A Forge of Valor (20 page)

His father looked over and peered at Motley, Cassandra and White as they closed in.

“And who are these people with you?”

Aidan’s heart fell to see the sorry state his father was in, his chapped lips and bruised body. He could only imagine what they had done to him.

He held out his water sack, and his father drank greedily.

“Not too much,” Motley cautioned, stepping forward, holding the sack. “He will get sick.”

Aidan pulled back the sack as his father gasped with a great breath of relief.

“The keys!” Aidan called out, pained to see his father in shackles.

Cassandra rushed forward and fumbled with the key ring until she finally unlocked the shackles securing Duncan’s wrists and ankles.

His father leaned forward and fell into Aidan’s arms, too weak to stand. They all helped him to his feet, and Motley draped an arm around his shoulder, helping him to stand, to walk.

Distant noises of conflict erupted somewhere above ground.

“We must go!” Motley urged.

They hobbled back down through the dungeon corridors, past all the other cells, turning down endless halls. Aidan could hardly believe he actually had his father in his arms, that he really did it. Seeing him, he felt a reason to live again.

They turned down one corridor after another, until they finally reached the staircase again. They climbed the steps as best they could, all dragging Duncan, until finally they reached the upper level.

It was brighter up here, and Aidan, glad to smell fresh air again, could hear the fighting in the distance. He saw his father’s men, still locked in battle with the Pandesian soldiers. His father’s men, he was dismayed to see, were surrounded, many of them falling. Yet they were not backing down, and they were providing the crucial distraction that Aidan needed.

Aidan ran in their direction, sticking to the shadows, to any recesses in the wall they could find. His heart slammed as they made their way down the corridors, getting ever closer to the exit, to freedom. He craved to be back on the streets, far away from this place, from Andros, yet he had a sinking feeling he would never get out of here alive.

Finally, as they turned down the final corridor, Aidan saw it, right there before them: the door to freedom. It was open.

Aidan stepped out of the shadows, preparing to run for it, when suddenly, his view went black. He looked up to see his path was blocked. Standing before them was a huge Pandesian soldier, holding a sword and blocking their way.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” he sneered, looking over the group of them, his eyes resting on Duncan.

The soldier stepped forward, sword raised high, and Aidan knew they were finished. With Duncan in tow, there was no way they could defend themselves, and none of them were well armed enough, or could react quickly enough, to stop this man. Aidan braced himself for a sword in his gut. Even worse, for his father to be killed. What an awful place to die, he thought. Right here, just when they were staring at the gates to freedom.

Suddenly, the soldier gasped and dropped to his knees, falling face first in front of them, dead.

Aidan looked down, shocked, seeing a hatchet in his back.

He looked up and was baffled to see another Pandesian soldier approaching to kill them. He was confused. Why, he wondered, would a Pandesian soldier kill one of his own?

Aidan braced himself as the other Pandesian neared.

But then the Pandesian raised his helmet, revealing himself, and Aidan’s heart flooded with shock as he saw who it was:

Anvin.

“Anvin!” Duncan cried, seeing his old friend.

Anvin rushed forward and embraced them all, and without hesitating draped an arm around Duncan, helping to prop him up.

“We must hurry!”

Aidan saw a boy about his age come running forward, in a panic, and as he ran to Anvin’s side and began to help carry Duncan, he realized it must be Anvin’s squire.

The group of them turned and burst out of the final cell, out of the dungeons, back into the streets, and somewhere, in the chaotic capital night, toward freedom.

Merk hiked along the endless rocks of the Devil’s Finger, slipping, struggling to keep his footing, nearly drunk with exhaustion as he headed into the sunset. His eyes were so heavy he could barely keep them open, and he ached from every corner of his body, most of all from the wound left by that crab, still festering on his shin. Yet he knew he was lucky to be alive.

