The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (13 page)

“Yes!” exclaimed
Janson
. “Not just a boy at all. The Captain’s son!”

Skarson got the reaction he was expecting. The men chattered in their excitement
, and h
ope swelled among the Lone Riders.

The hour grew late, and Skarson stood to turn in for the night. “We must be about our business at first light,” he said. “The Archway is not far from here. Time is of the essence.”

The men broke camp early the next morning. They followed Skarson and rode up the trail that climbed between the two ridges. The band of riders turned off to the left, made their way through a grove of trees, and stopped in front of a large stone doorway set into the side of the mountain. The door was on a slight rise
, and i
t hung in a granite frame. A massive arch set over the top gave the doorway its name.

The mountain climbed above to dizzying heights, and water from a spring in the rocks above the arch coursed over the door. There were no visible hinges or latch. The door fit snugly into its frame showing only the barest hint of a seam. Runes covered the granite door, and time had worn them down making them nearly unreadable. Faint pictures depicting scenes of dragon battles had been chiseled into the frame countless ages ago.

Skarson ordered the others to stay below. He rode up to the door and pounded three times with the butt of his sword, paused, and struck twice more. He pulled his horse back out of the way and waited. Soon, a deep grinding noise came from the mountain, and the door slowly swung open.

Skarson rode forward. He was met by long spears that jutted out of the black entrance. He spoke for some time in the growing light of morning. Finally, the spears were pulled back. Skarson motioned the others to follow, and the small band of Lone Riders disappeared into the dark opening. The door slowly closed behind them.

CHAPTER
23

"The ways of love

are hidden in

the blooms of spring.

The heart is bent

to labors for

his love to bring.

Sanity is quenched by

his longing heart.

Confidence is vanquished

w
hen
his love departs."

-Troubadour Song

"Spring of Innocence"

V
alaron and Draegon flew over Klastor and crossed the river, flying back the way they had come. They made a wide circle around the area scouting for any sign of the Mort garrison that had been reported at Aelor by the scouts. Satisfied that they were not being followed, Valaron turned his dragon and flew fast and low toward Kalador. Long hard beats of his massive wings moved Draegon quickly through the sky while Valaron scanned the horizon. Deciding to risk detection, they gained height and glided on the rising air currents. Valaron spotted three Mort garrisons traveling from the northeast, each one moving toward the palace city at a dead run. He estimated that they would reach Kalador in another day and a half.

Valaron and Draegon returned to Klastor and landed in the field by the rebel camp. Galdor rode to meet them as Valaron slid to the ground.

“Morts are returning to Kalador across the flatlands,” Valaron said as Galdor rode to a stop.

“How many?”

“I saw three garrisons, but there are bound to be more,” replied Valaron.

“Any sign of the men from Raenor?” Galdor asked.

“No,” answered Valaron. “That would put them at least two days from here or I would have seen them.”

“Carlton is handing out the last of the arms that we brought from Aelor,” said Galdor, “and I have appointed Captains to organize the army into battalions. They are forming up their men and resetting the camp. We will be ready to march as soon as the others arrive.”

“Good. We will leave when the last of the volunteers get here.”

“You have a couple of visitors,” said Galdor. “They are waiting for you back at the camp.”

“I will be along in a minute,” answered Valaron.

Galdor spurred his horse across the field, sod kicking up from his hooves as they raced back to camp.

Valaron removed the saddle from Draegon’s neck and put it away. He buckled the scimitar to his belt and made his way back to the meeting tent.

The strangers stood waiting as Valaron pushed aside the flap and entered the tent.

“Galdor said you wanted to see me,” Valaron said as he walked over.

“My name is Franklin and I am the leader of the Brotherhood. This is Quintas, my second in command.” Franklin was tall and wiry. His thin face was grim and dark, and his long brown hair was braided on either side of his temples and tied off by leather cords. Quintas was shorter than his companion. His close-cropped hair stood up all over his head showing streaks of gray at the temples. Deep-set black eyes shone brightly under his heavy brows. Their only weapons were short daggers that hung by their sides.

