Merk hiked along the endless rocks of the Devil’s Finger, slipping, struggling to keep his footing, nearly drunk with exhaustion as he headed into the sunset. His eyes were so heavy he could barely keep them open, and he ached from every corner of his body, most of all from the wound left by that crab, still festering on his shin. Yet he knew he was lucky to be alive.
Endless waves of fog rolled in, carried by gusts of wind off the ocean and bay, some strong enough to knock him off balance. All the while he was plagued by the distant sound of the horns of Marda, echoing in the fog, haunting him, keeping the pressure on. After so many days of hiking without another soul in sight, he was beginning to realize why no one else dared this: hiking the Devil’s Finger meant taking your life into your hands.
Merk was losing hope of ever reaching the Tower of Kos; he was beginning to wonder if it truly existed, or if it was just a legend. He felt so weak, hands trembling from exhaustion, he knew he could never make it back. He found himself fantasizing about life on the mainland, about the bounties of Escalon. What he would give to be on flat, smooth, dry land again. To be anywhere in the world but here.
Each step more and more of an effort, Merk found himself sinking into despair. He caught himself looking down into the cracks and wondering how easy it might be to just step inside one of them and allow himself to plummet to his death. He looked left and right, to the ocean and to the bay, and realized how easy it would be to allow himself to slip over the edge, to plummet to his death. Maybe, he started to think, it would be a relief.
Merk looked up, hopeful despite himself one last time as he mounted another boulder—yet was crushed to see nothing but more rocks. He was certain that this was what death felt like, an endless trek to nowhere, tortured with each step. This was payback for the life he had led. After all, he had murdered dozens of people in his life, for hire, and this lonely hike forced him to reflect on all of them. He saw their faces, thought of the life he had led honestly for the first time, and he did not like what he saw. This odyssey, strangely enough, had been the true pilgrimage for him. Maybe that’s why the Sword of Fire was here.
If Merk had hoped to repent and reflect, he could not have hoped for a better place. Day after day of hiking these rocky cliffs, of not seeing a soul, of being engulfed in mist and fog, each step nearly slipping to his death, forced Merk to appreciate life. He wanted, for the first time, to live, to truly live. He wanted a chance to start life anew.
As the hours passed, the sun falling, Merk heard a noise, felt something on his cheeks, and he realized he was weeping. He was startled, and had no idea why. As he reflected, he realized it was a cry of regret, regret for the life he had lived. Regret for not being able to take it all back, to try again. He desperately wished to do it all differently, to have just one more chance.
Another gust of wind ripped through, and as the fog lifted, the sun, for the first time, shone down. Merk looked up and this time, he stopped, standing there in shock. His breath caught in his throat as he stared into the distance.
There, on the horizon, was a rainbow. He was not sure if he had ever believed in God, but this time, he felt God was answering him. He felt he was being offered redemption. He stopped and stood there and wept uncontrollably, not understanding life. He felt a part of him had died along the way and a new part was sprouting.
As Merk looked out beyond it, he saw another sight, one which stirred within him an even more intense mixture of feeling. The Sea of Sorrow met the Bay of Death. The two bodies of water conjoined, swirling with foam. The peninsula came to an end. The seas were shining. And standing there amidst all that light, Merk was amazed and elated to see, was a single structure.
A tower.
There it was, the ancient Tower of Kos, rising up in that landscape, amidst all the nothingness, as if emerging from the very stone itself. There it stood, perched proudly at the end of the world.
The Tower of Kos was real. And it stood right before him.
*
Merk scrambled down the last boulder, landing on gravel and sighing with relief. He had never been so grateful to be on dry, flat land. He could walk again, quickly and steadily, with no fear of falling. His boots crunched gravel and he had never enjoyed the feeling as much.
The Tower of Kos stood right before him, hardly fifty feet away, and Merk looked up and studied it in awe. Behind it the waves of the ocean and bay intersected and crashed, offering a stunning backdrop. As he looked up at the tower, what surprised Merk most was that he had seen it before; it appeared to be an exact replica of the Tower of Ur. The stone, the height, the diameter—each seemed to have been constructed at the same time, mysteriously, at opposite corners of the kingdom. But how? Merk wondered. How could one even manage to construct anything out here, at the edge of the world?
Merk stared up at the shining golden doors, just like the doors of Ur, and as he looked closely, he did notice a small difference: these doors bore a different insignia than the doors of Ur, were carved with different symbols, images. He wished now, more than ever, that he could read. What did it all mean? There was an image of a long sword, flames surrounding it, carved into the gold. It dominated both doors and crossed over them, placed horizontally.
As Merk stood there, he sensed a different energy to this tower. He could not put his finger on it, but something felt off. It was an absence. Oddly, it felt as if this place were abandoned.
Merk stepped forward, closer, and as he did, he was even more shocked to find the doors ajar. He felt a chill up his spine. How could the doors to the scared Tower of Kos lie open? Unguarded? Had someone beaten him here? What could it all mean?
Merk stepped closer, on edge, no longer knowing what to expect, and as he did, to his even greater shock, the doors began to open. Perplexed, he stood there, as out of the blackness there emerged a person. Not just any person—but the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. It made no sense. It was like an apparition.
With so many shocking things happening at once, Merk could not process it all. He did not know what he was most amazed by. He was speechless as this woman stood before the doors, staring back at him with her translucent blue eyes, her stunning features, perhaps in her twenties. Even stranger, he had the crazy feeling that he knew her, that he recognized her from somewhere. He recalled all his years of serving the old King Tarnis and as he looked at her, with her glowing blue eyes, her silvery-blonde hair, he could not help but think that she looked exactly like the old King Tarnis.
