Rise of the Valiant (13 page)

Duncan rode his
horse at a walk, Seavig, Anvin and Arthfael beside him, their men close behind,
and glanced back and saw with satisfaction that they were all one force now.
Seavig’s men, hundreds strong, had merged seamlessly with his own. Their force
numbered well over a thousand men now, far more than Duncan had ever expected
to see when he had departed the gates of Volis; indeed, he had not even
expected to survive this long.

They marched
south and east, trekking for hours into the new day, following Seavig’s
guidance through his province as they headed away from Esephus and toward the
Lake of Ire. On the march since dawn, late afternoon clouds now hung heavy in
the sky, none of the men, even after a long’s night battle, willing to stop.
They were all, Duncan could sense, filled with a sense of purpose, one that had
not swept across Escalon since the invasion. Something special hung in the air,
something Escalon had lacked for years, and which Duncan had thought he would
never see again: hope.

Duncan felt a
sense of optimism welling within him, one he had not felt since his early days
as a warrior. His army had doubled in size already, villagers along the way all
too eager to join him, and momentum, he felt, was building of its own accord.
Volis was free; Argos was free; Esephus was free. Three of the strongholds of
the northeast were now back in the hands of Escalon, and it was all happening
so fast, so unexpected, like a midnight tide. The Pandesian Empire still had no
idea. And that meant that Duncan still had time. If he could manage to just
sweep through Escalon fast enough, maybe, just maybe, he could oust Pandesia
before they could rally, before the greater Pandesia caught wind. If he could
drive them all the way back through the Southern Gate, from there he was sure
he could use Escalon’s natural terrain to hold chokepoints and keep Escalon
free once again.

The key to all
of this, Duncan knew, would be rallying the strongholds, and the warlords who
controlled them. With the weak king deposed and the capital in Pandesian hands,
what remained of free Escalon lay in scattered strongholds, each, like his,
with its own force, its own commander. And in order to convince these men to
follow, Duncan, he knew, would have to give them a show of strength: he would
have to take the capital. And in order to take Andros, he would need the men
who controlled the heights around it: the warriors of Kos.

Kos was the key;
it was also a litmus test. The men of Kos were famed isolationists, as stubborn
as the goats that scaled their cliffs. If Duncan could persuade them to join
him, then, he knew, the rest of Escalon would follow. But if Kos refused, or if
Pandesia found out too soon, then an empire of soldiers that no one could hold
back—not even the best of their men—would sweep Escalon and wipe out not only
he and his men, but all the men, women and children of Escalon. Escalon would
be no more, razed to a crisp. The stakes could not be higher: Duncan was
gambling with all of their lives.

But freedom, his
father had taught him, was more precious than anything in life. And freedom,
sometimes, had to be earned repeatedly.

They marched and
marched, the day cold and gray, thick clouds hanging low, snow falling all
around them, a light snow which never seemed to stop. They marched in silence,
these men who understood each other, who had fought many battles together, and
nothing need be said between them.

Duncan watched
with interest as the terrain changed the farther south they went, the salty,
sea-climate of Esephus giving way to a barren stretch of plains and rolling
hills. He searched for the Ire with each step, yet it never appeared; this land
sprawled forever, and it did not seem as if it would ever end.

They crested a
hill and a gale of wind and snow took Duncan’s breath away. He blinked the snow
from his eyes, and as he looked out before him, he was mesmerized by the sight.
Far below, nestled in a valley, there it sat: the Lake of Ire. It shimmered
even beneath a gray sky, glowing a bright red, looking like a sea of fire. Some
legends, Duncan knew, told its color came from the blood of its victims, men
who waded in never to be seen again; others claimed its color rose from the
vicious creatures who lived in its waters; still others had it that its color
came from the tears of the goddess who wept in it when she first discovered
Escalon.

