Valandra: The Dragon Blade Cycle (Book 2)

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Valandra: The Dragon Blade Cycle (Book 2) Page 4

by Tristan Vick


  5

  I’ve always been resilient to cold, and whatever Zarine did to me has made me practically impervious to it. Nevertheless, the icy winds and extreme elevation create a biting cold that is harsh enough to cause a shiver to ripple through my entire body.

  I reach around myself, as though I were giving myself a hug, and rub my arms to try and warm myself up. Although, it does little good. As I look out across the snow-capped vista from high upon Mount Valoron’s stony rostrum all I see is endless white as far as the eye can see, and all I hear is the shrill whistle of the bone-chilling wind.

  It doesn’t help matters that I lost most of my clothes back in the cave and am wearing nothing more than a deerskin top and matching bottom, which makes me look like one of the plains people, with their rawhide fashion with animal pelts of all kinds and soft moccasins upon their feet. Except, I’d give anything right now for a pair of moccasins and maybe a bear pelt to drape across my frozen back.

  But no matter how hostile the biting cold gets, I cannot allow it to dampen my spirits with thoughts of defeat. I cannot give into the unremittingly harsh and bitter environment. Not when my friends are in Sabolin fighting for their very lives. No matter what, I must weather the blistering cold and get back to them, even if it means losing a toe or two to frostbite.

  Determination. That’s all there is to it. So, I set my mind to what I can do instead of what I can’t. That’s the only way to defeat the nagging doubts that seek to bring me down and force my ill-fated surrender.

  Luckily, there is a way to cut a lot of time off my painstaking journey. By using the wind-rush technique from this perch here atop Mount Valoron, I can bypass the most frostbitten parts of The Shard. The trick is, however, to make sure to time it just right, otherwise I’ll miss the air-stream and launch myself straight into the side of a rocky cliff face instead of over the tops of the mountain peaks. Also, I should aim for a snowy field for when I land. The landings are always the most difficult part, even with a reverse wind funnel to help slow me down, the landing will still be a bit rough, to say the least.

  I draw out my sword and raise the Moon Blade high into the cold, swirling air. Its blue metal shines in the whitewashed background of the blizzard and my hair whips frantically about me as I churn the air, increase the gale, and kick up even more of a storm.

  Gradually the winds begin to obey my wishes, as though the very elements were part of me and can be bent to my will, and suddenly a funnel forms in front of me. I rotate my arm, making bigger circles with the sword, until what began as a small eddy turns into a swirling vortex.

  Things start to grow turbulent as ice shards and chunks of rock get sucked into the massive funnel. It’s at this point that I know it’s now or never. Having grown the conduit of ice and wind to the necessary size, I crouch down, place my foot against the rock wall and kick off. I dash to the end of the platform marking the entrance of the cave, and then launch myself off the end of the cliff front. I extend my legs out before me, kicking as I soar into the air, and then slowly I begin to fall toward the gaping mouth of the spinning vortex.

  No sooner do I begin to fall than the giant maelstrom catches me and throws me high into the air. I’m transported high above the clouds, as though I were one of the seedlings of a snow-thistle, expelled from the pluming clock of white, and catch a ride upon a skyward gust of wind only to be carried to a far-off destination.

  For the first few seconds it feels as though I’m flying. The feeling of being lifted so high and so far, as though I’m soaring heavenward through the vast sky, always reminds me of the time when I was younger and there was a rope swing on the end of an old oak tree down by the river where there was a cove. The Belleran kids and I would swing out, fling ourselves off the end of the swing, and launch into the air. We’d always crash down into the cool waters and swim to the rock wall built up at the end of the cove, separating it from the swift waters of the river on the other side. Soaring through the air, no matter how briefly, always gave me a rush. And it continues to do so now.

  I stretch out my arms to slow myself as I begin the descent. The icy wind stings my exposed skin like a thousand needles, but I endure it. I must.

  Underneath me pass several mountain tops and I’m high enough above the surface to see a flock of birds pass by beneath. It won’t be long now before all that changes. As if on cue, gravity reaches up and plucks me from the sky.

