The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (15 page)

Valaron sang the Feeding Song, Draegon joining his voice to that of the rider. A hush fell over men and elves alike. They sat lost in their own thoughts as they listened to the singing. The music had a quality to it that created a great calm among the rebels. No matter how many times they heard the Dragon Songs, they were always deeply moved.

The singing ended and Draegon ate his fill.

CHAPTER
26

“None falls so hard as the mighty”

-Elven saying

T
he elves were departing for their morning rituals when Valaron awoke from a bad dream, his hand on his dagger. He listened intently to a strange sound that filled the pre-dawn darkness. Draegon was breathing heavily, his labor filled with a deep, wet rattle. Valaron put his hand on the dragon’s chest and felt him shudder at each filling of his massive lungs. The dragon coughed violently, and Valaron was racing to Cler’d’roh’s tent. He caught her before she left for her morning ritual.

“What is it?” she asked as he ran to her side.

“The dragon. He is ill. Hurry!”

They ran back to the dragon’s side.
Draegon ignored the
Cler’d’roh
as
placed her hand on his head
and
listened to his wet coughs.

“He is hot.” She turned to Valaron. “Stay here.” Cler’d’roh raced back to the elven camp.

Valaron felt of Draegon’s head. “You are burning up!” he exclaimed. He took water and offered it to the dragon who sniffed it, snorted, and turned his head away.

Cler’d’roh returned leading a small group of elves. A tall elf with long silver hair walked to Draegon and
put
his ear to the dragon’s chest. He stood listening for a long time, his eyes closed tightly. Next, he stared into the dragon’s eye. He turned to Cler’d’roh. They spoke quickly in the elven tongue, and the elder elf turned and walked away.

“What is it? What did he say?” asked Valaron.

Ignoring him, Cler’d’roh barked orders to the other elves. They instantly raced back the way they had come.

Valaron grabbed Cler’d’roh by the shoulder and spun her around.

“What is it? What did he tell you?”

Cler’d’roh turned her head to look at the dragon. She slowly turned back to Valaron. “That was Fen’d’mar,” she said. “He was at Stronghold.”

Valaron inhaled sharply. “No,” he whispered.

Cler’d’roh turned her face away. “It is the plague.”

#

Brainerd waited in the alley off the main plaza at the marketplace. Several of the merchants were already setting up their goods in the early morning mist. He stood in a doorway that shielded him from view and pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. Presently, a stranger made his way to where Brainerd waited.

“You have something for me?” the stranger asked.

“From the King,” said Brainerd. He handed over the letter bearing the crest of
Praelix
. “Will the Brotherhood follow the King or the dragon rider?” he asked. “
Praelix
wishes to know.”

The stranger tucked the letter inside his cloak and looked slowly around the alley. He watched the increasing bustle of the marketplace and said, “The majority will follow the King.” He turned back and moved forward ominously, backing Brainerd into the shadows until the messenger’s back was pressed against the cold wooden door. “Tell your King that this is a necessary allegiance, but a temporary one.” He moved his head to within inches of Brainerd’s face. “It changes nothing,” he whispered angrily. “After this,
Praelix
will fall. Not to any rebel force, but at the hands of the same Brotherhood that he now relies on.” The stranger spun on his heel and quickly disappeared into the gathering morning crowd.

#

“What in thunder is going on?” asked Galdor as he trotted in from the rebel camp. He looked at Valaron and Cler’d’roh standing a fair distance from the dragon. “I was almost run over back there by a group of elves.” He stood waiting for an answer.

Ignoring him, Cler’d’roh laid her hand on Valaron’s arm. “I have dispatched our fastest runners,” she said. “They will bring the cure from Loeath’d’nah. I only hope that they make it back in time.”

Galdor watched Cler’d’roh leave. He looked back at Valaron. “Cure for what?” he asked. “Is someone sick?”

Draegon coughed loudly.

“Oh my,” said Galdor.

“He has the plague,” whispered Valaron.

“The plague!” exclaimed Galdor. “But how?”

“I have no idea,” Valaron replied, shaking his head. “The plague comes from eating a particular fish from the Aelagon Sea. The elves say it carries something that infects the dragons. That’s one of the reasons we direct their feeding. We never let them eat any type of fish,” he said. “The risk is too great.”

“But that makes no sense, Valaron. You fed him. What did he eat?”

“It was the meat from Klastor,” replied Valaron. Looking around the ground, he pointed. “There,” he said. “He did not eat it all.” Valaron walked over and retrieved what was left of Draegon’s meal. He carried it back to where Galdor waited.

Galdor took the pork shoulder and turned it over in his hands. Working with his dagger, he pried open a slit that was cut deep into the meat. Inside were several thin slices of shiny white meat stuffed back in the opening. He stabbed one with his dagger and sniffed it. “Fish,” he said. “Your dragon was poisoned!” Galdor tossed the meat aside and wiped his blade on the wet grass. He turned and looked toward the rebel camp. “I have something to do,” he said, his voice cold and menacing. Galdor ran lightly across the field and vanished among the tents.

