The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (5 page)

CHAPTER
10

“The fairest of fair

shall rise again

to take their place

in history.

Elves and men

shall stand as one

to quell the evil mystery.”

-Elven Prophecy

translated by

Cloath the storyteller

S
karson sat at his writing table. He took his pipe from the mantle and lit it. Shadows from a candle danced across his face, the flame flickering in the constant draft blowing through the old house. Dipping his pen in ink, Skarson began to write. The quill’s scratching reminded him of mice scurrying across a wooden floor.

The storyteller wrote in a long flowing hand on yellowed paper, his quill drinking from the well of black ink at regular intervals. Blotting the paper, he read what he had written, folded the letter, poured on a bit of wax from the candlestick, and sealed the note with his ring. He tucked the letter in his pocket and slid the dagger in his belt before donning his cloak. Skarson checked on Cortain. He was in a deep sleep induced by the effects of the healing tea. Satisfied, the old man let himself out.

Frensville was dark and quiet by the time Skarson reached the edge of the village. All the shops were closed, and houses sat silently along the streets. Small plumes of smoke slowly escaped their chimneys and joined together to hang just above the rooftops like a flat, blue cloud. Most of the villagers were already asleep in the late evening gloom.

He moved from shadow to shadow until reaching the back wall of the town’s pub where he waited for over half an hour before his eyes finally made out a lone shape running through the field. Hidden under a hooded cloak, the stranger slowed to a walk and moved cautiously to the edge of the village. Skarson gave a long, low whistle, and the tall figure turned, moving quickly to where the storyteller had secreted himself among the shadows. The moon was below the mountains, and the only light came from an oil lamp that had been left burning at the rear door of the pub.

Skarson embraced the stranger and exchanged a low greeting. "Welcome,” he said in a hushed voice. “Thank you for coming so quickly."

The cloaked figure bowed solemnly. "Your message said it was urgent.”

"Yes. There is no time to lose." Skarson handed the folded letter to the stranger. "Take this back at once. Let me know when a decision has been reached."

The stranger took the letter and stared at it for a moment before tucking it under his cloak. "And so it begins," he said thoughtfully.

"Yes," answered Skarson. "For better or worse.”

The stranger turned to leave, and for an instant, the lamp’s light fell across his face. A quick flash illuminated his elven features, and then he was gone, racing across the open field toward the Gra’d’har forest in the southeast.

Skarson stood and watched for a long time after the elf vanished into the darkness. The Grands stood tall against the night sky. Clouds floated among the high peaks and reflected the glow of the first light of the moon that slowly peeked from behind the mountains. White tendrils glistened along the bottoms of the clouds with fingers of silver moonlight splashing across the sky like broad brushstrokes of iridescent paint. The beauty of the night sky pulled a heavy sigh from deep within the old storyteller. It was moments like these that brought painful memories and the anguish of loneliness.

Skarson turned and made his way home down the long, dark streets. When he arrived, Vic was sitting across the street on the steps of an abandoned house.

Skarson shook his head. “I have no money, tonight.”

“Oh, I’m not begging. I have a nice bottle to get me through the night.”

“If you have no need of a handout,” said Skarson, “then what are you about?”

Vic gestured at the surrounding darkness. “I was simply pondering the night’s opportunities.”

“And what would those be?”

Vic lowered his voice. “I was just thinking how easy it would be for brigands to skulk about on secret errands.”

Skarson watched the old man take a long pull from his bottle. “I suppose you would know of such scandalous things?”

Vic closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth that moved down his throat. “Just pondering the night’s opportunities.” He opened his eyes and looked at Skarson. “Puss buckets! Surely you know better than to listen to the ramblings of an old drunk.” Vic stood up, wavered for a moment then staggered into the shadows.

Skarson shook his head, turned, and mounted the rickety slate steps. Once inside, he put water on to boil and filled his favorite pipe—a nice, white clay with a long, curved stem. The bowl fit neatly into his palm as if it had been shaped from a mold of his hand. He lit the pipe with a candle and sat down to wait on the teapot. He relaxed for the first time after the day’s events and jumped when the teapot whistled. Laughing at himself he crushed tea leaves into his cup and poured in the boiling water. The strong smell of cloves filled the house. With his eyes closed, he savored the pungent aroma. The old man’s thoughts slowed, and he felt the tension flow from his tired back. A cautious sip of the bitter tea warmed his throat and filled him with a familiar glow.

