Rise of the Valiant (9 page)

Merk stood in
the mud, opposite the ten remaining thugs, all facing him nervously. They held
before them their crude weapons and looked back and forth from their dead
leader to Merk, now all seeming less certain of themselves. As flames burned
all around him, black smoke stinging his eyes in waves, Merk remained calm,
preparing for the confrontation to come.

“Drop your
weapons and run,” Merk said, “and you will live. I won’t offer again.”

One of them, a
tall brute with wide shoulders and a scar across his chin, grunted back.

“You’re a proud
one, aren’t you?” he said in a thick accent Merk did not understand. “You
really think you can take us all?”

“There are still
ten of us and one of you,” another called back.

Merk laughed,
shaking his head.

“You still don’t
understand,” he said. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

He stared back
at them with his cold, black eyes, the eyes of a killer, and he could see the
fear starting to take hold. It was a look he’d recognized his entire life.

One of the men
suddenly let out a shout and charged, raising his sword, filled with more
bravado than skill. An amateur mistake.

Merk watched him
come out of the corner of his eye but did not let on that he knew. He waited
and watched, and at the final moment, as the sword came down for his back, he
squatted low and felt the thug rush forward. As he felt his body against his
back, his sloppy sword slash whiz over his head, he grabbed the thug and threw
him over his shoulder. The man went flying, landing on his back in the mud
before him, and Merk stepped forward and with his boot, expertly and precisely
crushed his windpipe, killing him.

That left nine.

Another thug
charged, swinging his sword down at him, and as he did, Merk calmly took the
sword from the man he had just killed, sidestepped, and sliced the man’s
stomach, sending him keeling over.

Two more broke
off and charged together, one swinging a crude flail and the other wielding a
mace. The flail was a clumsy swing, all power and no finesse, and Merk merely
jumped back and let the spiked ball whiz by his face, then stepped forward and
plunged his dagger into the man’s waist. In the same motion he spun, as the
other attacker swung his mace, and slashed his throat.

Merk grabbed the
man’s mace, turned, planted his feet, and threw the mace at another charging
attacker; it sailed end over end and smashed the man’s eye socket, stopping him
in his tracks and knocking him out.

The five
remaining thugs now looked at Merk, then back to each other, exchanging looks
of fear and wonder.

Merk smiled as
he wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand.

“I’m going to
enjoy watching you all die here, in the same place you killed this nice
family.”

One of them
scowled.

“The only one
who’ll be dying here is you,” spat one.

“A few lucky
blows,” said another. “We still outnumber you five to one.”

Merk smiled.

“Those odds are
starting to look a lot worse for you now, aren’t they?” he replied.

“You got
anything else to say before we kill you?” another snapped, a big man speaking
in an accident Merk did not recognize.

Merk smiled.

“That’s what I
like,” Merk replied. “Courage in the face of death.”

The man, bigger
than all others, threw down his weapon and charged Merk, as if to tackle him
and drive him down to the mud. Clearly, this man wanted to fight on his own
terms.

If there was one
thing Merk had learned, it was never to fight on another man’s terms. As the
clumsy oaf charged him, his thick hands stretched out before him to tear him
apart, Merk made no effort to get out of the way. Instead, he waited until the
man was a foot away, squatted, and brought his dagger straight up as the man
lowered his chin. It was an uppercut with a knife.

He impaled the
blade in the man’s throat in an upward motion, dropping him straight down to
the ground. The thug fell face-first, dead, the blood pooling in the mud.

The four remaining
looked down at their huge compatriot, lifeless, and this time they held real
fear in their eyes.

The thug nearest
him raised his hands, shaking.

“Okay,” he said.
“I’ll leave.” The boy, hardly older than twenty, threw his sword down to the
mud. “Just let us go.”

Merk grinned,
feeling his veins burning with indignation at the sight of the dead family, at
the smell of the smoke burning in his nostrils. He stooped down and casually
picked up the boy’s sword.

“Sorry, my
friend,” Merk said. “That time has passed.”

Merk charged
forward and stabbed the boy in the heart, holding him tight as he pulled his
face close.

“Tell me,” Merk
seethed, “which one of this precious family did you murder?”

The boy gasped,
blood trickling from his mouth as he fell dead in Merk’s arms.

The three thugs
all charged for Merk at once, as if realizing this was their last desperate
chance.

Merk took two
steps forward, jumped in the air, and kicked one in the chest, knocking him to
the ground. As another swung a club for his head, Merk ducked, then rammed his
shoulder into the man’s stomach and threw him over his shoulder, sending him
landing on his back. Merk stepped forward and with his boots crushed one man’s
windpipe, then stepped on the other’s chin and snapped his neck, killing both.

