The Final Storm (42 page)
It wasn’t easy with his injured wrist, but Aidan changed. The tunic and breeches were stained and tattered and stank in the worst way. The armor was tarnished, gouged, and crusted with dried blood. Even so, Aidan thought it was an improvement. He turned his back to the guards and tucked the scrap of parchment beneath his new breastplate.
They bound his hands and led him from the cell along endless passages and winding stairs until they came to a familiar door above Guard’s Keep. The knights opened the door and waited. Aidan stepped through and found himself on the balcony beneath the still churning clouds. Rows of Paragor Knights stood there, but they parted, making way for Aidan.
They led Aidan forward between the soldiers, between torches that waved in the wind. Then they forced him to kneel.
Before Aidan, at the balcony wall, stood a tall warrior. His back was turned, but from the billowing burgundy cape and proud stance, Aidan knew who it was. He turned in that moment and spoke to a guard. “Unbind his hands. He is no danger to us now.” The knights cut his bonds, and Aidan absently rubbed his throbbing wrist.
Paragor’s long gray hair was drawn back, and a black circlet—like a thin crown—rested above his strong brow and penetrating hazel eyes. He stared as if measuring Aidan. And when he spoke, Aidan heard a very different voice than he had heard on the hill when Falon had brought them to assail Paragor.
“You have fought valiantly, Sir Aidan,” he said, his voice noble and kingly—above all else to be trusted. It was the voice Aidan remembered from a vision long ago, but still there was an allure—a draw that compelled Aidan to listen. “I do not think on you as an enemy, for though your goals and ambitions were in contrast to my own, I cannot fault your passion, your resolve, or your skill at arms. You were a worthy adversary, and now . . . you shall be a worthy ally.”
Aidan went to speak, but Paragor held up a hand and Aidan’s mouth snapped shut.
“Though many would counsel me otherwise, Sir Aidan, I will make you the same offer I made your companions.” Aidan turned slowly and saw two knights facedown not far from where he knelt. Blood pooled beneath them and they lay unnaturally still. Aidan knew them, and many things ran through his mind as he looked upon them. He choked back tears, but he felt a great swelling of pride most of all. Antoinette, Robby—they had done it. They had made the right decision.
Looming proudly over the bodies was a dark knight brandishing his twin blades, Lord Rucifel. He wore a dark helmet in the shape of a dragon’s head, and from the darkness of that mask eyes flashed red.
“In spite of my generosity,” Paragor continued, “they chose the weaker path.” Aidan looked questioningly back to the warrior before him.
“They have lost,” he said, clasping his hands before his chest. “But their loss is your gain. You will have all that was to be theirs and so much more.”
The warrior seemed to grow. His presence intensified. And when he spread apart his hands, Aidan saw visions of grand towers, high thrones, and vaults of gold. It was all there for the asking, Aidan knew.
“Look about you,” he continued. “All that you have defended is lost. There is nothing left.”
Aidan turned and saw desolation. Everywhere were fallen towers, rent walls, charred debris, and broken bodies. The sky was black, but roiling with dark clouds and smoke from a thousand fires.
“Stand . . . come closer,” Paragor said. “There is so much more to see.”
Aidan slowly stepped to the balcony wall, and following Paragor’s gesture, he looked down into the fountain below. Aidan wept.
For in the fountain, immersed up to their waists in ugly black oil, were more than a hundred Glimpse men, women, and children. “They are traitors of my kingdom,” Paragor declared. “But at your command, I will make them free.”
Aidan stared into the fountain at the pale, trembling forms, and he began to despair. But then he saw a face he recognized among those in the fountain. It was King Ravelle, the Glimpse of his father. But next to him was a swordmaiden with large brown eyes that glinted blue. Aidan smiled, seeing the Glimpse of his mother and knowing at last that she believed. They looked up at Aidan, and there was no fear in their eyes. They nodded to Aidan’s unspoken question.
Paragor drew Aidan away from the balcony wall and said, “You see? By the Scroll of Prophecy, the very words of Eliam, I have won the throne! All is mine to command. All is mine to offer.
“All you must do,” said Paragor, and his voice became a gravelly whisper, “is deny the one who abandoned you. Deny King Eliam here before all these who witness.”
Aidan looked over at the bodies of his friends. A profound wave of peace washed over him, and he looked steadily into Paragor’s eyes. They glinted red and were greedy with expectation.
At last, Aidan spoke calmly. “I will never deny my King!”
The dark knight came forward with his two swords, but his master held up a hand. “I’ll do it myself,” Paragor said. His hazel eyes flared red as he drew a long, dark sword. Aidan reached into his armor just as Paragor drove the blade through Aidan’s breastplate.
A
idan’s body slumped forward and fell at Paragor’s feet. Immediately, Paragor knew something had not gone as planned. The clouds overhead stopped churning. There was not even a breath of air. It was eerily quiet.
But Paragor ignored the feeling of dread that crept up his spine. This was his moment of triumph! He had done all the Scroll of Prophecy commanded. He had captured the Three Witnesses and enticed them with offers of unfathomable wealth and power. When they refused, he had killed them—and in so doing, he had eliminated the last threat to his assuming the white marble seat he had long coveted.
