The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) Read online

  He once again searched through his books. Not finding what he was looking for, he placed his head on the table in front of him. “One pace up; one pace back.” Sitting up again, he said, “One pace up and one pace back simply takes you back to where you started.” In frustration he tossed a book across the room, knocking over a cup that clanged loudly on the stone floor.

  Moeldor yawned and rubbed his eyes. He took a quill, made notes in a journal, and placed it in a metal box before locking the lid. He slid the box on a high shelf and piled books around it to hide it from prying eyes.

  “That will have to wait,” he said tumbling into bed. He lay awake for a long time, pondering the dwarves riddle. Finally he slept. In his dream he found himself outside in the late evening painting at an easel. Shooting stars filled his canvas and a bright yellow moon stood out against a background of purple and gold. There were dozens of dwarves standing nearby laughing at his painting and throwing rocks at his head.

  The next morning, Moeldor was pondering his odd dream when he received a summons to the council chamber. Upon his arrival, the wizard found Praelix and the other council members already present and waiting. Moeldor took his seat as the King began.

  “A report from Frensville says there is a rebellion being mounted against the throne,” he said, watching the councilmen for their reaction. “Furthermore,” he continued, “our ally informs me there is a new dragon and rider at the forefront of this uprising.”

  “All the dragons are dead,” said Saladon. “The informant must be mistaken.”

  “There is no mistake,” replied the King. “A new dragon and rider have appeared out of the Grands, and the villagers are taking arms.”

  “Impossible,” snorted Benton. “Vaelor’s dragon was the last of its kind. When that beast died, it was the end of the race.” He sat back in his chair and said with finality in his voice, “It is impossible.”

  Praelix stood up and paced around the council chamber. Moeldor noticed that Kragh was missing. He wondered where the Mort commander was and why he was not present.

  “Excuse me, my Lord. Should Kragh be here for this meeting?” Moeldor asked, hoping to learn something of his whereabouts.

  The King waved his hand. “He is otherwise engaged.”

  “Well, that was that,” thought Moeldor. He would have to find out later.

  “Not only is the informant reliable,” continued Praelix, “but he has positioned himself inside the rebel force, and he has seen the dragon. They march for Ballin as we speak.”

  “This is most unsettling,” stated Taelon. “A dragon complicates things. One dragon can quite easily become two and then on and on. Before long, we could be facing another Dragon Guard.” He stared at the King, his face covered in fear.

  “It will not come to that,” said Praelix matter-of-factly. “The dragon will never reach the palace.”

  “But what of the rebels?” asked Saladon. “What if they continue their uprising?”

  “Kragh is mustering a garrison to search out the rebels, replied Praelix. “He has his orders. We will send a message to the villagers that they can understand. No one turns against the King and lives!”

  “One garrison!” exclaimed Saladon. “Surely the King is not going to take a chance by using just one garrison. What if they meet unexpected resistance?”

  Praelix sat back down. “We are talking about a handful of villagers and one dragon. A full garrison will be more than enough.” He looked at each councilman in turn. “The real problem here is the fact that the rebels were so easily ignited into action. It is imperative that we increase our pressure on the villagers and squash any further uprising. We must destroy whatever hopes they have in rebellion and stop any further actions.”

  “I am afraid,” added Benton, “that I must second Saladon’s fear. One garrison may not be sufficient. By the time the Morts intercept them the rebel force may have grown significantly. Perhaps we should err on the side of caution and send a full regiment to ensure success.”

  “Kragh assures me that his force will be more than enough,” replied the King.

  “The commander’s assurances have been less than comforting of late,” stated Taelon. “Let us not forget that it was one of his garrisons that was sent running by that old Lone Rider.

  “If the villagers are as easily swayed as it appears,” added Saladon, “perhaps an extra show of force would be in order.”

  Praelix stood at the end of the table. “This is nothing but a handful of fanatics fueled by the appearance of a new dragon. I plan to eliminate the beast and crush the villagers’ hopes.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

  CHAPTER 18

  "The warring way overtakes the masses. Those who aspire to control it must view the rising and falling of emotions as waves crashing on the beach. Once started, nothing controls the warring way. It ebbs and flows in currents that must be perceived by those who would direct it."

  -Excerpt from

  "Gone to War"

  Valaron and his army gained sixty men at Ballin, a logging settlement that provided timber for the other villages. The men of Ballin were all stout and fit from their labors, and they were more than ready to do battle against the King. Ballin was nestled beside the Bael River at the base of the Grands where the forests provided an ample supply of timber for their logging trade.

  Sawmills were scattered along the river. Waterwheels powered massive saws that split trees into rough planks. Woodworking shops lined the streets where craftsmen fashioned cabinets, chairs, and other wood furnishings. Several carriage makers turned out carts and horse-drawn carriages for their more affluent clients, and a handful of artisans maintained shops where they carved and sculpted the various woods and sold their wares in the marketplace. Trade had taken a steady fall under the rule of King Praelix, and several of the shops were closed. Many of the artists were working the timber to make enough to buy food.

