Morgan Rice
A FORGE OF VALOR (KINGS AND SORCERERS–BOOK 4)

Morgan Rice

Morgan Rice is the #1 bestselling and USA Today bestselling author of the epic fantasy series THE SORCERER’S RING, comprising seventeen books; of the #1 bestselling series THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the #1 bestselling series THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic thriller comprising two books (and counting); and of the new epic fantasy series KINGS AND SORCERERS, comprising four books (and counting). Morgan’s books are available in audio and print editions, and translations are available in over 25 languages.

Morgan loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, download the free app, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Select Acclaim for Morgan Rice

“If you thought that there was no reason left for living after the end of THE SORCERER’S RING series, you were wrong. In RISE OF THE DRAGONS Morgan Rice has come up with what promises to be another brilliant series, immersing us in a fantasy of trolls and dragons, of valor, honor, courage, magic and faith in your destiny. Morgan has managed again to produce a strong set of characters that make us cheer for them on every page.…Recommended for the permanent library of all readers that love a well-written fantasy.”

--Books and Movie Reviews

Roberto Mattos

“RISE OF THE DRAGONS succeeds—right from the start…. A superior fantasy…It begins, as it should, with one protagonist's struggles and moves neatly into a wider circle of knights, dragons, magic and monsters, and destiny.…All the trappings of high fantasy are here, from soldiers and battles to confrontations with self….A recommended winner for any who enjoy epic fantasy writing fueled by powerful, believable young adult protagonists.”

--Midwest Book Review

D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer

“An action packed fantasy sure to please fans of Morgan Rice’s previous novels, along with fans of works such as THE INHERITANCE CYCLE by Christopher Paolini…. Fans of Young Adult Fiction will devour this latest work by Rice and beg for more.”

--The Wanderer, A Literary Journal (regarding Rise of the Dragons)

“A spirited fantasy that weaves elements of mystery and intrigue into its story line. A Quest of Heroes is all about the making of courage and about realizing a life purpose that leads to growth, maturity, and excellence….For those seeking meaty fantasy adventures, the protagonists, devices, and action provide a vigorous set of encounters that focus well on Thor's evolution from a dreamy child to a young adult facing impossible odds for survival….Only the beginning of what promises to be an epic young adult series.”

--Midwest Book Review (D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer)

“THE SORCERER’S RING has all the ingredients for an instant success: plots, counterplots, mystery, valiant knights, and blossoming relationships replete with broken hearts, deception and betrayal. It will keep you entertained for hours, and will satisfy all ages. Recommended for the permanent library of all fantasy readers.”

--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos

“In this action-packed first book in the epic fantasy Sorcerer's Ring series (which is currently 14 books strong), Rice introduces readers to 14-year-old Thorgrin "Thor" McLeod, whose dream is to join the Silver Legion, the elite knights who serve the king…. Rice's writing is solid and the premise intriguing.”

--Publishers Weekly

Books by Morgan Rice

KINGS AND SORCERERS

RISE OF THE DRAGONS (Book #1)

RISE OF THE VALIANT (Book #2)

THE WEIGHT OF HONOR (Book #3)

A FORGE OF VALOR (Book #4)

THE SORCERER’S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book #1)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2)

A FATE OF DRAGONS (Book #3)

A CRY OF HONOR (Book #4)

A VOW OF GLORY (Book #5)

A CHARGE OF VALOR (Book #6)

A RITE OF SWORDS (Book #7)

A GRANT OF ARMS (Book #8)

A SKY OF SPELLS (Book #9)

A SEA OF SHIELDS (Book #10)

A REIGN OF STEEL (Book #11)

A LAND OF FIRE (Book #12)

A RULE OF QUEENS (Book #13)

AN OATH OF BROTHERS (Book #14)

A DREAM OF MORTALS (Book #15)

A JOUST OF KNIGHTS (Book #16)

THE GIFT OF BATTLE (Book #17)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1)

ARENA TWO (Book #2)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1)

LOVED (Book #2)

BETRAYED (Book #3)

DESTINED (Book #4)

DESIRED (Book #5)

BETROTHED (Book #6)

VOWED (Book #7)

FOUND (Book #8)

RESURRECTED (Book #9)

CRAVED (Book #10)

FATED (Book #11)

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Copyright © 2015 by Morgan Rice

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Jacket image Copyright St. Nick, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

"Valor is superior to number."

Flavius Vegetius Renatus

(4th century)

CHAPTER ONE

A cell door slammed, and Duncan slowly opened his eyes, wishing he hadn’t. His head was throbbing, one eye was sealed shut, and he struggled to shake off the heavy sleep. A sharp pain shot through his good eye as he leaned back against cold, hard rock. Stone. He was lying on cold, damp stone. He tried to sit up, felt iron tugging at his wrists and ankles, rattling, and immediately, he realized: shackles. He was in a dungeon.

A prisoner.

Duncan opened his eyes wider as there came the distant sound of marching boots, echoing somewhere in the blackness. He tried to get his bearings. It was dark in here, stone walls dimly lit by torches flickering far away, by a small shaft of sunlight from a window too high up to see. The pale light filtered down, stark and lonely, as if from a world miles away. He heard a distant drip of water, a shuffle of boots, and he could just barely make out the contours of the cell. It was vast, its stone walls arched, with too many dark edges disappearing into blackness.

From his years in the capital, Duncan knew right away where he was: the royal dungeon. It was where they sent the kingdom’s worst criminals, most powerful enemies, to rot away their days—or await their execution. Duncan had sent many men down here himself when he had served here, at the bequest of the King. It was a place, he knew too well, from which prisoners did not resurface.

Duncan tried to move, but his shackles wouldn’t let him, cutting into his bruised and bleeding wrists and ankles. These, though, were the least of his ailments; his entire body ached and throbbed, in so much pain that he could hardly decipher where it hurt most. He felt as if he had been clubbed a thousand times, stampeded by an army of horses. It hurt to breathe, and he shook his head, trying to make it go away. It would not.

As he closed his eyes, licked his chapped lips, Duncan saw flashes. The ambush. Had it been yesterday? A week ago? He could no longer recall. He had been betrayed, surrounded, lured by promises of a false deal. He had trusted Tarnis, and Tarnis, too, had been killed, before his eyes.

Duncan remembered his men dropping their weapons at his command; remembered being restrained; and worst of all, he remembered his sons’ murders.

He shook his head again and again as he cried out in anguish, trying fruitlessly to wipe the images from his mind. He sat with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and moaned at the thought. How could he have been so stupid? Kavos had warned him, and he had not heeded the warning, being naively optimistic, thinking it would be different this time, that the nobles could be trusted. And he had led his men right into a trap, right into a den of snakes.

Duncan hated himself for it, more than he could say. His only regret was that he was still alive, that he had not died back there with his sons, and with all the others he had let down.

