A Forge of Valor (13 page)

A breeze picked up and they turned into a narrow channel, and there came a new, distinct noise below. Alec looked down to see long, blue sea grass rising up from the waters and clinging to the hull. The ship slowed, and he looked out, concerned.

“We’re stuck!” he said.

But Sovos, to his surprise, merely shook his head and continued looking straight ahead, unperturbed.

“Illuvian Sea Grass,” he said calmly. “As ancient as these islands. It’s our welcome. They’re guiding us into the isles.”

Alec watched in fascination as the tentacles latched onto the ship, winding their way up the hull. As they did they made a little popping noise, and the sea of grass began to sway, as if it were alive. The air was soon filled with the sound of a thousand faint popping noises, the sound of grass sucking and clinging to the ship, pulling them forward. The ocean appeared to be throbbing.

Alec finally saw the looming land mass before them, increasingly revealed as the mist began to lift, and the closer they came, the more Alec felt a weird sensation. It was as if something in the air were enveloping him. They sailed into a warm fog, and he felt as if he were breathing in moisture. It made him sleepy, relaxed. The Lost Isles, he was beginning to realize, were unlike any place he’d ever been.

“Who do the isles belong to?” Alec asked, as they wound their way deeper into the islands.

“No one,” Sovos replied.

Alec was puzzled.

“Are they not part of Escalon?” he asked. “Or Marda? Or Pandesia?”

Sovos shook his head.

“They are a nation unto themselves. They are their own people. Yet they are more than just a nation.”

As Alec struggled to understand, the thick fog finally lifted and it took his breath away as, before him, he saw the most spectacular landscape he had ever seen. There was a large island, sparkling in the mist, with a silver hue in the light. The sun seemed to shine down just on this place, making it look positively magical. Waves crashed into soaring cliffs, and high above, the island was filled with verdant fields and rolling hills of grass, yet also, inexplicably, dotted with peaks of ice, despite the warm breezes rolling off the ocean. None of it made any sense. The island was ringed by a beach of silver sand. It was like landing in heaven.

Even more strange, Alec could see a crowd of people had gathered on the beach, as if awaiting them. They stood there silently, several hundred islanders, dressed in silver robes, with long silver hair and silver eyes, and silver swords on their belts. They stared out at Alec, and as he met their eyes, the strangest thing happened: he felt an immediate connection with them. It was as if he had come home. It was the strangest feeling. His entire life, Alec had never felt at home, not in his village, and not really with anyone in his family. He had always felt like an outcast, like he didn’t truly belong. But here, with these people, he felt, oddly, that he was amongst his people.

As their boat touched shore, pulled gently to the sand by the sea grass, Sovos jumped down from the ship onto the beach, and walked right for the people as if he belonged here. Alec followed, jumping down as well, his feet sinking softly in the sand, cushioning his fall. After so many days at sea, it felt strange to be on dry land again.

Alec walked forward with Sovos, and all the islanders stood there, silent, watching him carefully. He could feel all the eyes on him. His path was blocked by a middle-aged man with a stern expression, a head taller than the others, who stood before him, expressionless. He stared at Alec, intense, neither hostile nor welcoming.

“We have been awaiting you,” he said, his voice dark, other-worldly. “For too many years.”

Alec saw all the others staring at him with equal intensity, as if he were their messiah, and he was baffled.

“But…I don’t know you,” he replied.

Even as he uttered the words, Alec felt they were untrue. Somehow he knew all of these people.

“Don’t you?” the man asked.

The man suddenly turned and walked, his feet crunching on the silver sand, into the landscape, and all the others watched Alec, as if expecting him to follow.

Alec looked over at Sovos, who nodded back in affirmation.

Alec took a step, following the man, and the others fell in behind him.

As he walked, leaving the beach, entering grass, Alec looked out and surveyed the island before him. It was breathtaking. He walked through bountiful farms framed by abundant trees, bearing fruits of all shapes and sizes and colors, unlike anything he had ever seen. Rolling green hills stretched to the horizon, the entire island filled with goodness and bounty. Honey flowed from ancient, twisted trees, and schools of fish leapt in the lakes.

