Shadow Of The Mountain (23 page)

Tenlon saw it in the soldier’s face then, if only for the briefest of moments. Where Desik once had an army and brothers, now he was just one man. “You wanted to stay, didn’t you? At Goridai, with the other soldiers?”

The warrior shrugged indifferently, his hands lightly skimming across the surface of the water. “One place to fall is as good as any other.” His head leaned back and he stared up at the glass ceiling.

“I’m thankful that you didn’t stay. I’m glad that you’re here. I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”

Desik’s hands stopped moving and he finally looked down. “You’re not alone, boy. I’m here, and we’ll take this thing as far as it needs to go.”

The words were spoken with sincerity, and again Tenlon felt relief. The man had told him previously he would stay, but Tenlon wasn’t sure if he understood the sort of undertaking it would be.

The apprentice was certain of one thing, however: If left alone, he would be dead within a week. “Nothing before us will be easy,” he told the warrior. “A dragon’s egg is worth a kingdom of gold. It could buy us an entire nation, or just as easily get us killed. We’ll need to meet with Darien and Lesandra, and find a safe place to hatch this thing. Then train it to fight.”

“You mean to train it as well?”

Tenlon nodded. “It will take several years to reach the size of a mature dragon, and we’ll have to figure out something to do with it until then.”

“How ambitious of you. Can you hatch it?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion of what that would take,” Tenlon admitted. “But Braiden had told me everything was set with it, whatever that meant.”

“I used to raise chickens,” the warrior put in. “How hard could it be?”

Tenlon and Desik joined in a laugh, the sound bouncing off the surrounding stone. “I suppose the same principles apply,” Tenlon said. It felt good to laugh, he thought. So many of his last days had been spent tired and afraid. He raised an arm and sent a splash of water down to the distant side of the bath.

“Do you think one dragon can make a difference?” Desik asked. “Against the Volrathi? You were on those flatlands. You saw their size, their power.”

“Dragons grow stronger with each generation, and Draxakis was the strongest.”

“Then how did he die?”

“I don’t know,” Tenlon said. “He was grossly outnumbered, and a full frontal attack was a poor tactical decision. Even I could see that.”

“You and many others,” Desik agreed. “So, how much time do we have before this thing splits open and starts hissing fire at us?”

“A month from when we left Braiden’s tent, which leaves us a little less than three weeks.”

“Not much cushion time in there. Can’t you lay some of those spells on it, buy us a few more days? We don’t have anything in the way of plans yet, yeah?”

Tenlon grimaced. “I don’t exactly know the spells. I just keep them going in the right direction.”

“How so?”

“Think of Braiden as a master chef, who builds the perfect fire to prepare the perfect stew. Even if he gave me the ingredients and let me stand before the pot, it would take me months, or years, to learn how to prepare it the same as he.”

“So what do I always see you doing to the egg?”

Tenlon scratched the top of his head. “I guess you could say I stir the stew every once in a while so it doesn’t stick to the inside of the pot. And in a few weeks, his cooking fire will go out and that stew will need to be eaten or it won’t survive.”

“You are a strange little boy, aren’t you? So…what spells do you know?”

Tenlon considered this for a moment. He only knew one, but it was less than impressive.

Desik’s arm shot out of the water, finger extended. “You know one, don’t you? Come now, let’s have it!”

“It’s nothing, really. Just this stupid trick I had to learn at Iralic. I’m a scholar, not a Magi…”

“Enough talk! Show me.”

Tenlon let out a deep sigh of defeat. This was so embarrassing. Closing his eyes, he clasped his hands together in front of him, palms and fingertips aligned.

Desik watched as he pushed his hands together so forcefully that his arms and shoulders began to shake. For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then, after nearly a minute, Tenlon spread his hands apart, leaving the fingertips and palm heels still touching, creating a diamond shape with his two hands. In the center of the diamond floated a sphere, bright and perfect, the size of a small coin. Its light was golden and nearly too bright to stare at. It was like looking into a small piece of the sun.

