“An ambush?” Olam laughed. “Do you imagine us attacking them, Alacin?”
“I didn’t mean attack; I meant they will all be asleep. I doubt they will have many guards on this side of the valley; they won’t be expecting anyone to come at them through the…”
Brea wasn’t really listening. She hadn’t really heard anything after the ‘we should rest’ part. Was that because she was tired and would agree with anything, or because she wanted to avoid the inevitable for as long as possible? She hoped it wasn’t the latter. She still felt sick. “I could use a little rest, to be honest,” she said.
“That’s settled then.” Alacin nodded in agreement. “We’ll take an hour’s rest before we proceed.”
Olam nodded, and Arfael was already taking off his boots.
Brea sat and leaned back against the wall. She rolled up her thin shawl, rested her head on it, and closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly.
* * *
Brea found herself on a road, although it felt like she was in a tunnel. Straight ahead, the way was clear; she could see for miles, but on either side, a thick mist made foggy grey walls that reached up out of sight; she couldn’t see the sky. Eerie sounds echoed all around. None more so than the click-click-click of her own boot heels as she walked along the road’s porcelain-like surface. She felt utterly alone, despite the shadows that began moving in the mist. Some were huge, the size of dragons; some were small, the size of a fox or badger.
“Keep to the road,” a voice said in her head. “Don’t go into the mist.”
Brea gasped at the sound. It was a man’s voice, strong and confident. She looked round quickly, but nobody was there. The voice sounded oddly familiar, but it was no one she knew, no one she could put a name to – more like a memory from the past, something from an old dream, maybe. She decided to take the advice.
Brea glanced along the road. The porcelain surface shone in places, yet in others it was as filthy as an old barn floor. The road was seamless, cream in colour, and perfectly level. The mist held to its edge as if the road itself was a bar to its passing; a force that the mist could not cross. She continued to walk.
A voice called to her from within the mist. The fog parted to reveal an old man struggling to free himself from a patch of quicksand – it was Coln Brewen. Instinctively, Brea lunged forward to help her friend. Her toe touched the edge of the road, and she stopped.
“What are you waiting for?” Coln cried to her.
“You’re not Coln. I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Coln.”
“What are you talking about, child? Course it’s me. I don’t know where we are or what we are doing here, but please, you must help me.”
The old man held a tenuous grip on a thin root. He struggled to lift himself clear. Tears filled his eyes. Brea’s heart pounded. She padded back and forth, chewing her nail, remembering the warning: “Keep to the road.”
The old man cried louder and louder. Brea covered her ears. “You’re not Coln!” she shouted. “You’re not Coln. Who are you? I’m not coming in there, so you might as well—”
The old man began to laugh. He pulled himself effortlessly from the quicksand. In a flash, he was standing before her, less than a pace from the edge of the road. “Very good, Brea,” he said. “For a moment there, I thought I had you.”
Brea watched as the old man faded to nothing. The mist gathered itself back around the pool of quicksand and quickly blended in with the rest of the foggy wall. Brea took a deep breath. She looked along the road in the direction from which she’d come. It looked no different from the road ahead. “Is that the way out?” she mumbled to herself.
“No, keep going,” the voice said.
Brea startled; she spun around, gazing in every direction. “Who are you? Where are you?”
There was no answer.
Brea continued.
A young man sat in the middle of the road. He was looking the other way. Brea coughed, but he didn’t turn.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you the one? Was it you, telling me to go on?”
The young man turned quickly. His eyes were wide with shock, as though he was amazed to see Brea standing there. “Go on?” he said, laughing in a high-pitched cackle. “Go on?” He laughed again. “There is only one way, you fool.” The young man got to his feet and sped off along the road, too fast for Brea to follow.
“Wait, please; you must tell me where I am,” she shouted after him.
“Liar! If you don’t know where you are, then how did you get here?” The young man’s voice echoed all around her.
