The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Page 5

  "I know he meant well," started Valaron, "but. . . ." His voice trailed off.

  "Praelix made a mistake, Valaron,” said Skarson. “He discounted the riders who had lost their dragons. The Lone Riders, as they are called, have managed to cause their share of problems for the King over the years. Praelix would not chance making that type of error again. He would have found you, and he would have killed you."

  “So what do we do now?" said Toran.

  "Since it is getting late," Skarson answered, "I would suggest we get some rest." Tired from their long day’s exertions, they quickly fell asleep.

  Valaron was awakened by the dragon pushing him along the cave floor. "I think he wants you to get up," laughed Skarson as he and Toran sat by the fire cooking breakfast. "He should not be hungry again for three or four days but I am starving."

  They ate breakfast in front of the fire and watched the young dragon walk the cave floor while flexing his wings.

  "I am sure it is just my imagination," said Valaron, "but he looks as though he has grown a foot or more since I was here only two days ago."

  "It is not your imagination," replied Skarson. "A dragon grows to full size in three months. He will mature very quickly."

  Toran looked at the hulk of the dead dragon lying along the far wall and said, "I guess she must have died of old age."

  "Not she," Skarson laughed. "He."

  Toran looked confused. "Then where is the mother dragon?"

  Skarson laughed again and said, "There is no mother dragon. All dragons are male. They do not mate. They fertilize their own eggs. It only takes one dragon to rebuild the species and Vaelor's dragon has done that for us."

  "Vaelor’s dragon?" Valaron exclaimed. "You mean that is the dragon from the legend?" He stared in disbelief at the storyteller. Suddenly, everything fell in place, the story of Vaelor’s dragon fleeing into the mountains, the Mort arrows, and the broken lance that littered the cave floor.

  "Yes, my young friend,” Skarson said proudly. “Vaelor has saved the dragons. This one hatchling will enable us to rebuild the Dragon Guard and there is no finer lineage than the offspring of Vaelor’s dragon."

  At that moment, the dragon stumbled and fell headlong onto the cave floor. The heavy thud was followed by a cloud of dust that filled the air around the stunned dragon.

  "Of course, it may take a little time," Skarson added, shaking his head.

  The dragon struggled up, plodded over to Valaron, and nudged his hand. Valaron scratched him behind the ear. The dragon crooned happily.

  Skarson stood up quickly and walked away to the edge of the cave. He stared out over the flatlands, his hair blowing in the early morning breeze.

  "Is something wrong?" asked Valaron. "Are you all right?"

  It was a long time before Skarson spoke. "It really is quite beautiful," he said.

  “Yes,” Valaron answered slowly, waiting.

  "You know that your father’s dragon died."

  "I think Cortain said it was sick,” replied Valaron

  "Yes," Skarson said, sweeping his hair back and folding his arms across his chest. "There was a terrible disease that spread through Stronghold, a plague among the dragons. The elves eventually found a cure, but not before the illness had taken over fifty of the dragons. The plague weakened the Guard and gave Praelix the advantage he needed to win the battle at the Northern Divide.”

  Skarson looked out over the flatlands that glistened under the first rays of the sun.

  “A rider who loses his dragon is never really the same, Valaron.” His voice was quiet and slow. “It takes away a part of who you are, and the loss never lessens over time. There is a small part of you that dies, and you can never rekindle that flame. It is a pain that never leaves, an emptiness that is never filled." Skarson raked his hands through his hair a second time. "Your father’s dragon was one of those that died in the plague," he said softly.

  The sun was rising in the east sending tendrils of light that cut through the high clouds. Long shadows formed on the distant plains below. Skarson cupped his hands to shade his eyes and scanned the horizon before turning to look at the young dragon, its head covering Valaron’s lap.

  "So was mine."

  CHAPTER 12

  "The peoples’ crown

  no glory holds

  when slaves are all

  it makes.