Skarson placed his cup on a corner of the table, reached behind a bookcase, and pulled out a long bundle wrapped in leather. He untied the laces that bound it, and the cover fell away to reveal the gleam of a sword. Its hilt was wrapped in fine silver cord, and it had a worn, leather thong at the butt that could be looped over the wrist. The broad, leather strap was stained from years of use. It had formed itself to the hand of its owner. A large round pommel capped the hilt to help keep the weapon firmly in hand during battle.

The blade was the most unique feature. It was four feet long and sharply curved; a full-bellied scimitar. A blood groove had been forged into the blade and ran its full length. The first six inches of the back had been sharpened from the tip, making it a weapon that not only could slice an opponent, but stab and pierce as well. It shined with a blue tint that moved along the surface as the light flickered in the ever-present draft of the room.

This was the sword of the Dragon Guard. It had been designed to cut from the back of a moving dragon without hanging in the body of an enemy. Skarson applied a light dressing of oil to the leather thong, and then used a clean rag to wipe the blade. He held the sword to the light and admired its beauty.

"It will not be long now, my friend," he whispered to the sword, being careful not to awaken Cortain. "If the prophecies are true, you will soon be in the rightful hands of your new owner."

CHAPTER
11

“Friends until death

and then beyond;

Sudden parting,

never sought.

A life too short

for one so fond;

One life left long,

its purpose naught.”

-Poem “A Greater Parting”

T
he horses made short work of their trip to the
top of the
rock face
.
Skarson and
the two boys
picketed them above the cave
and
made their way down the narrow trail to the entrance
.
Valaron entered first while Skarson
and Toran
waited a short distance behind. The dragon raced forward at the sight of Va
l
aron and nudged his hand. He scratched the dragon behind the ear. "I brought
some
friend
s
," he said and called up the trail.

Skarson
and Toran
stepped into the cave and stood staring at the dragon. Rushing forward, the hatchling nudged at the bundle under Skarson’s arm. "He is hungry," he said. "You had better sing The Feeding Song before he takes this away from me. Remember, you have to direct his feeding or he will be impossible to control."

Valaron started to sing, and the dragon moved to face him. Once again, the hatchling swayed from side-to-side; lowering his head as he listened intently to the haunting melody. Skarson opened the bundle and slipped Valaron a pork shoulder. Valaron tossed the meat on the ground in front of the hatchling and continued to sing. The young dragon placed one foot on the meat and began to bite off large pieces, swallowing in great gulps. When his belly was full, he walked slowly to the back of the cave and curled up, tucked his head under his wing, and fell fast asleep.

Toran
gathered supplies from the horses, and the
y
made camp under the overhang of the cave
, talking
by the fire while the dragon slept.

"There is not much more that I need to tell you," Skarson said. "Over the years, I have taught you most of what you need to know. Now, two things remain to be done. First, we have to train that dragon of yours. He will be ready to fly before long, and you will need to have a sure hand by then."

"What is the other thing?" asked Valaron.

"You have to learn to fight!" Skarson crossed his legs and filled his cup with mead. "That letter you delivered will send someone to help me in your training. I am too old to fight for very long, and we will need someone who can build your endurance.”

"You mean someone is coming here?
” said Toran.
“
Who?"

"Who it is does not matter,” said Skarson. “For now it is enough to know that I have help coming. I c
an
teach
Valaron
the basics," he said,
looking at the new dragon rider
, "but I lack the wind to train
him
hard enough to help
him
survive in a long battle. I am much older than I look. It is one thing to be able to wield a sword. It is another thing altogether to be able to fight when you are
exhausted and you think you can
not go on.” Skarson lowered his voice and leveled his stare at Valaron. “Your enemies will not let up because you need to rest." His voice was slow and calculated. "They will beat you down and press you until you are exhausted. Then they will kill you."

"I have never even held a sword," Valaron complained.

"We can leave all of that until later," Skarson replied. "Right now, we have to train your dragon, and when he can fly we will have to move to someplace better suited to the tasks at hand."

Skarson sat watching Valaron and waited for the question he knew was coming.

