by Morgan Rice
“Perhaps we should let them through then,” Alec said, “and let them kill them all.”
“We could,” Marco said. “But they’d raid Escalon and kill our families, too.”
They fell silent, the two of them standing there, staring into The Flames. Alec did not know how much time had passed while he stared, wondering. He could not help but feel as if he were staring into his own death. What was his family doing right now? he wondered. Were they thinking of him? Did they even care?
Alec found himself getting lost in depressing thoughts and knew he had to change his mood. He forced himself to look away, to glance back over his shoulder and to study the dark woodline. The woods were pitch black, foreboding, the soldiers in the watchtowers not even bothering to watch them. Instead, they kept their eyes fixed on the recruits, on The Flames.
“They are afraid to stand guard themselves,” Alec observed, looking up at the soldiers. “Yet they don’t want us to leave. Cowardly.”
Barely had Alec uttered the words when he suddenly felt a tremendous pain in his back, sending him stumbling forward. Before he knew what was happening, he felt a club being jammed into his ribs and found himself landing face-first on the ground.
He heard a sinister voice in his ear, one he recognized:
“I told you I’d find you, boy.”
Before he could react Alec felt rough hands grab him from behind and drag him forward, toward The Flames. There were two of them—the boy from the carriage and his friend—and Alec tried to resist, but it was useless. Their grip was too tight and they carried him closer and closer, until his face felt the intense heat of The Flames.
Alec heard struggling and he looked over and was surprised to see Marco wrapped up in chains, two other boys grabbing him from behind, holding him in place. They had planned this well. They really wanted them dead.
Alec struggled, but he could not gain leverage. They dragged him closer and closer to The Flames, hardly ten feet away, the heat of it so intense he could already feel the pain, feel as if his face were going to melt. He knew that with but a few more feet, he would be disfigured for life—if not dead.
Alec bucked, but they had him in such a tight grip, he could not break free.
“NO!” he shrieked.
“Time for payback,” hissed the voice in his ear.
There suddenly came a horrific shriek, and Alec was shocked to realize it was not his own. The grip loosened on his arms and as it did he immediately pulled back from The Flames. At the same moment, he saw a burst of light and he watched, transfixed, as a creature burst forth from The Flames, on fire, and suddenly landed on the boy beside him, pinning him to the ground.
The troll, still on fire, rolled with the boy on the ground, sinking its fangs into his throat. The boy shrieked as he died instantly.
The troll turned and looked about, in a frenzy, and its eyes, large and red, met Alec’s. Alec was terrified. Still aflame, it breathed through its mouth, its long fangs covered in blood, and looked ravenous for a kill, like a wild beast.
Alec stood there, frozen with fear, unable to move even if he wanted to.
The other boy ran, and the troll, detecting motion, turned and, to Alec’s relief, lunged for him instead. In one bound it tackled him to the ground, still on fire, and sank its fangs into the back of his neck. The boy cried out as it killed him.
Marco shook off the stunned boys, grabbed their chain and swung it around, smashing one in the face and the other between the legs, dropping them both.
Bells started to toll in the watchtowers and chaos ensued. Boys came running from up and down The Flames to fight the troll. They jabbed at it with spears, but most, inexperienced, were afraid to get too close. The troll reached out, grabbed a spear and pulled a boy close, hugging him tight and, as the boy shrieked, setting him aflame.
“Now’s our time,” hissed an urgent voice.
Alec turned to see Marco running up beside him.
“They’re all distracted. This may be our only chance.”
Marco looked out and Alec followed his glance: he looked to the woods. He meant to escape.
Black and ominous, the woodline was foreboding. Alec knew that even greater dangers likely lurked in there, but he knew Marco was right: this was their chance. And nothing but death awaited them here.
Alec nodded and without another word they broke into a sprint together, running farther and farther from The Flames, toward the woods.
Alec’s heart slammed in his chest as he expected at any moment to be shot in the back by a crossbow, and he ran for his very life. But as he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw everyone surrounding the troll, distracted.
A moment later, they entered the woods, engulfed in blackness, entering, he knew, a world of dangers greater than he could ever imagine. He would probably die here, he knew. But at least, finally, he was free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Kyra stood outside the gates of Volis, studying the wintry landscape as the snow fell, the sky streaked with scarlet as if the sun were struggling to break through, and she leaned forward on the emerging wall, breathing hard as she plopped down yet another stone. Kyra had joined the others in gathering these huge stones from the river to erect yet another wall around the perimeter of Volis. As the mason beside her smeared the plaster, she plopped down one stone after the next. Now, arms trembling, she needed a break.
Kyra was joined by hundreds of her people, lined up all along the wall, all building it higher, deeper, adding rings to the embankments. Others, beyond the wall, worked with shovels, digging fresh ditches, while others still dug graves for the dead. Kyra knew that all of this was futile, that it would not hold back the great Pandesian army when it came, that no matter what they did, they would all die in this place. They all knew it. But they built it anyway. It gave them something to do, some sense of having control while staring death in the face.
