Tax sat down. He had no idea how long whatever she was doing was going to take, but he figured he might as well get comfortable. He pulled out another piece of dried meat and chewed on it. He sat patiently for almost an hour. The Seer hadn’t moved once.
He got up and walked around the field. When he returned, he called out to her. She failed to stir or answer.
Tax sighed heavily and sat down next to her, swearing to himself that he could be patient, but knowing that he tweren’t no patient halfling, no he wasn’t.
Without warning, her eyes cleared and she turned and smiled, half scaring the years out of Tax.
“They’re on their way!” she said, with a smile.
“Who’s on their way?” Tax asked, his head flipping from side to side, eyes wide in fear.
She nodded. “The dreagles. They should be here within the hour.”
Tax raised a brow. “What be the dreagles?”
Azuela smiled. “They’re one of the true creations of the Ten.”
Tax frowned.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Azuela said. “This is one of their better creations. Think of dreagles as dragon-eagle crossbreeds. They are much bigger than eagles, but smaller than dragons. Oh, and they don’t have fire or scales. They have feathers. We used them to carry messengers in the wars.”
“What do ye be needing them fer?”
She waved her arm across the sky. “We are going to ride them!”
“R..r..ride?” Tax stammered.
Azuela nodded.
“Do we have to? I’m not sure I can …”
“Well,” Azuela said, “it’s either ride them, or we have to walk for the next month.”
Tax pondered her response. “I’m supposing I can give ’er a try.”
“You don’t have to worry…nobody has ever fallen from a dreagle!”
Tax snorted and nodded, but he wasn’t so sure. He had heard about them riders of dragons. Quick death it was. It was common for them to be falling to their deaths, splat. The thought of falling from the heavens to the ground made him queasy.
“Do they bite halflings?”
Azuela laughed out loud. “No, Tax. They don’t bite halflings. They are tame as can be.”
Tax sighed in relief. “So how come I’ve never seen one of them…dreagles? Seems to me that they would be pretty hard to be hiding.”
“Would they? If you saw a large eagle in the sky, would you know if it were an eagle that is close, or a dreagle that is far away?”
Tax thought about that for a few minutes before he answered. “No, I’m supposing not.”
“Right you are. They have been hiding in plain sight all these years. But they are very smart. They know not to get too close to men.”
Tax nodded, having to squint because of the bright light.
Azuela pointed to the northern horizon, where three small black dots had appeared. “Here they come!’
Tax didn’t see them at first. His eyes weren’t used to seeing distances. He heard them before his eyes spotted them, flapping slowly. Telltale screeches that sounded like the calls of the white-headed eagles he remembered from his youth, filled the air. He smiled to himself. The closer they got, the more they looked like eagles. He wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with more magic.
They got closer. Now Tax could tell they were not normal eagles. By the time they landed, Tax had stepped back behind Azuela. Their heads were large and dragon shaped, their claws and haunches were dragon-like too.
They kicked up the dust as they set down, with wings that spanned five full-sized men. Azuela walked up to the nearest and scratched it under the chin as it cooed, leaning into her touch. Its head bobbed and shook from side-to-side.
Azuela turned her head, “This one is called Buttercup.”
Tax raised a brow and watched from a distance.
“Don’t be afraid, Tax. Come over and say hello!”
Tax took a couple steps forward. The dreagle towered over him. He trembled. The dreagle’s head was bigger than he was and its beak would make short order of him if it decided to have a snack.
He lifted his hand to the dreagle and felt its pin-feathers. They were soft, softer than they looked. In his estimation, the draggle appeared more like a dragon with a beak, but as promised, they were covered with large feathers. The feathers themselves were almost as long as he was tall.
Azuela squawked and screeched and the dreagle answered.
Azuela’s face was brimming with excitement. “They have agreed to carry us to see my sisters!”
