Chapter Seven

Vesuvius stood at the edge of the cliff, beside the Tower of Kos, staring down at the crashing waves of the Sorrow, the steam still rising from where the Sword of Fire had sunk – and he grinned wide. He had done it. The Sword of Flames was no more. He had robbed the Tower of Kos, had robbed Escalon, of its most precious artifact. He had, once and for all time, lowered the Flames.

Vesuvius beamed, giddy with excitement. His palm still throbbed from where he had grabbed the burning Sword of Flames, and he looked down and saw the insignia branded in it. He ran his finger along his fresh scars, knowing they would stay there forever, a mark of his success. The pain was blinding, yet he forced it from his mind, forced it not to bother him. In fact, he taught himself to enjoy the pain.

After all these centuries, now, finally, his people would have their due. No longer would they be relegated to Marda, to the northernmost reaches of the empire, to infertile land. Now they would take their vengeance for being quarantined behind a wall of flames, would flood Escalon, tear it to shreds.

His heart skipped a beat, giddy at the thought. He could not wait to turn back around, to cross the Devil’s Finger, to return to the mainland and to meet his people in the middle of Escalon. The entire troll nation would converge at Andros, and together, one square inch at a time, they would destroy Escalon forever. It would become the new troll homeland.

Yet as Vesuvius stood there, looking down at the waves, the spot where the sword had sunk, something gnawed at him. He looked out to the horizon, examining the black waters of the Bay of Death, and there was something lingering, something that made his satisfaction incomplete. As he examined the horizon, far out in the distance, he spotted a single, small ship with white sails, sailing along the Bay of Death. It sailed west, away from the Devil’s Finger. And as he watched it go, he knew something was wrong.

Vesuvius turned back and looked up at the Tower beside him. It had been empty. Its doors left open. The Sword had been waiting for him. Those guarding had abandoned it. It had all been too easy.

Why?

Vesuvius knew the assassin Merk had been pursuing the Sword; he had followed him all the way across the Devil’s Finger. Why then would he abandon it? Why was he sailing away from here, across the Bay of Death? Who was that woman sailing with him? Had she been guarding this tower? What secrets was she hiding?

And where were they going?

Vesuvius looked down at the steam rising from the ocean, then back up to the horizon, and his veins burned. He could not help but feel that somehow he had been duped. That a complete victory had been snatched from him.

The more Vesuvius dwelled on it, the more he realized something was wrong. It was all too convenient. He studied the violent seas below, the waves crashing into the rocks, the rising steam, and he realized he would never know the truth. He would never know if the Sword of Flames had truly sunk to the bottom. If there was something here he was missing. If that had even been the right sword. If the Flames would stay down, too.

Vesuvius, burning with indignation, came to a decision: he had to pursue them. He would never know the truth until he did. Was there another, secret, tower somewhere? Another sword?

Even if there was not, even if he had accomplished all he needed, Vesuvius was famed for leaving no victims alive. Ever. He always pursued every last man to his death, and standing here, watching those two escape from his grasp, did not sit right with him. He knew he could not just let them go.

Vesuvius looked down at the dozens of ships still tied to the shores, abandoned, rocking wildly in the waves, as if waiting for him. And he came to an immediate decision.

“To the ships!” he commanded his army of trolls.

As one they scrambled to do his bidding, rushing down to the rocky shore, boarding the ships. Vesuvius followed, boarding the stern of the final ship.

He turned, raised his halberd high, and chopped the rope.

A moment later he was off, all the trolls with him, all of them crammed onto ships, and setting sail on the legendary Bay of Death. Somewhere on the horizon sailed Merk and that girl. And Vesuvius would not stop, no matter where he had to sail, until both of them were dead.

Chapter Eight

Merk gripped the rail as he stood at the bow of the small ship, the former King Tarnis’s daughter beside him, each lost in their own world as they were thrown about by the rough waters of the Bay of Death. Merk stared out at the black waters, windswept, dotted with whitecaps, and he could not help but wonder about the woman beside him. The mystery surrounding her had only deepened since they’d left the Tower of Kos, had embarked on this ship to some mysterious place. His mind swam with questions for her.

