by Morgan Rice
As Duncan’s shoulders grew tired and several soldiers charged him, as he knew he was looking death in the face, suddenly, there came a whistling sound, like an arrow, followed by a single thwack. To Duncan’s shock, the soldier before him fell on his back, an arrow lodged in his chest.
There came another. Then another. Soon the air was filled with the noise, and as the cries of Pandesians rang out, Duncan looked behind him and was amazed at what he saw: the moonlit sky was filled with arrows, a sea of them flying high overhead and landing on the Pandesian side. Pandesians, pierced by the sea of arrows, dropped like flies, falling one by one from their horses. Some fell back, while others keeled over sideways from their horses, landing in the bloody field of battle, their arming clanging and their horses, riderless, bucking wildly.
Duncan was confused; at first, he had assumed that his men were under attack. But then he realized he was being helped. But by whom?
Duncan turned and looked to the source of the arrows and saw, high upon the ramparts of the city of Esephus, scores of men, lit up by torchlight. They were, his heart lifted to see, Esephan warriors, bows drawn, placing arrows and firing down in a high arc toward the Pandesian side. Duncan cried out with joy. Seavig, after all, had decided to risk it all and join him.
Suddenly, the gates of Esephus opened and there appeared, with a great battle cry, Seavig, riding out before hundreds of his men, all proud warriors of Escalon. Duncan was thrilled at the sight of his old friend, a man he had ridden into battle with countless times, riding at the head of his small army. Here was a soldier who had been subjugated by Pandesia for years, and who was finally making a stand. He had returned, was back to being the warrior Duncan once knew he was.
With a great surge of momentum, Seavig charged forward and joined Duncan’s men, and they began to push the Pandesians back. Duncan’s men let out a great shout, rushing forward, invigorated, and Duncan could see the newfound fear on the faces of the Pandesians. Clearly, they had expected the men of Esephus to toe the line and roll over. They realized that Duncan’s force had just doubled in size, and they were beginning to panic. He had seen it one too many times on his enemies’ faces—and he knew what that meant: now was his chance.
Duncan surged forward, taking advantage of their fear, driving them back further as he led his men. Whatever Pandesians were spared by the arrows, Duncan and his men hacked down. Chaos began to ensue as the tide of battle began to swing the other way. The Pandesians, faltering, began backtracking—and then turned and ran.
Duncan pursued them, his men close behind, Seavig nearby as he led his men in a charge, too, the air filled with their victorious shouts. As the Pandesians tried to make it back to the safety of their stone barracks, to close the gate, Duncan reached the gate first, hacking down the soldiers who tried to yank it closed. He stabbed one in the gut, butted another in the face with the hilt of his sword, then kicked a third.
The Pandesians soon abandoned the idea of closing the gate and merely ran back for their barracks. Duncan searched for their commander, realizing he had to cut off the army’s head, and he spotted him amidst the crowd, decorated with Pandesian insignias.
Duncan cut his way through the ranks of soldiers, heading for him, until finally he reached him and forced him to face off with him. They stood opposite each other, each holding out his sword, while a space was cleared and a small crowd formed around them. Duncan could feel all the eyes upon them, and he knew their match would determine the outcome of this battle.
They each charged and fought viciously. This man was a far better fighter than the others, and Duncan was surprised at the strength and speed of his blows. Sparks flew as back and forth their swords met, neither able to gain an edge, driving each other from one end to the other. Here, finally, was an opponent whom Duncan could respect; he regretted not having him as a warrior of Escalon.
Finally, Duncan, losing strength, slipped; yet as he did, he found his opening. The leader raised his sword, and Duncan lunged forward and tackled him, driving his shoulder into the man’s stomach.
Duncan drove him down to the snow-covered ground, pinned him down, and drew his short sword, pressing it to his throat.
“YIELD!” Duncan commanded, as the crowd grew quiet, a lull in the fighting forming around them. “Yield, and be our prisoners, and I shall not kill you or your men!”
“Yield to you?” the man spat back. “You are no king! You are a mere slave of Escalon!”
“I shall not ask again,” Duncan warned darkly.
The commander blinked several times, gasping for breath, clearly realizing Duncan’s seriousness.
Finally, he nodded.
“WE YIELD!” he cried.
There came a great shout of victory amidst Duncan’s and Seavig’s men, as all the Pandesian soldiers, their backs to the wall, quickly laid down their arms, looking all too happy to accept the offer. None, clearly, had any heart left in the fight.
Duncan felt several strong hands clasp him on the back in admiration, as his men rushed forward and stripped the enemy of their swords and armor. One cheer after another rose, as his men all began to realize that they had achieved the impossible: Pandesia had been defeated. Esephus, one of the most important cities in Escalon, had been liberated.
The unthinkable had happened.
Against all odds, Escalon was winning.
*
Duncan walked alongside the Esephus harbor, joined by Seavig, Anvin, Arthfael and dozens of their men, all inspecting the damage. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air as the Pandesian fleet still burned, their embers sparking in the night, punctuated by the occasional whoosh of a beam as a mast collapsed. It was like the entire harbor was alight in a great bonfire.
