The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (12 page)

CHAPTER
21

"A man of power

rises to such

as other's never know.

With time, grace

and mercy fall away.

A man of power

seizes much

make
s
his kingdom grow.

With time, blackness

fill
s
his day.

A man of power learns

to covet

the evil he meant

to overthrow

With time,

his countenance

turns to gray."

-Poem "Fall From Grace"

V
alaron sipped his tea. The effects of Cler’d’roh’s herbs were fast and potent. His mind began to quickly shake off the fog of sleep. Valaron offered his cup to Galdor who sniffed the pungent tea and handed it back, shaking his head.

“No thank you,” he said, grimacing at the smell.

“It will be light soon,” Valaron said. “Are we ready to move?”

“Within the hour,” replied Galdor.

The rebels and elves struck camp. They moved out due east to open the distance between themselves and the nearby Mort garrison. They altered their course in the late afternoon to head toward Klastor. The elves established runners to stay in touch with the rear scouts and keep Galdor apprised of any change in their situation.

Valaron and Draegon flew low to keep from being seen. They sped ahead of the massed armies, reporting back at regular intervals. The young dragon rider thought how good it was to be flying again. They spent most of their time racing back and forth over the trail that led to Klastor, skimming the ground at incredible speeds. Valaron would lean out to the side, swing his scimitar, and take the tops off of small trees. He quickly became more proficient, and the training gave him a renewed sense of purpose.

The elves formed into two columns that marched on either side of the volunteers, providing a line of defense that protected the rebels from having their ranks penetrated. Galdor appointed Carlton, the butcher from
Frensville
, as commander of the rear guard. His job was to keep the forces together and lead any battle that might arise from an attack at the rear of the column.

Cler’d’roh, accompanied by twenty-five elven warriors, walked beside Galdor as he rode at the head of the rebel column. They spoke together in the elven tongue. Cler’d’roh corrected Galdor’s pronunciation and clarified points of grammar.

Each night when they made camp, the elves encircled the rebels in a ring of protection. The days were hot and humid, but the evenings cooled down quickly from the chilly winds blowing across the flatlands. Small fires were scattered throughout the camp and groups of men sat around them, talking and playing cards as well as any other diversions they could find to keep their minds off their weariness. The elves stayed to themselves. They spent most of their time checking weapons and practicing skills. The sharp ringing of swords could be heard late into the night throughout their camp.

Valaron spent his evenings with Cler’d’roh and Galdor, eating and talking, but retiring early. The young rider slept a fair distance from the camps, curled up under Draegon’s wing. The two had become nearly inseparable. They spent much of their time together singing the Dragon Songs. Valaron found that he preferred to spend his time with Draegon. Cler’d’roh was the only one who gave him any joy. He loved her company and looked forward to their evening meals together.

On the twenty-first day since leaving Aelor, the massed armies forded the Greater Bael river and made camp in the fields outside of Klastor, a hub of commerce that bartered textiles and clothing between the other villages. Klastor was a sprawling city, and the mills that turned out bolts of fabric were located in the center of town. Large open rooms housed row upon row of looms where threads were woven into fabric that supplied the local tradesmen. They, in turn, provided materials for the many tailor shops and dress makers that lined the streets. A brimming garment industry made this the richest city in the kingdom. It also served as the gateway to Kalador. Travelers to and from the palace city made their way through Klastor on their journeys. Several public houses kept up a brisk business, all well known for their generous hospitality.

When they made camp, Valaron sang the Feeding Song and Draegon ate his fill of meat bought in the city. The dragon was soon snoring loudly, Valaron fast asleep by his side.

More volunteers streamed from the city the following day, and by evening, twenty-two hundred men joined the rebellion. Most carried only short swords and daggers. Some of the men wore chain-mail coats while a few were afforded the luxury of a shield. The resistance now numbered more than four thousand men and elves.

Kalador was only fourteen days march from Klastor, and the men were beginning to show signs of the pressure. Small fights broke out among some of the villagers, and two Elves were set upon by a small band of loud-mouthed fishermen who tried to provoke them into a fight. One of the men grabbed an elf by the shoulder. The unlucky trouble maker suffered a dislocated shoulder and broken nose.

“We will have to move soon before they all turn on each other,” grumbled Galdor. “This waiting is making everyone irritable.”

“It will not be long now,” replied Valaron. “As soon as the force arrives from Raenor, we will be ready to march. Where is Carlton?” he asked.

“I have not seen him since we arrived.” answered Galdor.

“Find him,” said Valaron, “and the two of you distribute the spare arms. We must get everyone outfitted as quickly as possible.”