The footsteps came louder, and Duncan looked up and squinted into the darkness. Slowly there emerged the silhouette of a man, blocking the shaft of sunlight, approaching until he stood but a few feet away. As the man’s face took shape, Duncan recoiled with recognition. The man, easily distinguishable in his aristocratic dress, wore the same pompous look he’d had when petitioning Duncan for the kingship, when trying to betray his father. Enis. Tarnis’s son.

Enis knelt before Duncan, a smug, victorious smile on his face, the long vertical scar on his ear noticeable as he stared back with his shifty, hollow eyes. Duncan felt a wave of revulsion, a burning desire for vengeance. He clenched his fists, wanting to lunge for the boy, to tear him apart with his own hands, this boy who had been responsible for the death of his sons, for his men’s imprisonment. The shackles were all that was left in the world to keep him from killing him.

“The shame of iron,” Enis remarked, smiling. “Here I kneel, but inches from you, and you are powerless to touch me.”

Duncan glared back, wishing he could speak, yet too exhausted to form words. His throat was too dry, his lips too parched, and he needed to conserve his energy. He wondered how many days it had been since he’d had water, how long he’d been down here. This weasel, anyway, was not worth his speech.

Enis was down here for a reason; clearly he wanted something. Duncan had no false illusions: he knew that, no matter what this boy had to say, his execution was looming. Which was what he wanted, anyway. Now that his sons were dead, his men imprisoned, there was nothing left for him in this world, no other way to escape his guilt.

“I am curious,” Enis said, in his slick voice. “How does it feel? How does it feel to have betrayed everyone you know and love, everyone who trusted you?”

Duncan felt his rage flare up. Unable to keep silent any longer, he somehow summoned the strength to speak.

“I betrayed no one,” he managed to say, his voice gravelly and hoarse.

“Didn’t you?” Enis retorted, clearly enjoying this. “They trusted you. You walked them right into ambush, surrender. You stripped the last thing they had left: their pride and honor.”

Duncan fumed with each breath.

“No,” he finally replied, after a long and heavy silence. “You are the one who stripped that away. I trusted your father, and he trusted you.”

“Trust,” Enis laughed. “What a naïve concept. Would you really stake men’s lives in trust?”

He laughed again, as Duncan fumed.

“Leaders don’t trust,” he continued. “Leaders doubt. That is their job, to be skeptical on behalf of all their men. Commanders protect men from battle—but leaders must protect men from deception. You are no leader. You failed them all.”

Duncan took a deep breath. A part of him could not help but feel that Enis was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He had failed his men, and it was the worst feeling of his life.

“Is that why you have come here?” Duncan finally replied. “To gloat over your deception?”

The boy smiled, an ugly, evil smile.

“You are my subject now,” he replied. “I am your new King. I can go anywhere, anytime I wish, for any reason, or for no reason at all. Maybe I just like to look at you, lying here in the dungeon, as broken as you are.”

Duncan breathed, each breath hurting, barely able to control his rage. He wanted to hurt this man more than anyone he’d ever met.

“Tell me,” Duncan said, wanting to hurt him. “How did it feel to murder your father?”

Enis’s expression hardened.

“Not half as good as it will feel when I watch you die in the gallows,” he replied.

“Then do it now,” Duncan said, meaning it.

Enis smiled, though, and shook his head.

“It won’t be that easy for you,” he replied. “I will watch you suffer first. I want you to first see what will become of your beloved country. Your sons are dead. Your commanders are dead. Anvin and Durge and all your men at the Southern Gate are dead. Millions of Pandesians have invaded our nation.”

Duncan’s heart sank at the boy’s words. Part of him wondered if this was a trick, yet he sensed it was all true. He felt himself sinking lower into the earth with each proclamation.

“All of your men are imprisoned, and Ur is being bombarded by sea. So you see, you have failed miserably. Escalon is far worse off than it was before, and you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Duncan shook with rage.

“And how long,” Duncan asked, “until the great oppressor turns on you? Do you really think you shall be exempt, that you will escape Pandesia’s wrath? That they will allow you to be King? To rule as your father once did?”

Enis smiled wide, resolute.

“I know that they will,” he said.

He leaned in close, so close that Duncan could smell his bad breath.

“You see, I’ve made them a deal. A very special deal to ensure my power, a deal that was too much for them to turn down.”

Duncan dared not ask what it was, yet Enis smiled wide and leaned in.

“Your daughter,” he whispered.

Duncan’s eyes widened.

“Did you really think you could hide her whereabouts from me?” Enis pressed. “As we speak, Pandesians are closing in on her. And that gift will cement my place in power.”

Duncan’s shackles rattled, the noise echoing throughout the dungeon, as he struggled with all his might to break free and attack, filled with a despair beyond what he could bear.

“Why have you come?” Duncan asked, feeling much older, his voice broken. “What is it that you want from me?”

Enis grinned. He fell silent for a long time, then finally sighed.

“I believe that my father wanted something of you,” he said slowly. “He would not have summoned you, would not have brokered that deal, unless he did. He offered you a great victory with the Pandesians—and in return, he would have requested something. What? What was it? What secret was he hiding?”

Duncan stared back, resolute, no longer caring.

“Your father did wish for something,” he said, rubbing it in. “Something honorable and sacred. Something he could trust with only me. Not his own son. Now I know why.”

Enis sneered, flushed red.

“If my men died for anything,” Duncan continued, “it was for this sake of honor and trust—one that I would never break. Which is why you shall never know.”

Enis darkened, and Duncan was pleased to see him enraged.

“Would you still guard the secrets of my dead father, the man who betrayed you and all your men?”

“You betrayed me,” Duncan corrected, “not he. He was a good man who once made a mistake. You, on the other hand, are nothing. You are but a shadow of your father.”

Enis scowled. He slowly rose to his full height, leaned over, and spit beside Duncan.

“You will tell me what he wanted,” he insisted. “What—or who—he was trying to hide. If you do, I might just be merciful and free you. If not, I will not only escort you to the gallows myself, but I will see to it that you die the most gruesome death imaginable. The choice is yours, and there is no turning back. Think hard, Duncan.”

Enis turned to leave, but Duncan called out.

“You can have my answer now if you wish,” Duncan replied.

Enis turned, a satisfied look on his face.

“I choose death,” he replied, and for the first time, managed to smile. “After all, death is nothing next to honor.”

CHAPTER TWO

Dierdre, wiping sweat from her forehead as she labored away in the forge, suddenly sat up, jolted by a thunderous noise. It was a distinct noise, one that set her on edge, a noise that rose above the din of all the hammers striking anvils. All the men and women around her stopped, too, laid down their unfinished weapons, and looked out, puzzled.

It came again, sounding like thunder rolling on the wind, sounding as if the very fabric of the earth were being torn apart.

