The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Read online

  The palace entrance was served by wide marble steps that spanned the width of the building. Large columns held a portico to cover the open entranceway. Morts lined the steps and stood guard on either side of the doorway. They held that reached several feet over their heads. The King’s standard flew from the portico and flapped in the stiff summer breeze.

  At the center of the palace was a ground-level opening. This had been the dragon approach where the Dragon Guard would take off and land before Praelix had them hunted down and killed. The five-sided opening was large enough to hold more than a dozen dragons, but now it was cluttered and overgrown with brush. A clearing, just large enough for one dragon, lay close to the northern wall.

  Alarms sounded in the city below, and people scurried to take cover. The front gates were closed and bolted by a group of Morts, and the battlefield quickly took on a look of order as the Captains barked commands at the garrisons below. It looked as though the estimates were correct. There were at least ten thousand Mort soldiers covering the plain, maybe more. Draegon and Valaron turned southeast. They headed for Klastor.

  Praelix stood on the city wall and watched the black dragon and his rider disappear into the distance. The King’s fists were clenched tightly by his sides.

  “You’ll not be so bold next time, boy,” he hissed. “Your dragon’s end is at hand.” The King stood looking into the distance long after Valaron and Draegon vanished to the south. “Soon he will not be able to help you.”

  It was late afternoon when Draegon landed back at the rebel camp. Valaron found Galdor and informed him of what they had seen at Kalador. “The volunteers we are waiting on should arrive in the evening two days from now,” he said. “I will send Fentor to you when they arrive, and you can get them organized. We will let them rest overnight and start for Kalador the next morning.”

  “I will ask Cler’d’roh to send a group of elves to escort them,” replied Galdor. “That should make them sit up and take notice. By the way,” he said, “Cler’d’roh has been looking for you. She is hoping that you can make it for dinner.”

  “I have too many things to take care of.”

  “I thought that was why you had me,” laughed Galdor. “Well, come by if you can. She is expecting you.” He gave Valaron a knowing look. “Women are a strange lot, son. I have never been able to figure them out. They rarely say what they mean. I would think it unwise to read too much into their choice of friends.” He shrugged. “I guess that is why I never married.”

  “I thought you never married because you never throw anything away,” replied Valaron, a smile returning to his face.

  Galdor laughed loudly. “Well, yes,” he said, “there is that as well.” He placed his hand on Valaron’s shoulder. “Try to shake yourself loose. She would really like to see you.”

  Valaron turned and made his way back to where Draegon was waiting, and they took off, flying until well after dark. They sang together in the night sky. Draegon’s powerful wings carried them higher and higher. Finally, they soared effortlessly under the blanket of stars that lit the sky like thousands of tiny fires, the ground below them a distant darkness that had no form; a deep, black abyss without sight of the ground. This was the type of flying Valaron enjoyed, carefree and simple. Dragon and rider sang as together in the dark skies.

  The constellation Mael hung low in the east, its arms outstretched to the heavens. It was named for the god who took Fraedol the giant as his wife. The stars making up the legs appeared to stand atop two adjacent peaks of the Grands. Four bright stars made up the belt, and a single pink star flickered at the center where Mael’s heart would be. This was the star Fraedol, named after the god’s beloved wife. Out of jealousy, her son, Maladron, removed her enchanted necklace while she slept and placed it around his own neck. While he admired his reflection in a nearby pool, Fraedol died in her sleep. Aradorn, the stone in her necklace was all that granted her immortality.

  Mael turned his back on Ashandor and returned to the stars. Maladron’s grief drove him to madness. His evil rule finally ended at the hands of the Dragon Guard.

  Directly north of Mael lay the Circlet, a ring of six stars that shone brightest of all the others. Their light was blue and crisp and burned bright enough to cast a slight shadow on nights such as this when the moon still hid behind the mountains. In the center of the Circlet lay the North Star. Small and dim, it appeared as though it were lit by the Circlet, unable to make its own light.

  Valaron and Draegon continued to sing as the wind whipped around them. Their duets filled the night air. They soared on the high air currents that rose in invisible shafts around them. Draegon glided effortlessly with his great wings extended to their full length. He dipped and rise on air churned by the cooling winds of the night. His long neck bobbed up and down. Valaron was reminded of the gentle rocking of a horse as it trotted across an open field. When the moon began to peek over the mountains, the young rider realized that it was getting late. The two friends reluctantly descended through the growing moonlight in a long, slow spiral that took them back toward the field.

  “I have missed dinner,” thought Valaron. He felt the frustration rising in his chest. “She has no need of my company,” he said out loud. “She has Franklin.” His thoughts rolled in his mind. Frustration quickly turned to anger. Valaron decided to confront Cler’d’roh. Draegon bellowed in the darkness, and they plummeted toward the ground.

  Valaron slid from the saddle even before Draegon had folded his wings. He stormed off toward Cler’d’roh’s tent. Anger turned to rage as he made his way through the camp. He was surprised to see two elven warriors standing guard. He started toward the tent flap, but the guards stepped in front, barring his way.

  “I have come to see Cler’d’roh,” he said.

  “Not now,” replied one of the elven guards. “She does not wish to see you.”

  “I have come to see her, and that is what is going to happen!” Valaron’s voice shook with rage.

  Two swords were instantly drawn. They gleamed in the rising moonlight as the ring of steel hung in the air. The elves stood perfectly still, their weapons in hand. Valaron’s scimitar slid from its place at his side. He took a step forward, stopped, and stared hotly at the elves. His ears were ringing, his face burned, and he struggled to control his rage. At last, the young dragon rider turned on his heel and stomped off, his hand still clutching the scimitar.

  Cler’d’roh sat shaking inside the tent. She sat on a cushion and hugged her knees. “Your time is close at hand, Valaron,” she whispered softly. “You have no idea who you are.” Tears flowed freely down her pale cheeks. “I hope you are strong enough to endure it.”

  #

  The streets of Klastor were deserted. A hooded figure made his way down the alley that led away from the marketplace. A man stood in the darkness of a sheltered doorway, his face covered in the gloom. The hooded figure joined him in the shadows, and the man pushed a letter into his hand.

  “The King sends his greetings,” said Brainerd. He waited while the stranger opened and read the letter in the dim light. He placed the letter in his cloak.

  “Tell the King that I will take care of it myself.” The stranger said. He turned out of the alley and made his way down the street to disappear in the deep shadows.

  #

  The rebels made final preparations over the next two days while awaiting the arrival of their allies from Raenor. Valaron spent his days flying and singing with Draegon, while Galdor busied himself readying the men.

  Valaron struggled more and more with his emotions. His anger would give way to great moments of depression only to find that he was laughing joyously at the smallest thing. “What is wrong with me?” he thought to himself. He only felt at peace while flying with Draegon. Their solitary flights were his single source of comfort, and he spent most of his time flying over the flatlands.

  Valaron and Draegon landed in the field and watched the Raenor volunteers come into view in the late afterno
on. Valaron met Galdor and Carlton as they walked over from the camp.

  “I will ride out and meet Fentor on the way in,” said Galdor. “We can begin to get his men organized and be ready to march first thing in the morning.”

  “Send someone to Klastor for meat before you leave,” said Valaron. “The dragon needs to eat, and we have had no luck at finding game. He has scared everything away for miles around.”

  “Right away,” replied Galdor.

  “I can go,” offered Carlton. “Who better to buy meat than a butcher?” He left and made his way toward the city. The men from Raenor were joining the rebel camp when Carlton returned from his errand.

  Valaron sang the Feeding Song, Draegon joining his voice to that of the rider. A hush fell over men and elves alike. They sat lost in their own thoughts as they listened to the singing. The music had a quality to it that created a great calm among the rebels. No matter how many times they heard the Dragon Songs, they were always deeply moved.

