by Morgan Rice
Motley then stepped back.
“I never had a son, you know,” he said to Aidan, looking down with pride and sadness.
Then, quickly, before Aidan could respond, he turned and walked away.
Aidan watched him go, filled with gratitude, seeing what a great friend Motley had become. He had been wrong, he realized, to have judged him and dismissed him merely because he was an actor and not a warrior. Motley was, in his own way, a finer warrior than many of the others here, Aidan realized. He had his own sense of valor.
Aidan heard a shuffling of feet, and he turned to see Cassandra standing close by, waiting for him. As she looked at him, he saw something in her eyes he had not seen before. Something like caring.
“So you are just going to leave me alone with all these men, are you?” she asked.
Aidan smiled, feeling a wave of guilt at leaving her.
“My father will care for you like a daughter,” he replied.
She shook her head and there flashed in her eyes a glimpse of the defiance, the steel-like resolve, that had kept her alive on the streets.
“I don’t need taking care of,” she replied proudly. “I’ve taken care of myself all my life. What I want is to join you.”
Aidan stared back, surprised. He wondered if she wanted to go on the journey, or if she wanted to be with him.
“It is no journey for you,” he answered.
“And yet it is for you?” she asked.
He frowned.
“What if you came and something happened to you?” he asked. “It would be on my head.”
“It is on your head anyway,” she answered with a smile. “You saved me. I would be dead otherwise. So anything that happens to me from now on is on your head.”
Aidan shook his head sadly.
“I will come back for you,” he said solemnly. “I promise.”
He reached out a hand, and as she slowly placed hers in his, he felt a thrill at the warmth of her touch. It made him feel alive, alive in a way he never had before.
She began to pull her hand away, and as she did, Aidan found himself leaning in. His heart pounded and, not even fully aware of what he was doing, he placed his lips, so gently, on hers.
He kissed her, and as he did, he felt more terrified than he had of any foe, of any battle. What if she rejected him?
Slowly, Cassandra leaned back and stared at him, wide-eyed, seeming stunned.
She frowned.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded, sounding upset.
Aidan gulped, worried that he had offended her, that he had misread the situation, that she did not care for him that way after all.
“I’m sorry…” he mumbled. “I…didn’t mean…to offend you.”
He stood there, feeling a cold sweat rise up, when suddenly she surprised him by smiling wide.
“Whatever it was,” she replied, “come back soon. And do it again.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Supreme and Holy Ra fell from his balcony, tumbling through the air after the dragon had sliced the stone, flailing down toward the stone courtyard far below. He felt his life flashing before his eyes, saw all his conquests, his triumphs, his victories—and realized that he was not yet ready to die. He was, he knew, greater than death. He was The One Who Could Not Die, and as he fell, he became enraged with Death, determined to vanquish him, determined, at all costs, not to die.
Ra looked down as he fell and saw his soldiers, many on fire, shrieking, running in a panic through the streets as they tried to get away from the dragons’ flame. It was a scene of devastation. But even in the devastation, Ra knew, there was hope. There was always, he knew, a way out.
Ra set his sights on a group of his men, directly below him, and he twisted and contorted his body in the air, aiming to fall right for them. It was a good fall, thirty feet through the air, and he aimed for the top of their heads. He knew that landing on them would crush their skulls, would drive them into the ground. But it would also, he knew, mean a cushion for a soft landing for him. It would be an honor for them, he decided, to die in his service.
As Ra neared the ground, he suddenly felt his feet impacting their heads, felt his entire body landing atop them, crushing them. He could hear their bones break beneath him as they cushioned his fall.
Ra landed, tumbling to the ground, winded. Yet as he rolled to his feet, he knew, with great relief, that he was alive, and that nothing was broken. He looked over to see his men beside him, with broken necks, not so lucky.
Ra grinned. He felt victorious. He had cheated death.
Filled with fury at the dragons, which Ra considered a mere nuisance, he strutted through the streets, bent on vengeance. What bothered him most was not the dragons, but that Duncan, his great prize, had escaped. Whatever the cost, he had to get him back.
A great dragon roared, and Ra looked up to see him diving down straight for him, opening his mouth and breathing fire. Ra, fearless, quickly grabbed several of his men and threw them across the courtyard, distracting the dragon. The dragon turned to them, and Ra used the opportunity to duck behind a stone wall. As the dragon breathed down, its flames incinerated his men but licked past Ra, protected by the stone.
Ra stood there, his back up against the wall, and as he saw more and more dragons diving down, he knew he had to do something quickly. All around him scores of his men, aflame, shrieked and fell, collapsing to their deaths. He was fast losing his army.
A group of generals spotted him and ran to his side, cowering around him, taking shelter behind the stone and awaiting his command. All eyes on him, Ra scanned the courtyard, momentarily blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the huge golden shields dropped by his men—and an idea came to him.
“Those shields!” he commanded.
Ra suddenly ran out into the open courtyard, fearlessly leading the pack, and his men followed as he went for the shields. Ra picked one up himself, huge, heavy, and his dozens of men followed his lead, lining up beside him.
“Crouch!” Ra commanded.
