by Morgan Rice
Duncan grimaced, unsure how to respond. It was the last thing he wanted.
“I am no politician,” Duncan replied. “Just a soldier. That is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Sometimes life demands of us more than what we want,” Kavos countered. “I want our country ruled by one of us—by a man I trust and respect. Vow to me—or my army stays here.”
Duncan sighed, long and hard, wishing it had not come to this. After a long silence, pondering his options, punctuated only by the wind, he knew he had no choice.
Finally, he turned to his friend and nodded.
They reached out and clasped arms, and in that clasp, Duncan felt the fate of Escalon—the new Escalon—being forged.
Kavos smiled wide.
“Long life is overrated,” he said. “I’ll take glory any day.”
“To Andros!” Kavos shouted out, joy spreading across his face as all of their men gathered around, raised their weapons, and shouted out, as one, behind them.
“TO ANDROS!”
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Ra, Supreme Leader of Pandesia, sat on his golden throne in the vast Hall of Thrones, in the center of the great capital of Pandisiana, and he gritted his teeth and looked out over the room, towering over his dozens of advisors, and was filled with fury at the scroll before him. A messenger knelt below him, trembling, knowing. His Glorious Ra did not welcome bad news, and it was at one’s own peril to deliver it.
Ra, seven feet tall, olive-skinned, with long, golden braids for hair tied tightly to his head and clear, translucent eyes, felt a great anger welling up as he pondered the scroll’s message. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his muscles rippling in the warm weather, visible for all to see as he wore but a golden chained vest and golden loincloth, bedecked with jewelry. Ra, supreme leader, had spies in every corner of the kingdoms, and he was never—ever—caught off guard. He was Ra, the All-Knowing, the All-Mighty, the Omniscient, the One Ruler Over All, the one that all of the empire prayed to in their morning prayers, the one deified in every statue in every town of the empire.
Yet this day was different. This message which wafted in, like a foul breeze, had caused him consternation, had disrupted his immaculately constructed peace.
Ra clenched his jaw, pierced with a golden and sapphire chain, wondering how he could have not anticipated this, wondering how any of his necromancers could not have foreseen this. The men of Escalon, those rebellious scum, had begun a revolution. His soldiers had been killed. Lord Governors had been killed. And the rebellion was spreading across Escalon like a cancer.
His authority was being threatened. And that could not be: to erode his authority would be to erode the entire authority of the empire. After all, if the great and supreme Ra showed weakness in one corner of Escalon, then no one, anywhere would respect him.
Ra looked about the Hall of Thrones, a vast chamber with a dome-shaped ceiling a hundred feet high, his throne perched atop a dais twenty feet high, with a long series of narrow ivory steps leading up to it. The floors, the walls, everything was covered in shining gold, gold he had personally captured in conquests from around the world. And yet he fumed. He took no joy in all the splendor about him, as he usually did, no joy in gazing down upon the dozens of men all patiently awaiting his command. He saw only in his mind’s eye the rebellious men of Escalon—and he wondered how anyone, in any corner of the world, would dare defy him.
Clearly, he had underestimated these men of Escalon. Clearly, he had not been brutal enough.
“Most Honorable and Supreme One,” one of his advisors finally called out. “Shall we raze Escalon to the ground?”
Ra was pondering the same thing. In most territories he conquered he simply killed everyone, not wanting to waste the effort to beat them into submission. Often it was easier to just wipe out a single country, a single race, and just take all that was theirs. But he had seen an advantage to keeping the people of Escalon alive. The men were famed warriors, having never lost a battle before his invasion, and he admired their skills; he had already drafted many of them into his armies and he could use their skill. More importantly, their weak king had submitted without a fight, which sent a positive message to those around the world. And most importantly, he needed the men of Escalon to patrol The Flames. Only they knew how to keep the trolls back, how to contain Marta. Ra, despite all his might, did not want war with Marta. One day, perhaps—but now was not the time. It was a primitive, savage place, besides, with nothing to offer but useless hills and rocks. Escalon was the prize.
