A Forge of Valor by Morgan Rice

was the sole survivor.
    In flashes, Anvin recalled their glorious last stand. None of his men had backed down from the hordes of the world. Anvin recalled killing a dozen Pandesians as they reached him. It had been a glorious stand in the face of certain death. One in which he was meant to die, in which all of them were meant to die, and all of them had. Except him. Somehow, fate had been cruel, and had left him alive, he and he alone.
    Anvin struggled to think back, to remember how he had survived. He remembered being smashed in the head with a hammer, it knocking him to the ground; then, horses stampeding over him. He shifted and felt the welts on his back where the horses, then the soldiers, had marched over him, all assuming him dead. Somehow he had been overlooked in the carnage as the army had marched over him. They’d assumed he was dead. And from the way he was feeling now, they weren’t entirely wrong. A million welts and bruises. As he tried to move, he realized the pain was too intense.
    Why had he lived to bear witness to this? Anvin wondered. Why couldn’t he have died in one final glorious stand, as he had intended. What was the point of living now? Escalon was overrun. Surely everyone he knew and loved was dead. Duncan, too, must be dead; otherwise, he would have arrived to reinforce him.
    Anvin used all his effort to move his arms out a little, and then, slowly, to pull himself up just a bit. He reached out, grabbed rock and dirt, and making a fist between his fingers, hands shaking, struggled to rise. He then reached out with the other arm, in pure agony, half his body unable to move. He had never experienced pain like this, had never been beaten and trampled by thousands of men. Hardly able to breathe, he rolled to his side, put one palm flat, and pushed himself up, just enough.
    Slowly, he was able to lift his neck a bit more, his breath catching in his throat. His other eye was still sealed shut, yet somehow he made it to one knee, wobbling, nearly falling.
    After minutes of sitting there, breathing hard, he forced himself to try again. He could not just die here. He had to go on.
    Be strong.
    Anvin looked over at Durge’s dead body and saw his sword laying in the dust, just a few feet away. Anvin reached out, knowing it was the only way.
    With a supreme effort, he managed to grab his friend’s sword. Grabbing the hilt, he stuck it into the dirt and used it to steady himself as he rose up. Fitting, he thought, that he should bear Durge’s sword.
    With shaking arms Anvin made it to his feet. He stood there, unsteady, trying to balance. He breathed for a long time, not feeling as if he could go on. He was dizzy, wishing he could hold onto something, and he squinted into the sunset as he looked around with his one good eye. He wished he hadn’t. He was surrounded by death, by desolation, realized he stood completely alone in this desert wasteland. Yet at least he was alive. He should be grateful for that.
    Anvin turned and looked out at the horizon, at the disappearing Pandesian army invading Escalon, and he felt filled with resolve. He could not let them enter his country. Not after all he had stood for.
    Somehow he mustered the energy to put one foot out before the other, and he took his first step.
    Then another.
    And another.
    Anvin felt as if he were walking underwater, sweating, feeling as if he would collapse at any moment. He forced himself to think of Duncan, of all those back there that he knew and loved—and he forced himself to go on.
    It would be an endless trek, he knew, a wasteland before him, and beyond that, the Pandesian army. Even if he made it, even if he reached them, he would surely be killed.
    Yet he had no choice but to move forward.
    That was who he was.
    And that was what he lived for.
    His whole life had been a forge, a forge of valor. And he was the man, the soldier, that his friends, his commanders, and most of all, himself, had forged. Each choice had forged him, had made