The Lake of Ire
was revered by all in Escalon as a sacred place, a place one came to to pray to
the God of Birth and the God of Death—and most of all, the God of Vengeance. It
was fitting, Duncan realized, that they would skirt its shores on this day.

Yet still,
Duncan wished they would have taken any other route. This lake was also a
cursed place, a place of death, a place one did not visit without reason. Even
from here he felt a chill as he examined its shores, ringed by red, gravel-like
rocks, its waters beyond it exploding with hot springs, sending off small
clouds of steam as if the lake were venting its wrath. They all stopped, their
armor clinking as thousands of horses rested, a sudden silence amidst the
winter gale, and took in the sight before them. Duncan marveled at it, one of
the wonders of Escalon.

“Is there no
other way?” Duncan asked Seavig, who came to a stop beside him.

Seavig grimly
shook his head, still staring out.

“We must follow
its shores to the mouth of the Thusius and that is the most direct way to Kos.
Don’t worry, old friend,” he said, clasping Duncan’s shoulder with a broad
smile, “the old wives’ tales are not true. The lake will not eat you, and we
won’t be swimming in it.”

Duncan still did
not like it.

“Why not take
the plains?” Anvin asked.

Seavig pointed.

“You see there?”
he said.

Duncan looked
and saw a thick fog rolling in. It came in way too fast, like a cloud in a
storm, and within moments it was rushing their way, blinding. Duncan, immersed
in a whiteout, had a jolt of fear as he could no longer see his men—he could
not even see Seavig, just a few feet away. He had never experienced anything
like it.

“It is not the
Lake of Ire one fears,” Seavig said, his voice rising calmly from the fog, “but
the plains surrounding it—and the fog that covers them. You see, my friend, you
can hear my voice but you cannot see my face. That is how men die here. They
get lost in the fog and never return.”

“And how could
fog kill a person?” Arthfael asked, beside them.

“It is not the
fog,” Seavig replied. “It is the creatures that ride it.”

Just as quickly,
a gale of wind rushed through and blew the fog away—and Duncan felt an immense
sense of relief to be able to see the lake again.

“If we take the
plains,” Seavig continued, “we will lose each other in the fog. If we stick to
the lake’s shores, we shall have a guide. Let us go quickly—the winds are
shifting.”

Seavig kicked
his horse, and Duncan joined, as did the others, all of them proceeding at a
trot downhill and toward the lake. The water’s hissing grew louder as they
neared, and as they reached its shores, the red gravel beneath their horses
made for an eerie nose. Duncan’s sense of apprehension deepened.

There came
another wave of fog, and once again, Duncan found himself immersed. Again, he
could not see before him, and this time, the fog did not blow away.

“Stay close and
listen for the gravel,” Seavig said. “That is how you know you are still on
shore. Soon enough you will hear the river. Until then, do not stray from the
path.”

“And those
beasts you speak of?” Duncan called out, on edge as they walked through the
cloud of white. “If you should come?”

Duncan heard the
sound of Seavig’s sword being drawn.

“They will
come,” he replied. “Just close your eyes, and let your sword do the killing.”

*

Duncan rode his
horse at a walk in the fog, his men beside him, their horses brushing up
against each other, the only way to navigate in the whiteout. He clutched his
sword, on edge. Behind him his men sounded the horn, again and again, its
lonely sound echoing through the hills, off the lake, his men following his
command so that they would not lose track of each other. Yet every time a horn
sounded he tensed, fearing it might provoke the creatures that lived in the fog
and bracing himself for an attack. The sound was also hard to track, and if it
weren’t for the gravel beneath them, they might all be lost by now. Seavig had
been right.

Duncan found
himself getting disoriented even so, losing himself in thought, losing all
sense of reality as he rode deeper into the white. It was surreal; he could see
how fog could drive a man mad.

Seavig’s low
heavy voice rumbled, breaking the silence, and Duncan welcomed it.

