Lands of Daranor: Book 01 - DreamQuest

by Bill T Pottle

  Derlin could only nod, the fear creeping into him and beginning to paralyze him also. While independent and stubborn about asking others for help, Derlin didn’t even need to think about this decision, which was a good thing since his sleepy mind wasn’t working too well. “Let’s wake Yan.”

  Tarthur could only nod, and they hurriedly walked the fifteen meters to Yan’s tent. To Derlin, it seemed like fifteen miles, and it might as well have been. They never made it.

  Surrounded by an aura of decay and fear, the black robed humanoid laughed shrilly. Paralyzed, Tarthur and Derlin could only watch as he raised his scythe and prepared to cut them down.

  From the side, a streak of crimson flew into the terror. Ripping with his claws and razor teeth Minidragon Yan began to tear at their assailant. His battle cry filling the night air, Minidragon Yan ripped off the flesh of its cheek, and exhaled fire hot enough to boil blood, had the creature possessed any. Tearing out chunks of flesh from its chest and following it up with fire to char the tissue, the minidrake was about to make short work of this horror.

  The spell of fear for Tarthur and Derlin was broken. They were about to rush forward and help Yan, when Tarthur pointed to something emerging from another grove of trees. Apparently, this fight was just beginning.

  The new creatures all wore armor, but it was so ragtag and mismatched that Derlin wondered if it served any real purpose. It seemed to all be centuries old, covered with rust and the blood of valiant men who had long since passed to dust. Derlin stared in horror at the advancing troop. Although he was not sure, he thought he saw that they were little more than skeletons with rotted flesh randomly clinging to parts of their bodies. There were only three of them, but they moved in a slow and evilly confident manner. Before they reached the boys, a huge bear-like form charged out from behind them. “Stay back,” Yonathan yelled. “I’ll handle these!” Screaming his battle cry of “Freeton Forever!” Yonathan stabbed his sword into the chest of one of the attackers. When he seemed unaffected, Yonathan pulled the blade out and brought it slicing down across the creature’s neck before it could react. Yonathan happily watched his head roll in the dust.

  The creature calmly went over, picked it up, replaced it, and continued as if that were an everyday occurrence. As Yonathan stared at him, aghast, the second and third creatures began to mercilessly rain down blows on his body.

  That was enough for Tarthur and Derlin. Even though Yonathan had told them to stay there, they didn’t even take time to rationalize away his orders. Drawing their mystical swords, they rushed forward to help Yonathan with all the speed they could muster.

  Yan reached them first. His jet-black form streaked into view and entered with a flying kick to knock away the second attacker. The third, alerted to this new enemy, turned and raised his sword to cut Yan in two, but before he did, Yan’s sword hacked twice into his opposite arm, then Yan whirled and cut off his leg at the hip. One legged, the creature began to topple over, but before he hit the ground Yan struck again twice, slicing the sword arm into three sections.

  Derlin saw Dragon Yan still in battle with the other creature, and wondered who this new fighter was, before he remembered that Yan could split his person. This was confusing! After pausing for just this brief thought, Derlin raced toward the third attacker, and Yan turned to face the first skeletal knight. Again, the slow confidence of the monster was no match for the reflexes of Ninja Yan—within seconds his dismembered body was lying in pieces on the ground. Yan hacked at the pieces for a minute, then grabbed what might have been an arm and flung it away from where the pieces were already beginning to reform.

  Derlin rushed forward to meet the third terror, his heart racing so wildly he thought it would explode. As Derlin stared into the creature’s eyes, what he saw made him almost drop his sword. The eyes were cold and lifeless, yet full of hate and malice. They were single-minded in purpose; Derlin knew they would follow him wherever he went. They would follow him around the world and not stop until they had killed him. The creature swung his sword at Derlin’s neck, and Derlin hastily flung up the Light Sword to defend himself. The resounding clang that filled the chill night air and the fact that he was still alive convinced him that he had succeeded. His confidence rising, Derlin began to take the offensive, raising his weapon and bringing it down on his opponent’s head. The deathless creature raised his sword to block Derlin’s blow, but the Light Sword passed right through it and through his body, slicing him in two lengthwise.

