The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Page 4

  Cortain moved his broken arm to a more comfortable position, gave a heavy sigh, and began. "Your father was Dalanor the Determined, Captain of the Dragon Guard." He watched Valaron’s face as he continued. "Your mother was San'd'ron, only daughter of Klan'd'ron, King of the elves. It is rumored that he still reigns in the elven city of Loeath’d’nah. Dalanor and San'd'ron married not long after your father’s dragon was taken ill and died. I served as your father’s second in the wedding. The elven service was beautiful, and Klan'd'ron gave them a wonderful send-off.

  “They left Loeath'd'nah and settled in Ballin where the Bael river splits into two tributaries. Your father made his way as a blacksmith for the village, and everything seemed perfect. Not long after they had settled there, the King sent out his decree disbanding the Dragon Guard and ordering the death of all dragons and their riders. He especially hated your father.”

  “Why?” asked Valaron

  “When King Wyan’s elder son died, the King turned his affections to your father instead of Praelix, his own son. When Praelix became King, he outlawed the Dragon Guard and sent Morts to find Dalanor and kill him. Your parents were forced to go into hiding. Praelix disbanded the cavalry when he took the throne, so I lost my commission and was already living here in Frensville.

  "An elven wife made it nearly impossible to go unnoticed, but somehow your father always seemed to know when trouble was coming. He was like that, always the smart one, the strong one. They moved around the flatlands for a while without running into any problems. The villagers welcomed them with open arms, and the Brotherhood worked to keep them safe. As the King’s power grew, Praelix found allies in some of the villages, and a network of spies began to report back to the council."

  Cortain groaned and shifted his arm across his stomach. "After a few years, things became intolerable for your parents. Spies were everywhere, so they made the decision to move to Loeath'd'nah. Klan'd'ron offered them free access to the hidden city; the one place they could live in peace. But there was a small problem."

  "What?" asked Valaron.

  "You," answered Cortain. "Your mother was pregnant, and she was in no shape to make the long journey to Loeath'd'nah. They were back in Ballin, and she was due to deliver at any moment." Cortain’s face lightened. "Everything was going well. You were born strong and healthy. It was a great day for everyone. I came down from Frensville at the news of your birth, and I helped Dalanor in his preparations for the trip.” His voice broke as he continued, “We were away at the livery when the Morts arrived."

  Cortain stopped. It was some time before he could go on, and his voice shook as he spoke. "We fought our way back to the house to find the door kicked in. We charged through to the back room just as your mother was killed, run through by that filthy pig of a Mort before she could reach her sword. A few more seconds and things would have gone differently." His voice trailed away as he fingered his broken arm.

  "Your father went berserk.” Cortain paused again as he relived the scene in his mind. “He beat the Mort back out into the street and cut him down. Dalanor was insane with rage. He hacked at the body like some terrible, vengeful wraith. In all our life together I had never seen that side of him. After the loss of his dragon, this was more than any man could be asked to endure. Over and over again he rained down blows on that dead monster. I can still see him slicing and stabbing until there was nothing left but a bloody mass.

  “The commotion of the fight alerted the other Morts, and Dalanor was quickly surrounded. There must have been thirty or more of those hulking beasts circling him like a pack of hungry wolves. Your father pulled his sword out of the dead one and slowly leveled it at the circling monsters, blood dripping from its edge, bits of hair and bone dulling its finish. His rage was so great that they were hesitant to attack. I am convinced that they had never before encountered an enemy so full of hatred."

  Cortain paused again. He shook as the memories flooded over him. "I started to charge out of the house to stand by his side when he turned and looked at me. I will never forget that moment,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew exactly what he wanted. I ran to the back room and gathered you up, slipped out the back, and made my way into the fields. We hid there until well after dark, and we’ve been together since that day." Cortain placed his hand over his face and wept.

  Skarson and Toran slipped unnoticed into the room. They watched Valaron struggle to understand what he had heard.