  The King no special

  honor gains

  when everything

  he takes."

  - Poem "Heirs of Hatred"

  "Everyone knows that the Grands are impassable," said Saladon from his seat at the council table. "There is no way across. The Raen Mountains are no better. The forests give way to sheer cliffs that rise hundreds of feet." He was seated to the right of Moeldor, his soft hands folded neatly on the table. His round dark face showed his frustration. "We would have better luck looking for a way through the marshlands. The dragon riders were the only ones to ever make it over the mountains and they never spoke of it. As far as we know, the elves’ story of a vast ocean is nothing more than a fable."

  "I do not want excuses nor do I care which route you take," said Praelix. He pulled a bundle from under the table and scattered the contents across the tabletop. Sand and shells skittered over the slick surface. “This is what the elves know, and they hide their secret just as they hide their city.” The councilmen marveled at the shells as light reflected from their intricate colors. They had all seen small shells from the Aelagon Sea, but nothing like this. These were larger than a man’s head, and the shapes and colors were unlike anything they had seen before.

  “What are they?” asked Taelon as he turned one of the shells over in his hands.

  “Trinkets from the elves’ fabled ocean,” replied Praelix.

  Moeldor fingered one of the larger shells and watched as the colors moved over the swirls that lined its surface. The blues, greens and reds seemed to be deep inside the surface, and the eye struggled to separate any one color from another. He recalled the elven writings that he had discounted as children’s stories. Fascinating tales spoke of an ocean that swept outward as far as the eye could see; stories describing monsters that inhabited the deep waters.

  “Find a way to gain access to this ocean,” commanded Praelix. “Over the mountains or through the marshes makes no difference. Something of value hides there or the elves would not keep this knowledge to themselves. Report back as soon as you have succeeded. Failure is not an option."

  “Yes, my lord," Saladon replied nervously. He wiped at the sweat that stung his eyes and folded his hands back on the table.

  Taelon, thin and gaunt, was seated to the left of Moeldor. "Does the King intend to continue the raids on the villages?" he asked. "I am constantly being assailed by pleas for relief from the village elders."

  "The raids will continue as long as the villagers insist on holding back their taxes," answered the King.

  Benton, the oldest member of the council sat across the table from Taelon. His half-lidded eyes gave the impression that he was always on the brink of falling asleep. "Too much pressure may cause a rebellion, my Lord" he said. "Perhaps we should try other means of persuasion."

  "Rebellion is already at hand," replied the King as he picked up a letter from the table.

  Kragh was wedged into a chair at the far end of the table and he kept his eyes on the King who paced around the chamber. The council members remained motionless while Praelix read aloud from the letter clutched in his left hand. It was news of the Mort loss at Frensville.

  Praelix stopped, crushed the letter and threw it at the Mort commander. Kragh barely controlled the urge to thrust his dagger through the King’s heart. The councilmen kept their eyes occupied as a deadly silence hung in the air.

  "First Gaelor and now Frensville; and seven soldiers dead no less," growled the King. "All apparently killed by one old man." Praelix resumed his pacing and finally stopped directly behind Moeldor; placing his hand on the councilman’s shoulder
. Taelon and Saladon both leaned slightly away.

  "It would seem. . ." began Moeldor. He stopped when the King tightened his grip.

  "I would like to hear this from the commander," Praelix said, evenly. He looked at Kragh and raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  "My captain reported that the old man, as you call him, was carrying a scimitar, the sword of the Dragon Guard," Kragh replied.

  "I am curious as to how this old man and his antique sword managed to kill seven of your soldiers." The King waited expectantly for an answer.

  "Only a Guardsman would posses such a weapon," said Kragh. "It is obvious that he is a Lone Rider who was hiding in the village." His voice was as cold and hard as his stare. "Leaving those renegades alive was a mistake, and now it comes to trouble us."

  Praelix stood unmoving as he glared at the Mort commander. "You would lay the blame back on me?" He watched Kragh closely.