By instituting his new law of puellae nuptias, by taking their women, by letting them know they were all Pandesian property, Ra had assumed it would send Escalon into final submission. He had been wrong.
Ra blinked down at the messenger and he realized that all of his concerns were nothing, still, next to the final words of the message. A dragon had appeared in Escalon. And a young girl had been able to command it to destroy his men. He could hardly fathom it.
“You are certain this message is correct?” Ra asked.
The messenger nodded back, fear in his eyes.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Ra felt a pang of fear. He could not help but think of the prophecy that had haunted his reign: There would come a rise of the dragons, followed by a rise of the valiant. A single girl would rise up, with powers never before seen, and control the north. She would command them to destroy Pandesia—and she could only be stopped before her powers were complete.
Ra sat there, feeling his heart slamming his chest, and he knew now that the day had come.
“Where is she?” Ra asked the messenger.
The messenger swallowed.
“Our spies have been told she heads to the ancient Tower of Ur.”
Ur. The Tower. The Watchers. That only cemented Ra’s fears. He knew the power that lurked behind those walls. If she reached that tower, she could become more powerful than he could control. He had to use all the force at his disposal to stop her before it was too late.
There came a shout outside the hall, and Ra caught a glimpse, through the open-air arch, fifty-feet-high, of the companies of soldiers patrolling the courtyard. They were an army grown idle. An army that needed to be fed. An army ready for war.
Ra stood to his full height, his muscles bulging, his golden armor jingling. He casually swung around his golden dagger and sliced the throat of the messenger before him, as if scratching his arm. He saw fresh fear in the faces of all those stationed in his chamber. They should be afraid, he realized. For Ra was not only a great leader, not only a god, but also a great warrior. He could feel his blood boiling, itching for bloodlust, for complete domination, for the urge to have all peoples in every corner of the world bend their knee to him.
Ra looked out and surveyed his commanders, all afraid to meet his gaze.
“Assemble all my armies,” he commanded. “We shall stop at nothing until we find this girl.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
It made no sense. Vidar stood atop the parapets of Volis and looked north, for the horizon, towards The Flames, and he wondered. So far off, their dim glow was slowly becoming visible as afternoon gave way to dusk, and as he stood there, a dozen of his brothers-in-arms around him, all Duncan’s men, he was perplexed. For hours, he’d been feeling the tremor, a slight vibration that rang through the ground, through his feet, like a mild earthquake. His whole life in Volis he had never felt anything like it.
Vidar reached out and laid his hands on the stone, and as he did, he felt it again: a tremor. It came every minute or so, then disappeared just as suddenly. It seemed to be getting stronger.
Vidar could not fathom what it could be. Had the dragon returned? Was it stomping through the countryside? No, it could not be a dragon. If it were, would he not see it, or hear it?
There were no earthquakes in Volis, either, no fault lines as far as he knew.
Perhaps, he thought, it was an approaching army. Was Pandesia heading this
way with all its might? That wouldn’t make any sense, either, because the shaking stopped every minute before starting again. An army would not pause.
What, then, could it be?
The whole day he had shrugged it off as nothing, expecting it to go away. But now he could ignore it no longer.
Vidar felt a great responsibility; after all, this was the first time that Duncan had left him in charge of a fort—much less Volis—and he was determined to make him proud. With the bulk of their force headed south with Duncan, someone had to stay behind, to man this fort against an unexpected attack. He clutched his sword, not wanting to let Duncan down, and wondering why this would happen on his shift.
Another tremor came, this stronger than the last, and as Vidar watched, the stone a small pebble jumped off, falling off the parapet. He felt a pit in his stomach. Whatever it was, it was real.
Vidar turned and faced the others, who all looked back at him, pale. He detected something in their faces he had never quite seen before: fear. Vidar himself was unafraid to meet any enemy. At the first sign of any foe, he would rally his men and rush to defend, and would challenge any man—or army—sword to sword. It was what he did not know that concerned him.
