Chapter 34
Alger stood atop the battlements of Magandi in the falling snow, studying the countryside, sensing something was wrong. He had awakened early, before dawn, and had been standing here for hours, watching. All his men stood beside him, waiting.
They had asked what it was that had woken him, that had led him up here on this quiet dawn, but he had been unable to respond. It was some instinct, from years of battle, that death was coming. An instinct that had led him to survive. The same instinct that had led Oscar to put him in charge of Magandi in his absence.
Alger watched the horizon as day broke cold and gray, and saw nothing but snow. He had stood there so long, frigid, his hands numb, his men pacing, clearly wanting to return to the warmth of the fort, that he was beginning to doubt himself.
And then, suddenly, he saw it: a small plume of black smoke, wafting up on the horizon, barely visible in the snow. At the same time, he smelled it: a smell in the air of something burning. Something more than pine.
And then, he felt it: a tremor, the slightest tremor beneath his feet, not recognizable to others—but recognizable to him. It was, he knew in every bone of his body, the advance of an army.
But what army? he wondered. The Bandranians were nowhere close, the northeast of Escalon liberated. The dragon, too, had flown far away, and had not been seen since; nor would a dragon be marching on the ground. It made no sense. It was as if Escalon were under attack—but who could be attacking from within?
Alger studied the horizon, pondering the skeleton force of men that Oscar had left him with to guard Magandi, the force that Oscar had been sure he would never have to employ. Now Alger wondered, with dread, if he would need it, if he would truly have to defend this remote fort with these few men. It was a defense, he knew, he could not sustain. Against a band of brigands, yes—but not against an army.
Alger turned to his men, these loyal men, posted here in the midst of nowhere with him, staring back with their solemn faces, as frozen as the landscape, and he could see in their eyes that they would stand beside him anywhere. He loved them for that.
“Close the gates,” he commanded to his lieutenant, his voice calm and cold as steel. It was a serious tone, and his men looked back with surprise.
“All women and children indoors. Bar the windows, lock the doors, and lower the portcullis.”
His men hesitated just a moment, then nodded back with equal solemnity. One nodded to the other, a horn was sounded, a great, long horn, its sound feeling as if it were reaching the heavens, and Alger closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the sound vibrating through him, hardly believing this was really happening.
Alger hurried down the stone spiral staircase, his men close behind, as he descended from the parapets and marched quickly across the inner courtyard of Magandi. All about him villagers scurried, vendors closing booths, women and children and the elderly hurrying in disarray to get indoors. Doors slammed and shutters were bolted. Alger could feel the chaos and panic about him, and he prayed to all the gods he knew that he could protect these people he had been sworn to protect.
As his men began to close the massive gates, to turn the cranks for the portcullis, Alger gestured for them to wait. He wanted to go out there, to see with his own eyes what it was.
Alger walked through the gates, out into the danger zone, expecting to go alone, but he heard a few of his loyal brothers behind him, joining him. They crossed the drawbridge together, hollow wood creaking beneath their boots, and as they reached the far side, snow beneath their feet, Alger stood there, watching.
He felt the cool breeze on his face, heavy with snow, and he still could see nothing but plains of snow and, in the distance, the dark treeline of the Wood of Thorns.
The rumbling noise grew, though, louder and louder, the vibration beneath his feet more intense, until finally his men exchanged a baffled look. Now, they felt it, too, and all were clearly wondering.
As Alger studied the woodline, he saw it begin to move. Then there burst forth a sight which he could never have anticipated in his wildest dreams, a sight which he would never forget.
Alger blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Soon enough, he realized they were not. It was a nightmare, coming to life.
There, racing for Magandi, was an army of trolls. Thousands of them. They spread across the countryside with their huge, misshapen bodies, their grotesque faces, wielding massive halberds, shouting and covered in blood. It was an army of death. And it was heading right for them.
Alger stared back with a cold dread. He could not understand it. How had Marda breached The Flames?
Alger felt a deep foreboding overcome him as he suddenly knew with certainty that on this day, he would die. They would all die. They had no possible chance of victory, not even if he had a thousand fine soldiers at his back. And he had but a dozen.
