The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Page 3

  "It looks like Skarson did his job well or I would be dead by now," he said. The dragon turned its head to offer the other ear. "You like that, eh?" Valaron scratched behind the other ear. The dragon closed its eyes and made a low crooning sound of delight. "I bet you would let me do this all day," he said, laughing. "Sorry, but I have to find a way out of here so that I can get you some help. I need to find Skarson." Valaron stopped scratching the dragon and moved to the entrance of the cave. "He will know what to do," he muttered to himself.

  Valaron stood at the edge of the entrance and looked around for another way out. Not relishing the climb back down, he searched for an easier route encouraged by the fact that whoever saved him from falling had managed a hasty exit. His efforts were soon rewarded. There to the left was a path winding up from the lip of the cave to the top of the rock face seventy-five feet above. It looked to be an easy climb. Valaron was surprised to see the haunch of a deer lying beside the path. It was no older than a day, and he guessed that whoever had rescued him from falling must have been bringing food for the adult dragon.

  He turned his attention back to the hatchling. Having discovered the body of the adult, the young dragon used its head to nudge the lifeless form. "It is too late," Valaron said as he moved to the hatchling’s side. "Nothing can be done now." The hatchling stopped and dropped its head, and an overwhelming sadness fell over them.

  Valaron tossed the meat in front of the dragon and sang the feeding song. The dragon tore at the raw meat, and Valaron scurried up the narrow pathway. "What in the world will I tell Uncle Cortain? He is going to kill me!" He made his way across the top of the rock wall and started down the side of the mountain. The upper path would allow him to come and go as he pleased. He grabbed his pack at the base of the cliff, made his way across to the trail, and ran headlong down the mountain.

  Valaron made good time. Just as darkness fell, he reached the glade where he had found the deer tracks. Tired from the pace, he built a small fire and spread out his blankets. After a quick meal, he turned in and fell fast asleep under the rising moon.

  Sunlight was streaming into the glade when Valaron finally opened his eyes. He realized he must have been exhausted to have slept so long. He broke camp quickly and moved out across the glade. Valaron ran up the trail, passed between the marker stones, and slowing down to keep his footing, trotted across the top of the ridge. When he finally reached the trailhead, he increased his pace to a run and made his way down toward the meadow.

  Valaron broke out of the trees at the bottom of the hill, flushing a covey of birds. The young hunter flew through the meadow, his thoughts consumed with the events of the last few days. He looked to his right and slid to a stop. Panting, he shaded his eyes from the sun.

  Rolling plumes of black smoke rose high into the morning sky. They were coming from Frensville. His breath came sharp and fast. "No!" he shouted. With a renewed energy born of fear, Valaron raced for the village.

  CHAPTER 6

  "A good man stands

  when others fall.

  A good man’s back

  is straight and tall.

  A good man always

  speaks his mind.

  A good man is truly

  hard to find."

  -Poem "A Good Man"

  Bodies littered the streets of Frensville, people Valaron had known since he was a young child. Some were dead. Others were dying. Many more lay wounded and bleeding. He stopped and helped where he could and was able to find out that a Mort raiding party had descended on the village in the early morning hours. Some of the men tried to repel the raiders and had died for their efforts. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the Morts vanished.

  The sun was almost straight overhead, and mourning cries of wives and mothers carried through the streets. Several of the houses and shops were burning, and dozens of villagers scurried to stop the fires from spreading. Lines of people formed bucket brigades. Others beat at the flames using blankets and tapestries.

  Valaron stopped to help an exhausted group of men battle a blaze that threatened the pub. A long line formed as buckets were quickly passed in both directions. Vic was at the head of the line and worked feverishly to put out the flames that licked at the pub. He was on a mission to save his old haunt. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” He said. “Faster. More water.”

  When the flames were finally extinguished, Valaron asked if anyone had seen Cortain.

