by Morgan Rice
He stood there, wondering. This place was a deepening mystery. There came no noise, no activity inside or out, there were no Watchers, no humans—nothing but silence. He was baffled. There came only the sound of the wind, a gale whistling through, rippling off the ocean, blowing so hard it nearly knocked him off balance before it disappeared just as quickly. It felt as if this place had been abandoned.
Not knowing what else to do, Merk reached up and began to pound the door with his fist. It barely made a sound, echoing then fading away, drowned out by the wind.
Merk waited, expecting the door to open.
But there came no response.
Merk wondered what he had to do to make his presence known. He stood there, thinking, then finally had an idea. He extracted the dagger from his belt, reached high, and slammed its hilt into the door. This time, the sharp noise reverberated throughout the place, echoing again and again. There was no way they could not hear that.
Merk stood there and waited, listening to the echo slowly die down, and he began to wonder if anyone would ever appear. Why were they ignoring him? Was this some sort of test?
He was debating whether to walk around the tower, to look for another entrance, when a slit in the door suddenly slid back, making him flinch. He was caught off guard to see, staring back at him at eye level, two yellow, piercing eyes, as inhuman eyes as he had ever seen, staring right through his soul. It instilled a chill in him.
Merk stared back, not knowing what to say in the tense silence.
“What is it that you wish here?” the voice finally came, a deep, hollow voice which set him on edge.
At first, Merk did not know how to respond. Finally, he replied:
“I wish to enter. I wish to become a Watcher. To serve Escalon.”
The eyes stared back, unflinching, expressionless, and Merk thought the creature would never respond. Finally, though, a response came, its voice rumbling:
“Only the worthy may enter here,” it replied.
Merk reddened.
“And what makes you think I’m unworthy?” he demanded.
“In what way can you prove that you are?”
The slit slid shut as quickly as it had opened, and with that, the doors were completely sealed again.
Merk stared back in the silence, baffled. He reached up with his dagger hilt and slammed the door again and again. The hollow sound echoed, ringing in his ears, filling the desolate countryside.
But no matter how long and how hard he banged, the slit did not open again.
“Let me in!” Merk shrieked, a cry filled with despair, rising to the heavens, as he leaned back in agony and realized that those doors might not ever, ever open again
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Duncan braced himself as the enormous red shark—thirty feet long—leapt out of the river and came down, jaws wide open, right for him. He knew that in a moment it would land in his boat, smashing it to pieces and tearing him apart. Worse, all around him a school of these sharks leapt through the air, aiming for his men and their rafts on all sides.
Duncan reacted instinctively, as he always did in battle. He drew his sword and prepared to meet his foe head on. He would die with nobility, and if he could distract this creature, have it focus only on him, then he might be able to save the other men on his raft.
“JUMP!” Duncan commanded his other men in his fiercest voice. The other soldiers on his raft did as he commanded, leaping overboard, none needing any prodding as the massive shark came their way.
Duncan grasped his sword in two hands, stepped forward, and with a great battle cry raised his sword and met the shark head-on. As the shark descended he squatted low and raised his sword straight up, aiming beneath the shark’s lower jaw. He stood as he did so, plunging his sword up through the shark’s lower jaw and through the roof of his mouth, clamping its jaw shut with his long sword. He was surprised at how tough its skin was, how enormous its weight, as it took all of his might to drive the sword upward.
Blood gushed down all over Duncan as the shark, flailing, began to fall on him. Duncan, still holding the sword, could not get out of the way in time, and he saw its tremendous weight coming down and he knew he would be crushed.
Duncan’s shout was muffled as the shark landed on top of him. It must have weighed a thousand pounds, and as it landed on him, Duncan felt himself being pounded into the raft. It felt as if his ribs were being crushed as his world was engulfed in black.
There came a great splintering of wood as the raft beneath him shattered to pieces, and Duncan suddenly felt himself, mercifully, plunging through the water, free of the weight of the beast. If he were on land, he realized, he would have been crushed to death, but because water was beneath him, and because the raft shattered, he was still alive.
Submerged, getting his bearings, still sinking beneath the shark, Duncan tried to swim away as the shark continued to come at him. Luckily, with its jaws clamped tight, it was unable to bite him.
Duncan kicked and swam out from under it, releasing his sword and taking several strong strokes away. He turned and expected it to follow, but blood gushed everywhere, and he watched as the shark finally sank to the river bed.
Duncan swam through the frigid waters, every part of his body aching, the current taking him downriver as he looked up for sunlight and headed for the surface. As he looked up through the clear water he could see the school of sharks leaping through the air high above, could hear the muffled sounds of their crashing all around him—and of his men shrieking. He flinched inside, seeing the waters turn red with blood, watching the bodies begin to sink, knowing that good men up there were dying.
Duncan finally broke the surface, gasping, treading water, trying to orient himself. He looked upriver and saw the school of sharks had already passed through, leaping like salmon upriver, smashing into random rafts as they went. He was relieved to see they weren’t targeting his men; rather, they just continued upriver, oblivious to what lay before them, leaping and landing, smashing whatever was in their way—eating a man if he was in their way, but if not, then continuing to swim. They clearly were driven to go somewhere, and the school stuck together, disappearing from sight as fast as it had appeared.
