by Morgan Rice
All of them exchanged a glance, all knowing what this meant: battle had come.
The Lord’s Men were here.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Merk hiked and hiked on the forest trail, the shadows getting long as he wound his way through Whitewood, the dead thieves now a good day’s hike behind him. He hadn’t stopped hiking since, trying to clear his mind of the incident, to get back to the peaceful place he had once inhabited. It wasn’t easy. His legs growing weary, Merk was more anxious than ever to find the Tower of Ur, to walk into his new life as a Watcher, and he scanned the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of it through the trees.
But there was no sign of it. This trek was beginning to feel more like a pilgrimage, one that would never end. The Tower of Ur was more remote, more well-hidden, than he had imagined.
Encountering those thieves had awakened something deep within him, had made Merk realize how hard it might be to shake off his old self. He did not know if he had the discipline. He only hoped that the Watchers would accept him in their order; if not, with nowhere else to turn, he would surely go back to being the man he once was.
Up ahead, Merk saw the wood change, saw a grove of ancient white trees, trunks as wide as ten men, reaching high into the sky, their branches spreading out like a canopy with shimmering red leaves. One of the trees, with a broad, curved trunk, looked particularly inviting, and Merk, feet aching, sat down beside it. He leaned back and felt an immediate sense of relief, felt the pain leaving his back and legs from hours of hiking. He kicked off his boots and felt the pain throbbing in his feet, and he sighed as a cool breeze soothed him, leaves rustling above.
Merk reached into his sack and extracted what remained of the dried strips of meat from the rabbit he had caught the other night. He took a bite and chewed slowly, closing his eyes, resting, wondering what the future had in store for him. Sitting here, against this tree, beneath these rustling leaves, felt good enough for him.
Merk’s eyes felt heavy and he let them close, just for a moment, needing the rest.
When he opened them, Merk was surprised to see the sky had grown darker, to realize that he had fallen asleep. It was already twilight, and he realized with a start that he would have slept all night—if he had not been awakened by a noise.
Merk sat up and took stock, immediately on guard as his instincts kicked in. He clutched the hilt of his dagger, hidden in his waist, and waited. He did not want to resort to violence—but until he reached the Tower, he was starting to feel that anything was possible.
The rustling became louder, and it sounded like someone running, bursting through the forest. Merk was puzzled: what was someone else doing out here, in the middle of nowhere, in twilight? From the sound of the leaves, Merk could tell it was one person, and that it was light. Maybe a child, or a girl.
Sure enough, a moment later there burst into his sight a girl, emerging from the forest, running, crying. He watched her, surprised, as she ran, alone, stumbled, and fell, but feet away from him. She landed face-first in the dirt. She was pretty, perhaps eighteen, but disheveled, her hair a mess, dirt and leaves in it, her clothes ragged and torn.
Merk stood, and as she scrambled to get back to her feet she saw him and her eyes widened in panic.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she cried, standing, backing away.
Merk raised his hands.
“I mean you no harm,” he said slowly, standing to his full height. “In fact, I was just about to be on my way.”
She backed up several feet in terror, still crying, and he could not help but wonder what had happened. Whatever it was, he did not want to get involved—he had enough problems of his own.
Merk turned back on the trail and began to walk away, when her voice cried out behind him:
“No, wait!”
He turned and saw her standing there, desperate.
“Please. I need your help,” she pleaded.
Merk looked at her and saw how beautiful she was beneath her disheveled appearance, with unwashed blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a face with perfect features, covered in tears and in dirt. She wore simple farmer’s clothes, and he could tell she was not rich. She looked as if she had been on the run for a long time.
He shook his head.
“You don’t have the money to pay me,” Merk said. “I cannot help you, whatever it is you need. Besides, I’m on my way for my own mission.”
“You don’t understand,” she begged, stepping closer. “My family—our home was raided this morning. Mercenaries. My father’s been hurt. He chased them away, but they’ll be back soon—and with a lot more men—to kill him, to kill my whole family. They said they will burn our farm to the ground. Please!” she begged, stepping closer. “I’ll give you anything. Anything!”
Merk stood there, feeling sorry for her, but determined not to get involved.
“There are many problems in the world, miss,” he said. “And I can’t fix them all.”
He turned once again to walk away, when her voice rang out again:
“Please!” she cried. “It is a sign, don’t you see? That I would run into you here, in the middle of nowhere? I expected to find no one—and I found you. You were meant to be here, meant to help me. God is giving you a chance for redemption. Don’t you believe in signs?”
He stood there and watched her sobbing, and he felt guilty, but mostly detached. A part of him thought of how many people he’d killed in his lifetime, and wondered: what’s a few more? But there were always just a few more. It never seemed to end. He had to draw the line somewhere.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “But I am not your savior.”
Merk turned again and began to walk off, determined this time not to stop, to drown out her sobs and grief by rustling the leaves loudly with his feet, blocking out the noise.
But no matter how hard he rustled the leaves, her cries continued, ringing somewhere in the back of his head, summoning him. He turned and watched her run off, disappearing back into the wood, and he wanted to feel a sense of relief. But more than anything, he felt haunted—haunted by a cry he did not want to hear.
