Free A Forge of Valor by Morgan Rice Page B

battlements. Vesuvius did not want to let him off so easily. He took aim, threw his spear, and it lodged in the man’s back. Vesuvius grinned as he stepped forward slowly, grabbed the man from behind, and hurled him over the edge. He watched with great joy as fell shrieking, flailing, to his death below.
    Vesuvius’s trolls cheered, the tower finally theirs.
    Vesuvius stood there, feeling a rush of victory. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he would be standing here, atop the tower, it entirely in his possession, the humans’ most precious building. He felt as if nothing could stop him. As if the world were his.
    Remembering the Sword, Vesuvius turned and rushed back down the stairs until he reached the top floor of the tower, the floor, legend had it, that held the mythical Sword. He put his shoulder into an oak door, smashing it open, then barreled through the chamber until he came to another door. He was puzzled to find a dead human lying at its entrance, the body cold, dead long ago. He was puzzled by that. Someone had been here already, had killed this human. But who? Why?
    Vesuvius stepped forward in the silence, the shouts of the trolls muted behind the thick stone walls, and he pushed open the door, his heart pounding in anticipation. He entered the solemn chamber, lit dimly by torches, and as he looked up, he saw an ancient cradle of steel, velvet cushions beneath it, as if meant to hold the Sword. Vesuvius sensed immediately that he had found it.
    He stepped forward, his heart pounding, expecting to see the Sword, to finally, after all this time, grasp it in his hands.
    There, beneath the steel cradle, was a flaming torch, as if to signify this was the home of the Sword of Fire. Yet as Vesuvius slowly looked up, his heart fell. He felt a rush of devastation, of despair. It was as if the whole world had fooled him.
    It was empty.
    In a rage, Vesuvius rushed forward and smashed the cradle, swinging his halberd, destroying it again and again. He grabbed what was left, lifted it high overhead and hurled it into the walls, smashing it repeatedly. He finally leaned back and shrieked, and the sound shook the very fabric of the tower.
    His journey through Escalon, he realized, had not even begun. There would be much more killing ahead of him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
    Anvin slowly peeled open one eye and managed to look out, just enough, to see a world of dust and death. His one good eye was encased with dust and dirt, and he opened it just a bit, the world but a sliver, and as he lay there, face-first in the desert rock, he desperately tried to remember where he was, what had happened. His limbs ached more than he thought possible, his body weighed a million tons, and he felt more dead than alive.
    Anvin heard a distant rumble and he looked up to the horizon and could see the faint outline of an army, gleaming yellow and blue, marching away. They stirred up a cloud of dust as they marched north, away from him.
    Slowly, he began to remember. The invasion. The Pandesians. The Southern Gate. Duncan had never arrived. He and his men had lost. They had failed to stop them.
    Anvin lay there, feeling the bruises all over his body, the welts on his head, the cuts and wounds stinging. He felt a tremendous throbbing in his hand and he looked down to see his pinky finger was missing, the blood dried up, only a stump now. The memories came rushing back. The battle. The hordes of the world descending upon him at once.
    Anvin wondered how he could be alive. He tried to look around, still unable to move his neck, and saw the dead face of Durge, lying but a few feet away, eyes wide open, staring back.  The stern look haunted him, as if even in death Durge was saying I told you so .
    Anvin shifted, just enough to look further and see the dead bodies of all his fellow soldiers, all the men who had followed him, who had believed in him, who had fought for Duncan, who had fought for Durge, all lying there, dead. He, apparently,