Rise of the Valiant by Morgan Rice Page A

it will
break free!” he exclaimed.
    Alec nodded.
    “It will. But by
then, we shall be far from here.”
    Marco furrowed
his brow.
    “I don’t
understand,” he said. “It tried to kill you. It wounded you—and me.”
    Alec wished he
could explain it, but he did not fully understand it himself. Finally, he
sighed.
    “It was
something my brother once said to me,” Alec said. “When you kill something, you
murder some small part of the world.”
    Alec turned to
Marco.
    “Let’s go,” Alec
said.
    Alec turned to
go, but Marco held out a hand and stepped forward.
    “You saved my
life,” Marco said, reverence in his voice. “That wound on your arm you received
because of me. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead back there. I owe you.”
    “You owe me
nothing,” Alec replied.
    “You risked your
life for me,” Marco said.
    Alec sighed.
    “Who would I be
if I did not risk my life for others?” Alec said.
    They clasped
arms, and Alec knew that no matter what happened, no matter what dangers lay
ahead of them, he now had a brother for life.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    Merk stood in
the mud, opposite the ten remaining thugs, all facing him nervously. They held
before them their crude weapons and looked back and forth from their dead
leader to Merk, now all seeming less certain of themselves. As flames burned
all around him, black smoke stinging his eyes in waves, Merk remained calm,
preparing for the confrontation to come.
    “Drop your
weapons and run,” Merk said, “and you will live. I won’t offer again.”
    One of them, a
tall brute with wide shoulders and a scar across his chin, grunted back.
    “You’re a proud
one, aren’t you?” he said in a thick accent Merk did not understand. “You
really think you can take us all?”
    “There are still
ten of us and one of you,” another called back.
    Merk laughed,
shaking his head.
    “You still don’t
understand,” he said. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”
    He stared back
at them with his cold, black eyes, the eyes of a killer, and he could see the
fear starting to take hold. It was a look he’d recognized his entire life.
    One of the men
suddenly let out a shout and charged, raising his sword, filled with more
bravado than skill. An amateur mistake.
    Merk watched him
come out of the corner of his eye but did not let on that he knew. He waited
and watched, and at the final moment, as the sword came down for his back, he
squatted low and felt the thug rush forward. As he felt his body against his
back, his sloppy sword slash whiz over his head, he grabbed the thug and threw
him over his shoulder. The man went flying, landing on his back in the mud
before him, and Merk stepped forward and with his boot, expertly and precisely
crushed his windpipe, killing him.
    That left nine.
    Another thug
charged, swinging his sword down at him, and as he did, Merk calmly took the
sword from the man he had just killed, sidestepped, and sliced the man’s
stomach, sending him keeling over.
    Two more broke
off and charged together, one swinging a crude flail and the other wielding a
mace. The flail was a clumsy swing, all power and no finesse, and Merk merely
jumped back and let the spiked ball whiz by his face, then stepped forward and
plunged his dagger into the man’s waist. In the same motion he spun, as the
other attacker swung his mace, and slashed his throat.
    Merk grabbed the
man’s mace, turned, planted his feet, and threw the mace at another charging
attacker; it sailed end over end and smashed the man’s eye socket, stopping him
in his tracks and knocking him out.
    The five
remaining thugs now looked at Merk, then back to each other, exchanging looks
of fear and wonder.
    Merk smiled as
he wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand.
    “I’m going to
enjoy watching you all die here, in the same place you killed this nice
family.”
    One of them
scowled.
    “The only one
who’ll be dying here is you,” spat one.
    “A few