  I begin to fall, faster and faster. Soon enough I enter a freefall whereby I cannot fall any faster or harder than I already am. Extending the Moon Blade in front of me I scream as I release a massive reverse gale. The wind funnel spins counterclockwise and blasts into the side of a mountain. The fierce winds tear pine trees and entire boulders right out of the ground, digging a large trench. But the mountain is small and I scrape by its edge and pass over it into an open valley. Below is a white blanket of soft snow, so I pull up my knees to my chest and tuck into a ball. Then I drop from the sky, like a cannon ball.

  There is a powerful explosion of snow, and like the time when I dropped the bowl of flour when trying to make bread, a white cloud kicks up.

  Lying on my back at the center of a massive crater in the snow-packed field, I look up at the sky. I can see blue, which means I’ve made it out of the storm. But how much father it is to Sabolin, I don’t know.

  Gradually, I push myself up. My arms and legs sting and ache and have scrapes on them, but I’m intact for the most part.

  I climb out of the crater. When I get to the cusp, I stand and look out onto the pristine snow-covered valley. The tree line is about a mile away, and by the looks of the valley contours there must be a river or stream somewhere at the center. If I can isolate it, then I can check which way the water is flowing under the ice. After all, tributaries always flow downhill, toward the ocean. Meaning, I’ll be able to track it all the way toward more temperate ground. Otherwise I’d be wandering aimlessly in a snowy void.

  That’s when I hear the growling of a massive beast coming directly from behind me.

  Slowly, I reach down and take ahold of my sword as I turn to see what it is. It leaps through the air, claws and fangs bearing down on me.

  My body reacts to the threat without thinking, and I roll onto my back and kick the beast into the air, then roll away. Standing up, I grip my blade tight in both hands and look up at the Saber cat that eyes me with its narrow-slit eyes as it slowly circles about me.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say aloud, hoping my voice might be enough to frighten it off. But it merely hisses in reply, as if disgruntled that its breakfast talking back to it. “Fine, then,” I say in response. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Its giant padded paws prevent it from sinking into the snow, giving it the advantage, and its musculature ripples through its yellow coat of fur. Its saber-toothed fangs curve inward, giving it a truly menacing appearance.

  With a roar the saber cat lunges at me and I side step, using the wind rush technique. Another powdery blast of snow kicks up all around me and the saber cat lands, empty handed, looking rather perplexed as to where its prey disappeared to.

  I land several yards away, and turn and begin trudging through the knee-high snow as fast as I can. My narrow feet sink into the snow with each step, making it impossible for me to dash away. Instead, I plow through the snow at a snail’s pace.

  After running at full speed for a couple of minutes only to have made it a few feet, the same distance a couple of normal strides would have gotten me on dry land, I realize that out running the beast is quite impossible.

  I look back over my shoulder and the large cat merely turns and hisses at me. The fact that I instantly appear on its opposite side doesn’t seem to deter its ambition of making me its breakfast, so it obviously isn’t intimidated by my prowess. Suddenly it leaps upon the snow and begins galloping toward me at breakneck speed. It’s wide, padded paws prevent it from sinking into the snow and it runs on top of the snow as if it were as ligh
t as a feather.

  “Wonderful,” I say cynically, letting out a sigh of frustration. “Just bloody wonderful.”

  Not wanting to kill the beast, I wave my sword, stir the winds, and launch a maelstrom right at it. The rushing vortex of wind lifts the cat high into the air. I wave my sword forward and the wind obeys my command.

  The cat yowls, unaware of what’s happening to it, and I toss it through the air. It crashes down eight hundred meters away, tumbles a bit, and then crashes to a halt in a white billowing puff of white snow powder. It whines as it scurries to its feet and, shaken, it looks back at me with a shocked look on its feline face. It hisses at me again—just to remind me who’s boss—and then gives up its pursuit and turns and gambols off in the opposite direction.

