RISE OF THE VALIANT (KINGS AND SORCERERS--BOOK #2)

by Morgan Rice

  They yanked again, and she found herself flattened, face-down in the snow with the others, all pinned down. Andor and Leo snarled viciously, bucking, writhing, and while Leo turned and sank his fangs into the net, his efforts were useless, the steel too hard to chew through.

  As Kyra watched the Pandesian soldiers closing in, wielding swords and halberds, she kicked herself for not being more vigilant. She knew that if she did not find a way out, they would all end up back in bondage, with a brutal imprisonment, and this time, a likely death. She could not let that happen. Most of all, she could not let her father down. Whatever the cost, she had to escape.

  Kyra struggled as she groaned and reached for her staff, unable to grab it, her arms pinned to the ground. She tried desperately to break free and she knew their situation was dire.

  There came a horrific noise, like a lion bursting from its cage, and slowly, to Kyra’s surprise, the net began to rise. Kyra turned and was shocked to see Andor, using his tremendous strength to somehow gain his feet. To her shock, he twisted his neck, reached out with his huge fangs, and tore right through it.

  It was the most incredible thing Kyra had ever seen. This miraculous beast, a pure specimen of power, chewed through the steel rope and, in a fit of rage, shook his head and tore it to bits. He stood higher and higher, raising the net for all of them, and a moment later, Kyra found herself unrestrained.

  Andor leapt forward in a single bound and sank his fangs into the chest of the closest soldier, a man whose eyes opened three times as wide at the sight of him. The man fell, instantly killed.

  Andor then swung his head to the side and as another soldier charged him with a sword, he used his fangs to slice his chest in two.

  Two more soldiers charged from behind and Andor leaned back and kicked them with his mighty hooves, his kick so powerful that he cracked all their ribs and caved in their chests, knocking them to the ground, unconscious.

  Kyra spotted a soldier train his crossbow on Andor and she realized that, in a moment, he would be fatally wounded. She felt a rush of panic, realizing she would not be able to reach him in time.

  “LEO!” she cried, knowing instinctively that Leo, closer, would know what to do.

  Leo burst into action: he charged across the snow, leapt into the air and landed on all fours on the soldier’s chest, sinking his fangs into his throat as the man shrieked. He pinned him to the ground and the arrow went flying harmlessly up into the air, sparing Andor’s life.

  Two more soldiers stepped forward, each raising their bows and aiming at Andor, and Kyra drew her staff, separated it, and stepped forward and threw each half. They flew through the air like spears, and each sharpened end lodged in one of the soldier’s chests. The men cried out as they fell to their backs, their arrows shooting up into the trees, hitting branches with a thwack and bringing down a clump of snow onto the forest floor.

  Kyra heard a noise and felt something whizz by her head. She turned to see a spear fly by and just miss her, and saw two more soldiers charging, hardly twenty feet away. Each looked determined to kill her as they drew their swords.

  Kyra, in battle mode, forced herself to focus: she reached back, drew her bow, placed an arrow and fired. She did not wait to see if it met its mark before she fired again.

  Each shot landed in the chest of an attacker as they charged for her, felling them.

  Kyra suddenly heard a noise behind her, wondering how many soldiers were out there, how many would emerge from these blackened woods. She turned, too late, to realize a soldier had snuck up behind her, his sword raised and about to slash her arm. She braced herself, the man too close to deflect the blow.

  The soldier, though, cried out and fell, lifeless, in the snow beside her. Kyra stared, baffled, wondering what had happened.

  She looked up to see Dierdre standing a few feet away, her bow raised, having just fired. She looked down and saw the arrow piercing through the soldier’s back. She felt a rush of gratitude. She saw a fierceness in her friend’s eyes she had not seen before, could see that the vengeance her friend was taking on these Pandesians was cathartic for her.

  Kyra thought the battle was over—but she suddenly heard a rustling in the wood, and she turned to see a soldier taking off. She recalled what happened last time she’d let someone escape, and without thinking she turned, set him in her sights, raised her bow, and fired.

