The Weight of Honor (15 page)

Merk stood atop the Tower of Ur, watching the breaking dawn spread over the world, staring out at limitless sky and ocean, and he felt as if he were being reborn with the world. The view was breathtaking. From up here, he could see it all: the crashing of the Sorrow in every direction, the barren, windswept peninsula of Ur, the treetops of the great wood. Beyond them, he could see across all of Escalon. The sky broke and shifted in color, the sun’s rays slowly flooding the land, while gales of wind ripped through off the ocean, strong enough to nearly knock him off the side of the tower. He gripped the low stone wall, steadying himself, and looked down over the edge. His heart raced as he saw the ground, hundreds of feet below.

Merk realized how lucky he was to be alive, to wake on this day, and he felt like a new man. His life had been spared last night, thanks to Kyle, and it profoundly affected him. He had never come that close to dying, and he had never had someone save his life before. It was an almost religious experience, and he felt something shift within him. He was beginning to feel something more profound stirring inside.

The sound of hammering filled the air all, and as Merk finished his break and went back to his own hammering, nailing the iron pegs deep into the stone like all the others atop the tower, he turned and looked for Kyle. He spotted him on the far side of the roof, hammering away with the others, testing and retesting a rope as he threw it over the side. Merk did not recognize all of the dozens of Watchers up here with the men, warriors emerging from somewhere in the tower, from all different floors, men with hardened faces he did not recognize. It seemed all the men in the tower had been mobilized since last night’s confrontation, and now they all prepared for war.

Merk finished hammering in his peg, then threw his rope over the edge and tested it. It uncoiled all the way until it hit the bottom, then he coiled it up again, slowly pulling it up, his palms burning.

Satisfied, Merk prepared to hammer in the next rope, and as he did so, he made his way over to Kyle, wanting to thank him.

“I still don’t see the point of this,” Merk remarked to Kyle as he hammered in yet another peg.

Kyle did not look at him, staying focused on his work, his hammering.

“These ropes will help us fend off attack,” he explained. “They give us another option of defense and offense. They can also prove, more importantly, to be another escape route.”

“Escape?” Merk asked, surprised. “Do we not fight to the death here?”

“Not for us,” Kyle explained. “But for the Sword.”

Merk thought about that.

“Then it lives here?” he asked, curious.

Kyle glanced at him, then looked away.

“Whether it does or not, we must cover all contingencies,” he replied, “from above and below.”

Merk wondered.

“Are there tunnels beneath the tower, then?”

Kyle continued to hammer, not meeting his eye.

“Our tower is mysterious,” he finally replied, “even to those who have served here for centuries. Not all is revealed to everyone, at every time. Each of us has pockets of knowledge about this place, different roles to play. Some know the rooftop, others, the tunnels. Some guard the Sword, if it is here, and others the windows.”

Merk studied Kyle as he hammered alongside him, and he wondered. Had this boy lived for centuries?

A silence fell over them as the Watchers kept to themselves, immersed in their work, many giving Merk a newfound look of respect. A few, though, he could sense, seemed jealous, or perhaps embarrassed that Merk had pressed on and spotted the trolls when they turned back.

“I didn’t have a chance to properly thank you,” Merk finally said to Kyle.

“For what?” he replied, still not looking, still immersed in his hammering.

“For saving me last night.”

“I didn’t save you. I did my duty.”

“But you saved me in the process,” Merk insisted.

Kyle shrugged.

“That was not my intent,” he answered flatly.

Merk felt hurt by that.

“Are you saying you would not have cared if I had died?” Merk pressed. For some reason, it mattered to him. No one had ever cared enough to save his life before, and he wanted to know if that was what had really happened.

Kyle fell silent for a long time as he inspected his rope, pulling it tight, twisting it.

“I have seen many men come, and many go,” Kyle finally said. “I have seen many die. That is the nature of man, is it not?”

Merk tried to understand.

“And what is the nature of your race?” Merk asked. “Do they not die?”

Kyle shrugged.

“You have mortality,” he replied. “We have our vulnerabilities.”

“Like what?” Merk asked.

Kyle fell back into silence as he continued hammering, and as he went back to work himself, Merk felt stung by him. He had hoped to make a friend in him, but Kyle seemed oddly aloof. It irked Merk all the more because all his life he had kept to himself, never reaching out to anyone before to befriend them. A gale of wind blew through, and the tower suddenly felt more cold and lonely than before.

“Figure you’re special, do you?” came a harsh voice.

