Merek's Ascendance

by Andrew Lashway

  Merek barely dodged a punch, grabbing the assassin by the hair and smashing his face into a wall. The assassin stood, dazed, as Merek followed it up with a kick to his midsection. One more punch to the face sent the assassin backpedaling.

  Merek just kept coming, inexorable, his gaze cloudy.

  So Merek wasn’t ready for the assassin to surge forward with a stiff right hook to his face, dazing him even further. He certainly wasn’t ready for the assassin to grab his face with both hands and bring his head down at the same time a knee was raised.

  The two met three times, and Merek hit the ground before he even felt a thing. His face was burning, he was pretty sure his nose was broken based on the blood trickling from it and the fire that was accosting his nostrils, and his brain felt like it was desperately pressing against the sides of his skull, seeking escape.

  Merek still forced himself back to his feet. He wasn’t sure how, he wasn’t even sure he knew where the floor was, but he refused to stay down. Staying awake was closing in on impossible. He could barely keep his eyes open, and each breath he took seemed to cost him more energy than the whole battle had.

  That didn’t stop him. The assassin reached down and lifted the mace, holding it with his left hand. He seemed unwilling to move his right.

  Merek knew he wouldn’t fall for another feint, so getting close to disarm him was no longer an option.

  “Looks like you’re all out of tricks,” the assassin said as he spat out a mouth-full of blood.

  Merek didn’t reply. He was too tired to work his bruised jaw. But he did have one trick left. Just one, but it was a trick that hadn’t failed him yet.

  Merek drew his staff from his back, whirling it around as he readied to fight.

  The assassin shook his head once before swinging the mace. Merek dodged to the side, knocking the mace away with a quick swat. The mace struck out again, and Merek was barely able to pull his abdomen in to avoid the blow.

  But he was tired, so very tired. Even his stamina, tempered by long hours on the farm and longer hours still training, could only take him so far. His breath barely entered his lungs, and the moment it did he had to expel it again.

  His vision was so blurry, the assassin was little more than a green blob. The mace, a mess of black metal, came in slow motion. Merek dodged away from it, though he was moving even slower than the mace. He dodged the mace twice more, moving on pure instinct alone, and he swung his staff without really knowing where he was swinging it.

  He was being forced back, he knew it. He just didn’t have the first clue what to do about it.

  Merek’s gaze cleared just long enough for him to see the assassin charge forward, his mace swinging from the heavens as he put his all into a desperate attack.

  Merek had no time to react. All he could do was lift his staff over his head, putting his faith in the first thing to never fail him.

  The mace crashed into the staff, snapping it in two.

  Time slowed down, just for a moment, just long enough for Merek’s jaw to drop as he saw his trusted staff splinter into two pieces. The mace went off target, missing Merek’s head.

  His staff still hadn’t failed him, even in death.

  Merek was so shocked, so disoriented, that he could do nothing to stop the assassin’s boot from connecting with his chest. The impact didn’t hurt terribly, but the force of the blow blasted him backwards.

  Down the stone steps.

  He felt gravity pull him down, and his lifeless body turned as it fell. He smashed into the steps and rolled down. Every step crushed the air from his lungs and only increased the pain rifling through his body like wildfire.

  Finally, his body came to rest at the foot of the stairs. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. His entire body felt like someone had taken a rock and beaten every inch of flesh they could find with it. His head was spinning, and he was awake – maybe even alive – by only the slimmest of margins.

  “Not bad,” he dimly heard a dry voice say. The assassin. “Given a few years of experience, I wouldn’t mind facing you in real combat.”

  Real combat?

  The arrogance, the pompous attitude, sent a wave of fury through Merek. Fury enough to momentarily overpower his incredible pain, and Merek pushed himself to his knees. The assassin had the mace in his hand, held tightly. He was going to smash Merek’s brain in.

  “Do it,” Merek said, staring up at the man with renewed ferocity smoking from his eyes. “Do it, you coward.”

