Night of the Bold

  Merk lowered the torch, lit the cannon, and a great sparking filled the air. Out of the corner of his eye he saw soldiers rushing him from all sides, and he prayed only that the cannon caught fire before they could reach him.

  “STOP!” one cried.

  BOOM!

  The cannon fired a second before the men reached him, knocking them all back several feet. Merk watched with relief as the cannonball soared exactly where he wanted it to: through the hulls of all the Pandesian ships floating alongside this one. It tore through one after another, shattering a half dozen of them at once.

  Cries and chaos filled the air, as one Pandesian ship after another sank.

  As the soldiers were collecting themselves, Merk knew he had but a moment left. He rolled, placed one more cannonball, grabbed the torch and lit the other cannon, as he turned it with all his might.

  A Pandesian soldier tackled him, sending him down to the ground, while another Pandesian soldier tried desperately to stop the cannon, screaming as he tried to put it out.

  But it was too late.

  BOOM!

  The cannon was positioned straight down, and the cannonball smashed through its own ship, shattering it to pieces. Merk felt the ship buckle and splinter beneath him.

  In the chaos of the wildly rocking ship, Merk looked up to see a soldier charging, a long spear coming right at him. Before he could sit up, he felt unbearable pain as the soldier stabbed him right through the heart.

  Merk gasped, unable to breathe. He felt the awful shock of his life departing him. On his back, he looked up to the night sky, filled with red stars, and he felt, for the first time in his life, a sense of peace. Redemption had found him. Even in death.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Kyle, in the thick of the rubble of the Tower of Ur, fought his way through the battlefield of trolls, Leo at his side, swinging his staff, striking them down two, three, four at a time. Kolva, by his side, fought equally ferociously, too, the two of them fighting for each inch as they tried to make their way towards the center of the rubble. They had to reach the secret chamber, the only hope, as Alva had explained, to restore the Flames and ensure victory for Escalon.

  Alva’s words still rang in Kyle’s ears. Beneath the Tower of Ur lies the secret chamber. The ramifications of his words were staggering. Could it be true? Kyle wondered. Could it be that the Tower of Ur had never been a decoy after all? That its most precious secret lay not above ground all this time—but below? A secret chamber which controlled the very fate of Escalon?

  Kyle swung with his staff and smashed one troll in the face, then spun around and jabbed another in the throat, while Kolva ducked from a halberd swing and smashed a troll across the chest with his staff. The two of them pushed back the trolls as dozens more appeared every moment, bridging Alva’s fissure. It was a never-ending stream. They swung mighty halberds; one troll neared and swung broadly for Kyle’s head, and Kyle ducked, the blade whistling in the air above him, and realized that if he were but a second later it would have decapitated him. He swung his staff around and cracked the troll in the ribs, breaking them, then brought his staff down on the troll’s back, smashing its neck and dropping it. Beside him, Kolva stepped forward and jabbed a troll between the eyes, and the beast dropped to its knees.

  Kyle heard a snarl behind him, and he turned, aghast, to see a troll lowering a halberd for his head. Kyle was too late—he had missed this one. And with Kolva and Leo preoccupied, he braced himself for the end.

  Suddenly, a vicious snorting noise came as Kyle detected motion out of the corner of his eye. His heart flooded with relief to see Andor appearing, galloping onto the rubble. Before the troll could lower his halberd, Andor threw himself at him, trampling him to death. Andor pinned him down, crushing him, then sank his sharpened teeth into the troll’s throat, killing him for good.

  Kyle looked back at Kyra’s horse in awe of this magnificent creature, his fearlessness, his loyalty.

  Kyle fought his way once again for the center, this time, Andor fighting beside him. They had almost reached the center of the rubble, yet every time they dropped one troll, ten more appeared. They were losing momentum.

  “Go!” Kolva called out, as he slashed at a troll’s chest, sending him flying back through the air. “Make for the center! I’ll hold them off!”

  Kyle leapt over a halberd swing and cracked two more in the chest.

  “If I leave you,” he called back, “you won’t last long!”