He dropped to his knees and held his shield overhead. The others followed, and soon there was a wall of metal pointing up at the sky.
Another wave of flames came down, and this time they rolled off the shields and harmlessly continued on their way. Ra felt the tremendous heat on the other side of the shield, nearly scorching the back of his hand as he held on. It felt as if it would burn right through, yet he held on tight.
“HOLD!” he commanded his men.
Most listened, but a few, clearly afraid, let go and ran. As they did, they were burned alive.
Finally, the wave of flames passed, and Ra breathed hard, sweating, elated he was alive.
“TURN THE SHIELDS!” he commanded.
Ra’s men did as he commanded, turning the shields, as did he, until they caught the angle of the sun. They finally caught the rays, and as they did, it reflected a blinding column of sunlight back up into the sky.
The dragons, diving down, suddenly recoiled, clearly unable to see. They stopped in mid-air and swatted at the light with their talons, as if trying to block it out, trying to see again.
It was just what he needed. He had stunned the dragons long enough to mobilize his men and escape from the city. Before he did, though, he knew he had just one more thing to do.
“General!” he commanded, turning to one of his long-trusted advisors, a man who had served with him across the world. “Lead your battalion of men north, out in the open courtyard and through the northern gates of the city.”
The general stared back in fear and shock.
“But my Most Holy Ra,” he began, tremulous, “that would leave my men exposed. We would die.”
Ra nodded.
“True,” he replied. “Yet you will die here if you defy my command.”
Ra nodded to the others, and they all drew swords and pointed them at the general.
The general, panic-stricken, jumped to his feet and shouted orders to his men. Ra watched as he
led them, hundreds of men, marching out in the open square and toward the northern gate of the city.
“The rest of you, follow me!” Ra cried.
He turned and ran, and his thousands of other men followed him for the southern end of Andros, as horns were sounded up and down the city. High above, the dragons began to roar as the shields were lowered and they were no longer blinded.
As he ran south, Ra glanced back over his shoulder and watched as the dragons, as he had hoped, fixed their sights on his exposed general, heading north, alone, with his men. Ra smiled as the dragons dove down for his decoy. They breathed fire, and his general shrieked, aflame, as he and all his men ran for the gates, aflame.
Ra turned back to the Southern Gate, running to freedom. The general and his division were a small price to pay for his own safety.
They finally all passed through the Southern Gate, and as they did, Ra breathed easy as he saw the open stretch of barren land before him. The south lay before him, where, he knew, Duncan had fled.
Ra mounted the horse with the golden harness that was quickly led to him.
“ADVANCE!” he commanded.
There came a thunderous roar as thousands of Pandesian soldiers mounted horses and followed him, racing south across the barren wasteland, somewhere toward Duncan. This time, Ra would not let him out of his grasp.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alec stood at the bow of the ship as they sailed out of the Lost Isles, navigating around the strange outcroppings of barren rock, the seagrass making a strange noise as it brushed up against the hull. The water was as still as could be, eerily calm. Mist rose off it, casting a magical light, and it all felt surreal to him as he sailed at the head of a fleet. Behind him, all the men of the Lost Isles followed him as he sailed out into the Sea of Tears.
Alec felt the humming in his hand, and he looked down, awestruck, at the magnificent weapon he was holding. The Unfinished Sword. It felt surreal to be holding it. He raised it up to the light, barely paying attention to the water all around him, fixated only by this magnificent piece of metal. He twisted and turned it as he held it high, the light reflecting off it in a magical way, and he felt it was greater than him. Greater than all of them.
Alec marveled at it. It was the greatest weapon he had ever held, the only weapon he had ever wielded that he did not fully understand, that felt bigger than he. It was a weapon of such extraordinary beauty, extraordinary magic, that he hardly even knew what to make of it. He knew he had helped forge it, yet a part of felt him that it wasn’t his creation at all. He squeezed the hilt, interlaced with rubies and diamonds, studied the strange inscriptions on its blade, ancient, mysterious, and knew its origins lay somewhere in history, thousands of years ago. He could only wonder who had begun this weapon—and why it had been unfinished. Had Sovos’ words been true? Did Alex really have a special destiny?
Alec glanced back over his shoulder, saw his large wooden ship filled with hundreds of islanders, as were all the other ships in the fleet, and he felt the pressure on him. Where exactly were they all heading? Why did they need him? What would his role would be in all this? He did not fully understand it, but he sensed that, for the first time in his life, he was caught up in a destiny bigger than himself.
“They have never left the isles before, you know,” came a voice.
Alec turned to see Sovos standing beside him, looking down at him with a serious expression, dressed in his aristocratic outfit. He remained as mysterious to Alec as he had been on the day they had met in Ur.
Alec was surprised to hear that.
“Never?” he asked, turning and surveying the warriors of the Lost Isles.
Sovos shook his head.
“They’ve never had cause to leave. Not until this day. Not until you finished forging the sword.”
Alec felt the weight of responsibility.
“I don’t feel like I finished it,” he replied. “Something just came to me and I followed a hunch.”
“It was more than a hunch,” Sovos corrected. “Only you could forge it.”