Then again.

Finally, Dierdre realized: iron bells. They were tolling, striking terror in her heart as they slammed again and again, echoing throughout the city. They were bells of warning, of danger. Bells of war.

All at once the people of Ur jumped up from their tables and rushed out of the forge, all eager to see. Dierdre was first among them, joined by her girls, joined by Marco and his friends, and they all burst outside and entered streets flooded with concerned citizens, all flocking toward the canals to get a better view. Dierdre searched everywhere, expecting, with those bells, to see her city overrun with ships, with soldiers. Yet she did not.

Puzzled, she headed toward the massive watchtowers perched at the edge of the Sorrow, wanting to get a better view.

“Dierdre!”

She turned to see her father and his men, all running for the watchtowers, too, all eager to get an open view of the sea. All four towers rang frantically, something that never happened, as if death itself were approaching the city.

Dierdre fell in beside her father as they ran, turning down streets and ascending a set of stone steps until they finally reached the top of the city wall, at the edge of the sea. She stopped there, beside him, stunned at the sight before her.

It was like her worst nightmare come to life, a sight she wished she’d never seen in her lifetime: the entire sea, all the way to the horizon, was filled with black. The black ships of Pandesia, so close together that they covered the water, seemed to cover the entire world. Worst of all, they all bore down in a singular force right for her city.

Dierdre stood frozen, staring at the coming death. There was no way they could defend against a fleet that size, not with their meager chains, and not with their swords. When the first ships reached the canals, they could bottleneck them, maybe, delay them. They could perhaps kill hundreds or even thousands of soldiers.

But not the millions she saw before her.

Dierdre felt her heart ripping in two as she turned and looked to her father, his soldiers, and saw the same silent panic in their faces. Her father put on a brave face before his men, but she knew him. She could see the fatalism in his eyes, see the light fade from them. All of them, clearly, were staring at their deaths, at the end of their great and ancient city.

Beside her, Marco and his friends looked out with terror, but also with resolve, none of them, to their credit, turning and running away. She searched the sea of faces for Alec, but she was puzzled not to find him anywhere. She wondered where he could have gone. Surely he would not have fled?

Dierdre stood her ground and tightened her grip on her sword. She knew death was coming for them—she just had not expected it so soon. She was done, though, running from anyone.

Her father turned to her and grabbed her shoulders with urgency.

“You must leave the city,” he demanded.

Dierdre saw the fatherly love in his eyes, and it touched her.

“My men will escort you,” he added. “They can get you far from here. Go now! And remember me.”

Dierdre wiped away a tear as she saw her father looking down at her with so much love. She shook her head and brushed his hands off of her.

“No, Father,” she said. “This is my city, and I will die by your—”

Before she could finish her words, a horrific explosion cut through the air. At first she was confused, thinking it was another bell, but then she realized—cannon fire. Not just one cannon, but hundreds of them.

The shock waves alone knocked Dierdre off balance, cutting through the fabric of the atmosphere with such force, she felt as if her ears were split in two. Then came the high-pitched whistle of cannonballs, and as she looked out to sea, she felt a wave of panic as she saw hundreds of massive cannonballs, like iron cauldrons in the sky, arching high and heading right for her beloved city.

There followed another sound, worse than the last: the sound of iron crushing stone. The very air rumbled as there came one explosion after another. Dierdre stumbled and fell as all around her the great buildings of Ur, architectural masterpieces, monuments that had lasted thousands of years, were destroyed. These stone buildings, ten feet thick, churches, watchtowers, fortifications, battlements—all, to her horror, were smashed to bits by cannonballs. They crumbled before her eyes.

There came an avalanche of rubble as one building after another toppled to the ground.

It was sickening to watch. As Dierdre rolled on the ground, she saw a hundred-foot stone tower begin to fall on its side. She was helpless to do anything but watch as she saw hundreds of people beneath it look up and shriek in terror as the wall of stone crushed them.

There followed another explosion.

And another.

And another.

All around her more and more buildings exploded and fell, thousands of people instantly crushed in massive plumes of dust and debris. Boulders rolled throughout the city like pebbles while buildings fell into each other, crumbling as they landed on the ground. And still the cannonballs kept coming, ripping through one precious building after the other, turning this once majestic city into a mound of rubble.

Dierdre finally regained her feet. She looked about, dazed, ears ringing, and between clouds of dust saw streets filled with corpses, pools of blood, as if the whole city had been wiped out in an instant. She looked to the seas and saw the thousands more ships waiting to attack, and she realized that all their planning had been a joke. Ur was already destroyed, and the ships had not even touched shore. What good would all those weapons, all those chains and spikes, do now?

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.

CHAPTER THREE

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.

Vesuvius led them, raising a golden spear and throwing it high, straight up, and Merk watched in shock as the spear reached the top of the tower and just missed him as he ducked. He heard a groan, and turned to see that his fellow soldiers were not so lucky. Several of them lay on their backs, pierced by the spears, blood pouring from their mouths.

Even more disturbing, there came a rumbling noise, and suddenly from out of the wood there rolled forth an iron battering ram, carried on a cart with wooden wheels. The crowd of trolls parted way as the ram was rolled forward, led by Vesuvius, right for the door.

“SPEARS!” cried Vicor.

Merk ran over with the others to the mound of spears, knowing as he grabbed one that this was their last line of defense. He had thought they would save these until the trolls breached the tower, leaving them a last line of defense, but apparently, times were desperate. He grabbed one, took aim, and hurled it down, aiming for Vesuvius.

But Vesuvius was faster than he looked and he dodged at the last moment. Merk’s spear instead hit another troll in the thigh, dropping him, slowing the approach of the battering ram. His fellow soldiers threw them and spears hailed down, killing the trolls pushing the battering ram and stopping its progress.

Yet as soon as the trolls fell, a hundred more appeared from the wood, replacing them. Soon the ram rolled forward again. There were just too many of them—and they were all dispensable. This was not the way that humans fought. This was a nation of monsters.

Merk reached out for another spear to throw, and he was dismayed to find none left. At the same time, the battering ram reached the tower’s doors, several trolls laying down planks of wood over the craters to form a bridge.

“FORWARD!” Vesuvius shouted far below, his voice deep and gravelly.

The group of trolls charged and shoved the ram forward. A moment later it smashed the doors with such force that Merk could feel the vibration all the way up here. The tremor ran through his ankles, hurting him down to the bone.

It came again, and again, and again, shaking the tower, causing him and the others to stumble. He landed on his hands and knees atop a body, a fellow Watcher, only to realize he was already dead.

Merk heard a whizzing noise, felt a wave of wind and heat, and as he looked up he could not comprehend what he saw: overhead flew a boulder of fire. Explosions rang out all around him as flaming boulders landed atop the tower. Merk squatted and looked over the edge to see dozens of catapults being fired from below, aimed at the roof of the tower. All around him, his men were dying.

