The Final Storm: The Door Within Trilogy – Book Three
The Final Storm: Chapter 42

I’m sorry, girl,” Robby said. He knelt by Splinter and stroked the crest on the back of her head. “You did your best.” She nuzzled his hand weakly, laid her head to the stone, and went very still. Robby looked up over the nearby armory at the turbulent sky, searching with wet eyes for the Wyrm Lord. He was there, banking slowly above the forces of Alleble, raining fire on top of them without challenge. The remaining Sleepers had led Paragor’s surging forces for the first time past the fallen palisades. Alleble’s armies were slowly being forced back, and the battle raged among the Seven Fountains. Robby shook his head. Some legendary hero I turned out to be.

Suddenly a shadow loomed behind Robby. He rose and turned, sweeping up his heavy broadsword. “Whoa, Sir Robby!” exclaimed a heavyset Glimpse warrior. He had a corona of black hair that blended indistinguishably with his beard. And he wore the armor of Alleble. “Lower the sword, lad! I saw what happened with your steed—thought you might have been hurt.”

“Kindle?” Robby asked.

“At your service,” he replied. “Are you all right then?”

Robby nodded his head slowly. “I’m not hurt.”

“Then you best get moving,” Kindle said. He lifted a huge battleaxe with a wide blade and started to back away. “The enemy does not take a break to mourn!”

“Where are you going?”

“To the fountains, lad!” Kindle replied. “The dead are piling up, and I would sooner join them than let one rotting Paragor rat foul the water of our glorious fountains!” And with that, Kindle was gone.

Something snapped, and Robby turned round just in time to see the last large chunk of the armory door torn from its hinge and tossed aside by an enormous wolvin. The creature hesitated a moment, stared back at Robby, and disappeared into the armory.

Sword out in front, Robby stepped over pieces of the door and other debris. In the flickering torchlight inside, Robby followed the trail of wreckage: suits of armor lay in scattered heaps, barrels of weapons were overturned, and display tables were crushed. As he wound his way through the aisles and closer to the front of the armory, he felt a disturbing, heavy presence beyond the fear of the creature he was tracking. Robby emerged from behind a tall tapestry and found himself bathed in flickering candlelight. Before him, several enemy soldiers hurried about, lighting more candles. There in the midst of them was Paragor. And at his feet, lying half-curled like a pet, was the wolvin.

“Hail, Dragonfriend!” Paragor said. His voice, which had seemed so haughty and maniacal before, now sounded calm and reasonable. In the wavering candlelight Robby fancied that he saw a great and noble king in shining silver mail seated upon a marvelous ornate chair in a grand throne room. On his lap lay a sword and a scroll. Then, the image was that of Paragor again—though the sword and the scroll remained.

Robby said nothing, but his heart raced and sweat trickled cold down his back.

“Come now, Sir Knight,” said Paragor in a light, friendly tone. “We used to speak often of many things. Will you not come and speak with me now?”

“You are a murderer,” Robby whispered.

“A warrior, yes,” Paragor replied, holding up his sword. “And I have killed the enemy, just as you have. You wield your blade well, thanks to my servant’s training.”

Robby looked down at his blade and was silent.

“This is the eve of final victory,” Paragor said. He stood from his seat and walked among the candles. “Tomorrow, I will sit on a different throne. And you will sit at my left hand.”

Robby trembled. “I won’t join you,” he said weakly.

As Paragor turned, his dark red cape flourished behind him. He drew within a sword’s length of Robby and said, “My dear Robby . . . you have never left.”

Robby’s mouth fell open.

“Oh, you stepped outside of my protection for a time,” Paragor continued, walking over to examine a lush red velvet display that hung on the wall. It was empty, but there seemed to be sunken impressions, indentations suggesting that seven swords had once hung there. “But I do not hold that decision against you,” he said, pacing. “I would expect nothing less from a young wolf like yourself. But search deeply . . . you know where your true allegiance lies.”

Robby raised his blade and stepped toward Paragor. The wolvin raised its eyelid and growled. “You lied!” Robby exclaimed, “. . . about everything.”

Paragor turned and smiled. “Lied?” He raised an eyebrow. “About what? Giving you power? About making you a warrior, a conqueror, a leader? You had all of those things at your fingertips. It was you who turned them aside. But though you have been unfaithful, I have not taken back my promise. All those things still wait for you.”

