The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (3 page)

CHAPTER
5

"Talons poised

to maim and kill;

the rider seeks

to calm his find.

The Song of Knowing

on his lips;

fear of death

full on his mind."

-Poem "Face to Face"

V
alaron stood transfixed. The crack widened in the dragon egg. Pieces of shell pushed out and fell to the cave floor, and the hatchling fought to win its freedom from the egg casing. The young beast tore through the inner membrane using teeth and talons and fell headlong onto the cave floor. It struggled to get up and staggered on unsure legs. The small dragon moved slowly away from the rear of the cave and made its way into the light, blinking at the brightness of the sun. The hatchling stood six feet tall and spread its wings to their full breadth of fifteen feet. It used the ends to steady itself as it moved forward. Curved talons clicked loudly on the rock floor.

The hatchling’s scales were slick and wet. The dragon tried several times before it was able to shake off a piece of the egg membrane that hung across his eyes. Finally, with clear vision, its gaze fell on Valaron. The dragon gave a sharp cry, changed direction, and began to move
on staggering legs
toward the young man. Valaron knew that even a young dragon was extremely dangerous and capable of killing a full-grown man. Sensing the danger, he began to softly sing The Song of Knowing that Skarson taught him, the song that binds a rider to his dragon. The hatchling stopped and tilted its head to one side, listening intently to the melody that the elves gave to the villagers countless ages ago.

The miniature monster started forward again and opened its mouth to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. The clicking of its talons was a grim reminder of the dragon’s ability to rip and tear its prey. Sunlight cast a blue tint to the dragon’s dark scales and his eyes looked like black, round mirrors reflecting the morning sun. Valaron held his ground and continued to sing, wondering if the dragon would respond to his song. If not, he would be hard pressed to fight it off. Still singing, he took the bow from his shoulder and fingered the arrows in his quiver.

The dragon kept coming, jaws gaping, and wing tips dragging the ground for balance. Valaron drew an arrow and nocked it on the bowstring while he sang. Just as he was about to draw his bow, the hatchling stopped.

The young dragon slowly dropped its head low toward the ground. It suddenly stretched up to its full height and joined Valaron in the gentle melody that calms the dragon’s urge to kill. The two lone figures moved toward each other until they stood face-to-face, and there in the early morning sunlight they sang their song of bonding.

A low plaintive melody filled the air, and the dragon swayed its head as it sang in full, round wordless sounds. Valaron sang with joy, his tenor voice harmonized to the baritone growls of the young dragon. The two voices complemented each other, and soon they were singing with practiced ease. As the last notes of the chorus echoed through the cave, the dragon used its head to nudge Valaron’s hand. Now standing together, Valaron reached out and laid his arm across the dragon’s neck. They stood together for a long time, joined by the singing and forever paired.

Valaron scratched the young dragon behind the ear and looked into his large wet eye.

"It looks like Skarson did his job well or I would be dead by now," he said. The dragon turned its head to offer the other ear. "You like that, eh?" Valaron scratched behind the other ear. The dragon closed its eyes and made a low crooning sound of delight. "I bet you would let me do this all day," he said, laughing. "Sorry, but I have to find a way out of here so that I can get you some help. I need to find Skarson." Valaron stopped scratching the dragon and moved to the entrance of the cave. "He will know what to do," he muttered to himself.

Valaron stood at the edge of the entrance and looked around for another way out. Not relishing the climb back down, he searched for an easier route encouraged by the fact that whoever saved him from falling had managed a hasty exit. His efforts were soon rewarded. There to the left was a path winding up from the lip of the cave to the top of the rock face seventy-five feet above. It looked to be an easy climb.
Valaron was surprised to see the haunch of a deer lying beside the path. It was no older than a day, and he guessed that whoever had rescued him from falling must have been bringing food for the adult dragon.

He turned his attention back to the
hatchling
. Having discovered the bod
y of the adult, the young dragon
used its head to nudge the lifeless form. "It is too late," Valaron said as he moved to the hatchling’s side. "Nothing can be done now." The hatchling stopped and dropped its head, and an overwhelming sadness fell over them.

Valaron tossed the meat in front of the dragon and sang the feeding song. The dragon tore at the raw meat, and
Valaron scurried up the narrow pathway. "What in the world will I tell Uncle Cortain? He is going to kill me!" He made his way across the top of the rock wall and started down the side of the mountain. The upper path would allow him to come and go as he pleased. He grabbed his pack at the base of the cliff, made his way across to the trail, and ran headlong down the mountain.

Valaron made good time. Just as darkness fell, he reached the glade where he had found the deer tracks. Tired from the pace, he built a small fire and spread out his blanket
s
. After a quick meal, he turned in and fell fast asleep under the rising moon.

