by Morgan Rice
“What do you think?” Dierdre asked, clearly thinking the same thing.
Kyra shook her head, torn between a bad feeling and a desire for food and shelter, to get out of the rain and wind. She studied the tavern and her eyes narrowed in concern. She did not like the sounds coming from within its walls; they were the sounds of drunken men, she could recognize it anywhere from having grown up as the only girl in a fort filled with warriors. And she knew that when men drank, they looked for trouble.
“We will attract unwanted attention,” Kyra replied, “two girls, traveling alone.”
Dierdre frowned.
“Those are not soldiers,” she replied. “They are travelers. And that is no garrison, but a tavern. This will not be like encountering Pandesians. That was just bad luck back there. These men will be focused on their drink, not war. We can buy the food we need and leave. Besides, we have Andor, and Leo and you and your weapons. The Pandesian soldiers could not stop us back in the wood—do you really think a bunch of drunken sailors can?”
Kyra hesitated, uneasy. She understood her point of view, and she wanted to eat as badly as she—not to mention to take shelter, even if for a minute.
“I’m weak from hunger,” Dierdre said. “We all are. And I’ve never been so cold in my life. We can’t keep going on like this. We will die out here. You are shivering so badly, you don’t even realize it.”
Kyra suddenly realized her teeth were chattering, and she knew Dierdre had a point. They needed a break, even if for a few moments. It was risky—yet going on like this was risky, too.
Finally, Kyra nodded.
“We’ll get in and out,” she said. “Keep your head down. Stick close to me. And if any man comes for you, stick this in his gut.”
Kyra placed a dagger in her friend’s palm and looked up at her meaningfully. They were frozen from the cold, weak from hunger, tired of running from men, and Kyra could see in her friend’s eyes that she was ready.
Even so, as they rode out of the wood and into the clearing, towards the gushing river, closing in on the tavern, Kyra felt a deep foreboding overcome her—and she knew, even as she rode, that this was a very, very bad idea.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Duncan rode his horse at a walk, Seavig, Anvin and Arthfael beside him, their men close behind, and glanced back and saw with satisfaction that they were all one force now. Seavig’s men, hundreds strong, had merged seamlessly with his own. Their force numbered well over a thousand men now, far more than Duncan had ever expected to see when he had departed the gates of Volis; indeed, he had not even expected to survive this long.
They marched south and east, trekking for hours into the new day, following Seavig’s guidance through his province as they headed away from Esephus and toward the Lake of Ire. On the march since dawn, late afternoon clouds now hung heavy in the sky, none of the men, even after a long’s night battle, willing to stop. They were all, Duncan could sense, filled with a sense of purpose, one that had not swept across Escalon since the invasion. Something special hung in the air, something Escalon had lacked for years, and which Duncan had thought he would never see again: hope.
Duncan felt a sense of optimism welling within him, one he had not felt since his early days as a warrior. His army had doubled in size already, villagers along the way all too eager to join him, and momentum, he felt, was building of its own accord. Volis was free; Argos was free; Esephus was free. Three of the strongholds of the northeast were now back in the hands of Escalon, and it was all happening so fast, so unexpected, like a midnight tide. The Pandesian Empire still had no idea. And that meant that Duncan still had time. If he could manage to just sweep through Escalon fast enough, maybe, just maybe, he could oust Pandesia before they could rally, before the greater Pandesia caught wind. If he could drive them all the way back through the Southern Gate, from there he was sure he could use Escalon’s natural terrain to hold chokepoints and keep Escalon free once again.
The key to all of this, Duncan knew, would be rallying the strongholds, and the warlords who controlled them. With the weak king deposed and the capital in Pandesian hands, what remained of free Escalon lay in scattered strongholds, each, like his, with its own force, its own commander. And in order to convince these men to follow, Duncan, he knew, would have to give them a show of strength: he would have to take the capital. And in order to take Andros, he would need the men who controlled the heights around it: the warriors of Kos.
