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 a
id. 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.”
18
BEYOND THE GATE
OF DESPAIR
Wearing the armor of Galdoth and the helmet of Blarrak, Aidan raced through the Blackwood after the other Paragor Knights. They were already mounting their dragon steeds when Aidan burst out of the forest. He stumbled and went over a sudden down slope and crashed with a yelp into the midst of the enemy. Blarrak’s barbed spear clattered at the feet of Drang, the leader of the enemy expedition. Aidan quickly got to his feet and stood up, feeling as if every enemy knight could see right through his disguise.
“It is about time, Blarrak, you sloth!” Drang said, shoving the spear into Aidan’s hand. “We were about to take flight without you! Aye, where is that slowcoach Galdoth?”
Aidan made his throat as rough as he could and spoke deeply. “The bowhawkers!” he yelled. “They shot Galdoth from behind!”
A murmur swept through the Paragor Knights. “Lads,” said Drang as he leaped into his dragon’s saddle, “I think it is time we bid Yewland a less-than-fond farewell. Blarrak, tether Galdoth’s steed to your own. Make haste!”
Aidan waited a few nervous heartbeats as the other knights mounted up, for he didn’t want to accidentally sit in the saddle of a dragon that wasn’t his own. Even so, there were two dragons without riders: a long, narrow dragon the color of red clay, and an ugly, thick-limbed beast with a scarred gray hide. Aidan guessed. He figured Blarrak had been about as ugly as they came, so Aidan took the ugly dragon. He quickly lashed the reddish dragon’s reins to his dragon’s saddle harness.
Drang and the others spurred their dragons and took to the air. Aidan leaned forward in the saddle and pressed his knees into the creature’s flanks. Blarrak’s dragon sniffed at Aidan a few times, but Aidan gave the reins a swift snap, and the winged beast lifted off as well.
Aidan was relieved that he didn’t have to steer his dragon very much. It simply followed the others. They climbed high into the evening sky. The sun soon was swallowed in the cold murk on the western horizon, and Aidan spent the long flight to Paragory in the dark . . . thinking.
He thought about his mother and Robby. They had both shown encouraging signs before Aidan left for The Realm. But would they take the next step? Aidan wondered. Mom might because Dad’ll get after her. But Robby, who would get after him? He had killed Count Eogan, a servant of Paragor. What would come of that? Aidan shuddered.
Then Aidan’s thoughts turned to Antoinette. How had the enemy captured such a skilled swordmaiden? Antoinette would have fought her way out of—oh, no! he thought. What if she got caught trying to get to Robby’s Glimpse? Then her capture would be . . . my fault.
Aidan shook his head. Maybe it wasn’t Antoinette who had been captured at all. But that didn’t make sense. This Kearn, whoever he was, had someone from the Mirror Realm imprisoned. Drang’s description made it almost a certainty that it was Antoinette. And King Eliam had directed him to attempt this rescue. As the hours sailed restlessly by, Aidan pondered these things.
Suddenly, the air whooshing around Aidan went icy cold. The great desolate expanse known as the Grimwalk lay below in bleak gray shadows. And the jagged mountains of Paragory came into view. But something was very different. The Prince’s Crown was dotted and streaked with orange like a large piece of firewood, blackened but lit with smoldering embers. Torches! Aidan realized. And they’re moving.
Aidan knew that meant an army, an army of unbelievable size. “Never alone,” Aidan whispered. He reached behind his breastplate and touched the sapling hidden there. What am I to do with you? he wondered. But as Aidan removed his hand, the sapling caught on the rough Paragor armor. The newborn tree tumbled out. A rush of wind tossed it about in the air. Aidan tried to catch it, but all he could do was watch the sapling fall into the murky gray of the Grimwalk.
The dragon riders led by Drang spiraled downward and landed in half-frozen muck outside of two tall arched doors made of some ancient black metal. The Gate of Despair! Aidan shuddered, for he remembered the first time he had encountered that gate.
Drang sounded a large horn. Another horn answered from within, followed by a muffled boom, and the slow rumble of grinding metal. The two massive doors began to open, and from the thin fissure between the doors, harsh red light spilled out. Black smoke began to snake out near the tops of the doors. The knights around him covered their mouths and noses. Aidan followed their lead to avoid drawing attention, then steadied himself and issued a silent plea to King Eliam for strength.
As the opening widened, a wave of horror and revulsion washed over Aidan. He constricted his grip on the reins and fought off the violent churning heaves in his stomach. For an odor came forth from the gate. There was the sickly sweet smell of rot, the acrid stench of burning flesh, and something else—foulness beyond the smell of death and decay! It was as if someone had unearthed the bowels of The Realm where many dead things had been buried, and in so doing had released a river of sewage and gore.
Aidan gagged, but somehow managed to keep his stomach. He had to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to himself.
“Come on, lads!” bellowed Drang. “Lord Kearn will be most anxious for our return!” The opening widened more, and the dragons ambled forward. As Aidan’s dragon drew closer, Aidan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.
Within the cavern there were hundreds of knights marching purposefully between uncountable racks of swords, barbed spears, wide double-bladed axes, wickedly serrated swords—and scythelike weapons Aidan had not seen before. These had a long wooden staff and at the end bore a long, curved, sicklelike blade.
Dozens of wooden towers stood dormant like silent giants along the sides of the cavern. Each one had wheels at its
base, six armored compartments, and an adjustable platform at the top. Next to these Aidan saw row upon row of catapults and tarped wagons full of barrels—These are the siege weapons used against Mithegard!
The ceiling was smoky and filled with jagged stalactites. Hung among them were great chains of iron and odd-looking long cages filled with black dangling moss.
Paragor’s Knights nodded or saluted as the soldiers passed. Drang stopped the caravan and leaned from his saddle to talk with a sentry. This knight raced off into one of the yawning tunnels that ran around all sides of the cavern. The dragon riders began to dismount, and the massive doors shut behind them with a thunderous boom.
Aidan released the reins and slowly looked up to one of the long cages hanging directly overhead, and for several agonizing moments, he could not focus on what he saw. Still staring at the basket, Aidan reeled and nearly fell out of his saddle. For dangling from the basket, with black rotting flesh barely clinging to it, was a skeletal arm.
Aidan staggered down from his saddle and landed with a sickening splatter. He refused to look down at his boots.
“Line up, you louts!” Drang hissed. “Lord Kearn is coming!”
The dragon riders quickly formed two rows of rigidly straight lines. Aidan joined them, barely breathing. From across the cavern, marching with confidence and purpose, strode a tall caped warrior. His hair was long and blond. He carried a massive wide sword in one hand, and in the other what looked like a book.
Aidan knew this warrior. “Robby’s Glimpse,” he whispered. The red glint in Kearn’s eyes made Aidan cringe.
His menacing sword at his side, Kearn strode up to Drang. “What in The Realm took you so long?” he demanded in a very deep, commanding voice with no hint of Robby’s tone or accent. “The Black Breath begins in an hour. We march in three!”
“Lord Kearn,” Drang said with a bow. “We took the time as was necessary. Nothing more. Our errand, as you know, was for Paragor first.”