A calm radiance filled the room.

Slowly, the light faded to a dull glow, then disappeared. Nothing was spoken for a few heartbeats.

“It’s called the Light of Serra,” Tenlon told him, breathing heavily. “And I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“It was good,” Desik said, looking oddly at the apprentice. “It was
very
good.”

Tenlon dunked his head below the water and resurfaced. “I had to learn it. Besides, all I ever wanted to do was train dragons.”

“Well…I think you’re going to get your chance.”

They both turned as the thick entrance door of the bathhouse opened. The woman they had met earlier carried their clothes in to them and hung them up on brass hooks imbedded in a nearby wall.

“They’re still a little wet,” she said. “But a few minutes in the sun should have them feeling comfortable enough.”

“Thank you,” Tenlon called out as she left the room.

Desik turned and climbed out of the bath. Gathering his sword, he walked naked to a large basket of towels and began to dry off.

Tenlon glided to the other side of the bath, resting his chin on his hands. “What do we do now?” he asked.

Desik wrapped a towel around his waist, moving to his boots and belt.“Dry off.”

Tenlon watched him flip his short sword in the air before scooping up his leather scabbard with the same hand. The weapon spun twice before him, letting out a low, razor-sharp hum of vibration as it started to drop. The warrior snapped his scabbard to the side, and the tip of the weapon slid home as if it were preordained. The move was done in an easy, almost monotonous manner, as if he were simply pouring wine.

Tenlon only smiled at the stunt, shaking his head. He’d never met anyone like Desik before. His speed was almost inhuman.

Perhaps there wasn’t anyone like him.

“I meant, what should we do with the rest of the day?”

The warrior threw his tunic on over his head and pulled on his leggings.

“I think we should get good and drunk,” he said, as if it were the most obvious decision in the world.

Chapter 13

Draz hid behind the trunk of a tall elm as he watched the men through the bushes, his brown hood pulled up beneath the fading light. There were eight giving chase in the valley below, still a few hundred yards distant. The men were bearded and filthy, wearing thin boots and armed with axes, serrated swords, and clubs. Their packs were light, carrying no more than a few days’ provisions. These were ugly and hateful brutes, and Draz felt his blood rage just watching them.

Gallans, he knew, treacherous dogs that had helped burn his city, murder his people. Draz cursed every one of them.

The foreign bastards had been combing the forest around Corda the last few days, killing any they found fleeing the smoldering and occupied capital. Trobe and the Orantak students had been using the Gambit as a stronghold, quietly gathering what refugees they could find and spiriting them up into the mountain’s hidden sanctuary. Few had fled north of the city, which was a vast terrain of wooded valleys, lakes, and mountain ranges that would taper off to meet the Venda Sea. As of now they’d taken nearly thirty Amorians into the safety of the mountain.

It was dangerous work, for they went out in small search groups and the Gallan traitors scoured the forest in great numbers at times.

But the Gallans he watched now were different. They frequently traveled with a young Volrathi tracker, a tall man around the age of thirty with pale skin and swept-back, black hair. They worked on foot mostly, going further north of Corda than the rest, searching, hunting.

Draz had studied the Volrathi from afar for a few days, and the man’s black eyes could seemingly read tracks like a script. He would pause along a trail, bending down to touch the soil, studying it,
feeling
it, if that were possible. Often he would pick up a loose stone or leaf, then rise, his gaze sweeping across the surrounding forest.

On more than one occasion Draz saw him point up near his direction. Whoever the Volrathi was, he was good. The man knew how to track and he seemed to be stalking the Orantak students.

As the days passed, they realized the Gallan hunting party was trekking deeper into the north. It was a growing concern for Trobe and Draz. The Volrathi and his group were now closer to the Gambit than they were the capital. The students could travel through the forest at speed while leaving little trace, but the refugees they brought back were not as skilled. Tired and frightened, they stumbled through the forest until reaching the mountain, and now their tracks were putting them all in danger.

