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

by T. J. Garrett

  Elspeth turned to him and gave a look that said that was never going to happen. Gialyn was surprised she didn’t say something, too. It was uncanny how she had recovered. No one would believe she was a prisoner, and in fear for her life, less than five minutes ago. Gialyn shook his head. He had to laugh.

  “Hurry up,” Fran said. “Olam will be running down the tunnels calling for reinforcements.”

  “Where is Olam?” Elspeth asked.

  “Guarding our escape,” Gialyn told her. “Alacin’s idea.”

  Elspeth just nodded. “And… uh… Arfael? Is he here?”

  Gialyn got the impression that she was forcing herself to sound casual. The pang of jealousy returned, mixed with a little anger. Didn’t it matter to her that he was the one who had saved her?

  “He’s here,” Gialyn said, trying to sound equally casual. “He’s too big to get through some of the tunnels. He’s waiting for us with Bre’ach.” He didn’t mention Brea and the dragon; she would only want to talk about them, too.

  Elspeth nodded. They continued in an awkward silence.

  It took an hour to get back to the wide tunnel. In another hour, they would meet the others and be gone from this place. Gialyn had that much time to decide what he should say to her. He didn’t think it would be enough.

  * * *

  Captain Larksan dampened the cloth again. The cut on Vila’slae’s forehead had stopped bleeding, but blood still covered her cheek. He cleaned it as gently as he could. Looking around, he saw a dozen or so Troopers sitting with their heads in their hands, backs leant up against the wall of the tunnel.

  “Where did that dragon come from? Was it even a dragon?” one of the Troopers asked.

  Nobody said a word. Yes, the dragon was a mystery, and there would be questions. But more pressing than that, he didn’t think any of the Troopers wanted to be there when Vila’slae woke up. He couldn’t blame them; he would just as soon be back with the dragon as face her and have to tell her the camp was all but destroyed. But what could he do? Too many had seen him carrying her; he couldn’t just leave now.

  “We’re doomed!” another of the Troopers said – one of the Toyans, by the sound of it. “It will be the same as last time.”

  “Keep your thoughts to yourself, Trooper.” Larksan rang out the cloth again, not even looking at the man. “If you value your tongue, you will stay silent.”

  The soldier continued, “My grandfather was here then. He said less than a hundred made it out. It’s going to be the same this time. This is folly; only a fool would make the same mistake twice.”

  Larksan shook his head slowly. “I told you to—”

  “Kill that man, Captain.”

  Larksan startled. He looked down and saw Vila’slae’s dark eyes staring at him.

  “I gave you an order, Captain. Kill that man.”

  Her voice was croaky as if she had gone a week without water, but there was no pretending he hadn’t heard her. Larksan stood and drew his sword and dagger. Trying not to show reluctance, he marched over to where the Trooper sat cowering.

  The condemned man didn’t stand. He curled up, making himself small. Pulling his knees to his chest, he looked pleadingly to the men stood either side. They were his friends; they had probably known him for years, but none said a word. Vila’slae had spoken and to question her meant death, every soldier knew that.

  The cowering man raised his hands.

  “No! Mercy, I was only—”

  Larksan thrust the sword into the Trooper’s chest and then slit his throat with the dagger. The least he could do was make it quick. He cleaned his blades on the dead man’s tunic.

  Larksan sheathed his weapons and turned back to Vila. She was trying to stand.

  “Help me up. Where is the general?” She sounded angry, impatient. She didn’t even look at the dead man.

  Larksan ran to her aide. “I think he’s still in the Tunnels, Ma’am; still looking for those Surabhan.”

  For a moment, she seemed confused but then nodded. “How long has it been? How long was I unconscious?”

  “Not long, Ma’am; fifteen minutes, maybe twenty,” Larksan said. He helped Vila’slae to the mouth of the tunnel.

  A stab of nerves twisted his gut. He had seen what was left of their camp; he did not want to be near Vila’slae when she saw it for herself.

  “The camp is gone, Ma’am. I’d say we have lost three in four,” he muttered, almost whispering. Best to warn her, she might not react so badly.

  “I don’t care about the camp, Captain. Help me to my tent.”

