Up and up he went, floor after floor, leading his trolls, until finally he reached the end and burst through to the roof. There, finally under open sky, he was delighted to see dozens of dead humans, all murdered by his spears and arrows and catapults. Some lay wounded, groaning, and Vesuvius walked over to each one and stabbed them slowly, reveling in their cruel deaths.
On the far side of the roof, though, a dozen or so human soldiers remained, bloody, wounded, yet still approaching to fight. These men just would not quit. They raced for Vesuvius and he rushed forward, relishing the battle to come.
Vesuvius chopped one in the chest, swinging with his halberd before the man could reach him; he then dodged the sloppy sword slash of another soldier, spun around and stabbed him in the back. He raised his halberd high and turned it sideways, blocking a sword slash coming down at him, then kicked the soldier in the chest, raised his halberd high and chopped him in half.
All around him his trolls rushed forward and attacked the remaining humans left and right. The last one alive panicked, desperate, and turned and ran for the battlements. Vesuvius did not want to let him off so easily. He took aim, threw his spear, and it lodged in the man’s back. Vesuvius grinned as he stepped forward slowly, grabbed the man from behind, and hurled him over the edge. He watched with great joy as fell shrieking, flailing, to his death below.
Vesuvius’s trolls cheered, the tower finally theirs.
Vesuvius stood there, feeling a rush of victory. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he would be standing here, atop the tower, it entirely in his possession, the humans’ most precious building. He felt as if nothing could stop him. As if the world were his.
Remembering the Sword, Vesuvius turned and rushed back down the stairs until he reached the top floor of the tower, the floor, legend had it, that held the mythical Sword. He put his shoulder into an oak door, smashing it open, then barreled through the chamber until he came to another door. He was puzzled to find a dead human lying at its entrance, the body cold, dead long ago. He was puzzled by that. Someone had been here already, had killed this human. But who? Why?
Vesuvius stepped forward in the silence, the shouts of the trolls muted behind the thick stone walls, and he pushed open the door, his heart pounding in anticipation. He entered the solemn chamber, lit dimly by torches, and as he looked up, he saw an ancient cradle of steel, velvet cushions beneath it, as if meant to hold the Sword. Vesuvius sensed immediately that he had found it.
He stepped forward, his heart pounding, expecting to see the Sword, to finally, after all this time, grasp it in his hands.
There, beneath the steel cradle, was a flaming torch, as if to signify this was the home of the Sword of Fire. Yet as Vesuvius slowly looked up, his heart fell. He felt a rush of devastation, of despair. It was as if the whole world had fooled him.
It was empty.
In a rage, Vesuvius rushed forward and smashed the cradle, swinging his halberd, destroying it again and again. He grabbed what was left, lifted it high overhead and hurled it into the walls, smashing it repeatedly. He finally leaned back and shrieked, and the sound shook the very fabric of the tower.
His journey through Escalon, he realized, had not even begun. There would be much more killing ahead of him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Anvin slowly peeled open one eye and managed to look out, just enough, to see a world of dust and death. His one good eye was encased with dust and dirt, and he opened it just a bit, the world but a sliver, and as he lay there, face-first in the desert rock, he desperately tried to remember where he was, what had happened. His limbs ached more than he thought possible, his body weighed a million tons, and he felt more dead than alive.
Anvin heard a distant rumble and he looked up to the horizon and could see the faint outline of an army, gleaming yellow and blue, marching away. They stirred up a cloud of dust as they marched north, away from him.
Slowly, he began to remember. The invasion. The Pandesians. The Southern Gate. Duncan had never arrived. He and his men had lost. They had failed to stop them.
Anvin lay there, feeling the bruises all over his body, the welts on his head, the cuts and wounds stinging. He felt a tremendous throbbing in his hand and he looked down to see his pinky finger was missing, the blood dried up, only a stump now. The memories came rushing back. The battle. The hordes of the world descending upon him at once.