As Kyra took a break, she leaned against the wall, looked out at the landscape, and wondered. All was so still now, the snow muffling all sound, as if the world contained nothing but peace. But she knew differently; she knew the Pandesians were out there somewhere, preparing. She knew they would return, in a deafening rumble, and destroy all that she held precious. What she saw before her was an illusion: it was the calm before the storm. It was hard to understand how the world could be so still, so perfect, one moment—and so filled with destruction and chaos the next.
Kyra glanced back over her shoulder and saw her people winding down their work for the day, laying down trowels and shovels as night began to fall and filtering back toward their homes. Smoke rose from chimneys, candles were lit in windows, and Volis looked so cozy, so protected, as if it could not be touched by the world. She marveled at the illusion.
As she stood there, she could not help but hear her father’s words, ringing in her ears, his request that she leave at once. She thought of her uncle, whom she had never met, of the journey it would require, across Escalon, through Whitewood, all the way to the Tower of Ur. She thought of her mother, of the secret being withheld from her. She thought of her uncle training her to become more powerful—and it all thrilled her.
And yet as she turned and looked at her people, she knew she just could not abandon them in their time of strife, even if it meant saving her life. It was just not who she was.
Suddenly, a low, soft horn sounded, one signaling the end of the work day.
“Night falls,” said the mason, standing beside her, laying down his trowel. “There is little we can do in the dark. Our people return for the meal. Come now,” he said, as rows of people turned and headed back across the bridge, through the gates.
“I will come in a moment,” she said, not yet ready, wanting more time to enjoy the peace, the silence. She was always happiest alone, outdoors.
Leo whined and licked his lips.
“Take Leo with you—he’s hungry.”
Leo must have understood because he already leapt off after the mason while she wa
s still speaking, and the mason laughed and returned with him for the fort.
Kyra stood outside the fort, closing her eyes against the noise and becoming lost in her thoughts. Finally, the sound of the hammers had stopped. Finally, she had true peace.
She looked out and studied the horizon, the darkening woodline, the rolling gray clouds covering up the scarlet, and she wondered. When were they coming? What size force would they bring? What would their army look like?
As she looked out, she was surprised to detect motion in the distance. Something caught her eye and as she watched, she saw a lone rider materialize, emerging from the wood and taking the main road for their fort. Kyra reached back and gripped her bow unconsciously, bracing herself, wondering if he were a scout, if he were heralding an army.
But as he neared, she loosened her grip and relaxed as she recognized him: it was one of her father’s men. Maltren. He galloped, and as he did, led a riderless horse beside him by the reins. It was a most curious sight.
Maltren came to an abrupt stop before her and looked down at her with urgency, appearing scared; she could not understand what was happening.
“What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “Is Pandesia coming?”
He sat there, breathing hard, and shook his head.
“It is your brother,” he said. “Aidan.”
Kyra’s heart plummeted at the mention of her brother’s name, the person she loved most in the world. She was immediately on edge.
“What is it?” she demanded. “What’s happened to him?”
Maltren caught his breath.
“He’s been badly injured,” he said. “He needs help.”
Kyra’s heart started pounding. Aidan? Injured? Her mind spun with awful scenarios—but mostly, confusion.
“How?” she demanded. “What was he doing in the wood? I thought he was in the fort, preparing for the feast?”
Maltren shook his head.
“He went out with your brothers,” he said. “Hunting. He took a bad fall from his horse—his legs are broken.”
Kyra felt a flash of determination rush through her. Filled with adrenaline, not even stopping to think it all through carefully, she rushed forward and mounted the spare horse.
If she had taken just a moment to turn around, to check the fort, she would have found Aidan, safely inside. But fueled by urgency, she did not stop to question Maltren.
“Lead me to him,” she said.
The two of them, an unlikely duo, charged off together, away from Volis and, as night fell, toward the blackening wood.
*
Kyra and Maltren galloped down the road, over the rolling hills, toward the wood, she breathing hard as she dug her heels into her horse, anxious to save Aidan. A million nightmares swarmed through her head. How could Aidan have broken his legs? What were her brothers doing hunting out here, close to nightfall, when all of her father’s people had been forbidden to leave the fort? None of it made any sense.
They reached the edge of the wood, and as Kyra prepared to enter it, she was puzzled to see Maltren suddenly bring his horse to a stop before it. She stopped abruptly beside him and watched as he dismounted. She dismounted, too, both horses breathing hard, and followed him, baffled, as he stopped at the forest’s edge.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked, breathing hard. “I thought Aidan was in the wood?”
Kyra looked all around, and as she did, she suddenly had a feeling that something was terribly wrong—when suddenly, out of the woods, she was horrified to see, there stepped the Lord Governor himself, flanked by two dozen men. She heard snow crunching behind her, and she wheeled to see a dozen more men encircle her, all aiming bows at her, one grabbing the reins to her horse. Her blood ran cold as she realized she had walked into a trap.
She looked at Maltren in fury, realizing he had betrayed her.
“Why?” she asked, disgusted at the sight of him. “You are my father’s man. Why would you do this?”
