Dragons of the Valley

by Donita K. Paul

Paladin strode out of the gate and up the hill. The crowd of kimens, dragons, mariones, tumanhofers, and emerlindians parted and let him through.

  Bealomondore spoke to the dragon and patted his flank, then went to greet Paladin.

  “You’re a sight cleaner than the last time I saw you,” said the young ruler. “Did your business go well in Greeston?”

  The artist beamed. “Yes. My father decided on his own that he should break business ties with a tumanhofer named Mernantottencat, and I was available to help convince the representatives of that enterprise that the decision was final.”

  Paladin looked pleased, and Hollee scooted forward to see if she could find out more of what had happened in Greeston. Bealomondore had not spoken of his early life often.

  “And your family?” asked Paladin. “Did you get a chance to visit?”

  “For an evening. My brother is abroad, but it was wonderful to see my sisters and aunt. My mother and father were with us for a short time, and then they had a social obligation to attend.”

  Paladin laughed out loud. “So your evening was very pleasurable indeed.”

  Bealomondore’s head bobbed in agreement, and his face relaxed into a satisfied grin.

  After a look of mutual understanding, Paladin gestured to those around them. He sobered. “We are rather isolated, and all are anxious to hear whatever news you can tell of the war.”

  Hollee held her breath. Each tidbit of information they received of late had been discouraging. The king and his army retreated farther into the center of the country. Casualties numbered in the thousands, and the encroaching army ravaged the country as they marched forward, taking what they wanted and burning the rest. Many Chirilians had lost much.

  “It is not good,” said Bealomondore. “Not only has the army pushed all the way to Ragar, but Odidoddex has backed up his warriors with an occupying force. The towns and villages that have fallen are now under the authority of soldiers who supervise rebuilding. It is clear that the new businesses erected are the property of Baardack, even though Chirilians are permitted to reopen their shops and live in new houses. Schools have reopened, but Baardackian teachers run them.”

  Hollee gasped. “Now that’s bad.”

  Maxon still had his arm around her, and he squeezed. “Some of the people are relieved. When they do as the invaders order, our people are left in peace. After the devastation of their homes, they are willing to bend a little to avoid any more strife. And as long as they cooperate, the Baardackians are more than friendly.”

  “But the children are being taught by outsiders.”

  “Well, you know that won’t happen in the kimen villages. None of our homes have been found and destroyed.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would seem that we do not produce anything that Odidoddex deems valuable.” Maxon half-laughed. “And I believe their soldiers are a bit superstitious when it comes to our people.”

  “What about The Grawl?”

  “They say he went home. He hasn’t been seen in Chiril for months.”

  “I hope he stays at home.”

  “Me too.”

  Bealomondore declared that he would never be a dragonback warrior. “Give me the land beneath my feet,” he told Hollee and Maxon.

  They sat on a knoll, watching the daredevil riders performing stunts that should aid them when engaged in fighting the enemy. Maxon busied himself sharpening Bealomondore’s weapons, the Sword of Valor and several knives. The tumanhofer artist whittled a slingshot from a fork in a branch.

  Bealomondore shook his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen during combat. And now that I think about it, I’m very glad the distance to the ground was short.”

  Hollee grinned. “You are the best sword fighter I know.”

  “Swordsman,” said Maxon. “And he is good, but Paladin is better.”

  Hollee scowled at her friend. “I was trying to make him feel better. You know, boost his confidence.”

  Maxon laughed. “You don’t have to do that anymore. He’s good, and he works at getting better. And Paladin asked him to help in training the volunteers.” Maxon laughed louder. “It is a good thing Paladin brought the men here first.” His laugh died and the smile fell from his face. “Too many of our men went to the front lines with no preparation. They died.”

  Bealomondore agreed, but he kept his thoughts to himself. If King Yellat had chosen his counselors wisely, the status of the war would be different. He’d shunned Paladin, and two of his generals who dared to contradict the favorite advisors had been sent away from the front lines. King Yellat had been pushed back until he’d been forced to take refuge in Amber Palace at Ragar. The city was under siege.