Kos was the key; it was also a litmus test. The men of Kos were famed isolationists, as stubborn as the goats that scaled their cliffs. If Duncan could persuade them to join him, then, he knew, the rest of Escalon would follow. But if Kos refused, or if Pandesia found out too soon, then an empire of soldiers that no one could hold back—not even the best of their men—would sweep Escalon and wipe out not only he and his men, but all the men, women and children of Escalon. Escalon would be no more, razed to a crisp. The stakes could not be higher: Duncan was gambling with all of their lives.
But freedom, his father had taught him, was more precious than anything in life. And freedom, sometimes, had to be earned repeatedly.
They marched and marched, the day cold and gray, thick clouds hanging low, snow falling all around them, a light snow which never seemed to stop. They marched in silence, these men who understood each other, who had fought many battles together, and nothing need be said between them.
Duncan watched with interest as the terrain changed the farther south they went, the salty, sea-climate of Esephus giving way to a barren stretch of plains and rolling hills. He searched for the Ire with each step, yet it never appeared; this land sprawled forever, and it did not seem as if it would ever end.
They crested a hill and a gale of wind and snow took Duncan’s breath away. He blinked the snow from his eyes, and as he looked out before him, he was mesmerized by the sight. Far below, nestled in a valley, there it sat: the Lake of Ire. It shimmered even beneath a gray sky, glowing a bright red, looking like a sea of fire. Some legends, Duncan knew, told its color came from the blood of its victims, men who waded in never to be seen again; others claimed its color rose from the vicious creatures who lived in its waters; still others had it that its color came from the tears of the goddess who wept in it when she first discovered Escalon.
The Lake of Ire was revered by all in Escalon as a sacred place, a place one came to to pray to the God of Birth and the God of Death—and most of all, the God of Vengeance. It was fitting, Duncan realized, that they would skirt its shores on this day.
Yet still, Duncan wished they would have taken any other route. This lake was also a cursed place, a place of death, a place one did not visit without reason. Even from here he felt a chill as he examined its shores, ringed by red, gravel-like rocks, its waters beyond it exploding with hot springs, sending off small clouds of steam as if the lake were venting its wrath. They all stopped, their armor clinking as thousands of horses rested, a sudden silence amidst the winter gale, and took in the sight before them. Duncan marveled at it, one of the wonders of Escalon.
“Is there no other way?” Duncan asked Seavig, who came to a stop beside him.
Seavig grimly shook his head, still staring out.
“We must follow its shores to the mouth of the Thusius and that is the most direct way to Kos. Don’t worry, old friend,” he said, clasping Duncan’s shoulder with a broad smile, “the old wives’ tales are not true. The lake will not eat you, and we won’t be swimming in it.”
Duncan still did not like it.
“Why not take the plains?” Anvin asked.
Seavig pointed.
“You see there?” he said.
Duncan looked and saw a thick fog rolling in. It came in way too fast, like a cloud in a storm, and within moments it was rushing their way, blinding. Duncan, immersed in a whiteout, had a jolt of fear as he could no longer see his men—he could not even see Seavig, just a few feet away. He had never experienced anything like it.
“It i
s not the Lake of Ire one fears,” Seavig said, his voice rising calmly from the fog, “but the plains surrounding it—and the fog that covers them. You see, my friend, you can hear my voice but you cannot see my face. That is how men die here. They get lost in the fog and never return.”
“And how could fog kill a person?” Arthfael asked, beside them.
“It is not the fog,” Seavig replied. “It is the creatures that ride it.”
Just as quickly, a gale of wind rushed through and blew the fog away—and Duncan felt an immense sense of relief to be able to see the lake again.
“If we take the plains,” Seavig continued, “we will lose each other in the fog. If we stick to the lake’s shores, we shall have a guide. Let us go quickly—the winds are shifting.”
