The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Jorgan froze, hand halfway to the flagon. He looked wide-eyed at Brea.

  “It’s all right, Jorgan. They’ve just met with Tor; they know all about them.”

  A loud gasp rang around the common room. The innkeeper cursed and dropped a cup he had been cleaning; the three in the corner scrapped their chairs as they turned to look at Olam, and Jorgan’s eyes skipped from Brea to Arfael and back.

  “Is there something we should know?” Jorgan asked.

  Arfael moved his cup out of the way. If there was going to be an argument, he didn’t want his wine spilled by any angry table thumping.

  Brea shook her head. “Tomorrow, maybe, Tor hasn’t decided yet. And I’m not gossiping, so don’t ask.”

  Jorgan’s shoulders tightened. He raised his hands. “Gossip? Me? You have me mistaken, young lady.”

  Arfael heard someone chuckle. Brea’s mother poked her head out from behind Olam’s shoulder, then slipped back when Jorgan glared at her. She was sitting on a comfortable chair, not at the table. Arfael had forgotten she was there.

  “Nevertheless,” Brea said, fighting to stop a grin creasing her lip, “there will be no talk of such things tonight.” Her eyes took in everyone, even her mother, who was quietly chatting to Olam. She paid particular attention to those two, for some reason.

  “Why not?” Jorgan protested. Mumbles of agreement came from the table opposite. “We have every right to know,” one of them said.

  “There are things I would like to know, too,” Brea mumbled. She had been looking at Ealian. “You know how this works, Jorgan, Tor tells me, and I tell you. No guessing, and no gossip. You know good and well how dangerous that sort of talk can be.”

  Jorgan grunted something that sounded like an agreement, then straightened his collar. He looked upset – which was hardly surprising; told off by a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. Even so, he said no more on the matter. The three opposite went back to their clandestine mumblings.

  Silence reigned for a few moments. Then Brea’s mother piped up. “Aren’t we getting any wine? You’ve served everyone but Olam and me.”

  That brought a laugh. Even the sour-faced Jorgan managed to split a smile. “Of course,” he said, pouring out two cups and passing them along.

  Arfael asked for a refill and led the salute to Brea, which made her blush, much to Jorgen’s delight.

  “You should not be saluting me,” she said.

  “Nonsense; your quick thinking saved the day, young lady,” Olam said.

  Brea gave him a pinched look. “We shouldn’t be talking about that. Besides, there was nothing quick about it, I was lucky.”

  “Well, be that as it may… Yes, I know; no gossip. I’ll say no more than this, you were very brave.”

  Brea blushed again. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Well,” Brea’s mother said, looking at Arfael. “I think we should have one more drink, then decide where you’re going to sleep. The others can stop at the inn, but short of the barn, I don’t know what might be big enough for you.”

  “He’ll be all right in the back room.” Lance had finally woken up and gathered the courage to speak. “We can push two beds together. It won’t be a problem.”

  Arfael nodded at the innkeeper, who looked surprisingly pleased with himself.

  “Now that’s settled,” Olam said, “I don’t think we should stay up too long; it’s been a hard day, and I’m guessing tomorrow will be no easier.”

  Brea nodded in agreement.

  “But before we go,” Olam said, “there is one thing I would like to know.” He directed his comments to Jorgen. “How do you know about the Kel’mai?”

  Jorgan’s eyes widened. “The Kel’mai warriors saved Aleras’moya at the battles of Blai’nuin and Barais’coi. Everybody knows that, don’t they?”

  Arfael smiled. As did Olam. “If only we had met you thirty years ago,” he said.

  Jorgan leaned forward. “Why? What happened thirty years ago?”

  “That is a long story,” Olam said. He was smiling at Arfael. First the wolves, now this. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

  Jorgen sat back and took another gulp of wine, clearly not happy at missing more gossip.

  Arfael would have liked to stay awake a little longer, but his earlier exertions were beginning to take their toll. He finished his second cup of wine, then asked the innkeeper to show him to the back room. He didn’t pay much attention to the surroundings; someone had already made the beds into a T-shape – so there would be room for him to lay flat. Still dressed, he wasted no time climbing in, and was a sleep without delay, his mind, for now, unburdened by the exhaustion caursing through his body.

