Chapter 18: The Dragon's Belly

         Grom struggled to fight off his assailants, but couldn’t bring his axe up in defense. The fowl creatures swarmed all at once, ripping into his flesh with jagged teeth that thirsted for the taste of blood and fresh meat. Grom bit his lip with such force that blood oozed into his mouth, creating a pool between his tongue and gums. He spit a jet of red in the face of one of the creatures, who shrieked back at him in an incomprehensible language. Grom had never heard anything like this racket before. It was worse than being dropped into the middle of a bustling tavern full of wild seamen and brutes. He wanted to cover his ears to drown out the sound, but the beings had a powerful hold on his limbs.

         A high-pitched howl rose above the ceaseless gibbering, and Grom turned his head enough to see Prescott gutting one of the beasts with his blade, going through its midsection and slamming his sword into the trunk of a tree. Many of the other creatures stopped their vicious attacking and howling for a moment and turned their attention to their brethren. Howls lifted up from all around and collected into a cacophony of echoing cries.

         Grom used the momentary lull of action to wrestle free from their grasp, shaking and flailing his arms from side to side. Grom caught a few of the beasts off guard and sent them tumbling off into the distance, but the others remained steadfast and refused to let go of their prize. Grom managed to lift his axe high enough to smash the one whom he had spit upon with the flat end. The creature tumbled away with a howl, and many more advanced and swarmed around him. He swung his axe like a club, knocking them aside as they came within the length of his weapon. He fought for his life, knocking back those that wished to end it.

         Through all the confusion, he was unable to get a good look at what was attacking him. He could only make out the silhouettes of what appeared to be monkey-like humanoids. Their bodies were covered with tufts of thick fur, but many patches of skin were torn and devoid of hair, perhaps lost from quarreling amongst themselves over meals or mating. Their eyes glowed yellow, orange, and red, dancing like flames and shedding dim light in the darkness of the woods.

         He saw Prescott struggling in a similar manner, pulling back his blade from the tree and creature. He swung his sword in front of him, cleaving down the middle of a leaping adversary. Another lunged at him, and he silenced the gibbering monkey by taking its head clean from its shoulders.

         “Cloey!” Grom shouted above the maddening sea of sound and motion. His eyes darted around in search of the halfling, but he could not find her among the dark, shifting movements. Panic struck deep into his chest, and he fought off the hordes of tearing beasts with growing urgency and worry. He heard a cry rise through the howls and saw her fighting off the beings with her dagger. A few lay with deep puncture wounds at her feet, but many more flew down from the trees and overtook her.

         Grom reacted without another thought. Instinct took over as he barreled through the crowd and tore them away from her with his free hand. The other creatures around her scattered for fear of being thrown as well and climbed up onto the overhanging branches. Across from them Prescott cut down another creature where it stood and held open his hand. Another wave of silver light stretched across the woods, defeating the darkness. Earsplitting cries came from all around them, and the creatures fled along the ground and up into the trees and vines, leaving behind the torn and battered bodies of the dead.

         “Are you both all right?” Prescott asked between deep breaths.

         “We’re fine,” Grom replied.

         “Thank you,” Cloey whispered to him. He looked down at her; she wrapped her shaking arms around her shoulders and fought back the urge to break down and cry. Grom pulled her head against his chest and gave her a reassuring hug. He felt her trembling begin to lessen, and she reached out and grabbed his shoulders.

         “Then we need to continue. The light spell scared them away, but I am not sure for how long. I do not want those things coming back,” Prescott urged.

         Cloey pulled back from Grom’s embrace and looked up at him. The hint of a smile crossed her face, and she ran after Prescott. Grom stood and took one last look around him before following.

         An eerie silence accompanied the rest of their trek through the dark forest. The hairy beasts did not follow them, and for that they were thankful. Hunger and fatigue began to creep up on them again, but they ignored the pain in their bodies and journeyed on through the maze of gray trunks, roots, and vines. When they could venture no further, they came upon the end of the woods.

         A rush of cold air hit Grom’s face, which was a refreshing change from the stuffy, thick air of the confined forest. The ground before them stretched upward into jagged hills of jutting rock. A winding snake-like path crept between the field of rising rock, leading up into the dark layer of sky. At the very end of the path stood the walls and towers of a stone castle. Banners bearing the clawed hand of Mortillus adorned the inevitable path, standing as swaying reminders of who ruled over these lands. Black and blood-red stones ran through the pattern of the towering wall. The front gate stood at the opening of a long tunnel that stretched out in the shape of a dragon’s neck and open mouth. Two towers on either side reached up as two talons, each open with claws grasping at the sky. The stone dragon watched them from the distance and waited to see if they would dare advance.

