CHAPTER THREE
Merk stood at the entrance to the hidden chamber, on the top floor of the Tower of Ur, Pult, the traitor, lying dead at his feet, and he stared into the shining light. The door ajar, he could not believe what he saw.
Here it was, the sacred chamber, on the most protected floor, the one and only room designed to hold and guard the Sword of Fire. Its door was carved with the insignia of the sword and its stone walls, too, had the sword’s insignia carved into them. It was this room, and this room alone, that the traitor had wanted, to steal the most sacred relic of the kingdom. If Merk had not caught him and killed him, who knows where the Sword would be now?
As Merk stared into the room, its stone walls smooth, shaped in a circle, as he stared into the shining light, he began to see that there, in the center, sat a golden platform, a flaming torch beneath it, a steel cradle above, clearly designed to hold the Sword. And yet, as he stared, he could not understand what he saw.
The cradle was empty.
He blinked, trying to understand. Had the thief stolen the Sword already? No, the man was dead at his feet. That could only mean one thing.
This tower, the sacred Tower of Ur, was a decoy. All of it—the room, the tower—all a decoy. The Sword of Fire did not reside here. It had never resided here.
If not, then where could it be?
Merk stood there, horrified, too frozen to move. He thought back to all the legends surrounding the Sword of Fire. He recalled mention of the two towers, the Tower of Ur in the northwest corner of the kingdom, and the Tower of Kos in the southeast, each placed on opposite ends of the kingdom, each counterbalancing each other. He knew that only one of them held the Sword. And yet Merk had always assumed that this tower, the Tower of Ur, was the one. Everyone in the kingdom assumed that; everyone pilgrimaged to this tower alone, and the legends themselves always hinted at Ur as being the one. After all, Ur was on the mainland, close to the capital, near a great and ancient city—while Kos was at the end of the Devil’s Finger, a remote location with no significance and not close to anything.
It had to be in Kos.
Merk stood there, in shock, and it slowly dawned on him: he was the only one in the kingdom who knew the true location of the Sword. Merk did not know what secrets, what treasures, this Tower of Ur held, if any, but he knew for certain that it did not hold the Sword of Fire. He felt deflated. He had learned what he was not meant to learn: that he and all the other soldiers here were guarding nothing. It was knowledge that the Watchers were not supposed to have—for, of course, it would demoralize them. After all, who would want to guard an empty tower?
Now that Merk knew the truth, he felt a burning desire to flee this place, to head to Kos, and to protect the Sword. After all, why remain here and guard empty walls?
Merk was a simple man, and he hated riddles above all else, and this all gave him a huge headache, raising more questions for him than answers. Who else might know this? Merk wondered. The Watchers? Surely some of them must know. If they knew, how could they possibly have the discipline to spend all their days guarding a decoy? Was that all part of their practice? Of their sacred duty?
Now that he knew, what should he do? Certainly he could not tell the others. That could demoralize them. They might not even believe him, thinking he had stolen the Sword.
And what should he do with this dead body, this traitor? And if this traitor was trying to steal the Sword, was anyone else? Had he been acting alone? Why would he want to steal it anyway? Where would he take it?
As he stood there trying to figure it all out, suddenly, his hair stood on end as bells tolled so loud, just feet from his head, sounding as if they were in this very room. They were so immediate, so urgent, he could not understand where they were coming from—until he realized the bell tower, atop the roof, was but feet from his head. The room shook with their incessant tolling, and he couldn’t think straight. After all, their urgency implied that they were bells of war.
A commotion suddenly arose from all corners of the tower. Merk could hear the distant ruckus, as if everyone inside were rallying. He had to know what was going on; he could come back to this dilemma later.
Merk dragged the body out of the way, slammed the door closed, and ran from the room. He rushed into the hall and saw dozens of warriors rushing up the stairs, all with swords in hand. At first he wondered if they were coming for him, but then he looked up, saw more men rushing up the stairs, and realized they were all heading to the roof.
Merk joined them, rushing up the stairs, bursting onto the roof amidst the deafening tolling of the bells. He rushed to the edge of the tower and looked out—and was stunned when he did. His heart fell as he saw in the distance the Sea of Sorrow, covered in black, a million ships converging on the city of Ur in the distance. The fleet did not seem to be heading to the Tower of Ur, though, which sat a good day’s ride north of the city, so with no immediate danger, Merk wondered why these bells were tolling so urgently.
Then he saw the warriors turning in the opposite direction. He turned, too, and saw it: there, emerging from the woods, was a band of trolls. These were followed by more trolls.
And more.