Another flaming boulder landed near Merk, killing two Watchers beside him, men he had grown to like, and as the flames spread out, he could feel them near his own back. Merk looked about, saw nearly all the men dead around him, and he knew there was nothing more he could do up here, except wait to die.

Merk knew it was now or never. He was not going to go down like this, huddled atop the tower, awaiting death. He would go down bravely, fearlessly, facing the enemy with a dagger in hand, face to face, and kill as many of these creatures as he could.

Merk let out a great cry, reached for the rope affixed to the tower, and jumped over the edge. He slid down it at full speed, heading for the nation of trolls below, and ready to meet his destiny.

CHAPTER FOUR

Kyra blinked as she gazed up at the sky, the world in motion above her. It was the most beautiful sky she had ever seen, deep purple, with soft white clouds drifting overhead, the sky aglow with diffused sunlight. She felt herself moving, and she heard the gentle lapping of water all around her. She had never felt such a deep sense of peace.

On her back, Kyra looked over and was surprised to see she was floating in the midst of a vast sea, on a wooden raft, far from any shore. Huge, rolling waves gently lifted her raft up and down. She felt as if she were drifting to the horizon, to another world, another life. To a place of peace. For the first time in her life, she no longer worried about the world; she felt wrapped in the embrace of the universe, as if, finally, she could let down her guard and be taken care of, shielded from all harm.

Kyra sensed another presence on her boat, and she sat up and was startled to see a woman sitting there. The woman wore white robes, shrouded in light, with long golden hair and startling blue eyes. She was the most beautiful woman Kyra had ever seen.

Kyra felt a sense of shock as she felt certain that this was her mother.

“Kyra, my love,” the woman said.

The woman smiled down at her, such a sweet smile that it restored Kyra’s soul, and Kyra looked back and felt an even deeper sense of peace. The voice resonated through her, made her feel at peace in the world.

“Mother,” she replied.

Her mother held out a hand, nearly translucent, and Kyra reached up and grasped it. The feel of her skin was electrifying, and as she held it, Kyra felt as though a part of her own soul were being restored.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said. “And I am proud. More proud than you will ever know.”

Kyra tried to focus, but as she felt the warmth of her mother’s embrace, she felt as if she were leaving this world.

“Am I dying, Mother?”

Her mother looked back, her eyes aglow, and gripped her hand tighter.

“It is your time, Kyra,” she said. “And yet, your courage has changed your destiny. Your courage—and my love.”

Kyra blinked back, confused.

“Will we not be together now?”

Her mother smiled at her, and Kyra felt her mother slowly letting go, drifting away. Kyra felt a rush of fear as she knew her mother would leave, be gone forever. Kyra tried to hold onto her, but she withdrew her hand and instead placed her palm on Kyra’s stomach. Kyra felt intense heat and love coursing through it, healing her. Slowly, she felt herself being restored.

“I will not let you die,” her mother replied. “My love for you is stronger than fate.”

Suddenly, her mother disappeared.

In her place stood a beautiful boy, staring back at her with glowing grey eyes, long, straight hair, mesmerizing her. She could feel the love in his gaze.

“I, too, will not let you die, Kyra,” he echoed.

He leaned in, placed his palm on her stomach, the same place her mother’s had been, and she felt an even more intense heat course through her body. She saw a white light and felt heat gushing through her, and as she felt herself coming back to life she could barely breathe.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Drowning in the heat and the light, she could not help but close her eyes.

Who are you? echoed in her mind.

Kyra opened her eyes slowly, feeling an intense wave of peace, of calm. She looked all about, expecting to still be on the ocean, to see the water, the sky.

Instead, she heard the ubiquitous chirping of insects. She turned, confused, to find herself in the woods. She was lying in a clearing and she felt intense heat radiating in her stomach, the place where she had been stabbed, and she looked down to see a single hand there. It was a beautiful, pale hand, touching her stomach, as it had in her dream. Lightheaded, she looked up to see those beautiful grey eyes staring down at her, so intense, they seemed to be glowing.

Kyle.

He knelt at her side, one hand on her forehead, and as he touched her, Kyra slowly felt her wound being healed, slowly felt herself returning to this world, as if he were willing her back. Had she really visited with her mother? Had it been real? She felt as if she had been meant to die, and yet somehow, her destiny had been changed. It was as if her mother had intervened. And Kyle. Their love had brought her back. That, and, as her mother had said, her own courage.

Kyra licked her lips, too weak to sit up. She wanted to thank Kyle, but her throat was too parched and the words would not come out.

“Shh,” he said, seeing her struggle, leaning forward and kissing her forehead.

“Did I die?” she finally managed to ask.

After a long silence he answered, his voice soft, yet powerful.

“You have come back,” he said. “I would not let you go.”

It was a strange feeling; looking into his eyes, she felt as if she had always known him. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing it, so grateful. There was so much she wanted to say to him. She wanted to ask him why he would risk his life for her; why he cared so much about her; why he would sacrifice to bring her back. She sensed he had, indeed, made a great sacrifice for her, a sacrifice that would somehow hurt him.

Most of all, she wanted him to know what she was feeling right now.

I love you, she wanted to say.

But the words would not come out. Instead, a wave of exhaustion overcame her, and as her eyes closed, she had no choice but to succumb. She felt herself falling deeper and deeper into sleep, the world racing by her, and she wondered if she were dying again. Had she only been brought back for a moment? Had she come back one last time just to say goodbye to Kyle?

And as a deep slumber finally overtook her, she could have sworn she heard a few last words before she drifted off for good:

“I love you, too.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The baby dragon flew in agony, each flap of his wings an effort, struggling to stay in the air. He flew, as he had for hours, over the countryside of Escalon, feeling lost and alone in this cruel world he had been born into. There flashed through his mind images of his dying father, lying there, his great eyes closing, being jabbed to death by all those human soldiers. His father, whom he had never had a chance to know, except for that one moment of glorious battle; his father, who had died saving him.

The baby dragon felt his father’s death as if it were his own, and with each flap of his wings, he felt more burdened by the guilt. If it were not for him, his father might be alive right now.

The dragon flew, torn with grief and remorse at the idea that he would never have a chance to know his father, to thank him for his selfless act of valor, for saving his life. A part of him no longer wanted to live either.

Another part, though, burned with rage, was desperate to kill those humans, to avenge his father and destroy the land below him. He did not know where he was, yet he sensed intuitively that he was oceans away from his homeland. Some instinct drove him to go back home; yet he did not know where home was.

