A Forge of Valor

by Morgan Rice

  “One of her kind turned to the wrong side,” he said, sadness in his voice. “He used his power in the wrong ways. His energy turned dark, uncontrollable. From him there is said to have spawned the troll race.”

  Alva turned and looked at her, eyes shining with intensity.

  “Don’t you see, Kyra?” he pressed. “The trolls of Marda are descended from your kind, from the blood that runs through you. We are waging not only a war of soldiers, of men. This is a war of races, ancient races, ancient bloodlines. And it is a war of dragons. It is a war that has been raging for thousands of years, and that has never really stopped. It is a war of forces you can never understand. And your mother is at the center of it. Which means you are, too.”

  Kyra frowned, struggling to comprehend.

  “You must train, Kyra,” he insisted. “Not to learn how to wield a spear—but to understand this ancient energy that flows through you, that controls all. To understand who you are.”

  “Is my mother alive?” She was almost afraid to ask.

  Alva looked at her for a long time, then shook his head.

  “You may see her only in dreams, or not at all. You are too young yet. Not until you know more about yourself, your source of power. Your mother’s source of power.”

  She wondered.

  “Where can I find that?” she asked.

  He looked at her for a long time, then finally, he replied:

  “The Lost Temple.”

  The Lost Temple. The words shocked her, ringing in her ears like a mantra. It was a mysterious place she had heard of only in myths and legends. Yet the second he mentioned it, it resonated within her and she knew he was right.

  “Once the capital of Escalon,” he continued, “the seat of power for thousands of years. Now it lies an ancient ruin, nestled against the sea on the western coast. It is there you will find her, Kyra. And there, and there alone, you will discover the weapon you need. The only weapon that can save Escalon.”

  “What weapon?” she asked, amazed.

  But Alva merely looked away.

  Kyra felt a sudden flash of concern.

  “My father,” she wondered. “Is he…dead?”

  Alva shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “He remains captive, in Andros. Until his execution.”

  Kyra felt a chill at his words, and she stood there, debating.

  “Go to him,” he warned, “and you will die. The choice is yours, Kyra: will you choose your family, or your destiny?”

  Kyra looked up to the sky, wondering, feeling so confused, so torn. The world seemed to freeze at that moment.

  When she looked back at Alva, to her shock, he was gone. She blinked, looking everywhere, finding no one.

  There came a rustling behind her, and Kyra turned and was shocked to see Kolva standing there, having emerged from the woods, looking back at her with intensity. It was amazing seeing his face, the resemblance it bore to hers; in some ways, it was like looking in a mirror. It made her think of her mother, and his connection to her, all the more. Her other uncle was the last person she had expected to see, and yet he came as a very welcome face, especially now, as she grappled with the decision before her.

  “What are you doing here?” Kyra asked. “I thought you had gone to the tower.”

  “I have already returned,” he replied. “The tower is but one cog in a great wheel, a battlefield in a greater war. War is coming, Kyra, and I am needed elsewhere now.”

  “Where?” she asked, surprised.

  He sighed.

  “A place far from here,” he replied. “Some battles must be lost,” he added cryptically, “for others to be won.”

  She wondered what he meant.

  “Why did you leave me?” she pressed.

  “You were in good hands with your other uncle,” he replied. “You needed time to train.”

  “And now that my training is over?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “It is never over,” he replied. “Do not ever imagine that it is. That is when you will begin to fall.”

  Kyra frowned, debating.

  “I am faced with a big decision,” she said, eager for his advice.

  “I know,” he replied.

  She looked at him with surprise.

  “You do?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “You want to save your father,” he replied.

  Kyra looked him over.

  “He is your brother, after all,” she said. “Why do you not rush to save him?”

  Kolva sighed.

  “I would if I could.”

  “And why can’t you?” she asked.

  “My mission is urgent,” he replied. “I can’t be in both places.”

  “But I can,” she said.

  He slowly shook his head.

