The Dragon Wrath: Book Two of the Arlon Prophecies

by Randy McWilson

  “Did you bring the Arriphyll?”

  Hort slapped his hand against his satchel a few times. “Four big bulbs. Right here.”

  Arlon encouraged his horse to pick up the pace and drew almost even with Tempest. “Who are we going to see?” he asked. “Is there a Skree physician in this area? Can we trust him?”

  “It is not a him, Arlon. And she is not a Skree.”

  Paymer joined them. “Wait…are we going to see that evil woman in Gilmoth? The witch?”

  “The Magici Dyad,” Mogg replied. “And there are two of them.”

  “Is this really a good idea?” Paymer protested. “Do you know them?”

  “I have met one of them.”

  “How long ago?” Arlon asked.

  “When I was a baby.”

  “Whoa, whoa. That was over seventeen years ago,” Paymer remarked. “She might even be dead. And if not, what makes you so sure that she will be interested in helping us now?”

  A distant and sorrowful look overtook Mogg’s already quite serious face. “Because she helped my father when he came to her. When I was first born, my father brought me to one of the Magici Dyad. He wanted to know if I truly had the Mark of Power. He said that she placed a small, beautiful stone upon me and had a vision.”

  Arlon’s ears pricked up.

  What did he say? A stone that causes visions? He massaged the Rone necklace through his shirt. The awful memory of Hort being dragged into the sky by the Dragon flooded his mind once again with terrifying sights and sickening sounds.

  “A vision?” Paymer repeated. “What kind of vision? Did she tell him?”

  Mogg nodded. “She said that I would rise, and that I would restore.”

  Paymer squinted. “Rise and restore, huh? What does it mean? Did she tell him?”

  “She did not. But she warned my father to hide me until the proper time.”

  “Oh, so that’s why your father took you away from everyone and trained you. Rise and restore. Was it so that you could become the Vish’tar of the Kla’aven Mage? Is that the ‘rise’ she spoke of?”

  Mogg passed his right hand across his forehead. “It is to be decided, Paymer.”

  “Well, it’s been a long time,” Arlon began. “How do you know where to go?”

  “My father told me that the river in Gilmoth flows west and then becomes three smaller streams. The Magici Dyad dwell near the parting of the river.”

  “How will we know her?” Arlon followed up. “What does she look like?”

  “My father said her beauty was beyond that of any woman he had ever beheld.”

  “But you said that there were two of them? Two witches?”

  “It is well-spoken. He only met one. Shendollyn. From the stories I have heard, the other is most fearful in appearance. It is said that they share one dwelling.”

  “I don’t care if they are beautiful or hideous,” Paymer noted. “A witch is still a witch.”

  Mogg stared over at him. “If you want the young woman to live, then Shendollyn is now her only hope.”

  _____________________________________

  After a few major detours, the group avoided crossing paths with two different villages of the Kla’aven Skree, one of which had been quite large. Over an hour west beyond their last indication of any Kray settlement, the anticipated triple-parting of the river finally came into view during the golden vestiges of the late afternoon. With Mogg still at the lead, they dipped down out of the borders of the forest and descended back into the low-lying plains.

  Before long, a curious ramshackle of a building appeared on the far side of a wild grove of elm trees not quite a hundred yards north of the gurgling stream. A crumbling stone wall—completely collapsed at various intervals—surrounded most of the dusty yard which had become home to dozens of bizarre stone, stick and rusted metal sculptures.

  Arlon traded apprehensive glances with both Trilyra and Paymer. Mogg sat up in his saddle and nodded as he brought Tempest to a standstill.

  “This is the dwelling of the Magici Dyad.”

  “This is it?” Hort asked.

  “Uh, not to discourage anybody,” Paymer said, “but it doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here in years.”

  “Fifty years,” Trilyra mumbled. “Maybe more. What a mess.”

  The nervous knots in Arlon’s stomach twisted even tighter. “Are you sure this is the place?”

  Mogg urged Tempest to trot forward with extreme caution. “It is well-spoken. It matches the description delivered to me by my father.”

  “A lot can change in seventeen years,” Paymer whispered as they drew nearer. “Maybe she’s moved on, or they’ve moved on.”