Azuela reached down and lifted Tax off the ground, placing him on the dreagles back. Tax held on dearly. He looked down and saw pink tentacles growing up through the feathers and wrapping themselves around his legs tightly. At first there were just a few, but within seconds, hundreds covered his legs and feet.
Before he could scream, Azuela patted his leg. “That is why I told you that you could never fall off a dreagle. It will also help them communicate with you. You will feel the bonds soon enough.
Tax’s forehead beaded up with sweat and he felt lightheaded. He heard a calming voice in his head. “Not to worry, little Tax-man. Dreagle Buttercup will take care of you! You will ride like the wind!”
Azuela grabbed hold of the other dreagle’s mottled feathers and lifted herself to its back. Before the tentacles even attached, she nudged it to the sky.
Tax held on for dear life as his dreagle lumbered, running down the slippery slope before launching itself over the sheer drop-off. The dreagle majestically spread its wings, dove and took to the air. He clenched his eyes closed and tried not to—.
A loud blood-curdling scream escaped his lips.
Azuela laughed as his scream was carried off on the rushing wind. She leaned, pointing her dreagle southeast. The graceful creature banked and she took advantage of the view by watching the realm wiz by.
“We are flying!” Tax heard in his head. He squeezed his eyes tighter. Tax was going to die, he just knew it! Stupid, stupid Tax.
Climb
Getting off the cliff was going to be a challenge.
Bal’kor stood well back from the edge rubbing his chin. He had no idea how to climb. Oh, he knew in theory, but putting theory to practice… It was not as though he had a childhood filled with adventure—climbing trees, bouldering, or play outdoors. Halla, his childhood lasted two weeks! Although he appeared to be at least eighteen years old, he had only been alive for a matter of weeks. The only experiences he had, were the ones his mother had given him.
Gingerly, he approached the jagged edge. Getting down on hands and knees, he crawled close enough to push his head over the threshold. He took a long look at the nearly vertical cliff wall. There were not steps… the steps were gone! He saw the tangled heap of dead beasts below and the silhouetted forms of two other men. So, there had been others!
Almost immediately his vision blurred as he was consumed with fear and vertigo. He could practically smell the reek of it oozing from his skin. Clamping his eyes shut, and swallowing hard, as he pondered his predicament. He was convinced he was going to die on this ledge.
He would never grow old.
He would never master magic.
He would freeze to death, or die of starvation!
For a moment he thought about asking his mother what to do, but he could tell she was gone—gone to wherever it was she went when she wasn’t in his head. Just the same, he called out to her—just in case. No answer.
Bal’kor snorted. He would have to get himself out of this mess. Tricked like a dog with a treat. Mica had played him for a fool, and a fool he was. Now look at him. He was sure that she was warm and cozy back at the Keep laughing at him—probably wreaking havoc.
Bal’kor scooted back and felt relief. There was no use just lying there, he pushed himself to his feet, brushed himself off, went back inside, and began to scavenge what supplies he could. Foremost, he knew he needed a weapon, and he settled on the spear held by the dwarf. He reasoned that he alr
eady had a large knife and dwarf’s sword was so heavy he couldn’t lift it—the spear seemed the logical choice.
Grabbing the spear firmly just under the hounds jaw, he worked it to and fro, loosening the grip the dead dwarf had on the fine weapon. It was hard work because he didn’t want the shaft to snap; it required him to take care that the weight of the hound hanging on the end didn’t unduly strain the fine weapon. Moving it slowly, inch by inch—first in one direction, then in another, he finally managed to free the spear, and upon feeling it give way, let the hound-like creature topple to the ground. Bal’kor scrunched up his face and after placing a foot on the skull of the hound, twisted and yanked the spear free, feeling the hound’s neck snap with a sharp resounding crack.
For some reason, that sound made him smile. He wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t as if the beasts had done anything to him. And yet, there it was—the feeling of...satisfaction. Maybe that wasn’t the exact feeling, but to Bal’kor, the boy who was a man, he could give it no other name.
