The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Read online

  -Poem “The Hidden City”

  Loeath’d’nah was hidden deep in the Gra’d’har forest among the ancient trees. Set in the shape of a five-pointed star, thin towers rose at the points. The rest of the elven city was connected in broad hallways and large open-sided rooms. A single spire ascended from the center of the city and was topped by a flat roof that served as a watch tower for the elven guards. This high vantage point allowed the guards to see in every direction, their keen eyesight granting them a clear view of the forest for miles around.

  Great open pergolas were covered in sprawling grapevines, and ivy climbed over many of the surfaces. Dark green leaves sparkled in shafts of sunlight bursting through the cover of trees that lay overhead like vast emerald clouds. Creeping vines wound their way through countless trellises, and open spaces had been left in the structure where small gardens grew among the stone walls, streams rambling along their twisted paths. The scattered gardens gave the city an appearance of being just another part of Gra’d’har, the ageless forest that stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see.

  Covered courtyards opened out onto long terraces of slate floors and waist-high railings turned from pink marble. Ivy snaked its way through the banisters and climbed the columns that sat at the corners of the arched openings. Lemon chrysoprase covered the outer walls of Loeath’d’nah, and the mottled stone blended into the surrounding forest, making the city nearly impossible to see.

  Near the northern spire was a dragon approach used long ago by the Dragon Guard for their frequent visits to the city. The approach was large enough to accommodate more than a dozen dragons. Now grown over in hedge, it added to the city’s wild appearance.

  Set into the stone at the dragon approach was a reflecting prism on the spire wall that had been used by the Guardsmen as a beacon to help them locate Loeath’d’nah on their flight through the forest. Covered under a black tapestry since the end of the Guard, it hung dark and useless on the spire wall, a constant reminder of the great loss Ashandor suffered at the hands of King Praelix.

  Elves filled the meeting hall. King Klan’d’ron was seated at the end of a long shining table, and the council sat in ornate high-backed chairs, carved scenes of wildlife set into the top of each seat. The hall was open on all sides, and sunlight streamed through the large arched doorways. A summer breeze moved the tapestries that hung from the pillars. Precious gems and gold inlays covered every surface, reflecting the sunlight in a rainbow of colors.

  Dozens of elves stood in the gallery talking among themselves. The King called for order, and a hush fell over the room.

  “You are all aware of the message we have received from Carloe,” he began. “You have had time to reflect on the matter at hand. What say ye?” The King waited for a reply.

  “I am wary of such an allegiance,” started Skal’d’tol, a stern and imposing figure who sat straight in his seat, his hands folded in his lap. “Such a thing as this has implications, the consequences of which are unsure.” Though he was shorter than most elves, the councilman had earned a great respect among his kinsmen. Many times his had been the lone voice of reason among the council, and his misgivings carried much weight. His words hung heavy in the summer air.

  “True,” added Clan’d’roth. Leaning nearer the table, he said, “Unsure, but necessary in light of the situation.” The elder elf looked around the room, his silver hair shining in a shaft of light that came in through the skylight. “Do we not agree? The times are unstable and the course before us has merit.”

  “An allegiance seems unavoidable despite our misgivings,” said Glan’d’roh, the King’s captain. He cast his glance around the room and fixing his eyes upon Skal’d’tol he continued, “Carloe is to be trusted. He has always held our best interest at heart. Is there any here who doubt his loyalty?” The room was engulfed in silence, heads nodded in agreement. “If he brings us this plan, then we can be certain there is no other course of action for us except to lend whatever aid we can.”

  “Do not misunderstand me,” Skal’d’tol explained. “It is not Carloe that I distrust. He has always been a friend to the fair folk. I am wary of the allegiance he suggests.” He looked around the room at the other council members. “Our history is sure, and it speaks to us of deceit and treachery.”

