by Morgan Rice
“I’d rather die fighting in the jaws of death than die here a slave.”
Anvin finally smiled too, recognizing a proud defiance in the boy that reminded him of himself at that age. Finally, he nodded, and the boy, beaming, rushed forward and mounted the horse, settling behind Anvin.
Anvin kicked, and the two of them rode off, soon cutting through Pandesian lines, undetected, riding north, faster and faster, on their way, finally, to Andros.
Duncan, he thought, wait for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
As Kyra lay on the battlefield, withdrawing, preparing to die, a sound arose through the clamor, one that urged her to stay alive. It was a curious sound, a sound of men shrieking and falling on the field of battle, of chaos in the Pandesian ranks. It made no sense—and that, the mystery, forced her to hang on more than anything. Why, after all, would Pandesian soldiers be falling? It had been just her against their army. Who else could possibly be attacking them?
In her semi-conscious state, Kyra looked over to see something rippling through the ranks. It was a blur of motion, of light, moving so fast she could barely see it, and it caused enough disruption to make the soldier standing above her lower his sword and look away.
Kyra took advantage of his moment of distraction and leaned back and kicked him with all she had between the legs. The soldier keeled over, and moments later the whirling ball of light drove him to the ground. She saw a flash of metal, saw a blur of motion and a sword lowering, killing the soldier. Then she looked up, and she was utterly shocked at what she saw.
Kyle.
He sped through the ranks like lightning, raising his spear and felling soldiers in every direction, like a fish cutting through water. Pandesians fell all around him, none safe from his deadly blows, none fast enough to stop him, much less catch him. Kyra felt a flood of relief at the sight of him; more than that, she felt a rush of love. She was overflowing with gratitude. He had come back, she realized, for her.
Kyra desperately wanted to call out to him, to reach for him, but she was too weak, drifting in and out of consciousness. All she could do was watch as Kyle cut his way through the ranks, like a dream, taking out one row of soldiers after the next. She had never witnessed power like that. He was an unstoppable force, clearly of another race. He seemed invincible, like a wave of destruction, as hundreds of soldiers fell before him. Even the dark sorcerer’s power seemed unable to stop him.
There came a lull in the fighting, and as Kyra opened her eyes, wondering how much time had passed, she looked out to see hundreds more bodies strewn on the battlefield. The entire first wave of Pandesians were dead. She could hardly believe it. There came the sound of a horn, though, and she looked up and saw something that made her blood run cold: thousands more Pandesians marched on the horizon, a force ten times the size of this, all coming to back up their men. She looked over and saw Kyle, bloody, breathing hard, clearly exhausted, and she knew that even he could not withstand another onslaught.
There followed the sound of another horn, rising up through the air. Yet, strangely enough, this was not the sound of the familiar horns of Escalon or Pandesia. She could not place it; she had never heard it before.
Kyra turned and looked back and her heart stopped as she saw the horizon behind her lined with thousands more soldiers—yet, even more disturbing, these were soldiers of another army. Another race. There, marching steadily toward over the hill, toward the capital, and toward the Pandesian army, were thousands of trolls. Those horns, Kyra realized with a start, were the trumpets of Marda. Of a nation of trolls. She could hardly believe it: their invasion had begun.
Two massive armies were about to face off with each other, and it so happened that Kyra and Kyle were stuck in the middle. There was no possible way, she realized, that Kyle could fight off both sides at once—and both sides, with eyes on him, clearly wanted him dead as the first act of war. Kyle saw it, too, his eyes wide with surprise, realizing at the same time that she did.
Kyle suddenly ran over to her and knelt by her side, gasping for breath. There was blood on his hands, his shoulders, his arms, and she, concerned, reached out to hug him. But even as she tried, her shoulders fell; her eyes were too heavy, and she was too weak from the loss of blood, her wounds.
A moment later, Kyra felt Kyle’s smooth hands on her waist, then felt herself being lifted up into the air. It felt so good to be in his arms.
