The Weight of Honor (24 page)

Vidar stood atop the battlements of Volis in the falling snow, studying the countryside, sensing something was wrong. He had awakened early, before dawn, and had been standing here for hours, watching. All his men stood beside him, waiting.

They had asked what it was that had woken him, that had led him up here on this quiet dawn, but he had been unable to respond. It was some instinct, from years of battle, that death was coming. An instinct that had led him to survive. The same instinct that had led Duncan to put him in charge of Volis in his absence.

 Vidar watched the horizon as day broke cold and gray, and saw nothing but snow. He had stood there so long, frigid, his hands numb, his men pacing, clearly wanting to return to the warmth of the fort, that he was beginning to doubt himself.

And then, suddenly, he saw it: a small plume of black smoke, wafting up on the horizon, barely visible in the snow. At the same time, he smelled it: a smell in the air of something burning. Something more than pine.

And then, he felt it: a tremor, the slightest tremor beneath his feet, not recognizable to others—but recognizable to him. It was, he knew in every bone of his body, the advance of an army.

But what army? he wondered. The Pandesians were nowhere close, the northeast of Escalon liberated. The dragon, too, had flown far away, and had not been seen since; nor would a dragon be marching on the ground. It made no sense. It was as if Escalon were under attack—but who could be attacking from within?

 Vidar studied the horizon, pondering the skeleton force of men that Duncan had left him with to guard Volis, the force that Duncan had been sure he would never have to employ. Now Vidar  wondered, with dread, if he would need it, if he would truly have to defend this remote fort with these few men. It was a defense, he knew, he could not sustain. Against a band of brigands, yes—but not against an army.

Vidar turned to his men, these loyal men, posted here in the midst of nowhere with him, staring back with their solemn faces, as frozen as the landscape, and he could see in their eyes that they would stand beside him anywhere. He loved them for that.

“Close the gates,” he commanded to his lieutenant, his voice calm and cold as steel. It was a serious tone, and his men looked back with surprise.

“All women and children indoors. Bar the windows, lock the doors, and lower the portcullis.”

His men hesitated just a moment, then nodded back with equal solemnity. One nodded to the other, a horn was sounded, a great, long horn, its sound feeling as if it were reaching the heavens, and Vidar closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the sound vibrating through him, hardly believing this was really happening.

Vidar hurried down the stone spiral staircase, his men close behind, as he descended from the parapets and marched quickly across the inner courtyard of Volis. All about him villagers scurried, vendors closing booths, women and children and the elderly hurrying in disarray to get indoors. Doors slammed and shutters were bolted. Vidar could feel the chaos and panic about him, and he prayed to all the gods he knew that he could protect these people he had been sworn to protect.

As his men began to close the massive gates, to turn the cranks for the portcullis,  Vidar gestured for them to wait. He wanted to go out there, to see with his own eyes what it was.

Vidar walked through the gates, out into the danger zone, expecting to go alone, but he heard a few of his loyal brothers behind him, joining him. They crossed the drawbridge together, hollow wood creaking beneath their boots, and as they reached the far side, snow beneath their feet, Vidar stood there, watching.

He felt the cool breeze on his face, heavy with snow, and he still could see nothing but plains of snow and, in the distance, the dark treeline of the Wood of Thorns.

The rumbling noise grew, though, louder and louder, the vibration beneath his feet more intense, until finally his men exchanged a baffled look. Now, they felt it, too, and all were clearly wondering.

As Vidar studied the woodline, he saw it begin to move. Then there burst forth a sight which he could never have anticipated in his wildest dreams, a sight which he would never forget.

Vidar blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Soon enough, he realized they were not. It was a nightmare, coming to life.

There, racing for Volis, was an army of trolls.
Thousands
of them. They spread across the countryside with their huge, misshapen bodies, their grotesque faces, wielding massive halberds, shouting and covered in blood. It was an army of death. And it was heading right for them.

Vidar stared back with a cold dread. He could not understand it. How had Marda breached The Flames?

Vidar felt a deep foreboding overcome him as he suddenly knew with certainty that on this day, he would die. They would all die. They had no possible chance of victory, not even if he had a thousand fine soldiers at his back. And he had but a dozen.

And yet, the idea of his own death did not pain him the most. What hurt him was the thought of those women and children inside. The idea that he would be unable to defend them. That he would let them all down.

