Rise of the Valiant by Morgan Rice Page B

lucky
blows,” said another. “We still outnumber you five to one.”
    Merk smiled.
    “Those odds are
starting to look a lot worse for you now, aren’t they?” he replied.
    “You got
anything else to say before we kill you?” another snapped, a big man speaking
in an accident Merk did not recognize.
    Merk smiled.
    “That’s what I
like,” Merk replied. “Courage in the face of death.”
    The man, bigger
than all others, threw down his weapon and charged Merk, as if to tackle him
and drive him down to the mud. Clearly, this man wanted to fight on his own
terms.
    If there was one
thing Merk had learned, it was never to fight on another man’s terms. As the
clumsy oaf charged him, his thick hands stretched out before him to tear him
apart, Merk made no effort to get out of the way. Instead, he waited until the
man was a foot away, squatted, and brought his dagger straight up as the man
lowered his chin. It was an uppercut with a knife.
    He impaled the
blade in the man’s throat in an upward motion, dropping him straight down to
the ground. The thug fell face-first, dead, the blood pooling in the mud.
    The four remaining
looked down at their huge compatriot, lifeless, and this time they held real
fear in their eyes.
    The thug nearest
him raised his hands, shaking.
    “Okay,” he said.
“I’ll leave.” The boy, hardly older than twenty, threw his sword down to the
mud. “Just let us go.”
    Merk grinned,
feeling his veins burning with indignation at the sight of the dead family, at
the smell of the smoke burning in his nostrils. He stooped down and casually
picked up the boy’s sword.
    “Sorry, my
friend,” Merk said. “That time has passed.”
    Merk charged
forward and stabbed the boy in the heart, holding him tight as he pulled his
face close.
    “Tell me,” Merk
seethed, “which one of this precious family did you murder?”
    The boy gasped,
blood trickling from his mouth as he fell dead in Merk’s arms.
    The three thugs
all charged for Merk at once, as if realizing this was their last desperate
chance.
    Merk took two
steps forward, jumped in the air, and kicked one in the chest, knocking him to
the ground. As another swung a club for his head, Merk ducked, then rammed his
shoulder into the man’s stomach and threw him over his shoulder, sending him
landing on his back. Merk stepped forward and with his boots crushed one man’s
windpipe, then stepped on the other’s chin and snapped his neck, killing both.
    That left one.
    The sole
survivor rushed forward nervously and swung a sword for his head; Merk ducked,
feeling it whiz by, and in the same motion grabbed a club from the ground,
swung around, and whacked the man on the back of the head. There came a crack,
and the man stumbled forward and landed in the mud, out cold.
    Merk saw him
lying there and knew he could kill him—but he had another idea: he wanted
justice.
    Merk dragged the
man to his feet, holding him in a chokehold as he dragged him forward. He walked
him across the mud, toward the girl, who stood there, aghast, hatred in her
eyes.
    Merk stopped a
foot away from her, holding the writhing man tight.
    “Please, let me
go!” the man whined. “It wasn’t my fault!”
    “The decision is
the girl’s,” Merk snarled in the man’s ear.
    Merk saw the
grief, the desire for vengeance, in her eyes. With his free hand he reached
into his belt and handed her his dagger, hilt first.
    “Please, don’t,”
the man sobbed. “I didn’t do anything!”
    The girl’s
expression darkened as she grabbed Merk’s dagger and stared back at the man.
    “Didn’t you?”
she asked, her voice cold and hard. “I watched you kill my mother. I watched
you kill my family.”
    Without waiting
for a response, the girl lunged forward and stabbed the man in the heart.
    Merk felt the
thug stiffen in his arms as he gasped, and was surprised and impressed by the
girl’s perfect strike, her ruthlessness.
    The man’s body
went limp, and Merk let him drop down to