by Mark Shane
CHAPTER 25
On Their Own
Three days. Three days since Jorgen sent them scurrying out of the forest. Three days of incessant rain chilling them to the bone, making every step miserable.
Michael refused to slow down, though, afraid if he stopped the nightmares would catch up. He hated himself, though. What kind of hero turned tail and left Jorgen to rescue Max alone? The farther he walked, the more he disputed Jorgen’s logic, cursing the fear that caused him to give in and run. His brooding had seeped into the others, making their moods as sour as the weather.
The forest gave way to rolling hills that quickly turned steeper as they entered the Chelean Mountains with its towering summits disappearing above the rain laden clouds.
High into the mountains they trekked as the air turned colder and snow crunched under their boots. On their second day in the mountains, their trek ended at a rockslide blocking the pass. Forced to backtrack, they found a narrow path barely fit for the mountain goats. The path led them almost due west, but Michael believed it would take a southward turn. The roar of rapids became louder, reverberating off the rocky walls and then the path ended at a six-foot wide ledge. Scowling, Michael looked down at the Kisenar River frothy white with rapids, raging against sheer cliff walls. The drop alone would kill a man. Slowly he turned his head upward, looking at the peaks towering above them, then his gaze settled on Garen.
Garen held his hands out in resignation. It had been his idea to take the path in the first place. “Want to backtrack?”
It wasn’t fair to be angry with Garen. Michael knew it, but he was simply mad; bloody obstacles and bloody chasms were not tolerable. Michael shook his head and growled.
There was nothing to be done about it, though. Even if they backtracked, there was no guarantee they would find a better route. Jerking his head in the direction of the ledge, Michael led the way, staying close to the mountain wall.
Rounding a jagged bend, they spied a rope bridge made from twin ropes thick as a man’s forearm with wooden slats lashed between them and handrails a little more than waist high.
“I don’t get it?” Garen asked, inspecting the moorings wrapped around massive boulders. “Who builds a rope bridge in the middle of the mountains?”
“No idea,” Michael replied. The ropes showed age, but the bridge still looked sturdy enough for use. How long ago had it been built? The moorings and handrails felt waxy. Treating the ropes against the weather would give them longer life but they would still need to be tended. The question was: who tended them?
“Doesn’t matter, we don’t need the bridge,” Falon said, her voice sharp and commanding like a queen speaking to her subjects. She looked nervously at the other end then continued down the ledge they were on. “Our path is this way.”
Michael looked at Garen questioningly. Garen shrugged his shoulders in response.
“Don’t dawdle, boys,” Falon commanded not bothering to look behind her. “I prefer to be out of these mountains.”
Why were women so insufferable?
Around the next bend the ledge widened and there was a wide break in the mountain. Falon grinned at Michael triumphantly like she had found the path.
A shadow passed over them, blocking the sun for an instant. As one, they looked up. A lithe black form flew above them, waves of air from its wings blowing past them.
They stood frozen. None of them had ever seen a dragon. They were so rare few people had. Some said most dragons had left after the Warlock wars for another land across the ocean where man could not bother them. Others said they were simply dying out, cast aside for rejecting the Creator.
The dragon spun deftly in the air and dove toward them, its shriek reverberating off the mountain walls. An instant later its massive body landed, barring the path. Slitted eyes glanced at Falon and Garen before locking on Michael.
That focused look told Michael everything he needed. There was nothing happenstance about the encounter. Someone had sent the beast.
The dragon drew in breath.
Falon yelped as Michael yanked her behind him.
The dragon shot a stream of fire just as Michael raised his arm forming a shield of Air. Flames licked around the shield their heat promising to incinerate him if the shield wavered.
Moments seemed infinite till the fire ceased. Tendrils of smoke wafted up from black scorch marks on the rock wall. The dragon glared at him through the hazy shield. It seemed to be studying him.
“I’m not that easy to kill,” Michael said. Pressing his hands to the rock wall, the heat almost unbearable near the scorch marks, Michael delved into the rock wall, seeking the crevasses. With a surge of power, he sheared off chunks of stone above the dragon.
