by Morgan Rice
Kavos looked up and knew they had to reach those mountains if they were to have any chance of outrunning the Pandesian army pursuing from behind. These soldiers in his way had to be destroyed immediately.
“MEN OF KOS, CHARGE!” he yelled.
A triumphant battle cry sounded behind him as he and his hundred men tripled their speed, lowering their heads, preparing to battle the much greater force of Pandesians. Although outnumbered ten to one, they did not slow or hesitate.
Their fearlessness clearly caught the Pandesians off guard. They seemed shocked to see these warriors of Kos increase their speed instead of stopping and surrendering.
Kos felt ire rise up within him as he extracted a spear and leaned forward and hurled it. It whistled as it flew through the air, a thing of beauty, camouflaged with the snow and ice. It found its target in the chest of the Pandesian commander, and he grasped it with both hands with a look of pain and shock, as he dropped off the side of his horse, dead.
Kavos let out a great battle cry as he drew his sword, increased his speed, and threw himself into a group of soldiers. He slashed one across the chest, spun and stabbed another, then, in a surprise move, he leapt from his horse and knocked two more soldiers off of theirs.
He tumbled with them to the ground, then rolled over and slashed the legs of two horses charging him, sending their men to the ground as he rolled and stabbed each in the chest.
Kavos’s men were equally ferocious, leaping from their horses, fighting with the fervor and intensity the men of Kos were known for. Bramthos used his shield as a weapon, smashing several soldiers in a whirlwind as he galloped through their ranks, knocking them from their horses. He then drew his sword and swung with both hands, dropping a half dozen soldiers with blows so mighty they sliced their armor in two. Kavos’s other commander, Swupol, swung expertly with his flail, smashing a half dozen soldiers before them and creating a wide perimeter in the chaos.
All around him his men fought with a fury unlike any they’d ever known, their lives at stake, felling Pandesians in a blur of motion. As they swept through the unsuspecting Pandesian force, before long they had carved a path and nearly evened the odds, dropping the first two hundred Pandesians while losing very few of their own men.
Kavos, in the thick of it, fought even harder, leading the way, elbowing and head-butting and beating one soldier after another, dropping them, yanking them from their horses, stabbing them with swords and daggers, swinging maces and hatchets he swiped off the ground. He would do whatever he had to, to reach those mountains and keep his people alive.
And yet, as their initial charge petered out, Kavos soon learned that these Pandesian soldiers were made of tougher stuff. The rear lines fought fiercely, unlike their vanguard, while Kavos’s men were beginning to tire.
At a stalemate, Kavos, fighting with both hands, shoulders tiring, knew there wasn’t much time. Behind him, on the horizon, horns sounded and there came a distinct rumble; he knew the bulk of the Pandesian army was closing in. He could not fight them both off. He had to do something quickly.
Kavos knew the time had come to call in the reserves. Looked up at the mountains, he spotted a glistening of light, and he took heart, knowing his men, up high, were awaiting his return—and awaiting his command. The men of Kos had a rule they lived and died by: when their men set out for battle, an equal number of men had to always remain behind to protect the mountains of Kos. It was a sacred duty that they had pledged, and it was what it meant to be a man of Kos. The reflecting light was a sign that his other soldiers were up there, high above, watching, ready, willing, and able to help them.
Kavos knew the time had come.
He grabbed a horn and blew it in three short bursts, a signal only his people would understand.
“RETREAT!” Kavos shrieked to his men.
His men looked baffled, yet they listened, obedient soldiers that they were. They all turned and ran. As they did, the Pandesians, emboldened, let out a cheer. Kavos could feel them bearing down behind them, the enemy surely thinking that they had them.
Yet they did not know the men of Kos. The men of Kos never retreated—for any reason.
As they ran, behind them there arose a distant rumble, high up. It grew and grew. Kavos smiled, knowing what it was—yet the Pandesians were too focused on pursuing their enemy to stop and consider the men of Kos could have another plan. What they did not consider was that they could be attacked from above.
