Merk pulled his shirt tight around his neck as he hiked, lowering his head, trying to shield himself from the incessant gales of wind that tore at his skin. The wind howled off the Sea of Tears on one side of him and the Bay of Death on the other, swaying him back and forth like a rag doll as he trekked endlessly, as he had been for days, between the two bodies of water, down the narrow, barren peninsula known as the Devil’s Finger.
It was a name that inspired fear in most of Escalon, the one place that most Escalonites feared to go. They had little reason to. It was a barren, rock-strewn appendage to the bountiful land, a place one went to slip to one’s death. Merk slipped and slid on its moss-covered boulders, all slick with ocean spray, making his way slowly and treacherously down the most notorious stretch of land in all of Escalon. Barely able to steady himself, he looked up at this bizarre peninsula of boulders stretching to the horizon, and wondered if this hell would ever end. He doubted he would survive it. This peninsula, if possible, was even worse than its reputation.
A place of legend—and of fear—the Devil’s Finger was one of the few places in Escalon that Merk had never yearned to go. It jutted out of the mainland and reached to the far southeastern corner of Escalon like an appendage that never should have existed. “Peninsula” was too hospitable a name for it. It was nothing more than a barren stretch of rock, mostly slick and jagged, sandwiched between two bodies of tumultuous water.
Merk cursed as he slipped again, scraping a knee for the hundredth time. He had already twisted both ankles and wrists as he fell time and again, picking his way through each rock. He had created a sort of system, turning his ankles and raising his arms to give himself balance, leaning forward to catch himself on his hands when he slipped. This was an awful, nasty place, a place that no humans should ever live. It was too aptly named.
Merk knew, though, that he had no choice but to venture on. After crossing all of Escalon, this was the final leg to his trip, the last stretch between him and the Tower of Kos. Just reaching this peninsula had taken nearly all he had, his having to cross southeastern Escalon alone after he parted ways with Kyle, then skirt the peaks of Kos and hike alongside the Thusius. All of that trekking, just to arrive here, on this peninsula. This was probably why, he reasoned, most pilgrimaged to the Tower of Ur, not Kos. Kos was always rumored to be too barren, too desolate, too forgotten, to hold the Sword. Everyone had always assumed that it was the tower of distraction.
Yet as he searched the horizon, Merk knew otherwise. All the legends had been wrong. The legendary Sword of Fire lay where no one suspected it to be. Merk knew it was only a matter of time until the trolls found out, and he knew that he was racing the clock, with each step he took, to beat them there, to secure the sword before they could reach it.
Merk scanned the horizon again, hoping for some sign—any sign—of the peninsula’s end. He hoped to see the outline of the tower, even if faint.
Yet there was nothing. Just more rock, with no end in sight. He was exhausted, worn to the bone, and yet it seemed he had still days more to go.
Merk looked out to his left and saw the Sea of Tears, its currents vicious, its huge waves smashing into the rocky shores of the Devil’s Finger, sending up rolling waves of mist and foam. He felt the spray around his ankles, washing the stone beneath him, making him lose his balance. He did not know what was louder, the crashing of the waves or the gales of wind which kept him off balance.
Merk looked the other way, to his right, yet that sight offered no reprieve; there were the black, murky waters of the legendary Bay of Death. It, too, had vicious currents, yet these currents swirled, making a frothing collection of whirlpools. The bay was dotted with these whitecaps all the way to the horizon, the bright white a stark contrast to its black waters, stirred up by the constant gales of wind. For Merk, seeing those black waters was even more disconcerting than the waves smashing into the peninsula from the Sorrow. It was as if the two bodies of water were trying to destroy this narrow piece of land with all their might.
Merk turned to the path before him, looking ahead as he thought he heard an odd noise. Yet he saw nothing.
The sound came again, though, a distant sound, almost like a horn, and this time he looked back over his shoulder—and his heart fell as he spotted something on the horizon. There was the faintest outline of an army of banners, and as the distant horn sounded again, Merk knew, with dread, what it was: Marda. The trolls had already reached the Devil’s Finger. They were making better time than he thought.
Merk turned back ahead and doubled his pace. He had a day’s start on them, but they were gaining and could overtake him. It would be a race to the finish, to see who could reach the Tower of Kos and secure the Sword first.
Merk hurried forward, ignoring the hunger pangs in his stomach, the blisters on his toes, the exhaustion that nearly shut his eyes. He had to reach the Tower of Kos no matter what it took, to save Escalon, to redeem himself from his past. Despite it all, it felt good to finally have a cause, to have a true purpose in life.
Merk hiked and hiked, hour following hour, the sun growing high in the sky, blinding him from its haze through the ocean mist. He ascended the top of the highest boulder he had seen, eager for the new vantage point, filled with hope that, once at its top, he might finally spot the tower.
But he was crestfallen as he looked out and saw nothing but more boulders, more false peaks. It looked from here as if nothing but barren rock covered the world.