  Teams of horses worked the fallen trees down from the mountains leaving large dirt scars that ran out of the forest where the trees had dug deep into the ground. The drivers urged their teams on by cracking long whips over their heads, and the muscles of the horses rolled under their skin as they strained against their loads. The rattle of logging chains and the cracking of whips mixed together in an odd staccato chorus as the loggers delivered their timber.

  A small band of scouts led by Galdor brought back another fifty men from Gaelor in the south. Galdor had no trouble in raising volunteers since a Mort raiding party had just attacked the small community only two weeks earlier. Gaelor was a small village situated on the shore of the Gael River, and most of their tradesmen were smiths who wrought trade goods from the ore they bought from Plantor in the northwest. Coal smoke could always be seen rising from the forges where smithies shaped the iron ore into various utensils and tools. The pounding of hammers was a constant accompaniment to life in Gaelor.

  The rebels struck out due west toward Aelor. Moving with steady determination, they crossed the Breakaway River and several days later arrived at the southern shore of the lesser Bael. Aelor lay directly across the river. The village lights were burning as the rebels made camp.

  Vic took well to his new duties providing for the horses. He worked hard making sure that there was enough food and water. “Yes. Yes. Yes,” he told Valaron. “This old puss bucket is good with horses. You will see. Yes. Yes. Yes.” He proved to be as good as his word.

  Situated where the lesser Bael dumps into the Aelagon Sea, Aelor was the home of a brisk fishing trade. They sold smoked and salted fish to many of the other villages, and it supplied the main diet of Aelor. All of the public houses served whitefish as their mainstay.

  Lines of fishing boats were nestled in the docks. Fishermen tended to their chores, working on their boats and mending their nets. The men worked a long day on the water, then labored late into the night preparing for the next day’s fishing. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the glassy waters while the fishermen labored unde
r the light of their lanterns.

  Advance scouts had already contacted Aelor’s council, and were gathering volunteers to join the rebel force. Valaron and his army would ford the river first thing in the morning.

  Galdor and Valaron sat around the fire and talked long into the night.

  “I have assigned a small party to backtrack and scout to the rear for any approaching Morts,” said Galdor. “Sentries will take watch while we are at camp from now on. I do not relish being surprised in the middle of the night.” He sipped his tea and looked across the river at the now sleeping village. “They do not know it yet, but their lives are about to change forever. I hope they sleep well tonight.”

  “Their lives were already changing,” replied Valaron. “The King has seen to that. What we offer them is a chance to direct that change.”

  “They seem anxious enough to join us. The scouts report that more than two-hundred men volunteered in the first hour.” Galdor blew steam from his cup and took another sip, burning his lip.

  “You never told me you were in the cavalry,” said Valaron.

  “You never told me you had a dragon. I think that makes us even,” laughed Galdor, spilling hot tea on his hand.

  “Skarson told me that you served under my uncle.”

  “That’s right,” said Galdor “Cortain was my captain. I served as his sergeant for almost two years. We fought together in the battle of Plantor.”

  “I have never heard of that,” said Valaron.

  “Well I guess Skarson neglected to teach you any recent history. Plantor is a mining town that supplies all the ore for the kingdom and they also supply coal for the villager’s stoves. The miners decided to stop trade and extort higher prices for their goods. Praelix sent the cavalry to straighten them out. That was in his first year as King, before his troubles with the Dragon Guard. He seemed a decent fellow then,” he said thoughtfully. “Nothing like he is now.”

  “What happened?”

  “He went crazy! That is what happened. Why, that man....”

  “No, no, no.” interrupted Valaron, “Not Praelix! What happened at Plantor?”

  “Oh,” Galdor replied, sheepishly. “Well. When we arrived, they had taken to the mines and fortified the entrances. We tried to negotiate, but they opened fire and rained arrows down on us from the hillside killing several cavalrymen and a few of the horses. Your uncle gave the command, and we charged their position.”

  “It was all over rather quickly, but there were losses on both sides. Finally, the miners surrendered and an agreement was drawn up to provide goods at a fair price. That was the only action we ever saw. It was enough. I lost a couple of good friends that day, and your uncle lost a horse he had trained while he was a recruit.”

  “He never said anything about that,” Valaron said, shaking his head.

  “He would never speak of it. He never has been one to talk about the past.” Galdor refilled his hot tea. “Your uncle was a fine officer, Valaron. He led us up that hill like he had done it a thousand times before. We would have followed him anywhere. I still would.” He paused to sip his tea, burning his lip again. “I will tell you this much, I wish he was here now.”

  First tendrils of light broke the morning sky as the rebel forces pushed across the shallows just above Aelor. They moved to a field on the western outskirts of the village and were joined by a group of four-hundred and fifty volunteers. Most were mounted and well-armed. Nearly all wore chain-mail tunics and shining brass helms. They were armed with swords and shields.

  Extra horses, arms, and armor were provided by the town council. The rebel force was outfitted for battle. They also had extra arms packed onto wagons and carts. Valaron was pleased with the way things were going.

  “I think I know why the Mort raiding parties have never ventured into Aelor,” said Galdor as he admired their armor and weapons.

