a connection to
Theos to begin with, or if she had only imagined it.

“I do not know,
Father,” she answered honestly.

He nodded back,
accepting, the look of a man who had learned to accept things as they were and
to rely on himself.

 “Remember what
I—” her father began.

“KYRA!” an
excited shout cut through the air.

Kyra turned as
the men parted ways, and her heart lifted with delight to see Aidan running
through the city gates, Leo at his side, jumping down from a cart driven by her
father’s men. He ran right for her, stumbling through the snow, Leo even
faster, way ahead of him, and already bounding ahead into Kyra’s arms.

Kyra laughed as
Leo knocked her down, standing on her chest on all fours and licking her face
again and again. Behind her, Andor snarled, already protective of her, and Leo
jumped up and faced off with it, snarling back. They were two fearless
creatures, each equally protective of her, and Kyra felt honored.

She jumped up
and stood between them, holding Leo back.

“It’s okay,
Leo,” she said. “Andor is my friend. And Andor,” she said, turning, “Leo is
mine, too.”

Leo backed down
reluctantly, while Andor continued to snarl, albeit in a quieter fashion.

“Kyra!”

Kyra turned as
Aidan ran into her arms. She reached down and hugged him tight as his little
hands clutched her back. It felt so good to embrace her little brother, whom
she was certain she would never see again. He was the one bit of normalcy left
in the whirlwind her life had become, the one thing that had not changed.

“I heard you
were here,” he said in a rush, “and I caught a ride to see you. I’m so happy
you’re back.”

She smiled
sadly.

“I’m afraid not
for long, my brother,” she said.

A flash of
concern crossed his face.

“You’re
leaving?” he asked, crestfallen.

Her father
interjected.

“She is off to
see her uncle,” he explained. “Let her go now.”

Kyra noted that
her father said
her
uncle and not
your
uncle, and she wondered
why.

“Then I shall
join her!” Aidan insisted proudly.

Her father shook
his head.

“You shall not,”
he replied.

Kyra smiled down
at her little brother, so brave, as always.

“Father needs
you elsewhere,” she said.

“The
battlefront?” Aidan asked, turning to their father hopefully. “You are setting
out for Esephus,” he added in a rush. “I have heard! I want to join you!”

But he shook his
head.

“It is Volis for
you,” he replied. “You will stay there, protected by the men I leave behind.
The battlefront is no place for you now. One day.”

Aidan flushed
red with disappointment.

“But I want to
fight, Father!” he protested. “I don’t need to stay boarded up in some empty
fort with women and children!”

His men
snickered, but her father looked serious.

“My decision is
made,” he answered curtly.

Aidan frowned.

“If I can’t join
Kyra and I can’t join you,” he said, refusing to let it go, “then what use is
my learning about battles, learning how to use weapons? What has all my
training been for?”

“Grow hair on
your chest first, little brother,” Braxton laughed, stepping forward, Brandon
beside him.

Laughter arose
amidst the men and Aidan reddened, clearly embarrassed in front of the others.

Kyra, feeling
bad, knelt before him and looked at him, placing a hand on his cheek.

“You shall be a
finer warrior than all of them,” she reassured him softly, so that only he
could hear. “Be patient. In the meantime, watch over Volis. It needs you, too.
Make me proud. I shall return, I promise, and one day we shall fight great
battles together.”

Aidan seemed to
soften a bit, as he leaned forward and hugged her again.

“I don’t want
you to go,” he said softly. “I had a dream about you. I dreamt…” He looked up
at her reluctantly, eyes filled with fear. “…that you would die out there.”

Kyra felt a
shock at his words, especially as she saw the look in his eyes. It haunted her.
She did not know what to say.

Anvin stepped
forward and draped over her shoulders thick, heavy furs, warming her; she stood
and felt ten pounds heavier, but it shut out all the wind and took away the
chill down her back. He smiled back.

“Your nights
will be long, and fires shall be far away,” he said, and gave her a quick
embrace.

Her father
stepped forward quickly and embraced her, the strong embrace of a warlord. She
hugged him back, lost in his muscles, feeling safe and secure.

“You are my
daughter,” he said firmly, “don’t forget that.” He then lowered his voice so
the others could not hear, and added: “I love you.”

She was
overwhelmed with emotions, but before she could reply he quickly turned and
hurried away—and at the same moment Leo whined and jumped up on her, nudging
his nose into her chest.

“He wants to go
with you,” Aidan observed. “Take him—you’ll need him far more than I, shuttered
up in Volis. He’s yours anyway.”

Kyra hugged Leo,
unable to refuse as he would not leave her side. She felt comforted by the idea
of his joining her, having missed him dearly. She could use another set of eyes
and ears, too, and there was no one more loyal than Leo.

Ready, Kyra mounted
Andor as her father’s men parted ways. They held up torches of respect for her
all along the bridge, warding off the night, lighting a path for her. She
looked out beyond them and saw the darkening sky, the wilderness before her.
She felt excitement, fear, and most of all, a sense of duty. Of purpose. Before
her lay the most important quest of her life, a quest that had at stake not
only her identity, but the fate of all of Escalon. The stakes could not be
higher.

