Dragons of the Valley

by Donita K. Paul

  “Yes.”

  “I think Sir Beccaroon can handle greeting them. I just don’t feel like getting up right now.”

  45

  Intrusion

  Under the covers, Lady Peg found Tipper’s hand and squeezed it. Tipper grinned and turned her head to reassure her mother. The cat kept watching the door.

  “It’s all right, Mother.”

  A loud bang and a crash interrupted her. The cat leaped from the bed and went to stand by the door, staring into the hall.

  “What was that?” whispered Lady Peg.

  “I think it was the front door banging against the large vase with the dried fronds in it.”

  Her mother stirred, shifting her legs toward the side of the bed. Tipper held her hand.

  “No, Mother. You can’t go see.”

  “Why not? It’s my house. I’ll send those ruffians out the way they came in and slam the door behind them.”

  “Have you forgotten the cat?”

  “Oh!” Lady Peg fell back against the cushy mattress. “I had.” She lay still for a moment. “I can’t see it from here. What’s it doing?”

  “Staring into the hallway.”

  “What do you suppose it’s thinking?”

  Tipper’s eyes opened wide as she shook her head in tight, jerky movements. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s watching for anything that’s walking around instead of lying down.”

  “Shh!” Lady Peg tightened her grip on Tipper’s hand. “Someone’s coming up the grand staircase.”

  Bar Besta, Rayn, and Junkit shivered under the blankets. They rested against Tipper’s leg, and the bump in the bed looked suspicious. Tipper raised her knee to make a little tent to disguise their presence.

  Rough voices from downstairs shouted various orders.

  “Find the owner!”

  “Kill anyone who gives you trouble.”

  “Yarrah, raid the kitchen. We won’t starve tonight!”

  “Capture one of those healing dragons.”

  Through all the shouts, clatter, and bangs, Tipper heard clunking footsteps as someone big and burly reached the landing. She watched the cat tense, rippling muscles ready for a grand pounce. Holding her breath, she waited.

  The cat charged, and from the hallway, a high-pitched scream silenced every other noise in the house. The thud of heavy boots coming up the stairs had sounded like a march. Going down the steps, the same feet reverberated like a rapid cadence on a drum. The panicked screech provided the tenor, and the growl of the cat, the bass.

  Both Tipper and her mother sat up in bed. Rayn and Junkit fussed at Tipper for disturbing them. She mindspoke an apology. Bar Besta slipped out to curl around Lady Peg’s neck.

  “Oh my,” said Lady Peg, “I hope he runs fast.”

  “The cat or the soldier?”

  “The soldier, of course.” She gave her daughter a disapproving glare. “Just because the man is ill-mannered doesn’t mean our staff should stoop to the same coarse behavior.”

  “The cat isn’t an employee, Mother.”

  “He’s a friend of a friend, and our friends are considerate and polite.”

  Scales scraping across the wooden floor reminded the ladies that a snake also guarded Lady Peg’s bedroom. They fell back against the pillows and drew the blanket up to their chins. Bar Besta moved to the pillow between mother and daughter.

  “I suppose,” said Lady Peg, “that being in bed, but sitting up, is not the same thing as lying down.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  They listened as chaos clashed below.

  Lady Peg pressed her lips together. Crashes and bangs, shouts and shrieks, almost lured Tipper out of bed.

  “I wish I could see what is going on,” she complained.

  Her mother grasped her arm. “That snake is under the bed. I’m sure of it. We dare not put a foot to the floor.”

  “I’m not terribly afraid of snakes.”

  “I am.”

  In the distance, a man’s strangled cry begged for help. “Get it off! Get-t-t it-t-t—awww—”

  “That,” said Lady Peg, “is a man with a snake around his neck. Squeezing. The snake is squeezing.” She shuddered. “This is why I have told you so many times that your walks in the rain forest are dangerous. That could have been you with a snake around your neck. On another day, of course. Not today. But a day when you were ignoring my warnings and walking nonchalantly through Sir Beccaroon’s Indigo Forest.”

