The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Page 11

knock twice more.

  Guard your children

  and lock the door.

  Hide your gold

  and all that’s new.

  Watch your purse;

  they steal those, too.

  -Children’s Rhyme

  Skarson and the elves quickly established a routine as they moved across the flatlands, riding late into the night. Fler’d’roh and his brothers took turns keeping watch in the darkness. Rest breaks were short, and they usually moved again before daylight. They pushed the horses as hard as they could.

  Four nights into their ride, Fler’d’roh shook Skarson awake and cautioned him to be silent. Motioning for him to follow, they eased through the tall grass and joined the other elves who were kneeling, their bows at the ready. Vler’d’roh pointed off into the distance. Skarson could just make out a band of ten Morts, their swords drawn. They moved quietly toward the place where the travelers had been sleeping. Closing in through cover of the blowing grass, Skarson and the elves intercepted the Morts at the edge of the field. The elven brothers took aim. Four of the Morts fell instantly, arrows piercing their necks.

  Skarson pulled his small knife, and the elves drew their swords. Charging forward, they carved a path through the remaining Morts. Skarson thrust into the nearest monster while the brothers sliced in every direction. The enemy fell heavily in the darkness. Skarson dodged a savage blow from the remaining Mort, drove his knife into the side of the monster’s neck, and neatly sliced his throat. Blood gushed in the moonlight. As quickly as it had begun, the battle was over.

  “You fight well with a kitchen knife,” commented Fler’d’roh, a grin creasing his face.

  “You do what you must.” Skarson wiped the small blade and placed it back in his belt.

  “They meant to slay us in our sleep,” continued Fler’d’roh. He checked to make sure the Morts were dead. “Vler’d’roh discovered them while on watch.

  “I would guess they are the scout party for a garrison,” said Skarson. “The other Morts will not be far off, and there is no way to know if the scouts sent back a report.”

  “If that is the case,” said Gler’d’roh, “they will discover the bodies of their fallen scouts and track us down. Morts are thorough if nothing else.” Looking at Fler’d’roh, he continued, “We should find the garrison and finish it now.”

  “Yes,” agreed Fler’d’roh.

  “Very well,” said Skarson. “We would be wise to move on through the night to gain as much ground as possible. I’ll break camp and be ready to ride when you return.”

  The elves disappeared into the darkness. Skarson gathered their belongings and packed the horses. He did not have long to wait before he heard the distant sounds of battle raging in the night. Elves and Morts are fearsome warriors, and Skarson stood in the dark listening to the ringing of swords. Shouts and screams carried across the field. Soon, the quiet of night was restored. Presently, he saw the four elven warriors returning through the tall grass.

  “It is done,” said Fler’d’roh, blood dripping from his blade.

  The elves wiped their weapons on the wet grass. They mounted their horses and moved cautiously through the darkness. The band of travelers rode on through the next day and late into the night. They skirted several additional Mort garrisons over the next few days, losing precious time as they made wide circles to avoid detection. The Morts all seemed to be marching rapidly toward Kalador.

  “The King is gathering his forces,” said Fler’d’roh as he rode beside Skarson. “I am afraid the rebels will be greatly outnumbered. They will be hard-pressed to gain victory even with the help of your dragon rider.”

  “All the more reason to pursue our course,” replied Skarson.

  “I am somewhat doubtful of your success, Carloe,” stated Fler’d’roh. “What you seek is considered impossible by many of my people.”

  “What about you?” asked Skarson. “Do you think it is impossible?”

  The elf thought for some time before answering. “As I said, I am somewhat doubtful of your success, but the word impossible has such a final ring to it. I have found that most things thought to be impossible were simply too difficult to dare, too overwhelming to start. Once begun, the impossible usually falls in the face of hard work and courage. You have shown both.”

  “All tasks fail that are never begun,” agreed Skarson.

  “The allegiance that you seek will change all that we know about Ashandor. It may upset the balance of power. Are you willing to take that risk?”