  The assassin looked confused, thrown by Merek’s outburst. Perhaps he was expecting Merek to surrender.

  Merek had done enough of that over the last few months. Over the last few years. His whole life was just one continuous surrender to forces who abused their power.

  No more.

  “Do it!” Merek shouted.

  The assassin lifted the mace high, perhaps wary for Merek to spring a trap. But Merek had no traps, no plans. No tricks left. Just the promise of peace. Of freedom, finally, from his own memories.

  At least I won’t have to tell anyone that I failed to protect their prince.

  The assassin tensed again, yelling as he swung the mace. Merek closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling of release.

  He heard the twang of an arrow and heard a clang of metal on metal. He looked up in time to see the assassin drop the mace and an arrow fall to the ground. Cursing, the assassin turned and bolted back up the stairs.

  Merek had nothing left. The rage drained from his blood just as quickly as it had appeared, and the pain returned twofold.

  He pitched forward, caught at the last moment by a pair of hands wrapped in armor.

  “Hey, buddy, no falling asleep now,” he heard a deep voice say. John. It was John.

  John pulled his head up, and Merek saw Raven and Milly were with him.

  “Go,” Merek forced out, “protect… Thorald.”

  “But…”

  “GO!” Merek shouted, pushing John off of him. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the three of them hurrying up the stairs.

  Though his eyes closed, he didn’t fall asleep. He simply lay still, feeling every ounce of pain as it set fire to his bones, his blood, everything. He had never been in this much pain.

  “Wake up… Merek… wake up.”

  The voice this time was breathy, filled with pain. Thorald.

  Merek’s eyes half opened, the best he could do. Thorald was leaning against the wall next to him, trying his best to stay upright. He was pale and still trying to ward off the injury he had suffered.

  “He didn’t… he didn’t kill you?”

  “Crawled away…” Thorald said as he slipped to the floor. “Barricaded a closet. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t fight him…”

  “That’s… that’s alright,” Merek replied, almost smiling. If his face didn’t hurt so badly, he might have managed it. “At least… he didn’t kill you.”

  “I heard… other voices. Thought it would be safe.”

  “John and Milly. Raven too. Chased him down. Saved me from getting my brain beaten out.”

  “Heh. Good timing.”

  “Maybe. I’m almost sure being dead would hurt less.”

  Thorald laughed, but he then yelled in pain and hissed out his next few breaths.

  “Sorry. No jokes.”

  “Yeah… maybe later.”

  They sat there in silence, neither one able to move, and waited for something to happen. Someone to find them. Anything.

  After a while, someone did.

  A few soldiers located them, and called for the medics. They stretchered both Merek and Thorald away, taken to the hospital wing. It was a huge gray stone room with beds every few feet and windows above every bed. Bandages lay strewn about as the medics were busy with the injured.

  It was there they received the news.

  John and Milly walked in, both with red eyes and tear tracks making the dirt on their faces run. Merek couldn’t say why, but he felt the room had dropped by
several degrees.

  He looked at Thorald, who looked back at him with a matching expression of dread.

  “What’s happened?” Thorald said, his voice cracking from the pain he was in. The medics had dressed his wounds, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime in the near future. But he would live.

  Merek, whose wounds were worse but more superficial, wanted to leave the bed immediately. And based on the shared look of grief on John and Milly’s faces, he didn’t want to hear what they had to say.

  “What’s wrong?” Merek said, his hands unconsciously balling into fists.

  “Thorald… Thorald I’m so sorry.” As Milly spoke, John put an arm around her.

  “What?”

  “It… it’s…”

  Milly burst into tears, unable to continue.

  “What happened?” Merek asked John, who seemed a little more composed.

  Then, in five simple words, John told them.

  “The High King is dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen: Mending and Reviving

  It was the most uncomfortable feeling in the world. It was a pang in his heart, as if it was falling out of his chest. Tears unconsciously formed in his eyes, tears that he didn’t even try to keep from falling down his face.