Anvin wondered how he could be alive. He tried to look around, still unable to move his neck, and saw the dead face of Durge, lying but a few feet away, eyes wide open, staring back. The stern look haunted him, as if even in death Durge was saying I told you so.
Anvin shifted, just enough to look further and see the dead bodies of all his fellow soldiers, all the men who had followed him, who had believed in him, who had fought for Duncan, who had fought for Durge, all lying there, dead. He, apparently, was the sole survivor.
In flashes, Anvin recalled their glorious last stand. None of his men had backed down from the hordes of the world. Anvin recalled killing a dozen Pandesians as they reached him. It had been a glorious stand in the face of certain death. One in which he was meant to die, in which all of them were meant to die, and all of them had. Except him. Somehow, fate had been cruel, and had left him alive, he and he alone.
Anvin struggled to think back, to remember how he had survived. He remembered being smashed in the head with a hammer, it knocking him to the ground; then, horses stampeding over him. He shifted and felt the welts on his back where the horses, then the soldiers, had marched over him, all assuming him dead. Somehow he had been overlooked in the carnage as the army had marched over him. They’d assumed he was dead. And from the way he was feeling now, they weren’t entirely wrong. A million welts and bruises. As he tried to move, he realized the pain was too intense.
Why had he lived to bear witness to this? Anvin wondered. Why couldn’t he have died in one final glorious stand, as he had intended. What was the point of living now? Escalon was overrun. Surely everyone he knew and loved was dead. Duncan, too, must be dead; otherwise, he would have arrived to reinforce him.
Anvin used all his effort to move his arms out a little, and then, slowly, to pull himself up just a bit. He reached out, grabbed rock and dirt, and making a fist between his fingers, hands shaking, struggled to rise. He then reached out with the other arm, in pure agony, half his body unable to move. He had never experienced pain like this, had never been beaten and trampled by thousands of men. Hardly able to breathe, he rolled to his side, put one palm flat, and pushed himself up, just enough.
Slowly, he was able to lift his neck a bit more, his breath catching in his throat. His other eye was still sealed shut, yet somehow he made it to one knee, wobbling, nearly falling.
After minutes of sitting there, breathing hard, he forced himself to try again. He could not just die here. He had to go on.
Be strong.
Anvin looked over at Durge’s dead body and saw his sword laying in the dust, just a few feet away. Anvin reached out, knowing it was the only way.
With a supreme effort, he managed to grab his friend’s sword. Grabbing the hilt, he stuck it into the dirt and used it to steady himself as he rose up. Fitting, he thought, that he should bear Durge’s sword.
With shaking arms Anvin made it to his feet. He stood there, unsteady, trying to balance. He breathed for a long time, not feeling as if he could go on. He was dizzy, wishing he could hold onto something, and he squinted into the sunset as he looked around with his one good eye. He wished he hadn’t. He was surrounded by death, by desolation, realized he stood completely alone in this desert wasteland. Yet at least he was alive. He should be grateful for that.
Anvin turned and looked out at the horizon, at the disappearing Pandesian army invading Escalon, and he felt filled with resolve. He could not let them enter his country. Not after all he had stood for.
Somehow he mustered the energy to put one foot out before the other, and he took his first step.
<
br /> Then another.
And another.
Anvin felt as if he were walking underwater, sweating, feeling as if he would collapse at any moment. He forced himself to think of Duncan, of all those back there that he knew and loved—and he forced himself to go on.
It would be an endless trek, he knew, a wasteland before him, and beyond that, the Pandesian army. Even if he made it, even if he reached them, he would surely be killed.
Yet he had no choice but to move forward.
That was who he was.
And that was what he lived for.
His whole life had been a forge, a forge of valor. And he was the man, the soldier, that his friends, his commanders, and most of all, himself, had forged. Each choice had forged him, had made him the person that he was, had shaped his character. And each choice mattered as much as the next one.
