The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (2 page)

CHAPTER
2

"None compares

to a treasure

found
where once

it had been
hidden."

-Poem "
Simple Things"

V
alaron was on the move long before dawn. He had always been able to see well in the dark, and he had no trouble working his way through the forest. He moved up the mountain until he came to a sheer rock face that towered into the morning sky. The singing had come from somewhere above.

“Oh, great,” sighed Valaron. High places were his one lifelong fear. He searched the face of the cliff, but there was no path that would lead him up. He would have to climb if he was going to get answers to his questions. If he skirted the cliff and made his way to the top, he would be climbing down. That was much worse. He chose to climb from the bottom so he would not be forced to look down.

Valaron paced at the base of the cliff trying to muster the courage to take that first handhold. Finally, curiosity won out over fear. He cached his pack and began to pick his way up the rock face. The going was slow and strenuous. Several times he was forced to back down and try a new route. Valaron fought back his fear and forced himself to the task at hand. He came to a small rock ledge with just enough room to rest, and placing his back to the cliff, he drank half of his water as he looked out over the flatlands, careful not to look straight down.

Below and to the right lay the sprawl of Frensville. He couldn't make out any of the structures, but he could see general outlines. The dark, circular area at the center of the village held the Town Hall. Skarson’s house was to the right. The storyteller lived among mounds of books. Every surface was covered in ancient texts and yellowed scrolls, and Valaron always had to move stacks of books to make a place to sit. He enjoyed the time he spent learning the Dragon Songs of old and hearing Skarson’s stories and history lessons. Valaron’s eyes scanned to the left of the village where square patches of brown marked his uncle’s farm. The beehives would soon be producing, and Cortain would settle into the rhythm of making his famous mead. “Bees make the honey,” he would say, “but I make it better.”

He continued the climb. The rock face turned smooth and glassy, and handholds were becoming hard to find. He reached another ledge and scoured the cliff for signs of a trail. Just to the left and another seventy-five feet higher was a large dark spot that looked different from the surrounding rock. It was mid-afternoon when Valaron turned his efforts to reach that point on the cliff. After climbing higher, he could see that the shadow was deeper than it appeared. It was the entrance to a large cave.

He had to stop and rest more frequently, clinging to the cliff face like a fly on a wall. Valaron took a quick look down. Fear caused his heart to race. He closed his eyes and took long, slow breaths to fight the vertigo. Fearless in every other area of his life, heights made him dizzy and light-headed.

The climb was taking its toll. At sixteen years old, hard work had built strong arms and a wide back, but his muscles ached from the continuous strain. Sweat streamed down his face, stinging his eyes. Valaron ran out of handholds just below the cave entrance. The sun was setting, and he had reached another dead end.

The weary hunter was no more than two feet from being able to reach the lip of the cave. Frustration quickly turned to anger. Valaron searched the rock wall for one more handhold. He spied a piece of rock jutting out only eight to ten inches above his reach. A sudden fear seized Valaron at the prospect of spending the night feeling his way down to safety. In a fit of desperation, he gathered his courage and jumped. He grabbed at the protruding rock with his right hand. His fingers closed in a death-grip.

Valaron hung three-hundred feet in the air. His boots scrabbled and scratched uselessly against the cliff face knocking loose bits of rock. The strain pulled at his shoulder. Just above and to the left was a patch of dirt packed in a hollow. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and kicked up. With all of his remaining strength, he thrust the shaft into the dirt. Valaron applied some of his weight to the arrow. The point pulled loose, and the sudden shift in weight broke his handhold. For an instant, he clawed at the smooth rock wall, desperate to save himself. His left foot jammed against a small rock, and he slowly began to tip away from the cliff. The young boy was overcome by the paralyzing terror of certain death. Valaron began the long fall.

A hand suddenly clamped around his wrist. He cried out in surprise and looked up. Growing darkness made it impossible to make out anything except a black silhouette. The dark shape pulled, and desperate to reach safety, Valaron swung a leg onto the ledge. He rolled onto the cave floor and collapsed. Exhausted, the terrified boy lay face down on the cold rock. His heart pounded in his chest, and he fought to control his breathing. Each breath blew little clouds of dirt from the cool cave floor. He worked to fight down his fear and calm his mind. Valaron’s breathing finally slowed to long, heavy sighs. In the failing light, Valaron slowly recovered his nerve.

