Rise of the Valiant (26 page)

Merk leaned
against the cold silver doors of the Tower of Ur, seated on the ground as he
had been for days, despite the cold, the stiffness of his limbs, the hunger,
refusing to leave. He would not accept the Watchers’ rejection. He felt, deep
inside, more than he had ever felt anything, that this place was home, that he
was
meant
to be here.

He also could
not walk away in the face of the great riddle posed to him. Above all, Merk
hated riddles. He loved reason and order, expected all things to follow a
logical and rational pattern. He had always lived life as a rational man, even
when he killed people. He did not like mysteries, and he did not like things
that could not be explained—especially when they had to do with him.

And this
mysterious riddle tormented him. He had entered a different realm in this
place, and he was not on his own terms anymore. He realized that. Yet he was
not used to being posed questions that had no simple answers. He did not like
questions that could be answered in different ways for different people. He
preferred to see the world as black and white, right and wrong, good and evil.

Merk grappled
with their question as he sat there, his head hung in his hands, turning it
over again and again. It reverberated in his mind again and again.

Are you worthy?

It was a
question that made him ponder not only his reason for being here, but struck at
the core of his entire life. It was a question that, he realized, had lingered
at the edge of his consciousness for all his life. Why was he worthy? So many
people had told him he was worthless in life, starting with his father. What
made him worthy of serving Escalon? To be feared by other men? To have the
skills that he had? Why was he, indeed, worthy of living?

The more he
pondered it, the more he realized that, deep down, he did not feel worthy at
all. He never had. Since he was a child, his parents had made it clear to him
that he was not worthy of his brothers and sisters, not worthy of their great
family name. He had never felt worthy in his own eyes or anyone else’s. So this
question that the Watchers had posed to him had struck him in more ways than
one. Had they known that it would? Was the question different for each person
who knocked?

Merk realized,
as he pondered it, that the riddles were designed to make petitioners go away.
They did not want anyone here who did not truly want to be here. They wanted
people so desperate to be here that they were willing to not just give up
everything, but to also grapple with their own demons, to face their own worst
fears.

Merk leaned back
and shrieked in frustration. He stood and slammed his palms against the silver
doors until he could stand it no longer.

Why was he
worthy?

Merk paced back
and forth, determined to get to the bottom of this answer that had tortured him
his whole life. He was not worthy because of his skills. That had been the
wrong answer, he realized it now. Many other skilled contenders desired to be
here, too. They were turned away, too, despite their skills.

His whole life
Merk had taken pride in his skills. But the Watchers wanted something more. But
if not skills, then what?

The more Merk
dwelled on it, the more his mind went numb and began to, finally, go blank. As
it did, he began to experience a new place in his mind, a place of calm, of a
quiet unlike any he’d ever known. It was a strange place, a place where he no
longer tried to rationally think of the answers. It was a place of a deep
stillness, where he no longer grappled for answers, but waited to allow the
answers to come to him.

As he stood
there, breathing deep, slowly, an answer began to come to him. The less he
tried to figure it out, the more clear it became, like a flower blossoming in
his mind.

Perhaps he was
worthy not because of his past but because of his
present
. Because of
who he was
right now
.

And the person
who he was right now could not be worthy. Not yet. After all, he had never been
here, had never served here.

That was the
answer: he was
not
worthy. They demanded someone with the awareness to
know that he was unworthy. That awareness, after all, was the foundation one
needed in order to learn, in order to become worthy.

Merk turned,
heart pounding with excitement, and slammed the door with his palm, knowing he
had the answer this time, feeling it as certain as he felt he was alive. He
also knew somehow that this time, they would answer the door.

Merk was not
surprised when the slot in the door slid back instantly. Whoever was behind
that door seemed to sense the shift in him.

“I am
not
worthy!” Merk called out quickly, in a rush, thrilled by his realization. “And
that is precisely why I am worthy to enter here—because I know I am not.
Because I am willing to become worthy. None of us are born worthy. Only those
who realize this have the chance to become worthy. I am worthy because I
am…nothing.”

