Rise of the Valiant (28 page)

Ra, Supreme
Leader of Pandesia, sat on his golden throne in the vast Hall of Thrones, in
the center of the great capital of Pandisiana, and he gritted his teeth and
looked out over the room, towering over his dozens of advisors, and was filled
with fury at the scroll before him. A messenger knelt below him, trembling,
knowing. His Glorious Ra did not welcome bad news, and it was at one’s own
peril to deliver it.

Ra, seven feet
tall, olive-skinned, with long, golden braids for hair tied tightly to his head
and clear, translucent eyes, felt a great anger welling up as he pondered the
scroll’s message. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his muscles rippling in
the warm weather, visible for all to see as he wore but a golden chained vest
and golden loincloth, bedecked with jewelry. Ra, supreme leader, had spies in
every corner of the kingdoms, and he was never—ever—caught off guard. He was
Ra, the All-Knowing, the All-Mighty, the Omniscient, the One Ruler Over All,
the one that all of the empire prayed to in their morning prayers, the one
deified in every statue in every town of the empire.

Yet this day was
different. This message which wafted in, like a foul breeze, had caused him
consternation, had disrupted his immaculately constructed peace.

Ra clenched his
jaw, pierced with a golden and sapphire chain, wondering how he could have not
anticipated this, wondering how any of his necromancers could not have foreseen
this. The men of Escalon, those rebellious scum, had begun a revolution. His
soldiers had been killed. Lord Governors had been killed. And the rebellion was
spreading across Escalon like a cancer.

His authority
was being threatened. And that could not be: to erode his authority would be to
erode the entire authority of the empire. After all, if the great and supreme
Ra showed weakness in one corner of Escalon, then no one, anywhere would
respect him.

Ra looked about
the Hall of Thrones, a vast chamber with a dome-shaped ceiling a hundred feet
high, his throne perched atop a dais twenty feet high, with a long series of
narrow ivory steps leading up to it. The floors, the walls, everything was
covered in shining gold, gold he had personally captured in conquests from
around the world. And yet he fumed. He took no joy in all the splendor about
him, as he usually did, no joy in gazing down upon the dozens of men all
patiently awaiting his command. He saw only in his mind’s eye the rebellious
men of Escalon—and he wondered how
anyone
, in any corner of the world,
would dare defy him.

Clearly, he had
underestimated these men of Escalon. Clearly, he had not been brutal enough.

“Most Honorable
and Supreme One,” one of his advisors finally called out. “Shall we raze
Escalon to the ground?”

Ra was pondering
the same thing. In most territories he conquered he simply killed everyone, not
wanting to waste the effort to beat them into submission. Often it was easier
to just wipe out a single country, a single race, and just take all that was
theirs. But he had seen an advantage to keeping the people of Escalon alive.
The men were famed warriors, having never lost a battle before his invasion,
and he admired their skills; he had already drafted many of them into his
armies and he could use their skill. More importantly, their weak king had
submitted without a fight, which sent a positive message to those around the
world. And most importantly, he needed the men of Escalon to patrol The Flames.
Only they knew how to keep the trolls back, how to contain Marta. Ra, despite
all his might, did not want war with Marta. One day, perhaps—but now was not
the time. It was a primitive, savage place, besides, with nothing to offer but
useless hills and rocks. Escalon was the prize.

By instituting
his new law of
puellae nuptias
, by taking their women, by letting them
know they were all Pandesian property, Ra had assumed it would send Escalon
into final submission. He had been wrong.

Ra blinked down
at the messenger and he realized that all of his concerns were nothing, still,
next to the final words of the message. A dragon had appeared in Escalon. And a
young girl had been able to command it to destroy his men. He could hardly
fathom it.

“You are certain
this message is correct?” Ra asked.

The messenger
nodded back, fear in his eyes.

For the first
time in as long as he could remember, Ra felt a pang of fear. He could not help
but think of the prophecy that had haunted his reign:
There would come a
rise of the dragons, followed by a rise of the valiant
. A single girl would
rise up, with powers never before seen, and control the north. She would
command them to destroy Pandesia—and she could only be stopped before her
powers were complete.