  His reaction was very strange to him, because what John said couldn’t possibly be true. The High King, dead? Impossible. The man with the mighty laugh, who sat and ate with his people as he listened to their concerns and daily activities, couldn’t have died. He just couldn’t have.

  It wasn’t true.

  But if it wasn’t true, why were Merek’s hands shaking? Why were his shoulders heaving? Why couldn’t he keep the tears from falling?

  If it wasn’t true, why was every fiber of his being acting like it was?

  He turned to Thorald, but no words came. Thorald was staring at the floor, unable to fathom what had happened. Merek faced John and Milly, but neither one of them spoke again. Merek was sure they couldn’t.

  They sat there, the four of them, and stared at nothing and everything at the same time.

  Then she arrived.

  Julia, leather vest filled with daggers, hurried to his side. She seemed relieved to see he was still alive, but her face quickly fell to dread as she saw three of the most stalwart people she knew crying.

  Then there was Merek, who still didn’t know what to feel.

  “What is it?” Julia asked, kneeling at his side. “What happened?”

  “John… John said the King is dead.”

  Why did her jaw drop so fast? Did she believe it too? Would everyone believe this obvious and hurtful lie?

  “I have to see,” Thorald said, throwing back the covers.

  “I’m sorry, your majesty, but you can’t. You need to move as little as possible until you’ve healed,” the medic said. It was a testament to how injured Thorald was that the medic was able to restrain him with a single hand.

  “It’s my father,” Thorald argued, “I have to see him. I have to… I have to know.”

  “What happened?” Julia asked John.

  “After the assassin… fought with Merek, he ran. We chased him, but he was faster. Raven took a shot at him, but his armor was too thick. It couldn’t pierce it. He broke into the throne room and just… he didn’t even fight the soldiers there. He ran under them. And the King was defenseless… he looked so shocked…”

  John looked away, stricken, unable to continue.

  “He didn’t use a weapon,” Milly said, speaking through her sobs. “He just… grabbed the King’s head and…”

  Snap.

  Merek bent over in his bed, his breath coming in harsher and harsher gasps. He felt something rising in his throat, something that was burning his insides on its way up. He forced it down, forced himself to maintain control.

  It was almost impossible.

  His fists clenched tighter, angry tears bursting forth. The assassin. The green clad monster who had caused this, had snuck in and launched such a cowardly attack… he would pay for this. He would pay dearly.

  Merek was still angry several days later when he was finally allowed to leave. Thorald had to stay until his stitches sat right, but Merek was healing nicely. Only his nose had to be reset, and his bruised ribs would heal in time. Staying in bed would get nothing accomplished, and he couldn’t bear to look Thorald in the eye anymore.

  What he wouldn’t give to return Thorald’s father to him. But there was nothing, no way to reverse time. No way to make this any better. There was only the reality that the High King was dead.

  And it was all his fault.

  He was the one who failed to kill the assassin. He had failed to see the true threat until it was too late. All of his reading and all of his planning had come to naught because he wasn’t clever enough to outthink Grevoria.

  The High King’s blood was on his hands, and no matter how much he wanted to, he’d never be clean of it.

  The funeral had everyone in the kingdom in attendance. Thorald forced himself from his bed, threatening to behead the medic, and made it to the ceremony. Thorald spoke, and he said such lovely things. That his father was a hero. That he pursued peace with his wit, not his weapons. That he treated everyone with kindness and respect, believing that everyone deserved saving.

  Merek still wasn’t sure he believed any of it.

  Merek milled about uselessly for a few days, finding solace in nothing. Reading held no comfort. Julia couldn’t get through to him. He was still too wounded to train, though he was sure physical violence would appease some of the pain in his mutilated heart. He limped around the castle as his physical wounds slowly healed.

  When he finally visited Thorald again, the older man was in better spirits than he was.