It was a choice to go on. Or a choice to retreat, to die here, to fail.
Anvin gripped his sword, clenched his teeth, and stepped forward, one foot a time. He had made his choice. He would survive, regardless of what life had thrown at him. He was stronger than hardship. Stronger than suffering.
And he would not stop until he had killed them all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dierdre cried out as she fell, plummeting down into the blackness, somewhere beneath the streets of Ur. She held tight to Marco’s hand as they both descended, expecting the fall to kill her. She could not think of a more awful way to die.
Finally, she landed with a splash in a pool of water, up to her waist, immersed in freezing water. Marco landed with a splash beside her, and Dierdre, breathing hard, wiped water from her eyes and gasped for air, marveling that she was alive. Heart slamming, she looked around and saw that they had, at least, sealed themselves in underground, had spared themselves from a certain death above. Yet where were they?
She looked around in the dim light, getting her bearings, while Marco took her arm and helped her up. These tunnels were lit only by small shafts of sunlight coming in from somewhere high above, allowing just enough light for Dierdre to see water dripping from the rotting stone walls, the pools of water beneath her. Marco began to walk and she walked with him, still smarting from the fall and from the shock of how close she had come to dying up there.
Dierdre heard, high above, the thunder of the Pandesians storming the city, spreading out across Ur, killing all her people. She could hear the muffled screams even from way down here, screams of her fellow countrymen being killed, rising up with the echo of cannon fire, of buildings collapsing. She felt as if the world had come to an end.
Her heart banged with fear as directly above, she heard the sound of halberds pounding metal; clearly the Pandesians were trying to smash the hatch and pursue them down here.
“We must keep moving!” Marco urged, yanking her along.
Dierdre let him guide her, and they hurried through the tunnels, water splashing beneath their feet. She closed her eyes as she went, seeing flashes of her father’s dead body back there on the beach, and trying to shake it away. It was almost too much to go on.
Marco, knowing these tunnels well, soon led her to a passage. They turned down another tunnel, echoing as they ran, then down another, until finally Marco led them to a small set of stone stairs, leading up. They ascended and Dierdre found herself in another tunnel, this one with a dry floor, closer to the surface, a bit brighter in here.
Marco suddenly pulled Dierdre into a corner and put his hand on her lips to quiet her. She stood beside him, barely breathing, and as Marco pointed to a shaft of sunlight high above, she looked up. Dierdre saw, through slats in the iron, Pandesian soldiers rushing back and forth; she saw people getting stabbed, falling everywhere, while others tried to flee. She looked over as Marco pointed, and on the far side of the tunnel saw a ladder leading up.
Dierdre felt a rush of outrage.
“We must save them!” Dierdre urged. “We cannot let them die!”
Marco’s face was grim.
“To go up there would mean our death,” he replied.
She frowned.
“Better to die helping those people than stay down here and die like cowards,” she retorted.
Without thinking, Dierdre rushed to the ladder and climbed two rungs at a time until she reached the top, determined to save them. She immediately heard Marco behind her, climbing the ladder too, and as she reached the last rung, unable to pull back the heavy iron, she expected him to try to stop her, to pull her back down.
But to her surprise, Marco reached up and unlocked it. He hung there beside her, so close, and he stared back at her, love and admiration in his eyes. And then, to her surprise, he leaned forward and kissed her.
And to her even greater surprise, she leaned in and kissed him back. It was the kiss of two people who knew they were about to die, and had nothing left to lose.
Marco reached up and pushed the hatch gently, just enough to see a wave of Pandesian soldiers rushing past. They ran amidst dust and rubble, racing through the streets, chasing victims. Dierdre watched as a huge, arched building collapsed, blocking the way with a mountain of rubble, and, she was happy to see, killing several Pandesians in the process.
She spotted several citizens cowering behind the wall of rubble—old men, women, children—cut off from the pursuing Pandesians for the time being. But already she could hear the Pandesians climbing the wall.