Alec felt frustrated.
“But I still don’t understand how I did it.”
“Sometimes we don’t understand all that we do,” Sovos replied. “Sometimes we are just the channel, and we must be grateful for that. Sometimes we harness forces greater than ourselves, forces that we shall never understand. We all have a role to play.”
Sovos turned and looked out at the sea, and Alec studied it, too. The mist was beginning to burn off the water as they began to leave the archipelago of the Lost Isles and head out to sea. The waters were becoming rougher, too.
“Where are we sailing?” Alec asked. “Where are they bringing the sword?”
Sovos studied the sea.
“It is not them,” he replied. “But you. You are leading them.”
Alec looked back, shocked.
“Leading them? Me? I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“To Escalon, of course.”
Alec’s eyes widened.
“Why? Escalon is overrun. The Pandesians inhabit it now. To sail back there would be to sail to our deaths!”
Sovos continued to study the sea, expressionless.
“It is far worse than you think,” he said. “The dragons have arrived in Escalon, too.”
Alec’s eyes widened again.
“The dragons?” he asked, astounded.
“They’ve flown thousands of miles and crossed the great sea,” Sovos continued. “And they have come for one special thing.”
“What?” Alec asked.
But Sovos ignored his question.
The current picked up, and Alec felt a tightness in his chest as he thought about their sailing closer and closer to Escalon, to a land filled with dragons and inhabited by Pandesian soldiers.
“Why would we sail to our deaths?” he pressed.
Sovos finally turned to him.
“Because of what you hold in your hand,” he replied. “It is all that Escalon has left now.”
Alec looked down at the sword in his palm with an even greater sense of awe and wonder.
“You really think this small piece of metal will have any effect against Pandesia? Against a host of dragons?” he asked, dreading the journey before them. For the first time in his life, Alec felt certain that he was heading to his death.
“Sometimes, my dear boy,” Sovos said, laying a hand on his shoulder, “a small piece of metal is the only hope there is.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Merk looked out at the Three Daggers as they sailed past them, craggy islands emerging from the bay, steep, vertical, and devoid of life. Covered in strange, angry black birds with large red eyes that cawed fiercely at them as they passed, the isles were covered in the mist of the bay, the relentless waves of the Bay of Death smashing up against them as if trying to knock them back into the sea. It sent up clouds of white foam and mist toward Merk’s boat, dousing it, and he studied the scene in wonder. He was grateful he was not to be stranded here, the most desolate and unforgiving place he had ever seen. It made the Devil’s Finger seem hospitable.
“The Three Daggers,” came the voice.
Merk turned to see Lorna standing beside him, holding the rail, studying the sea with her large, glowing blue eyes, silvery-blonde hair. She stood there calmly, despite the violent currents of the Bay of Death, a beacon of life against the bleak landscape, staring out at the sea as if she and the waters were one.
“The isles said to be forged by the great goddess Inka. Legend tells she spewed forth her anger from the sea when looking for her three lost daughters,” she added. “Beyond the third lies the isle of Knossos.”
Merk looked out and saw, just beyond the third rocky isle, an isle of cliffs rising straight out of the sea, ringed by a narrow, rocky shore. At its top was a flat plateau, and atop this sat a fort built a hundred feet high. It was squat, square, gray, and adorned with ancient battlements; its walls had long, narrow slits cut in them, be
hind which Merk could see the tips of glistening arrows at the ready. The fort was a stout, ugly thing, as if one with the rock itself, sprayed by mist and wind and breaking waves, and taking it all in stride.
Even more impressive were the warriors that Merk spotted as they sailed closer. The wind and the currents carried them at full speed now, right for its shores, and soon Merk could see their hardened faces staring out. He could see even from here that they were the faces of surly men, men who had no joy in life. They lined the battlements like goats, hundreds of them, peering out into the sea as if eagerly awaiting an enemy.
They were the hardest-looking men Merk had ever seen—and that was saying a lot. They were donned in gray armor, with gray swords and gray helmets, the same color of the rock behind them, their visors pulled down, narrow slits for eyes looking out behind the helmets. These men looked as if they, too, had been forged from the rock. They were men who did not even budge when a gale of wind arrived that was strong enough to turn Merk’s boat sideways. They looked as if they were rooted to the place, a part of the very earth itself.
Here, at last, was Knossos, the last outpost off the last peninsula of Escalon, right in the center of the swirling waters of the Bay of Death. It was the most remote place Merk had ever seen, and clearly not for the faint of heart.
“What is their purpose of this place?” Merk asked. “What do they defend?”
Lorna shook her head, still looking out.
“There are many things you have yet to understand,” she replied. “We all have a role to play in the coming war.”
As they neared, Merk found himself silently reaching under his shirt and gripping his dagger, though he knew it would do no good. It was an old habit he had, whenever he was nervous. He saw the long bows over these warriors’ shoulders, saw the strange weapons they held in their hands—long, dangling chains with spikes at the end—and he knew he was vastly outnumbered. It made him feel vulnerable. It was a feeling he had rarely felt before—he had always made a point of planning ahead, of never putting himself in such a position.