Rise of the Valiant (23 page)

Alec knelt in
the soil, not feeling the mud on his hands, the cool breeze on his face—not
even feeling his own body—as he knelt there, numb, bent over his brother’s
grave. He wept and wept beside the mounds of dirt, hands raw from having dug
all night long, from having buried his brother himself.

Alec felt
nothing now; he felt nothing but raw, hollowed out, kneeling there, before his
family, all alive just days ago—and now all dead. It was surreal. There, before
him, was the brother he had sacrificed for, had sent volunteered to The Flames
for. But Alec did not feel a hero; on the contrary, he was overwhelmed by
guilt. He could not help thinking that this was all due to him.

Pandesia had
swept through his village for one reason only: for vengeance. Alec had shamed
them when he had escaped The Flames, and they had come here to send a message
to all those who dared defy them. If he had never escaped, Alec realized, his
family would be alive today; ironically, he had set out to sacrifice his life
for his brother’s, but had ended up killing him instead. He wished for nothing
more than to be there with them, beneath the earth, dead and buried with the
family he loved.

Alec felt a
strong hand on his shoulder and he looked up to see Marco standing over him,
reassuring, looking down with a face filled with sadness and compassion. It was
also a face of strength, a face silently urging him to go on.

“My friend,”
Marco finally said, his voice hesitant and deep, “I understand your grief—no,
in truth, I cannot understand it. I have never had a loss like yours. But I
know what it’s like to have nothing. To feel like nothing. To have what you
love taken from you.”

Marco sighed.

“But I also know
that life pushes on, whether we want it to or not. It is the tide of a river
that cannot be stopped. You cannot kneel here forever; you cannot collapse and
die. You must go on. Life
demands
you go on.”

Alec wiped away
tears, embarrassed to be crying before his friend as he slowly became aware of
his presence.

“I don’t see how
I can,” Alec said.

“To want to go
on living, you must have a reason, a purpose,” Marco said. “A will. Can you
think of no reason? No purpose? Not one reason to live?”

Alec tried to
think, his mind a blur, spinning. He tried to concentrate, but he found it hard
to focus on any one thought.

Alec stared down
at the earth, cast red by the sunrise, and he saw his life flashing before him.
He was overcome by memories of he and Ashton playing when they were kids; of
pounding steel in his father’s forge; of his mother cooking; of happy times in
this village when it seemed as if they would all live here forever. Life was
perfect, it seemed, and always would be—before Pandesia invaded.

As he had that
last thought, slowly, something began to crystallize in his mind. Alec slowly
remembered Ashton’s final words. He recalled the look in his brother’s eyes,
the feel of his hand clutching his wrist.

Avenge me.

They were more
than words. They were a command. A life sentence. His brother’s look at that
moment, the fierceness in his eyes, a fierceness he had never seen in his life,
still haunted Alec. It was unlike his brother to ever condone violence, to
condone vengeance. Yet in his dying moments he wanted it, more than Alec had
ever seen anyone want anything.

As his words
rang in Alec’s mind again and again, like a bell tolling, Alec began to hear
them, like a mantra, rising up in his mind. They ignited a fire that began to
course through his veins as Alec turned and looked away from the graves, from
his village, and out, toward the horizon. Toward Pandesia.

They drove him
to stand.

Alec looked out,
eyes red from crying, and slowly, his sadness gave way to a tide of anger, as
his jaw set. It felt good to stand: it allowed the heat of anger to pulse up
within him, until it coursed through to his very fingertips. It was anger
driven by purpose. A desire to kill. A need for vengeance.

Alec turned and
looked at Marco, and he felt his muscles bulging, muscles he had developed from
years of striking the anvil, and he knew that he, indeed, had something left to
offer this world. He had strength, a knowledge of weaponry—and a desire to use
them both.

“I do have a
reason,” Alec finally responded. “I have one thing left to live for.”

Marco stared
back questioningly.

