by Morgan Rice
The governor smiled back.
“Good,” he replied.
Suddenly, the courtyard filled with the sound of armor rattling, of boots marching from all directions. Duncan spun and was stunned to see himself entirely surrounded by a division of Pandesian soldiers, thousands of men marching in a coordinated fashion from all sides of the courtyard, entering through the open-aired arches, emerging from every possible crevice. He heard the sound of arrows being drawn, and he looked up to see thousands more soldiers perched atop the battlements, arrows trained down on him. Even more shocking, they were dressed in the colors of Escalon. Duncan narrowed his eyes and realized they bore the red and black insignia of Baris. Yet he did not see Bant amongst them.
Duncan tightened his grip on his sword and clenched his jaws with fury, beginning to realize the depth of the betrayal. He was dumfounded that his own countrymen could turn on him, and astounded that he had led his men into a trap.
Duncan’s men shifted nervously in every direction, realizing, too, that they were surrounded, and Duncan turned to Tarnis, furious that he had sold him out. Yet Duncan was surprised to see from his face that Tarnis was shocked, too. Duncan followed his glance and turned to see Enis emerge from the Pandesian side, standing beside the governor, and it all became clear: Enis had orchestrated this all. He had sold out not only Duncan and his men, but his own father.
Duncan froze, realizing that, for the first time in his life, he had been outmaneuvered. They could perhaps fight the men surrounding them, even against the greater numbers, but with all those bows aimed down at them, they couldn’t even risk drawing their swords.
Enis stepped forward, a satisfied sneer on his face, came close to Duncan and stared him down.
“Well,” Enis finally said, breaking the tense silence, “you had your chance. Now I have made myself King.”
Duncan frowned back, repulsed by this boy.
“My boy, what have you done?” Tarnis asked, his voice pained, sounding much older.
Duncan saw the genuine horror, the sense of betrayal, on Tarnis’s face, and he realized that, at least, Tarnis had not collaborated with his son. He clearly had no knowledge of this.
“I did no worse than you, Father,” Enis replied, “when you let them in through the gates. I am merely finishing the job which you began. Your time has passed—it is my time now. You have your way of bartering, and I have mine. Mine is much more efficient, it seems. All I had to do was trade one man and his men to secure our borders. Quite the deal, don’t you think?”
Duncan glowered.
“You are worse than your father,” he seethed. “Tarnis, at least, sought to help our country. But you—you make a pact with your own countrymen to ambush your own people. And not for any sake of peace, but all for your own position. Your father did it for security—but you do it for power.”
Kavos, clenching his jaw, tightened his grip on his spear.
“I warned you, Duncan,” he said, his voice filled with rage. “I warned you to kill them all.”
“The time for words has passed,” Enis snapped, turning to Duncan. “Lay down your weapons now, and I will spare your men. Resist, and look up: you will all be dead before you draw a sword. There is no way out.”
Duncan looked around, fuming, knowing he was right. As a soldier, he craved to fight anyway, even with arrows protruding from his body, to fight to the death; yet as the commander of these men, and now as their King, he felt a responsibility. He could not sacrifice all these men’s lives. They would follow him anywhere, would fight anywhere for him, and he could not betray that sacred trust.
Duncan slowly laid down his sword, and one at a time, the air filled with the sound of men drawing swords slowly and laying them down on the stone. The courtyard filled with the clatter of a thousand pieces of steel hitting stone.
Only Kavos stood there, gripping his weapon, trembling with anger.
“Kavos,” Duncan said softly.
He gave Duncan a long, hard look, then finally, reluctantly, he laid it down, too.
Enis’s smile widened in satisfaction.
“Son, you cannot do this,” Tarnis said in a fatherly tone, stepping forward and laying a hand on his shoulder. “It is dishonorable. I negotiated a truce, in my name. You disgrace it.”
“Your name was already disgraced, Father,” Enis replied. “But mine, on the other hand,” he said, and stepped forward, pulled out a hidden dagger, and stabbed his father in the heart. “Mine will live forever.”
