Page 59 of Reign

He pointed to a yellow flag waving high from one of the ships. My eyes darted across the shoreline to Fitzroy, who stood among his metal-clad knights. His face was hidden within his helmet, but the way his right hand lingered on the hilt of his sword filled me with unease.

Red stepped forward, his body tense with anticipation. “There’s an enemy in the water,” he said.

I copied Fitzroy’s stance, gripping the handle of my sheathed sword as braver soldiers marched down the beach. A loud horn blared, warning us of an imminent threat—the advancing troops came to an abrupt halt.

In the distance, thick black rain clouds followed a rival ship, dulling the once beautiful sunset to a bleak shade of gray. Atop a tall mast, an ensign bearing an unfamiliar crest fluttered in the sea breeze—a counterinvasion was approaching Cambas.

Tom turned to me. “D-do you think they’re heading our way?” he asked, his voice thick with fear. “We were told the shores would be safe.”

I glanced back at Fitzroy, knowing his battle plan made only minimal provisions for a counterstrike of any magnitude. His sword was already in hand, gripped tightly in both fists as though he expected a battle on the black sands. I exhaled shakily, fear pooling in my chest. Something wicked was coming.

At first, the enemy appeared to be sailing on a small boat, with the foe on board looking large enough to topple the watercraft with a sneeze. But as they disembarked, I realized these fighters weren’t the size of grown men.

“By the gods’ bones,” Red gasped, unsheathing his sword. “Ogres.”

Colossal manlike beings marched onto the beach. The brutes wore only kilts but had enough hair on their heads, chins, and chests to keep them warm. They held no weapons, only clenched fists, which told me their fighting strategy was bestial.

Brave soldiers charged at the invaders, swords raised high, their battle cries ringing through the air. I stood frozen in horror as ogres picked up the men, devouring them in four bites or less. They spat out fragments of chain mail and bits of bones while reaching hungrily for their next mouthful of soldier.

I didn’t wait to become a meal. My feet sank into the shifting sands as I scrambled inland. Tom followed, seeking safety. We took refuge behind a mighty piece of driftwood, and I peered over the top of the makeshift fortress, acting as our lookout.

Any man who stayed on land was a fool for thinking he’d be safe. On one side, an old hag with algae-green skin dragged screeching soldiers from the sands, drowning them in the sea. Her long, sinewy arms wrapped around their legs like pondweed, holding them beneath the water until they floated, face down, like bobbing apples.

As I took shallow, ragged breaths—aghast at the savagery unfolding—a deafening screech pierced the air. Clutching my ringing ears, I looked beyond the sands. Despite the rain pattering upon my face, I saw a shape soaring over the ships, heading our way.

“A dragon,” Tom gasped, pointing at the unmissable white beast.

Drawn by a mix of dread and curiosity, I left the safety of the driftwood. The white dragon belched fireballs that engulfed the ships beneath in a hellish blaze. Charcoal-colored figures dove overboard, their agonizing screams painful to hear. I silently prayed Bash wasn’t on that ship.

Archers fired arrows at the dragon, but their projectiles were as effective as knitting needles, bouncing off its impenetrable, scaly underbelly.

“I thought it was fiction, but it’s true,” Tom said, transfixed by the desolation in the distance. “They can breathe both fire and acid.”

Unscathed, the dragon spat bright green phlegm, singeing all that survived its fire-breathing.

“Smith, look out!” Tom yelled.

I tore my gaze from the dragon to see an ogre charging toward us. We sprinted as it swung, narrowly missing my head. The stench of its body odor engulfed everything beneath its matted, bushy armpit.

When the ogre reached toward me again, I stabbed my sword upward. The ogre grunted and licked the blood beading from its wound.

I ran.

“Tom, we need to get off this beach. ” I panted, pushing forward.

But Tom didn’t reply. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him standing between me and the charging ogre, sword drawn.

“Run!” I screamed.

Yet Tom remained steadfast, holding his sword firmly, poised to strike the beast as it closed in.

“No!” I wailed.

With a powerful thrust, Tom’s blade punctured the ogre’s chest, sending it stumbling backward. Triumph etched on his face, he withdrew as blood spewed from the wound. He turned to me, wiping his brow in relief. I gave him an affirming nod, proud of his bravery.

For the first time, I didn’t see a gangly, awkward boy—only a strong, confident man.

Before I could thank him, the ogre staggered forward. It wrapped its giant hand around Tom’s torso as though he were a shuck of corn, and in one savage motion, it chomped down on his neck—tearing his body away. The creature buckled, tossing Tom’s lifeless form across the shores. Its final act was spitting Tom’s severed head in my direction before collapsing onto the sands, dead.