Sunlight was streaming into the glade when Valaron finally opened his eyes. He realized he must have been exhausted to have slept so long. He broke camp quickly and moved out across the glade. Valaron ran up the trail, passed between the marker stones, and slowing down to keep his footing, trotted across the top of the ridge. When he finally reached the trailhead, he increased his pace to a run and made his way down toward the meadow.

Valaron broke out of the trees at the bottom of the hill, flushing a covey of birds. The young hunter flew through the meadow, his thoughts consumed with the events of the last few days. He looked to his right and slid to a stop. Panting, he shaded his eyes from the sun.

Rolling plumes of black smoke rose high into the morning sky. They were coming from Frensville. His breath came sharp and fast. "No!" he shouted. With a renewed energy born of fear, Valaron raced for the village.

CHAPTER
6

"A good man stands

when others fall.

A good
man’s back

is straight and tall.

A good man
always

speaks his mind.

A good man is truly

hard to find."

-Poem "A Good Man"

B
odies littered the streets of Frensville, people Valaron had known since he was a young child. Some were dead
.
O
thers were dying. Many more lay wounded and bleeding. He stopped and helped where he could and was able to find out that a Mort raiding party had descended on the village in the early morning hours. Some of the men tried to repel the raiders and had died for their efforts. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the Morts vanished.

The sun was almost straight overhead, and mourning cries of wives and mothers carried through the streets. Several of the houses and shops were burning, and dozens of villagers scurried to stop the fires from spreading. Lines of people formed bucket brigades. Others beat at the flames using blankets and tapestries.

Valaron stopped to help an exhausted group of men battle a blaze that threatened the pub. A long line formed as buckets were quickly passed in both directions. Vic was at the head of the line
and
worked feverishly to put out the flames that licked at the pub.
He
was on a mission to save his old haunt. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” He said. “Faster. More water.”

When the flames were finally extinguished, Valaron asked if anyone had seen
Cortain
.

“I saw him earlier,” said Carlton. The town butcher was a tall man, and his short-cropped black hair stuck to the sweat rolling down his brow. “He said that he was going to spend the day with Miss Potter, so he was going to buy flowers.” Carlton shrugged his shoulders.

“Thank you,” replied Valaron, already racing off toward the marketplace. Blood and soot covered him from head to toe. Sweat left great streaks that covered his face and arms. His pack had been abandoned while fighting the fires and all he carried was the bow, the quiver full of arrows, and the hunting knife. He hoped the Morts were gone, but if not, at least he was armed.

A figure darted around the corner and crashed into Valaron. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs. Valaron rose to his feet, ready to fight. He wiped dirt from his eyes and looked at the stunned boy sitting on the ground.

“Toran!” Valaron reached down to help his friend to his feet. “Are you all right?”

The young boy slapped dirt from his clothes and rubbed his hand through his hair. A cloud of dust lifted from his head, and his hair returned to its normal black color.

“I’m fine.”

“Your mother?” Valaron was afraid of the answer.

“She’s fine, Val. The Morts never made it to our street.” Toran pointed in the direction of the Pub. “I was heading toward the smoke to see if I could help.”

“There’s no need. The fire is out. Have you seen my uncle? They said he might be at the market. I am headed that way to look for him.”

“Lead the way.”

Valaron sprinted off
, and Toran fell in behind.

The marketplace was in shambles. Tents had been pulled down. Tables were overturned. Food and trade goods littered the ground, and the sweet, sickening smell of blood hung in the air. Several bodies lay scattered around, but Cortain was not among them. The two boys ran to the center of the village.

A group of men stood on the south side of the meeting hall amid the corpses of several fallen Morts. Valaron was overjoyed to see Skarson’s head towering above the others. Swords and lances were scattered among the dead raiders. Three of the Morts had been cut in half. The others lay in great pools of their own sticky blood.

"What happened?" Valaron asked, his voice trembling.

"I will tell you what happened," answered Galdor. "Your friend here killed seven of these abomination
s. That is what happened!" The S
mithy stared at Valaron, an excited look in his eyes. "Everyone was running around trying to escape. The Morts were setting fires and cutting people down in the streets, and Skarson wades into the middle of those monsters carrying only a sword and dagger. I thought for sure that he was dead. They turned on him like a pack of wild dogs.” He shook his head as the memories came flooding back. His red beard flopped back and forth across his chest.

“I have never seen anything like it, Valaron. He killed these," continued Galdor, pointing to the pile of dead Morts, "and the others took off running for their lives. He was cutting the last one in half before the first one even hit the ground. I tell you, I have ne
ver seen anything like it." The S
mithy shook his head again, turned to Skarson, and slapped him on the back. "If not for you, my friend, we would probably all be dead!" The other men joined in, praising the storyteller and recounting the more gruesome parts of the battle.

