The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (6 page)

CHAPTER
12

"The
peoples’
crown

no glory holds

when slaves are all

it makes.

The King no special

honor gains

when everything

he takes."

- Poem "Heirs of Hatred"

"
E
veryone knows that the Grands are impassable," said Saladon from his seat at the council table. "There is no way across. The Raen
Mountains
are no better. The forests give way to sheer cliffs that rise hundreds of feet." He was seated to the right of Moeldor, his soft hands folded neatly on the table. His round dark face showed his frustration. "We would have better luck looking for a way through the marshlands. The dragon riders were the only ones to ever make it over the mountains and they never spoke of it. As far as we know, the elves’ story of a vast ocean is nothing more than a fable."

"I do not want excuses nor do I care which route you take," said
Praelix
. He pulled a bundle from under the table and scattered the contents across the tabletop. Sand and shells skittered over the slick surface. “This is what the elves know, and they hide their secret just as they hide their city.” The councilmen marveled at the shells as light reflected from their intricate colors. They had all seen small shells from the Aelagon Sea, but nothing like this. These were larger than a man’s head, and the shapes and colors were unlike anything they had seen before.

“What are they?” asked Taelon as he turned one of the shells over in his hands.

“Trinkets from the elves’ fabled ocean,” replied
Praelix
.

Moeldor fingered one of the larger shells and watched as the colors moved over the swirls that lined its surface. The blues, greens and reds seemed to be deep inside the surface, and the eye struggled to separate any one color from another. He recalled the elven writings that he had discounted as children’s stories. Fascinating tales spoke of an ocean that swept outward as far as the eye could see; stories describing monsters that inhabited the deep waters.

“Find a way to gain access to this ocean,” commanded
Praelix
. “Over the mountains or through the marshes makes no difference. Something of value hides there or the elves would not keep this knowledge to themselves. Report back as soon as you have succeeded. Failure is not an option."

“Yes, my lord," Saladon replied nervously. He wiped at the sweat that stung his eyes and folded his hands back on the table.

Taelon, thin and gaunt, was seated to the left of Moeldor. "Does the King intend to continue the raids on the villages?" he asked. "I am constantly being assailed by pleas for relief from the village elders."

"The raids will continue as long as the villagers insist on holding back their taxes," answered the King.

Benton, the oldest member of the council sat across the table from Taelon. His half-lidded eyes gave the impression that he was always on the brink of falling asleep. "Too much pressure may cause a rebellion, my Lord" he said. "Perhaps we should try other means of persuasion."

"Rebellion is already at hand," replied the King as he picked up a letter from the table.

Kragh was wedged into a chair at the far end of the table and
he
kept
his
eyes on the King who paced around the chamber. The council members remained motionless while
Praelix
read aloud from the letter clutched in his left hand. It was news of the Mort loss at
Frensville
.

Praelix
stopped, crushed the letter and threw it at the Mort commander. Kragh barely controlled the urge to thrust
his
dagger through the King’s heart. The councilmen kept their eyes occupied as a deadly silence hung in the air.

"First Gaelor and now
Frensville
; and seven soldiers dead no less," growled the King. "All apparently killed by one old man."
Praelix
resumed his pacing and finally stopped directly behind Moeldor; placing his hand on the councilman’s shoulder. Taelon and Saladon both leaned slightly away.

"It would seem. . ." began Moeldor. He stopped when the King tightened his grip.

"I would like to hear this from the commander,"
Praelix
said, evenly. He looked at Kragh and raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"My captain reported that the old man, as you call him, was carrying a scimitar, the sword of the Dragon Guard," Kragh replied.

"I am curious as to how this old man and his antique sword managed to kill seven of your soldiers." The King waited expectantly for an answer.

"Only a Guardsman would posses such a weapon," said Kragh. "It is obvious that he is a Lone Rider who was hiding in the village."
His
voice was as cold and hard as
his
stare. "Leaving those renegades alive was a mistake, and now it comes to trouble us."

Praelix
stood unmoving as he glared at the Mort commander. "You would lay the blame back on me?" He watched Kragh closely.

"I would lay the blame where it belongs," Kragh answered simply. "You chose not to pursue them. It was your decision to let these renegades roam the kingdom and hide themselves in the villages. I have lost seven good warriors because of that choice."

Moeldor watched Kragh, and wondered how far he would push the King.
Praelix
was not a man to be trifled with. The commander was playing a dangerous game. If he went too far the King might have h
im
killed, and that would complicate matters. It would take time to find another ally among the Morts.

The King’s mood quickly brightened. He smiled and returned to his seat at the head of the council table. "Seven good warriors," he said laughing. "Seven good warriors—all beaten by one old rider."