  "Your uncle did what had to be done," Skarson said quietly.

  Valaron nodded and put his hand on Cortain’s shoulder. "You saved my life,” he said. “They would have killed both of us."

  Cortain’s voice seemed small and distant. "I should have helped him," he whispered. "He was my brother."

  Skarson said, "Tell him the rest, old friend."

  After a few moments, Cortain sat taller in the chair and looked at Valaron. "Your name," he said. "It is very special. Your father was a proud man, and he passed something on to you in your name. Valaron was the name of the first dragon rider. You bear it now, and it would seem that you also carry its fate." He looked away, once again lost in thought.

  "There are prophecies, Valaron," Skarson said, continuing the story, “elven prophecies that speak of a new rider who bears the name of the first. The elves say that another dragon and rider will appear to battle the evil one. That rider will be called Valaron the Magnificent.” Looking firmly into Valaron’s eyes, he said, “You are that rider."

  Before Valaron could speak, Skarson continued, "We have things to do. There is a dragon to train."

  An uneasy silence fell over the room. “I am sorry if I have disappointed you,” offered Valaron.

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Cortain. “You could never disappoint me, Valaron. You have not done anything wrong.” He hesitated before going on. “All I wanted was to protect you from all of this. Now it seems that you are thrust into it, and I will have to accept the fact that you must face your own destiny.”

  Valaron nodded his head, but remained silent.

  Skarson gave Valaron instructions to gather what he needed and wait for him behind the pub in the morning. The storyteller would join him with horses and provisions for their trek.

  “And as for you.” Skarson turned to face Toran. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

  Toran opened his mouth to speak.

  Skarson put up his hand. “Not a word. Do you understand? If the king learns of a new dragon, Valaron will be hunted down and killed. He will find out soon enough, but we do not need to rush things.”

  “Right,” said Toran. “You can count on me.”

  Skarson studied the boy as though memorizing his features for a painting. “We’ll see.”

  #

  Valaron and Toran left the house and walked down the street.

  “What did that mean?” asked Toran. “We’ll see? What did he mean by that?”

  “Who knows? He is a walking riddle.”

  After a few more minutes of silence, Valaron stopped. Toran turned back to face his friend.

  “You heard.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  Toran nodded.

  “Do you believe it? The prophecy, that is.”

  “Wrong question, Val. What matters is what you believe.”

  “So you think Skarson is wrong?”

  Toran paused. “No. I believe him.”

  Valaron looked down the street, sighed, and took off at a slow run.

  Toran caught up with him in front of the marketplace. “I am going with you.”

  They made the turn that opened onto the town square and ran shoulder-to-shoulder through the center of town.

  Valaron picked up the pace. “I know.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “The fairest of fair

  shall rise again

  to take their place

  in history.

  Elves and men

  shall stand as one

  to quell the evil mystery.”

 
; -Elven Prophecy

  translated by

  Cloath the storyteller

  Skarson sat at his writing table. He took his pipe from the mantle and lit it. Shadows from a candle danced across his face, the flame flickering in the constant draft blowing through the old house. Dipping his pen in ink, Skarson began to write. The quill’s scratching reminded him of mice scurrying across a wooden floor.

  The storyteller wrote in a long flowing hand on yellowed paper, his quill drinking from the well of black ink at regular intervals. Blotting the paper, he read what he had written, folded the letter, poured on a bit of wax from the candlestick, and sealed the note with his ring. He tucked the letter in his pocket and slid the dagger in his belt before donning his cloak. Skarson checked on Cortain. He was in a deep sleep induced by the effects of the healing tea. Satisfied, the old man let himself out.

  Frensville was dark and quiet by the time Skarson reached the edge of the village. All the shops were closed, and houses sat silently along the streets. Small plumes of smoke slowly escaped their chimneys and joined together to hang just above the rooftops like a flat, blue cloud. Most of the villagers were already asleep in the late evening gloom.

