A Forge of Valor

by Morgan Rice

  If Merk had hoped to repent and reflect, he could not have hoped for a better place. Day after day of hiking these rocky cliffs, of not seeing a soul, of being engulfed in mist and fog, each step nearly slipping to his death, forced Merk to appreciate life. He wanted, for the first time, to live, to truly live. He wanted a chance to start life anew.

  As the hours passed, the sun falling, Merk heard a noise, felt something on his cheeks, and he realized he was weeping. He was startled, and had no idea why. As he reflected, he realized it was a cry of regret, regret for the life he had lived. Regret for not being able to take it all back, to try again. He desperately wished to do it all differently, to have just one more chance.

  Another gust of wind ripped through, and as the fog lifted, the sun, for the first time, shone down. Merk looked up and this time, he stopped, standing there in shock. His breath caught in his throat as he stared into the distance.

  There, on the horizon, was a rainbow. He was not sure if he had ever believed in God, but this time, he felt God was answering him. He felt he was being offered redemption. He stopped and stood there and wept uncontrollably, not understanding life. He felt a part of him had died along the way and a new part was sprouting.

  As Merk looked out beyond it, he saw another sight, one which stirred within him an even more intense mixture of feeling. The Sea of Sorrow met the Bay of Death. The two bodies of water conjoined, swirling with foam. The peninsula came to an end. The seas were shining. And standing there amidst all that light, Merk was amazed and elated to see, was a single structure.

  A tower.

  There it was, the ancient Tower of Kos, rising up in that landscape, amidst all the nothingness, as if emerging from the very stone itself. There it stood, perched proudly at the end of the world.

  The Tower of Kos was real. And it stood right before him.

  *

  Merk scrambled down the last boulder, landing on gravel and sighing with relief. He had never been so grateful to be on dry, flat land. He could walk again, quickly and steadily, with no fear of falling. His boots crunched gravel and he had never enjoyed the feeling as much.

  The Tower of Kos stood right before him, hardly fifty feet away, and Merk looked up and studied it in awe. Behind it the waves of the ocean and bay intersected and crashed, offering a stunning backdrop. As he looked up at the tower, what surprised Merk most was that he had seen it before; it appeared to be an exact replica of the Tower of Ur. The stone, the height, the diameter—each seemed to have been constructed at the same time, mysteriously, at opposite corners of the kingdom. But how? Merk wondered. How could one even manage to construct anything out here, at the edge of the world?

  Merk stared up at the shining golden doors, just like the doors of Ur, and as he looked closely, he did notice a small difference: these doors bore a different insignia than the doors of Ur, were carved with different symbols, images. He wished now, more than ever, that he could read. What did it all mean? There was an image of a long sword, flames surrounding it, carved into the gold. It dominated both doors and crossed over them, placed horizontally.

  As Merk stood there, he sensed a different energy to this tower. He could not put his finger on it, but something felt off. It was an absence. Oddly, it felt as if this place were abandoned.

  Merk stepped forward, closer, and as he did, he was even more shocked to find the doors ajar. He felt a chill up his spine. How could the doors to the scared Tower of Kos lie open? Unguarded? Had someone beaten him here? What could it all mean?

  Merk stepped closer, on edge, no longer knowing what to expect, and as he did, to his even greater shock, the doors began to open. Perplexed, he stood there, as out of the blackness there emerged a person. Not just any person—but the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. It made no sense. It was like an apparition.

  With so many shocking things happening at once, Merk could not process it all. He did not know what he was most amazed by. He was speechless as this woman stood before the doors, staring back at him with her translucent blue eyes, her stunning features, perhaps in her twenties. Even stranger, he had the crazy feeling that he knew her, that he recognized her from somewhere. He recalled all his years of serving the old King Tarnis and as he looked at her, with her glowing blue eyes, her silvery-blonde hair, he could not help but think that she looked exactly like the old King Tarnis.

  It made no sense. How could it be? Tarnis, as far as he knew, never had a daughter.

