by Morgan Rice
Enis turned to leave, but Duncan called out.
“You can have my answer now if you wish,” Duncan replied.
Enis turned, a satisfied look on his face.
“I choose death,” he replied, and for the first time, managed to smile. “After all, death is nothing next to honor.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dierdre, wiping sweat from her forehead as she labored away in the forge, suddenly sat up, jolted by a thunderous noise. It was a distinct noise, one that set her on edge, a noise that rose above the din of all the hammers striking anvils. All the men and women around her stopped, too, laid down their unfinished weapons, and looked out, puzzled.
It came again, sounding like thunder rolling on the wind, sounding as if the very fabric of the earth were being torn apart.
Then again.
Finally, Dierdre realized: iron bells. They were tolling, striking terror in her heart as they slammed again and again, echoing throughout the city. They were bells of warning, of danger. Bells of war.
All at once the people of Ur jumped up from their tables and rushed out of the forge, all eager to see. Dierdre was first among them, joined by her girls, joined by Marco and his friends, and they all burst outside and entered streets flooded with concerned citizens, all flocking toward the canals to get a better view. Dierdre searched everywhere, expecting, with those bells, to see her city overrun with ships, with soldiers. Yet she did not.
Puzzled, she headed toward the massive watchtowers perched at the edge of the Sorrow, wanting to get a better view.
“Dierdre!”
She turned to see her father and his men, all running for the watchtowers, too, all eager to get an open view of the sea. All four towers rang frantically, something that never happened, as if death itself were approaching the city.
Dierdre fell in beside her father as they ran, turning down streets and ascending a set of stone steps until they finally reached the top of the city wall, at the edge of the sea. She stopped there, beside him, stunned at the sight before her.
It was like her worst nightmare come to life, a sight she wished she’d never seen in her lifetime: the entire sea, all the way to the horizon, was filled with black. The black ships of Pandesia, so close together that they covered the water, seemed to cover the entire world. Worst of all, they all bore down in a singular force right for her city.
Dierdre stood frozen, staring at the coming death. There was no way they could defend against a fleet that size, not with their meager chains, and not with their swords. When the first ships reached the canals, they could bottleneck them, maybe, delay them. They could perhaps kill hundreds or even thousands of soldiers.
But not the millions she saw before her.
Dierdre felt her heart ripping in two as she turned and looked to her father, his soldiers, and saw the same silent panic in their faces. Her father put on a brave face before his men, but she knew him. She could see the fatalism in his eyes, see the light fade from them. All of them, clearly, were staring at their deaths, at the end of their great and ancient city.
Beside her, Marco and his friends looked out with terror, but also with resolve, none of them, to their credit, turning and running away. She searched the sea of faces for Alec, but she was puzzled not to find him anywhere. She wondered where he could have gone. Surely he would not have fled?
Dierdre stood her ground and tightened her grip on her sword. She knew death was coming for them—she just had not expected it so soon. She was done, though, running from anyone.
Her father turned to her and grabbed her shoulders with urgency.
“You must leave the city,” he demanded.
Dierdre saw the fatherly love in his eyes, and it touched her.
“My men will escort you,” he added. “They can get you far from here. Go now! And remember me.”
Dierdre wiped away a tear as she saw her father looking down at her with so much love. She shook her head and brushed his hands off of her.
“No, Father,” she said. “This is my city, and I will die by your—”
Before she could finish her words, a horrific explosion cut through the air. At first she was confused, thinking it was another bell, but then she realized—cannon fire. Not just one cannon, but hundreds of them.
The shock waves alone knocked Dierdre off balance, cutting through the fabric of the atmosphere with such force, she felt as if her ears were split in two. Then came the high-pitched whistle of cannonballs, and as she looked out to sea, she felt a wave of panic as she saw hundreds of massive cannonballs, like iron cauldrons in the sky, arching high and heading right for her beloved city.
There followed another sound, worse than the last: the sound of iron crushing stone. The very air rumbled as there came one explosion after another. Dierdre stumbled and fell as all around her the great buildings of Ur, architectural masterpieces, monuments that had lasted thousands of years, were destroyed. These stone buildings, ten feet thick, churches, watchtowers, fortifications, battlements—all, to her horror, were smashed to bits by cannonballs. They crumbled before her eyes.
There came an avalanche of rubble as one building after another toppled to the ground.
It was sickening to watch. As Dierdre rolled on the ground, she saw a hundred-foot stone tower begin to fall on its side. She was helpless to do anything but watch as she saw hundreds of people beneath it look up and shriek in terror as the wall of stone crushed them.
There followed another explosion.
And another.
And another.
All around her more and more buildings exploded and fell, thousands of people instantly crushed in massive plumes of dust and debris. Boulders rolled throughout the city like pebbles while buildings fell into each other, crumbling as they landed on the ground. And still the cannonballs kept coming, ripping through one precious building after the other, turning this once majestic city into a mound of rubble.