  “The snakes in the forest are well-nourished. They don’t need a skinny emerlindian to feed on.”

  “Tipper! You are not skinny. You are willowy and graceful.”

  The commotion moved from the floor below to the courtyard in front of the mansion. Below Lady Peg’s bedroom window, someone ordered the soldiers to regroup and stand against the enemy.

  “You men, circle around the wagon. Spears to the ready, men. Archers on the wagon, use the height to fend off this menagerie. We won’t be trounced by brainless creatures.”

  “Brainless?” Lady Peg let out a most unladylike humph. “Even our pigs are smarter than these invaders.”

  Tipper had often heard her mother’s theory that pigs were the smartest of the barnyard animals, but she couldn’t fathom the connection to the soldiers. “How is that, Mother?”

  “Have you ever heard of a pig getting into a battle with snakes and wildcats?”

  The sounds from below gradually died away, making Tipper itch to get out of the bed and survey the damage done by Odidoddex’s men. Bar Besta raised her head, listened, then darted under the covers.

  “Do you think they’re gone?” she asked her mother.

  “No. I don’t trust them to be gone when they should be.”

  “The lady is right.”

  Both women startled and looked at the door. A bisonbeck warrior filled the frame. One hand held a sword and the other a large knife. Tipper suspected the knife was from their kitchen.

  “Remove yourself from my bedroom!” Lady Peg sat up and pointed a finger at the soldier. “I know you don’t have proper manners, but even a lout knows not to intrude on a lady’s boudoir.”

  Ignoring her, he stepped into the room. He looked around with narrowed eyes. He seemed too stoic to be the nervous type, but a twitching muscle in his hairy ear betrayed him.

  Satisfied that no beast would pop out at him, he came to the bed.

  “You are the owners of this estate?”

  “My husband is.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  “Experimenting with ways to exterminate vermin.”

  He pointed the sword at Lady Peg. “Where?”

  “I don’t really know.” She waved a hand about. “Somewhere.”

  “Not here?”

  Lady Peg looked carefully around the room. “No, not here.”

  “Do not rile me, woman. Your pets have caused enough havoc.”

  “Oh, most of the animals you encountered are friends of Sir Beccaroon, the local magistrate. We don’t keep pets. We have farm animals and dragons.”

  The man jerked at the word “dragons.” “Where are these dragons?”

  “In bed with us.” Lady Peg patted the covers.

  Tipper watched the man’s expressions change. He eyed the bed, then the older woman’s face, and gave up on the idea of searching through the sheets. He opened his mouth to say something but grunted instead and fell over on his back.

  “Whatever is the matter with him?” asked Lady Peg.

  Tipper rolled over, apologized to the disturbed minor dragons, and peered over the edge of the bed.

  “The snake’s got him ’round the ankles.”

  The soldier thrashed, trying to sit up and reach his captor. Another snake slipped out from under the dresser. The quick, slim attacker wound around his throat. The bisonbeck dropped the sword and knife to grab the snake and tried to unwind it. His prying fingers couldn’t get hold of the thin serpent.

  The first snake, long and with massive muscles
, dragged the bisonbeck toward the door.

  Lady Peg sat up and leaned over her daughter. “There are two of them.”

  “Did you see two come in?”

  “No, but I’m very happy to see two leave.”

  The snakes removed the intruder from the room and turned toward the stairs. In a few moments, the ladies heard the thud, thud, thud of the bulky soldier’s uncomfortable descent.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?” asked Lady Peg.

  “I’m not leaving until Bec gives the word.”

  “Me too,” said Lady Peg. She leaned back. “I’m quite comfortable. Hand me that book on the nightstand, dear. I’m at a very intriguing place where the villain is plotting to steal a necklace.”

  Tipper handed the book to her mother. “Isn’t this the book you were reading last summer?”