Kavos turned as the crash came, and he looked up to see massive boulders rolling down the steep cliffs of Kos, huge, rolling with a fury that only a few mountain ranges could allow. The men of Pandesia finally stopped and looked up. Panic spread in their faces—too late.
The avalanche of boulders landed with a sound Kavos would never forget—crashing down, shaking the earth, as if the entire world were fracturing. Within moments, they crushed hundreds of Pandesians and rolled over hundreds more. Their cries filled the air, as they were all flattened or wounded, with no room to escape.
Kavos stopped running, and his men turned and let out a cheer. With those men dead, they now had an open path to the mountains. And not a moment too late: closing in on them was the Pandesian army, hardly a few hundred yards away.
“TO THE MOUNTAINS!” Kavos cried.
They cheered, and all took off together. They galloped faster and faster, skirting the boulders, fleeing from the Pandesian army until they reached base of the cliffs. When they reached the point where it was too steep for the horses they dismounted and ran on foot.
Then they climbed the mountain. It soon became a steep hike, and then became a crawl. Without hesitating they all removed the ice picks from their boots, and soon the clinking of their chipping ice filled the air as they all climbed the steep mountain face, scaling the cliffs like goats.
Kavos heard a great commotion and glanced down to see the Pandesians closing in, reaching the base of the cliffs. They were hardly fifty yards away.
Yet fifty yards made all the difference. In these mountains, a fifty-yard climb made the difference between the men of Kos and all the others, between men who could climb on ice and men who could not. He watched as the Pandesians pathetically tried to climb, then slid back down, falling again and again down the steep face of the cliffs. They were only fifty yards away—yet it might as well have been a mile.
Out of reach, knowing they were untouchable now, the men of Kos let out a great cheer. They climbed with their ice picks higher and higher, back into their homeland, into the protective mountains of Kos, just out of reach of the army—and preparing to make the greatest stand of their lives.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Duncan charged south, leading his men through the narrow pass of the Devil’s Gulch, the wind in his hair, his heart racing as he knew this might be the final battle of his life. He let out a battle cry, inspiring his men behind him, all of them cheering with him as they tore through the narrow opening, cliffs on one side, the crashing sea on the other. Behind them came the thunderous rumble of a hundred thousand Pandesians pursuing, getting closer by the moment. It was like death charging for them. Duncan glanced back and saw they were now hardly a few hundred yards behind. They had taken the bait. As close as they were, one wrong move would mean his death.
As reckless as this maneuver was, Duncan had no choice. He had to lure the Pandesian army through the Gulch, to get them to ride to the southern side of the cliffs so that his men could seal and defend the Gulch. If he was lucky, he could circle back and slip through the tunnels and reunite with his men, join them in making a stand in the Gulch itself. If not, he would die here, on this side of the Gulch. Either way, the Pandesians would be lured from Escalon.
The Devil’s Gulch, the most famed place of Escalon, the proving ground of the greatest warriors who walked this land, would have to be put to the test. There was no other way he and his few hundred men could make a stand against a hundred thousand soldiers.
Horns sounded every few steps, Dunc
an pleased to hear his men following orders, helping to lure the Pandesians through. The Pandesians did not even pause—yet Duncan did not expect them to; there were few commanders, he knew, who were disciplined enough to call off a hot pursuit to what seemed a certain victory. In his experience, armies with greater numbers always fell prey to the trap of bloodlust.
As Duncan rode, he thought of the remainder of his army left behind on the far side of the Gulch, hundreds of great warriors hiding deep in the cliffs, waiting for the Pandesians to pass. They would seal the Pandesian army out of Escalon once and for all, trapping them on the other side of the impassable wall of mountains. Of course, in the process, they would seal Duncan out, as well. Duncan was willing to make that sacrifice, to take a chance and see if the hidden passages tunneling beneath the mountainside would lead him back to the other side and allow him to reunite with his men. His chance of survival was slim—and untested. Yet it was the chance he had to take. After all, it was the only way to save his homeland.