  “I see no other choice,” answered Skarson. “If I am unsuccessful, failure is certain. Praelix will destroy the rebels, and Ashandor will never see peace.”

  “Truly spoken,” Fler’d’roh said, nodding his head in agreement. “A victory for the King will forever seal the fate of all people, man and elf alike.”

  “So, you see,” said Skarson, “success is the only option.” He spurred his horse to a faster pace.

  The small band of travelers took only what time they needed to rest their horses. The Raen Mountains grew in the distance as they raced across the plains. Hot, humid days were sharply contrasted by chilly evenings spent wrapped in cloaks against the evening winds that stirred across the flatlands. At last, they approached the foothills of the Raen Mountains. Skarson led them to the road that joined Raenor in the north with the palace city of Kalador to the south.

  “Here is where we part ways,” said Skarson. “I am most grateful for your protection, but I must finish the journey on my own. Send my greetings to Klan’d’ron.”

  “May your hard work and courage prevail,” said Fler’d’roh. The elves turned south toward the Gra’d’har Forest where Loeath’d’nah remains hidden among the ancient trees. Skarson watched them ride into the distance, and urging his mount, he moved on toward the mountains.

  At mid-afternoon, he approached a rock outcropping at the base of a sheer cliff that climbed hundreds of feet into the air. The smooth rock face was covered in caves that began a hundred feet above the grassy field. Skarson studied the cliff. “It is good to be home.”

  The Lone Rider dismounted and tied his horse by a grove of trees near a stream that ran out of the rocks and tumbled along the base of the mountain. A path lay hidden behind the underbrush. Skarson pushed through the tangle and made his way up the winding path. Stronghold was not designed to be entered on foot. It took a long time for the elder rider to work his way onto the lower terrace.

  When Skarson reached the first cave he took a torch from the wall, lit it, and walked through a doorway in the back. Living chambers and quarters that had housed the Dragon Guard were connected to the caves by a series of tunnels. The dragons had occupied the caves while the Guard had made more comfortable arrangements deeper inside the rock wall.

  A common kitchen was located near the center of the chambers, the meeting hall was off to one side, and its large wooden tables were broken and crumbling from age. The tapestries that covered the walls were rotting. Most were unrecognizable.

  Torches were set into the stone walls while wooden plates and cups sat on the tables looking as though a meal would soon be served. The air was cold and damp. Water ran down many of the stone walls through cracks that had developed over the years. Skarson made his way through the labyrinth of tunnels and came at last to a large chamber filled with weapons.

  The armory stood as it had for many years. Bows lined the walls, but their strings were rotted and broken. Quivers full of arrows hung in racks beside the bows, and cobwebs were spun throughout the goose-feather fletchings. Long wooden stands held rows of scimitars, their scabbards and frogs sat nearby. Large wooden boxes were filled with an assortment of daggers. Skarson strapped on a sword and tucked a matching dagger into his belt to replace the ones he had gifted to Valaron.

  The Lone Rider made his way once again through the tunnels and worked his way along the twisting maze. He stepped into a small room that had been used by a Guardsman as his living quarters, hung the torch on th
e wall, and opened the door that led out into the dragon’s cave. Standing in the dim light that filtered in through the mouth of the cave, he looked around as memories flooded his mind. This had been the hold of Saegon, his own dragon.

  Skarson remembered the countless flights they had launched from the cave’s threshold and the many years they had spent together. They had flown over ten years as dragon and rider and served the King on many missions. His thoughts quickly turned to their last days together as the plague swept through the hold.

  The first signs of sickness came from a flight that had returned from Aelor. It was thought that the illness had come from the fish they had eaten while stationed near the Aelagon Sea. A respiratory infection quickly set in. The disease traveled through the air, spreading to all of the dragons at Stronghold. One by one the dragons began to die throughout the hold, and the smell of death filled the air.