He set her down, stomach first, on Andor’s back. She tried to open her eyes to see, yet, in and out of consciousness, she was too weak. She saw but a flash of images: Kyle’s face, staring back, compassion in his eyes. Both armies closing in. And finally, Kyle gently holding her face in his hands.
“Go far from here,” he said, his voice so soft. “Andor knows where. Never come back. And remember me.”
Then he looked into her eyes until, finally, she was able to open them, just for a moment.
“I love you,” he said.
Kyle leaned in and whispered into Andor’s ear, and she tried to reach for him, to ask him not to leave. Yet she was too weak to utter the words.
Then Andor took off. He bolted with her on his back, Leo at his side. Kyra desperately tried to stop him. She did not want to run from this battlefield, nor did she want Kyle to remain back there for her sake, where he would surely die.
Yet she was too exhausted to stop Andor. There was nothing she could do but hold on as she found herself racing through the countryside, slumped over him, heading far away from here.
She mustered the strength to look back one last time, over her shoulder, the world bobbing up and down. She saw Kyle, now but a spec, surrounded, the armies closing in on him from both sides. He stood there proudly and raised his spear, unflinching, prepared to meet them both, prepared to wage a battle he knew he could not win. Kyra felt her heart torn inside as she knew he was remaining behind to distract them, to keep them away from her, to die for her sake.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Vesuvius led the army of trolls as he charged for the Pandesians, raising his halberd high and letting out a great battle cry. He was eager for blood, and he could almost taste it. Before him lay a sight which set his heart on fire: a sea of blue and yellow, these Pandesians foolish enough to think they could stop Marda. He would kill each and every one of them.
As he approached, Vesuvius noticed that, oddly, they did not even seem to be charging for his trolls—instead, they all seemed fixated on attacking a single man. A boy, rather, with long golden hair, who moved through their ranks like a burst of light, attacking them from all sides, and who only stopped, briefly, to put a girl on a horse and send her away.
It was a confusing scene, and Vesuvius hardly knew what to make of it. Who was this boy who dared face off against an army of Pandesian forces? Who was the girl he had saved? Where had he sent her?
None of it mattered, though; Vesuvius would gladly kill anyone and anything in his way, and if they stood in the way of the capital, then the worse for them. The capital would be his. His ultimate goal, of course, was to raid the Tower of Kos and seize the Sword of Fire; but Andros was right on the way, and it was too valuable a prize to pass over. Besides, he was having too much fun destroying this countryside, one city at a time.
Although the sea of blue and yellow before him greatly outnumbered his trolls, Vesuvius had been desperate to do battle with them. Killing these humans in Escalon had been too easy; he craved a real foe. As he watched the odd battle ensue before him, though, he began to realize that that boy, the one who was beating them soundly but slowly losing strength, clearly must be important. Why else would they face off against him? And how else would he be able to fend them off?
He must, Vesuvius realized, be a very special prize for Pandesia—which meant he would also be a special prize for Marda. Vesuvius admired any warrior who could fight like that; this boy clearly had more backbone than his sorry army of trolls. He wanted him as a prize. He wanted him fighting for his nation.
“FORWARD!” Vesuvius
shrieked.
Vesuvius charged forward, raising his halberd, salivating at the thought of battle, of bloodshed, hearing the thunderous footsteps of his nation behind him. As they closed in, the mysterious boy turned, and Vesuvius saw no fear in his glowing grey eyes, which surprised him. He had never before encountered an enemy who did not quake in fear at the sight of his grotesque face and body.
But he did see surprise. After all, the boy certainly could not have expected an army of trolls to bear down on him, to sandwich him between them and the Pandesian army. Vesuvius grinned wide, deciding to turn up the heat.
“ARROWS!” he shrieked.
Obediently, his front line of soldiers raised their bows and fired on command.
Vesuvius watched with delight as the sky blackened and the sea of arrows sailed for the boy. He anticipated the moment of the boy’s death, of his being pierced by thousands of arrows, and he nearly squealed in delight. Perhaps now he would be afraid.
