The morning air was sharp, the sun still hanging low on the horizon. Darius yawned, arched his back, and stretched his arms out to the sides, relieving the aches the cold had bitterly deposited in his muscles. It was Prydon’s fault; had he not obliterated the fire the night before, there would be no dampness, no cold, no pain.
The morning dampness of the mire was miserable. The swampy slime combined with the intense rays of the sun proved to be a perfect recipe for extremely wet nights.
Darius grumbled and stood tall, and the blanket that ineffectively shrouded him the night before fell to the ground in a soggy, wet heap. He picked up the heavy cloth, shook it, and snapped it into the air, flinching as cold beads of water slapped his face and arms. He popped it again, but the blanket remained laden with moisture; his desire to throw the thick cloth over his shoulders to keep warm was quickly squelched. Instead, he rolled it up and bound it with a leather strap.
He was miserable. His clothes were soaked, his bag was soaked, and the sun mocked him, staying hidden behind dark clouds on the horizon. There was no picturesque sunrise, and Darius longed for the warmth of his own bed.
In an irate fit he kicked the ashes that were left from the night before. They stubbornly stuck to his boots like wet clay, and he cursed the dragon. “I’m glad you’re gone!” he yelled toward the vacant sky, shaking his feet about in an attempt to dislodge the masses of ash that seemed determined to remain a permanent fixture on his boots.
An instant later, he thought he’d heard the flap of the dragon’s wings, but it was only a flock of birds stirred by some unseen foe. Darius drew his sword and sited a shaking bush with the point of the blade. A snake slithered lethargically from the edge of the brush, and Darius immediately severed its head.
Filled with a sense of triumph, his resolve was momentarily strengthened by the small victory. He would read the book on spells, he would practice with the wizard’s sword, and he would…he would…. Darius glanced at the crimson tendrils on his hand and wrist, and his head dropped. He looked at the snake’s head and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Then he wondered if a true wizard could reverse the mistake, but death was permanent. Prydon had said he was to kill Klavon—he’d never killed anything until today, and it made his stomach turn. Why had he done that? Why was he so angry? Pulled down by the weight of a difficult reality, he wondered if he’d made the right choice.
Odd…the anger. It was unlike him to react so strongly. Even when he was younger and the boys in the village taunted him to fight, he rarely reacted. He remembered the look on his mother’s face when he showed up home with a bloodied lip, and he hated the heartache her expression relayed. Their lives in Brandor were hard enough. He vowed not to add to it by engaging bullies in a senseless fight.
As a result, he learned very young to control his emotions no matter how much he wanted to respond to their unkind words…their false accusations about him, his mother, and his dead father. So why did he kill the snake…and why did he yell at the dragon?
He gathered his things and walked to the edge of his overnight oasis, glancing back only for a moment at the evidence of actions. He had made his choice, and there was no rush of wind, no dragon’s wings, to save him. He sighed and looked out at the path ahead of him, heading out in search of the crimson light…and Klavon.
The mire promised no more safety than before, and with the dampness of the morning, the paths threatened even more treachery. As the sun finally gave up its hiding place behind the clouds, shadowy figures passed through the water, constant reminders that with one slip, with one improperly placed step, he would be swallowed forever in failure.
The heat baked down upon him, and steam spiraled up into the air from the mire, creating an eerie effect across the entire surface of the swamp. The only benefit was that his clothes were drying—all except for his boots, which were continually saturated by the bubbling ooze that splattered up onto the path.
And then it happened. His footing gave way, and he slipped. His bag and bedroll went flying, and he grabbed at the air, hoping beyond hope that he could take hold of some invisible savior. No. He plunged backwards, into the mire, cutting the steamy fog as he fell, sinking far into the depths of the murky water. He struggled as shadows instantly moved closer. Panic overcame him, and he clawed upwards, his heart beating so fast he could hear it echo in the ears. Finally, his head broke the surface, and he was able to gasp a huge breath of welcome air. He reached for the path, flailing, clawing, digging deeply into the mud. He grabbed a dead root, but it broke free from the slime before he could even attempt to take hold. He grabbed again at the path, the muddy grass, leaves, anything, but…a tug at his legs and something pulled him under once again. A thousand hands were grabbing him and he sank deeper and deeper. He kicked and shoved, yanked and punched, trying to break free. The panic he felt before was nothing compared to now as he felt jagged claws against his legs and arms…face.
