The Weight of Honor

  For hours they patrolled, and he did not see or hear anything, only the sound of leaves crunching, of him and the others walking in the woods. He found himself wondering about the nature of this place, the nature of his service here. Was he really serving Escalon? It didn’t feel like it. He could not even be sure the Sword of Flames was in this tower. He felt as if his special skills were not really being put to use. Was this what it meant to be a Watcher?

  Hours more passed, and Merk, deep in the woods, suddenly heard a noise before him. It sounded somewhat like a crow, yet with a sound that was more shrill. It cawed again and again, and as Merk listened, he sensed it was something more sinister. A harbinger of something to come.

  The others, following Vicor, had just turned back around and were now all heading back to the tower. A part of Merk wanted to go with them—yet another part, the part that demanded duty, felt he could not go back until he had explored.

  “Wait!” Merk called out to the others.

  All the men stopped, and Vicor came up beside Merk as he studied the woods.

  “It’s your first watch,” said Vicor, after a long silence. “There’s nothing there.”

  “Nice try,” mocked another of the men, patting him on the back as he snickered and turned away.

  They all turned back for the tower, but Merk stood his ground, alone, refusing to go. He had always trusted his senses, and that was what made him the most feared assassin in Escalon. Now they were telling him that something was out there.

  Merk watched the woodline for several minutes, waiting. Yet nothing happened. The sound did not come again.

  He debated turning back himself, when suddenly, he, standing there alone, heard the snap of a twig. The hairs rose on the back of his neck as he knew for sure this was no crow. There came a howling noise, and suddenly there came a rustling. Something was charging through the woods, right for him.

  A moment later there appeared the face of a hideous creature, and Merk could see, with dread, that it was no man, no beast—but the face of a disfigured, overgrown troll. He knew instantly that he had on his hands the fight of his life.

  The troll charged him, nearly twice his size, and Merk blinked as he saw dozens more appear behind it. He raised his sword, ready to christen it, knowing he didn’t stand a chance. But that didn’t stop him. He charged, throwing caution to the wind, letting honor take its place, ready to do what he had been born to do—even in the black of night.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Duncan sat at the head of the long banquet table in the great Hall of Feasting, and he looked out at the massive crowd of soldiers gathered before him with unease. He knew he should be happy by what he saw—after all, there, before him, was what he had craved to see: all his warriors here in Andros, feasting, reveling in their victory. There were Kavos’s men and Seavig’s men, all of them together, taking the very seats the Pandesians had had, feasting on the finest delicacies, drinking the best wine, and celebrating, as they deserved to, for taking the capital against all odds. Duncan reflected on how they had managed to take their victory from Volis to Esephus, to the Lake of Ire and on to the peaks of Kavos—and now, finally, to the capital itself. It was surreal. They had sparked a movement in Escalon, and had spread freedom throughout half the land. It had been a spontaneous uprising, sparked by Kyra, something none of them could have ever planned. Seeing the statues toppled, as he had today, capped the victory of a lifetime.

  Duncan knew he should feel victorious, relaxed. And yet he did not. For before him sat, amidst his men, an uneasy alliance of others, Bant’s men on the other side of the table, joined by the nobles and King’s Guard, men who were, he suspected, still loyal to Tarnis. It was a fragile alliance of combating clans and interests, all, despite being of Escalon, with different agendas and viewpoints, a table of men who coveted the kingship, and who had opposing ideas for ousting Pandesia. Duncan could feel the tension in the air, barely masked, each side keeping to itself. And as the wine flowed, he sensed that tension rising.

  Duncan looked out and he wanted so badly to think that this was a unified group of his countrymen, fighting for one cause. After all, they all wanted freedom. Yet he could also sense that for each of them, the cause before them was different, and the path to achieve it even more so. The more Duncan observed them, the more he began to realize that before him was not one people, but a group of competing interests who inhabited the same isle. He began to see that Escalon had never truly been one people, but in name only. It was really a disparate collection of strongholds sharing a border, each with strong-headed warriors and warlords, each concerned only with his own region. The King’s job, Duncan was realizing uncomfortably, was to be the glue that held them all together, this alliance which felt as if it were hanging by a thread. It gave Duncan a fresh respect for the old King. Despite his faults, somehow Tarnis had, at least, held them all together. Unity, he realized, could be harder to achieve than victory.

