A mighty quake rattled the village. Houses shook, windows crashed out of the walls, and fences twisted around the well-manicured lawns. The street beneath Kale and Holt rippled, squeezing pieces of the cobblestone out. The stones flew into the air and thudded where they dropped.
Holt clasped Kale and Penn in his uninjured arm to steady them, but they all fell. The marione pulled Kale around so she fell on top of him and not on the stones. Kale was grateful for the cushion between her and the ground and more grateful that she managed to keep Penn safe in her arms.
In a moment the earth stilled. They stayed where they were for a moment, then sat up. Bardon charged out of headquarters and came to Kale’s side.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Kale answered.
Fly flew in circles trying to get close enough to examine her child.
Bardon looked at Penn, pulling back the cover. The baby blinked and cooed. Fly landed on Kale’s shoulder and leaned as close as she could get to Penn.
Bardon turned to Holt. “You?”
“Fine.”
Bardon helped Kale get to her feet, then offered Holt a hand. People began to move around. None of the houses had collapsed. A strange, sweet odor wafted through the streets, getting stronger with each breeze from the south.
Kale sniffed and thought the smell unpleasant. She started to ask Bardon if he knew what it was. A shiver ran down her spine, her flesh reacted with tiny bumps, and she held her breath as if she suddenly felt the presence of a beast of prey.
From above the forest, she heard a steady beat of wings. A roar heralded the approach of a great creature. The bellow paralyzed her with fear. Penn cried. Bardon grabbed her arm and they ran, but Kale had no idea where they could go.
Like a shadow of a cloud racing across the landscape, a huge black dragon sailed across the sky.
51
THE PRICE OF PEACE
Bardon watched the dragon disappear over the rim of the cliff. Paladin ran out of headquarters and conferred with his commanders, giving orders and pointing in several different directions. Bardon took a step toward Paladin. The men he had been training would need Bardon to lead.
“Kale, you had better seek cover with Penn.”
She grabbed his arm. “The people at the cave!”
He looked deeply into her eyes, letting her thoughts mix with his. He kissed her soundly, then touched his son’s head with his lips. With his forehead pressed to Kale’s, he couldn’t say all that was in his heart, but he knew she understood, and that eased the pain of parting. He released her. “Yes, go help at the cave.”
She raced off toward the forest path, and he turned on his heel to report to his leader. Holt followed Bardon.
Paladin welcomed them with a grim nod. “Regidor and Gilda have flown to locate Mot Angra. Position your men on the east rim of the canyon for the time being. Kimens will be carrying our messages. Holt, stay with me for now.”
Bardon gathered his men and ordered them to muster out with weapons and camping gear.
“I don’t know if we’ll be back to Bility any time soon.”
He led them to the crack in the canyon wall that was the easiest exit to the outside world. Other units gathered there, and Bardon and his men took their turn hiking out single file. From there they doubled back and climbed a stiff slope that brought them to a spot where they could survey the canyon and the plains. From their vantage point, Bardon could see many of the other brigades setting up defense positions.
In the canyon he saw a great crater where the cave had been. The wall with the image of Wulder’s creation stood exposed to the sunlight. The opposite wall had crumbled. A deeper pit into the mountain must have been where Mot Angra burst through to the open air. To one side on the canyon floor, warriors struggled to reestablish a camp. The departing dragon had made a passing blow at the men stationed there to guard the entrance of the cave.
What had the monster done? Swiped his tail across the tents? There was no sign of fire. Could Mot Angra not breathe fire? That would be a blessing. Better not count on a smokeless dragon. Bardon signaled his minor dragon to come to him.
“Mikkai, survey the area. I’d like to know where our strengths and weaknesses are.”
The minor dragon took off and returned four hours later. Bardon sat down and sketched out Mikkai’s report, making a credible map of the placement of their troops.
“No Mot Angra?” Bardon puzzled over the whereabouts of such a huge adversary. Where is he hiding?
