Night of the Bold

by Morgan Rice

  As Seavig rode he thought of the vast numbers of the Pandesian fleet, and he knew this would have to be the most brilliant battle he and his men had ever waged at sea. He lived for times like this, times when his back was to the wall, when the odds were bleakest; he thrived when the situation demanded that he be not just a great warrior, but a crafty one as well. He was, after all, a man of the sea, and one needed great cunning to survive in the face of a storm.

  The great stronghold of Esephus had stood for thousands of years because he and his fathers before him had managed to make it stand, had found a way to keep it alive, even exposed as it was to attack on the seashore. They were water people, and water people learned to move like the water, to rise and fall, to duck and weave. Water, after all, could flow even over the biggest rock in the world, and that was because it was malleable.

  Seavig cried as he kicked his horse, urging him faster. Their destination, the western shore of Escalon, was but a short ride now, due west of Baris. It was the perfect place to enter the water, to begin the sail north, sail up the Sorrow, and eventually outflank the fleets of Pandesia. Where he was riding was a place no Pandesian would guard; it was not a town, or city, or stronghold. It was but a shoreline. It was nowhere, a coast uninhabited for hundreds of miles.

  Seemingly uninhabited. There were no great strongholds or cities or even towns in this area, and the Pandesians would not guard the area. That was precisely the way this harbor was designed. For in times of greatest war, the ancient Escalonites wanted a hiding place in reserve. It was the secret place, known only to the commanders of Escalon, where the River Tanis met the Sorrow. Somewhere north of the Lost Temple and south of Ur, in the middle of seemingly nowhere, a secret meeting point had been designated for times of national emergency. It was a place where Escalon’s sailors could rendezvous for battle, could take to the seas to save their homeland. Esephus, a great water city, was a natural target, and Seavig had designated a backup plan in case his city was taken. When Pandesia was closing in, he had sent one of his commanders to lead dozens of men to await him in the great caves of the western shore, where they could hide for months and not be found. It was there Seavig had stashed a dozen of his finest ships for times of war. Times like this.

  Seavig prodded his horse, galloping faster, leading his men ever west, and as the sun grew heavy they finally burst through the thick wood, riding alongside the gushing River Tanis. Somewhere up ahead, he knew, it met the Sea of Sorrow. They would sail north, under the cover of darkness, along the coast, to Ur, and ambush the much greater Pandesian fleet. He would be outnumbered a thousand ships to one, yet Seavig had no fear. He went where battle called him.

  They crested a hill, and finally, the sky opened and Seavig was relieved to see his great love in life: the ocean. There were the vast, rolling waves of the Sorrow, the sun shining off it, but a few hundred yards ahead. Even from here he could hear the great gushing of water, and he looked out and followed the Tanis and saw where all of its tributaries finally met the sea, gushing out in a great flood. It was a sight that restored his heart. When he saw water, he knew he was home again.

  Seavig lowered his head, kicked his horse, and completed the final stretch. He and his men soon reached the great caves of the sea, and as he rode alongside the enormous rock, fifty feet tall, he quickly dismounted. His men followed him as he walked toward the caves, dwarfed by the soaring, arched entrance.

  Seavig entered the dimly lit cave, and as he did, his heart soared to see hundreds of his men awaiting him inside. They all sat around a fire, swords in their hand, brooding, and as Seavig and his men waltzed in, they all stood. Their eyes filled with hope. Seavig was elated at the sight of the small fleet he had stashed away here for times of trouble. They floated inside the cave, in the tributary that flooded it from the sea, creating a perfect canal for the anchored boats to hide.

  All his men at once stood and rushed toward him. His commander, Yuvel, was the first to embrace him. Seavig embraced him back, then embraced his other men, so happy to be reunited with them all again. Here were two hundred of his finest warriors, the finest sailors of Escalon, all back together again, all ready to wage war any way they could.

  As his men finished embracing, they all gathered around and looked to him, and he commanded their attention.