Merk turned to see one of the Watchers, Pult, a rugged man, unshaven, with a big square jaw and dark eyes staring back at him, a face filled with hostility.

“Because you spotted the trolls last night?” the man added. “And we didn’t?”

Merk was not looking for a fight, especially from his newfound friends, but he knew that bullies were everywhere, and that he could not risk showing weakness on a first encounter. Weakness emboldened bullies, and he could sense this man was territorial, that he hated him for no reason. He had been around hate long enough to spot it when he saw it.

“You said it,” Merk replied, not backing down, not wanting to appease this man. “Not me.”

The man reddened, clearly not expecting such a response.

“Let me tell you, stranger,” the man said, stepping close. “I’ve seen many drifters like you come into this tower. And I’ve seen just as many go. I’ve seen too many disappear in ways that are mysterious.” He smiled and stepped closer, but a few feet away. “There are too many ways to get hurt in this place.”

Merk smirked and, deciding to show no fear, turned his back on the man. He bent over the tower wall and tested his rope.

“And I’ve seen blowhards all my life,” Merk replied, his back to him. “They like to talk. They bore me.
I
like to take action. If you have something to say, draw a dagger. Otherwise, you’re just talk.”

Merk suddenly felt a kick in his back, and a moment later, he felt himself sliding over the side of the tower. He was stunned—he had not expected this man to attack him here, in daylight, before all the others.

Seconds later Merk was over the edge of the tower, sliding, falling, and he reached out and grabbed the rope with both hands, swinging a few feet from the top. He slammed into the stone as he swung, winded, and his heart pounded as a gale of wind blew him from side to side. He looked down, saw the drop hundreds of feet below, and knew it would kill him.

Merk reached to pull himself up on the rope, when suddenly a hand came down—a young, smooth hand—and pulled him up in one quick motion, with surprising strength.

Merk landed back on the rooftop, on his hands and knees on the stone, gasping. Irate, he looked everywhere for the bully, but he was nowhere in sight. The rest of the crowd kept their eyes on their work, either not wanting to get involved, or not caring if Merk survived.

Only Kyle stood over him, and stared down at him.

“Saving you’s getting to be a full-time job,” he remarked, shaking his head, then went back to his work.

Merk, still stunned, was grateful as he slowly regained his feet.

“Why?” Merk asked, approaching him. “If you don’t care, why bother saving me?”

Kyle grinned, still looking down at his hammer.

“I like not being the only outsider here,” he finally replied. Then Kyle turned to him: “And I have to admit, things are a bit more interesting with you around.”

Anvin galloped south through the hot and barren plains of Thebus, the air stifling with every step, racing into the sun, Durge at his side and their dozens of men behind them as they headed for the Southern Gate. They rode on, the thundering of their horses’ hooves filling the air. Anvin’s heart raced; the next few hours would determine his destiny, and the destiny of Escalon. He had never ridden all the way to the gate, and as they went the land narrowed to a strip of desert, bordered on either side by the two seas. On either side of him the water sparkled, the glare blinding, heat coming off the ground in waves and not a breeze to be found. This strip of land was all that separated the two seas, the mainland of Escalon from Pandesia, and Anvin knew that whoever held it controlled the gateway to Escalon.

Durge rode up beside him, and Anvin looked over to see a maniacal smile on his face, as if he were getting ready for bloodshed. Durge looked as if he had been born for a day like this.

“Do you think it was wise, bringing only two dozen of your men?” Anvin called out, recalling the hundreds of men Thebus had left behind in his fort.

Thebus, covered in dust, looked straight ahead, studying the horizon with a deadly intent.

“Taking the Southern Gate is not hard,” he called back defensively. “Holding it is. The Pandesians know this—that is why they leave but a few dozen men to guard it. They don’t expect an attack from the north—after all, who would be foolish enough?”

Anvin studied the gate as they approached, wondering.

“What matters is holding it,” Durge continued, “and for that we need not a few hundred men, but a few thousand. We need your Duncan’s men, and all those reinforcements you vow will be coming.”

Anvin understood.

“They will come,” he reassured. “Duncan never breaks a vow.”

As they closed in on the gate, a half mile away, Anvin wondered about something.

“Tell me,” Anvin called out. “When Tarnis surrendered the Southern Gate and opened it for our enemies—why did you obey?”

Durge’s face reddened with anger as he continued to ride, locking his jaw, clearly bringing back bad memories.

