Rise of the Valiant

by Morgan Rice

  Out of the corner of his eye Alec spotted another beast charging for his now-exposed back, and he anticipated the feel of fangs sinking into his flesh. He had no time to react, so he did what was counterintuitive: still holding the Wilvox, he rolled onto his back, holding it out in front of him, its back atop his stomach, its legs kicking in the air. The other beast, airborne, landed with his fangs—and instead of finding a target in Alec, the fangs sunk into the exposed belly of the other beast. Alec held on tight, using it as a shield, as it shrieked and squirmed. Finally, he felt it go limp in his arms as its hot blood poured out all over him.

  It was a moment both of victory and of profound sadness for him: Alec had never killed a living thing before. He did not hunt, like most of his friends, and he didn’t believe in killing anything. Even though he knew the beast would have surely killed him, it still hurt him to see it die.

  Alec suddenly felt a searing pain on his leg and he cried out and looked down to see another Wilvox biting him. He kicked his leg away before the fangs could sink any deeper and immediately jumped into action. He shoved the dead beast off of him, and as another Wilvox lunged for him, he scrambled to think. He felt cold steel pressing into his belly, and he remembered: his dagger. It was small—yet it might be just enough to do the trick. In a final act of desperation, Alec grabbed the dagger, stiffened his arm, and held it out in front of him.

  The Wilvox came down and as it lowered its jaws for Alec, its throat was impaled on the blade. It let out an awful shriek as Alec held tight and the blade sank all the way in. Its blood poured all over Alec as it finally went limp, its razor-sharp fangs just inches from his face, its dead weight atop him.

  Alec lay there, his heart thumping, unsure if he was alive or dead, covered in blackness from the beast’s matted fur, which stuck to his face. He felt his leg throbbing where he had been bit, heard himself breathing, and he realized he was, somehow, still alive.

  Suddenly a shriek ripped through the night air, and Alec snapped out of it and remembered: Marco.

  Alec looked over to find Marco in dire straits: he was wrestling with a Wilvox, rolling in the snow, it snapping at him as he barely held back its jaws. As the beast snapped again, Marco’s hands, slick with blood, slipped, and the beast’s fangs came down and grazed his shoulder.

  Marco cried out again, and Alec could see there wasn’t much time. The other Wilvox lunged for Marco, too, who lay there prone, his back exposed, about to be killed.

  Alec burst into action, not stopping to think twice about risking his life to save his friend. He ran for Marco with all he had, praying to God he made it before the beast did, each of them about ten feet away. They leapt into the air at the same time, the Wilvox to tear Marco apart and Alec to jump in the beast’s way and take the injury in his stead.

  Alec made it just in time, and as he did, he suddenly felt the horrific pain of the Wilvox’s fangs sinking into his arm instead of Marco’s. He had achieved his objective, had spared Marco from a lethal bite, but he had received a horrific bite in his stead, the pain intense.

  Alec tumbled with the beast, throwing it off of him, clutching his arm in pain. He reached into his belt for his dagger, but he could not find it—and he remembered, too late, that he had left it lodged in the other beast’s throat.

  Alec lay on his back, barely holding back the Wilvox, now on all fours on his chest, and he felt himself losing strength. He was exhausted from the wound, from the fighting, and he was too weak to fight off this creature, all muscle, and determined to kill. As it leaned in, ever closer, its saliva dripping onto Alec’s face, Alec knew he was out of options.

  Alec looked for help from Marco, but he saw his friend still wrestling with a Wilvox himself, and losing strength, too. They would both die here, Alec realized, beside each other in the snow.

  The Wilvox on top of him arched its back and prepared to sink its fangs into Alec’s chest with one final strike, which Alec knew he was too weak to resist—when suddenly, it froze. He was baffled as it lingered there, let out an awful cry of agony, then collapsed limply on top of him.

  Dead.

  Alec was stumped. Had it been shot in the back by an arrow? By whom?