  A murmur filled the hall and Klan’d’ron called once again for order. “I am inclined to agree with Skal’d’tol,” he said. “His words are true and his intention is, as always, above reproach.” The King nodded soberly to the councilman and continued. “History is sure as he so rightly states. However, the future is uncertain. What came before does not have to foretell what is to be. All history was tainted by the Dark Son. His evil touched many who would have otherwise been our allies.”

  “Evil walks abroad once again,” interrupted Skal’d’tol. “Who is to say that these same would-be allies will not succumb to the evil of this new and unknown wizard?”

  “You are right, Skal’d’tol. We have no guarantees,” agreed Glan’d’roh. “We have only the word of Carloe, but I, for one, feel that his word is enough.” Glan’d’roh sat back in his chair. “The Lone Rider has answered our call on countless occasions, and there is a debt to be paid many times over. We owe him our assistance. We must set aside our prejudices—our fears. It is time to take action that ensures the peace of Ashandor.”

  “In light of what we have learned from our scouts,” said Klan’d’ron, choosing his words carefully, “it appears that we must do what we can to avoid the darkness that threatens to once again cover our land. War with King Praelix is useful as a path to reach the wizard. He will reveal himself if Praelix falls, and then we will need allies if we are to prevail. To honor the prophecy, we must follow the course that fate dictates. Carloe is a man of strong will, and if we choose to deny his request he will undoubtedly move forward without us. If so, he is bound to fail, and his failure will be the end of Ashandor.” He looked around the room, and called for the council’s vote. “Those in favor of following Carloe’s path, make it known.”

  Metal sounded on stone as swords were placed on the table signifying agreement. Skal’d’tol studied the King’s face for a moment looking for any sign of doubt. Satisfied, he slowly lay his sword on the table.

  “It is agreed.” The King turned to Glan’d’roh and said, “Send a party of scouts to meet the Lone Rider. Tell him the fair folk will assist in any way we can.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Few are the men

  who can stomach

  a strong woman.”

  -Elven saying

  Valaron lay on the ground looking up at Cler’d’roh. A grimace of pain covered his face. A bruise was quickly forming on his wrist. He remembered reaching to draw his practice sword, but she had struck him with blinding speed, numbing his sword arm. He wasn’t exactly sure how he had wound up on the ground, but he was certain that it had something to do with the rather sizable knot that was growing on the top of his head.

  The elf extended her hand and helped him to his feet. She looked at Skarson questioningly, “I thought you said he was ready to train.”

  “I have done all I can,” Skarson replied, throwing up his hands. “Now it is up to you. Try not to hurt him too much.” He turned and walked away, shaking his head and laughing like a wild man.

  The next few weeks were spent in grueling sword workouts that left Valaron bruised and battered, his ego completely destroyed. He was quickly becoming fond of his morning tea. The heady elixir restored his good humor and dulled the many aches and pains that assailed his battered body.

  Cler’d’roh, Skarson, and the two boys sat together in the morning mist enjoying the warmth of the fire. Red and yellow flames crackled and spit at the chilling fog. The penetrating dampness of the past few mornings had delayed the training schedule. Valaron was glad for the rest. The four friends sipped their tea and ate a breakfast of fried bread smothered in jam made from mixed fruit.

  “Who are these Wild-El
ves you spoke of?” Valaron asked Skarson.

  “A fringe group of rebels,” he answered. “They are unhappy with Klan’d’ron’s rule and seek to overthrow the crown.”

  “They disappeared many years ago and only recently resurfaced,” added Cler’d’roh. She stopped and sipped her tea. “Wild-Elves are banished under penalty of death, but somehow Shaen’d’far, their leader, is able to gain converts among younger elves who are disillusioned with our peaceful life. We are not sure how he reaches them, but he is convincing an ever larger number to join his warrior movement.”

  “What does he want?” asked Toran.

  “He looks to return to the old ways,” replied Cler’d’roh. “He speaks of the clans and the way of the warrior. He has even returned to the clan markings, a direct act of rebellion against the law of King Klan’d’ron.”

  Valaron looked puzzled. “What are clan markings?”