  Trilyra raised her eyebrows. “Or died.”

  Mogg slid out of the saddle and dropped beside Tempest before tethering him to a low branch. Everyone else dismounted as well, except for Arlon and the sleeping Princess.

  “Do you want us to get her down?” Paymer asked.

  Trilyra passed by and patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s wait and see if anyone’s home first. I’ll bet my bow we’ll be moving on.”

  He glanced up to Arlon. “What do you want to do, pal?”

  “To tell you the truth, my back is really hurting. I didn’t get down the last time we stopped. And I am getting kinda hungry.”

  “Me, too!” Hort quipped.

  “What’s new?” Trilyra smirked with a wink. “Alright,” she sighed. “Come on, Hort, let’s get Mae’Lee down.”

  _____________________________________

  “Now this is…interesting,” Trilyra observed as she knelt beside a row of five large rocks in the center of the sandy yard. Everyone glanced over. “These stones have faces painted on them.”

  Arlon stepped closer. “Faces?”

  “Five faces,” she replied. “Not very good faces, but you can see the eyes, noses, and mouths.”

  “That’s not very interesting,” Paymer teased.

  “How about if I told you that the paint seems kind of…fresh?”

  “Fresh? Here?”

  She nodded. “And, there are footprints…all over the place. Someone’s been here in the last few days. This dirt is very silty. The wind would’ve erased these tracks right away.” She studied them. “Probably even the same person. Small feet. Drags them, too.”

  “Look at this.” Hort directed their attention at three sticks that had been planted in the soil. They stood about waist high with clumps of dry grass perched on top, along with a small plate attached to each.

  “More freaky faces,” Paymer said. “But hey, at least Hort’s stick people have hair.”

  Arlon pivoted around to check on the Princess. She was propped against the rock wall and appeared to be sleeping soundly.

  Mogg raised his right arm and Arlon could tell that he was listening for something. “Silence! Everyone!” he urged under his breath.

  That’s when Arlon heard it.

  A rhythmic sound traveling on the breeze.

  It was almost like talking.

  And almost like singing.

  Mogg suddenly dropped to the ground in a fast flurry of dust. “Everyone. Down. Now!”

  As they instantly complied, Arlon glanced back over his shoulder before chuckling inwardly. A half-dozen people may have been easy enough to conceal behind the rock wall, but five large horses tied up to a tree were quite conspicuous. Especially when one of the horses had two heads.

  “I hear singing!” Hort whispered. He pointed to his left. “From that way. It’s close.”

  Arlon nodded.

  And that’s when they all saw her.

  The shriveled up, hunched over shell of a woman couldn’t have been more than a hair over four and a half feet tall. A bony left arm dangled lifeless at her side, and the woman’s right arm struggled to maintain both a makeshift cane and a swaying basket of fruit. Her wrinkled face looked like it had once fallen apart before being hastily reassembled by a clumsy surgeon.

  Everything about her was
either sagging or dragging.

  But she seemed completely happy.

  Her shrill and contented voice rang out in an offbeat rhyme. “Sunny day. Funny day. Handfuls. Of appfuls. For Sister. Dear Sister.”

  I hope this isn’t the beautiful witch Mogg’s father told him about, Arlon thought.

  Oh, no! She’s spotted us!

  The elderly new arrival hobbled towards the trio of grass-covered sticks with some excitement. She wagged her knotty cane over at Arlon and the others. “Lookie there, Agailia,” she said to the middle figurine. “Company! Sister has company. Sister never has company. Wee-ho-ho!” She set her basket on the ground, plucked out an apple, and took a fast bite before offering it to the stick. “Now, listen! Take it you ungrateful wretch! I cooked it just the way you like it! With garlic and onions.”

  She shuffled over to the family of rocks. “Wee-ho. Did you see that, Gorimarr? How can she talk like that to Sister? I’ve got half a mind to throw her outside to the dogs!” She leaned in. “What’s that? Yes, yes. I know Sister has company. I saw them the day before yesterday.” She looked down. “I put on my finest dress! And my new hat.” Her cane shot up and she waved it all around. “Now if I could just get these blasted birds out of my hair! Wee-hee-hee-ho!”