  “Yes, it is, and it seems to take the author a long time to get anything done. I’m glad your father, Bec, and Paladin are fighting our villains. They should have it all under control in a matter of a few weeks. It’s taken months for this writer to get the necklace and the villain in the same room.”

  46

  Encounter with Truth

  Bealomondore gazed in the mirror and decided he looked infinitely better than when he’d arrived at the hotel the day before.

  First, his complexion no longer held the tinge of green that overcame him every time he flew on the back of a dragon. He looked over his shoulder to where Laddin and Det rested on a pillow. He’d placed the cushion in the sun that streamed through the window. Both minor dragons were stretched out, totally relaxed and soaking up the luxury of the sun and the peace of not being on a battlefield.

  Another change in his appearance resulted from a long, long soak in a tub of hot water. He was clean, really clean. He’d sent a hotel employee out to buy him some new clothes, and everything from his undergarments to his cravat smelled fresh and new. Being in Greeston helped. He’d sent the young man to his favorite haberdashery with a list. The clerks sent back clothing that not only suited his needs but also matched his style. They also sent a personal note saying they were delighted he had returned to the city.

  The mirror reflected the old Bealomondore, the one who visited society’s matrons, ingratiating himself with his wit, charm, and talent. The tumanhofer examined his image more critically. He had changed. He looked more … robust. A wry grin twisted his lips. Who would have predicted that Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore would one day have hardened muscles?

  He wondered if his father would notice the difference. Hardly! He hoped his father recognized him as his younger son and didn’t have him thrown out of his office when he realized this man was the boy he disliked so.

  Bealomondore reached for his sword and began to buckle the belt around his waist. He stopped. Force of habit. He didn’t need to wear a weapon to meet with his father.

  Putting the sword aside, he spoke to his dragon friends. “I’m off now, on the king’s errand. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Det and Laddin lifted their heads, and Bealomondore felt a wave of reassurance pass to him.

  “Right,” he said. “Thanks.”

  His room was at the end of a hallway on the third floor. He counted the room numbers backward as he strolled toward the stairs. Stopping at the top step, he gazed downward. His breath caught in his throat, the staircase undulated, and he turned away, rushing back the way he’d come.

  The dragons flew to him as soon as he banged open the door to his room. He collapsed on the only chair, covered his face with his hands, and planted his elbows on his knees.

  Det sat on his shoulder while Laddin squirmed into the triangular space between Bealomondore’s arms and chest. The tumanhofer straightened, pulling the healing dragon closer, nestling him in his arms.

  “I don’t know exactly what happened,” he explained. “I got dizzy, then I was compelled to come back for the Sword of Valor.”

  He took several deep breaths, then stood. He put Laddin down on the bed, picked up the sword, and pulled it from its scabbard.

  He chortled, not really amused at the script on the hilt. “A new message, ‘Reconciliation slices away drivel.’ And that is supposed to be comforting? Encouraging? Bah!”

  He rammed the sword back in the sheath, noting how plain the hilt looked compared to the fancy lettering.

  “I’m going,” he announced as he strapped on the Sword of Valor. “Hopefully I’ll get farther than the top of the stairs. You can come if you wish.”

  Det and Laddin flew to him and perched on his shoulders.

  “You’ll have to hide when we go in to see my father. He wouldn’t approve.”

  Bealomondore grinned at the spectacle his father’s face brought up in his imagination. His father would be utterly shocked by the sight of minor dragons in his office. “That’s rather reassuring, makes our errand pale in comparison to the revelation that I’ve befriended dragons. No offense to you two, but my father is sensible to the extreme and doesn’t have a regard for friendship. He wouldn’t understand how valuable you are to me.”

  He’d sought out a hotel in the business district of Greeston, so he had very little time on the short cab trip to worry about how this interview would go. Having the dragons and the sword reminded him that his life had changed considerably, and he had changed along with it.

