Wayne Batson - The Final Storm

“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 well. 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.

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.”