  Blood had splattered over Vila’s blue dress. Her usually straight, black hair was a tangled mess, and she slumped forwards as she walked. She was holding her ribs, too. Her dark eyes spoke of the pain she must be feeling. But despite all that, Larksan could not feel sorry for the witch.

  She doesn’t care about the camp. She doesn’t care that nearly four hundred men had died, for nothing.

  He bit down his anger as he kicked a half-shattered tool rack out of their path. Vila’slae hardly spared a glance for the dishevelled mess; her eyes fixed on her collapsed tent. She tried to walk faster, but only stumbled and groaned at the effort. What could be so important? Is she worried about that mutt of hers? No, it can’t be that.

  Larksan left her holding a spit-rack while he pulled hard on the rope to the centre pole. The canvas sprang back into shape. Vila’slae headed inside before he could finish tying it off.

  The tent was up and seemed secure enough – it was the only thing left in the camp that did. Larksan spared a glance for the dead and dying. At least a hundred men lay crushed against the walls of the cavern, thrown there by the dragon’s tail. They looked like rag dolls, flattened and trampled into a boneless mass of flesh. He almost sicked-up at the sight of three survivors pulling the dead from the heap by their lifeless limbs, all set at impossible angles. What can they be looking for? No one could be alive amongst all that.

  “We should see to the wound—” Larksan began, as he entered the still-tilting tent. He started at the sight of Vila’slae rummaging through her belongings. The woman seemed frantic.

  Wheezing, Vila’slae grabbed at her ribs and grimaced as she tried to upend a table that had toppled on its side. “Where is it? Don’t just stand there, help me.”

  “Ma’am, please allow me,” Larksan said, as he gripped the table and pulled it up straight. “What are you looking for?”

  “The Shard, you fool; the Barrow Stone Shard!”

  Larksan’s mind flickered through images of her tent from before the attack. He could vaguely remember seeing a stone, a strangely coloured thing, about the size of his fist, sitting on a gold and silver dragon plinth. Why is she bothered about an ornament? He saw the plinth lying amongst a pile of books and papers, there was no sign of this… Barrow Stone, though. She’s not going to like this. Picking it up, he hesitated before showing it to her.

  She swatted it away. Hissing through her teeth like some half-crazed mad woman, she kicked at the books and papers strewn all over the carpet. Larksan backed up towards the door. He had not seen her like this; she always seemed so calm, barely batting an eyelid, even when ordering executions. Why would the loss of this trinket put her in such a foul mood? Obviously, it was no ordinary thing – he could guess that much – but what was it?

  Turning to the door, he noticed other men trying to aid the injured. “By your leave, Ma’am, I should really help organise the camp. There may be surviv—

  Larksan felt the cold steel slid between his ribs. It was no use shouting, he knew Vila’slae had pushed the blade into his heart. Falling on his knees, he turned his head and watched as she calmly walked past. He thought he saw her smile.

  Cold rushed through his veins as he realised his fate. He should have stayed with his father; but no, he wanted to make money, buy a house, maybe even a farm—Julianne might have married a farmer.

  “I appreciate you saving me, Captain, I really do.” Vila’slae stood
in front of him, arms folded beneath her breasts, finger tapping on her elbow. “But you left your post, and now the Barrow Shard is gone. Do you know how much trouble you have caused me? No, of course you don’t. You there,” she pointed at a passing soldier, “find the general, we have thieves to catch.”

  It was the last thing Larksan heard as the darkness closed in around him. One last breath, one final thought – I am sorry, Father.

  CHAPTER 30

  Close Quarters

  “I think I’m in love with… someone,” Elspeth said.

  Gialyn nearly tripped over his own feet. He’d only offered her some water – twenty minutes of silence, awkward glances, half smiles, and now this! In love with… someone. Who? Grady? No, that was ridiculous; was too old. Astin Barrair? No, not him; Ealian’s friend too childish for her. Arfael? Could it really be Arfael?

  Gialyn’s stomach twisted; he could hear his heart thumping in his ears. The dark tunnel suddenly felt much narrower that it had before. For a moment, he thought he might have to sit down. “Uh, that’s nice. Anybody I know?” he said while trying to breathe steadily.