And then suddenly, as suddenly as he had fallen, he was being hoisted from underneath up, up, up, out, and onto the path. He spat and threw up water—poison—filling his lungs with huge gasps of air. He turned to look back at the water, his chest heaving as he continued to breathe frantically. A dark shadow floated beneath the surface and lingered for a moment, but as it shot away, a white flash of something caught his eyes. White…he sat for a moment and stared.
Slowly, he stood and looked around, his legs shaking beneath him. His bag was snared on a nearby limb, easy enough to reach, but the bedroll was lying halfway in the mire. He retrieved the bag and hesitated. He bit his lip as he stared at tied-up blanket, and after what seemed forever, he used a limb to snag it and drag it closer. When he leaned down to pick it up, he began to slip and sat hard on the path, his feet stuck in the muck at the water’s edge. A shadow appeared in the distance and moved in closer. Against a suction that felt like shackles, Darius tugged, and just before he feared hands would grasp his ankles, he freed himself and fell backwards onto the path.
For several minutes he sat, inhaling, exhaling, until his pulse returned to a more desirable, steady rate. More dark shadows returned, and he carefully stood. Darius breathed deeply and attempted to ignore the threatening shapes. Cautiously he trudged on, his bedroll dripping at his side, his wet hair sticking to his face, the foul water stinging his eyes, and his drenched clothes sagging dangerously at his feet…his unsteady feet. It seemed an eternity that the paths slithered about, and he set his sights on the distant horizon where rest would be available, and the swamp would finally relinquish its hold on this land. He could make it—he had to.
Darius guessed it had been about an hour before he finally reached the edge of the damp swamp, its noxious claws unable to penetrate the grassy slope and solid ground beyond. He gladly took his last step away from the slippery path into the shelter of the forest. A solid canopy of intertwined tree-limbs covered the trail, and shade blanketed the ground. It was the first time since his fall—perhaps since he entered the mire—that he felt safe.
Darius stopped and looked back. He had made it, thanks to some unknown presence, and he wondered what it had been. He tossed a rock into the mire as if to call the white specter that had saved him. The splash was greeted by a dark shadow that turned sharply toward the bank where Darius stood. He jolted back quickly, almost tripping as he scrambled away from the mire’s edge. The shadow hung near the surface, and Darius stood frozen, staring at the shape. It almost seemed to be dancing as the waves ebbed toward the mire’s edge, but it was a dance that created fear, daring him to step into the water. After a moment, the figure retreated deep into the bog. Darius hesitated, afraid to move, and then slowly and cautiously continued up the shaded trail. He wanted to rest, his body begged him to rest, but he trudged on, determined to put as much distance between him and the mire as possible.
When he reached a small nook in the path where a bubbling stream crossed and settled in a small pool of pristine, clear water, he stopped. With the slimy ooze covering his body and cl
othes, he jumped in, scrubbed his face, and then lay exhausted at the water’s edge. He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but when his eyes opened, the sun was high overhead—noon. He stripped down and washed out everything that had been contaminated by the mire’s goo. Then he hung his belongings on a nearby limb and tossed his boots up onto a flat rock, climbing up and sitting next to them. He tilted his face upward and enjoyed the warm sun. As he looked up into the canopy, glints of white sunlight bounced off the leaves. Birds chirped, and he inhaled a long breath as the wind carried the faint fragrance of fresh, spring flowers. He sat in the sun, on this warm rock next to a thick tree, and rested some more.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bark; he could almost forget the troubles that unfolded. Almost…but with a heavy sigh, reality returned. Still, it turned out to be an agreeable afternoon. Darius slipped on his dry shorts and settled beneath the tree to eat and wait for his other, heavier clothes to dry.
