The Gift of Battle (4 page)

“What should be
revealed to you, and when,” he said, “is beyond me. Only Eldof can answer your
questions.”

Gwen felt a
sense of urgency rising within her.

“Can you bring
me to him?”

Kristof smiled,
turned, and began to walk down the corridor.

“As surely,” he
said, walking quickly, already distant, “as a moth to a flame.”

Stara stood on
the precarious platform, trying not to look down as she was pulled higher and
higher in the sky, seeing the vista expand with each yank of the rope. The
platform rose higher and higher along the edge of the Ridge, and Stara stood
there, her heart pounding, in disguise, the hood pulled low over her face, and
sweat trickling down her back as she felt the desert heat rising. It was
stifling this high up, and the day had barely broken. All about her were the
ever-present sounds of ropes and pulleys, wheels squeaking, as the soldiers
yanked and yanked, none realizing who she was.

Soon, it
stopped, and all was still as she was standing at the peak of the Ridge—the
only sound that of the howl of the wind. The view was staggering, making her
feel as if she were standing at the very top of the world.

It brought back
memories. Stara recalled the time she’d first arrived at the Ridge, fresh from
the Great Waste, with Gwendolyn and Kendrick and all the other stragglers, most
of them more dead than alive. She knew she was lucky to have survived, and at
first, the sight of the Ridge had been a great gift, had been a sight of
salvation.

And yet now here
she was, prepared to leave, to descend the Ridge once again on its far side, to
head back out into the Great Waste, back out into what could be a sure death.
Beside her, her horse pranced, its shoes clicking the hollow platform. She
reached out and stroked its mane reassuringly. This horse would be her
salvation, her ticket out of this place; it would make her passage back across
the Great Waste a very different scenario than it had been.

“I don’t recall
orders from our commander about this visit,” came the commanding voice of a
soldier.

Stara stood very
still, knowing they were talking about her.

“Then I shall
take that up with your commander himself—and with my cousin, the King,” Fithe
replied confidently, standing next to her, sounding as convincing as ever.

Stara knew he
was lying, and she knew what he was risking for her—and she was forever
grateful to him for it. Fithe had surprised her by being good to his word, by
doing everything in his power, as he had promised, to help her leave the Ridge,
to help her have a chance to go out there and find Reece, the man she loved.

Reece. Stara’s
heart ached at the thought of him. She would leave this place, however safe it
was, would cross the Great Waste, cross oceans, cross the world, just for one
chance to tell him how much she loved him.

As much as Stara
hated to put Fithe in jeopardy, she needed this. She needed to risk it all to
find the one she loved. She could not sit safely in the Ridge, no matter how
glorious and rich and safe, until she was reunited with Reece.

The iron gates
to the platform creaked open, and Fithe took her arm, accompanying her, as she
wore her hood low, her disguise working. They stepped off the wooden platform
and onto the hard stone plateau atop the Ridge. A howling wind passed through,
strong enough to nearly knock her off balance, and she clutched the horse’s
mane, her heart pounding as she looked up and saw the vast expanse, the
craziness of what she was about to do.

“Keep your head
down and your hood lowered,” Fithe whispered urgently. “If they see you, that
you are a girl, they will know you’re not meant to be up here. They will send
you back. Wait until we reach the far end of the ridge. There’s another
platform waiting to bring you down the other side. It will take you—and you
alone.”

Stara’s breath
quickened as the two of them crossed the wide stone plateau, passing knights,
walking quickly, Stara keeping her head down, away from the prying eyes of
soldiers.

Finally, they
stopped, and he whispered:

“Okay. Look up.”

Stara pulled
back her hood, her hair covered in sweat, and as she did, she was dazed by the
sight: two huge, beautiful suns, still red, rose up in the glorious desert
morning, the sky covered in a million shades of pinks and purples. It seemed as
if it were the dawn of the world.

As she looked
out, she saw the entire Great Waste spread out before her, seeming to stretch
to the end of the world. In the distance there was the raging Sand Wall, and
despite herself, she looked straight down. She reeled from her fear of heights,
and she immediately wished she hadn’t.

Down below, she
saw the steep drop, all the way down to the base of the Ridge. And before her,
she saw a lone platform, empty, waiting for her.

Stara turned and
looked up at Fithe, staring back at her meaningfully.

“Are you sure?”
he asked softly. She could see the fear for her in his eyes.

Stara felt a
streak of apprehension rush through her, but she then thought of Reece, and she
nodded without hesitation.

He nodded back
at her kindly.

“Thank you,” she
said. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

He smiled back.

“Find the man
you love,” he replied. “If it cannot be me, at least it can be someone else.”

He took her
hand, kissed it, bowed, and turned and walked away. Stara watched him go, her
heart filled with appreciation for him. If she hadn’t loved Reece the way she
had, perhaps he would be a man she would love.

Stara turned,
steeling herself, held the horse’s mane, and took the first fateful step onto
the platform. She tried not to look out at the Great Waste, at the journey
before her that would almost certainly mean her death. But she did.

