There wasn’t much more to say after that. Daric put a hand on Gialyn’s shoulder. The previous night, they had spoken for nearly an hour, but Gialyn thought the look in his father’s eyes said enough for ten hours of talking. Gialyn took a step forward and hugged Daric. “I’ll be fine,” he said, stepping back and straightening his shirt. “We’ll both be fine. A couple of weeks and I’ll be back home with Mother. You do not have to worry about me.”
“I know you will, son,” Daric said, patting Gialyn on the back. “You take care of your mother. Tell her I’ll write as soon as I get to Gieth’eire.”
“I will.”
With that, Gialyn turned away and followed Aleban towards the tributary. They paddled across, then made their way south to the gully. With one last look over his shoulder, Gialyn waved goodbye to his father before they disappeared from view.
He trudged down the gully, minding his step on the steep path while thinking about the weeks to come. What would be waiting for him at home? Would the magistrate order a call to arms? Would he end the month once again travelling east to Bailryn? Not if Mother has anything to do with it, Gialyn thought. No, he’d likely be up to his elbows in dirt, or planting the new trees in the west field. Surprisingly, the thought made him smile.
* * *
Daric’s heart sank at the sight of Gialyn disappearing down into the gully, and yet he rejoiced in the knowledge that at least his son would be safe and his beloved Mairi would have Gialyn there to help out. He turned to the others. “Shall we get on with this, then?” he said.
Grady, Olam, and Arfael nodded. They all appeared reluctant, but they picked up their packs and followed Daric back to the trees, where they re-joined Cal, Si’eth, Toban, and Ealian.
Within an hour, Daric and the seven others who were travelling north had left the field by the hollow and were marching fast along the track towards the Northern Woods. Each had their own task to fulfil, and just as many thoughts on how they might accomplish them. The months ahead would be the most challenging of their lives. Whether for good or ill, one thing was for sure: nothing would ever be the same.
CHAPTER 40
Brea’s Lot: Part Five
Brea struggled to the mouth of the den, carrying the large silver bowl in front of her.
“Hurry up,” Tor said.
“I’m going as fast as I can. This is heavy and I’m just a girl.”
“You’re more than just a girl,” Tiama said.
“Oh, thank you. But compliments won’t make me go any faster than I already am.”
Brea shuffled down the steps towards the centre of the den. Holding the Lier’sinn level in front of her, she slowly made her way towards the fireplace. The silvery fluid that half-filled the bowl was difficult to make, never mind the weeks it took to gather the ingredients, and she did not want to spill any. Finally, she reached the edge of the hearth and carefully put the bowl down on its broad, flat edge.
“Let’s get started, then. Come on, child.” Tor was insistent; he was desperate to find out if his little jaunt across the Crenach’coi had been fruitful or had been a waste of time.
“Have some patience, dear,” Tiama said. “Nothing is going to happen in the next five minutes.”
Rek joined the fun. He bounced up and down like a child – he was still a child, at least for a dragon. He pushed himself between his mother and father and gave Brea his best dragon grin which, although full of long, sharp teeth, looked surprisingly friendly, Brea thought.
“Calm down, boy,” Tor said. “You’ll knock the thing over and this will all have been for nothing.”
“Aw… my little boy,” Brea said. “Is the big, mean dragon telling you off?” She kissed Rek on the head and craned her neck to give Tor a stern look.
“Well, I’m only saying…” Tor said.
“I think we can all calm down a bit,” Tiama said. “Have you had any dinner, Brea? You left some bread and cheese here yesterday. If you are hungry, I think it is still good.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. I had a big lunch. Mother has been baking all morning. She has made the most wonderful fru—”
“Enough! Please,” Tor groaned. “This is important. Can we just get on with it and leave the chat alone? You have not even bloodied it yet. You can talk about cakes while it is brewing, can’t you?”
“Oh, listen to him,” Tiama said. “Hard to believe he made it to a thousand years.” She turned to Tor. “Your impatience will be the death of you, Tor’gan. You need to calm down; all things in their own time.”