It seemed to Brea that she had walked for hours. The light never changed; she could not see the sky. There was no hunger in her belly and no pain in her feet – her feet must hurt by now, surely. Despair crept into her heart as she gazed along the endless road. It was like that tunnel; nothing changed. She would be glad to see anyone, even the strange young man. She would even be happy to hear the voice again. Her fear began to grow; would she ever get out of here?
Abruptly, the road began to rise, climbing up a hill that seemed to appear out of nowhere. After a few minutes, the mist fell away from the roadside. She looked back and saw a thick blanket of fog covering the land in all directions. It appeared that only this one hill rose above it.
But then, squinting, she noticed another hill on the distant horizon. She wasn’t sure, but there appeared to be a tower standing on top of that hill. Was that where she had come from? Something about the tower felt familiar. Familiar, in the same way, the Lier’sinn had felt to her the first time she had used it.
The road narrowed to a path that wound around the top of the hill. Brea followed the path to a cave. A dragon was sitting outside – a huge, white dragon.
“Hello, Brea,” the dragon said. “I am Bausamon, the Guardian. Welcome to Arenthenia”
Brea gasped. “It was you, you spoke to me.”
“I have always spoken to you, Brea, even when you were a child.”
Brea listened to the voice and felt calmed by it. It was familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she had heard it before – not precisely, just vague recollections, like trying to remember a dream. Visions flashed through her mind: a hundred, a thousand, maybe. She realised the dragon had always been there; he was the Voice from her dreams, but she had never seen him before today.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
The dragon laughed. “For the testing of course, why else would you be here?”
“Testing?”
“Yes, Brea; we dragons take this very seriously. Becoming a Dragon Oracle is a solemn business; the Knowledge of Ages is a great gift; with it comes the Power to do good or evil. You must be tested, child. More so, since Vila’slae took what we gave her and used it against us. You are our hope, Brea, a hope for the future. Are you prepared?”
Brea creased her brow. “Prepared? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The dragon looked puzzled. Lowering his head, he gazed into Brea eyes.
“This isn’t right,” Bausamon said. “You shouldn’t be here, not yet. Why are you…?” The dragon tilted his head to one side and gave her a look that reminded Brea of when her mother would tell her off for eating too fast. “You’re not in the Tunnels of Aldregair, are you?”
Brea scratched behind her ear and bit her lip. “Uh… yes.”
Bausamon rolled his eyes. “That is very dangerous, Brea. Diobael can see you while you’re in there. You must leave at once.”
The White Dragon raised his hand and signalled back along the road.
“But… what about the test?”
“There’s no time. The test is long; you will sleep for a day, maybe two. Leave the Tunnels and go home. Pick up a shard from the blue stone in your Moon Pool and sleep with it touching your skin. I will take that as a sign that you are ready. But don’t take too long; things are moving fast now, girl; you need the Knowledge.”
Brea nodded graciously and smiled at the dragon. She was g
lad she hadn’t ruined her chances. She turned back to the road. “Do I have to walk all the way back?” she asked, over her shoulder.
The White Dragon smiled. “You are in luck; I think someone is trying to—
* * *
“Wake up, Brea.”
Brea felt a hand shaking her shoulder. As soon as her eyes opened, Alacin pressed a finger against her lips.
“Quiet; someone is coming.”
Brea watched as Alacin slowly pulled his sword and crouched by the entrance to the cavern. A faint sound, like footsteps, was coming from the circular tunnel. The footsteps sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place them. Maybe she was still thinking about her dream and that peculiar road. She shook her head, banishing the thought, as she quietly moved to the other side of the entrance. Pulling her knife, she crouched in readiness.
Alacin nodded but gestured for her to stay back. Brea didn’t need encouragement; she wasn’t about to jump out and attack without knowing what they were dealing with. Besides, Arfael was squatting behind her, his huge hand resting on her shoulder. The Cinnè’arth slowly pulled her back and edged himself to the front. Now all Brea could see was the shirt on Arfael’s wide back.
