There was something on the horizon. It was faint, at first, like a cloud of dust. But it grew as he watched. It became an outline, a dark shadow, an army forming on the horizon.
And then it became thunder.
A moment later, the stampede came. They came racing over the hill, sounding like a herd of buffalo. They filled the horizon, the shouts audible now even to his deaf ears. They charged and filled the barren hillside, all coming, he was amazed to see, right for Volis.
What could they want with Volis?
As they came closer, he realized there was nothing they wanted here. Volis merely had the bad fortune of standing in their way.
They charged through the gate, and finally, Softis could see them clearly. As he did, his heart froze in his chest. These were no humans. Nor were they Pandesians.
Trolls.
An entire nation of trolls.
Halberds raised high, shrieking, vicious, blood in their eyes, they swarmed the land like locusts, clearly determined to destroy every last blade of grass in Escalon, to leave no thing unturned. It was as if the gates of hell had been unleashed.
As Softis stood there, in the center of Volis, the last man left alive, he realized they were coming right for him. Finally, for the first time in his life, death had targeted him.
Softis did not run. He did not cower. Instead, he stood there proudly, and for the first time in his life, he did his best to raise his arched back so that he would stand straight and tall, as his father might have done.
The trolls thundered through the gates, halberds held high, lowering them right for him, and Softis clutched his book to his chest, and he smiled. The curse of his life was over.
Finally, he had been blessed with death.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dierdre and Marco hiked through the woods as they had for hours, falling into the monotony of rhythm, of silence, of leaves crunching beneath their feet, each lost in their own gloom. Dierdre tried to shake away the images that flashed through her mind—of her father’s death, of Ur being flooded, of her nearly drowning beneath those waves. And yet every time she closed her eyes and shook her head, they only came back stronger. She saw herself tumbling through the water, saw her father’s face, dead, lifeless, staring up at the sky. She saw her beloved city, all she knew in the world, completely underwater, now nothing more than another forgotten lake.
Dierdre looked out at the white, glistening trees of Whitewood, tried to focus on something else, anything, to take her mind off the past. She still felt herself trembling, so caught up in her past trauma that it was hard for her to even remember where she was. She forced herself to focus. Where was she? Where were they going?
She turned and saw Marco hiking beside her, and it came rushing back to her: Kyra. They were heading north, to the Tower of Ur, to find her.
Dierdre looked at Marco. With his strong chin, broad shoulders, and dark features, he stood much taller than she, and she took comfort in his presence. There was something about him—quiet, never boastful, quick to listen—that made it easy to be with. Most of all, he was always there, by her side, and she realized she could depend on him. He had become like a rock to her.
Seeing him made her think of Alec, of the feelings she had felt for his friend, and it brought up fresh feelings of betrayal at Alec’s having fled. Had Alec survived? she wondered. If so, where was he now? If death was inevitable in this land, which it seemed it was, Dierdre could not help but wonder if it would have been better for Alec to die in glory with the others than to be dead somewhere else.
It all made her wonder who she could really trust in this world. Marco, she felt, was a man she could trust. In some ways, he reminded her of her father.
“And what if your friend is not there?”
Dierdre was startled by the broken silence. Marco was looking at her, too, clearly jolted from his own thoughts, black rings beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted, and she could only wonder what dark thoughts flooded his mind, too.
“She will be,” Dierdre replied, confident. “Kyra wouldn’t die. She is a survivor.”
Marco shook his head.
“Perhaps you put too much faith in your friend,” he said. “She is human, like us. How could she have survived the attack?”
“The Tower of Ur is far from the city,” Dierdre said. “Perhaps they have not reached her yet. Besides, she’s not alone. She has her horse and her wolf.”
Marco scoffed.
“And they can stop an army?”
Dierdre frowned.
“Kyra has more than that,” she added. “I can’t explain it, but she is special. If anyone can survive this war, it would be her.”
Marco shook his head.
“You speak as if she’s a magical being.”
Dierdre thought about that, and as he said the words, she realized there was some truth to them. There was something different about Kyra. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about her that made her seem…special.
“Maybe she is,” Dierdre finally said, wondering aloud even as she spoke the words.
“And if your friend is dead?” Marco pressed.
Dierdre sighed.
“Then we have journeyed north for nothing,” she admitted. “Either way, we will reach the Tower of Ur, and find safety there. The Watchers will take us in.”
“Why would they?” he asked.
“They must,” she insisted. “They are a fellowship of the kingdom, after all, and we are under attack. If nothing else, they will give us food, shelter, and a place to stay as long as we need it. From there, we can decide.”
He shook his head.
“Maybe you are right,” he said, “but maybe you are not. Maybe we should head to the sea, find a boat, can get as far from Escalon as we can.”
They continued hiking in silence, the only sound that of the leaves beneath their boots, each lost in their own thoughts. As more time passed, Dierdre began to feel how precarious their position was, how little time they might have left alive. She no longer felt the luxury of time, and she felt an urgency to know more about Marco.