Valaron extended his hand. “I am Valaron, Dragon Rider and leader of the rebellion.”

Franklin ignored Valaron’s gesture and continued, “I know who you are.” He stared coldly at Valaron. “I have come to ask you to send these men home.”

“I do not understand,” Valaron said as he lowered his hand.

“It is simple,” replied Franklin. “Your forces are marching to their death. The time is not right for a rebellion. The King’s forces are too great. The Brotherhood has worked for many years to overthrow the King and your resistance movement is an ill-timed and poorly thought out blunder.”

“These villagers would seem to disagree,” Valaron replied. He worked hard to control his anger. “They are ready to do whatever it takes to secure freedom for their families.”

“These men are not warriors. They have been worked up by empty promises and false hope,” said Franklin. “They have no chance against the King’s Mort army. Plus, your rebellion threatens to undermine everything that the Brotherhood has set into place.”

“I see,” replied Valaron. “And just what is it that the Brotherhood thinks should be done?”

“We have men in high places in Kalador, and they have been working for years to defeat the King from inside his own council. Your march to Kalador has complicated matters. Your brash actions have gathered the Mort army and placed our plans at risk.”

The two men stared at each other.

“I have the utmost respect for what you have tried to accomplish,” said Valaron, “but the time for planning is over.” He smiled disarmingly. “The people want freedom and war is at hand. You can either join us or stand aside. I see no other options.”

Franklin looked past Valaron as the tent flap suddenly opened. Cler’d’roh entered and bowed, saying, “Pardon the interruption.”

“What are you doing here?” exclaimed Franklin as Valaron opened his mouth to make introductions. Rushing forward, Franklin embraced Cler’d’roh.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” she said.

“It is good to see you again.” He stepped back and bowed his head.

“And you,” replied Cler’d’roh.

“I see you two have met,” said Valaron, his voice showing irritation.

“Yes,” replied Cler’d’roh. “My people have lent assistance to the Brotherhood on many occasions. Franklin is an old friend.”

“It seems that your old friend is less than pleased about our plans to march on Kalador.”

Cler’d’roh looked at each of the men in turn. “May we have a word in private?” she asked Valaron.

Reluctantly, Valaron left them alone. He pushed through the tent flap in a huff and walked outside to find Galdor, Carlton and
Pen’d’roh
talking by the fire. They stopped and turned when Valaron stormed out of the tent.

“What happened?” asked Galdor.

Valaron looked confused. “I’m not sure.”

Galdor’s looked at
Pen’d’roh
. The elf shrugged his shoulders.

Carlton coughed nervously. “If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have work to do.”

#

“This uprising will destroy all the work we have done for the last twenty years,” said Franklin, his voice hot and emotional. “Everything we have set in place will be put in jeopardy.”

“Your work has been invaluable,” replied Cler’d’roh, “but now is the time for action. You should be happy that the people have finally taken a stand. I seem to remember that you were the one who said that you could never understand how the villagers could be so apathetic in the face of oppression.” She looked hard at Franklin who walked away several paces.

Turning, he said, “We have tried to do what was best for everyone. Our work has moved forward without getting innocent people killed. Now this boy shows up, and suddenly every farmer in the kingdom is ready to race to their death. This is insanity!”

“You seem to be convinced that failure is certain,” said Cler’d’roh. “The Franklin I remember was always the optimist.” She paused, watching her friend closely. “Valaron is not just a boy, Franklin. He is a Dragon Rider.”

“Optimism gives way to realism over time,” replied Franklin. “The King’s forces are too great when gathered together. The only way for freedom is to work against a splintered force. Destroy the pieces and the whole will crumble. The entire Dragon Guard was no match for the Mort army. What makes you think that one boy and his dragon will prevail where hundreds failed before?”

“The Dragon Guard fought alone,” she said softly. “That is why they failed. This time the people are willing to fight for their own freedom. That is the difference.”

Franklin rubbed his face with his hands. He looked old and tired in the dim light. Cler’d’roh moved closer.