  "I would lay the blame where it belongs," Kragh answered simply. "You chose not to pursue them. It was your decision to let these renegades roam the kingdom and hide themselves in the villages. I have lost seven good warriors because of that choice."

  Moeldor watched Kragh, and wondered how far he would push the King. Praelix was not a man to be trifled with. The commander was playing a dangerous game. If he went too far the King might have him killed, and that would complicate matters. It would take time to find another ally among the Morts.

  The King’s mood quickly brightened. He smiled and returned to his seat at the head of the council table. "Seven good warriors," he said laughing. "Seven good warriors—all beaten by one old rider."

  The King leaned back in his chair and looking around the room he laughed again. "Seven good warriors," he repeated, laughing even louder. Praelix slapped Benton on the shoulder causing the old man to look around, confused.

  The other council members laughed nervously and shifted in their seats.

  "I do not see the humor," spat Kragh.

  "Of course not," the King retorted. He jumped up and slammed both fists on the table. "And neither do I!" he shouted.

  Kragh leaped to his feet sending his chair crashing across the room. His dagger was out, its blade gleaming in the light.

  Kragh and Praelix stood at opposite ends of the table glaring at one another. "Seven good soldiers killed by one old man. What happens when your warriors meet resistance from ten old men?” the King asked. “What then? Will you lose an entire garrison?" Praelix was still shouting as he leaned toward the commander, both palms now flat on the table. "How about two hundred old men? A thousand? What should we do then, commander? Hand them the keys to the palace?" The King’s face was red and his shoulders shook as he continued. "What if their women fight alongside them? What will your men do then?" he screamed. "Run away?"

  Kragh rounded the end of the table and stormed toward the King. The council members spilled from their chairs and staggered back out of the way. The Mort commander towered over Praelix, eyes burning in rage. He placed the tip of his dagger on the King’s chest and said, "My soldiers are not

  cowards. . . ." His voice trailed off when he felt the cold edge of the King’s sword pressed hard against his neck.

  "You underestimate your King," Praelix hissed, his voice a mere whisper. The King’s eyes danced as he looked up at the massive form of the Mort commander. Praelix was a master swordsman and his blade had separated many a head from its owner.

  The two combatants stood unmoving for a long time. Both studied the other. Finally, Kragh slowly replaced his dagger in his belt. "It would seem that I have," he said. The Mort pushed away the King’s sword and turned back to his place. He recovered his chair and sat down. "But never again," he muttered under his breath. Kragh wiped the blood from his neck as the other council members moved back to their seats.

  "Increase the raids,” Praelix said as he slowly placed his sword on the table. “Double the size of the garrisons. I want any signs of resistance to be stopped by whatever means necessary. We must make sure that rebellion is the last thing on the villagers’ minds." He looked directly at Kragh and added, "Find this Lone Rider. Find him and kill him." The King snatched up his sword and stormed out of the chamber.

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room. The councilmen sat still, unsure of what to do next. Moeldor looked around the room and saw the fear on the faces of his comrades.

  "It would seem we are finished, gentlemen," he sighed

  CHAPTER 13

  "A beauty as none

  could ever know.

  Full and bright

  as the winter snow.

  Beauty none could

  ever take,

  Clear and cool

  as a placid lake.

  Fire and water,

  soil and air,

  Elven beauty

  fine and fair."

  -Troubadour Song

  "Elven Beauty"

  Twelve days had passed since Skarson revealed that he was a Lone Rider, one of the Guardsmen whose dragon had died in the great plague. He never mentioned it again, so Valaron thought that it was not something he should pursue.

  The new Guardsman spent his time training the young hatchling and working on his sword skills. The dragon was growing at an incredible rate. He stood over twelve feet tall. Gaining a foot a day, the dragon would soon be fully grown.