         “I think we found where we need to go,” Grom joked, though his wide eyes shown with fear and amazement. The dragon’s mouth remained open, inviting those foolish enough to explore the belly of the beast.

         “Should we just walk in the front door?” Cloey asked aloud. Her voice trembled. She stared in wonderment at the great stone dragon.

         “There must be another entrance. Walking through the front gates would be suicide,” Prescott said, still keeping somewhat calm.

         “We’ve been teetering the edge of the knife this long and have survived. It’s time we reach the very tip,” Grom said to his companions. They nodded to him and waited for him to lead the way.

         They maneuvered along the path at a slow pace. The biggest concern invading Grom’s mind was an ambush. He could imagine black-tipped arrows and hurled daggers landing at their feet. The resonating laughter of goblins, trolls, and ogres controlled his senses, while the white-eyed gazes of dark elves made his skin crawl. Standing behind them would be the man clad in black, Lord Astaroth, staring at them with a cold smile. These things urged him to turn back, but he remained on this uncertain path in an unknown land with no clear way back home.

         However terrible his fears, no ghastly spirits or hulking brutes blocked their way. In fact, the absence of any evil began to weigh even heavier on Grom’s mind. He looked to one side and them the other. Below the path ran a steep drop into a field of razor-sharp rocks. He came to a complete stop and turned toward his companions.

         “Things are too calm,” Grom whispered to Prescott and Cloey, “Maybe the strange kobold sent us to the wrong place.”

         “I’m sure he made the mistake and sent us to another island with decaying flora, black rocky ground, and an ominous dragon-shaped castle,” Cloey replied, rolling her eyes.

         As if some unknown power heard her words, the ground began to tremble again. The shaking started as a light tremor and gradually became greater and more intense. Prescott fell back against a rock, grabbing hold to prevent himself from falling over the edge and down below. Grom grabbed Cloey’s arm and leaned on his axe. A brilliant flash appeared in the air, and two bright purple arcs of energy shot from the castle towers up against the black barrier surrounding the island. The blasts of crackling energy sent the air blustering in circles around the castle and down the winding path. The banners waved and shook in angry motions, susceptible to the wind’s every billow and rush. Cloey’s strawberry locks flew back into Grom’s face, and he shifted to get a better look at the pillars of energy.

         “What’s happening?” Cloey shouted over the sounds of racing energy and roaring winds.

         “Astaroth must be beginning the process of releasing the gods’ spell! We do not have much time!” Prescott yelled to them.

         Grom responded by moving as fast as he could, stumbling and fighting to keep balance as they walked the back of the shaking snake. Prescott regained his balance and followed, using his sword as a walking stick. Another rumble followed with a gust of wind as if the dragon’s mouth had opened to release a growl of warning. Ignoring the cautioning roar, they fought up the trembling path to the awaiting jaws.

         The jagged, rocky teeth loomed overhead, and the three fought against the swirling winds into the darkened tunnel of the dragon’s mouth. The path sheltered them from the blustering air and rumbling ground. They took a final look back at the winding path; rocks crumbled and collapsed down the sides of the cliff, leaving the path in ruined shambles. They all turned and stared down the road before them that led through shadows to the outline of towering steel doors. Flashes of light from the outside display shed some light upon the gloom, but it was of little aid in brightening the worn, tired, and fearful faces that would soon travel into the dragon’s belly.

         “Grom,” Cloey whispered. She grabbed his hand and dug into his palm with her nails.

         “We’ll be all right,” Grom whispered back. He took the first step forward into the dark and pulled her after him. “I promise.”

         They took slow steps down the smooth-grounded gullet and came to the sealed doors that stretched from the ground all the way to the roof of his throat. Grom pressed both hands against the door. The cold metal bit his hands and sent shivers through Grom’s body. He pushed against the doors, but he felt no movement nor heard the slightest scrape of metal against rock. He drew in a deep breath and pushed again, groaning and leaning his whole body forward, but the door would not budge. Prescott and Cloey stepped on either side of Grom and threw their weight into moving the door. Despite their combined efforts, the black metal entrance stood fixed and blocked their way inside.

         “Damnit!” Grom shouted, pounding his fists against the solid, unmoving door.

         “There must be another way,” Prescott whispered. He lifted his sword from the ground and mouthed a few soft words. The blade shimmered with a silver glow, casting light onto the door. The same clawed hand that had been stitched into the waving banners and carved into Renant’s black dagger hidden in Cloey’s boot rested in the metal doors. The carved symbol stretched across the entirety of the closed door, standing as a final reminder of who lived behind the dragon’s walls. Grom and Cloey stood back and watched Prescott examine the door. He traced along the steel with his fingers until they fell into a carved section of the door, a single drop of blood fallen from between the clawed talons. He pressed his palm firmly in the groove and pushed forward. The sound of a latch clicking into place echoed around them and through the dark passage. Without warning, the doors flew open, sucked in by an in-blown rush of wind. It was as if the dragon were drawing a breath in preparation to spew a pillar of flame. The force of the gust swept them from their feet and tossed them into the depths beyond. Swirls of colors blurred before their eyes as they were flung like dolls through the doorway and sent crashing to the unforgiving ground.

