A Forge of Valor (15 page)

Vesuvius knew he could not use a normal weapon on the boy—and he knew now that he did not want him dead. He was too valuable for that.

“THE BOY!” Vesuvius shouted to his elite soldiers.

A hundred of his best trolls turned and joined him as he raced for the boy. They surrounded him on all sides, all swinging halberds.

The boy fended off this surge of troops with his magical spear and staff, the clang of metal heavy in the air. As frustrated as he was, Vesuvius had to admit he also admired him. It had been a long time since he had encountered a warrior he actually admired.

Vesuvius realized quickly that even his elite men could not beat him—nor did they have much time, with the Pandesians closing in. He kept his men fighting, though, as a distraction. It gave him time to extract his Luathian net and creep up behind the boy. Crafted of strands of an ancient source, it was a weapon he reserved for very special situations—just like this.

Vesuvius pulled the net from the sack at his waist, rushed forward, and as he came up behind the boy, cast it in the air. It unfolded with an unearthly whistle, as if alive, and he watched in delight as it spread out and dropped down on the boy. It entangled him, magically contracting, shrinking around him, wrapping him up, constraining his arms. Within moments the boy, unable to move, fell to the ground.

He was his.

Vesuvius, thrilled, grabbed his prize by the waist and slung him over his shoulder.

“RETREAT!” he commanded.

He turned and ran, sprinting at full speed, as his nation of trolls followed. The Tower of Kos was somewhere south, the Devil’s Finger lay before him, and with his newfound prize, his newest recruit, there would be no stopping him now.

His Most Glorious and Supreme Ra descended for the dungeons of Andros flanked by two dozen of his entourage, his boots echoing on the spiral stone staircase as he descended level after level. He reached the lowest levels and marched down dark stone corridors, lit only by distant shafts of sunlight, passing rows of iron bars. They were like most prisons he had been in: some prisoners rushed forward, shrieking, while others sat there silent, simmering with rage. Ra loved dungeons. They reminded him of his supreme power, of how everyone in the world was subservient to him.

Ra marched down the halls, ignoring them all, interested in only one person: the final prisoner in the final cell. Ra had made sure Duncan was kept in its deepest and darkest part. After all, he wanted to break this man more than anything.

Ra turned down corridor after corridor until he passed the last of the cells and reached one final cell at the very end. He stood before it and nodded, and several of his servants rushed forward and unlocked it for him.

The great iron gates squeaked open slowly.

“Leave me,” Ra turned and commanded his men.

His entourage turned and marched from the corridors, taking up positions out of sight.

Ra entered the cell as the door slammed shut behind him. It was much darker in here, and as he walked through the darkness, filled with the sound of dripping water and scurrying rats, there, in a dark corner, he saw the man he had come to see. Duncan. There he sat, the leader of the great rebellion, the man rumored to be among the greatest warriors in all the world.

How pathetic. There he sat, shackled, on the ground like a dog. He sat unmoving, his eyes nearly shut from all the beatings he had received. Ra sighed. He had hoped for a more formidable opponent than this. Was there no one in the world left who was as strong as he?

And yet as Ra approached, Duncan looked up into the torchlight, right at him, and Ra recognized something in his eyes, some pride, some valor, some fearlessness, that impressed him. It was a look Ra saw rarely, and one that he relished when he did. Immediately he felt a kinship with this man, even if he was his enemy. Maybe he would not prove to be as disappointing as he thought.

Ra stopped a few feet before Duncan, towering over him. He savored the silence, the feeling of control over him.

“Do you know whom you face?” Ra asked, his voice authoritative and booming in the cell, echoing off the walls.

Ra waited for many seconds, yet Duncan did not respond.

“I am the Great and Holy Emperor of Pandesia, His Glorious Ra. I am the light of the sun, the beams of the moon, and the cradle of the stars. You are being afforded a great honor to be in my presence, an honor which few receive in a lifetime. When I enter a room people stand and bow down to me; whether chained or not, they lower their face to the ground. You will bow to me now, or you will meet your death.”

