A Realm of Shadows (4 page)

Kyle swung his
staff with all he had, reeling from exhaustion as he struck both the Pandesian
soldiers and the trolls closing in on him from all sides. He felled men and
trolls left and right as their swords and halberds clanged off his staff,
sparks flying everywhere. Even while defeating them, he could feel the ache,
deep in his shoulders. He had been battling them for hours, he was surrounded
on all sides now, and his situation, he knew, was dire.

At first the
Pandesians and trolls had fought each other, leaving him free to fight whom he
wished, yet as they saw Kyle felling everyone around him, they clearly realized
it was in their best interest to team up against him. For a moment the
Pandesians and trolls had stopped trying to kill each other, and instead all
focused on killing him.

As Kyle swung
and knocked back three trolls, a Pandesian managed to sneak behind him and
slash Kyle’s stomach with his sword. Kyle shouted out and reeled from the pain,
spinning to avoid the worst of it, yet still bleeding. Before he could parry, at
the same time, a troll raised a club and smashed Kyle in the shoulder, knocking
the staff from his hand and sending him to his hands and knees.

Kyle knelt
there, the pain shooting up and down his shoulder, throbbing, as he tried to
catch his breath. Before he could gather himself, yet another troll rushed
forward and kicked him in the face, sending him flat on his back.

A Pandesian then
stepped forward with a long spear, raised it high with both hands, and brought
it down for Kyle’s head.

Kyle, not ready
to die, spun out of the way, and the spear planted itself in the ground just
inches from his face. He continued to roll, gained his feet, and as two more
trolls charged, he grabbed a sword from the ground, spun, and stabbed them
both.

As several
others crowded in, Kyle quickly grabbed his staff and knocked them all out, fighting
like a cornered animal as he formed a circle around him. He stood there,
breathing heavily, blood pouring from his lip, while his opponents formed a
thick circle around him, all closing in, blood in their eyes.

The pain in his
stomach and shoulder unbearable, Kyle tried to block it out, tried to focus as
he stood there. He faced an imminent death, he knew, and he took solace only in
the fact that he had rescued Kyra. That had made it all worth it, and he was
willing to pay the price.

He glanced at
the horizon, and took solace in the fact that she had gotten away from all
this, had ridden away on the back of Andor. He wondered if she was safe, and
prayed that she was.

Kyle had fought
brilliantly, for hours, one man up against both these armies, and had killed
thousands of them. Yet now, he knew, he was too weak to go on. There were just too
many of them, and their numbers never seemed to end. He had found himself in
the middle of a war, the trolls flooding the land from the north while the
Pandesians streamed up from the South, and he could no longer fight them both.

Kyle felt a
sudden pain in his ribs as a troll rushed him from behind and jabbed him in the
back with the shaft of his ax. Kyle swung around with his staff, slashing the troll
in the throat, dropping him—but at the same time two Pandesian soldiers rushed
forward and smashed him with their shields. The pain in his head overwhelming,
Kyle dropped down to the ground, this time, he knew, for good. He was too weak
to rise again.

Kyle closed his
eyes and there flashed through his mind images of his life. He saw all the Watchers,
people he had served with for centuries, saw all the people he had known and
loved. Most of all, he saw Kyra’s face. The only thing he regretted was that he
would not see her again before he died.

Kyle looked up as
three hideous trolls stepped forward, raising their halberds. He knew this was
it.

As they began to
lower them, everything came into focus. He was able to hear the sound of the
wind; to really smell the crisp, cool air. For the first time in centuries, he
felt truly alive. He wondered why he had never been able to truly appreciate
life until he was almost dead.

As Kyle closed
eyes and braced himself for death’s embrace, suddenly a roar pierced the sky.
It snapped him from his reverie. He blinked and glanced up to see something emerge
through the clouds. At first Kyle thought it was angels, coming to take away
his dead body.

But then he saw that
the trolls above him were frozen in confusion themselves, all searching the sky—and
Kyle knew it was real. It was something else.

And then, as he
caught a glimpse of what it was, his heart stopped.

Dragons.

A flock of
dragons circled, diving down in fury, breathing fire. They descended rapidly, talons
extended, letting loose their flame and, without warning, killing hundreds of
soldiers and trolls at once. A wave of fire rolled down, spreading, and within
seconds, the trolls standing over Kyle were all burnt to a crisp. Kyle, seeing
the flames coming, grabbed a huge copper shield beside him and took shelter
behind it, curling up in a ball. The heat was intense as the flames rolled off
it, nearly burning his hands, yet he held on. The dead trolls and soldiers
landed on top of him, their armor further shielding him as yet another wave of
flame came, this one more powerful. Ironically, these trolls and Pandesians
were now saving him from death.