  The arrow landed in his back and the man fell face-first in the snow. Dierdre looked at her as if with surprise, but this time, Kyra felt no remorse. Kyra wondered what was happening to her. Who was she becoming?

  Kyra stood there, breathing hard in the silence, surveying the carnage. Several soldiers lay there, their blood seeping into the snow, all dead. She looked over at Andor, Leo, and Dierdre, and slowly realized they had won. The four of them had become one unit.

  Kyra kissed Leo’s head then walked over to Andor, still snarling at the dead soldiers, and caressed his mane.

  “You did it, boy,” she said to him gratefully. “You freed us.”

  Andor let out a sound, like a purr, but harsher, and for the first time, his visage softened a bit.

  Dierdre shook her head remorsefully.

  “You were right,” she said. “It was stupid of me to come here. I’m sorry.”

  Kyra turned and looked out through the wood line, across the clearing, remembering the food. The pigs were still roasting there, hundreds of Pandesian soldiers close by, still not alerted to their presence. She saw all the carriages, too, the faces of all those boys, and it tormented her.

  “We are lucky they didn’t spot us,” Dierdre said. “This must have been a patrol group. Let us go. We need to get as far away as we can, before they do.”

  But slowly, Kyra shook her head.

  “I’m thinking the opposite,” Kyra replied.

  Dierdre furrowed her brow.

  “What do you mean?”

  Kyra looked back over her shoulder, at the trail back to freedom, and she knew the safe thing to do would be to ride off quickly and quietly, to continue on her quest.

  Yet she also felt that sometimes, it was the detours on a journey that ended up mattering most. She felt as if she were being tested. How many times had her father told her that the ultimate quest in life was to leave no man behind? No matter how far you went, how high you climbed, how far your renown spread, at the end of the day, all that mattered, he had said, all that man could be judged by, was not how far he had went, but how much he had looked back. How many he had taken with him.

  She was beginning to understand. Here was her test: an open road to freedom, to safety. Or a road of peril, behind her, across that clearing, to free boys she did not even know. It was, she felt, the right thing to do. And was justice not what mattered most?

  She felt it burning in her veins. She had to risk her life, whatever the danger. If she were to turn her back on them, who would she be?

  “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Dierdre asked, sounding incredulous.

  Kyra nodded.

  “It is a long ride across the clearing,” she said, a plan formulating in her mind. “But our horses are fast.”

  “And then what?” Dierdre asked in disbelief. “That is an army out there. We cannot outrun them. And we cannot defeat them. It will mean our deaths.”

  Kyra shook her head.

  “We will make for the carriages. We will sever the chains, free those boys, and when they are on the loose, the Pandesians will have bigger problems to deal with.”

  Dierdre smiled wide.

  “You are wild and reckless,” she said. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

  The two exchanged a smile, and without another word, they mounted their horses and took off, galloping into the clearing, throwing all caution to the wind.

  The group burst across the clearing, Kyra’s heart slamming in her chest as she crossed the snow in the moonlight, hundreds of Pandesian soldiers gathered at the other end, none seeing her yet. She
knew that if they detected her before they got close enough, they would never make it.

  As they rode, Kyra clutching the sword she had snatched from a fallen soldier, none took notice. These men, apparently, were too distracted by their fires, their feasting, and their drink to be on the lookout for a small group charging in the middle of the night.

  Kyra tore across the clearing, her adrenaline coursing so wildly that she could barely see straight. And as she neared the end of the clearing, the carriages looming closer, she saw the faces of the boys in finer detail, looking out desperately, and she watched as some of them began to spot her, to understand. Their faces, so desperate a moment before, suddenly filled with hope.

  “Over here!” one boy yelled out, shattering the night’s silence.

  “Free us!” yelled another.

  A great chorus began to rise up inside the carriages, followed by the clanging of iron as the boys slammed shackles against the bars. Kyra desperately willed for them to quiet, but it was too late—the Pandesians turned and began to take notice.

  “You there! Stop!” a Pandesian commanded, yelling through the night.

  Soldiers jumped up and began to charge them.