“Enough!” Robby yelled. His head throbbed. “You lied about Alleble. It was you who betrayed King Eliam. You went behind his back and murdered him in cold blood! I saw what you did!”

Paragor’s smile diminished. “You saw what I did?” Paragor echoed. “You were not there. You could only have seen visions.”

Robby’s head pounded so badly, he could barely think.

Paragor laughed, but suddenly his voice grew low and serious. “Now, Sir Robby . . . I have many powers. But among them is not the power to make you see visions. Only King Eliam can do that. Would he not show you what he wanted you to see? You would never know the difference, unless you were there as I was.”

“You’re a liar!” Robby screamed. The pain in his head became unbearable. “I trust King Eliam and only him!”

Paragor smiled, turning his back to Robby. “Can you trust him? What of his servants among the Elder Guard—even his new Sentinel—have they trusted you?”

Robby remembered listening outside the door at Guard’s Keep and hearing: “Do not let him out of your sight.”

“And can you trust King Eliam? Has he ever come to you in person as I have? And where is he now? Have you seen him taking up arms on the field of battle as I have? Your King Eliam is a coward, and everyone knows you cannot trust a coward!”

“NO!!” Robby yelled, and he lunged to thrust his sword into Paragor’s back, but the wolvin suddenly roused and its jaws clamped down on Robby’s arm. The pressure became too great, and his sword clattered to the ground. The creature released his arm. Paragor turned and swiftly took up the sword.

“That was a mistake,” Paragor said. “My patience grows thin. Tomorrow, at sunrise, I will offer you one last chance. I hope then you will make a better decision.”

The word decision hung in the air. And Robby’s mind went suddenly back to the old Glimpse who spoke with him at the foot of Pennath Ador. He too had spoken about decisions. And then, Robby felt chills. He understood! “Wait!” he said to Paragor. “I have seen King Eliam! He spoke with me once—like he’d known me his whole life. And . . . he made me an offer too. He offered me hope.”

Paragor scowled and nodded to someone behind Robby. Robby went to turn, but something struck him in the back of the head. Robby fell into darkness.

With her back to the sixth fountain, Antoinette held up her sword as a mass of Paragor Knights slowly closed in on her. But no lightning came down. She looked up for a moment and saw white veins of electricity spidering toward a central point, but they were cut off. Brighter green lightning clawed out of the churning clouds like the root of some creeping vine. It crossed the white lightning and choked it until it was gone. Antoinette lowered the Daughter of Light, but when she looked back to the enemy, they parted, revealing a path. And walking slowly up the path was a tall Glimpse warrior. He had long blond hair and held a wide-bladed sword at his side.

“Kearn?” she mouthed. He drew closer and stopped just a few feet away. He sheathed his sword and smiled. It was Kearn, but how this could be, Antoinette had no idea. That would mean Robby had left The Realm. She turned to look near the second fountain. It was the last place she remembered seeing him. But there was no sign of him or any of his dragons. Antoinette heard a sudden fierce growl and something hit her hard. She slammed backward into the stonework at the base of the fountain and slid down. She felt tremendous pressure on her rib cage. Her mind swimming and her vision blurry, she squinted and saw the snarling teeth of one of the Sleepers. She turned to look for her sword, but it had fallen far out of reach. There was a flash and a wave of heat. A stream of fire streaked down from the sky, and a shadow passed overhead. All Antoinette could do was turn her head. Shaking and barely able to breathe, Antoinette looked back. Her sword was gone, and she heard laughter.

The wolvin took its paws from her chest armor, and Antoinette tried desperately to fight off unconsciousness. She focused somewhat and saw a Glimpse warrior there, but it was not Kearn. There was a resemblance, but this knight was much older. His skin looked stretched, and his eyes were sunken. He carried a sword in each hand, and he wore a ghastly smile.

Rucifel! Antoinette thought. Then everything went dark.

From far across the road, Aidan saw the wolvin appear from nowhere and pounce on Antoinette. As he drove his dragon steed to breakneck speed, he watched helplessly as the Wyrm Lord unleashed a wicked flame. He burned her alive, Aidan thought, but then he saw the Wyrm Lord take to the air with a limp knight in his grasp.

