A Realm of Shadows

by Morgan Rice

  “I owe you a great debt of gratitude, my friend,” Duncan said to Anvin, “for convincing these men to come to our aid.”

  “It is your son you must thank,” Anvin corrected.

  Duncan turned to Aidan, standing there amongst his men, and looked at him with surprise.

  “Aidan convinced these men to join our cause,” Anvin continued. “Without him, I doubt they’d be here.”

  Duncan walked over to his son and squeezed his shoulder, more proud of him than he could say.

  “You are no longer a boy,” he said to Aidan, “you are a man among men.”

  Duncan’s men cheered in response, and Duncan was elated to see Aidan look back up at him with so much pride.

  Duncan looked over and saw Motley standing by his side.

  “And you, Motley,” Duncan said, clasping his arm. “You took a great chance to save a stranger.”

  Motley beamed back, clearly not used to being thanked by a soldier.

  Duncan turned and surveyed the canyon floor, saw all of his men, saw the survivors combing the battlefield, climbing over corpses, scavenging for weapons, regrouping. He saw all of Bant’s men, all prisoners now, all staring back, all awaiting their fates. He turned and faced them, growing somber. He knew that a good commander should execute all these men, to protect his flank.

  “You are all warriors,” he called out to them, as they stared back anxiously, “men of Escalon, just as we. The blood of our forefathers runs through you, as it does through us. We are one people and one nation. Your mistake was joining the cause of a traitor. But that does not make you traitors yourselves. Sometimes good men, out of misguided loyalty, serve bad commanders.”

  He sighed, surveying them all, as they stared back hopefully.

  “So I shall give you all one more chance,” he said. “In these times we need every man we can get. You can die by our swords, or you can renounce your former commander, the dead traitor Bant, and join ranks with my men. Which will it be?” he asked.

  A thick silence fell, as all his men crowded close to watch.

  The lead soldier among Bant’s several hundred men stepped forward, his hands in shackles, and stared back solemnly.

  “You are a good man,” he replied, “and a fine commander. Bant was wrong to betray you, and we were wrong to follow him. No other commander would have spared us. That alone makes our decision easy. We are with you! Let us fight together, as one, and kill these dogs who have invaded Escalon!”

  “WE ARE WITH YOU!” all of Bant’s men cried.

  Duncan’s heart lifted with optimism and relief. He nodded to his men, and they all stepped forward and broke the shackles binding Bant’s men, freeing them, all.

  Duncan turned and surveyed the army, now one, their ranks bolstered, and he wondered: where to go from here? They had avenged themselves against Bant. They had regrouped. They were stronger than ever. Yet still, they could not attack Andros, not with the dragons there, and not with the Pandesians there in force.

  Duncan turned to the rest of his men, and slowly, he grew serious.

  “MEN!” he called out. “Here we stand, at the base of the canyon, alive, but the Pandesians will arrive here soon enough. We will be trapped here in this hole in the earth, stuck in the low ground.”

  He looked them all over.

  “You have all fought valiantly, and we have lost many good brothers on the field of battle today,” he continued. “Bant is dead, and we have one less front to worry about. Yet the Pandesians await us, and we cannot meet them on their terms. The time has come to execute the next part of our plan.”

  A long silence fell over the men, all looking to him with eager eyes.

  “The time has come to lure them to this canyon—and to flood it.”

  The men all stared back, fear in their faces, unsure. The silence grew thick and tense.

  Duncan turned to Leifall, the commander of Leptus.

  “Everfall,” Duncan said. “It can be done, can it not?”

  Leifall rubbed his beard, skeptical.

  “The falls are strong, that is true,” he replied. “Strong enough to create a river. That river, if redirected, could theoretically reach the canyon.” Leifall shook his head. “But it’s never been done.”

  “Yet it’s possible,” Duncan persisted.

  Leifall shrugged.

