Aidan found himself standing outside on a vast railed balcony. He walked out a few paces, saw the dark mountains of the Prince’s Crown curling away to the left and the Grimwalk shrouded in a sea of darkness to the right. It was better than Aidan could have imagined—the perfect getaway zone! So, issuing a silent Thank you to King Eliam, Aidan quickly tied his dragons to the balcony’s iron railing.
Looking up, Aidan saw a dark tower. Roughly cut with a kind of brutal symmetry, the massive tower rose high into the turbulent sky until it was crowned with a collar of jutting black spikes. As far as Aidan could see, there were no windows cut into the tower. He thought there might be one small dark square cut into the very top, but it was very hard to see beyond the spikes and know for sure.
Nonetheless, it seemed a perfect place to keep a prisoner, and Kearn had evidently gone that way. Aidan dashed back up the passage from whence he had come.
From behind an arch, Drang watched Aidan tie the dragons to the railing and stare up at the tower.
So, Blarrak—or whoever you are, Drang thought, looking from the dragons to the tower. Do you think you will just make off with Kearn’s prize? Is that it?
Drang walked over to the white dragons. “Well, let us see how you do with no dragons to help you get swiftly back to Yewland!” He went to untie the first dragon, but it growled. Drang tried again, but it nipped at his hand.
“Filthy creatures!” Drang spat. “Well, then,” he said, “so you like to play rough. I can play that way. Just let me fetch some of the lads, and we will make a nice little surprise for Blarrak’s return!”
Two knights lay hidden in the clefts of rock in the bony foothills just on the western side of the Cold River. The sky was a turbulent mass of ashen gray, and an icy wind shrieked in off the Grimwalk. A thunderous roar rose above the wind, rising to an anguished cry spoken as if pain were its language. Stones shook free and the knights’ armor rattled.
“Vygant!” one whispered urgently to the other, who was much higher. “What was that?”
“I do not know, Alaric,” he replied, straining to see across the frozen wasteland. “It is a sound like none I have heard before.”
“It sure has Fledge spooked,” said Alaric. They could both hear the frightened creature’s squeals from the cove where they had left her.
“Forget the dragon,” Vygant said. “It has me spooked!”
“What do you see?”
“Same as before,” Vygant replied. “The Gate of Despair is open wide, and there is movement all over the mountains, but still no legions marching forth from within.”
“Even so, I do not like this,” Alaric said, clambering up next to Vygant. “We should flee at once and get word to Kaliam.”
“I am with you in heart,” Vygant replied. “But our orders are to watch for Paragor to begin his offensive. We must wait.”
“Something has begun,” Alaric argued. “I do not think we can afford to—”
“Wait!” Vygant yelled. “Do you hear that?”
“I hear nothing.” Alaric looked at him and shrugged.
“No, that is what I mean. The wind has stopped. There is no sound at all.”
They both stared across the Grimwalk. The clouds were still roiling. In fact, they seemed closer to the ground and even more disturbed than before. But it was dreadfully silent. Then suddenly, there was something there at Paragor’s gate, a bubbling dark mass.
“What is that?” Vygant asked.
Alaric did not answer. They both stared, entranced by the scene unfolding at the gate of the enemy. The mass began to spread almost as if it were liquid, spilling left and right of the gate and saturating the Grimwalk. In moments it became a black wave, surging forward and growing so high that the scouts of Alleble could no longer see the bulk of Paragor’s fortress. Silently the wave approached until it was nearly halfway across the Grimwalk.
“It is getting closer!” Alaric exclaimed.
“Okay, we have seen enough to report!” Vygant yelled. The two of them climbed down from their outpost and leaped recklessly the rest of the way down the foothill. Then, tripping and stumbling, they ran for the cove where they had tied their dragon steed. Just before turning the corner, they felt a presence behind them. They spun around just in time to see a wall of black creep over the ridge they had just abandoned.
Tendrils of darkness groped over the stone and reached out as it came. Alaric and Vygant ran, but it was too late. The wave of black washed over them, and they found themselves not in total darkness, but rather in a peculiar twilight. They could still see each other but only in murky silhouettes. And they felt like they were moving in slow motion, almost as if the shadowy air around them had a feathery texture that resisted slightly as they moved.
“What is happening?” Alaric yelled, though his voice sounded muffled and far away to Vygant.
“I do not know!” he replied. “Stay together! Get to Fledge!”
They ran as fast as they could, but the darkness made the landscape nearly impossible to recognize. They found themselves suddenly at the edge of the Cold River, somehow far from the cove and the dragon—their only means of escape. And it was too far to leap across at this point, so they began to follow the riverbank.
Vygant reached and grabbed Alaric’s arm, and they stopped abruptly. “Did you hear that?” Vygant asked.
“Listen to the wind howl!” Alaric called back to him.
“That is not the wind,” Vygant said. And then they saw eyes in the darkness. Large yellow eyes.
28
A SUPERIOR FOE?
Antoinette heard the jangle of keys. The chamber door swung inward and two guards entered. “It is the only window in this reeking tower,” one of the guards said. “Unless you want to walk all the way back down!”