“Yes,” Tor said, “and the time was ten minutes ago.”
Brea laughed and then said, “Ouch!” as she cut her finger. She let her blood drip into the bowl.
“So you were saying about your mother’s cakes?” Tiama asked.
“Yes, she has really outdone herself this time: apple and wildberry sponge with jam and cream filling. I swear, if she keeps this up, I’ll be twice this size before I’m twenty-one.”
The two women laughed. Tor rolled his eyes. Young Rek looked around and wondered what was going on.
Brea and Tiama continued with their domestic chatter while Tor paced about, waiting for the Lier’sinn to come to the boil, so to speak. Rek sat in front of the hearth, mostly scratching his ear, apart from a minute when he went for a drink of water. Eventually, after what seemed like an age to Tor – yet no time at all to everyone else – the Lier’sinn began to sing. The bubbles popped, the steam rose and the bowl shook.
Brea took out the cloth that she had brought along and placed it over her mouth. Rek blew the steam away, and they peered into the silky surface and waited.
An image of a large crowd of people appeared. Tor seemed surprised… and so was Brea, if she was honest. Eleven folk and maybe ten wolves were by the river near the top of the gully. Another four – or was it five – were tied up, sitting in a circle a few paces away from the main group. Brea thought a few of the wolves were guarding them. Who are they?
Brea watched as some walked off to the south, taking the tied up folk with them.
“That’s the girl. She is leaving with the wolves,” Brea said, “and in the wrong direction?”
Tor appeared tense. He peered into the bowl. “Ah, there’s Cal, the taller one in the brown and green. Good; I think maybe all is well.”
“And there is the Cinné’arth,” Brea said, pointing at the big man. “It looks like they are turning north. Are they all coming here?”
“Em, I don’t know. But as long as the Cinné’arth is on his way… And look, Cal is walking with them. Excellent,” Tor said, sounding very pleased with himself. His plan had worked. Everyone was in his or her place and things were progressing nicely.
Brea, on the other hand, looked solemn. She slumped on a big stone and sighed as she put her head in her hands. In a way, she had hoped he would not come, and that she would not have to do her duty. But that was wishful thinking. In around six days, give or take, the Cinné’arth would be here, probably in the very cave where she now sat.
“Why are you looking so glum, my dear?” Tiama asked her. “We are on the way, child. At last, we have a plan. It must be better than drifting in the wind, surely.”
“I suppose,” Brea said. “I just wish he did not have to die.”
END OF PART ONE: The Call of the Crown
The Dragon Oracles: Part Two
Dedication
To Liz, Paul, Anna and Kieran. For remaining patient and supportive despite my driving them crazy with constant never-ending book related prattle.
CHAPTER 1
The Kel’madden
On deck, the Kel’madden Troopers stood like dark statues; soulless figures, disciplined to the point of arrogance, waiting in silence for the order to disembark. Below, oarsmen steered longboats – one to each of the seven ships – tight against the port side, stationing their boats at the bottom of wide rope ladders. The Troopers shimmied down the ladders, carrying a crate on one shoulder and a long spear slung across t
heir back. Once in the longboats, they found their places quickly. The oarsmen punted away and, as the bowman guided them around the reef, rowed to shore. Before long, the longboats’ shallow bow rails sliced into the soft sand of An’dorith Beach. The Kel’madden Troopers swiftly disembarked. They formed up in ranks four abreast. With crates on their shoulders and spears now in hand, they waited for the order to march. Their lieutenant, a tall, broad-shouldered man, distinguishable by a small crest on his collar, eyed the line. With a faint nod of approval, he led his hundred and four Troopers off the beach and onto the goat trail that would eventually lead them to the valley.
The trail looped through thick brush, weaving between the dunes and up a steep incline, before turning north along the cliff path. After half a mile, a westerly turn brought them to a tight pass cut between two high cliffs. The Kel’madden proceeded by twos. None spoke as they waited for those in front to snake their way through the pass, or when they occasionally had to shimmy in single file between the ground litter of rough boulders. They knew their duty, and talking was not a part of it.