  As he sat up to figure it out, Alec suddenly felt something awful and cold and slimy slithering up his leg—colder even than the snow. His heart skipped a beat as he looked down and realized it was the snake. It must have slithered down the tree and struck the Wilvox, killing it with its lethal venom. Ironically, it had saved Alec.

  The snake-like creature slithered slowly, alternately crawling on its legs, like a millipede, around the dead Wilvox, coiling itself around its body, and Alec felt a terror even greater than he had when the Wilvox was on top of him. He scurried out from under it, eager to get away while the snake was distracted.

  Alec scrambled to his hands and knees and rushed forward and charged the Wilvox still pinning down Marco. He kicked it as hard as he could, its ribs cracking as it went rolling off his friend, right before it could bite him. The beast whined and rolled in the snow, clearly caught off guard.

  Alec yanked Marco to his feet, and Marco turned and charged the beast, kicking it as it tried to get up, again and again in the ribs. The beast rolled several feet, down a bank of snow, until it was out of sight.

  “Let’s go!” Alec urged.

  Marco needed no prodding. They both took off, racing through the wood, the snake still coiled around the Wilvox, hissing and snapping at them as they went, barely missing them. Alec sprinted, his heart pounding in his chest, wanting to get as far away from here as possible.

  They ran for their lives, bumping into trees, and as Alec glanced back over his shoulder, wanting to make sure they were in the clear, he saw something that made his heart drop: the final Wilvox. It just would not stop. It scrambled back up the snow bank, and now hunted them down as they ran. Much faster than they, it bounded through the snow, bearing down on them, its jaws widening, more determined than ever.

  Alec looked forward and spotted something up ahead: two boulders, taller than he, a few feet apart, a narrow crevice between them. He suddenly had an idea.

  “Follow me!” Alec cried.

  Alec ran for the boulders as the Wilvox closed in behind them. He could hear it panting behind him in the snow, and he knew he had only one chance to get this right. He prayed his plan worked.

  Alec leapt over the boulders, landing on the other side in the snow, as Marco did the same, right behind him. He stumbled in the snow, then turned and watched the Wilvox follow. It leapt up, too, and as he had hoped, the beast, unable to climb, and slipped on the rock and got lodged in the narrow crevice between the boulders.

  It wiggled, trying to break free, but it could not. Finally, it was trapped.

  Alec turned and examined the beast, breathing hard, flooded with relief. In pain, scratched up, the small bite on his leg hurting, and the big bite on his arm killing, Alec finally realized the nightmare was over. They were alive. Somehow, they had survived.

  Marco looked at Alec, eyes filled with admiration.

  “You did it,” Marco said. “The kill is yours.”

  Alec stood there, hardly a foot away from the helpless beast, which was snarling, wanting to tear them apart. He knew he should feel nothing but hatred for it. But despite himself, he pitied it. It was a living thing, after all, and trapped, helpless.

  Alec hesitated.

  Marco reached down, picked up a jagged rock, and handed it to him. Alec held the rock, sharp and heavy, and knew that one decisive blow could kill this creature. He held the rock, feeling the cold weight of it on his palm, and his hand trembled. He could not bring himself to do it.

  Finally, he dropped it in the snow.

  “What is it?” Marco asked.

  “I can’t,” Alec said. “I can’t kill something helpless. However much it may deserve it. Let us go. It can’t harm us now.”

  Marco stared back, shocked.

  “But it will break free!” he exclaimed.
>
  Alec nodded.

  “It will. But by then, we shall be far from here.”

  Marco furrowed his brow.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “It tried to kill you. It wounded you—and me.”

  Alec wished he could explain it, but he did not fully understand it himself. Finally, he sighed.

  “It was something my brother once said to me,” Alec said. “When you kill something, you murder some small part of the world.”

  Alec turned to Marco.

  “Let’s go,” Alec said.