  The singing ended and Draegon ate his fill.

  CHAPTER 26

  “None falls so hard as the mighty”

  -Elven saying

  The elves were departing for their morning rituals when Valaron awoke from a bad dream, his hand on his dagger. He listened intently to a strange sound that filled the pre-dawn darkness. Draegon was breathing heavily, his labor filled with a deep, wet rattle. Valaron put his hand on the dragon’s chest and felt him shudder at each filling of his massive lungs. The dragon coughed violently, and Valaron was racing to Cler’d’roh’s tent. He caught her before she left for her morning ritual.

  “What is it?” she asked as he ran to her side.

  “The dragon. He is ill. Hurry!”

  They ran back to the dragon’s side. Draegon ignored the Cler’d’roh as placed her hand on his head and listened to his wet coughs.

  “He is hot.” She turned to Valaron. “Stay here.” Cler’d’roh raced back to the elven camp.

  Valaron felt of Draegon’s head. “You are burning up!” he exclaimed. He took water and offered it to the dragon who sniffed it, snorted, and turned his head away.

  Cler’d’roh returned leading a small group of elves. A tall elf with long silver hair walked to Draegon and put his ear to the dragon’s chest. He stood listening for a long time, his eyes closed tightly. Next, he stared into the dragon’s eye. He turned to Cler’d’roh. They spoke quickly in the elven tongue, and the elder elf turned and walked away.

  “What is it? What did he say?” asked Valaron.

  Ignoring him, Cler’d’roh barked orders to the other elves. They instantly raced back the way they had come.

  Valaron grabbed Cler’d’roh by the shoulder and spun her around.

  “What is it? What did he tell you?”

  Cler’d’roh turned her head to look at the dragon. She slowly turned back to Valaron. “That was Fen’d’mar,” she said. “He was at Stronghold.”

  Valaron inhaled sharply. “No,” he whispered.

  Cler’d’roh turned her face away. “It is the plague.”

  #

  Brainerd waited in the alley off the main plaza at the marketplace. Several of the merchants were already setting up their goods in the early morning mist. He stood in a doorway that shielded him from view and pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. Presently, a stranger made his way to where Brainerd waited.

  “You have something for me?” the stranger asked.

  “From the King,” said Brainerd. He handed over the letter bearing the crest of Praelix. “Will the Brotherhood follow the King or the dragon rider?” he asked. “Praelix wishes to know.”

  The stranger tucked the letter inside his cloak and looked slowly around the alley. He watched the increasing bustle of the marketplace and said, “The majority will follow the King.” He turned back and moved forward ominously, backing Brainerd into the shadows until the messenger’s back was pressed against the cold wooden door. “Tell your King that this is a necessary allegiance, but a temporary one.” He moved his head to within inches of Brainerd’s face. “It changes nothing,” he whispered angrily. “After this, Praelix will fall. Not to any rebel force, but at the hands of the same Brotherhood that he now relies on.” The stranger spun on his heel and quickly disappeared into the gathering morning crowd.

  #

  “What in thunder is going on?” asked Galdor as he trotted in from the rebel camp. He looked at Valaron and Cler’d’roh standing a fair distance from the dragon. “I was almost run over back there by a group of elves.” He stood waiting for an answer.

  Ignoring him, Cler’d’roh laid her hand on Valaron’s arm. “I have dispatched our fastest runners,” she said. “They will bring the cure from Loeath’d’nah. I only hope that they make it back in time.”

  Galdor watched Cler’d’roh leave. He looked back at Valaron. “Cure for what?” he asked. “Is someone sick?”

  Draegon coughed loudly.

  “Oh my,” said Galdor.

  “He has the plague,” whispered Valaron.

  “The plague!” exclaimed Galdor. “But how?”

  “I have no idea,” Valaron replied, shaking his head. “The plague comes from eating a particular fish from the Aelagon Sea. The elves say it carries something that infects the dragons. That’s one of the reasons we direct their feeding. We never let them eat any type of fish,” he said. “The risk is too great.”

