The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (8 page)

CHAPTER
15

“Few are the men

who can stomach

a strong woman.”

-Elven saying

V
alaron lay on the ground looking up at Cler’d’roh. A grimace of pain covered his face. A bruise was quickly forming on his wrist. He remembered reaching to draw his practice sword, but she had struck him with blinding speed, numbing his sword arm. He wasn’t exactly sure how he had wound up on the ground, but he was certain that it had something to do with the rather sizable knot that was growing on the top of his head.

The elf extended her hand and helped him to his feet. She looked at Skarson questioningly, “I thought you said he was ready to train.”

“I have done all I can,” Skarson replied, throwing up his hands. “Now it is up to you. Try not to hurt him too much.” He turned and walked away, shaking his head and laughing like a wild man.

The next few weeks were spent in grueling sword workouts that left Valaron bruised and battered, his ego completely destroyed. He was quickly becoming fond of his morning tea. The heady elixir restored his good humor and dulled the many aches and pains that assailed his battered body.

Cler’d’roh, Skarson, and
the two boys
sat together in the morning mist enjoying the warmth of the fire. Red and yellow flames crackled and spit at the chilling fog. The penetrating dampness of the past few mornings had delayed the training schedule. Valaron was glad for the rest. The
four
friends sipped their tea and ate a breakfast of fried bread smothered in jam made from mixed fruit.

“Who are these Wild-Elves you spoke of?” Valaron asked Skarson.

“A fringe group of rebels,” he answered. “They are unhappy with Klan’d’ron’s rule and seek to overthrow the crown.”

“They disappeared many years ago and only recently resurfaced,” added Cler’d’roh. She stopped and sipped her tea. “Wild-Elves are banished under penalty of death, but somehow Shaen’d’far, their leader, is able to gain converts among younger elves who are disillusioned with our peaceful life. We are not sure how he reaches them, but he is convincing an ever larger number to join his warrior movement.”

“What does he want?” asked
Toran
.

“He looks to return to the old ways,” replied Cler’d’roh. “He speaks of the clans and the way of the warrior. He has even returned to the clan markings, a direct act of rebellion against the law of King Klan’d’ron.”

Valaron looked puzzled. “What are clan markings?”

“They are face markings that show clan affiliation,” said Skarson. “They dip a sharp object into black dye and jab it under the skin until they build up the shape they need. It is painful and permanent.”

“Each clan has their own mark,” added Cler’d’roh. “They were abolished to help keep down clan rivalry. Shaen’d’far wishes to return to the old ways of clan distinctions and houses. He and his followers wear the clan markings from the ancient days.”

“There were originally three houses,” said Skarson. “North, South and East. Each house was made up of four clans.

By decree, i
nstead of clan markings, the elves incorporated clan into their name. In the old days, Cler’d’roh would have been called Cler of Clan Roh. Cler’d’roh is literally Cler de Roh; Cler of Roh.”

“If Shaen’d’far is ignored, he could cause much trouble,” said Cler’d’roh. “He has threatened to take Klan’d’ron’s throne and rule Loeath’d’nah. He must be stopped.”

“I am sure that Klan’d’ron will not let that happen,” said Skarson. “He has ruled justly for many generations.”

“The Wild-Elves grow in numbers,” warned Cler’d’roh. “That is cause enough for concern.” She sipped her tea and the three sat quietly in the damp morning air.

Valaron had logged many flights on his dragon, and the
y
were quickly becoming comfortable with one another, anticipating each other’s actions and flying the more intricate battle patterns that Skarson had been teaching them. Valaron loved his time spent in the air, flying and singing the Dragon Songs. To get away from the daily poundings he received at the sword of Cler’d’roh was definitely relaxing. He felt refreshed every time he returned from the sky.

The camp had become rather comfortable thanks to furnishings that Skarson
and Toran
had made while the others worked. A thatched roof to keep off the morning dew and the occasional rain shower now covered their bedrolls. Small, willow-backed seats and short tables were arranged near the fire. Cler’d’roh contributed roots and herbs to their larder, and Valaron located a nearby spring.

The Grands stood directly behind their camp in an almost vertical rise, and a ridge fell off on either side sheltering them from the weather. The valley unfolded in front of their camp and ran up and down in both directions for many miles. The valley floor was covered in short, variegated grass. Directly across from their camp was a tall ridge, the back of the mountain slope that held the cave where Valaron had found the dragon. Its sparse cover of trees allowed them to see if anyone approached from that direction.

During Vala
ron’s flights, he
found several small streams to the south. Some contained pools of crystal clear water. The streams all led off in the same direction and wound their way down the valley, tumbling over the gently sloping ground. Several different types of fish filled the streams, and Valaron was diligent to see that the dragon never ate any of them. The elves had determined that the dragon plague was the result of a respiratory infection brought about from eating fish. This was the only restriction placed on the dragon’s diet. All other wildlife was acceptable, and game was plentiful throughout the valley.

The dragon was now full-grown. He towered over sixty feet above the ground, and his wings spanned one hundred forty feet. His head was longer than a full-grown man. Even Skarson was amazed at the dragon’s immense size. The most unusual feature was the dragon’s color. His scales were black as night and reflected a blue tinge in full sunlight.

“I have never seen a dragon that large,” he told Valaron. “In all of Stronghold there was only ever one such dragon as this.”

“
Nathal
,” whispered Cler’d’roh.

“
Nathal
?” asked Valaron. “Why is that name familiar?”

“
Nathal
’s black dragon defeated Maladron in the battle for Aradorn,” replied Skarson. “Vaelor’s dragon was of that line, and now this one continues the lineage.” Skarson looked up in awe. “He is magnificent.”

