A Forge of Valor (21 page)

To his surprise, she answered simply.

“Yes.”

His eyes widened. The Sword of Fire. The Sword of legend, which had haunted his dreams his entire life. It really existed. And it lay just beyond those doors.

“Then we must save it!” he said, and began to walk for the doors.

She blocked his way, and he stared back, puzzled.

“Do you really think a man could save the Sword?” she asked.

He stared back, confused.

“Perhaps the Sword is not meant to be saved,” she added.

He struggled to understand.

“What do you mean?” he asked, frustrated. “It is meant to be guarded. That is the purpose we serve.”

She nodded.

“Guarded, yes,” she said. “But not saved. The Sword has been guarded for centuries. Yet when the time comes for it to be taken away, it is not for us to interfere with destiny. The Sword has its own destiny, and that, no man can alter.”

Merk stood there, uncomprehending.

“If you don’t believe me, then try,” she said.

She stepped aside and motioned at the open doors behind her. He looked past her and saw a faint torchlight beckoning.

Merk glanced back over his shoulder and saw, on the horizon, the nation of Marda getting closer with each step. He turned back to the tower, feeling a need to do something.

Merk broke into action. He rushed past her and inside the tower, entering the blackened chamber. He stood inside, where it was cool and quiet, the crashing of the waves and howling of the wind muted for the first time in his long journey. He turned about slowly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and with a jolt of shock he saw, sitting there, just a few feet away, what could only be the Sword of Fire.

There it sat, glowing red, right in the center of the chamber, on a pedestal, in plain sight. Merk could not understand why it was not hidden.

Following a gut impulse to save it, Merk ran forward, reached out, and without hesitating, grabbed hold of its hilt, determined to take it away somewhere safe.

Merk heard a hissing noise and felt a burning in his palm unlike any he had ever felt. His hand burned as the hilt seared his skin. He shrieked, pulling back his hand, and as he did, he saw the damage it had left: the insignia of the Sword burned into his palm.

He stood there, in tears from the pain, holding his smoldering hand.

“I warned you,” came the soft voice.

Merk turned to see the girl standing beside him. He knew then that she was right; everything she had said had been right.

“So what do we do?” he asked, clutching his arm, feeling helpless.

“A ship awaits,” she said. “Come with me.”

She held out a hand, long and pale, and he stood there, debating. She was inviting him to leave this place, to leave the Sword behind, to journey to some other place he would not know. He knew that taking her hand would change his life forever, would put him a road from which there would be no return. Would leave the Sword here, all alone, at the mercy of its enemies.

But maybe that was what was meant to be. The laws of destiny, after all, were beyond him.

Merk stared into those translucent eyes, at her open palm, so inviting, and he knew his mind was already made up.

He reached out and took it, and as he did, he knew his life would never be the same again.

Vesuvius, finally reaching the end of the Devil’s Finger, leapt down from the last boulder onto dry land, his boots crunching on gravel, and felt a wave of relief. There he stood, defiant amidst the raging wind and crashing seas, and looked up, salivating at his destination: the Tower of Kos. He felt a warmth tingling up his arms, and he could not stop himself from grinning. He had really made it. In but minutes, the Sword would be his.

Behind him came the clattering of thousands of soldiers, his nation of trolls scrambling down off the boulders, landing on the gravel. They stood behind him, awaiting his command, all ready to march to their deaths on a moment’s notice.

Vesuvius stood there in silence punctuated only by the wind, reveling in the moment. He had crossed all of Escalon for this; now, finally, there was nothing left to stand in his way, to stand between he and the Sword of Fire, between him and his destiny. Soon the Sword would be his, the Flames would be a memory, and the entire nation of Marda would advance. Escalon would be forgotten, and renamed Greater Marda.

Vesuvius marched forward, his trolls following close behind, each step bringing him closer to those magnificent golden doors, shining in the last rays of sun. They were ajar, he was surprised to see, and this place, he realized, had the feeling of being abandoned. For a moment he felt a pang of fear. Had they all left? Had they taken the Sword with them?

Or, worse—had it never been here to begin with?