  Valaron sat with Draegon and watched the fishing boats working out on the Aelagon Sea, their sails full and pulling hard in the westerly winds that blew whitecaps on the water. Spray kicked off of the wave tops and curled in the gusting winds. The waves broke over the wooden boats and washed their decks in foam and spray.

  At its widest point the far shore was lost to sight, and storms could rise suddenly without warning. The waves would often build to more than twenty feet as the winds howled out of the flatlands. The fishermen were expert sailors possessing nerves of steel, and they rode the wildly bucking decks with a grace born of a life on the water. They worked nets and lines as they tacked back and forth across the inlet, oblivious of the impending war.

  CHAPTER 19

  “A time long gone;

  a time long past

  A time of peace

  and friendships fast.

  A time since forgotten;

  a time no more

  A time of distrust

  forever more.”

  -Poem “A Broken Vow”

  Skarson sat at a corner table. He nursed his mead and watched the locals spend money in an attempt to forget their hard labors. Some of the miners played cards at a table across the room while others sat in small groups, talking, and joking. Loud laughter filled the room. The barmaid worked hard keeping their drinks filled. She worked harder at avoiding groping hands as she twisted and turned through the crowded room. She occasionally slapped the hand of any miner who was getting too friendly.

  Plantor was the only mining town in the kingdom, and the miner’s work was grueling, dirty, and dangerous. They worked hard, and they played hard. The Hole was Plantor’s only pub, and they were doing a brisk business this evening. The bar was packed, the tables were full, and many more men stood in any available spot they could find. Each new arrival caused a swell in the crowd that reminded Skarson of waves running to shore. Fire roared in the massive fireplace that covered one end of the pub. A mantle carved with scenes of the mining life ran the length of the wall over the dancing flames. The proprietor, a large clumsy looking fellow, smiled broadly as he collected money from his patrons.

  Skarson was busy watching the young bar maid dance through a sea of clutching hands when he heard, “I feel your loss.” Looking up, he saw a rather tall, thin man with short gray hair and steel blue eyes. The silver hilt of a dagger could be seen protruding from beneath his cloak.

  “And I yours,” replied Skarson.

  The gray-haired man took a seat, looked at Skarson, and smiled.

  “It is good to see you again, Willem.” Skarson returned the smile.

  “How long has it been? Twenty years?”

  “If not more,” replied Skarson. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It is the least I could do for an old friend,” said Willem. “Now, what is this all about?”

  Skarson quickly explained the events of the last few months. Willem listened intently as Skarson described the growing rebellion. “I need help; experienced help,” said Skarson. “I need men who know how to fight, who are not afraid to stand up to the King.”

  Willem studied Skarson for a moment. He looked around to find the bar maid and ordered a drink. “How can I help?” he asked.

  “I know you have contacts. I also know that you can rally just the kind of support that I have in mind.”

  Willem nodded knowingly.

  Skarson leaned forward and asked, “How many do you think will help?”

  The barmaid brought Willem’s drink, and he sipped at the sweet mead while he thought. Finally, he answered. “Thirty. Maybe forty. Not nearly enough for what you are talking about.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You will need thousands of trained warriors to have any chance of success against the King and his accursed Mort army.”

  “The rebellion is growing quickly,” said Skarson. ”The villagers are finally ready for freedom, and the elves are sending some of their best warriors. The rebels will come to Kalador as a decent sized army, but I am in search of a contingency, a force to turn the tide in our favor. We need men who can make every blow count.” Ska
rson paused, and then added, “I hope I can rely on you.”

  “I owe you a debt that I can never fully repay,” replied Willem. “Just tell me when and where.”

  “Excellent! Gather whatever force you can and meet me at the Archway.”

  Willem choked on his mead and coughed. He put down his glass and stared at the old storyteller. “You cannot be serious!” he hissed.

  Skarson looked at him in silence.

  “What about the elves?” Willem asked, his voice a shrill whisper. “I am sure they will be less than thrilled.”

  Skarson held up his hand. “Leave that to me. I have sent word of my plan to the elven Council. I should hear from them any day now.”

  “I see.” said Willem. “They have not actually agreed to your plan, but you have decided to move ahead anyway. I see some things never change.” He shook his head and sat back sighing heavily. “What happens if the elves say no?”

  “Leave that to me. Klan’d’ron is a wise King.” Skarson waved his hand in dismissal. “I am sure that he will see the advantage to my plan.”

  Willem drank his mead and watched the miners, his brow furrowed in thought. “If it were anyone else,” he said, “I would have laughed in their face.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To the impossible.”

  #

  Skarson left the pub. He walked down the alley leading to the stables. An arm reached out of the blackness and pulled him into a dark doorway. He found himself surrounded by four cloaked men.

  “My apologies, Carloe. We were sent to find you.” The elf smiled. He reached out to show the ring that carried the royal seal of Loeath’d’nah. “I would be most honored if you would refrain from using your weapon.”

  Skarson removed the small knife from the elf’s throat and slid it back in his cloak. “My apologies,” he said. “An old man can never be too careful.”