Valaron refused to leave Draegon’s side. He tended to him all day and all night, singing softly as the dragon’s labored breath came hard and slow. Morale was falling quickly throughout the rebel camp as news spread of the dragon’s illness. Very few of the villagers would be willing to continue if the dragon died. He had been their rallying point, the main source of their confidence. Small groups of men gathered around their evening fires and talked of returning home.

Early the next morning, Valaron heard shouting in the distance.
The cry,
“To arms!”
was
sounding through the camp. Fifty or more elves appeared out of nowhere and swarmed the field around the dragon, their bows fitted with arrows. “What is it?” cried Valaron.

“A Mort army attacks from the Northwest,” answered one of the elves. “They are racing across the open field and will be here soon.”

More elves joined them and they quickly formed four circles around the dragon, each one fifty feet farther out than the last. Valaron could see dust rising as the Morts raced closer. He could hear Galdor shouting orders and watched the rebels form up their ranks, racing out to meet the closing enemy.

Slath shouted at his men to keep up the pace as they sprinted toward the rebel camp. He had hoped to be able to cover the open ground fast enough to reach the rebels before they could gather their forces, but now there would be a battle on the open field.

A group of elves racing at incredible speed passed the galloping rebel horses and showered arrows into the advancing monsters. When the distance was closed, the elves’ swords carved through the front ranks while the mounted rebels galloped deep into the Mort army. The sound of the collision was deafening as the two forces slammed into each other at full speed.

The battle was long and slow. Galdor led the mounted soldiers. They hacked at the Morts while their horses waded through the mass of enemy bodies. The foot soldiers were taking a terrible beating as they faced an ominous foe. The elves were killing the enemy on every side, and the ground grew slick with blood. Valaron watched the forces advance and retreat across the open field.

A garrison of Morts broke off from the main battle and charged toward Draegon. The elves fired their arrows with blinding speed. It seemed to Valaron that none of them missed their targets. A third of the garrison fell to the archers. The remainder engaged the first circle of elves. The fight began in earnest. Swords rang and the elves pressed the Morts, pushing them slowly away.

The outer circle broke behind Valaron, and the two ends swung around to flank the enemy. The next circle broke and turned, moving forward to press close in behind the first. The Morts quickly fell to the elves tactics. The enemy was forced back. The next circle broke and drew their swords. They formed a front between the dragon and the battle that raged in front of them. The final circle of elves remained in place and sent arrows raining down on the rear of the Mort garrison.

Valaron stood with his hand on Draegon’s neck to keep him calm. The rider watched the enemy break at last and fall back to join the main force. The elves quickly reformed their circles of protection around the ailing dragon.

Slath called for retreat. Galdor called his forces back from the pursuit, but the elves chased the Morts into the distance, cutting down as many as they could. The Mort battalion was defeated, but not without heavy losses to the rebels. They lost over three-hundred men in the attack. Another fifty or more lay wounded on the battlefield. Two of the elves were killed and three others were wounded. The setting sun cast long shadows over rebels and elves tending their fallen.

“They won’t try that again,” said Galdor. He and Valaron stood near the edge of the rebel camp. “The elves seem to think the Morts were simply testing us,” he said. “We killed over half of their force. The King will not be too pleased with whoever was in charge.”

From across the field, Valaron watched Draegon’s labored breathing.

“How is he?” asked Galdor.

“He’s getting worse,” answered Valaron. “He still refuses to drink anything, and his fever is rising.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I’m not sure how much longer he can hold out.”

“Carlton is nowhere to be found,” said Galdor. “I am fairly certain he was the one who poisoned your dragon.”

Valaron slowly nodded his head, his eyes never moving as he watched Draegon wheezing and coughing. “I guessed as much.”

Valaron sat by Draegon’s side
to try and offer what comfort he could
. I
n the darkness
,
the elves stood guard in a circle
,
just out of sight. The dragon wheezed and struggled, his breathing labored and uneven. Draegon’s massive body shook
i
n fits of wet coughing. Valaron felt helpless
, and t
he sorrow
he felt
was overwhelming. He could never remember a time when he had
known
such pain. His thoughts were interrupted by elves talking in the darkness.
Pen’d’roh
and Fen’d’mar entered the circle of light.

“Our runners have returned,”
Pen’d’roh
said. Fen’d’mar the elder elf took a vial from inside his robe. He handed it to Valaron.

Pen’d’roh
pointed at the dragon. “Pour it in his mouth.”

Valaron raised the dragon’s lip and poured the thick, brown liquid between his teeth. Draegon swallowed weakly.

“Is that it?” asked Valaron.

“It is done,” replied
Pen’d’roh
. “If he is to recover, it will be quick. We will know one way or the other by morning.” The elves walked slowly off into the darkness, and Valaron finally succumbed to the sleep of exhaustion.