  He moved from shadow to shadow until reaching the back wall of the town’s pub where he waited for over half an hour before his eyes finally made out a lone shape running through the field. Hidden under a hooded cloak, the stranger slowed to a walk and moved cautiously to the edge of the village. Skarson gave a long, low whistle, and the tall figure turned, moving quickly to where the storyteller had secreted himself among the shadows. The moon was below the mountains, and the only light came from an oil lamp that had been left burning at the rear door of the pub.

  Skarson embraced the stranger and exchanged a low greeting. "Welcome,” he said in a hushed voice. “Thank you for coming so quickly."

  The cloaked figure bowed solemnly. "Your message said it was urgent.”

  "Yes. There is no time to lose." Skarson handed the folded letter to the stranger. "Take this back at once. Let me know when a decision has been reached."

  The stranger took the letter and stared at it for a moment before tucking it under his cloak. "And so it begins," he said thoughtfully.

  "Yes," answered Skarson. "For better or worse.”

  The stranger turned to leave, and for an instant, the lamp’s light fell across his face. A quick flash illuminated his elven features, and then he was gone, racing across the open field toward the Gra’d’har forest in the southeast.

  Skarson stood and watched for a long time after the elf vanished into the darkness. The Grands stood tall against the night sky. Clouds floated among the high peaks and reflected the glow of the first light of the moon that slowly peeked from behind the mountains. White tendrils glistened along the bottoms of the clouds with fingers of silver moonlight splashing across the sky like broad brushstrokes of iridescent paint. The beauty of the night sky pulled a heavy sigh from deep within the old storyteller. It was moments like these that brought painful memories and the anguish of loneliness.

  Skarson turned and made his way home down the long, dark streets. When he arrived, Vic was sitting across the street on the steps of an abandoned house.

  Skarson shook his head. “I have no money, tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m not begging. I have a nice bottle to get me through the night.”

  “If you have no need of a handout,” said Skarson, “then what are you about?”

  Vic gestured at the surrounding darkness. “I was simply pondering the night’s opportunities.”

  “And what would those be?”

  Vic lowered his voice. “I was just thinking how easy it would be for brigands to skulk about on secret errands.”

  Skarson watched the old man take a long pull from his bottle. “I suppose you would know of such scandalous things?”

  Vic closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth that moved down his throat. “Just pondering the night’s opportunities.” He opened his eyes and looked at Skarson. “Puss buckets! Surely you know better than to listen to the ramblings of an old drunk.” Vic stood up, wavered for a moment then staggered into the shadows.

  Skarson shook his head, turned, and mounted the rickety slate steps. Once inside, he put water on to boil and filled his favorite pipe—a nice, white clay with a long, curved stem. The bowl fit neatly into his palm as if it had been shaped from a mold of his hand. He lit the pipe with a candle and sat down to wait on the teapot. He relaxed for the first time after the day’s events and jumped when the teapot whistled. Laughing at himself he crushed tea leaves into his cup and poured in the boiling water. The strong smell of cloves filled the house. With his eyes closed, he savored the pungent aroma. The old man’s thoughts slowed, and he felt the tension flow from his tired back. A cautious sip of the bitter tea warmed his throat and filled him with a familiar glow.

  Skarson placed his cup on a corner of the table, reached behind a bookcase, and pulled out a long bundle wrapped in leather. He untied the laces that bound it, and the cover fell away to reveal the gleam of a sword. Its hilt was wrapped in fine silver cord, and it had a worn, leather thong at the butt that could be looped over the wrist. The broad, leather strap was stained from years of use. It had formed itself to the hand of its owner. A large round pommel capped the hilt to help keep the weapon firmly in hand during battle.

  The blade was the most unique feature. It was four feet long and sharply curved; a full-bellied scimitar. A blood groove had been forged into the blade and ran its full length. The first six inches of the back had been sharpened from the tip, making it a weapon that not only could slice an opponent, but stab and pierce as well. It shined with a blue tint that moved along the surface as the light flickered in the ever-present draft of the room.