  One could say the war was at an end. All that was needed was a formal surrender, but if they could trust their king to do one thing, it would be to refuse to admit defeat.

  Paladin had a plan, and Bealomondore wanted to be there when he put it into action. Whether they could turn the tide remained to be seen. The artist-turned-soldier wanted to swoop in and save his country. The heroics of such a feat appealed to his romantic side.

  But more to the heart of the matter, an impossible victory sounded just like something Wulder would appreciate. The stories in the Tomes often talked about Wulder’s sympathy for the least valuable person in the crowd. He found worth in the downtrodden. He elevated the lowly by recognizing significance in each soul.

  The king’s army was war-weary, tattered in clothing and spirit, and crushed by rampant slaughter. Their morale hung as rags torn by the conquering army. Their thoughts of the future conformed to the quelling presence of King Odidoddex as ruler. They had all but given up.

  Except for the men in this valley. Paladin shaped hope in each individual.

  The time was ripe for miracles.

  49

  The Grawl Makes Plans

  The Grawl sat in the shadow of a crag overlooking a high mountain valley. This place had been the home of Prince Jayrus, now Paladin. In the air, dragonriders practiced flying in formation, passing off supplies, and targeting bales of hay. On the ground, the tumanhofer with the fascinating sword demonstrated swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat. The old librarian, Librettowit, also gave instructions.

  Along the southern wall, tumanhofers went in and out of an entrance to the mountain. Perhaps they were mining, but The Grawl had seen no evidence of ore being processed. The cut stone brought to the surface outlined a large square. A building of some sort would rise there. Since the tumanhofers concentrated on getting the stone out of the hole rather than building on the foundation, The Grawl assumed the outside structure was secondary to a more urgent job taking place within.

  A lake with an island sat at the east end of the big valley. Very little activity took place on this sparsely wooded lump of land.

  Every night, in the meadow outside the castle garden, the people gathered to eat and enjoy each other’s company. But the long days of training meant the merriment ended early. The company turned in soon after the sun fell behind the western mountain ridge. Guards kept watch.

  Where was the wizard? The bits of information The Grawl had collected on the long journey to this valley didn’t help in his search. He had learned a lot of places where the wizard was not, but no definite clues as to where the old man hid.

  This valley offered the most likely spot. The Grawl shifted, using the sharp edge of a boulder to scratch the itch between his shoulder blades. Several people had mentioned the possibility that the three statues had been taken to Prince Jayrus’s castle for protection. The wizard knew the secrets of the stones, and the new songs said that Paladin stood as defender at the powerful gate they formed.

  So where were the statues? Where was their protector?

  The castle?

  The island?

  The mine?

  Clouds drifted over the sun. A chill wind whistled through cracks in the rocks. For one moment, the sound resembled hooting owls, h
undreds of hooting owls. The Grawl frowned.

  Easing out of his blind, he headed back to the camp where he’d imprisoned his not-so-willing helpers. The schoergats weren’t bound by any chains, but The Grawl had cunningly worked to elevate their fear of him. Every day they’d been in his company, he’d impressed them with his power, his cold wrath, and the swift death he administered with no show of emotion. The schoergats stayed where he told them to stay and jumped when he told them to jump.

  His only problem with them had been when their superstition overwhelmed their terror of his fury. But even then, they didn’t run off. They knew he could track them.

  They also believed that his presence would deter any attack by fiends. They stayed with him lest some bogeyman jump out of this land their ancestors had cleared of dragons. The fear of the unfamiliar worked well to keep them in line. The Grawl, the monster in their midst, could out-thunder any creature of the night, of the deep, of the dark, of the unseen.

  They didn’t like the cold, so when he returned to the camp, he lit fires under the over-cropping shelves of stone. His technique in starting these fires further proved his awesome powers. He had matches. They didn’t know about matches. He held one in his hand and flicked a rough fingernail over the red tip. Very impressive magic.

