Merek's Ascendance

by Andrew Lashway

  He was able to fool kings and princes, nobles and knights, and still he couldn’t quite lie to her. He was almost sure she was just waiting for him to tell her the truth, and would be content to wait until he was ready.

  Just another service he was wildly undeserving of.

  For months and months life continued, a whirlwind of adventure and learning and blossoming feelings and trust, coupled with a past that just wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Or perhaps he wasn’t strong enough to leave it.

  Then relations with Grevoria soured.

  Merek and Thorald were deep in discussion when a guard ran in, gasping for air.

  “Soldiers… soldiers… approaching.”

  “Soldiers?” Thorald said, “What soldiers?”

  “Grevoria… Grevoria flags… Grevoria is attacking.”

  “All right, easy now,” Merek said, “take a deep breath. How far are they?”

  “Not more than a day out. They’re heading straight for the castle.”

  “Attacking any of the cities along the way?”

  “No sir,” the guard said, his breathing more in control now. “Just heading towards the castle following the East Road. Tirelessly. Not stopping for any reason.”

  “How many?” Thorald asked.

  “A few hundred.”

  “Enough to be an invasion force,” Thorald said to Merek who started to pace.

  “And they’re just walking straight for us?”

  The soldier nodded, and Merek kept pacing. Something felt very wrong about the whole situation.

  “Rouse the guard,” Thorald ordered one of the other soldiers standing by, “call everyone together. We defend the castle. Get everyone inside the castle walls.” The guard nodded and moved off as Thorald pulled Merek aside. “Time for the Invasion Protocols.”

  “Invasion Protocols?” Merek repeated.

  “If the city is ever invaded, all citizens are to head underground. There’s a series of catacombs we built under the city. No one but my father and I – and now you – know about them. It is our best kept secret. We need to get the people down there. If the battle goes… not as we want, we send them through the passages. It opens up into a pass further down the river.”

  “Well then we’d best get moving. I need to rouse the knights. When the invasion force gets here, we’ll be ready.”

  The two split, with Thorald sprinting to the throne room and Merek bolting to the Knight’s Quarter’s.

  “Merek!” Milly said as he stormed in. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  “Grab your weapons,” he announced to the room at large. “Grevoria is at our doorstep.”

  “How many?” the Trainer said, drawing several weapons at once.

  “Reports are in the hundreds.”

  “Not too many,” he replied, barking orders at everyone.

  “How many guards do we have present?” Milly asked.

  “Not enough,” Merek replied. “I believe a few more than a hundred, so we’ll all need to carry a little more weight. We knights especially.”

  “No problem,” John said, lifting his ax, “I prefer a proper challenge.”

  Only the dark-haired archer, Raven, the only knight Merek had been unable to befriend, didn’t move at the news.

  “Let’s go!” the Trainer said, “we don’t have long, and we need you on the wall.”

  The archer nodded once to show he heard before getting off of his cot and taking several quivers full of arrows with him.

  “I need to go and oversee the evacuation,” Merek said, nodding to his friends as he turned and ran from the room.

  It turned out he wasn’t really necessary.

  Though the city’s walls were strong, the castle walls were far stronger. Most of the citizens were already inside, being lead to the catacombs by Thorald himself. King Tyrigg was there too, giving comfort and assurance to everyone he could.

  Merek sprinted into the open air, looking for a horse. He wanted to see for himself.

  He found one and jumped on, spurring the horse into motion. The horse ran off, ready and willing to run. They left the city and headed east, following the same road the guard had said they were coming down.

  The guard hadn’t been exaggerating in any respect.

  Merek rode for a long while before finding his quarry. They were as numerous as the soldier had suggested, and they were just marching up the road. Obviously. In full view of anyone and everything.

  Something stunk about the whole ordeal.

  Merek wheeled the horse around and shot back to the city, urging the animal ever faster. By the time he returned, the whole city was empty and the soldiers had taken their places along the wall. Archers hid behind cover, waiting for the enemy they knew was coming.

  “What did you find?”

  “They’ll be here by nightfall,” Merek said, “and there are a few hundred. Three, if I’m not very mistaken.”

  “That’s not terrible. We can handle that many. Strange. For an opening bout, this seems… tame.”

  “Agreed. Something else is going on here. This makes no sense for an opening gambit.”

  “Gambit?” Thorald said, smiling for the first time that day.

  “I read a lot. You should know this by now.”

  “Merek!”

  Julia’s voice stole Merek’s attention, and he turned to face her.

  “I want to fight.”

  “Of course you do. You’ll stand with us knights and Thorald.”

  She looked taken aback. Clearly she had been ready for a much more difficult battle.

  “Really?”

  “You’ve fought with us against bandits and invaders before. Why should now be any different.”

  “My father disagrees.”

  “Of course he does,” Thorald said, “he wants his child safe.”

  “Then I’ll just have to make sure she is,” Merek said with a smile, “not that you need looking after.”

  Julia smiled, rushing to help gather supplies from the town. There would be no telling what was about to happen.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Thorald said.

