by Morgan Rice
His men looked back nervously, all clearly terrified at the idea of freeing it; Vesuvius feared it, too, though he would never show it—and yet he knew there was no other way.
Vesuvius wasted no time. He stepped forward decisively, raised his sword, and slashed the first of the thick ropes binding the giant’s neck.
Immediately, hundreds of his soldiers stepped forward, raised their swords high, and severed its ropes, the sound of ropes snapping filling the air.
Vesuvius quickly retreated, backing off but not too obviously, so his men would not see his fear. He slithered back behind his ranks of men, into the shadows of the rock, out of reach of the beast after it gained its feet. He would wait to see what happened first.
A horrific roar filled the canyon as the beast rose to its feet, enraged, and without wasting a second, swiped down with its claws in both directions, scooped up four trolls in each hand, raised them high overhead and threw them. The trolls went flying end over end through the air, across the cave, until they smashed into the far wall and collapsed, sliding limply down, dead.
The giant, unsatisfied, bunched its hands into fists, raised them high and suddenly smashed the ground, using them like hammers, aiming for the trolls who scurried about. Trolls fled for their lives, but not in time. He crushed them like ants, the cave shaking with each smash.
As trolls tried to run between its legs, the giant then raised his feet and stomped, flattening others beneath its feet. It was on a rampage, and killing trolls in every direction. No one seemed able to escape its wrath.
Vesuvius watched with a mounting dread. He signaled to his commander, and immediately, a horn sounded.
On cue, hundreds of his soldiers marched forward from the shadows toward the giant, long pikes and whips in hand, all of them ready to poke and prod the beast. They encircled it, rushing forward from all directions, doing their best to prod it to across the cave and towards the tunnel. Vesuvius was certain it would work.
But he was horrified to see that he was gravely mistaken. Before his eyes, his plans collapsed. He watched in horror as the beast leaned back and kicked a dozen soldiers away at once; it then swung its forearm around and swatted fifty more soldiers, smashing them into a wall; it stomped others, killing so many so quickly that none could get near it.
They were, Vesuvius quickly realized, useless against this creature, even with their numbers and even with all their weapons. Shrieks filled the canyon, as trolls died left and right, his army dissolving before his eyes.
Vesuvius thought quickly. He could not kill the beast—he needed it alive, needed to harness its power. He needed it to obey him. But how? How could he get it into the tunnel?
Suddenly, he had an idea: if he could not prod it, then he could entice it.
He turned and grabbed the shoulder of the soldier beside him.
“You,” he ordered, “you will run for the tunnel. Make sure the giant sees you.”
The solder stared back, wide-eyed with fear.
“But, my Lord and King, what if it follows me into the cave?”
Vesuvius grinned.
“That is exactly my point.”
The soldier stood there, panic-stricken, too scared to obey.
Vesuvius stabbed him in the heart, then stepped up to the next soldier and held the dagger to his throat.
“You can die here now,” he said, “by the edge of my blade—or you can run for that tunnel and have a chance to live. You choose.”
Vesuvius pushed the blade tighter against his throat, and the soldier, realizing he meant it, turned and ran off. Vesuvius watched as he ran across the cave, zigzagging his way amidst all the destruction, between all the dying soldiers, through the beast’s legs, and continued to run for the entrance to the tunnel.
The giant spotted him, and he swatted down and missed him. In a rage, and attracted to the one soldier running away from him, the giant, as Vesuvius had hoped, immediately followed. It ran through the cave, each step shaking the earth, the walls.
The troll ran for his life and finally entered the massive tunnel. The tunnel, though wide and tall, did not go very deep, though, ending after a mere fifty yards despite years of work—and as the troll ran inside, he soon reached a wall of rock. The giant, enraged, charged in after it, never even slowing.