CHAPTER
27

“And Maladron fashioned from the clay beneath Gal’s’duum an abomination. And he called it Mort.”

-Excerpt from

“The Book of Beginnings”

S
lath led what was left of his army back toward Kalador. The elves had given up their pursuit, so he hoped to reach the palace city without any more losses. The elves had been most bothersome. Many of the Morts were wounded, and Slath was nursing a bad cut to his shoulder that ached as he ran. He blocked out the pain and raced on in the darkness, leading the others to rejoin the main army back at Kalador.

Slath’s orders had been clear. Attack the rebels to determine their strength, and kill the dragon if possible. He would be able to give an accurate report of the capability of the resistance, but he was upset that the dragon had survived.
Praelix
would not be happy. In his anger, Slath picked up the pace. The other Morts raced to keep up. They ran on through the next day and pushed closer to Kalador, hoping to make the palace city before sunset.

#

Moeldor stood on the parapet of the north tower and paced in the darkness. He recited the dwarves riddle over and over in his mind as he worked to discover Aradorn’s hiding place. The stars were crisp and clear in the night sky, The Circlet shone bright in the north. Mael stood in the east, his feet on the Grands and his arms outstretched to the heavens. Moeldor watched a shooting star as it appeared from near the pink star at Mael’s heart. It crossed the sky burning first white—then green. Its tail arced slowly overhead and soon faded from sight.

The wizard stared for a long time after the shooting star had disappeared. His mind was lost in the heavens as he remembered the ancient history that described the creation of all that is. He shook his head and focused his thoughts back to the riddle.

Moeldor struggled over the dwarves’ words until the early morning. The sky lightened and took on a slight glow in the east as the sun began to crawl up the back of the mountains. Something bothered him. Something he had seen. It touched at the back of his mind, and he knew the answer to the riddle was close at hand. If only he could recognize the image he sought, he was certain the other parts would fall into place.

Tired and frustrated, the wizard walked to his chamber and collapsed on the bed, falling into a deep sleep. Moeldor saw the heavens in his dream, the shooting star larger and brighter than it had been when he had seen it during the night. It burst out of Mael’s chest and flashed brightly across the sky. In a repeat of his prior dream, the dwarves stood close by laughing and throwing rocks at his head.

When he awoke, Moeldor quickly wrote in his journal and sat pondering his dream until late in the day. He read through several passages in his books and looked over his notes. The wizard tried desperately to put all of the pieces together, but the answer remained just outside his grasp. He felt as though he could reach out and touch it.

Suddenly he sat up straight and inhaled sharply. Jumping up, he pulled a book from the bookcase. He rapidly flipped through the pages and stopped with his finger pointing at a section of underlined text. “Here it is,” he said. Moeldor read a short passage out loud.
“The dwarves labored many years building the palace and fashioning all of the King’s furnishings.”
He slammed the book shut and sat unmoving.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “Those arrogant little miners.” The wizard smiled darkly as the dwarves riddle unfolded before him. “Of course,” he repeated softly.

#

Kragh turned his garrison to the west and headed straight for the Raen mountains. They entered the forests of the foothills and turned north once again, following a trail that ran just inside the trees. Soon, Kalador could be seen off in the distance, and the Morts continued until they were directly across from the plains that lay in front of the palace. Kragh gave the signal to settle in. The Morts hid themselves among the trees maintaining a view of the impending battleground.

“Are we to hide like children while the battle rages around us?” asked Slargh. “Maybe you have lost your nerve for war,” he said. His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Kragh drove his dagger deep into Slargh’s throat. The Mort fell dead at the Commander’s feet.

“Does anyone else want to question my orders?” he asked, wiping the bloody blade on his coat. The other Morts turned back to their places.

The garrison silently watched the massed forces making preparations for war. They sat resting on the cool ground, broke out their rations, and ate for the first time in three days. Many of the soldiers slept while others kept watch. They would soon need all of their strength.

#

Slath bowed before the King. “The enemy is strong,” he said, standing to face
Praelix
. “We killed several hundred of their men, but the elves proved to be a greater opponent than we had thought. The rebels number well over five thousand. Half of my force was lost in the battle.”

“And what of the dragon?” asked
Praelix
.

“He lives,” replied Slath. “The elves fought as though taken by madness, and our splintered force could not overcome them.”

“Did he fly?”

“What, my Lord?” asked Slath.

“Fly,” said the King. “Did the dragon and rider take to the air?”

“No,” answered Slath. “The dragon never moved, my Lord. It remained on the ground while the elves fought around it. I never caught sight of the rider, but he was surely nearby.”

“Excellent,” said
Praelix
. “You have done well, Slath. Make the final preparations. If the rebels come, it will be soon.” The King waved his hand in dismissal.

“So,”
Praelix
said to himself. “The dragon and rider are grounded.” He smiled and sat back, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne.