The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (9 page)

A thought nagged at the back of Valaron’s mind. “I must have forgotten something,” he said to himself, but quickly realized that was not what occupied him. It was more like a single word that formed at the edge of his mind. It reminded him of his studies with Skarson when he would struggle to remember some obscure fact.

The dragon lowered his head and stared at Valaron with a large black eye. Water dripped from his long face. Valaron reached to scratch behind the dragon’s ear, but his hand was pushed away, and the eye returned to stare once again. Valaron stopped and looked full into the dragon’s gaze. The thought came to him again, pulling at his mind like the tug of a small child.

He reached out, but his hand was pushed away once more. The dragon snorted and turned his head to stare at him using the other eye. The word in Valaron’s mind became more distinct. He stepped back quickly when he realized what was happening. “Draegon,” he said slowly. “Your name is Draegon!” he exclaimed. The dragon threw back his head and roared, nudged Valaron eagerly, and looked as satisfied as a dragon could. Their bonding was now complete.

CHAPTER
16

"Mahk't'flae

Tril't'shah"

"One will come.

Many will follow."

-Elven Prophecy

translated by

Cloath the storyteller

S
karson
and Toran
rode out of the mountains and made
their
way toward
Frensville
. Valaron and Draegon circled lazily overhead in the early morning sky. “There will be no way to keep your dragon hidden,” Skarson
had
told him, “so we might as well play our hand.” It will take a few days for news to reach the King.”

“What will keep
Praelix
from sending an army to stop us?” asked Valaron.

“By then we shall have rallied the men of
Frensville
and be moving quickly,” Skarson answered. “That should keep the Morts off our backs until we can gain support at
Ballin
. We will have enough force by then to throw down whatever Mort garrison the King sends our way. His arrogance will play to our favor.
Praelix
will not feel threatened by one dragon, just enraged. An angry enemy makes mistakes. His will be to send only a garrison or two. Nothing that we can not handle.” Valaron was not so sure.

The men of
Frensville
met
the two riders
in the field outside of town. The villagers had seen the dragon and
horsemen
long before they arrived. Valaron wheeled Draegon around and they dropped from the sky, flailing the air at the last minute and kicking up a large cloud of dust. A dragon was nothing new to most of the villagers, but they were awed by the sheer size of this black monster that stamped and snorted, an ominous growl passing his lips. Valaron slid to the ground.

Galdor
came running forward and embraced Skarson. “I wondered where you ran off to,” he said. “First you kill those Morts, and now you show up in the company of a dragon. I am not sure what to think of you anymore,” he remarked, grinning. “How is it possible? Where did you find him?” The huge beast stretched its wings in the sun.

“You will have to ask Valaron about that, my friend. It is his dragon.” Skarson left Galdor staring, and he walked quickly to where Stalwort, the town mayor, was standing. “We need to talk,” Skarson said, taking the short, round man by the arm and leading him off to the side.

The other men stayed well back from the dragon. Valaron walked over to join them, and they began firing questions at him. He spent a good deal of time explaining the events of the last few weeks. Valaron kept a close eye on Draegon who was pacing and growling.

Skarson and Stalwort returned, and the mayor announced in his usual curt manner, “Town meeting. Tonight. Everyone needs to be there.” He turned and walked back to the village.

Galdor watched him go. “Truly a man of few words,” he said, shaking his head. The smithy walked back toward the village.

Vic stood and stared at the dragon from beyond the crowd. Finally, he raised his bottle. He took a long drink, turned, and walked away. The old man stopped several times to look back and stare, each time taking another hard pull at his flask. After several stops, Vic shook his head, mumbled, “Puss buckets,” and headed straight for the village pub.

Valaron and Draegon spent the rest of the morning in the field outside the village. Just after mid-day, a lone figure walked out of the village and made his way across the open ground.

“Uncle!” shouted Valaron. He ran out to meet him, and they embraced in the hot sun.

“It is good to see you, my boy.”