“Not a chance,” said the other. The first guard came to Antoinette’s cell and shoved the key into the lock. “Move back, Dark Skin!” said the guard, forcing the door open. Antoinette kept her free hands—and her sword—behind her as she backed away. Ignoring her, the guard went to the window.
“Ahrgh!” he said. “Just look at them! We could be with them if we did not have to guard this whelp!”
“What if we caught her trying to escape?” the other asked, loosening his sword from its scabbard.
The first guard turned and eyed Antoinette. “I was hoping you would suggest that.” He brandished an iron-capped club. He took one step toward Antoinette, and it became his last. In a blur, she spun inside his swinging arm, and rammed the hard pommel of her sword under his chin. There was an awful crack, and the guard staggered. Then, Antoinette turned the sword and stabbed backward under her own arm. The second guard ran at her, but she sidestepped. And he impaled himself upon the Daughter of Light. In a few heartbeats, both guards lay dead.
Antoinette grabbed the key ring and secured it to her belt. Then she locked the cell door behind her, opened the chamber door, and crept into the hallway.
Beyond the chamber, the hall immediately divided around a wide stone pillar. Antoinette took a few steps up the left side and then doubled back and took a few steps up the right. There were no more guards in sight—just cold iron doors and flickering torches.
Antoinette decided to go left and stole along the wall as quietly as she could. Now and then, the keys would jingle on the ring, and she wished for a moment that she had left them behind. She passed door after door, her heart beating faster at each one. She imagined one of the doors opening suddenly and a cadre of guards rushing out into the hall to capture her. But none did.
At last, Antoinette found what she was looking for: stairs! She descended slowly, the torches casting monstrous shadows of herself on the curling wall before her. From the last step, she peered into the hall. Either there were fewer torches or some had died out, for the hall was much darker than above. Still, she saw no guards, so she pressed on. The hall divided again, but there were three passages. Antoinette shrugged and took the middle one.
She was half
way down that hall when she heard a voice and nearly jumped out of her skin. “Take me with thee!”
She spun around, her sword ready, but there was no guard . . . no knight in dark armor—only a door with a barred window. Looking out sadly between the bars was the oldest Glimpse Antoinette had ever seen. He had large brown eyes deeply set among gray brows and pale, heavily wrinkled skin. He was balding with sickly strands of hair floating like cobwebs near his unusually long stretched ears.
“How did thou escape?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?” Antoinette replied.
“Thy armor speaks of allegiance to King Eliam.” He smiled and his eyes glinted blue.
“You’re from Alleble too?” said Antoinette, sorting through the keys for one to unlock the cell door.
“I was,” he said weakly. “Long ago. Tell me, m’lady, have the soldiers gone?”
“Most have, I think,” said Antoinette. “An unbelievable army! I’ve got to get back to Alleble. I’ve got to warn them.”
“I must return too. Shall we travel together?”
Antoinette knew the old Glimpse would slow her down, but she could not leave him for certain death. “Of course,” she said. “Ah, got it!” The door swung open and out walked the old Glimpse. He was gaunt and frail, and Antoinette wondered what Paragor would want with such a harmless prisoner.
“I am called Zabediel,” he said. “Though the young ones call me Zabed. I come from Balesparr, a village hidden deep in the heart of King’s Forest.”
“I am Antoinette,” she said. “Follow me.”
“Does thou know the way?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” she replied.
“Then perhaps thou should let me lead the way.” The old Glimpse brushed past her and ambled up the passage. The two of them made their way through the twisting passages and down several winding flights of stairs. At times, when the path forked or when the meandering path became disorienting, Zabed would stop for a few moments to think. “This tower grows up from the heart of Paragor’s main keep,” he said after turning back from a dead end. “A wrong turn could lead us to many places we would not wish to go.”
Great! thought Antoinette, but still she followed him.
Many turns and dead ends later, Antoinette’s pace slowed until finally, she stopped moving. Zabediel ambled on several yards before he realized she had stopped. “M’lady, Antoinette?” he questioned as he walked back to her. She did not answer.
“M’lady?” he said, staring with concern. “Are ye well?”
She mouthed, “What?” Then she blinked and focused on him.
“Are ye well?” Zabediel repeated. “Thou seemed entranced.”
“A storm is coming,” she said.
“A storm?” Zabed raised an eyebrow. “But we are deep in the mountain. Why does thou think so?”
“I . . . I don’t think . . . I know,” she replied. “Ever since I was little, I’ve just known that a storm was going to hit—before it happened. I’d get this strange sort of tingling, and ten, twenty minutes—even an hour later—sure enough, the storm would come.”
“And does thou feel this sensation now?” Zabed asked, staring at her anxiously.
Antoinette nodded slowly. “I’ve never felt it this strongly before,” she said. “It hit me so hard, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It’s going to be a dreadful storm.”
Zabediel stared at her intensely for a few moments more, and then he turned and trotted up the passage. After some time, they came to a place where the path split three ways. The left and the right passages were well-lit and curled away from each other. The middle way led immediately to a long flight of stairs. Zabed looked back and forth and then led Antoinette down the stairs.