The baby flew aimlessly, so lost in the world, breathing flames on treetops, on whatever he could find. Soon he ran out of fire, and soon after that, he found himself dipping lower and lower, with each flap of the wing. He tried to rise, but he found, in a panic, that he no longer had the strength. He tried to avoid a treetop, but his wings could no longer lift him, and he smashed right into it, smarting from all the old wounds that had not healed.

In agony, he bounced off it and continued flying, his elevation continually decreasing as he lost strength. He dripped blood, falling like raindrops below. He was weak from hunger, from his wounds, from the thousand jabs of spears he had received. He wanted to fly on, to find a target for destruction, but he felt his eyes closing, too heavy for him now. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness.

The dragon knew he was dying. In a way it was a relief; soon, he would join his father.

He was awakened by the sound of rustling leaves and cracking branches and as he felt himself smashing through treetops, he finally opened his eyes. His vision was obscured in a world of green. No longer able to control himself, he felt himself tumbling, snapping branches, each snap hurting him more.

He finally came to an abrupt stop high up in a tree, stuck between branches, too weak to struggle. He hung there, immobile, in too much pain to move, each breath hurting more than the next. He was sure he would die up here, tangled in the trees.

One of the branches suddenly gave with a loud snap, and the dragon plummeted. He tumbled end over end, snapping more branches, falling a good fifty feet, until finally he hit the ground.

He lay there, feeling all his ribs cracking, breathing blood. He flapped one wing slowly, but could not do much more.

As he felt the life force leaving him, it felt unfair, premature. He knew he had a destiny, but he could not understand what it was. It appeared to be short and cruel, born in this world only to witness his father’s death, and then to die himself. Maybe that was what life was: cruel and unfair.

As he felt his eyes closing for the last time, the dragon found his mind filled with one final thought: Father, wait for me. I will see you soon.

CHAPTER SIX

Alec stood on the deck, gripping the rail of the sleek black ship, and watched the sea, as he had been for days. He watched the giant waves roll in and out, lifting their small sailing ship, and watched the foam break below the hold as they cut through water with a speed unlike anything he had ever experienced. Their ship leaned as the sails were stiff with wind, the gales strong and steady. Alec studied it with a craftsman’s eyes, wondering what this ship was made of; clearly it was crafted of an unusual, sleek material, one he had never encountered before, and it had allowed them to maintain speed all day and night, and to maneuver in the dark past the Pandesian fleet, out of the Sea of Sorrow, and into the Sea of Tears.

As Alec reflected, he recalled what a harrowing journey it had been, a journey through days and nights, the sails never lowering, the long nights on the black sea filled with hostile sounds, of the ship’s creaking, and of exotic creatures jumping and flapping. More than once he had awakened to see a glowing snake trying to board the boat, only to watch the man he was sailing with kick it off with his boot.

Most mysterious of all, more so than any of the exotic sea life, was Sovos, the man at the helm of the ship. This man who had sought Alec out at the forge, who had brought him on this ship, who was taking him to some remote place, a man Alec wondered if he were crazy to trust. Thus far, at least, Sovos had already saved Alec’s life. Alec recalled looking back at the city of Ur as they were far out at sea, feeling agony, feeling helpless, as he witnessed the Pandesian fleet closing in. From the horizon, he had seen the cannonballs crack through the air, had heard the distant rumble, had seen the toppling of the great buildings, buildings which he himself had been inside but hours before. He had tried to get off the ship, to help them all, but by then, they had been too far away. He had insisted that Sovos turn around, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

Alec teared up at the thought of all his friends back there, especially Marco and Dierdre. He closed his eyes and tried, to no avail, to shake away the memory. His chest tightened as he felt he had let them all down.

The only thing keeping Alec going, that shook him from his despondency, was the sense that he was needed elsewhere, as Sovos had insisted; that he had a certain destiny, that he could use it to help destroy the Pandesians somewhere else. After all, as Sovos  had said, his dying back there with the rest of them would not have helped anyone. Still, he hoped and prayed that Marco and Dierdre had survived, and that he could still return in time to reunite with them.

So curious to know where they were going, Alec had peppered Sovos with questions, yet he had remained stubbornly silent, always at the helm night and day, his back to Alec. He never, as far as Alec could tell, even slept or ate. He just stood there watching the sea in his tall leather boots and black leather coat, his scarlet silks draped over his shoulder, wearing a cape with its curious insignia. With his short, brown beard and flashing green eyes that stared at the waves as if they were one with them, the mystery around him only deepened.

Alec stared out at the unusual Sea of Tears, with its light aqua color, and he felt overcome with an urgency to know where he was being taken. Unable to stand the silence any longer, he turned to Sovos, desperate for answers.

“Why me?” Alec asked, breaking the silence, trying yet again, determined this time for an answer. “Why choose me from that entire city? Why was I the one meant to survive? You could have saved a hundred people more important than me.”

Alec waited, but Sovos remained silent, his back to him, studying the sea.

Alec decided to try another route.

“Where are we going?” Alec asked yet again. “And how is this ship able to sail so fast? What is it made of?”

Alec watched the man’s back. Minutes passed.

Finally, the man shook his head, his back still turned.

“You are going where you are meant to go, where you are meant to be. I chose you because we need you, and no other.”

Alec wondered.

“Need me for what?” Alec pressed.

“To destroy Pandesia.”

“Why me?” Alec asked. “How can I possibly help?”

“All will be clear once we arrive,” Sovos replied.

“Arrive where?” Alec pressed, frustrated. “My friends are in Escalon. People I love. A girl.”

“I am sorry,” Sovos sighed, “but no one is left back there. All that you once knew and loved is gone.”

There came a long silence, and amidst the whistling of the wind, Alec prayed he was wrong—yet deep down he felt he was right. How could life change so quickly? he wondered.

“Yet you are alive,” Sovos continued, “and that is a very precious gift. Do not squander it. You can help many others, if you pass the test.”

Alec furrowed his brow.

“What test?” he asked.

Sovos finally turned and looked at him, his eyes piercing.

“If you are the one,” he said, “our cause will fall on your shoulders; if not, we shall have no use for you.”

Alec tried to understand.

“We’ve been sailing for days now and have gotten nowhere,” Alec observed. “Just deeper into the sea. I can’t even see Escalon anymore.”

The man smirked.

“And where do you think we’re going?” he asked.

Alec shrugged.

“It appears we sail northeast. Perhaps somewhere toward Marda.”

Alec studied the horizon, exasperated.

Finally, Sovos replied.

“How wrong you are, young one,” he replied. “How wrong indeed.”

Sovos turned back to the helm as a strong gust of wind rose up, the boat riding into the whitecaps of the ocean. Alec look beyond him, and as he did, for the first time, he was startled to spot a shape on the horizon.

He hurried forward, filled with excitement as he gripped the rail.

