by Morgan Rice
Even stronger.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“BLOOD EELS!” Seavig cried.
Duncan raised his sword and hacked at the thick, red eels twisting their way up his leg, as the Lake of Ire seemed to come alive with them. He felt them squeezing his flesh as all around him his men cried out and fell into the waters, splashing, flailing; yet as he swung, he was unable to gain enough momentum to slash through the thick waters and do any real damage to the creatures.
Desperate, feeling himself being dragged down, Duncan reached into his belt, grabbed his dagger and jabbed straight down. There came a screeching noise, follow by bubbles shooting to the surface, and the eel wrapped around him went limp.
“DAGGERS!” Duncan shouted to his men.
With the fog walkers gone, the fog finally began to lift all around them, and Duncan could see, all around him, his men following his command, jabbing their daggers at the eels as they were being pulled down. Hisses and shrieks rose up, as one by one the eels were killed and the men began to extricate themselves.
“MAKE FOR THE SHORE!” Duncan shouted, realizing the fog had lifted.
The men all made for the shore, splashing wildly as they waded their way out as quickly as they could. Duncan was dismayed to see that many of his men, unable to stab the eels quickly enough, were sucked down, shrieking, beneath the murky waters—dead before anyone could reach them.
Duncan heard a shout and looked over to see Anvin being dragged down behind him. He turned back and splashed for his friend, leaping into action.
“Take my hand!” Duncan yelled, wading into the eel-filled waters, hacking with one hand while extending a hand to Anvin with the other. He knew he was risking his life, but he could not leave his friend behind.
He finally grabbed Anvin’s hand and pulled with all his might, trying to extricate him from the nest of eels. He was making progress when suddenly several eels leapt from the water and wrapped around Duncan’s forearm; instead of helping his friend, he felt himself being sucked under.
There came a splashing, and Duncan turned to see Arthfael and Seavig and several of their men rushing back to help them. They swung with daggers and swords, chopping at the eels, swinging expertly, just missing Duncan’s and Anvin’s arms. The eels hissed all around them, and soon Duncan felt himself extricated again.
They all turned and waded back for shore, splashing as fast as they could, and this time, Duncan reached it, finding himself on shore, gasping for breath, aching all over from the sting of those creatures. He dropped to his knees, exhausted, and kissed the sand. The fog was gone, the eels hissed in the waters, a safe distance away, and Duncan had never felt so grateful to be on dry land again.
Finally, one nightmare after the next was behind them.
*
Duncan raised his ax and hacked away at the small red tree before him, chopping as he had been for hours, worked up into a sweat, his hands raw and calloused. All around him the air was filled with the sound of his men chopping, of the small trees falling in the clearing. With one final hack his tree fell, too, landing with a whoosh before him.
Duncan leaned back and rested on his ax handle, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his forehead, and he surveyed his men. They were all hard at work, some chopping trees, others carrying them and lining them up beside each other, and others were binding the logs to each other with thick ropes, creating rafts.
Duncan grabbed one end of his tree while Anvin grabbed the other, a log about fifteen feet long, and they hoisted it, surprisingly heavy, onto their shoulders. They marched through the muddy banks of the Thusius and dropped it in a pile by the river’s edge.
Sprayed by the gushing currents of the river, Duncan stood and examined his handiwork. That log had been the final piece needed for his impromptu raft. All up and down the banks of the Thusius, his men were engaged in the same activity, dozens of rafts being hastily erected, all of them preparing. It would be a great army moving downriver.
Duncan examined the gushing currents of the Thusius, and he wondered if his boat would hold. Yet he knew this was the only way, if he were to get all of his men to Kos undetected. He turned and saw the last of the rafts being tied, and he knew the time had come.
Seavig stepped up beside him, flanked by several men and, hands on his hips, looked downriver.
“Will they hold?” Duncan asked, surveying the rafts.
Seavig nodded.