Merk stared back
at the fierce yellow eyes, which seemed to examine him for a long time,
expressionless. He sensed something shift between them as a long, tense silence
followed. He knew his whole future depended on these next few moments, on
whether this man would let him through those doors.

But Merk’s heart
slammed like a lid on a coffin as the metal latch slammed closed again.

He was
crestfallen. A long silence ensued, an echoing silence that seemed to last
forever.

Merk stood
there, shocked. He could not understand. He had been so sure he had been right,
had felt it without a doubt. He stood there, staring. He had no idea where to
go, no idea what else to do with his life.

Suddenly, to his
shock, there came the sound of multiple latches opening, echoing behind the
silver doors—and soon, the silver doors began to open slowly. First they opened
just a crack; then the crack widened.

Merk stood
outside, mouth agape, as an intense light began to flood him, to beckon him. He
knew that once he passed through those doors his life would change forever, and
as they widened all the way and the light flooded over him, he was breathless.
As he took that first, fateful step, he could hardly believe what he saw before
him.

Duncan braced
himself as the ice bats engulfed him, squealing in his ears, clawing him in
every direction. His skin scratched, the bats swarmed him, pulling at his hair,
slicing him anywhere they could find, and with each cut he felt himself growing
weaker. On his back the wounded soldier groaned, while beside him, Seavig cried
out as he swatted at them unsuccessfully. Separated up here from the rest of
his men, far from the plateau, and getting weaker with each moment, Duncan knew
he would not survive.

There suddenly
came the sound of picks chipping away at ice, and Duncan looked over and was
surprised to see his commanders, Anvin and Arthfael, appearing beside him,
joined by dozens of others, all of them picking their way up the mountain
despite the swarm of bats attacking them. They had all come, he realized, to
save him.

The men swung
wildly with their picks, dropping bats from the sky, the screeches rising up.
They came close and shielded Duncan and Seavig with their bodies, slashing at
the beasts to divert the ice bats’ attack. Duncan found himself momentarily
relieved from the swarm as some of the bats shifted to attack the others—and he
was overwhelmed by their loyalty: they’d all risked their lives for him.

Yet no sooner
had they made headway when the bats regrouped, more and more arriving. He
joined his men in swatting at them, but it did little good. His men, Duncan was
horrified to see, were now also getting clawed and bitten to death. Duncan knew
there wasn’t much time before they were all finished. He felt a bat bite his
shoulder and he shrieked, as more and more landed on his back, the bats getting
bolder as the sky turned white with their translucent bodies. His hands were
shaking, and he felt himself losing his grip.

Suddenly, the
bats let out a chorus of shrieks. It was not a shriek of victory—but one of
agony, carrying a different pitch to it. As Duncan felt them begin to back
away, he could not understand what was happening. And then, he realized:
something was attacking them.

Duncan heard a
whooshing noise beside him and felt a rush of wind and he looked up the
mountain face, blinking into the snow, and was amazed at what he saw: high
above were what dozens of soldiers, hardened warriors with long beards and
fierce, square faces. They peered down over the mountaintop and tilted huge
cauldrons, leaning them over the edge of the mountain face. As they did, a
black liquid came gushing down the mountain like a waterfall, just far out
enough so that it just missed Duncan—yet close enough to be able to douse the
swarm of bats. Whatever was in that liquid must have hurt the bats, because
many of them dropped limply, killed on the spot—and the ones that survived,
screeched and flew off, the entire flock lifting, disappearing as quickly as it
had arrived.

Duncan breathed
hard as he clung to the ice, scratched and bleeding, arms shaking, yet somehow
still alive. He turned and looked for his men, taking stock, and was relieved
to see they were still there. A sense of quiet and calm had finally descended
over them, and despite his wounds, Duncan felt, for the first time, that he was
going to make it. The men of Kos were in sight. He would have another chance at
life. They would reach the top.

Adrenaline
pumping in his veins, Duncan reached up and with a renewed strength slammed his
ice pick into the mountain face, then his feet, stepping up, climbing again.
The men all around him did the same, and soon the air was, once again, filled
with the sound of ice chipping, and of men climbing.

