A Forge of Valor

He sighed.

“And yet it so happens, I have a reason to visit you. There is something I wish from you. And there is one thing I am going to give you.”

Duncan looked back skeptically.

“Your freedom,” Bant added.

Duncan watched him, wondering.

“And why would you do that?” he asked.

Bant sighed.

“You see, Duncan,” he said, “you and I are not so different. We are both warriors. In fact, you are a man I’ve always respected. Your sons deserved to be killed—they were reckless blowhards. But you,” he said, “I’ve always respected. You should not be down here.”

He paused, examining him.

“So this is what I will do,” he continued. “You will publicly confess your crimes against our nation, and you shall exhort all citizens of Andros to concede to Pandesian rule. If you do this, then I shall see that Pandesia sets you free.”

Duncan sat there, so furious he didn’t know what to say.

“Are you a puppet for the Pandesians now?” Duncan finally asked, seething. “Are you trying to impress them? To show them that you can deliver me?”

Bant sneered.

“Do it, Duncan,” he replied. “You are no good to anyone down here, least of all yourself. Tell the Supreme Ra what he wants to hear, confess what you’ve done, and make peace for this city. Our capital needs peace now, and you are the only who can make it.”

Duncan took several deep breaths, until he finally summoned the strength to speak.

“Never,” he replied.

Bant glowered.

“Not for my freedom,” Duncan continued, “not for my life, and not for any price.”

Duncan stared at him, smiling in satisfaction as he watched Bant redden, then finally he added: “But be sure of one thing: if I ever escape from here, my sword will find a spot in your heart.”

After a long, stunned silence, Bant stood, scowling, stared down at Duncan, and shook his head.

“Live a few more days for me,” he said, “so that I can be here to watch your execution.”

CHAPTER NINE

Dierdre rowed with all her might, Marco beside her, the two of them swiftly cutting through the canal, making their way back toward the sea, where she had last seen her father. Her heart was torn apart with anxiety as she recalled the last time she had seen her father, recalled his bravely attacking the Pandesian army, even against insurmountable odds. She closed her eyes and shook away the image, rowing even faster, praying he was not dead yet. All she wanted was to make it back in time to save him—or if not, then to at least have a chance to die by his side.

Beside her, Marco rowed just as quickly, and she looked over at him with gratitude and wonder.

“Why?” she asked.

He turned and looked at her.

“Why did you join me?” she pressed.

He looked at her, silent, then looked away.

“You could have gone with the others back there,” she added. “But you chose not to. You chose to come with me.”

He looked straight ahead, still rowing hard, still remaining silent.

“Why?” she insisted, desperate to know, rowing furiously.

“Because my friend admired you very much,” Marco said. “And that is enough for me.”

Dierdre rowed harder, turning through the twisting canal, and her thoughts turned to Alec. She was so disappointed in him. He had abandoned them all, had departed Ur with that mysterious stranger before the invasion. Why? She could only wonder. He had been so devoted to the cause, the forge, and she was sure he’d be the last person to flee in a time of need. Yet he had, when they needed him most.

It made Dierdre reexamine her feelings for Alec, whom, after all, she barely knew—and it made her have stronger feelings for his friend Marco, who had sacrificed for her. Already she felt a strong bond with him. As cannonballs continued to whistle overhead, as buildings continued to explode and topple all around them, Dierdre wondered if Marco really knew what he was getting into. Did he know that by joining her, by returning into the heart of chaos, there would be no return?

“We row toward death, you know,” she said. “My father and his men are on that beach, beyond that wall of rubble, and I intend to find him and fight by his side.”

Marco nodded.

“Do you think I returned to this city to live?” he asked. “If I wanted to flee, I had my chance.”

Satisfied, and touched by his strength, Dierdre rowed on, the two of them continuing silently, avoiding falling debris as they turned ever closer toward the shore.

Finally, they turned a corner, and in the distance she spotted the wall of rubble where she had last seen her father—and just beyond it, the tall black ships. She knew that on the other side lay the beach where he was battling the Pandesians, and she rowed with all she had, sweat pouring down her face, anxious to reach him in time. She heard the sounds of fighting, of men groaning out, dying, and she prayed it was not too late.

Barely had their boat reached the edge of the canal when she jumped out, rocking it, Marco behind her, and sprinted for the wall. She scrambled over the massive boulders, scraping her elbows and knees and not caring. Out of breath, she climbed and climbed, slipping on rocks, thinking only of her father, of having to reach the other side, hardly comprehending that these mounds of rubble were once the great towers of Ur.

She glanced over her shoulder as she heard the shouts, and, afforded a sweeping view of Ur from up here, she was shocked to see half the city in ruins. Buildings were toppled, mountains of rubble in the streets, covered by clouds of dust. She saw the people of Ur fleeing for their lives in every direction.

She turned back around and continued climbing, going the opposite direction of the people, wanting to embrace the battle—not run from it. She finally reached the top of the rock wall, and as she looked out, her heart stopped. She stood there, frozen in place, unable to move. This was not what she had expected at all.

Dierdre had expected to see a great battle being waged below, to see her father fighting valiantly, his men all around him. She expected to be able to rush down there and join him, to save him, to fight at his side.

Instead, what she saw made her want to curl up and die.

There lay her father, face-first in the sand, covered in a pool of blood, a hatchet in his back.

Dead.

All around him lay his dozens of soldiers, all dead, too. Thousands of Pandesian soldiers clamored off the ships like ants, spreading out, covering the beach, stabbing each body to make sure it was dead. They stepped on her father’s body and the others as they made their way for the wall of rubble, and right for her.

Dierdre looked down as she heard a noise and saw some Pandesians had already reached it, were already climbing up, hardly thirty feet away, right for her.

Dierdre, filled with despair, anguish, rage, stepped forward and hurled her spear down at the first Pandesian she saw climbing up. He looked up, clearly not expecting to see anyone atop the wall, not expecting anyone to be crazy enough to face off against an invading army. Dierdre’s spear impaled his chest, sending him sliding back down the rock and taking out several soldiers with him.

The other soldiers rallied, and a dozen of them raised their spears and threw them back up at her. It happened too quickly and Dierdre stood there defenseless, wanting to be impaled, ready to die. Wanting to die. She had been too late—her father was dead below, and now she, overwhelmed by guilt, wanted to die with him.