  “I as well,” Merek replied, “but until our enemy tips their hand, we have to prepare for the most immediate danger.”

  “Agreed.”

  As the sun set and night took them, they could hear the pounding of feet on the hard ground. The time was upon them.

  “Soldiers of Grevoria!” Merek shouted, standing alone at the top of the wall. They invading force stopped short, some of them staring up at him. Merek was sure to keep his eyes peeled for any archers. It wouldn’t do to get picked off before the battle even began. Luckily, his dark clothing made him a difficult target to see.

  “Why have you invaded our land?” Merek continued.

  “We are here to relieve your supposed High King of his crown. It is time Grevoria was the ruling kingdom in this land!”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find only death here,” Merek replied. “It would be far better for you to turn and go home before there is bloodshed.”

  “There has to be bloodshed,” a different voice shouted up to him, “we’ve come too far for anything less.”

  “Only a fool would think that victory can only be achieved in blood. So be it.”

  Merek crouched down, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow.

  “CHARGE!” shouted one of the soldiers. The call was met with the thunderous rushing of feet.

  “Cut them down,” Merek ordered as he felt the familiar pang in the pit of his stomach that would never go away.

  As one, the whole line of archers stood and turned, loosing dozens of arrows down on the soldiers. Most met their mark, and many men fell. Their retaliation was almost pointless, as the archers ducked down again and the arrows overshot them.

  Then the whole wall shook.

  “Battering ram, sir!” A bloody good one, by the looks of it!” one of the soldiers reported.

  Merek snuck a glance over the wal
l, seeing several men surrounding a beam of wood. It looked they had felled a tree on their way to the castle and had equipped it with spikes.

  “I figured they might,” Merek said sadly. Then he braced himself for what he was about to do.

  Reading about it and doing it were probably going to feel very different.

  He leaned forward and pushed a cauldron above his head, pouring gallons of oil down on the invaders.

  Then he nodded to Raven.

  Raven lifted a flaming arrow, ignited at the same moment he saw Merek push the cauldron, and fired it into the mass of black.

  The battering ram and all of the soldiers around it burst into flames. Screams pierced the night and the air was suddenly rancid with burning flesh.

  It was definitely different than reading about it.

  But the defensive worked, and the walls stopped shaking.

  Merek’s misgivings only increased. Grevoria wasn’t stupid, but this attack was. They had no chance in simply taking the castle from attacking it head on.

  Nearly cursing at how slow his brain was working, Merek rolled off of the wall and fell to the ground, landing lightly on his feet.

  “Raven! You have command!”

  Raven nodded once without looking away from his target. Merek sprinted away from the battle, though he wasn’t sure what he was looking for.

  “Merek!” Thorald said as Merek entered the castle itself. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re winning. Easily.”

  “So… ruse.”

  “Ruse.”

  “When is the ax going to fall?”

  “Soon. Now. They don’t have the numbers to keep this up very much longer. The long march, the intimidating presence… all just to put us on guard. But not against the actual threat. Where’s your father?”

  “In the throne room.”

  “C’mon. We’d better check on him.”

  The pair broke off from the other soldiers and ran, heading towards the King. It was going to happen soon, whatever it was. They had to be ready.

  They were not.

  Just as they reached the top of a stone staircase, they heard a crash from in front of them. Both flew to the sound, on alert.

  They weren’t expecting an attack from above them.

  Merek and Thorald were kicked apart, Merek’s head bounced against a wall before he fell to the ground, dazed. Thorald skidded across the floor, drawing himself up and drawing his weapon to face their opponent.

  He was dressed all in black, though he was stripping off of the black clothing to reveal a green chestplate and tunic. He had a black beard and matching unruly hair, and his eyes shone a bitter blue. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken several times. He drew a sword of his own in one hand, wielding a mace with the other.

  Grevoria’s true assault was revealed.

  Chapter Thirteen: The Death Toll

  “A Grevorian assassin? Why am I not surprised Grevoria wouldn’t want to actually engage in real combat?” Thorald said with his customary laugh.

  “Doesn’t matter how you get results, just as long as you do.”

  “You being dead is a result.”

  “True enough. But not the one we’ll be seeing today.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Thorald said, lunging forward.

  The assassin easily jumped out of the way, actually back flipping away. If Merek wasn’t so befuddled, he would have been impressed. Thorald’s armor ate the return blow, a price Thorald was content to pay as he managed to land a punch on the assassin’s jaw.

  The two met again, Thorald dodging killing blows and letting bruising ones bounce harmlessly off of his well-tempered chassis. His return strikes rarely found anything, but on occasion the assassin had to block a stroke that would have removed his head.

  And Merek… twitched. He could almost locate his feet in relation to the floor.

  Thorald battled valiantly, but he was clearly outmatched. The assassin’s combination of speed and strength was more than even Thorald could overcome, and before Merek’s eyes the assassin sunk his mace into Thorald’s armor, rending it, and a fair amount of skin, loose.

  Thorald screamed as he sunk to his knees, trying his best to stay upright. Even staying conscious was impressive enough.

