The One Rider (Ashandor Chronicles) (4 page)

CHAPTER
8

“Round and round,

down to the ground.”

-Death Dance

runes at Loeath'd'nah

translated by

Cloath the storyteller

S
karson and the boys ran back to the marketplace to begin their search for Cortain. Valaron admired Skarson’s sword. A leather thong attached to the silver pommel was tightened around the storyteller’s wrist. The sword gleamed in the bright sunlight, and dried blood covered the sharply curved blade. It appeared to be the mate of the dagger thrust into his belt.

"There!" Skarson shouted, pointing to a pair of legs jutting out from under an overturned table.

They raced over and flipped the table out of the way to find Cortain lying, stunned, on a pile of apples. His left arm was broken just below the elbow. Skarson found no other injuries, so he set the break and applied a makeshift splint using pieces of wood and strips that Toran cut from an awning.  Cortain regained his senses, sat up, and groaned. He saw his nephew and shouted, "Valaron! You are safe!" Relief replaced the pain that had covered his face.

"No time for a homecoming," interrupted Skarson. "Help me get him up. We will take him to my house." Pausing, he added, "If it is still standing."

Cortain leaned on Valaron for support, and they made their way through the streets. Skarson was in the lead, his sword held ready in case any Morts lingered nearby, and Toran followed behind, armed with a pole from one of the tents. Moving quickly, they soon drew near to the house and breathed a sigh of relief to find everything untouched. Apparently, Skarson had scared the garrison away before they were able to wreak their havoc on this end of the village.

Cortain and Valaron sat quietly while water boiled on the stove. Skarson added an herb to Cortain’s cup to help ease the pain and start the healing process. Over tea, the two older men recounted details of the Mort’s raid with
Toran
adding his own comments, though he had missed most of the action. The discussion of the day’s events had been going on for some time when Valaron suddenly interrupted.

"It seems that I have some rather strange news of my own," he said tentatively.

At the odd sound in his voice, the others waited expectantly. Not knowing what else to do, Valaron cleared his throat and launched into the tale of his adventures in the mountain. He told them of the cave and how he had found the dead dragon. Skarson sat up in his chair when Valaron described the eggs and the dead hatchlings.

"Go on," Skarson urged when Valaron paused. Unsure of their reaction, the young boy quickly related the rest of his story. Cortain sat stiff and unmoving as his nephew told of his bonding to the young dragon. After he finished his story, Valaron sat uncomfortably in the heavy silence that followed.

Cortain’s face was grim and dark. Heavy lines made him look older than his years. His face was twisted with emotion that added to the grimace of pain from his broken arm. He pushed away the cup of tea that
Toran
held out.

Skarson stood and walked over to the window. His thoughts raced as he watched the plumes of smoke still rising over the burning village. He was the first to break the silence.

"Tell him," Skarson said, still looking out the window.

Cortain shifted in his chair and stared at the sword propped against the wall. His eyes filled with dampness that spilled onto his cheeks. Skarson walked over and gently laid his hand on Cortain’s shoulder. He spoke in a soft but stern voice.

"Tell him or I will." The storyteller turned, grabbed
Toran
by the shoulder and led him into the side room.

CHAPTER
9

"Clak'd'tal;

The path to purpose,

sought by those

who sing of destiny

and her hardened ways.

Clak'd'tor;

The way of knowing

a greater prize

than any other;

gained by living

out the days."

-Elven Poem "Fate"

translated by

Cloath the Storyteller

V
alaron watched his uncle and waited. Cortain sat perfectly still in the gloom of Skarson’s living room for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke.

"Things never seem to turn out the way you want," he said softly. His voice was slow and tired. "All of your hopes and dreams come crashing down in an instant." He paused and turned to look at Valaron—studying his face. "That is the problem, though. They were my hopes and dreams." Valaron had never seen this side of Cortain. Gone was the confidence and strength that had always been there. Now he seemed old and weak; somehow defeated. He could tell that his uncle was unsure of how to start.

"You know you can tell me anything," Valaron offered.

"I know," he said. A smile crossed his uncle’s face, a hint of the old Cortain. The smile faded as fast as it had appeared. "There are tales you hope never to tell.” Pausing, he cleared his throat. “I have lied to you, Valaron. I did it to try and keep you safe, but they were lies none the less. My hope was that you would never find out the truth. Now it would seem that destiny has intervened.” Cortain’s voice took on a tone of resignation. “Some stories must be told."

Cortain moved his broken arm to a more comfortable position, gave a heavy sigh, and began. "Your father was Dalanor the Determined, Captain of the Dragon Guard." He watched Valaron’s face as he continued. "Your mother was San'd'ron, only daughter of Klan'd'ron, King of the elves. It is rumored that he still reigns in the elven city of Loeath’d’nah. Dalanor and San'd'ron married not long after your father’s dragon was taken ill and died. I served as your father’s second in the wedding. The elven service was beautiful, and Klan'd'ron gave them a wonderful send-off.

“They left Loeath'd'nah and settled in
Ballin
where the Bael river splits into two tributaries. Your father made his way as a blacksmith for the village, and everything seemed perfect. Not long after they had settled there, the King sent out his decree disbanding the Dragon Guard and ordering the death of all dragons and their riders. He especially hated your father.”

“Why?” asked Valaron

“When King Wyan’s elder son died, the King turned his affections to your father instead of Praelix, his own son. When Praelix became King, he outlawed the Dragon Guard and sent Morts to find Dalanor and kill him. Your parents were forced to go into hiding. Praelix disbanded the cavalry when he took the throne, so I lost my commission and was already living here in Frensville.