Another meal of dried meat was not very appetizing. He envisioned roasted chicken, steaming vegetables and potatoes, freshly dug from the garden, all smothered in gravy—all of which he might be having if he were home. He licked his lips and swallowed to prevent drool from running down his chin. Darius ripped a piece of meat with his teeth, his nose shriveling as he took the bite.
Chewing the leathery substance, Darius pulled out the book of spells. Even closed, it commanded respect, and he hesitated as he gently touched the edge of the cover. But then he thought of the dragon. He regretted the words he had spoken. Yet…if Prydon was such a friend, where was the dragon when Darius almost drowned in the mire? Why didn’t he come to help? And where was the dragon now so that Darius could tell him that he would train after all?
Darius felt abandoned, and in his self-pity, he allowed the anger he’d felt toward Prydon the night before to return, the anger that had been fueled by some strange warmth. Now trying desperately to justify his refusal to train, he swiftly opened the book on spells, determined that he would succeed in retrieving the book. But just as quickly, he exchanged the book on spells for the book on dragons.
This book did not carry the same majesty as the other. Still the cover was elegant, a dark blue with the imprint of a silver dragon. Darius stared at the beast. Something about it agitated him; perhaps it was the eyes.
Ignoring the sensation, Darius flipped open the book and began to read. “Dragons are a stubborn lot.” He laughed, a piece of dried meat shooting from his mouth into the water below where a tiny fish quickly retrieved it. “Did you hear that, Prydon? Already this book speaks wisdom!”
Darius looked into the sky through the trees, paused and listened, hoping the words would be carried by the wind and sting Prydon’s ears! As he continued to read, he discovered more delightful tidbits of information.
“Dragons are not to be trusted, dangerous, and often prone to the delights of their own hearts, caring nothing for humans except to enjoy as an occasional snack.”
Each time, Darius flamboyantly yelled the words into the air. A dragon—how could he even trust such a creature? And this creature wanted him to spend precious months training while pieces of Brandor’s history were being ripped from existence. Feeding his own ego, Darius tried valiantly to convince himself that he’d chosen the correct path after all, a shorter path to victory.
Darius flicked a leaf that floated past his face and settled on the open page. He continued to read until the joy of bellowing insults into the air and the confidence of his own choice faded. The words began to melt into the page, and soon they became a puddle of ink floating aimlessly across the parchment. His mind wandered to the night before and thoughts of his father.
How did Prydon know so much? How did he know that Klavon was responsible? Was it all a trick to set him up, and had he foiled the plan by refusing to allow Prydon to “train” him?
For a moment, his heart began to race at the thought, but it didn’t make sense. If Prydon were in allegiance with Klavon, why didn’t he do away with him last night? Why didn’t he skewer him for dinner as he so easily could have done? Was it the sword? No. Though Darius knew the sword was powerful, Prydon had more than enough opportunities to do him in, should he have so desired.
Despite the unanswered questions, one thing was clear. Darius had made his choice, and now he was going to face Klavon. And if he was going to face Klavon, he would need some kind of defense. He shoved the book on dragons back into his bag and grabbed the book of spells.
Besides, he was smart. He was a quick learner; Mr. Athus always told him so. And Mr. Athus gave him the book. Surely now that he knew he was a wizard’s son, the words would expel more power.
Darius set the book on the rock next to him and put on his clothes, all the while staring at the book. When he was dressed, he sat back down and picked it up again. He opened the book as if it were the most delicate of flowers. A brush of wind brushed against his face as if some unseen power came forth from the book and swallowed him whole. It was not threatening…it was soothing. The pages were yellowed from age, yet strength exuded from each as if even a gale force could not tear them.
He began reading. After repeating the same spell over and over in his mind, words began to float from the pages into his memory. While still engrossed in the book, Darius attempted to put on his shoes, his nose buried in the pages. He slid off the rock and walked, still holding the book to his face, to where the now dry blanket hung.
Darius stopped and looked down, a slight discomfort cramping his feet. His face became flushed, and he glanced around in embarrassment, hoping that Prydon wasn’t watching. He set the book gently on a rock and rubbed his temples. Leaning against a tree, he removed his boots, swapped them, and put them on again. He gathered his blanket and other belongings, picked up the book, and continued on his way.
