The Final Storm

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  King Ravelle carefully unwrapped an unusual-looking device made of wood with components of iron. It looked like a small bow laid flat and affixed to a stock of wood.

  “This,” King Ravelle said proudly, “is an arbalest. Too often were my bowmen cut down as they struggled to aim and draw back their bows in the same instant. With the arbalest, your arrow—or quarrel, as we call the short arrow we have created—can be loaded and drawn back ahead of time. The archer can then aim and fire at will.”

  A murmur broke out among the Knights of Alleble. “Loaded and drawn ahead of time?” one asked incredulously.

  “It is so small!” scoffed another. “It will do no damage.”

  “Allow me to demonstrate,” King Ravelle said. And he began to turn a small iron crank on the arbalest. Slowly, the bowstring, short though it may have been, began to stretch backward. He turned the crank until the string was as far back as it could go. Then, the attendant handed him a short arrow that was painted blue and had a long, sharp golden tip. The King placed the quarrel on top of the arbalest. He pointed it at a large silver shield that hung above the fireplace. Then, he fired.

  The small shaft left the arbalest faster than the knights seated there could follow with their eyes. Suddenly, the silver shield split near the top. It fell with a crash, splintered, and bits flew into the fireplace. Sparks and embers flew everywhere, some onto the table where they sat. The knights looked up and saw the blue quarrel half embedded into the mortar of the wall.

  “Nock’s going to want one of those,” Mallik said.

  “Then he shall have it!” King Ravelle replied. “Kaliam, the smithies of Mithegard will deliver to you five hundred arbalests. They will be put to good use in the defense of Alleble!”

  Guard’s Keep had emptied, except for Kaliam. He sat alone by the fire, turning the short arrow from the arbalest round and round in his hands. There came a soft rap at the door, and Farix entered.

  “The messengers upon the blue dragons are away,” Farix said. Kaliam nodded, but Farix did not leave.

  “My Sentinel,” he said, his arms crossing and his hands disappearing into the long sleeves of his surcoat. “There are many kingdoms in The Realm who ought to come to our aid. But now we hear of broken alliances—Inferness, Frostland, Candleforge. What of the others? Who will come?”

  “Our true allies will come,” Kaliam said. He looked up at Farix and then quickly broke eye contact. “They will come, for the enemy brings the firstborn dragon, the Seven Sleepers, and an army of a hundred legions. If our allies do not come, and Alleble falls . . . The Realm falls with it.”

  5

  CLOSE CALLS

  Sure, it was scary,” Mr. Thomas continued. “But we’re safe now, back on the ground in Maryland. Yes, he’s standing right here.” He handed the phone to Aidan as they waited in some airport offices for the paramedics, along with other passengers from the flight.

  “Hi, Mom!” Aidan said into the phone. “I thought we were done for, but King Eliam had other plans! . . . I know you don’t believe any of that, but you should . . . I am totally okay, Mom—but Dad’s got a great big knot on his head! They are taking him to the hospital . . . because he passed out.”

  “Aidan!” His father shot him a look.

  “Okay. I love you too, Mom,” Aidan said and returned the phone to his father.

  Mr. Thomas sighed. “I’m really fine. It’s just precautionary, they are going to run a few tests . . . in case I have a concussion. . . . Honey, I’m sure it’s nothing.” He listened intently for a few minutes. “We’ll see you then.” He closed the cell phone. “Your mother is taking the next available flight to Baltimore.”

  After loading their suitcases into the back of the taxi outside of the hospital, Aidan and his father slumped into the backseat and closed their eyes.

  “Some trip, huh, Aidan?” Mr. Thomas said.

  “Yeah,” Aidan replied.

  “First, the flight gets delayed . . .”

  “Then, we nearly crash, and you end up in the hospital.”

  “I told them I didn’t have a concussion,” Mr. Thomas complained.

  “So you’re an accountant—and a doctor?” Aidan laughed.

  Mr. Thomas smiled, but rubbed his head. “This has been the longest day,” he said. “What time is it, anyway?”

  Aidan sat bolt upright and craned around his seat to see the clock on the taxi’s dashboard. “Ten thirty, shoot! I knew I should have called Robby from the terminal. Do you think it’s too late to call?”