The black beast roared in anger, lunging at them as it took flight to avoid the shower of stone.
Michael tackled Falon and Garen, collapsing in a tangle of arms and legs just as the dragon’s tail whipped the air inches above their heads.
“Where you going?” Falon demanded as Michael untangled himself and dashed away, headed back the way they had come.
A ledge was no place to fight the dragon; there was no defense against a plunge into the river. The larger space on the other side of the bridge was the only place to make a stand. If nothing else, he could at least keep the beast distracted so Falon and Garen could escape.
Michael ran across the bridge, ignoring the groans of the ropes, eyes focused on the far end. He dared not look for the black shape he knew dotted the sky.
He heard the “thump-thump” of the dragon’s wings as his feet touched solid ground.
“Right!” he heard someone yell.
Diving to his right, he rolled away as a fireball flashed past him, exploding against a pine tree. Michael came up in a crouch, facing the beast. Flapping its wings, the dragon hovered in the air, studying him.
Michael flung two fireballs at the black beast, grimacing the moment he released them. The corners of the dragon’s mouth tilted up in a sneer. Michael could not decide what was worse, throwing a useless attack at the dragon or having the beast actually indicate just how stupid an attempt it was.
The dragon formed two massive fireballs.
Michael’s eyes widened. The stories said dragons breathed fire. No one ever said they could wield it! He formed a shield just in time, the impact of the fireballs dropping him to his knees. Michael released a volley of jagged blades of hardened Air.
The dragon deftly spun, dodging the first two, but the third struck him in the belly. He roared in anger and charged at Falon and Garen who were crossing the bridge.
“Watch out!” Michael yelled.
Falon dove out of the way as the dragon swung its tail, slashing through the handrails and scraping the wood boards where she had been. The bridge shook, the thick ropes nicked and fraying. Falon clutched the boards, walking on all fours to avoid falling off.
“Run!” Garen yelled, sprinting back the way he had come. He felt the bridge buckle and dove for the cliff bank as the bridge give way beneath him.
Michael saw Falon disappear into the chasm, clutching to the bridge.
A screeching roar echoed off the chasm walls as the dragon spun around for another pass. Michael unleashed another series of air shards, rage pulsing through him. He needed to finish this monster now. All that mattered was getting to Falon. What was she doing on the bridge anyway? Fool girl probably thought she was supposed to protect him. Please let her be alive.
Michael hit the dragon with a solid ball of Air, breaking it from its dive.
Garen took advantage of the beast’s pause, drawing and shooting two arrows into its neck. Garen nocked another but had to dive behind a boulder as the dragon spewed fire at him. Fingers of flame lashed around the boulder singeing his cloak.
The dragon’s attack forced it upward at the last instant grazing the cliff side.
“Throw me.” A voice echoed in Michael’s head. He looked at Garen. Why would he tell him to do such a thing? But Gare
n was drawing an arrow, focused on the black beast banking along the cliff wall.
Garen released. The arrow ripped through the beast’s wing, but it barely flinched.
Michael drew the Sword, the Eye springing to life, glowing crimson. Max’s admonishment not to use the Eye came to mind so he drew his power away from the Eye. He couldn’t say why, it just felt right to do so.
The dragon locked in on him, its topaz eyes radiating hatred.
Michael stretched out his hand and released another volley of Air shards. Daggers against a giant. One sliced the beast’s ribs causing it to howl, but it charged on, refusing to be deterred.
“Throw me,” the voice said again.
Michael gripped the Sword in both hands, flexing his fingers on the hilt, unsure what to do. Throwing a sword was something heroes did in stories. No swordsman worth his salt would waste time with such a useless stunt. This far in the mountains would anyone be able to detect the power if he did use the Eye? Could he afford to take the risk? Distracted with indecision he barely formed a wall of Air in time to deflect the dragon’s flames.