  “Warriors,” Seavig boomed. “The fate of Escalon rests on our shoulders. Without securing our ports, without securing our shores, our land shall always be vulnerable. Our men on land look to us to hold the sea. Without the sea, the men of Escalon shall always be slaves.”

  Seavig looked out at all the faces, all looking back intently.

  “Pandesians have taken our beloved city of Esephus, have destroyed our great water ports,” he continued. “And now it is time for us to take it back. They have murdered countless of our brothers; now is our time to avenge them.”

  His men let out a cheer.

  “We shall sail now,” Seavig continued, “under the cover of darkness, north, along the Sorrow, to attack a thousand ships, to free Ur, and to liberate our ports once again. We shall confront a great fleet, and we shall likely not survive.”

  He looked out at all his men.

  “Who is with me?” he called out.

  As one, all his men cheered, and Seavig’s heart lifted. There were true warriors.

  Without another word they all quickly boarded the waiting ships. Seavig jumped to the bow of the first, and without hesitating, turned, raised his ax, and severed the rope tying it down.

  The men cheered as his ship was immediately picked up by the great currents sucking it out to sea, into the Sorrow, into the twilight. Ur awaited them.

  And the battle that would define their lives.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kavos, flanked by Bramthos, led his hundreds of warriors north, riding for Kos, watching the mountains on the horizon as they neared Andros—determined to carry out Duncan’s mission. Kavos brooded on the battle before him. He would have to find a way, as Duncan had commanded, to take on the northern Pandesian legion. It was no easy feat. He would have to lure the massive Pandesian army out from Andros, force them to attack him, to follow his men to Kos. If he was victorious, northern Escalon would be free of Pandesians; if not, his homeland would never be free, even if Duncan met victory at the Devil’s Gulch.

  Kavos knew this was a foolhardy mission. He, with his mere hundreds of men, could not hope to defeat a well-trained army of tens of thousands. In some ways, this was a death march. Yet Kavos had one glimmer of hope: if he could draw them away from the capital, if he could lead them all the way to the mountains of Kos, then they would be in his territory. It was an unforgiving territory for those who did not know it well—and Kavos and his men knew it better than anyone. There, high up in the mountains, he had men on reserve for a time like this. And if the stars aligned, maybe, just maybe, they could lead the Pandesians into a death trap.

  Kavos rode faster, determined. He had not taken on this mission to save his own life, or the lives of his men; he had taken it in order to do what was best for his country, what his homeland demanded of him. If there was any hope of defeating these Pandesians, this was it. After all, the Pandesians would hardly expect an attack. A surprise attack might just stun their army, and in the chaos, they could make a rash decision.

  Kavos kicked his horse and pushed him faster, riding as he had for hours, and as the sun began to set, finally, he saw it. It was at first, a faint image on the horizon, but as he neared, his heart leapt as he spotted on the horizon the outline of what remained of the capital of Andros, and the Pandesian forces lined up before it. There they were, milling around the city like ants, tens of thousands of men, holding the north, terrifying Escalon into submission.

  Kavos was inflamed with rage at the sight of these invaders in his homeland, and especially his capital. The men of Kos, ensconced in the mountains, were separatists, yet they were still men of Escalon. And an indignity to Escalon was an indignity to them all.
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br />   “Horns!” he cried.

  Kavos’s men raised battle horns up as they rode and sounded them, one at a time, until the sound filled the sky. Slowly, the tens of thousands of Pandesian soldiers turned, spotting them as Kavos hoped.

  Now that they caught sight of him, Kavos turned and led his men to the northeast, skirting the city, heading for the distant peaks of Kos. This was not the place to engage them, not here, in the open field; rather, he wanted to lure them away, to a place in which they be at a huge disadvantage. The question was: would they be foolhardy enough to take the bait?

  Kavos looked back and his heart raced to see the Pandesians mount their horses, sound their own horns, and follow. He grinned, satisfied, as tens of thousands of men rode out of the capital, pursuing Kavos and his men toward the snowy mountains of Kos.

