The Final Storm: The Door Within Trilogy – Book Three

Mist and smoke from burned-out fires drifted over the eerie quiet of the now still battlefield. Paragor’s attack had been repelled, his forces overwhelmed by Alleble’s response. It seemed at first to be a total victory against the enemy.

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?”

King Ravelle stepped forward. “The answer to both questions is the same,” he said. “King Eliam the Everlasting has sent forth his messengers to the four corners of The Realm. All of the friends of Alleble were summoned to form a common army against Paragor’s new threat. The messenger who traveled here returned to us with an account of your siege. It was Kaliam’s decision to send this combined force to swiftly counter Paragor’s strike.”

Queen Illaria came forward and bowed. “Master of the Blue Mountains, Paragor’s army has swelled beyond reckoning. Armies from the far west—Candleforge, Frostland, and Inferness—have taken on the black harness. King Eliam calls for your aid. Will you and your people come?”

“Even had you not rescued us today, bringing a net of fire to snare our common enemy . . . even then, we would come,” declared King Brower, and his eyes glinted blue. “I will not forget the kindness Alleble has shown the Glimpses of the Blue Mountains through the long years. By King Eliam’s hand the trade routes have stayed open and Ludgeon has prospered. By King Eliam’s wisdom we were able to see that the enemy’s offers of might and wealth were control and decay in disguise. And by King Eliam’s promises we all have a hope beyond this life. In two days, every hammer, blade, and axe will come before the walls of Alleble and offer our service to the one true King!”

The Stone Sentries pounded the hafts of their weapons upon the room’s floor. Others followed suit with their weapons. When the ruckus died down, Mallik approached the throne. “King Brower, the thunder of your hammer still booms!” he said, garnering instant approval from the other Blue Mountain Glimpses. “But Alleble needs more than just our hammers for this scrap. Paragor has new weapons at his disposal, perilous creatures, and a beast whose flame can melt stone!”

Anxious murmurs swept through the hall. Mallik went on. “Alleble’s walls are stout, a match for most any attack. But for this foe, and for this battle, King Brower, Alleble needs new walls crafted by our hands. Walls built from the matchless blue granite of this land! King Eliam will need every hammer, yes, but before that, he needs our craft and our skill to rebuild the walls of Alleble to a might never before seen in The Realm!”

Mallik expected cheers and patriotic clamor, for he knew his people took great pride in their stonecraft. But instead, pained looks were exchanged and troubled expressions appeared. King Brower sat down hard on his throne.

At last, King Brower broke the brooding silence. “Alas, Mallik, kindred of this land, had you asked for anything else, I would have given it freely. But while Paragor’s attack took away relatively few lives, he has yet robbed us. Now it becomes clear that was his plan all along. He had no intent to invade, capture, or conquer. No, Paragor knew that Alleble would need our help to fortify their defenses. Paragor’s attack destroyed all of our wind-carriages and most of our stone-cutting tools. Mallik, we will come to fight for King Eliam, but it will be a year or more before we are able to build new walls.”