A Forge of Valor

by Morgan Rice

  “Then let’s not wait another minute,” she said, finally stopping pacing, filled with a sense of certainty.

  Marco stood, too, a fresh look of determination in his eyes.

  “You’re mad,” said an old man, overhearing, standing and coming up beside them, his voice filled with concern. “You’ll get yourself killed!”

  “The Pandesians are already here,” said another. “Nothing can stop them. What’s the point of destroying a few ships?”

  “If we block the canals,” Dierdre replied, “it will kill hundreds of soldiers. It will clog the canals.”

  “So?” asked another. “Will that stop the million behind them?”

  “The city is already destroyed,” another added. “Why bother?”

  “Why?” Dierdre echoed, indignant. “Because it is what we do. It is who we are. It is what my father would have done.”

  “What is the alternative?” Marco added. “To stay down here and wait for our deaths?”

  “At least down here you are safe,” added another.

  “I don’t want to be safe,” Dierdre replied. “I want to defend our city.”

  Some people shook their heads, while others looked away, fear and cowardice in their eyes.

  “We will not risk our lives up there,” one man with a withered arm finally said.

  “I don’t ask you to,” Dierdre replied, cold and hard, not expecting anything from anyone. She was beyond that now. “I shall do it myself.”

  Dierdre began to walk toward one of the ladders, when she felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see Marco’s serious brown eyes staring back at her.

  “I will join you,” he said.

  Dierdre was touched.

  Before she ascended, she turned and faced the crowd of scared, huddled faces, looking over each one. They seemed terrified, and she understood.

  “Anyone else?” she asked, wanting to give them one last chance to join her.

  But they all looked away in fear and shame.

  “You’ll be climbing to your death up there,” one woman called out.

  Dierdre nodded back.

  “I don’t doubt that,” she replied.

  Dierdre turned and began to ascend the ladder, one rung at a time, Marco behind her. It was a long climb in the blackness, her hands trembling from fear. Yet she forced herself to suppress her fears, to rise above them.

  When they finally reached the top, they paused and looked at each other. Marco raised an eyebrow, as if asking if she were sure she wanted to do this. She nodded back silently, and they understood each other.

  They reached out and, together, they pulled back the bolts. They gave the heavy iron slab one big push, and a moment later they were flooded with sunlight.

  Ur.

  Their destiny awaited them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kyra rode across the countryside of Escalon, Andor thundering beneath her, Leo at her heels, the three of them cutting through the brush, breaking branches, rustling leaves, winding in and out of forest trails as they had been for hours. Ever since leaving Alva’s side, Kyra felt a new sense of determination, of purpose, as she headed for her mother’s original home, the source of her power, the place where all was supposed to be revealed.

  The Lost Temple.

  Her mind raced as she imagined it, each step increasing her sense of anticipation. It was there, Alva promised, that Kyra would find the clues she needed to lead her to her mother, and to find her own source of power. Kyra’s heart pounded in anticipation. All her life she had wondered about her mother; she had wanted nothing more than to meet her, to hear her voice, to embrace her, to see if she was like her. She wanted so desperately to know if her mother was proud of her, to hear it in her mother’s own words. That would make all of it, all these years of not knowing her, of not being raised by her, worth it.

  Even more, Kyra longed to know where she had come from, who her real people were, who she was herself. Alva’s words echoed in her mind. The ancient ones. The original people. Protectors of Escalon. Those who kept the dragons at bay. Kyra was proud to hail from such a lineage, and yet she wondered what it meant. It was a different race he was speaking of. A race of immortals, of all-powerful beings. How had they disappeared? Who had vanquished them? Had they truly disappeared at all?

  Kyra sensed her mother was not entirely human, was more powerful than all the human race, yet she did not know how long ago she had lived, how much of that power had filtered down to her. Did she carry the same power her mother had? Or was Kyra of a mixed race? Was her mother immortal? Did that mean that Kyra was immortal, too?