  “They are face markings that show clan affiliation,” said Skarson. “They dip a sharp object into black dye and jab it under the skin until they build up the shape they need. It is painful and permanent.”

  “Each clan has their own mark,” added Cler’d’roh. “They were abolished to help keep down clan rivalry. Shaen’d’far wishes to return to the old ways of clan distinctions and houses. He and his followers wear the clan markings from the ancient days.”

  “There were originally three houses,” said Skarson. “North, South and East. Each house was made up of four clans.

  By decree, instead of clan markings, the elves incorporated clan into their name. In the old days, Cler’d’roh would have been called Cler of Clan Roh. Cler’d’roh is literally Cler de Roh; Cler of Roh.”

  “If Shaen’d’far is ignored, he could cause much trouble,” said Cler’d’roh. “He has threatened to take Klan’d’ron’s throne and rule Loeath’d’nah. He must be stopped.”

  “I am sure that Klan’d’ron will not let that happen,” said Skarson. “He has ruled justly for many generations.”

  “The Wild-Elves grow in numbers,” warned Cler’d’roh. “That is cause enough for concern.” She sipped her tea and the three sat quietly in the damp morning air.

  Valaron had logged many flights on his dragon, and they were quickly becoming comfortable with one another, anticipating each other’s actions and flying the more intricate battle patterns that Skarson had been teaching them. Valaron loved his time spent in the air, flying and singing the Dragon Songs. To get away from the daily poundings he received at the sword of Cler’d’roh was definitely relaxing. He felt refreshed every time he returned from the sky.

  The camp had become rather comfortable thanks to furnishings that Skarson and Toran had made while the others worked. A thatched roof to keep off the morning dew and the occasional rain shower now covered their bedrolls. Small, willow-backed seats and short tables were arranged near the fire. Cler’d’roh contributed roots and herbs to their larder, and Valaron located a nearby spring.

  The Grands stood directly behind their camp in an almost vertical rise, and a ridge fell off on either side sheltering them from the weather. The valley unfolded in front of their camp and ran up and down in both directions for many miles. The valley floor was covered in short, variegated grass. Directly across from their camp was a tall ridge, the back of the mountain slope that held the cave where Valaron had found the dragon. Its sparse cover of trees allowed them to see if anyone approached from that direction.

  During Valaron’s flights, he found several small streams to the south. Some contained pools of crystal clear water. The streams all led off in the same direction and wound their way down the valley, tumbling over the gently sloping ground. Several different types of fish filled the streams, and Valaron was diligent to see that the dragon never ate any of them. The elves had determined that the dragon plague was the result of a respiratory infection brought about from eating fish. This was the only restriction placed on the dragon’s diet. All other wildlife was acceptable, and game was plentiful throughout the valley.

  The dragon was now full-grown. He towered over sixty feet above the ground, and his wings spanned one hundred forty feet. His head was longer than a full-grown man. Even Skarson was amazed at the dragon’s immense size. The most unusual feature was the dragon’s color. His scales were black as night and reflected a blue tinge in full sunlight.

  “I have never seen a dragon that large,” he told Valaron. “In all of Stronghold there was only ever one such dragon as this.”

  “Nathal,” whispered Cler’d’roh.

  “Nathal?” asked Valaron. “Why is that name familiar?”

  “Nathal’s black dragon defeated Maladron in the battle for Aradorn,” replied Skarson. “Vaelor’s dragon was of that line, and now this one continues the lineage.” Skarson looked up in awe. “He is magnificent.”

  Valaron had to make a new saddle. He killed a deer and spent several days tanning the hide. The venison was a welcome addition to their meal. He worked the leather and assembled the pieces with sinew from he cut from the buck’s carcass.

  “A good job,” said Skarson. “It looks like it will be a nice fit.” The old storyteller stopped and pointed. “What are those?”

  “These are thigh straps. You pull them over your knees and cinch them tight.”

  “But what are they for?”

  Valaron looked annoyed. “They keep you from falling off.”