As the giant reached the troll it swiped for him with its massive fists and claws; the troll ducked out of the way, and instead the beast smashed into rock. The ground shook, a great rumble followed, and Vesuvius watched, in awe, as the wall crumbled, and as an avalanche of rocks came pouring out in a massive cloud of dust.
Vesuvius felt his heart quicken. This was it—it was exactly what he needed, exactly what he had dreamt of his entire life, what he had envisioned from the day he set out to find this beast. It swiped again, and smashed out another huge chunk of rock, taking out a good fifty feet in a single swipe—more than Vesuvius’s slaves had been able to do in an entire year of digging. Vesuvius was overjoyed, realizing it could work.
But then the giant found the troll, grabbed it, lifted it into the air, and bit off its head.
Vesuvius knew this was his chance.
“CLOSE THE TUNNEL!” he commanded, rushing forward and directing his soldiers.
Hundreds of trolls, waiting on standby, rushed forward and began pushing the slab of Altusian rock that Vesuvius had positioned before the entrance to the tunnel, a rock so thick that no beast, not even this creature, could puncture. The sound of stone scraping stone filled the air as Vesuvius watched the tunnel slowly get sealed up.
The giant, seeing the entrance being closed, turned and charged for it.
The entrance was sealed a moment before the giant slammed into it. The entire cave shook with the impact, but he was unable to smash it.
Vesuvius smiled; the giant was right where he wanted him.
“Send the next man in!” Vesuvius ordered.
A human slave was kicked forward, lashed by his captors, again and again, toward a tiny opening in the stone slab. The human, realizing, refused to go, kicking and struggling; but they beat him savagely, until finally, he stopped—and they ran him through the opening, giving him one last shove through.
From inside there came the muffled shouts of the slave, clearly running for his life, trying to get away from the beast. Vesuvius stood there and listened with glee as he heard the sound of the enraged giant, trapped, swatting and smashing at rock, digging his tunnel for him.
One swipe at a time, his tunnel would be dug—each swipe, he knew, bringing him closer and closer to The Flames. He would turn Escalon into a nation of trolls, turn the humans into a nation of slaves.
Finally, victory would be his.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Kyra opened her eyes to blackness, having no idea where she was. She lay on a cold stone floor, her head splitting, her body aching, and wondered what had happened to her. Shivering from the cold, her throat parched, feeling as if she hadn’t eaten in days, she reached out and felt the cobblestone floor beneath her fingers, and she tried to remember.
Images flooded her mind, and she was unsure at first if they were memories or nightmares. She saw herself being captured by the Lord’s Men, thrown into a cart, a metal gate slamming on her. She remembered a long, bumpy ride, resisting as the gate finally opened, struggling to break free and being clubbed on the head. After that all had, mercifully, been blackness.
Kyra reached up and felt the back of her head and as she felt the lump, she knew it had not been a dream, but all too real. The reality sunk in like a stone: she had been captured by the Lord’s Men, carted off, imprisoned.
Kyra was furious at Maltren for his betrayal, furious at herself for being so stupid not to have foreseen it. Yet she was also scared, feeling a cold sense of dread as she pondered what would come next. Here she lay, alone, God knew where, in the Governor’s custody; only terrible things could be coming for her. She felt sure that her father and her people had no idea what had happened to her, where she w
as; Maltren would probably lie to them and tell them he saw her leaving the fort for good.
As Kyra scrambled in the dark, she instinctively reached over her shoulder for her bow, her staff—but all of her weapons had been stripped. She was defenseless, too.
Kyra saw a dim glow coming through the cell bars, and she sat up and looked out and saw torches lining the stone walls of a dungeon, beneath which stood several soldiers, at attention. There sat a large iron door in the center of it, and it was silent down here, the only sound that of dripping coming from the ceiling, and of rats scurrying somewhere in a dark corner.
Kyra scurried up against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest, trying to get warm even though she could not. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, trying to imagine herself someplace else, anywhere, and as she did, she saw the dragon’s intense yellow eyes staring back at her, as if taunting her.