  CHAPTER 10

  Home Truth

  Arfael woke to the sound of clanging cups.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the innkeeper said. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be quiet, but it’s dark in here. I’m afraid I’ve broken your teacup.”

  Lance, the innkeeper, was standing just inside the door, stooped over a tray, staring down at the broken teacup. He was wearing the same clothes as the previous evening; that, or he always wore a white shirt and brown trousers.

  “Never mind, Lance,” Arfael said. “I’d prefer one of those big mugs of yours, anyway.”

  Rising on his elbow, Arfael rubbed sleep from his eyes and turned his head towards the window. It was still dark outside. “Why so early?” he asked.

  The innkeeper nudged Arfael’s pack along the low table that was just inside the door and then put the tray down next to it. “That would be Brea,” he said. “She wanted you up bright and early.” Lance nodded as if that was explanation enough. “I’ll go get that mug. One minute and you can have some tea.”

  Arfael watched as the fat man scooted out of the room, apron flapping behind him. Even at a run, Lance was still trying to be quiet. He bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet like an over-grown hopping jay. Arfael tried not to laugh. He put his hands behind his head and lay back down. “Up early? What does the girl think we’re going to do for next four hours?” he whispered.

  Despite being dark outside, the room was light enough for Arfael’s eyes. He was in the private dining room of the Whistling Shepherd. The long table and eight high-backed chairs that would normally be in the centre of the room had been pushed into the bottom corner, to make room for Arfael’s two beds. The fireplace to the left still held the warmth of last night’s fire. Lance had insisted on lighting it. “It can get cold when the wind blows down the valley,” he had said when Arfael asked why. Arranged on the mantel above the fire were a dozen small, ivory statuettes, depicting dragons in various poses. I’ll bet they get moved when they have visitors, Arfael thought. If they have visitors. In front of his bed, next to the table where he had thrown his clothes the previous evening, was a tall chest of drawers with a jug and bowl on top. It did have a nice vase full of flowers standing on it: Lance must have changed the vase for washing water before he brought the tea. He was lucky he hadn’t broken that instead of the teacup.

  Kicking off the blankets, Arfael spun his legs around and put his huge slab feet down on the tiled floor. Wincing at the cold, he reached for his stockings.

  He had noticed, over the past few weeks, how he had begun to feel things more keenly: the warmth of the sun, the chill of a running river; everything he touched felt more… real. More than that, he had noticed himself talking a lot more. And not just talking, but using longer words, the kind he had had trouble with for so long; he usually spoke in single syllables, if at all. “I wonder if anyone else has noticed?” he mumbled. Then laughed at talking to himself. He was changing, there was no doubt about it; but changing into what? And why now?

  It had all started back at Illeas’den when Toban gave him his father’s broached insignia. Had that unlocked something in his mind? Would he keep changing? More importantly, would his memory return? He shook his head. “That’s a fool’s hope, Arfael.”

  Lance returned, brandishing a large mug. “
Here we are. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Do you take honey and milk?”

  Arfael looked absently at the innkeeper. He might have asked, why had Lance not just brought a mug with some tea already in it, and not bother with the tray, but he knew the old innkeeper was hiding something – and making a bad job of it. “What has happened?” he asked.

  “Oh nothing, nothing. It’s just Brea, she wa—”

  “Lance? You don’t wake a guest at five in the morning for no good reason. We don’t meet with Tor until mid-morning. What has happened?”

  Arfael stared, as the innkeeper blinked back at him.

  “I told her, it’s not my job to lead folk along,” he said, “I’m not good at pretending.”

  “Pretending what? Speak up, man.”

  “Wolves, Mr. Arfael. A pack of Wildlings – or at least that’s what Coln thinks. Only they have never come into the valley, not this far. They killed half a dozen goats before the Millers scared them off. It’s not right. I’ve never heard of a wolf in Bren’alor, never mind a whole pack.”

