Dragons of the Valley

by Donita K. Paul

  He tipped the bowl to his mouth rather than use the spoon. His eyes continued to scan the page before him. The word schoergat caught his attention. The name of the flying hunter had come up several times in his search for strategies in defeating wizards. His pursuit of information he could use against the wizard had led to an interesting find. The myth of schoergats might actually be more than stories told to frighten children into obeying.

  The creatures resembled schoergs, one of the low races. Instead of being rail thin and covered with black fur, schoergats had thick bodies and calloused skin from head to foot. They also had wings.

  The books said they blended into the rocky terrain they inhabited in high mountain ranges. Their skin felt like rough granite and provided a shell of protection from knives and arrows. Wings like those of an insect protruded from their shoulder blades. They flew in a darting fashion like certain swamp bugs or tiny, colorful fibbirds.

  The Grawl drank from the tankard as he flipped through more pages. North of Baardack and miles to the west, a bridge of land connected two continents. High mountains rose out of the sea and stretched toward the sky. A few spots of population dotted the coasts, but the peaks were too steep to support normal life. The fables said that the schoergats congregated there. And they flew north to hunt dragons, having driven all the dragons in the southern continent into hiding. The Grawl continued to read, searching for what made the schoergats effective dragon hunters and if that skill would be helpful in defeating a wizard.

  The Grawl’s empty tankard clattered on the metal tray when he cast it aside. Since dragons no longer hid in the valley previously occupied by the man called Paladin, Chiril might have enough dragons to lure these schoergats south. If they engaged the animals favored by the old man, The Grawl might have the opportunity to slay a distracted wizard. He was no fool. The wizard would have to be distracted if he were to get the upper hand.

  The journey to the mountains would take a week. What kind of reception would he get? A sly grin spread across his lips. The schoergats would be as wary of him as he was of them. But he’d done his research well. The creatures had three vulnerable spots—tender skin at each armpit and a spot an inch back from the underside of their pointed chins. The chin was the only part of their bodies that grew hair.

  The Grawl doubted that the schoergats had reference books. And in any case, since he was the only grawl, no book recorded his traits.

  He studied the one sketch he’d found in all of the books. What was the relationship of schoergats to schoergs, cave dwellers of limited intelligence and bloodthirsty ways? The schoergs lived in darkness, crawling in the bowels of the earth. The schoergats thrived in blaring sunshine, oppressive heat, and stark exposure. Their wings appeared too frail to support their bodies, yet they flew with incredible speed and abrupt twists and turns. Were they mutants? Or were they the result of crossbreeding, like himself?

  He closed the volumes, one at a time, and leaned back in his chair. He’d travel to Icardia, where the mountains rose straight to the sky and dragon-slaying creatures dwelled. How long would it take to persuade them to join his cause? How long before they found the Valley of Dragons spoken of as the realm belonging to the Chiril Paladin?

  He lifted the entire rack of lamb from the platter, tore it apart, and devoured the succulent meat. Grease dripped down his chin. He threw the bones, gnawed clean, into the fireplace.

  It was good that he was a patient creature. Precision and cunning came naturally to him. He cultivated habits that supported his skills and shunned habits that undermined his ability. The schoergats would be found. The wizard would be killed.

  Pulling a blank paper from the stack at his elbow, he drafted a note to his butler.

  “I shall be traveling, Sanders.”

  That was as much information as he ever left his staff. He rose from the comfortable chair and went to his room. He shed all elegance and re-created himself as the ruthless hunter in rough, sturdy garb. He grinned. He’d found something interesting to do, and he had a goal of his own making. Enlist the schoergats and kill the old man wizard.

  Hollee peeked around the corner and watched her wizard. She and Librettowit had been banished while he worked on the finishing touches of the great room. The librarian read from several big books while she basted a jimmin chicken in the oven the two men had constructed. Her curiosity dragged her to the archway for just one quick look.

  Fenworth sat on a rock and contemplated a column he’d just sculpted from the salt-saturated sandstone. “Excellent.” He jumped to his feet as if he were a young man and planted his fists on his waist. “Hollee, Librettowit! Come see! I am finished.”

  His two helpers emerged from a vestibule carved in one of the walls of the main chamber. Librettowit carried a thick volume, and Hollee’s hand clasped a dripping spoon. She licked the sauce before more could soil the floor of the cathedral-like cave.

  Even though she had seen every step of the transformation, the beauty of the underground tribute filled her with awe. Huge crystals made up the major part of the walls. Wizard Fenworth had fashioned lightrocks out of the raw material so that red lightrocks glowed from within red crystals. Blue lightrocks illuminated blue crystals. Since a myriad of colors naturally decorated the walls, the lighting projected rainbow hues on every surface.

  He’d placed golden lightrocks in the circle of statues. Dark shadow silhouettes marched across the brilliant crystals. While Hollee skipped around the perimeter of the room, she watched the opposite wall. The statue shadows seemed to slide forward in a motion matching her own.