“Antoinette!” he cried, and he spurred his dragon steed to follow. But the dragon beneath him suddenly shrieked and faltered. It crashed twenty feet to the road, and Aidan flew out of the saddle, landing in a heap near a large catapult that rested upon a hill. Aidan shook his head. He saw that the scrap of parchment had slipped out of his armor. He snatched it up and stood. And there in the middle of the battlefield, Aidan came face-to-face with an old enemy.

“Rucifel!” Aidan cried, and he raised Fury.

“I am pleased that you remember me.” He grinned, baring his teeth like a skull.

“Where has the Wyrm Lord taken Antoinette?” Aidan demanded.

“To the same place I will take you!” Rucifel hissed. “Now, drop your sword.”

Aidan took Fury and swiped at Rucifel, just missing his ear.

“Then,” Rucifel said, beginning to whirl his two weapons, “we will do this the hard way!”

Rucifel’s blades came at Aidan from every direction, forcing him back. Aidan blocked and leaped, sidestepped and ducked. Rucifel pressed on, hammering away at Aidan’s blade. Aidan stumbled to one knee. As he stood, he glanced at the slope behind him.

The first sword missed Aidan’s head by an inch. It slammed into the massive catapult’s wheel, stuck for a moment, and jerked free. In that breath of time, Aidan batted away the second sword and threw himself down the hill.

This foe was beyond Aidan’s skill. His only chance was to get away, to escape. Aidan looked down at the torn parchment in his hand. Aidan did not understand all of the Scroll of Prophecy, but he knew from Zabediel’s pleas that the scrap was important, and that he must not let the enemy get it.

As he ran, Aidan glanced over his shoulder. The knight in dark armor crashed down the hill, gaining rapidly as he pursued Aidan. His cloak trailed behind him like a gray wing, and he swung his two swords in arcs, carving the wind. The blades came closer . . . and closer.

Before Aidan could run another yard, the knight in dark armor fell upon him. Aidan turned, fended off a blow, then ran a few steps; turned again, sidestepped one blade, and barely blocked the other.

“Where will you go?” rasped a voice that seemed to reach for Aidan. “Your kingdom is in ruin. All is lost!”

The enemy’s taunts threatened to strangle the small hope that lingered in Aidan’s heart. But Aidan would not give in. Aidan blocked another savage blow from the enemy and slashed away his second blade. Again, Aidan lunged away from his foe.

Suddenly, he saw his chance. Beyond the next hill a horse struggled, its reins tangled around its dead rider’s arm. Drawing from his final reserve of strength, Aidan charged up the hill and dove for the horse. It shrieked and staggered under the sudden weight but did not fall. Aidan swept his sword up and cut the tangled reins. He thrust the parchment under his breastplate and slapped the horse hard on its hindquarters.

“Go!” Aidan screamed.

The beast reared briefly but then surged ahead with such force that Aidan nearly fell. He could not reach what was left of the reins with his free hand, so he clutched the horse’s neck with all his might.

Aidan looked back. The knight in dark armor was now far behind and had given up pursuit. Just as Aidan allowed himself a grim smile, something hit him—hard—in the back, knocking him off the horse. He heard a sharp snap and felt the air forced out of his lungs.

He lay in a heap, his face to the ground. A dull pain throbbed in his right arm. Dizzy, he spit dust and debris from his mouth and looked up weakly from the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an enormous black wing in the gray sky.

Finally, Aidan got to his feet and saw his plight. The outer walls of Alleble had been breached, fires burned everywhere on the main thoroughfare, and the fountains could barely be seen in the wind-driven banks of black smoke. Paragor’s infantry, a massive force in black armor, closed in on Aidan. I didn’t think it would end this way, Aidan thought.

He held Fury in his left hand and clutched his ruined right wrist to his chest. But I will not be felled easily! Aidan stared at the enemy and a grim smile formed upon his lips. He held Fury out menacingly and turned in a circle so that all who approached could see its point.

But suddenly, just as they came within reach of Aidan’s sword, the enemy soldiers stopped and began to fall back. To Aidan’s astonishment, they turned completely and fled in all directions. But Aidan did not smile. He did not sigh with relief. And he did not drop his guard, for he felt a presence behind him.