Her staff
strapped over one shoulder, her bow over the other, Leo and Dierdre beside her,
Andor beneath her, and all her father’s men watching, Kyra began to ride Andor
at a walk toward the city gates. She went slowly at first, through the torches,
past the men, feeling as if she were walking into a dream, walking into her
destiny. She did not look back, not wanting to lose resolve. A low horn was
sounded by her father’s men, a horn of departure, a sound of respect.

She prepared to
give Andor a kick—but he already anticipated her. He began to run, first at a
trot, then a gallop.

Within moments
Kyra found herself racing through the snow, through the gates of Argos, over
the bridge, into the open field, the cold wind in her hair and nothing before
her but a long road, savage creatures, and the falling blackness of night.

Merk ran through
the wood, stumbling down the dirt slope, weaving between trees, the leaves of
Whitewood crunching beneath him as he ran for all he had. He looked ahead and
kept in his sights the distant plumes of smoke filling the horizon, blocking
out the blood-red sunset, and he felt a rising sense of urgency. He knew the
girl was down there somewhere, possibly being murdered even at this moment, and
he could not make his legs run fast enough.

Killing seemed
to find him; it encountered him at every turn, on seemingly every day, the way
other men were summoned home for dinner.
He had a date with death
, his
mother used to say. Those words rang in his head, had haunted him for most of
his life. Were her words self-fulfilling? Or had he been born with a black star
over his head?

Killing for Merk
was a natural part of his life, like breathing or having lunch, no matter who
he was doing it for, or how. The more he pondered it, the more he felt a great
sense of disgust, as if he wanted to vomit his entire life. But while
everything inside him screamed at him to turn around, to start life anew, to
continue on his pilgrimage for the Tower of Ur, he just could not do it.
Violence was, once again, summoning him, and now was not the time to ignore its
call.

Merk ran, the
billowing clouds of smoke getting closer, making it harder to breathe, the
smell of smoke stinging his nostrils, and a familiar feeling began to overtake
him. It was not fear or even, after all these years, excitement. It was a
feeling of familiarity. Of the killing machine he was about to become. It was
always what happened when he went into battle—his own, private battle. In his
version of battle, he killed his opponent face to face; he didn’t have to hide
behind a visor or armor or a crowd’s applause like those fancy knights. In his
view, his was the most courageous battle of all, reserved for true warriors
like himself.

And yet as he
ran, something felt different to Merk. Usually, Merk did not care who lived or
died; it was just a job. That kept him clear to reason, free from being clouded
emotionally. Yet this time, it was different. For the first time in as long as
he could remember, no one was paying him to do this. He proceeded of his own
volition, for no other reason than because he pitied the girl and wanted to set
wrongs right. It made him invested, and he did not like the feeling. He
regretted now that he had not acted sooner and had turned her away.

Merk ran at a
steady clip, not carrying any weapons—and not needing to. He had in his belt
only his dagger, and that was enough. Indeed, he might not even use it. He
preferred to enter battle weaponless: it threw his opponents off-guard.
Besides, he could always strip his enemy’s weapons and use them against them.
That left him with an instant arsenal everywhere he went.

Merk burst out
of Whitewood, the trees giving way to open plains and rolling hills, and was
met by the huge, red sun, sitting low on the horizon. The valley spread out
before him, the sky above it black, as if angry, filled with smoke, and there,
aflame, sat what could only be the remnants of the girl’s farm. Merk could hear
it from here, the gleeful shouts of men, criminals, their voices filled with
delight, bloodlust. With his professional eye he scanned the scene of the crime
and immediately spotted them, a dozen men, faces lit by the torches they held
as they ran to and fro, setting everything aflame. Some ran from the stables to
the house, setting torches to straw roofs, while others slaughtered the
innocent cattle, hacking them down with axes. One of them, he saw, dragged a
body by the hair across the muddy ground.

A woman.

Merk’s heart
raced as he wondered if it was the girl—and if she were dead or alive. He was
dragging her to what appeared to be the girl’s family, all of them tied to the
barn by ropes. There were her father and mother, and beside them, likely her
siblings, smaller, younger, both girls. As a breeze moved a cloud of black
smoke, Merk caught a glimpse of the body’s long blonde hair, matted with dirt, and
he knew that was her.

Merk felt a rush
of adrenaline as he took off at a sprint down the hill. He rushed into the
muddy compound, running amidst the flame and the smoke, and he could finally
see what was happening: the girl’s family, against the wall, were all already
dead, their throats cut, their bodies hanging limply against the wall. He felt
a wave of relief as he saw the girl being dragged was still alive, resisting as
they dragged her to join her family. He saw a thug awaiting her arrival with a
dagger, and he knew she would be next. He had arrived too late to save her
family—but not too late to save her.

Merk knew he had
to catch these men off-guard. He slowed his gait and marched calmly down the
center of the compound, as if he had all the time in the world, waiting for
them to take notice of him, wanting to confuse them.