He held on,
sweating, barely able to stand the heat as the dragons dove again and again. Unable
to stand it any longer, he passed out, praying with all he was that he was not
burned alive.

Vesuvius stood at
the edge of the cliff, beside the Tower of Kos, staring down at the crashing
waves of the Sorrow, the steam still rising from where the Sword of Fire had sunk—and
he grinned wide. He had done it. The Sword of Flames was no more. He had robbed
the Tower of Kos, had robbed Escalon, of its most precious artifact. He had,
once and for all time, lowered the Flames.

Vesuvius beamed,
giddy with excitement. His palm still throbbed from where he had grabbed the burning
Sword of Flames, and he looked down and saw the insignia branded in it. He ran
his finger along his fresh scars, knowing they would stay there forever, a mark
of his success. The pain was blinding, yet he forced it from his mind, forced
it not to bother him. In fact, he taught himself to enjoy the pain.

After all these
centuries, now, finally, his people would have their due. No longer would they
be relegated to Marda, to the northernmost reaches of the empire, to infertile
land. Now they would take their vengeance for being quarantined behind a wall
of flames, would flood Escalon, tear it to shreds.

His heart
skipped a beat, giddy at the thought. He could not wait to turn back around, to
cross the Devil’s Finger, to return to the mainland and to meet his people in
the middle of Escalon. The entire troll nation would converge at Andros, and together, one square inch at a time, they would destroy Escalon forever. It
would become the new troll homeland.

Yet as Vesuvius
stood there, looking down at the waves, the spot where the sword had sunk, something
gnawed at him. He looked out to the horizon, examining the black waters of the Bay of Death, and there was something lingering, something that made his satisfaction incomplete.
As he examined the horizon, far out in the distance, he spotted a single, small
ship with white sails, sailing along the Bay of Death. It sailed west, away
from the Devil’s Finger. And as he watched it go, he knew something was wrong.

Vesuvius turned
back and looked up at the Tower beside him. It had been empty. Its doors left
open. The Sword had been waiting for him. Those guarding had abandoned it. It
had all been too easy.

Why?

Vesuvius knew the
assassin Merk had been pursuing the Sword; he had followed him all the way
across the Devil’s Finger. Why then would he abandon it? Why was he sailing away
from here, across the Bay of Death? Who was that woman sailing with him? Had
she been guarding this tower? What secrets was she hiding?

And where were
they going?

Vesuvius looked
down at the steam rising from the ocean, then back up to the horizon, and his
veins burned. He could not help but feel that somehow he had been duped. That a
complete victory had been snatched from him.

The more
Vesuvius dwelled on it, the more he realized something was wrong. It was all too
convenient. He studied the violent seas below, the waves crashing into the rocks,
the rising steam, and he realized he would never know the truth. He would never
know if the Sword of Flames had truly sunk to the bottom. If there was
something here he was missing. If that had even been the right sword. If the
Flames would stay down, too.

Vesuvius,
burning with indignation, came to a decision: he had to pursue them. He would
never know the truth until he did. Was there another, secret, tower somewhere? Another
sword?

Even if there
was not, even if he had accomplished all he needed, Vesuvius was famed for
leaving no victims alive. Ever. He always pursued every last man to his death,
and standing here, watching those two escape from his grasp, did not sit right
with him. He knew he could not just let them go.

Vesuvius looked
down at the dozens of ships still tied to the shores, abandoned, rocking wildly
in the waves, as if waiting for him. And he came to an immediate decision.

“To the ships!” he
commanded his army of trolls.

As one they
scrambled to do his bidding, rushing down to the rocky shore, boarding the
ships. Vesuvius followed, boarding the stern of the final ship.

He turned, raised
his halberd high, and chopped the rope.

A moment later
he was off, all the trolls with him, all of them crammed onto ships, and
setting sail on the legendary Bay of Death. Somewhere on the horizon sailed Merk
and that girl. And Vesuvius would not stop, no matter where he had to sail, until
both of them were dead.