  “Everfall flows into the Bay of Death,” he said. “You propose changing the course of nature. You would have to reroute the channels in the mountain face. There are levers, ancient levers from the dawn of time, for such a purpose, for a time of war. But they have, to my knowledge, never been used.”

  Leifall sighed, as a long silence fell over the men, all of them staring.

  “A bold plan,” he finally said. “Risky. Improbable.”

  “Yet possible?” Duncan asked.

  Leifall rubbed his beard for a long time, then finally, he nodded.

  “Anything is possible.”

  Duncan nodded. That was all he needed to her.

  “I will lure the Pandesians into the canyon then,” he called out to his men, emboldened, “and you and your men will redirect the falls here.”

  Leifall stared back, concerned.

  “There is one thing you are not considering, Duncan,” he added, with concern. “If this works, you will trap yourself, here, at the base of the canyon, and be flooded with the Pandesians. You may drown, too.”

  Duncan nodded, having already considered that.

  “Then that is a chance I will have to take.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  The Holy and Supreme Ra paced the stone battlements of the castle of Andros, furious. High above, the dragons still crisscrossed, raining down fire on the streets of the capital, shrieks filling the air as men burned alive in the street. Rumbles made the ground shake, as building after building was swiped by their great talons, knocked to the ground. This capital building, with its golden dome and walls of gold, seemed the only safe place left.

  Worse, Ra had been forced, on the open battlefield, to retreat in humiliation. He had almost had Duncan in his grasp, until that dragon, Theon, had arrived and snatched away his victory. It was a humiliation he refused to accept.

  Retreating back to the capital had been the only thing he could do at that time. Theon could not pursue them here, not to Andros, with all these other dragons. It had given Ra a chance to regroup his men, at least for now, though coming here, back into the dragons’ den, had made him lose many more.

  Night was mercifully falling now, though, and he would be able to use that to his advantage. Ra could march his men at night, in total blackness, out of sight of the dragons, back after Duncan. They would march swiftly back to the canyon, and kill Duncan at the crack of dawn while he and his men still slept. The Great Ra never forgot a vendetta.

  Yet still, Ra was not satisfied with one mere plan of victory. Like all great commanders, he needed a backup plan. A plan not only of brawn, yet also one of trickery. Something to assure that this time, no matter what happened, Duncan would die. Yet what that backup plan should be, he still did not know.

  Ra looked out at his chamber, packed with advisors and counselors and generals and sorcerers, all of them cowering in fear from the dragons’ breath outside, all of them debating his course of action. Tired of mulling over his own thoughts, he nodded to his men.

  “You may speak now,” he finally said to his general, who had been kneeling before him, waiting to speak for hours.

  “My Most Holy and Supreme Ra,” the general began, his voice tremulous with fear. “I bring the report you asked for. The dragons did more damage than we expected. We have lost nearly half of our men to their flames, not only here, in Andros, but also in the rest of Escalon. And many more of our men who were spared from the dragons’ breath have been killed by the legions of trolls flooding in from the north. We need to urgently stop the tide of trolls, and we need to find a way to defend against the rise of the dragons.”

  Ra clenched his jaw
in rage, listening impatiently.

  “We waste our resources chasing Duncan in the south,” the commander continued. “We need to take the battle to the north. We need to find a way to restore the Flames and to stop the trolls from flooding the border. Otherwise, we cannot win this war on so many fronts.”

  The chamber fell silent, all eyes to Ra.

  Ra nodded, and slowly rose from his throne. He descended, taking a few steps toward the general.

  “Rise, General,” he said, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  The general rose and looked up at him with hope, and fear.

  “I thank you for your report,” Ra added.

  The general smiled, looking relieved.

  “And I thank you for your opinion,” Ra added.

  In the same breath, without warning, he suddenly stabbed the general in the heart.

  The general, shocked, dropped to the ground, dead, and all the other generals stared back at Ra, filled with dread.

  Ra breathed, filled with fury. He hated compromise. He hated being told what he could not do. And he hated weakness.

