A Forge of Valor (3 page)

Dierdre heard moaning and looked over to see one of her father’s brave men, a man she had once loved dearly, lying dead but feet away from her, crushed by a pile of rubble that should have landed on her, had she not stumbled and fell. She went to go to help him—when the air suddenly shook with the roar of another round of cannonballs.

And another.

Whistling followed, then more explosions, more buildings falling. Rubble piled higher, and more people died, as she was knocked to her feet yet again, a wall of stone collapsing beside her and narrowly missing her.

There came a lull in the firing, and Dierdre stood. A wall of rubble now blocked her view of the sea, yet she sensed the Pandesians were close now, at the beach, which was why the firing had stopped. Huge clouds of dust hung in the air, and in the eerie silence, there came nothing but the moans of the dead all around her. She looked over to see Marco beside her, crying out in distress as he tried to yank free the body of one of his friends. Dierdre looked down and saw the boy was already dead, crushed beneath the wall of what was once a temple.

She turned, remembering her girls, and was devastated to see several of them also crushed to death. But three of them survived, trying, fruitlessly, to save the others.

There came the shout of the Pandesians, on foot, on the beach, charging for Ur. Dierdre thought of her father’s offer, and knew that his men could still whisk her away from here. She knew that remaining here would mean her death—yet that was what she wanted. She would not run.

Beside her, her father, a gash across his forehead, rose up from the rubble, drew his sword, and fearlessly led his men in a charge for the pile of rubble. He was, she realized proudly, rushing to meet the enemy. It would be a battle on foot now, and hundreds of men rallied behind him, all rushing forward with such fearlessness that it filled her with pride.

She followed, drawing her sword and climbing the huge boulders before her, ready to do battle by his side. As she scrambled to the top, she stopped, stunned at the sight before her: thousands of Pandesian soldiers, in their yellow and blue armor, filled the beach, charging for the mound of rubble. These men were well trained, well armed, and rested—unlike her father’s men, who numbered but a few hundred, with crude weapons and all already wounded.

It would, she knew, be a slaughter.

And yet her father didn’t turn back. She was never more proud of him than she was in that moment. There he stood, so proud, his men gathered around him, all ready to rush down to meet the enemy, even though it would mean a sure death. It was, for her, the very embodiment of valor.

As he stood there, before he descended, he turned and looked at Dierdre with a look of such love. There was a goodbye in his eyes, as if he knew he would never see her again. Dierdre was confused—her sword was in hand, and she was preparing to charge with him. Why would he be saying goodbye to her now?

She suddenly felt strong hands grab her from behind, felt herself yanked backwards, and she turned to see two of her father’s trusted commanders grabbing her. A group of his men also grabbed her three remaining girls, and Marco and his friends. She bucked and protested, but it was no use.

“Let me go!” she screamed.

They ignored her protests as they dragged her away, clearly at her father’s command. She caught one last look at her father before he led his men down the other side of the rubble in a great battle cry.

“Father!” she cried.

She felt torn apart. Just as she was truly admiring the father she loved again, he was being taken from her. She wanted to be with him desperately. But he was already gone.

Dierdre found herself thrown on a small boat, and immediately the men began rowing down the canal, away from the sea. The boat turned again and again, cutting through the canals, heading toward a secret side opening in one of the walls. Before them loomed a low stone arch, and Dierdre recognized immediately where they were going: the underground river. It was a raging current on the other side of that wall, and it would lead them far away from the city. She would emerge somewhere many miles away from here, safe and sound in the countryside.

All her girls turned to look to her, as if wondering what they should do. Dierdre came to an immediate decision. She pretended to acquiesce to the plan, so that they would all go. She wanted them all to escape, to be free from this place.

Dierdre waited until the last moment, and just before they entered, she leapt from the boat, landing in the waters of the canal. Marco, to her surprise, noticed her and jumped, too. That left only the two of them floating in the canal.

“Dierdre!” shouted her father’s men.

They turned to grab her—but it was too late. She had timed it perfectly, and they were already caught up in the gushing currents, sweeping their boat away.