  The assassin lifted his sword, ready to finish Wentana’s prince.

  The blade bashed against another a mere moment before it would have removed Thorald’s head.

  Merek stood there, breathing heavily and still trying to get his bearings. But he was there, ready to fight.

  “I was wondering if you would get back to your feet.”

  “Sorry it took me so long.”

  The assassin backed away, giving Merek a moment to collect himself. He had to get his head straight, or the assassin was going to cut him in two.

  His eyes fell on the wound in Thorald’s side, and it was like Merek was really seeing it for the first time.

  His dizziness melted, replaced by rage. His pain was a memory. Instead all Merek could feel was his pulse.

  This assassin had dared harm his best friend.

  Merek was going to kill the assassin.

  When the two met, it wasn’t about politics or vows. It wasn’t loyalty or beliefs or anything of the sort.

  It was simply one man trying to put the other into the ground. Just two men, and the rage that was rolling off of them in palpable waves.

  For Merek, there was nothing but a red veil that separated them. Merek’s sword longed for blood as Thorald slumped against a wall, trying to hold back the red tide running from his side. Their blades clanged and bashed, Merek’s training forgotten. Muscle memory kept his form solid, moved his blade defensively and dodged to the side when needed.

  Merek would have preferred to throw aside his weapon and have at the assassin with fists and teeth.

  They circled each other, sword against sword in a stunning display of proficiency. Clearly, his opponent wasn’t ready for Merek’s skill, as his attacks grew wilder and less potent. If Merek was thinking clearly, he would have seen the opening and waited to exploit it.

  But all Merek could think about was getting revenge.

  Merek grew frustrated as the assassin kept pace with him, and his attacks grew wilder in turn. Soon, the crisp, sharp movements from only a minute before degraded into jabs and thrusts that were nowhere near there mark.

  Then Merek discovered, just a moment too late, that the assassin was playing him for the fool he was.

  Merek jabbed his blade forward, and the assassin caught it with his own. He then twisted his arm, causing Merek’s blade to spin around. Then with an incredible amount of force, he snapped his blade and Merek felt his sword leave his fingertips.

  The rational part of Merek’s brain, though not in much control, had one last push left. Realizing he was about to be disarmed, he let the blade go.

  And he charged forward while the assassin was distracted.

  He lowered his shoulder and tackled the man to the ground, balling his hands into fists. Then he sunk his fists into the assassin’s face three times in rapid succession before the assassin could bring his weapons to bear. He tried to swing the mace, but Merek caught his wrist and twisted as far as he could, hoping to break something. While there was no crack to confirm he succeeded, the assassin did relinquish the mace.

  Then he tried the sword, but Merek punched him three more times before he could bring it to bear. Merek would punch until his knuckles broke and still he wouldn’t stop. Not until this man was nothing more than a greasy smear on his fist.

  It wasn’t until Merek became aware of the thought that he truly became aware that he was the one who thought it. He stood up and backed away, leaving the assassin where he lay. He took a few steps back, staring at the blood on his knuckles.

  This wasn’t him. He didn’t… he wouldn’t… it wasn’t his…

  But no matter how he started the thought, he couldn’t convince himself of the lie.

  He was so distra
cted that he almost didn’t notice the assassin stand up. He rolled away at the last possible moment, dodging a strike that would have cracked open his sternum. His roll carried him to Thorald’s sword, which Merek picked up and blocked the assassin’s strike with. Then he threw the blade at the assassin, who ducked away from the bruising metal.

  He couldn’t duck away from Merek, however. Merek smashed him into the nearest wall, grabbing hold of the green-clad man’s sword arm. He bashed it against the wall once, twice, three times, until the pain was too much and the assassin had to relinquish the blade.

  His other fist may have been empty, but that didn’t make it hurt any less when he punched Merek square in the side of the head. Merek’s head whipped around with the force of blow, forcing him to take a step back.

  That man could throw a punch.

  Merek cleared his head in enough time to receive another blow straight to his forehead, forcing him back further. He raised his hands to defend himself, but the assassin slipped under his fists and sunk two fists into his abdomen. Merek circled around, trying to get a moment to breathe, but he assassin was having none of that.

  So Merek used his disorientation to attack.

  He lunged through the air, reckless, a stone launched from a catapult, and the pure force of motion brought the assassin down. Merek threw punches with abandon, clubbing every body part he could reach. He just kept swinging, no plan, no desire to have one.

  Only when his arms felt like concrete and his breath came in harsh gasps did he finally stop. He rolled off of the assassin and hit the ground, rolling as far as he could to the nearest wall. He pulled himself to a standing position as the assassin did the same. The assassin’s face was bruised and bloody, and he looked downright mutinous.

  Merek matched the expression with a snarl.

  Then the two met again with the savagery of wolves, trading blows that didn’t seem to faze each other. Merek blocked a punch and delivered a kick, only to have the kick sidestepped and he had to jump over a leg sweep. The assassin jumped through the air with a flying punch, but Merek jammed both of his fists forward and connected first, knocking the assassin to the ground.

  And still the two fought.