Bardon sent the rolled parchment map to Paladin by a kimen courier. By return messenger he learned Regidor and Gilda had seen nothing of Mot Angra in their flight over the plain.
The sun set. Cook fires sprang up, fragrant with the smell of burning wood and various stews. Chill air crept through the mountain trees and sent tendrils of frost across the plains. The grass crunched as Bardon walked from one fire to the next and spoke to his men.
He stopped last at the rim of the canyon. The design of the houses hid the village lights, but where the dragon had knocked down trees, Bardon could see the camp near the cave.
The remains of the cave. Are you there tonight, Kale? Did you return to the village? Is Penn fussy or quiet? Did you find your parents and Gymn? Are they safe? I’d appreciate having Regidor’s wings. I’d fly down and see for myself—
He heard Kale’s laughter and turned quickly, but no one stood near his lonely spot.
“I can hear you. And I think the image of you with wings is funny.”
You can hear me? I’d think this would be too far, especially with all the trouble you’ve been having with your wizard skills.
“Troubles with my wizardry have all but vanished. Regidor is back to full steam as well. We’ve been theorizing all evening as to what caused the dampening of our effectiveness.”
How’s Penn?
“Adorable. He’s so alert! Fly tells me when he’s wet or hungry. She’s a tyrant and wants her baby attended to immediately. She’ll spoil him for sure.”
No chance of our spoiling him.
Her delightful laugh rippled through his mind. “None whatsoever.” She paused. “I hate the waiting.”
Yes, I’d rather locate Mot Angra and storm his location.
“I’m amazed at what little damage he did on his way out. There are injuries, but very minor. He knocked over trees and tents and left.”
Bardon sniffed the air. I smell him. That nauseating sweet odor. Warn the others! You and the baby get under cover.
He ran back toward the camp, hearing voices raised in the distance. The men grabbed weapons as they ran to their posts.
The calls to one another didn’t sound frantic, as if these men had never faced an enemy of superior strength. But the confusion of an unseen foe of unpredictable action stirred the tension and brewed an uneasy wariness.
“Where is he?”
“At least the moon is full.”
“I hear the beat of his wings.”
“The smell’s getting stronger.”
Bardon took his position under a ring of cover with a fire at the center. He prepared his bow, took an arrow from the supply by the fire, and waited.
The camp grew quiet. A great shadow loomed over the grassland. Strong wings steadily beat the air. The beast passed over one of the camps east of Bardon’s brigade. Mot Angra shuddered and from his body showered scales.
The mass fell like dead weights, then scattered as the discarded pieces transformed into fighting black dragons. This was the battle Paladin’s army had prepared for. What to do with Mot Angra was a mystery. But these dragons, the size of a man’s thumb, spat fire and stung. They also died.
The men focused on the swarming foe. Bardon stuck the tip of his arrow into the fire. The end erupted in flame. He straightened, pulled back his bowstring, aimed, and released. His arrow shot into the onslaught of black dragons along with a hundred other burning shafts from this camp alone.
Volley after volley of blazing arrows p
enetrated the oncoming cloud. The close formation of the beasts’ flight acted to the warriors’ advantage. The blazes struck and ignited one dragon, and those flying too close were also engulfed in flame. The dragons flew straight into the counterattack, losing three-fourths of their throng before they got within range to do any damage to Paladin’s army.
When the remnant of the horde swooped into camp, Bardon and his men picked up torches and swung at the invaders. Whereas in previous attacks the horde had flown on quickly, these beasts circled and struck again and again. The men had counted on this part of the fight to be merely a show of force before the mass flew on. However, they found themselves in earnest combat with beasts so small and quick they were difficult to hit. The knights threw down their clumsy, flaming clubs and drew their swords. As the number of dragons diminished, the men could target those who had picked one man to bombard.