“Death,” Alec
continued. “I must find the Pandesians who murdered my family, and give them
the same death they gave my family.”

As he uttered
the words, Alec felt his own conviction, and it felt good. It was as if he were
speaking outside of himself.

Marco nodded
back, seeming satisfied.

“That is reason
indeed,” he replied, “as fine a reason as anyone has to live. Finer indeed than
I myself have. You have a cause now, my friend. That is more than most people
have in life. Consider it a gift.”

Marco clasped
his shoulder.

“You are not
alone,” he said. “There are others, too, who crave vengeance. Others who want
to cast off the yoke of Pandesia. I know of them. They are my friends. They
hail from my city: the city of Ur.”

Marco gave him a
knowing look.

“If you want
vengeance against a vast army, you will need help,” Marco continued. “I want
this vengeance, too, and these men can help us.”

Alec felt a
resolution growing within him.

“Pandesians are
everywhere,” Marco said. “Stay here, and we shall be captured, sent back to The
Flames. We must make it to Ur, and quickly.”

As his friend
spoke the words, they resonated within him. Alec was ready, ready for the first
day of the rest of his life: a life of vengeance. Doing for his brother what
Ashton could not do for himself.

“I am ready,”
Alec replied.

The two of them
turned and began to march back through his village. They began the long hike
into the plains, heading south and west, their backs to the rising sun, on
their way for death, for vengeance, and for the city of Ur.

Kyra sprinted
down the forest path, Dierdre and Leo beside her, adrenaline pumping through
her veins as she chased after the Pandesian carriage. It turned and disappeared
from view, and she increased her speed, lungs burning, determined not to lose
it. There were girls trapped in there, girls like her, girls being shipped off
to an awful life, as she nearly had been. No matter what the cost, she could
not sit by and allow that.

She rounded the
bend Kyra and was thrilled to spot the carriages, slowed by a muddy stretch of
road, and she increased her pace. As she bore down on them, the reality sank in
of what she was doing, of how reckless this was; she knew they could not kill
all of these professional soldiers, and that they would likely be captured or
killed by them. Yet the strangest thing happened to her. For some reason, Kyra
felt her fear dissolving. In its place, she felt a rush of adrenaline, felt a
great sense of purpose, and she did not think of herself, but only of these
girls. She imagined the battle to come and she felt comfortable that, no matter
what happened, even if she should die here on this day, her cause was true.

Kyra glanced
over at Dierdre, running beside her, and she could see the fear in her friend’s
face. Dierdre seemed unsure what to do.

“Make for the
wood line and circle around, behind them,” Kyra commanded her. “On my signal,
attack them from behind.”

“Attack them
with what?” Dierdre called back, her voice filled with fear.

Kyra realized
her friend was weaponless, and she studied the soldiers on the back of the
carriage, and singled out the ones with tall spears, riding closer to the wood
line, and she came to a decision.

“We’ll use their
weapons against them,” she said. “On my signal, you shall unlock the carriages
and free the girls. I shall aim for the men with the spears, and when they
drop, you shall gather one for yourself. Go!”

Dierdre veered
off into the wood line, leaving Kyra and Leo alone on the road. Kyra, about
twenty yards away, was close enough now to be in range with her arrows and she
stopped in the muddy path, took aim, and released her first arrow, aiming for a
particularly large soldier on the last carriage, who appeared to be their
leader. He sat high up on the carriage, whipping the horses, and Kyra knew if
she could take him out, the carriage would lose control, and all would be
chaos. She aimed high, taking into account the wind, and aimed for his back.

Kyra released,
feeling all the tension leaving her body, and she watched breathlessly as the
fateful arrow sailed through the air, whistling. She held her breath, as she
always did, praying it did not miss.

It hit its
target, and she felt a flood of relief as she saw it was a perfect shot. The
soldier cried out and slumped over and tumbled down, the carriage immediately
veering, directionless, until it smashed into a tree—sending several soldiers
falling off of it, into the mud.