They found themselves immersed in the darkness of a very long, narrow hall. Its only torch burned at the far end, so it was very difficult to see. “I do not remember this,” muttered Zabediel.
Antoinette closed her eyes and exhaled. “Should we go back . . . try one of those other passages?”
“Nay,” Zabed replied curtly. “I know both of those other passages. One leads to the living quarters of three ranks of soldiers. The other leads down deep into the torture pits beneath this city. It would be perilous either way. This should be the right way, but it looks so strange.”
Antoinette wondered just how well his aged eyes could see, especially in the shadows. A gust of frigid air brushed by them. The torch flickered and waved suddenly as if it might go out. “Well, you’ve been right so—”
A crash of thunder struck. They both jumped. Antoinette and Zabed stared at each other, their hearts hammering.
“That was no ordinary thunder,” Zabediel said. “For it is no small thing to hear it from within this fortress. I fear thou were right about the storm.”
Antoinette nodded and was thoughtful. Just as they were about to set off again, Antoinette froze. She heard something, and it wasn’t wind or thunder. It was coming from the other side of the hall. Footsteps. It sounded like footsteps running on stairs.
“Zabed, get back!” Antoinette yelled. She pushed the old sage to a recessed part of the wall just before the stairwell. She leaned just slightly out so she could see. Standing at the end of the hall was a Paragor Knight. His black armor reflected the flickering torchlight, and even from this distance, Antoinette could see that he held a menacing sword.
“M’lady—”
“Shhh!” Antoinette warned. “There’s a guard coming.”
Aidan’s quest to find Antoinette had been reduced to a headache-provoking game of trial and error. There were a dizzying number of twists and turns. He’d already had to double back three or four times to take passages that he’d missed in the unreliable torchlight.
Aidan had passed many cells but found them all empty, and his heart began to despair. But each time, just when he had reached the end of his hope, he heard the voice of his King. “Seek what was lost.” And each time, Aidan found a new passage heading up.
He took a deep breath and raced up the stairs. At the top, he ducked under a wooden archway and found himself staring up a long, dark hall. He passed the only torch and immediately had the feeling that he was not alone. But Aidan was not going to turn back. Brandishing Fury, he stalked up the hall. In the shadows at the end of the hall, every one of Aidan’s senses was on alert.
The Paragor Knight crept closer. Antoinette waited until he was practically right in front of her, then she had no choice but to pounce. She brought the Daughter of Light down with great force, aiming for his head. But by some miraculous effort, the enemy blocked her first strike. Undaunted, she unleashed a flurry of strikes, using her kakari-geiko attack to keep the enemy on the defensive.
The warrior backpedaled with measured steps, maintaining his balance and searching for an opening. Antoinette tried to keep up the pressure, but her arms were getting tired. She sensed motion from behind her. Zabed! What is he doing out of our hiding spot?
Just that brief distraction, and the enemy loosed a savage, heavy blow that forced her sword downward. He tried to keep her sword near the floor, and Antoinette got the feeling that she was being set up. Instantly, she leaped backward, knocking Zabed back a few paces. She hoped he was okay, but at least the Paragor Knight hadn’t run her through!
The enemy grunted and pressed the attack. He had taken his sword in both hands and rained heavy strokes against her wearying defenses. She knew she was beaten. This was a superior foe.
And then it came—a thunderous blow that slammed the Daughter of Light to the ground. Even though she knew the enemy’s attack, his strength was too great and she had no place to leap away again. She could feel him holding her blade to the ground while drawing his sword back for the big thrust. And suddenly, like the shock of a fire alarm going off, a word appeared in her thoughts: moulinet.
“Aidan?!” she yelled.
The Paragor Knight thrust forward to kill, but pulled up short. “Antoinette?!”
29
K
ING’S FOREST
King’s Forest is very different from the Blackwood,” said Thrivenbard to the team of twelve assembled in Guard’s Keep the next morning. “But it is queer enough in its own right. While we will not contend with illgrets, wolvin, or the other foul things that were drawn by the will of the Seven Sleepers, there are other hazards. So we must be wary.”
“What kinds of hazards?” asked Locke, the youthful-looking Acacian Knight.
“Well, I have not ventured deep into the woods,” Thrivenbard reminded them. “But I have been far enough in to know that things grow very big there.”
“Perhaps you could define big,” said Sir Oswyn.
“The trees, for one thing,” Thrivenbard replied. “They do not have the beauty or the toughness of those in Nock’s Blackwood, but they are tall enough to scrape the sky! And once, while climbing one of these giants, I disturbed a moth the size of a kite!”
“Trees and moths do not seem such a threat,” said Sir Rogan. “Is that all there is?”
“Nay. It is what dwells in the trees and feeds upon the moths that I speak of,” Thrivenbard said. “Snakes—as long as serpents—with skin that changes hue and texture to match that of the limbs where they dwell. Big enough to lift a knight right out of his saddle, they are. And there may be other things in the depths of the forest . . . things worse.”
“Aw! It cannot be that bad!” said Boldoak, absently rubbing the scar on his cheek. “After all, Zabediel was just a scribe, and he survived.” This earned Boldoak a smattering of laughs from the other knights assembled there.
The Final Storm Page 18