  Shoulders slumped, I sink to my knees and let out a deep sigh. “That was a close one,” I say to myself. Sometimes I find that it helps to speak out loud when nobody else is around. If anything, simply to keep myself company with the sound of my own voice. Deathly silence, for some reason, has always unnerved me.

  Eventually I stumble upon the ice-capped stream, and although I’m much more resilient to the cold, after whatever it is Zarine did to me, I still feel its numbing quality soaking into my bones.

  I raise my sword high, then bring it crashing down onto the ice. It sinks in with a bit of resistance, as if it’s passing through a thick molasses, but I feel it go through. I look down and find the water running in a southeasterly direction. Good, I think. At least now I can get out of this frostbitten wonderland.

  Resolute, I push forward and trudge through the knee-high snow, endure the cold blast of snow and the howling whistle of the winds, as I follow the direction that the stream relayed to me.

  By my estimate, it should take at least six hours to get to thawed land. Another six to find a small village or a mountain cabin. Then it’s a matter of negotiating for a ride into town.

  And even if I make it that far, it’s still at least a three-day journey to Sabolin from the Alloran mountain range. I only hope that Queen Sabine, the Belleran and Valandrian forces, and my friends can hold out against Ashram and his army of the dead till then.

  6

  Following the babbling brook from where the ice begins to melt, I pass several green pines and come to the edge of a cliff face where a waterfall spills down into the valley. It’s the highest waterfall I’ve ever seen. I lean over the ledge and peer down into the frothy pool where the water empties out. It’s at least a hundred-fifty-foot drop. But it empties into a green and lush forest, suggesting I’ve finally made it to the end of the frostbitten landscape of the Shard.

  Glancing around, I look for alternative ways to get off this frozen mountain, but there’s nothing that wouldn’t take another hour or so of climbing. And the wind technique, although useful, isn’t always as precise as I’d like it to be. Using it now, especially when I’m so tired, may cause me to overshoot my landing. Besides, I’ve never aimed for a small river from this high up before. Without any thick blanket of snow to break my fall, I could crash upon the rocks or skewer myself on a tree branch. The only option I’m left with is to simply leap into the pool directly below.

  “Oh, well,” here goes nothing,” I say. And with a huff of breath, I take a bold step forward, and then, with my sword in hand, leap off the ledge.

  There’s a loud splash. Immediately after swimming back up and breaking the surface, I get tossed around by the currents of the pool at the base of the waterfall. Eventually spits me out, but not before whipping me right into a rock.

  With a sharp crack to my forehead, I fight to maintain consciousness, but the gash in my is already bleeding profusely. To make matters worse, I lose ahold of my sword, and begin to swim after it. But it washes away faster than I can catch up. Finally, I begin to feel light headed and my arms grow weary of the frantic fight against the current. Rolling onto my back I let myself be swept away.

  The sky goes in and out of focus as I continue to fend of the darkness. It’s not long before I wash up onto a shoreline somewhere. I sit up and touch the gash in my forehead. Blood drips down my face and dapples my fingers with a thickness that suggests the wound is rather quite severe. But try that I may, the blow was too much, and I fall onto my back, and lose out to the impending unconsciousness.

  Just as the darkness seeps in all around, before I lose all senses, I can hear a distant voice call out, “Over here! I found a body.” The voice is gruff and deep but unthreatening.

  “A body?” another voice asks in a confused manner.

  “It’s a girl,” the first voice informs his friend. “She appears to be hurt…or dead”

  “Well, which is it?” the second voice inquires in a concerned tone. “It she hurt or is she dead?”

  “Here, I have an idea,” the first voice replies. “Hand me that stick.”

  Suddenly a sharp pain pokes me in my side. It’s enough to arouse me from the cataleptic slumber that is desperately trying to pull me under.

  “Ow!” I groan. I sit up and open my eyes, although everything is a blur. Two small figures stand before me looking as though they saw a ghost, and they appear to be dwarves.

  “By the goddess! She yet lives,” says the dwarf to my left. The other one merely strokes his beard gazing at me curiously.