Cler’d’roh and
Pen’d’roh
walked up as Galdor left to find Carlton. “Your men are causing some problems,” she said.

“I know,” answered Valaron. “I am sorry. We are doing what we can to keep things calm.”

“It might be best if I ordered my men to stay away from your camp,” offered Cler’d’roh. “I cannot be responsible for what they will do if they feel truly threatened.”

“That’s probably best,” Valaron agreed. “The forces from Raenor should be here soon. I am certain things will settle down once we are back on the move.”

Cler’d’roh nodded to
Pen’d’roh
and he
turned and walked back toward the elven camp.

Valaron made tea and sat by the fire with Cler’d’roh.

“I hope you have some idea of what will be waiting for us at Kalador,” she said.

“Rumors say that
Praelix
has nearly ten thousand Morts under his command,” replied Valaron. “I expect that most of his force is gathering at the palace.” He slowly shook his head.

“Something is bothering you.”

“I am not sure that I can do this, Cler’d’roh.” The young dragon rider looked around at the encampment. “I thought Skarson would be here to lead the men into battle. I never wanted to be in charge.” He kicked the fire and sparks whirled into the air, rising quickly, burning out as the wind carried them away. “What if I let everyone down?”

“When the time comes, you will find the right path.” Cler’d’roh rested her hand on his shoulder. “Very few are ever called to be a leader of men, Valaron. It is a great honor, and you have to follow that calling. Look around. The King’s oppression grows worse every day. People are losing their homes. Families are living in the streets. They beg for food. Decent men are forced off of their property to work in the mines just so they can buy bread to feed their families. You have no choice. You must do what is needed, and that is to lead. If
Praelix
is successful in his attempt to establish himself as Emperor, all will be lost. He will be unstoppable.”

Valaron sipped his tea and watched the smoke dance above the flames. A light breeze carried Cler’d’roh’s scent. Her unmistakable aroma assailed his senses with a mixture of spring flowers, spices, and musk. He resisted the urge to pull her closer, to bury his face in her shining hair and inhale her beauty.

Cler’d’roh seemed unaware of the effect she was having on the young dragon rider. The elf remained quiet for a long time while they drank their tea. “You were one of my best students,” she offered, breaking the silence. “I enjoyed the time we spent training on the mountain.”

“It was much too short,” he replied. Valaron was thankful that Cler’d’roh had changed the subject. He sat in the firelight nursing his cup, eyes closed, enjoying their closeness. “I hope that we might be able to spend more time together after all of this is over.”

The elf’s eyes sparkled in the firelight. Shadows danced across her face, and her red hair glistened. “I would like that,” she said.

CHAPTER
22

Knock three times;

knock twice more.

Guard your children

and lock the door.

Hide your gold

and all that’s new.

Watch your purse;

they steal th
ose
, too.

-Children’s Rhyme

S
karson and the elves quickly established a routine as they moved across the flatlands, riding late into the night. Fler’d’roh and his brothers took turns keeping watch in the darkness. Rest breaks were short, and they usually moved again before daylight. They pushed the horses as hard as they could.

Four nights into their ride, Fler’d’roh shook Skarson awake and cautioned him to be silent. Motioning for him to follow, they eased through the tall grass and joined the other elves who were kneeling, their bows at the ready. Vler’d’roh pointed off into the distance. Skarson could just make out a band of ten Morts, their swords drawn. They moved quietly toward the place where the travelers had been sleeping. Closing in through cover of the blowing grass, Skarson and the elves intercepted the Morts at the edge of the field. The elven brothers took aim. Four of the Morts fell instantly, arrows piercing their necks.

Skarson pulled his small knife, and the elves drew their swords. Charging forward, they carved a path through the remaining Morts. Skarson thrust into the nearest monster while the brothers sliced in every direction. The enemy fell heavily in the darkness. Skarson dodged a savage blow from the remaining Mort, drove his knife into the side of the monster’s neck, and neatly sliced his throat. Blood gushed in the moonlight. As quickly as it had begun, the battle was over.

“You fight well with a kitchen knife,” commented Fler’d’roh, a grin creasing his face.

“You do what you must.” Skarson wiped the small blade and placed it back in his belt.

“They meant to slay us in our sleep,” continued Fler’d’roh. He checked to make sure the Morts were dead. “Vler’d’roh discovered them while on watch.

“I would guess they are the scout party for a garrison,” said Skarson. “The other Morts will not be far off, and there is no way to know if the scouts sent back a report.”

“If that is the case,” said Gler’d’roh, “they will discover the bodies of their fallen scouts and track us down. Morts are thorough if nothing else.” Looking at Fler’d’roh, he continued, “We should find the garrison and finish it now.”