  What was it about Escalon? he fumed, wondering. Was it cursed? In every other place in the world, he had been able to conquer and hold it. But in this land, problems arose from every corner.

  He turned to one of his other generals.

  “And what would you suggest?” he asked.

  The other general gulped, looking back nervously.

  “If you were to ask me, my Most Holy and Awesome Lord,” he replied, tentative, “we should retreat. Abandon this land. Let the trolls destroy it. Let the dragons destroy it. And then let the dragons destroy the trolls. Let them all kill each other. Most of Escalon’s men are dead or enslaved anyway. Our business is done here. And years from now, when the dragons have left and the trolls are dead, we can come back and inhabit it—without losing any more men.”

  Ra trembled with anger.

  “Retreat?” he asked, indignant. “Come here,” he added.

  The general gulped in terror as Ra walked him to the stone balcony.

  “My Holy and Awesome Lord,” he began. “I meant you no disrespect—”

  Before he could finish speaking, Ra reached out, grabbed him, and threw him over the balcony.

  The general shrieked as he plummeted and fell face first on the ground below, dead.

  Ra stood on the stone balcony, seething, staring out as a dragon swooped down and picked up the corpse and ate it.

  Finally, Ra turned back inside and looked back at the other men in his chamber. They all looked away, terrified to meet his gaze. He breathed, debating.

  Finally, he stepped forward.

  “We will pursue Duncan and his men with all of our power,” he finally boomed. “After his capture and torture, you will burn his men alive, along with any trace of what was once left of Escalon. Now go. Invade the canyon. And do not return to me without his head.”

  The men all turned and rushed from the room, leaving Ra alone in the chamber. Only one remained behind. Khtha. His sorcerer. He stood there alone, in the center of the empty chamber, staring back with glowing red eyes, obscured by his cloak and hood.

  Ra stared back, intrigued.

  “What do you see?” Ra asked, almost afraid to know the answer. Khtha always had an uncanny ability to see into the future.

  “It is… obscured, for now,” he began, his voice gravelly, unhuman. “Yet I see…a great battle of forces….Yet who shall win…remains unwritten.”

  “Then what good are you to me?” Ra snapped, infuriated. “Leave me at once.”

  Ra turned his back on him, but Khtha called out:

  “I have a plan for you.”

  Ra slowly turned back, his interest piqued.

  “Go on,” he commanded.

  “I can change your visage,” Khtha said. “Transform your outward appearance.”

  Ra furrowed his brow, intrigued.

  “And who shall I become?” Ra asked.

  There followed a long silence, until finally Khtha replied:

  “Kyra.”

  Ra felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, sensing immediately that the plan was the right one.

  “You can infiltrate their lines,” Khtha continued. “They will trust you, Kyra. You will get face to face with Duncan. And you, his daughter, can put the knife in his heart directly.”

  Khtha, for the first time, grinned, a grotesque, evil grin.

  Ra could not help grinning back. This was the exact backup plan he needed, if his armies should fail.

  He nodded.

  Khtha stepped forward and slowly raised a trembling hand, pale, shriveled, and as Ra closed his eyes, he felt the sorcerer’s hand reach up and cover his face, felt the slimy fingertips cover his eyelids.

  Slowly, Ra felt himself transforming. He felt his body changing, his hair growing longer, his face becoming smooth. It burned, and it felt as if it were eating him up alive. He shrieked in agony.

  Yet, finally, it was done.

  Khtha, finished, held up a looking glass. Ra took it, breathless, and his heart stopped as he saw who was looking back at him:

  Kyra.

  Ra grinned and laughed a deep, evil laugh, yet somehow it sounded just like her.

  “Father,” he said, his voice hers, “I am coming for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Merk braced himself as he stood on the edge of the isle of Knossos and looked up in horror at the flock of dragons diving down right for him. Waves from the Bay of Death crashed at his feet, men were dying all around him from the trolls’ invasion, and behind him Lorna and her scores of Watchers summoned these ancient creatures to their rescue. Whether these dragons would rescue them or kill them was unclear—and now it seemed they were out of her control.