Endless waves of fog rolled in, carried by gusts of wind off the ocean and bay, some strong enough to knock him off balance. All the while he was plagued by the distant sound of the horns of Marda, echoing in the fog, haunting him, keeping the pressure on. After so many days of hiking without another soul in sight, he was beginning to realize why no one else dared this: hiking the Devil’s Finger meant taking your life into your hands.

Merk was losing hope of ever reaching the Tower of Kos; he was beginning to wonder if it truly existed, or if it was just a legend. He felt so weak, hands trembling from exhaustion, he knew he could never make it back. He found himself fantasizing about life on the mainland, about the bounties of Escalon. What he would give to be on flat, smooth, dry land again. To be anywhere in the world but here.

Each step more and more of an effort, Merk found himself sinking into despair. He caught himself looking down into the cracks and wondering how easy it might be to just step inside one of them and allow himself to plummet to his death. He looked left and right, to the ocean and to the bay, and realized how easy it would be to allow himself to slip over the edge, to plummet to his death. Maybe, he started to think, it would be a relief.

Merk looked up, hopeful despite himself one last time as he mounted another boulder—yet was crushed to see nothing but more rocks. He was certain that this was what death felt like, an endless trek to nowhere, tortured with each step. This was payback for the life he had led. After all, he had murdered dozens of people in his life, for hire, and this lonely hike forced him to reflect on all of them. He saw their faces, thought of the life he had led honestly for the first time, and he did not like what he saw. This odyssey, strangely enough, had been the
true
pilgrimage for him. Maybe that’s why the Sword of Fire was here.

If Merk had hoped to repent and reflect, he could not have hoped for a better place. Day after day of hiking these rocky cliffs, of not seeing a soul, of being engulfed in mist and fog, each step nearly slipping to his death, forced Merk to appreciate life. He wanted, for the first time, to
live
, to truly live. He wanted a chance to start life anew.

As the hours passed, the sun falling, Merk heard a noise, felt something on his cheeks, and he realized he was weeping. He was startled, and had no idea why. As he reflected, he realized it was a cry of regret, regret for the life he had lived. Regret for not being able to take it all back, to try again. He desperately wished to do it all differently, to have just one more chance.

Another gust of wind ripped through, and as the fog lifted, the sun, for the first time, shone down. Merk looked up and this time, he stopped, standing there in shock. His breath caught in his throat as he stared into the distance.

There, on the horizon, was a rainbow. He was not sure if he had ever believed in God, but this time, he felt God was answering him. He felt he was being offered redemption. He stopped and stood there and wept uncontrollably, not understanding life. He felt a part of him had died along the way and a new part was sprouting.

As Merk looked out beyond it, he saw another sight, one which stirred within him an even more intense mixture of feeling. The Sea of Sorrow met the Bay of Death. The two bodies of water conjoined, swirling with foam. The peninsula came to an end. The seas were shining. And standing there amidst all that light, Merk was amazed and elated to see, was a single structure.

A tower.

There it was, the ancient Tower of Kos, rising up in that landscape, amidst all the nothingness, as if emerging from the very stone itself. There it stood, perched proudly at the end of the world.

The Tower of Kos was real. And it stood right before him.

*

Merk scrambled down the last boulder, landing on gravel and sighing with relief. He had never been so grateful to be on dry, flat land. He could walk again, quickly and steadily, with no fear of falling. His boots crunched gravel and he had never enjoyed the feeling as much.

The Tower of Kos stood right before him, hardly fifty feet away, and Merk looked up and studied it in awe. Behind it the waves of the ocean and bay intersected and crashed, offering a stunning backdrop. As he looked up at the tower, what surprised Merk most was that he had seen it before; it appeared to be an exact replica of the Tower of Ur. The stone, the height, the diameter—each seemed to have been constructed at the same time, mysteriously, at opposite corners of the kingdom. But how? Merk wondered. How could one even manage to construct anything out here, at the edge of the world?

Merk stared up at the shining golden doors, just like the doors of Ur, and as he looked closely, he did notice a small difference: these doors bore a different insignia than the doors of Ur, were carved with different symbols, images. He wished now, more than ever, that he could read. What did it all mean? There was an image of a long sword, flames surrounding it, carved into the gold. It dominated both doors and crossed over them, placed horizontally.