Tarnis’s daughter. It was hard for Merk to believe. What had she been doing out here, at the end of the Devil’s Finger, holed up in the Tower of Kos? Was she in hiding? In exile? Being protected? From whom?

Merk sensed that she, with her translucent eyes, her too-pale complexion and unflappable poise, was of another race. But if so, then who was her mother? Why had she been left alone to guard the Sword of Flames, the Tower of Kos? Where had all her people gone?

And most pressing of all, where was she leading them now?

One hand on the rudder, she steered the ship deeper into the bay, to some destination on the horizon that Merk could only wonder at.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

There followed a long silence, so long, he was unsure if she would ever reply.

“At least, then, tell me your name,” he added, realizing she had never offered it.

“Lorna,” she replied.

Lorna. He liked the sound of it.

“The Three Daggers,” she added, turning to him. “That’s where we’re going.”

Merk frowned.

“The Three Daggers?” he asked, surprised.

She merely looked straight ahead.

Merk, though, was stunned by the news. The most remote islands in all of Escalon, The Three Daggers were so deep in the Bay of Death, he had not known of anyone who had ever actually traveled there. Knossos, of course, the legendary isle and fort, sat on the last of them, and legend had always had it that it held Escalon’s fiercest warriors. They were men who lived on a desolate island off a desolate peninsula, in the most dangerous body of water there was. They were men rumored to be as rough as the sea that surrounded them. Merk had never met one in person. No one had. They were more legend than real.

“Did your Watchers retreat there?” he asked.

Lorna nodded.

“They await us now,” she said.

Merk turned and looked back over his shoulder, wanting one last glimpse of the Tower of Kos, and as he did, his heart suddenly stopped at what he saw: there, on the horizon, pursuing them, were dozens of ships, sails full.

“We’ve got company,” he said.

Lorna, to his surprise, did not even turn around, but merely nodded.

“They will chase us to the ends of the earth,” she said calmly.

Merk was puzzled.

“Even though they have the Sword of Flames?”

“It was never the Sword that they were after,” she corrected. “It was destruction. The destruction of us all.”

“And when they catch us?” Merk asked. “We cannot fight off an army of trolls alone. Nor can a small isle of warriors, no matter how tough they may be.”

She nodded, still unfazed.

“We may indeed die,” she replied. “Yet we shall do it in the company of our fellow Watchers, fighting for what we know is true. There are many secrets left to guard.”

“Secrets?” he asked.

But she fell silent, watching the waters.

He was about to ask her more, when a sudden gale of wind nearly capsized the boat. Merk fell to his stomach, slamming into the side of the hull and sliding over the edge.

Dangling, he grasped onto the rail for dear life as his legs sank into the water, water so icy cold he felt he would freeze to death. He hung on with a single hand, mostly submerged, and as he looked back down over his shoulder, his heart leapt to see a school of red sharks suddenly closing in. He felt horrific pain as teeth began to dig into his calf, as he saw blood in the water that he knew was his own.

A moment later Lorna stepped forward and cracked the waters with her staff; as she did, brilliant white light spread on the surface, and the sharks dispersed. In the same motion she grabbed his hand and dragged him back onto the ship.

The ship righted itself as the wind subsided and Merk sat on deck, wet, freezing, breathing hard, and a terrible pain in his calf.

Lorna examined his wound, tore a piece of cloth from her shirt, and wrapped it around his leg, staunching the blood.

“You saved my life,” he said, filled with gratitude. “There were dozens of those things in there. They would have killed me.”

She looked him, her light blue eyes hypnotizing, so large.

“Those creatures are the least of your worries here,” she said.

They sailed on in silence, Merk slowly regaining his feet and watching the horizon, sure to grip the rail tightly, with both hands this time. He examined the horizon, but as much as he watched it, he saw no sign of the Three Daggers. He looked down and studied the waters of the Bay of Death with a new respect and fear. He looked carefully, and saw swarms of small red sharks under the surface, barely visible, hidden mostly by the waves. He knew now that entering that water meant death – and he could not help but wonder what other creatures inhabited this body of water.