Bal’kor felt the weight of the spear in his hands. He checked its balance the way Hammergrip had shown him. The spear was perfect—evenly balanced. It was sturdy, heavy—heavier than he had expected. He wouldn’t be able to throw it far, but it would fly true and do damage to whatever it hit. He grabbed it where the leather wrapping had been placed and thrust it at an imaginary enemy. This felt right! This is how he would use the weapon.
Turning it over, he examined every inch; the intricate filigree and fine silver etching on the razor-sharp point were not common, neither were the gem stones set into the haft. Whoever this dwarf was, he was of breeding and had some degree of wealth. Bal’kor had never seen such a fine weapon before, even those that Hammergrip had shown him in the armory of the Keep dimmed in comparison.
He systematically checked everything in the room, rummaging through a small pack he found tossed off to one side and discovered a wine skin. A stiff shake proved it was empty, and by all appearances—undamaged. Putting weight to hand, he yanked hard on the cork opening it and a foul odor met his nose. Bal’kor smirked; he would need to rinse the skin thoroughly before he trusted it to hold anything he might drink.
Most of the things found were of little worth—meaning they would not help him survive. A small leather-bound book, filled with writing he could not decipher was in the pocket of the taller man, as well as a comb made of shell and an empty pouch. He found no food, which seemed highly unusual to him given their remote location. Bal’kor shrugged, what was—was! He packed his treasures in the pack and strapped the spear across his back using a length of cord from the dwarf’s boots.
On a whim, he dragged the hounds and wolves to the edge of the cliff and pushed them over the side, watching with satisfaction as their bodies tumbled, turning to dust as the desiccated carcasses careened on the jagged rocks below. It seemed wrong to him to allow the abominations to share the same space with the two fallen comrades.
He pushed the two fallen heroes to the center of the room and used the rocks in the cave to fabricate a makeshift pier over their now broken bodies. Lowering his head to pay his respects, Bal’kor wondered if he would meet the same fate. May the gods rest their souls!
Bal’kor knew he was procrastinating, but he just wasn’t ready to force himself to climb down the cliff. Just the thought made his body shudder. Instead, he decided to closely examine the runes, running his fingers over the raised pattern and diligently examining the small room for some mechanism that would send him home. The runes were somewhat familiar, but their meaning was just beyond his recollection. His mother was silent; even though he was sure she knew the truth. Of course he didn’t know for sure, but it was a feeling he got when he looked at them, like his mother was keeping secrets from him. To what purpose, he couldn’t imagine, but he was certain there were things she was hiding. He grumbled to himself and sent the thoughts her way.
He found nothing else of value and it seems as though he was out of luck—and time.
With nothing else to explore, he decided to face his fears and walked out of the cave to the ledge. He felt the cold blast of the high mountain air as it swirled up the face of the cliff and blew across the ledge. He clutched his oilskin cloak close, trying to keep the damnable wind out. At first he just sat on the edge, working up the courage to do what he must. Little by little, he got closer to the edge until his feet draped over the side like a cloth on a finely set table.
Bal’kor grunted, rolling to one side and got down on his stomach. He eased himself over the edge. At first, his feet didn’t find purchase and he panicked. His feet began scraping at the rock and his knuckles went white as he felt himself slowly sliding over the edge. He felt bile rising in his throat and his face went clammy. At the moment he was sure he was going to die, the soothing voice of his mother commanding him to calm down. He swallowed hard and focused on her voice.
“Oh, mother...I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Bal’kor, you listen to me. You calm down and keep breathing. You can do this. We’ll do this together.”
“Yyyyes mother.”
He caught his fingers in a small crack that ran along the ledge and it stopped him from sliding any further. He felt the weight of his body on his arms and knew he couldn’t hesitate long—just long enough to regain his composure. Bal’kor’s heart-rate dropped and his nausea subsided. He allowed himself to slide down a few more inches and found good footing. Slowly, he eased himself further over the precipice until only his fingertips remained on the ledge. He wanted to hug the rock, but instinctively, he knew that was the wrong thing to do. He fought the urge, pushing his butt out so that his feet were being pushed into the rock.