Vidar locked his jaw, feeling a wave of indignation. He wanted to give them all time, all those women and children, a little bit more time in this world. And a slim chance, however bleak it was, of survival. Maybe, just maybe, if the portcullis held, the stone walls stood, maybe they could withstand a siege. Though deep down, Vidar already knew they could not.

“We cannot defend,” came the too grave voice of one of his men, staring, too, at the horizon. Vidar was proud to hear no panic in the soldier’s voice—just resolve.

“No,”  Vidar answered honestly. After all, dying men deserved to know the truth. “We cannot.”

Vidar took a deep breath.

“But we can go down fighting,” he added, his voice filled with a rising resolve, “and maybe, take a few with us.”

Vidar turned and looked up at his men on the battlements. They were all staring down, looking to him for direction. This was the fateful moment in time, Vidar knew, for which he had been born.

 “Man the battlements!” he shouted. “Prepare the oil and fire! Tighten the catapults! Upon my command, fire!”

Vidar turned to his squire, a young boy who had always been at his side, staring back now with fear in his eyes.

“Seal the portcullis behind me,” he commanded.

His squire looked back at him, stunned.

“And you remain outside?” he asked. “Alone? You’ll be killed!”

Vidar lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“We shall all die, boy,” he said. “The only question is how. Now, go.

“And you men,” he added, turning to the loyal soldiers beside him. “Inside.”

But they shook their heads.

“As you said,” one replied, “the only question is how.”

They all drew their swords and stood beside him, and turned and bravely faced the incoming army. Vidar nodded back in respect, admiring these men more than he’d ever thought possible. It would be good to die in company such as this.

The boy did as he was told. Soon, Vidar heard the great iron portcullis slam closed behind him, sealing him out of the fort for good. Vidar drew his sword as he stood there, appreciating the finality. It gave him strength.

He watched the army come closer, now hardly a few hundred yards away.

“CATAPULTS!” he commanded. “NOW!”

 Vidar watched as overhead there soared a dozen flaming boulders, arcing high through the sky and landing in the midst of the troll army as they neared. Shouts filled the air as hundreds of trolls shrieked and fell.

And yet, thousands more followed. Too fast, and too close, for more boulders to reach.

Vidar drew his sword and waited. He felt the ground shaking beneath him now as they charged. He stood there, gripping his sword, and he knew he would not kill many of them. But the ones he would kill would matter. That was all he needed. He wanted to kill the first casualty of this battle himself, wanted to go down swinging.

They neared. Thirty yards, then twenty, then ten, so close that Vidar could make out the face of their leader, the troll he had heard was named Vesuvius, dripping with blood, grotesque, wielding two halberds as if they were toothpicks.

With the army just feet away,  Vidar could no longer wait. He let out a battle cry and charged.

“MEN!” he shouted. “FOR HONOR!”

His men shouted, too, and they all raced forward beside him, swords drawn. A few of them against a thousand.

 Vidar ran right for their leader, and as Vesuvius brought down his halberds, Vidar blocked them, sparks flying, their weight so powerful they shattered his blade.

A moment later,  Vidar gasped as he felt Vesuvius plunge the point of his halberd through his gut. He had never had such exquisite pain, pain so intense that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This, he knew now, was what death felt like.

Any other soldier would have caved. But not Vidar . He thought of Duncan. He thought of his vow. Of the women and children inside Volis. And he refused to go down. Not until he had inflicted death himself.

Vidar thought of every battle he’d ever fought, of fighting by Duncan’s side. And he was not ready to die. Not yet.

Somehow,  Vidar mustered the strength. The strength for one last blow.

Then, even while dying, he raised the jagged end of his shattered sword and plunged it into Vesuvius’s chest.

And as Vidar fell, dying, he had at least one final piece of satisfaction: Vesuvius, the shattered sword in his chest, was falling with him, two limp bodies on the battlefield, in the snow, falling on top of each other, trampled by an army racing for the gates, racing to destroy everything Vidar had ever known and loved.

The baby dragon stood tied to the stake, bound by ropes, in the courtyard of the Pandesian fort, in horrific agony from his wounds—and now, also, in despair. He ached in every part of his body, where the ropes dug into his scales, where his back met the pole, in so much agony he wished he had never emerged from his shell. Life, he was realizing, was cruel.

Even so, that was not what hurt him the most. What hurt him far more than any of his wounds was the sight before him: his father, lying there before him, dead.