Dierdre and Marco turned and swam quickly for an abandoned boat, boarding it. They sat there, dripping wet, and stared at each other, each breathing hard, exhausted.

Dierdre turned and looked back to where they had come from, to the heart of Ur, where she had left her father’s side. It was there she would go, there and nowhere else, even if it meant her death.

Merk stood at the entrance to the hidden chamber, on the top floor of the Tower of Ur, Pult, the traitor, lying dead at his feet, and he stared into the shining light. The door ajar, he could not believe what he saw.

Here it was, the sacred chamber, on the most protected floor, the one and only room designed to hold and guard the Sword of Fire. Its door was carved with the insignia of the sword and its stone walls, too, had the sword’s insignia carved into them. It was this room, and this room alone, that the traitor had wanted, to steal the most sacred relic of the kingdom. If Merk had not caught him and killed him, who knows where the Sword would be now?

As Merk stared into the room, its stone walls smooth, shaped in a circle, as he stared into the shining light, he began to see that there, in the center, sat a golden platform, a flaming torch beneath it, a steel cradle above, clearly designed to hold the Sword. And yet, as he stared, he could not understand what he saw.

The cradle was empty.

He blinked, trying to understand. Had the thief stolen the Sword already? No, the man was dead at his feet. That could only mean one thing.

This tower, the sacred Tower of Ur, was a decoy. All of it—the room, the tower—all a decoy. The Sword of Fire did not reside here. It had never resided here.

If not, then where could it be?

Merk stood there, horrified, too frozen to move. He thought back to all the legends surrounding the Sword of Fire. He recalled mention of the two towers, the Tower of Ur in the northwest corner of the kingdom, and the Tower of Kos in the southeast, each placed on opposite ends of the kingdom, each counterbalancing each other. He knew that only one of them held the Sword. And yet Merk had always assumed that
this
tower, the Tower of Ur, was the one. Everyone in the kingdom assumed that; everyone pilgrimaged to this tower alone, and the legends themselves always hinted at Ur as being the one. After all, Ur was on the mainland, close to the capital, near a great and ancient city—while Kos was at the end of the Devil’s Finger, a remote location with no significance and not close to anything.

It had to be in Kos.

Merk stood there, in shock, and it slowly dawned on him: he was the only one in the kingdom who knew the true location of the Sword. Merk did not know what secrets, what treasures, this Tower of Ur held, if any, but he knew for certain that it did not hold the Sword of Fire. He felt deflated. He had learned what he was not meant to learn: that he and all the other soldiers here were guarding nothing. It was knowledge that the Watchers were not supposed to have—for, of course, it would demoralize them. After all, who would want to guard an empty tower?

Now that Merk knew the truth, he felt a burning desire to flee this place, to head to Kos, and to protect the Sword. After all, why remain here and guard empty walls?

Merk was a simple man, and he hated riddles above all else, and this all gave him a huge headache, raising more questions for him than answers. Who else might know this? Merk wondered. The Watchers? Surely some of them must know. If they knew, how could they possibly have the discipline to spend all their days guarding a decoy? Was that all part of their practice? Of their sacred duty?

Now that he knew, what should he do? Certainly he could not tell the others. That could demoralize them. They might not even believe him, thinking he had stolen the Sword.

And what should he do with this dead body, this traitor? And if this traitor was trying to steal the Sword, was anyone else? Had he been acting alone? Why would he want to steal it anyway? Where would he take it?

As he stood there trying to figure it all out, suddenly, his hair stood on end as bells tolled so loud, just feet from his head, sounding as if they were in this very room. They were so immediate, so urgent, he could not understand where they were coming from—until he realized the bell tower, atop the roof, was but feet from his head. The room shook with their incessant tolling, and he couldn’t think straight. After all, their urgency implied that they were bells of war.

A commotion suddenly arose from all corners of the tower. Merk could hear the distant ruckus, as if everyone inside were rallying. He had to know what was going on; he could come back to this dilemma later.

