Wayne Batson - The Final Storm

Nock flew low to the ground, searching the blackened wreckage. It was a grim task, looking for a friend among the dead. Still, Nock searched on. He had never known another Glimpse with as tough a hide as Sir Mallik. If anyone could survive such carnage, Mallik could.

So lost in thought was Nock as he flew over a thin veil of mist that he almost missed it. He pulled on his dragon steed’s reins and circled back to the hilltop. The haze parted as the winged beast lighted on the ground. Nock leaped off and ran to the charred remains of another dragon… Mallik’s.

The stench was overpowering, but Nock knelt down, staring at his friend’s steed and thinking. The dragon had died in the fire-that much was clear. No shaft or spear had forced Mallik out of the sky. Mallik always did prefer fighting on foot, Nock reasoned. But why did he come to this place?

Nock found the answer at the bottom of the hill. There, blasted and burned, was the skeleton of a catapult. Scattered all around it were dozens of bodies, and, to Nock’s disgust, not one of the bodies had a head.

This was a great puzzle indeed. For surely the dragon was the one Mallik rode from Alleble. And no doubt Mallik would wreck a catapult and take on its crew, but the dead there had not been smashed by Mallik’s great hammer. This is blade work, Nock thought. Or axe.

A shadow glided across the ground, and a large green dragon landed next to the wrecked catapult. “This is the very spot where I last saw Mallik!” said Sir Rogan as he clambered out of his saddle. “Your eyes are sharp, archer!”

“Not as sharp as your axe,” Nock replied. “Unless my eyes deceive me, this was your work.”

“It was.” Sir Rogan bowed and his long blond hair draped over his face for a moment. “Mallik was surrounded by the squad you see here-Paragor’s finest, but I, uh… removed the threat.”

Nock swallowed and adjusted the collar of his tunic on his neck. “Did you see where Mallik went after that?”

“Nay, I flew off and busied myself among the enemy,” Sir Rogan replied. “But it was not long afterward, I heard the explosion that engulfed this place in fire.”

Nock nodded. “Oswyn’s fire powder.”

“Again, nay,” Sir Rogan said. “Our healer’s lethal powder might have taken out the rest of the catapults, but not this one. The blast here was well before the others.”

Nock looked again at the siege weapon’s twisted frame. “So Mallik found a way to destroy the first,” he said, thinking aloud. “Perhaps he threw a torch into one of their wagons. To linger here would have ended his life, so he must have fled. But then where did he go?”

Nock walked around the perimeter of the scene. His eyes came to rest on a little stream that carved a narrow way through the battlefield. He shook his head.

“We will find him,” Sir Rogan said. “If Mallik’s hide was thick enough to endure a strike from the Wyrm Lord, he would certainly survive this little blast. And besides, this is Mallik’s country. I would not be the least bit surprised if he knew some secret passage. For all we know, he could already be in King Brower’s hall toasting our victory!”

Nock smiled. “Your words hearten me,” he said. “Maybe we should-” Without finishing his sentence, Nock was off and running.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Sir Rogan called after him.

Nock did not answer; he was headed for the stream. If Mallik was trying to escape a fiery blast, he might just seek refuge in the water. He ran along the edge, staring down into the stream. There were bodies-all enemy soldiers-but Nock saw no sign of his friend. Then he stumbled and almost fell into a ditch.

“Sir Rogan, come quickly!” Nock called. “I have found him!”

There in the bottom of the ditch lay Mallik. His beard and hair were singed and he was completely covered in black grime. Blood had trickled and dried on his forehead, and he lay very still.

Sir Rogan ran up, saw the hammer in the muddy water, and then, next to it, the massive body. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “So he was caught in the blast.” Sir Rogan yelled and slammed his axe to the ground.

Nock leaped down and went to Mallik. “Alas, my friend,” Nock said, collapsing upon Mallik’s chest. “I did not think we would part ways like this. We should have stood together upon the walls of Alleble, defying Paragor and his minions.”

“We might yet,” came a quiet voice. “If you would just get off of my chest so I can breathe!”

“Mallik?” Nock fell away.

Mallik’s face contorted into a grin.

“Mallik! Praise to King Eliam! You live!”

Mallik coughed harshly and tried to sit up.

Rogan leaped down into the ditch. “You big ugly ogre!” he said, laughing and wiping his eyes. “How long were you going to let us believe you were dead?”

“Not long,” Mallik said with a wink. “I must say it is comforting to know that you both care!”

The three of them howled with laughter.

Several hours later, after Mallik had been tended to, the leaders from Alleble met in the cavernous throne room of King Brower, the ruler of the Blue Mountain Provinces. Dark purple banners hung from the arched ceiling, and golden light rained in from a row of diamond-shaped windows on the east side of the room. Dozens of doughty Glimpse warriors stood like statues in perfect rows on either side. Each soldier’s hands folded atop the haft of a hammer, mace, or axe. But if the Great Horns of Ludgeon sounded, the Stone Sentries-as they were called-would spring to life and defend the Blue Mountains with the ferocity of a sudden storm.

King Brower sat upon an uncomfortable-looking gray throne roughly hewn from a massive block of granite. He wore an assembly of plain leather and plate armor. He had no royal scepter, but a fearsome warhammer was slung on his back.

“I do not understand,” whispered Nock to Mallik. “Why does a great king sit upon such an unremarkable throne?”

“King Brower could have a magnificent seat, it is true,” Mallik replied quietly. “Hammer and chisel would sing at his command, but King Brower wishes to remember his place before the one true King of this Realm. And so he chose not to have his throne made of blue granite.”

“Which one of you is called Oswyn?” King Brower asked. His voice was deep and resonated in the cavern.

Sir Oswyn bowed and said, “I am he.”

“Come nearer, Sir Oswyn,” the king commanded, peeking out from underneath his thick white brows. His pale blue eyes were kindly but possessed the tranquillity of a snowcapped volcano.

Sir Oswyn stepped forward. “I am at your service, sire.”

“Nay, Sir Oswyn,” said the king. “It is I and the whole of the Blue Mountain Provinces who are at your service. We deem ourselves the friends of fire, for by it we forge and make metals do our bidding. But never have we seen fire do what you made it do.”

King Brower stood and inclined his head. His mane of white hair flowed over his broad shoulders. His beard, forked into two simple braids, dangled for a moment and came to rest again upon his chest. Sir Oswyn noted that the only ornament upon the king was a large purple gem set in a silver necklace that rested on his chest.

King Brower smiled, noting Oswyn’s gaze. “It is an amethyst,” the king explained. “Mined by my own hand from the caverns at the bottom of Falon’s Stair. I will see to it, clever knight, that you have such a stone before you depart this place.”

Sir Oswyn bowed low again. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

King Brower nodded and then spoke to all of his visitors. “I see represented here many of our most dependable allies: Alleble, Yewland, Acacia, and the surviving remnant of Mithegard-our trading partner from the west. You came to us in our time of great need. Our walls might well have held against Paragor’s thrust. But I fear the enemy would have been patient… content to burn us out. But tell me, how did you know to come? And how did you coordinate your forces so quickly in response?”