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