“Tell me of your family,” she said tentatively, almost afraid to ask. Normally she would not be so forthright, but she felt she had no time.
Marco glanced at her, then looked away as his face dropped.
“My family’s been dead to me for most of my life,” he said, with the gloom of a person who has never known and loved his family. “My father was cruel to me ever since I was born. My mother, well, he oppressed her, too, and she retreated into herself. That was how she dealt with it. I had always wanted to protect her. But I couldn’t.”
Dierdre began to realize the layers of sadness that forged Marco’s character.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shrugged.
“That is in the past,” he said. “I feel that all the people we look up to betray us at one time or another. We must look for strength within ourselves, not hope to find it in others.”
It made her think of her own father, of their oft-difficult relationship, and it made her realize that life was a mystery to her. Dierdre realized that she and Marco had more in common than she thought. They understood each other, in an odd way. Both of them had been raised without true love in their lives. Only now was she realizing what a horrible thing that was for a child.
“Neither of us deserved it,” she finally said.
He nodded slowly as he walked.
“We don’t always get we deserve,” he replied. “Sometimes you must take what you deserve in life. Or sometimes you get it later in life, when you least expect it and least need it. But even if we don’t get what we deserve in life, that doesn’t mean we can’t end up with what we deserve. We have the power to decide what we deserve in life. We have the power to let ourselves have it—even if other people say we don’t deserve it.”
He kicked at the leaves as he went.
“Mostly,” he continued, “we must stop thinking in terms of
deserve or not deserve. When we don’t make demands on the world to give us what we think we deserve, we will find ourselves less disappointed. I’d rather create what I want in life than demand the world give me things. The former puts the power into my own hands; the latter strips it away and puts me at the mercy of the world.”
Dierdre liked that. The more she thought about it, the more she realized he was right—and that Marco was a more profound person than she had realized.
“And what do you deserve in life, Marco?” she asked, feeling a greater respect for him.
“I deserve it all,” he said firmly, sounding confident, without missing a beat—and she believed him. “And why shouldn’t I?” he continued. “Why should I deserve any less than anyone else?”
He fell silent and looked to her.
“And you?” he asked, hesitant.
“I deserve love,” she answered. “True love. After all, what is more powerful in life?”
He looked at her, then looked away, and he blushed. Dierdre could see in that moment that he had feelings for her. He did care for her; he was just too scared to say it. But she saw it in his eyes before he looked away.
They continued hiking in silence, drifting closer to each other, falling into a comfortable silence, as hours more passed.
Finally, they emerged from the wood, and as they did, they both stopped short, stunned at the sight before them. Dierdre’s breath caught in her throat as she stared out at the landscape. The image seared itself on her soul—like something out of a nightmare.
There stood the Tower of Ur, not resplendent, as she had anticipated—but collapsed in a pile of rubble. She heard herself gasp. What could never be destroyed sat destroyed before her.
Seeing it, Dierdre felt as if something had collapsed within her. There lay the tower, one of the foundations of Escalon, destroyed.
Worse, Kyra was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Andor, or Leo. What awful force could have ripped through here and done this? she wondered.
Beyond it, in the distance, Kyra could see the Sea of Sorrow, and her heart fell to see its waters black with more Pandesian fleets—all sailing toward shore.
They each stood there in shock and total silence for several minutes. Dierdre felt that all of her dreams, her hopes for safe haven, were crushed. It seemed there was no place safe anymore. Most of all, she was filled with sadness for her friend. There was no way Kyra could have survived this. She must be dead, too. And that left no hope for her.
“It’s not possible,” Dierdre heard herself say aloud.
Marco seemed too stunned to say anything.
Dierdre felt a tremor—and suddenly there came a tremendous shout from the woods. She turned and stared with dread at the woodline, and watched in horror as there burst forth an army of trolls. They came charging out at her, disfigured, grotesque, huge, halberds raised high, and running right for her.
Dierdre reached out and grabbed Marco’s hand and squeezed tight. There was little he could do but squeeze back. The trolls were hardly fifty yards away, closing in fast, and Dierdre knew in that moment that, for some cruel reason, fate had allowed them to survive the flood—only to die by a much worse fate.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Duncan, flanked by Kavos, Bramthos, Seavig and Arthfael, trailed by Motley and Cassandra, led his army as they marched across the plains, heading south, away from the shelter of the cave, and somewhere toward the Canyon of Baris. Duncan shifted in his armor, sweating, oppressed by the midday heat, their march feeling as if it had taken days. The entire army’s armor rattled, its perpetual clinking the only thing breaking the silence of this long, barren stretch of Escalon.
There was no shade to be found, nothing here but rock and dirt and the hope of their destination. It was a risky, exposed march, and yet Duncan knew they had no choice—they had to get as far away from the capital as they could, had to distance themselves from the Pandesian army and reach Baris before it was too late. They had to protect their flank. And Duncan had a score to settle.