  Duncan also felt a sense of dread as he looked over and spotted Enis, Tarnis’ son, easily distinguishable in his aristocratic dress, his shifty eyes, and with the long, vertical scar along his ear. He glared coldly at Duncan until Duncan finally stared back, and he looked away. With his hollow eyes and hungry stare, Duncan trusted him the least. Duncan thought back to their troublesome encounter, shortly after he had imprisoned his father. Enis had insisted that he would be the best king to take his father’s place, and had practically begged Duncan to put him in power, promising all sorts of alliances in return. Duncan, sickened by this disloyal son, had sent him out of his presence. He hated having him here at this table, and he would not if Enis were not close with Bant, the King’s Guard and all the nobles. Just one more sickening side effect of politics.

  The feast went on for hours, the room filled with music, women, drink, a feast designed to cement their brotherhood. Duncan wished he could take Escalon on his own, but he knew he needed Bant and his men, needed the King’s Guard. Liberating a few towns was one thing—taking an entire land, securing its borders and ruling it were all quite another. Duncan needed them, especially as Pandesia was most surely preparing for a counterattack.

  While the others ate and drank, Duncan barely touched his food. He hated being King already. He hated politics, hated ruling, hated having to detain Tarnis, who had once, whatever his faults, been like a father to him. Yet he had been left with little choice. It was death or detainment, and Duncan was glad at least that he had chosen the latter. That choice, he knew, had also strained his alliance with Kavos, who was still fuming that he had left him alive, and his alliance with Bant and the nobles, who were simmering, too. From all sides, Duncan felt his alliance fracturing.

  Duncan looked over at Arthfael, taking solace at the sight of him, as always, and beside him, he noticed Anvin’s empty seat, his most trusted commander. As he thought of the mission he had sent Anvin on, he felt a fresh pit in his stomach. Anvin was riding right now, he knew, throughout the night, for Thebus, to secure the Southern Gate before it was too late. Duncan wondered if he would make it in time, before Pandesia invaded like a tidal wave from the south. Duncan wanted nothing more than to join his friend, but he knew he was needed here, to cobble together this alliance before the next attack.

  The men before him drank and reveled, all celebrating as if they would not be up at dawn, riding into more battle. Duncan had seen it before with his soldiers—it was their way of steeling themselves for a possible death, of numbing themselves to the fear of battle. He would not deny them their pleasure. Even his own sons, he could see, red-faced, had had one drink too many. Despite their reddened cheeks, despite their drunken arrogance, Duncan knew now was not the time to rein them in.

  Seeing them, though, made his heart hurt, as he thought of his missing daughter. Where was Kyra now? he wondered. Had she made it? He wished, above all, that she could be here with him—she, and her dragon. How he needed them now.

  “The men of Baris are by far the most superior warriors of Escalon
!” exclaimed a harsh, drunken voice.

  A shout rose through the crowd.

  Duncan gritted his teeth as he looked over to see a drunken Bant slam the table with his mug, punctuate his boasting to his men, speaking loud enough to goad Duncan’s men across the table. Bant’s men cheered in the affirmative, while Duncan’s men darkened. It was almost as if Bant were looking for a way to provoke Duncan and his men, to break the alliance. Perhaps, Duncan figured, Bant was just trying to save face from giving in today, and to push back a bit.

  Duncan would not take the bait. As the man holding this alliance together, he knew he had to choose his battles and to exercise restraint, the same restraint he had always loathed as a warrior. As much as he despised the blowhard men of Baris, for the sake of Escalon, he knew he had to take a deep breath and find a way to hold his alliance together.