  Arfael sat in thought. “What is going on up north to force them into a valley full of dragons?” he pondered, loud enough for Lance to hear.

  “That’s why she wants you up, Mr. Arfael. We don’t know why. ‘Best everyone is up and alert,’ she said. ‘No good lying in bed, if more of them come.’”

  “I suppose she’s right,” Arfael said. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Not something I get involved in, sir. But if you ask me, I’d say those wolves have been forced south by something evil. And I’m not talking about Salrians. The northern wolves are no more concerned with the lives of men than the southern wolves are. It must be something different.”

  Arfael had an idea what that “something” might be. “They can’t be here already,” he whispered.

  Or could they…

  Maybe the Cren had been wrong. Maybe the Kel’madden have been here for months, already camped north of the border. If that were true, then there was little point in Daric and the others going to the keep at Gieth’eire. “The Troopers will be in Bailryn before them.”

  “What was that, Mr. Arfael?” Lance asked.

  Arfael shook his head and sighed. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Nothing important. Yes, I’ll take some honey, please,” he said, pointing at the small jar in the innkeeper’s hand.

  The innkeeper stood motionless, staring. He gave a start at Arfael’s request, then resumed making the tea. “Yes, these are strange times,” he said, handing Arfael his mug. “Brea said you should meet her in the common room in an hour. If you want to use the bath, just say so. The tub will only cover your knees, but it’s the best we can do, I’m afraid.”

  Arfael chuckled. “Yes, a bath will be most welcome, thank you.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had washed in a tub. He usually stood in a river or stream to clean himself.

  An hour later, Arfael entered the common room. The rising sun filled the room with a yellow-orange haze, casting long window-shaped patterns on the far wall. It looked bigger than it had the night before. Three people, Brea, Olam and Jorgan, were already at the table in the far corner, talking. Arfael heard their conversation as he approached.

  “…did they attack you, too?” Brea asked Olam.

  “No, but that is only because Alacin talked to them.”

  Brea looked puzzled.

  Arfael guessed they were talking about the wolves they encountered on the edge of Crenach’coi, while they were on the way to meet Mateaf and the others.

  “How did he talk to them? They’re Wildlings!” Brea said.

  Olam’s eyebrows rose. “Do you not know of the Rukin? I am surprised a girl who spends all day with dragons has not heard of the wolf clans. It’s hardly a secret.”

  Brea blushed and fidgeted on her seat. “Well… of course I’ve heard of the Rukin, but they wouldn’t attack without reason. Which means you are talking about Wildlings… and they don’t speak. So how did Alacin ‘talk’ to them?”

  “Alacin is ancient. I do not know the half of one hundredth of what he knows. Maybe the Wildlings have a different way of talking to each other.” Olam shrugged. “Whatever it was, it worked.”

  “Have the wolves come back?” Arfael asked. It seemed the only important question; why bother about what happened days ago?

  Brea startled; she turned quickly and looked up. The girl looked surprised to see him there. “No, no, not that I hear. But those that did came a long way into the valley. They were east of the village.”

  “What are you doing about it?” Arfael asked, pulling the chair out and nodding to Jorgan. The sheriff – Arfael didn’t know his actual title – was eating breakfast. Arfael looked longingly at Jorgan’s plate of eggs and sausage.

  “We have put up a watch,” Brea said. “I don’t think they’ll come back; they seemed to be— Are you hungry, Mr. Arfael?”

  Arfael coughed to hide wiping drool from his mouth. “Sorry, Miss. Brea. Yes, I am, a bit.”

  Brea smiled up at him. “Lance is making your breakfast. He won’t be long.”

  Arfael nodded. What is wrong with you? Stop behaving like a fool! Wolves; yes, we were talking about wolves. “You think they just wandered into a valley full of dragons by happenstance?”

  ‘Happenstance?’ Where did that come from? Who says happenstance?

  “No, but if they have been forced from their home, they might not know where they are going. Besides, if they don’t already know about Tor and the dragons, all they would be able to smell is the goats.”

  “That means the wolves that killed the goats are not local,” Olam said. “So… the question is, where did they come from? Toban said the pack we saw were from north of the border.”