“I’ve spent more time on sea than land,” he replied. “Not to worry. If it’s one thing my people understand, it is water. Those rafts may look shoddy, but they are secure. That is Esephan twine, stronger than any Volis rope. And those logs may seem small, but don’t be fooled: the Red Pine of the Thusius is the hardiest in the world. It may bend, but will never give.”
Duncan looked at his legions of men, battle-hardened, but few of them sailors. The rafts were slippery, with not much to hold onto, and the men wore armor, too easy for them to sink. Seavig was used to leading men at sea, but in Duncan’s eyes, the conditions were far from ideal.
“How far to Kos?” Duncan asked.
Seavig nodded to the horizon.
“You see those mountains?”
Duncan looked out and on the horizon he saw the jagged, white peaks rising impossibly high, disappearing into the clouds, higher than any mountain should ever reach. From the looks of them, they appeared to be days away.
“If the current flows,” Seavig replied, “we may reach the base in a day. That is, if we all make it.”
Seavig gave him a concerned look.
“Advise your men to stay in the center of the rafts; the Thusius teems with creatures that make those we left behind seem pleasant. Above all, have them avoid the swirls.”
“The swirls?” Duncan asked, not liking the sound of it.
“Whirlpools abound in this river,” Seavig said. “Stick close together, and we should be fine.”
Duncan furrowed his brow; he was a man of the land, and he did not like this.
“Is there no safer way to Kos?” he asked again, studying the land.
Seavig shook his head.
“There is no more direct way, either,” he replied. “We can take the plains, if you wish, but a Pandesian garrison guards it. That would mean a battle now. If you want to reach Kos in peace, the Thusius is the only way.”
Duncan still had speed and surprise on his side, and he could not risk alarming Pandesia to his revolt; it was a chance he simply could not take.
“The river, then,” Duncan said, decided.
Duncan had one thing left to do before they all embarked. He turned and walked over to his war horse, a great friend to him in battle for as long as he could remember. It pained him to leave his side—but they could not take their horses on the rafts.
“Good friend,” Duncan said, stroking his mane, “lead the other horses. They are your army now. Lead them south. To Kos. To the mountain base. Wait for us there, on the way to Andros. I will be expecting you—and I know you will be waiting for me.”
Duncan spoke to his horse as he would one of his men, and with a gentle nudge, he watched him neigh, rear his fierce legs high in the air, then turn and suddenly gallop proudly away, a leader in his own right. As he did, all the other horses—hundreds of them—turned and followed him, a great stampede, all racing south in one massive heard, the earth shaking with their rumble. They kicked up a cloud of dust and Duncan watched them go with a mix of sadness and pride. His horse understood him better than any man alive.
“If only my men would heed me the same way,” Seavig said wistfully, coming up by his side.
“Let us hope he has a master left for him when he arrives,” Duncan replied.
Duncan nodded and Anvin sounded the horn as Seavig’s men sounded theirs. Their army came alive, all the men stepping forward, shoving their rafts onto the waters, and jumping aboard. Duncan shoved his, too; it was heavier than he thought, he and several others pushing it through the mud until it floated in the water. As it floated, he was
relieved to see that Seavig had been right: the Red Pine became buoyant in the water, and the twine held firm.
Duncan jumped aboard with the others, then reached out with the long pole he had carved and jabbed it into the dry ground, shoving, pushing them farther out, away from shore, and into the middle of the river.
The Thusius, perhaps fifty yards wide, ran with crystal clear water, and he could see straight down to the bottom of it, perhaps twenty feet below, its bed sparkling with rocks and gems of all different shapes and colors. It was a sight to see. Soon the currents caught them, and they all began to move, slowly at first, hundreds of rafts carrying thousands of men as one. They were a floating army.
They gained momentum quickly and soon the pace quickened. Duncan was satisfied to feel the waters moving at a fast pace beneath them, all of the rafts holding, gaining more speed than they ever would have on land—and not having to strain any horses or men. He searched the land and spotted his horse, galloping in the distance, leading the army of horses, and he felt a wave of pride.
