Authors: Greg Curtis
“I'm sure you're right Captain. But for the moment if someone could tie me into my saddle we should get out of here. I would hate to collapse to the ground now and spoil all my good words to those two pages.”
The elves weren't stupid and shortly he found himself being almost crushed by two of her soldiers as they pressed their horses into his and held him upright in the saddle even as they started to ride away as a unit. To any onlookers such as the two novitiates it would surely have looked as though they were simply riding close, congratulating him on his success instead of the truth which was that without them he would have pitched forwards into his mare's neck and then to the ground.
An ignominious end after such a battle. But then the battle itself had been no grander. And then he realised dispiritedly, he'd probably have to spend some more time with the scribes when he returned.
Chapter Seventeen.
Wind Dragon Falls was a wonder to Yorik, and he suspected to most of the elves as well, perhaps even to Myral though he had seen them before.
Named so he had been told long ago for the water that plummeted from the cliffs for the best part of a quarter league, and the wind that gusted all around them sounding like a dragon in full roar, they were a miracle of nature. They entered them from the bottom, coming up through the narrow rift valley of land that divided the great mountain range, tracking the banks of the mighty Wind Dragon River that screamed past them. And every step of the way Yorik found himself looking up at the great torrents of water falling on both sides of them, and smiling. With so much pain, fear and uncertainty in the world, it was good to know that nature could still provide a spectacle far greater than any demon's army of the undead.
They were also a surcease from his pain; both the exhaustion of his flesh as he still recovered from his duel with the paladin of the Iron Hand, and his heart as he coped with the knowledge that he had killed a man like a common cut throat.
As he had said to Cavutos at the outset, there had been no honour in the duel or the killing, and there had been no good in it either. He simply hadn't been given a choice, and despite the fact that the paladin had killed himself when he had summoned a demon and taken the decision out of his hands, Yorik still regretted all that he done to him before that. Had he survived Cavutos would not have had a good life after the battle. No healer could have repaired his shattered hands fully, nor in all likelihood the damage done to his back and shoulder. He would have been a cripple for life and that was down to Yorik. It had not been an honourable battle, and he worried that it would be considered when his trial was finally held.
The elves were also far from happy with it; – with him. Though he had explained the reasons for his accepting the duel, and even for finishing it as he had, they were a naturally peaceful people. The thought of killing one another simply for a contest of arms was an anathema to them, much as it was to him. They still spoke with him. Even Captain Ysabel who despite her words after the battle he suspected saw him as a whole new form of combatant – a dangerous one. But there was a distance between them, one that he could only pray time would lessen. At least she hadn't suggested that he was slow again.
Genivere was distant too, something that pained him more than he could have imagined. She had healed his wounds as best she could, though at least one of the strikes across his face was going to leave a scar that would endure for many years. But then that would at least be something to speak of in the barracks if not brag about. This had not been a victory to boast of. It was something best put behind him. She spoke with him too, politely if distantly, but more often than not she rode apart from him and kept her silence, and he knew he had disappointed her. Her hero had been shown to be less than perfect and that hurt him more than he could admit.
Myral perhaps was more distant still as he rode at the head of the column, speaking few words to anyone and clearly lost in thought most of the time. Whether that was because of him or for what lay ahead, Yorik didn't know. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to ask.
For his part Yorik had kept his own counsel, trying to be polite and understanding where it mattered, and letting the others come to their own conclusions. He had told them the nature of the battle and his reasons for doing what he had done. It was not his place to tell them what they should think about it. Despite the fact that he sometimes wished it was.
The feel of the mist on his face from the falls as the wind sent it swirling all around them, snapped him out of his melancholy though, and for a while he simply enjoyed the sense of life and strength that it brought him. He even doffed his helmet to let it wet the hair on his head and cool his neck and back, the wetness trickling down his back in a rivulet of pleasure. It was a mistake – he knew that – and he would pay for it in the evening when he had to polish and wax his armour all over again as it got wet inside and out. But it felt so good that he didn't care right then. No matter how long he spent in armour, no matter that he'd worn it for so many years that it almost felt like a second skin, it still got too hot.
There was magic here. He could feel it, even if he couldn't quite understand it. But in a way he realised as he felt the mist on his bare skin, the water was alive. Maybe the wind dragon spirit was in more than just the sound of the water and the wind. Maybe it was in the very water that fell so very far to the ground.
Yorik looked at the others to see that they too were revelling in the magical vitality of the falls, letting it sink deep into their bones. In fact even the horses were enjoying it. They were suddenly enervated and trotting as they hadn't since the very first day when they had set off on this journey. They were like a party that returned from a banquet where they had laughed and drunk too much, and the warmth of the wine made them forget their tiredness, but he knew that there was no danger to them from this. If it was dragon magic of some sort, it was of nature. Still, eventually he decided, he had to ask.
“Myral.” He had brought his mare up to trot beside the ancient wizard at the head of the party and for once Myral didn't seem to care.
“This water, the mist, the very land, it is alive, and it affects us all somehow?”
It wasn't much of a question as such things went, but he fancied the wizard understood. He had a look on his face almost like that of a child discovering a whole new joy in life, and he had been here before.
“Of course lad. This is Wind Dragon Falls, and all people, all creatures of the world cannot help but be affected.”
“It is here that long ago, long before men walked upon the lands, the dragons had a great lair. It was here that dragons were born, lived, fought, mated and even died. And it is here that the essence of their souls remains imprinted in the very ground long after they have passed. This is a place of peace and life, of nature and harmony, of magic and spirit.”