Duncan, treading water in the currents, surveyed the damage. About a third of their fleet had been destroyed, pools of blood filling the river, bodies floating, logs everywhere. Dozens of men were dead or injured, some moaning, writhing, others floating lifelessly on the surface. Duncan spotted the men from his own raft, saw his sons, saw Seavig, Anvin and Arthfael, and was relieved to see they had survived. Their rafts had been smashed, too, and they tread water not far from him.
All around him men fished out the survivors, yanking them up onto rafts, salvaging the wounded and allowing the dead to float downstream. It was an awful scene of carnage, a wave of death that had come out of a clear blue sky. Duncan realized that they were lucky to have survived at all.
Duncan felt the sting in his arm, and looked over to see that his right shoulder had been scraped badly from the shark’s skin. It bled, and though it was painful, he knew it was not life-threatening. He heard splashing and turned to see Seavig treading next to him, and he was horrified to see blood pouring from his friend’s hand, and to see he was missing two fingers.
“Your hand!” Duncan called out, shocked that Seavig seemed so stoic.
Seavig shrugged. He gritted his teeth as he tore a piece of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it around his bleeding hand.
“Just a scratch,” he replied. “You should see the shark,” he added with a grin.
Duncan felt strong hands grabbing him from behind and soon he felt himself being pulled up onto a raft. He sat there, breathing heavily, slowly regaining his composure. He looked up to the skyline and saw, closer than ever, the mountains of Kos, and he felt a fresh determination. His army, whatever of it survived, was still floating inevitably downriver, and nothing would stop them now.
The Thusius twisted and turned
as they neared Kos, and the landscape changed dramatically. The towering mountains dominated this region of Escalon, their snow-covered peaks, covered in mist, looming over everything. The climate was colder here, too, and Duncan felt as if he were entering a different country.
Duncan just wanted to get off this river, to get back on land where he felt most at home. He would fight any man, any army, any beast or creature—he only wanted to do it on land. He did not like to fight where he could not stand his ground, and he did not trust this cursed river, its creatures or its whirlpools. As indomitable as those mountains appeared, he would choose them anytime and have solid ground beneath his feet.
As the river gushed on, they neared the base of the mountains and Duncan saw the vast, empty plains surrounding it. On the horizon, stationed on these plains, Duncan was concerned to see garrison after garrison of Pandesian troops. The river was luckily far enough to keep his men shielded from view, especially with the trees bordering its banks. Yet between the trees Duncan could spot the Pandesian soldiers, far off, guarding the mountains as if they owned them.
“The men of Kos may be some of the best warriors of Escalon,” Seavig said, drifting up beside him in his raft, “but they are trapped up there. The Pandesians have been waiting for them to descend ever since they invaded.”
“The Pandesians will never risk ascent,” added Anvin, drifting in close. “Those cliffs are too treacherous.”
“They don’t need to,” added Arthfael. “Pandesia has them trapped and will wait until they force their surrender.”
Duncan studied the landscape, pondering.
“Then perhaps it’s time we liberate them,” he finally said.
“Shall we not have a fight on our hands before we reach the mountains?” Anvin asked.
Seavig shook his head.
“This river winds to the mountain’s base, through the narrow pass,” he replied. “We shall disembark on the other side and climb the mountains unseen. It will spare us a confrontation with the Pandesians.”
Duncan nodded, satisfied.
“I wouldn’t mind confronting them now,” Anvin said, hand on his sword as he peered out through the trees towards the distant plains.
“All in good time, my friend,” Duncan said. “First we rally Kos—then we attack Pandesia. When we fight them, I want us to be unified, one force—and I want it be on our own terms. It is as important to choose when and where to fight as it is who.”
As the boats drifted underneath a natural stone outcropping, the river narrowing, Duncan looked up and studied the mountains, reaching straight up to the sky.
“Even if we reach the peaks,” Arthfael said, turning to Duncan, “do you really think Kos will join us? They are mountain people—they are famed to never come down.”
Duncan sighed, wondering the same thing. He knew the warriors of Kos to be a stubborn lot.
“For freedom,” he finally replied, “a true warrior will do what is right. Your homeland lies in your heart—not where you live.”
The men fell silent as they pondered his words and studied the ever-changing river before them. The mountains closed in on them now, blocking them completely from the open plains, from the Pandesian garrisons, as the river continued to gush its way south.
“Do you remember when we rode the Thusius to the end?”
Duncan turned to see Seavig looking out at the waters before him, lost in memory. He nodded, having a memory he’d rather forget.
“Too well,” he replied.
Duncan remembered the awful journey, all the way to the Devil’s Finger and on to the Tower of Kos. He tried to shake it from his mind, the memories of that barren wasteland in which he’d almost died. They called it the devil’s country—and for good reason. He had vowed to never return.
Duncan studied the mountains closing in on the river banks, white with snow and ice. They had arrived, and he wondered where Seavig would disembark. Seavig, too, studied the landscape, on alert. Finally, he nodded, and Duncan held up a fist, signaling to his men to stop—and not to sound the horns.