  Alec turned to go, but Marco held out a hand and stepped forward.

  “You saved my life,” Marco said, reverence in his voice. “That wound on your arm you received because of me. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead back there. I owe you.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Alec replied.

  “You risked your life for me,” Marco said.

  Alec sighed.

  “Who would I be if I did not risk my life for others?” Alec said.

  They clasped arms, and Alec knew that no matter what happened, no matter what dangers lay ahead of them, he now had a brother for life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Merk stood in the mud, opposite the ten remaining thugs, all facing him nervously. They held before them their crude weapons and looked back and forth from their dead leader to Merk, now all seeming less certain of themselves. As flames burned all around him, black smoke stinging his eyes in waves, Merk remained calm, preparing for the confrontation to come.

  “Drop your weapons and run,” Merk said, “and you will live. I won’t offer again.”

  One of them, a tall brute with wide shoulders and a scar across his chin, grunted back.

  “You’re a proud one, aren’t you?” he said in a thick accent Merk did not understand. “You really think you can take us all?”

  “There are still ten of us and one of you,” another called back.

  Merk laughed, shaking his head.

  “You still don’t understand,” he said. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

  He stared back at them with his cold, black eyes, the eyes of a killer, and he could see the fear starting to take hold. It was a look he’d recognized his entire life.

  One of the men suddenly let out a shout and charged, raising his sword, filled with more bravado than skill. An amateur mistake.

  Merk watched him come out of the corner of his eye but did not let on that he knew. He waited and watched, and at the final moment, as the sword came down for his back, he squatted low and felt the thug rush forward. As he felt his body against his back, his sloppy sword slash whiz over his head, he grabbed the thug and threw him over his shoulder. The man went flying, landing on his back in the mud before him, and Merk stepped forward and with his boot, expertly and precisely crushed his windpipe, killing him.

  That left nine.

  Another thug charged, swinging his sword down at him, and as he did, Merk calmly took the sword from the man he had just killed, sidestepped, and sliced the man’s stomach, sending him keeling over.

  Two more broke off and charged together, one swinging a crude flail and the other wielding a mace. The flail was a clumsy swing, all power and no finesse, and Merk merely jumped back and let the spiked ball whiz by his face, then stepped forward and plunged his dagger into the man’s waist. In the same motion he spun, as the other attacker swung his mace, and slashed his throat.

  Merk grabbed the man’s mace, turned, planted his feet, and threw the mace at another charging attacker; it sailed end over end and smashed the man’s eye socket, stopping him in his tracks and knocking him out.

  The five remaining thugs now looked at Merk, then back to each other, exchanging looks of fear and wonder.

  Merk smiled as he wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand.

  “I’m going to enjoy watching you all die here, in the same place you killed this nice family.”

  One of them scowled.

  “The only one who’ll be dying here is you,” spat one.

  “A few lucky blows,” said another. “We still outnumber you five to one.”

  Merk smiled.

  “Those odds are starting to look a lot worse for you now, aren’t they?” he replied.

  “You got anything else to say before we kill you?” another snapped, a big man speaking in an accident Merk did not recognize.

  Merk smiled.

  “That’s what I like,” Merk replied. “Courage in the face of death.”

  The man, bigger than all others, threw down his weapon and charged Merk, as if to tackle him and drive him down to the mud. Clearly, this man wanted to fight on his own terms.

  If there was one thing Merk had learned, it was never to fight on another man’s terms. As the clumsy oaf charged him, his thick hands stretched out before him to tear him apart, Merk made no effort to get out of the way. Instead, he waited until the man was a foot away, squatted, and brought his dagger straight up as the man lowered his chin. It was an uppercut with a knife.

  He impaled the blade in the man’s throat in an upward motion, dropping him straight down to the ground. The thug fell face-first, dead, the blood pooling in the mud.

  The four remaining looked down at their huge compatriot, lifeless, and this time they held real fear in their eyes.