That left one.

The sole
survivor rushed forward nervously and swung a sword for his head; Merk ducked,
feeling it whiz by, and in the same motion grabbed a club from the ground,
swung around, and whacked the man on the back of the head. There came a crack,
and the man stumbled forward and landed in the mud, out cold.

Merk saw him
lying there and knew he could kill him—but he had another idea: he wanted
justice.

Merk dragged the
man to his feet, holding him in a chokehold as he dragged him forward. He walked
him across the mud, toward the girl, who stood there, aghast, hatred in her
eyes.

Merk stopped a
foot away from her, holding the writhing man tight.

“Please, let me
go!” the man whined. “It wasn’t my fault!”

“The decision is
the girl’s,” Merk snarled in the man’s ear.

Merk saw the
grief, the desire for vengeance, in her eyes. With his free hand he reached
into his belt and handed her his dagger, hilt first.

“Please, don’t,”
the man sobbed. “I didn’t do anything!”

The girl’s
expression darkened as she grabbed Merk’s dagger and stared back at the man.

“Didn’t you?”
she asked, her voice cold and hard. “I watched you kill my mother. I watched
you kill my family.”

Without waiting
for a response, the girl lunged forward and stabbed the man in the heart.

Merk felt the
thug stiffen in his arms as he gasped, and was surprised and impressed by the
girl’s perfect strike, her ruthlessness.

The man’s body
went limp, and Merk let him drop down to the ground, dead.

Merk stood there
facing the girl, who held the bloody dagger in her hand, and looked down at the
corpse. She was breathing hard, her face still filled with fury, as if her
desire were unfulfilled. Merk understood the feeling, all too well.

She slowly
looked up at him, and as she did, her expression shifted, and he could see the
gratitude in her eyes. And for the first time in as long as he could remember,
he felt good about himself. He had saved her life. For a fleeting moment, at
least, he had become the person he wanted to be.

With the
battlefield still, with all the thugs dead, Merk allowed himself to lower his
guard, just for a moment. He stepped forward to embrace the girl, to hold her,
to let her know that everything would be okay.

But as he did,
he suddenly noticed motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned and was
shocked to see the boy with the crossbow, the one he’d thought he’d killed,
somehow back unsteadily on his feet, even with the sword through his chest. He
held the bow with shaking arms, and aimed it right for Merk. For the first time
in his life, Merk was caught off-guard. His caring for this girl had dulled his
senses.

There came the
awful sound of an arrow being fired, and Merk stood there, frozen, no time to
react. All he could do was watch helplessly as the arrow flew through the air,
right for him.

A split second
later, he felt the horrific agony of an arrowhead hitting his back, entering
his flesh.

Merk sank to his
knees in the mud, spitting up blood, and as he did, what surprised him most was
not that he would die, but that he would die
here
, at the hands of a
boy, in the mud, in the middle of nowhere, so close, after such a long trek to
starting life again.

Kyra struggled
against the heavy net as it fell down upon her, caught by surprise, trying
desperately to break free. Cast by several soldiers, the net, made of a steel
and rope mesh, must have weighed a hundred pounds, and she found herself pinned
down by the thick rope as the men yanked on every side, stretching it tight.

They yanked
again, and she found herself flattened, face-down in the snow with the others,
all pinned down. Andor and Leo snarled viciously, bucking, writhing, and while
Leo turned and sank his fangs into the net, his efforts were useless, the steel
too hard to chew through.

As Kyra watched
the Pandesian soldiers closing in, wielding swords and halberds, she kicked
herself for not being more vigilant. She knew that if she did not find a way
out, they would all end up back in bondage, with a brutal imprisonment, and
this time, a likely death. She could not let that happen. Most of all, she
could not let her father down. Whatever the cost, she had to escape.

Kyra struggled
as she groaned and reached for her staff, unable to grab it, her arms pinned to
the ground. She tried desperately to break free and she knew their situation
was dire.

There came a
horrific noise, like a lion bursting from its cage, and slowly, to Kyra’s
surprise, the net began to rise. Kyra turned and was shocked to see Andor,
using his tremendous strength to somehow gain his feet. To her shock, he
twisted his neck, reached out with his huge fangs, and tore right through it.

It was the most
incredible thing Kyra had ever seen. This miraculous beast, a pure specimen of
power, chewed through the steel rope and, in a fit of rage, shook his head and
tore it to bits. He stood higher and higher, raising the net for all of them,
and a moment later, Kyra found herself unrestrained.

Andor leapt
forward in a single bound and sank his fangs into the chest of the closest
soldier, a man whose eyes opened three times as wide at the sight of him. The
man fell, instantly killed.