She heard the noise again, and realised what it was, just as Alacin was about to pounce on the intruder.
Rushing forward, she said, “No, wait. It’s Rek.” She held her hand out to halt Alacin’s advance.
Arfael sat back on his heels and Alacin’s shoulders sunk as the young dragon poked its head into the cavern.
“Rek, what are you doing here?” Brea asked, hand on hips, a half smile on her face. She was pleased to see him. But what was he thinking, following her into the tunnels? “Your father is not going to be happy, young—”
“Arfael? Are you all right?” Olam asked him.
The big man was slouched on a rock by the tunnel entrance. His face was pale and he was breathing heavy.
Oh no, the curse! Quickly, Brea fished through her pockets and brought out a vial. It was less than a quarter full. She hoped it would be enough. “Here, drink this.” She pulled off the stopper and handed the vial to Arfael.
The big man took the small bottle in his shaking hand and drank it down. He said nothing but looked accusingly at Rek. Brea wanted to say it wasn’t the dragon’s fault. But it was; he should not have come. “Do you feel better, Arfael?” she asked.
Arfael nodded.
“He must go back,” Olam said. He sounded angry. It was the first time Brea had heard him speak so harshly.
Brea said nothing. Rek moved closer to her. She put her arm around his neck. The dragon brushed his cheek against her thigh.
“It’s not like he can go any further,” Alacin said, looking at the four other exits to the cavern. “The two up top aren’t big enough for Arfael, never mind the dragon. And these two aren’t much bigger.” He pointed at the two tunnels that were on their level.
“He can wait here until we go back,” Brea said. “I don’t want him getting into trouble.”
Alacin chuckled. “If I know Tor, he is already in trouble.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Brea stroked Rek’s cheek. She didn’t want to argue, but she didn’t want to send her beloved dragon off by himself, either.
“He can wait here,” Arfael said. “I’m better now; the feeling has gone.”
Olam shook his head. “I do not see the point in leaving him alone, better for him if he went…” Olam creased his brow and looked up at one of the high tunnels. “Now what?”
Someone was approaching the cavern from one of the high tunnels. Alacin drew his sword again. Rek pushed himself between Brea and the tunnel where the noise was coming from.
“Whoever they are, they’re hardly making a secret of their presence,” Alacin said.
Olam put his finger to his lips. “I cannot hear everything they are saying, but they don’t sound like Troopers.”
The sound of muffled voices stopped. The tunnel was silent again. Alacin ushered Olam to the right and gestured for Arfael to hide under the overhang. Brea went to follow him, but before she could take a step, Rek jumped up to the rock shelf.
The dragon growled. A man stood up from his hiding place and backed away from Rek’s snarling. The man raised his hands in the air.
“You!” Arfael snarled at the intruder. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
CHAPTER 21
Paved with Good Intention
“‘It’s only until this mess blows over.’ Who is he kidding? That could be years,” Daric said, leaning over his drink, pointing a shaky finger at Corporal Paiden.
The Plough inn was full of new recruits. News of Faelen’s traitorous dealings and the impending invasion had spread like a wildfire among the locals. The garrison sergeant major had sent word to every reserve from the Am’bieth Marsh to the Taris border. “Report to Gieth’eire for further orders,” was all it said, but by now, everybody knew what was happening. It had only been a day. Already there were more fat old men in tight-fitting, moth-eaten uniforms than there were regulars. The common room was full of the sweet-smelling smoke of pipe tobacco and the not-so-sweet smell of sweat. Their laughter and joking filled the room with a celebratory atmosphere. Fools, Daric thought, while listening to their tales of old adventures and heroic deeds. Not one of them knew what was coming.
“Why didn’t that twolloc of a sergeant major order them to Redgate?” Daric asked, waving his finger around the common room. “Half these folk will be turning round and going back the way they came.” He shook his head while lifting his mug of ale to his lips – the mug had a habit of spilling of its own accord.