“How is your arm,” asked Valaron, looking at the bandage that bound Cortain’s arm to his side.

“No bother
.
Miss Potter is making quite a fuss, but I am not nearly the invalid that she thinks I am.” Cortain
stared at the watchful dragon. “
I never thought I would see one again,” he said. “I feel like I am dreaming.”
He shook his head. “Toran told me he was big, but I never imagined such a beast.”

They moved a few steps closer for a better look. Draegon flapped his wings, rose several feet in the air, and landed heavily. He stretched his jaws and popped them shut. Valaron held up his hand, and Draegon turned his attention back something on the ground, nudging it with his nose.

“This one is huge!” Cortain said to no one in particular. After a few minutes he turned and looked at his nephew. “Your father would be proud of you, Valaron,” his voice choked in his throat. “I am proud of you.” He stopped, unable to continue.

“There is something I need to tell you.” Valaron laid his hand on his uncle’s shoulder.

Cortain waited, wiping at his eyes.

“Thank you,” said Valaron.

Puzzled, Cortain asked, “For what?”

“Thank you for
what
you did for me. For me and my parents. You sacrificed everything to raise me, to take care of me. Thank you.”

Cortain broke down and wept. His shoulders shook as he leaned against Valaron for support.

#

The villagers packed the meeting hall. Skarson was convinced that not another person could have squeezed through
the doors. There were more
outside, pushing to get a better view. Stalwort pounded on the podium again without results and throwing up his hands, he took his seat in frustration.

Finally, there was a natural lull in the clamor of voices and Skarson spoke in his deep commanding baritone voice. “Listen! Listen!” he said. “There is much to discuss, and if you do not keep quiet we will be here all night.” He turned to the mayor and nodding, sat down.

“Good folk of
Frensville
,” the mayor began. “We face a choice set upon us by our circumstances.” He relayed the events of the last few weeks to the villagers in his most authoritative voice. Usually short and to the point, his new-found eloquence was not lost on his listeners. “And so, we are at fate’s door. If we follow Skarson in rebellion
,
we may all be killed. If not, we are sure to be destroyed, slowly strangled by the lusts of King
Praelix
or killed in our sleep by marauding Morts. We have already suffered dearly at their hands, and more attacks are sure to come.” He paused and looked around the room. “It seems to me that we have no choice but to raise arms.”

Shouting broke out in the meeting hall. Some were stomping their feet while others yelled to be heard over the din. Stalwort held his arms in the air until order was restored.

“This is not a forced issue and we are not here to debate. Skarson looks only for volunteers. No one will be compelled to fight and rest assured, none will be thought any less a man for staying behind. Some of you have families to care for. Others are too old or too young to fight. We ask only for those who would follow of their own free will.”

A heavy silence filled the hall as many of the wives looked at the faces of their husbands and sons, trying to read their thoughts.

“Where do we sign up?” shouted Galdor. “I will
fight.” His next words were drowned out by the shouts of others raising their own voices in agreement.

Skarson stood up and the hall fell into a hushed silence. “Make no mistake. What we do will be dangerous. Some of you may not even make it to Kalador as we are certain to run into resistance from the King’s garrisons. Any man who ride
s
with us should make preparations in case you do not return.” It was the husbands turn to look at their wives.

“The King will not take kindly to a rebellion,” Skarson continued, “and news of Valaron’s dragon will soon reach the palace.” Murmurs spread across the hall and faces turned to look at Valaron as he sat beside the mayor. “Do not be fooled, my friends.
Praelix
is a ruthless man. He intends to be Emperor, and he will not stand any show of force.” Skarson looked around the hall at the faces of the villagers he had come to know over the years. “Make your decisions carefully. To survive, we must win!”

The room exploded again in loud shouts as the Mayor tried to regain control. Skarson leaned close to Stalwort. “Let them hash it out without my interference,” he said. “They must make up their own minds.” The Lone Rider made his way through the throng of people and out into the night.

He went to his house and gathered a few of the older books and placed them in a bag. He carried his load out to the field and set up camp far away from Valaron and the dragon.