  A terrible roar shook the air as scores of dragons dove for the waters, talons extended, their terrible teeth showing as they opened their jaws wide. Merk glanced back to the fort and saw the Watchers leaning out the windows, palms raised to the sky, while Lorna stood before them, light radiating from their palms up into the clouds. He looked down at the thousands of trolls covering the rocky cliffs of Knossos, overpowering the warriors—indeed, a group of them rushed for him even now. It was a dire scene for the men of Knossos.

  Yet, in a moment, everything changed. The dragons swooped down and, with their long talons, targeted the trolls, slicing them to pieces before they could reach him.

  Awful cries rang out as body parts went flying, the long claws cutting through the trolls like butter, sending them falling off the rock, down to the sea. Some of the dragons grabbed the trolls—two, three, four at a time—carried them up into the skies and dropped them down into the rocks, watching them splat. Other dragons scooped up trolls and ate them alive.

  The dragons circled around again, and this time, they pulled back their wings, opened their great mouths, and a terrible hissing noise followed as they breathed down a wall of flame.

  Merk braced himself, taking cover behind his shield, feeling the heat even from here, as the dragons took aim at the thousands of trolls still covering the cliffs. The trolls’ cries of agony rose even above the sound of the flames. Those who weren’t lucky enough to be killed on the spot turned and jumped off the cliffs, preferring a death by water than one by fire.

  Some trolls, though, survived, and these, still on fire, raced for cover on the isle of Knossos. A few ran for Merk, aflame, desperate, following a primal instinct of survival, not ready to jump over the edge. It appeared to be a death charge; they clearly wanted to grab Merk, and the other soldiers, and set them aflame, too. Misery wanted company.

  Merk braced himself. He was not prepared to die, and certainly not this way.

  As they neared, he leaned back and kicked back the trolls, his boot catching fire, then leaned forward and stabbed them through the chest. He kicked at them again and again, keeping them at bay, then finally stamped out the fire on his foot. Other trolls he smashed with his shield, fighting frantica
lly to keep them away and keep himself from catching fire.

  Merk heard cries all around him and looked over to see that some of the other warriors of Knossos were not so lucky. A troll, aflame, managing to grab one, squeezed him in a hug, and carried him with him as he leapt over the edge into the water. Their shrieks could be heard even out of sight, a terrible sound that made Merk want to forget it.

  Merk saw their leader, Vesuvius, on the isle of Knossos, encircled by flames, look over the cliffs, desperate, clearly afraid to fall. He opportunistically grabbed two of his trolls and in one quick motion, shoved them over the edge. He jumped over with them.

  Merk rushed to the edge and watched as they all fell. Vesuvius spun his trolls around in the air and used them as cushions, making sure to land atop them, breaking his fall with their bodies as they landed in the waters. His trolls were dead, crushed beneath his weight, but Vesuvius swam away, untouched. Merk could hardly believe what a cruel and heartless leader he was, as easily prepared to kill his own men as he was the enemy. A formidable foe, Merk realized, one without any morals.

  The dragons circled wider, broadening their reach, and dove for the water. They dove down close, fearless, the trolls’ spears merely bouncing off their hardened scales. They set the troll ships aflame, fire meeting water in a great hiss of steam.

  It was a chaotic, brutal scene. One chaos had been replaced with another.

  As the ranks of trolls attacking the island thinned, Merk saw a look of horror spread across Lorna’s face. Despite the intense flashes of light emanating from their palms, the dragons, done with the trolls, turned and, with blood in their eyes, set their sights back on the isle of Knossos. Merk felt a sense of dread as he realized they had lost control of the dragons.

  “Take cover!” Merk called out.

  It was too late. The dragons opened their mouths, flew at them impossibly fast, and a moment later a wall of flame slowly filled the ocean, creating a wall of steam, hissing, spreading right for the isle of Knossos. It wound its way up the mountain face, and right through the stony isle.