  Or did he?

  She stood there, looking back with such grace, such poise, he couldn’t see how she could be anything but royalty. Yet there was something more to her. Her face was so white, nearly translucent, radiating an intense energy, as if she were not entirely human. The last time he had felt this way was in the presence of a Watcher.

  She stood there in the silence, punctuated by nothing but the wind and the waves, and as much as he wanted to know more, he also felt an urgency to get to the heart of the matter, to begin preparations to alert her, to protect the Sword, given the trolls were hardly a day behind him.

  “My lady,” he began, “I have come on an urgent mission. An army advances here, an army of trolls, bent on destruction. They have come to kill you and everyone here, and to take the Sword.”

  As she stared back, he was surprised to see no reaction—no fear, nothing. She remained expressionless. Perhaps she did not believe him. He wondered at his state, at what he might look like after that hike, and realized he could hardly blame her. Maybe in her eyes he was just a madman appearing out of the fog.

  “I know that the Sword resides here,” he continued, determined. “I served at the Tower of Ur—the tower which is no more.”

  Again, he searched her face for a reaction—and again, to his confusion, there came none.

  “There is no time, my lady,” he urged. “We must secure the Sword before they arrive. We must prepare a defense immediately.”

  He expected her to be dismayed, panic-stricken, but to his great surprise, she stood there with a slight smile at the corners of her lips, completely unfazed, holding more poise than anyone he’d ever seen.

  “Is this not news that I bring you?” he finally asked, baffled.

  “It is not,” she replied, her voice so smooth, so peaceful, it completely threw him off guard.

  He was stunned.

  “But how could you know all this?” he asked. “And if you knew all this…” he said, struggling to understand, “then…why are you still here? Why haven’t you fled?”

  “Only I remain,” she replied patiently. “I sent the others away, long ago, the day that Marda crossed into Ur.”

  Merk stared back, shocked. He looked up at the empty tower in wonder.

  “Are you saying that you are here alone?” he asked. “Why have you not fled yourself?”

  She smiled.

  “Because I was waiting for you,” she replied flatly.

  “For me?!” he asked, flabbergasted.

  “I was waiting to save you,” she added.

  He didn’t know what to say. Was she mocking him?

  “But I have come here to save you,” he countered.

  Merk stood there, anxiety rising within him as heard, yet again, the sound of the troll army in the distance.

  “Who are you?” he asked, burning with curiosity.

  But she would not reply. Merk was increasingly agitated.

  “I do not understand,” he said. “We have no time. If there is no one here, we must secure the Sword, take it far from here and leave this place.”

  Still, she did not react.

  “Tell me,” he insisted, desperate, wondering if he had made this long trek for nothing. “Is the Sword of Fire still here?”

  To his surprise, she answered simply.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes widened. The Sword of Fire. The Sword of legend, which had haunted his dreams his entire life. It really existed. And it lay just beyond those doors.

  “Then we must save it!” he said, and
began to walk for the doors.

  She blocked his way, and he stared back, puzzled.

  “Do you really think a man could save the Sword?” she asked.

  He stared back, confused.

  “Perhaps the Sword is not meant to be saved,” she added.

  He struggled to understand.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, frustrated. “It is meant to be guarded. That is the purpose we serve.”

  She nodded.

  “Guarded, yes,” she said. “But not saved. The Sword has been guarded for centuries. Yet when the time comes for it to be taken away, it is not for us to interfere with destiny. The Sword has its own destiny, and that, no man can alter.”

  Merk stood there, uncomprehending.

  “If you don’t believe me, then try,” she said.

  She stepped aside and motioned at the open doors behind her. He looked past her and saw a faint torchlight beckoning.

  Merk glanced back over his shoulder and saw, on the horizon, the nation of Marda getting closer with each step. He turned back to the tower, feeling a need to do something.