Tarnis gasped as he collapsed to the ground at Duncan’s feet.
Duncan stood there, horrified, disbelieving what he had just seen. A father killed by his own son, all for the sake of power. As much as he disapproved of Tarnis, he did not deserve to die that way.
Duncan, irate, rushed forward to grab him, but suddenly, he felt himself grabbed and yanked backwards from behind, as Pandesian soldiers from all sides closed in and restrained him. Duncan writhed with all his might, but he could not break free as he watched the nightmare unfolding before him. He was furious, most of all, at himself. Kavos had been right all along. Why had he trusted them?
“You will pay for this!” Duncan shouted.
“I think not,” Enis smiled.
Suddenly, from the Pandesian side, Bant emerged. He stepped forward and sneered at Duncan.
“It looks like you can’t protect your little birds any longer,” he seethed.
Bant then stepped toward Brandon and Braxton, each restrained by Pandesian soldiers, and sneered at them, but a few feet away.
“Not so big now without your father to protect you?” he asked them.
And then, before Duncan could react, Bant raised a sword, stabbed Brandon, then stabbed Braxton, in the chest.
Duncan felt as if he himself were stabbed as he watched his boys collapse at his feet.
“NO!” Duncan shrieked.
He writhed with all he had, dying inside, unable to break free, and suddenly he felt a metal gauntlet smashing him across the face, knocking him unconscious. And as his face hit stone, landing beside his two dead sons, his world turning black, he had one final thought:
Kyra? Where are you?
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Aidan sprinted through the back streets of Andros in the breaking dawn, White at his side, gasping for air as he ran, refusing to stop. He turned down street after street, criss-crossing the sprawling city, his lungs bursting, his legs burning, and not caring. After witnessing those men in that back alley arranging to betray his father, he was more desperate than ever to find him, to warn him before it was too late. But with dawn breaking, Aidan’s heart fell as he knew his time was running out. He ran even faster, ignoring the pain.
Aidan ran and ran, crossing through small squares, entering alleys, then emerging into squares again. He tried to follow the directions those people had given him, hours before, asking everyone he could. He followed street signs, etched into the stone the walls, illuminated by torchlight, hard to read. The city was so still in the early morning light, so quiet, so peaceful, it was hard to believe that any chaos could be imminent.
Aidan stopped and rested as he emerged from an alley, grabbing onto a wall, heaving. He wiped sweat from the back of his hand, unsure if he could go on, unsure if he was even heading in the right direction—when suddenly, he heard it. It was the unmistakable sound of boots, marching. Of armor, clanging. It was an army. His father’s army. And it lay just beyond those walls.
Aidan burst across the square, sprinting again, determined, running so fast he could barely breathe, White keeping pace beside him. Finally, after passing through a series of arches, he turned down an alleyway and emerged to see a huge open arch—and the sight on the other side of it dazzled him. There was a great square, the greatest of the capital, and assembling inside it, he saw with a thrill, was his father, standing there proudly, leading hundreds of men.
Aidan rushed forward, about to pass through, when something made him stop himself. He stood there,
at the edge, in the shadows, as he noticed something else: thousands of other soldiers, dressed in blue and yellow, surrounding his father. Aidan’s heart lurched as he realized who they were: Pandesians.
His father, he realized with a shock, had already been betrayed.
Aidan watched in horror as he saw his father and his men lay down their weapons; as he saw his father detained; and, most of all, as he watched his two older brothers, standing beside his father, suddenly get stabbed in the heart.
“NO!” Aidan cried out.
He began to run, to race out into the square, to help his father, his brothers, to grab whatever sword he could find and kill any Pandesians he could.
But a strong palm suddenly smothered his face, closing his mouth, silencing him. It pulled him back, stopping him in his tracks. The palm was fat, meaty, slick with sweat, the palm of an overweight man, and yet still it had strength, enough strength to detain him. Aidan was surprised that White didn’t snarl, didn’t help him—but then he looked over and realized, with a shock, why: it was Motley.
Aidan, anguished, desperate to aid his family, struggled to free himself.