With each pick,
one step at a time, his army ascended the mountain face.

Duncan pulled
himself up with one last heave as he reached the top, then collapsed onto the
floor of snow, beyond exhausted, breathing hard, hardly believing he had made
it. Every muscle in his body burned.

Duncan rolled to
the side and released the injured soldier on his back, freeing himself of the
weight. The young soldier groaned beside him, and looked at him with a look of
gratitude beyond any Duncan had ever seen.

“You saved my
life at the risk of your own,” the man said, his voice weak, “when you had
every reason not to.”

Duncan felt a
wave of relief as he saw his men ascend all around him, all gratefully
collapsing on the mountain top, and he slowly rose to his hands and knees,
gasping for air, feeling all the bat wounds, his arms still shaking. Sensing a
presence, Duncan looked up to see before him a broad, muscular hand reaching
down for him.

Duncan let
himself be pulled up, and as he stood, he was amazed by what he saw. Standing
there before him were the proud warriors of Kos, men adorned with furs, with
long beards sprinkled with white, thick eyebrows, broad shoulders and faces of
earnest men who had lived hard lives. The broad plateau atop the mountain
stretched as far as he could see, and he stared back at these men admiringly,
men who did not bother to wipe away the ever-present snow accumulating on their
faces, beards, eyelashes, men with wild, long hair, filled with snow. They wore
all-white armor beneath their furs, clearly prepared for battle at all times,
even in their home. These were the men he remembered.

The warriors of
Kos.

A warrior
stepped forward, a man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, shoulders
twice as broad as any man, and who wielded a great war hammer as if it were a
child’s stick. Duncan remembered him fondly from years ago, recalling a battle
they had fought in together, side by side, until the sun had set and all their
enemies were dead. Bramthos. Duncan was surprised to see him still alive—he
could have sworn he had seen him get killed in a battle years later.

“Last I saw you
you had a sword in your gut,” Duncan said, surprised to find his friend alive.
“I should have known.”

Bramthos beamed,
turning side to side, proudly displaying the scar across his nose.

“Lovely thing
about battle,” Bramthos replied. “Your foe never knows if you’re going to live
long enough to kill him back.”

Duncan shook his
head, wondering at the stuff these men of Kos were made of.

“And you,” Bramthos
said. “Last I saw you, you were leaping off a horse into the arms of three
soldiers hoping to kill you.”

Now Duncan
beamed.

“They should
have hoped harder,” Duncan replied.

Bramthos grinned.

“Looks like we
came to save you just in time,” he said, examining Duncan’s wounds.

Duncan grinned
back.

“We had them
just where we wanted them.”

After a long,
shocked pause, Bramthos grinned wide, then stepped in and embraced Duncan.
Duncan embraced him back, lost in this bear-of-a-man’s hug.

“Duncan,” the
man said.

“Bramthos,”
Duncan replied.

“Ironic,” Duncan
continued, as he stepped back and examined his old friend. It felt good to see
him again, to be in the company of such great warriors. “I came here to save
you, and you ended up saving us.”

Bramthos’s grin
widened.

“And who ever
said we needed saving?” Bramthos replied.

Duncan grinned,
seeing that his friend meant every word, and knowing it was true. These
warriors of Kos needed no saving. They would fight anyone to the death and
think nothing of it.

Bramthos clasped
Duncan’s shoulder, turned and began leading him and his men across the broad
plateau. The hundreds of soldiers of Kos, gathered around, parted ways for
them, all of them staring as they passed, strong, somber men, bedecked in armor
and furs, wielding halberds, hammers, axes, and spears.

Duncan found
himself being led through a land of stone and ice, snow-covered peaks all
around them, the wind whipping with a vengeance. In the distance he could see
the outline of a city amidst the fast-moving clouds, a barren city atop the
world. Duncan breathed easy, realizing they had really made it, had finally
reached, against all odds, the brutal and unforgiving home to the people of
Kos. He sensed that Bramthos was bringing him to their leader, Bramthos, and as
they neared the city, Duncan knew that the meeting he was about to have, up
here, high in the sky, would change the fate of Escalon forever.