There came a loud rustling, followed by a roar, and suddenly, hundreds of trolls burst forth from the forest, shrieking, charging, halberds held high, blood in their eyes. Their leader was out front, the troll known as Vesuvius, a grotesque beast carrying two halberds, his face covered in blood. They were all converging on the tower.
Merk realized right away that this was no ordinary troll attack. It seemed as if the entire nation of Marda had broken through. How had they made it past the Flames? he wondered. They had all clearly come here looking for the Sword, wanting to lower the Flames. Ironic, Merk thought, given that the Sword was not here.
The tower, Merk realized, could not withstand such an onslaught. It was finished.
Merk felt a sense of dread, steeling himself for the final fight of his life, as he was encircled. All around him warriors clenched their swords, looking down in panic.
“MEN!” Vicor, Merk’s commander, shrieked. “TAKE UP POSITIONS!”
The warriors took up positions all along the battlements and Merk immediately joined them, rushing to the edge, grabbing a bow and quiver, as did the others around him, taking aim and firing.
Merk was pleased to watch one of his arrows impale a troll in the chest; yet, to his surprise, the beast continued to run, even with an arrow protruding through his back. Merk fired at him again, sending an arrow into the troll’s neck—and still, to his shock, it continued to run. He fired a third time, hitting the troll in the head, and this time the troll fell to the ground.
Merk fast realized that these trolls were no ordinary adversaries, and would not go down as easily as men. Their chances seemed more dire. Still, he fired again and again, dropping as many trolls as he could. Arrows rained down from all of his fellow soldiers, too, blackening the sky, sending trolls stumbling and falling, clogging the way for others
But too many broke through. They soon reached the thick tower walls, raised halberds, and slammed them against the golden doors, trying to knock them down. Merk could feel the vibrations underfoot, setting him on edge.
The clanging of metal ran through the air, as the nation of trolls slammed against the doors relentlessly. Somehow, Merk was relieved to see, the doors held. Even with hundreds of trolls smashing into it, the doors, as if by magic, did not even bend or even dent.
“BOULDERS!” Vicor yelled.
Merk saw the other soldiers rush over to a mound of boulders lined up along the edge, and he joined them as they all reached over and hoisted one. Together, he and ten others managed to lift it and push it up toward the top of the wall. Merk strained and groaned beneath the effort, hoisting it with all his might, then finally they all pushed it over with a great shout.
Merk leaned over with the others and watched as the boulder fell, whistling through the air.
The trolls below looked up—but too late. It crushed a group of them into the ground, flattening them, leaving a huge crater in the earth beside the tower wall. Merk helped the other soldiers as they hoisted boulders over the edge on all sides of the tower, killing hundreds of trolls, the earth shaking with the explosions.
Yet still they came, an endless stream of trolls, bursting forth from the wood. Merk saw they were out of boulders; they were out of arrows, too, and the trolls showed no sign of slowing down.
Merk suddenly felt something whiz by his ear, and he turned to see a spear fly by. He looked down, baffled, and saw the trolls taking up spears, hurling them up at the battlements. He was amazed; he had no idea they had the strength to throw that far.
Vesuvius led them, raising a golden spear and throwing it high, straight up, and Merk watched in shock as the spear reached the top of the tower and just missed him as he ducked. He heard a groan, and turned to see that his fellow soldiers were not so lucky. Several of them lay on their backs, pierced by the spears, blood pouring from their mouths.
Even more disturbing, there came a rumbling noise, and suddenly from out of the wood there rolled forth an iron battering ram, carried on a cart with wooden wheels. The crowd of trolls parted way as the ram was rolled forward, led by Vesuvius, right for the door.
“SPEARS!” cried Vicor.
Merk ran over with the others to the mound of spears, knowing as he grabbed one that this was their last line of defense. He had thought they would save these until the trolls breached the tower, leaving them a last line of defense, but apparently, times were desperate. He grabbed one, took aim, and hurled it down, aiming for Vesuvius.
But Vesuvius was faster than he looked and he dodged at the last moment. Merk’s spear instead hit another troll in the thigh, dropping him, slowing the approach of the battering ram. His fellow soldiers threw them and spears hailed down, killing the trolls pushing the battering ram and stopping its progress.
Yet as soon as the trolls fell, a hundred more appeared from the wood, replacing them. Soon the ram rolled forward again. There were just too many of them—and they were all dispensable. This was not the way that humans fought. This was a nation of monsters.
Merk reached out for another spear to throw, and he was dismayed to find none left. At the same time, the battering ram reached the tower’s doors, several trolls laying down planks of wood over the craters to form a bridge.