  “Then go quickly!” Kolva called back.

  Leo lunged and sank his teeth into a troll’s chest, Andor trampled several more, and Kolva stepped forward, creating cover for Kyle, distracting the trolls, and Kyle knew this was his chance: he turned and ran for the center of the rubble. He jumped and climbed his way over massive boulders, the debris from the tower’s collapse. This ancient place where he had once lived, once so magnificent, its upper levels grazing the sky, was now, it pained Kyle to see, nothing but a mountain of rock.

  Kyle finally reached the dead center of where the tower had once stood, and, with Kolva distracting the trolls, he had a monetary lull in the battle. He bent down and clawed at the rock, anxious to find the opening to the lower levels.

  It was futile. He could not even budge the massive boulders, his hands chafed from the effort.

  Desperate, Kyle raised his staff, closed his eyes, and summoned his ancient power, the power that always coursed through his blood as a Watcher. He used it rarely, yet he knew it was needed for a time like this. He opened his eyes, raised his staff, and brought it straight down. He felt it smashing through rock, and he kept on going until he had created a hole. He shoved his staff side to side, widening it, creating an opening in which to enter.

  Kyle looked down at the opening in the earth, felt the cool damp air flowing up at him, and was stunned to realize he was staring into the very foundation of the Tower of Ur. The lower levels, previously hidden beneath the rubble, were now visible to him, a gaping hole in the blackness.

  Kyle glanced back and saw Kolva still fighting off the trolls. He knew Kolva’s situation was precarious, with more trolls streaming in every moment.

  “GO!” Kolva urged. “You are the last hope.”

  Kyle leapt, jumping down into the earth.

  Kyle felt himself falling deeper and deeper into the very depths of blackness, the cool air enveloping him. He finally landed with a painful thump, rolling onto his ribs, feeling as if he had broken them.

  Kyle crawled to his hands and knees and gathered his wits about him in the darkness. He had fallen a good twenty feet, landing in a puddle of water on a smooth granite floor. He breathed, slowly coming back to himself.

  A cold draft ran over his hands, and water dripped somewhere. High up above he could hear the muffled fighting of the trolls. He marveled that he was back here, in the Tower of Ur, albeit in the sub-levels. All the years he had lived here, no one had been allowed to descend. Kyle had never thought much of it. He had always assumed that the tower’s secrets lay in the highest levels, not the lowest.

  But now he realized he had, all this time, been wrong. What could he expect to find down here? What had Alva been alluding to?

  As he squinted to adjust his eyes, Kyle spotted a small, flickering torchlight in the distance. He saw smooth, ancient corridors of black marble before him, and he felt a vibration within him. He felt a great power, and sensed something momentous lay just around the bend.

  Kyle followed the corridors, turning down one after the next, his bootsteps echoing, until finally he reached an arched, stone door, twice as tall as he, framed by flickering torches. It was carved from one slab of marble, engraved with ancient inscriptions, and he ran his finger along the symbols in awe. He hadn’t seen the lost languages for centuries. He knew that something momentous must lie beyond that door.

  Kyle reached out to the marble knob and tried it. To his dismay, it did not work.

  He put his shoulder into it, pushed with all his might, yet it
would not budge.

  Kyle, determined, felt a great heat rising within him as he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and summoned his power. He then raised his staff, let out a cry, and smashed the door with all his might. He smashed it again and again and again, blows that would have been powerful enough to knock down a mountain.

  Yet to his shock, the stone door still would not budge.

  Kyle stood there, sweating, stumped. He recalled the legends of his ancestors, legends he had been told as a boy, and in the back of his mind, he recalled the myth of the sacred chamber. Could this be it? He had never fully understood it at the time, yet now, as he examined this door, it began to make sense to him. He recalled the ancient chanting he had heard as a boy, aimed at summoning the core power of the universe.

  Could it be? he wondered.

  Kyle set his staff down on the ground, then reached out and touched the door with both palms. A power greater than the staff, he knew, would be needed here.