“Let me go!” he tried to yell, between Motley’s fingers.
But Motley tightened his grip and shook his head.
“If I do, you’ll end up like them,” he replied firmly, yanking him back into the shadows.
Aidan tried to resist with all his might, but Motley was too strong.
“That is not the way,” Motley urged. “Be silent. You’ll get us both killed, and you’ll be of no help to your father or his men.”
Aidan tried to resist, but it was no use. Despite himself, he felt tears pour down his cheeks as he relived in his mind’s eye the image of his brothers being murdered.
“There is another way,” Motley urged, his voice earnest for the first time since Aidan had met him. “A far wiser way. Don’t die here. Live to fight another day. I will help you.”
But Aidan thought of his family out there, on the other side of that wall, needing him, thought of how far he had journeyed, only to be stopped so close, and he writhed to break free, even if he knew, deep down, that Motley spoke the truth.
“I’m sorry,” Motley said. “I don’t want to do this. But if I don’t, it will mean your death.”
Motley stuffed a rag in Aidan’s mouth, gagging him, and tossed him over his shoulder. Aidan tried to cry out, but it was no use; he kicked and flailed, but Motley was too strong.
Before he knew what was happening, Aidan was bouncing up and down, slung like a sack of potatoes over Motley’s shoulder as Motley ran away from the square, through the dark alleyways, White at their side. Motley, badly overweight, heaved from the effort, but to his credit, he never stopped running. He managed to take them far from the square, far from the death of his brothers, the ambush of his father, far from all the misery, from all the events that Aidan knew would change his life forever, and off somewhere to another world.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Anvin stood guard before the Southern Gate, Thebus and his men behind him, and as the sun rose high in the sky, the heat relentless off this patch of desert, he clenched and unclenched his grip on his sword. It was an old habit, one he always fell back on when danger was coming. And as he watched the horizon nervously, he saw looming the greatest danger of his life.
The rumble was growing louder, as it had been for hours, the horizon filled with a sea of black, infantry marching, hoisting the yellow and blue banners of Pandesia. Behind them came rows of cavalry, and behind these, rows of elephants, rhinos, and other beasts he did not recognize, all ridden by soldiers. The infantry bore all manner of weaponry, and they marched in perfect and terrifying discipline. The clip-clap of their boots sounded consistently, like a heartbeat, minute after minute, hour after hour, never breaking rank, never slowing, never speeding. That was what terrified him the most: the discipline. He’d never witnessed such exacting discipline in his life—especially amongst an army that size—and he knew that didn’t bode well. Discipline like that, combined with numbers like that, could destroy anything. He could only imagine the exacting and cruel standards the Pandesian commanders must have employed to maintain it.
It was as if half the world were marching his way. The rows and rows of soldiers marched across the Fields of Ore, their boots now stomping on the hard, black rock, their armor clanging, each step like a small earthquake. There was no mistaking it: they were all, the weight of the world, marching for the Southern Gate. Right for him.
Anvin turned and looked out at the Sea of Sorrow on his one side, and the Sea of Tears on his other, and he took no solace in the sight. The oceans, too, were full of black, all closing in on him. Escalon was being squeezed, surrounded on all sides. There was no doubt: the great invasion had begun.
Anvin had expected this; yet he had also expected Duncan and his men to be at his back when it happened. The Southern Gate could hold them all back—but he couldn’t do it alone, and he couldn’t protect their flanks without support. He needed Duncan and his men. And while Duncan had vowed to be here, he was nowhere in sight.
“And where is your Duncan now?”
Anvin turned to see Durge glowering back, his eyes cold and hard, stung by betrayal. His men, too, stared back at Anvin with the same dark expression. Anvin turned and glanced over his shoulder for the thousandth time, searching the horizon, the barren plains of Thebus, expecting to see Duncan appear at any moment, with his army, to back them up as he had vowed.