Merk gripped the
rail as he stood at the bow of the small ship, the former King Tarnis’s
daughter beside him, each lost in their own world as they were thrown about by
the rough waters of the Bay of Death. Merk stared out at the black waters, windswept,
dotted with whitecaps, and he could not help but wonder about the woman beside
him. The mystery surrounding her had only deepened since they’d left the Tower of Kos, had embarked on this ship to some mysterious place. His mind swam with
questions for her.

Tarnis’s
daughter. It was hard for Merk to believe. What had she been doing out here, at
the end of the Devil’s Finger, holed up in the Tower of Kos? Was she in hiding?
In exile? Being protected? From whom?

Merk sensed that
she, with her translucent eyes, her too-pale complexion and unflappable poise,
was of another race. But if so, then who was her mother? Why had she been left
alone to guard the Sword of Flames, the Tower of Kos? Where had all her people
gone?

And most pressing
of all, where was she leading them now?

One hand on the
rudder, she steered the ship deeper into the bay, to some destination on the
horizon that Merk could only wonder at.

“You still haven’t
told me where we’re going,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

There followed a
long silence, so long, he was unsure if she would ever reply.

“At least, then,
tell me your name,” he added, realizing she had never offered it.

“Lorna,” she
replied.

Lorna
. He liked the
sound of it.

“The Three Daggers,”
she added, turning to him. “That’s where we’re going.”

Merk frowned.

“The Three Daggers?”
he asked, surprised.

She merely looked
straight ahead.

Merk, though,
was stunned by the news. The most remote islands in all of Escalon, The Three Daggers
were so deep in the Bay of Death, he had not known of anyone who had ever actually
traveled there. Knossos, of course, the legendary isle and fort, sat on the
last of them, and legend had always had it that it held Escalon’s fiercest
warriors. They were men who lived on a desolate island off a desolate peninsula,
in the most dangerous body of water there was. They were men rumored to be as
rough as the sea that surrounded them. Merk had never met one in person. No one
had. They were more legend than real.

“Did your Watchers
retreat there?” he asked.

Lorna nodded.

“They await us
now,” she said.

Merk turned and
looked back over his shoulder, wanting one last glimpse of the Tower of Kos, and as he did, his heart suddenly stopped at what he saw: there, on the
horizon, pursuing them, were dozens of ships, sails full.

“We’ve got
company,” he said.

Lorna, to his
surprise, did not even turn around, but merely nodded.

“They will chase
us to the ends of the earth,” she said calmly.

Merk was
puzzled.

“Even though they
have the Sword of Flames?”

“It was never
the Sword that they were after,” she corrected. “It was destruction. The
destruction of us all.”

“And when they catch
us?” Merk asked. “We cannot fight off an army of trolls alone. Nor can a small
isle of warriors, no matter how tough they may be.”

She nodded,
still unfazed.

“We may indeed
die,” she replied. “Yet we shall do it in the company of our fellow Watchers, fighting
for what we know is true. There are many secrets left to guard.”

“Secrets?” he
asked.

But she fell
silent, watching the waters.

He was about to
ask her more, when a sudden gale of wind nearly capsized the boat. Merk fell to
his stomach, slamming into the side of the hull and sliding over the edge.

Dangling, he
grasped onto the rail for dear life as his legs sank into the water, water so
icy cold he felt he would freeze to death. He hung on with a single hand,
mostly submerged, and as he looked back down over his shoulder, his heart leapt
to see a school of red sharks suddenly closing in. He felt horrific pain as
teeth began to dig into his calf, as he saw blood in the water that he knew was
his own.

A moment later Lorna
stepped forward and cracked the waters with her staff; as she did, brilliant white
light spread on the surface, and the sharks dispersed. In the same motion she grabbed
his hand and dragged him back onto the ship.

The ship righted
itself as the wind subsided and Merk sat on deck, wet, freezing, breathing hard,
and a terrible pain in his calf.

Lorna examined his
wound, tore a piece of cloth from her shirt, and wrapped it around his leg, staunching
the blood.

“You saved my
life,” he said, filled with gratitude. “There were dozens of those things in
there. They would have killed me.”

She looked him,
her light blue eyes hypnotizing, so large.

“Those creatures
are the least of your worries here,” she said.

They sailed on
in silence, Merk slowly regaining his feet and watching the horizon, sure to
grip the rail tightly, with both hands this time. He examined the horizon, but as
much as he watched it, he saw no sign of the Three Daggers. He looked down and
studied the waters of the Bay of Death with a new respect and fear. He looked
carefully, and saw swarms of small red sharks under the surface, barely
visible, hidden mostly by the waves. He knew now that entering that water meant
death—and he could not help but wonder what other creatures inhabited this body
of water.