  “Took your time,” Thorald said, “I’d almost thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  Merek half-smiled, and suddenly he was visited by the maddest desire. Deep in his heart, he knew it was time. He couldn’t say what spawned the thought, but he was going to act on it.

  It was past time for Thorald to know the truth.

  “I… I have something I have to tell you.”

  “There’s a new lute player at the tavern, I know. I heard she’s gorgeous, or so Julia said. She’s worried about you, you know.”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Well, pull up a chair,” Thorald said, and Merek did so. But when their eyes actually met, Merek found he didn’t have the words.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” Merek said.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “Your father is dead,” Merek replied, the words torn from him, “and it’s my fault.”

  “You have the most extraordinary guilt complex of anyone I’ve ever met, my friend. How could this be your fault?”

  “I should have stopped him. I should have defeated him. But I didn’t, and he…”

  “Stop.”

  Merek’s mouth snapped shut, momentarily thrown. Thorald sounded upset, which was a rarity for the man.

  “The only person responsible for my father’s death is that assassin. Didn’t you hear my father? It’s one of his favorite sayings. We are all responsible for our own actions. You fought bravely. You saved my life. You did your very best. You didn’t kill my father. You aren’t responsible.”

  Merek looked away, trying not to say what he was thinking. He should have done more. He should have fought harder. He should have found it within him to…

  “Stop.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Merek said, confused.

  “Yes, but I know what you’re thinking. You should have done more. Fought harder.”

  Merek shifted uncomfortably.

  “I should know,” Thorald continued, “because I thought the exact same thing. Remember, the assassin defeated me first. He got the drop on us. And…” Thorald took a deep breath, composing his thoughts. “At first I didn’t want to believe it. I was angry at myself. At the assassin. I wished more than anything I cou
ld have him back, have him walk through those doors. I still wish he would. But nothing’s going to bring him back. And you blaming yourself, me blaming myself… it isn’t going to help. That doesn’t make the pain any easier to bear right now, but maybe eventually, it will.”

  Merek heard the words, and maybe he’d believe them. But not right now. Right now, he was still too lost in the crippling sadness that was overwhelming him.

  “Now, what else are you keeping from me?”

  “What?” Merek replied, reflexively slipping into his defensive nature.

  “You’ve been keeping a secret very close to the chest since we met. And I’ve not questioned it, waiting for you to tell me. Now I think it is time.”

  Merek nodded. So he hadn’t fooled his best friend after all. That was little surprise.

  “I am no knight.”

  “Well, not yet,” Thorald replied, “but I’m thinking you’ll get promoted soon. A bit more field experience, a few more criminals brought to justice…”

  “No, my friend, please. Just listen. I’ve been lying to you since we met. My father is not a knight. He is no noble. He’s a miner, and spends all of the gold he makes on bets and ale. My mother is little more than a layabout, doing nothing all day and screaming all night. I don’t come from a noble blood line. I never deserved to learn how to read from you, or how to fight from the Trainer, and I certainly never deserved to even look at Julia. You and your father imparted…” He stopped for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Trying not to burst into tears yet again.

  “You both believed I was a knight, and I thank you for thinking I deserved to be one. But I never deserved any of the mercy I received here. I never deserved the faith you had in me. I am sorry. But my blood holds nothing special.”

  There was silence for a single moment. Just one that Merek thought would never end. Then Thorald gave a very simple reply.

  “So?”

  Merek blinked. Then he blinked again. He had just revealed that their entire friendship was built on a lie. He hadn’t been straightforward since the moment they met. He had no honor, and he never had.

  And his entire reaction was a two letter word.

  “What?”

  “What makes you think my father and I would care about where you came from? Why do you think we never asked what kingdom your father was a knight of? My friend, blood and bond is so much less important than honor, and action. You are so much more than you credit yourself with. You have saved lives, and done so much good for this kingdom. Dear Merek, do you not understand? You have the heart of a king. And that’s all that’s ever mattered to me.”