  “Why do you need to call him?”

  “I forgot to tell him how early you’d be dropping me off at his house in the morning. Do you think it’s too late to call him?”

  “On a Friday night?” he replied, delicately rubbing the growing welt on his head. “No, it’s probably okay on a Friday night.” He handed Aidan the cell phone, and Aidan dialed. It rang once, twice . . . a third time, but no answer. Aidan felt something strange come over him—an urgency to hang up. Fourth ring. “What nerve you have calling so late.” A voice came into his mind. Fifth ring. “You’ll make his mom angry!” Sixth ring.“Hang up now!!”

  “Hello?” Robby answered on the seventh ring.

  “Robby? Hi! It’s Aidan.”

  “Uh, hey, Aidan.”

  “I called to tell you what time I’m coming to see you tomorrow.”

  “Uh, righight,” Robby replied, a strange detachment in his voice. “About that . . . I don’t know if that’s really a good—”

  “My dad is going to drop me off about eight fifteen in the morning.”

  “Eight fifteen?” Robby echoed. “Well, I was startin’ to say, uh, tomorrow I gotta—”

  Aidan interrupted him again. “Good then,” Aidan said decidedly. “I’ll see you then. I can’t wait to see you, Robby. We have a lot of catching up to do. Bye.” Without waiting for a reply, Aidan closed the cell phone.

  “That was kind of abrupt,” Aidan’s father said without opening his eyes.

  “It was the only way I could keep him from getting out of it,” Aidan replied as the taxi came to a stop at the hotel. “I’m telling you, Dad, I don’t know what’s gotten into Robby.”

  Robby stared at the phone receiver. Then he looked up at the man sitting across the kitchen table from him. He felt the man’s piercing green eyes boring into him. “He hung up on me.”

  “Well, what did he say before he hung up?” the man asked pointedly.

  Robby swallowed. “He said he’ll be here a little after eight in the morning.”

  The man stood suddenly and knocked the phone out of Robby’s hand. It clattered to the floor and slid across the linoleum. “I told you he’s not welcome here, didn’t I?”

  Robby cowered. The man stood just a foot away, and his thick, muscled arms dangled at his sides like a gunslinger’s. “Didn’t I?!”

  “Uh, y-yes, sir,” Robby whispered. “But, sir, you didn’t tell me that until after I’d told him he could come.” The big man raised his hand as if to strike, but the strike didn’t come. Instead, the man laughed, and he patted Robby on the head as if he were a cocker spaniel.

  “On second thought, Robby, let Aidan come,” said the big man as he turned to leave the kitchen. “I just may have to stay home from work tomorrow. It’s time to find out what Aidan’s made of.”

  6

  THE SKILL OF

  THRIVENBARD

  Imean no disrespect, Sir Thrivenbard, but we have followed many trails of this kind already. And each time, promising though they may be, they lead us to fallen braves, or the carcass of a dragon. Could we not renew our search on the Yewland side of the forest?” Halberad asked his mentor.

  Thivenbard knelt on the forest floor, but did not look up. “Hal, you are a fine tracker in your own right,” he said. “But think not of what you expect to find. Read the signs and allow them to show you what may be found.”

  “Have I missed something?” Hal asked.

  “If we left this path now, you woul
d. Follow me, and be my shadow to the right side of the path. You see, the Braves of Yewland, skilled as they are, followed this track to one end not realizing that there was another.”

  And, with his eyes locked onto the ground, Thrivenbard moved quickly into the heart of the Blackwood. Halberad marveled at his commander’s movements. He was as surefooted as anyone Hal had ever seen, but it was more than that—when he moved, his limbs seemed to stretch and twist into just the right position so that he could pass soundlessly between, under, or over root and tree. He sometimes seemed to disappear behind a large tree trunk only to appear seconds later several yards ahead—and yet, no one had seen him pass between the two points. Like a wood ghost, he is, Hal thought.

  They traveled forty yards north and came to a large area that had been flattened as if by a great weight. Thrivenbard motioned for Hal to wait and then he skirted the perimeter. “Now, Halberad, if you please, look and tell me what you see.”