  “I saw him earlier,” said Carlton. The town butcher was a tall man, and his short-cropped black hair stuck to the sweat rolling down his brow. “He said that he was going to spend the day with Miss Potter, so he was going to buy flowers.” Carlton shrugged his shoulders.

  “Thank you,” replied Valaron, already racing off toward the marketplace. Blood and soot covered him from head to toe. Sweat left great streaks that covered his face and arms. His pack had been abandoned while fighting the fires and all he carried was the bow, the quiver full of arrows, and the hunting knife. He hoped the Morts were gone, but if not, at least he was armed.

  A figure darted around the corner and crashed into Valaron. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs. Valaron rose to his feet, ready to fight. He wiped dirt from his eyes and looked at the stunned boy sitting on the ground.

  “Toran!” Valaron reached down to help his friend to his feet. “Are you all right?”

  The young boy slapped dirt from his clothes and rubbed his hand through his hair. A cloud of dust lifted from his head, and his hair returned to its normal black color.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your mother?” Valaron was afraid of the answer.

  “She’s fine, Val. The Morts never made it to our street.” Toran pointed in the direction of the Pub. “I was heading toward the smoke to see if I could help.”

  “There’s no need. The fire is out. Have you seen my uncle? They said he might be at the market. I am headed that way to look for him.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Valaron sprinted off, and Toran fell in behind.

  The marketplace was in shambles. Tents had been pulled down. Tables were overturned. Food and trade goods littered the ground, and the sweet, sickening smell of blood hung in the air. Several bodies lay scattered around, but Cortain was not among them. The two boys ran to the center of the village.

  A group of men stood on the south side of the meeting hall amid the corpses of several fallen Morts. Valaron was overjoyed to see Skarson’s head towering above the others. Swords and lances were scattered among the dead raiders. Three of the Morts had been cut in half. The others lay in great pools of their own sticky blood.

  "What happened?" Valaron asked, his voice trembling.

  "I will tell you what happened," answered Galdor. "Your friend here killed seven of these abominations. That is what happened!" The Smithy stared at Valaron, an excited look in his eyes. "Everyone was running around trying to escape. The Morts were setting fires and cutting people down in the streets, and Skarson wades into the middle of those monsters carrying only a sword and dagger. I thought for sure that he was dead. They turned on him like a pack of wild dogs.” He shook his head as the memories came flooding back. His red beard flopped back and forth across his chest.

  “I have never seen anything like it, Valaron. He killed these," continued Galdor, pointing to the pile of dead Morts, "and the others took off running for their lives. He was cutting the last one in half before the first one even hit the ground. I tell you, I have never seen anything like it." The Smithy shook his head again, turned to Skarson, and slapped him on the back. "If not for you, my friend, we would probably all be dead!" The other men joined in, praising the storyteller and recounting the more gruesome parts of the battle.

  Ignoring them, Skarson turned to Valaron. "Where is Cortain?" he asked.

  "I don't know," he answered in desperation. "Carlton said he was headed for the marketplace, but we didn’t find him."

  "I saw him there just before the raid," said Skarson. "Come, I will help y
ou find him."

  CHAPTER 7

  Ancient arts long hidden;

  Olden ways slyly bidden.

  -Elven Warning

  runes at Loeath'd'nah

  translated by

  Cloath the storyteller

  Moeldor stood before a lone candle. He gazed into the dancing, red and yellow flame. Its flickering light cast dark shadows that played over the rock walls. The candle was in the center of a small stone table; the only furnishing in the antechamber of the elder’s quarters. He chanted quietly and stared into the wavering flame. Soon, a faint image began to form in his mind. A slick, wet form swayed against a dark background.

  Sounds outside his chamber startled the wizard, and the image vanished. Cursing, he took a deep breath and started again. The chanting was low and rhythmic, and finally the image began to reappear. This time he could see it clearer, a small dragon swaying as it sang. Moeldor heard another voice joining the dragon in its song. The wizard turned his mind to the task of finding its owner. Because of his limited powers, he was unable to expand the vision any further. He stumbled forward in exhaustion and knocked the candle over, snuffing out the flame.