Andor then swung
his head to the side and as another soldier charged him with a sword, he used
his fangs to slice his chest in two.

Two more
soldiers charged from behind and Andor leaned back and kicked them with his
mighty hooves, his kick so powerful that he cracked all their ribs and caved in
their chests, knocking them to the ground, unconscious.

Kyra spotted a
soldier train his crossbow on Andor and she realized that, in a moment, he
would be fatally wounded. She felt a rush of panic, realizing she would not be
able to reach him in time.

“LEO!” she
cried, knowing instinctively that Leo, closer, would know what to do.

Leo burst into
action: he charged across the snow, leapt into the air and landed on all fours
on the soldier’s chest, sinking his fangs into his throat as the man shrieked.
He pinned him to the ground and the arrow went flying harmlessly up into the
air, sparing Andor’s life.

Two more
soldiers stepped forward, each raising their bows and aiming at Andor, and Kyra
drew her staff, separated it, and stepped forward and threw each half. They
flew through the air like spears, and each sharpened end lodged in one of the
soldier’s chests. The men cried out as they fell to their backs, their arrows
shooting up into the trees, hitting branches with a thwack and bringing down a
clump of snow onto the forest floor.

Kyra heard a
noise and felt something whizz by her head. She turned to see a spear fly by
and just miss her, and saw two more soldiers charging, hardly twenty feet away.
Each looked determined to kill her as they drew their swords.

Kyra, in battle
mode, forced herself to focus: she reached back, drew her bow, placed an arrow
and fired. She did not wait to see if it met its mark before she fired again.

Each shot landed
in the chest of an attacker as they charged for her, felling them.

Kyra suddenly
heard a noise behind her, wondering how many soldiers were out there, how many
would emerge from these blackened woods. She turned, too late, to realize a
soldier had snuck up behind her, his sword raised and about to slash her arm.
She braced herself, the man too close to deflect the blow.

The soldier,
though, cried out and fell, lifeless, in the snow beside her. Kyra stared,
baffled, wondering what had happened.

She looked up to
see Dierdre standing a few feet away, her bow raised, having just fired. She
looked down and saw the arrow piercing through the soldier’s back. She felt a
rush of gratitude. She saw a fierceness in her friend’s eyes she had not seen
before, could see that the vengeance her friend was taking on these Pandesians
was cathartic for her.

Kyra thought the
battle was over—but she suddenly heard a rustling in the wood, and she turned
to see a soldier taking off. She recalled what happened last time she’d let
someone escape, and without thinking she turned, set him in her sights, raised
her bow, and fired.

The arrow landed
in his back and the man fell face-first in the snow. Dierdre looked at her as
if with surprise, but this time, Kyra felt no remorse. Kyra wondered what was
happening to her. Who was she becoming?

Kyra stood
there, breathing hard in the silence, surveying the carnage. Several soldiers
lay there, their blood seeping into the snow, all dead. She looked over at
Andor, Leo, and Dierdre, and slowly realized they had won. The four of them had
become one unit.

Kyra kissed
Leo’s head then walked over to Andor, still snarling at the dead soldiers, and
caressed his mane.

“You did it,
boy,” she said to him gratefully. “You freed us.”

Andor let out a
sound, like a purr, but harsher, and for the first time, his visage softened a
bit.

Dierdre shook
her head remorsefully.

“You were
right,” she said. “It was stupid of me to come here. I’m sorry.”

Kyra turned and
looked out through the wood line, across the clearing, remembering the food.
The pigs were still roasting there, hundreds of Pandesian soldiers close by,
still not alerted to their presence. She saw all the carriages, too, the faces
of all those boys, and it tormented her.

“We are lucky
they didn’t spot us,” Dierdre said. “This must have been a patrol group. Let us
go. We need to get as far away as we can, before they do.”

But slowly, Kyra
shook her head.

“I’m thinking
the opposite,” Kyra replied.

Dierdre furrowed
her brow.

“What do you
mean?”

Kyra looked back
over her shoulder, at the trail back to freedom, and she knew the safe thing to
do would be to ride off quickly and quietly, to continue on her quest.

Yet she also
felt that sometimes, it was the detours on a journey that ended up mattering
most. She felt as if she were being tested. How many times had her father told
her that the ultimate quest in life was to leave no man behind? No matter how
far you went, how high you climbed, how far your renown spread, at the end of
the day, all that mattered, he had said, all that man could be judged by, was
not how far he had went, but how much he had looked back. How many he had taken
with him.

She was
beginning to understand. Here was her test: an open road to freedom, to safety.
Or a road of peril, behind her, across that clearing, to free boys she did not
even know. It was, she felt, the right thing to do. And was justice not what
mattered most?