Yet as he stared, Anvin was shocked and crestfallen to see nothing. He had been watching since dawn, convinced that Duncan would not let him down. Never once, in all their years together, had Duncan broken a vow, had he abandoned him. Yet now the sun reached high noon, and no reinforcements had arrived. If they had not come by now, Anvin knew, they would not come. Duncan had abandoned them all to die.
“You vowed,” Thebus said, his voice trembling with anger. “You vowed the men of Thebus would not be betrayed again.”
“Duncan will come,” Anvin insisted, wishing he could believe it.
Durge stared back angrily.
“You cling to dreams,” Durge replied. “The time has passed. We are alone now, left to be killed.”
Anvin hardly knew what to say. Duncan’s not arriving meant his death, too.
“He would not abandon us,” Anvin insisted. “If he does not come, that could only mean one thing: he was captured or killed himself.”
Thebus shrugged, uncaring.
“And a lot of good that does me,” he replied.
Despite the death he saw marching for him, Anvin felt more concerned for Duncan, who was like a brother to him. For Duncan not to be here, he was either betrayed, captured, or dead. And if that had happened, then all of Escalon was lost. They had gambled—and failed.
The reality began to sink for Anvin that Duncan would not come. He would be alone out here, with these few men, to defend the Southern Gate against the hordes of the world.
And yet somehow, as the realization sank in, he felt no fear. No remorse. Instead, he felt gratitude. Gratitude that he could be allowed to make such a final stand in life, that he could die with a sword in his hand, outnumbered, facing the enemy bravely, a just cause behind him. It was all a warrior could wish for. Honor sometimes exacted a price, and this, indeed, was the precious weight of honor.
The marching grew louder. A series of horns sounded, deafening, and Anvin watched as the infantry broke into a jog—and then a sprint. The gap was narrowing; they were now but several hundred yards away.
“I won’t die cowering behind this gate,” Durge said.
Anvin saw his sneer and understood at once, feeling the same sentiment at the same time.
“Open the gates?” Anvin asked.
For the first time since they had met, Durge smiled wide.
“Open the gates,” he echoed.
They turned to their men and nodded, and to their credit, their men opened the gates without hesitati
on, all apparently thinking the same thing, none showing any fear. They turned the heavy cranks, one turn at a time, and slowly but surely the chains rattled, and the massive gates rose higher and higher.
As it opened high enough, Anvin walked through it, Thebus by his side, two veteran warlords, two men who had seen it all, who had devoted their lives to Escalon. Two men who could command armies in their own right. They stood there, on the other side of the gate, unprotected, side by side, facing off against the hordes charging for them, thundering, deafening. They stood proudly, unflinching, neither looking back.
Anvin heard boots crunching in gravel, and he was proud to see, one at a time, all of his men step forward beside them, on this side of the gate. All unflinching. All doing what they had been born to do.
As Anvin squinted into the sunlight, into the rising clouds of dust, he thought of his life, of his family, of Volis. He thought of his friends, his children. He thought of Duncan. He thought of Kyra, how much he admired her, how he had always been a mentor to her. And for some reason, of all his final thoughts, he wished that she, above all, would survive. Would live to avenge him.
The hordes neared, hardly a hundred yards away now, the ground shaking, and Anvin drew his sword, the distinctive sound still able to be heard above the din, while Thebus and the others drew theirs, too. Not one of them looked back. They all stood there in the open, no gate before them, unprotected. Welcoming. Ready to embrace their fate.
“MEN OF ESCALON!” Anvin shouted. “FOR FREEDOM!”
They all let out a great shout, as suddenly, Anvin broke into a sprint. He would not wait for the enemy—instead, he would rush out to greet them. His men followed close behind, a few men against a million, racing toward battle, toward death, and toward the glorious ecstasy of honor.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Kyra, riding Andor, Leo at her side, galloped through the thick forest of Ur in the morning light, haunted by her visions and determined to reach her father in time. She saw her father’s face as she recalled her vision of his getting killed, and she closed her eyes and tried to blot it out. She saw Theos, too, lying dead, and she hoped and prayed that somehow it was all just an illusion, all just another test. Yet somehow, deep down, she knew it was not.