  “Baris has also the finest stronghold in all of Escalon! I challenge you to find one better!” Bant continued, to the drunken cheers of his men.

  “You mean that rat-hole deep in a canyon you call a city?” called out a voice from the other side of the table.

  A hush came as all eyes followed the voice. Duncan looked over and his heart fell to see what he had suspected the second he’d heard the voice: his son, Braxton, beside his brother Brandon, staring back at Bant. No, Duncan silently willed his braggart sons. Not now.

  “And as for the best warriors,” Brandon chimed in, “ten of your men could not face one of us.”

  Duncan’s men cheered this time, as Bant reddened. He scowled back, staring Duncan’s boys down.

  “We have more victories, boy, than you will ever count,” Bant seethed, placing both palms on the table.

  Brandon scoffed. “Victories!” he mocked. “Is that what you call your cattle skirmishes!?”

  “The only victories you can claim,” Braxton added, “are kissing the old King’s ass!”

  The room roared and hooted.

  Bant, humiliated, stood, murder in his eyes. He laid fists on the table as he faced off with them.

  Duncan, infuriated, knew he had to stop this before it got out of control.

  “Boys!” Duncan hissed, needing to silence them. They were young and stupid and had taken Bant’s bait perfectly.

  He expected them to look over at him, but his two boys, flush with wine, seemed not to hear him. Brash and young and impetuous, they stood there and faced Bant.

  “Tell me,” Braxton added, “how did it feel today to kiss our father’s ass?”

  Bant turned purple. He spit on the table, while all his men stood beside him, indignant, as if preparing to fight. Bant turned and faced Duncan.

  “My men are no longer with you!” he snapped. “You can attack Pandesia alone and die alone—our alliance is over!”

  His men cheered as Bant drew his sword, his men with him.

  Duncan’s men stood, too, on their side of the table, drawing swords, Kavos, Bramthos, Seavig and Arthfael at their front, all appearance of civility gone. They all faced off, about to leap at each other, and Duncan knew he had to take action fast.

  Duncan pushed back his chair, stood at the head of the table, slammed a fist on the table, and shouted:

  “ENOUGH!”

  All the men turned and faced him, sensing the authority in his voice.

  “There is only one path to victory!” Duncan called out, his voice booming, the voice of a great commander. “The enemy lies at our gates, an enemy that will take all that we have, all that we are, to conquer. And shall we sit here, like children, fighting amongst ourselves?”

  He slowly stared down the men on both sides, red-faced, as they all still held their swords, facing off. They did not set down their weapons, but at least, for now, they stood still.

  “I shall not tolerate such an insult from your offspring!?” Bant called out.

  Duncan looked at his boys, dreading dealing with this. He knew his boys were right, and he hated asking them to apologize, especially to this blowhard. But too much was at stake, and good leaders did what they had to.

  “You shall apologize to Bant!” he commanded. “Both of you!”

  His sons frowned back, still drunk.

  “We shall not apologize for speaking the truth!” Brandon called out.

  “This man has been provoking us all night!” Braxton called. “Should he not apologize?”

  “If he is the great warrior he claims to be,” Brandon added, “let us see if he can back up his claims!”

  Duncan felt his stomach turning in knots as he felt all his plans crumbling before him.

  “You little turds!” Bant glowered at them. “I’ve been killing men before you were weaned, and if your father wasn’t standing here I’d drive this sword through your hearts right now.”

  “Try it!” Seavig suddenly called out, standing beside Brandon. “And my sword will find a spot in yours!”

  “And mine through yours!” countered one of Bant’s men.

  Both sides of the table began to yell at one another, until finally Bant jumped up on the table and spit.

  “Our pact is finished!” Bant called out.

  All eyes turned to him and fell silent.

  “We shall retreat to Baris!” he shouted. “And when Pandesia kills you all, we shall be the first to celebrate!”

  Bant suddenly jumped down, turned, and stormed out of the hall, and as he did, his men joined him, half the hall emptying out with him.