  Parts of the cavern were not the spectacular crystals but plain salt-sandstone pillars. Hollee had suggested they remove them, but according to Librettowit’s studies, it was imperative to the integrity of the structure to leave them. So Fenworth had decided to carve the columns with decorative ornaments and figures. By the time he finished, a story had emerged, depicted in the sculpted pillars. It told of Verrin Schope’s accidental journey to Amara, his introduction to Wulder, and the quest that occurred after his return.

  Hollee asked, “Are you going to do one about the invasion of Chiril by Baardack?”

  “Tut, tut. Oh dear, oh dear. Perhaps when we can depict a victorious conclusion.”

  Hollee scrunched up her face. “Should we go back and help our side win?”

  “Do you find it rather boring here, my little friend?”

  She hung her head, not wanting to look into his kind eyes. “Sometimes.”

  “Then the next part of our venture will be more to your liking.”

  She raised her chin to see his face and widened her eyes in a question.

  He grinned. “We are going to the Valley of Dragons above us. There we shall recruit fierce dragons to guard this memorial.”

  “It’s a memorial?”

  Librettowit joined them and put two fingers of his large hand on Hollee’s shoulder. “Wulder has often told His followers to erect monuments to remind generations to come of His Providence. Just because our parents understand His Glory does not mean our children will see the same Truth. And it is not an arduous task. Keeping the Truth alive in the next generation is as simple as showing a child that a fire burns and a cloud holds rain. We demonstrate that some actions lead to destruction, some to further development.”

  Hollee tipped her chin back so she could look at the tumanhofer standing behind her. “Development?”

  “New beginnings, like a dried seed is watered by the rain and becomes a stalk of wheat.”

  Fenworth grabbed his hat off his head and drew out an egg. “Or an egg is kept warm and out pops a dragon.”

  Within seconds, the shell cracked and a minor dragon baby rubbed his chin on the wizard’s palm.

  “Advancement,” said Librettowit, “like building a staircase instead of climbing a rope.”

  “Improvement,” said Fenworth, “like an oven instead of an open campfire.”

  “Progress,” said the librarian, “like a flute instead
of a reed pipe.”

  “Hollee,” Fenworth said in his very serious and important voice.

  Hollee leaned forward in anticipation. Sometimes the things Fenworth declared sent shivers of comprehension along her limbs. He opened doors of understanding with a few words.

  “Hollee.”

  She leaned forward even more.

  “Always test your intentions by this measure. Will your actions bring destruction or mark another step toward a positive end?”

  She nodded, hoping he would continue and not veer off into some obscure thought.

  He held up a finger.

  She waited.

  “For instance, feeding an old wizard should result in a positive outcome.”

  Librettowit laughed. “And starving your comrades might destroy the fellowship we are enjoying. I agree, Fen. Let’s eat the jimmin chicken Hollee has prepared.”

  “I have another something to do first,” she said.

  The old men looked at her but did not speak.

  “May I have the dragon you just hatched?”

  “Ooh, I’m sorry, my dear,” said Wizard Fenworth. “That was but an illusion.”

  Hollee sighed. “All right. We can eat.”

  Fenworth laid a finger on her slumped shoulder. “I shall ask the next real dragon I meet if he would like to be your companion.”

  38

  Battleground

  When Bealomondore returned to Ragar with the others, he was thrust into the organization of the army. He wasn’t doing the organizing but fell into the hands of those who were. These men seemed to believe that because he was well-born, he must have been educated on military history and was therefore eligible to command. Bealomondore took this to mean that finding suitable officers for their fighting force had proven almost impossible. Why else would they choose him to lead? Perhaps the sword impressed them.

  Before the men were trained or even fully equipped, the enemy army marched south, destroying farms and villages. The war had begun in earnest whether Chiril was ready or not. Bealomondore had been given a platoon to command. All he knew to do was to get between the enemy and unconquered territory and do their best to keep the invaders at bay. They had met with some success but more defeats.

  Bealomondore sounded the retreat. His men had valiantly pushed back a surge of enemy soldiers, only to find fresh reinforcements beyond the last hill. He’d led his men into a trap, but fortunately Det had projected an aerial view into his thoughts before it was too late to withdraw. He and his men fell back in an orderly fashion, joining the main line of their forces.

  He owed Laddin thanks for keeping his body able and his mind alert through hours of treacherous battle. The healing dragon rode inside his coat. He crawled out as they came closer to safety and wrapped his lithe green body around Bealomondore’s neck.

  The commander ordered Bealomondore’s men to retire from the front and seek refuge in the camp. The tumanhofer helped one of his wounded soldiers navigate the uneven ground to the hospital tent.

  Once he had the younger man on an empty cot, he sank to the floor and leaned against the canvas wall. He knew he should go to the kitchen tent and eat something, but exhaustion made the effort seem too arduous. Apparently Laddin’s physical support had met its match. His two minor dragons sat beside him, their chins resting on his legs.

  Tipper appeared with a cup of water. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded and took the offered drink. “Just tired and probably hungry, though I don’t feel hunger pangs sufficient to make me stand up again.”

  “I’ll bring you something. Rest.”