         Grom pulled himself up with shaking arms. A much lighter rush of air hit his face and pushed against the doors behind them, which glided across the floor and closed once more. The clattering sound of the doors slamming together carried around them and then faded.

         “Cloey! Prescott! Are you both all right?” Grom asked, his voice traveling much further than he would have liked.

         “I am fine, Grom,” Prescott replied, lifting his glowing sword. He dusted himself off and held his sword up like a torch, turning to his companions.

         “Owie!” Cloey squeaked, sitting on the ground and rubbing her shoulder, “That wasn’t a very nice welcome.”

         “It doesn’t look like they get many guests,” Grom said, looking around the room. Unlike the tunnel behind the resealed doors, light flickered from the red flames of torches set along the black stone walls, creating dancing and moving shadows. The floor was warm and pulsed with a dull purple energy. The room stood mostly bare, except for a passageway against the far wall. Tall, white bone lined the doorway, and darkness stretched upward past stone steps.

         “Where do you think it leads?” Cloey asked.

         “I’ll tell you where you will be going,” a voice came from behind them. They turned at once to see the dark elf woman Pyras standing before the sealed doors. On either side of her stood a man in black armor, more of the dark knights that they fought in the heart of the volcano. Pyras smiled at Cloey, who reached for one of her silver daggers. Pyras raised her long, thin-bladed sword toward Cloey and shook her head. “I wouldn’t think about it if I were you. Do you really think that three worn-out adventurers can contend with Astaroth and his army of darkness? Get your grubby little fingers away from that dagger, or I’ll be forced to slit your throat and drop you where you stand.”

         Cloey obeyed the command, inching her hand away from the dagger. She growled and bared her teeth, narrowing her eyes at the dark elf.

         “Very good, little girl,” Pyras said with a smile. She lowered her sword and eyed the three. “I must say that I am very impressed. I have no idea how you managed to figure out a way to Mortillus, and I am even more impressed that you have found your way into the castle. However, if you are here to stop Lord Astaroth from releasing the spell around this island, then I am afraid you are all out of time. The process has already begun. Astaroth possesses The Amulet of Passage, The Sword of the Keeper, and The Blood Ruby. With all three components, he has begun the spell to counter the enclosing barrier. The armies of Mortillus will be free to roam Feldos once again, and there will be no force great enough to stop them!”

         “Are you done running your mouth, lady? It’s really getting old,” Grom said, reaching back for his axe.

         “Halt! Don’t move a muscle, dwarf, or these men will cut you down where you stand,” Pyras warned, raising her sword toward him. The knights standing beside her reached to their sides and drew their swords, eager to get a bit of action.

         Grom felt a tingle of air on the back of his neck, and he shuddered. He heard a soft whisper travel into his ear.

         On the count of three.

         Grom glanced to the side and looked at Prescott, who stood with his eyes closed. Grom stared at him in confusion, which caught the attention of Pyras.

         “What are you looking at, dwarf?” she demanded.

         One . . .

         “What is going on? You will tell me what you are looking at this moment!” she screamed, waving her sword menacingly.

         Two . . .

         Grom clenched his fists tight and took in a deep breath. Cloey turned her head and opened her mouth to say something.

         Three!

         A billowing wind burst through the entire room, blowing Cloey’s hair and Grom’s beard. The flames of the torches shook and fell away all at once, plunging the room into complete darkness save for the pulsing purple of the floor and the glowing silver blade of Prescott’s sword. The silver light raced forward in an arc, colliding with the blade of the unsuspecting dark elf. Grom pulled his trusty axe from his back and rushed forward at the count of three. Unsure of what had happened, Cloey pulled out a silver dagger and squinted against the pale light. She faltered and watched the battle unfold before her eyes.

         Grom leapt into the air and caught one of the knights off guard, scoring a collapsing blow at the base of his neck and cutting down in a gap between his chest plate. The knight fell to the ground with a gurgling cry, and as Grom tried to dislodge his axe, the other armored knight lunged at him, knocking him in the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. Grom tumbled along the ground away from the dead knight and the axe embedded in his neck. Grom looked up in time to see the knight come down with his sword, and he managed to roll out of the way of the tip that connected with the ground and sent up sparks of purple energy. The knight drove his sword down again to pierce Grom, but Grom rolled out of the way again, leading to more floating purple bursts. Grom rose to his knees and charged forward as the knight raised his sword again. He smashed the knight in the gut with his shoulder, pushing him back to one knee. Grom felt his shoulder crack from the forceful blow against the metal armor, but he ignored the pain and interlocked his fingers, raising his clenched hands in a mighty swing under the knight’s chin. The knight’s helmet and sword clattered to the ground as a mist of red sprayed from his mouth. Grom kicked the knight in the chest, knocking him against the ground. Grom lifted the knight’s own sword and let out a ground-shaking cry before thrusting the sword down, sending a burst of red blood and purple energy into the air.