  Kavos galloped faster, leading his men through narrow passes, between outcroppings of rock, zigzagging in the already snowy terrain, knowing he could not afford a single mistake. They had to reach the mountains before the Pandesians could reach them; otherwise they would be finished.

  He rode and rode, thrilled to hear the rumble of an army chasing him, and he looked behind him to see the Pandesians closing in. They were gaining speed, and their forces outnumbered his own a hundred to one. Kavos turned and looked forward and saw the mountains looming. It would be a race to the finish.

  He made a sharp turn between another narrow pass, and when he emerged, he was stunned at what he saw before him: there was another Pandesian garrison, blocking his path. He had not expected this. Thousands more Pandesian soldiers, on horseback, blocked his way to the mountains. He had underestimated them. The Pandesians must have known all along that he would come this way.

  There was no time to stop, or to turn back—Kavos had no choice but to lead his men into battle against the much greater force. He lowered his head and charged and let out a great battle cry as he drew a sword and raised it high. Bramthos drew his sword beside him, as did all his other men, none, he was proud to see, slowing. They all thundered as one for the enemy, knowing they would have to fight their way through them if they had any chance of making it home.

  Perhaps, Kavos realized, he would never reach his beloved mountains. Yet at least, he thought, as he lunged for the first man, he would die for his homeland in one final burst of glory.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Vesuvius led his nation of trolls south, storming the countryside, racing for the remains of the Tower of Ur. He heard their great shouts behind him, and took satisfaction in known his entire nation was reinvigorated now that he was leading them again.

  Vesuvius held his halberd high, elated to be leading again, and let out a great battle cry. He could already see up ahead the fissure in the earth, the gaping chasm Alva had created which had swallowed up thousands of his trolls. Vesuvius watched as, in the distance, many of his trolls toppled trees, forming a temporary bridge to span the great divide. He watched as dozens attempted to race across it. Yet as they did, Alva merely widened his fissure, and the trees fell into the chasm along with dozens more screaming trolls. It was a slaughter.

  Vesuvius scowled, more determined than ever. From here on in, the slaughter would end. There was only one way to defeat a powerful sorcerer like Alva, he knew. Not by sheer force—but through deception.

  “TROLLS!” he shouted. “FOLLOW ME!”

  His army followed as Vesuvius, but a few hundred yards away from the fissure, veered left instead of toward it. No, Vesuvius would not attack Alva head-on; that was a battle he could not win. He would go around him, instead, take the long way, and in the meantime ravage all the villages in his path. He could abandon the Tower of Ur for now, and circle back to it from behind, when Alva least expected it.

  That was not all. Vesuvius could fight magic with magic. He could summon his own sorcerer, too, to create the cover for them they needed.

  “Magon!” he shouted.

  Magon, his prized sorcerer, rushed forward, running beside him, his head obscured by his scarlet cloak and hood.

  Vesuvius pointed to the fissure, knowing what he wanted, and Magon shook his head.

  “Magic too powerful for me, my lord,” Magon said, anticipating his request. “I have tried many spells—yet I cannot seal it. I cannot conquer Alva.”

  Vesuvius scowled.

  “Fool!” he snapped back. “I do not need you to conquer him. I need you to distract him. Send forth the red mist. Obscure our people in it, and obscure his vision.”

  Magon’s eyes widened, clearly admiring the idea, and he turned and ran off. Vesuvius watched as he rushed to the edge of the fissure, then stopped and raised his shriveled, blackened palms to the sky. His wretched, malformed face was revealed as he leaned back and his hood fell, displaying rows of small, rotted, sharpened yellow teeth.

  Magon snarled and his hands shook as small orbs of red mist arose from them and filled the sky. They rolled toward the fissure, and spread out, like clouds, creating a thick red mist.

  Vesuvius grinned. This was precisely the cover he needed in order to obscure his approach from behind. He let out a shout and dug his heels into his horse as he led his trolls south and east, skirting the fissure, keeping his sights instead on a distant village. He felt the world rush by beneath his feet, and he raised his halberd and felt the thrill of imminent mayhem and murder.