  “Did you not listen to Alva?” he asked. “Your mission is urgent, too. Your mother, my sister, awaits you.”

  Kyra felt torn, not knowing what to do.

  “Are you saying then that I should abandon my father?” she asked.

  “I am saying you are lucky to be alive,” he said. “And if you do not achieve the power you need to first, then death will find you. And that will not help anyone.”

  He stepped in and laid a hand on her shoulder, and looked down with approving eyes.

  “I am proud of you, Kyra,” he said.

  She wondered.

  “Will we meet again?” she asked, feeling a pang at the idea of losing him, the only living relative she felt she had left.

  “I hope so,” he replied.

  And then, without another word, he turned and hiked back into the forest, leaving Kyra alone, upset, and more confused than before.

  As she stood there, not knowing how much time had passed, Andor finally snorted and looked right at her. Slowly, she felt a new feeling; it was her destiny rising up within her. Finally blessed with a sense of certainty for the first time, she came to a decision.

  She crossed the clearing, mounted Andor, and sat there for a long time, until finally, she knew there was only one place she could go.

  “Let us go, Andor,” she said. “To the Lost Temple.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Merk slid down the rope so fast he could barely breathe, flying down the side of the Tower of Ur, aiming for the army of waiting trolls below. He knew this plunge was suicidal, yet he no longer cared. With the tower surrounded, his fellow watchers nearly all dead, he was going to go down his way—not cowering at the top, but fighting hand-to-hand, just the way he always had in life, and taking some of them down with him.

  The ground rushed up to meet him, and Merk, breathless, landed on the shoulders of two trolls, knocking them flat on their back and cushioning his own fall. He hit the ground ready, rolling and extracting two daggers from his waist, the same daggers he had used to assassinate his entire life, and he threw himself into the group of trolls.

  He sliced one’s throat with the dagger in his right hand, then reached backwards and stabbed another in the head behind him, fighting his own way. He stabbed one troll in the heart, another in the temple, and another in the gut. As they came at him with their huge halberds, swinging with enough power to chop off his head, he ducked and weaved, much lighter than they were, unencumbered by weapons and armor, then rose and slashed their throats. They all had one disadvantage: they were warriors, but he was an assassin. They were powerful, yet he was quick. None matched his agility.

  Merk’s greatest advantage was his use of distance. They needed to swing mighty weapons, yet he needed only to get close, inches away, to slice their throats. When he was in so close, they could not reach him with their weapons, and his small dagger gave him more advantage than their huge halberds would ever have. Merk ducked and weaved through the crowd like a fish, dropping trolls on all sides, knowing it was reckless, knowing his flank was unprotected, and knowing he could die at any moment. Yet he felt liberated in his charge, no longer fearing death.

 
; Soon, though, the stunned army of trolls caught up with him. They surrounded him and closed in, and Merk suddenly felt a tremendous blow on his back; as he fell sideways, he realized he had been struck by a war hammer. He rolled on the ground, clutching his shoulder, dropping one of his daggers, and he looked up to see a massive, hideous troll, the one that had struck him, raising his war hammer high, about to smash it into his face.

  Merk rolled out of the way as the hammer came down, just missing him and leaving a crater in the earth beside his head. The troll roared, raising it again, and Merk kicked him behind one knee, dropping him to the ground; he then leapt to his feet and raised his remaining dagger, plunging it into the back of his neck. The troll dropped face first, dead.

  The move left Merk exposed, though, and his head rang as a huge shield smashed his head, knocking him to the ground. He rolled on the ground, seeing stars, his head pounding, then looked up to see another halberd being lowered for his head.

  Merk again rolled out of the way right before it hit, then jumped to his feet and slashed this troll across the throat, killing it too.

  Merk spun in every direction, breathing hard, unwilling to give up as the trolls closed in. Yet hundreds more arrived by the moment, and he knew this was a battle he could not win. He kept backing up until he was against the tower wall, nowhere left to run.

