by D K Drake
“Yeah. They were the smart people who moved up north into caves, right?”
“Yes. Vichar was the oldest and wisest among them. Before he left, he made a prediction. His prophecy is something that every Collector, Destroyer, Hunter and Protector knows by heart.”
“It’s recorded right here.” Hannah had found the right page and slid the book back over to Javan. He smoothed the pages out and began reading aloud:
“The war between the Bloodlines will divide the nation and cause the people to scatter. Many kings will rise to power, but one who masters the dragons and their scales will remain on the throne for centuries. He will rule with a cruel hand, suppress the will of the people and seek to annihilate all dragons but his own. If his power remains unchecked, he will expand his rule to the world beyond the portal. Gaining control of that world and its resources will allow him to reign for a thousand more years, bringing death and destruction to those who dare defy him.
“All hope is not lost. A young Collector whose eyes shine like emeralds and whose ears can hear the thoughts of any dragon will enter the competition in the final months of a Battle for the Throne year. He will be the only one capable of dethroning the king and must collect all four Stalkers by sunset on the final day of the battle year. If he succeeds, however, collecting the four Stalkers will not be enough to defeat the king.
“The dethroned king will use his dragons and loyal subjects to wage a war unlike any Zandador has ever seen. The Collector must therefore unite the four opposing Bloodlines for only the united front of the four Bloodlines led by the young Collector will be strong enough to win a war against this most powerful of men.
“If such a war is fought, the outcome thereof will determine the fate of the dragons once and for all.”
As he read the final sentence, Javan’s tongue turned to sandpaper while his palms turned to liquid. He scanned the words again. And again. Could a second string JV quarterback from a tiny town in Montana really be the hero in a prophecy about a boy, dragons and a king?
He did have eyes that shone like emeralds.
He could hear the thoughts of dragons.
And he did want to dethrone the evil Omri more than he wanted to be the starting quarterback on the varsity football team.
After spending those few precious seconds on Mertzer’s back during which had had never felt more alive or more sure of his purpose, he was certain he was up to the task of collecting the Dragon Stalkers.
But was he capable of uniting the Bloodlines? Waging a war? Leading an army?
“Look at him,” Ravier said having marched back over to the table. “He’s in shock. I told you he didn’t need to know about the prophecy. Now he’s going to want to run back to earth without even trying to collect any Stalkers.”
“No,” Javan said. “You’re wrong.” He slammed the book shut and stood, squaring his eyes with Ravier’s. “I’m not going anywhere except back to the training room. You’re going to teach me how to use the Stalker swords and stun balls. Hamilton’s going to teach me how to fight. And Astor is going to teach me everything I need to know about dragons, Zandador and the Dark King.”
Javan pushed back from the table. “Then I’m going to go collect me some dragons.”
He wasn’t going to focus on the war that would follow. Such thoughts were irrelevant if he had no Stalkers in his collection and no mother by his side to help him become the leader he needed to be.
Javan walked to the door, determination growing with each step. He expected the trio of men to be following him when he looked back, but they all remained planted in the places he had just left them. “Well? Are you going to help me or not?”
No one moved. They just kept staring, the same dumbfounded look on all their faces.
If Javan didn’t exit forcefully and immediately, his newfound confidence might crumble before he ever got out the door. “Fine. I’ll just go practice on my own while you boys sit and stare at each other.”
He slammed the door behind him and walked on wobbly knees toward the training room. He was going to find a way to live up to the hype of that prophetic Collector one way or another.
Chapter 27
Training Days
The fatigue and hunger from the past twenty-four hours combined with daunting mission of the days ahead overwhelmed Javan the second he descended the ladder and stepped foot into the training room. So instead of strapping on his Stalker swords, he dropped to his knees and tried to pray.
But no words came as he thought about what was required of him. People who had been alive for centuries were depending on him—a mere speck of a man at fifteen—to free them from the rule of the Dark King. Dragons who were on the verge of extinction needed him to find them and ride them and save them. The world he grew up in was facing an unknown global tyrannical threat that only he could stop.
That was a lot of pressure for a teenager whose biggest concern last week was how to get the girl of his dreams to notice him despite his scrawny build and acne-covered face!
It was also a lot of pressure he wasn’t prepared to handle on his own. He needed some help—human as well as Divine—to carry him through the tough days that were sure to follow. Finally, he was able to muster four emotion-packed little words. “God, please help me.”
“Help is here.”
Startled, Javan looked up to find Ravier standing beside him. “Thanks for coming.”
“You won’t be thanking me in a minute,” Ravier said. “Get your swords. We have work to do.”
Javan smiled, offered a quick thanks to God for sending him help and jumped up to retrieve his swords.
◊◊◊
“Again. But better.”
“Again. But better.”
“Again. But better.”