The narrow passage opened out into a valley bordered by a circle of black tents. Pitched in lines three deep, the peak-topped canvas awnings ran for almost three miles around the hidden vale: two thousand tents in all. A hundred small fires cast a dim light from within shallow pits. A single cook stood at each, heating water and cooking stew. One man from each tent stood in line beside the fires, waiting for a big bowl of stew and a kettle of hot water to take back to his tent. There were no milling crowds waiting for their food, no laughter, no singing, no arguments, talking, or clatter of any kind; just well-ordered silence.
Rows of crates, covered with dark tarp, were stacked up high in the centre of the circle; and in the centre of those, a herd of Hyrac grazed in a fenced-off corral.
Like the Kel’madden, the Hyrac hailed from the Eastern Islands. The beasts were tall, like horses, but with short-snouted faces and thick hind legs. Broad scales wound around their leathery coats. Bristles of thick hair ran down from their ears to their tales, thinning out along the spine. There were fifty Hyrac, and each wore a harness and was well-groomed. Beside the corral, two lines of high-sided carts – made to suit the Hyrac – were already full of crates, ready for a swift departure.
Rocky ridges bordered the valley to the west and south. At the north, the jagged edge of the An’dorith spur rose in a saw-tooth pattern stretching all the way to the coast. The east end of the valley was all cliff. Beyond, the open sea stretched to the horizon.
To the northeast, a single point of light shone half way up the otherwise shadowy spur. On a flat rock shelf, ten paces up from the valley’s base, a solitary fire glowed dimly inside a stone surround, lighting up a single ornate tent. Four soldiers stood guard, two each side of the entrance. Inside the tent, a plush carpet covered most of the floor. A silk-netted bed filled one wall. Opposite, a desk and draws took up most of the space.
Outside, a dark-haired woman stood at the edge of the rock shelf, peering out over the camp. Her expression was all annoyance as she watched the Troopers march up from the beach. She pulled the black silken shawl tight around her shoulders. Folding her slender hands inside, she rubbed her arms for warmth against the chill breeze. She eyed the ships still anchored offshore. Shaking her head, she sighed at the sight of them. They should have been here weeks ago.
A stocky man, dressed in a captain’s cloak, strode up the narrow path from the valley floor. Crossing the shelf in a stiff march, he halted beside the woman. He bowed. His head stayed down until a flick of the woman’s finger freed him from his stoop. Standing at attention, he spoke, “That is the last of them, my lady.”
“Captain Agerman.” The woman spoke slowly, with an ominous exaggeration on his title. “You told me six weeks. That was three months ago.” Turning to meet the captain’s gaze, she paused for a long moment before marching into the tent. She flicked her shawl off onto the bed and quickly rounded her desk. Sitting on a cushioned chair, she gestured to her servant girl to bring wine.
Her servant – also from Toi’ildrieg – quickly obliged. Gliding to a corner table, she filled a goblet from a thick glass decanter and then dropped a curtsy before handing the cup to the seated woman.
Vila’slae smiled warmly as she took the wine. She sniffed the heady aroma before taking a sip. Nodding approvingly, she carefully placing the goblet on her desk. Slowly, she raised her eyes to the captain. Her long, pearl-white nails drummed on the desktop as she waited to hear his account – his excuses. She already knew nothing he could say would be good enough. Still, on occasion, she did like to listen to their pleas, liked to see them grovel. Agerman would have to do a lot of grovelling if he thought he was going to get himself out of this mess.
“Ma’am.” Agerman managed a nervous bow. “It has been a gentle spring, the calmest for a generation. The going was slow; every trip took twice as long as expected.”
Agerman stood before her, twitching and blinking, apparently hoping she would accept his explanation.
Vila’slae let out a long sigh. “Do you see what is on my desk, Captain?” She swept her hand over the multitude of papers and maps and scrolls covering the top of her wide, dark-wood desk. “I plan things, Captain. I write lists. I like my lists; I like organising, sorting, cataloguing, preparing for every possible eventuality. Now, because of your lack of foresight, I am six weeks behind.”
