by Morgan Rice
The currents picked up and their ship soon touched the shore, a hard bump onto the craggy beach. Without pausing, Lorna jumped off and landed on the sand, walking gracefully, not missing a beat, while Merk fumbled to get off the edge of the ship as it rocked. He landed clumsily behind her, his boots splashing in the freezing waters as he tried to catch up.
He followed Lorna as she approached a group of waiting soldiers and stopped before one, apparently their commander, standing out front before the others, nearly twice Merk’s size. The soldier looked graciously down at Lorna but then looked over at Merk and scowled down at him as if he were intruding. Merk tightened his grip on his dagger.
The soldier turned back to Lorna and half-bowed.
“My lady,” he said deferentially.
“Thurn,” she replied. Are my Watchers safe?” she asked.
He nodded back.
“Every one of them,” he replied. He turned to Merk. “And who is this beside you?” he asked, tightening his grip on his chain.
“A friend,” she replied. “He’s not to be harmed.”
The soldier reluctantly tore his gaze from Merk and looked back at her. Merk did not like being on this isle, but he did like hearing the word friend. He’d never had anyone call him a friend before, and for some reason, it touched him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he felt a strong connection to Lorna, too. He wondered if she were just using the term, or if she genuinely felt the same way about him.
“An army of trolls follows on our heels,” she said, in a rush. “We cannot defend. Not even you. Come with us to the mainland. We shall continue the battle in Escalon.”
The soldier stared back at her solemnly.
“We are of Knossos,” he replied. “We retreat from no enemy.”
“Even if death is certain?” she pressed.
“Especially if death is certain,” he replied. “To run would be to lose our honor—and honor is more sacred than life. Take your Watchers and go to the mainland. We shall make our stand here.”
Lorna sighed, clearly frustrated.
“You would be killed here for harboring my people. I cannot allow that.”
“We would be killed for doing our duty,” he replied.
Lorna frowned, realizing she was getting nowhere.
“Don’t you understand?” she added. “You face monsters. Not humans. Trolls—honorless, nasty creatures. They have no regard for life. They are crossing the Bay of Death and will soon surround this fort. Now is your chance to escape. Leave, and live to fight another day, in another place, on your terms. There are other ways to win. To stay here means death.”
For the first time, the soldier grinned, as he looked out and scanned the horizon behind her.
“An honorable death, encircled by my foes,” he replied, “is all I have ever prayed for. All that my men have ever prayed for. The gods have answered our prayers on this day.”
Behind him, all the warriors of Knossos, all lined up with perfect discipline, suddenly raised their chains high in the air and grunted in agreement. They all stared back through the metal slats of their helmets, fearless.
Merk had never seen such a display of courage, and he was moved by it. For the first time in his life, he felt as if here, on this isle, with these men, he was part of something greater, of the cause he had so desperately sought.
Lorna turned to Merk, looking resigned.
“Go,” she said. “Sail our ship to the mainland. Go to Leptus. You will be safe there. You can make your way to the capital and fight for our cause.”
Merk was filled with admiration for her as he realized she meant to stay here.
He slowly shook his head, having already come to his own conclusion. Instead, he turned to Thurn and smiled.
“You intend to fight to the death, do you not?” he asked.
Thurn nodded back.
“I do,” he replied.
Merk grinned.
“How heavy are those chains?” he asked.
Thurn looked down, seemingly surprised at the question, then finally, realizing that Merk meant to stay, he stared back approvingly. He nodded, and a soldier rushed forward and handed Merk an extra chain and spike.
Merk tested the weight of it; it was heavier than he thought. He swung it around and was amazed to see the iron spike at the end swing overhead like lightning. It made a high-pitched whistling noise as it swung. It was an unusual and substantial weapon, and he was impressed.
“Want one more man?” he asked.
For the first time, Thurn grinned back at Merk.
“I suppose,” he replied, “we can always make room.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kyra held tight to Theon’s scales as they flew north, racing through the clouds, the sky around them darkening into a gloom as they neared the land of Marda. Softis’s words still rang in her head as she recalled her eerie visit to Volis, her visit with her ancestors, their spirits lingering as if they were still with her.
Do not shy from danger, Kyra. Seek it out. That is the only way to save your life.
She felt it to be true. She felt she was on a sacred mission, and she felt the responsibility of living up to her bloodline, of all her ancestors, of achieving what they could not. True freedom for Escalon. Safety from the trolls. Safety from the dragons. Why was it, she wondered, that true freedom was always so elusive? That true safety was always so hard to achieve, generation after generation?
Flying further and further north, Kyra felt an increasing chill in the air. It was not so much the cold and the gloom as it was a sense of impending evil. She looked down, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Escalon before entering Marda, and expecting to see what she saw every day of her life growing up in Volis: the massive Wall of Flames shooting up into the sky, lighting the oncoming night. It would be thrilling to fly over them, to see how high they rose.
And yet, as she flew closer to the border and peered down below, she was baffled to see nothing. She looked twice, unsure of herself.
“Lower, Theon,” she commanded.
Theon dove lower, descending through layer after layer of thick, black clouds, until finally they burst through and she caught a glimpse of the landscape below.