Bardon sighed with relief as he sliced the last one tormenting him. He turned and saw three tiny beasts harassing another warrior. He came from behind and downed one the next time it made a pass. As if to prove the creatures had no ability to rethink strategy in the middle of an engagement, the last two returned in exactly the same pattern as before. The warrior dispatched one, and Bardon eliminated the other.
Small grass fires presented the next immediate problem. The men soaked blankets and beat out the flames where blazing dragons had fallen to the ground. Fortunately, most had burned out before thudding into the undergrowth.
Just as the men’s rush of energy generated from battle abated, Mot Angra appeared again in the sky. A roar from the mighty dragon sent shivers down their backs and put goose flesh on the arms of many hardened warriors. The black monster sailed overhead and shook loose a second barrage of scales.
Weary men picked up their bows.
“Our strategy works, men. Do not lose heart.”
Again they fired into the cloud of oncoming dragons. Again they ended the fight in close combat. This time as the men stomped out fires and beat flames into the ground, they picked up fallen arrows. Some were merely stubs and had to be discarded. Others could be used once more.
Mot Angra did not roar as he came back into view. This time the sound resembled a sinister laugh, one that mocked the men who had to struggle with each advance of the enemy. The monster roared with glee as he shook loose another layer of scales.
The men nocked charred shafts onto their ready bows and took aim.
52
VISIT WITH AN OLD MAN
Paladin walked through the camp after the end of the next attack. The men brought back wood for the fire but no arrows. The moon hovered over the horizon and did not give enough light to see the stubs of their spent arrows. Paladin spoke to the men, praising them for their courage and fortitude. He stopped to comfort those wounded, and he walked by the empty quivers before moving on to the next camp.
“Look,” said a warrior as he brought an armload of wood to feed their fire. “Look at that!”
A hundred arrows stuck like porcupine quills in each quiver. Pitch filled the pots to overflowing.
Mot Angra roared in the distance, and the worn soldiers laughed.
“Come on, you blistering behemoth. We’re ready for you!” yelled one of the men. The warriors around him cheered and fired.
The next attack seemed less frantic than the last, and when Mot Angra passed over again, Bardon knew why. The dragon had run out of scales. The black dragons that attacked right after Paladin passed through the camp had little fire, and their stings only irritated the men’s skin slightly. The last foray consisted of tiny buglike creatures. Most dropped from the air in exhaustion before they got to the camp.
In the morning, scouts scoured the countryside and found no trace of Mot Angra. Paladin called for a meeting of his leaders, and Bardon went down to the village.
“It would be best to attack Mot Angra now, while his defenses are low.” He hit his fist into the palm of his other hand. “We need a library and a good librarian. Regidor?”
“The gateway can be used to go to Fenworth’s library at Bardon’s home. And our talking gateways are working again.”
“Good. See if you can learn anything about this beast. What is its weakness?”
Regidor nodded, stood, and walked out of the room. Bardon wondered as his meech friend bypassed the room where he’d built the portal and went out the front door. Where was he going first before following Paladin’s orders? To see Gilda, Bardon presumed. That would make sense. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. Gilda was no longer a person to avoid.
Paladin’s next instructions could have been issued by any man there. Transport food to the vicinity and move the wounded through the gateway to a more secure location. Replenish the supply of arrows and make ready other weapons. Most importantly, stay alert and patrol the area looking for signs of Mot Angra.
Bardon strode away from headquarters, frustrated and on edge. Filia would go with Regidor through the gateway and help Librettowit search for old lore about the monstrous black dragon. But if the meech had no records, would Librettowit? And hadn’t that avenue been exhausted already? Were they reduced to last-ditch efforts to come up with answers?
He passed Regidor, who gave him a cavalier salute. Filia rode on his shoulder.
“On your way to Librettowit’s library?” asked Bardon.
Regidor winked. “I have researched all the great libraries of Amara. I’ve never seen any literature on Mot Angra. I don’t expect to find any now.”