The Lord Governor walked over to Maltren and placed a large sack of gold in his hand, while Maltren looked away guiltily.
“For enough gold,” the Lord Governor turned and said to her, a haughty smile on his face, “you will find that men will do anything you wish. Maltren here will be rich forever, richer than your father ever was, and he will be spared from your fort’s looming death.”
Kyra scowled at Maltren, hardly fathoming this.
“You are a traitor,” she said.
He scowled back at her.
“I am our savior,” he replied. “They would have killed all of our people, thanks to you. Thanks to me, Volis will be spared. I made a deal. You can thank me for their lives.” He smiled, satisfied. “And, to think, all I had to do was hand over you.”
Kyra suddenly felt rough hands grab her from behind, felt herself hoisted in the air. She bucked and writhed, but she could not shake them as she felt her wrist and ankles bound, felt herself thrown into the back of a carriage.
A moment later, iron bars slammed on her and her cart jostled away, bumping over the countryside. She knew that, wherever they were taking her, no one would ever see or hear from her again. And as they entered the wood, blocking out all view of the falling night, she knew that her life, as she knew it, was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The giant lay at Vesuvius’s feet, bound by a thousand ropes, held down by a hundred trolls, and as Vesuvius stood over it, so close to its fangs, he studied it in awe. The beast craned its neck, snarling, trying to reach out and kill him—but it could not budge.
Vesuvius grinned, delighted. He took pride in having power over helpless things, and more than anything, he loved watching trapped things suffer.
Seeing this giant here, back in his cave, in his own territory, gave him a thrill. Being able to stand so close to it made him feel all powerful, made him feel as if there were nothing in the world he could not conquer. Finally, after all these years, his dream had been realized. Finally, he would be able to achieve his lifelong goal, to create the tunnel that would lead his people under The Flames and into the West.
Vesuvius sneered down at the creature.
“You see, you are not as strong as I,” he said, standing over it. “No one is as strong as I.”
The beast roared, an awful sound, and struggled in vain. As it did, all the trolls holding it swayed left and right, the ropes shifting, but not giving. Vesuvius knew their time was short. If they were going to do this, the time was now.
Vesuvius turned and surveyed the cave: thousands of workers stopped their labor to watch the giant. At the far end sat the unfinished tunnel, and Vesuvius knew this would be the tricky part. He would have to put the giant to work. Somehow, he would have to goad it to enter the tunnel and smash through the rock. But how?
Vesuvius stood there, racking his brain, until an idea came to him.
He turned to the giant and drew his sword, aglow against the flames of the cave.
“I will cut your ropes,” Vesuvius said to the beast, “because I do not fear you. You will be free, and you shall follow my command. You will smash through the rock of that tunnel, and you shall not stop until you have burrowed beneath The Flames of Escalon.”
The giant let out a roar of defiance.
Vesuvius turned and surveyed his army of trolls, awaiting his command.
“When my sword lowers,” he called out, his voice booming, “you shall cut all of its ropes at once. You shall then prod it with your weapons until it reaches the tunnel.”
His trolls looked back nervously, all clearly terrified at the idea of freeing it. Vesuvius feared it, too, though he would never show it. And yet he knew there was no other way—this moment would have to come.
Vesuvius wasted no time. He stepped forward decisively, raised his sword, and slashed the first of the thick ropes binding the giant’s neck.
Immediately, hundreds of his soldiers stepped forward, raised their swords high and slashed the ropes, and the sound of ropes snapping filled the air
.
Vesuvius quickly retreated, backing off, but not too conspicuously, not wanting his men to see his fear. He slithered back behind his ranks of men, into the shadows of the rock, out of reach of the beast after it gained its feet. He would wait to see what happened first.
A horrific roar filled the canyon as the giant rose to its feet, enraged, and without wasting a second, swiped down with its claws in each direction. It scooped up four trolls in each hand, raised them high overhead and threw them. The trolls went flying end over end through the air, across the cave, until they smashed into the far wall and collapsed, sliding limply down, dead.
The giant bunched its hands into fists, raised them high and suddenly smashed the ground, using them like hammers, aiming for the trolls who scurried about. Trolls fled for their lives, but not in time. He crushed them like ants, the cave shaking with each smash.
As trolls tried to run between its legs, the giant raised its feet and stomped, flattening others.
Enraged, it killed trolls in every direction. No one seemed able to escape its wrath.
Vesuvius watched with a mounting dread. He signaled to his commander, and immediately, a horn sounded.
On cue, hundreds of his soldiers marched forward from the shadows, long pikes and whips in hand, all preparing to poke and prod the beast. They encircled it, rushing forward from all directions, doing their best to prod it towards the tunnel.
But Vesuvius was horrified to watch his plan collapse before his eyes. The beast leaned back and kicked a dozen soldiers away at once; it then swung its forearm around and swatted fifty more soldiers, smashing them into a wall along with their pikes. It stomped others, holding whips, killing so many so quickly that none could get near it. They were useless against this creature, even with their numbers and with all their weapons. Vesuvius’ army was dissolving before his eyes.