  “I don’t know, Gialyn I—”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know?” Gialyn interrupted. He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he opened his mouth. She would explode any second now, telling him to “mind his own business” and “I don’t have to tell you anything, Gialyn Re’adh.”

  To his surprised, though…

  “This has me a little confused, Gialyn. I don’t really know what I feel. I can’t… It wouldn’t be right not to tell you; I know how you feel about me.”

  Gods, is this what father meant? Is this some sort of game? Is she fixing to wind me up like some toy, now that she knows the truth? “Well, maybe if you talked about it…” Yes, that’s a good answer; well done, Gialyn.

  “It’s really something I need to sort through for myself. You understand, don’t you?”

  That wasn’t a question; she just doesn’t want to talk about it. No, Elspeth, I don’t understand. I don’t know why, after almost three years of hoping, and everything we’ve been through, that you would crush my heart and throw it back at me. I don’t understand why you can’t tell me anything. And no, I don’t want to shut up and go away. No I… “Yes, Elspeth, I understand.”

  She smiled, then sped up her pace until she was level with the Salrians, leaving him alone with Alacin.

  At least he hoped it was Alacin.

  Fran, with a blank expression, turned his head and looked over his shoulder. He turned back again when his stare met Gialyn’s. Olg mirrored the little Salrian’s look perfectly, right before he smiled and let Elspeth walk beside him.

  Traitors, they should be on my side. Did they hear all of that? – he certainly hoped not – Oh no, that’s all I need; pity from a bunch of Salrian poachers. If it was indeed pity; maybe they thought it all a big joke, and he was the punch line.

  “You’ll never keep that one happy,” Alacin said, as he moved to Gialyn’s shoulder. He was fiddling with Ealian’s knives, putting a new strapping on the hilt. Maybe the balance was off, or…

  “What? Uh… who? Why not?” It took a second for what Alacin had said to sink it.

  “She’s a Reacher, Gialyn, she will step on your every achievement and wonder why you haven’t started on the next one yet. She might grow out of it, but not for a long time.”

  Gialyn gave him a cautious, sideways glance. “You are… Alacin? Not Ealian, trying to have some fun at my expense?”

  Alacin – it was Alacin – laughed quietly. “I think Ealian is asleep, either that or he is lost for words, which I very much doubt. I dare say he will have a few things to say when he takes over, but for now it’s just me in here.” He bounced the now-finished knife on his palm and made as if to throw it. Nodding, he put that one away and started on the other.

  “And that’s your eight hundred years of wisdom talking, is it?” Gialyn asked. “I will never make her happy… so why bother? Thank you, but I think I’ll keep my own council.”

  “No, Gialyn,” Alacin sighed, “it’s the wisdom of a man who has loved her type before. Strange how some things never change.”

  “‘Loved her type before,’ have you? So what did you do about it? How did you, uh, handle her?” Gialyn felt a flutter of excitement; maybe Alacin had an answer, something he could use to help with Elspeth; anything was better than this… confusion.

  “I was getting somewhere with her,’ Alacin said. ‘We were starting to develop an understanding, after six years of near-constant effort. Unfortunately, I died before I could figure her out completely.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Gialyn said. He thought he might have had a clever answer ready, but dying put a wet blanket over it. What was he supposed to say to that? “Was she, uh, nice?”

  A wide smile cracked over Ealian’s face. Funny, Gialyn had never seen the real Ealian smile like that. It looked good on him. “She was a storm, Gialyn. Someone to watch from afar, but not get too close to. A beautiful force of nature, cutting her own path, so it seemed. It took me four years to get her to admit she even liked me, another two before she let me in.”

  “Let you in…? Oh, let you in, sorry.” Gialyn felt his cheeks heat. Even though it was Ealian’s face, he couldn’t help thinking he was talking to someone his father’s age.

  Alacin sighed. “Oh well, all for the best, I suppose. I would have had to watch her die.”

  “I’m sorry? Why would you have had to watch her die?”