“Valaron appears to be the One Rider from prophecy,” she continued. “
H
e is the beginning of a new age for all of Ashandor. I am willing to follow him, and I hope that you can too. Yes, he is just a boy, but that boy is becoming a man. He has given up everything he holds dear to lead humans and elves alike against our common enemy. I think that you should give him a chance.”

Franklin thought for a long time as they stood in silence. He took Cler’d’roh’s hand and said, “I never could tell you no.”

Franklin and Quintas left the tent and walked over to where Valaron, Galdor, and
Pen’d’roh
stood talking.

“I find myself swayed in favor of your rebellion,” he said, “and I place the Brotherhood at your disposal. Quintas will make the necessary arrangements for us to join you.” Franklin turned and walked quickly toward Klastor.

Galdor cast a sidelong glance at Valaron, then took Quintas by the arm. “Follow me.”

Valaron entered the tent where Cler’d’roh was waiting. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him what he needed to hear. Our friendship goes back many years,
and t
hat is worth something to a man like Franklin.” She pushed Valaron’s hair out of his face, hooking it behind his ear. “He is a good man, Valaron. I trust him with my life and you can too.”

He looked into her green eyes and his frustration melted under her gaze. “Very well,” he said. “Galdor is apprising Quintas of our plans. He will coordinate things with the Brotherhood.”

Later that evening, Valaron made his way to Cler’d’roh’s tent for dinner. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her and Franklin walking through the elven camp. He quickly stepped into the shadows to avoid being seen. Valaron found their closeness irritating. He watched them enter Cler’d’roh’s tent, talking and laughing. Valaron stood in the shadows staring at the tent. He tried to sort out his confused emotions. Anger boiled up almost uncontrollably. Finally, he turned and made his way out into the field to where Draegon was waiting. Valaron lay beside the dragon late into the night, unable to sleep.

CHAPTER
24

"A murmur in the shadows,

a whisper in the room.

A spreading plague of evil,

a prophecy of doom.

A shout from down the way,

a struggle in the court.

'A traitor in the hall!'

cries the ominous report."

-Poem "Voice of Contention"

“
H
ow can I be of service, my Lord?” asked Moeldor as he bowed before the King.
Praelix
rose from his throne, walked down the steps, and faced the councilman.

“I need to know what your visions tell you about this rebel force that marches on the palace,”
Praelix
replied.

“I was not under the impression that the King believed in visions,” Moeldor said cautiously. “You surely understand that my powers are limited. I am an old wizard who sees only pieces of a possible future,
a
mere glimpse of what may be.”

“I am not interested in the future, only the here and now,” the King interrupted, “Tell me what you have seen.”

“Very well,” replied Moeldor. “I have seen the rebels gathered at Klastor. Though their numbers are great, they are weak and disorganized,” he lied. “The dragon rider is young and inexperienced, his dragon unruly and poorly trained.” Moeldor smiled. “You face a disorderly band of farmers carrying rocks and sticks, my Lord. Your massive Mort army will easily crush them. Any hope the villagers ever had of removing you from power will die with them. The battle will be quick, victory swift and sure. Of course,” added the wizard, “I am old and my visions are weak.”

“I see,” replied
Praelix
. He stared intently at Moeldor. “Keep me advised if there are any new developments.” The King gestured for Moeldor to leave.

“Of course, my Lord. As you wish.” Moeldor bowed and left the throne room.

“He is lying,”
Praelix
said to himself as he watched the elder councilman walk away. The village spies told a much different story of a large, massed army joined by those accursed elves. The rebels numbered over four thousand, and at least another five hundred armed men from Raenor were marching swiftly to join them.

The rebels are led by a Cavalryman who fought at the battle of Plantor, and the Brotherhood is rumored to be lending their support. The King’s spies also told him that the dragon was solid black and the largest that had ever been seen. Their report said the young rider handles him as well as any Guardsman that ever lived.

“Before this is all over,” he muttered quietly, “I will have to deal with that wizard.”

#

Moeldor made his way back to his chamber and bolted the door. He began to pour over the books spread across his table. Notes were scattered about the piles of ancient texts, and he was quite satisfied at the progress he was making in unraveling the dwarves riddle.