  Kyra rode and rode, realizing how lucky she was to be alive, and her thoughts drifted to Kyle. He had left so abruptly, returning to the tower, and her heart quickened as she knew he was heading into danger. What if she never saw him again? She did not completely understand her feelings for him, or why she cared so much. And that all made her feel out of control—and she did not like feeling out of control.

  Kyra rode and rode, heading invariably south, until finally, as the sun grew long, she came upon a massive fork in the forest trail. A crude wooden sign pointed two ways, one to the west, toward the coast, in the direction, she knew, of the Sorrow, of the Lost Temple. And the other pointed east, with a sign that read ANDROS.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Andros. She immediately thought of her father, of his being held captive. Kyra sat there, atop Andor, breathing hard, staring at the sign. It was like staring at her destiny. She wanted to go to both places at once.

  But she knew she could not. She could only choose one fork, one place. And whichever route she chose, she knew, would have consequences for the rest of her life. She knew what she was supposed to do: she should follow Alva’s orders and fork west, toward the temple, toward her mother. She had to find the source of her power, become a greater warrior, and survive for the sake of her father. And she had to find the clues that led her closer to her mother, to herself.

  Yet, try as she did, Kyra had always led with her heart, not her mind. And as she sat there, atop Andor, breathing hard, her heart told her she could never leave her father rotting in prison. Not now, not ever. If he wasn’t dead already, surely he would soon be executed. And if she turned away from him, his blood would be on her hands. That just wasn’t who she was.

  So, despite the sense of foreboding brewing within her, Kyra turned Andor east, away from the coastline, away from the Temple—and for Andros. Even as she was doing it, Kyra knew it was foolhardy. She knew she could not take on the Pandesian army, guarding Andros, by herself. She knew her father might already be dead. And she knew she was turning her back on her mother, her destiny, her mission.

  Yet she had no choice. The wind in her hair, she already rode, charging toward Andros, toward her father.

  “Father,” she said, “wait for me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Merk and Kyle hiked quickly through the forest of Ur as they had been for days, Merk wondering about this boy beside him. They had journeyed together in silence for days, and he realized he knew next to nothing about Kyle. He knew he had Kyle to thank for being alive, and it was a strange feeling; Merk had always looked out for himself and had never felt beholden to anyone. He had certainly never expected it from him, of all people. After all, Kyle was a Watcher, the most mysterious of them all, and had always been aloof.

  Merk wondered if Kyle liked him at all, and was even more baffled that he had come back to save him. Fate had put them on this journey together, both with a shared mission to reach the Tower of Kos and protect the Sword of Fire. Yet if it weren’t for that, Merk wondered if Kyle would have come back for him.

  “Why did you save me?” Merk finally asked, needing, after all these days, to break the monotony, and the silence.

  A long silence followed, one so long that Merk was sure Kyle did not hear him. Perhaps he would choose not to respond.

  And then, hours later, when he least expected it, Kyle replied:

  “Wh
y wouldn’t I?”

  Merk looked over in surprise. Kyle’s grey eyes seemed ancient, despite his young age.

  “You came back for me,” Merk said, “to spare my life before the trolls could end it.”

  “I did not come back for you,” Kyle corrected. “I returned for the tower, to defend it.”

  “And yet you saved me.”

  Kyle shrugged.

  “You were there. The tower was lost,” Kyle replied.

  Merk was starting to feel that Kyle didn’t care about him at all.

  “How did you know it was lost?” Merk asked.

  “I just knew,” Kyle replied, glum. “We must now help the kingdom where help is needed most. There is another tower, after all.”

  Merk wondered.

  “When did you know the Sword was not there?” he asked, curious.

  Kyle looked at him skeptically, as if debating whether to respond.

  “I have always known,” he finally admitted. “For centuries.”

  Merk was shocked.

  “Yet you remained there,” Merk said, slowly realizing. “For centuries, you stood guard there. At an empty tower. For an empty mission….” Merk was flabbergasted. “Why?”