She felt it
burning in her veins. She had to risk her life, whatever the danger. If she
were to turn her back on them, who would she be?

“You’re not
thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Dierdre asked, sounding incredulous.

Kyra nodded.

“It is a long
ride across the clearing,” she said, a plan formulating in her mind. “But our
horses are fast.”

“And then what?”
Dierdre asked in disbelief. “That is an army out there. We cannot outrun them.
And we cannot defeat them. It will mean our deaths.”

Kyra shook her
head.

“We will make
for the carriages. We will sever the chains, free those boys, and when they are
on the loose, the Pandesians will have bigger problems to deal with.”

Dierdre smiled
wide.

“You are wild
and reckless,” she said. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

The two
exchanged a smile, and without another word, they mounted their horses and took
off, galloping into the clearing, throwing all caution to the wind.

The group burst
across the clearing, Kyra’s heart slamming in her chest as she crossed the snow
in the moonlight, hundreds of Pandesian soldiers gathered at the other end,
none seeing her yet. She knew that if they detected her before they got close
enough, they would never make it.

As they rode,
Kyra clutching the sword she had snatched from a fallen soldier, none took
notice. These men, apparently, were too distracted by their fires, their
feasting, and their drink to be on the lookout for a small group charging in
the middle of the night.

Kyra tore across
the clearing, her adrenaline coursing so wildly that she could barely see
straight. And as she neared the end of the clearing, the carriages looming
closer, she saw the faces of the boys in finer detail, looking out desperately,
and she watched as some of them began to spot her, to understand. Their faces,
so desperate a moment before, suddenly filled with hope.

“Over here!” one
boy yelled out, shattering the night’s silence.

“Free us!”
yelled another.

A great chorus
began to rise up inside the carriages, followed by the clanging of iron as the
boys slammed shackles against the bars. Kyra desperately willed for them to
quiet, but it was too late—the Pandesians turned and began to take notice.

“You there!
Stop!” a Pandesian commanded, yelling through the night.

Soldiers jumped
up and began to charge them.

Kyra’s heart
slammed, realizing her window was narrowing; if she didn’t free these boys
before the Pandesians arrived, she would be dead. But yards away, she kicked
Andor harder, as Dierdre kicked her horse, and they each raised their swords
and bore down on the carriages packed with screaming boys.

Kyra did not
even slow as she rode up beside a carriage, raised her sword high, and brought
it down in a great slash, aiming for the thick, iron chains. Sparks flew as the
chain, severed, fell to the ground with a great clank.

The metal gate
creaked open and there came a great shout and rush of excitement as dozens of
boys rushed out, stepping over each other, stumbling into the snow, some
wearing boots, others barefoot. Some of them took off, running for the safety
of the woods; but most turned around and charged for the wall of incoming
Pandesian soldiers, vengeance in their eyes.

Kyra and Dierdre
raced from carriage to carriage, slashing the chains, opening the gates,
freeing one after the next. One gate would not give, and Leo bounded forward,
bit the bars with his fangs, and pulled it open. Another door was stuck, and
Andor leaned back and reared his legs and kicked until it shattered.

Soon hundreds of
boys poured into the forest clearing. They did not have weapons, but they had
heart, and a clear desire for vengeance against their captors. The Pandesian
soldiers must have realized, because even while they charged, their eyes soon
began to fill with doubt and hesitation.

The boys let out
a great shout, and as one they rushed the soldiers. The Pandesians raised
swords and killed some of them—but the boys came on too fast and soon the
soldiers had no room to maneuver. The mob of boys tackled them to the ground
and soon it was hand to hand. Some boys knocked the soldiers out, then stripped
them of their weapons and charged for the others. Soon the army of boys became
armed.

The forest
clearing quickly became filled with cries and shrieks, the sounds of boys
liberated and of Pandesian soldiers dying.

Kyra, satisfied,
exchanged a look with Dierdre. Their job here was done. The boys had their
freedom—now it was up to them to win it.

Kyra turned and
raced back for the wood line, away from the clearing, from the shouts of boys
and men. Kyra felt arrows flying by her head, just missing her and she looked
back and saw a few Pandesian archers had set their sights on them. She urged
Andor harder and ducked low, and with one final burst they left the clearing
and returned back into the woods, embraced by the darkness. As she did, one
final arrow sailed by, just missing her, embedding itself in a tree with a
thwack.

They rode back
into the darkness, heading north again, toward the sea, wherever it was, while
behind them there slowly faded the sounds of the battle, of hundreds of boys
embracing their freedom. She had no idea what the road ahead might bring, but
it mattered little: she had not cowered from a fight, and that meant more than
anything.