         Pyras and Prescott stood face to face with only their swords between them. Pyras’s face twisted in anger, hearing the sounds of her guards failing to take care of Grom and Cloey. Prescott pushed forward with his sword, sending Pyras stumbling back.

         “This all ends now, Pyras! You and Astaroth have caused enough pain and suffering. It is time for you to feel what you have caused!” Prescott cried, running forward with his sword. Pyras lifted her sword in defense, and the two blades clashed again. With a swift twisting motion of her blade, Prescott’s shining silver sword flew off into the distance, hitting the ground and sliding toward a wall.

         “Pathetic!” Pyras shouted, stretching her sword out just below Prescott’s chin. A smile inched across her face, and her milky-white eyes glimmered with a tiny reflection of purple from the energy rising from the ground. “This truly is saddening. I would have expected more from an elven-blooded foe. You get your fighting skills from your human half, and that is why I am standing with my sword at your throat. Do not despair, half-breed, you will be visiting your brother in just a moment.”

         “Die, you witch!” Cloey screamed. She dove at Pyras and stabbed her in the side with her dagger. Pyras shrieked out in pain and turned toward Cloey. Cloey released the hold on her dagger and reached for another, but before she could grasp the handle, Pyras brought her blade down upon the halfling girl. Cloey felt a cry well up in her throat, but it came out as a feeble squeak. The blade cut down the front of her leather armor and into her flesh. Cloey dropped onto her side and curled up in a ball, clutching her knees. Pyras lifted her sword again to finish the job, but her eyes widened with a sudden jolt of pain. She looked down to see Grom before her, hands grasped tightly around the handle of the knight’s sword. The sword’s blade stuck through her gut and out her back, dripping thick, red blood. Grom gave the blade a quick twist and pushed her backward. Pyras dropped her sword and fell to the ground. She opened her mouth to utter a final word, but death stole away her breath.

         Grom fell to his knees beside Cloey and lifted her head into his lap. He reached down and stroked her hair. She forced open her eyes and gazed up at him with a pain-filled expression. Prescott knelt beside Grom and examined the wound.

         “Cloey,” Grom whispered.

         Cloey reached up with her hand and touched Grom’s face, wiping away a tear forming under his eye.

         “Can you do anything, Prescott?” Grom asked, not taking his eyes from Cloey.

         “I don’t think I can,” Prescott whispered, running his hand along the gash. He shook his head and wrenched his eyes closed. “The wound is too deep, and I am too weak to cast a spell strong enough to heal her.”

         “Grom,” Cloey managed to whisper, followed by strained, choking cough. He turned his eyes back to her, looking into her once wild green eyes. They appeared dim and distant now. “Go now. Stop Astaroth. Forget about me.”

         “I can’t leave you here to die, Cloey,” Grom said.

         “Grom, please!” Cloey tried her best to scream, but it came out as a wheezing hiss. She grabbed his beard and gave it a hard tug. “Go! Go now and stop him. Come back for me after you save Feldos.”

         “I don’t want to leave you here. We’ve already lost Isac, Shenk, and Kravitz. I don’t want to lose you, too,” Grom answered, but was cut off by another tug of his beard.

         “Do it for Anne,” Cloey whispered and fell into another fit of coughing, spewing forth blood onto the ground. She rolled up into a ball again, clutching her knees. “Go, you smelly dwarf.”

         Prescott laid his hand on Grom’s shoulder and stood. A reluctant Grom pulled his backpack from his shoulders and laid it under Cloey’s head as a support. Prescott grabbed Grom’s hand as he rose and pulled him away from Cloey. Prescott went over and lifted his sword, which still shimmered with a soft, silver light. Grom moved to the first knight he dispatched and pulled his axe free.

         “Go now! Go now!” Cloey cried between sputtering coughs.

         Grom and Prescott rushed to the passageway. The stairs before them were lined with the same white bone that surrounded the doorway and led up toward the unknown. They moved side by side up the stairs, listening to the repeated urging from Cloey and her weak coughing. The sounds soon faded away from their ears, and they left the belly of the beast toward the swirling darkness.

ID: 966208   (Rated: 13+) Chapter 19: The Seal  Having lost Cloey, Prescott and Grom move ahead to stop Astaroth's evil plans... by The Lemon