He cursed as he hiked, enraged, wishing he’d never met her. Why? he wondered. Why him?
It kept gnawing away at him, would not let him be, and he hated the feeling. Was this what it was like, he wondered, to have a conscience?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kyra’s heart pounded as she walked with her father and brothers, Anvin and all the warriors, all marching solemnly through the streets of Volis, all preparing for war. There was a solemn silence in the air, the skies heavy with gray, a light snow falling once again as their boots crunched through the snow, approaching the main gate of the fort. Horns sounded again and again, and her father led his men stoically, Kyra surprised at how calm he was, as if he had done this a thousand times before.
Kyra looked straight ahead, and through the iron bars of the lowered portcullis she caught a glimpse of the Lord Governor, leading his men, a hundred of them, dressed in their scarlet armor, the yellow and blue Pandesian banners flapping in the wind. They galloped through the snow on their massive black horses, wearing the finest armor and donning the finest weaponry, all heading directly for the gates of Volis. The rumble of their horses was audible from here, and Kyra felt the ground tremble beneath her.
As Kyra marched, her heart pounding, she held her new staff, had her new bow strapped over her shoulder, and she wore hew new bracers—and she felt reborn. Finally, she felt like a real warrior, with real weapons. She was elated to have them.
As they marched, Kyra was pleased her to see her people rallying, unafraid, all joining them on their march to meet the enemy. She saw all the village folk looking to her father and his men with hope, and she was honored to be marching with them. They all seemed to have an infinite trust in her father, and she suspected that if they were under any other leadership, the village folk would not be as calm.
The Lord’s Men came closer, a horn sounded yet again
, and Kyra’s heart slammed.
“No matter what happens,” Anvin said, coming up beside her, talking quietly, “no matter how close they get, do not take any action without your father’s command. He is your commander now. I speak to you not as his daughter, but as one of his men. One of us.”
She nodded back, honored.
“I do not wish to be the cause of death for our people,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Arthfael said, coming up on her other side. “This day has been a long time coming. You didn’t start this war—they did. The second they crossed the Southern Gate and invaded Escalon.”
Kyra, reassured, tightened her grip on her staff, ready for whatever might come. Perhaps the Lord Governor would be reasonable. Perhaps he would negotiate a truce?
Kyra and the others reached the portcullis, and they all stopped and looked to her father.
He stood there, looking out, expressionless, his face hard, ready. He turned to his men.
“We shall not cower behind iron gates in fear of our enemies,” he boomed, “but meet them, as men, beyond the gate. Raise it!” he commanded.
A groaning noise followed as soldiers slowly raised the thick iron portcullis. Finally, it stopped with a bang, and Kyra joined the others as they all marched through.
They marched across the hollow wood bridge, their boots echoing, crossed over the moat, and all came to a stop at the opposite side, waiting.
A rumble filled the air as the Lord’s Men came to a stop a few feet before them. Kyra stood several feet behind her father, grouped in with the others, and she pushed her way to the front lines, wanting to stand by his side—and to stare down the Lord’s Men, face to face.
Kyra saw the Lord Governor, a middle-aged, balding man with wisps of gray hair and a large belly, sitting smugly on his horse a dozen feet away, staring down at all of them as if he were too good for them. A hundred of his men sat on horseback behind him, all wearing serious expressions and bearing serious weaponry. These men, she could see, were all prepared for war and death.
Kyra was so proud to see her father standing there, before all his men, unflinching, unafraid. He wore the face of a commander at war, one she had never seen before. It was not the face of the father she knew, but the face he reserved for his men.
A long, tense silence filled the air, punctuated only by the howling of the wind. The Lord Governor took his time, examining them for a full minute, clearly trying to intimidate them, to force her people to look up and take in the awesomeness of their horses and weapons and armor. The silence stretched so long that Kyra started to wonder if anyone would break it, and she began to realize that her father’s silence, his greeting them silently, coldly, standing with all his men at arms, was in itself an act of defiance. She loved him for it. He was not a man to back down to anyone, whatever the odds.
Leo was the only one to make a sound, snarling quietly up at them.
Finally, the Lord Governor cleared his throat, as he stared at her father.
“Five of my men are dead,” he announced, his voice nasally. He remained on his horse, not coming down to meet them at their level. “Your daughter has broken the sacred Pandesian law. You know the consequence: touching a Lord’s Man means pain of death.”
He fell silent, and her father did not respond. As the snow and wind picked up, the only sound that could be heard was the flapping of the banners in the wind. The men, equally numbered on both sides, stared at each other in a tense silence.
Finally, the Lord Governor continued.
“Because I am a merciful Lord,” he said, “I will not execute your daughter. Nor will I kill you and your men and your people, which is my right. I am, in fact, willing to put all this nasty business behind us.”
The silence continued as the Governor, taking his time, slowly surveyed all their faces, until he stopped on Kyra. She felt a chill as his greedy, ugly eyes settled on her.
“In return, I will take your daughter, as is my right. She is unwed, and of age, and as you know, Pandesian law permits me. Your daughter—all of your daughters—are our property now.”
