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off it, nearly burning his hands, yet he held on. The dead trolls and soldiers landed on top of him, their armor further shielding him as yet another wave of flame came, this one more powerful. Ironically, these trolls and Pandesians were now saving him from death.

      He held on, sweating, barely able to stand the heat as the dragons dove again and again. Unable to stand it any longer, he passed out, praying with all he was that he was not burned alive.

      Chapter Seven

      Vesuvius stood at the edge of the cliff, beside the Tower of Kos, staring down at the crashing waves of the Sorrow, the steam still rising from where the Sword of Fire had sunk – and he grinned wide. He had done it. The Sword of Flames was no more. He had robbed the Tower of Kos, had robbed Escalon, of its most precious artifact. He had, once and for all time, lowered the Flames.

      Vesuvius beamed, giddy with excitement. His palm still throbbed from where he had grabbed the burning Sword of Flames, and he looked down and saw the insignia branded in it. He ran his finger along his fresh scars, knowing they would stay there forever, a mark of his success. The pain was blinding, yet he forced it from his mind, forced it not to bother him. In fact, he taught himself to enjoy the pain.

      After all these centuries, now, finally, his people would have their due. No longer would they be relegated to Marda, to the northernmost reaches of the empire, to infertile land. Now they would take their vengeance for being quarantined behind a wall of flames, would flood Escalon, tear it to shreds.

      His heart skipped a beat, giddy at the thought. He could not wait to turn back around, to cross the Devil’s Finger, to return to the mainland and to meet his people in the middle of Escalon. The entire troll nation would converge at Andros, and together, one square inch at a time, they would destroy Escalon forever. It would become the new troll homeland.

      Yet as Vesuvius stood there, looking down at the waves, the spot where the sword had sunk, something gnawed at him. He looked out to the horizon, examining the black waters of the Bay of Death, and there was something lingering, something that made his satisfaction incomplete. As he examined the horizon, far out in the distance, he spotted a single, small ship with white sails, sailing along the Bay of Death. It sailed west, away from the Devil’s Finger. And as he watched it go, he knew something was wrong.

      Vesuvius turned back and looked up at the Tower beside him. It had been empty. Its doors left open. The Sword had been waiting for him. Those guarding had abandoned it. It had all been too easy.

      Why?

      Vesuvius knew the assassin Merk had been pursuing the Sword; he had followed him all the way across the Devil’s Finger. Why then would he abandon it? Why was he sailing away from here, across the Bay of Death? Who was that woman sailing with him? Had she been guarding this tower? What secrets was she hiding?

      And where were they going?

      Vesuvius looked down at the steam rising from the ocean, then back up to the horizon, and his veins burned. He could not help but feel that somehow he had been duped. That a complete victory had been snatched from him.

      The more Vesuvius dwelled on it, the more he realized something was wrong. It was all too convenient. He studied the violent seas below, the waves crashing into the rocks, the rising steam, and he realized he would never know the truth. He would never know if the Sword of Flames had truly sunk to the bottom. If there was something here he was missing. If that had even been the right sword. If the Flames would stay down, too.

      Vesuvius, burning with indignation, came to a decision: he had to pursue them. He would never know the truth until he did. Was there another, secret, tower somewhere? Another sword?

      Even if there was not, even if he had accomplished all he needed, Vesuvius was famed for leaving no victims alive. Ever. He always pursued every last man to his death, and standing here, watching those two escape from his grasp, did not sit right with him. He knew he could not just let them go.

      Vesuvius looked down at the dozens of ships still tied to the shores, abandoned, rocking wildly in the waves, as if waiting for him. And he came to an immediate decision.

      “To the ships!” he commanded his army of trolls.

      As one they scrambled to do his bidding, rushing down to the rocky shore, boarding the ships. Vesuvius followed, boarding the stern of the final ship.

      He turned, raised his halberd high, and chopped the rope.

      A moment later he was off, all the trolls with him, all of them crammed onto ships, and setting sail on the legendary Bay of Death. Somewhere on the horizon sailed Merk and that girl. And Vesuvius would not stop, no matter where he had to sail, until both of them were dead.

      Chapter Eight

      Merk gripped the rail as he stood at the bow of the small ship, the former King Tarnis’s daughter beside him, each lost in their own world as they were thrown about by the rough waters of the Bay of Death. Merk stared out at the black waters, windswept, dotted with whitecaps, and he could not help but wonder about the woman beside him. The mystery surrounding her had only deepened since they’d left the Tower of Kos, had embarked on this ship to some mysterious place. His mind swam with questions for her.

      Tarnis’s daughter. It was hard for Merk to believe. What had she been doing out here, at the end of the Devil’s Finger, holed up in the Tower of Kos? Was she in hiding? In exile? Being protected? From whom?

      Merk sensed that she, with her translucent eyes, her too-pale complexion and unflappable poise, was of another race. But if so, then who was her mother? Why had she been left alone to guard the Sword of Flames, the Tower of Kos? Where had all her people gone?

      And most pressing of all, where was she leading them now?

      One hand on the rudder, she steered the ship deeper into the bay, to some destination on the horizon that Merk could only wonder at.

      “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

      There followed a long silence, so long, he was unsure if she would ever reply.

      “At least, then, tell me your name,” he added, realizing she had never offered it.

      “Lorna,” she replied.

      Lorna. He liked the sound of it.

      “The Three Daggers,” she added, turning to him. “That’s where we’re going.”

      Merk frowned.

      “The Three Daggers?” he asked, surprised.

      She merely looked straight ahead.

      Merk, though, was stunned by the news. The most remote islands in all of Escalon, The Three Daggers were so deep in the Bay of Death, he had not known of anyone who had ever actually traveled there. Knossos, of course, the legendary isle and fort, sat on the last of them, and legend had always had it that it held Escalon’s fiercest warriors. They were men who lived on a desolate island off a desolate peninsula, in the most dangerous body of water there was. They were men rumored to be as rough as the sea that surrounded them. Merk had never met one in person. No one had. They were more legend than real.

      “Did your Watchers retreat there?” he asked.

      Lorna nodded.

      “They await us now,” she said.

      Merk turned and looked back over his shoulder, wanting one last glimpse of the Tower of Kos, and as he did, his heart suddenly stopped at what he saw: there, on the horizon, pursuing them, were dozens of ships, sails full.

      “We’ve got company,” he said.

      Lorna, to his surprise, did not even turn around, but merely nodded.

      “They will chase us to the ends of the earth,” she said calmly.

      Merk was puzzled.

      “Even though they have the Sword of Flames?”

      “It was never the Sword that they were after,” she corrected. “It was destruction. The destruction of us all.”

      “And when they catch

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