  Unsure of what had happened, Derlin stepped back, confused. He looked around and saw his friends beckoning him to come join them a few yards away, so he hurried over. A quick glance around him told him that all the monsters were not moving, or else just hiding.

  “Are you alright?” Derlin called out to Yonathan. It was a stupid question, but one that was often asked anyway. A doctor wasn’t needed to tell that Yonathan was not all right. He was a mess of hair, sweat, and blood. The assistant mayor of Freeton was bleeding badly from several cuts, the worst of which was a nasty laceration nearly an inch deep in his side.

  Tarthur interrupted frantically. “Who…no, what are those things? Why us? Can we stop them?”

  Yan quickly silenced him, and Derlin noticed that the dragon was perched upon his shoulder, looking well, but with a few wounds of his own. It appeared that he had not had such an easy fight after all. “We must hurry, for we don’t have much time. They are called the Order of the Skull, and they cannot be killed, because they are already dead. They will reattach dead limbs and continue steadily until they have killed all of us.”

  “Then we’re gone? I don’t want to die here. Let’s run!” Tarthur started to pack up his provisions and flee, and Yan almost had to hit him to quiet him.

  “We’re not going to die. Tarthur, you stay here with him. Derlin, you and I will hack them to pieces, while my other self will fly them away and scatter the pieces as far away as I can. Tarthur, get ready to leave. We can’t stop them, but we can delay them enough to let us get to King Garkin. Zelin is sending an advance party to welcome us, but we won’t meet them until tomorrow night, even if we hurry.” Yan spoke rapidly in a breathless voice, for already the attackers were regrouped and beginning their assault anew.

  Derlin was still nervous, but Yan’s reassuring presence at his side quieted him somewhat. Yet, he had no time to think about it, for soon he was engaged. Born by the defeat of the first skull knight, his confidence rose with every mounting second. He hacked away at the intruders, as if by doing so he could hack away at his own fears and doubts of himself. Their armor and weapons offered no resistance to the Light Sword. It sliced through shields and swords vainly raised in an attempt to parry an unparryable blow as if it were light, yet when it struck, it was hard as forged iron.

  With each blow that Ninja Yan and Derlin struck, Minidragon Yan came and snatched up the dismembered body part and flew away, where it deposited the part behind a shrub, under a rock, or down the side of a steep ravine. He then flew back to receive others. He spaced them as far apart as possible to lengthen the time it would take to get them back together.

  When the gruesome yet bloodless struggle concluded, the weary fighters came to see how Tarthur and Yonathan fared. Tarthur had calmed down, and was back to himself, or an even better version of himself, for he had made a stretcher for Yonathan and had washed and dressed most of his wounds.

  Yan nodded his approval, and then spoke. “We have bought ourselves a few hours at the most. Even though it is still night, we will have to leave immediately and head north. Once we start to travel, we should be okay, since we can move faster then they can. Nevertheless, I will send part of myself ahead to tell the advance party to hurry.”

  With these words, the minidrake lifted off Yan’s shoulder and began to fly northward.

  A groan from Yonathan broke through the night. “Save your strength,” Yan admonished, but Yonathan seemed determined to talk. Though wheezing and coughing up blood, Yonathan spoke. “I…I
know you must travel fa…fast. Your mission…too important…I…I’ll just slow you down…must…leave me here.”

  Tarthur was aghast. “We can’t do that! I made you a stretcher, we can make it.”

  “Too…heavy…now go…”

  Both Derlin and Tarthur looked to Yan for his leadership. The black cloaked figure sadly nodded. “What he says is true, but his wounds are not so serious as they won’t heal. I think we can make it with or without him, though it will certainly be much harder if we have to carry a stretcher. After all, he is a big man.”

  “So what are we doing?” Tarthur asked Yan.

  “Leave me!” Yonathan’s voice was gaining in volume.

  “That is a decision you must make. If they attack again, we may be able to defeat them, but it will be difficult.”