He recalled his sense of pride in watching his father fly over the fort, killing his captors, his father’s wings so massive, blotting out the sun. He still recalled the heat of his flames, flames that he hoped to breathe himself one day, waves of flame shooting down like rain. He had felt justice, vindication, knowing his father would kill all of these men. Most touching of all, he knew his father was doing it all for him, to rescue
him
. It had instilled in him a sense of love, of pride, beyond which he knew was possible. For the first time, he had not felt alone since being born in the universe. He had screeched, trying to join in and to make his father proud.

His father had been so close to saving him, his claws outstretched; he had anticipated the feeling of his father freeing him, grabbing him and flying away. He was just a few feet from freedom, from the two of them being far away from here, safe.

Instead, he had been forced to watch helplessly as the soldiers led his father into a trap, lured him lower and entangled him in that net. His heart broke as he watched his father plummeting, diving headfirst into the dirt. The final knife in his heart was watching those cowardly soldiers rush forward, all at once, surround his father, and stab him to death. He had sensed his father’s great life force disappear, and it had torn him to bits.

The baby let out a screech, as loud as his small lungs would allow, a screech of agony, of despair, of a creature with nothing left to lose. As he screeched, his little lungs grew louder and louder, and the soldiers, still stabbing his father, began to take notice and turn his way. As he screeched, the feelings inside him began to morph: despair was replaced with anger; sadness with rage. His agony over his father’s death gave him strength, made him forget his wounds, his pain. It blinded him, and he felt stronger than he ever would otherwise.

As he leaned back and writhed, suddenly, to his surprise, he heard a snap.

Then another.

He did not need to look to know what was happening: he was breaking his ropes. One at a time they snapped, as the baby dragon slowly became infused with a strength he had never known. The remaining ropes loosened, and he leaned over and, with his sharp teeth, bit through one.

Then another.

Finally, he leaned forward, pulled back his wings, and in one great motion, snapped all the remaining ropes.

The soldiers turned his way, realizing, now directing their attention toward him. They slowly closed in, guardedly raising their weapons, with a look that belied their uncertainty. As they neared, he leaned back, opened his mouth, and breathed, praying for fire.

To his surprise, this time it came—a stream of fire. Molten hot, it was a fire unlike any he had yet breathed, a fire which came from deep within his soul. It stretched farther this time, and farther, rolling out in waves. It killed a dozen Pandesian soldiers instantly, all too shocked to get out of the way in time.

The dragon leapt from the platform, into the air, and as he started to free-fall toward the ground, he flapped his wings with all his might—and this time, he was happily surprised to find that they had grown, and that he now had control. He flapped harder and harder, and soon his free fall leveled out. And then he began to fly.

At first his flight was slow, awkward. But soon he gained strength and speed and found himself flying straight, then soaring. He was really flying. It was exhilarating.

He flew higher and higher, out of reach of the stunned soldiers below, and he was elated. He was free. Before him was an open horizon, clouds, freedom. He had survived. He could go anywhere in the world he wanted. He could control his movements, dive and rise, turn from side to side; his claws felt stronger, too, and he expanded and contracted them, feeling invincible—and needing to claw something.

He looked down below and saw the soldiers milling about, and vengeance summoned him. After all, his father’s body still lay down there, and he was his father’s son.

He turned and dove back toward the fort where he had been imprisoned, tortured, knowing the risks but no longer caring. He flapped his wings and let out a screech—no longer a baby screech, but now a dragon’s screech—and he dove down impossibly fast. As the soldiers looked up, he opened his mouth and breathed, and out came hot flame, waves of fire unrolling below, killing hundreds at once.

Panic ensued as the men’s shrieks filled the air. They ran for cover, but there was none to be had. He was too fast, too dexterous, small enough to weave in and out of tight spaces, and their little trick with the net had already been exhausted. A few soldiers lamely threw spears at him, but these merely bounced off his scales. He dove and breathed flame in return, and any soldier he missed with his fire, he clawed to death in a single swipe. One soldier, a man he remembered had tortured him, he snatched and hoisted into the air, higher and higher, until he was straight over the stake. He then dropped him.

He watched with satisfaction as the man plummeted, shrieking, then landed on the stake, impaled.

He screeched with all his might, and soon, it was a sound even he did not recognize. It was the sound of a dragon maturing too fast.

Of a dragon ready to take over the world.