“You will not hide forever, dear Aradorn,” he said to himself. He picked up a quill, filled the tip with ink, and made notes in his journal.

#

Praelix
walked down a dark passageway leading to the rear of the palace. He entered a small room located directly behind the council chamber. A small, young man waited at the back of the room and turned as
Praelix
entered. He bowed low at the King’s appearance. Black curly hair ran in all directions over his head and parted on the sides for ears much too large to cover.

“I have a task for you, Brainerd,”
Praelix
said as he placed a sealed letter in the man’s dirty hand. “Deliver this to our rebel confederate in Klastor. Make sure he understands that he is to handle the task personally.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Brown eyes glistened under heavy brows parted by a narrow, chiseled nose that seemed sharp enough to cut paper.

The King handed over a second letter and added, “This is for our other ally.
It is a
nice little surprise for the rebel army. Now, make haste. You must reach Klastor before the rebels depart for Kalador.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” replied Brainerd. He tucked the letters in his shirt, bowed again, and quickly stepped backward from the room. His unruly beard hi
d
a smile that fell in tangles onto his dark brown cloak.

Praelix
moved back to the council chamber where a lone Mort waited. Slath had been temporarily placed in charge of the Mort army in Kragh’s absence. He was busy recalling garrisons from the flatlands. Though not as large as Kragh, he was, nonetheless, an imposing figure. Several deep scars lined his face, and he wore a black leather patch over his left eye which had been lost in a fight that had gained him a promotion to Captain.

“I am placing you in charge of a task of the utmost importance,” said
Praelix
.

“I see,” replied Slath, lightly bowing his head. “I am honored by your trust.”

“The rebels have gathered at Klastor, and my information says that they will begin their march to Kalador in three days.”
Praelix
stepped close and added, “The rebel army is nearly five thousand strong and they march alongside elves.” He watched the Mort to see his reaction.

“Elves,” Slath snarled. “We will send them back to the forest on their shields.”

“It never pays to underestimate your enemy,” warned
Praelix
. “Klan’d’ron may have more warriors on the move, and elves seem to be more than capable of dispatching Morts with relative ease.”

Slath growled at the insult.

“I have arranged for a slight disruption in the rebels’ plans,” continued
Praelix
, a smile formed on his face. “Here is what I need you to do.”

#

Setting down his pen, Moeldor leaned back and rubbed his eyes. A smile crossed his lips and he said to himself,
“Aradorn hides. “Tis true, ‘tis true. A place before all; a place that is new.”
The stone must be hidden in an image of something ancient; something from the time when Mael created all that is.” Furrows lined his brow as he said, “But
One pace up; once pace back
makes no sense. That always returns you to the same place.” He stood and paced around the chamber. “
Power reigns close
implies that the stone is hidden somewhere in the palace; but where?” he pondered. “Those ridiculous dwarves built this place. They could have hidden it anywhere.” He cursed loudly. The wizard leaned over and placed both hands on the wall. He dropped his head and pondered the riddle.

Moeldor finally took a break from his labors and entered his antechamber. A spark lit the lone candle that sat on the table in the center of the room. The wizard closed his eyes and began to chant softly. The words came in an even rhythm. A picture began to form in his mind, so he doubled his efforts to make it clearer. Great drops of sweat formed on his face as he struggled, and the scene in his mind slowly fell into focus. He saw masses of well-armed men camped across a wide field outside of Klastor. Thousands of rebels busied themselves with the preparations of war. A regiment of elven archers camped to the west, and from the north, a great many men raced to join them.

The wizard focused his vision back to the rebel army. He saw a massive, black dragon and its young rider. Camped a considerable distance from the camp. The rider appeared childlike standing beside his monstrous companion. No dragon of Stronghold had ever been its equal in size. Moeldor opened his eyes. He stared into the flame, unmoving. “So, you are the One Rider of prophecy,” Moeldor muttered softly under his breath. The elder councilman chewed at his lip as he thought of the impending battle. “Come on, boy,” he finally said in a whisper. “Come kill your King.”