Final Kingdom

by Gilbert L. Morris

  Jake was on the ground, trying to sit up.

  “Jake . . .” Josh dropped his sword and knelt beside him. “I’ll get you back with the wounded.”

  “No,” Jake whispered, “they’ve—done it for me this time, Josh.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Jake lay back and reached out a hand, and Josh took it. “You’ve been the best,” he whispered. His eyelids fluttered, but he managed a smile. “Think about me sometimes . . .” Then his eyes closed.

  Josh heard Dave and Reb speaking to him, but he could not tell what they were saying. At last he stood and brushed his tears away. “Jake’s gone.”

  The three young men stood silent, filled with grief, and finally they carried Jake’s body back behind the lines where he was borne away.

  “He was a good soldier,” Reb said softly. His eyes were gentle, then thoughtful. “I’ll miss him. We all will.”

  Then Dave cried, “The Dark Lord’s troops—here they come again!”

  The soldiers of the Dark Lord seemed to be inexhaustible. No matter how many were slain, there were always more!

  Slowly the thin line of defenders was forced to yield again. By late afternoon, their backs were against the wall of the mountain that rose on the eastern side of the plain. Here defense was somewhat easier because they had the high ground and the attackers had to dodge around gullies, which made them easier prey for the archers.

  On and on the battle raged until the sun was ready to go down. It dipped at last behind the ridge of mountains, and the air grew cooler.

  In the quiet that followed, Dave wiped his brow with a trembling hand. He gasped, “I guess . . . that’s all for today.”

  “They’ll be back in the morning,” Reb said grimly. “We better get what rest we can.”

  And then Goél stood before them. He looked at them with compassion in his eyes.

  “You have done well. Valiant warriors all,” he said quietly.

  Josh shook his head. “Jake is dead,” he said simply.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “That’s hard, sire,” Dave said, almost in a whisper. “First Wash and now Jake. Two out of the seven of us gone.”

  Goél rested his gray eyes on Dave and said, “Not two. Three, my son.”

  Dave stopped breathing. He whispered, “Not . . . Abbey?”

  “Yes, she died like a warrior. Bravely, fighting for me and for the House of Goél.”

  Dave looked faint, almost unable to stand.

  Goél made no attempt to say more. He simply stood with them, his face weary with strain. When he did speak again, he said only, “Your two companions have paid the ultimate price. Are you still willing to fight for Goél?”

  Dave nodded, despite the visible agony of grief that was in him. Reb and Josh did the same.

  Goél’s eyes suddenly seemed to burn, and he cried, “I knew I could count on your love and loyalty. The struggle will not be for long.” Then he turned away and vanished into the growing darkness. Josh could hear him going down the line, encouraging others of his troops.

  The three boys sat down and were soon joined by Sarah and Beorn. No one could speak for grief and did not try to for some time. Dave finally rose to his feet and walked off into the darkness.

  “He was in love with Abbey,” Sarah said, “and she with him.”

  “Yes,” Josh said awkwardly. He looked over at Sarah. “It may be me tomorrow. Or you—I couldn’t stand that, Sarah!”

  “We will stand whatever we have to,” Sarah said, her head thrown back. She dashed away her tears. “For as long as we live, what Wash, and Jake, and Abbey have died for will live. Their lives aren’t lost.”

  Josh nodded slowly, and then they too walked away, hand in hand.

  Reb and Beorn watched them go.

  Beorn said, “I had a love like that once.”

  It might have sounded ridiculous, an ugly, stumpy dwarf speaking of love, but somehow it did not. Reb knew what the dwarf meant. He moved over to sit beside Beorn and said, “Tomorrow I think we will all die.”

  “All must someday die,” Beorn said calmly, “and we will join our friends in death. We will have died with honor and dignity, and nothing else is important at a time like this when the sky is falling!”