  As he watched them go, Duncan watched his alliance go with them, and he knew that there was little he could do to keep his kingdom from falling apart.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kyra swung her staff in every direction, slashing at branches all around her in the wood, while Alva sat at the far end of the clearing, very still in the grass, his back perfectly straight, watching. Beside him sat Leo and Andor, both, amazingly still, as if peaceful in his presence. Breathing hard, covered in sweat as the morning sun broke through the trees, Kyra spun and slashed as she had for hours, striking at branches, at imaginary foes, as Alva had instructed her to do, breaking branches, sending leaves flying, the crack of her staff ringing throughout the wood. She ran from one tree to the next, feeling judged in Alva’s watchful eyes.

  Kyra still didn’t know what to make of him. He seemed part human, part something else, and while he was boyish, he also had an ancient, timeless quality. She sensed he had lived for thousands of years. She could not understand how he was her uncle, and she was impatient to know more about her mother. What secrets, she wondered, was Alva holding back? When would he tell her?

  Finally, Kyra reached out and slashed a branch, breaking it in half, feeling a sense of victory as the large limb fell to the ground. She then turned and threw her staff, aiming for a leaf across the clearing, and was satisfied to see it was a perfect throw.

  Kyra, breathing hard, turned and looked at Alva, feeling a sense of victory, and expecting his approval. Yet she was surprised to see him still staring calmly ahead, expressionless. He remained silent, to her dismay, as if withholding his approval.

  “I have hit every target and completed every test!” she called out, indignant.

  He slowly shook his head.

  “You have yet to complete a single test,” he replied.

  Kyra stared back, disappointed, confused.

  “Not a limb is left standing!” she cried.

  He closed his eyes.

  “You hit every one,” he finally replied, “and yet you hit none at all. Your mind still impedes you.”

  Alva suddenly jumped to his feet, with a speed that threw her off guard. She was shocked he could move that fast. Slowly, he approached and stopped about twenty feet away.

  “When you meet your enemy,” he continued, “your true enemy, your mind must be empty. Now, it is full. Take me, for example.”

  He raised a hand, and to Kyra’s amazement, her staff, lying on the ground, lifted into the air and flew across the clearing, landing in his palm. She stared back in wonder, as it dawn
ed on her that he had far greater powers than she realized.

  “Attack me,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  He stood there, across the clearing, relaxed, waiting. He barely moved his hand, and her staff flew through the air toward her. She held out a palm and it landed inside. She looked down at it, speechless.

  Kyra stood there, hesitant, not wanting to attack him.

  “I will not strike a boy,” she finally called out. “A defenseless one, no less.”

  He smiled.

  “I am your uncle. And I have more defenses than you shall ever know. Now come!”

  Kyra felt she had no choice but to obey, so she rushed forward half-heartedly, raised her staff, and aimed delicately for his shoulder.

  But when her staff came down he was no longer there. She turned every which way and found him, to her shock, standing behind her.

  “But…how?” she asked, flabbergasted. “You disappeared, then reappeared again.”

  “I am waiting,” Alva replied. “Strike me.”

  Kyra raised her staff in frustration, then this time swung down with more speed.

  Again, she missed, Alva dodging it easily, as if she were swinging in slow motion.

  Kyra lunged and slashed, more determined, each time missing him, Alva easily evading her. She drove him across the clearing, her staff whooshing through the air, missing every time. She swung with all she had, her fastest speed, and yet still she could not touch him. She could not believe it; she had never encountered anyone like him.

  Finally, as he evaded a particularly fast strike, Kyra stood there, defeated, gasping for air, and realized she wasn’t going to catch him. He was a better fighter than she. She could not understand it. In a bout of frustration, she charged, raised her staff high, and brought it down with all she had, sure she would strike him.

  But she found herself stumbling forward, striking air, and, humiliated, landing in the grass on her knees.

  Alva stood beside her, smiling down.