  Suddenly there came a commotion, and Merk was confused as the trolls turned away from him and all looked up at the tower walls. He turned and looked up, too, and he was stunned by what he saw: the walls of the tower, which he had always assumed to be solid stone, suddenly opened up, and secret openings appeared in them, on every floor. Out of these appeared the glowing, intense yellow eyes of the ancient Watchers, their pale faces staring down at the trolls.

  They slowly reached out with long, bony fingers, and as they did, Merk saw something shining and yellow their palms. They appeared to be orbs of light.

  The Watchers turned their palms downward and Merk watched in awe as the orbs of light were hurled down at the trolls, leaving streaks in the sky. They hit the ground and moments later, explosions rang out.

  All around Merk, trolls were killed by the dozen, torn to pieces and falling into the craters in the earth left by these orbs of light. The Watchers hurled down the orbs one after the other, and within moments, hundreds of trolls were dead.

  Vesuvius emerged from the crowd. He held his huge golden shield high, and as he did, it deflected the orbs of light, leaving him unharmed, the shield clearly forged of some magic material. At the same time, Vesuvius reached back, grabbed a spear appearing to be crafted of gold, and hurled it at one of the Watchers.

  There came an awful screech, a sound like the very fabric of the universe tearing apart, and Merk was pained to see a Watcher, a spear through his heart, began to shrivel up and melt before him. He slumped sideways over the window, lifeless.

  Vesuvius’s elite trolls stepped forward, all holding the golden shields and spears, and one at a time, they defended against the orbs and hurled their golden spears. One at a time, the ancient, precious Watchers fell.

  Soon, the orbs of light stopped hurling down, leaving the tower truly defenseless. Worse, there came a great rustling in the wood, and Merk was horrified to see hundreds more trolls appear.

  Merk felt a crushing pain in his lower kidney, and as he dropped to one knee, he realized he had been clubbed in the back. Gasping for breath, he looked up to see a troll swinging the club down for his head. He tried to dodge, but the pain was so severe that he moved too slowly; before he could get out of the way, he was clubbed again, in the back of the head, and he fell face first to the dirt.

  Merk lay there, immobile, the pain throbbing in his kidneys and head, unable to breathe, much less move. The troll stepped forward with the club, a vicious smile on his face, and raised it high.

  “Say good night, human.”

  Merk saw his life flash before his eyes; he knew that it would crush him, that he would die here, in this spot, in the mud, killed by this nation of trolls. In his mind there flashed images of the life he had led, the people he had killed, the choices he had made. Somehow, he felt he deserved this. Yet he was also in the midst of trying to change, to become a better person, and he felt he was almost there. He just needed a bit more time. He wasn’t ready to die just yet. Why did his life have to end now, of all times? And why here, in the mud, at the hands of these grotesque beasts, while defending the only place he had ever cared for, while doing good for the first time in his life?

  Merk braced himself for the blow, but to his amazement, it did not come. He looked up and heard a gasp. He was baffled as he saw a sapphire spear protruding through the troll’s chest. The troll stood there, frozen, then dropped to the ground beside him, dead.

  Merk looked up, wondering, and was confused by what he saw. A lone boy cut through the crowd, wielding the sapphire spear, slashing and dropping trolls in every direction. He was a dizzying blur of light, and it took Merk a minute to focus on him. He saw the long, golden hair, and he knew: Kyle. He had come back for him.

  Kyle cut through the army of trolls like a whirlwind, killing three before one could turn to face him. None could even get close.

  Yet the forest continued to open up, hundreds more trolls poured in, and soon it seemed there were too many even for Kyle, who, breathing hard, covered in blood, began to slow down. Merk watched as Kyle received a slice from a halberd on his arm, and he knew his time was running out. He watched in horror as Kyle then received another blow, a hatchet to his back. Merk called out as Kyle stumbled and fell, appearing dead.