  He slumped in a stupor, unable to bring a clear thought to his brain. He noticed two women attending the man he had brought in but couldn’t recall the soldier’s name when they asked. Several minutes later, he remembered and blurted it out. One of the ladies looked at him strangely, but the other refilled the cup and had him drink more water.

  Tipper returned with dry bread and meat for him and a bowl of porridge for the dragons.

  “I’m sorry there is not more for you. We are sorely in need of supplies.”

  “I thank you,” said Bealomondore. “And my dragons say they will eat enough to recover a bit, then see if they can rid your tent of some of the bugs that have gathered.”

  “That would be wonderful. The healing dragons work until they can’t tend another soldier. They’re too tired to forage.”

  Bealomondore forced down the dry bread and meat, rinsed his mouth by swishing the last of the water through his teeth, and leaned back against a stack of rolled blankets. The day was hot and the humidity high. He’d be more comfortable if he removed his jacket, but he closed his eyes instead.

  Tipper shook him awake some time later. “Paladin has come with supplies. He’s in the strategy tent with King Yellat and the high command. My grandfather is muttering about your father and the family’s mine. I think you should go.”

  She helped him to his feet, then handed him a drink. “Paladin brought water, food, and medical supplies. My grandfather chastised him for not bringing weapons.”

  Bealomondore sighed and handed back the empty mug. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Tipper leaned down to kiss his cheek.

  “Don’t,” Bealomondore protested. “I am covered with battle muck.” She straightened, and he regretted his harsh response. “I’ve been killing, Princess Tipper. I fear the stain on my soul is worse than the stain on my clothes.”

  She looked around the huge tent at beds occupied by wounded men. “It’s hard, but King Odidoddex has proven he is a harsh ruler in his own land. To allow him to seize more power would not be right.”

  Bealomondore put his hand on his sword hilt and knew he was only alive because of the wizard’s gift.

  “I should clean up before I enter the strategy tent.”

  “I think it is more important for you to go while they are still plotting the next move our army will make.”

  Bealomondore left and crossed their encampment to the tent where the high command gathered around a table covered with maps. Two guards briefly stalled him at the door, but he was admitted at King Yellat’s approval.

  He stood back against the wall with the other low-ranking officers who would be required to take news to their commanders. In the center of the room, five men examined one huge map. Bealomondore saw it was the territory they now defended. Or were trying to defend. They had been pushed back three times in as many days. The opposing force, besides being stronger, outmaneuvered them.

  King Yellat and his advisors discussed the advantages of pulling back to the south or to the east.

  General Commert pointed to the eastern route. “If we remove to the Hanson Valley, the Perchant Crags will protect our flank.”

  “This invader came over the Mordack Mountains,” said General Orchin. “What makes you think they can’t handle the tangle of cliffs and crevices presented there?” He pointed to the thin strip of rocky terrain. “It’s only a matter of a mile or so across.”

  “As the bird flies,” said General Commert. “It’s a two-day struggle for a man.”

  “But,” said General Orchin, “we would be leading the enemy toward a populated area. If we go south, the battlefield will be pastures and cropland. East is crowded with villages and townships.”

  The king cast an angry glare at his commanders. “Perhaps if their homes are threatened, more men will volunteer to repel the intruders.”

  Paladin’s jaw worked. Bealomondore wondered what words he chewed instead of spitting out. King Yellat had pointedly told the young emerlindian that his advice, based on extensive reading, was not appreciated. For weeks, Paladin had unobtrusively provided for the men at the front lines.

  The third commander, General Fitz, held up a hand. “South we can see their approach, but we are also exposed. I say east is the best route.” He gestured toward the cluster of populated areas. “We will be closer to supplies as well, and there are a multitude of roads to aid in ou
r movements.”

  Paladin broke his silence. “I can provide supplies whichever direction you choose. I agree with General Orchin, there is no need to bring the war to the doorstep of civilian homes.”

  King Yellat squared his shoulders. “We could also make the argument that we are putting the army directly between Odidoddex’s forces and the towns. We are thereby protecting our citizenry.” He glared at Paladin. “We go east.” He waved a hand of dismissal. “Bealomondore, I will speak with you. The rest of you come back in thirty minutes with strategies for tomorrow’s campaign.”

  The room cleared quickly. Bealomondore waited. The king came straight to the point.

  “I am sending you to speak to your father.”

  “My father doesn’t listen to me, Your Majesty. It might be better to send someone he respects.”

  “You will be speaking for me. He’d better respect that!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “He must step up his production, and he must sell the raw ore to the Chiril Armory, and only to Chiril Armory. Tell him to keep an account, and the treasury will pay him after we’ve driven the Baardackians over the Mordack Mountains.”

  Bealomondore searched for words to explain that the message would be ill-received and that any messenger would most likely anger his father. Would he even be able to relay the king’s command before he was thrown out?

  The king continued, “I’ll have Paladin deliver you to Greeston.” The king fell into a chair, put an elbow on the table, and allowed his head to rest in his hand. “You may go.”

  Paladin waited for him outside the tent flap. The young man and Bealomondore walked back to the hospital tent.

  “Has the king told you of his order for you to take me to Greeston?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t see that it will do much good if I am the one to propose that my father supply materials for arms.”