The ropes
creaked, the platform swayed, and as the soldiers lowered the ropes, one foot
at a time, she began her descent, all alone, into nothingness.

Reece,
she thought
,
I might die. But I will cross the world for you.

Erec stood at
the bow of the ship, Alistair and Strom beside him, and peered down at the
teeming waters of the Empire river below. He watched as the raging current
forked the ship left, away from the channel that would have led them to
Volusia, to Gwendolyn and the others—and he felt torn. He wanted to rescue
Gwendolyn, of course; and yet also had to fulfill his sacred vow to those freed
villagers, to free their neighboring village and wipe out the Empire garrison
nearby. After all, if he did not, then the Empire soldiers would soon kill the
freed men, and all of Erec’s efforts to free them would have been for naught,
leaving their village back in the hands of the Empire once again.

Erec looked up
and studied the horizon, very conscious of the fact that every passing moment,
every gale of wind, each stroke of the oar, was taking them farther away from
Gwendolyn, from his original mission; and yet sometimes, he knew, one had to
divert from the mission in order to do what was most honorable and right.
Sometimes the mission, he realized, was not always what you thought it was.
Sometimes it was ever-changing; sometimes it was a side journey along the way
that ended up becoming the
real
mission.

Still, Erec
resolved inwardly to vanquish the Empire garrison as quickly as possible and
fork back upriver toward Volusia, to save Gwendolyn before it was too late.

“Sir!” yelled a
voice.

Erec looked up
to see one of his soldiers, high on the mast, pointing to the horizon. He
turned to see, and as their ship passed a bend in the river and the currents
picked up, Erec’s blood quickened to see an Empire fort, teeming with soldiers,
perched at the edge of the river. It was a drab, square building, built of
stone, low to the ground, Empire taskmasters lined up all around it—yet none
watching the river. Instead, they were all watching the slave village below,
packed with villagers, all under the whip and rod of Empire taskmasters. The
soldiers mercilessly lashed the villagers, torturing them on the streets under
hard labor, while the soldiers above looked down and laughed at the scene.

Erec reddened
with indignation, seething at the injustice of it all. He felt justified in
forking his men this way up the river, and determined to set wrongs right and
make them pay. It might just be a drop in the bucket of the travesty of the
Empire, and yet one could never underestimate, Erec knew, what freedom meant to
even a few people.

Erec saw the
shores lined with Empire ships, guarded casually, none of them suspecting an
attack. Of course, they would not: there were no hostile forces in the Empire,
none that the vast Empire army could fear.

None, that is,
but Erec’s.

Erec knew that
while he and his men were outnumbered, still, they had the advantage of
surprise. If they could strike quickly enough, perhaps they could take them all
out.

Erec turned to
his men and saw Strom standing there beside him, eagerly awaiting his command.

“Take command of
the ship beside me,” Erec commanded his younger brother—and no sooner had he
uttered the words than his brother burst into action. He ran across the deck, leapt
off the rail and onto the ship sailing beside them, where he quickly headed to
the bow and took command.

Erec turned to
his soldiers crowding around him on his ship, waiting his direction.

“I don’t want
them alerted to our presence,” he said. “We must get as close as we can.
Archers—at the ready!” he cried. “And all of you, grab your spears and kneel
down!”

The soldiers all
took positions, squatting low all along the rail, rows and rows of Erec’s
soldiers lined up, all holding spears and bows, all well-disciplined, patiently
awaiting his command. The currents picked up, Erec saw the Empire forces
looming close, and he felt the familiar rush in his veins: battle was in the
air.

They got closer
and closer, now but a hundred yards away, and Erec’s heart was pounding, hoping
they were not detected, feeling the impatience of all his men around him,
waiting to attack. They just had to get in range, and every lap of the water,
every foot they gained, he knew, was invaluable. They only had one chance with
their spears and arrows, and they could not miss.

Come on
, Erec thought.
Just
a little bit closer
.

Erec’s heart
sank as an Empire soldier suddenly turned casually and examined the waters—and
then squinted in confusion. He was about to spot them—and it was too soon. They
were not in range yet.

Alistair, beside
him, saw it, too. Before Erec could give the command to start the battle early,
she suddenly stood, and with a serene, confident expression, raised her right
palm. A yellow ball appeared in it, and she pulled her arm back and then hurled
it forward.

Erec watched in
wonder as the orb of light floated up in the air above them and came down, like
a rainbow, and descended over them. Soon a mist appeared, obscuring their view,
protecting them from Empire eyes.

The Empire
soldier now peered into the mist, confused, seeing nothing. Erec turned and
smiled at Alistair knowing that, once again, they would be lost without her.

Erec’s fleet
continued to sail, now all perfectly hidden, and Erec looked over at Alistair
in gratitude.

“Your palm is
stronger than my sword, my lady,” he said with a bow.

She smiled back.

“It is still
your battle to win,” she replied.

The winds
carried them closer, the mist staying with them, and Erec could see all of his
men itching to fire their arrows, to hurl their spears. He understood; his
spear itched in his palm, too.