Before the
stunned soldiers could regroup, Kyra planted and fired again, this time aiming
for the other carriage driver. The arrow landed in the back of his shoulder,
sending him flying off the carriage and sending his carriage, filled with the
girls, keeling over on its side. There came the shouts of the girls, along with
the cries of two Pandesian soldiers crushed by the weight of it. Kyra hoped she
had not hurt the captives.

Kyra felt a
thrill of satisfaction: two shots, and both carriages were stopped, and four
Pandesian men down. She quickly took stock and realized that left her ten
soldiers to reckon with.

The remaining
soldiers began to collect themselves, looking about the woods in every
direction, clearly wondering who was attacking them. One of them looked back
and noticed Kyra, and he turned and shouted to the others.

As they turned
her way, she dropped two more.

That left eight.
The remaining soldiers, now keen to her presence, raised their shields and
crouched low as Kyra continued to fire. These men were professionals, though,
and she was unable to find room for an open shot. One soldier stood, took aim
and hurled his spear—and she was surprised at his speed and strength. The spear
flew through the air and just missed her head; that left the soldier exposed,
and Kyra immediately fired back, and before he could take cover, she felled
him, too.

Of the seven men
left, six of them let out a battle cry, drew their swords, raised their
shields, and surprised her by all charging for her at once in a
well-coordinated attack. Only one remained behind, guarding the locked
carriage, on its side, filled with shrieking girls.

“Dierdre!” Kyra
shrieked to the wood line.

Dierdre, on the
far side of the clearing, emerged from the woods and she, to Kyra’s surprise,
ran fearlessly for the one soldier standing guard. She ran up behind him,
jumped on his back, wrapped a piece of twine around his throat and squeezed,
holding on with all her might.

The soldier
gasped and writhed, trying to break free. Yet Dierdre was determined, holding
on for her life as the man, twice her size, bucked and stumbled. He slammed her
into the iron bars of the carriage and Dierdre cried out—yet still she held on.

The soldier
threw himself backwards, landing on the ground, on top of her, and Dierdre
cried out, crushed by the weight of him. She let go of her grip as he spun
around and reached for her face, raising his thumbs, Kyra saw with horror, to
gouge out her eyes. Kyra saw, with a sinking heart, that her friend was about
to die.

Suddenly there
came a shriek, and the girls from the carriage, right beside Dierdre, rushed
forward and stuck their arms through the bars, grabbing the soldier by the hair
and face. They managed to yank him back, against the bars, off of Dierdre.

Dierdre, freed
up, scrambled to her feet, grabbed the soldier’s dropped spear from the mud,
and plunged it with two hands into his gut, as the girls held him in place.

The soldier went
limp and fell face-first to the mud, dead.

Kyra saw the six
soldiers charging her, but yards away, and she focused on them. With little time
to react, she raised her bow and fired, this time aiming low, beneath their
shields, to their exposed legs. She felled one more soldier, as her arrow went
through his calf.

The five
remaining closed in on her, too close now for her to fire again. Kyra dropped
her bow and instead reached around and grabbed her staff off her back. She
turned it sideways as a fierce soldier raised his sword high with both hands
and brought it down for her head, and prayed that the staff held.

Kyra blocked the
blow, sparks flying, both hands shaking from the force, relieved her staff was
in one piece. She then spun around and used her staff to jab the soldier in the
jaw, a clean strike, breaking his jaw and knocking him down to the mud.

The four
remaining soldiers closed in. As one held his sword high, she spun and jabbed
him in the solar plexus, making him keel over, then in the same motion raised
her staff and cracked him in the side of the head, sending him to the ground.

Kyra ducked as a
soldier swung for her head, then spun around and jabbed him with her staff in
the kidneys, making him drop his sword and collapse.

Another soldier
came her way, and Kyra crouched down low, then came up with an uppercut,
connecting the staff under his chin and snapping his neck back, sending him to
his back.

