Chapter 29

Vesuvius sprinted across the countryside, amazed to feel Escalon grass beneath his feet, amazed that he was actually standing on this ground he had dreamt of his entire life. Here he was, in the promised land, south of The Flames, the land his ancestors had only dreamt of, the land they had sung songs of, had planned raids for—the land that had always been just out of reach.

And now, here he was, the most triumphant of all his ancestors, the only one who had been able to achieve the dream. He was the one, as the prophecies had declared, who was destined to rule. Never in his life had he stepped foot in a land other than Marda, and he was enjoying himself beyond his wildest dreams. Already, he had led his army through the first village he’d found, murdering and torturing everyone in sight.

As he ran across the plains, Vesuvius delighted in the memory. He was still covered in fresh blood, and he smiled wide as he thought back to all the women and children and animals he had murdered. Torturing them, these humans who had deprived him of his dream all these years, had given him a pleasure he would never forget. Burning that village to the ground, seeing it as a pile of ashes, warmed his heart. He thought of all the other villages and towns and cities left to ransack in Escalon, and he knew it was just the beginning. Soon all of Escalon would be at his feet.

Vesuvius’s initial impulse, after emerging from the tunnel, was to turn and head for the Tower of Ur, to steal the Sword of Fire; but first, he had another, more pressing, desire. He had always dreamt of seeing The Flames from the other side. He wanted to stand there and see what it felt like to be looking north, toward Marda. More than that, he wanted vengeance. He wanted each and every human who stood watch at The Flames, who had killed so many of his people, to pay. He wanted them dead first. He knew they would never expect an attack from behind, and he could not wait to see the look on their faces when he surprised them, pinned between an army of trolls and a wall of fire. He smiled wide, seeing it now: he would stab them in the backs as they ran face-first into fire. He might not be able to lower The Flames—at least not until he reached the Tower of Ur and stole the Sword of Flames—but in the meantime, at least, he could slaughter every last man that dared stand watch before them. That would teach them to dare guard the borders of Marda.

Vesuvius increased his speed, his legs burning as he ran up and down hills, his army of trolls on his heels. He held his halberd tightly as he ran, hardly even winded, as he, like most of the troll race, had enough strength to run for miles, to never lose his breath. He would use that natural strength to his advantage. Soon enough, his trolls would spread across every last corner of Escalon. As he ran, Vesuvius took note of places and decided where he would build new cities, how he would rename them, where he would raise statues to himself. He would enslave this human race, build mining factories, create great pits of fire where he could torture men and women for his pleasure. He could hardly wait.

Hours passed, and as Vesuvius finally crested a hill, emerging from a long stretch of woods, he stopped, amazed at the sight before him. There, but a hundred yards away, stood the roaring Flames, so bright, so tall, so magnificent that they nearly blinded him. He could feel their heat from here, could hear them crackling. He had never anticipated what they would look like from this perspective. It was awe-inspiring.

And there below, unsuspecting, were the human guards, spread out, standing guard at the flames, facing north. Never could they have suspected that their enemy was, after all, to the south.

“TROLLS OF MARDA!” he cried. “ATTACK!”

There came a great shout behind him as the troll nation cried out. They raised their halberds and their shouts echoed over the hills.

Vesuvius waited and watched, savoring the moment, as the hundreds of humans standing guard at The Flames slowly turned and looked up. He watched their expressions change to bewilderment—and then, to terror. Their backs to The Flames, these humans had nowhere to run.

Vesuvius shouted and charged. Leading his nation, he ran down the hill with delight, the flames growing brighter, their heat stronger. His heart pounded with glee as he raised his halberd high and set his sights on an unsuspecting boy, hardly eighteen, who gaped and dropped his sword in terror. Vesuvius reached him, brought his hatchet down across his chest, and hacked him in two.

All around him there came the delightful sound of blades puncturing flesh, of humans shrieking in terror as the trolls slaughtered them. Most were too panic-stricken to even put up a fight, and the few who tried were murdered instantly. As his army overcame them like a wave of death, the remaining humans turned and actually ran for The Flames, preferring death by fire to death by the trolls. The air filled with the shouts of humans, the smell of their burning flesh, as one by one, they all, these Keepers of the Flames, the elite of the human warriors, were killed.

Vesuvius leaned back and looked to the sky, grinning wide, relishing this greatest moment of his life. Covered in blood, holding his halberd, itching for more death, he shouted up with joy to the skies. This was all, he knew, just the beginning. There was nothing left to stop him.

Finally, Escalon would be his.