  Merk broke into action. He rushed past her and inside the tower, entering the blackened chamber. He stood inside, where it was cool and quiet, the crashing of the waves and howling of the wind muted for the first time in his long journey. He turned about slowly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and with a jolt of shock he saw, sitting there, just a few feet away, what could only be the Sword of Fire.

  There it sat, glowing red, right in the center of the chamber, on a pedestal, in plain sight. Merk could not understand why it was not hidden.

  Following a gut impulse to save it, Merk ran forward, reached out, and without hesitating, grabbed hold of its hilt, determined to take it away somewhere safe.

  Merk heard a hissing noise and felt a burning in his palm unlike any he had ever felt. His hand burned as the hilt seared his skin. He shrieked, pulling back his hand, and as he did, he saw the damage it had left: the insignia of the Sword burned into his palm.

  He stood there, in tears from the pain, holding his smoldering hand.

  “I warned you,” came the soft voice.

  Merk turned to see the girl standing beside him. He knew then that she was right; everything she had said had been right.

  “So what do we do?” he asked, clutching his arm, feeling helpless.

  “A ship awaits,” she said. “Come with me.”

  She held out a hand, long and pale, and he stood there, debating. She was inviting him to leave this place, to leave the Sword behind, to journey to some other place he would not know. He knew that taking her hand would change his life forever, would put him a road from which there would be no return. Would leave the Sword here, all alone, at the mercy of its enemies.

  But maybe that was what was meant to be. The laws of destiny, after all, were beyond him.

  Merk stared into those translucent eyes, at her open palm, so inviting, and he knew his mind was already made up.

  He reached out and took it, and as he did, he knew his life would never be the same again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Vesuvius, finally reaching the end of the Devil’s Finger, leapt down from the last boulder onto dry land, his boots crunching on gravel, and felt a wave of relief. There he stood, defiant amidst the raging wind and crashing seas, and looked up, salivating at his destination: the Tower of Kos. He felt a warmth tingling up his arms, and he could not stop himself from grinning. He had really made it. In but minutes, the Sword would be his.

  Behind him came the clattering of thousands of soldiers, his nation of trolls scrambling down off the boulders, landing on the gravel. They stood behind him, awaiting his command, all ready to march to their deaths on a moment’s notice.

  Vesuvius stood there in silence punctuated only by the wind, reveling in the moment. He had crossed all of Escalon for this; now, finally, there was nothing left to stand in his way, to stand between he and the Sword of Fire, between him and his destiny. Soon the Sword would be his, the Flames would be a memory, and the entire nation of Marda would advance. Escalon would be forgotten, and renamed Greater Marda.

  Vesuvius marched forward, his trolls following close behind, each step bringing him closer to those magnificent golden doors, shining in the last rays of sun. They were ajar, he was surprised to see, and this place, he realized, had the feeling of being abandoned. For a moment he felt a pang of fear. Had they all left? Had they taken the Sword with them?

  Or, worse—had it never been here to begin with?

  Vesuvius reached the doors and yanked them open all the way, heart pounding, dozens of trolls rushing forward to help. He did not need their help. With a single hand, with his massive strength, he yanked the heavy doors open all the way, as determined to enter as he had ever had been to do anything in his life.

  Vesuvius crossed the threshold. It was dark in here, the sound of the wind and the waves muted, and he heard only the crackling of torches inside. It was cooler in here, too. He stepped forward, feeling his destiny rise up within him.

  He stopped as his eyes adjusted, and held his breath. He could not believe his eyes: there it sat, before him, the Sword of Fire. It was glowing, as if aflame, a beautiful sword, perhaps three feet long, with the hilt shining yellow, and the blade flaming orange. The blade stuck straight up, pointing to the ceiling.

  Vesuvius’s heart slammed in his chest. Finally. There it was, after all this. The source of his years of tireless work. Of his father’s and his father’s before him. Now here he stood, just feet away from it. It seemed too good to be true. As if, perhaps, it were a trick.