  As the day grew colder, windier, and wetter, The Grawl contemplated the things he knew that he doubted those in the valley knew.

  King Yellat’s army had been split. The bigger part had hunkered down in Ragar and the forts that supposedly guarded the city. A smaller band had been cut off and forced to run in another direction. That group of a hundred or so men was headed for this valley.

  A ship of Chirilian sailors had barely made it to shore. Damage inflicted by the superior Baardackian navy had crippled King Yellat’s finest ship in a showy but hardly practical fleet. Those thirty men also headed this way. Loyalty to the king did not drive these men. The desire to find sanctuary and hide brought them to the valley.

  The Grawl had decided to take this refuge and all its occupants. He would be sure that King Odidoddex knew of his cunning rout of the last stronghold. There would be a reward. He’d kill the wizard. It wouldn’t hurt to add to his fame and his wealth at the same time.

  The Grawl kills wizards.

  The Grawl commands wild schoergats.

  The Grawl wipes out fortified havens.

  The Grawl is the victor of all enemies.

  Yes, it all sounded good in The Grawl’s ear.

  50

  In the Night

  Bealomondore sat under the starlit sky and marveled at the colors he could see. In the city, all the stars looked white. Occasionally a red, blue, or green planet could be picked out. Here, in the high mountain valley, the planets looked the same, though brighter, but the twinkling stars shone in hues of yellow, orange, red, and white. He’d never seen that in Greeston. Tonight the moon only showed a sliver of its pearly white orb.

  Chilly breezes whispered among huddled bushes. A shiver of pleasure reawakened Bealomondore’s senses. His turn at night watch felt more like moments of meditation rather than an arduous chore.

  He pulled his moonbeam cloak closer. Sealed in against the cold, he also blended into his surroundings. He watched small creatures of the night forage for food. A mouse skittered to a halt under a bush as an owl swooped close to the ground and veered up into the sky again.

  His artist fingers itched to pick up a pencil and sketch. That surprised Bealomondore. He clenched his fists under the cloak. A lot of time had passed since his last drawing.

  When he’d come to the valley, he’d been bone weary and content to teach the recruits how to use a sword, how to stay alive in battle.

  Perhaps he should say he was soul weary. As he taught, he accepted that rather than teaching these men to kill, he taught them to live. And beyond keeping themselves alive, they were standing against evil with the hope of keeping their friends, family, and fellow countrymen alive.

  A small, choked laugh escaped his lips. Just when he felt he could face the front line again, just when he felt ready to lead these men into bedlam, the urge to create blazed in his soul. To record beauty. To prove order by detailing the feathers of a wing on paper. To verify the Creator in simple art.

  Why the sudden urge to create? Because he had reestablished why he fought. His art now had a purpose, and he was too busy to paint.

  The rustle of wings and a slight nudge of a thought not his own brought him to his feet. Det flew in from surveying the valley. He reported men marching through the gap, the easiest entry to Prince Jayrus’s isolated domain.

  “Go tell Paladin,” said Bealomondore. “I’ll rouse our troops and get them ready to set up defense.”

  But before the small dragon took flight for the castle, Paladin ran out of the gate leading to his garden and charged up the hill. The ruler’s dragon, Caesannede, swooped in to land a few feet from Bealomondore.

  “Never mind, Det. Paladin is aware that company is arriving.”

  The young ruler barely panted as he reached the top of the hill. He gestured to Bealomondore and then to the waiting dragon. “Do you want to come with me?”

  The tumanhofer looked at the huge beast quivering with excitement and the vacant place on his back between the outstretched wings. No saddle. His stomach clenched.

  “No, thank you. I’ll make ready here.”

  “Good.” Paladin ran up the eager dragon’s tail and dropped into the place where a sensible man would have a saddle secured. “I’ll scout … find out who they are and how many of them are coming.”