Duncan was relieved as he and his men finally burst out of the gulch, into the open field and sky, out of the narrow pass and onto the other side. It was great to be out in open daylight again, out from the claustrophobic confines of the Devil’s Gulch. He charged south, all his men shouting, blowing horns, raising clouds of dust. They were the liberated shouts of men who were riding to their deaths, and who had nothing left to lose.
Now that they’d cleared the other side, Duncan’s first impulse as a soldier was to turn around, to circle back for the hidden tunnels, and ride back to safety. Yet as a commander, he knew he could not. He had to lead the Pandesian army deeper, to make sure they all followed him south, through the gulch. He could not take a chance and turn back too soon, even though every passing second increased his chance of death.
“RIDE!” he shouted to his men, giving them inspiration, all of them knowing that each step increased their likelihood of death. Duncan led by example, riding faster, farther south, farther away from the cliffs, from their only salvation. And all of his men did, too.
Duncan began to hear the intense rumble behind him that could only mean one thing: the Pandesian army had broken through the Gulch. He glanced back and saw he was right. A hundred thousand warriors began bursting out, their ranks widening. It was awe-inspiring, like watching a river burst through a dam. Duncan had fought in epic battles, yet he had never seen so many soldiers amassed in one place in his life. It was like the might of the world bearing down on him.
“FASTER!” he shouted.
Duncan could feel the apprehension rising amongst his men as they rode farther from the gulch, from safety. He rode until his breathing grew heavy, feeling the shooting pains in his chest where he had been stabbed; he reached down and felt fresh blood, and knew the wound was not healing. Yet there was no turning back now. Not when his people needed him.
Duncan rode and rode until finally he glanced back and saw the Gulch was now distant on the horizon, and that the entire army of Pandesians had passed through. His mission had been achieved—now the time had come.
“TURN!” he shouted to his men.
His men turned with him, as one, following his lead as they all made a broad turn to the left. They turned in a wide arc heading back for the cliffs. He could not ride straight back, as he wanted to, or else he’d run right back into the Pandesian army. So instead he led his men in a broad arc, gradually back toward the cliffs. It was a risky move, exposing them to attack from the side, leaving one flank unprotected. Yet he had no choice if they were to make it back.
Sure enough, within moments, the first assault came. Pandesian horns sounded, and the sky suddenly filled with arrows raining down on his men.
“COME TOGETHER!” Duncan cried, expecting this. “SHIELDS!”
His men raised their shields and came in close that they formed a wall of iron, nearly touching shoulder to shoulder as the first volley of arrows hit. They came in so tight that there was nowhere for the arrows to penetrate—they merely bounced off the shields with a great clanging noise.
Duncan, sweating, lowered his shield with the others and continued riding in a broad circle back toward the cliffs, widening the arc, trying to get away from the forking Pandesian army. He had a head start on them but it was slim, barely a hundred yards, and narrowing.
Duncan saw the Pandesians raising their bows again.
“SHIELDS!” he cried.
Again, his men came together and raised their shields, and again they blocked the volley of arrows, bouncing off their shields as if it were raining down iron. Yet Duncan heard one of his men cry out, and he turned and saw Bathone, a proud young warrior who had volunteered, who had grown up with his sons, fall from his horse, an arrow in his side. An arrow had slipped through. As he fell, Duncan could tell he was still alive. He desperately wanted to stop for him, but he knew he could not. To do so would mean the death of all his other men. It was times like these that he wished he was not a commander, but a mere soldier once again.
Duncan saw the Pandesians closing in and realized the cliffs were still too far; he knew he had to do something desperate to increase their speed if they were to make it.
“DROP THE SHIELDS!” he shouted.