He glanced up from the pages only long enough to make certain he was traveling in the right direction and then delved into the book of spells. The book was enthralling and time passed quickly. The sun traveled through the sky, casting long shadows across the path and diminishing the light, but Darius’s youthful eyes took little notice. He continued to read.
Absorbed in the words, Darius was jarred to his senses as he stumbled on a root that invaded the path. With belongings cascading down upon him, he found himself sprawled at the edge of a field covered with tall, dead stalks.
The sun dipped behind the mountains, and an eerie glow swam across the field like a thick fog. Darius stood slowly and brushed the dust off his knees, staring out into the dead field. A flicker of lights beyond the field caught his attention. His brow rose at the prospect—a village where he might discreetly gather information or at least find shelter for the night and, perhaps, procure a decent meal. His stomach growled, and he stared again across the dead field. First, he would have to pass through this disconcerting place.
Darius picked up his things, his eyes locked on the strange field in front of him. Perhaps it was the way the shadows played along the soil, battling each other for the last chance to survive in the fading sun. Or possibly it was the bare stalks, thick as his fingers, clawing upward as if begging the sky for moisture. The rain the day before left scattered puddles of mud, and the remainder of the ground, though dry, was not parched. So why was everything dead?
Darius glimpsed movement and tried to focus in the waning sunlight, but the dusk quickly encased the entire valley, and even his young eyes could not follow. His heart pumped faster as another movement yanked his attention, then another. Everywhere he looked movements drew his eyes, and every time his eyes failed him.
He blinked hard and slowly backed away from the field. The movements reminded him of the shadows darting ominously beneath the mire’s surface. He stopped and shook his head, attempting to rattle his senses to reason. “So what are you going to do? Stand here all night? It’s only the wind rustling the dead stalks.”
But reason suggested caution. Darius stepped onto the field, resting his hand on his sword
as the last of the shadows melted into the ground. As he advanced farther into the forest of dead stalks, the stone atop the sword’s handle began to hum, and Darius involuntarily loosed his grip. Stopped dead in his tracks, he stared down at the sword. “That can’t be good,” he said.
He planted his feet firmly and attempted to draw the sword when the ground beneath him began to tremble. Before he could grasp the hilt, something snatched his feet and flung him onto his back, his breath forced from his lungs.
Rolling over and scrambling quickly to his hands and knees, he was greeted with a belt across his back. He plummeted to the ground, the dirt powdering his face like a dusty rag. Coughing and spitting out the grime, Darius wobbled to his feet and yelled, “Who goes there?”
Darius managed to unsheathe his sword before another attack came. He swung randomly from one side to the other, jolting as he spun in an attempt to discover who was there, but he could find no enemy, no target to hit. Another slap to the back of his knees sent him kneeling on the ground.
Almost instantly, he was back on his feet, screaming in frustration. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned just in time to receive a smack across his face. He fell backwards and looked up at his foe, the taste of blood trickling from his wounded mouth.
Had he more time, he would have pondered the situation. As it was, with another strike coming straight down from above, he rolled, grabbed the sword, and ran, flailing the weapon haphazardly.
His efforts proved futile. As he attempted to advance farther through the field of stalks, he was continually pounded; the stalks themselves were striking him as he passed, driven by a life of their own and determined to prevent Darius from escaping their torture. His sword proved ineffective against them. As he would fell one, another, looming up from the ground like a serpent ready to strike, immediately replaced it.
He tried yelling a spell he’d read, but the words floated around in his head, out of order, and making no sense. So Darius ran. As he continued, a non-ending barrage of pokes, stings, and strikes disoriented him, causing him to lose sight of the opposite side of the field. He no longer used the sword but frantically zigzagged through the brutal stalks, lost in a path of madness.
His motion was halted, however, by a strong tug from behind. “What are you doing?” the feminine voice yelled. “Are you crazy?”
Amidst further assault, Darius was dragged this way and that, until the force which pulled him threw him down onto a grassy slope, plopping down beside him. She sat as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, her white-blond hair shining in the moon’s glow.
“Who are you?” Darius asked.
“I am Sira,” she said, pulling out a clean kerchief and wiping blood from Darius’s face. “Who are you?”