As Merk stood there, he sensed a different energy to this tower. He could not put his finger on it, but something felt off. It was an
absence
. Oddly, it felt as if this place were abandoned.

Merk stepped forward, closer, and as he did, he was even more shocked to find the doors ajar. He felt a chill up his spine. How could the doors to the scared Tower of Kos lie open? Unguarded? Had someone beaten him here? What could it all mean?

Merk stepped closer, on edge, no longer knowing what to expect, and as he did, to his even greater shock, the doors began to open. Perplexed, he stood there, as out of the blackness there emerged a person. Not just any person—but the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. It made no sense. It was like an apparition.

With so many shocking things happening at once, Merk could not process it all. He did not know what he was most amazed by. He was speechless as this woman stood before the doors, staring back at him with her translucent blue eyes, her stunning features, perhaps in her twenties. Even stranger, he had the crazy feeling that he knew her, that he recognized her from somewhere. He recalled all his years of serving the old King Tarnis and as he looked at her, with her glowing blue eyes, her silvery-blonde hair, he could not help but think that she looked exactly like the old King Tarnis.

It made no sense. How could it be? Tarnis, as far as he knew, never had a daughter.

Or did he?

She stood there, looking back with such grace, such poise, he couldn’t see how she could be anything but royalty. Yet there was something more to her. Her face was so white, nearly translucent, radiating an intense energy, as if she were not entirely human. The last time he had felt this way was in the presence of a Watcher.

She stood there in the silence, punctuated by nothing but the wind and the waves, and as much as he wanted to know more, he also felt an urgency to get to the heart of the matter, to begin preparations to alert her, to protect the Sword, given the trolls were hardly a day behind him.

“My lady,” he began, “I have come on an urgent mission. An army advances here, an army of trolls, bent on destruction. They have come to kill you and everyone here, and to take the Sword.”

As she stared back, he was surprised to see no reaction—no fear, nothing. She remained expressionless. Perhaps she did not believe him. He wondered at his state, at what he might look like after that hike, and realized he could hardly blame her. Maybe in her eyes he was just a madman appearing out of the fog.

“I know that the Sword resides here,” he continued, determined. “I served at the Tower of Ur—the tower which is no more.”

Again, he searched her face for a reaction—and again, to his confusion, there came none.

“There is no time, my lady,” he urged. “We must secure the Sword before they arrive. We must prepare a defense immediately.”

He expected her to be dismayed, panic-stricken, but to his great surprise, she stood there with a slight smile at the corners of her lips, completely unfazed, holding more poise than anyone he’d ever seen.

“Is this not news that I bring you?” he finally asked, baffled.

“It is not,” she replied, her voice so smooth, so peaceful, it completely threw him off guard.

He was stunned.

“But how could you know all this?” he asked. “And if you knew all this…” he said, struggling to understand, “then…why are you still here? Why haven’t you fled?”

“Only I remain,” she replied patiently. “I sent the others away, long ago, the day that Marda crossed into Ur.”

Merk stared back, shocked. He looked up at the empty tower in wonder.

“Are you saying that you are here alone?” he asked. “Why have you not fled yourself?”

She smiled.

“Because I was waiting for you,” she replied flatly.

“For
me
?!” he asked, flabbergasted.

“I was waiting to save you,” she added.

He didn’t know what to say. Was she mocking him?

“But I have come here to save
you
,” he countered.

Merk stood there, anxiety rising within him as heard, yet again, the sound of the troll army in the distance.

“Who are you?” he asked, burning with curiosity.

But she would not reply. Merk was increasingly agitated.

 “I do not understand,” he said. “We have no time. If there is no one here, we must secure the Sword, take it far from here and leave this place.”

Still, she did not react.

“Tell me,” he insisted, desperate, wondering if he had made this long trek for nothing. “Is the Sword of Fire still here?”