He and Vextis had put eyes on this group only three times. Usually there were between eight and fifteen of them. Vextis suspected they would split up to search for their trail before reconnecting somewhere else. Today, there seemed to be eight, and the Volrathi was missing. Still, the others couldn’t be far.

Trobe had given them explicit orders not to engage any combatants they came across during these little outings. They were only to collect what survivors they could from the forest surrounding Corda while not making their presence known. Now was not the time to pick a fight, he told them. That day would come soon enough.

Draz watched the men moving closer through the valley and wished he had more of his brothers with him. Jornan and Vextis were in hiding a short distance away, but for the moment Draz was alone.

The Gallan jeers and taunts carried through the trees—vile, despicable threats against those they pursued. A small family was scrambling towards the hill in his direction, running for their lives—a mother, father, and two daughters. The girls were outrunning their parents by some distance, and Draz could see the father and mother weighed down by heavy packs. They begged their daughters to continue up the next hill, urging them on with shouts and frantic waves.

Both young girls had the auburn hair of their mother and they fled hand-in-hand, panic fueling their pace. The oldest was around Draz’s age, terrified, her eyes glowing with horror. The other was much younger, six or seven maybe. The little one seemed more detached from it all, gripping the end of her dress up with a free hand so as not to stain it. She was clearly confused, but ran alongside her sister, just as her father ordered.

Draz watched the girls as they struggled on. He moved along the ridgeline to another tree, trying to get lined up with their approach.

“Faster,” he whispered, his mind begging as if they could hear. They had no idea how close help was. Just a little further up the hill and he could reach them.

If he were lucky, he could grab both girls and get them back to the hide without being seen. It was only a short distance away. Both Jornan and Vextis were there awaiting his return, likely shitting their britches by now. They knew the group was somewhere nearby, and they’d set out late last night to find their location but had no luck with it. The trail Vextis followed had grown cold later that afternoon.

They’d heard the voices of the Gallan men an hour earlier as the sun began to set.

Draz had ordered a hide dug to be covered with pine branches and leaves, then set out in search of them. A hide was really just a trench dug into the ground, covered and camouflaged with foliage from which you could observe an area undetected. A good hide was nearly invisible, and Draz knew his brothers would rig up a fine one.

At the time he’d insisted on going out alone, not knowing the men they followed were pursuing a family. Jornan was against any decision that had the two of them separated, but Draz was ranking student in the camp and his friend could offer no objection. At the time Draz hadn’t feared going out alone. Two could build a hide faster than one, and it might very well save their lives.

He watched the father stop to shake off his pack at the bottom of the rise, helping the mother remove hers. Pulling out a long butcher blade, the man turned to face the pursuing men.

The father glanced over to his wife, his girls.

“Run!” he cried, his voice resonating through the valley, hoarse and panicked. “Run!”

Draz shook his head, seeing the Gallan men closing in. His heart was hammering. The wife didn’t move. It was too late for either of them. This was just a ploy to buy a little time, the parents to sacrifice their lives in exchange for the daughters to have a few extra moments to run, a handful more steps to flee.

The girls were halfway up the hill now, less than a hundred yards from Draz. The oldest sister stopped and turned, releasing the hand of the other and letting out a chilling scream as the Gallans moved in on her parents. The cry froze her little sister’s climb and she turned to stare down below, watching her mother and father.

The eldest girl stumbled back down the hill.

Draz cursed under his breath. He longed to call out, but it would do nothing to help them. Had they both made it up the climb, he could’ve hid them from the Gallans till nightfall, then taken them to the safety of the Gambit. But to make his presence known now would mean death to them all. He could not defeat eight men in open combat. He’d never even killed a man before, none of them had.

The eight Gallans surrounded the parents. The father’s knife sliced through the air, hissing like a snake, trying to hold them at bay.

“Back!” he cried. “Stay back! I swear I’ll--”

In a moment he was brought down to all fours by a club from behind. The wife was thrown down next to him.