The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Page 12

  “It is simple,” replied Franklin. “Your forces are marching to their death. The time is not right for a rebellion. The King’s forces are too great. The Brotherhood has worked for many years to overthrow the King and your resistance movement is an ill-timed and poorly thought out blunder.”

  “These villagers would seem to disagree,” Valaron replied. He worked hard to control his anger. “They are ready to do whatever it takes to secure freedom for their families.”

  “These men are not warriors. They have been worked up by empty promises and false hope,” said Franklin. “They have no chance against the King’s Mort army. Plus, your rebellion threatens to undermine everything that the Brotherhood has set into place.”

  “I see,” replied Valaron. “And just what is it that the Brotherhood thinks should be done?”

  “We have men in high places in Kalador, and they have been working for years to defeat the King from inside his own council. Your march to Kalador has complicated matters. Your brash actions have gathered the Mort army and placed our plans at risk.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “I have the utmost respect for what you have tried to accomplish,” said Valaron, “but the time for planning is over.” He smiled disarmingly. “The people want freedom and war is at hand. You can either join us or stand aside. I see no other options.”

  Franklin looked past Valaron as the tent flap suddenly opened. Cler’d’roh entered and bowed, saying, “Pardon the interruption.”

  “What are you doing here?” exclaimed Franklin as Valaron opened his mouth to make introductions. Rushing forward, Franklin embraced Cler’d’roh.

  “I was going to ask you the same question,” she said.

  “It is good to see you again.” He stepped back and bowed his head.

  “And you,” replied Cler’d’roh.

  “I see you two have met,” said Valaron, his voice showing irritation.

  “Yes,” replied Cler’d’roh. “My people have lent assistance to the Brotherhood on many occasions. Franklin is an old friend.”

  “It seems that your old friend is less than pleased about our plans to march on Kalador.”

  Cler’d’roh looked at each of the men in turn. “May we have a word in private?” she asked Valaron.

  Reluctantly, Valaron left them alone. He pushed through the tent flap in a huff and walked outside to find Galdor, Carlton and Pen’d’roh talking by the fire. They stopped and turned when Valaron stormed out of the tent.

  “What happened?” asked Galdor.

  Valaron looked confused. “I’m not sure.”

  Galdor’s looked at Pen’d’roh. The elf shrugged his shoulders.

  Carlton coughed nervously. “If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have work to do.”

  #

  “This uprising will destroy all the work we have done for the last twenty years,” said Franklin, his voice hot and emotional. “Everything we have set in place will be put in jeopardy.”

  “Your work has been invaluable,” replied Cler’d’roh, “but now is the time for action. You should be happy that the people have finally taken a stand. I seem to remember that you were the one who said that you could never understand how the villagers could be so apathetic in the face of oppression.” She looked hard at Franklin who walked away several paces.

  Turning, he said, “We have tried to do what was best for everyone. Our work has moved forward without getting innocent people killed. Now this boy shows up, and suddenly every farmer in the kingdom is ready to race to their death. This is insanity!”

  “You seem to be convinced that failure is certain,” said Cler’d’roh. “The Franklin I remember was always the optimist.” She paused, watching her friend closely. “Valaron is not just a boy, Franklin. He is a Dragon Rider.”

  “Optimism gives way to realism over time,” replied Franklin. “The King’s forces are too great when gathered together. The only way for freedom is to work against a splintered force. Destroy the pieces and the whole will crumble. The entire Dragon Guard was no match for the Mort army. What makes you think that one boy and his dragon will prevail where hundreds failed before?”

  “The Dragon Guard fought alone,” she said softly. “That is why they failed. This time the people are willing to fight for their own freedom. That is the difference.”

  Franklin rubbed his face with his hands. He looked old and tired in the dim light. Cler’d’roh moved closer.

  “Valaron appears to be the One Rider from prophecy,” she continued. “He is the beginning of a new age for all of Ashandor. I am willing to follow him, and I hope that you can too. Yes, he is just a boy, but that boy is becoming a man. He has given up everything he holds dear to lead humans and elves alike against our common enemy. I think that you should give him a chance.”