Merk stood there, out of breath, and leaned on his staff to rest for a moment—when suddenly he heard a new noise that made his hair stand on end. It was a clattering, and sounded like a crab skittering across rock.
He turned, on edge, and searched the boulders beneath him, wondering if he were hearing things. After all, there had been no signs of life on the entire journey, and it had not occurred to him that anything could even survive out here in these barren conditions. After all, what could they possibly feed on?
But then it came again, an unsettling clattering noise, and as Merk searched the rocks again, a gust of wind carried away the mist, and this time he saw something that made his blood run cold. In a crack between boulders, there slowly emerged an enormous claw. It was a crab’s claw, yet bigger than any claw he had ever laid eyes upon. It stretched and stretched, at least ten feet long.
There emerged another claw, then another, and Merk watched in horror as there emerged from the fissure a monstrous crab, thirty feet wide, overshadowing him. Merk froze as he stood there and looked up at it. With its black shell and red, beady eyes, it lifted its head and scowled down at him, opening its jaws and hissing, displaying rows of jagged teeth.
It then skittered across the boulders, right for him.
The creature moved surprisingly fast, and Merk stood there, frozen in fear, not expecting this, and having no idea what to do. He had no room to maneuver, even if he wanted to. It lunged right for him, claws out. A moment later Merk felt an awful pain on his shin, and he looked down to see one of its claws grabbing him, pinching him.
The crab hoisted him into the air, and as Merk dangled by one leg, it opened its mouth wide and pulled him close, preparing to swallow him whole. Merk saw the rows of teeth looming, and he knew he was about to die in the most awful way imaginable.
By some grace of god, Merk’s instincts kicked in at the last moment, and he reached out with his staff, turned it, and jammed it vertically inside the creature’s mouth. The crab tried to close its mouth and was furious to find it jammed.
Merk, still dangling, reached into his belt, drew his sword, spun around, and with one huge effort, plunged it with both hands into one of the crab’s eyes.
The crab shrieked as green pus shot out of it, and it released its grip on Merk. Merk landed hard on the rocks, winded, feeling as if his bones were breaking. He rolled and bounced down the steep boulders, slick with moss, down and down, sliding inevitably toward the crashing waves below. He scrambled, trying to grab hold of something to stop his fall, but it was all too slick. He was sliding to his death.
The crab reached up with its pincher and managed to extract Merk’s sword from its eye, then closed its great jaws, shattering Merk’s staff into pieces. It then turned and set its sights on Merk with an eye filled with fury, a fury unlike Merk had ever seen. This crab was intent on eating him alive.
Merk, still sliding, finally grabbed hold of a nook in a rock, right before he slid off the edge. He looked down, dangling, and saw, hundreds of feet below, a plunge awaiting him into the Sea of Tears. It was a plunge that would kill him.
He looked back up and saw the crab coming down for him, somehow able to hold its balance on anything, and Merk knew he was sandwiched between two awful deaths. With death certain on either side of him, he did not know what to do.
The crab came closer, and as it was just feet away, Merk suddenly decided to choose one death over the other. Better to die by the ocean, he figured, than to be eaten alive by this thing.
Merk let go and slid down the rock, bouncing and rolling, bruising himself with every bump, sliding downward and downward. He shrieked as he fell, hardly able to catch his breath as he plummeted down, right for the ocean.
The crab, fearless, as quick as light, skittered down after him, and in one lightning fast move, it reached out with its pincher and tried to grab hold of Merk’s other leg. Yet Merk was falling too fast, and to Merk’s great relief, it missed.
His fall continued, until Merk suddenly came to a hard stop as he felt himself smashing into rock. He looked down, baffled, to see that, by some grace of God, there was a small stone ledge he had not seen, jutting out on the edge of the cliff, and he had luckily smashed into it. Barely wide enough to hold him, he lay there on his side, clinging to the edge of the cliff, praying for life.
The crab clearly had not expected to miss with its pincher, and the move threw it off balance: it slid over the edge, shrieking an awful high-pitched noise, and continued sliding right down the side of the cliff. As it fell it snapped its claws one last time at Merk, trying to grab him and drag him down with it, and Merk, frantic, held his breath and pulled himself in tight against the stone. It barely missed, just grazing his arm. The crab continued to fall, to his great relief, flailing, on its back, its belly exposed, its legs kicking up in the air. It dropped hundreds of feet, and Merk watched it fall, waiting, still feeling unsafe until he actually saw it dead.
The immense creature finally landed in the ocean far below, on its back, with a great cracking noise, as its shell cracked. Merk watched with great relief as it was washed away in the massive waves of the Sorrow, its legs still flailing as it floated away on its back, off to some cruel and unknown death.
He lay there, on the edge of the world, and breathed deep for the first time. He looked up at the steep ascent and he could only wonder: what other horrors awaited him on the Devil’s Finger?