“Now!” Dierdre cried.
She and Marco pushed open the latch all the way, and Dierdre burst back above ground, onto the streets, Marco beside her. She felt vulnerable up here, yet liberated, driven by a purpose.
As she reached them, the cowering people looked up at her with startled faces; Dierdre, wasting no time, grabbed the first one she saw, a child, perhaps ten, who looked up at her in fear.
“Come this way!” she said. “Quickly!”
All the people, seeing a chance for safety, followed her and Marco, racing for the open hatch. She and Marco guided them down the ladder, below ground, into the tunnels.
Dierdre looked up and saw the Pandesians begin to surface atop the mound of rubble, yet she did not descend. She stood there, refusing to descend until all the people were safely below.
“Go below!” Marco shouted to Dierdre, over the sound of a cannonball striking another building. He turned and held a spear at the ready, facing the Pandesians, standing guard, too, while more people descended. “It’s too dangerous for you up here!”
She shook her head.
“Not until they’re all down,” she insisted.
There remained about a dozen more people—an old woman, a man with a limp, and several children. Dierdre stood there bravely, not budging until she ushered them all down, one at a time, while the Pandesians, over the mound of rubble, were closing in.
“Hurry!” Dierdre called to the stragglers, tightening her grip on a spear.
She soon realized that she wouldn’t make it back down in time. She raised her spear, as did Marco beside her, and they turned to face off against the soldiers as the last of the people descended.
Three soldiers met them at once, and Dierdre ducked as one lunged for her; she then swung around and sliced his throat. Marco didn’t wait, but ran forward and stabbed one through the heart. And when the third lunged for Marco’s back, Dierdre rushed forward with a scream and jammed her spear in his back. The soldier spun around, and Marco stabbed him in the throat, felling him.
Dierdre heard a clamor, looked up, and saw dozens more soldiers appearing at the top of the mound.
“Let’s go!” Marco urged.
They descended, rushing down the ladder as the Pandesians charged. Marco reached up and with a second to go, slammed closed the hatch and bolted it. There came the stomping of boots on the iron grate, as the Pandesians desperately tried to get in.
But there was no way, even for them. The iron was a foot thick, and their swords could not penetrate it.
Standing at the foot of the ladder, safely below,
breathing hard, Dierdre looked at the group of citizens, then to Marco. He looked back, as disbelieving as she.
Somehow, they had done it.
*
Dierdre and Marco lingered with the dozens of people in a cavernous room below ground, all of them finally safe. They were cold, tired, shivering, and some of the children were crying. Dierdre wondered how long they could all survive down here. But at least, she told herself, she had saved them from an imminent, violent death, had given them more time, a second chance at life, however long that was. She felt good about it. It helped her take her mind off her father, off all the devastation around her.
Dierdre paced, as she had for hours, wondering what to do next as she heard the entire city being destroyed above her. They could not stay down here forever, she knew that. Death was coming for them all.
The more she paced, the more a burning resolve began to grow within her. She thought of her dead father up there, of the sacrifices he had made, and she knew she had to follow in his footsteps. It was the only way to honor his legacy. Her thoughts turned to Alec and she remembered the work he had done, forging those chains, those spikes and slowly, an idea dawned on her.
Dierdre turned to Marco as she heard the cannon fire subside, who sat there, dejected, head in his hands.
“They’ve finished the first assault,” she remarked. “That means their ships will be entering the canals soon.”
He looked back at her, wondering.
“Let’s not make it easy on them,” she added.
He stared back, and slowly recognition dawned across his face.
“The chains?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Are they in the canals?” she asked, wondering if their work was completed before the invasion.
Marco nodded back with an expression of deadly seriousness.
“Alongside the harbor,” he replied. “But not affixed. We did not have time before the invasion.”
Dierdre nodded, feeling a sense of resolve.