  Kyra’s heart slammed, realizing her window was narrowing; if she didn’t free these boys before the Pandesians arrived, she would be dead. But yards away, she kicked Andor harder, as Dierdre kicked her horse, and they each raised their swords and bore down on the carriages packed with screaming boys.

  Kyra did not even slow as she rode up beside a carriage, raised her sword high, and brought it down in a great slash, aiming for the thick, iron chains. Sparks flew as the chain, severed, fell to the ground with a great clank.

  The metal gate creaked open and there came a great shout and rush of excitement as dozens of boys rushed out, stepping over each other, stumbling into the snow, some wearing boots, others barefoot. Some of them took off, running for the safety of the woods; but most turned around and charged for the wall of incoming Pandesian soldiers, vengeance in their eyes.

  Kyra and Dierdre raced from carriage to carriage, slashing the chains, opening the gates, freeing one after the next. One gate would not give, and Leo bounded forward, bit the bars with his fangs, and pulled it open. Another door was stuck, and Andor leaned back and reared his legs and kicked until it shattered.

  Soon hundreds of boys poured into the forest clearing. They did not have weapons, but they had heart, and a clear desire for vengeance against their captors. The Pandesian soldiers must have realized, because even while they charged, their eyes soon began to fill with doubt and hesitation.

  The boys let out a great shout, and as one they rushed the soldiers. The Pandesians raised swords and killed some of them—but the boys came on too fast and soon the soldiers had no room to maneuver. The mob of boys tackled them to the ground and soon it was hand to hand. Some boys knocked the soldiers out, then stripped them of their weapons and charged for the others. Soon the army of boys became armed.

  The forest clearing quickly became filled with cries and shrieks, the sounds of boys liberated and of Pandesian soldiers dying.

  Kyra, satisfied, exchanged a look with Dierdre. Their job here was done. The boys had their freedom—now it was up to them to win it.

  Kyra turned and raced back for the wood line, away from the clearing, from the shouts of boys and men. Kyra felt arrows flying by her head, just missing her and she looked back and saw a few Pandesian archers had set their sights on them. She urged Andor harder and ducked low, and with one final burst they left the clearing and returned back into the woods, embraced by the darkness. As she did, one final arrow sailed by, just missing her, embedding itself in a tree with a thwack.

  They rode back into the darkness, heading north again, toward the sea, wherever it was, while behind them there slowly faded the sounds of the battle, of hundreds of boys embracing their freedom. She had no idea what the road ahead might bring, but it mattered little: she had not cowered from a fight, and that meant more than anything.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Duncan raised his sword high, let out a fierce battle cry, and led his men as he charged forward fearlessly, ready to meet the Pandesian army pouring out of the Esephan barracks. These men had clearly recovered from the initial shock of being attacked in the middle of the night, of their fleet being set aflame in the harbor, and Duncan was surprised himself at how much damage he had managed to inflict. The night sky was ablaze behind him with what remained of their fleet, lighting up the harbor and the night sky.

  Yet however great that blow was, there still remained this army before him, this Pandesian garrison stationed on land, vastly outnumbering his men. An endless stream poured out as the stone gates opened wider, all professional soldiers, fully armed with superior weaponry, well-trained and eager for battle. Duncan knew the true battle had not even begun.

  Duncan was proud to see none of his men back down, all riding beside him, joining him as he hoped they would. They all re-mounted their horses and galloped bravely, rushing to meet the enemy, swords raised, axes and halberds high, spears aimed, prepared for death or honor.

  Duncan always prided himself on being first in battle, out in front of his men, and he was determined that this night be no different. He surged ahead and let out a great cry as he raised his sword high and brought it down on the shield of the lead Pandesian soldier, a man who, by his armor, appeared to be an officer.

  As Duncan’s sword hit, a great clang rang out and sparks flew, the first sparks of battle. The soldier swung back, and Duncan, anticipating it, parried, then swung around and slashed the man across the chest, knocking him off his horse and onto the ground—the first casualty of the battle.