Once he got his balance, he started to move. First he moved one hand, then the next, and so began the treacherous descent. The first few moves were shaky and he faltered—not trusting his instincts. But over time, his confidence grew and he learned to trust himself.
The cold rough rock dug into his frigid callus-free hands and feet. Mistakenly, he stared down between his legs and felt his stomach roil when he realized how high he was. The ground was far below and only the rocks, which had careened off the wall and were scattered on the ice-field below, provided measure of exactly how far he had to go. If he fell from this height, he would break his both of his legs, or worse.
His legs were trembling, jerking up and down as muscles seldom used, and untrained, were strained beyond capacity. The exposure on the rock face was making his hands cramp as he tried to maintain his grip on the small nubbins of rock that passed for handholds. He somehow found the courage to take several more large steps down before he miscalculated his footing and felt his legs peel off the rock throwing his precarious balance off kilter.
Bal’kor held on for dear life and swiped at the rocks with his feet, trying desperately to gain purchase. His arms were stretched out to length and his hands were all that held him from falling. The strain on his shoulders and his elbows was unbearable. His hands cramped and he knew he didn’t have much time to correct the situation if he expected to live. His left foot caught a solid foot hold and he steadied himself, pushing up to relieve the strain on his arms. One by one, he let go, dangled his arms by his side and shook them out—allowing the blood to return—and then returned them to the rock so that he could do the same with the other arm. Spying a small ledge several feet below and throwing caution to the wind, he scampered down—half falling, half climbing.
Bal’kor steadied himself on the small ledge, not much wider than two or three blade widths. At least his foot sat firmly sideways on the rock. He was exhausted and felt the effects of the thin mountain air as his lungs tried to pull enough oxygen into his body to ease the burning in his chest and legs. Knowing he couldn’t linger long, he reached down with first one leg, then another. After several successful steps, he was beginning to get his confidence back. The ledge became but a memory and was now far above his head. He estimated that he was about halfway down.
The
rock under his left foot gave way, crumbling to dust. He heard a scream escaped his lips as he lost his grip and began a free-fall decent onto the boulder field below.
His arms spun about, clutching at empty air as he watched in slow motion as the rock face moved away from his grasp. He fell backward, staring at the sky, praying that he wouldn’t land upon the rocks strewn at the base of the cliff. Luckily, he hit the relatively soft snow between the large jutting rocks. His cheek struck the icy surface and his eyes stared in fear as the rock came just inches from his head.
“Breathe,” a voice in his head yelled!
The impact had been dreadful; jarring his teeth, scraping flesh from his chin and taking his breath away. Because of the steepness of the windblown snow piled high at the base of the cliff, he didn’t shatter his legs, but instead, got pitched backwards, and began half-sliding, half-tumbling down the slope head first. Each time he hit, he grunted and let out a woof as his breath was knocked out of him. If he were lucky, he would only have broken bones and a story to tell! His vision blurred.
“Breathe!” It voiced again.
The slope was long and he quickly lost track of how many times he had flipped. He had lost his bundle and his spear almost immediately. When he was on his back, the oilskin slid freely and he picked up speed. Eventually, something would catch and he would be thrown into the air and tumble wildly until he landed on his back again. His body was being tossed like a ragdoll into the air with such force, he somersaulted. He felt the darkness closing in.
“Breathe.” It repeated.
Landing on an outstretched limb would break it for sure, he thought to himself! His limbs were being pulled in unnatural directions. Instinctively, he curled into a ball and threw his hands and arms over his head, offering it protection from the sharp boulders jutting out of the snow. He felt every bounce, every skid and every rock that slammed into his arms and hands. The sky rotated in and out of view and he no longer had any sense of which direction was up. His chest hurt. Why not give up?
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 12