  14

  The Terror

  The Dark Lord himself advanced to watch the battle. For three days he had sent wave after wave of troops against the thin line of defenders who had their backs against the mountains of Dothan. Time and again he had seen the devoted followers of Goél withstand the charges of his powerful battalions. He had also attempted, through the use of his spiritual powers, to overcome the minds and bring fear into the hearts of his enemies. This effort had failed, however, for Deormi and her wise men were able to withstand this sort of attack.

  He had lost three commanders in action, and now the newly appointed commander, a short, powerful, dwarflike creature named Lothag, stood before him. Lothag was bloodied, and he trembled from fatigue. He had just come back to the command position of the Dark Lord, who awaited his report.

  “My liege lord,” Lothag said wearily, “we have done all that can be done.”

  “You have failed!” the Dark Lord spat. He reached forth as if he would slay his commander with his own hand, but then changed his mind. “You’re no better than the rest, but the next might be worse. Come,” he said, “and bring two battalions of our best troops.”

  Lothag blinked with surprise. “And where shall I lead them?”

  “Back to the Dread Tower.”

  Lothag did not pretend to understand but went to quickly assemble his weary troops. In truth, they had suffered terribly, and there was no time for burial. When he had gathered his forces together, they mounted swift horses and began the return journey. The Dark Lord rode on ahead, leaving a dire warning for them to hurry.

  When they reached the Dread Tower, the gate opened, and the weary horses, barely able to stand, staggered through it. The soldiers, in little better shape than their horses, fell from their mounts and reeled to the well to slake their thirst. Lothag considered calling them, lashing out at them, telling them to act like soldiers, but he muttered, “They’ve done all men can do.”

  He turned and straightened his shoulders. He had not chosen to be the commander of the Dark Lord’s host, but it had fallen to his lot. Now he walked stiffly into the tower and went directly past all the guards to the Dark Lord’s throne room. He knocked and heard a gruff, “Come in.”

  “We are here, sire.”

  “You took long enough about it, but no matter. We’ll not speak of that now.” The Dark Lord was striding back and forth. His cowl was about his head, and his red eyes glittered as he paced the floor. “I would not have thought that ragtag army could have withstood all of our forces.”

  “They are men and beasts determined to sell their lives dearly—and so they have,” Lothag muttered.

  “Well, they will not last long.”

  “We cannot take those rocks, sire. I must tell you that.”

  “Perhaps not, but there is another way. Come with me.” The Dark Lord spoke to a lieutenant at the door. “Have every soldier, every man available, mounted on a fresh horse. Empty the tower. We will all go back to fight in this battle.”

  The lieutenant blinked. “Yes, my lord.”

  “And we will have . . . help . . . on this foray.”

  Lothag glanced at the Dark Lord. He had never before seen him hesitate, but there was something in his manner now that was different. “What is this help, if I may ask, sire?”

  “Come, and you shall see.”

  The Dark Lord led Lothag down a series of stone steps. Deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth they descended. The darkness was broken by torches fastened in iron holders driven into the wall. The light flickered over the cruel features of the Dark Lord.

  Lothag—stout soldier though he was—had to force himself to follow. He had heard stories of the depths of the Dread Tower and of what lay here,
but he had never believed them. He’d merely scoffed, “Old wives’ tales! There’s nothing there but maybe a wine cellar.” But now . . .

  Finally they reached the lowest level, an arching room, its ceiling held up by gigantic braces of huge stone.

  “This way,” the Dark Lord said. He took a large key from his pocket and unlocked a brass door that glowed dully in the guttering torchlight. “Come, and do not let your courage fail.”

  “My courage has never failed, sire!”

  “But you have never seen this,” the Dark Lord said. He himself drew his back straighter, and his features, even under the shadow of the cowl, looked tense.

  Lothag could not imagine what lay beyond that door.

  “Come,” the Dark Lord said again, detaching a wall torch. He pulled the door open to reveal a tunnel.

  The Dark Lord led the way, holding the torch before him. They made several turns before coming to the most shocking thing of all. Suddenly Lothag found himself in a gigantic cavern. Stalactites glistened like huge icicles. Millions of bats left the ceiling with a roar like thunder as their leathery wings beat the air.