“I guess I have become accustomed to sleeping on the ground,” Skarson said to the approaching rider. “My bed did not look nearly as inviting as I thought it would.” They had not been talking by the fire very long when Galdor approached through the darkness. Draegon stood up and hissed. Galdor stopped short. Skarson and Valaron walked out to meet him.

The smithy watched the pacing dragon.

“He won’t bother you,” assured Valaron.

“I spent quite a bit of time around dragons, son, and that is the most untrue statement that has ever passed your lips. Eat me as soon as look at me, he would.” He turned to Skarson. “I have been placed in charge,” Galdor said, “and we have the beginnings of an army, maybe sixty to seventy-five men. They will be ready to march at noon tomorrow.” He paused. “Unless you need them sooner, of course,” he added.

“Noon is fine,” Skarson replied. “Let them settle their affairs.”

“Well, I had best go do the same. I will be back at noon.”

Skarson and Valaron returned to the fire, but Galdor stood in the darkness and watched the black beast hiss and growl at him. After a few minutes, he turned for the village. “A dragon,” he mumbled as he walked away. “I never did trust those things.”

“I like him,” said Valaron “He seems to be a good man.”

“Yes, he is,” agreed Skarson. “He rode under your uncle in the cavalry.”

“What! He never told me that,” exclaimed Valaron.

“Oh, yes. He was a sergeant and an excellent fighter. A good man indeed,” he said, thoughtfully.

The volunteers began to gather around the camp as the sun moved overhead. The last count showed eighty-two able-bodied men ready to march. Some were mounted. Others were on foot. Most were armed with what weapons they could scrounge, and a few carried pitch forks and axes.

Vic skulked around clumps of men who tried to shoo him away and send him scurrying back to the village. The old man stood his ground and staggered around the field, taking an occasional drink from his bottle. No matter how much Vic drank, his bottle always seemed to be half full.

Skarson watched him for a few minutes,
and then
turned his attention to the rebels that were assembling in the field. The storyteller frowned. “We will have to gather arms along the way. I would not relish fighting a Mort soldier using a pick or shovel.” He looked around and asked, “Where is Galdor?”

Shouts came from the assembled men as Galdor approached on horseback, as if in answer to Skarson’s question. He sat perched upon a cavalry saddle, the leather oiled and shining in the noonday sun. The horse’s mane and tail were bobbed in the tradition of the war horses of old, its long face covered in armor. Its neck carried hammered plates that slid over each other like the scales of a dragon. A large blanket, embroidered with the crest of Kalador, lay under the saddle covering both flanks.

Galdor’s sword slapped against the leather of his travel bags. His red beard was parted and plaited into two large braids that hung halfway to his belt. Each braid was finished by a silver band that bore the cavalry insignia of a charging war horse. His bow was slung in its scabbard and the long arrows of a cavalry archer filled his quiver. A thin dagger lay across his chest, fitted into a sheath attached to a wide leather belt that crossed his left shoulder and buttoned into the top of his riding pants. A short coat of chain-mail was cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt fastened with a large oval buckle wrought in silver and covered in gold inlays.

He wore a wide-brimmed hat that fit low over his eyes. A strap fastened under his chin held it in place against the wind of a galloping charge. The well-muscled arms of the smithy were bare except for the silver bracers around his wrists that bore large round stones of jasper and golden inlays. Galdor seemed to have doubled in size at the approving looks of the other men.

“Well, sergeant,” Skarson said grinning, “it would seem that you are somewhat of a pack rat.”

“I never throw anything away,” he agreed, returning the grin. “That is why I could never convince any of these local fillies to marry me. Too much baggage.” He laughed loudly at his own joke as he slid lightly to the ground. He approached Skarson and asked, “Are we ready?”

“There are a few men still saying their good-byes. We will wait until they are finished,” Skarson replied. “Gather everyone together. Be ready to move out. You march to
Ballin
!”

“You mean we march to
Ballin
,” corrected Valaron.