  He introduced himself to the secretary, who seemed unaware that Master Bealomondore had two sons.

  Irritation strengthened the tumanhofer artist’s resolve.

  After receiving permission from within the spacious office, the secretary formally announced him. His father remained seated as Bealomondore came in. He waited a moment, expecting his father to gesture toward a seat in front of the massive desk, but when he didn’t even look up, Bealomondore walked across the expanse of the room.

  “Good afternoon, Father.”

  The elder man replied, “Doubtful.”

  “King Yellat has asked me to relay a message.”

  His father threw down his pen and leaned back in his chair, glaring at his son. “So my dandy son has wormed his way into the castle.”

  “Actually, the king made his request in the strategy tent a few miles from the front line. We are at war, Father.”

  “I’m aware of that. Business is good.”

  “And that is why the king has asked me to deliver this message. You must refrain from selling ore from Bealomondore Mine to anyone other than our country’s industry. The metal must go to making weapons for our forces.”

  “I’ve had this message before.”

  “Perhaps King Yellat believes you will respond more positively to an edict delivered by a person rather than on paper.”

  His father pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet. His red face and clenched fists signaled the need for a hasty retreat on his son’s part, but the younger Bealomondore stood his ground.

  The older man clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “The king can’t interfere in a man’s private business.”

  “He could charge you with treason, Father.”

  Master Bealomondore stopped, eyes popping and face even redder than before. “I’m a businessman seeing to his business. I sell to whoever offers the highest bid. The king would have me turn over the ore on the promise of payment?”

  “Yes, that was his offer.”

  Master Bealomondore strode to the window and peered out. His next comment came in a lower volume. “A man must take into account many factors when determining a course of action.”

  “Exactly. The money you acquire will be worth nothing if you are hauled off to prison.”

  “We are fighting a superior force, Graddapotmorphit. There is no guarantee that Chiril will repulse the invasion. When the dust settles, a wise man will have forged an allegiance with the victor.”

  A principle Bealomondore had read in Wulder’s Tomes came to mind, but he couldn’t think how to phrase it so that his father wouldn’t explode upon hearing it. Silence
invaded the room except for the ticking of the clock on the desk.

  Bealomondore quit trying to rephrase the words to a more palatable form. “ ‘An allegiance to evil is an alliance with despair.’ ”

  His father whipped around. The glower on his face would have melted candle wax.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” He crossed to his desk and stood with clenched fists pressing down on the wood. “How dare you come in here and tell me what is right and wrong. I know.” The bluster went out of him, and he crumpled, falling into his chair. His ashen face startled his son.

  “Father!” Bealomondore came around to stand beside him. He felt the cold, clammy skin of his father’s face, then pressed his fingers to the pulse at his neck. “You’re ill.”

  “I’m sick of myself.”

  Bealomondore unbuttoned his coat. Laddin scrambled out, already aware of the emergency. He leaped to the elder man’s chest.

  “What!” Master Bealomondore tried to sit up. “Get this beast off me!”

  Bealomondore pushed his father’s shoulders back against the chair. “Calm yourself. This is a healing dragon. Let him work.”

  “Healing dragon? That’s absurd.”

  “Let’s see if you think so after he’s done his job. Sit back and relax.”

  Bealomondore suspected that weakness supplied the cooperation from his father in the next few minutes. A natural color returned to his cheeks, and his breathing steadied.

  “Laddin says you’ll be fine.”

  “Laddin?”

  “The dragon.”

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  “He spoke directly from his mind to mine.”

  “Preposterous. You’re an even bigger fool than when you left home years ago.”

  Bealomondore pressed his lips against the words in his throat. He hadn’t left. He’d been thrown out. His father didn’t appreciate his artistic abilities. Adding a column of figures and charming a customer brought praise for his older brother. Bealomondore could charm aristocratic hostesses, but they did not buy ore.

  “You’re feeling better?” Bealomondore took Laddin from his father’s chest and held him.