  In the end, Saegon had been too weak to move. Skarson fed him by hand, trying desperately to maintain his strength until the elves could find a cure. Their last night together had been a long, painful one as Saegon struggled to breathe. His massive bulk strained and heaved in spasms.

  Great deafening coughs racked the dragon’s body. Foaming red blood showed in the spittle at the corners of his mouth. Skarson stayed by his side throughout the night, and Saegon took his last labored breath as the first fingers of sunlight spilled across the cave opening.

  It was that same afternoon when news spread through the dragon city that the elves had found a cure. Many of the dragons were saved by the elves’ medicine, but in the end, fifty-three of the noble beasts lay dead in their caves. The plague had decimated the Dragon Guard and taken away the best part of Skarson only hours before the saving medicine was ready.

  He walked slowly around the cave running his hand over the smooth walls as if feeling the memories through his fingertips. His thoughts turned to the future, and he imagined a new Guard sired from Valaron’s dragon. He saw the mighty beasts once again filling the halls, the bustling activity of the inner chambers. “I hope I live long enough to see it,” he said, his voice echoing in the empty cave.

  Walking back through the doorway, he stopped and looked around the chamber where he once lived. He had removed his personal belongings and the room sounded empty and hollow. Skarson walked out of the chamber and winding his way through the tunnels, made his way back down the trail to the grasslands below. The Lone Rider quickly mounted his horse, rode into the foothills, and worked his way deeper into the Raen Mountains.

  The trail was narrow, winding along the ridge backs as they made their way farther into the mountain range. Skarson continued up and around the steep grades, topped the first range, and descended into a long green valley. An hour later the trail headed once again into the mountains. He rode cautiously along the winding path covered in loose shale. His horse slipped and slid as they followed the narrow pass that led up into the higher mountain range.

  Shale gave way to firm ground at the top of the ridge. Skarson spurred his mount, quickening the pace. The trail fell away into another valley that held a stream. Clear waters tumbled slowly across the valley floor, filling small, shallow pools lined with moss-covered stones. Rider and horse quenched their thirst in the failing light.

  They hastened toward the head of the valley where it ended between two ridges standing tall on either side. A large group of men were camped just ahead. A single horseman rode out to meet him.

  “I feel your loss,” said Willem as he approached on horseback.

  “And I yours,” replied Skarson. “I see you were successful.”

  “I was able to summon forty-two men, not nearly enough I am afraid.”

  “You have done very well, my friend,” replied Skarson.

  “Let us hope that I have not led them to their death.”

  Skarson nodded. “We shall see.”

  The two friends rode into camp where Skarson was eagerly greeted by the men gathered around his horse. They wore daggers and scimitars at their belts, and though the years had taken their toll, all were fit and able. The Lone Riders sat around the fire talking of past glories and asking questions about the new dragon.

  “You say it is the biggest dragon you have seen?” asked Janson. The elder rider’s voice relayed his astonishment.

  “By far,” replied Skarson. “In all my time at Stronghold, I have never seen a dragon such as this. He is spectacular, massive, and black as night. He outweighs that fat beast you rode, Hardis. And he is thickly muscled, stronger than my dragon ever was.”

  “That may be,” said Hardis. He ignored Skarson’s good-natured insult. “But what of the rider?” he asked. “How can we rely on him to lead a rebellion? You say he is a boy.”

  “This is not just a boy.” Skarson paused, enjoying the moment. “He is Valaron, the only son of Valdanor.”

  The others nodded their approval.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Janson. “Not just a boy at all. The Captain’s son!”

  Skarson got the reaction he was expecting. The men chattered in their excitement, and hope swelled among the Lone Riders.

  The hour grew late, and Skarson stood to turn in for the night. “We must be about our business at first light,” he said. “The Archway is not far from here. Time is of the essence.”