“You have little choice, Keeper,” the voice said forcefully as the dragon flew past him.
A hint of recognition broke through Michael’s fear. It was the same voice he had heard when the assassin attacked and the same voice that moments earlier had told him to dive to the right.
The dragon banked around.
For a brief moment, Michael saw a vision of the Sword embedded in the dragon’s chest superimposed over the real dragon descending on him. He threw his hand toward the dragon releasing Air shards. One struck the dragon in its face causing it to rear up short. The vision fit the scene before him. In a smooth motion he threw the Sword, willing it to strike.
The dragon screamed as the Sword pierced its chest. Crossing the chasm, the black beast disappeared past the peaks behind Garen.
Michael fell to his knees, elated and shaking. The shock of what he had done evaporated when his eyes fell on the space where the bridge had been.
“Falon!” he yelled, clambering to the edge of the cliff.
She clung to the wood slats of the bridge ten feet below him. “Is it gone?”
Michael grinned at her, relief sweeping over him.
Falon climbed up and threw her hand into Michael’s. Their eyes locked for an instant, a strange mix of elation and fear on her face. She glanced at their hands clasped together and he realized she was waiting for him to pull her up.
Hoisting her up to safety, they lay there for a moment breathing hard from the exertion.
“Are you okay” Garen yelled, his voice echoing off the chasm walls.
“Yeah,” Michael replied, laughing with relief. “Yeah, we’re fine. How ‘bout you?”
“A little singed,” he replied, examining his cloak. It had been a nice cloak. “So now what do we do, swordless one?”
“I don’t know perhaps—”
“Swordless one?” Falon interrupted, brushing herself off. “What does he mean by—where’s the Sword?” she exclaimed, realizing the hilt was not protruding over his shoulder. “Did it fall down the chasm?” she shrieked, turning to the ledge.
“No it’s not down there.”
“Then where is it?” she demanded.
Michael’s face turned red. “I threw it.” He knew how stupid it sounded the moment the words left his lips.
Her eyes narrowed. “You threw it where?”
“In the dragon,” Michael replied, thumbing in the direction the dragon flew off.
“Are you insane?” She screamed.
“It told me to,” Michael countered.
She looked at him confused. “The dragon?”
“No, the Eye. It told me to throw it. Said it was the only way.”
“Michael, the Eye doesn’t talk. It’s a source of power, not a living being.”
Michael fixed his eyes on her. “Have you held it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then trust me, you have no idea.”
Michael took some solace from Falon’s inability to form a retort. He might be questioning whether he had heard the voice or not, but he refused to concede that to her.
“Now what do we do?” Garen yelled from across the river chasm.
“Yes, what do we do?” Falon growled.
Michael gritted his teeth. How long was she going to be irritated this time?
“I don’t know,” he shot back.
“You don’t know?” she said close to hysterical. “What, the Sword just failed to mention what to do after you threw it?”
Michael glared at her, not sure if he was angrier with her for the sarcasm or himself for throwing the Sword. Had he panicked? Had it truly been the Eye that spoke or his own crazy idea? He pulled out his father’s book of maps happy to avoid her gaze.
“Garen,” he yelled across the chasm.
“Yeah.”
“I need you to find that dragon and retrieve the Sword.”
“How about you bloody jump the chasm?” Garen snapped.
Michael understood how he felt. Touching the Sword once was apparently more than enough for his friend.
“Garen, I don’t think there’s another crossing in these mountains. Looks like we’ll have to meet you at Lockhart. The only one who can retrieve the Sword is you.” Garen didn’t respond. “Garen, you with me?”
“Yeah,” Garen replied unconvincingly after a long pause.
“We’ll meet up with you in a few days,” Michael said, trying to reassure him. “Here, you might want this.” He floated the scabbard to Garen. He wished he could do the same for Falon and himself, but he knew he didn’t have the ability to float a human on Air.
Garen plucked the scabbard from the air. He looked at Michael, then the scabbard and back at Michael. With a nod he set off eastward.