The silence
deepened, punctuated only by the howling of the wind, and after hours more
passed, Merk, feeling desolate out here, needed to talk.

“What you did
what that staff,” Merk said, turning to Lorna. “I have never seen anything like
it.”

Lorna remained
expressionless, still watching the horizon.

“Tell me about
you,” he pressed.

She glanced at
him, then looked back to the horizon.

“What would you
like to know?” she asked.

“Anything,” he
replied. “Everything.”

She fell silent
a long time, then finally, she said:

“Start with you.”

Merk stared back,
surprised.

“Me?” he asked. “What
do you want to know?”

“Tell me about
your life,” she said. “Anything you want to tell me.”

Merk took a deep
breath as he turned and stared into the horizon. His life was the one thing he did
not want to talk about.

Finally, realizing
they had a long journey ahead, he sighed. He knew he had to face himself at one
time or another, even if he was not proud of it.

“I’ve been an
assassin most my life,” he said slowly, regretfully, staring into the horizon,
his voice grave and filled with self-loathing. “I’m not proud of it. But I was
the best at what I did. I was in demand by kings and queens. No one could rival
my skills.”

Merk fell into a
long silence, trapped in memories of a life he regretted, memories he would
rather not recall.

“And now?” she
asked softly.

Merk was
grateful to detect no judgment in her voice, as he usually did with others. He sighed.

“Now,” he said, “it
is not what I do anymore. It is not who I am anymore. I have vowed to renounce
violence. To put my services to a cause. Yet, try as I do, I cannot seem to get
away from it. Violence seems to find me. There is always, it seems, another
cause.”

“And what is
your cause?” she asked.

He thought about
that.

“My cause,
initially, was to become a Watcher,” he replied. “To devote myself to service. To
guard the Tower of Ur, to protect the Sword of Flames. When that fell, I felt
my cause was to reach the Tower of Kos, to save the sword.”

He sighed.

“And yet now
here we are, sailing through the Bay of Death, the Sword gone, the trolls
following, and heading to a barren chain of islands,” Lorna replied with a
smile.

Merk frowned,
unamused.

“I have lost my
cause,” he said. “I have lost my life’s purpose. I do not know myself anymore.
I do not know my direction.”

Lorna nodded.

“That is a good
place to be,” she said. “A place of uncertainty is also a place of possibility.”

Merk studied her,
wondering. He was touched by her lack of condemnation. Anyone else who had
heard his tale would vilify him.

“You do not
judge me,” he observed, shocked, “for who I am.”

Lorna stared at
him, her eyes so intense it was like staring into the moon.

“That was who you
were
,” she corrected. “Not who you are now. How can I judge you for who
you once were? I only judge the man standing before me.”

Merk felt
restored by her answer.

“And who am I now?”
he asked, wanting to know the answer, unsure of it himself.

She stared at
him.

“I see a fine
warrior,” she replied. “A selfless man. A man who wants to help others. And a
man full of longing. I see a man who is lost. A man who has never known himself.”

Merk pondered
her words, and they resonated deep within him. He felt them all to be true. Too
true.

A long silence
fell between them, as their small ship bobbed up and down in the waters, slowly
making its way west. Merk checked back and saw the troll fleet still on the
horizon, still a good enough distance away.

“And you?” he finally
asked. “You are Tarnis’s daughter, are you not?”

She searched the
horizon, her eyes aglow, and finally, she nodded.

“I am,” she
replied.

Merk was stunned
to hear it.

“Then why were
you here?” he asked.

She sighed.

“I have been
hidden here since I was a young girl.”

“But why?” he
pressed.

She shrugged.

“I suppose it
was too dangerous to keep me in the capital. People could not know I was the
King’s illegitimate daughter. It was safer here.”

“Safer here?” he
asked. “At the ends of the earth?”

“I was left with
a secret to guard,” she explained. “More important even than the kingdom of Escalon.”

His heart
pounded as he wondered what it could be.

“Will you tell
me?” he asked.

But Lorna slowly
turned and pointed ahead. Merk followed her gaze and there, on the horizon, the
sun shone down on three barren islands, rising up from the ocean, the last one
a fort of solid stone. It was the most desolate and yet beautiful place Merk
had ever seen. A place distant enough to hold all the secrets of magic and
power.

“Welcome,” Lorna
said, “to Knossos.”