  Cursing again, Moeldor complained, "My magic is not strong enough. If only I could lay my hands on the Stone of Power. If only I could learn to control its power." He sighed and stood brooding in the blackness. "Soon enough," he said. "Soon enough." Moeldor left the small chamber, returned to his quarters, and began rummaging through a stack of books. He quickly found what he was looking for and sat down at his desk. The door burst open, and in stormed Kragh, ducking and twisting to get his bulk through the doorway. The Mort commander slammed the door closed, turned, and looked around the room. Bookcases stood along one side of the room, and a writing desk was pushed against the far wall. A bed filled a recess to the right, and a small dressing table stood in the corner. Kragh folded up into the chair across from Moeldor and leaned his arms on the table which creaked under the load.

  "The King wants a report," Kragh said.

  Moeldor suppressed his anger at the Mort’s intrusion. "What report will you give him?" he asked evenly.

  Kragh growled. “If I knew the answer to that question, I would not be here." He drummed his fingers on the table and waited for a reply.

  "Tell him the usual,” Moeldor said. “Tell him everything is running according to plan. Tell him that the villagers are huddled in their houses in fear of their mighty and terrible King. That always seems to make him happy."

  Kragh sat back and grunted. "I think that he is getting tired of hearing the same thing over and over." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Moeldor laughed. "Use different words."

  It was Kragh’s turn to laugh. A Mort laugh was not a pleasing sound. It was similar to the neighing of a horse only much, much deeper, and the listener had the distinct feeling that the Mort was choking.

  "Very well," continued Moeldor. "Tell Praelix that you have met some resistance, but everything is being handled." He quickly added, "Get your story straight first, though. He will want details." He waved his hand to dismiss the Mort commander.

  "You read too much," Kragh remarked, ignoring Moeldor’s gesture. He looked scornfully at the rows of books littering the wizard’s shelves. Turning his gaze back to Moeldor, he said, "I like action. I like to stay busy, and I like to know what is going on." He stood and leaned over the table putting his face directly in front of the councilman. "I dislike being kept in the dark."

  The Mort stared into Moeldor’s eyes for several seconds. He straightened abruptly, threw open the door, and was gone as quickly as he came. Moeldor sat at the table for a long time seething in anger. He knew it was dangerous to antagonize Kragh, but it was becoming more difficult to hide his contempt.

  Finally, Moeldor stood, closed the door, and locked it behind him. He returned to the table, sat down, and turned his attention back to the book in front of him. The heavy leather cover thumped on the desk amid a cloud of dust and Moeldor leafed through the pages, scanning as he went. The place he was looking for was well marked. He slowly traced his finger down the page; then stopped at the verses he sought. Moeldor translated the elven tongue as he read aloud.

  "When apathy and greed live in the heart of the one who rules, the tide will turn. A deed once done; now undone. When all seem vanquished and fallen, yet one will remain."

  He pondered the words of the elves. "When all seem vanquished and fallen, yet one will remain," he repeated to himself.

  Moeldor slowly closed the book and sat pondering his vision and the elven prophecy. He sensed they were somehow connected. The wizard sat deep in thought until the early hours of the morning. Suddenly, a look of revelation crossed his face. "So,” he said to himself in a hushed voice. “The elves were right. ‘Yet one will remain’.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Round and round,

  down to the ground.”

  -Death Dance

  runes at Loeath'd'nah

  translated by

  Cloath the storyteller

  Skarson and the boys ran back to the marketplace to begin their search for Cortain. Valaron admired Skarson’s sword. A leather thong attached to the silver pommel was tightened around the storyteller’s wrist. The sword gleamed in the bright sunlight, and dried blood covered the sharply curved blade. It appeared to be the mate of the dagger thrust into his belt.

  "There!" Skarson shouted, pointing to a pair of legs jutting out from under an overturned table.