  “But that makes no sense, Valaron. You fed him. What did he eat?”

  “It was the meat from Klastor,” replied Valaron. Looking around the ground, he pointed. “There,” he said. “He did not eat it all.” Valaron walked over and retrieved what was left of Draegon’s meal. He carried it back to where Galdor waited.

  Galdor took the pork shoulder and turned it over in his hands. Working with his dagger, he pried open a slit that was cut deep into the meat. Inside were several thin slices of shiny white meat stuffed back in the opening. He stabbed one with his dagger and sniffed it. “Fish,” he said. “Your dragon was poisoned!” Galdor tossed the meat aside and wiped his blade on the wet grass. He turned and looked toward the rebel camp. “I have something to do,” he said, his voice cold and menacing. Galdor ran lightly across the field and vanished among the tents.

  Valaron refused to leave Draegon’s side. He tended to him all day and all night, singing softly as the dragon’s labored breath came hard and slow. Morale was falling quickly throughout the rebel camp as news spread of the dragon’s illness. Very few of the villagers would be willing to continue if the dragon died. He had been their rallying point, the main source of their confidence. Small groups of men gathered around their evening fires and talked of returning home.

  Early the next morning, Valaron heard shouting in the distance. The cry, “To arms!” was sounding through the camp. Fifty or more elves appeared out of nowhere and swarmed the field around the dragon, their bows fitted with arrows. “What is it?” cried Valaron.

  “A Mort army attacks from the Northwest,” answered one of the elves. “They are racing across the open field and will be here soon.”

  More elves joined them and they quickly formed four circles around the dragon, each one fifty feet farther out than the last. Valaron could see dust rising as the Morts raced closer. He could hear Galdor shouting orders and watched the rebels form up their ranks, racing out to meet the closing enemy.

  Slath shouted at his men to keep up the pace as they sprinted toward the rebel camp. He had hoped to be able to cover the open ground fast enough to reach the rebels before they could gather their forces, but now there would be a battle on the open field.

  A group of elves racing at incredible speed passed the galloping rebel horses and showered arrows into the advancing monsters. When the distance was closed, the elves’ swords carved through the front ranks while the mounted rebels galloped deep into the Mort army. The sound of the collision was deafening as the two forces slammed into each other at full speed.

  The battle was long and slow. Galdor
led the mounted soldiers. They hacked at the Morts while their horses waded through the mass of enemy bodies. The foot soldiers were taking a terrible beating as they faced an ominous foe. The elves were killing the enemy on every side, and the ground grew slick with blood. Valaron watched the forces advance and retreat across the open field.

  A garrison of Morts broke off from the main battle and charged toward Draegon. The elves fired their arrows with blinding speed. It seemed to Valaron that none of them missed their targets. A third of the garrison fell to the archers. The remainder engaged the first circle of elves. The fight began in earnest. Swords rang and the elves pressed the Morts, pushing them slowly away.

  The outer circle broke behind Valaron, and the two ends swung around to flank the enemy. The next circle broke and turned, moving forward to press close in behind the first. The Morts quickly fell to the elves tactics. The enemy was forced back. The next circle broke and drew their swords. They formed a front between the dragon and the battle that raged in front of them. The final circle of elves remained in place and sent arrows raining down on the rear of the Mort garrison.

  Valaron stood with his hand on Draegon’s neck to keep him calm. The rider watched the enemy break at last and fall back to join the main force. The elves quickly reformed their circles of protection around the ailing dragon.

  Slath called for retreat. Galdor called his forces back from the pursuit, but the elves chased the Morts into the distance, cutting down as many as they could. The Mort battalion was defeated, but not without heavy losses to the rebels. They lost over three-hundred men in the attack. Another fifty or more lay wounded on the battlefield. Two of the elves were killed and three others were wounded. The setting sun cast long shadows over rebels and elves tending their fallen.