  Franklin thought for a long time as they stood in silence. He took Cler’d’roh’s hand and said, “I never could tell you no.”

  Franklin and Quintas left the tent and walked over to where Valaron, Galdor, and Pen’d’roh stood talking.

  “I find myself swayed in favor of your rebellion,” he said, “and I place the Brotherhood at your disposal. Quintas will make the necessary arrangements for us to join you.” Franklin turned and walked quickly toward Klastor.

  Galdor cast a sidelong glance at Valaron, then took Quintas by the arm. “Follow me.”

  Valaron entered the tent where Cler’d’roh was waiting. “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him what he needed to hear. Our friendship goes back many years, and that is worth something to a man like Franklin.” She pushed Valaron’s hair out of his face, hooking it behind his ear. “He is a good man, Valaron. I trust him with my life and you can too.”

  He looked into her green eyes and his frustration melted under her gaze. “Very well,” he said. “Galdor is apprising Quintas of our plans. He will coordinate things with the Brotherhood.”

  Later that evening, Valaron made his way to Cler’d’roh’s tent for dinner. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her and Franklin walking through the elven camp. He quickly stepped into the shadows to avoid being seen. Valaron found their closeness irritating. He watched them enter Cler’d’roh’s tent, talking and laughing. Valaron stood in the shadows staring at the tent. He tried to sort out his confused emotions. Anger boiled up almost uncontrollably. Finally, he turned and made his way out into the field to where Draegon was waiting. Valaron lay beside the dragon late into the night, unable to sleep.

  CHAPTER 24

  "A murmur in the shadows,

  a whisper in the room.

  A spreading plague of evil,

  a prophecy of doom.

  A shout from down the way,

  a struggle in the court.

  'A traitor in the hall!'

  cries the ominous report."

  -Poem "Voice of Contention"

  “How can I be of service, my Lord?” asked Moeldor as he bowed before the King. Praelix rose from his throne, walked down the steps, and faced the councilman.

  “I need to know what your visions tell you about this rebel force that marches on the palace,” Praelix replied.

  “I was not under the impression that the King believed in visions,” Moeldor said cautiously. “You surely understand that my powers are limited. I am an old wizard who sees only pieces of a possible future, a mere glimpse of what may be.”

  “I am not interested in the future, only the here and now,” the King interrupted, “Tell me what you have seen.”

  “Very well,” replied Moeldor. “I have seen the rebels gathered at Klastor. Though their numbers are great, they are weak and disorganized,” he lied. “The dragon rider is young and inexperienced, his dragon unruly and poorly trained.” Moeldor smiled. “You face a disorderly band of farmers carrying rocks and sticks, my Lord. Your massive Mort army will easily crush them. Any hope the villagers ever had of removing you from power will die with them. The battle will be quick, victory swift and sure. Of
course,” added the wizard, “I am old and my visions are weak.”

  “I see,” replied Praelix. He stared intently at Moeldor. “Keep me advised if there are any new developments.” The King gestured for Moeldor to leave.

  “Of course, my Lord. As you wish.” Moeldor bowed and left the throne room.

  “He is lying,” Praelix said to himself as he watched the elder councilman walk away. The village spies told a much different story of a large, massed army joined by those accursed elves. The rebels numbered over four thousand, and at least another five hundred armed men from Raenor were marching swiftly to join them.

  The rebels are led by a Cavalryman who fought at the battle of Plantor, and the Brotherhood is rumored to be lending their support. The King’s spies also told him that the dragon was solid black and the largest that had ever been seen. Their report said the young rider handles him as well as any Guardsman that ever lived.

  “Before this is all over,” he muttered quietly, “I will have to deal with that wizard.”

  #

  Moeldor made his way back to his chamber and bolted the door. He began to pour over the books spread across his table. Notes were scattered about the piles of ancient texts, and he was quite satisfied at the progress he was making in unraveling the dwarves riddle.