"Why did my uncle lie to me?" Valaron asked. "He should have told me the truth."

"He was afraid that the
Praelix
would hunt you down and have you killed. His elder councilman, Moeldor, knows the elven prophecies as well as I do. Even if
Praelix
does not believe them, he would not take the chance of leaving you ali
ve. And if for no other reason, he
would have
you
killed because of the hatred he had for your father." Skarson looked into Valaron’s eyes and saw the doubts and the struggles he was going through. "Cortain did what he thought was right, and I agreed. We talked about it many times."

"I know he meant well," started Valaron, "but. . . ." His voice trailed off.

"
Praelix
made a mistake, Valaron,” said Skarson. “He discounted the riders who had lost their dragons. The Lone Riders, as they are called, have managed to cause their share of problems for the King over the years.
Praelix
would not chance making that type of error again. He would have found you, and he would have killed you."

“
So what do we do now?"
said Toran.

"Since it is getting late," Skarson answered, "I would suggest we get some rest." Tired from their long day’s exertions, they quickly fell asleep.

Valaron was awakened by the dragon pushing him along the cave floor. "I think he wants you to get up," laughed Skarson as he
and Toran
sat by the fire cooking breakfast. "He should not be hungry again for three or four days b
ut I am starving.
"

They ate breakfast in front of the fire and watched the young dragon walk the cave floor while flexing his wings.

"I am sure it is just my imagination," said Valaron, "but he looks as though he has grown a foot or more since I was here only two days ago."

"It is not your imagination," replied Skarson. "A dragon grows to full size in three months. He will mature very quickly."

Toran
looked at the hulk of the dead dragon lying along the far wall and said, "I guess she must have died of old age."

"Not she," Skarson laughed. "He."

Toran
looked confused. "Then where is the mother dragon?"

Skarson laughed again and said, "There is no mother dragon. All dragons are male. They do not mate. They fertilize their own eggs. It only takes one dragon to rebuild the species and Vaelor's dragon has done that for us."

"Vaelor’s dragon?" Valaron exclaimed. "You mean that is the dragon from the
legend
?" He stared in disbelief at the storyteller. Suddenly, everything fell in place
,
the story of Vaelor’s dragon fleeing into the mountains, the Mort arrows, and the broken lance that littered the cave floor.

"Yes, my young friend,” Skarson said proudly. “Vaelor has saved the dragons. This one hatchling will enable us to rebuild the Dragon Guard and there is no finer lineage than the offspring of Vaelor’s dragon."

At that moment, the dragon stumbled and fell headlong onto the cave floor. The heavy thud was followed by a cloud of dust that filled the air around the stunned dragon.

"Of course, it may take a little time," Skarson added, shaking his head.

The dragon struggled up, plodded over to Valaron, and nudged his hand. Valaron scratched him behind the ear. The dragon crooned happily.

Skarson stood up quickly and walked away to the edge of the cave. He stared out over the flatlands, his hair blowing in the early morning breeze.

"Is something wrong?" asked Valaron. "Are you all right?"

It was a long time before Skarson spoke. "It really is quite beautiful," he said.

“Yes,” Valaron answered slowly, waiting.

"You know that your father’s dragon died."

"I think Cortain said it was sick,” replied Valaron

"Yes," Skarson said, sweeping his hair back and folding his arms across his chest. "There was a terrible disease that spread through Stronghold, a plague among the dragons. The elves eventually found a cure, but not before the illness had taken over fifty of the dragons. The plague weakened the Guard and gave
Praelix
the advantage he needed to win the battle at the Northern Divide.”

Skarson looked out over the flatlands that glistened under the first rays of the sun.

“A rider who loses his dragon is never really the same, Valaron.” His voice was quiet and slow. “It takes away a part of who you are, and the loss never lessens over time. There is a small part of you that dies, and you can never rekindle that flame. It is a pain that never leaves
,
an emptiness that is never filled." Skarson raked his hands through his hair a second time. "Your father’s dragon was one of those that died in the plague," he said softly.

The sun was rising in the east sending tendrils of light that cut through the high clouds. Long shadows formed on the distant plains below. Skarson cupped his hands to shade his eyes and scanned the horizon before turning to look at the young dragon, its head covering Valaron’s lap.

"So was mine."