  Yonathan was shouting now. “LEAVE ME! I’ll be in the folklore of Freeton forever! Do you wish to save my life and lose your own?! Your life is not just yours anymore, don’t you see? Listen! You must take the swords to the king, and live!”

  Tarthur made up his mind. “Yonathan, walk with us. That way you will not slow us down, and you can save your life.”

  Yonathan pondered the compromise, and then nodded slowly. “But you m…must agree to leave me i…if I slow you down, and leave me at any…h…hut or cottage.”

  This was an agreeable plan to all, and Yan smiled under his mask.

  * * *

  A million questions filled Tarthur’s mind as he stumbled on in the pre-dawn darkness. To a boy who used to love adventure, to cherish stories of old heroes so that he could recite them word for word yet still forget nearly half of his chores on any given morning, things certainly weren’t turning out like they were supposed to. They were happening so fast! It seemed not too long ago that they had been playing in Krendon, then setting off on a grand adventure with Dalin, who was now who knows where, if he was even alive. They had befriended a senile old man, who left just as suddenly as he came and reappeared again, some powerful creature who he didn’t even understand. He started to think of what would have happened if Yan hadn’t appeared when he did, then pushed the thought into the back of his mind, dreading the certain answer. Yan had moved so fast, so confidently, as if he knew he didn’t have to be afraid of anything. He had made ten, no twelve strikes into his attacker for each one feeble attempt the other vainly tried. And the dragon! He had torn into that fear creature viciously, with a fury that would have scared even the bravest Royal Knight.

  With Dalin, Tarthur had never been scared, never worried until Lithar Lifehater had ambushed them. Yan had faced much tougher enemies, and won. A single tear, unbidden, came from Tarthur’s eye. He cried for Dalin, already lost, and for the many more who would die if there was a war. Again, he thought, why me? What had he done to deserve being thrown into the middle of the conflict? All he did was have a dream. He had been used to causing trouble before in his life, but nothing like this! He didn’t realize that it was just the way of the world, cold and unfeeling, that had positioned him thus; others were merely prodding him on. He was just some pawn in a huge chess game being played by the powerful forces in the world. The stakes were very high; to the one winner, the world. To the other players, death. And there were no takebacks.

  Wiping the tear off his face in hopes of seeing Dalin at the castle of the king, Tarthur turned to look at Yonathan, and quickly looked away. He was a mess, the bandages that Tarthur had carefully applied already soaking with half-clotted blood. Tarthur didn’t want Yonathan to know that he was looking at him; it would break the big man’s heart if he knew he was slowing them down. No, he already knew it, although they were making relatively good time. He could see that the exercise was forcing more blood to be circulated and lost from the many wounds. Yonathan’s body had failed him. He was running on spirit now. Pure will forced him to continue, driving him mercilessly onward, never relenting until they reached the advance party. He looked into Derlin’s eyes and he knew that he saw it too. They were both glad that they would have Yonathan’s strength to lean on in the future, if they made it. When they made it.

  The first rays of daylight were beginning to shine through the morning mist when Yan called a halt for the frozen and exhausted party. Yan, while usually strong, was showing the effects of being without half of his person.

  “No, I can go…go on.” Yonathan’s raged voice was barely audible. “Not…not tired.”

  Yan shook his head at the big man with admiration. “Come on now, we all need to rest. Tarthur, Derlin and I are exhausted.”

  Yonathan seemed adamant in his plea that he was not tired, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. He seemed to think the rest was his fault. “Go…on…ahead…you…catch up…I’ll…later.”

  “Oh, there is really no need,” Yan interrupted, and then when he saw the confusion in the others’ eyes replied with a wry smile. “They’re here.”

  * * *

  Sir Stephen exhorted his horse onward, but soon relented when he saw that the poor creature was giving all he could. The magnificent animal had been foaming at the sides for the last hour; Sir Stephen had been driving him like mad ever since the little dragon had appeared early in the morning. Sir Stephen wondered at this creature, but he had seen a king raised to life by water, and he had a feeling he would see many more strange things in his career as a knight, which had so far been uneventful and uninspiring. But all that was about to change. Who knows? Someday someone might even write about his adventures. How foolish, he thought and dismissed the absurdity from his mind.