  “You will not hide forever, dear Aradorn,” he said to himself. He picked up a quill, filled the tip with ink, and made notes in his journal.

  #

  Praelix walked down a dark passageway leading to the rear of the palace. He entered a small room located directly behind the council chamber. A small, young man waited at the back of the room and turned as Praelix entered. He bowed low at the King’s appearance. Black curly hair ran in all directions over his head and parted on the sides for ears much too large to cover.

  “I have a task for you, Brainerd,” Praelix said as he placed a sealed letter in the man’s dirty hand. “Deliver this to our rebel confederate in Klastor. Make sure he understands that he is to handle the task personally.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Brown eyes glistened under heavy brows parted by a narrow, chiseled nose that seemed sharp enough to cut paper.

  The King handed over a second letter and added, “This is for our other ally. It is a nice little surprise for the rebel army. Now, make haste. You must reach Klastor before the rebels depart for Kalador.”

  “As you wish, my Lord,” replied Brainerd. He tucked the letters in his shirt, bowed again, and quickly stepped backward from the room. His unruly beard hid a smile that fell in tangles onto his dark brown cloak.

  Praelix moved back to the council chamber where a lone Mort waited. Slath had been temporarily placed in charge of the Mort army in Kragh’s absence. He was busy recalling garrisons from the flatlands. Though not as large as Kragh, he was, nonetheless, an imposing figure. Several deep scars lined his face, and he wore a black leather patch over his left eye which had been lost in a fight that had gained him a promotion to Captain.

  “I am placing you in charge of a task of the utmost importance,” said Praelix.

  “I see,” replied Slath, lightly bowing his head. “I am honored by your trust.”

  “The rebels have gathered at Klastor, and my information says that they will begin their march to Kalador in three days.” Praelix stepped close and added, “The rebel army is nearly five thousand strong and they march alongside elves.” He watched the Mort to see his reaction.

  “Elves,” Slath snarled. “We will send them back to the forest on their shields.”

  “It never pays to underestimate your enemy,” warned Praelix. “Klan’d’ron may have more warriors on the move, and elves seem to be more than capable of dispatching Morts with relative ease.”

  Slath growled at the insult.

  “I have arranged for a slight disruption in the rebels’ plans,” continued Praelix, a smile formed on his face. “Here is what I need you to do.”

  #

  Setting down his pen, Moeldor leaned back and rubbed his eyes. A smile crossed his lips and he said to himself, “Aradorn hides. “Tis true, ‘tis true. A place before all; a place that is new.” The stone must be hidden in an image of something ancient; something from the time when Mael created all that is.” Furrows lined his brow as he said, “But One pace up; once pace back makes no sense. That always returns you to the same place.” He stood and paced around the chamber. “Power reigns close implies that the stone is hidden somewhere in the palace; but where?” he pondered. “Those ridiculous dwarves built this place. They could have hidden it anywhere.” He cursed loudly. The wizard leaned over and placed both hands on the wall. He dropped his head and pondered the riddle.

  Moeldor finally took a break from his labors and entered his antechamber. A spark lit the lone candle that sat on the table in the center of the room. The wizard closed his eyes and began to chant softly. The words came in an even rhythm. A picture began to form in his mind, so he doubled his efforts to make it clearer. Great drops of sweat formed on his face as he struggled, and the scene in his mind slowly fell into focus. He saw masses of well-armed men camped across a wide field outside of Klastor. Thousands of rebels busied themselves with the preparations of war. A regiment of elven archers camped to the west, and from the north, a great many men raced to join them.

  The wizard focused his vision back to the rebel army. He saw a massive, black dragon and its young rider. Camped a considerable distance from the camp. The rider appeared childlike standing beside his monstrous companion. No dragon of Stronghold had ever been its equal in size. Moeldor opened his eyes. He stared into the flame, unmoving. “So, you are the One Rider of prophecy,” Moeldor muttered softly under his breath. The elder councilman chewed at his lip as he thought of the impending battle. “Come on, boy,” he finally said in a whisper. “Come kill your King.”