  Mogg rose to his feet slowly and signaled for the others to do the same. Their movements didn’t seem to alarm her. In fact, the eccentric old woman clutched her cane and wobbled straight over to Arlon. It looked like she was squinting up at him, but thousands of wrinkles made it difficult to tell for sure.

  “Wee-ho, what’s this?” She scooted closer and jerked down on his shirt.

  A strange, paralyzing fear started to seize him, but then he felt rather foolish. What am I worried about? There’s no way this little old woman could hurt me.

  She pulled his shirt again. This time whacking at his side with her cane.

  What is she doing? What do I do?

  “I think she wants you to bend down, pal,” Paymer whispered. “I’d do it. We don’t want to make her mad. We might need her.”

  Arlon leaned forward and the woman began sniffing his head like a curious dog. “There. Hair. Where. Hair. Wee-ho. Blond hair? Blond. Did you see this, Agailia? Blond! Not black! This company has traveled far. Far.”

  “Yes,” Arlon replied, his voice squeaking somewhat. “Yes. We have traveled far. And we need your help.”

  “Chance. Dance. Have you come for the dance?”

  He looked over at Mogg and Trilyra. They both shrugged and wandered closer to him. “I, uh, don’t know ab—“

  She spun around with a disgusted look. “Now you just shut up, Agailia! Of course they know about the dance!” She squinted up at him once again.

  “Well, I really don’t know about your dance,” he replied very slowly. “But we are looking for someone. Someone to help our friend. She is very sick.”

  She waved her cane toward the house. “I’ve got my dress for dancing inside. Inside. Outside. My side. Your side. Wee-ho.”

  “She’s crazy,” Paymer whispered. “And we’re wasting time.”

  “Do you like Sister’s dogs?” she asked. “Finest hounds in Orania. Especially that one.” She pointed at nothing with her walking stick and smiled with pride. “Dogs. Hogs. Dogs. Bogs.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Trilyra muttered.

  Mogg walked up beside Arlon. “We need to speak with Shendollyn,” he announced. “Where is Shendollyn?”

  “Come on,” Paymer urged. “Are you really gonna take the word of someone who talks to rocks and invisible dogs?”

  “And stick people,” Hort blurted out.

  The woman pivoted a bit and scooted closer to Mogg. She raised her cane to his shoulder and tapped. He obliged and bent down for her. “Lookie at this one, Agailia.” She ran her gnarled fingers through his hair and then traced them along his cheek. “An Endochorian. Curse. Purse. Curse. Worse.”

  Arlon perked up. What was that? An Endochorian? Kash talked about them.

  “Do you like apples?” she suddenly demanded. “They’re good…that is, if I can keep these dogs away from them. Shoo! I said SHOO!”

  “We are looking for Shendollyn,” Mogg replied firmly. “Where is Shendollyn?”

  “This is hopeless,” Trilyra murmured as she headed back towards her horse. Arlon turned around to go check on Mae’Lee. Paymer joined him.

  “The baby has returned,” the old woman said, still studying Mogg’s face. “Mogg will rise, Mogg will restore. Restore. Ignore. Restore. Baby no more. Wee-hee-ho.”

  Arlon froze in his tracks and swiveled about. Mogg grabbed the woman’s shaking hand. “It is well-spoken,” he said with growing excitement. “I am the baby that was here seventeen years ago. My father brought me to see Shendollyn. I am Mogg.”

  “Hour. Sour. Mark of Power,” she chanted.

  “It is well-spoken. I have the Mark of Power. I need to speak with Shendollyn.” He pointed. “We have a friend who has the Walking Fever. We need Shendollyn to cure her.”

  “Walking Fever. Talking Fever,” she mumbled rhythmically. “Moonsbell. Spoons fell. Mogg needs Moonsbell.”

  “Moonsbell?” Arlon repeated. “What is Moonsbell? Is that the same thing as Arriphyll?”

  Hort raced over to his horse and dug around in his satchel. “Let’s find out!” He returned with a handful of faded bulbs and dumped them into Mogg’s hands.

  “Is this Moonsbell?” Mogg asked, holding them very close to her face.

  “Moonsbell!” she cried. “No glow. No show. No glow. No go. Fever. Fever. Not leave her.”