  Closing his eyes, he chanted, softly at first, then with greater volume and conviction. He began to feel an unbearable heat on his palms, as if his hands were really on fire. It was as if he and the door were one.

  And a moment later, to his shock, there came a soft click.

  Kyle looked down, amazed to see the door had opened. Ancient air, trapped for centuries, slowly released.

  He pushed the door open slowly, looked into the chamber, and froze.

  He could not believe what lay before him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Kyra slowly lowered the flickering torch to her father’s dead body as it lay on the raised funeral pyre, at eye level with her, and as she did, she felt as if she were lowering the torch on herself. Inside, her heart was breaking. She wept quietly, surrounded by his hundreds of warriors, all of them crowding in close, her weeping the only sound in the thick silence, complemented only by the howling of the wind, making the flames ripple. Kyra felt the tears pour down her cheeks, as they had for hours, and she no longer tried to stop them. She felt numb to the world, hollowed out. Seeing her father dead before her, she felt as if all that was best in her had been stolen away.

  Kyra knelt there, torch in her shaking hand, and could not bring herself to lower it. She could not bear to touch the funeral pyre, to set her father aflame and send him to the gods. Something inside her just would not allow it.

  She was not the only one: beside her stood her brother, Aidan, staring straight ahead, frozen, numb, eyes wide in a vacant stare that was more terrifying than her father’s death. It was as if his life had been robbed of him. White sat at his feet, looking equally despondent.

  “Don’t do it,” he said to her slowly, darkly, looking at the torch as if it were a snake.

  Her heart broke at his words.

  With all eyes on her, Kyra stood there, frozen, numb. She did not think she would be able to do it.

  To her relief, Motley stepped forward, breaking the silence, joined by several more actors. A small group of them stood there before her, and she looked up at them, puzzled. She wondered what they were going to do.

  They all turned, faced the pyre, held hands, and looked up at the sky. Then one of them leaned back, and to her surprise, began to sing a song.

  It was a slow, haunting tune, filling the solemn air. The others joined in, and the chorus gained volume. It was a nostalgic song, a song of her childhood, and the flood of feelings it evoked was too much for Kyra. Images flashed through her mind. She recalled all the times her father had sat with her, close to the fire, reading her stories, reciting legends, tales of the past, teaching her, urging her to be a warrior.

  And yet, as they continued to sing, Kyra also slowly felt a sense of resolution. It was a feeling of rebirth. She could not help but feel as if it was her father’s soul who wanted her to hear the song, as a reminder of all the times they had spent together, sitting and reading, all those nights that inspired her, that had made her know who she wanted to be.

  How much more will this war take from us? she asked her father silently. How much more will be stripped away? Will anything be left when it is done? Will it all even be worth it?

  She closed her eyes and felt herself speaking to her father, and she never wanted to open them, to return to this world. Sometimes reality, she realized, was more painful than fantasy.

  Kyra did not know how much time had passed before she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up to find her brother, Aidan, looking down, his eyes red with tears, Cassandra standing beside him, White at their feet. She saw his pain, and it brought her back. She realized others were suffering, too, not just her, and somehow it made her feel less alone. She felt for her little brother; he had lost so much, so quickly, and he was far too young to have to endure this all. He was now the only family she had left.

  She felt a strong hand on her other shoulder and she looked up to see Anvin standing on her other side, eyes red. Behind him stood dozens of her father’s soldiers, and she saw they were all grieving, too. She realized that they also seemed lost. After all, their commander had been taken away from them. She began to think of others and what they must be going through, and not only of herself.

  The song ended, and Kyra took a deep breath, calming her tears, slowly letting it out. She felt the eyes of all the great warriors were now upon her, men who had looked to her father for leadership, men who needed direction now. Somewhere in the distance, as her world came back into focus, there came the distant sounds of war, the sounds of the Pandesian army, somewhere on the other side of the Gulch. She could hear Theon pawing the earth, not far away, stomping the ground impatiently. She was stuck in time, and she knew that time could not be frozen forever. She had to be strong. It was what her father would have wanted of her. It was what, she sensed, he was trying to tell her.