  Arfael nodded. Yes, the wolves were running south. But he had another thought: “The question isn’t where they come from, Olam. What made them leave in the first place?”

  That brought silence to the table. Even Jorgan stopped filling his face with an egg and looked up. Olam was nodding his agreement. Brea bit her thumbnail, staring vacantly at her half-filled cup of milk. She had answers, Arfael was sure of that.

  “What do you know of the Kel’madden, Brea?” Arfael asked.

  Brea seemed shocked by his question. “What do I know of them? What do you know?”

  Jorgan threw his fork down on his plate. “Now what are you talking about? And don’t tell me it’s not for my ears, Brea Loian. The Kel’madden! How is that not everyone’s business?”

  Brea blushed, again. “Jorgan, I – I can’t.”

  Jorgan jumped to his feet and threw his knife down on top of his fork. “‘Can’t!’ what do you mean, ‘can’t’? This is a matter for the council. Kel’madden! Gods, what the bloody hell….” He rounded the table and was gone before Brea could do more than raise an apologetic hand to him.

  “Is Master Jorgan upset?”

  Arfael turned at the sound of Ealian’s voice.

  “You really shouldn’t keep secrets, Miss. Brea. You will need these folk before long.” Ealian said.

  At least, he sounded like Ealian. Arfael had his doubts…

  “I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business,” Brea told Ealian. “This doesn’t concern you. For that matter, I don’t even know why you are here. What role do you have in all this?”

  Ealian folded an arm around his waist and tapped his lip with a finger. “‘It doesn’t concern you…’ What a strange thing to say. I would argue that this involves every man, woman and child in all Aleras’moya… and the islands… and Eurmac… and Larabon. This business will more than likely affect the giants, too.” Ealian waved off her sour expression with a flick of his hand. “You are an arrogant child if you think to pick and choose who you can and cannot tell, especially when you have long since trusted the very same man with the safety of your own village.”

  Arfael watched as Ealian paced back and forth. Definitely Alacin, he thought. Ealian wo
uldn’t have the nerve to speak to a girl like that.

  Now Arfael thought about it; the boy was walking differently, too. Ealian slouched when he walked, but the Cren, Alacin, was straight-backed and held his head higher.

  Brea was fidgeting again, and breathing heavily. Her face was red.

  The Cren continued, “You are going to need every hand. A union built on sand will never hold true. You should be open and honest. No, I am not saying you have to include every living soul in the decision-making – nothing would ever be done – but they all need to know what is happening. Those brave enough to lend a hand will appreciate your trust. Those that are not up to the task will run away – best that sort were long gone from here; long gone from anywhere near the border, for that matter. Indeed, were it up to me, I would be evacuating by now. I’m sure your mother is a charming, resourceful woman, but wouldn’t she be safer in Beugeddy or Eurmac?”

  Brea’s mouth opened and closed like a floundering carp. It was a good long moment before she pulled herself together. “Tell my mother to evacuate? Who are you to say such things? This is our home.”

  Alacin only stared. After another long moment, he turned to Olam. “Maybe if you said it. She might listen to you; apparently, she does not like me.”

  Slowly, Brea turned to face Olam. She sat with an expectant look on her face. Arfael was glad Alacin hadn’t asked him to talk to her.

  Olam drew in a long breath. “This is the dragons’ den, Brea. The Kel’madden will doubtless know of it, or at least suspect. They may even have sent those wolves to scout the valley.” Olam rubbed his chin, then took a long drink before continuing, “The point is, the Kel’madden know your dragons. Tor and the others are their greatest threat; they will likely attack here first, just as they did at the battle of Blai’nuin and Barais’coi, and with enough force to ensure victory. No one in this village will survive the onslaught.”

  Brea paled. Her hand shook as she reached for her drink. Alacin sat down in the chair Jorgan had vacated. He took a deep breath. “That can all be dealt with as part of the plan,” he said. “Don’t fret; if we organise properly, there will be no need for unnecessary casualties. Is there any breakfast left?” He said the last to Lance, who was just now bringing a large plate of eggs and sausages to Arfael.