  The men broke camp early the next morning. They followed Skarson and rode up the trail that climbed between the two ridges. The band of riders turned off to the left, made their way through a grove of trees, and stopped in front of a large stone doorway set into the side of the mountain. The door was on a slight rise, and it hung in a granite frame. A massive arch set over the top gave the doorway its name.

  The mountain climbed above to dizzying heights, and water from a spring in the rocks above the arch coursed over the door. There were no visible hinges or latch. The door fit snugly into its frame showing only the barest hint of a seam. Runes covered the granite door, and time had worn them down making them nearly unreadable. Faint pictures depicting scenes of dragon battles had been chiseled into the frame countless ages ago.

  Skarson ordered the others to stay below. He rode up to the door and pounded three times with the butt of his sword, paused, and struck twice more. He pulled his horse back out of the way and waited. Soon, a deep grinding noise came from the mountain, and the door slowly swung open.

  Skarson rode forward. He was met by long spears that jutted out of the black entrance. He spoke for some time in the growing light of morning. Finally, the spears were pulled back. Skarson motioned the others to follow, and the small band of Lone Riders disappeared into the dark opening. The door slowly closed behind them.

  CHAPTER 23

  "The ways of love

  are hidden in

  the blooms of spring.

  The heart is bent

  to labors for

  his love to bring.

  Sanity is quenched by

  his longing heart.

  Confidence is vanquished

  when his love departs."

  -Troubadour Song

  "Spring of Innocence"

  Valaron and Draegon flew over Klastor and crossed the river, flying back the way they had come. They made a wide circle around the area scouting for any sign of the Mort garrison that had been reported at Aelor by the scouts. Satisfied that they were not being followed, Valaron turned his dragon and flew fast and low toward Kalador. Long hard beats of his massive wings moved Draegon quickly through the sky while Valaron scanned the horizon. Deciding to risk detection, they gained height and glided on the rising air currents. Valaron spotted three Mort garrisons traveling from the northeast, each one moving toward the palace city at a dead run. He estimated that they would reach Kalador in another day and a half.

  Valaron and Draegon returned to Klastor and landed in the field by the rebel camp. Galdor rode to meet them as Valaron slid to the ground.

  “Morts are returning to Kalador across the flatlands,” Valaron said as Galdor rode to a stop.
<
br />   “How many?”

  “I saw three garrisons, but there are bound to be more,” replied Valaron.

  “Any sign of the men from Raenor?” Galdor asked.

  “No,” answered Valaron. “That would put them at least two days from here or I would have seen them.”

  “Carlton is handing out the last of the arms that we brought from Aelor,” said Galdor, “and I have appointed Captains to organize the army into battalions. They are forming up their men and resetting the camp. We will be ready to march as soon as the others arrive.”

  “Good. We will leave when the last of the volunteers get here.”

  “You have a couple of visitors,” said Galdor. “They are waiting for you back at the camp.”

  “I will be along in a minute,” answered Valaron.

  Galdor spurred his horse across the field, sod kicking up from his hooves as they raced back to camp.

  Valaron removed the saddle from Draegon’s neck and put it away. He buckled the scimitar to his belt and made his way back to the meeting tent.

  The strangers stood waiting as Valaron pushed aside the flap and entered the tent.

  “Galdor said you wanted to see me,” Valaron said as he walked over.

  “My name is Franklin and I am the leader of the Brotherhood. This is Quintas, my second in command.” Franklin was tall and wiry. His thin face was grim and dark, and his long brown hair was braided on either side of his temples and tied off by leather cords. Quintas was shorter than his companion. His close-cropped hair stood up all over his head showing streaks of gray at the temples. Deep-set black eyes shone brightly under his heavy brows. Their only weapons were short daggers that hung by their sides.

  Valaron extended his hand. “I am Valaron, Dragon Rider and leader of the rebellion.”

  Franklin ignored Valaron’s gesture and continued, “I know who you are.” He stared coldly at Valaron. “I have come to ask you to send these men home.”

  “I do not understand,” Valaron said as he lowered his hand.