  Kyle cleared his throat.

  “It was no empty mission,” he retorted. “One tower holds the Sword, one does not. And yet they each hold it in their own way, each has their role to play. One cannot serve as a decoy without the other. Both must be equally well guarded. If only one was guarded, the enemy would know where to concentrate their attack.”

  Merk pondered that.

  “And yet now,” Merk replied, “with the Tower of Ur destroyed, everyone will know. Your precious secret, after all these centuries, is lost.”

  Kyle sighed.

  “True,” he replied. “Yet if we reach Kos first, we can warn them. They can take precautions.”

  “And you think their precautions will really hold back the entire nation of Marda?” Merk pressed. “Or the Pandesian army? The Tower of Kos will fall, too, sooner or later. The Sword will be lost. The Flames will lower. All of Marda will pour in—and Escalon will be lost. It will be a plundered land. A wasteland.”

  Kyle sighed. He fell silent for a long time.

  “You still don’t understand,” Kyle said. “Escalon was never free. Not since the ancient ones died. Not since the first dragon appeared. And not since we lost The Staff of Truth.”

  “The Staff of Truth?” Merk asked, baffled.

  But Kyle just stared ahead in silence, leaving Merk to wonder. He was endlessly cryptic, and it drove Merk crazy; questions only led to more questions, and half the time he spoke he referenced things which Merk would never understand.

  They continued for hours more in silence, trekking through the forest, until finally there came a gushing noise; they emerged from the thick woods to find themselves facing a raging river. Merk was in awe at the sight of the white, foaming waters of the Tanis. There it flowed, its wall of rapids blocking their way, seeming impossible to cross. Yet there was no other way.

  Merk knew he couldn’t just stand here. He began to step forward toward the water, when he felt a firm hand on his chest. He looked at Kyle, puzzled.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Kyle stared into the wood line. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. Merk could tell he sensed something. The way of Watchers was a mystery.

  Merk had great respect for his friend, and stopped, trusting him. He examined the landscape, the thick woods on the far side of the river, yet he saw nothing.

  “I see nothing,” he said. “Perhaps you are being overly cautious.”

  After a long wait, Merk stepped forward, and Kyle walked beside him, the two entering the clearing and approaching the river’s edge. Merk took a step, wondering if he could brave the rapids, and immediately, the freezing, strong currents nearly knocked him over.

  Merk stumbled back to the safety of shore, realizing they would need some way to cross it. He saw some motion downriver, something bobbing, and he walked along the sand with Kyle until he spotted a small boat tied to a rock, rocking wildly in the currents, just big enough to hold them both.

  “I don’t like it,” Kyle said, coming up beside him.

  “You have another idea?” Merk asked.

  Kyle examined the currents, and the horizon beyond it, but fell silent.

  Merk stepped into the small canoe, nearly falling out as it rocked wildly, and as Kyle got in beside him, he reached over and sliced the rope with his dagger. The boat swayed violently. He pushed off with the oar, and a moment later, they were caught up in the currents, racing downriver.

  Merk and Kyle rowed, struggling to cut across the raging waters, as whitecaps crashed all around them. As they fought their way their small boat nearly turned sideways; Merk felt certain it would capsize.

  Kyle looked in all directions, as if expecting something to attack them, and that kept Merk on edge.

  Finally, though, they were able to get out ahead of the current. They cut across the river, and they reached the other side, dripping wet from the spray.

  They jumped out onto the shore, and no sooner had they set down when the currents took away the boat. Merk turned to watch it shoot downstream, soon lost in a sea of white.

  Kyle stood there and studied the tree line with a concerned expression, still appearing troubled.

  “What is it?” Merk asked again, feeling on edge himself. “Surely if there were something, then—”

  No sooner had he finished uttering the words than he suddenly froze. There came a noise, sounding like a snarl crossed with a howl, one that made his hairs stand. It came from something evil.

  Kyle, still watching, raised his staff.