In the distance there slowly emerged a landmass, just beginning to take shape. The land seemed to sparkle, as if made of diamonds. Alec raised a hand to his eyes, peering, wondering what it could possibly be. What island could exist out here in the middle of nowhere? He wracked his brain, but could remember no land on the maps. Was it some country he had never heard of?

“What is it?” Alec asked in a rush, staring out in anticipation.

Sovos turned, and for the first time since Alec had met him, he smiled wide.

“Welcome, my friend,” he said, “to the Lost Isles.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Aidan stood bound to a post, unable to move, while he watched his father, kneeling a few feet before him, flanked by Pandesian soldiers. They stood, swords raised, holding them over his head.

“NO!” Aidan shrieked.

He tried to break free, to rush forward and spare his father, yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not budge, the ropes digging into his wrists and ankles. He was forced to watch as his father knelt there, eyes filled with tears, looking to him for help.

“Aidan!” his father called, reaching a hand out for him.

“Father!” Aidan called back.

The blades came down, and a moment later, Aidan’s face was splattered in blood as they chopped off his father’s head.

“NO!” Aidan shrieked, feeling his own life collapse within him, feeling himself sinking into a black hole.

Aidan woke with a start, gasping, covered in a cold sweat. He sat up in the darkness, struggling to realize where he was.

“Father!” Aidan yelled, still half asleep, looking for him, still feeling an urgency to save him.

He looked all around, felt something in his face and hair, all over his body, and realized it was hard to breathe. He reached out, pulled something light and long off his face, and he realized he was lying in a pile of hay, nearly buried in it. He quickly brushed it all off as he sat up.

It was dark in here, only the faint flicker of a torch appearing through slats, and he soon realized he was lying in the back of a wagon. Beside him came a rustling, and he looked over and saw with relief that it was White. The huge dog jumped up in the wagon beside him and licked his face, while Aidan hugged him back.

Aidan breathed hard, still overwhelmed by the dream. It had seemed too real. Had his father really been killed? He tried to think back to when he had last seen him, in the royal courtyard, ambushed, surrounded. He recalled trying to help, and then being whisked away by Motley in the thick of night. He recalled Motley putting him on this wagon, their riding through the backstreets of Andros to get away.

That explained the wagon. But where had they gone? Where had Motley taken him?

A door opened, and a sliver of torchlight lit up the dark room. Aidan was finally able to see where he was: a small stone room, the ceiling low and arched, looking like a small cottage or tavern. He looked up to see Motley standing in the doorway, framed in the torchlight.

“Keep yelling like that and the Pandesians will find us,” Motley warned.

Motley turned and walked out, returning to the well-lit room in the distance, and Aidan quickly hopped down from the wagon and followed, White at his side. As Aidan entered the bright room, Motley quickly closed the thick oak door behind him and bolted it several times.

Aidan looked out, eyes adjusting to the light, and recognized familiar faces: Motley’s friends. The actors. All those entertainers from the road. They were all here, all hiding away, boarded up in this windowless, stone pub. All the faces, once so festive, were now grim, somber.

“Pandesians are everywhere,” Motley said to Aidan. “Keep your voice down.”

Aidan, embarrassed, hadn’t even realized he was shouting.

“Sorry,” he said. “I had a nightmare.”

“We all have nightmares,” Motley replied.

“We’re living in one,” added another actor, his face glum.

“Where are we?” Aidan asked, looking around, puzzled.

“A tavern,” Motley replied, “at the farthest corner of Andros. We are still in the capital, hiding out. The Pandesians patrol outside. They’ve walked by several times, but they haven’t come in—and they won’t, as long as you keep quiet. We’re safe here.”

“For now,” called out one of his friends, skeptical.

Aidan, feeling an urgency to help his father, tried to remember.

“My father,” he said. “Is he…dead?”

Motley shook his head.

“I don’t know. He was taken. That was the last I saw him.”

Aidan felt a flush of resentment.

“You took me away!” he said angrily. “You shouldn’t have. I would have helped him!”

Motley rubbed his chin.

“And how would you have managed that?”

Aidan shrugged, wracking his brain.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Somehow.”

Motley nodded.

“You would have tried,” he agreed. “And you would be dead now, too.”

“Is he dead then?” Aidan asked, feeling his heart wrench within him.

Motley shrugged.

“Not when we left,” Motley said. “I just do not know now. We have no friends, no spies, in the city anymore—it has been overtaken by Pandesians. All your father’s men are imprisoned. We are, I’m afraid, at Pandesia’s mercy.”

Aidan clenched his fists, thinking only of his father rotting in that cell.

“I must save him,” Aidan declared, filled with a sense of purpose. “I cannot let him sit there. I must leave this place at once.”

Aidan jumped up and hurried to the door and had started pulling back the bolts when Motley appeared, stood over him, and stuck his foot before the door before he could open it.

“Go now,” Motley said, “and you’ll get us all killed.”

Aidan looked back at Motley, saw a serious expression for the first time, and he knew he was right. He had a new sense of gratitude and respect for him; after all, he had indeed saved his life. Aidan would always be grateful for that. Yet at the same time, he felt a burning desire to rescue his father, and he knew that every second counted.

“You said there would be another way,” Aidan said, remembering. “That there would be another way to save him.”

Motley nodded.

“I did,” Motley admitted.

“Were those just empty words, then?” Aidan asked.

Motley sighed.

“What do you propose?” he asked, exasperated. “Your father sits in the heart of the capital, in the royal dungeon, guarded by the entire Pandesian army. Shall we just go and knock on the door?”

Aidan stood there, trying to think of anything. He knew it was a daunting task.

“There must be men who can help us?” Aidan asked.

“Who?” called out one of the actors. “All those men loyal to your father were captured along with him.”

“Not all,” Aidan replied. “Surely some of his men were not there. What about the warlords loyal to him outside the capital?”

“Perhaps.” Motley shrugged. “But where are they now?”

Aidan fumed, desperate, feeling his father’s imprisonment as if it were his own.

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Aidan exclaimed. “If you don’t help me, I will go myself. I don’t care if I die. I cannot just sit here while my father’s in prison. And my brothers…” Aidan said, remembering, and he began to cry, overcome with emotion, as he recalled his two brothers’ deaths.

“I have no one now,” he said.

Then he shook his head. He remembered his sister, Kyra, and he prayed with all he had that she was safe. After all, she was all he had now.

As Aidan cried, embarrassed, White came over and rested his head against his leg. He heard heavy footsteps crossing the creaky, wooden plank floors, and he felt a big beefy palm on his shoulder.

He looked up and saw Motley looking down with compassion.

“Wrong,” Motley said. “You have us. We are your family now.”

Motley turned and gestured to the room, and Aidan looked out and saw all the actors and entertainers looking back at him earnestly, dozens of them, compassion in their eyes as they nodded in agreement. He realized that, even though they were not warriors, they were good-hearted people. He had a new respect for them.