The King leaned back in his chair and looking around the room he laughed again. "Seven good warriors," he repeated, laughing even louder.
Praelix
slapped Benton on the shoulder causing the old man to look around, confused.

The other council members laughed nervously and shifted in their seats.

"I do not see the humor," spat Kragh.

"Of course not," the King retorted. He jumped up and slammed both fists on the table. "And ne
i
ther do I!" he shouted.

Kragh leaped to his feet sending his chair crashing across the room. His dagger was out, its blade gleaming in the light.

Kragh and
Praelix
stood at opposite ends of the table glaring at one another. "Seven good
soldiers
killed by one old man. What happens when your warriors meet resistance from ten old men?” the King asked. “What then? Will you lose an entire garrison?"
Praelix
was still shouting as he leaned toward the commander, both palms now flat on the table. "How about two hundred old men? A thousand? What should we do then, commander? Hand them the keys to the palace?" The King’s face was red and his shoulders shook as he continued. "
What if their women fight along
side them? What will your men do then?" he screamed. "Run away?"

Kragh rounded the end of the table and stormed toward the King. The council members spilled from their chairs and staggered back out of the way. The Mort commander towered over
Praelix
, eyes burning in rage. He placed the tip of his dagger on the King’s chest and said, "My soldiers are not

cowards. . . ." His voice trailed off when he felt the cold edge of the King’s sword pressed hard against his neck.

"You underestimate your King,"
Praelix
hissed, his voice a mere whisper. The King’s eyes danced as he looked up at the massive form of the Mort commander.
Praelix
was a master swordsman and his blade had separated many a head from its owner.

The two combatants stood unmoving for a long time. Both studied the other. Finally, Kragh slowly replaced his dagger in his belt. "It would seem that I have," he said. The Mort pushed away the King’s sword and turned back to his place. He recovered his chair and sat down. "But never again," he muttered under his breath. Kragh wiped the blood from his neck as the other council members moved back to their seats.

"Increase the raids,”
Praelix
said as he slowly placed his sword on the table. “Double the size of the garrisons. I want any signs of resistance to be stopped by whatever means necessary. We must make sure that rebellion is the last thing on the villagers’ minds." He looked directly at Kragh and added, "Find this Lone Rider. Find him and kill him." The King snatched up his sword and stormed out of the chamber.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. The councilmen sat still, unsure of what to do next. Moeldor looked around the room and saw the fear on the faces of his comrades.

"It would seem we are finished, gentlemen," he sighed

CHAPTER
1
3

"A beauty as none

could ever know
.

Full and bright

as the winter snow.

Beauty none could

ever take,

Clear and cool

as a placid lake.

Fire and water,

soil and air,

Elven beauty

fine and fair."

-Troubadour Song

"Elven Beauty"

T
welve days had passed since Skarson revealed that he was a Lone Rider, one of the Guardsmen whose dragon had died in the great plague. He never mentioned it again, so Valaron thought that it was not something he should pursue.

The new Guardsman spent his time training the young hatchling and working on his sword skills. The dragon was growing at an incredible rate. He stood over twelve feet tall. Gaining a foot a day, the dragon would soon be fully grown.

Valaron was a quick study at the required swordplay, but he was tired and battered from the training. Skarson did not hold back. He pushed the young boy to exhaustion at every session. They used wooden practice swords cut from ash limbs. Valaron was covered in bruises. Despite his age, the Lone Rider was a formidable opponent. He seemed to never tire of their grueling sessions.

After three weeks of hard work, Skarson decided that they should look for another spot for their training camp. With the dragon standing nearly thirty feet tall, the cave was becoming cramped. At this rate, he would mature at well over fifty feet, large even for a dragon.

“When we locate a suitable camp,” Skarson said, “we will come back and take him out of the cave.”

Valaron looked at the narrow path leading up from the cave. “How will we get him out?”

“The two of you will fly, of course.”

“I don’t know how to ride a dragon!”

“There is a first time for everything,” Skarson said, laughing.

Three hours on horseback brought them to a luscious, green cove in a broad valley that stretched out in both directions. The back of the glade narrowed and offered a perfect setting for a sheltered camp. There was plenty of room for the dragon and a wide open space for sparring. The steep ridges on either side made approach difficult and afforded a defensible position in case of trouble.

When they returned to the cave, Valaron stared over the edge of the cliff. “I am not happy about this.” He shook his head. “I would prefer that my first time riding a dragon did not involve leaping into the air from the top of a three-hundred foot cliff.” He shot Skarson a look of displeasure. “In the dark!”