Ignoring them, Skarson turned to Valaron. "Where is Cortain?" he asked.

"I don't know," he answered in desperation. "Carlton said he was headed for the marketplace, but we didn’t find him."

"I saw him there just before the raid," said Skarson. "Come, I will help you find him."

CHAPTER
7

Ancient arts long hidden;

Olden ways slyly bidden.

-Elven Warning

r
unes at Loeath'd'nah

translated by

Cloath the storyteller

M
oeldor stood before a lone candle. He gazed into the dancing, red and yellow flame. Its flickering light cast dark shadows that played over the rock walls. The candle
was
in the center of a small stone table; the only furnishing in the antechamber of the elder’s quarters. He chanted quietly and stared into the wavering flame. Soon, a faint image began to form in his mind. A slick, wet form swayed against a dark background.

Sounds outside his chamber startled the wizard
,
and the image vanished. Cursing, he took a deep breath and started again. The chanting was low and rhythmic, and finally the image began to reappear. This time he could see it clearer, a small dragon swaying as it sang. Moeldor heard another voice joining the dragon in its song. The wizard turned his mind to the task of finding its owner. Because of his limited powers, he was unable to expand the vision any further. He stumbled forward in exhaustion and knocked the candle over, snuffing out the flame.

Cursing again, Moeldor complained, "My magic is not strong enough. If only I could lay my hands on the Stone of Power. If only I could learn to control its power." He sighed and stood brooding in the blackness. "Soon enough," he said. "Soon enough." Moeldor left the small chamber, returned to his quarters, and began rummaging through a stack of books. He quickly found what he was looking for and sat down at his desk. The door burst open
,
and in stormed Kragh, ducking and twisting to get
his
bulk through the doorway. The Mort commander slammed the door closed, turned, and looked around the room. Bookcases stood along one side of the room, and a writing desk was pushed against the far wall. A bed filled a recess to the right, and a small dressing table stood in the corner. Kragh folded up into the chair across from Moeldor and leaned
his
arms on the table which creaked under the load.

"The
K
ing wants a report," Kragh said.

Moeldor suppressed his anger at the Mort’s intrusion. "What report will you give him?" he asked evenly.

Kragh growled. “If I knew the answer to that question, I would not be here."
He
drummed
his
fingers on the table and waited for a reply.

"Tell him the usual,” Moeldor said. “Tell him everything is running according to plan. Tell him that the villagers are huddled in their houses in fear of their mighty and terrible King. That always seems to make him happy."

Kragh sat back and grunted. "I think that he is getting tired of hearing the same thing over and over."
His
voice dripped with sarcasm.

Moeldor laughed. "Use different words."

It was Kragh’s turn to laugh. A Mort laugh was not a pleasing sound. It was similar to the neighing of a horse only much, much deeper, and the listener had the distinct feeling that the Mort was choking.

"Very well," continued Moeldor. "Tell Praelix that you have met some resistance, but everything is being handled." He quickly added, "Get your story straight first, though. He will want details." He waved his hand to dismiss the Mort commander.

"You read too much," Kragh remarked, ignoring Moeldor’s gesture.
He
looked scornfully at the rows of books littering the wizard’s shelves. Turning
his
gaze back to Moeldor
,
he
said, "I like action. I like to stay busy, and I l
ike to know what is going on." H
e stood and leaned over the table putting h
is
face directly in front of the councilman. "I dislike being kept in the dark."

The Mort stared into Moeldor
’s eyes for several seconds. He
straightened abruptly, threw open the door, and was gone as quickly as he came. Moeldor sat at the table for a long time seething in anger. He knew it was dangerous to antagonize Kragh, but it was becoming more difficult to hide his contempt.

Finally, Moeldor stood, closed the door, and locked it behind him. He returned to the table, sat down, and turned his attention back to the book in front of him. The heavy leather cover thumped on the desk amid a cloud of dust and Moeldor leafed through the pages, scanning as he went. The place he was looking for was well marked. He slowly traced his finger down the page; then stopped at the verses he sought. Moeldor translated the elven tongue as he read aloud.

"When apathy and greed live in the heart of the one who rules, the tide will turn. A deed once done; now undone. When all seem vanquished and fallen, yet one will remain."

He pondered the words of the elves
.
"When all seem vanquished and fallen, yet one will remain,"
he repeated to himself.

Moeldor slowly closed the book and sat pondering his vision and the elven prophecy. He sensed they were somehow connected. The wizard sat deep in thought until the early hours of the morning. Suddenly, a look of revelation crossed his face. "So,” he said to himself in a hushed voice. “The elves were right.
‘Yet one will remain’
.
”