“Thank you,” Aidan said. “But you are all actors. What I need are warriors. You cannot help me get back my father.”

Motley suddenly had a look in his eyes, as if an idea were dawning, and he smiled wide.

“How wrong you are, young Aidan,” he replied.

Aidan could see Motley’s eyes gleaming, and he knew he was thinking of something.

“Warriors have a certain skill,” Motley said, “yet entertainers have a skill of their own. Warriors can win by force—but entertainers can win by other means, means even more powerful.”

“I do not understand,” Aidan said, confused. “You can’t entertain my father out of his jail cell.”

Motley laughed aloud.

“In fact,” he replied, “I think I can.”

Aidan looked back, puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Motley rubbed his chin, his eyes drifting, clearly hatching a plan.

“Warriors are not allowed to walk freely in the capital now—or go anywhere near the city center. Yet entertainers have no restrictions.”

Aidan was confused.

“Why would Pandesia let entertainers into the heart of the capital?” Aidan asked.

Motley smiled and shook his head.

“You still don’t know how the world works, boy,” Motley replied. “Warriors are always only allowed in limited places, and at limited times. But entertainers—they are allowed everywhere, at all times. Everybody always needs to be entertained, Pandesians as much as Escalonites. After all, a bored soldier is a dangerous soldier, on either side of the kingdom, and rule of order must be maintained. Entertainment has always been the key to keeping troops happy, and to controlling an army.”

Motley smiled.

“You see, young Aidan,” he said, “it is not the commanders who hold the keys to their armies, but us. Mere, old entertainers. Those of the class you despise so much. We rise above battle, cut across enemy lines. No one cares what armor I’m wearing—they care only how good my tales are. And I have fine tales, boy, finer than you shall ever know.”

Motley turned to the room and boomed:

“We shall perform a play! All of us!”

All the actors in the room suddenly cheered, brightened, rising to their feet, hope returning to their dejected eyes.

“We shall perform our play right in the heart of capital! It shall be the greatest entertainment these Pandesians have ever seen! And more importantly, the greatest distraction. When the time is right, when the city is in our hands, captivated by our great performance, we shall act. And we shall find a way to free your father.”

The men cheered and Aidan, for the first time, felt his heart warming, felt a new sense of optimism.

“Do you really think it will work?” Aidan asked.

Motley smiled.

“Crazier things, my boy,” he said, “have happened.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Duncan tried to blot out the pain as he drifted in and out of sleep, lying back against the stone wall, the shackles cutting into his wrists and ankles and keeping him awake. More than anything, he craved water. His throat was so parched, he couldn’t swallow, so raw that each breath hurt. He could not remember how many days it had been since he’d had a sip, and he felt so weak from hunger he could barely move. He knew he was wasting away down here, and that if the executioner didn’t come for him soon, then hunger would take him.

Duncan drifted in and out of consciousness, as he had for days, the pain overwhelming him, becoming a part of who he was. He had flashes of his youth, of times spent in open fields, on training grounds, in battlefields. He had memories of his first battles, of days gone by, when Escalon was free and flourishing. These were always interrupted, though, by the faces of his two dead boys, rising up before him, haunting him. He was torn apart by agony, and he shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to make it all go away.

Duncan thought of his last remaining son, Aidan, and he desperately hoped he was safe back in Volis, that the Pandesians had not reached it yet. His mind then turned to thoughts of Kyra. He remembered her as a young girl, recalled the pride he had always taken in raising her. He thought of her journey across Escalon and he wondered if she had reached Ur, if she had met her uncle, if she was safe now. She was a part of him, the only part of him that mattered now, and her safety mattered more to him than being alive. Would he ever see her again? he wondered. He craved to see her, yet he also wanted her to remain far from here, and safe from all of this.

The cell door slammed open, and Duncan looked up, startled, as he peered into the darkness. Boots marched in the blackness, and as he listened to the gait, Duncan could tell they were not Enis’s boots. In the darkness, his hearing had grown more acute.

As the soldier approached, Duncan figured he was coming to torture or kill him. Duncan was ready. They could do with him as they pleased—he had already died inside.

Duncan opened his eyes, heavy as they were, and looked up with whatever dignity he could muster to see who was coming. There, he was shocked to see, was the face of the man he despised the most: Bant of Barris. The traitor. The man who had killed his two sons.

Duncan glowered back as Bant stepped forward, a satisfied smirk on his face, and knelt before him. He wondered what this creature could possibly be doing here.

“Not so powerful now, are you, Duncan?” Bant asked, just feet away. He stood there, hands on hips, short, stocky, with narrow lips, beady eyes and a pockmarked face.

Duncan tried to lunge forward, wanting to tear him apart—but his chains held him back.

“You shall pay for my boys,” Duncan said, choking up, his throat so dry he couldn’t get out the words with the venom he wished.

Bant laughed, a short, crude sound.

“Shall I?” he mocked. “You’ll be breathing your last dying breath down here. I killed your sons, and I can kill you, too, if I choose. I have the backing of Pandesia now, after my display of loyalty. But I shall not kill you. That would be too kind. Better to let you waste away.”

Duncan felt a cold rage bubbling up within him.

“Then why you have come?”

Bant darkened.

“I can come for any reason I wish,” he scowled, “or for no reason at all. I can come just to look at you. To gape at you. To see the fruits of my victory.”

He sighed.

“And yet it so happens, I have a reason to visit you. There is something I wish from you. And there is one thing I am going to give you.”

Duncan looked back skeptically.

“Your freedom,” Bant added.

Duncan watched him, wondering.

“And why would you do that?” he asked.

Bant sighed.

“You see, Duncan,” he said, “you and I are not so different. We are both warriors. In fact, you are a man I’ve always respected. Your sons deserved to be killed—they were reckless blowhards. But you,” he said, “I’ve always respected. You should not be down here.”

He paused, examining him.

“So this is what I will do,” he continued. “You will publicly confess your crimes against our nation, and you shall exhort all citizens of Andros to concede to Pandesian rule. If you do this, then I shall see that Pandesia sets you free.”

Duncan sat there, so furious he didn’t know what to say.

“Are you a puppet for the Pandesians now?” Duncan finally asked, seething. “Are you trying to impress them? To show them that you can deliver me?”

Bant sneered.

“Do it, Duncan,” he replied. “You are no good to anyone down here, least of all yourself. Tell the Supreme Ra what he wants to hear, confess what you’ve done, and make peace for this city. Our capital needs peace now, and you are the only who can make it.”

Duncan took several deep breaths, until he finally summoned the strength to speak.

“Never,” he replied.

Bant glowered.

“Not for my freedom,” Duncan continued, “not for my life, and not for any price.”

Duncan stared at him, smiling in satisfaction as he watched Bant redden, then finally he added: “But be sure of one thing: if I ever escape from here, my sword will find a spot in your heart.”