“FORWARD!” Vesuvius shouted far below, his voice deep and gravelly.
The group of trolls charged and shoved the ram forward. A moment later it smashed the doors with such force that Merk could feel the vibration all the way up here. The tremor ran through his ankles, hurting him down to the bone.
It came again, and again, and again, shaking the tower, causing him and the others to stumble. He landed on his hands and knees atop a body, a fellow Watcher, only to realize he was already dead.
Merk heard a whizzing noise, felt a wave of wind and heat, and as he looked up he could not comprehend what he saw: overhead flew a boulder of fire. Explosions rang out all around him as flaming boulders landed atop the tower. Merk squatted and looked over the edge to see dozens of catapults being fired from below, aimed at the roof of the tower. All around him, his men were dying.
Another flaming boulder landed near Merk, killing two Watchers beside him, men he had grown to like, and as the flames spread out, he could feel them near his own back. Merk looked about, saw nearly all the men dead around him, and he knew there was nothing more he could do up here, except wait to die.
Merk knew it was now or never. He was not going to go down like this, huddled atop the tower, awaiting death. He would go down bravely, fearlessly, facing the enemy with a dagger in hand, face to face, and kill as many of these creatures as he could.
Merk let out a great cry, reached for the rope affixed to the tower, and jumped over the edge. He slid down it at full speed, heading for the nation of trolls below, and ready to meet his destiny.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kyra blinked as she gazed up at the sky, the world in motion above her. It was the most beautiful sky she had ever seen, deep purple, with soft white clouds drifting overhead, the sky aglow with diffused sunlight. She felt herself moving, and she heard the gentle lapping of water all around her. She had never felt such a deep sense of peace.
On her back, Kyra looked over and was surprised to see she was floating in the midst of a vast sea, on a wooden raft, far from any shore. Huge, rolling waves gently lifted her raft up and down. She felt as if she were drifting to the horizon, to another world, another life. To a place of peace. For the first time in her life, she no longer worried about the world; she felt wrapped in the embrace of the universe, as if, finally, she could let down her guard and be taken care of, shielded from all harm.
Kyra sensed another presence on her boat, and she sat up and was startled to see a woman sitting there. The woman wore white robes, shrouded in light, with long golden hair and startling blue eyes. She was the most beautiful woman Kyra had ever seen.
Kyra felt a sense of shock as she felt certain that this was her mother.
“Kyra, my love,” the woman said.
The woman smiled down at her, such a sweet smile that it restored Kyra’s soul, and Kyra looked back and felt an even deeper sense of peace. The voice resonated through her, made her feel at peace in the world.
“Mother,” she replied.
Her mother held out a hand, nearly translucent, and Kyra reached up and grasped it. The feel of her skin was electrifying, and as she held it, Kyra felt as though a part of her own soul were being restored.
“I’ve been watching you,” she said. “And I am proud. More proud than you will ever know.”
Kyra tried to focus, but as she felt the warmth of her mother’s embrace, she felt as if she were leaving this world.
“Am I dying, Mother?”
Her mother looked back, her eyes aglow, and gripped her hand tighter.
“It is your time, Kyra,” she said. “And yet, your courage has changed your destiny. Your courage—and my love.”
Kyra blinked back, confused.
“Will we not be together now?”
Her mother smiled at her, and Kyra felt her mother slowly letting go, drifting away. Kyra felt a rush of fear as she knew her mother would leave, be gone forever. Kyra tried to hold onto her, but she withdrew her hand and instead placed her palm on Kyra’s stomach. Kyra felt intense heat and love coursing through it, healing her. Slowly, she felt herself being restored.
“I will not let you die,” her mother replied. “My love for you is stronger than fate.”
Suddenly, her mother disappeared.
In her place stood a beautiful boy, staring back at her with glowing grey eyes, long, straight hair, mesmerizing her. She could feel the love in his gaze.
“I, too, will not let you die, Kyra,” he echoed.
He leaned in, placed his palm on her stomach, the same place her mother’s had been, and she felt an even more intense heat course through her body. She saw a white light and felt heat gushing through her, and as she felt herself coming back to life she could barely breathe.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Drowning in the heat and the light, she could not help but close her eyes.
Who are you? echoed in her mind.
Kyra opened her eyes slowly, feeling an intense wave of peace, of calm. She looked all about, expecting to still be on the ocean, to see the water, the sky.