  “Gialyn, if I hadn’t died unnaturally, I would most likely still be alive today. We Raics live a long time, almost as long as Oracles or Channellers

  Olam stopped dead in his tracks. Gialyn nearly ran into his back. The older man turned slowly. “How long, Alacin?” was all he said.

  Alacin looked shocked; he very nearly fell into a crevice. Steadying himself, he put his hand over his heart. “Forgive me, Olam. I thought you knew. I’m sorry; this isn’t a thing to be thrown at someone without preparation. Please, I’m sorry.” He bowed low.

  By now, the others had stopped, too. They made a small semi-circle with Alacin and Olam in the middle.

  “How long, Alacin?” Olam’s tone was less than polite. He drummed his staff as if he were not far from using it.

  Alacin sighed. “A thousand years isn’t unusual. Tamri Maison was… already… five hundred… years…”

  Alacin’s face turned white. Twisting at the waist, he gazed intently back the way they had come. He swallowed hard and then bit at his lip. “Tamson… Tam-ri Mai-son? Why didn’t I… No, no it can’t be him,” he whispered.

  Olam didn’t look any less anxious. “Gods, a thousand years!”

  Gialyn flicked his eyes between the two men. He had no idea what Alacin was on with, but he could understand Olam’s predicament perfectly – Olam was going to live for a thousand years!

  “I thought you would be happy, Olam. A thousand years! Think what you could do. Olam? Olam!”

  “Leave him, boy,” Olg said. “He’s just realised he will have to watch as everyone he has ever cared about dies around him.” Olg sighed and the others nodded, seemingly in agreement. “A thousand years be damned. Not me, not unless my children could live that long, too.”

  Gialyn might have argued the point, but he heard the ring of metal against stone.

  “Down! Everyone down!” Olg shouted.

  “Now what?” Lud muttered as he and Olg crouched either side of Elspeth, protecting her with their packs. Fran curled up behind a rock while Alacin and Olam lay flat on the ground. Gialyn slid into the shallow crevice Alacin had nearly fallen down. There was room for more; he was about to say as much when another arrow flew over his head. He ducked.

  “Blow the bloody lamp out, Lud!” Fran cried.

  Lud blew out the candle and complete darkness fell on the tunnel.

  Gialyn could hear the dull scurry of booted feet not twenty paces away. At that range, it was lucky they h
ad missed their target. He hoped it was only two or three stragglers, a few Kel’madden who had run from the dragon. But the more he listened, the more he realised there must be at least a dozen of them.

  Alacin was talking quietly to Olam; guiding him, by the sound of it. Before Gialyn could catch what they said, the shrill call of a thousand bats came from the tunnel behind the Kel’madden.

  The sounds of steel on rock and screaming men seemed all the more eerie in the pitch darkness. The bats were winning, that much was clear. Olam groaned as if he were going to be sick. Maybe he saw through their eyes, the way Alacin had taught him. That would be enough to make anyone dizzy, especially in here, and who’d want to be a bat? Could they even see? Maybe that’s what was making him feel sick.

  “That’s enough,” Alacin said. Gialyn heard him patting the older man on the shoulder. “Let it go, Olam; we’ve done enough. They are dead, or have run off. Either way, they’ll not bother us again.”

  Gialyn heard Olam sigh. Alacin asked Lud to light his lamp. Elspeth lit hers, too. Lud held his up high before standing. Gialyn could just see the bodies, surrounded by a dense cloud of flapping wings. There were at least three dead men. The rest had run off; but where? Running north, down the other tunnel, Gialyn hoped.

  “We should move,” Olg said. “That was a patrol; if there’s one, there will be more. And that… Brea is as good as on her own.”

  “She’s got a dragon,” Fran said, wryly. “I don’t think she will be in any danger.”

  “Maybe so,” Olg said, “but the Kel’madden are used to dragons. And that one of hers is just a baby, big as it is. They will know that, I’m sure of it.”

  “Dragons?” Elspeth said. “I’ve only been gone a few hours, and you’re all talking like the world has changed.”

  “I’ll explain on the way,” Olg told her, “but we should go. She’ll need more than Bre’ach and that… Arfael character, if a patrol comes across them.”

  “You don’t know Arfael,” Elspeth said, in a knowing, almost proud, tone.