After a long, stunned silence, Bant stood, scowling, stared down at Duncan, and shook his head.

“Live a few more days for me,” he said, “so that I can be here to watch your execution.”

CHAPTER NINE

Dierdre rowed with all her might, Marco beside her, the two of them swiftly cutting through the canal, making their way back toward the sea, where she had last seen her father. Her heart was torn apart with anxiety as she recalled the last time she had seen her father, recalled his bravely attacking the Pandesian army, even against insurmountable odds. She closed her eyes and shook away the image, rowing even faster, praying he was not dead yet. All she wanted was to make it back in time to save him—or if not, then to at least have a chance to die by his side.

Beside her, Marco rowed just as quickly, and she looked over at him with gratitude and wonder.

“Why?” she asked.

He turned and looked at her.

“Why did you join me?” she pressed.

He looked at her, silent, then looked away.

“You could have gone with the others back there,” she added. “But you chose not to. You chose to come with me.”

He looked straight ahead, still rowing hard, still remaining silent.

“Why?” she insisted, desperate to know, rowing furiously.

“Because my friend admired you very much,” Marco said. “And that is enough for me.”

Dierdre rowed harder, turning through the twisting canal, and her thoughts turned to Alec. She was so disappointed in him. He had abandoned them all, had departed Ur with that mysterious stranger before the invasion. Why? She could only wonder. He had been so devoted to the cause, the forge, and she was sure he’d be the last person to flee in a time of need. Yet he had, when they needed him most.

It made Dierdre reexamine her feelings for Alec, whom, after all, she barely knew—and it made her have stronger feelings for his friend Marco, who had sacrificed for her. Already she felt a strong bond with him. As cannonballs continued to whistle overhead, as buildings continued to explode and topple all around them, Dierdre wondered if Marco really knew what he was getting into. Did he know that by joining her, by returning into the heart of chaos, there would be no return?

“We row toward death, you know,” she said. “My father and his men are on that beach, beyond that wall of rubble, and I intend to find him and fight by his side.”

Marco nodded.

“Do you think I returned to this city to live?” he asked. “If I wanted to flee, I had my chance.”

Satisfied, and touched by his strength, Dierdre rowed on, the two of them continuing silently, avoiding falling debris as they turned ever closer toward the shore.

Finally, they turned a corner, and in the distance she spotted the wall of rubble where she had last seen her father—and just beyond it, the tall black ships. She knew that on the other side lay the beach where he was battling the Pandesians, and she rowed with all she had, sweat pouring down her face, anxious to reach him in time. She heard the sounds of fighting, of men groaning out, dying, and she prayed it was not too late.

Barely had their boat reached the edge of the canal when she jumped out, rocking it, Marco behind her, and sprinted for the wall. She scrambled over the massive boulders, scraping her elbows and knees and not caring. Out of breath, she climbed and climbed, slipping on rocks, thinking only of her father, of having to reach the other side, hardly comprehending that these mounds of rubble were once the great towers of Ur.

She glanced over her shoulder as she heard the shouts, and, afforded a sweeping view of Ur from up here, she was shocked to see half the city in ruins. Buildings were toppled, mountains of rubble in the streets, covered by clouds of dust. She saw the people of Ur fleeing for their lives in every direction.

She turned back around and continued climbing, going the opposite direction of the people, wanting to embrace the battle—not run from it. She finally reached the top of the rock wall, and as she looked out, her heart stopped. She stood there, frozen in place, unable to move. This was not what she had expected at all.

Dierdre had expected to see a great battle being waged below, to see her father fighting valiantly, his men all around him. She expected to be able to rush down there and join him, to save him, to fight at his side.

Instead, what she saw made her want to curl up and die.

There lay her father, face-first in the sand, covered in a pool of blood, a hatchet in his back.

Dead.

All around him lay his dozens of soldiers, all dead, too. Thousands of Pandesian soldiers clamored off the ships like ants, spreading out, covering the beach, stabbing each body to make sure it was dead. They stepped on her father’s body and the others as they made their way for the wall of rubble, and right for her.

Dierdre looked down as she heard a noise and saw some Pandesians had already reached it, were already climbing up, hardly thirty feet away, right for her.

Dierdre, filled with despair, anguish, rage, stepped forward and hurled her spear down at the first Pandesian she saw climbing up. He looked up, clearly not expecting to see anyone atop the wall, not expecting anyone to be crazy enough to face off against an invading army. Dierdre’s spear impaled his chest, sending him sliding back down the rock and taking out several soldiers with him.

The other soldiers rallied, and a dozen of them raised their spears and threw them back up at her. It happened too quickly and Dierdre stood there defenseless, wanting to be impaled, ready to die. Wanting to die. She had been too late—her father was dead below, and now she, overwhelmed by guilt, wanted to die with him.

“Dierdre!” cried a voice.

Dierdre heard Marco beside her, and a moment later she felt him grabbing her, yanking her back down to the other side of the rubble. Spears whizzed by her head, right where she had been standing, missing her by inches, and she tumbled backwards, back down the pile of rubble, with Marco.

She felt terrible pain as the two of them tumbled head over heels, the rocks smashing her ribs, all over her body, bruising and scratching her all over the place, until finally they hit the bottom.

Dierdre lay there for a moment, struggling to breathe, feeling the wind knocked out of her, wondering if she were dead. She realized dimly that Marco had just saved her life.

Marco, quickly recovering, grabbed her and yanked her back to her feet. They ran together, stumbling, her body aching, away from the wall and back into the streets of Ur.

Dierdre glanced back over her shoulder and saw Pandesians already reaching the top. She watched as they raised bows and began to fire arrows, raining down death on the city.

All around Dierdre cries rang out as people began to fall, pierced in the back by arrows and spears as the sky turned black. Dierdre saw an arrow descending right for Marco and she reached out and yanked him, pulling him out of the way, behind a wall of rock. There came the sound of arrowheads hitting the stone behind them, and Marco turned and looked at her gratefully.

“We’re even,” she said.

There followed a shout, then a great clanging of armor, and she looked out to see dozens more Pandesians reach the top, all of them charging down the rock. Some were faster than others, and several of them, leading the pack, raced right for Dierdre.

Dierdre and Marco exchanged a knowing look, and nodded. Neither was prepared to run.

Marco stepped out from behind the rock as they neared, raised his spear, and aimed for the lead soldier. The spear lodged in his chest, dropping him.

Marco then spun around and slashed another’s throat with his sword; he kicked a third soldier as he neared, then raised his sword high and brought it down on the fourth.

Dierdre, inspired, grabbed a flail from the ground and turned and swung with all her might. The spiked metal ball smashed an approaching soldier in the helmet, knocking him down, and she swung again and smashed another in the back before he could stab Marco.

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