Duncan, standing on the raft with several men, felt the river racing beneath him, the wind in his hair, the spray of the water reaching him on occasion. He used the pole to steer their raft, and they fell into a comfortable groove on the wide and smooth river.
He eventually relaxed and let down his guard as the river took them twisting around one bend after the other. He looked out and studied the ever-changing landscape. They passed purple forests and plains bleached white; they passed herds of exotic creatures, looking like gazelles, but with heads at each end of their body. They passed plains of rock, sprawled in odd shapes, as if some ancient civilization had plopped them down and left. It was an uninhabited stretch of Escalon, dominated more by nature than man.
Duncan looked up and studied the mountains of Kos, their white peaks ever present, looming larger the closer they came. Soon enough, they would reach them. If he could rally the warriors who lived at its peak, it would be the turning point, what he needed to stage an attack on the capital. He knew his chances were slim, but that was what it meant, in his eyes, to be a warrior: to wage battle, despite all odds.
His heart beat faster at the idea of freeing Escalon, of ridding it of the Pandesians, of waging the war they should have waged years ago. Win or lose, at least, finally, he was riding into his destiny.
“How long since you’ve seen Kos?” Seavig called out over the sound of the current, his raft coming up beside Duncan’s as he steered it with his pole, the two rafts cruising downriver side by side.
Duncan crouched down low as his raft suddenly dropped two feet, rocking violently in the rapids before leveling out again. The water was getting rougher, and as Duncan tried to concentrate on the currents, he marveled at how poised Seavig and his men were—water people, they stood tall, well-balanced, as if standing on dry land.
“Many years,” Duncan finally called back. “I was a young man then. Still, it was a time I can never forget. I remember…the climb…the altitude…its people—a hard people. Brave warriors, fearless—but hard. They were reclusive. They were with us, but never quite with us.”
Seavig nodded.
“Nothing has changed,” he replied. “Now, they are more reclusive than ever. They were always separatist—now, after Tarnis’ betrayal, they are like a nation of their own.”
“Maybe it’s the mountain air,” joked Anvin, his raft coming up beside theirs. “Maybe they look down on all of us.”
“They don’t,” Seavig replied. “They just don’t have much interest in others.”
Duncan looked up and studied the white peaks, getting closer with each bend in the river.
“They hide up there,” Seavig replied, “from the Pandesian strongholds below. If they came down, they would be attacked. And the Pandesians don’t dare breach those heights—they know it would be folly. So the men of Kos fancy themselves free—but they are not free. They are trapped.”
Duncan studied the mountains, and he wasn’t so sure.
“The men of Kos whom I met feared nothing,” Duncan replied. “Certainly no Pandesians. I doubt they fear coming down.”
“Then why haven’t they descended since the invasion?” Seavig asked.
It was a mystery that Duncan had wondered at himself.
“Maybe they feel the old king does not deserve their respect,” Anvin offered. “Maybe they feel we are not worth coming down for after surrendering Escalon. The mountains are their home—to come down would be to fight our battles.”
“To come down would be to fight for Escalon, their land, too,” Seavig countered.
Duncan shrugged.
“I don’t know the answer,” Duncan called out. “But we shall find out.”
“And if they refuse to join us?” Seavig asked. “Then what? Climbing those peaks is no small risk.”
Duncan looked up and studied the steep ascent, and he wondered the same thing. He would be leading his men up a perilous path—what if it was all for naught?
“They will descend,” Duncan finally said. “They will join us. Because the men of Kos whom I know would not refuse an invitation to freedom.”
“Whose freedom?” Seavig asked. “Theirs or ours?”
Duncan pondered his words as they all fell back into silence, the rapids gaining speed, bringing them ever farther down the Thusius. It was a fine question, indeed. Climbing those peaks would indeed be a risk—and he prayed it would not all be for naught.
Duncan heard an unfamiliar noise and as he looked over at Seavig, wondering. He was surprised to find his friend studying the river, fear in his eyes for the first time.