But as Vesuvius watched, he was shocked to see the boy stand there, unflinching, as if ready to embrace the arrows. And then, to Vesuvius’s horror, the boy merely moved his arm at the last moment and swatted all the arrows away. They parted ways in the sky, falling all around him, many even sailing past him and killing Pandesian soldiers.
Vesuvius stared, dumbfounded. He had never seen anything like it in his life. Clearly, this was no human, but a boy of another race. Which would make an even more valuable prize.
The boy turned and stared at Vesuvius, as if singling him out, and the two locked eyes. Vesuvius took note of the fierceness in the boy’s eyes, a fierceness that matched his own, and his curiosity deepened. He raised his halberd and doubled his speed, heading right for him. He loved a challenge, and finally, he had found a worthy opponent.
Vesuvius, just feet away, brought his halberd down for the boy’s chest, aiming to split him in two. He could already feel the victory.
But to his surprise, the boy sidestepped, faster than he’d thought, raised his staff, and to Vesuvius’s shock, swept it upwards and knocked Vesuvius back off his feet. It was a surprisingly powerful blow, stronger than any Vesuvius had ever received.
On his back, seeing stars, his head ringing, Vesuvius realized this was the first time he had been beaten in as long as he could remember. Now he really wanted to know: who was this boy? Now he was determined to capture this boy at all costs. He needed him—if he could control his own urge to kill him first.
Vesuvius’s thousands of trolls closed in, surrounding the boy from all directions. The boy swung his staff, and Vesuvius saw sparks of light fly as the boy swatted away halberds as if they were toothpicks. He spun around and struck down his trolls ten at a time, making a mockery of them. Vesuvius was about to join the fray.
Yet before he could, he was forced to turn to the Pandesians, as there suddenly came a thunderous clash of armor and weaponry, the sea of blue and yellow meeting his trolls. Their attention distracted from the boy, both armies locked with each other. Humans shrieked and fell as his trolls, twice their size, raised their mighty halberds and chopped them in half, right through their armor.
And yet the Pandesians kept coming, relentless, like a stream of ants, with no regard to death. They were an army of slaves, with remorseless commanders, and it showed. Vesuvius admired their discipline, their complete disregard for life. Row after row of Pandesians surged forward, their ranks replenished as soon as one row was killed.
Enough of them eventually got through, keeping to their well-disciplined lines, and it was only a matter of time until the trolls, despite their greater size and strength, began to fall.
Vesuvius turned as a dozen Pandesian soldiers descended on him. He swung his halberd as their swords came down, chopping four swords in half in a single blow, then swung around in the same motion and chopped off four heads.
At the same time a dozen more soldiers jumped him from behind. As they tackled him to the ground, he spun and spread his massive arms, sending them flying back. He then elbowed them across the face, cracking jaws, hearing bones snap, a sound that gave him great joy.
Yet still a dozen more soldiers appeared, knocking him down, kicking him in the face, all over his body. He grabbed his halberd off the ground, swung around and chopped off their legs, killing half a dozen more.
An arrow then sailed down at him, barely missing.
Then another.
And another.
All around him, trolls began to fall. As Vesuvius looked to the horizon, he saw an endless sea rippling with yellow and blue. He knew he could kill thousands of them—but he finally realized it would not be enough. These Pandesians had millions of men. Their relentless troops were like an army of ants that would eventually crawl over and kill his nation. He knew he had to retreat. He had no choice. They could have Andros for now. The bigger prize, after all, was the Tower of Kos, the Sword, and lowering the Flames. Once he did that, it would allow millions of his men to enter. Then he could finish this war—on his own terms.
Vesuvius gestured to his commanders, and as he commanded them, for the first time in years, they sounded the horn of retreat. It was a noise that pained his ears.
Well disciplined, his soldiers turned and began to retreat. Yet as he turned to go, Vesuvius realized he could not leave without his prize. He returned his eyes to the boy, who was proudly attacking Pandesians and trolls on both sides, spinning in circles, fending them off. He could see the boy was exhausted, overextended, his powers drained, fighting too many soldiers in both directions. This boy was heroic and reckless.