A long silence followed. Finally, Duncan looked up and stared back, defiant.

Ra stood there, waiting impatiently. He craved deference from the last surviving man who had dared show him defiance. Having Duncan bow down to him would be like having Escalon bow to him, would show Ra that there was not a soul left in this land who dared defy him.

Yet, to his fury, Duncan did not bow.

Finally, Duncan cleared his throat.

“I bow to no one,” Duncan said, his voice weak. “No man and no god. And you certainly are no god. Wait for me to bow to you, and you shall be waiting a very long time.”

Ra reddened. He had never faced such impunity.

“Are you prepared to meet your death?” Ra asked.

Duncan stared back, unflappable.

“I have faced death many times,” he replied. “It is a familiar friend. All whom I love are dead. It would come to me now as a welcome relief.”

Ra saw the spark in this man’s eyes, and he sensed his words were true. He heard the authority in his voice, the authority of a man who had commanded men, and it made him respect him even more.

Ra cleared his throat and sighed.

“I came down here,” he replied, “to see the face of my enemy. To let you know firsthand what I have done to your once-great country. It is all in my hands now. All subjugated. Every last village and city. Your daughter, Kyra, is being hunted down now and will be ours soon. I will take great joy and pride in having her as my personal slave.”

Ra smiled wide as he could see the anger flash in Duncan’s face. Finally, he was getting to him.

“Your great warriors are all killed or captured,” Ra continued, wanting to pain him, “and nothing remains of the Escalon that once was. Soon it will not even be a memory, for I shall rename it. It will be but another outpost of Pandesia. Your name, your exploits, your warriors, the life you’ve lived—all of it will be wiped from the history books.
You
will be nothing, not even a shell, not even a memory. And those who remember you will all be dead, too.”

Ra grinned, unable to contain his joy.

“I came down here because I wanted to see your face when I told you,” he concluded.

There came a long silence, Ra waiting, trembling with anticipation, seeing the range of emotions swirl through Duncan’s face.

Finally, Duncan replied.

“I don’t need memories,” he said, his voice raspy yet still defiant. “I don’t need history books. I know the life I lived. I know
how
I have lived. And so do the people who have lived it with me. Whether I am dead or forgotten makes no difference to me. You say you have taken everything away. Yet you forget one thing: our spirit remains intact. And that can never been taken. That is the one thing you shall never possess. And the anger that that gives you, that is what shall give me joy at my death.”

Ra felt an intense wave of rage. He took a deep breath and scowled down at this defiant creature.

“In the morning,” Ra said, trembling with anger, “when they come to take you to your death, you will stand in the public square and proclaim to all of Andros that you were wrong. That I am the supreme ruler. That you defer to me. If you do so, I will not torture you, and you will die a quick and painless death. If you are convincing, I may even let you live and return to you the rulership of your land.”

This was the moment when Ra expected Duncan, like all his other prisoners in all his other lands, to finally give in.

But to Ra’s surprise, Duncan continued to stare back defiantly.

“Never,” Duncan replied.

Ra glared back. In a rage, he drew his sword and raised it, his hands shaking. More than anything he craved to chop off his head right now. Yet he forced himself to refrain, wanting to see him tortured publicly instead.

Ra threw down his sword, and it landed with a clang. He turned and burst out of the cell, eager for dawn, for Duncan’s death, and for Escalon to be his.

Kavos paced the holding pen amidst the crowd of soldiers, Bramthos, Seavig and Arthfael beside him, all of them prisoners of war, all desperate to get out. Beside him were hundreds of men, his men, Duncan’s men, Seavig’s men, all proud and noble soldiers, all who had followed Duncan into war and been forced to surrender. He could hardly conceive that it had come to this, that they were all at the mercy of Pandesia.

Kavos fumed. It had been a mistake to surrender to these Pandesians. Better to have gone down to their deaths fighting. Duncan had been led away, it pained him as he wondered what had become of him. Was he alive? Dead? Being tortured?