  Kyra, seeing the faces of all these proud men about her, slowly began to feel a new resolve arise within her. She felt the spirit of her father, the strength of her father, a great warlord, coursing through her. She felt that her strength was giving her father peace. She felt him smiling down at her, trying to speak to her.

  Kyra, he said in her mind, I will always be with you. Let me go. Release me. Release me, and my spirit will be bigger than it ever was. It will be a part of you, forever.

  Wiping away her final tears, Kyra slowly stood, a cold, steely resolve within her. As she did, she reached out and slowly lowered the torch.

  A moment later, to her own shock, the pyre was ablaze.

  It rippled in the wind, flames rising higher and higher. All the men around her backed away from the intense heat. But not she. She was used to flame. She rode, after all, on the back of a dragon.

  Instead, Kyra inched closer. She wanted to feel the heat. She wanted to feel a bit of pain. She wanted to implant this day on her mind forever. A part of her, indeed, still wished to die with him.

  Soon enough, the pyre burned down, all that remained a pile of ashes, of falling embers, where her father’s body had once been. She looked down at it, numb. It did not seem possible. Was life that fleeting?

  Kyra felt a calloused hand on her wrist, and she looked over to see Anvin. She followed his gaze and saw the torch in her hand, smoking, burnt out for she did not know how long. She had forgotten she was still holding it.

  Finally, she opened her hand and released it. It fell to the ground and collapsed in a pile of sparks.

  Anvin looked at her, compassion in his eyes.

  “Your father loved you more than anything,” he said. “More than us. More than battle. You were his soul.”

  Kyra felt a great wave of grief wash over her. Why could she not have arrived sooner to rescue him?

  “His memory lives in you now,” he continued. “As does his spirit. Without you, he is truly gone forever. But with you, he can live again.”

  She pondered his words.

  “Do you understand?” he asked. “You are his rightful heir. You are our leader now.”

  Kyra turned and looke
d out at all her father’s men, and she saw them all staring back somberly, nodding in agreement. Needing her leadership. Needing her father to rise again.

  “Your father’s goal, our goal, remains unfinished,” he continued. “On the other side of those cliffs, a vast Pandesian army rallies. Soon enough, they’ll find a way through the Gulch. We must take the fight to them, drive them back once and for all. Will you lead us? Will you become commander of Escalon?”

  Kyra heard his words and she could not help but think back to the prophecies, to that fateful night, in the blizzard, when she had first encountered a wounded Theos. She thought of the sorcerer’s prophecy, that she would one day rise to be a great warrior, a great leader, even greater than her father. How foolish it had seemed in that moment. Yet ever since then she had also felt an inevitability to the words, and had wondered if, or when, it would come to pass.

  Now that the day had arrived, it all felt surreal. As if she were caught up in something bigger than herself. Something always destined to happen.

  Slowly, she nodded back.

  “My father’s soul cries for vengeance,” she said, the first words she had uttered since her father’s death. Her mouth was still dry; she had not thought she would ever be able to speak again, and her own words surprised her.

  She turned and looked out at all the men, feeling how much they needed her now, wanting to give them the inspiration they so deserved.

  “And I intend to give it to him,” she said, her voice booming, taking on a new strength. It was the strength of a commander.

  There arose a cheer amongst the men, and as Kyra raised her staff, they all rallied around her, raising their swords, looking at her with the same love and devotion they had once reserved for her father.

  “KYRA!” they cried. “KYRA! KYRA! KYRA!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Seavig sailed with urgency across the harbor of Ur, so close to achieving his goal of sealing off the harbor. Yet even while his men dragged the chains, they also cried out all around him on the ship as they began to fall, killed by Pandesian arrows. Seavig ducked himself as yet another Pandesian arrow landed in the deck beside him. He looked up and saw, amidst the glow of the flames, the sky was filled with them. Too many of his men were not as lucky, gasping in the night as they were punctured by arrowheads all around him. He flinched each time one of his men fell overboard, splashing into the water, food for the sharks. Their time, he knew, was scarce if they were all to survive.