“Three feet or three hundred, it makes no difference. The object is to stay on the dragon.” Skarson grinned and pulled Valaron by the shoulder. “Come. There is no use complaining.
G
et me the large leather bag, the one covered in elven markings.”

Toran
retrieved the bag from the rear of the cave. Skarson opened it and pulled out what resembled a horse saddle. The cinch straps were long and narrow, and the seat was tooled leather with a four inch rounded back. The stirrups were adjustable in length, and a curved scabbard hung from the left side.

“This is a dragon saddle,” Skarson explained. “My saddle to be exact. It might be a little big, but it will do for now.”

A long, slow whistle came from the direction of the path that led out of the cave. Skarson stopped. He held up his hand to silence Valaron and whistled an answer. A tall figure dressed in a dark cloak stepped into view from the trail. Standing in the opening of the cave, they slowly removed their hood. Standing before them was a female elf. She stood six feet tall. Her dark-red, shoulder-length hair was pushed behind small, pointed ears. High cheekbones accented her fiery green eyes, and her narrow mouth sat above a pointed chin.

“I was summoned,” she said simply. Her voice high and sweet.

“Thank you for coming, fair one,” replied Skarson, bowing deeply.

Valaron
and T
o
r
a
n
bowed in kind,
following Skarson’s lead
. This was the first elf
t
he
y
had ever seen.
Valaron
was stricken by her perfect features. Nothing he had read about elves had prepared him for this breathtaking beauty.

“I am Cler’d’roh,” she said, “second in command to my father, Glan’d’roh, Captain of the Guard to Klan’d’ron, High Elf and King of Loeath’d’nah. I am at your service.”

“I am
Carloe
, Lone Rider of the Dragon Guard and sworn enemy of the Dark Son,” answered Skarson.

Cler’d’roh turned her gaze to Valaron expectantly, but he was too busy staring at Skarson to notice.

“You must pardon my mute friend,” the Lone Rider said, apologizing. “I am afraid I have upset him. This,” he said, “is Valaron the Magnificent, Dragon Rid
er and liberator of the people and T
o
r
a
n, a trusted friend.”

Valaron continued to stare at Skarson in stunned silence. Cler’d’roh waited, shrugged, then turned and looked at the dragon. He lowered his head and stared at her with his giant eye.

“
Carloe
?” Valaron said, finally finding his voice. “Your name is
Carloe
?”

“Well,” Skarson replied, “you cannot stay hidden very well using your real name now can you?” A sly grin pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“So what I am supposed to call you?” Valaron asked. His voice held a tone of indignation.

“Skarson will do nicely. I have answered to it for a very long time, and it would be unwise to bandy my old name about. It might raise too many questions. Now, find your manners, boy. We have a guest.”

“I see he has found his tongue,” said Cler’d’roh. She returned to stand in front of Valaron. “Is he ready to train?” she asked.

“I have done all I can,” replied Skarson. “He is as ready as he will ever be. There is a more appropriate place farther up the mountain,” he continued. “You and I will take the horses. Valaron will fly up on his dragon.”

The young boy bristled at the mention of flying. “Listen here,” he said. “I don’t like this one little bit, and I certainly am not fond of the idea of taking my first flight in the dark.” A stubborn look covered his face. He stared first at the cliff and then at Skarson. “How am I supposed to learn to fly if I never practice?”

“There will be plenty of time to practice once we reach our new camp,” Skarson answered. “For now, all you have to do is pull him in quickly and turn up the mountain to the glade. Your dragon will do the rest. Oh yes,” he added. “Try not to fall off.” Skarson laughed loudly at his own joke as he mounted the dragon
’s saddle in the failing light.

Toran
turned his head to keep his friend from hearing his own chuckle.

“You have to fly after dark
,” said Skarson, “
or else you risk being seen.” He pulled on the saddle to test its fit and cinched one of the straps tighter. “The flatlands are not that far away, and we cannot afford someone seeing a dragon flying in the mountains. It is much too early to play our hand.”

Skarson showed Valaron how to adjust the stirrups. “Use your knees just like you would when riding a horse,” he said. “Lean back to go higher. Lean forward squeezing your knees and he will take you down. It really is quite simple,” he finished, grinning widely.

“How do you know he is ready to fly?” asked Valaron. “How do you know that we will not plummet to our death?”

“He is a dragon, Valaron,” replied Skarson. “He knows how to fly. He has simply never done it before.” His laughter echoed off of the cave walls. Valaron shook his head.

Cler’d’roh
,
Skarson
, and Toran
left the cave and made their way up to the horses. They mounted and carefully picked their way up the mountainside.

“He seems rather skittish,” said Cler’d’roh. “Will he be all right?”