“Do you remember
Bloody Hill, old friend?” he asked, his voice heavy with nostalgia. “We were
young. Budding warriors, with no wives and no children—just ourselves and our
swords and the whole world before us to prove ourselves. That was the battle
that made us men.”

“I remember it
well,” Duncan replied, feeling as if it were yesterday.

“They outmanned
us two to one,” Seavig continued, “and a fog came in, much like today. We were
separated from our men, just the two of us.”

Duncan nodded.

“We stumbled
into a trap,” Duncan added.

“A hornet’s
nest,” Seavig said. “Do you remember what you said to me on that day?”

Duncan remembered,
all too well.

“You said: this
is the gift I’ve been waiting for,” Seavig continued. “I never understood what
that meant until years later. It
was
a gift. It was the gift of being
surrounded; the gift of being outnumbered; the gift of having no one else to
rely on but ourselves. How many men get that gift?”

Duncan nodded,
his heart welling with the memory of that day.

“A very rare
gift indeed,” Duncan said.

“I received many
wounds on that day,” Seavig continued after a long pause, “some of which I am
reminded of every time I bend my knee. But that’s not what I remember most of
all—nor is it the fact that we killed them all. What I remember most are your
words. And my surprise at seeing you unafraid. On the contrary, I never saw you
happier than at that moment. Your courage gave me strength. That was the day I
vowed to become a great warrior.”

Duncan pondered
his friend’s words deeply, memories rushing back, as they rode in silence for a
long time. Duncan hardly believed so many years had passed. Where had his youth
gone?

“The kingship
should be yours,” Seavig said, after a long silence, his voice hard, his words
rolling on the fog.

Duncan was
startled by his words; the kingship was not something he aspired to, and his
friend’s voice felt like his darker conscious egging him on.

Duncan shook his
head.

“The old King
was my friend,” he replied. “I have always aspired only to serve.”

“He betrayed the
kingship,” Seavig countered. “He surrendered Escalon. He does not deserve to be
King. I, for one, will never serve him again, if Escalon should ever be
free—and neither will the others. We have no king—don’t you see that? And what
will a free Escalon be without a king?”

“That may be
so,” Duncan said, “and yet still he is our King, worthy or not. Surrendering a
land does not forfeit a kingship.”

“Doesn’t it?”
Seavig replied. “If not that, then what? What is a King who does not defend his
land?”

Duncan sighed,
knowing his friend was right. He had thought this through many times himself.
Speaking to his friend was like arguing with himself; he was unsure what to
say.

“Even if we had
a new king,” Duncan replied, “why should it be me? There are many worthy men
out there.”

“We all respect
you,” Seavig replied. “All the warlords. All the great warriors who remain,
scattered across Escalon. You represent what is best in all of us. When the
Tarnis surrendered the land, we all expected you to assume the kingship. But
you did not. Your silence spoke louder than all. It was your silence, my
friend, your sticking by the old King’s side, that enabled Pandesia to take our
land.”

The words struck
Duncan deep, like a dagger in his heart, as he wondered if his friend were
right. He had never considered it that way.

 “I wanted only
to be loyal,” Duncan replied. “Loyal to my land, loyal to my people, and loyal
to my king.”

Seavig shook his
head.

“Loyalty can be
the greatest danger of all, when it is blind, when it is misplaced.”

Duncan thought
about that. Had he been blinded by loyalty for the sake of loyalty?

“You taught me a
great deal, Duncan,” Seavig continued. “Now allow me to teach you. It is not
loyalty and devotion that make a man. It is knowing
who
to be loyal
to—and
when
. Loyalty is not forever. Loyalty must be earned, every
moment of every day. If the man I was loyal to yesterday does not earn it
today, then that loyalty
must
be changed—or else that loyalty means
nothing. Loyalty is not a birthright. To be the recipient of loyalty is a very
sacred thing; and if recipients are unworthy, they must face the consequence.
Blind devotion is a crutch. It is passive. And a warrior must never be
passive.”