  Valaron was a quick study at the required swordplay, but he was tired and battered from the training. Skarson did not hold back. He pushed the young boy to exhaustion at every session. They used wooden practice swords cut from ash limbs. Valaron was covered in bruises. Despite his age, the Lone Rider was a formidable opponent. He seemed to never tire of their grueling sessions.

  After three weeks of hard work, Skarson decided that they should look for another spot for their training camp. With the dragon standing nearly thirty feet tall, the cave was becoming cramped. At this rate, he would mature at well over fifty feet, large even for a dragon.

  “When we locate a suitable camp,” Skarson said, “we will come back and take him out of the cave.”

  Valaron looked at the narrow path leading up from the cave. “How will we get him out?”

  “The two of you will fly, of course.”

  “I don’t know how to ride a dragon!”

  “There is a first time for everything,” Skarson said, laughing.

  Three hours on horseback brought them to a luscious, green cove in a broad valley that stretched out in both directions. The back of the glade narrowed and offered a perfect setting for a sheltered camp. There was plenty of room for the dragon and a wide open space for sparring. The steep ridges on either side made approach difficult and afforded a defensible position in case of trouble.

  When they returned to the cave, Valaron stared over the edge of the cliff. “I am not happy about this.” He shook his head. “I would prefer that my first time riding a dragon did not involve leaping into the air from the top of a three-hundred foot cliff.” He shot Skarson a look of displeasure. “In the dark!”

  “Three feet or three hundred, it makes no difference. The object is to stay on the dragon.” Skarson grinned and pulled Valaron by the shoulder. “Come. There is no use complaining. Get me the large leather bag, the one covered in elven markings.”

  Toran retrieved the bag from the rear of the cave. Skarson opened it and pulled out what resembled a horse saddle. The cinch straps were long and narrow, and the seat was tooled leather with a four inch rounded back. The stirrups were adjustable in length, and a curved scabbard hung from the left side.

  “This is a dragon saddle,” Skarson explained. “My saddle to be exact. It might be a little big, but it will do for now.”

  A long, slow whistle came from the direction of the path that led out of the cave. Skarson stopped. He held up his hand to silence Valaron and whistled an answer. A tall figure dressed in a dark cloak stepped into view from the trail. Standing in the opening of the cave, they slowly removed their hood. Standing before them was a female elf. S
he stood six feet tall. Her dark-red, shoulder-length hair was pushed behind small, pointed ears. High cheekbones accented her fiery green eyes, and her narrow mouth sat above a pointed chin.

  “I was summoned,” she said simply. Her voice high and sweet.

  “Thank you for coming, fair one,” replied Skarson, bowing deeply.

  Valaron and Toran bowed in kind, following Skarson’s lead. This was the first elf they had ever seen. Valaron was stricken by her perfect features. Nothing he had read about elves had prepared him for this breathtaking beauty.

  “I am Cler’d’roh,” she said, “second in command to my father, Glan’d’roh, Captain of the Guard to Klan’d’ron, High Elf and King of Loeath’d’nah. I am at your service.”

  “I am Carloe, Lone Rider of the Dragon Guard and sworn enemy of the Dark Son,” answered Skarson.

  Cler’d’roh turned her gaze to Valaron expectantly, but he was too busy staring at Skarson to notice.

  “You must pardon my mute friend,” the Lone Rider said, apologizing. “I am afraid I have upset him. This,” he said, “is Valaron the Magnificent, Dragon Rider and liberator of the people and Toran, a trusted friend.”

  Valaron continued to stare at Skarson in stunned silence. Cler’d’roh waited, shrugged, then turned and looked at the dragon. He lowered his head and stared at her with his giant eye.

  “Carloe?” Valaron said, finally finding his voice. “Your name is Carloe?”

  “Well,” Skarson replied, “you cannot stay hidden very well using your real name now can you?” A sly grin pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  “So what I am supposed to call you?” Valaron asked. His voice held a tone of indignation.