  “Here it is,” the Dark Lord said, ignoring the sound. He waved his torch, and Lothag bent forward. He could not see in the murkiness. “What is it, sire?”

  “The door to the pit!”

  And then Lothag saw that, indeed, at the center of the cavern floor was what appeared to be another door of heavy brass. It was fully fifty feet across and was secured to the solid stone with huge steel bolts. Some apparatus was attached to the ceiling above it, with cables descending and fastening themselves to a massive ring.

  Lothag swallowed hard. “The door . . . to the pit, my lord?”

  The Dark Lord seemed not to have heard him. He was muttering, “I thought never to open this—but now I have no choice.” He moved to the cave wall where a single lever extended. “Come here,” he said. “You see where the tunnel continues?”

  Lothag looked to where a large blackness gaped.

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “That tunnel will take us to the surface. But now, take heed. When I open the door to the pit you will meet something you have never seen before.” The Dark Lord licked his lips nervously. “You may call it The Terror, if you please.”

  Something in the words The Terror struck that very emotion in Lothag. Something was not human about this, something he could not identify. His hands began to tremble. “Sire, what—what is it?”

  “The Terror comes from the bowels of the earth. It has been bound in this pit for longer than men’s minds go back. Even before Oldworld was destroyed, The Terror was here, and now we must loose it.”

  “But, sire, what is it?”

  “It is a foul spirit. No—more than that. It is a foul presence. I cannot say whether it is flesh. I was able to control it once, but it has had centuries to nurse its resentment. When I pull this lever, you and I both may be annihilated.”

  “Then do not pull it, sire!”

  “I will! I must! I will defeat Goél. He cannot stand against The Terror. I will control it. Yes, I will control it.”

  The Dark Lord leaned on the lever. There was a creaking, and some obscure machinery began to grind.

  Lothag watched in horror as the cables tightened. He wished they would break. Whatever was under that massive gate, he did not want to see.

  But the cables did not break. A sudden snapping sound echoed in Lothag’s ears, and then the brass plate lifted slowly. It cleared the opening, swung to one side, and dropped with a clanking onto the stone floor.

  For some few moments there was no further sound, nothing at all, and Lothag hoped fervently that whatever was in that hole had died! But then there came a distant rumbling, and it sent horror through him. He would have run, but his legs seemed to have failed him, they trembled so violently.

  And then he saw it!

  Up out of the darkness rose something even blacker than that from which it arose. It was impossible to tell the shape. It was like a swirling, angry cloud, and inside it was flashing lightning. It was more monstrous than anything had ever been.

  The Dark Lord approached it. “I command you, come with me. You must fight my battles!”

  A hissing sound emerged from the center of the darkness that marked the creature—whatever it was— and the lightning flashes grew brighter. The thing moved forward.

  The Dark Lord threw up a hand and began to speak words that Lothag could not understand. The commander fell to his knees, for fear drained him of his manhood. He saw the shadow touch the very robe of the Dark Lord—and then stop.

  The Dark Lord gasped, but then he said, “Now, follow me, commander!”

  Lothag scrambled to his feet. He could not run quickly enough to get to the tunnel toward which the Dark Lord moved. Anything to get away from The Terror!

  They reached the tunnel opening and entered darkness that was broken only by their single torch. Behind them, a high-pitched keening sounded, growing steadily louder as they hurried upward toward the surface. Then they emerged, and Lothag saw that they were outside the walls of the Dread Tower.

  The Dark Lord lifted his voice to the sentry. “Bring out the troops. We move to the Plains of Dothan.”

  “What will happen?” Lothag gasped, his mouth dry with fear.

  “You will see. Goél’s forces may stand against human assault, but they will never stand against this.” He waved his hand at the blob of darkness that had issued from the tunnel behind them.

  The Terror, Lothag saw, had a changing form continually, and little wisps of fire showed themselves from within the depths of the awful, beastlike creature.