“Not yet,” he
whispered to his men.

As they parted
the mist, Erec began to catch glimpses of the Empire soldiers. They stood on
the ramparts, their muscled backs glistening, raising whips high and lashing
villagers, the crack of their whips audible even from here. Other soldiers
stood peering into the river, clearly summoned by the man on watch, and they
all peered suspiciously into the mist, as if suspecting something.

Erec was so
close now, his ships hardly thirty yards away, his heart pounding in his ears.
Alistair’s mist began to clear, and he knew the time had come.

“Archers!” Erec
commanded. “Fire!”

Dozens of his
archers, all up and down his fleet, stood, took aim, and fired.

The sky filled
with the sound of arrows leaving string, sailing through the air—and the sky
darkened with the cloud of deadly arrowtips, flying high in an arc, then
turning down for the Empire shore.

A moment later
cries rang through the air, as the cloud of deadly arrows descended upon the
Empire soldiers teeming in the fort. The battle had begun.

Horns sounded
everywhere, as the Empire garrison was alerted and rallied to defend.

“SPEARS!” Erec
cried.

Strom was first
to stand and hurl his spear, a beautiful silver spear, whistling through the
air as it flew with tremendous speed then found a place in the stunned Empire
commander’s heart.

Erec hurled his
on his heels, joining in as he threw his golden spear and took out an Empire
commander on the far side of the fort. All up and down his fleet his ranks of
men joined in, hurling their spears and taking out startled Empire soldiers who
barely had time to rally.

Dozens of them
fell, and Erec knew his first volley had been a success; yet still hundreds of soldiers
remained, and as Erec’s ship came to a stop, roughly touching down on shore, he
knew the time had come for hand-to-hand battle.

“CHARGE!” he
yelled.

Erec drew his
sword, leapt up onto the rail, and jumped through the air, falling a good
fifteen feet before landing on the sandy shores of the Empire. All around him
his men followed, hundreds strong, all charging across the beach, dodging
Empire arrows and spears as they burst out of the mist and across the open sand
for the Empire fort. The Empire soldiers rallied, too, rushing out to meet
them.

Erec braced
himself as a hulking Empire soldier came charging right for him, shrieking,
lifting his ax and swinging it sideways for Erec’s head. Erec ducked, stabbed
him in the gut, and hurried on. Erec, his battle reflexes kicking in, stabbed
another soldier in the heart, sidestepped an ax blow from another, then spun
around and slashed him across the chest. Another charged him from behind, and
without turning, he elbowed him in the kidney, dropping him to his knees.

Erec ran through
the ranks of soldiers, quicker and faster and stronger than anyone on the
field, leading his men as one at a time, they cut down the Empire soldiers,
making their way toward the fort. The fighting grew thick, hand-to-hand, and
these Empire soldiers, nearly twice their size, were fierce opponents. Erec was
heartbroken to see many of his men fall around him.

But Erec,
determined, moved like lightning, Strom beside him, and he outmaneuvered them
left and right. He tore through the beach like a demon released from hell.

Soon enough, the
business was done. All was still on the sand, as the beach, turned to red, was
filled with corpses, most of them the bodies of Empire soldiers. Too many of
them, though, were the bodies of his own men.

Erec, filled
with fury, charged the fort, still teeming with soldiers. He took the stone
steps along its edge, all his men following, and met a soldier who came running
down for him. He stabbed him in the heart, right before he could lower a
double-handed hammer on his head. Erec stepped aside and the soldier, dead,
came tumbling down the steps beside him. Another soldier appeared, slashing at
Erec before he could react—and Strom stepped forward, and with a great clang
and a shower of sparks, blocked the blow before it could reach his brother and
elbowed the soldier with the hilt of his sword, knocking him off the edge and
sending him shrieking to his death.

Erec continued
charging, taking four steps at a time until he reached the upper level of the
stone fort. The dozens of Empire soldiers who remained on the upper level were
now terrified, seeing all their brothers dead—and at the sight of Erec and his
men reaching the upper levels, they turned and began to flee. They raced down
the far side of the fort, into the village streets—and as they did, they were
met by a surprise: the villagers were now emboldened. Their fearful expressions
morphed to one of rage, and as one, they rose up. They turned on their Empire
captors, snatching whips from their hands, and began to lash the fleeing
soldiers as they ran the other way.

The Empire
soldiers were not expecting it, and one by one, they fell under the whips of
the slaves. The slaves continued to whip them as they lay on the ground, again
and again and again, until finally, they stopped moving. Justice had been
served.

Erec stood
there, atop the fort, breathing hard, his men beside him, and took stock in the
silence. The battle was over. Down below, it took a minute for the dazed
villagers to process what had happened, but soon enough they did.

One at a time,
they began to cheer, and a great cheer rose up in the sky, louder and louder,
as their faces filled with pure joy. It was a cheer of freedom. This, Erec
knew, made it all worth it. This, he knew, was what valor meant.