Crawling up on his hands and knees, he raised his head and looked up to thank his mysterious savior. A large, black eye the size of his own head was inches from his face. Valaron yelled and sprang back, almost tumbling over the edge. He caught himself and scrambled backwards on all fours until his back slammed into the side of the cave.

He strained to see what belonged to that massive eye. Stretched out before him was a monster. Valaron was in the dark and face-to-face with a dragon.

CHAPTER
3

A dragon’s death;

the end of life.

No more warring;

no more strife.

A dragon’s death;

no more to be.

Finally loose;

finally free.

-
Poem "Noble End"

V
alaron sat motionless in the darkness and stared at the dim form of the dragon. He kept his back to the wall and waited for the moon to rise above the distant horizon. The young hunter tried to reconcile what he saw. He knew that all of the dragons had been killed by King Praelix when he destroyed the Dragon Guard. Skarson had told him the stories of how the King’s Morts killed the Guardsmen and their dragons. Valaron knew the tale of the death of Vaelor and the end of the Guard.

Stiffness began to set in when moonlight finally streamed into the cave. He was able to see well enough to determine that the dragon was not moving. The creature lay thirty feet away along the far wall of the cave. Valaron guessed its length to be forty feet from nose to tail. Scales covered the entire body. Some were the size of dinner platters. Spikes lined the center of its face from the top of its head to just below the large black eyes. Tall pointed ears angled back on each side of its head. A row of razor-sharp teeth pushed past the dragon’s lips. Soft hues of green and blue reflected from the scales and bathed the cave in a rainbow of glowing colors.

Valaron desperately tried to figure out an escape route. Going back the way he came was not an option. There would be no way to
offer a
defen
se
while clinging to the cliff. Perhaps he could work his way deeper into the cave, but there was no guarantee that he could find a way out, and he did not relish the prospect of getting lost in a maze of tunnels.

He watched the dragon closely for any signs of movement, but it lay perfectly still—too still. An animal this big should move when it breathed. The idea crept into the back of Valaron’s mind that the dragon might be dead. Valaron moved slowly and inched forward, watching all the time for any sign of life from the massive beast. Reaching the dragon’s side, he nudged it with his hand. Nothing happened. He pushed harder the second time. Nothing. He sat back and stared at the immense form. Valaron now understood the singing that had filtered down to his campsite. He had heard the dragon singing his Death Song.

The moon was high enough in the sky to illuminate the entire cave, and Valaron could see clearly to the back wall some sixty feet away. A mass of shapes littered the floor at the back of the cave. He stood and moved deeper while keeping a wary eye on the motionless dragon. When he neared the rear of the cave, he saw a large pile of shards. They appeared to be sheets of pale, white quartz. Blue and red veins ran across their surface.

He slipped in the half-light and sprawled head-first on the floor. On the ground was a large pool of blood. He stood and looked around. There appeared to be twelve piles spread around the cave floor, each with its own puddle of red, sticky blood. Valaron struggled to understand what he saw.

"Eggs!" he shouted. His mind raced as he remembered stories of dragon clutches being laid at Stronghold, the cliff city of the Dragon Guard. Bonding ceremonies joined newly born dragons to their riders. "Those are eggs," he said in a hushed voice. “But where are the hatchlings?" 

Valaron moved to the mouth of the cave, and deep in thought, he looked over the darkened flatlands. How could a dragon remain hidden for so many years, and where was the mysterious benefactor who had pulled him to safety? What happened to the hatchlings, and most disturbing of all, why was the floor covered in blood? With no answers to his questions, he resigned himself to the fact that he was spending the night in the cave and heading for home in the morning. He had to tell Skarson what he had found. With one last look at the dead dragon, he curled up and made himself as comfortable as possible. Sleep came fast, and the young boy dreamed of dragons, elves, and exotic lands with cities made from white marble and studded with jewels of red, green, and blue.

Valaron awoke early the next morning and flexed his sore muscles. The strenuous climb and cold, rock bed had taken their toll. He stood and stretched his stiff back in the morning light. His arms and legs ached.