“We need to form up companies, sir,” Paiden said. “We must have a chain of command; there are no colonels at the Redgate Barracks.”
“Little good that will do if the witch takes Bailryn before we get there. I must take—”
Daric clamped his mouth shut; he had nearly told the corporal about the Crenach’dair scrolls he was carrying. No, best keep that quiet; at least from the regulars. “I just… I just need to get there, Corporal.”
Daric reined in his frustration. He knew the ale was loosening his lips. Stop acting like a recruit, you fool. He thumped his mug down on the thick wooden table, then held his gut against a spat of nausea. What are you doing? You should be sleeping.
The common room was crowded, too crowded. Black shadows, cast by the flickering lanterns, danced across the white walls. Watching them made Daric retch. He turned and opened the window behind his seat and took a deep breath of the relatively cool night air. It was busy outside, too; more farmers had descended on Taris Town since the colonel had issued his orders to the reserves. Not for the first time, Daric wished he could find a quiet corner, away from it all. He took another deep breath and turned back to the corporal.
Paiden took a slow drink from his goblet of wine. He was a good man – Daric knew that much from the time he had spent training the corporal – but he was young, raw and idealistic. He hadn’t seen war; he hadn’t seen the crows picking away at the bodies of his friends, or felt the fear of battle. The worst Paiden had yet dealt with was drunken merchants and pickpockets. Daric didn’t blame him, though; the boy was right – if, of course, going by the book was right. But this was different; time was now their enemy. He had to warn the palace. Yes, in all likelihood, the palace already knew of the invasion. But what if they didn’t? They were certainly not aware of the Cren’s offer of assistance. That could change everything. No, he needed to go, now!
Daric was about to stand and march over to the colonel’s quarters when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.
“Captain, Re’adh. So, they dragged you back, did they? Gods, they must be desperate.”
Captain Rarshman sauntered through the milling crowd and dropped his short sword on the table in front of Daric. The tall, fair-haired captain was better known to Grady – they came from the same village – but Daric knew enough about the man to wish he had left earlier
.
“Rarshman.” Daric gave the man a half-hearted nod, then hid a snigger behind his mug. “I thought you had moved to Linieth.” That was the most polite response Daric could think of – he was surprised he remembered that much.
The captain stood next to the table, cutting off Daric’s exit. His looming form brought back Daric’s nausea; he leaned toward the window, taking another deep breath of the cool air.
“I have. I was transporting prisoners – deserters from Gieth’eire and the border. Civilian contractors, mostly, but oath-breakers all the same.”
“Hmm, so wolves aren’t the only ones fleeing the borderlands,” Daric mumbled. He could not blame them. Farriers, carpenters, blacksmiths; they had signed up for work, not to fight. At least they thought they had. They should have read the contract… more fool them.
Daric continued, “They can’t have been on the run for very long, and how did you hear about the invasion?”
“I got a pigeon. A real stroke of luck, I’d say.”
Rarshman stuck out his chest and snorted contemptuously through his over-sized hooked nose. The man was a typical Easterner; he was full of the Eastlander arrogance that Daric had come to expect of royal courtiers and sycophants. It must have been a blow when General Calhan ordered Rarshman south to Linieth. The captain had always fancied himself the next Commander of the Palace Guard – shame nobody in the palace can stand the man for more than a minute or two. Daric chuckled at the thought. “So you think it’s luck, do you?” he asked Rarshman.
“Yes, of course. I could have been stuck down in Linieth and missed all the fun.”
“Fun? Where’s the fun in ordering men to their deaths, Rarshman?”
The tall captained stared blankly over Daric’s head as he spoke, “It’s called ‘command,’ Captain. Some people are born to it, while others…”
Daric knew who he meant by “others.” A few more mugs of ale and the comment might have earned Rarshman a slap. Fortunately, Daric also knew that was precisely what the fool was hoping for. Have him called up on a charge of drunk and disorderly on his first day back – in wartime, that would mean five days in the hold, officer or not.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 69