“Yes,” agreed Fler’d’roh.

“Very well,” said Skarson. “We would be wise to move on through the night to gain as much ground as possible. I’ll break camp and be ready to ride when you return.”

The elves disappeared into the darkness. Skarson gathered their belongings and packed the horses. He did not have long to wait before he heard the distant sounds of battle raging in the night. Elves and Morts are fearsome warriors, and Skarson stood in the dark listening to the ringing of swords. Shouts and screams carried across the field. Soon, the quiet of night was restored. Presently, he saw the four elven warriors returning through the tall grass.

“It is done,” said Fler’d’roh, blood dripping from his blade.

The elves wiped their weapons on the wet grass. They mounted their horses and moved cautiously through the darkness. The band of travelers rode on through the next day and late into the night. They skirted several additional Mort garrisons over the next few days, losing precious time as they made wide circles to avoid detection. The Morts all seemed to be marching rapidly toward Kalador.

“The King is gathering his forces,” said Fler’d’roh as he rode beside Skarson. “I am afraid the rebels will be greatly outnumbered. They will be hard-pressed to gain victory even with the help of your dragon rider.”

“All the more reason to pursue our course,” replied Skarson.

“I am somewhat doubtful of your success,
Carloe
,” stated Fler’d’roh. “What you seek is considered impossible by many of my people.”

“What about you?” asked Skarson. “Do you think it is impossible?”

The elf thought for some time before answering. “As I said, I am somewhat doubtful of your success, but the word impossible has such a final ring to it. I have found that most things thought to be impossible were simply too difficult to dare, too overwhelming to start. Once begun, the impossible usually falls in the face of hard work and courage. You have shown both.”

“All tasks fail that are never begun,” agreed Skarson.

“The allegiance that you seek will change all that we know about Ashandor. It may upset the balance of power. Are you willing to take that risk?”

“I see no other choice,” answered Skarson. “If I am unsuccessful, failure is certain.
Praelix
will destroy the rebels, and Ashandor will never see peace.”

“Truly spoken,” Fler’d’roh said, nodding his head in agreement. “A victory for the King will forever seal the fate of all people, man and elf alike.”

“So, you see,” said Skarson, “success is the only option.” He spurred his horse to a faster pace.

The small band of travelers took only what time they needed to rest their horses. The Raen Mountains grew in the distance as they raced across the plains. Hot, humid days were sharply contrasted by chilly evenings spent wrapped in cloaks against the evening winds that stirred across the flatlands. At last, they approached the foothills of the Raen Mountains. Skarson led them to the road that joined Raenor in the north with the palace city of Kalador to the south.

“Here is where we part ways,” said Skarson. “I am most grateful for your protection, but I must finish the journey on my own. Send my greetings to Klan’d’ron.”

“May your hard work and courage prevail,” said Fler’d’roh. The elves turned south toward the Gra’d’har Forest where Loeath’d’nah remains hidden among the ancient trees. Skarson watched them ride into the distance, and urging his mount, he moved on toward the mountains.

At mid-afternoon, he approached a rock outcropping at the base of a sheer cliff that climbed hundreds of feet into the air. The smooth rock face was covered in caves that began a hundred feet above the grassy field. Skarson studied the cliff. “It is good to be home.”

The Lone Rider dismounted and tied his horse by a grove of trees near a stream that ran out of the rocks and tumbled along the base of the mountain. A path lay hidden behind the underbrush. Skarson pushed through the tangle and made his way up the winding path. Stronghold was not designed to be entered on foot. It took a long time for the elder rider to work his way onto the lower terrace.

When Skarson reached the first cave he took a torch from the wall, lit it, and walked through a doorway in the back. Living chambers and quarters that had housed the Dragon Guard were connected to the caves by a series of tunnels. The dragons had occupied the caves while the Guard had made more comfortable arrangements deeper inside the rock wall.

A common kitchen was located near the center of the chambers, the meeting hall was off to one side, and its large wooden tables were broken and crumbling from age. The tapestries that covered the walls were rotting. Most were unrecognizable.

Torches were set into the stone walls while wooden plates and cups sat on the tables looking as though a meal would soon be served. The air was cold and damp. Water ran down many of the stone walls through cracks that had developed over the years. Skarson made his way through the labyrinth of tunnels and came at last to a large chamber filled with weapons.

