Morgan Rice - Night of the Bold

That was not all. Vesuvius could fight magic with magic. He could summon his own sorcerer, too, to create the cover for them they needed.

“Magon!” he shouted.

Magon, his prized sorcerer, rushed forward, running beside him, his head obscured by his scarlet cloak and hood.

Vesuvius pointed to the fissure, knowing what he wanted, and Magon shook his head.

“Magic too powerful for me, my lord,” Magon said, anticipating his request. “I have tried many spells – yet I cannot seal it. I cannot conquer Alva.”

Vesuvius scowled.

“Fool!” he snapped back. “I do not need you to conquer him. I need you to distract him. Send forth the red mist. Obscure our people in it, and obscure his vision.”

Magon’s eyes widened, clearly admiring the idea, and he turned and ran off. Vesuvius watched as he rushed to the edge of the fissure, then stopped and raised his shriveled, blackened palms to the sky. His wretched, malformed face was revealed as he leaned back and his hood fell, displaying rows of small, rotted, sharpened yellow teeth.

Magon snarled and his hands shook as small orbs of red mist arose from them and filled the sky. They rolled toward the fissure, and spread out, like clouds, creating a thick red mist.

Vesuvius grinned. This was precisely the cover he needed in order to obscure his approach from behind. He let out a shout and dug his heels into his horse as he led his trolls south and east, skirting the fissure, keeping his sights instead on a distant village. He felt the world rush by beneath his feet, and he raised his halberd and felt the thrill of imminent mayhem and murder.

Moments later, he tore through a village unannounced and unexpected, bursting down its dirt main street. Hundreds of villagers were milling about this small isolated village on the outskirts of Ur, as yet untouched by the Pandesians. There would be plenty of time to defeat Alva, Vesuvius knew, to circle back behind him. Now it was time to let the red mist work, and let Alva’s power drain.

In the meantime, he could have his fun, could find murder elsewhere. Vesuvius did not even slow as he tore through the village, kicking up a cloud of dust amidst screams of villagers, panicking to get away. His first victim was an old man. He had barely turned around when a look of horror spread across his face. Vesuvius grinned. He lived for looks just like those. It was a look of shock. Of terror. Of the end of life.

Vesuvius swung his halberd and brought it down with such might that he chopped the shrieking old man in half.

All around him the villagers took note, panic in their eyes. Vesuvius could see they wanted to run. But of course, there was no time.

His trolls swarmed the village like locusts, swinging halberds, chopping humans as they tore through like a plague. Vesuvius, loving it all, was soon covered to his elbows in blood, and he let out great bursts of laughter.

Oh, how good it was, he thought, to be alive.

Kyle raised his staff and swung with both hands as fast as he could, smashing trolls left and right as they began to cross Alva’s fissure. He and Kolva, fighting beside him, were the front line of Escalon’s north, the two of them holding back the nation of trolls while Alva maintained the fissure. At his feet, Leo snarled, attacking trolls on all sides, helping to keep them at bay. Kyle wondered if Duncan and all the men down south had any idea of all that they were doing to keep their homeland safe.

Alva stood to the side, eyes closed, still humming, still widening the fissure, sending trolls, with their makeshift tree bridges, deeper and deeper into the chasm. It was a remarkable feat, and Kyle was in awe of him. Yet as he watched, he could already see Alva beginning to weaken, his arms lowering, and he realized he could not hold the fissure much longer. At the same time, too many trolls were slipping through, felling trees which functioned as bridges, leaving Kyle and Kolva to fight them back.

Kyle stepped forward and smashed a troll who leapt off a log spanning the fissure, sending him back down into the earth. Several more sprinted across another tree they had felled, and they all landed around Kyle before Alva could widen it, surrounding him.

Kyle jumped into action, swinging and cracking one in the jaw, jabbing one in the solar plexus, and then coming up from under another one and smashing him in the chin. One troll grabbed him from behind, shockingly strong, and Kyle heard a snarling and turned to see Leo land on his back and clamp down on his neck. The troll shrieked and backed off, Leo wrestling it down to the ground.

Kyle turned and kicked as another troll approached to tackle him, knocking him back with such force that he sent him flying back into the fissure with a shriek. Another troll leapt from behind and swung a halberd for Kyle’s back. Kyle ducked low, allowing the blade to swing overhead, then spun, grabbed the troll from behind and threw him. He watched as the troll stumbled and fell, shrieking, into the fissure.

Kyle fought like a man possessed, spinning and striking every which way, feeling the very defense of Escalon to be in his hands. The air filled the perpetual cracking noise of his staff as he felled soldiers in every direction.

Yet suddenly, in mid-swing, Kyle found his vision obscured; he blinked, confused at what was happening, groping before him. The world was turning red.

A thickening fog rolled toward him, making it impossible to see. He could hear thousands of trolls, snarling, charging, and he could hear the horns of the nation of Marda being sounded. He thought for a moment he spotted Vesuvius, leading some of his army in another direction, circling around, and he could not understand what was happening.

Beside him, Kolva paused after smashing two trolls back into the fissure, and squinted suspiciously into the mist.

“What is happening, my lord?” Kyle called out to Alva.

Alva stood there, eyes closed, pausing, before he replied.

“Vesuvius plans a great treachery. Soon enough they will reach us.”

“What shall we do?” Kyle asked.

Alva opened his eyes for the first time, light shining from them, his face filled with urgency.

“The Flames must be restored,” Alva finally said. “That is the only way.”

Kyle and Kolva exchanged a baffled look.

“But how?” Kolva asked.

Alva closed his eyes for a long time, then finally opened them again.

“Within the Tower of Ur,” he began, “deep beneath the earth, lies the chamber of secrets. Within it lies our only hope.”

Kyle blinked back, confused.

“The tower, my lord?” he asked. “But it is destroyed.”

Alva turned to him, his eyes so intense he nearly had to look away. It was like staring into the sun.

“What you see is only rubble,” he replied. “The real secret of the tower lies not in its stone, but in what lies beneath.”

Kyle stared back, shocked, then turned and examined the massive pile of rubble where the Tower of Ur once stood.

“The tower rises high,” Alva continued, “yet it extends even deeper beneath the earth. The Tower of Ur was never a decoy. Each tower held its own great secret. Ur’s secret never resided above ground – but below.”

Kyle looked back, awestruck. He had never known of the tower’s secret.

“You must find it,” Alva urged him. “Clear the rubble and find the chamber. We cannot hold these trolls for long. That chamber is Escalon’s only hope.”

Kyle looked again at the rubble, at the hundreds of trolls clamoring over it in the descending mist, and he knew that reaching it would require an epic battle. Yet he had no choice: it was life or death.

Without hesitation, Kyle bounded off, raised his staff high, and threw himself into the midst of the troll army, Leo at his side, fighting for all he had, determined, even at the cost of his life, to find the lost chamber – and rescue Escalon.