Ra sat there,
feeling his heart slamming his chest, and he knew now that the day had come.

“Where is she?”
Ra asked the messenger.

The messenger
swallowed.

“Our spies have
been told she heads to the ancient Tower of Ur.”

Ur.
The Tower. The
Watchers. That only cemented Ra’s fears. He knew the power that lurked behind
those walls. If she reached that tower, she could become more powerful than he
could control. He had to use all the force at his disposal to stop her before
it was too late.

There came a
shout outside the hall, and Ra caught a glimpse, through the open-air arch,
fifty-feet-high, of the companies of soldiers patrolling the courtyard. They
were an army grown idle. An army that needed to be fed. An army ready for war.

Ra stood to his
full height, his muscles bulging, his golden armor jingling. He casually swung
around his golden dagger and sliced the throat of the messenger before him, as
if scratching his arm. He saw fresh fear in the faces of all those stationed in
his chamber. They should be afraid, he realized. For Ra was not only a great
leader, not only a god, but also a great warrior. He could feel his blood
boiling, itching for bloodlust, for complete domination, for the urge to have
all peoples in every corner of the world bend their knee to him.

Ra looked out
and surveyed his commanders, all afraid to meet his gaze.

“Assemble all my
armies,” he commanded. “We shall stop at nothing until we find this girl.”

It made no sense.
Vidar stood atop the parapets of Volis and looked north, for the horizon,
towards The Flames, and he wondered. So far off, their dim glow was slowly
becoming visible as afternoon gave way to dusk, and as he stood there, a dozen
of his brothers-in-arms around him, all Duncan’s men, he was perplexed. For
hours, he’d been feeling the tremor, a slight vibration that rang through the
ground, through his feet, like a mild earthquake. His whole life in Volis he
had never felt anything like it.

Vidar reached out
and laid his hands on the stone, and as he did, he felt it again: a tremor. It
came every minute or so, then disappeared just as suddenly. It seemed to be
getting stronger.

Vidar could not
fathom what it could be. Had the dragon returned? Was it stomping through the
countryside? No, it could not be a dragon. If it were, would he not see it, or
hear it?

There were no
earthquakes in Volis, either, no fault lines as far as he knew.

Perhaps, he
thought, it was an approaching army. Was Pandesia heading this way with all its
might? That wouldn’t make any sense, either, because the shaking stopped every
minute before starting again. An army would not pause.

What, then,
could it be?

The whole day he
had shrugged it off as nothing, expecting it to go away. But now he could
ignore it no longer.

Vidar felt a
great responsibility; after all, this was the first time that Duncan had left
him in charge of a fort—much less Volis—and he was determined to make him
proud. With the bulk of their force headed south with Duncan, someone had to
stay behind, to man this fort against an unexpected attack. He clutched his
sword, not wanting to let Duncan down, and wondering why this would happen on
his shift.

Another tremor
came, this stronger than the last, and as Vidar watched, the stone a small
pebble jumped off, falling off the parapet. He felt a pit in his stomach.
Whatever it was, it was real.

Vidar turned and
faced the others, who all looked back at him, pale. He detected something in
their faces he had never quite seen before: fear. Vidar himself was unafraid to
meet any enemy. At the first sign of any foe, he would rally his men and rush
to defend, and would challenge any man—or army—sword to sword. It was what he
did not know that concerned him.

Vidar looked
north, toward The Flames, and a sinking feeling washed over him. He did not
know why, but he felt that, whatever it was, it was coming from that
direction—and that it was coming for them all.

*

Vesuvius stood
deep underground, below Escalon, watching with ecstasy as, up ahead in the
tunnel, the giant creature he had captured smashed and pounded its way through
the stone. With each blow the earth shook, strong enough to make Vesuvius sway.
His army of trolls, all around him, stumbled and fell, but Vesuvius managed to
keep his footing, hands on his hips, as he stood there and watched with glee.
He could remember few moments of greater satisfaction in his life. His plan,
after all these years, was hatching perfectly.