Discomfort slid over him as she moved to his blood crusted lip, slowing almost to a stop as she ran the cloth along the outline of his mouth. He gently took her hand. “Thank you, but I can do that.” Darius took the small piece of fabric and she shrugged, leaning back against the soft ground.
“Suit yourself.” Sira’s eyes froze on the stains spiraling around Darius's hand. “Interesting mark. And who did you say you were?”
Darius looked at her skeptically. She was beautiful…almost too beautiful. Her eyes were an emerald green accented by thin brows that slanted upward. Her dress was rustic, but the leathery cloth complimented her slender figure. She didn’t look strong, yet she’d managed to drag him effortlessly through the maze of attacking stalks. And her hair. Something about the color, or perhaps the way it shone in the light, reminded him of the glimmer beneath the mire’s surface, the one of the unknown presence that saved his life.
Darius didn’t know what provoked him to do so, but he asked, “Have you ever been to the mire?”
“The mire? That dreadful place?” she asked. “Wouldn’t be caught dead there. Or maybe I should say I would. That mire isn’t a safe place. No, I prefer here, for the most part. Why do you ask?”
For fear of having said too much, “No reason. I just saw it as I was traveling. It looks interesting from a distance.”
“Hmmm. You are a strange little fellow. And I still don’t know your name.” Sira smiled and blinked in a flirtatious manner.
“So, what are those?” Darius motioned toward the field in an attempt to avoid divulging his name.
Sira’s mouth pursed in amusement and she bobbed her head slightly. “Cautious. Very well, then.” She tousled her hair and sat up. It fell perfectly in place when she stopped. “It’s him.”
“Him?” Darius’s brows puckered.
“Klavon. The sorcerer who rules this land.”
The name stung his ears. So, he was in Klavon's territory. Already? Darius looked out at the now still field. “Klavon? I don’t understand.”
“Klavon is our sorcerer. He cursed it. He has a barrier around his entire domain.”
“Barrier? But why?” Darius’s heart began to race. Had he, in his stupidity, tipped the sorcerer off to his presence?
Sira shrugged. “Don’t know. To keep people out?” The edges of Sira’s lips curled up slightly, and she gave a throaty laugh. “Or in, I suppose.”
“Then how did I get through? And even more, how did you get out of there unharmed?”
It was true. Not a mark darkened her face, arms, or any other part of her body, whereas he was covered with scratches, bruises, and scrapes.
“You got through because I helped you,” she said.
Darius was not impressed with Sira’s expression of amusement. “Me? Allow a few tricks to cause me harm? No. Truthfully, it’s not a very good barrier if you know how to handle it. You just aren’t that smart.”
The hair on the back of Darius’s neck stood to attention. “Me…I…uh…”
“Oh! And articulate at that. So, listen. If you won’t tell me who you are, you can at least tell me why you are here. Maybe I can help. You seem to need it.”
“I do not!” Darius snapped quicker than he would have liked. “I was just lost, that’s all. Look. I appreciate your help, getting me out of that field and all, but if you would just tell me where I might find the nearest inn.”
“Midtown. On the left. I’d take you there, but I have other things to attend to. And since you think you don’t need my help…” Sira emphasized the word think more than Darius would have liked. She stood and headed for a path, barely visible through the thick brush. “…I assume you can get there without getting lost?” Lost. Another word overemphasized. “And there aren’t any more fields to cross, so you should be fine. Oh, but you may watch out for the wombuloes.”
“Wombuloes?”
Sira laughed. “Just kidding. There’s no such thing, but you should see the look on your face.”
Darius stood, but before he could respond, the young woman vanished into the thick night.
“Nice sword, by the way.” The words echoed up from somewhere in the night.
Darius sighed. His body ached from the attack, but it was nothing compared to his wounded pride. He looked out again at the field of stalks, motionless to deceive the next traveler. He shook his head in exhausted confusion. He returned the sword to its sheath and checked to make sure all his belongings were securely in his bag. Turning toward the lights of the distant town, he trudged along.
Chapter Seven
Sira’s Report
Darius and the Dragon's Stone Page 7