Instead, she heard the ubiquitous chirping of insects. She turned, confused, to find herself in the woods. She was lying in a clearing and she felt intense heat radiating in her stomach, the place where she had been stabbed, and she looked down to see a single hand there. It was a beautiful, pale hand, touching her stomach, as it had in her dream. Lightheaded, she looked up to see those beautiful grey eyes staring down at her, so intense, they seemed to be glowing.
Kyle.
He knelt at her side, one hand on her forehead, and as he touched her, Kyra slowly felt her wound being healed, slowly felt herself returning to this world, as if he were willing her back. Had she really visited with her mother? Had it been real? She felt as if she had been meant to die, and yet somehow, her destiny had been changed. It was as if her mother had intervened. And Kyle. Their love had brought her back. That, and, as her mother had said, her own courage.
Kyra licked her lips, too weak to sit up. She wanted to thank Kyle, but her throat was too parched and the words would not come out.
“Shh,” he said, seeing her struggle, leaning forward and kissing her forehead.
“Did I die?” she finally managed to ask.
After a long silence he answered, his voice soft, yet powerful.
“You have come back,” he said. “I would not let you go.”
It was a strange feeling; looking into his eyes, she felt as if she had always known him. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing it, so grateful. There was so much she wanted to say to him. She wanted to ask him why he would risk his life for her; why he cared so much about her; why he would sacrifice to bring her back. She sensed he had, indeed, made a great sacrifice for her, a sacrifice that would somehow hurt him.
Most of all, she wanted him to know what she was feeling right now.
I love you, she wanted to say.
But the words would not come out. Instead, a wave of exhaustion overcame her, and as her eyes closed, she had no choice but to succumb. She felt herself falling deeper and deeper into sleep, the world racing by her, and she wondered if she were dying again. Had she only been brought back for a moment? Had she come back one last time just to say goodbye to Kyle?
And as a deep slumber finally overtook her, she could have sworn she heard a few last words before she drifted off for good:
“I love you, too.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The baby dragon flew in agony, each flap of his wings an effort, struggling to stay in the air. He flew, as he had for hours, over the countryside of Escalon, feeling lost and alone in this cruel world he had been born into. There flashed through his mind images of his dying father, lying there, his great eyes closing, being jabbed to death by all those human soldiers. His father, whom he had never had a chance to know, except for that one moment of glorious battle; his father, who had died saving him.
The baby dragon felt his father’s death as if it were his own, and with each flap of his wings, he felt more burdened by the guilt. If it were not for him, his father might be alive right now.
The dragon flew, torn with grief and remorse at the idea that he would never have a chance to know his father, to thank him for his selfless act of valor, for saving his life. A part of him no longer wanted to live either.
Another part, though, burned with rage, was desperate to kill those humans, to avenge his father and destroy the land below him. He did not know where he was, yet he sensed intuitively that he was oceans away from his homeland. Some instinct drove him to go back home; yet he did not know where home was.
The baby flew aimlessly, so lost in the world, breathing flames on treetops, on whatever he could find. Soon he ran out of fire, and soon after that, he found himself dipping lower and lower, with each flap of the wing. He tried to rise, but he found, in a panic, that he no longer had the strength. He tried to avoid a treetop, but his wings could no longer lift him, and he smashed right into it, smarting from all the old wounds that had not healed.
In agony, he bounced off it and continued flying, his elevation continually decreasing as he lost strength. He dripped blood, falling like raindrops below. He was weak from hunger, from his wounds, from the thousand jabs of spears he had received. He wanted to fly on, to find a target for destruction, but he felt his eyes closing, too heavy for him now. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness.
The dragon knew he was dying. In a way it was a relief; soon, he would join his father.
He was awakened by the sound of rustling leaves and cracking branches and as he felt himself smashing through treetops, he finally opened his eyes. His vision was obscured in a world of green. No longer able to control himself, he felt himself tumbling, snapping branches, each snap hurting him more.
He finally came to an abrupt stop high up in a tree, stuck between branches, too weak to struggle. He hung there, immobile, in too much pain to move, each breath hurting more than the next. He was sure he would die up here, tangled in the trees.
One of the branches suddenly gave with a loud snap, and the dragon plummeted. He tumbled end over end, snapping more branches, falling a good fifty feet, until finally he hit the ground.
He lay there, feeling all his ribs cracking, breathing blood. He flapped one wing slowly, but could not do much more.
As he felt the life force leaving him, it felt unfair, premature. He knew he had a destiny, but he could not understand what it was. It appeared to be short and cruel, born in this world only to witness his father’s death, and then to die himself. Maybe that was what life was: cruel and unfair.
As he felt his eyes closing for the last time, the dragon found his mind filled with one final thought: Father, wait for me. I will see you soon.