The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (11 page)

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”

S
karson 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.” Skarson 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.”

“Klan’d’ron sends his warmest greetings,” the elf continued. “I am Fler’d’roh. This is Gler’d’roh, Sler’d’roh and Vler’d’roh. I think you know our sister,” he said.

“Yes,” laughed Skarson. “I believe I do.”

Fler’d’roh frowned, unsure of the joke. “I hope she was of service.”

“Yes,” answered Skarson. “Thank you. Cler’d’roh was the perfect choice. Her service was invaluable.”

Fler’d’roh bowed and continued, “Father will be pleased. I bring news from the council. Your plan has been approved. We are to lend whatever assistance you may need.” He pointed to the other elves. “My brothers and I are prepared to accompany you on your journey.”

“I am truly honored by your gracious offer,” replied Skarson, bowing deeply, “but I am sure you understand that I must go alone. With all due respect, the presence of fair folk

might complicate matters.”

“I fully understand,” replied Fler’d’roh. “However, if you would allow, we will accompany you as far as the Raen Mountains. That should cause no upset to your plan. Morts run thick over the flatlands, and I would be remiss if I failed to offer you safe passage.”

Skarson did not relish encountering a Mort raiding party by himself. He quickly agreed. The elves pulled the deep hoods over their heads and followed him to the stables where they bought horses for their journey and gathered provisions.  Skarson and the four elven brothers raced westward across the flatlands.

CHAPTER
20

"Forest dwellers

tall and strong;

Warriors one and all.

Artisans and singers with

an other-worldly call.

Archers all and long

in sight
with never

failing aim.

Wild of eye

and woodsmen sure,

no hint

of being tame.

A tongue of beauty,

to the point;

No extra words

to spare.

An elf defines

the beauty

of the word

we know as fair.”

-
Epic Poem

“
Fair Folk of Grad’d’har"

“
C
ome quick,” called Galdor. “You have to see this.”

Valaron followed as they made their way to the edge of the encampment where a growing number of men stood pointing into the distance and talking loudly. Valaron shaded his eyes, looked out over the field, and saw a column of elves marching toward the rebel camp.

The warriors, set in ranks of twenty, stretched into the distance and he guessed their numbers to be about fifteen-hundred strong. Each elf carried a shield covered in hammered gold, a longbow over his shoulder, and a quiver full of arrows. Long thin swords hung by their sides. Golden helms reflected the sunlight in blinding flashes.

“This just gets better and better,” said Galdor, grinning broadly. “A regiment of elves on our side might actually give us a chance at victory.”

Valaron nodded in agreement. The elf warriors were an impressive lot. Their tall, straight ranks moved in long strides across the open field. While still some distance from the camp, the column of elves halted. A lone runner sprinted across the field to where Valaron and Galdor were standing.

“The Second to the Captain of the King’s Guard asks permission to join your forces,” he said.

“Of course,” replied Valaron. “But wait,” he said, looking confused. “I thought that Cler’d’roh was the Second to Glan’d’roh.”

“It is as you say,” replied the elf. “She requests your company for dinner.”

“Yes. Of course.” Before Valaron could say another word, the runner was gone, sprinting back to the column of archers. Valaron marveled at the elf’s speed as he effortlessly raced across the field.

“So,” Galdor said, a sly grin on his lips. “You know the Captain of the elven army. You are just full of surprises.”

Valaron returned the grin and looked at the smithy. “Well here is one more little surprise,” he said, laying his finger on Galdor’s chest. “You will be joining us for dinner.” He turned and quickly walked away leaving Galdor staring after him, mouth hanging open.

Just after dark, Valaron and Galdor walked the short distance to where the elves made their camp. The two men approached a large, ornate tent outlined in red braid trim. The shield of Klan’d’ron was woven into the fabric of the door with vibrant greens, yellows, and reds. Two elven guards flanking the opening remained at attention as the two men pushed through the tent flap and entered Cler’d’roh’s quarters. Furnishings consisted mostly of multi-colored pillows of varying sizes for seating and one low table. Candles illuminated dishes of steaming food. An oil lamp hung from a support near the back corner of the tent where Cler’d’roh waited.