  Vesuvius rushed forward, his palms sweaty, unable to wait a moment longer. He stood beside the sword, sweating, examining it, feeling its heat from here. It was a thing of beauty. A thing of majesty. It even emanated a sound of its own, like the sound of a hissing torch. It seemed primal, like one of the wonders of the earth.

  Vesuvius, unable to wait any longer, reached out and grabbed the hilt, ready for his entire life to change.

  Immediately, he was blinded by pain. He shrieked and shrieked as the hilt seared his palm, burning into it, deeper and deeper as he gripped it, the pain more intense than anything he had ever felt. He desperately wanted to let go, every nerve within him screamed at him to let go, but he forced himself to hang on as long as he could stand it. He knew if he let it go he would never touch it again. And he could not give up. Not now. Not after all this.

  Yet, shrieking, sweating, his palm sizzling, smoking, the pain was too intense even for him.

  Vesuvius finally had no choice but to release his grip on the hilt and back away, holding his wrist in agony. He looked down at his hand and saw the insignia of the hilt burned into his palm forever.

  He turned, scowling at his trolls, who looked back at him, all terrified to come near him.

  “You,” he spat to one nameless troll, as he held his wrist, gasping in pain.

  The troll stepped forward.

  “Grab the Sword!”

  Vesuvius knew from legend that the Sword needed to leave the tower for the Flames to lower.

  “Me, my lord?” asked the troll, terror-stricken.

  Vesuvius rushed forward, shrieking, drew his sword with his good hand, and stabbed the hesitating troll in the heart.

  He then turned to his other trolls.

  “You!” he said to another, pointing at him with the tip of his sword.

  The troll gulped. He stepped forward reluctantly and made his way toward the Sword. Sweating, he hesitated, looking over at Vesuvius.

  Vesuvius’s unyielding glare must have convinced the vacillating troll. He stepped forward, and with trembling hands reached out and grabbed the hilt of the Sword.

  The soldier shrieked as he did, his hands burning—and before he could remove his grip, Vesuvius ran up behind him, wrapped one arm around his throat from behind in a chokehold, and reached down and grabbed the man’s hand with his good hand. He squeezed as tight as h
e could, forcing the troll not to let go of the Sword.

  The troll shrieked, clearly in agony, yet Vesuvius held him firmly in place, squeezing the life out of him.

  “HELP!” Vesuvius shrieked.

  The other trolls rushed forward and helped him, grabbing the troll’s wrist and arm, forcing him to hold on.

  “PULL!” Vesuvius commanded.

  As one, all held tightly to the soldier and yanked him back, shrieking all the while.

  Vesuvius couldn’t stand the noise anymore—annoyed, he tightened his chokehold, then with a quick, simple move, snapped the troll’s neck. The troll hung limply in his arms, Vesuvius’s other hand still clamping the dead troll’s hand on the Sword.

  Together, they all dragged the dead troll out the door, and out of the tower, the Sword still in his hand.

  The second they crossed the threshold of the tower, the second they stepped outside, Vesuvius sensed something happening. Even though it was hundreds of miles away, he could feel it from here.

  The Flames. They were beginning to weaken.

  “TO THE SEA!” Vesuvius shrieked.

  The trolls joined him as they dragged the limp troll, the Sword still clamped in his hand, toward the edge of the cliff. As they reached it, Vesuvius picked up the dead soldier high overhead, clamping his hand over the Sword hand, then rushed forward and hurled him over the cliff.

  Vesuvius leaned over and watched, his heart pounding with excitement, as the limp troll went flying over the cliff, hurtling toward the ocean below, the Sword still in his hand. The Sword fell with him, finally separating from his hand halfway, tumbling end over end. As it fell through the air, Vesuvius was amazed to watch it morph into a ball of flame, like a comet falling from the sky.

  Finally it hit the sea, and as it impacted the water there followed an enormous explosion, the likes of which Vesuvius had never seen. A column of water, turned orange, shot up into the sky, hundreds of feet high, then showered down all around him, its waters scalding, like drops of fire.