Valaron had to make a new saddle. He killed a deer and spent several days tanning the hide. The venison was a welcome addition to their meal. He worked the leather and assembled the pieces with sinew from he cut from the buck’s carcass.

“A good job,” said Skarson. “It looks like it will be a nice fit.” The old storyteller stopped and pointed. “What are those?”

“These are thigh straps. You pull them over your knees and cinch them tight.”

“But what are they for?”

Valaron looked annoyed. “They keep you from falling off.”

“Nobody has ever fallen off of their dragon,” said Skarson. His face showed a faint smile.

“And I will not be the first.”

Skarson shook his head and laughed. “I do believe you are the only dragon rider I have ever known who was afraid of heights.”

“It’s not heights that bother me,” said Valaron. “It’s falling.”

Skarson roared with laughter.

Every day, Valaron and the dragon made longer treks, flying farther up and down the valley. The young rider was careful to always keep them below the crest of the ridge, staying out of sight of the flatlands below. They sang together as they flew, and the melodies of the Dragon Songs filled the air. Wondrous duets of haunting harmonies floated through the air like a gentle breeze.

Cler’d’roh’s training sessions were taking a turn for the better. Valaron was beginning to hold his own against the elven warrior. He wasn’t sure if she was taking it easy on him, but he seemed to be gaining ground. Once or twice he had landed a blow of his own that made her smile and shake her head approvingly.

Sword training was combined with flying, and Valaron spent a lot of his time learning to cut an enemy from the back of his moving dragon. Skarson’s scimitar was perfect for such work. The curved blade sliced cleanly through the targets that Skarson arranged along the glade. Flying just above the ground, Valaron became proficient at severing targets as they flew past at blinding speed. He would hang low from his saddle and lean out when they darted close to the ground. The dragon rider’s scimitar flashed in the sunlight, hacking the targets into pieces.

Summer was passing quickly, the days turning hot. The air grew thick, and the trees were in full leaf. The flowers of spring had lost their blooms. Crystal clear nights glittered by the light of thousands of stars that twinkled brightly against the black velvet backdrop of the sky. Evenings were cool in the mountains, and the crisp air was a refreshing break from the stifling heat of the day. A strong bond had grown among the friends who lounged together by the evening fire.

Skarson lit his pipe. “Cler’d’roh says that you are ready,” he said. “I think she is right,”

Valaron looked between the two solemn faces. “Ready for what?” he asked cautiously.

“Ready to lead the rebellion,” answered Cler’d’roh. “
Praelix
must be stopped, and it is up to you and your dragon to lead the uprising.”

“I don’t feel ready,” replied Valaron.

“No one ever feels ready,” said Skarson. “It is a dangerous task that lies before you; before us all, really.” He nursed his pipe before continuing. “The people of Ashandor are finally ready to take action. They can no longer shoulder the taxes levied by the King in his push to become Emperor. His Mort raiding parties have placed the villager’s backs against the wall.”

“But where do I come into this?” asked Valaron.

“We must remove
Praelix
from the throne,” added Cler’d’roh, “but the people need a leader, a crystallizing force. You and your dragon are the rallying point we need to bring together the people of Ashandor.”

“Plus,” continued Skarson
,
“There are others we may be able to call upon. All together we should be able to raise a large enough army to take revolution to the palace gates.”

“You mean to go to war against the King?”
said Toran.

“My people are already moving,” said Cler’d’roh. “With news of a dragon, the council has agreed to send warriors and archers to stand with the resistance.” She bowed her head and continued, “We are at your service.”

Valaron sat in silence, staring at the burning embers. He watched smoke drift out of sight into the darkness. “They think I am ready,” he thought, “but do I?”

“We will leave tomorrow and make our way to
Frensville
,” continued Skarson. “We need to raise support for the march on Kalador.”

“I will take my leave in the morning,” said Cler’d’roh. “Our forces will meet up along the way.”

Valaron wasn’t sure what to think. The training had been safe. There had been no real enemies to fight. Now things would be different. Also, he was upset that Cler’d’roh would be leaving.

Valaron was up before the sun, but Cler’d’roh was already gone. Skarson offered her a horse, but she said it would only slow her down. The storyteller turned to Valaron and extended his arm. He placed something in the dragon rider’s hand. Valaron looked down at Cler’d’roh’s tea bag. The leather was soft and somehow comforting. The beaded fringe waved in the early morning breeze. He could smell the pungent odor of the tea that it held.

“She said that you would need some way to carry your tea.” Skarson put his hand on Valaron’s shoulder. “She must really like you. Elves are not in the habit of giving gifts. They dislike the obligation it implies.”

Valaron fingered the bag and turned it over in his hand. He took the thong and wrapped it around his belt.

“She will be missed, that is for sure,” continued Skarson, “but somehow I find it hard to believe that you will miss the daily beatings.” He walked away laughing as he filled his pipe.

Valaron saddled the dragon and they took off down the valley. Mist filled the early morning air and wisps of fog swirled around the dragon’s wing tips as they flew along close to the ground. The mountains stood beside them and they gained height, soaring on the warming currents. Valaron was lost in the moment. Rider and dragon floated in long sweeping circles over the northern end of the valley, singing in the clear morning air. His heels kicked, and the dragon dove to pick up speed. Valaron held his hands in the air and whooped loudly. Soon they were zooming high over the forest singing together, all other thoughts long forgotten.

Warm wind from the dragon’s wings carried them over the valley for hours. Time passed unnoticed until the sun was directly overhead.

Valaron looked down and saw a stream winding its way through a small clearing. They circled and landed. The dragon’s sudden appearance scared a rabbit that darted back and forth before vaulting away from them into a thicket. Valaron dismounted, and the two friends drank their fill.