  The thug nearest him raised his hands, shaking.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll leave.” The boy, hardly older than twenty, threw his sword down to the mud. “Just let us go.”

  Merk grinned, feeling his veins burning with indignation at the sight of the dead family, at the smell of the smoke burning in his nostrils. He stooped down and casually picked up the boy’s sword.

  “Sorry, my friend,” Merk said. “That time has passed.”

  Merk charged forward and stabbed the boy in the heart, holding him tight as he pulled his face close.

  “Tell me,” Merk seethed, “which one of this precious family did you murder?”

  The boy gasped, blood trickling from his mouth as he fell dead in Merk’s arms.

  The three thugs all charged for Merk at once, as if realizing this was their last desperate chance.

  Merk took two steps forward, jumped in the air, and kicked one in the chest, knocking him to the ground. As another swung a club for his head, Merk ducked, then rammed his shoulder into the man’s stomach and threw him over his shoulder, sending him landing on his back. Merk stepped forward and with his boots crushed one man’s windpipe, then stepped on the other’s chin and snapped his neck, killing both.

  That left one.

  The sole survivor rushed forward nervously and swung a sword for his head; Merk ducked, feeling it whiz by, and in the same motion grabbed a club from the ground, swung around, and whacked the man on the back of the head. There came a crack, and the man stumbled forward and landed in the mud, out cold.

  Merk saw him lying there and knew he could kill him—but he had another idea: he wanted justice.

  Merk dragged the man to his feet, holding him in a chokehold as he dragged him forward. He walked him across the mud, toward the girl, who stood there, aghast, hatred in her eyes.

  Merk stopped a foot away from her, holding the writhing man tight.

  “Please, let me go!” the man whined. “It wasn’t my fault!”

  “The decision is the girl’s,” Merk snarled in the man’s ear.

  Merk saw the grief, the desire for vengeance, in her eyes. With his free hand he reached into his belt and handed her his dagger, hilt first.

  “Please, don’t,” the man sobbed. “I didn’t do anything!”

  The girl’s expression darkened as she grabbed Merk’s dagger and stared back at the man.

  “Didn’t you?” she asked, her voice cold and hard. “I watched you kill my mother. I watched you kill my family.”

  Without waiting for a response, the girl lunged forward and stabbed the man in the heart.

  Merk felt the thug stiffen in his arms as he ga
sped, and was surprised and impressed by the girl’s perfect strike, her ruthlessness.

  The man’s body went limp, and Merk let him drop down to the ground, dead.

  Merk stood there facing the girl, who held the bloody dagger in her hand, and looked down at the corpse. She was breathing hard, her face still filled with fury, as if her desire were unfulfilled. Merk understood the feeling, all too well.

  She slowly looked up at him, and as she did, her expression shifted, and he could see the gratitude in her eyes. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt good about himself. He had saved her life. For a fleeting moment, at least, he had become the person he wanted to be.

  With the battlefield still, with all the thugs dead, Merk allowed himself to lower his guard, just for a moment. He stepped forward to embrace the girl, to hold her, to let her know that everything would be okay.

  But as he did, he suddenly noticed motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned and was shocked to see the boy with the crossbow, the one he’d thought he’d killed, somehow back unsteadily on his feet, even with the sword through his chest. He held the bow with shaking arms, and aimed it right for Merk. For the first time in his life, Merk was caught off-guard. His caring for this girl had dulled his senses.

  There came the awful sound of an arrow being fired, and Merk stood there, frozen, no time to react. All he could do was watch helplessly as the arrow flew through the air, right for him.

  A split second later, he felt the horrific agony of an arrowhead hitting his back, entering his flesh.

  Merk sank to his knees in the mud, spitting up blood, and as he did, what surprised him most was not that he would die, but that he would die here, at the hands of a boy, in the mud, in the middle of nowhere, so close, after such a long trek to starting life again.

  CHAPTER NINE