The silence deepened, punctuated only by the howling of the wind, and after hours more passed, Merk, feeling desolate out here, needed to talk.

“What you did what that staff,” Merk said, turning to Lorna. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Lorna remained expressionless, still watching the horizon.

“Tell me about you,” he pressed.

She glanced at him, then looked back to the horizon.

“What would you like to know?” she asked.

“Anything,” he replied. “Everything.”

She fell silent a long time, then finally, she said:

“Start with you.”

Merk stared back, surprised.

“Me?” he asked. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about your life,” she said. “Anything you want to tell me.”

Merk took a deep breath as he turned and stared into the horizon. His life was the one thing he did not want to talk about.

Finally, realizing they had a long journey ahead, he sighed. He knew he had to face himself at one time or another, even if he was not proud of it.

“I’ve been an assassin most my life,” he said slowly, regretfully, staring into the horizon, his voice grave and filled with self-loathing. “I’m not proud of it. But I was the best at what I did. I was in demand by kings and queens. No one could rival my skills.”

Merk fell into a long silence, trapped in memories of a life he regretted, memories he would rather not recall.

“And now?” she asked softly.

Merk was grateful to detect no judgment in her voice, as he usually did with others. He sighed.

“Now,” he said, “it is not what I do anymore. It is not who I am anymore. I have vowed to renounce violence. To put my services to a cause. Yet, try as I do, I cannot seem to get away from it. Violence seems to find me. There is always, it seems, another cause.”

“And what is your cause?” she asked.

He thought about that.

“My cause, initially, was to become a Watcher,” he replied. “To devote myself to service. To guard the Tower of Ur, to protect the Sword of Flames. When that fell, I felt my cause was to reach the Tower of Kos, to save the sword.”

He sighed.

“And yet now here we are, sailing through the Bay of Death, the Sword gone, the trolls following, and heading to a barren chain of islands,” Lorna replied with a smile.

Merk frowned, unamused.

“I have lost my cause,” he said. “I have lost my life’s purpose. I do not know myself anymore. I do not know my direction.”

Lorna nodded.

“That is a good place to be,” she said. “A place of uncertainty is also a place of possibility.”

Merk studied her, wondering. He was touched by her lack of condemnation. Anyone else who had heard his tale would vilify him.

“You do not judge me,” he observed, shocked, “for who I am.”

Lorna stared at him, her eyes so intense it was like staring into the moon.

“That was who you were,” she corrected. “Not who you are now. How can I judge you for who you once were? I only judge the man standing before me.”

Merk felt restored by her answer.

“And who am I now?” he asked, wanting to know the answer, unsure of it himself.

She stared at him.

“I see a fine warrior,” she replied. “A selfless man. A man who wants to help others. And a man full of longing. I see a man who is lost. A man who has never known himself.”

Merk pondered her words, and they resonated deep within him. He felt them all to be true. Too true.

A long silence fell between them, as their small ship bobbed up and down in the waters, slowly making its way west. Merk checked back and saw the troll fleet still on the horizon, still a good enough distance away.

“And you?” he finally asked. “You are Tarnis’s daughter, are you not?”

She searched the horizon, her eyes aglow, and finally, she nodded.

“I am,” she replied.

Merk was stunned to hear it.

“Then why were you here?” he asked.

She sighed.

“I have been hidden here since I was a young girl.”

“But why?” he pressed.

She shrugged.

“I suppose it was too dangerous to keep me in the capital. People could not know I was the King’s illegitimate daughter. It was safer here.”

“Safer here?” he asked. “At the ends of the earth?”

“I was left with a secret to guard,” she explained. “More important even than the kingdom of Escalon.”

His heart pounded as he wondered what it could be.

“Will you tell me?” he asked.

But Lorna slowly turned and pointed ahead. Merk followed her gaze and there, on the horizon, the sun shone down on three barren islands, rising up from the ocean, the last one a fort of solid stone. It was the most desolate and yet beautiful place Merk had ever seen. A place distant enough to hold all the secrets of magic and power.

“Welcome,” Lorna said, “to Knossos.”