The Weight of Honor

by Morgan Rice

  He turned and fled, grabbing his stump, shrieking, and he disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared.

  Aidan looked over at White, still snarling, as if still angry, and then, to Aidan’s amazement, he

  bounded off, chasing after the man through the crowds, not done with him yet.

  “White!” Aidan yelled.

  But White wouldn’t listen. Aidan chased him down, out of breath, until finally he caught up with him, several blocks away, leaping on the man’s back and sinking his fangs into the back of his neck. The man fell still on the ground, until his shrieking stopped. Dead.

  White’s vicious look softened as he turned and spotted Aidan. Aidan looked at him with a whole new respect as he knelt down and stroked his head.

  “Thank you,” Aidan said, as White leaned over and licked him.

  Aidan noticed a few passersby look over at the dead body, but none stopped. In a city like this, Aidan supposed, a dead body was nothing worth stopping for. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances of getting into trouble.

  “Let’s go.”

  Aidan guided White away, and the two of them merged quickly back into the crowds. White bounded ahead, and as Aidan hurried to catch up, he wondered where he was going.

  “White!” Aidan called out.

  Aidan turned a corner, wondering what trouble his newfound friend could be getting into next, when he spotted White at the far side of a square, sticking his nose in a rack full of meat. Aidan smiled; he had been following his noise. The vendor did not look happy.

  Aidan hurried over and held out a gold coin to the woman. He had to admit he was enticed by the smell, too, his stomach growling.

  The vendor took the coin and examined it skeptically in the light, looking down at Aidan.

  “What will you have?” she finally asked, curt.

  “The whole rack,” Aidan said, realizing how hungry White must be.

  She reached over and handed him a long stick holding chunks of roasted meat, dripping with sauce. Aidan handed one to White first, and White snatched it from his hands, chewing the meat off the stick, pulling off one chunk after the next. The vendor handed him stick after stick until finally the entire rack sat empty. Aidan could not believe how much White could eat. He saved the last stick for himself, and he savored every bite of the steak, as the sauce dripped down his chin.

  “Something to wash it down?” the woman asked.

  She handed him a bowl of water and he set it down for White; then she handed him a small sack of liquid.

  Aidan squirted it down his throat, expecting water, and he coughed as he realized there was something else in it. He felt it rush to his head, and he realized: it was wine.

  “What’s in here?” he asked, shocked.

  The woman smiled down, missing a tooth.

  “Something a bit stronger,” she replied. “Time for you to become a man. Welcome to the capital.”

  The wine rushed to his head, and Aidan did not like the feeling. He felt disoriented.

  “Have you seen the men of Volis?” he asked her, eager to know.

  “You mean all those new soldiers?” she asked. “The ones that freed the capital?”

  He nodded.

  “What would you have with them?” she asked.

  “They are my father’s men,” he said proudly.

  She looked at him for a long time, as if suspecting he were lying.

  “Check the Southern Square,” she said. “Soldiers usually station there.”

  She pointed down an alleyway, and Aidan continued on, following her directions.

  Aidan headed down a series of endlessly long alleyways, emerged into another square, then turned down a side street, White always at his side. He emerged from a series of tall, narrow buildings, and the city opened up again.

  As Aidan entered this new square he looked up, dwarfed by buildings hundreds of feet high. One building, with tapered golden doors, looked like a temple, while another had soaring columns and resembled a library. Several of the buildings had golden domes, shining in the sun, and everything here looked as if it had stood for centuries.

  Aidan roamed through the new square, looking for any sign pointing to the Southern Square of the city.

  “Do you know the way to the Southern Square?” Aidan asked a passerby, a man who looked slightly less rushed than the others. But the man merely shook his head and rushed off.

  Aidan turned in every direction, seeing an endless array of alleys and squares, and he felt lost and overwhelmed.

  Suddenly, there came a voice.

  “Help me, please!”

  He looked over and saw a girl about his age, sitting on the street, legs crossed, a forlorn and helpless look on her face. Covered in dirt, she looked as if she hadn’t eaten in months, wasting away, flies on top of her that she didn’t even bother swatting away.

  “I need something to eat,” she added, her voice hoarse. “Anything.”

  Aidan’s heart broke for her. He examined his sack, looked in at all of his coins, and hesitated for a moment, knowing it was all he had left in the world. Then, feeling a rush of compassion for her and knowing it was the right thing to do, he stepped forward and placed the entire sack in her palm.

  She looked up at him, and slowly her eyes filled with shock. Then she welled with tears, as she stood to her feet.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Aidan.”

  “I am Cassandra,” she replied. “And I shall never forget this.”

  She reached forward and hugged him, then she turned and disappeared into an alley.

  Aidan stood there, penniless, but feeling good that he had done the right thing. While he feared for his future, penniless now, he didn’t regret it.

  Music suddenly drifted up from the far side of the square, and Aidan turned and was shocked to see a huge platform rolling through and atop it, jugglers, musicians, and, he was thrilled to see, some of the actors he had ridden into town with. At center stage was Motley.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of Andros!” he boomed, as the crowd gathered close. “I present to you a tale of no parallel!”

  Aidan desperately wanted to find his father, but as he looked out at the falling night he knew his search would be futile in the dark. And as he felt the exhaustion in his legs from a long day of searching, he knew he needed a break. So instead, he allowed himself to merge with the crowd, toward the stage, and settle in for the entertainment. After all, his new friends, he knew, would know this city, and if anyone could help point him to Southern Square, to his father, it would be them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  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.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  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.