  “Nobody has ever fallen off of their dragon,” said Skarson. His face showed a faint smile.

  “And I will not be the first.”

  Skarson shook his head and laughed. “I do believe you are the only dragon rider I have ever known who was afraid of heights.”

  “It’s not heights that bother me,” said Valaron. “It’s falling.”

  Skarson roared with laughter.

  Every day, Valaron and the dragon made longer treks, flying farther up and down the valley. The young rider was careful to always keep them below the crest of the ridge, staying out of sight of the flatlands below. They sang together as they flew, and the melodies of the Dragon Songs filled the air. Wondrous duets of haunting harmonies floated through the air like a gentle breeze.

  Cler’d’roh’s training sessions were taking a turn for the better. Valaron was beginning to hold his own against the elven warrior. He wasn’t sure if she was taking it easy on him, but he seemed to be gaining ground. Once or twice he had landed a blow of his own that made her smile and shake her head approvingly.

  Sword training was combined with flying, and Valaron spent a lot of his time learning to cut an enemy from the back of his moving dragon. Skarson’s scimitar was perfect for such work. The curved blade sliced cleanly through the targets that Skarson arranged along the glade. Flying just above the ground, Valaron became proficient at severing targets as they flew past at blinding speed. He would hang low from his saddle and lean out when they darted close to the ground. The dragon rider’s scimitar flashed in the sunlight, hacking the targets into pieces.

  Summer was passing quickly, the days turning hot. The air grew thick, and the trees were in full leaf. The flowers of spring had lost their blooms. Crystal clear nights glittered by the light of thousands of stars that twinkled brightly against the black velvet backdrop of the sky. Evenings were cool in the mountains, and the crisp air was a refreshing break from the stifling heat of the day. A strong bond had grown among the friends who lounged together by the evening fire.

  Skarson lit his pipe. “Cler’d’roh says that you are ready,” he said. “I think she is right,”

  Valaron looked between the two solemn faces. “Ready for what?” he asked cautiously.

  “Ready to lead the rebellion,” answered Cler’d’roh. “Praelix must be stopped, and it is up to you and your dragon to lead the uprising.”

  “I don’t feel ready,” replied Valaron.

  “No one ever feels ready,” said Skarson. “It is a dangerous task that lies before you; before us all, really.” He nursed his pipe before continuing. �
��The people of Ashandor are finally ready to take action. They can no longer shoulder the taxes levied by the King in his push to become Emperor. His Mort raiding parties have placed the villager’s backs against the wall.”

  “But where do I come into this?” asked Valaron.

  “We must remove Praelix from the throne,” added Cler’d’roh, “but the people need a leader, a crystallizing force. You and your dragon are the rallying point we need to bring together the people of Ashandor.”

  “Plus,” continued Skarson, “There are others we may be able to call upon. All together we should be able to raise a large enough army to take revolution to the palace gates.”

  “You mean to go to war against the King?” said Toran.

  “My people are already moving,” said Cler’d’roh. “With news of a dragon, the council has agreed to send warriors and archers to stand with the resistance.” She bowed her head and continued, “We are at your service.”

  Valaron sat in silence, staring at the burning embers. He watched smoke drift out of sight into the darkness. “They think I am ready,” he thought, “but do I?”

  “We will leave tomorrow and make our way to Frensville,” continued Skarson. “We need to raise support for the march on Kalador.”

  “I will take my leave in the morning,” said Cler’d’roh. “Our forces will meet up along the way.”

  Valaron wasn’t sure what to think. The training had been safe. There had been no real enemies to fight. Now things would be different. Also, he was upset that Cler’d’roh would be leaving.

  Valaron was up before the sun, but Cler’d’roh was already gone. Skarson offered her a horse, but she said it would only slow her down. The storyteller turned to Valaron and extended his arm. He placed something in the dragon rider’s hand. Valaron looked down at Cler’d’roh’s tea bag. The leather was soft and somehow comforting. The beaded fringe waved in the early morning breeze. He could smell the pungent odor of the tea that it held.