Vesuvius knew he could not use a normal weapon on the boy—and he knew now that he did not want him dead. He was too valuable for that.
“THE BOY!” Vesuvius shouted to his elite soldiers.
A hundred of his best trolls turned and joined him as he raced for the boy. They surrounded him on all sides, all swinging halberds.
The boy fended off this surge of troops with his magical spear and staff, the clang of metal heavy in the air. As frustrated as he was, Vesuvius had to admit he also admired him. It had been a long time since he had encountered a warrior he actually admired.
Vesuvius realized quickly that even his elite men could not beat him—nor did they have much time, with the Pandesians closing in. He kept his men fighting, though, as a distraction. It gave him time to extract his Luathian net and creep up behind the boy. Crafted of strands of an ancient source, it was a weapon he reserved for very special situations—just like this.
Vesuvius pulled the net from the sack at his waist, rushed forward, and as he came up behind the boy, cast it in the air. It unfolded with an unearthly whistle, as if alive, and he watched in delight as it spread out and dropped down on the boy. It entangled him, magically contracting, shrinking around him, wrapping him up, constraining his arms. Within moments the boy, unable to move, fell to the ground.
He was his.
Vesuvius, thrilled, grabbed his prize by the waist and slung him over his shoulder.
“RETREAT!” he commanded.
He turned and ran, sprinting at full speed, as his nation of trolls followed. The Tower of Kos was somewhere south, the Devil’s Finger lay before him, and with his newfound prize, his newest recruit, there would be no stopping him now.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
His Most Glorious and Supreme Ra descended for the dungeons of Andros flanked by two dozen of his entourage, his boots echoing on the spiral stone staircase as he descended level after level. He reached the lowest levels and marched down dark stone corridors, lit only by distant shafts of sunlight, passing rows of iron bars. They were like most prisons he had been in: some prisoners rushed forward, shrieking, while others sat there silent, simmering with rage. Ra loved dungeons. They reminded him of his supreme power, of how everyone in the world was subservient to him.
Ra marched down the halls, ignoring them all, interested in only one person: the final prisoner in the final cell. Ra had made sure Duncan was kept in its deepest and darkes
t part. After all, he wanted to break this man more than anything.
Ra turned down corridor after corridor until he passed the last of the cells and reached one final cell at the very end. He stood before it and nodded, and several of his servants rushed forward and unlocked it for him.
The great iron gates squeaked open slowly.
“Leave me,” Ra turned and commanded his men.
His entourage turned and marched from the corridors, taking up positions out of sight.
Ra entered the cell as the door slammed shut behind him. It was much darker in here, and as he walked through the darkness, filled with the sound of dripping water and scurrying rats, there, in a dark corner, he saw the man he had come to see. Duncan. There he sat, the leader of the great rebellion, the man rumored to be among the greatest warriors in all the world.
How pathetic. There he sat, shackled, on the ground like a dog. He sat unmoving, his eyes nearly shut from all the beatings he had received. Ra sighed. He had hoped for a more formidable opponent than this. Was there no one in the world left who was as strong as he?
And yet as Ra approached, Duncan looked up into the torchlight, right at him, and Ra recognized something in his eyes, some pride, some valor, some fearlessness, that impressed him. It was a look Ra saw rarely, and one that he relished when he did. Immediately he felt a kinship with this man, even if he was his enemy. Maybe he would not prove to be as disappointing as he thought.
Ra stopped a few feet before Duncan, towering over him. He savored the silence, the feeling of control over him.
“Do you know whom you face?” Ra asked, his voice authoritative and booming in the cell, echoing off the walls.
Ra waited for many seconds, yet Duncan did not respond.
“I am the Great and Holy Emperor of Pandesia, His Glorious Ra. I am the light of the sun, the beams of the moon, and the cradle of the stars. You are being afforded a great honor to be in my presence, an honor which few receive in a lifetime. When I enter a room people stand and bow down to me; whether chained or not, they lower their face to the ground. You will bow to me now, or you will meet your death.”