“We will soon find out,” answered Skarson. “This is simply the first of many fears he will have to face in the coming days.”

“When will the dragon bolt?”

“Very soon,” replied Skarson.

“Does the boy have control?”

“We will see.”

The riders continued through the darkness toward the glade.

Cler’d’roh glanced at Skarson. “The King sends a warning,
Carloe
. The Wild-Elves are gaining in strength.”

Skarson looked at the elf through the darkness, brow furrowed and eyes turned hard. “What news do you have?”

“Klan’d’ron wishes for you to know that a conflict is unavoidable. The warring faction is growing even in the face of exile. A leader has emerged among the Wild-Elves. They threaten the peace of Loeath’d’nah and the very kingdom itself.”

“Who is this leader?”

“Shaen’d’far,” she replied, shaking her head. “He is a fanatic rebel exiled many years ago for inciting clan rivalries. His followers are mostly young and easily swayed, but their numbers have steadily grown over the years. Klan’d’ron feels that they will make an attempt to take the throne before the new year.”

“What does the King plan to do?” asked Skarson.

“I do not know,” she answered. “He simply asked that you be made aware of the impending threat.”

“I see,” said Skarson. “Klan’d’ron knows that I am at his service. I will do whatever I can to strengthen his reign.”

Cler’d’roh nodded in his direction. “A most gracious offer.”

#

Valaron stared up the trail for a long time before he turned and looked at the dragon. “Well, it is just you and me.” He looked out into the dark sky and sighed. Fear gripped him, and he closed his eyes. After several deep breaths the young boy looked at his friend. “I certainly hope you know what you are doing.” Valaron climbed onto the saddle, adjusted the stirrups, and looked out into the dark. Summoning his courage, he used his heels to nudge the dragon forward.

The moved to the edge of the cliff and the dragon launched himself into the air. His great wings beat against the currents that swirled around the rock face. Valaron let out a sharp cry. He watched the cliff fall away into the black of the night. His stomach rolled and churned as they fell through the darkness. The dragon’s wings caught an updraft, and they quickly began to rise. Remembering what he had been told, the young boy pushed his right knee in hard while leaning back in the saddle.

The dragon wheeled in the air and flew up into the night. The air was cold as they flew through the darkness. Valaron’s fear slowly lessened. He began to feel less apprehensive on the back of his massive friend, and a sense of calm settled over him, taking away the feelings of panic. Valaron realized that the dragon was sharing his feelings of confidence with his rider. The ground rushed by below them in the darkness. The new dragon rider was thrilled beyond anything he had ever known before. He was flying, moving through the sky like the falcons that ride currents high above the fields behind the farm. His long hair blew in the wind, and his clothes flapped around him, snapping in the stiff breeze. The cold air smelled clean and fresh. It reminded Valaron of a late spring morning when the frost sits heavy on the ground. Tears formed in his eyes from the sting of the wind. They flew higher and higher.

Valaron and the dragon soared through the darkness, enjoying the crisp air. The dragon’s wings carried them toward the stars shining and twinkling overhead. At last, they topped the crest of the mountain range and dipped over the other side. A long, low valley spread out before them. High mountains loomed behind and swelled to dizzying heights, tops lost in the dark sky. Soon, Valaron was able to make out the glade far below and to their left. He leaned forward, squeezed his knees against the dragon’s sides, and they plunged toward the open grassland.

The dragon folded in his wings to let gravity take over. The glade rushed up at them through the darkness. They plummeted toward the ground, and Valaron let out a small shout of alarm. Wind whistled past his face, and his ears popped loudly as they fell toward the ground. Dragon and rider shot downward like an arrow. Fifty feet from the ground the mighty beast fanned his wings and beat them against the air, landing gently in the glade. Valaron’s breath came fast and hard. His heart beat wildly in his chest. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, the newest Guardsman gently rubbed his dragon’s neck.

Valaron slid from the saddle, landing on the damp grass. He was filled with exhilaration and realized that his fears had been for nothing. The dragon responded to his slightest nudge. He knew that flying would soon be second nature.

He removed the saddle and sat down to wait for the others. Valaron thought about the path that was being laid out before him and wondered if he was up to the task. So much had happened so quickly. His whole world was turned upside down. He thought about his parents and wondered what they had been like. Valaron imagined his father’s approving look, and a sudden sadness covered him as he thought of the loss Valdanor must have felt at the death of his dragon. He could understand the horrible loneliness that the Lone Riders endured, forever separated from their true friend and companion. Valdanor had suffered a double blow with the death of his wife. Cortain’s recollection painted the picture of a man pushed to insanity by his grief.