All about them Duncan’s and Seavig’s men corralled the hundreds of captive Pandesian soldiers, shepherding them, in shackles, toward the fort’s dungeon. His men were also occupied with reaching over the harborside with long hooks, pulling in floating debris, valuable treasures and weaponry; they occasionally pulled in a floating corpse, too, before letting it go.
Duncan looked all up and down the shoreline, littered with bloated corpses, the greatest destruction he’d ever seen to Pandesian soldiers, and probably the greatest damage he’d ever inflicted on an invading army—and he felt a great sense of satisfaction.
Torches were extinguished, one by one, as the night sky slowly gave way to a breaking dawn, the sky brilliant with a million colors, lightening with each step they took. Duncan felt as if the world were being reborn.
“It is a thing of wonder,” said Seavig, strolling beside Duncan, his voice low and gruff.
Duncan turned and looked at his old friend, with his long, wild black hair, beard and bushy eyebrows, just as he remembered him. He looked windswept, his face chaffed from too many days at sea under the open sun.
“What is that?” Duncan asked.
“What speed and surprise can do in battle,” Seavig replied. “It can turn prepared men into objects of fear; it can allow a hundred to defeat a thousand.”
He turned to Duncan.
“You were always the greatest of us all,” he added. “What you did here, on this night, shall be recorded for all time. You have freed our great city, a city that I did not think could be freed. And you have done it in the face of a vast empire, knowing that vengeance and death would be a certainty.”
Seavig clasped a hand on his shoulder.
“You are a true warrior,” he added, “and a true friend. My people thank you. I thank you.”
Duncan shook his head humbly.
“What I did,” he replied, “I did for justice. For freedom. No more than you did yourself. I did what the old king should have done years ago. What I myself should have done years ago. And we would not have won tonight, do not forget, if it hadn’t been for you and your men.”
Seavig stopped and sighed.
“And now?” Seavig asked.
They came to a stop toward the harbor’s end, and Duncan turn
ed and studied his friend’s earnest expression. Seavig’s face, filled with lines, bore the rough, hardened look of the seasons, of this city by the sea and the rough waves and winds that shaped it.
“And now,” Duncan replied, “we have but one choice. What I began, I must finish. Retreat, safety—these are things of the past. Most of Escalon remains occupied. I will not be safe in Volis—nor you in Esephus—any longer. Soon, word shall spread, the vast Pandesian army will assemble. I cannot wait; I must bring the battle to them, before they can prepare. Every city in Escalon must be freed.”
Seavig slowly raised his hands to his hips and studied the water, as the early morning sun lit it a glowing aqua. They stood there and watched the dawn, two hardened warriors enjoying a comfortable silence of victory, two warriors thinking the same way.
“I know I will die one day,” Seavig said. “That does not bother me. I only care to die well.”
Seavig paused, examining the ebb and flow of the tide, lapping against the stone wall.
“I never knew if I would have the strength to die in trying to win back my freedom. You’ve done me a great service, my friend. You have allowed me to remember what matters most in life.”
Seavig reached up and clasped Duncan’s shoulder with his calloused hand.
“I am with you,” he said, his voice solemn. “I and my men are with you. We shall ride by your side, wherever you shall go. Across all of Escalon. Stronghold to stronghold. Until every last one of us is free—even to the gates of death.”
Duncan’s heart warmed at his words, and he slowly smiled back, thrilled to have his old friend by his side.
“Where to next, my friend?” Seavig asked.
Duncan reflected.
“We must chop off the head first,” he replied, “and the body shall follow.”
Seavig looked back questioningly.
“You mean to take the capital,” he then said knowingly.
Duncan nodded.
“And to take Andros,” Duncan replied, “we will need the high ground. And the men who own the heights.”
Seavig’s eyes lit with recognition and excitement.
“Kos?” he asked.
Duncan nodded, knowing his friend understood.
Seavig looked off into the water and shook his head.
“Reaching Kos is no easy thing,” Seavig replied. “The way is spotted with Pandesian garrisons. You will find yourself enmeshed in battle before you even reach the cliffs.”
Duncan studied him, appreciating his insight.
“I am a man of Volis,” Duncan replied. “This is your region, old friend. You know your terrain far better than I. What would you suggest?”
Seavig rubbed his beard as he stared off into the sea, clearly deep in thought.
“If you aim for Kos,” Seavig replied, “you must reach the Lake of Ire first. Skirt its shores, and it will lead to The Thusius. It is the river you need. It is the only way. Go by land and you’ll be trapped in a war.”
He turned and looked meaningfully at Duncan.
“I know the way,” Seavig said. “Let me show you.”
Duncan smiled back, and clasped his friend’s arm.
“I and my men will leave now,” Duncan replied, satisfied with the plan. “You can join us when you are rested.”
Seavig laughed.
“Rested?” he replied, smiling wider. “I fought all night—I am more rested than I’ve ever been.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As dawn broke over the fort of Volis, Aidan frantically paced its ramparts, searching the horizon for any sign of his father, or Kyra, or his brothers—or any of the men. He had been up most of the night in a state of unease, tormented by nightmares of his sister falling into a pit, of his father being burned alive in a harbor. He had paced these ramparts under the night’s sky, the stars aglow, and had not stopped searching the countryside for them since, anxious for their return.