Dierdre finally regained her feet. She looked about, dazed, ears ringing, and between clouds of dust saw streets filled with corpses, pools of blood, as if the whole city had been wiped out in an instant. She looked to the seas and saw the thousands more ships waiting to attack, and she realized that all their planning had been a joke. Ur was already destroyed, and the ships had not even touched shore. What good would all those weapons, all those chains and spikes, do now?
Dierdre heard moaning and looked over to see one of her father’s brave men, a man she had once loved dearly, lying dead but feet away from her, crushed by a pile of rubble that should have landed on her, had she not stumbled and fell. She went to go to help him—when the air suddenly shook with the roar of another round of cannonballs.
And another.
Whistling followed, then more explosions, more buildings falling. Rubble piled higher, and more people died, as she was knocked to her feet yet again, a wall of stone collapsing beside her and narrowly missing her.
There came a lull in the firing, and Dierdre stood. A wall of rubble now blocked her view of the sea, yet she sensed the Pandesians were close now, at the beach, which was why the firing had stopped. Huge clouds of dust hung in the air, and in the eerie silence, there came nothing but the moans of the dead all around her. She looked over to see Marco beside her, crying out in distress as he tried to yank free the body of one of his friends. Dierdre looked down and saw the boy was already dead, crushed beneath the wall of what was once a temple.
She turned, remembering her girls, and was devastated to see several of them also crushed to death. But three of them survived, trying, fruitlessly, to save the others.
There came the shout of the Pandesians, on foot, on the beach, charging for Ur. Dierdre thought of her father’s offer, and knew that his men could still whisk her away from here. She knew that remaining here would mean her death—yet that was what she wanted. She would not run.
Beside her, her father, a gash across his forehead, rose up from the rubble, drew his sword, and fearlessly led his men in a charge f
or the pile of rubble. He was, she realized proudly, rushing to meet the enemy. It would be a battle on foot now, and hundreds of men rallied behind him, all rushing forward with such fearlessness that it filled her with pride.
She followed, drawing her sword and climbing the huge boulders before her, ready to do battle by his side. As she scrambled to the top, she stopped, stunned at the sight before her: thousands of Pandesian soldiers, in their yellow and blue armor, filled the beach, charging for the mound of rubble. These men were well trained, well armed, and rested—unlike her father’s men, who numbered but a few hundred, with crude weapons and all already wounded.
It would, she knew, be a slaughter.
And yet her father didn’t turn back. She was never more proud of him than she was in that moment. There he stood, so proud, his men gathered around him, all ready to rush down to meet the enemy, even though it would mean a sure death. It was, for her, the very embodiment of valor.
As he stood there, before he descended, he turned and looked at Dierdre with a look of such love. There was a goodbye in his eyes, as if he knew he would never see her again. Dierdre was confused—her sword was in hand, and she was preparing to charge with him. Why would he be saying goodbye to her now?
She suddenly felt strong hands grab her from behind, felt herself yanked backwards, and she turned to see two of her father’s trusted commanders grabbing her. A group of his men also grabbed her three remaining girls, and Marco and his friends. She bucked and protested, but it was no use.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
They ignored her protests as they dragged her away, clearly at her father’s command. She caught one last look at her father before he led his men down the other side of the rubble in a great battle cry.
“Father!” she cried.
She felt torn apart. Just as she was truly admiring the father she loved again, he was being taken from her. She wanted to be with him desperately. But he was already gone.
Dierdre found herself thrown on a small boat, and immediately the men began rowing down the canal, away from the sea. The boat turned again and again, cutting through the canals, heading toward a secret side opening in one of the walls. Before them loomed a low stone arch, and Dierdre recognized immediately where they were going: the underground river. It was a raging current on the other side of that wall, and it would lead them far away from the city. She would emerge somewhere many miles away from here, safe and sound in the countryside.
All her girls turned to look to her, as if wondering what they should do. Dierdre came to an immediate decision. She pretended to acquiesce to the plan, so that they would all go. She wanted them all to escape, to be free from this place.
Dierdre waited until the last moment, and just before they entered, she leapt from the boat, landing in the waters of the canal. Marco, to her surprise, noticed her and jumped, too. That left only the two of them floating in the canal.
“Dierdre!” shouted her father’s men.
They turned to grab her—but it was too late. She had timed it perfectly, and they were already caught up in the gushing currents, sweeping their boat away.
Dierdre and Marco turned and swam quickly for an abandoned boat, boarding it. They sat there, dripping wet, and stared at each other, each breathing hard, exhausted.
Dierdre turned and looked back to where they had come from, to the heart of Ur, where she had left her father’s side. It was there she would go, there and nowhere else, even if it meant her death.
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.
&nbs
p; 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.