Such were the words of Ravier’s refrain. Over the course of the next four weeks, never did Javan hear Ravier say anything close to “Good job!” or “That’s it!” or “Nice work!” after Javan executed a skill well with his swords or stun balls.
It was always, “Again. But better.”
It was always spoken in a monotone.
“Again. But better.”
It was always spoken no matter how many times he had done the same move.
“Again. But better.”
So Javan would bite his tongue and practice the move again. But better.
Javan had decided that if Ravier wasn’t going to offer any words of encouragement, Javan wasn’t going to offer any words at all. He just kept his mouth shut, did everything Ravier told him to do and got through each sword-fighting lesson in silence.
He’d wanted to talk back, argue and complain more times than he could count. But playing with his swords and stun balls was fun, especially when he bested Ravier at his own sword-fighting game during their sparring sessions.
Plus Ravier was an admittedly good teacher. He controlled his own sword like it was an extension of his body and masterfully pushed Javan to get better and better each day.
The way Ravier taught, Javan was forced to improve. And fast. They used real swords to practice with, and he didn’t much like getting scrapes and cuts from the edge of Ravier’s sword. More than that, he hated seeing the joy in Ravier’s eyes when the slightest trickle of Javan’s blood ended up on his grandfather’s sword.
Training with Hamilton was an entirely different experience. Moments of silence during their training sessions were rare, and the jovial Hamilton had no shortage of praise for Javan. So while Javan drove himself to improve with his swords by feeding off Ravier’s negative energy, he drove himself to improve his fighting ability by feeding off Hamilton’s positive energy.
When the two men worked together to train Javan in joint sessions in the evenings, Javan found himself ignoring Ravier as much as possible and focusing on pleasing Hamilton.
Then there was Astor.
The most intense physical work he did with the old man was walk through the woods, but it was his sessions with Astor that left Javan feeli
ng the most drained. The ancient intellectual maintained a running monologue for hours that he expected Javan to not only retain but regurgitate at a moment’s notice.
His body may not have gotten much of a workout, but his mind was saturated with an abundance of information he found it difficult to process. If he didn’t get a nap after one of his dragonology lessons, Javan was useless for the rest of the day.
And his days became long, repetitive and predictable.
He was up an hour before Dawn Stalker feeding time so he could get in a five mile run around the shield-protected city of Gri before breakfast.
Breakfast was always followed by two to three hours of sword fighting and stun ball throwing, then another two to three hours of hand to hand combat. After a brief break for lunch at Noon Stalker feeding time, he would spend the next four hours with Astor training his mind to recognize plants and animals and trees, reading books and charts and maps to understand the land and Dragonology and learning how to stealthily track the animals in the nearby woods.
He would take a brief nap before dinner at Dusk Stalker feeding time, then spend his entire evening in joint training sessions with Ravier and Hamilton fighting his way through obstacle courses, weight lifting and practicing his dragon collecting skills on okties.
He was in bed by Midnight Stalker feeding time only to get up and do everything again the next day. But better.
Little by little, Javan felt himself getting stronger. Tougher. Smarter. The training regimen was physically and mentally grueling, but the side effects were worth it.
His pasty white skin that had never before managed to tan turned to bronze from the hours spent outside, making his green eyes appear to glow with a deeper intensity than ever before.
He packed on a good twenty pounds of pure muscle, and although it had nothing to do with his training, he grew an inch so that he now stood five feet and nine inches tall.
Even his acne faded away. He wasn’t sure if his clear skin was a result of the atmosphere in this dimension, the changes in his diet or the different kind of soap he was now using, but he didn’t care. He had clear, tan skin for the first time in his life. He was starting to look and feel like the king Zandador needed him to be.
Except for the nightmares.
They didn’t plague him every night. But they did plague him.
The most common one was the mental rebroadcast of the day his mother was captured.
He watched himself stand idly by as his mother walked toward the three armed soldiers, then hold a dagger to her throat as she threatened to kill herself to save him.
He watched himself do nothing as Micah analyzed him and deemed him worthless.
He watched his mother beg him to leave as she surrendered to her captor.
He watched himself refuse her desperate request.
He watched himself attempt to fight only to be soundly beaten, hurt and humiliated.
He watched himself groaning on the ground while his enemies whisked his mother away.
He watched himself fail again and again and again. So weak. So helpless. So defeated.
It was those emotional waves of devastation that always jolted him awake.
At first, he would sit in the dark for hours, wallowing in his own pity party because he lacked the ability to save her that day. Then he would wonder where she was. How she was doing. What she was enduring as a prisoner.
As the days wore on, however, the training began to change how he responded to the nightmares. When they woke him, he would forego his pity party and do something that made him feel empowered—push-ups, sit-ups, boxing moves, phantom sword fighting—while mentally reviewing all he had learned that day in training.