  The night air was filled with the sudden clash of arms, swords meeting each other, shields meeting swords, axes, halberds, men shouting and groaning and shrieking as they fell from horses and hacked each other to death. The battle lines quickly became blurred as the two sides melted into each other, each fighting viciously for survival.

  Duncan saw Anvin, beside him, swing a flail and saw its spiked metal ball knock a soldier backwards off his horse. He saw Arthfael hurl his spear and pierce the throat of a soldier before him, a broad man who had raised a sword for Duncan. He watched one of his largest soldiers, swing his halberd sideways, chop a Pandesian in his shoulder, and knock him sideways off his horse. Duncan filled with pride at his men. They were all formidable soldiers, the best Escalon had to offer, and they all fought fiercely for their homeland. For their freedom.

  The Pandesians, though, rallied, and fought back just as fiercely. They were a professional army, one that had been on the road in conquest for years, and not a force to be deterred easily. Duncan’s heart fell as he saw many good men fall on his side, too, men he had known and fought with his entire life. He watched one man, a boy barely his son’s age, fall straight back beside him as a spear pierced his shoulder. He saw another lose a hand as a battle axe came straight down upon it.

  Duncan fought back with all he had, cutting a path through the carnage, slashing soldiers left and right, urging his horse on, forcing himself forward at all costs, way deeper than all his men. He knew that to stop meant death. He soon found himself completely immersed in battle, surrounded by the enemy on all sides. That was the way he liked to fight—for his very life.

  Duncan spun and slashed from side to side, and he caught the Pandesians off guard; they were clearly surprised to find the enemy so deep in their ranks. When he was not slashing, he raised his shield and used it to block blows from swords, maces, clubs—and to smash men sideways off their horses. A shield, he knew, could sometimes be the best—and most unexpected—weapon.

  Duncan spun and head-butted one soldier, then yanked a sword from another’s hand, pulled him close and stabbed him in the gut with a dagger. Yet at the same moment Duncan received a sword slash himself, a particularly painful one on his shoulder. A moment later he received one on his thigh. He spun and killed both attackers. The injuries
were painful, but they were all surface wounds, he knew, and he had suffered enough wounds in his life to not let them startle him. He had received much worse in his lifetime.

  No sooner had he killed his attackers than he received a powerful blow as a Pandesian clubbed him in the ribs—and a moment later he found himself falling sideways off his horse and into the throng of men.

  Duncan shook off stars and gained his feet, sword in hand, ready to go, and found himself facing a mix of soldiers, some on foot, others on horseback. He reached up, grabbed a soldier by his leg, and dragged him off his horse; the man fell and immediately Duncan mounted his horse. He snatched his lance in the process and swung it around, knocking three soldiers off their horses and clearing a space.

  The battle raged on. A seemingly endless array of Pandesian soldiers poured out of the barracks, and with each company of men that appeared, Duncan knew his odds were worsening. He saw his men beginning to falter: one of his younger warriors took a spear in the ribs, blood gushing from his mouth—and a warrior who had just joined his ranks took a fatal sword slash to the chest.

  Duncan, though, would not give up; that was not who he was. There would be no retreat, whatever the odds. He had been through many a battle that had seemed bleak, and never once had he turned and fled, as had many of his compatriots. It was what had earned him his reputation, and the respect of the men of Escalon. He might lead them to death, they knew, but he would never lead them to dishonor.

  Duncan redoubled his efforts: he charged forward, let out a great cry, and leapt down from his horse holding his lance sideways before him—and taking down several men. He charged, on foot, deeper into the crowd, using the lance and knocking over soldiers in every direction. It was a suicide charge, but he no longer cared—and in that moment of no longer caring, he felt a great liberation, a greater freedom than he had ever experienced.

  When Duncan’s lance was chopped in half by a soldier, he used its jagged end to stab a soldier, then dropped it, drew his sword and swung with both hands, foregoing his shield and throwing caution to the wind. He slashed and hacked until his shoulders grew tired and sweat stung his eyes, faster than all the others around him—but quickly losing steam. It was a final death charge, and while he knew he would not make it, he took solace in the fact that at least he would die giving it all he had.