Deep down, Aidan suspected they were not returning to Volis any time soon—if at all. Kyra was heading west across Escalon, through a treacherous terrain, and his father, brothers, and their men were heading somewhere south, into battle and likely death. Aidan burned inside. He wanted more than anything to be with them, especially at this time of war. He knew what was happening was once in a lifetime, and he could not stand the thought, however young he was, of sitting on the sidelines. Aidan knew he was smaller than them all, still young, weak, and untrained; yet he still felt there was much he could do. He might not be able to throw a spear, or fire an arrow, as well as the others, but he was known for his smarts, his resourcefulness, for being able to look a situation differently than everyone else, and he felt he could help his father somehow.
No matter what, he knew for certain he didn’t want to be sitting here, in the nearly empty fort of Volis, far from the action, safe behind these gates with the women and the children and the geese running around the courtyard, as if nothing were happening out there in the world. He was just waiting out his days, with nothing to do but anticipate news of arriving death. He would rather die than live this way.
As dawn broke and the sky lighted, Aidan surveyed the fort, saw the dozen or so warriors his father had left behind left behind to guard the place, a skeleton force. He had been pestering these men half the night to tell him where exactly his father had ridden. But none would tell. Aidan felt a fresh wave of determination to find out.
Sensing motion out of the corner of his eye, Aidan turned to see Vidar crossing the courtyard with several men, they extinguishing torches as they went and he assigning each their posts throughout the fort. Aidan burst into action, running down the spiral staircase, twisting down level after level, determined to corner Vidar until he had the answers he wanted.
Aidan hit the ground running as he reached the snowy courtyard. He ran, ice crunching beneath his boots in the frigid morning, breathing hard as he sprinted for Vidar, who headed for the gates.
“Vidar!” he cried.
Vidar turned and, when he saw it was Aidan, looked away, rolling his eyes, clearly wanting to avoid him. He began to walk away.
“I have no answers for you, young Aidan,” he called back as he walked away, he and his men marching for the gates, blowing on their hands to keep them warm.
But Aidan did not slow, running to catch up.
“I must know where my father is!” he shouted.
The men continued to march, and Aidan doubled his speed, slipping on the ice, until finally he reached Vidar’s side and tugged on his shirt.
“My father is gone, and that makes me commander of this fort!” Aidan insisted, knowing he was pushing his luck, but desperate.
Vidar stopped and laughed with his men.
“Does it?” he asked.
“Answer me!” Aidan pressed. “Where is he? I can help him! My sword is as strong as yours and my aim as true!”
Vidar laughed heartily, and as all the men joined him, Aidan reddened. He shook his head and clasped Aidan’s shoulder, his hand strong and reassuring.
“You are your father’s son,” he said, smiling, “yet even so, I cannot tell you where he went. I know that as soon as I do, you will venture after him—and that I cannot allow. You are under my watch now, and I answer to your father. You would only be a liability to him. Wait until you are older—there will be other battles to fight.”
Vidar turned to go, but Aidan grabbed his sleeve, insistent.
“There will be no battle like this!” Aidan insisted. “My father needs me. My brothers need me! And I will not stop until you tell me!” he insisted, stamping his foot.
Vidar looked back at him a bit more seriously, as if surprised he could be so determined. Finally, slowly, he shook his head.
“Then you shall be waiting a long time,” Vidar finally replied.
Vidar shook off Aidan’s grip and marched away with his men, back through the gates, their boots crunching in the snow, each sound like a nail in Aidan’s heart.
Aidan felt like crying as
he stood there and watched helplessly as they all walked off, into the lightening sky, leaving him alone in the fort, behind these walls, which felt now like nothing more than a glorified tomb.
*
Aidan waited patiently behind the massive iron gates of Volis, watching as the sun rose higher in the sky and his father’s men patrolled. All around him, icicles dripped as snow fell down the walls, the day slowly warming as birds began to chirp. But he did not let this distract him. He intensely watched his father’s men, waiting for the change of guard he knew would come.
After he did not know how long, his hands numb and his legs stiff, a new shift of men appeared. The old guard relaxed as the new guard approached, and Aidan watched as Vidar turned and headed back to the fort, joined by his men. In the disorder that followed the change of shift, Aidan knew his opportunity had come.
Aidan stood and walked through the gates, leaving the fort casually as if it were the most natural thing in the world, whistling as he went to emphasize to anyone watching that he was unafraid of being seen. The new soldiers standing guard exchanged a puzzled glance, clearly unsure whether to stop him or not.
Aidan increased his pace, hoping and praying they didn’t try to stop him. Because he was determined to leave, no matter what happened.
“And where you going?” called out one of them.
Aidan stopped, his heart pounding, trying not to seem nervous.
“Didn’t Vidar tell you?” Aidan snapped back in his most authoritative voice, prepared, wanting to throw them off guard. “He asked me to get the rabbits.”
The soldiers exchanged a questioning look.
“Rabbits?” one called back.