One raft at a time steered over to the river bank, the air filled with the gentle sound of wood rafts bumping against each other, then grounding on a rocky shore. Duncan jumped ashore the second they did, thrilled to be back on dry land, and his men followed his lead. He turned and kicked his raft back out into the water, making room for the other rafts to follow, as did all of his men, and he watched as the now-empty rafts drifted away with the current.
“Will we not need our rafts?” Arthfael asked with concern.
Duncan shook his head.
“We will descend these cliffs on foot,” he replied, “on the other side, with an army in tow and attacking the capital—or not at all. There is no retreat—we succeed or we die.”
Duncan knew the power of burning his bridges when he needed to—it sent a powerful signal to his men that there would be no turning back—and he could see that they respected it.
Hundreds of his men soon congregated at the base of the mountains, and Duncan took stock: he could see they were all shaken, exhausted, cold and hungry. He felt the same, but did not dare show it: after all, the worst of their journey still lay before them.
“MEN!” Duncan called out as they gathered around him. “I know you have all suffered much. I shall not lie to you: the worst is yet to come. We must climb these cliffs, and do it quickly, and we may not find a hospitable welcome at the top. There will be no rest, and the hiking will be hard. I know some of you are wounded, and I know you have lost close friends. But ask yourselves as you climb: what is the price of freedom?”
Duncan examined all of their faces, and could see them reassured by his words.
“If there is any man here who is not up for the journey ahead, step forward now,” he called out, studying them all.
He waited in the thick silence and there was not a single man, he was relieved to see, who came forward. He knew there would not be. These were his men, and they would follow him to the death.
Satisfied, Duncan turned and prepared to climb the cliffs—when suddenly, there came a noise, and he turned to see there emerge from the trees a dozen boys. They held in their arms hundreds of large snowshoes, spikes at the bottom, along with icepicks and bundles of rope.
Duncan shot a curious look at Seavig, who looked back knowingly.
“Mountain traders,” he explained. “This is how they make their living. They want to sell us their wares.”
One boy stepped forward.
“You will need these,” he said, holding out a snowshoe. “Anyone who climbs these mountains needs these.”
Duncan took it and examined its sharp spikes. He looked up at the cliffs and pondered the icy ascent.
“And how much do you wish for these?” Duncan asked.
“One sack of gold for the whole lot,” one boy said, stepping forward, his face covered in dirt.
Duncan looked at the boy, near the age of his own sons, looking as if he hadn’t eaten in days, and his heart broke for him; clearly, he had a hard life here.
“One sack for this junk?” asked Brandon derisively, stepping forward.
“Just take them from them, Father,” added Braxton, stepping up beside him. “What are they going to do—stop us?”
Duncan looked at his own sons with shame. They had everything, and yet they would deny these poor boys their livelihood.
Duncan stepped forward and pushed back his two sons, then looked at the boys and nodded back soundly.
“You shall have two sacks of gold,” Duncan said.
The boys gasped in delight, wide-eyed, and Duncan then turned to his sons:
“And the money shall come from your personal coffers,” he said sternly. “You can each hand me one sack. Now.”
It was not a question but a command, and Brandon and Braxton looked crestfallen. They must have seen the determined look in their father’s eyes, though, since they reluctantly reached into their waists and each pulled out a sack.
Duncan nodded, uncaring.
“Good,” he replied. “Now hand it to the boys.”
Brandon and Braxton grudgingly stepped forward and hand the sacks to the boys. The boys, delighted, rushed forward and handed Duncan and his men the shoes and ropes.
“Take the eastern face,” one of the boys advised Duncan. “There is less melting. The north seems easier, but it narrows—you’ll get stuck. Remember—don’t remove the spikes. You will have more than one cause for them.”
With that the boys turned and scurried back into the woods, as Duncan was left to wonder at their words.
He and his men put on the shoes and secured the climbing ropes over their shoulders, and as Duncan put them on, he realized how much he would need them.
They all turned to ascend the mountain when suddenly another man rushed forward from the woods, dressed in rags, perhaps in his thirties, with long greasy hair and yellow teeth. He stopped before them and looked nervously from man to man before he addressed Duncan.
“I’m a tracker,” he said. “I know the best routes to Kos. All who ascend trust me. Hike without me, and you hike at your own peril.”
Duncan exchanged a look with Seavig.
Seavig stepped forward casually and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“I thank you for your offer,” he said.
The man smiled back nervously, and Seavig, to Duncan’s shock, suddenly pulled a dagger from his waist and stabbed the man in the gut.
The man groaned and keeled over, slumping to his feet, dead.
Duncan stared down at the body, stunned.
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
Seavig raised his boot and pushed over the man’s body until he was lying on his back. He then kicked the man’s shirt, and out clinked several gold coins. Seavig reached down and held one up—and Duncan was shocked to see the insignia of the Pandesian Emperor.
“A man of Escalon once, perhaps,” Seavig said. “But no longer. The Pandesians paid him well. If we had followed him, we would all be dead right now.”