The captain fidgeted wildly. Forcing himself to swallow, he put a hand to his neck – probably wondering how long it would remain in contact with his head. Licking his lips, he tried to speak. “I did my b-best. T-tried everything. There was n-nothing more I-I c-could do.”
Vila’slae put her elbows on the desk and laced her fingers together. “You should have accounted for the changeable weather when you gave me your report, Captain. You do remember your report? ‘Transport will take six weeks,’ you said.” Vila’slae waited for a reply. None came. “I rely on my captains, Agerman. You have let me down.”
Agerman glanced over his shoulder at the exit.
Vila’slae smiled. No good running, she thought. Where would you go? She found the idea amusing, though; watching him run might lighten her mood. At the very least, chasing him would give her guards something to do. There had been little sport for them since arriving at this backwoods. She began to hope he would run.
Sweat beaded on Agerman’s forehead. He turned back to Vila and started dry-washing his face. Interlocking his fingers, he pressed his hands against his lips. Praying, Vila thought. “Ma’am, I am truly sorry. Please forgive me.”
Vila leaned to her left. She looked beyond Agerman to the seat in the corner where General Turasan was sitting. At her nod, the general stood and moved up beside Agerman. Turasan was tall for a Kel’madden, almost as tall as a Surabhan – but then he wasn’t a Kel’madden; nobody was sure where he came from, not even Vila. He gave a sharp salute before standing at ease.
Vila’slae gave him the slightest of nods – Turasan knew his duty; they had already discussed Agerman’s fate before the captain had arrived.
The general pulled his dagger from his belt, grabbed Agerman by his hair and was about to plunge the blade into the captain’s throat…
…Vila slapped her hand down on the desktop. “Not in here! The carpet!” She shook her head at the general. He knows better than that, she thought, pointing down at the intricately woven Toyan carpet covering most of the floor.
The general bowed again, this time with a wry grin on his lips. He grabbed the captain by his collar and dragged him to the exit. The captain pleaded and begged for mercy. With heels dug in the carpet – the fool best not damage it – Agerman clawed at Turasan’s wrist as he tried to pull himself free. Vila smiled; the general was twice the weight of Agerman, with arms the width of the captain’s leg. The shrill whimpering of Agerman’s pathetic squealing made Vila cringe and cover her ears. Even her dog – Trapper – buried his head under the blanket. It would seem no one wanted to l
isten to the captain’s plea.
The general delivered Agerman to the Troopers stationed outside Vila’s tent. The foolish captain still struggled, even with two of her personal guard on either side, restraining him. Vila listened as Turasan provided instructions. The guards pulled Agerman away as the general walked back into the tent. He brushed his tunic and trousers as if they were dirty. Vila’slae liked that about him; he was always tidy. The general stood in front of her desk, waiting for the guards to do whatever he had asked them to do.
Vila looked up at him and slowly shook her head. Turasan had been fortunate he had not chosen Agerman as their transport master; she would be most off-put if she had to get rid of the general, too; he was her favourite. A muffled yelp came from outside the tent. A few seconds later, there was a thud. Oh, they must have thrown him over the edge. Very economical: let the seagulls have him.
“I hope the captain’s inept management hasn’t costed us too dearly, General,” Vila said, rolling her eyes as she picked up her goblet.
“As do I, Ma’am.” The general’s reply was impassive, matter-of-fact. The tall man put his hand to his heart and lowered his gaze. “I think a change of plan is called for. May I make a recommendation?”
“Yes, General, please do.” She set the goblet down and picked the map of the Eastern Barath coast. “By now, we should have set up camp in the Karan Valley. Yet we seem to be stuck here, and with assets in play. We must keep up with these changes or risk losing everything.”
The general relaxed a little. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stood at ease. “Yes, Ma’am, I agree. I fear we have little choice but to risk the dragons. We must collect the map and inform the forward command of the changes. Most importantly, someone must travel to the Karan Valley and prepare the way to the tunnels. We can bear no more delays once we are on the move.”
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 45