Wayne Batson - The Final Storm

“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.

A ntoinette 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 halfway 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.”