  CHAPTER 25

  "Quarrels serve

  the master

  of confusion

  and his lie.

  Division breaks

  the peace

  like a splinter

  in the eye."

  -Poem "Unrest"

  Valaron was up early to check in with Galdor before flying off in the growing light of a new day.

  “By the way,” said Valaron. “How is Vic doing with the horses?”

  “Better than we could have hoped. Did you know he has not taken a drink since we gave him that post?”

  “Vic is not drinking?” Valaron shook his head in amazement. “It must be the end of the world.”

  “I would not have believed it myself had it not come from a reliable source.”

  Valaron made his way back toward Draegon, careful to avoid Cler’d’roh as she moved out into the field on her morning ritual. His emotions were still in turmoil from the night before.

  The dragon sensed his rider’s uneasiness as they flew over the flatlands. Draegon turned his head and looked at Valaron through one eye.

  “Be glad there are no female dragons, my friend.”

  They turned to the north and flew on until the sun was directly overhead. In the bright light Valaron spotted a large column of men marching southward. “This must be the volunteers from Raenor,” he said to the dragon. They circled wide to look for following Morts, then Valaron leaned forward and squeezed his knees. Draegon dove toward the ground and landed heavily in front of the marching force. The horses reared and fought their bits at their first sight of a dragon. A single rider galloped out leaving a cloud of dust hanging in the air. Valaron ran out to meet him at a safe distance from the bristling Dragon.

  “I am Valaron...” he started.

  “Yes. Yes,” the man interrupted. “I certainly know who you are. Fentor’s the name,” he said, pumping Valaron’s hand. “I hope that we are not holding you up. We left as soon as we could.”

  “Not at all. We appreciate your haste,” replied Valaron. “You should arrive at Klastor the day after tomorrow. It is not far now.”

  “Excellent,” said Fentor. “The
men will be happy to hear it. They have been pushing hard for several days.”

  “I will get you squared away with Galdor when you arrive. He will see that you have what you need and that your men are well taken care of.” Valaron ran back to Draegon and they took to the sky. The dragon rider turned them west toward Kalador.

  “The King knows about us so we might as well take a look around.” Draegon flew higher to avoid any Mort arrows. Dragon and rider soared over the plain that lay in front of the palace. The ground teemed with Mort soldiers running to form their ranks as Draegon’s shadow moved across their numbers.

  Valaron could see them pointing toward the sky. He laughed to himself as they stumbled and fell into each other. Draegon added to the confusion by lifting his voice in a terrible roar that carried inside the palace. The dragon was ready to fight. Valaron sang softly against the wind, calming his friend’s anger.

  The dragon rider looked at Kalador with a sense of awe. The dwarves labored many long years building the city, and the elves had helped layout its defenses. A high stone wall encircled Kalador with only one set of double-doors for an entrance. There was no other way in or out of the city. Each door stood over sixty feet tall and thirty feet across and was milled from timbers as thick as the breadth of a man’s reach. Large reinforcements ran across the doors the top, middle, and bottom. Two large, iron bolts as big around as barrels were mounted on either side of the doors, ready to slide across and lock against an enemy. A wide parapet that could hold a full garrison of Morts crossed over the top of the doors.

  The wall was twenty feet thick and laid of massive stones quarried from the Raen Mountains behind the city. The top of the wall was flat containing a front cover of stone that held openings where archers could stand protected while sending their arrows into an attacking army.

  The city lay sprawled inside the circular wall, and the palace dominated the center like a spring flower pushing through the grass. The palace was constructed of five sides with towers standing at each corner. Their tops reached two hundred feet into the air. The walls were adorned with carvings and decorated with thousands of precious stones that reflected the sunlight in glittering flashes. Large arched windows ringed the towers and parapets were finished off into the tops.