The armory stood as it had for many years. Bows lined the walls, but their strings were rotted and broken. Quivers full of arrows hung in racks beside the bows, and cobwebs were spun throughout the goose-feather fletchings. Long wooden stands held rows of scimitars, their scabbards and frogs sat nearby. Large wooden boxes were filled with an assortment of daggers. Skarson strapped on a sword and tucked a matching dagger into his belt to replace the ones he had gifted to Valaron.

The Lone Rider made his way once again through the tunnels and worked his way along the twisting maze. He stepped into a small room that had been used by a Guardsman as his living quarters, hung the torch on the wall, and opened the door that led out into the dragon’s cave. Standing in the dim light that filtered in through the mouth of the cave, he looked around as memories flooded his mind. This had been the hold of Saegon, his own dragon.

Skarson remembered the countless flights they had launched from the cave’s threshold and the many years they had spent together. They had flown over ten years as dragon and rider and served the King on many missions. His thoughts quickly turned to their last days together as the plague swept through the hold.

The first signs of sickness came from a flight that had returned from Aelor. It was thought that the illness had come from the fish they had eaten while stationed near the Aelagon Sea. A respiratory infection quickly set in. The disease traveled through the air, spreading to all of the dragons at Stronghold. One by one the dragons began to die throughout the hold, and the smell of death filled the air.

In the end, Saegon had been too weak to move. Skarson fed him by hand, trying desperately to maintain his strength until the elves could find a cure. Their last night together had been a long, painful one as Saegon struggled to breathe. His massive bulk strained and heaved in spasms.

Great deafening coughs racked the dragon’s body. Foaming red blood showed in the spittle at the corners of his mouth. Skarson stayed by his side throughout the night, and Saegon took his last labored breath as the first fingers of sunlight spilled across the cave opening.

It was that same afternoon when news spread through the dragon city that the elves had found a cure. Many of the dragons were saved by the elves’ medicine, but in the end, fifty-three of the noble beasts lay dead in their caves. The plague had decimated the Dragon Guard and taken away the best part of Skarson only hours before the saving medicine was ready.

He walked slowly around the cave running his hand over the smooth walls as if feeling the memories through his fingertips. His thoughts turned to the future, and he imagined a new Guard sired from Valaron’s dragon. He saw the mighty beasts once again filling the halls, the bustling activity of the inner chambers. “I hope I live long enough to see it,” he said, his voice echoing in the empty cave.

Walking back through the doorway, he stopped and looked around the chamber where he once lived. He had removed his personal belongings and the room sounded empty and hollow. Skarson walked out of the chamber and winding his way through the tunnels, made his way back down the trail to the grasslands below. The Lone Rider quickly mounted his horse, rode into the foothills, and worked his way deeper into the Raen Mountains.

The trail was narrow, winding along the ridge backs as they made their way farther into the mountain range. Skarson continued up and around the steep grades, topped the first range, and descended into a long green valley. An hour later the trail headed once again into the mountains. He rode cautiously along the winding path covered in loose shale. His horse slipped and slid as they followed the narrow pass that led up into the higher mountain range.

Shale gave way to firm ground at the top of the ridge. Skarson spurred his mount, quickening the pace. The trail fell away into another valley that held a stream. Clear waters tumbled slowly across the valley floor, filling small, shallow pools lined with moss-covered stones. Rider and horse quenched their thirst in the failing light.

They hastened toward the head of the valley where it ended between two ridges standing tall on either side. A large group of men were camped just ahead. A single horseman rode out to meet him.

“I feel your loss,” said
Willem
as he approached on horseback.

“And I yours,” replied Skarson. “I see you were successful.”

“I was able to summon forty-two men, not nearly enough I am afraid.”

“You have done very well, my friend,” replied Skarson.

“Let us hope that I have not led them to their death.”

Skarson nodded. “We shall see.”

The two friends rode into camp where Skarson was eagerly greeted by the men gathered around his horse. They wore daggers and scimitars at their belts, and though the years had taken their toll, all were fit and able. The Lone Riders sat around the fire talking of past glories and asking questions about the new dragon.

“You say it is the biggest dragon you have seen?” asked
Janson
. The elder rider’s voice relayed his astonishment.

“By far,” replied Skarson. “In all my time at Stronghold, I have never seen a dragon such as this. He is spectacular, massive, and black as night. He outweighs that fat beast you rode,
Hardis
. And he is thickly muscled, stronger than my dragon ever was.”

“That
may be
,” said
Hardis
. He ignored Skarson’s good-natured insult. “But what of the rider?” he asked. “How can we rely on him to lead a rebellion? You say he is a boy.”

“This is not just a boy.” Skarson paused, enjoying the moment. “He is Valaron, the only son of Valdanor.”

The others nodded their approval.