Of the two men
left, one slashed at her and she raised her staff and blocked it. He was
quicker and stronger than the others, and as he slashed again and again, she
blocked, swinging her staff around, sparks flying as he drove her back in the
mud. She could not find an opening.

As Kyra found
herself losing strength, being dominated by this soldier, she felt she was
going to lose. Finally, as she stumbled back, she had a realization, as her
father’s words from one of their endless sparring sessions rang in her head:
never
fight on another man’s terms.

Kyra realized
she was fighting to this man’s strength, not to hers. Instead of trying to go
blow for blow with him, this time, as he swung, she no longer tried to resist.
Instead, she sidestepped and got out of his way.

This caught him
off guard and he stumbled in the mud—and as he went past, Kyra swung around and
smashed him in the face with her staff, knocking him down, face-first in the
mud. He tried to get up, and she brought her staff down on his back, knocking
him out.

Kyra stood
there, breathing hard, taking stock of the bodies all around her, lying in the
mud, and as she stood there, taking in the scene, she momentarily let her guard
down and forgot—the final soldier. Kyra noticed, too late, movement out of the
corner of her eye and she watched in horror as he brought his sword down for
the back of her neck. She had been careless, and now there was no time to
react.

A snarling noise
tore through the air as Leo leapt into the air and landed on the soldier’s
chest, sinking his fangs into his throat right before he could kill Kyra. The
man shrieked as Leo pinned him to the ground and tore him to pieces.

Kyra stood
there, realizing how much she owed her life Leo, and so grateful he was at her
side.

Kyra heard a
commotion and looked across the clearing and saw Dierdre reaching up with the
soldier’s sword and slashing at the chains to the carriage. It broke in a
shower of sparks and a dozen girls rushed out, overjoyed, thrilled to be free.
Dierdre then slashed the chains on the second carriage, and more girls rushed
out. Some of them kicked the lifeless soldiers, venting their anger on them,
while others cried and hugged each other. The sight of these girls’ freedom
made it all worth it to Kyra. She knew she had done the right thing. She could
hardly believe she had survived, had defeated all these men.

Kyra joined Dierdre
as they embraced the girls, all running over to them, eyes filled with tears
and gratitude. She saw the look of trauma in their eyes, and she understood it
too well.

“Thank you,” one
girl after another gushed.

“I don’t know
how to repay you!”

“You already
have,” Dierdre replied, and Kyra could see how cathartic this was for her.

“Where will you
go now?” Kyra asked, realizing they were all still here, in the middle of
nowhere. “It is unsafe for you here.”

The girls looked
at each other, all clearly stumped.

“Our homes are
far from here,” one said.

“And if we
return, our families may send us back.”

Dierdre stepped
forward.

“You shall come
with me,” she said proudly, determined. “I am going to the city of Ur. You
shall find safe harbor there. My family will take you in.
I
will take
you in.”

As she spoke the
words, Kyra could see a new life begin to blossom within Dierdre, one of
purpose, of fearlessness, as if her old self had a reason to live again. The
girls, too, brightened at the idea.

“Very well
then,” Kyra said.  We shall ride together. There is strength in numbers. Let us
go!”

Kyra went over
and snatched a sword from a dead soldier and handed it to one of the girls, and
one at a time, the other girls did the same, canvassing the battlefield for
weapons.

Kyra severed the
ropes of the Pandesian horses bound to the carriages and mounted one, thrilled
to have a ride again. The other girls rushed forward, each mounting a horse;
there were so many of them they had to ride two or three to a horse, yet
somehow, crammed as they were, they all fit, all of them armed, mounted, and
ready to go.

Kyra kicked her
new horse and the others joined in, all of them taking off at a gallop, down
the road, back in the other direction, finally, toward Ur. The wind in her
hair, a horse beneath her, companions beside her, Kyra finally knew that the
home stretch was before her, and nothing in the world would stop her now.

The Tower of Ur
was her next stop.