Strength is not defined in times of peace, the dragon said to her. It is defined in hardship. Embrace your hardship, do not shy from it. Only then will you overcome it.
Kyra opened her eyes, shocked at the vision, looking around and expecting to see the dragon in front of her.
“Did you see them?” a girl’s voice cut through the darkness, making Kyra flinch.
Kyra wheeled, stunned to hear the voice of another person here in this cell with her, coming from somewhere in the shadows—and even more stunned to hear it was a girl’s voice. She sounded about her age, and as a figure emerged from the shadows, Kyra saw she was right: there sat a pretty girl, perhaps fifteen, with brown hair and eyes, long tangled hair, face covered in dirt, clothes in tatters. She looked terrified as she stared back at Kyra.
“Who are you?” Kyra asked.
“Have you seen them?” the girl repeated, urgently.
“Seen who?”
“His son,” she replied.
“His son?” Kyra asked, confused.
The girl turned and looked outside the cell, terror in her eyes, as if awaiting someone, and Kyra wondered what horrors she had seen.
“I haven’t seen anyone,” Kyra said.
“Oh God, please don’t let them kill me,” the girl pleaded. “Please. I hate this place!”
The girl began to weep uncontrollably, curled up on the stone floor, and Kyra, her heart breaking for her, got up, went over to her, and draped an arm around her shoulder, trying to soothe her.
“Shhh,” Kyra said, trying to calm her. Kyra had never seen anyone in such a broken state; this girl looked positively terrified about whoever it was she was talking about, and it gave Kyra a sinking feeling for what was to come.
“Tell me,” Kyra said, “I don’t understand. Who are you talking about? Who hurt you? The Governor? Who are you? What are you doing here?”
She saw the bruises on her face, scars on her shoulders, and she tried not to think of what they had done to this poor girl.
As Kyra waited patiently, the girl slowly stopped crying.
“My name is Dierdre,” she said. “I’ve been here…I don’t know. I thought it was a moon cycle, but I have lost track of time. They took me from my family, ever since the new law. I tried to resist, and they brought me here.”
She stared into space as if seeing her past before her.
“Every day there are new tortures for me, new punishments,” she continued. “First it was the son, then the father. They pass me off like a doll and now…now I am… nothing. I just want to die. Please, just help me die.”
Kyra looked back at her, horrified.
“Don’t say that,” Kyra said.
“I tried to take a knife the other day to kill myself—but it slipped from my hands and they captured me again. Please. I’ll give you anything. Kill me.”
Kyra shook her head, aghast.
“Listen to me,” Kyra said, feeling a new inner strength rise up within her, a new determination as she saw this girl’s plight. It was the strength of her father, the strength of generations of warriors, coursing through her. More than that: it was the strength of the dragon. A strength she did not she had until this day.
She grabbed the girl’s shoulders and looked her in the eye, wanting to get through to her in her hysterical state.
“You are not going to die,” Kyra said firmly. “And they are not going to hurt you. Do you understand me? You are going to live. I’m going to make sure of it.”
The girl seemed to calm quite a bit, to draw strength from Kyra’s strength.
“Whatever they have done to you, that is in the past now. Soon you are going to be free—we are going to be free. You are going to start life over again. We will be friends, and I will protect you. Do you trust me?”
Dierdre looked at her, clearly shocked. Finally she was calm.
“But how?” Dierdre asked. “You don’t understand. There is no escape from here. You don’t understand what they’re like—”
Suddenly they both flinched and wheeled as the iron door slammed open and in walked the Lord Governor, trailed by a half dozen men, and joined by a man who appeared to be his son, his spitting image, with that same bulbous nose and smug look, perhaps in his thirties. He had his father’s same sneering stupid face, his same look of arrogance.
They crossed the dungeon and walked up to the cell bars, and as they did, his men approached with their torches, lighting up the cell. Kyra looked around in the bright light and was horrified to see her accommodations for the first time, to see the bloodstains all over the floor. She did not want to think of who else had been here, or of what had happened to them.