Vesuvius reached the doors and yanked them open all the way, heart pounding, dozens of trolls rushing forward to help. He did not need their help. With a single hand, with his massive strength, he yanked the heavy doors open all the way, as determined to enter as he had ever had been to do anything in his life.

Vesuvius crossed the threshold. It was dark in here, the sound of the wind and the waves muted, and he heard only the crackling of torches inside. It was cooler in here, too. He stepped forward, feeling his destiny rise up within him.

He stopped as his eyes adjusted, and held his breath. He could not believe his eyes: there it sat, before him, the Sword of Fire. It was glowing, as if aflame, a beautiful sword, perhaps three feet long, with the hilt shining yellow, and the blade flaming orange. The blade stuck straight up, pointing to the ceiling.

Vesuvius’s heart slammed in his chest. Finally. There it was, after all this. The source of his years of tireless work. Of his father’s and his father’s before him. Now here he stood, just feet away from it. It seemed too good to be true. As if, perhaps, it were a trick.

Vesuvius rushed forward, his palms sweaty, unable to wait a moment longer. He stood beside the sword, sweating, examining it, feeling its heat from here. It was a thing of beauty. A thing of majesty. It even emanated a sound of its own, like the sound of a hissing torch. It seemed primal, like one of the wonders of the earth.

Vesuvius, unable to wait any longer, reached out and grabbed the hilt, ready for his entire life to change.

Immediately, he was blinded by pain. He shrieked and shrieked as the hilt seared his palm, burning into it, deeper and deeper as he gripped it, the pain more intense than anything he had ever felt. He desperately wanted to let go, every nerve within him screamed at him to let go, but he forced himself to hang on as long as he could stand it. He knew if he let it go he would never touch it again. And he could not give up. Not now. Not after all this.

Yet, shrieking, sweating, his palm sizzling, smoking, the pain was too intense even for him.

Vesuvius finally had no choice but to release his grip on the hilt and back away, holding his wrist in agony. He looked down at his hand and saw the insignia of the hilt burned into his palm forever.

He turned, scowling at his trolls, who looked back at him, all terrified to come near him.

“You,” he spat to one nameless troll, as he held his wrist, gasping in pain.

The troll stepped forward.

“Grab the Sword!”

Vesuvius knew from legend that the Sword needed to leave the tower for the Flames to lower.

“Me, my lord?” asked the troll, terror-stricken.

Vesuvius rushed forward, shrieking, drew his sword with his good hand, and stabbed the hesitating troll in the heart.

He then turned to his other trolls.

“You!” he said to another, pointing at him with the tip of his sword.

The troll gulped. He stepped forward reluctantly and made his way toward the Sword. Sweating, he hesitated, looking over at Vesuvius.

Vesuvius’s unyielding glare must have convinced the vacillating troll. He stepped forward, and with trembling hands reached out and grabbed the hilt of the Sword.

The soldier shrieked as he did, his hands burning—and before he could remove his grip, Vesuvius ran up behind him, wrapped one arm around his throat from behind in a chokehold, and reached down and grabbed the man’s hand with his good hand. He squeezed as tight as he could, forcing the troll not to let go of the Sword.

The troll shrieked, clearly in agony, yet Vesuvius held him firmly in place, squeezing the life out of him.

“HELP!” Vesuvius shrieked.

The other trolls rushed forward and helped him, grabbing the troll’s wrist and arm, forcing him to hold on.

“PULL!” Vesuvius commanded.

As one, all held tightly to the soldier and yanked him back, shrieking all the while.

Vesuvius couldn’t stand the noise anymore—annoyed, he tightened his chokehold, then with a quick, simple move, snapped the troll’s neck. The troll hung limply in his arms, Vesuvius’s other hand still clamping the dead troll’s hand on the Sword.

Together, they all dragged the dead troll out the door, and out of the tower, the Sword still in his hand.

The second they crossed the threshold of the tower, the second they stepped outside, Vesuvius sensed something happening. Even though it was hundreds of miles away, he could feel it from here.

The Flames. They were beginning to weaken.

“TO THE SEA!” Vesuvius shrieked.