There rose a winged shadow. Ten times in size it was, compared to the knight who stood alone to face it. The firstborn dragon, the Wyrm Lord, now in his fullness of strength, stared at Aidan and bore down upon him with all his malice-filled thought. He spread his great black wings wide, raised his muscular forelegs high in the air, and roared so loud that Aidan’s ears rang.

But Aidan would not falter. This wretched creature was the cause of so much pain. It had consumed whole kingdoms. No, Aidan would not cower or run from this foul thing. He would face the Wyrm Lord. And with fury and vengeance bubbling inside him, Aidan would smite this thing if he could.

The Wyrm Lord flung a grasping claw at Aidan, but Aidan lunged to the side and slammed Fury’s keen edge hard upon his extended talon. The scales upon that dragon finger were not as stout as the wyrm’s body armor, and a great gash was opened upon it. The Wyrm Lord shrieked in pain and wrenched back his arm.

“I am one of the Three Witnesses of Legend!” Aidan cried out. “You will not slay me!”

The Wyrm Lord looked at the dark blood oozing from his wounded talon. And then, for the first time since King Eliam closed the stone door imprisoning him beneath the lake of fire, there was fear in the eyes of the Wyrm Lord. But the king of all dragons would not quail for long. He turned and once again bent his gaze upon Aidan. His lips curled into a snarl, and his great jaws opened. And then the Wyrm Lord spoke. Aidan remembered the voice from his dreams and visions. It was the sound of words spoken from long ago, and each syllable scraped like great stones sliding off of a tomb. “You are already dead!”

The creature reared back and vomited forth a stream of liquid fire, but Aidan lunged out of the way. The flames enveloped the fallen horse, reducing it to cinders in mere seconds. Fire came at Aidan again. This time, he dove behind a ruined catapult and ran out as the fire consumed it. The Wyrm Lord tried twice more to burn Aidan, but somehow Aidan eluded the flames. The creature swiped at Aidan as he dove. Aidan sprawled onto the stone and lay in front of the great beast. He looked up and saw the ancient dragon’s jaws open. The Wyrm Lord struck swiftly like a great cobra, but Aidan rolled to one knee, and with all his might brought Fury crashing down on the dragon’s outstretched neck.

The scales on the great wyrm’s neck, hardened and baked over centuries, were stronger than plate armor, and Fury shattered upon them. In shock, Aidan dropped what was left of Fury and fell backward to the road. The Wyrm Lord brought his massive talon down, pinning Aidan’s legs, and swung his head toward the fallen warrior.

Aidan stared up at the creature and thought of the Scroll of Prophecy. He thought of his King. “I tried, King Eliam,” he said. “I tried.”

The creature opened his jaws and the great fangs drew closer to Aidan, but suddenly something slammed into the Wyrm Lord, lifting him from his feet and sending him crashing onto his back. And there, to Aidan’s astonishment, grappling fiercely with the Wyrm Lord, was Falon.

And Falon’s vengeance was terrible. She clawed at the wyrm with many sets of her limbs. The talons tore scales free and rent the dragon’s flesh. She coiled her badly burned body around the Wyrm Lord’s torso and began to constrict.

But the element of surprise lasted only a moment. The firstborn dragon spread his great wings and lifted himself and Falon from the ground. Then he let himself come crashing to the ground, the brunt of the impact on Falon’s coils. Aidan heard the mortiwraith roar in pain, and part of her coils came free from the Wyrm Lord’s body and dangled limply. Falon was losing.

Aidan watched in horror as Falon tore herself from the Wyrm Lord’s grasp and slithered up the length of the dragon’s neck. She grabbed the Wyrm Lord’s jaws with five pairs of her talons and began to wrench the creature’s mouth open. She let one segment of her serpentine body fall into the jaws of the dragon, and coiled the rest of her dying body around his neck and head.

The Wyrm Lord clawed and scratched. He had to get Falon out of his mouth, or he would choke to death. For a brief moment Falon’s eyes met Aidan’s, and Aidan understood: It was Falon’s only way of ensuring victory over the dragon.

The firstborn dragon bit down with all the crushing power his jaws could manage. Falon shrieked and fell limp. No longer constricted, the Wyrm Lord threw the mortiwraith down and roared. Dark blood dripped from his mouth. Then, the triumphant dragon took flight, only to quickly fall to the ground screeching in agony and clawing at the sky. With one final shriek, the Wyrm Lord moved no more.