  But then, even more incredibly, the wound healed before Merk’s eyes. Kyle rose to his feet again, wheeled, and faced the troll who had struck him, and instead he killed the beast.

  With hundreds more trolls filtering in, Kyle suddenly turned to Merk. A moment later he felt Kyle’s strong, bony hands grabbing him, lifting him into the air, then over his shoulder. In too much pain to move, Merk realized that if Kyle had not come for him, he would surely have died here.

  Moments later they were racing through the army of trolls, Kyle dodging and weaving, moving so fast that all the hatchets whizzed past them. Kyle ran faster, it seemed, than even the speed of light, as if he were running on air, and Merk could hardly breathe as he felt the world rush past. Soon they gained distance on the trolls, and were deep in the woods, heading south, the tower quickly fading into the distance.

  “The tower,” Merk mumbled, “we cannot leave it.”

  “It is already finished,” replied Kyle.

  “Then…where are we going?” Merk struggled to ask, his eyes closing as they ran.

  “Far, far away from here.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Vesuvius led the charge as his trolls smashed the battering ram again and again into the golden doors of the Tower of Ur, each collision making the ground shake. The thick iron ram was bending the door a bit more each time. They were getting closer with each and every smash. Vesuvius was so close now to his dream, to getting the Sword, lowering the Wall of Flames, taking down the only barrier left between Marda and Escalon, he could taste it. It all lay just beyond those doors. With all the humans dead, and with those last two fleeing far away, nothing stood in his way now.

  Yet still the door would not give.

  Vesuvius, in a fit of rage, stepped forward and swung his halberd, lopping off the heads of two of the trolls pushing the ram. The other trolls looked up at him in terror.

  “FASTER!” he commanded.

  Two more trolls stepped forward to take their place and all the trolls rushed forward with even more speed, putting their entire bodies into it as they rammed it again and again, this time with greater force. Vesuvius got behind them and helped, pushing with his shoulders, his legs digging into the mud, straining with all he had.

  “FORWARD!” he cried.

  Finally, after one hard push, the ancient doors quaked and bent, then finally burst open, swinging wildly off their hin
ges. There came a tremendous explosion, sounding like metal being torn to shreds.

  A shout rose up amongst the trolls as Vesuvius charged into the Tower of Ur, leading the way. He could hardly believe it. Here he was, charging into the one place he had always hoped to enter, the one place that legend had told could never be broken into. He had destroyed the doors that legend said could never be destroyed.

  Vesuvius rushed into the cool, dim tower, his boots squeaking on its golden floors, his hundreds of trolls cheering behind him, all of them rushing up the immense spiral staircase together. As he looked up, Vesuvius saw a few remaining human soldiers rush down the spiral staircase, right for him. He snarled, raised his halberd, and killed these humans two at a time, sending them flying over the railing and hurling down below.

  A few of the humans put up a fight, even managing to kill several of his trolls; yet more and more of his trolls flooded in behind him, overrunning the place, overwhelming the soldiers, and they were quickly killed.

  Vesuvius ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time, leading his men. The rumble of their boots filled the tower like thunder, hundreds of trolls ascending the steps that were not meant to be ascended. Vesuvius nearly trembled with excitement, realizing how close he was, how soon the Sword of Fire would be in his hands.

  He ascended flight after flight of this mysterious tower, and he looked at its mysterious carvings, the ancient floors and walls, made of an exotic material, each floor so different from the one before it. He made a mental to note himself that, after he finished stealing the Sword and any other valuables, he would burn this place to the ground. He hated beauty. He would leave nothing here but a pile of stones—and he would burn even that.

  Vesuvius heard a commotion and he looked up and saw several more soldiers appearing from hidden rooms in the tower and rushing for him. He dodged as one swung for his head, and smashed him with his shield, sending him over the rail. He stabbed another in the gut with the point of his halberd, then swung around and chopped off the head of another, sending him tumbling down the staircase.