  Absent the strength to say or do anything I fall back down onto my back. Sprawled out on the shoreline, I let my weary eyelids slide down my aching eyeballs to blot out the intense brightness and invite the soothing shade.

  Lying there with my eyes closed, I continue to listen to the dwarves’ deliberations on what to do with me.

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” the first dwarf says. “But the Queen will know what to do.”

  They continue to argue about what to do with me, who carries which end, and whether they might carry me face up or face down. But before they can come to any conclusion on the matter, I realize that I can no longer fight the looming slumber that hovers over me like a heavy raincloud just waiting to burst and expel all its contents only to evaporate into nothingness.

  My body and mind are weary. I’ve endured drowning to death only to be resurrected. I fought through the piercing cold of The Shard, and survived. Heck, I even fended off a hungry saber cat that wanted nothing more than to make me its breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And quite honestly, the only thing I want to do right now is sleep.

  And the sleep comes. Whether I want it to or not. Suddenly, everything goes quiet, including the bantering of the two dwarves and, unable to resist it any further, I give in to the insentient darkness that hounds me.

  7

  BLeary-headed, my wrists bound up with rope, I let out an exasperated sigh. But at least I’m alive. I know it by the blazing sun that beats down on my face and causes my chapped lips to throb. I open my eyes to a white, hot haze that causes me to blink several times just to fend off the sharp sting of the sun’s brilliance.

  The muddy red layers of a canyon wall slowly come into focus and I raise my head to look around. My arms and feet are tethered to a large wooden pole and I’m propped up across two braces as though I were a pig on a roasting spit.

  I crane my neck to get a better view of my surroundings. Although upside-down, I do my best to cock my head and make sense of the view. It appears I’m on a bluff overlooking a great digging operation. There are dwarves and laborers of all kinds mining ore from the rock face. But they are either too far away to notice me or else entirely indifferent to my presence. Even with my ass hanging out and on full display, I do not draw even the slightest bit of attention.

  Several meters to my right there is a large canvas tent. The entrance is drawn closed, but outside the entrance are two brass poles with hanging oil lanterns. No sooner have I noted the lanterns than the tent flap parts and a dwarf pops out of the tent. I recognize him as one of the dwarves who found me lying by the river.

  He looks over at me and we make eye contact. We gaze at each other for
a moment and then, without saying a word, he turns and walks away, heading down the back side of the hill. Soon enough he disappears out of view.

  “That was rude,” I mutter to myself.

  Not long after the mysterious disappearance of the dwarf, I hear a couple of voices conversing. One is a woman’s voice and the other sounds like the second dwarf I heard by the river.

  I look back toward the tent’s entrance in time to see the second dwarf and a woman step out. The woman is tall and slender, and wears a long, black, surplice V-neck chiffon dress. The sleeveless dress is quite revealing too, as the V-cut trails all the way down to her navel, which would be in plain sight if it weren’t for the golden sash that covers her waist. The chiffon dress is gathered as the hips, creating a pleated look, which complements the folds in her back cape.

  Draped across her sternum is a jewel-encrusted collar of gold that ends just atop her cleavage. Around her upper arms, just below her shoulders, are two golden arm bands, in the form of coiled snakes. Wrapped around her wrists are a couple of armored vambraces, gold plated and jewel encrusted, which match her collar. Completing her extravagant ensemble, she wears a headpiece with a golden cobra snake flaring its hood as the ornamental mantelpiece.

  The woman’s silky black hair falls just past her shoulders and her skin is paler than the moon. Her abnormally light complexion reminds me of Alegra’s ivory skin, and as she begins to turn towards me, I notice that she even has pointed ears like Alegra. She’s an elf!

  I’m instantly relieved by the fact that she’s an elf, since a highborn elf would be able to help me, but when she turns and faces me, I freeze in terror. My heart nearly stops in my chest and the pit of my stomach drops like a stone. It’s the woman from my nightmare. It’s Daeris Darkthorne.

  Looking over at me with her kohl-painted eyes, she orders, “Let her down, for Goddess’ sake. She’s a guest, not a prisoner.”

 

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