The trolls joined him as they dragged the limp troll, the Sword still clamped in his hand, toward the edge of the cliff. As they reached it, Vesuvius picked up the dead soldier high overhead, clamping his hand over the Sword hand, then rushed forward and hurled him over the cliff.

Vesuvius leaned over and watched, his heart pounding with excitement, as the limp troll went flying over the cliff, hurtling toward the ocean below, the Sword still in his hand. The Sword fell with him, finally separating from his hand halfway, tumbling end over end. As it fell through the air, Vesuvius was amazed to watch it morph into a ball of flame, like a comet falling from the sky.

Finally it hit the sea, and as it impacted the water there followed an enormous explosion, the likes of which Vesuvius had never seen. A column of water, turned orange, shot up into the sky, hundreds of feet high, then showered down all around him, its waters scalding, like drops of fire.

The world shook beneath his feet, and he felt it happening.

The Flames were no more.

He grinned wide, realizing.

Escalon was his.

Alec sat before the forge, sweating, hammering away at the sword as he had been for days, frustrated and stumped. This unfinished sword, crafted of a metal he did not understand, just would not mold. It was the most stubborn piece of metal he had ever worked with. Try as he did to shape it, the sword seemed to have a mind of its own. He had tried softening it with liquid fire, cooling it, and hammering it from every angle, with every type of hammer. Nothing worked.

Alec sat there, shoulders aching, and put his hammer down, needing a break. He examined it, breathing hard, dripping sweat onto it, and wondered. He held it up to the light, palms raw from hammering, and turned it, trying to understand. He had never encountered anything remotely like it. It was half a sword, an unfinished masterpiece of a weapon that refused to be finished, a weapon as mysterious as any he had ever held. He understood now why these islanders needed him here, on the Lost Isles, to complete it. It seemed he was set up for an impossible task.

Alec finally threw his hammer down in frustration, the hammer echoing on the floor. He sat there, head in his hands, trying to think. He hated being defeated.

He stared back at the sword and he could feel its energy, even from here, coming at him in waves, as if taunting him. It was like sharing the room with another person. He felt the sword craved attention, and he studied it, unable to look away. It was stubborn, proud, magical. He ran his hand along its too-sharp blade; he felt the jagged end, where the blade was unfinished, turned it over and studied the strange inscriptions. It bore ancient symbols he did not understand, like a riddle that needed to be cracked.

Alec wondered what it all could mean. Who had forged this? When? Why hadn’t they finished it? Had they been interrupted? Or was it unfinished on purpose? Had it been broken in battle? If so, by what weapon? Was there a matching sword somewhere, one that was complete? If so, where was it?

Most of all, why could it not be forged? What was it made of? What did he have to do to finish it?

Alec felt the answer lying right before him, just out of his reach. It was a riddle, this sword, one that would not let him think of anything else. He had to solve it.

Yet he had no idea how. He was dealing with something here that was clearly not of this earth, that was way out of his element. With any other weapon, he would know exactly what to do. If nothing else, he could simply start from scratch. But not this one. He examined its exotic material, turning it over as it shined in the light, and wondered what it was. It had a light blue sheen, and the more he stared at it, the more it seemed to change. It was like staring into the endless waters of a lake. What was the purpose of this weapon? he wondered. Why was it needed so desperately? How could it impact all of Escalon?

Alec finally, exhausted, set it down. He wiped sweat off his forehead and stood, stretching his aching limbs. He sighed. Maybe they had been wrong about him. Maybe he wasn’t the one meant to finish it.

Alec, brooding, stormed out of the forge and emerged into the foggy sunlight, squinting, trying to adjust. A dramatic sunset cast a scarlet light over the Lost Isles, and everywhere sunlight sparkled in a silver mist. This place was magical.

Alec decided to take a walk. He paced on the strange terrain, soft green moss beneath his boots, and he looked out and studied the sky, the landscape, breathing in the fresh ocean air. He struggled, dwelling on the sword as he hiked. What did its inscriptions mean? Why was it unfinished?

Alec walked for hours, as the sunset mysteriously lingered, never seeming to set. Here, in the Lost Isles, he had learned that it never really grew dark; this eerie sunset lingered all night long, never quite dark, allowing just enough light for him to walk by.