  Eager to prove himself again, Sir Stephen had ridden to the forefront of the mad chase through the early dawn, only the leathery dragon outdistancing him. Soon, ahead, he caught sight of some figures, and to his surprise the dragon flew and landed on the shoulder of a black clad one. Reigning in his horse, Sir Stephen thought that if these were the heroes that they had been sent to find, heroes must be sorely lacking in the world.

  One of them, a big and burly man, was so covered with a tangle of hair and blood and sweat as to be almost indiscernible. Two more were only young boys, a few years younger even than Sir Stephen himself. Their clothes were torn and raggedy, little more than strips of cloth that hung in places from their bodies. Yet, both carried something that made Sir Stephen lose any doubt he had in their identities, for both carried mud-spattered swords, but ones that seemed mystical and powerful, or at least would seem that way when they were washed. The last was the only one who had any real bearing of one of power, although it was marred by a black cloak tightly drawn around his person. Of course, appearances weren’t everything…or indeed, anything.

  “Don’t just stand there, get this man some help!” The black figure’s harsh command made Sir Stephen inwardly curse himself for his lack of promptness, and outwardly blush furiously. By now the others had arrived, and Sir Stephen busied himself with caring for the man’s wounds while others gave the man and the two boys some food and drink.

  The party was successful, and soon the physicians took over the injured man and propped him onto a stretcher. A few of the armed men set up a patrol around the perimeter, and the weary travelers slipped into a much-needed rest.

  During the day, which was spent mostly in slumber by the party who had slept only a few hours in the last two days, and in nervous conversation among the knights, one of the lookouts reported seeing three death knights in the distance. But the creatures, who normally would have had no trouble crushing thirty or forty men, stayed at a distance, and eventually vanished completely, probably out of fear for the boy with the sword that cut like light and the dragon-man. Yan assured the knights that they were gone for good, but that night many a fearless warrior cast a fearful glance over his shoulder, to assure himself it was just the shadows.

  The next morning brought all in good spirits and ready to travel, except for Yonathan, who was dangerously ill, but on a stretcher and ready at least to be carried. He had severely overspent himself, and all were hoping for
his recovery, but fearing the worst. Having rested the day before, the column awoke early and began to travel the one-and-a-half week journey to the castle of King Garkin. Yan, who had taken over the position of leader from Sir Terin with a swiftness and completeness that astounded many of the younger knights, hoped to travel both early and late and to sleep in a bed before the week was out.

  The group was ready to go in an unusually small amount of time for their number, and soon was trotting briskly along the king’s highway. Sir Stephen could not help but feel wonder and curiosity for these heroes. He was forced to admit that his first assessment had been untrue, he could now see that behind the dirt and tattered rags that covered them, there was a nobleness of character, a strong spirit, and in their eyes there was a fiery will, that he had never seen in such intensity before, and would have never thought it could be present in one so young. Plucking up his courage with curiosity, Sir Stephen drew his horse near to the blond headed one.

  He rode alongside him for an eternal moment, took a deep breath, and began the conversation.

  “Hello, my name is Sir Stephen. It appears you have had quite extraordinary travels.” He knew it was a very lame thing to say, but he could not think of anything better. The boy seemed almost not to hear him; his head was down as if he was thinking. Then he looked up.

  “My name is Tarthur. Are you a real Royal Knight?” Sir Stephen replied that he was, and Tarthur took a deep look at him. In all of his life Tarthur had longed to be a Royal Knight, to have a horse, and a sword and shiny armor, and respect. He and Derlin would ride off on magical adventures, (complete with saving a few damsels, of course) and return home to sneer at Morty, who had spent the day in school. Now that he had his own version of it, complete with magic swords and powers he didn’t understand, (except for the girls, for which he silently thanked the Creator for not confusing him more) he was not so sure he wanted to be a hero anymore.