Kavos had never surrendered before, not once in his life, under any circumstances, and he did so this time only grudgingly. He had done so only at Duncan’s command, had only laid down his arms because thousands of other soldiers had done so as well. They had all been corralled into this pen outside the capital, awaiting their fate, day after day, with no end in sight. Were they going to be released? Would there be an amnesty? Would they be enslaved in the Pandesian army? Or was Pandesia waiting to put them all to death?

Kavos paced, as he had every day, waiting to hear their fate. He looked over at the thousands of dejected soldiers in here, standing or sitting or pacing, being held in this huge stone courtyard, iron bars caging them in on all sides. They were hardly a mile outside the capital, and he looked out and saw the Pandesian flag flying boldly over the city gates. He burned. He wanted just one more chance to boldly attack the Pandesians. He did not care if he died in the process—he just did not want to die like this.

More than anything, Kavos wanted to find and free Duncan. Duncan was a good man and a good warlord, who had just made one mistake in being too trusting, in taking men for their word. Not all men were like he.

“You think they’re still alive?” came a voice.

Kavos  turned to see Seavig standing beside him, looking at him, concern across his face. Kavos sighed.

“Duncan was not born to die,” he said.

“Death holds no grip on him,” Bramthos added, coming up beside him. “He has escaped it too many times. If he dies, then what is best in all of us dies with him.”

“Yet his sons were killed,” Seavig chimed in. “That could strip away his will to live.”

“True,” Arthfael said, joining them. “Yet he has another son to live for. And a daughter.”

 “Shall we just stand here and wait then?” asked Bramthos. “Wait for the Pandesians to decide our fates? To come and kill us all?”

They all exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“They won’t kill us,” Seavig said. “If they were to kill us, wouldn’t they have already?”

Kavos shrugged as they all looked to him.

“Perhaps not,” Kavos replied. “After all, there lies a value in killing us publicly.”

“Or enslaving us,” Arthfael added, “breaking us up into their armies and sending us overseas.”

As they all stood there, concerned, a sudden cheer cut through the air. Kavos and the others turned and looked out through the iron bars and he saw, in the distance, a large group of Pandesian soldiers cheering, waving the banner of Pandesia. He watched the jubilant soldiers, wondering what was happening.

He called out to the guard standing just beyond the wall.

“What’s happened?”

The soldier turned and grinned at him.

“Congratulations,” the soldier said. “Your King is dead.”

Kavos felt a pit in his stomach as he wracked his brain, trying to understand. Did he mean Duncan?

Then, suddenly, he realized: Enis. The usurper.

“None of us are safe,” Seavig said. “If they have killed him already, surely they won’t spare us.”

They all looked to each other with grim faces, and Kavos knew he was right. They did not respect the rule of law. Death was coming for them all.

“Night falls,” said another, looking out past the setting sun, to the torches being lit. “Perhaps they will kill us, too, tomorrow.”

“Let’s not give them the chance then,” Kavos said, forming an idea.

They all looked at him.

“We have no weapons,” Seavig said. “What can we do?”

“We have our hands,” Kavos replied. “And we have our minds. Sometimes that is all one needs.”

They looked back with puzzled expressions, and Kavos, an idea forming, walked to the cell bars.

“You there!” he called out to the guard again. “We need help!”

The Pandesian guard, pacing in the distance, looked his way suspiciously.

“What help could you possibly need?” he asked.

“I have something here,” he improvised, “something that the Supreme Ra will be eager to see.”

The guard furrowed his brow and then turned and approached, stopping a few feet away.

“If you’re wasting my time,” he said gruffly, “I will kill you. And your friends.” He scowled. “So what is it?”

Kavos swallowed, thinking fast. He needed the guard to get closer.

“You can bring it to him yourself and be the hero,” Kavos said. “All I want in return is more provisions.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t give you death,” the guard snapped. “Now show it to me.”

Kavos, suddenly remembering the jewel in his satchel, the one his wife had given him before he’d left for war, took out a cloth from his sack, unfolded it, and revealed a sparkling red ruby.

The guard, intrigued, stepped forward, as Kavos hoped he would, and stopped before the iron bars.

“Hand it through,” he demanded.