“The swirls!” Seavig cried.
His men all blew their horns at once, and Seavig shoved with his pole, desperately trying to move his raft to the far side of the river. Duncan and his men followed, steering their rafts to the far side of the river, and as they did, Duncan looked over to the middle of the river and was shocked by what he saw. There were a series of small whirlpools, twisting and turning, making a great noise, sucking everything in their path down into it. It consumed much of the river, leaving only a narrow strip to navigate past, forcing their great army to cruise alongside the edge of the river single file.
Duncan looked back over his shoulder, taking stock of his men, and his heart dropped to see one of his rafts not get out of the way fast enough. He watched with horror as it was sucked into the whirlpool, his men shrieking as they spun again and again, instantly sucked down to the bottom of the river.
Duncan reflexively tried to jump in after them, even though he was a good fifty yards away, but Seavig reached out with his pole and held it against his chest, stopping him, while Duncan’s men grabbed his shoulders.
“You jump in, you’re a dead man,” Seavig said. “The more who follow, the more will die. Without you, far more men will die. Is that what you wish?”
Duncan stood there, torn inside, feeling as if he were going down with his men. Deep down, he knew Seavig was right. He had no choice but to grit his teeth and watch his men, from afar, disappear in the currents.
Duncan turned back, reluctantly, looked ahead, downriver, as the swirls disappeared and the currents went back to normal. He cursed this place. Nothing pained him more than to watch the death of his men—and to be helpless to do anything about it. It was the price of being a leader, he knew. He was no longer just one of the men; he was responsible for each and every one.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Seavig said with a heavy voice. “It is the price of the Thusius. The land would, I’m sure, carry its own dangers.”
Duncan noticed the fear in the faces of the soldiers on the raft with him, including his two sons, and he could not help but think of Kyra. He wondered where she was now. Had she reached Whitewood yet? Had she made it to the sea?
Most of all, was she safe?
He had a pit in his stomach as he thought of her, practically alone out there. He remembered, of course, her power, her incredible skills in combat; yet still
, she was but a girl, hardly a woman yet, and Escalon was an unforgiving place. It was a quest she needed to take, for her benefit, yet still, he doubted himself. Had it been a mistake to send her on the journey alone? What if she didn’t make it? He would never be able to live with himself again.
Most of all, he wondered: who would she become during her training? Who would she be when she returned to him? He was both in awe of the powers he knew she had—and afraid of them.
Duncan looked out and watched the ever-changing landscape, the climate cooling as they neared the immense mountains. The grass shores bordering the river slowly gave way to bogs the further south they went, long stretches of river bank bordered by reeds, marshes. Duncan saw exotic, brightly colored animals raise their heads in the reeds and snap at the air before disappearing just as quickly.
Hour followed hour, the Thusius ever twisting and turning. The weather grew colder, the spray stronger, and soon Duncan felt his hands and feet growing numb. The mountains loomed ever larger, closer and closer, feeling as if they were just an arm’s reach away, though he knew they still had hours to go. Duncan searched for his horses out there, hoping, but saw none.
Duncan did not know how many hours had passed, holding his pole, studying the currents, when suddenly he noticed Seavig gesture in the raft beside him. As they rounded a bend, he noticed a disturbance in the water up ahead. Something was foaming and churning in the waters, even though the water here was calm. It was as if a school of fish might be beneath it.
Duncan studied it, confused, and as they neared, he thought he saw something leap from the water. He looked over to Seavig, and for the first time since they began this journey together, he saw real fear in his friend’s face.
“River sharks!” Seavig shrieked. “Get down!”
His men dropped to their stomachs on their rafts while Duncan watched, puzzled. Before he and his men could get down, he suddenly looked out and saw, with horror, what they were talking about: there, up ahead, was a school of massive sharks, thirty feet long, leaping from the river, soaring through the air in a high arch and crashing back down. There were dozens of them, and as the churning moved, they were all clearly heading upriver—right for them.