“I am king now!” Paragor proclaimed. “King of Alleble and King of all The Realm!” He expected a roar from his armies, but none came. His words seemed to have been swallowed up, and there came a feeling over all of them—a feeling of impending doom. And the Paragor Knights looked about the city and even into the skies.
Then, the slightest breeze stirred on the balcony, and Paragor looked down and saw something shift in Aidan’s hand. Lord Rucifel came near and asked, “What is that?”
The moment the sword pierced his heart, Aidan awoke as if coming up from a splash of cool water. Warm, glad sunlight shone down upon him, and before him stretched an ocean of rolling green hills. Birds chirped and sang in the distance, and bright butterflies danced above carpets of tiny white flowers.
“Well-done, servant of Alleble.”
Aidan turned, and he beheld King Eliam in all his splendor. It did not burn Aidan’s eyes, for he was changed. But Aidan felt compelled to kneel. The King came forward and lifted Aidan back to his feet. Then he embraced Aidan, and said again, “Well-done!”
Aidan wept, for he knew in that embrace many things that he had not known before. At last he understood why The Realm divided. At last he understood why King Eliam allowed Paragor to take his life. And at last Aidan understood why King Eliam at the beginning had not simply forced all his subjects to obey—why he had given the Wyrm Lord and then Paragor the power of choice from which so many evils had come. It was love.
“Thank you, my King,” Aidan said when they parted. King Eliam smiled, and Aidan knew he would never cry again.
“Walk with me,” said the King, and he led Aidan over hills and through patches of flowers to a great green knoll where three tall trees flourished. White petals fell from them like snow, and Aidan saw two figures. One stood at the base of the tree on the left; the other on the right. As Aidan and the King drew near, Aidan saw that it was Robby and Antoinette. And yet, as he stared, he saw that they were different—no, that wasn’t quite the right word. Complete. In the gaze of each of his friends, he found two images. In Robby, he saw also Kearn! In Antoinette, he saw also Gwenne! And as they embraced Aidan, he realized that his memories were now mingled with those of Aelic’s. “All things are made new,” said the King.
When the trio parted, the King showed Aidan what lay at the base of the middle tree. It was a bundle of white armor with an emblem engraved upon the breastplate: a single vertical sword with two swords crossed behind it.
“It is the crest of a new kingdom,” said the King, pointing to the horizon. Aidan looked, and there on a far mountain stood a brilliant white castle. And as Aidan continued to stare, the first legions of an immense army crested a distant hill. As they neared, Aidan saw faces that he recognized—faces he had missed but had not seen for a long time.
“Gird yourself, Sir Aidan,” said the King. “There is yet one battle left.”
Paragor bent down and pulled a small scrap of parchment from Aidan’s hand. He slowly unrolled it and stared down at the writing. “Thisss!” he exclaimed, and his voice came out in a strangled hiss. “Thisss cannot be!” And he withdrew a large scroll from his belt and unrolled it. Then he compared the two pieces.
“What does it say?” Rucifel asked.
But Paragor never answered, for at that very moment a gale of wind surged down from the mountains and washed over the castle like a tidal wave. It slammed into those on the balcony and even the strongest knights faltered in its gusts.
Down in the fountain, the wind washed over captors and captives alike. Torches blew out and soldiers fell. When the wind had passed, King Ravelle turned and cried, “Look!”
In the center of the fountain, where the long-dry murynstil spouts protruded at the top of an ornate marble column, a trickle of water appeared. It bubbled up out of the spouts and flowed down the column until it met the black, waist-high oil. The moment the clear water touched that foul murk, the oil began to retreat! Water began to stream out of the top of the fountain, and soon it displaced the oil such that the acrid black liquid began to overflow the fountain walls.
“M’lord!!” Sanicrest yelled up to the balcony. The ruler of Inferness, who had been in charge of managing the prisoners in the fountain, stared at the water. It had nearly filled the fountain, and the last of the oil spilled over the edge onto the road at the feet of the enemy soldiers. But Paragor did not yet turn.
“M’lord!” Sanicrest called again. “Something goes amiss with the fountain!”
Up on the balcony, Paragor turned at last. He saw the prisoners in the fountain—no longer trembling, no longer afraid. And he yelled, “Let them burn then!” Paragor grabbed a torch and heaved it over the balcony wall. It plummeted from the sky and dropped into the center of the fountain. But there was no oil left there to ignite. The torch went out with a pathetic sputter.
Enraged, Paragor ordered his archers to kindle and fire flaming arrows. The first flaming arrows had been fired in haste, and whether it was by that or by some other design, they missed their mark and struck the road surrounding the fountain.
WHOOSH!!!
The oil on the road ignited and engulfed the enemy knights in a writhing ring of fire.
The pieces of the Scroll of Prophecy fell from Paragor’s hands, and he turned away from the fountain. Suddenly, he stared at the fallen Three Witnesses. Their bodies remained motionless, but the blood that had pooled beneath them began to seep into the stone of the balcony.
Then there came from the east, shining between the castle’s parapets, the first rays of dawn!