Seavig kicked his horse, and Duncan joined, as did the others, all of them proceeding at a trot downhill and toward the lake. The water’s hissing grew louder as they neared, and as they reached its shores, the red gravel beneath their horses made for an eerie nose. Duncan’s sense of apprehension deepened.
There came another wave of fog, and once again, Duncan found himself immersed. Again, he could not see before him, and this time, the fog did not blow away.
“Stay close and listen for the gravel,” Seavig said. “That is how you know you are still on shore. Soon enough you will hear the river. Until then, do not stray from the path.”
“And those beasts you speak of?” Duncan called out, on edge as they walked through the cloud of white. “If you should come?”
Duncan heard the sound of Seavig’s sword being drawn.
“They will come,” he replied. “Just close your eyes, and let your sword do the killing.”
*
Duncan rode his horse at a walk in the fog, his men beside him, their horses brushing up against each other, the only way to navigate in the whiteout. He clutched his sword, on edge. Behind him his men sounded the horn, again and again, its lonely sound echoing through the hills, off the lake, his men following his command so that they would not lose track of each other. Yet every time a horn sounded he tensed, fearing it might provoke the creatures that lived in the fog and bracing himself for an attack. The sound was also hard to track, and if it weren’t for the gravel beneath them, they might all be lost by now. Seavig had been right.
Duncan found himself getting disoriented even so, losing himself in thought, losing all sense of reality as he rode deeper into the white. It was surreal; he could see how fog could drive a man mad.
Seavig’s low heavy voice rumbled, breaking the silence, and Duncan welcomed it.
“Do you remember Bloody Hill, old friend?” he asked, his voice heavy with nostalgia. “We were young. Budding warriors, with no wives and no children—just ourselves and our swords and the whole world before us to prove ourselves. That was the battle that made us men.”
“I remember it well,” Duncan replied, feeling as if it were yesterday.
“They outmanned us two to one,” Seavig continued, “and a fog came in, much like today. We were separated from our men, just the two of us.”
Duncan nodded.
“We stumbled into a trap,” Duncan added.
“A hornet’s nest,” Seavig said. “Do you remember what you said to me on that day?”
Duncan remembered, all too well.
“You said: this is the gift I’ve been waiting for,” Seavig continued. “I never understood what that meant until years later. It was a gift. It was the gift of being surrounded; the gift of being outnumbered; the gift of having no one else to rely on but ourselves. How many men get that gift?”
Duncan nodded, his heart welling with the memory of that day.
“A very rare gift indeed,” Duncan said.
“I received many wounds on that day,” Seavig continued after a long pause, “some of which I am reminded of every time I bend my knee. But that’s not what I remember most of all—nor is it the fact that we killed them all. What I remember most are your words. And my surprise at seeing you unafraid. On the contrary, I never saw you happier than at that moment. Your courage gave me strength. That was the day I vowed to become a great warrior.”
Duncan pondered his friend’s words deeply, memories rushing back, as they rode in silence for a long time. Duncan hardly believed so many years had passed. Where had his youth gone?
“The kingship should be yours,” Seavig said, after a long silence, his voice hard, his words rolling on the fog.
Duncan was startled by his words; the kingship was not something he aspired to, and his friend’s voice felt like his darker conscious egging him on.
Duncan shook his head.
“The old King was my friend,” he replied. “I have always aspired only to serve.”
“He betrayed the kingship,” Seavig countered. “He surrendered Escalon. He does not deserve to be King. I, for one, will never serve him again, if Escalon should ever be free—and neither will the others. We have no king—don’t you see that? And what will a free Escalon be without a king?”
“That may be so,” Duncan said, “and yet still he is our King, worthy or not. Surrendering a land does not forfeit a kingship.”
“Doesn’t it?” Seavig replied. “If not that, then what? What is a King who does not defend his land?”
Duncan sighed, knowing his friend was right. He had thought this through many times himself. Speaking to his friend was like arguing with himself; he was unsure what to say.
“Even if we had a new king,” Duncan replied, “why should it be me? There are many worthy men out there.”