Vidar looked north, toward The Flames, and a sinking feeling washed over him. He did not know why, but he felt that, whatever it was, it was coming from that direction—and that it was coming for them all.
*
Vesuvius stood deep underground, below Escalon, watching with ecstasy as, up ahead in the tunnel, the giant creature he had captured smashed and pounded its way through the stone. With each blow the earth shook, strong enough to make Vesuvius sway. His army of trolls, all around him, stumbled and fell, but Vesuvius managed to keep his footing, hands on his hips, as he stood there and watched with glee. He could remember few moments of greater satisfaction in his life. His plan, after all these years, was hatching perfectly.
The clouds of dust had not settled when the creature charged forward in a burst of rage, butting the stone wall with his head, reaching up and clawing, tearing at rock and stone, trying to break free and too stupid to know he was only digging deeper. It turned and turned, frustrated, unable to find its way out. And it smashed the stone some more.
Every once in a while the giant turned, as if second guessing itself, and ran away from the wall, back toward Vesuvius. In these instances, Vesuvius had hundreds of his soldiers rush forward and goad it with long pikes, making it turn back around—but not before it swiped and killed dozens of his men. Indeed, Vesuvius’ ranks were quickly thinning—a small price to pay for the conquest to come, the victory nearly in his grasp. After all, when this tunnel was finished, when the pathway connecting Marta to Escalon was done, then his entire nation of trolls could invade and destroy Escalon once and for all.
Vesuvius followed the giant at a safe distance, his heart pounding with excitement as the beast burrowed deeper and deeper underground, smashing its way south. As he stepped forward, Vesuvius suddenly felt himself sweating, and sensing something, he reached up and laid his palms on the ceiling. He was giddy with excitement. The rock was warm. That could only mean one thing: they were now directly beneath The Flames.
With a thrill unlike any he had ever felt, Vesuvius marched forward, following the beast, feeling his destiny in his grasp. As the beast smashed through rock again and again, sending small boulders rolling back his way, Vesuvius felt a bigger thrill than he knew was possible. Victory, total subjugation of Escalon, was finally in reach. With each step he took, he was now in enemy territory.
Yet they were still hundreds of feet below ground, and Vesuvius knew he had to get the creature to burrow upwards. When they had passed a good distance past The Flames, Vesuvius summoned his soldiers.
“Prod the beast!” he called out. “Drive it upwards!”
His soldiers paused, unsure, knowing it would mean their deaths to march forward. Seeing his men’s hesitation, Vesuvius knew he had to take decisive action.
“Torches!” he called out.
Men rushed forward with torches, and Vesuvius took one himself, let out a great battle cry, and led his men forward in a charge.
They all followed, hundreds of trolls racing forward, lighting the blackened tunnel as they headed for the beast. Vesuvius was the first to reach it and as he did, he touched it to the beast’s foot, prodding it to smash upwards.
The beast shrieked, turned, and swiped for him. Vesuvius, anticipating it, stepped out of the way just in time, and the beast swiped several of his men, killing them instead, then smashed a huge chunk out of the wall.
Another one of his men rushed forward, then another, all setting their torches to its feet, following Vesuvius command—until finally, the giant, enraged, its feet burning, began to jump straight up. It smashed its head on rock, then shrieked and reached up and clawed at the ceiling—exactly as Vesuvius hoped it would.
Vesuvius squinted at the clouds of dust and watched, heart pounding, as the creature made its way upwards, burrowing the tunnel on an angle. This was the moment he had been waiting for, had dreamed of for as long as he could remember.
As Vesuvius watched, waiting, breathless, peering into the darkness, there came a tremendous crash—and he suddenly found himself flooded with light. Sunlight. Glorious sunlight.
Sunlight from Escalon.