Merk dragged the body out of the way, slammed the door closed, and ran from the room. He rushed into the hall and saw dozens of warriors rushing up the stairs, all with swords in hand. At first he wondered if they were coming for him, but then he looked up, saw more men rushing up the stairs, and realized they were all heading to the roof.

Merk joined them, rushing up the stairs, bursting onto the roof amidst the deafening tolling of the bells. He rushed to the edge of the tower and looked out—and was stunned when he did. His heart fell as he saw in the distance the Sea of Sorrow, covered in black, a million ships converging on the city of Ur in the distance. The fleet did not seem to be heading to the Tower of Ur, though, which sat a good day’s ride north of the city, so with no immediate danger, Merk wondered why these bells were tolling so urgently.

Then he saw the warriors turning in the opposite direction. He turned, too, and saw it: there, emerging from the woods, was a band of trolls. These were followed by more trolls.

And more.

There came a loud rustling, followed by a roar, and suddenly, hundreds of trolls burst forth from the forest, shrieking, charging, halberds held high, blood in their eyes. Their leader was out front, the troll known as Vesuvius, a grotesque beast carrying two halberds, his face covered in blood. They were all converging on the tower.

Merk realized right away that this was no ordinary troll attack. It seemed as if the entire nation of Marda had broken through. How had they made it past the Flames? he wondered. They had all clearly come here looking for the Sword, wanting to lower the Flames. Ironic, Merk thought, given that the Sword was not here.

The tower, Merk realized, could not withstand such an onslaught. It was finished.

Merk felt a sense of dread, steeling himself for the final fight of his life, as he was encircled. All around him warriors clenched their swords, looking down in panic.

“MEN!” Vicor, Merk’s commander, shrieked. “TAKE UP POSITIONS!”

The warriors took up positions all along the battlements and Merk immediately joined them, rushing to the edge, grabbing a bow and quiver, as did the others around him, taking aim and firing.

Merk was pleased to watch one of his arrows impale a troll in the chest; yet, to his surprise, the beast continued to run, even with an arrow protruding through his back. Merk fired at him again, sending an arrow into the troll’s neck—and still, to his shock, it continued to run. He fired a third time, hitting the troll in the head, and this time the troll fell to the ground.

Merk fast realized that these trolls were no ordinary adversaries, and would not go down as easily as men. Their chances seemed more dire. Still, he fired again and again, dropping as many trolls as he could. Arrows rained down from all of his fellow soldiers, too, blackening the sky, sending trolls stumbling and falling, clogging the way for others

But too many broke through. They soon reached the thick tower walls, raised halberds, and slammed them against the golden doors, trying to knock them down. Merk could feel the vibrations underfoot, setting him on edge.

The clanging of metal ran through the air, as the nation of trolls slammed against the doors relentlessly. Somehow, Merk was relieved to see, the doors held. Even with hundreds of trolls smashing into it, the doors, as if by magic, did not even bend or even dent.

“BOULDERS!” Vicor yelled.

Merk saw the other soldiers rush over to a mound of boulders lined up along the edge, and he joined them as they all reached over and hoisted one. Together, he and ten others managed to lift it and push it up toward the top of the wall. Merk strained and groaned beneath the effort, hoisting it with all his might, then finally they all pushed it over with a great shout.

Merk leaned over with the others and watched as the boulder fell, whistling through the air.

The trolls below looked up—but too late. It crushed a group of them into the ground, flattening them, leaving a huge crater in the earth beside the tower wall. Merk helped the other soldiers as they hoisted boulders over the edge on all sides of the tower, killing hundreds of trolls, the earth shaking with the explosions.

Yet still they came, an endless stream of trolls, bursting forth from the wood. Merk saw they were out of boulders; they were out of arrows, too, and the trolls showed no sign of slowing down.

Merk suddenly felt something whiz by his ear, and he turned to see a spear fly by. He looked down, baffled, and saw the trolls taking up spears, hurling them up at the battlements. He was amazed; he had no idea they had the strength to throw that far.