The Final Storm tdw-3

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  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

  I mean 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 would. 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 we
ll. 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

  A idan 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.

  Aidan followed him into the dining room. Mr. Pierson took a seat at the head of the long, dark table. He gave Aidan another one of those skull-grins and motioned for him to sit. “So you and Robby used to be good friends.”

  Aidan didn’t much like the sound of “used to be,” but he replied, “Yes, sir. I lived down the street until July. We were best friends, but then I had to move.”

  “That’s a real pity,” Mr. Pierson replied. “Colorado, is it?”

  Aidan nodded.

  “That’s a long way from Maryland, Aidan. A long way.” Mr. Pierson whistled. “I guess by now you’ve probably made quite a few more friends like Robby has.”

  Aidan didn’t like the direction Mr. Pierson was leading things. “Is Robby coming down soon?”

  “Oh, he’ll be along,” said Mr. Pierson, and he cracked his knuckles. “As a matter of fact, Robby did have plans today with one of his buddies from school, but I told him he ought to stick around for an old friend.” The way he spoke-gesturing grandly and raising his voice far louder than necessary-it reminded Aidan of someone. An old teacher? Maybe. A relative? Aidan wasn’t sure.

  “So, Robby tells me you like to write stories, Aidan,” Mr. Pierson said, and he waited for Aidan to answer. Aidan just stared back. “I’m a writer too. Did you know that?”

  Aidan shook his head no. Mr. Pierson smiled. “Oh, yes! I write self-help books, a couple of bestsellers. Maybe you’ve heard of my latest. It’s called Principles of Power. No? Maybe I’ll get you a copy from my car. I’d be happy to sign it for you. Yes, I bet you could really get into my book. You look like you could use some power. My principles could help you.”

  “What do you mean?” Aidan asked.

  “Well, I certainly don’t mean any offense, but look at you. You live now over a thousand miles away, and here you are trying to keep alive an old friendship. When what you really ought to be doing…” Robby’s dad snatched off his glasses and leaned forward till his eyes seemed to triple in size, “is getting on with life-find yourself new friends. That’s one of the secrets to real power, Aidan-never look back.”

  Aidan remained silent. He felt extremely threatened by this man who claimed to be Robby’s father. And on top of that, Aidan had the strangest feeling of alarm as if there were invisible enemies all around and they were beginning to close in.

  “Everyone needs personal power, Aidan,” Mr. Pierson continued. He slid his glasses back on and tilted his head slightly. “It’s the only way to feel totally secure in a very dangerous world.” He put a sinister emphasis on the word dangerous, and Aidan felt a chill.

  “Wouldn’t you like to feel powerful, Aidan?” Mr. Pierson asked. “I could show you how…”

  Aidan knew now where true power could be found, and it wasn’t in the pages of Mr. Pierson’s book.

  “No thank you, sir,” Aidan replied, trying to avoid the man’s eyes. It wasn’t that Aidan was afraid to look at him eye to eye, but he had a feeling this man was very shrewd, that he might be able to guess his thoughts. Aidan didn’t want to give him the chance. “I appreciate the offer. But really, I just came here to catch up on things with Robby. My dad had to visit his home office in the city, so I just tagged along.” Aidan glanced slightly at his backpack. He felt suddenly very conscious of his bundle of scrolls inside. “My dad will be back to pick me up between five and six.”

  “Will he?” Mr. Pierson leaned back a little and smiled. He put his thick arms behind his head like a chess grandmaster whose move had been countered but still had a secret play left. “Well, that should give you and my son a nice long day together, now, shouldn’t it? Yes, I expect it will. Normally, I spend a day like today writing over at the local coffee shop, but I think today I’ll just stick around the house. So let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pierson,” Aidan replied, and he grabbed his backpack and started to get up from the table.

  “Oh, Aidan, one more thing,” Mr. Pierson said. “What have you got in that backpack of yours?”

  Just then, Robby came bounding into the dining room. “Hey, Aidan!” he said, and for the first time since Aidan moved, Robby sounded like the old Robby again. Aidan slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked toward his old friend.

  “I was thinkin’ Aidan and I could ride bikes up to the park and throw the football around.” Robby turned to Aidan. “That is, if you don’t mind ridin’ Jill’s hunk of junk.” Aidan shrugged. He didn’t mind.

  “That all right with you, Dad?”

  “That’ll be fine, son,” Mr. Pierson replied, but the smile was gone. “Just remember what I told you.”

  “I will, Dad. I will.”


  “Why didn’t you tell me about your dad?” Aidan finally blurted out as they pedaled up Mazzoni Hill on their way to the park.

  “I dunno,” Robby replied. “I guess I’m still getting used to the idea myself.”

  “Well, is he…” Aidan chose his words carefully. “Is he like he used to be?”

  Robby pulled ahead a little. “Some,” he replied. “But he’s changed in a lot of ways. He’s rich.”

  “I noticed the car in front of the house!” Aidan replied. “And he told me about his book.”

  “Yeah, he called and said he was sorry. Mama and Jill just welcomed him back with open arms.”

  “What about you?” Aidan asked.

  Robby pedaled in silence a few moments. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I mean, it’s great to have my dad back. He’s real smart-helps me sort out my problems. C’mon, Aidan! Almost to the top, and then we coast!”

  Robby poured it on. He rode a sleek racing bike and had little trouble getting up the hill. Aidan zipped along as best he could on Jill’s no-name bike, with the little plastic streamers coming out of the grips and a banana seat. They crested the hill and coasted side by side.

  “Where were your mom and Jill? I didn’t see them at your house.”

  “Shopping,” Robby replied as they reached the bottom of the hill. “If it’s a Saturday, then they’re shopping. They like spending Dad’s money.” Aidan and Robby sped through the park entrance toward the game area.

  They secured their bikes, and Aidan dug into his backpack and reached for the football. As he did, his hand brushed against the Scrolls. There was so much he wanted to say, and he had rehearsed it in his mind a hundred times. But still he couldn’t quite get himself to bring it up. Aidan zipped up his backpack, and Robby went long. Maybe I’ll tell him after lunch, Aidan thought as he threw the football. It was a perfect spiral, but it sailed well past Robby’s outstretched arms.

  Robby came huffing back. “That was a launch, Aidan! You been practicing?”