  They raced over and flipped the table out of the way to find Cortain lying, stunned, on a pile of apples. His left arm was broken just below the elbow. Skarson found no other injuries, so he set the break and applied a makeshift splint using pieces of wood and strips that Toran cut from an awning. Cortain regained his senses, sat up, and groaned. He saw his nephew and shouted, "Valaron! You are safe!" Relief replaced the pain that had covered his face.

  "No time for a homecoming," interrupted Skarson. "Help me get him up. We will take him to my house." Pausing, he added, "If it is still standing."

  Cortain leaned on Valaron for support, and they made their way through the streets. Skarson was in the lead, his sword held ready in case any Morts lingered nearby, and Toran followed behind, armed with a pole from one of the tents. Moving quickly, they soon drew near to the house and breathed a sigh of relief to find everything untouched. Apparently, Skarson had scared the garrison away before they were able to wreak their havoc on this end of the village.

  Cortain and Valaron sat quietly while water boiled on the stove. Skarson added an herb to Cortain’s cup to help ease the pain and start the healing process. Over tea, the two older men recounted details of the Mort’s raid with Toran adding his own comments, though he had missed most of the action. The discussion of the day’s events had been going on for some time when Valaron suddenly interrupted.

  "It seems that I have some rather strange news of my own," he said tentatively.

  At the odd sound in his voice, the others waited expectantly. Not knowing what else to do, Valaron cleared his throat and launched into the tale of his adventures in the mountain. He told them of the cave and how he had found the dead dragon. Skarson sat up in his chair when Valaron described the eggs and the dead hatchlings.

  "Go on," Skarson urged when Valaron paused. Unsure of their reaction, the young boy quickly related the rest of his story. Cortain sat stiff and unmoving as his nephew told of his bonding to the young dragon. After he finished his story, Valaron sat uncomfortably in the heavy silence that followed.

  Cortain’s face was grim and dark. Heavy lines made him look older than his years. His face was twisted with emotion that added to the grimace of pain from his broken arm. He pushed away the cup of tea that Toran held out.

  Skarson stood and walked over to the window. His thoughts raced as he watched the plumes of smoke still rising over the burning village. He was the first to break the silence.

  "Tell him," Skarson said, still looking out the win
dow.

  Cortain shifted in his chair and stared at the sword propped against the wall. His eyes filled with dampness that spilled onto his cheeks. Skarson walked over and gently laid his hand on Cortain’s shoulder. He spoke in a soft but stern voice.

  "Tell him or I will." The storyteller turned, grabbed Toran by the shoulder and led him into the side room.

  CHAPTER 9

  "Clak'd'tal;

  The path to purpose,

  sought by those

  who sing of destiny

  and her hardened ways.

  Clak'd'tor;

  The way of knowing

  a greater prize

  than any other;

  gained by living

  out the days."

  -Elven Poem "Fate"

  translated by

  Cloath the Storyteller

  Valaron watched his uncle and waited. Cortain sat perfectly still in the gloom of Skarson’s living room for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke.

  "Things never seem to turn out the way you want," he said softly. His voice was slow and tired. "All of your hopes and dreams come crashing down in an instant." He paused and turned to look at Valaron—studying his face. "That is the problem, though. They were my hopes and dreams." Valaron had never seen this side of Cortain. Gone was the confidence and strength that had always been there. Now he seemed old and weak; somehow defeated. He could tell that his uncle was unsure of how to start.

  "You know you can tell me anything," Valaron offered.

  "I know," he said. A smile crossed his uncle’s face, a hint of the old Cortain. The smile faded as fast as it had appeared. "There are tales you hope never to tell.” Pausing, he cleared his throat. “I have lied to you, Valaron. I did it to try and keep you safe, but they were lies none the less. My hope was that you would never find out the truth. Now it would seem that destiny has intervened.” Cortain’s voice took on a tone of resignation. “Some stories must be told."