  Halberad circled the area as he had seen his commander do. He studied the ground, seeing the trampling of boot prints and gigantic wolvin paws, the imprint of Glimpse bodies, scratches and notches in the surrounding trees, and many dried bloodstains. Evidently, Thrivenbard saw something more. Inwardly, Hal groaned, for he knew this was a test. Nothing hurt worse than feeling he had disappointed his commander. Wait! A chill of excitement shot up his spine, and he lowered himself slowly to the ground. At the northernmost edge of the scene, not far from where Thrivenbard stood, there was a complicated sign.

  “Here the print is multilayered,” Hal said, thinking as he spoke. “But I think not from the same wolvin, and . . .” He stepped a few paces into the trees. “Not coming from the same direction!”

  “Excellent!” Thrivenbard clapped. “More! Tell me the full story!” Halberad smiled and followed the trail. “The braves ran from the Forest Road into the Blackwood. They were pursued by one of the Sleepers to this point, but here they stopped, made such a defense as they could, and . . .”

  “And?”

  “And here . . . another of the Sleepers found them. The poor souls! They were caught between two of the foul beasts. They were slain in seconds.”

  “Bravo, Hal!” Thrivenbard exclaimed. “You are almost there!”

  Almost? Halberad frowned.

  Thrivenbard nodded. “You have uncovered more of the tale than the Braves of Yewland were able to see. Though I suspect that many of Queen Illaria’s search parties cut short their efforts. For them, the Blackwood is hallowed ground. And to learn that the legends of foul things lurking here are true . . .”

  Halberad stood up a little straighter and looked slowly about the Blackwood. It was still an hour before sundown, but already the woods took on a creepy gray half-light. Hal shivered and drew his cloak tightly about him.

  “Yes,” Thrivenbard continued. “Fear can silence the inner questioning that all trackers must hearken to. It was here that the bodies were found. But . . .” Thrivenbard waited.

  “But where did the other wolvin come from?” Hal finished the thought.

  “Exactly!” Thrivenbard said. “Let us trace the creature deeper into the woods and see what the others might have missed!”

  The two trackers left the small clearing and delved deeper into the Blackwood. Some eighty yards beyond, they began to detect a pungent aroma they knew only too well. It was the sickly sweet smell of decaying flesh. The two men covered their noses.

  The trail of wolvin tracks led to the edge of a deep valley in the middle of the Blackwood.

  “Over here!” Thrivenbard called, and he led Hal down a strange stairway that seemed to have been pounded recently into the raw earth. When they descended into the valley, they found themselves in awe of what they found. The place was void of trees—except for seven enormous Blackwoods that were uprooted and fallen, leaving a deep pit at the base of each. And near the grasping roots was a pile of gray rubble as if a large stone had been shattered and lay in pieces by each fallen tree.

  “Not easily do these stout trees fall,” Thrivenbard said. “Look, they were leafless, dead before their time! And see the stones! Halberad, do you know where we are?”

  “It is the Sepulcher of the Seven,” Halberad whispered. “To hear that they are real is one thing, but to step into such a place and see for yourself . . . it is like living a cruel dream.”

  Thrivenbard, in his usual painstaking way, began to search the valley, and Halberad carefully went behind him. They stopped at each fallen tree, looked upon the exposed roots, and found they were gnawed thin in many places. Then, Thrivenbard searched the ground around the deep pits. He began to look into the pits one by one, but there wasn’t enough light to see to the bottom.

  “Thrivenbard!” Hal called. “I have found the source of that sickly smell. Come over here.” In a shaded corner of the valley lay a dead dragon. Its body was gouged cruelly as if by deep claws, and its neck was severed. Thrivenbard and Hal came closer to the beast. “This is a dragon steed from Alleble!” Halberad exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Thrivenbard muttered, deep in thought. “Here we find answers to many riddles, but new riddles take their place.” He crouched and began to walk like a spider around the dragon’s corpse.

  “I have seen this dragon before,” Thrivenbard said quietly. “Unless I am mistaken, it was Lady Gwenne’s proud steed.”

  “Gabrielle, one of the silver line,” Halberad agreed. “Sir Aelic rode her into the battle, did not Kaliam tell us this?”