His men looked back at him, baffled, yet, disciplined as they were, they did not hesitate to follow his command. They threw down their heavy shields and as they did, they all kicked their horses, following Duncan’s lead, and increased their speed. They needed speed now, more than anything, Duncan knew, if they had any chance of beating these Pandesians back to the cliffs.
Duncan lowered his head, kicked his horse, and charged with all he had. With the imposing granite cliffs in sight, he rode faster and faster, faster than he had ever ridden in his life, ignoring his pain, his wound, he and his men fueled by adrenaline, by the knowledge that they could die at any moment. Duncan could hear the Pandesians firing arrows again behind him, and he braced himself, knowing that if they reached him, exposed as they were, they would be finished.
Duncan heard the sound of a thousand arrowheads skidding on hardened sand, just a few feet behind him, and he took a deep breath. Dropping the shields had given him the few extra feet he’d needed.
Duncan saw the great cliffs looming ahead of him, but a hundred yards away now, and he scanned the wall of rock, searching for signs of the small hidden passageways he knew were there. He searched frantically, his heart pounding, knowing that finding these passages would be their only hope of making it back. They had no time to make a mistake: if they pursued a false indent in the rock, they would not have time to search again. If they chose a passageway that was sealed up inside the mountain, they would lose their only chance.
Duncan’s heart soared as he spotted a hidden opening in the rock, one just large enough to accommodate him and his men, single file, on horseback—though they would have to duck. The passage led into blackness, and Duncan could only hope it had not collapsed, or would not lead to a dead end. The lives of all his men depended on him now.
Duncan lowered his head. His decision was made.
“SINGLE FILE! CHARGE!” he cried.
Duncan heard his men fall in behind him as he lowered his head and made for the tiny opening in the cliff. He lay with his stomach entirely flat on his horse, the only way of clearing it, and as the rock loomed, he prayed for dear life. He cared not for his own life, but for those of his men.
Please god, he prayed. Let this work. Give us one chance to battle the Pandesians face to face, man to man. Do not let us die here, in this rock.
A moment later, Duncan braced himself as he tore into the tiny passageway.
All was blackness. Duncan’s heart pounded in his throat as he found himself immersed in a tunnel so cramped that, if he did not duck down, his head would scrape the ceiling. He felt this was an advantage, as he knew it would confuse and slow the Pandesians behind him, too.
Behind him, he heard all his men charging on his heels. He knew that if this tunnel led to a dead end, th
ey would all stampede and crush each other to death. His throat went dry, his palms sweaty, as he clutched the reins and prayed for daylight.
Duncan galloped, his heart pounding, riding faster and faster, twisting and turning, feeling his way in the dark. With every bend he hoped and prayed he would see the way out, a burst of sunlight. Yet still, it did not come.
Finally, as he rounded a sharp bend, his arms and shoulders scraping against the wall, Duncan looked up ahead and his heart burst with joy to see his first glimpse of light. It was a bright shaft of sunlight, an opening up ahead, and it grew brighter with each step. He had never been so eager in his life to embrace it.
A few moments later Duncan fund himself bursting out of the tunnel, into the other side of the cliffs, back to the northern side of the Gulch. He was overjoyed to see dozens of his men eagerly awaiting him, to hear their shouts of triumph, to be reunited with them all. He kept riding, and behind him, all his men burst through, too, one at a time. He could hear their shouts of joy and relief as he did.
When his last man rode through, Duncan immediately dismounted and rushed for the opening. He knew the Pandesians would be on their heels, and there was little time. He was joined by his men as he put his shoulder into a boulder, and they shoved the huge rock with all they had. Duncan, sweating, grunting with the other men, finally managed to roll the ton of rock, sealing off the tunnel’s opening.
As soon as it fell into place, there came a boom from the other side; it was the sound, Duncan knew, of the first Pandesian riding into it. Duncan listened as dozens more came, all the Pandesians who had followed them inside, trampling each other to death.