"An elven wife made it nearly impossible to go unnoticed, but somehow your father always seemed to know when trouble was coming. He was like that
, a
lways the smart one
,
the strong one. They moved around the flatlands for a while without running into any problems. The villagers welcomed them with open arms, and the Brotherhood worked to keep them safe. As the King’s power grew, Praelix found allies in some of the villages, and a network of spies began to report back to the council."

Cortain groaned and shifted his arm across his stomach. "After a few years, things became intolerable for your parents. Spies were everywhere, so they made the decision to move to Loeath'd'nah. Klan'd'ron offered them free access to the hidden city; the one place they could live in peace. But there was a small problem."

"What?" asked Valaron.

"You," answered Cortain. "Your mother was pregnant, and she was in no shape to make the long journey to Loeath'd'nah. They were back in
Ballin
, and she was due to deliver at any moment." Cortain’s face lightened. "Everything was going well. You were born strong and healthy. It was a great day for everyone. I came down from Frensville at the news of your birth, and I helped Dalanor in his preparations for the trip.” His voice broke as he continued, “We were away at the livery when the Morts arrived."

Cortain stopped. It was some time before he could go on, and his voice shook as he spoke. "We fought our way back to the house to find the door kicked in. We charged through to the back room just as your mother was killed, run through by that filthy pig of a Mort before she could reach her sword. A few more seconds and things would have gone differently." His voice trailed away as he fingered his broken arm.

"Your father went berserk.” Cortain paused again as he relived the scene in his mind. “He beat the Mort back out into the street and cut him down. Dalanor was insane with rage. He hacked at the body like some terrible, vengeful wraith. In all our life together I had never seen that side of him. After the loss of his dragon, this was more than any man could be asked to endure. Over and over again he rained down blows on that dead monster. I can still see him slicing and stabbing until there was nothing left but a bloody mass.

“The commotion of the fight alerted the other Morts, and Dalanor was quickly surrounded. There must have been thirty or more of those hulking beasts circling him like a pack of hungry wolves. Your father pulled his sword out of the dead one and slowly leveled it at the circling monsters, blood dripping from its edge, bits of hair and bone dulling its finish. His rage was so great that they were hesitant to attack. I am convinced that they had never before encountered an enemy so full of hatred."

Cortain paused again. He shook as the memories flooded over him. "I started to charge out of the house to stand by his side when he turned and looked at me. I will never forget that moment,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew exactly what he wanted. I ran to the back room and gathered you up, slipped out the back, and made my way into the fields. We hid there until well after dark, and we’ve been together since that day." Cortain placed his hand over his face and wept.

Skarson and
Toran
slipped unnoticed into the room. They watched Valaron struggle to understand what he had heard.

"Your uncle did what had to be done," Skarson said quietly.

Valaron nodded and put his hand on Cortain’s shoulder. "You saved my life,” he said. “They would have killed both of us."

Cortain’s voice seemed small and distant. "I should have helped him," he whispered. "He was my brother."

Skarson said, "Tell him the rest, old friend."

After a few moments, Cortain sat taller in the chair and looked at Valaron. "Your name," he said. "It is very special. Your father was a proud man, and he passed something on to you in your name. Valaron was the name of the first dragon rider. You bear it now, and it would seem that you also carry its fate." He looked away, once again lost in thought.

"There are prophecies, Valaron," Skarson said, continuing the story, “elven prophecies that speak of a new rider who bears the name of the first. The elves say that another dragon and rider will appear to battle the evil one. That rider will be called Valaron the Magnificent.” Looking firmly into Valaron’s eyes, he said, “You are that rider."

Before Valaron could speak, Skarson continued, "We have things to do. There is a dragon to train."

An uneasy silence fell over the room. “I am sorry if I have disappointed you,” offered Valaron.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Cortain. “You could never disappoint me, Valaron. You have not done anything wrong.” He hesitated before going on. “All I wanted was to protect you from all of this. Now it seems that you are thrust into it, and I will have to accept the fact that you must face your own destiny.”

Valaron nodded his head, but remained silent.

Skarson gave Valaron instructions to gather what he needed and wait for him behind the pub in the morning. The storyteller would join him with horses and provisions for their trek.

“And as for you.” Skarson turned to face
Toran
. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

Toran
opened his mouth to speak.

Skarson put up his hand. “Not a word. Do you understand? If the king learns of a new dragon, Valaron will be hunted down and killed.
He will find out soon enough, but we do not need to rush things.
”

“Right,” said
Toran
. “You can count on me.”

Skarson studied the boy as though memorizing his features for a painting. “We’ll see.”

#

Valaron and
Toran
left the house and walked down the street.

“What did that mean?” asked Toran. “We’ll see? What did he mean by that?”

“Who knows? He is a walking riddle.”

After a few more minutes of silence, Valaron stopped. Toran turned back to face his friend.

“You heard.” It was more of a statement than a question.

Toran nodded.

“Do you believe it? The prophecy, that is.”

“Wrong question, Val. What matters is what you believe.”

“So you think Skarson is wrong?”

Toran paused. “No. I believe him.”

Valaron looked down the street, sighed, and took off at a slow run.

Toran caught up with him in front of the marketplace. “I am going with you.”

They made the turn that opened onto the town square and ran shoulder-to-shoulder through the center of town.

Valaron picked up the pace. “I know.”