  “He did,” Thrivenbard replied. “But where then is his body?” Thrivenbard strode carefully around the dead dragon, making increasingly larger concentric circles. “Here then is the tale these signs tell. Sir Aelic was cornered here by one of the Sleepers. His dragon came to his aid and fought valiantly. For there is more than dragon blood spilled upon this earth. At last, the Sleeper took the dragon’s neck within its jaws and slew it. But where the Sleeper dispatched Sir Aelic, I cannot tell. The creature’s track leads out of the valley, presumably to the ambush of the braves. Ah, we need to continue to search this place, and we must hurry, for we do not have much light left.”

  Thrivenbard and Halberad spread outward, scanning the ground for missed signs, but then they heard the faintest sound. “What is that?” Halberad asked.

  Thrivenbard shushed his apprentice and waited. At last, a faint call of help rose up from one of the pits, and the two trackers raced to the dark hole.

  “Speak to us, if you can! Make a sound!” Thrivenbard called down into the inky darkness. “Are you there?”

  They heard a wet cough, and then a weak, “I am here.”

  “Hal, go back up the trail,” Thrivenbard commanded. “Find the others, especially Sitric, for he is skilled with herbs. Seek the braves as well. We will have need of a rope ladder among other things.”

  Halberad ran out of the valley, disappearing into the forest.

  Thrivenbard looked down into the pit. “Take heart. Help is coming,” he said. Then, hardly daring to hope, he asked, “What is your name?”

  “I am Aelic.”

  “Aelic, son of King Ravelle, ruler of Mithegard?” Thrivenbard asked.

  “Yes. . . . Please hurry . . . I am hurt.” And the voice fell silent.

  7

  PRINCIPLES OF POWER

  Aidan and his father stared at the sleek black sports car parked out in front of Robby’s house. It had a sharklike profile and sat very low to the ground. Even in the early morning sun, it looked menacing. Menacing, fast, and expensive—all the more so compared to the humorous little orange compact car Mr. Thomas had rented at the hotel.

  “Wow!” Aidan exclaimed. “Whose car is that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aidan’s dad. “That car’s probably worth sixty grand.”

  “It can’t be Robby’s mom’s,” Aidan said. “I mean, I guess it could be if she got a big raise or something, but when we lived here, the Piersons were just barely scraping by.”

  Aidan opened the door, grabbed his backpack, and
climbed out of the little orange roadster. “So, you’re coming to get me around five or six?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Thomas replied.

  Aidan frowned and shifted his backpack onto his shoulder.

  “Things are going to be fine,” Mr. Thomas said. “Never alone!”

  “Never alone,” Aidan answered back, and smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Aidan watched his father drive off, took a deep breath, then walked up the steps to Robby’s front door. He looked at the old-fashioned black mailbox next to the door, the diagonal house numbers—7012—and faded welcome mat. How many times had he waited at this door for his best friend? Why does it feel so weird now? Aidan wondered. I feel like a stranger here.

  Aidan gently rapped on the door. He hefted the backpack and waited. The door swung open, and a very tall man stood just inside the door staring down at Aidan. The man wore a black turtleneck under a brown tweed jacket. His face was tanned and rugged-looking. His green eyes looked somewhat sunken behind smallish wire-framed glasses. His hair was pale blond, close cropped around the ears with a wavy fold gelled on top.

  “You must be Aidan,” he said with a slight Southern accent. “I’m Kurt Pierson, Robby’s father.”

  Father!? The word crashed into Aidan’s mind like a brick through a window. That just couldn’t be. Aidan knew that Robby’s father had run out on Robby’s family when Robby was little.

  “I’ve heard an awful lot about you,” Mr. Pierson said. He reached out his hand to Aidan and smiled. Aidan shook his hand, but something about that smile didn’t seem right. It was a sickly smile like the ghastly grin of a skull.

  “Is Robby here?” Aidan found himself asking.

  “He’ll be down in a minute,” Mr. Pierson said. “Why don’t you join me at the dining room table.” The request sounded more like a command, and the man turned his back to Aidan and walked up the hall. There was something familiar about the way the man walked. He took long, confident strides with a slightly delayed turn of the shoulders. It reminded Aidan of the way disciplined soldiers march.