Her heart stopped in her chest.
There, below her, was a sight which would be forever ingrained in her soul. A sight which made her lose all hope. Kyra was shocked not by what she saw—but by what she did not see. By the absence. There, below, the Flames were gone.
For the first time in her life, Kyra saw the northern border not dominated by their ever-present glow, their crackle. What stood instead was charred land and open sky, with no barrier left between Escalon and Marda. The sacred wall of protection, the magical Flames, forever guarded by her forefathers, stood no more.
Even more shocking, in its place Kyra saw the nation of trolls racing across the landscape, flooding her homeland, the two countries now one, with nothing to stop them. Thousands upon thousands of trolls raced by underneath her, like a heard of buffalo, their rumble and cheering audible even from here. They were leaving Marda by the millions, a great migration, and invading her country.
Kyra’s blood boiled at the sight. She could already see all the burned, ransacked villages left in their wake, could already see the destruction this tidal wave of trolls was bringing to her homeland.
“Theon, down!” she yelled.
Theon needed no prodding. He dove straight down, until they were but thirty feet above them.
“FIRE!” she shrieked.
Theon opened his mouth and breathed before she uttered the command, the two thinking the same thing at the same time.
Down below, the trolls looked up, shock and terror in their eyes. They shrieked as Theon breathed a column of flame, cutting a swath of death right down the middle of their ranks. The great sound of flames merged with his roar, and he flew over them, for mile after mile, killing tens of thousands of trolls. More than one threw a spear or lance his way, but Theon was
stronger now, and able to burn the weapons with the intense heat of his flames before they even reached him.
Finally, though, there came a hissing noise, and Kyra saw that Theon, still a baby, needed to replenish his fire. She took stock of what they had done, all the dead trolls, and was about to take pride in it, when she looked up ahead and saw an even bigger wave of trolls coming.
Her heart sank. Her attack had hardly made a dent. Escalon, she knew, was finished. She knew then that the only hope left would be for her to fulfill her mission.
“Higher, Theon!” she commanded.
Theon rose as the new wave of trolls hurled spears and lances into the sky; he flew higher and higher, just out of their reach, and soon they were back into the clouds. Kyra flew faster toward Marda. She closed her eyes and knew she needed to focus, to shake the visions from her mind. The only hope for her homeland, she knew, lay paradoxically farther north, deep in the heart of Marda.
*
Kyra felt the chill wrap around her shoulders, like a cloak of evil embracing her, as she entered the land of Marda. She felt an immediate shift in the air, something heavy and moist, like a dark spell pervading this place, gripping her, holding her tight. The sky immediately darkened, so much so that she was no longer able to tell if it were day or night. It hung there, in the gloom, not quite light and not quite dark, a perpetual twilight. Slivers of scarlet punctuated the thick, black clouds, as if the sky itself were bleeding.
Down below was hardly better. The landscape held no signs of life, just stretches of black dirt, ash, and outcroppings of black rock. There was no vegetation, no trees, and a myriad of volcanoes, molten lava pouring down the sides. She saw lakes of lava, and rivers of them cutting across the landscape in every direction.
Despite the lava, the land was cold—and it stank of sulfur—and the air was so thick with ash it was hard to breathe. Kyra could not have imagined anything worse in her darkest dreams. It looked like hell itself had found a place on earth.
As she flew, Kyra felt a deepening foreboding, a tightness in her chest. She had no idea where she was going, driven only by blind instinct, by the mandate of her mother, and she could not help but feel she would never return.
She scoured the landscape for a marker, any sign, any indication of where she should go. She searched for any road, something that might point her to the Staff of Truth. Yet she saw none.
The deeper into Marda she flew, the more lost she felt, wondering where to go in the vast and never-ending bleakness, wondering if she would ever even find what she was sent here for. Finally, as she looked down, she spotted something that caught her eye. It was movement, something in the landscape that stood out. It was gushing, black on black.
“Lower, Theon,” she whispered.
Theon dove, and as they descended beneath the gloom of layers of clouds, she began to see more clearly. There below was a gushing river of black, cutting through a landscape of blackness. It wound its way north, inexplicably uphill, through a narrow cut between two tall peaks.
As she watched it, Kyra sensed something lay on the far side of those mountains. She sensed in her heart that it was where she needed to go.
“Down, Theon.”
Theon flew toward the peaks, Kyra planning to fly over them—yet as they neared, Theon suddenly, to her shock, screeched and came to a sudden stop in the air.
He flailed, and would not proceed.
“What is it, Theon?” she asked.
His words come to her in her head.
I cannot fly forward.
Kyra looked out and with a sense of dread realized there was some sort of invisible force here, a shield keeping Theon out. She looked down at the landscape, the gushing river, the mouth of it waiting below her, and she knew it was where she was meant to go. She needed to travel that river to the other side of those mountains, and it was a journey, she realized, she would have to take alone.
With a pang of panic, Kyra realized she would have to leave Theon here.
“Down, Theon,” she said softly. “I will land.”
Theon reluctantly heeded her, diving and touching down beside the mouth of the river. As she dismounted, she felt a creepy feeling beneath her feet as she stepped onto a soft, mossy landscape, all black.