Duncan’s blood boiled as he thought of Bant, the great traitor. The coward lived on, after selling out Duncan, clearly having sealed a pact with the Pandesians. Duncan would teach him the meaning of betraying his fellow countrymen. He would give him a visit he would never forget, and avenge all the lost lives of his men.
As he marched, Duncan thought of his son Aidan, and wondered if he had been wrong to allow him to join Anvin on the mission to Leptus. He was so young, and yet he had proved himself, and was determined. The time came for all boys, Duncan knew, to become men. And yet that was a crucial mission, one that could determine whether his own army would succeed. The men of Leptus might not feel compelled to join the cause, and if they would not come, Duncan knew that his men could find themselves fighting a losing battle in the canyon.
Duncan had bigger problems. He could feel the loss of morale amongst his men, having lost so many of their brothers on all the campaigns since Volis. Now here they were again, trekking across this endless landscape only to hope for more battle. It would be a battle, if they even won, that would only protect their flank and set them up to fight yet another battle. With dragons circling and the Pandesians filling his land, an end seemed nowhere in sight. Duncan could not help but admit to himself that he had doubts, too. Escalon, it seemed, would never be free again.
Yet Duncan knew from his experience that numbers did not tell the entire story; if he could strike the Pandesians at the right moment, could take them by surprise using the vantage point of his homeland’s terrain, maybe, just maybe, he could drive them into a trap and kill enough of them. If he could just drive them back to the Devil’s Gulch, he could seal them off, and from there, maybe even find a way to take the Bridge of Sorrows. He recalled all the legends, stories of a few brave warriors, well positioned, holding the Devil’s Gulch against thousands. It would soon be time to put that to the test—if he even made it that far.
Most of all, Duncan’s troubled thoughts turned to Kyra. His heart lifted with pride as he recalled her flying on Theon, saving him and his men from the burning capital. He had never been more proud of her. He cringed inside as he thought of her flying to Marda, a place from which no man had ever ventured. His heart sank as he wondered if he’d ever see her face again.
Duncan’s thoughts were jolted by a sound. At first he thought it was thunder behind them, but when he turned, he did a double take as he saw the horizon filled with black.
Heart pounding, Duncan stopped and turned with the rest of his army—and as he did, a chorus of Pandesian horns suddenly filled the air. There, pursuing them, were tens of thousands of Pandesian soldiers, leaving the capital, marching south. Led, in a procession of golden chariots, by Ra.
Many of the Pandesians rode horses, while some even rode elephants, and they sounded the horns again and again, a sound designed to strike panic into the enemy’s hearts. It was effective, making it hard to think straight.
Duncan could feel all the eyes on him, all his men looking to him for guidance. The Pandesians had shown up too quickly, before he could reach the safety of the canyon, before he could secure his flank and lure them into his trap. Duncan turned and saw, on the horizon, the contours of the canyon, too far to reach in time.
He turned and faced the incoming Pandesians and knew he would have to fight them here, now, a much greater army, in the open plain. He summed it up with his professional eye, and he knew in an instant that there was no way his men, however valiant, could win.
“Commander?” came a voice.
Duncan turned to see Kavos standing beside him, awaiting his command with all his warriors. He came to a decision. He turned to Kavos and spoke in his most authoritative voice.
“Take our men and continue south, for the canyon. I shall take a small group and face off against this army myself, long enough to distract them, to give you time to make the canyon safely. It shall give you time to defeat Baris, to hold the canyon and defend yourselves.”
Kav
os looked back solemnly.
“And you?” he asked gravely.
Duncan shook his head.
“I will do what every commander must do,” he replied. “I shall die with honor and save the bulk of my men.”
His men all stared back, somber.
Finally, Kavos stepped forward.
“A noble choice, Duncan,” he said. “But we shall not let you make a last stand alone.”
“It is not a request,” Duncan replied, “but a command. The men need someone to lead them. Take them and save them.”
“Name someone else,” Kavos replied, drawing his sword, standing beside Duncan to defend him. “Name anyone other than I.”
“And I,” Bramthos said, drawing his sword and joining them, too.
All around him brave men drew their swords, joining him, having his back, and Duncan was filled with gratitude and respect for them all.
Finally, seeing they would not budge, Duncan nodded to Arthfael.
“Very well then,” he said. “You, Arthfael. Lead the bulk of this army to the canyon. Secure it, and win a victory for us all.”
Arthfael hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded and followed his command. A horn sounded, and in moments he was off, leading nearly all of Duncan’s men forward for the canyon.
Duncan turned and faced the Pandesian army, a dozen of his men by his side, holding their swords bravely—and he himself drew his sword. Death was marching for him, and he felt not fear, but relief. At least he would die nobly, for a cause, as he had always hoped to.
“Men,” Duncan said, “shall we wait for them to reach us? Or shall we bring the war to them?”
His men all cheered, and as one, all these brave warriors followed him, racing into the desert landscape, swords raised high, Duncan feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as he knew a glorious battle, perhaps the last of his life, awaited him.