“Bring her here,” the Governor ordered his men.
The cell door was opened, in marched his men, and Kyra found herself hoisted to her feet as she was grabbed by several men, arms yanked behind her back, unable to break free of their grip as much as she tried.
They brought her close to the Governor and he examined her, looking her up and down like an insect.
“You thought you could defy me, did you?” he said softly, his voice low and dark. “Did I not warn you?”
Kyra frowned.
“Your law only allows you to take unwed girls as wives, not as prisoners. You violate your own law to bring me here.”
The Governor exchanged a look with his son, then they all broke into hearty laughter.
“Do not worry,” he said, glowering at her, “I will make you my wife. Many times over. And my son’s, too—and anyone else’s whom I wish. When we’re done with you, if we haven’t killed you yet, then I’ll let you live out your days down here.”
He grinned an evil grin, clearly enjoying this.
“As for your father and your people,” he continued, “I’ve had a change of heart: we are going to kill every last one of them. They will be a memory soon enough. Not even that, I’m afraid: they will be erased from the memory books. As we speak, an entire division of the Pandesian army is approaching to avenge my men and destroy your fort.”
Kyra felt a great rage and indignation bubbling up within her. She tried desperately to summon her power, whatever it was that had happened to her on the bridge, but to her dismay, it would not come. She writhed and bucked, but could not break free.
“You have a strong spirit,” he said. “That is good. I shall enjoy breaking that spirit. I shall enjoy it very much.”
He turned his back on her, as if to leave, when suddenly, without warning, he wheeled back around and backhanded her with all his might.
It was a move she did not expect, and Kyra felt the mighty blow smash her jaw and send her reeling back down to the floor, beside Dierdre.
Kyra, stung, jaw aching, lay there and looked up, watching them all go. As they all left her cell, locking it behind them, she saw the Governor stop on the other side, face against the bars, and looked down at her.
“Take the night off,” he said. “I will torture you tomorrow.” He grinned wide. “I find that my victims suffer the most when they are given a full night to think about the hardship to come.”
He let out an
awful laugh, delighted with himself, then turned with his men and left the dungeon, the massive iron door slamming behind them like a coffin slamming on her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Merk hiked through Whitewood at sunset, his legs aching, his stomach growling, trying to keep the faith, to know that the Tower was out there somewhere, that eventually he would reach it. He tried to focus on what his new life would be like once he arrived, how he could start fresh, become a new person.
But he couldn’t focus. Ever since he had met that girl, heard her story, it had been gnawing away at him. He wanted to push her from his mind, but try as he did, he could not. After all, was he not turning away from a life of violence? Wasn’t that the whole point of becoming a better person? If he went back for her as a hired hand, when would the killing ever end? Would there not be another job, another cause, right behind that one?
Merk hiked and hiked, poking the ground with his staff, leaves crunching beneath his feet, furious. Why had he had to run into her? It was a huge wood—why couldn’t they have missed each other? Why did life always have to throw things in his way? Things that were beyond his understanding?
Merk hated hard decisions, and he hated hesitation; his entire life he had always been so sure of everything—that he had regarded as one of his strong points. He had always known what he was: a hired hand. But now, he was not so sure who he was. Now, he found himself wavering.
He cursed the gods for having him run into that girl. Why couldn’t people take care of themselves, anyway? Why did they always need him? If she and her family were unable to defend themselves, why did they deserve to live anyhow? If he saved them, then sooner or later some other predator would just run into and kill them?
No. He could not save them. That would be enabling them. People had to learn to defend themselves.
And yet, maybe, he pondered, there was a reason she had been put before his eyes. Maybe he was being tested. He looked up at the skies, the sunset glowing, barely visible through the wood, and he wondered at his new faith. His new sense of something bigger in the world.