It made no sense. How could it be? Tarnis, as far as he knew, never had a daughter.
Or did he?
She stood there, looking back with such grace, such poise, he couldn’t see how she could be anything but royalty. Yet there was something more to her. Her face was so white, nearly translucent, radiating an intense energy, as if she were not entirely human. The last time he had felt this way was in the presence of a Watcher.
She stood there in the silence, punctuated by nothing but the wind and the waves, and as much as he wanted to know more, he also felt an urgency to get to the heart of the matter, to begin preparations to alert her, to protect the Sword, given the trolls were hardly a day behind him.
“My lady,” he began, “I have come on an urgent mission. An army advances here, an army of trolls, bent on destruction. They have come to kill you and everyone here, and to take the Sword.”
As she stared back, he was surprised to see no reaction—no fear, nothing. She remained expressionless. Perhaps she did not believe him. He wondered at his state, at what he might look like after that hike, and realized he could hardly blame her. Maybe in her eyes he was just a madman appearing out of the fog.
“I know that the Sword resides here,” he continued, determined. “I served at the Tower of Ur—the tower which is no more.”
Again, he searched her face for a reaction—and again, to his confusion, there came none.
“There is no time, my lady,” he urged. “We must secure the Sword before they arrive. We must prepare a defense immediately.”
He expected her to be dismayed, panic-stricken, but to his great surprise, she stood there with a slight smile at the corners of her lips, completely unfazed, holding more poise than anyone he’d ever seen.
“Is this not news that I bring you?” he finally asked, baffled.
“It is not,” she replied, her voice so smooth, so peaceful, it completely threw him off guard.
He was stunned.
“But how could you know all this?” he asked. “And if you knew all this…” he said, struggling to understand, “then…why are you still here? Why haven’t you fled?”
“Only I remain,” she replied patiently. “I sent the others away, long ago, the day that Marda crossed into Ur.”
Merk stared back, shocked. He looked up at the empty tower in wonder.
“Are you saying that you are here alone?” he asked. “Why have you not fled yourself?”
She smiled.
“Because I was waiting for you,” she replied flatly.
“For me?!” he asked, flabbergasted.
“I was waiting to save you,” she added.
He didn’t know what to say. Was she mocking him?
“But I have come here to save you,” he countered.
Merk stood there, anxiety rising within him as heard, yet again, the sound of the troll army in the distance.
“Who are you?” he asked, burning with curiosity.
But she would not reply. Merk was increasingly agitated.
“I do not understand,” he said. “We have no time. If there is no one here, we must secure the Sword, take it far from here and leave this place.”
Still, she did not react.
“Tell me,” he insisted, desperate, wondering if he had made this long trek for nothing. “Is the Sword of Fire still here?”
To his surprise, she answered simply.
“Yes.”
His eyes widened. The Sword of Fire. The Sword of legend, which had haunted his dreams his entire life. It really existed. And it lay just beyond those doors.
“Then we must save it!” he said, and began to walk for the doors.
She blocked his way, and he stared back, puzzled.
“Do you really think a man could save the Sword?” she asked.
He stared back, confused.
“Perhaps the Sword is not meant to be saved,” she added.
He struggled to understand.
“What do you mean?” he asked, frustrated. “It is meant to be guarded. That is the purpose we serve.”
She nodded.
“Guarded, yes,” she said. “But not saved. The Sword has been guarded for centuries. Yet when the time comes for it to be taken away, it is not for us to interfere with destiny. The Sword has its own destiny, and that, no man can alter.”
Merk stood there, uncomprehending.
“If you don’t believe me, then try,” she said.
She stepped aside and motioned at the open doors behind her. He looked past her and saw a faint torchlight beckoning.
Merk glanced back over his shoulder and saw, on the horizon, the nation of Marda getting closer with each step. He turned back to the tower, feeling a need to do something.
Merk broke into action. He rushed past her and inside the tower, entering the blackened chamber. He stood inside, where it was cool and quiet, the crashing of the waves and howling of the wind muted for the first time in his long journey. He turned about slowly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and with a jolt of shock he saw, sitting there, just a few feet away, what could only be the Sword of Fire.
There it sat, glowing red, right in the center of the chamber, on a pedestal, in plain sight. Merk could not understand why it was not hidden.
Following a gut impulse to save it, Merk ran forward, reached out, and without hesitating, grabbed hold of its hilt, determined to take it away somewhere safe.
Merk heard a hissing noise and felt a burning in his palm unlike any he had ever felt. His hand burned as the hilt seared his skin. He shrieked, pulling back his hand, and as he did, he saw the damage it had left: the insignia of the Sword burned into his palm.
He stood there, in tears from the pain, holding his smoldering hand.
“I warned you,” came the soft voice.
Merk turned to see the girl standing beside him. He knew then that she was right; everything she had said had been right.
“So what do we do?” he asked, clutching his arm, feeling helpless.
“A ship awaits,” she said. “Come with me.”
She held out a hand, long and pale, and he stood there, debating. She was inviting him to leave this place, to leave the Sword behind, to journey to some other place he would not know. He knew that taking her hand would change his life forever, would put him a road from which there would be no return. Would leave the Sword here, all alone, at the mercy of its enemies.
But maybe that was what was meant to be. The laws of destiny, after all, were beyond him.
Merk stared into those translucent eyes, at her open palm, so inviting, and he knew his mind was already made up.
He reached out and took it, and as he did, he knew his life would never be the same again.