Alec was burning with curiosity as he caught up to their leader. They continued to walk in silence, twisting and turning through the exotic landscape. Finally, they turned a bend, and on the other side of a series of hills, Alec saw what could only be their main village. It was made up of simple dwellings, cottages built of shining, silver granite, each one sparkling, as if made of diamonds. In the center was a large, triangular building, looking like a temple.

The man stopped and turned to Alec.

“The home of the Sword,” he said cryptically.

As Alec stared back, wondering, all the villagers emerged from their dwellings and a large crowd surrounded him.

The man turned to Alec.

“Welcome home,” he said.

Alec shook his head, confused, overwhelmed.

“I am from Soli,” he replied, trying to think it through. “I am not from here.”

The man shook his head.

“You don’t even know,” he said, mysteriously.

Before Alec could ask what he meant, the man led him forward, to the triangular building. Its silver door opened slowly as they neared.

Alec walked inside the dim dwelling and stopped, stunned. The room, with its high, pointed ceiling, no windows, and shining silver walls, was completely barren—save for one, singular object. In its center sat an anvil made of silver.

And on that anvil, a sword.

An unfinished sword.

Alec, mesmerized by the weapon, found himself walking forward as if drawn by a magnet, unable to look anywhere else.

He stopped beside it, and slowly reached out with shaking hands. There was a tremendous energy coming off of it, a vibration which shook the very air.

Alec touched the sword, and felt a bolt of energy course through his wrist, his arm. He lifted it ever so slowly, this half-forged sword, and felt it vibrating in his hand. It was the strangest thing, but holding this sword, for the first time in his life, he felt what it meant to be truly alive. He felt as if he were meant to be here—as if his whole life had been lived for this moment.

Alec turned, holding it—and he saw all the people inside, all looking back at him, a look of hope and expectation in their eyes.

“The unfinished sword,” their leader said. “Without it, Escalon is lost.”

Alec felt it humming within him, and he felt his life’s purpose in his hands. The smith within him was taking over.

“This is why we need you, Alec,” Sovos explained. “It is
you
. You and you alone can finish forging it.”

Alec looked back, stunned.

“But why me?” he asked.

“Because you are one of us, Alec, and Escalon needs you.”

He stepped forward and stared down, eyes shining with intensity.

“Don’t let us down, Alec.”

Anvin marched through the wasteland, dragging one foot before the other in the baking heat of the desert, every step an effort, each step making him more certain that he would die out here. The blood from his wounds had dried long ago and it was caked to his skin, mixing with the dirt, each step making him feel as if his wounds were reopening. Still covered in welts and bruises, in agony from being trampled, his body swollen with heat and wounds, each step required a Herculean effort. He felt as if he were walking underwater.

Anvin forced himself to look up, needing a reason to go on, and as he did, he spotted in the distance a sight that made his heart beat faster. There, on the horizon, was the tail end of the Pandesian army, marching away from him, heading north, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. The army shimmered, a sea of yellow and gold, moving forward like a giant worm through his homeland, destroying one village at a time.

Now, finally, it had slowed, its million men unable to rush through the bottleneck of the mountains. Anvin had his chance to catch up to it. He was approaching the rear lines, the stragglers, the hangers-on, the ones Pandesia didn’t really care about. They relegated them here because they had no reason to watch their backs. They owned all of Escalon now—or so they thought.

The army moved so slow that it barely moved at all, and Anvin, despite his wounds, closed in on them. He had to reach them before they reached the cliffs of Everfall, a path impossible for him to climb in his condition. He fixed his eye on a few soldiers at the end of the line, stragglers, men who had clearly been enslaved. He spotted some who were lame, some boys, and some old men. Any would make easy targets.

What he needed was the perfect match; he needed to find a soldier just his size, whose armor he could pilfer. And a soldier with a Pandesian horse to ride. With that, he could make it past all the others, all the way to the capital. It was his only hope.

Yet Anvin’s conscience would not allow him to strike an old man or young boy or anyone who was maimed. Instead, as he approached, he tried to find a target he could feel justified in attacking. Soon enough, he did.