He sneered at her father.
“Consider yourself lucky I do not exact a harsher punishment,” he concluded.
The Lord Governor turned and nodded to his men, and two of his soldiers, fierce-looking men, dismounted and began to cross the bridge, their boots and spurs echoing over the hollow wood as they went.
Kyra’s heart slammed in her chest as she saw them coming for her; she wanted to take action, to draw her bow and fire, to wield her staff. But she recalled Anvin’s words about awaiting her father’s command, about how disciplined soldiers should act, and as hard as it was, she forced herself to wait.
As they came closer, Kyra wondered what her father would do. Would he give her away to these men? Would he fight for her? Whether they won or lost, whether they took her or not, did not matter to her—what mattered more to her was that her father cared enough to make a stand.
As they neared, though, her father did not react. Kyra’s heart pounded in her throat. She felt a rush of disappointment, realizing he was going to let her go. It made her want to cry.
Leo snarled furiously, standing out in front of her, hair raised; yet still they didn’t stop. She knew that if she commanded him to pounce, he would; yet she did not want him to be harmed by those weapons, and she did not want to defy her father’s command and spark a war.
The men were but a few feet away from her when, suddenly, at the last second, her father nodded to his men, and six of them stepped forward, Kyra was elated to see, and lowered their halberds, blocking the soldiers’ approach.
The soldiers stopped short, their armor clanging against the metal halberds, and they looked to her father with surprise, clearly not expecting this.
“You’ll be going no further,” he said. His voice was strong, dark, a voice no one would dare defy. It carried the tone of authority—not of a serf.
In that moment, Kyra loved him more than she’d ever had.
He turned and looked out at the Lord Governor.
“We are all free men here,” he said, “men and women, old and young alike. The choice is hers. Kyra,” he said, turning to her, “do you wish to leave with these men?”
She stared back at him, suppressing a smile.
“No,” she answered firmly.
He turned back to the Lord Governor.
“There you have it,” he said. “The choice is hers to make. Not yours, and not mine. If you wish to have some property or gold of mine as recompense for your loss,” he said to the Governor, “then you may have it. But you shall not have my daughter—or any of our daughters—regardless of what a scribe has set down as Pandesian law.”
The Lord Governor glowered down at him, shock in his face, clearly not used to being spoken to that way—or defied. He looked like he did not know what to do. Clearly, this was not the reception he had been expecting.
“You dare to block my men?” he asked. “To turn down my offer?”
“It is no offer at all,” Duncan replied.
“Think carefully, serf,” he chided. “I shall not offer it twice. If you refuse me, you will face death—you and all of your people. Surely you know that I am not alone—I speak for the vast Pandesian army. Do you imagine you can face Pandesia alone—when your own King has surrendered your kingdom? When the odds are so stacked against you?”
Her father shrugged.
“I don’t fight for odds,” he replied. “I fight for causes. Your number of men does not matter to me. What matters is our freedom. You may win—but you will never take our spirit.”
The governor’s face hardened.
“When all your women and children are taken from you screaming,” he said, “remember the choice you made today.”
The Lord Governor turned, kicked his horse, and rode off, followed by several attendants, heading back on the road on which he’d came, into the snowy countryside.
His soldiers, though, remaine
d behind, and their commander raised his banner high and ordered: “ADVANCE!”
The Lord’s Men all dismounted, lined up in a row, and marched in perfect discipline, over the bridge and right for them.
Kyra, heart pounding, turned and looked at her father, as did all the others, awaiting his command—and suddenly he raised one fist high, and with a fierce battle cry, lowered it.
Suddenly, the sky filled with arrows. Kyra looked over her shoulder to see several of her father’s archers take aim from the battlements and fire. Arrows whizzed by her ear and she watched as they hit the Lord’s Men left and right.
Cries filled the air as men died all around her. It was the first time she had seen so many men die up close, and the sight stunned her.
Her father, at the same time, drew a short sword from each side of his waist, stepped forward, and stabbed the two soldiers who had come for his daughter, each dropping, dead, at his feet.
At the same moment, Anvin, Vidar, and Arthfael raised spears and hurled them, each felling a soldier who charged across the bridge. Brandon and Braxton stepped forward and hurled spears, too, one grazing a soldier’s arm and the other grazing a soldier’s leg, wounding them, at least.
More men charged and Kyra, inspired, set aside her staff, raised her new bow for the first time, placed an arrow, and fired. She aimed for the commander, leading his men in a charge on horseback, and she watched with great satisfaction as her arrow sailed through the air and impaled his chest. It was her first shot with the new bow, and her first time killing a man in formal combat—and as their commander fell to the ground, she looked down in shock at what she had just done.
At the same time, a dozen of the Lord’s Men raised their bows and fired back, and Kyra watched in horror as arrows whizzed by her from the opposite direction—and as some of her father’s men cried out, wounded, dropping all around her.
“FOR ESCALON!” her father yelled.
He drew his sword and led a charge across the bridge, into the thick of the Lord’s Men. His soldiers followed close behind, and Kyra drew her staff and joined in, too, exhilarated at rushing into battle and wanting to be by her father’s side.