Soon enough, one
of them did. The thug turned immediately, shocked at the sight of a man walking
calmly through all the carnage, and he yelled to his friends.

Merk felt all
the confused eyes on him as he proceeded, walking casually toward the girl. The
thug dragging her looked over his shoulder, and at the sight of Merk he
stopped, too, loosening his grip and letting her fall in the mud. He turned and
approached Merk with the others, all closing in on him, ready to fight.

“What do we have
here?” called out the man who appeared to be their leader. It was the one who
had dropped the girl, and as he set his sights on Merk he drew a sword from his
belt and approached, as the others encircled him.

Merk looked only
at the girl, checking to make sure she was alive and unharmed. He was relieved
to see her squirm in the mud, slowly collecting herself, lifting her head and
looking back out at him, dazed and confused. Merk felt relief that he had not,
at least, been too late to save her. Perhaps this was the first step on what
would be a very long road to redemption. Perhaps, he realized, it did not start
in the tower, but right here.

As the girl
turned over in the mud, propping herself up on her elbows, their eyes met, and
he saw them flood with hope.

“Kill them!” she
shrieked.

Merk stayed
calm, still walking casually toward her, as if not even noticing the men around
him.

“So you know the
girl,” the leader called out to him.

“Her uncle?” one
of them called out mockingly.

“A long-lost
brother?” laughed another.

“You coming to
protect her, old man?” another mocked.

The others burst
into laughter as they closed in.

While he did not
show it, Merk was silently taking stock of all his opponents, summing them up
out of the corner of his eye, tallying how many they were, how big they were,
how fast they moved, the weapons they carried. He analyzed how much muscle they
had versus fat, what they were wearing, how flexible they were in those
clothes, how fast they could pivot in their boots. He noted the weapons they
held—the crude knives, daggers drawn, swords poorly sharpened—and he analyzed
how they held them, at their sides or out in front, and in which hands.

Most were amateur,
he realized, and none of them truly concerned him. Save one. The one with the
crossbow. Merk made a mental note to kill him first.

Merk entered a
different zone, a different mode of thinking, of being, the one that always
naturally gripped him whenever he was in a confrontation. He became submerged
in his own world, a world he had little control over, a world he gave his body
up to. It was a world that dictated to him how many men he could kill how
quickly, how efficiently. How to inflict the maximum damage with the least
possible effort.

He felt bad for
these men; they had no idea what they were walking into.

“Hey, I’m
talking
to you!” their leader called out, hardly ten feet away, holding out his sword
with a sneer and closing in fast.

Merk stayed the
course, though, and kept marching, calm and expressionless. He was staying
focused, hardly listening to their leader’s words, now muted in his mind. He
would not run, or show any signs of aggression, until it suited him, and he
could sense how puzzled these men were by his lack of actions.

“Hey, do you
know you’re about to die?” the leader insisted. “You listening to me?”

Merk continued
walking calmly while their leader, infuriated, waited no longer. He shouted in
rage, raised his sword, and charged, swinging down for Merk’s shoulder.

Merk took his
time, not reacting. He walked calmly toward his attacker, waiting until the
very last second, making sure not to tense up, to show any signs of resistance.

He waited until
his opponent’s sword reached its highest point, high above the man’s head, the
pivotal moment of vulnerability for any man, he had learned long ago. And then,
faster than his foe could possibly foresee, Merk lunged forward like a snake,
using two fingers to strike at a pressure point beneath the man’s armpit.

His attacker,
eyes bulging in pain and surprise, immediately dropped the sword.

Merk stepped in
close, looped one arm around the man’s arm and tightened his grip in a lock. In
the same motion he grabbed the man by the back of his head and spun him around,
using him as a shield. For it wasn’t this man that Merk had been worried about,
but the attacker behind him with the crossbow. Merk had chosen to attack this
oaf first merely to gain himself a shield.

Merk spun and
faced the man with the crossbow, who, as he’d anticipated, already had his bow
trained on him. A moment later Merk heard the telltale sound of an arrow being
released from the crossbow, and he watched it flying through the air right for
him. Merk held his writhing human shield tight.

There came a
gasp, and Merk felt the oaf flinch in his arms. The leader cried out in pain,
and Merk suddenly felt a jolt of pain himself, like a knife entering his own
stomach. At first he was confused—and then he realized the arrow had gone
through the shield’s stomach, and the head of it had just barely entered Merk’s
stomach, too. It only penetrated perhaps a half inch—not enough to seriously
wound him—but enough to hurt like hell.

Calculating the
time it would take to reload the crossbow, Merk dropped the leader’s limp body,
grabbed the sword from his hand, and threw it. It sailed end over end toward
the thug with the crossbow and the man shrieked, eyes widening in shock, as the
sword pierced his chest. He dropped his bow and fell limply beside it.

Merk turned and
looked over at the other thugs, all clearly in shock, two of their best men
dead, all now seeming unsure. They faced each other in the awkward silence.

“Who are you?”
one finally called out, nervousness in his voice.

Merk smiled wide
and cracked his knuckles, relishing the bout to come.

“I,” he replied,
“am what keeps you up at night.”