  “Baylors,” he finally said, his voice ominous.

  “What are—”

  No sooner had Merk uttered the words when out of the tree line there appeared a pack of savage beasts, charging right for them. There were four of them, looking like rhinos, yet with six horns instead of one, and with thick black hides. They each had two long fangs, as sharp as swords, and intense white eyes, and they bore down on Kyle and Merk, the thunder of their hooves shaking the ground.

  Merk turned and looked back at the gushing river, and realized they were trapped.

  “We can swim,” Merk said, realizing it might be better to take their chances in the rapids.

  “So can they,” Kyle replied.

  Merk felt a cold dread climb up his back. The baylors closed in, now hardly twenty yards away, the sound thunderous, and Merk, not knowing what else to do, reached up with his dagger, took aim, and threw.

  He watched it sail end over end, right for one of the beasts’ eyes.

  Merk anticipated it puncturing his eye, dropping it to the ground—but the baylor merely reached up with its paw and knocked it away like a toothpick, barely even slowing.

  Merk swallowed. He had just given it the best he had.

  “Get down!” Kyle shouted as the first bore down on them.

  The beast lifted its razor-sharp claws to slice Merk in half, and Merk dropped to the ground, praying that Kyle knew what he was doing. He ducked under the shadow of the great beast’s foot, about to crush him.

  The beast went flying sideways, to Merk’s immense relief, as Kyle struck it with his staff. A sharp cracking noise tore through the air as Kyle sent the beast flying, then rolling side over side, the ground shaking. Merk breathed a sigh of relief, realizing how close he had come to death.

  Kyle swung his staff at another baylor as it approached; he struck it in the chest and it flew backwards, up in the air a good twenty feet, landing on its back, rolling and taking out another one with it. Merk looked over at Kyle in awe, shocked at his power, wondering what else he could do.

  “This way!” Kyle ordered.

  Kyle ran for the beast that was on its back, while the other bore down on them and other two began to recover. Merk joined him, running faster than he had ever run in his life. They reache
d the beast and Merk was shocked as Kyle jumped on its back. It writhed and stood. Merk knew this was crazy, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he jumped on, too, grabbing onto the thick hide, slipping and clawing his way up for dear life as the baylor rose to its full height.

  A moment later the baylor was bucking wildly, the two of them riding it. Merk, slipping, was certain he would die here. The other beasts charged right for them.

  Then Kyle leaned down and whispered in the baylor’s ear, and suddenly, to Merk’s shock, it became still. It lifted its head, as if listening to Kyle, and as Kyle kicked it, the baylor shrieked, made a trumpeting sound like an elephant, and charged for its companions.

  The other beasts were clearly not expecting this. They hardly knew what to do as their friend charged them. The first one could not react in time as the beast lowered its head and gored him in the side. The beast shrieked, dropping to its side, and the beast they were riding trampled over it, killing it.

  The beast then raised its horns and lifted upward, goring another one in the throat, and rising up until it dropped, gurgling, dead.

  Their beast then ran like thunder, aiming for the final beast.

  But the final beast, seeing what was happening, charged back, infuriated. When the beast they were riding lunged for it, the final beast ducked and swiped. The beast beneath them shrieked as its legs were cut out from under it.

  Merk felt himself sliding and a moment later he tumbled and fell, Kyle with him, smashing into rock and dirt, and losing his breath as he tumbled, sure he was breaking his ribs.

  He lay there on the ground and watched the final beast attack, watched Kyle stunned, winded, too, and he was sure he would be crushed to death.

  But then, somehow, the beast they were riding managed to regain strength enough for one last blow—it turned, swiped, and sliced the final beast through the chest.

  The final beast dropped to the ground, dead, while the beast they were riding buckled and fell. It let out a great snort, and then a moment later, it, too, lay dead, atop its friend.

  Merk stood there, breathing hard, looking out at the four dead beasts, hardly able to process it. They had survived. Somehow, they had survived.