“Valaron!” She walked over and embraced him.

“How are you?” he asked.

“As well as you look,” she answered. Her green eyes danced behind a fall of red hair.

Valaron pointed to his friend and made introductions. “This is Galdor, Captain of the rebel army. Galdor, this is Cler’d’roh, Second in command of the King’s Guard.”

“Slaktol
,” Galdor said, greeting Cler’d’roh in the elven tongue.

“
Shanroh
,” she replied, bowing her head and motioning for them to be seated.

They took their places on the soft cushions and Valaron leaned over to Galdor. “What was that about being full of surprises?” he whispered. “When did you learn to speak elven?”

“You will find that I have my own little secrets,” whispered Galdor. His eyes danced in the candlelight.

“My father sent as many warriors as he could spare,” said Cler’d’roh as they ate their evening meal. “He also sends his hopes for victory. There is a small matter of Morts in the forest that should be cleared up quickly, after which he hopes to send more archers to join us when we reach Kalador.”

“We are grateful for the King’s support as well as that of your father,” replied Valaron.

Cler’d’roh’s face darkened. “There are forces at work around us, Valaron,” she said in hushed voice. “The King’s time is at hand. There is a new hope in Ashandor as once again elves and humans walk as friends. Not since the war against Maladron has such an allegiance been forged. Also know this, there are unseen currents and eddies swirling through our time. I cannot tell you all that I know, but rest assured we are not alone in our struggle.”

“I trust you,” replied Valaron. “I just hope that your unspoken help arrives in time. We have more forces to gather, but I am waiting for word from Skarson before we leave Aelor.”

“Very well,” she said. “We will await your orders. I was instructed to place myself at your disposal.” She turned to Galdor and continued, “It would seem that I have the honor of being under your command.”

“It is I who am honored,” Galdor replied as he bowed his head.

After the meal was finished, they talked long into the night. Just as Valaron and Galdor prepared to leave, an elf entered the tent and took Cler’d’roh aside. He stood a full head taller than Cler’d’roh, golden hair braided at both temples. His chiseled features reminded Valaron of a statue. The elf watched the two men as he spoke to Cler’d’roh in whispers. Turning, she said to Valaron, “It seems a messenger has arrived looking for you.
Pen’d’roh
will take you to him.”

They said their good-byes and Galdor left to return to the rebel camp. Valaron followed
Pen’d’roh
to another tent where the messenger was waiting. Two elven warriors stood guard in front of the door and stepped aside as Valaron approached.

A tall man with long black hair was sitting at the back of the tent. He stood as Valaron entered. Bright, hazel eyes and a tanned face made him look younger than he was. A straight back added to his youthful appearance.

“A Lone Rider,” Valaron thought to himself, eyeing the familiar scimitar with matching dagger. “I am Valaron,” he offered. “You have a message for me?”

“Yes,” he replied bowing. “I am Dolsanor, friend of
Carloe
, the one you know as Skarson. He asks that you take your forces to Klastor as soon as possible. They have five hundred of their own men and two thousand volunteers from the outlying areas waiting to join you. Raenor sends a force of unknown size that will also join you in Klastor. When they arrive, you are to march on Kalador and engage the King’s army.
Carloe
regrets that other matters will prevent him from joining you. May victory be swift and sure.” Dolsanor bowed and left the tent.

Valaron stood alone, his thoughts racing. He was stunned that Skarson would not be there for the battle. He had thought all along that his friend would lead the forces against Kalador. Now that task fell on his shoulders, and for the first time, Valaron felt the weight of duty pressing in on him.

Frustrated, he left the tent and returned across the field to find Galdor waiting at the edge of the camp. “Our scouts report that a large Mort garrison is racing across the flatlands just northwest of us,” he reported. “They are less than two days away.”

The young dragon rider raked his hair back out of his eyes. “A single garrison is no match for us now that the elves have arrived. Send word through both camps,” he said. “We march for Klastor at first light.”