  Moments later, he tore through a village unannounced and unexpected, bursting down its dirt main street. Hundreds of villagers were milling about this small isolated village on the outskirts of Ur, as yet untouched by the Pandesians. There would be plenty of time to defeat Alva, Vesuvius knew, to circle back behind him. Now it was time to let the red mist work, and let Alva’s power drain.

  In the meantime, he could have his fun, could find murder elsewhere. Vesuvius did not even slow as he tore through the village, kicking up a cloud of dust amidst screams of villagers, panicking to get away. His first victim was an old man. He had barely turned around when a look of horror spread across his face. Vesuvius grinned. He lived for looks just like those. It was a look of shock. Of terror. Of the end of life.

  Vesuvius swung his halberd and brought it down with such might that he chopped the shrieking old man in half.

  All around him the villagers took note, panic in their eyes. Vesuvius could see they wanted to run. But of course, there was no time.

  His trolls swarmed the village like locusts, swinging halberds, chopping humans as they tore through like a plague. Vesuvius, loving it all, was soon covered to his elbows in blood, and he let out great bursts of laughter.

  Oh, how good it was, he thought, to be alive.

  *

  Kyle raised his staff and swung with both hands as fast as he could, smashing trolls left and right as they began to cross Alva’s fissure. He and Kolva, fighting beside him, were the front line of Escalon’s north, the two of them holding back the nation of trolls while Alva maintained the fissure. At his feet, Leo snarled, attacking trolls on all sides, helping to keep them at bay. Kyle wondered if Duncan and all the men down south had any idea of all that they were doing to keep their homeland safe.

  Alva stood to the side, eyes closed, still humming, still widening the fissure, sending trolls, with their makeshift tree bridges, deeper and deeper into the chasm. It was a remarkable feat, and Kyle was in awe of him. Yet as he watched, he could already see Alva beginning to weaken, his arms lowering, and he realized he could not hold the fissure much longer. At the same time, too many trolls were slipping through, felling trees which functioned as bridges, leaving Kyle and Kolva to fight them back.

  Kyle stepped forward and smashed a troll who leapt off a log spanning the fissure, sending him back down into the earth. Several more sprinted across another tree they had felled, and they all landed around Kyle before Alva could widen it, surrounding him.

  Kyle jumped into action, swinging and cracking one in the jaw, jabbing one in the solar plexus, and then coming up from under another one and smashing him in the
chin. One troll grabbed him from behind, shockingly strong, and Kyle heard a snarling and turned to see Leo land on his back and clamp down on his neck. The troll shrieked and backed off, Leo wrestling it down to the ground.

  Kyle turned and kicked as another troll approached to tackle him, knocking him back with such force that he sent him flying back into the fissure with a shriek. Another troll leapt from behind and swung a halberd for Kyle’s back. Kyle ducked low, allowing the blade to swing overhead, then spun, grabbed the troll from behind and threw him. He watched as the troll stumbled and fell, shrieking, into the fissure.

  Kyle fought like a man possessed, spinning and striking every which way, feeling the very defense of Escalon to be in his hands. The air filled the perpetual cracking noise of his staff as he felled soldiers in every direction.

  Yet suddenly, in mid-swing, Kyle found his vision obscured; he blinked, confused at what was happening, groping before him. The world was turning red.

  A thickening fog rolled toward him, making it impossible to see. He could hear thousands of trolls, snarling, charging, and he could hear the horns of the nation of Marda being sounded. He thought for a moment he spotted Vesuvius, leading some of his army in another direction, circling around, and he could not understand what was happening.

  Beside him, Kolva paused after smashing two trolls back into the fissure, and squinted suspiciously into the mist.

  “What is happening, my lord?” Kyle called out to Alva.

  Alva stood there, eyes closed, pausing, before he replied.

  “Vesuvius plans a great treachery. Soon enough they will reach us.”

  “What shall we do?” Kyle asked.

  Alva opened his eyes for the first time, light shining from them, his face filled with urgency.