He walked around to get a better look at the cave. The front entrance appeared to be about fifty feet across, and the moss-covered sides reached straight up fifty or sixty feet to an arched ceiling where stalactites hung from the roof like rows of teeth in a gaping mouth. Water dripped from their tips and fell with loud smacks into pools scattered across the cave floor. Over time, falling droplets carved small depressions in the hard rock. The back wall curved away in the center, and there was a small dark recess on the left side. It was still hidden from the light of the rising sun. A large gully cut through the center of the ledge. Valaron guessed that the wear was a result of repeated takeoffs by the dragon. The central rut was probably made by the dragon’s tail. Other worn places on the floor farther back made him think that the dragon had inhabited this cave for many years. Valaron discovered a fire-ring between the dragon and the wall. A bed of fresh pine boughs lay off to the side. Both had been recently used.

The dragon was a massive beast and no less fearsome in the light. He ran his hands over its sides and found round scars dotting the hide in the few places not protected by scales. One wing was partially stretched out behind the dragon. Valaron examined the wing membrane and saw several ragged holes that had not closed when they had healed.

A pile of broken arrows lay next to the wall, and Valaron recognized them by their size. These were Mort weapons. He kicked at a splintered piece of wood and noticed markings on its side. It was the broken shaft of a Mort lance. He felt the weight and marveled at the strength of the monster that could wield such a weapon. He shivered in the warm sunlight at the thought of facing an enraged Mort with his huge arrows and sapling-sized lance. Valaron had once seen a Mort sword. It stood as tall as a man.

Tossing aside the lance, he moved to the back of the cave, picked up a broken piece of shell, and held it up to the light. Colors reflected and danced on the back wall. The veins that twisted through the broken egg swirled across its face. Valaron placed it gently on the ground and continued his search. He moved farther back into the cave, careful to avoid the sticky pools of blood.

In the remaining shadow, he saw a dark object about six feet tall. He made his way through the broken shells. Suddenly, he stopped short. There in the dark was an intact, undisturbed egg. Sunlight moved across its surface, and the young boy stared in amazement. A kaleidoscope of colors danced across the walls of the recess. He thought he saw movement.

Coming closer, he quietly stared at the remaining egg. There it was again. It definitely rocked back and forth. A loud snap was accompanied by a crack that ran down the side. The egg was hatching!

CHAPTER
4

"A leader will reign

w
hile power goes unnoticed."

-Elven Prophecy

translated by

Cloath the S
toryteller

P
raelix sat brooding on his throne as Councilman Moeldor bowed deeply. A dark scowl covered the king’s face, and he stared coldly at the prostrate form before him. The Hall of the King was a stone room eighty feet long and forty feet wide under a high arched ceiling. The slate floor was slick from wear and tapestries covered the walls. The king’s standard was deployed on poles beside the arched entranceway. Two narrow windows, providing the only light that filtered into the gloom of the chamber, reached from floor to ceiling in the back wall on either side of the throne. Unlit torches lined the walls along both sides of the great hall.

The back of the throne towered three feet above the king’s head and carried the crest of Kalador, the palace city. A war shield in carved relief was bisected by a diagonal white stripe. On the left side was the carving of a golden crown. On the right stood a dragon, its wings spread for flight.

The shield was topped by precious stones amid a filigree of silver and gold inlay set in the pattern of the constellation Mael—each stone representing a star. An inlay of the waxing moon stood above and to the left of the stars. The legs of the throne ended in the curved talons of a dragon clutching a golden orb. The armrests where covered in hammered gold and trimmed in silver, and the throne rested on a raised platform of pure gold. Praelix sat upon a pillow covered in royal purple silk and gold braided piping. Gold tassels hung from the corners. The king’s hands worked angrily as he stared at Moeldor.

"I am confused," Praelix began. "Did I not make myself clear to our Mort commander that I would tolerate no resistance from the villagers?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord," Moeldor replied as he came to his feet. “Kragh knows
his
orders.”

Praelix studied the man standing before him. Moeldor had many years behind him, but he still stood straight and tall. His strong form was lithe and well hidden beneath his scarlet robe. A full head of auburn hair fell to his shoulders and framed a face that appeared much younger than his years. Strong hands were folded at his waist, and deep blue eyes returned the king’s stare.