“We all respect you,” Seavig replied. “All the warlords. All the great warriors who remain, scattered across Escalon. You represent what is best in all of us. When the Tarnis surrendered the land, we all expected you to assume the kingship. But you did not. Your silence spoke louder than all. It was your silence, my friend, your sticking by the old King’s side, that enabled Pandesia to take our land.”
The words struck Duncan deep, like a dagger in his heart, as he wondered if his friend were right. He had never considered it that way.
“I wanted only to be loyal,” Duncan replied. “Loyal to my land, loyal to my people, and loyal to my king.”
Seavig shook his head.
“Loyalty can be the greatest danger of all, when it is blind, when it is misplaced.”
Duncan thought about that. Had he been blinded by loyalty for the sake of loyalty?
“You taught me a great deal, Duncan,” Seavig continued. “Now allow me to teach you. It is not loyalty and devotion that make a man. It is knowing who to be loyal to—and when. Loyalty is not forever. Loyalty must be earned, every moment of every day. If the man I was loyal to yesterday does not earn it today, then that loyalty must be changed—or else that loyalty means nothing. Loyalty is not a birthright. To be the recipient of loyalty is a very sacred thing; and if recipients are unworthy, they must face the consequence. Blind devotion is a crutch. It is passive. And a warrior must never be passive.”
They continued on in silence, Seavig’s words ringing in Duncan’s ears, striking home to his very heart and soul, making him rethink his entire life. They stung him; they provoked him; and while he wished he had never heard them, he also knew that on some level he needed to.
“What will you do once Escalon is free?” Seavig continued, after a long silence. “Shame all the warriors who fight for you, and hand the kingship back to the man who does not deserve it? Or honor those who have honored you, and give them the leader they demand?”
Duncan did not know how to respond. He had been raised by his father to value loyalty above all else; men come and go, but loyalty is for life, he had been told. He had never betrayed those close to him, and had never forgotten a debt. He had also been raised to appreciate his place in life, and to not strive to reach a station that was too great for him.
All of what Seavig was saying went against the very grain of who he was, of what he knew. Yet at the same time, he could see his po
int: the weak king had let them all down, had hurt their great land, and Duncan knew there was some truth hidden in Seavig’s words, even if at the moment he could not fully process it.
They fell back into silence as they continued around the Lake of Ire, gravel crunching beneath their horses’ feet, the fog still so thick that Duncan could not see his hands. And as they went, his foreboding deepened. He feared no man, yet he did not like to fight what he could not see. He felt something evil in this wind, something coming, and he gripped his sword tighter. He hoped he was not leading his men to slaughter.
Duncan stiffened as he thought he heard a muffled shout. He stopped and stared into the fog, wondering, when suddenly, it came again. One of his men cried out, and this was followed by a thud, as if a man had fallen from his horse.
“Fog walkers!” shrieked Seavig, his voice cutting through the air.
There suddenly came shouts from all around him, and Duncan turned every which way, gripping his sword, trying to spot the foe—and then all was chaos.
Duncan suddenly felt an icy grip around his throat and he looked down to see what appeared to be a skeleton, but nearly translucent, like ice, its long claws digging into his throat and piercing his skin. He looked up to see a ghoulish creature, skeleton-like, with empty sockets for eyes, its face inches away, slowly becoming visible in the fog. It opened its mouth impossibly wide, leaned in, and placed it on Duncan’s chest and began to suck.
Even through the creature was toothless, still, the fog walker was suctioning him, like a leech, and he could feel it beginning to suck his body out of him, even through the chainmail. Duncan cried out in pain. With all the energy he could muster, he reached down, grabbed the creature’s skull with both hands, and squeezed. It was a monumental struggle, his arms shaking, as he felt himself getting weaker, feeling as if his heart would be sucked out of his chest.
Finally, the creature’s skull burst, its brittle bones falling all around him.
Duncan breathed hard, rubbing his chest, feeling his skin burning, realizing what a close call that was.