“When your King commands,” he replied, “you obey. That is what loyal soldiers do.”

“And now?” Anvin asked.

They rode on in silence, until finally, Durge spoke.

“I shall not make the same mistake twice,” he replied. “If I am asked again to choose between my King and my honor—I will serve my honor first.”

They rode on, horses thundering across the plains, entering the long, narrow stretch of land that spanned the channel and leaving in their wake a cloud of dust. Anvin’s heartbeat quickened as they approached what could only be the Southern Gate. It gleamed from here, filling the skyline, a massive golden arch hundreds of feet high, the largest gate he had ever seen. It had huge iron spikes on its portcullis, which sat raised, keeping the gate open, allowing access to Escalon from all of Pandesia. Anvin would change that—or die trying. Whoever held that gate, Anvin knew, could keep the world at bay, could protect Escalon from any invasion. It was a natural bottleneck, and thousands of men of Escalon, properly positioned, could beat back millions.

Atop the gate, to Anvin’s disgrace, he saw the Pandesian banner, the insidious yellow and blue, flapping in the wind smugly, and at its base, he spotted a dozen Pandesian soldiers, standing lackadaisically on guard, their backs to them, facing south. Of course, they did not even bother to face Escalon. They never could possibly expect an attack.

“The worst job for a Pandesian!” Durge called out to Anvin. “To be stationed at the gate. They bask in the sun all day long, and they can expect no action.”

“Not until today,” Anvin corrected.

Durge drew his sword.

“Not until today,” he echoed.

Anvin lowered his head and kicked his horse and they all galloped, racing across the peninsula, a band of warriors charging together for their destiny. Anvin charged beside Thebus, leading his men as they raced down the barren stretch of land, the sun beating down, sweat stinging his eyes as he blinked into the sun. The light was blinding, bouncing off everything, the water now surrounding them on both sides, and but a few hundred yards ahead lay the Southern Gate, gleaming, reflecting more light than the two seas.

Anvin felt his heart slamming as they approached, knowing these next moments would determine everything, would be the sum of all he had ever fought for as a warrior. If they took the gate, they would, for the first time in years, shut off Escalon from the outside world, from invasion, would seal it off for its final step toward freedom. But if they failed—all of Pandesia would bear down on them with the weight of an ocean, and they would all be killed.

Anvin thought of Duncan, counting on him, and he gripped his sword, knowing he could not let his old friend down.

“Aim for the hornblowers first!” Durge cried.

Anvin looked at him, puzzled.

“See the ships?” Thebus cried, pointing to the sea.

Anvin looked and on the horizon saw hundreds of black ships, sailing the yellow and blue banners of Pandesia.

“That’s why there are so few men at the gate,” he added. “They need only sound the horns, and all the ships shall come to their rescue. They must not sound those horns!”

Anvin followed his finger and saw standing up high, on platforms raised on the gate, about twenty feet off the ground, a soldier on either side, each holding a horn several feet long. They faced south, their backs still to them.

“I’ll take the one on the right,” Anvin said, gripping his spear. He galloped faster, praying he could get close enough before his target turned around.

“And the other is mine,” Durge replied.

“And you, the crank turner,” Durge commanded one of his men, pointing with his sword.

Anvin followed his gaze and saw a soldier standing by a huge crank, hands at the ready, his back to them, too.

“If that gate is closed before we can reach it,” Durge added, “we are finished.”

They bore down, horses thundering, fifty yards away, then forty, then thirty, Anvin’s throat so dry he could barely breathe. He studied the hornblower on the right, counting the steps until he was close enough to throw his spear. He knew it would have to be a perfect throw, or else risk losing it all.

He was just a few more yards from throwing when one of the Pandesian soldiers suddenly turned, hearing them. His eyes opened wide in panic. He reached out and shoved the soldiers beside him, and as one they all turned and looked.

“NOW!” Durge shouted.

Anvin knew he needed a few more yards to ensure an accurate throw—yet he had no choice. He took a deep breath, steadied his shoulder as best as he could, and raised the heavy spear, praying—and then let it fly.

Anvin held his breath as he watched his spear fly; his palms were sweaty as he released, and he had no idea if his throw was true. He also watched Durge’s sword, flying at the same time, turning end over end as it neared its target.

The hornblower on the left, Durge’s target, turned and raised the horn to his mouth, and as he did, Durge’s sword impaled him in the chest. He dropped the horn and fell off the platform, dead.