And yet, the idea of his own death did not pain him the most. What hurt him was the thought of those women and children inside. The idea that he would be unable to defend them. That he would let them all down.
Alger locked his jaw, feeling a wave of indignation. He wanted to give them all time, all those women and children, a little bit more time in this world. And a slim chance, however bleak it was, of survival. Maybe, just maybe, if the portcullis held, the stone walls stood, maybe they could withstand a siege. Though deep down, Alger already knew they could not.
“We cannot defend,” came the too grave voice of one of his men, staring, too, at the horizon. Alger was proud to hear no panic in the soldier’s voice—just resolve.
“No,” Alger answered honestly. After all, dying men deserved to know the truth. “We cannot.”
Alger took a deep breath.
“But we can go down fighting,” he added, his voice filled with a rising resolve, “and maybe, take a few with us.”
Alger turned and looked up at his men on the battlements. They were all staring down, looking to him for direction. This was the fateful moment in time, Alger knew, for which he had been born.
“Man the battlements!” he shouted. “Prepare the oil and fire! Tighten the catapults! Upon my command, fire!”
Alger turned to his squire, a young boy who had always been at his side, staring back now with fear in his eyes.
“Seal the portcullis behind me,” he commanded.
His squire looked back at him, stunned.
“And you remain outside?” he asked. “Alone? You’ll be killed!”
Alger lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“We shall all die, boy,” he said. “The only question is how. Now, go.
“And you men,” he added, turning to the loyal soldiers beside him. “Inside.”
But they shook their heads.
“As you said,” one replied, “the only question is how.”
They all drew their swords and stood beside him, and turned and bravely faced the incoming army. Alger nodded back in respect, admiring these men more than he’d ever thought possible. It would be good to die in company such as this.
The boy did as he was told. Soon, Alger heard the great iron portcullis slam closed behind him, sealing him out of the fort for good. Alger drew his sword as he stood there, appreciating the finality. It gave him strength.
He watched the army come closer, now hardly a few hundred yards away.
“CATAPULTS!” he commanded. “NOW!”
Alger watched as overhead there soared a dozen flaming boulders, arcing high through the sky and landing in the midst of the troll army as they neared. Shouts filled the air as hundreds of trolls shrieked and fell.
And yet, thousands more followed. Too fast, and too close, for more boulders to reach.
Alger drew his sword and waited. He felt the ground shaking beneath him now as they charged. He stood there, gripping his sword, and he knew he would not kill many of them. But the ones he would kill would matter. That was all he needed. He wanted to kill the first casualty of this battle himself, wanted to go down swinging.
They neared. Thirty yards, then twenty, then ten, so close that Alger could make out the face of their leader, the troll he had heard was named Vesuvius, dripping with blood, grotesque, wielding two halberds as if they were toothpicks.
With the army just feet away, Alger could no longer wait. He let out a battle cry and charged.
“MEN!” he shouted. “FOR HONOR!”
His men shouted, too, and they all raced forward beside him, swords drawn. A few of them against a thousand.
Alger ran right for their leader, and as Vesuvius brought down his halberds, Alger blocked them, sparks flying, their weight so powerful they shattered his blade.
A moment later, Alger gasped as he felt Vesuvius plunge the point of his halberd through his gut. He had never had such exquisite pain, pain so intense that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This, he knew now, was what death felt like.
Any other soldier would have caved. But not Alger . He thought of Oscar. He thought of his vow. Of the women and children inside Magandi. And he refused to go down. Not until he had inflicted death himself.
Alger thought of every battle he’d ever fought, of fighting by Oscar’s side. And he was not ready to die. Not yet.
Somehow, Alger mustered the strength. The strength for one last blow.
Then, even while dying, he raised the jagged end of his shattered sword and plunged it into Vesuvius’s chest.
And as Alger fell, dying, he had at least one final piece of satisfaction: Vesuvius, the shattered sword in his chest, was falling with him, two limp bodies on the battlefield, in the snow, falling on top of each other, trampled by an army racing for the gates, racing to destroy everything Alger had ever known and loved.