Dust swirled in it as the sunshine flooded the tunnel, lighting it up. The beast smashed through again, widening the hole above ground, sending rock and dirt and grass everywhere, like a great geyser emerging from hell.
Vesuvius stood there, too frozen in shock to move, hardly able to process what had just happened. With that final blow, the creature had finished the tunnel, had opened the gateway for the invasion of Escalon. The Flames were now useless.
Vesuvius smiled wide, it slowly dawning on him that his plan had worked. That he had outsmarted them all.
It was time for the great invasion to begin.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Aidan, still groaning in pain, braced himself as the man lowered his boot for his face, knowing his skull was about to be crushed. He would give anything to have his father by his side now, to have his brothers here—or most of all, to have Kyra here. He knew she would protect him. Now, he would have to meet his fate alone. If only he was older, bigger, stronger.
As the boot came lower and Aidan raised his hands, cringing, bracing himself, a sudden snarling noise cut through the air—one that made his hairs rise on end. Aidan looked over and was shocked to see White rushing forward. The huge, wild dog, somehow finding a reserve of strength, lunged and jumped onto the man’s chest, sinking his fangs into him before he could stomp Aidan.
The man shrieked as White snarled viciously and shook his head every which way, biting the man on his hands and arms and chest and face.
Finally, the man, bloodied, rolled to his side, groaning.
White, still snarling, mouth dripping with blood, was not done. He stepped forward, clearly aiming for the man’s jugular, preparing to kill him for good. But White then stumbled and keeled over, and Aidan realized that he was still too injured to finish the man off.
The man, sensing an opportunity, did not wait. He quickly crawled to his hands and knees, then stumbled to his feet and ran all the way back to the front of his cart, woozy on his feet. He pulled himself back up, and sitting unsteadily, lashed his horses.
They took off, Aidan was dismayed to see, at a gallop. In but moments the wagon disappeared into the night, leaving Aidan and White utterly alone in the black woods, days away from civilization.
Aidan lay there, his body still wracked with pain, too exhausted to stand, and he was surprised to feel a tongue on his face. He looked over to see White leaning over, lying down, too, and licking him.
Aidan reached out and hugged the dog, and the dog, he was surprised to see, leaned his head into his chest.
“I owe you my life,” Aidan said.
White looked back at him with eyes that seemed to
respond: And you saved me, too.
Aidan knew that by doing what he had done, he had probably just forfeited his only chance at survival. Now here he lay, alone, on this cold night, hungry, beat up, a wounded wild dog beside him, the two of them without anyone to help them. Yet Aidan didn’t care. He had done the right thing, and nothing mattered more than that.
Aidan couldn’t give up. He couldn’t just lie there and die—and he couldn’t let White die, either. And if they didn’t start moving, he could feel, they would both soon stiffen up and freeze to death.
Aidan mustered a supreme effort and got himself unsteadily to his feet, clutching his ribs where the man had kicked him. He then helped White up, dragging him to his feet, too. The two of them stood there, facing the long, open road ahead of them. Aidan knew they would most likely die out here—but no matter what happened, he had saved this animal.
Aidan put one foot before the next, White limping beside them, and the two of them set off together—one small boy and one wounded dog, alone beneath the stars in the vast, black forest—taking their first steps on the impossibly long walk to Andros.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Theos circled high over Escalon, above the clouds, out of sight of the humans, soaring from one end to the other, taking in, with his magnificent vision and focus, the vista below. He flew into the sunset, flapping his great wings, moving across hills with each flap, covering more ground than these humans could in days, as he searched. Until he found what he was looking for, he would not rest.
This land of Escalon was so different than his home on the far side of the world, so much smaller, and devoid of the lava and ash, of the endless stretches of black rock that made up his homeland. It was also devoid of the omnipresent screeches of his fellow dragons. It was almost too quiet here—and it unnerved him. It reminded him of how alone he was, how far from home he was. But for this mission, he would venture to the ends of the earth.
