A Forge of Valor by Morgan Rice Page A

dagger, took aim, and threw.
    He watched it sail end over end, right for one of the beasts’ eyes.
    Merk anticipated it puncturing his eye, dropping it to the ground—but the baylor merely reached up with its paw and knocked it away like a toothpick, barely even slowing.
    Merk swallowed. He had just given it the best he had.
    “Get down!” Kyle shouted as the first bore down on them.
    The beast lifted its razor-sharp claws to slice Merk in half, and Merk dropped to the ground, praying that Kyle knew what he was doing. He ducked under the shadow of the great beast’s foot, about to crush him.
    The beast went flying sideways, to Merk’s immense relief, as Kyle struck it with his staff. A sharp cracking noise tore through the air as Kyle sent the beast flying, then rolling side over side, the ground shaking. Merk breathed a sigh of relief, realizing how close he had come to death.
    Kyle swung his staff at another baylor as it approached; he struck it in the chest and it flew backwards, up in the air a good twenty feet, landing on its back, rolling and taking out another one with it. Merk looked over at Kyle in awe, shocked at his power, wondering what else he could do.
    “This way!” Kyle ordered.
    Kyle ran for the beast that was on its back, while the other bore down on them and other two began to recover. Merk joined him, running faster than he had ever run in his life. They reached the beast and Merk was shocked as Kyle jumped on its back. It writhed and stood. Merk knew this was crazy, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he jumped on, too, grabbing onto the thick hide, slipping and clawing his way up for dear life as the baylor rose to its full height.
    A moment later the baylor was bucking wildly, the two of them riding it. Merk, slipping, was certain he would die here. The other beasts charged right for them.
    Then Kyle leaned down and whispered in the baylor’s ear, and suddenly, to Merk’s shock, it became still. It lifted its head, as if listening to Kyle, and as Kyle kicked it, the baylor shrieked, made a trumpeting sound like an elephant, and charged for its companions.
    The other beasts were clearly not expecting this. They hardly knew what to do as their friend charged them. The first one could not react in time as the beast lowered its head and gored him in the side. The beast shrieked, dropping to its side, and the beast they were riding trampled over it, killing it.
    The beast then raised its horns and lifted upward, goring another one in the throat, and rising up until it dropped, gurgling, dead.
    Their beast then ran like thunder, aiming for the final beast.
    But the final beast, seeing what was happening, charged back, infuriated. When the beast they were riding lunged for it, the final beast ducked and swiped. The beast beneath them shrieked as its legs were cut out from under it.
    Merk felt himself sliding and a moment later he tumbled and fell, Kyle with him, smashing into rock and dirt, and losing his breath as he tumbled, sure he was breaking his ribs.
    He lay there on the ground and watched the final beast attack, watched Kyle stunned, winded, too, and he was sure he would be crushed to death.
    But then, somehow, the beast they were riding managed to regain strength enough for one last blow—it turned, swiped, and sliced the final beast through the chest.
    The final beast dropped to the ground, dead, while the beast they were riding buckled and fell. It let out a great snort, and then a moment later, it, too, lay dead, atop its friend.
    Merk stood there, breathing hard, looking out at the four dead beasts, hardly able to process it. They had survived. Somehow, they had survived.
    He turned and looked at Kyle, still in awe, and Kyle smiled back.
    “That was the easy part,” he said.
    *
    Kyle and Merk marched, trekking in the silence, crossing the great plains of Escalon, heading invariably south and east, heading, somewhere in the distance for the Devil’s Finger, the ancient peninsula