A Forge of Valor

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Aidan exclaimed. “If you don’t help me, I will go myself. I don’t care if I die. I cannot just sit here while my father’s in prison. And my brothers…” Aidan said, remembering, and he began to cry, overcome with emotion, as he recalled his two brothers’ deaths.

“I have no one now,” he said.

Then he shook his head. He remembered his sister, Kyra, and he prayed with all he had that she was safe. After all, she was all he had now.

As Aidan cried, embarrassed, White came over and rested his head against his leg. He heard heavy footsteps crossing the creaky, wooden plank floors, and he felt a big beefy palm on his shoulder.

He looked up and saw Motley looking down with compassion.

“Wrong,” Motley said. “You have us. We are your family now.”

Motley turned and gestured to the room, and Aidan looked out and saw all the actors and entertainers looking back at him earnestly, dozens of them, compassion in their eyes as they nodded in agreement. He realized that, even though they were not warriors, they were good-hearted people. He had a new respect for them.

“Thank you,” Aidan said. “But you are all actors. What I need are warriors. You cannot help me get back my father.”

Motley suddenly had a look in his eyes, as if an idea were dawning, and he smiled wide.

“How wrong you are, young Aidan,” he replied.

Aidan could see Motley’s eyes gleaming, and he knew he was thinking of something.

“Warriors have a certain skill,” Motley said, “yet entertainers have a skill of their own. Warriors can win by force—but entertainers can win by other means, means even more powerful.”

“I do not understand,” Aidan said, confused. “You can’t entertain my father out of his jail cell.”

Motley laughed aloud.

“In fact,” he replied, “I think I can.”

Aidan looked back, puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Motley rubbed his chin, his eyes drifting, clearly hatching a plan.

“Warriors are not allowed to walk freely in the capital now—or go anywhere near the city center. Yet entertainers have no restrictions.”

Aidan was confused.

“Why would Pandesia let entertainers into the heart of the capital?” Aidan asked.

Motley smiled and shook his head.

“You still don’t know how the world works, boy,” Motley replied. “Warriors are always only allowed in limited places, and at limited times. But entertainers—they are allowed everywhere, at all times. Everybody always needs to be entertained, Pandesians as much as Escalonites. After all, a bored soldier is a dangerous soldier, on either side of the kingdom, and rule of order must be maintained. Entertainment has always been the key to keeping troops happy, and to controlling an army.”

Motley smiled.

“You see, young Aidan,” he said, “it is not the commanders who hold the keys to their armies, but us. Mere, old entertainers. Those of the class you despise so much. We rise above battle, cut across enemy lines. No one cares what armor I’m wearing—they care only how good my tales are. And I have fine tales, boy, finer than you shall ever know.”

Motley turned to the room and boomed:

“We shall perform a play! All of us!”

All the actors in the room suddenly cheered, brightened, rising to their feet, hope returning to their dejected eyes.

“We shall perform our play right in the heart of capital! It shall be the greatest entertainment these Pandesians have ever seen! And more importantly, the greatest distraction. When the time is right, when the city is in our hands, captivated by our great performance, we shall act. And we shall find a way to free your father.”

The men cheered and Aidan, for the first time, felt his heart warming, felt a new sense of optimism.

“Do you really think it will work?” Aidan asked.

Motley smiled.

“Crazier things, my boy,” he said, “have happened.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Duncan tried to blot out the pain as he drifted in and out of sleep, lying back against the stone wall, the shackles cutting into his wrists and ankles and keeping him awake. More than anything, he craved water. His throat was so parched, he couldn’t swallow, so raw that each breath hurt. He could not remember how many days it had been since he’d had a sip, and he felt so weak from hunger he could barely move. He knew he was wasting away down here, and that if the executioner didn’t come for him soon, then hunger would take him.

Duncan drifted in and out of consciousness, as he had for days, the pain overwhelming him, becoming a part of who he was. He had flashes of his youth, of times spent in open fields, on training grounds, in battlefields. He had memories of his first battles, of days gone by, when Escalon was free and flourishing. These were always interrupted, though, by the faces of his two dead boys, rising up before him, haunting him. He was torn apart by agony, and he shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to make it all go away.

Duncan thought of his last remaining son, Aidan, and he desperately hoped he was safe back in Volis, that the Pandesians had not reached it yet. His mind then turned to thoughts of Kyra. He remembered her as a young girl, recalled the pride he had always taken in raising her. He thought of her journey across Escalon and he wondered if she had reached Ur, if she had met her uncle, if she was safe now. She was a part of him, the only part of him that mattered now, and her safety mattered more to him than being alive. Would he ever see her again? he wondered. He craved to see her, yet he also wanted her to remain far from here, and safe from all of this.

The cell door slammed open, and Duncan looked up, startled, as he peered into the darkness. Boots marched in the blackness, and as he listened to the gait, Duncan could tell they were not Enis’s boots. In the darkness, his hearing had grown more acute.

As the soldier approached, Duncan figured he was coming to torture or kill him. Duncan was ready. They could do with him as they pleased—he had already died inside.

Duncan opened his eyes, heavy as they were, and looked up with whatever dignity he could muster to see who was coming. There, he was shocked to see, was the face of the man he despised the most: Bant of Barris. The traitor. The man who had killed his two sons.

Duncan glowered back as Bant stepped forward, a satisfied smirk on his face, and knelt before him. He wondered what this creature could possibly be doing here.

“Not so powerful now, are you, Duncan?” Bant asked, just feet away. He stood there, hands on hips, short, stocky, with narrow lips, beady eyes and a pockmarked face.

Duncan tried to lunge forward, wanting to tear him apart—but his chains held him back.

“You shall pay for my boys,” Duncan said, choking up, his throat so dry he couldn’t get out the words with the venom he wished.

Bant laughed, a short, crude sound.

“Shall I?” he mocked. “You’ll be breathing your last dying breath down here. I killed your sons, and I can kill you, too, if I choose. I have the backing of Pandesia now, after my display of loyalty. But I shall not kill you. That would be too kind. Better to let you waste away.”

Duncan felt a cold rage bubbling up within him.

“Then why you have come?”

Bant darkened.

“I can come for any reason I wish,” he scowled, “or for no reason at all. I can come just to look at you. To gape at you. To see the fruits of my victory.”