  “Now, we will see if Goél will stand! He will not! They will all die!” the Dark Lord cried. He mounted the battle horse a soldier brought forward. “Come, Lothag. Now, we will see how goes the battle.”

  “What’s going on?” Josh asked wearily. Battling had drained him dry, and grief for his lost companions was a constant pain. Strangely, the Dark Lord’s forces had abruptly withdrawn two days earlier, but now Josh saw something moving on the horizon. “Get the men up,” he said to Beorn. “They’re coming back.”

  The warriors pulled themselves to their feet, tested their weapons, and reformed their line. They stood silently waiting, watching the battle lines of the Dark Lord form.

  But then Josh saw something strange and new.

  “The lines are parting,” Reb said. “What’s that coming through the middle?” He shaded his eyes. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s not good.”

  “Some monkey business of the Dark Lord,” Dave muttered. “Well, we’ll just have to stand against it.”

  And then a tall figure—it was the Dark Lord himself—rode forth, trailed by a man in the uniform of a commander. He rode to within calling distance and shouted, “Goél, show yourself!”

  “I am here.” The answer came at once in ringing tones. “What would you have of me?”

  The Dark Lord laughed wildly. “I would have your life and the lives of those who have served you. You have had your chance to surrender. Now, once more I will offer your followers my mercy.”

  Goél stepped into view, still wearing his gray garb and the sword at his side. “I well know your mercy. You have shown it in your enslavement of my people. What would you have with me?” he asked again.

  The Dark Lord shook his head. “This ends your puny reign! The House of Goél falls this day. Its foundations are shaken.” He looked back, made a forward motion with his hand, and screamed a command.

  Josh blinked at what happened next. “What’s that?” he said.

  Sarah was beside him. “I don’t know. It looks like a cloud, a black cloud.”

  “Look at Goél!” Dave cried at the top of his lungs, and the Sleepers all turned toward their leader.

  Goél was advancing toward the black cloud, and as he advanced he drew his sword. It glittered in the sunlight. With his free hand he stripped off the gray outer robe and threw it aside.
r />   “I’ve never seen him like that!” Sarah whispered.

  Underneath his robe Goél wore a white garment— no, it was more than white. It would have put white to shame. It glowed like light itself. His head held high, he raised the sword, saying, “You have brought The Terror? We shall see then who will rule Nuworld!”

  A cry went up from both armies as the dark shadow of The Terror rolled forward. There was a crackling in the air, and inside the darkness of the beast were flashings of fire. One flash lashed out toward the figure of Goél. He met it with a slash of his gleaming sword. A deep roar burst from The Terror. Then the thing threw itself forward, and the two armies could do nothing but watch as the adversaries met.

  Goél’s sword flashed quicker than light as The Terror’s fiery rays tried to envelop him. He took more than one blow, but he was singing as he wielded the sword, and it was a song of victory.

  Josh could hear the words. He didn’t know if the enemy could understand the song; Goél’s followers did. It told of the courage of those who had followed him. It spoke of the love of comradeship, the love of one soldier for another—and be they men or women, that love would never die. There was comfort for Goél’s people in the song. But Josh could not understand how their leader could sing so victoriously when it appeared he would be overwhelmed by a monster such as this one.

  The roar of The Terror split the air. It threw itself forward time and again, only to be thrust back by the flashing, wheeling sword of Goél. The creature’s voice was hoarse and shrill at the same time. It crackled with fury. It was as if all the thunderstorms in the world had bound themselves into this one awful, dark cloud and now were determined to annihilate the tall, glowing figure that stood against it so valiantly!

  Josh did not know how long the battle raged, but suddenly he realized that the tide had turned. Goél took a step forward and then another. And another. The fiery tentacles lashed out, but he laughed aloud and said, “Taste now the wrath of Goél!” He ran toward The Terror then and seemed to throw himself into the very depths of the monster’s darkness!

  Josh’s heart almost stopped when that happened, but then he cried, “Look—look at it, Sarah!”