  This was the sword of the Dragon Guard. It had been designed to cut from the back of a moving dragon without hanging in the body of an enemy. Skarson applied a light dressing of oil to the leather thong, and then used a clean rag to wipe the blade. He held the sword to the light and admired its beauty.

  "It will not be long now, my friend," he whispered to the sword, being careful not to awaken Cortain. "If the prophecies are true, you will soon be in the rightful hands of your new owner."

  CHAPTER 11

  “Friends until death

  and then beyond;

  Sudden parting,

  never sought.

  A life too short

  for one so fond;

  One life left long,

  its purpose naught.”

  -Poem “A Greater Parting”

  The horses made short work of their trip to the top of the rock face. Skarson and the two boys picketed them above the cave and made their way down the narrow trail to the entrance. Valaron entered first while Skarson and Toran waited a short distance behind. The dragon raced forward at the sight of Valaron and nudged his hand. He scratched the dragon behind the ear. "I brought some friends," he said and called up the trail.

  Skarson and Toran stepped into the cave and stood staring at the dragon. Rushing forward, the hatchling nudged at the bundle under Skarson’s arm. "He is hungry," he said. "You had better sing The Feeding Song before he takes this away from me. Remember, you have to direct his feeding or he will be impossible to control."

  Valaron started to sing, and the dragon moved to face him. Once again, the hatchling swayed from side-to-side; lowering his head as he listened intently to the haunting melody. Skarson opened the bundle and slipped Valaron a pork shoulder. Valaron tossed the meat on the ground in front of the hatchling and continued to sing. The young dragon placed one foot on the meat and began to bite off large pieces, swallowing in great gulps. When his belly was full, he walked slowly to the back of the cave and curled up, tucked his head under his wing, and fell fast asleep.

  Toran gathered supplies from the horses, and they made camp under the overhang of the cave, talking by the fire while the dragon slept.

  "There is not much more that I need t
o tell you," Skarson said. "Over the years, I have taught you most of what you need to know. Now, two things remain to be done. First, we have to train that dragon of yours. He will be ready to fly before long, and you will need to have a sure hand by then."

  "What is the other thing?" asked Valaron.

  "You have to learn to fight!" Skarson crossed his legs and filled his cup with mead. "That letter you delivered will send someone to help me in your training. I am too old to fight for very long, and we will need someone who can build your endurance.”

  "You mean someone is coming here?” said Toran. “Who?"

  "Who it is does not matter,” said Skarson. “For now it is enough to know that I have help coming. I can teach Valaron the basics," he said, looking at the new dragon rider, "but I lack the wind to train him hard enough to help him survive in a long battle. I am much older than I look. It is one thing to be able to wield a sword. It is another thing altogether to be able to fight when you are exhausted and you think you cannot go on.” Skarson lowered his voice and leveled his stare at Valaron. “Your enemies will not let up because you need to rest." His voice was slow and calculated. "They will beat you down and press you until you are exhausted. Then they will kill you."

  "I have never even held a sword," Valaron complained.

  "We can leave all of that until later," Skarson replied. "Right now, we have to train your dragon, and when he can fly we will have to move to someplace better suited to the tasks at hand."

  Skarson sat watching Valaron and waited for the question he knew was coming.

  "Why did my uncle lie to me?" Valaron asked. "He should have told me the truth."

  "He was afraid that the Praelix would hunt you down and have you killed. His elder councilman, Moeldor, knows the elven prophecies as well as I do. Even if Praelix does not believe them, he would not take the chance of leaving you alive. And if for no other reason, he would have you killed because of the hatred he had for your father." Skarson looked into Valaron’s eyes and saw the doubts and the struggles he was going through. "Cortain did what he thought was right, and I agreed. We talked about it many times."