The clouds of
dust had not settled when the creature charged forward in a burst of rage,
butting the stone wall with his head, reaching up and clawing, tearing at rock
and stone, trying to break free and too stupid to know he was only digging
deeper. It turned and turned, frustrated, unable to find its way out. And it
smashed the stone some more.

Every once in a
while the giant turned, as if second guessing itself, and ran away from the
wall, back toward Vesuvius. In these instances, Vesuvius had hundreds of his
soldiers rush forward and goad it with long pikes, making it turn back
around—but not before it swiped and killed dozens of his men. Indeed, Vesuvius’
ranks were quickly thinning—a small price to pay for the conquest to come, the
victory nearly in his grasp. After all, when this tunnel was finished, when the
pathway connecting Marta to Escalon was done, then his entire nation of trolls
could invade and destroy Escalon once and for all.

Vesuvius
followed the giant at a safe distance, his heart pounding with excitement as
the beast burrowed deeper and deeper underground, smashing its way south. As he
stepped forward, Vesuvius suddenly felt himself sweating, and sensing
something, he reached up and laid his palms on the ceiling. He was giddy with
excitement. The rock was warm. That could only mean one thing: they were now
directly beneath The Flames.

With a thrill
unlike any he had ever felt, Vesuvius marched forward, following the beast,
feeling his destiny in his grasp. As the beast smashed through rock again and
again, sending small boulders rolling back his way, Vesuvius felt a bigger
thrill than he knew was possible. Victory, total subjugation of Escalon, was
finally in reach. With each step he took, he was now in enemy territory.

Yet they were
still hundreds of feet below ground, and Vesuvius knew he had to get the
creature to burrow upwards. When they had passed a good distance past The
Flames, Vesuvius summoned his soldiers.

“Prod the
beast!” he called out. “Drive it upwards!”

His soldiers
paused, unsure, knowing it would mean their deaths to march forward. Seeing his
men’s hesitation, Vesuvius knew he had to take decisive action.

“Torches!” he
called out.

Men rushed
forward with torches, and Vesuvius took one himself, let out a great battle
cry, and led his men forward in a charge.

They all
followed, hundreds of trolls racing forward, lighting the blackened tunnel as
they headed for the beast. Vesuvius was the first to reach it and as he did, he
touched it to the beast’s foot, prodding it to smash upwards.

The beast
shrieked, turned, and swiped for him. Vesuvius, anticipating it, stepped out of
the way just in time, and the beast swiped several of his men, killing them
instead, then smashed a huge chunk out of the wall.

Another one of
his men rushed forward, then another, all setting their torches to its feet, following
Vesuvius command—until finally, the giant, enraged, its feet burning, began to
jump straight up. It smashed its head on rock, then shrieked and reached up and
clawed at the ceiling—exactly as Vesuvius hoped it would.

Vesuvius
squinted at the clouds of dust and watched, heart pounding, as the creature
made its way upwards, burrowing the tunnel on an angle. This was the moment he
had been waiting for, had dreamed of for as long as he could remember.

As Vesuvius
watched, waiting, breathless, peering into the darkness, there came a
tremendous crash—and he suddenly found himself flooded with light. Sunlight.
Glorious sunlight.

Sunlight from
Escalon.

Dust swirled in
it as the sunshine flooded the tunnel, lighting it up. The beast smashed
through again, widening the hole above ground, sending rock and dirt and grass
everywhere, like a great geyser emerging from hell.

Vesuvius stood
there, too frozen in shock to move, hardly able to process what had just
happened. With that final blow, the creature had finished the tunnel, had
opened the gateway for the invasion of Escalon. The Flames were now useless.

Vesuvius smiled
wide, it slowly dawning on him that his plan had worked. That he had outsmarted
them all.

It was time for
the great invasion to begin.