At the same time, Anvin’s hornblower turned, at just the moment when the spear was set to impale his body. Anvin was appalled to see that that lucky turn had saved him, to see his spear sail by his target, merely grazing his arm and knocking him off balance.

Anvin was relieved to see that, at least, the hornblower cried and fell from the platform. And yet somehow the steep fall, which should have killed him, did not. He crawled on the ground, alive, inching his way toward his horn, which had fallen but a few feet away.

Anvin was flooded with panic, knowing there was no time. He was still ten yards away when the hornblower reached out and grabbed his horn. He raised it to his mouth with shaking hands, took a deep breath, and, with puffed cheeks, was about to blow.

Anvin allowed his blind instincts to take over. He leapt from his horse while still at a full gallop, the world rushing by him, raised his sword, and swung for the hornblower. He felt his blade slashing flesh, and he looked over to see the soldier slump to the ground, decapitated, the horn still on his lips, his cheeks still puffed—thankfully, silent.

Anvin hit the ground hard, rolled and rolled, and gained his feet, never slowing. He charged the other soldier holding the crank, knowing time was short, and as he ran, he saw the other crank turner, dead on the ground, in a pool of blood, killed by a spear in the back.

Anvin tackled the soldier to the ground just as he began to turn the crank and lower the massive portcullis. He landed on top of him and tried to choke him, but as soon as he did, he was kicked hard in the back by a Pandesian soldier—then clubbed by another. He turned to see a third Pandesian pouncing, a sword coming down for him before he could gather himself. He had left himself too vulnerable, he realized, by rushing out ahead of the pack.

As he braced himself for the blow, his men arrived, their horses galloping through, and Anvin watched with relief as one decapitated the soldier above him, sparing his life. Another killed the Pandesian beside him with a spear through his chest. Anvin spotted another Pandesian run for the crank, and saw a hatchet turn end over end as it flew through the air and lodged itself in his back.

Durge and his men overtook the gate, horses galloping, slashing and killing Pandesians on all sides, who had no time to put up a defense. They swept through like a desert storm and slaughtered them all in a blur. A few Pandesians had time enough to just grab for swords and shields, yet barely had they lifted them when they were hacked down. And with the hornblowers dead and the cranks out of their control, there was little they could do to alert the others. They were quickly surrounded and killed.

Soon, all the Pandesian soldiers lay in heaps, their blood staining the sand, while all fell silent.

“He’s getting away!” someone yelled.

Anvin turned to see a lone Pandesian had escaped. The soldier mounted his horse and took off, galloping south at lightning speed toward Pandesia. Anvin knew if he got away, all would be lost.

Anvin didn’t hesitate. Without thinking he mounted his horse and rode after him. He bore down him, as fast as he ever rode, air cutting into his lungs, hardly able to breathe. They rode, just the two of them out there alone, and the terrain shifted as they went farther from the gate, left the peninsula, and entered the mainland of Pandesia, the ground morphing to hard rock. Their horses’ hooves clattered, and Anvin knew they were riding in Fields of Ore. A stretch of black stone, it was no terrain for riding.

Anvin’s horse was slipping and sliding on the slick stone, and soon, it stumbled and fell—while the Pandesians did, too. He hit the ground hard, bruised from the hard landing, feeling pain in every corner of his body. His only solace was that the Pandesian up ahead was in the same position as he.

Anvin rolled and summoned all his effort to regain his feet. The Pandesian was slower to get up, and Anvin, forcing himself to his feet, charged for the man, about twenty yards ahead, beneath the blistering heat of the sun. The Pandesian stumbled, and he bore down on him.

Anvin was but yards away, preparing to tackle the soldier, when suddenly the soldier did something Anvin could not expect: he turned, raised a small hidden spear, and threw it at him.

At the last second Anvin’s reflexes kicked in, and he dodged as it grazed his shoulder.

The soldier looked up and, fear in his eyes, turned to run, weaponless. Anvin, knowing that a slippery chase on the slick rock could end poorly for them both, instead drew his sword, planted his feet, reached back, and threw it.

He watched the blade tumble end over end until it finally found a spot in the soldier’s back. He grunted and fell face-first on the rock. Dead.

Anvin walked over, breathing hard, stood over the soldier and grabbed his sword. He then turned and looked back at the shining gate in the distance. He saw all of his men, triumphant, the gate in their control. It was the most beautiful sight of his life.

All them cheered in the distance, and Anvin knew they had done it.

The gate was theirs.