“How is he going to find the Sword?” Falon asked.
Michael shrugged. “He’s a good tracker. I doubt a massive dragon will be hard to find.”
“Uh-huh, that’s not reassuring. What if the Sword fell out? Who says the dragon’s dead? It might be hiding in a cave somewhere.”
“Garen will find it,” Michael replied, agitated with her persistent questions.
“How can you be so sure?” she demanded.
Michael sighed, hating to give her more reason to berate him. “Because it’s spoken to him.”
She stopped short. “When?”
“Back at Whitewater’s Forge. At the garrison. He won’t admit it, but I know. Whatever he saw when he touched the Sword, that’s why he came. The Eye was pretty confident we would recover it, so I’m not going to worry about it. At least not yet,” Michael added under his breath.
Her scowl said she heard him.
“You know where this takes us don’t you?” Falon asked as they headed down the path.
“Yeah, I know,” he replied, trying to mask his concern. “Hopefully we can find a crossing before we actually have to go into Valan.”
CHAPTER 26
Lyndham
Standing on the edge of the cliff, Michael looked down at the small town. Wisps of smoke wafted from chimneys before the cool breeze carried them away.
“This is the last place we should be,” Falon said.
“We don’t have a choice,” Michael replied.
Falon wrung her hands. “It’s not too late to backtrack. We could go north.”
Michael looked at her askance. “And cross the peaks again? We don’t even know where we’ll end up.” He softened his tone. “Besides, we have two days of food left. You really want to go trekking north?”
Falon stared at the small town. “No.”
“We’ll be fine,” Michael said, giving her a reassuring smile.
She grabbed his arm, the pleading look in her eyes held him. Such beautiful brown eyes. “You don’t understand. Valan hires striplings to hunt magichae. There could be a stripling in that town.”
“I’ve been living under that threat si
nce we left Timmaron. I don’t see how it’s any different now than before. Besides, I have you to watch my back.”
She grimaced like he had made a sour joke.
Another gust of wind blew Michael’s cloak, pebbling his flesh with goose bumps. He preferred the cool autumn wind to the snow in the mountains, but its bite still promised a cold night.
Two days they had trekked southward in search of another place to cross the Kisenar River. Two days with no success. Worse, the Kisenar split and forced them further west, away from the border of Alarus. Michael wished he could say it surprised him. Considering their adventure so far, he thought nothing could surprise him any longer. Funny, he had never been a cynic before.
The trek was not a total loss, though. Falon began to relax with him, even talked a little about her family. She had a younger brother she said was a pest, but the tone in her voice said she loved him. Her mother was ill but getting better, and her father died when she was young. She didn’t comment on him further, and Michael had no intention of prying. She smiled more and, to Michael’s surprise, had a sense of humor.
With the sun high overhead, they made their way down the cliff. The ringing of blacksmiths hammers, creaking wheels, and shouts from wagon drivers greeted them as they passed a wooden sign proclaiming the name Lyndham. The town was too small to be anything more than a supply stop, sprung up when the miner’s guild settled their camp, yet the hustle and bustle rivaled any Michael saw back home. He spotted a small smelting shop, likely used to test ore samples and produce materials needed in town, but most ore laden wagons passed through town heading southwest. If he pulled out his father’s map book, he suspected he would find a dot for a larger town not too far away.
The Golden Crown, the town’s only inn, was an unadorned, half-timbered two-story building. At the moment, it seemed like the finest Michael had ever laid eyes on. Anything with a bed was a palace to his weary body.
The grand room held a stone hearth on one end and the bar on the other. Four older men sat at a table near the fireplace, cards in hand, and a cloud of smoke hanging over them from their pipes. Another small group nursed their drinks, chatting quietly amongst themselves. A pair of men sat on the right side of the fireplace, one taking a swig of ale while the other tossed his dice in their game of Gammon. None spared them more than a glance. The two playing Gammon looked like travelers, but the others all looked like locals. Most likely the only guests Lyndham ever entertained were merchants inspecting the ore.