“Before, you searched for cures for Gilda’s condition.”
“That’s true. Filia and I will dig in the ancient tomes for a bit and then return to aid in a more practical manner.”
“May Wulder surprise you, my friend.” Bardon returned the casual salute and continued toward his goal.
As he marched through the village, he saw different craftsmen set up to do their work. A row of tents accommodated a number of people making arrows. As a bundle of shafts was ready, a child took the bundle to the open-air blacksmith. After he fitted a metal tip on the ends, the child took the unfinished arrows to the artisan who attached the feathers. Other tents had been erected for the making of additional weapons. New bows, darts, hadwigs, torches, staffs, lances, knives, and swords were all being manufactured for the expected battle.
Anxiety raised a frown on Bardon’s face. What good would these types of weapons do against the impenetrable hide of Mot Angra? Knives and swords and poison had not worked before. Perhaps with his body not covered with scales, we can pierce his skin.
He passed Toopka dressed in mismatched bright colors and playing a game with the meech children. They had drawn squares in the dirt and hopped from one to another in some kind of order Bardon could not decipher.
Paladin’s questions echoed in Bardon’s mind. How long does it take for Mot Angra to grow another set of scales? Was this set the accumulation of centuries? Does he have any other weapons at his disposal? Does he breathe fire? Will he land and fight the warriors on the ground? And where is he?
Bardon left the village and walked through the forest. He passed the tunnel that led to the outside world. He noted the ease with which he followed the trail through the underbrush of the forest. Many used this old path these days. He paused for quite a while to gaze at the drawing on the exposed wall of the cave. In the sunlight, the vibrant colors shimmered. What type of paint could produce such rich hues? What artist had such skill? Bardon gasped. It couldn’t be!
He whirled around. No one in sight. He took off down the path to the camp, rushing through the hundred yards, jumping over fallen treetops, knocked down by Mot Angra’s departure.
The first meech he saw when he entered the clearing stood talking to Kale. Bardon ran to them.
“Anyeld, what happened to the wandering painter who came here?”
The astonished expression on Kale’s face made him pause. He looked into her eyes. What an absurd idea! But I must know.
“Maybe not, Bardon. It’s
worth investigating.”
Anyeld’s neck stiffened, but his brow furrowed in puzzlement, not in anger. “He lives miles from here, but still in the canyon. He hasn’t visited the village in a dozen years. What do you want with him? He’s not a friendly sort.”
“He may have answers.”
Anyeld didn’t seem to think that was an absurd notion. “Are you going to visit him?”
“Yes!”
“The fastest way to get there is by boat.”
Kale squeaked in surprise. “Boat?”
Bardon bobbed his head. South of the camp a stream of water sprang from a cluster of rocks in the forest. A small river flowed toward Amara from that point, dividing the forest into two unequal parts.
“Do you have someone to take me?”
“I’m going,” said Kale.
Anyeld nodded. “Ellyk is the most likely guide.”
As Anyeld left to round up Ellyk and rowers for the boat, Bardon felt Kale swoop into his thoughts.
“Oh!” she said aloud and broke into a grin. Then a scowl of concentration pulled on her features. “But how could he be that old? Wouldn’t that be older than Fenworth?”
“I don’t know, Kale.” Bardon hugged her and kissed the little head sticking out of a bundle she wore strapped to her front. “But I’m excited. I think we are going to be surprised by this painter.”
“We should learn his name.”
“Maybe Ellyk and Anyeld know.”
“His name is Kondiganpress,” said Ellyk. He paddled the boat with three other meech. The men worked mostly to steer the vessel. The current provided all the power needed to get them downstream. “We should reach his place in an hour.”
“Can you tell us anything more about him?” asked Kale.
“He’s old. He’s humble. He claims his ancestors came from this area. He’s traveled a lot. He’ll quicken the eggs if we press him to do so. He prefers to be left alone.”
DragonLight Page 36