In the very rear, closest to him, stood a Pandesian taskmaster. He was whipping the others, shouting harshly in a language Anvin could not understand, while boys and old men stumbled beneath his long whip. He would do perfectly.

Anvin increased his speed, moving as fast as he could, and he soon bore down on him. The one advantage he had was that no one bothered to look back, to check over their shoulder. Why would they, after all? They had just conquered a land. Who would expect an attack from behind?

Anvin mustered all his remaining strength and felt a rush of adrenaline, enough to make him forget his pain for just a moment. He increased his pace, lifted his head a little higher, one eye still swollen shut, and set his sights on the taskmaster.

“ACHVOOT!” the taskmaster shrieked, as he whipped a young boy. The boy cried out and finally fell, while the taskmaster stepped up and flayed him again and again.  All the others continued to move on, leaving the boy to his fate.

Anvin felt a rush of fury, seeing the boy being flayed to death. He drew his sword and, thinking of Durge, he used his last ounce of strength as he rushed forward with it. He ran, stumbling, gaining momentum as he went, and as he got near, he raised his sword and let out a guttural cry.

The taskmaster did not hear him at first, the sound of the whip dominating the air. At the last moment he turned and looked behind him and a startled look crossed his face as he saw Anvin attacking him from behind.

Anvin gave him no time to react. With his mouth still agape, Anvin lunged and ran his sword through his gut.

The taskmaster stood there for a moment, frozen in shock, then dropped dead to the ground.

Anvin stood there, breathing hard, exhausted from that small effort, amazed he still had enough left in him. He paid dearly for it, though, so exhausted that the world spun around him. Moments later, he collapsed.

*

Anvin woke to see a boy, bloody, tapping his face, staring down with concern. Anvin woke, realizing immediately, as he saw the slash marks across the boy’s face, blood dripping from them, that it was the boy that the taskmaster had whipped.

Anvin looked over and saw the dead taskmaster lying beside him, and it all came rushing back.

The boy extended a hand and Anvin took it, allowing him to pull him back to his feet.

“I owe you my life,” the boy said. He had a look of terror across his face.  “They enslaved my entire family, I’m the only one who is left. Please,” he repeated, “please don’t turn me in to them. They will kill me.”

Anvin turned and looked out at the army, about a hundred yards ahead on the horizon, and he knew that allowing this boy to survive, this witness to his crime, would jeopardize his life. He knew it was the prudent thing to do.

Yet he would never harm the boy, prudent or not. That was not who he was.

Anvin looked down at the taskmaster’s corpse. Luckily, he was his size.

“Can you help me?” Anvin asked, his throat parched, gesturing to the body.

The boy looked back and forth from Anvin to the corpse, and finally, recognition dawned.

He rushed forward and began to strip the dead soldier of his armor. Anvin watched the boy, with his olive skin, curly hair, and intelligent green eyes, perhaps thirteen, and he admired his energy, his enthusiasm, despite his wounds. He needed him, he realized. Until he was back on his feet, he needed help.

The boy quickly stripped the soldier of his armor and held it up to Anvin, one piece at a time, making adjustments, making sure it was a good fit as he placed it on Anvin. Anvin felt himself getting heavier with each piece, felt his energy depleting as he sweated even more. Yet he knew he had to do this if he had any hope of reaching Andros.

Soon, he wore it all. One painstaking piece at a time. Out of breath, he felt as if he weighed a million pounds, sweating inside the metal suit. Yet he had done it. He knew he could make it now all the way to the capital. He felt he had a chance again.

Anvin heard a neighing, and he turned and was thrilled to see that the boy had brought over the taskmaster’s horse. The boy helped him mount it, and as he sat there, he saw the boy standing there, looking up at him with hopeful eyes.

“I will die out here,” the boy said. “They will kill me, the moment they find this man dead. Please, take me with you. Allow me to be your squire. I shall be faithful, always. My name is Septin.”

Anvin sighed. He sat there, looking the scrawny boy up and down.