  The dragon stamped his feet, impatient to take off.

  Bealomondore held up a hand to keep them from flying away before he voiced his thought. “This could be our army or even the sailors I told you about when I first came.”

  “It won’t hurt us to respond as if we anticipate an attack. A good drill for if the enemy does find us. I’ll send word of what I discover.”

  Paladin’s mount trotted a few yards, then lifted into the air.

  Bealomondore turned to Det. “Wake the dragons and send them to the camp. I’ll wake the men.”

  Det took off, and Bealomondore headed toward the flatland, where rows of tents housed their small force. Maxon sped out to meet him.

  “We’re awake,” he called. “The men are gearing up now.”

  Bealomondore continued to stomp across the meadow. “It would seem I’m not much needed.”

  “What?” Maxon reached his side and spun to head back with him. “Who will lead the men if you aren’t in charge?”

  “Never mind me, Max. I’m out of sorts, wondering if I’m an artist, a warrior, or a failure.”

  “I wouldn’t call you a warrior, sir.” A ripple of colors passed through the light clothing Maxon wore. When the hues blended together to make a vibrant yellow, he continued. “You’re an artist who’s been trapped in a war. And because you’re in the habit of mastering what is before you, you’ve become a good swordsman. But your heart will always wish to create and not destroy.”

  Bealomondore mulled the kimen’s words. “ ‘The habit that enables one to dig a hole three feet deep will sustain the building of a fence six feet tall.’ ”

  “Exactly,” said Maxon. “You’re learning Wulder’s principles? Where did you get the Tomes?”

  “From Librettowit.”

  “I should like to have a look at it.”

  “Somehow I thought your people had copies.”

  The kimen’s wild hair flew about his head as he shook it. “We have discovered that the principles are in some of our ancient songs. We sang the lyrics without knowing they came from Wulder’s Tomes.”

  “Does that mean that many generations ago, your people knew of Wulder?”

  “We think it does, and our elders are chagrined that we let the knowledge of the Most High Wulder Aldor slip from our memory.”

  “The disassociation must have taken many, many years.”

  Again the small
man’s head shook, and to Bealomondore, it looked like drops of light splattered the air like water from a wet dog. “The elders say it would take only two generations. If parents don’t teach their children, and they become grandparents and don’t teach their grandchildren, the knowledge is lost. Truth is relegated to legend. Legend becomes myth. Myth becomes fairy tale.”

  Bealomondore marveled over the experience he’d had while on watch. What a fragile thread bound them to the reality of a spiritual realm. He connected and grew stronger by acknowledging Wulder. A race lost the bond through lack of testimony.

  At the camp, Bealomondore found the men he’d been training ready to go. They marched away from the peace of their tents and toward the unknown with their artist leader at the front.

  The Grawl slipped into the cover of trees. A dragon flew toward him, coming from the one-towered castle, and headed toward the southeast corner of the valley. The crescent moon shed little light with its mocking smile, but relying on his keen eyesight, The Grawl felt certain he had seen only one rider. He remained where he was for the time being. He did not want to be spotted.

  Thirty minutes later, a hundred or so men marched over the hill, heading the same direction. Patience and curiosity warred within The Grawl’s mind. He scanned the starry sky, noting clouds gathering over the mountains to the west. Better yet, he saw no dragons in the air to see him and sound an alarm.

  Through his nightly exploration of the potential battlefield, he’d become very familiar with the topography of the valley. He guessed the destination of dragon and soldiers. With no more hesitation, he hurried through the wooded area and came to a ravine with a trickle of a stream at the bottom. He lowered himself over the edge and loped toward the gap.

  The dragon and rider had reached the overlook before him, but the soldiers wouldn’t appear for more than an hour. He moved faster and knew a shorter route. Being careful to keep out of sight, The Grawl crept to the opposite side of the gap. From there he watched the man called Paladin as he watched the canyon floor below.