  Arlon hurried over to her. “But we picked these when they were glowing. We boiled the bulbs and made our sick friend drink. But she is not getting better. Can you help us, please? She is dying!”

  The old woman raised her cane and rudely knocked the flowers out of Mogg’s hand. “Leaves. Leaves. Heaves. Eaves. Wee-ho.”

  “Leaves?” Arlon said. “What do you mean leaves?”

  “Leaves,” she insisted. “Leaves. Moonsbell. Rooms smell. Moonsbell.”

  “I think the freaky old lady is saying that we need the leaves from the Arriphyll, not the bulbs,” Paymer offered.

  “Leaves, yes. Yes. Dress. Yes. Mess.”

  Arlon dropped to one knee beside her. “So we need the leaves from the Moonsbell plant, not the flower?”

  “You see, Agailia?” she cried out. “This blond one’s got a head on his shoulders! He’ll make a fine dance partner. Gardener. Partner. Now get your dogs off Sister’s porch!”

  Arlon tried to lock eyes with Hort. “Did you happen to get any of the leaves when you picked those?”

  Hort stared down at his shuffling feet. “Uh, no. I just did what I was told. Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Trilyra said. “We’ve all done our best. But sometimes, no matter what you do…people still die.”

  Hot tears flooded Arlon’s desperate eyes and a sense of hopelessness seized his heart. He clutched the woman’s one good hand. “Please! Please! Is there anything you can do for our friend?”

  “Sister! Sister!” she prattled as she twisted in place and waddled towards the building. “Company! We have company. Fire up the stove, Agailia!” Her cane darted about her head. “And get your birds away from my new hat! Rat. Hat. Fat. Wee-hee-ho.”

  After a fair amount of grunting and mumbling, she managed to hoist herself up onto the porch. She glanced back. “Get inside. Bring your friend. The dance is about to start. Cart. Start. Heart.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Paymer asked.

  “We take the young woman inside,” Mogg insisted.

  A nervous grin broke out across Hort’s round face. “Is it safe?”

  Arlon went back to get Mae’Lee. “We don’t have a choice.”

  _____________________________________

  It was even worse than he had imagined.

  Splintered furniture and tattered rugs littered the floor of the main room, and a thin coating of grit
ty silt had settled on everything in sight like a light dusting of snow. Arlon could hear the old woman clanging around in (what he assumed was) the kitchen.

  “Cozy,” Trilyra whispered.

  “Creepy,” Hort replied.

  Paymer and Arlon lowered Mae’Lee’s unconscious form onto what remained of a long couch. Plumes of dust shot into the air, made instantly visible by the beams of late afternoon sunlight pouring in through one window and two sizable wall cracks. There was more clambering and mumbling in the kitchen. Mogg seemed to be captivated by a table positioned near the center of the room. He ran his right hand thoughtfully along its filthy surface.

  “What’s going on?” Arlon asked.

  “My father told me that he laid me on a table just inside Shendollyn’s house.” Mogg tapped on it. “Maybe this table.”

  “It looks like it’s been here for a hundred years.” He paused and lowered his voice. “She looks like she’s been here for way, way longer.”

  “Some say that the Magici Dyad are older than the trees.”

  Arlon folded his arms and looked around. “I wonder where this Shendollyn is that your father met? And the old lady keeps saying ‘Sister’. Do you think the two witches are sisters? Maybe an older one and a much younger?”

  “It is to be decided.”

  “Mae’Lee’s breathing is getting very weak,” Trilyra said.

  Paymer echoed her grim assessment. “I don’t think we have much time.”

  The old woman reappeared, minus her cane, trying desperately to balance a steaming cup of something greenish. “Wee-ho. Hot drink. Not think. Drink. Drink.”

  “Can I help you with that?” Arlon asked.

  If their peculiar elderly host heard him, she ignored his request and ambled towards the Princess. “Moonsbell leaves. Fever leaves. Fever. Weaver.”

  Trilyra and Paymer quickly elevated Mae’Lee from the waist up, and Arlon circled around to assist with the drink. The cup was almost too hot to handle (and filled with a pulpy mixture that smelled awful), but he managed to help Mae’Lee to get it down in a constant series of small pours.