Even as the ancient wizard spoke Yorik could almost see it as it had once been; the mighty dragons soaring in the sky above, the land bursting with life and magic, the very air and water singing with their essence. Myral was right, this was a special place, and yet he did not go far enough. This was a wellspring of life and magic. It was also a place of healing.
“It is truly that.”
They continued up the rift valley for several hours or more, with the noise from the falls so loud that none could speak above them, until Myral finally turned them off the trail and on to a narrow side track. Although “track” was too fine a word for the rock cutting they found themselves on. But it did go where the rift valley trail couldn't. It cut into the cliffs themselves as it led up to the mouth of the falls.
The path was hidden from the rift valley by shrubs and bushes. Whether that was by accident or intent Yorik didn't know, but what he did know was that without the ancient wizard to guide them they would never have found it, especially when parts of the track actually wove their way behind some of the falls themselves. It was an amazing thing, to be travelling up a narrow track with a sheer cliff on one side and a wall of tumbling white water streaming past them on the other and unexpectedly cold as well. The mist that they'd travelled through before was almost like rain as it drenched them all. But still it was something to remember.
The track was too narrow for the party to ride other than in single file, and Myral quickly found the front of the party, while Yorik enjoying the peace and vibrancy of the falls took the rear. It gave him a chance not just to think, but to simply relax and soak in the magic and life all around without feeling that others following were judging him.
The track was a long one, and it hugged and wove around the cliff faces almost like a constrictor around its prey, rising only slowly as they kept heading for the mouth of the valley. And it was so narrow that even a small misstep could lead to a deadly fall. But despite that Yorik let Crysal take her own lead; she was a clever horse and he fancied she wouldn't put a foot wrong, which was for the best as he simply wanted to soak up the vitality all around him.
It wasn't just the wizards that could benefit from such wondrous magic. He could feel it working within him, aiding him with his fatigue and injuries. Despite what he'd told the elders before they'd set off, his shoulder had been troubling him more than a little, and the battle with Cavutos hadn't helped it any. He could use the restorative magic of the falling water.
For hour after hour they continued on their journey up through the cliffs, with all of them eventually starting to wonder if they were ever going to reach the end. But it was only a minor matter. The time for supper might have come and gone as they kept on travelling, but all his thoughts of hunger and an aching posterior were kept at bay by the view alone as he looked out at the cliffs all around them and the valley floor far below. To be able to see out along the huge rift valley through which the mighty river flowed, and then beyond it to the great forests was a revelation. The proof of the glory of the world that the elves always spoke of. It was a sight that few in their life would ever be lucky enough to see, and he felt privileged.
Eventually they reached the end of the track, and just as the sun was setting in the west they found the top of the cliffs and the narrow trail opened into an entire plateau of long grass and wild flowers. A vast expanse of flat land with a few trees and grass for as far as the eye could see. It was a beautiful place. A land which the sun beat happily down upon, and in which he imagined a man and a woman might sit and enjoy a picnic lunch while children played and small woodland creatures grazed.
There was magic here Yorik knew. More than even the magic of the falls. It was the magic of life itself, maybe even of creation, and the magic of peace. This was a place free of violence, free from the anger and darkness of the real world far below, free from death and he suspected free from undeath as well.
This he thought was finally a place where a unicorn might be found. They liked the forests, but he had been told long ago that they liked the highlands too. They abounded in the Land of The Sky, the home of the sylph, and the sires being as vital as they were had often sired half breeds among their horses. The resultant offspring were the acornia, the magical white horses the sylph rode. Maybe here he would finally see one for himself.
Above all else this was a good place, and Yorik couldn't help but smile and simply enjoy the warmth of the sun as it beat down upon him, while his horse ate her fill of the lush green grass as he let her reins slip. He wasn't alone, and from the smiles gracing all their faces he knew that his companions were similarly affected. Even Myral seemed unusually easy.
Naturally that couldn't last.
“We should head over to the chapel.”
Myral having been here before was the first to speak, to find the wit to lead them, and even to identify the crumbling pile of stones in the distance as a chapel. And though he didn't want to – it was simply too peaceful to risk upsetting things by doing the mundane things they'd come here to do – Yorik flicked his mare's reigns and immediately started following him. The others did the same in time.
It wasn't much of a chapel Yorik thought. No more than a stone altar with a few half finished stone walls erected around it, and facing it a few dark stone pews. Actually they weren't half finished. They were half destroyed. They probably had been finished once. These were the crumbling remains left after thousands of years of weather had worked its will. The chapel was a ruin. The only question was where the fallen masonry had disappeared to? Mayhap it was covered up by the long grass?
If there had ever been a true floor it was grass now, and any possible ceiling or roof had been taken away by time. But it didn't matter. In some strange way Yorik knew that this chapel was exactly as it should be. With no roof, no floor, half missing walls and only a few broken pews the chapel was still somehow complete. More than that however, it was alive. Alive in a way he didn't fully understand.
Unbidden he dismounted and unbridled Crysal to let his horse enjoy her fill of the good grass as a reward. She deserved it, and despite the ruined nature of the chapel, he still somehow didn't think it appropriate for a horse to enter within its confines. The others did the same he noticed, all without a word, and once the horses were happily grazing they followed Myral up what would have been the centre aisle to the altar.
“Welcome friends, to the Temple of the Last Dragons.” Myral turned to face them as he said it, and they all stopped dead, wondering what happened next.