"Then explain to me why I am hearing reports that one of our Mort garrisons left a rebellious villager alive in Gaelor, a man who openly defied my decrees." The king barely controlled his anger. His hands turned white as they gripped the arms of his throne.

"I was not aware of the problem, my Lord," replied Moeldor.

Enraged Praelix vaulted to his feet. "You would do well not to patronize me," he snapped. He was an imposing figure who stood a head taller than most men. His broad shoulders and muscled frame served him well in intimidating those who opposed him. Long gray hair was swept back to reveal high cheekbones and a square jaw. The king’s deep-set black eyes burned in anger.

"It is your place to know of problems such as these. If just one of these insolent commoners gets away with rebellion it will spread like a plague throughout my kingdom." Praelix was visibly shaking.

Lowering his voice he continued, "Tell the Mort leaders that I will not tolerate disobedience. I do not want them making judgment calls. They are to follow orders without question. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my Lord." Moeldor bowed.

Praelix watched the Councilman turn and leave the throne room. He continued to stare at the doorway long after Moeldor had gone. The muscles of his jaw worked as he pondered the elder’s loyalty. As head of the council, Moeldor was his main ally, but there was something disturbing in his voice. He would need to be watched more closely.

#

Moeldor turned down the hallway. He passed through several stone arches before entering a doorway that led to a set of stairs. The councilman stopped. He stood motionless in the gloom—listening. Satisfied that he was not being followed, he descended to the lowest level, turned down a long passageway, and followed it to a large wooden doorway. Moeldor opened the door and entered a meeting room where Kragh sat waiting for him.

The Mort commander turned as the Councilman closed and bolted the door. "What did he want?" Kragh asked.

Moeldor idly waved his hand. "Nothing to be concerned about," he replied. "We have more important things to discuss."

Kragh growled and slammed
his
fist on the table. "Maybe it is nothing for a wizard such as you to be concerned about, but a soldier likes to know what the enemy is thinking."

"Keep your voice down.” Moeldor cautioned. “Praelix is not our enemy. He is nothing," he stated flatly. “Our real enemy has not yet revealed himself."

Kragh sat down heavily and shifted uncomfortably in the small chair. "I do not trust in your visions and magic,” h
e said. “I trust in what I know,
what I can see. I know the king is an enemy, and I can see that he has all the power.” Snarling, Kragh continued, “What do we have but a prophecy from those accursed elves and a plan that has no beginning, middle, or end?"

Kragh was massive even by Mort standar
ds. At almost eight feet tall,
he was one of the largest Morts anyone had ever seen. A ragged scar started just below h
is
right eye a
nd curved down to the edge of his
mouth. Kragh’s right tusk was broken off near the lip giving h
is
face a lopsided appearance. H
is
arms a
ppeared slightly too long for his
body, and their size strained at the sleeves of h
is
chain-mail coat. Kragh’s head sat upon shoulders that spanned the width of a man’s reach and swallowed
his
thick muscular neck. H
is
legs woul
d not fit under the table, and
he looked as though he were sitting in a chair built for a child.

The Mort leader’s ruthlessness was well known. Rumors said that
he
had risen to the rank of Commander through assassinations and treachery. Fingering the dagger that hung by
his
side,
he
fixed Moeldor in a deadly stare. "I grow impatient with your riddles."

"Save your threats for the villagers," Moeldor snapped. "My visions and magic, riddles as you call them, will serve us more than you realize." Lowering his voice, he continued, "I have sent word to our allies that the time is drawing near. Can
I trust your
people?"

"They will do whatever needs to be done," answered Kragh. "They are loyal to the death."

"Good. Death may be their reward. It may reward us all if we are not careful. Another incident like Gaelor and I will not be able to stay the king’s hand. Tighten the reins on your garrisons, and keep the king at ease or you may find yourself on the executioner’s block."

Moeldor unbolted the door and continued. "How many garrison leaders have you swayed?"

"Enough,” replied Kragh. "They will follow when the order is given."

"Good," Moeldor said. “See that they do. We will have to move with speed.” He turned and quickly left the room.

Kragh sat for a long time, fondling the hilt of
his
dagger.