Theon lowered his head, looking ashamed—and looking concerned for her.
Return with me, Theon said to her in her mind. Let us leave this place together.
Kyra slowly shook her head, stroking the scales on his long nose.
“I cannot,” she said. “My destiny lies here. Fly south, and await me in Escalon.”
Kyra looked over at the slow-moving river and saw a wide, black raft, made of logs tied together, waiting at the mouth of the river, as if only for her. On the raft stood a being, perhaps a man, perhaps some kind of evil creature, his back to her, wearing a black cloak, holding a long staff, its tip in the water. He did not turn to face her.
Theon lowered his head and pushed it against hers, and Kyra rubbed his scales and kissed him.
“Go, my friend,” she commanded.
Theon finally screeched and leapt into the air, his great talons just missing her. He spread his wings wide and flew off, never looking back, his screech the only reminder that he was ever here. Soon, the sky was empty. Theon was gone.
Kyra turned, a pit in her stomach, and walked over to the raft. Slowly, she stepped foot on it.
It rocked as she did, unsteady beneath her feet, her heart pounding in her throat. She felt completely and utterly alone, more alone than she’d ever had in her life.
She gripped her staff tight.
“Let us go,” she said to the creature, sensing it was awaiting her command.
Its back still to her, it reached forward with its staff and dragged the river’s bottom, and soon they were off, their raft floating downriver, into the blackness—and into the very heart of hell.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Softis made his way slowly through the ruins of Volis, picking his way with his staff, walking, remembering. He paused at the remnant of a wall and ran his hand along its edge, still smooth, and recalled playing here as a boy. He remembered, as a boy, knowing that Volis would last forever.
Softis recalled his father and grandfather, remembered playing at their feet, learning about all the great historians, the famed Chroniclers of the Kingdom who had traveled from Andros. He knew there was no higher calling, and he had known as soon as he could walk that it was what he was meant to do. For him, it was the histories that held the glory, not the waging of wars. Wars, after all, faded away, while the Chroniclers made them live forever.
Softis breathed deeply as he continued walking, his staff gently picking through rocks. He was alone now, utterly alone, everyone he knew and loved dead. For some strange reason he could not understand, he had been cursed with the mixed blessing of survival. And he had survived. He had survived his grandfather, his father, his wife, his siblings—and even all his children. He had survived kings and wars, one commander after the next. He had seen Escalon under many forms of rule, yet had never seen it entirely free. Nearly a hundred years old now, he had outlived it all.
Softis knew he could find a way to go on, a way to live without the men and women and children, whom he dearly missed but was nearly too blind to see now; he could live without the variety of food, finding a way to subsist only on foraged grasses and berries, food he was too old to truly taste anyway. But what he could not live without, what made him feel most alone of all, was the loss of his books. Those savages had destroyed them all, and in the process had torn apart his soul.
Well, not all of them. One book, hidden deep beneath a stone vault, Softis had hidden and salvaged. It was this book, The Chronicles of his Fathers, an oversized, leather-bound book with pages so worn from use that they nearly fell out, that Softis gripped to his chest now as he walked. It was all he had left to live for.
Escalon, he concluded, was haunted. It was both a blessed and a cursed land. It had always
been haunted by the threat of dragons, the threat of trolls, the threat of Pandesia. It was a place of great beauty and yet, paradoxically, a place where one could never truly rest easy. There was some riddle to this land, something he could never quite figure out. He had been turning over the legends in his mind for nearly a hundred years, and there was something, he felt, that was missing. Something, perhaps, that was even withheld from him, some secret even too great for him, for his forefathers. What was it?
Perhaps it was contained in some missing book, some missing scroll, some missing legend he had not yet heard. There was something, he was convinced, that solved it all, that made sense of the mysterious origin of Escalon, and of what had both cursed and blessed it.
Now, as his eyes dimmed and he faced the waning of his life, it was no longer life he craved, but knowledge. Wisdom. The unraveling of secrets. And most of all, the answer to that mystery. Softis knew how history would end. It would end how all men ended. In death. In nothing. But he still did not know how the story began. And in some ways, in his eyes, that was more important.
Softis picked his way farther through the rubble, this ghost town filled only with the faint sound of his staff, of the gales of wind rushing through here and finding no one. Finding a small, old stale piece of bread, he reached down and picked it up, hard as a rock, wondering how many weeks it had sat there. Still, he was grateful for it, knowing it would be his best find of the day. It would give him energy enough, at least, for the walk. On his way to the mausoleum, he would visit old friends, immerse himself in old times. He would close his eyes and imagine his father alive with him again, telling him story after story. That comforted him. Indeed, he was more comforted by ghosts these days than by the living.
As he picked his way across the courtyard, Softis suddenly stopped and stood. He had felt something. Had it been a tremor?
He felt it again, running up through his staff to his palm, something so faint he wondered if it had even come. But then, sure enough, it came again. This time, the tremor was a shake, and then a rumble. He stopped, feeling it now in the soles of his feet, and he turned and looked up, out through the broken arch that was once the formidable gate to Volis.