Or he would will himself back to sleep and change the end of his dream. In the revised version, his four Dragon Stalkers would swoop onto the scene. He would be armed with his Stalker swords and stun balls and lead his dragons in a charge against Micah and his two goons.
Micah would cower before Javan and his Stalker collection while Javan and Esmeralda would safely escape on the back of the dragon who once called him unqualified.
The experiences with Mertzer and Opny also sparked nightmares. He would dream that anytime he approached a dragon, it would laugh at him just before killing him with its specialized weapon of lightning bolts, fire, acid or poison.
Such fear fed his doubts about his ability to collect dragons. But it also fueled his desire to work harder the next day than the day before. He was determined to be prepared for Opny or Mertzer the next time they met.
On that day, no dragon would dare attempt to kill him or toss him aside as unqualified.
Chapter 28
Ravier’s Problem
“W
rong! Wrong! Wrong!” Ravier pounded the floor with the point of his sword as he belted out each word.
Javan wiped the sweat from his forehead and glared at Ravier, a stalker sword in each hand. The change in Ravier’s refrain and demeanor sparked Javan’s temper, and he wasn’t going to stand by and let the man berate him any longer. “How is that wrong? I did everything just like you showed me.”
Javan’s growing hunger didn’t help calm his rising temper. They had started earlier than usual, worked straight through breakfast and were about to miss lunch as well. He was famished, but he didn’t dare admit that to Ravier. He had made that mistake once at the beginning of his training and hadn’t been allowed to eat for the next twenty four hours. Instead of eating, he had been forced to practice his stun ball throwing accuracy.
“Wrong!” Ravier pounded his sword into the floor again. “If you had deflected my attack just like I showed you, you would have done it right. Instead, you angled your left sword too high and your right sword too low. Had this been a real fight, I would have easily ended you with a stab to the heart.”
“No way.” Javan repositioned his swords just to check his form. “I would have blocked your attack.”
“It’s that kind of attitude that’s going to get you killed. The soldiers in the king’s army have been training for centuries. You’ve been at it a month. You may be quick with your lightweight stalker swords, but those men are deadly and trained to take advantage of the smallest weaknesses in your defense tactics. I know. I trained them. Now resheath your swords. Let’s start again.”
Javan grit his teeth and was about to comply when his grandmother’s voice caused both him and Ravier to turn around.
“No,” Hannah said. She was standing at the base of the ladder with her arms crossed. “Javan, you take that belt off and come with me. You’re done training for the day.”
She was talking to Javan but staring at Ravier. Ravier stared back, and Javan wasn’t sure which grandparent he should obey.
“Javan,” Hannah said, still staring at Ravier, “you have ten seconds to get that belt off and get up this ladder or I will carry you out of here myself.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Javan nodded and obeyed her orders, deciding now was not the time to test his grandmother’s resolve.
◊◊◊
“Ummm…you sure this is a good idea, Grandma?” They were approaching the restaurant in the middle of town. He kept glancing behind him as they walked through the empty, dusty streets, certain Ravier was going to appear and drag him back to the training room. “Ravier looked mad when we left.”
“You let me worry about him, sweetie.” Hannah put her arm around Javan and squeezed his shoulders. “He has been working you too hard, and I haven’t had nearly enough time with you.”
Javan admired his grandmother’s confidence in her ability to handle Ravier, but he had a hunch he was going to pay for it when training resumed in the morning. As he reached the door, the thought of a brutal training session suddenly seemed much more appealing than walking into a room full of strangers with his eyes unprotected by his color-changing contacts.
“You know, Grandma,” Javan said, turning around, “you’re right. We haven’t spent much time together. Why don’t we go back t
o the house and have lunch, just me and you?”
“Nonsense.” Hannah put her hands on Javan’s cheeks. “We’ve been keeping you a secret, but it’s time for you to start meeting the people you’ll be fighting to save. And if you don’t like that reason, it’s time for them to meet you. They need to know there’s hope that they won’t have to hide out here cut off from their families for the rest of their lives.”
He’d always assumed grandmothers were good at laying guilt trips to get their grandkids to do what they wanted. Now that he was experiencing such a guilt trip first hand, he was both thrilled and frustrated. He was thrilled because he had a grandmother, yet frustrated because he couldn’t indulge his selfishness and run away.
Instead, he nodded obediently, and she opened the door.
At first, nothing about his entrance or the place seemed unusual. Booths lined the walls, and square wooden tables that sat groups of two, four and six people were spread throughout the long room. With the exception of a handful of women seated here and there, most of the tables were occupied by men ranging from gruff and buff types to stooped shoulder, white-haired great-grandfather types.
Everyone was dressed in dull, ragged clothes. Apparently beards were cool, long hair was the fad and brushes were outlawed. From the looks of things, his first act as king should be to bring back the brushes and teach the people how to use them. Introducing scissors and the occupation of barber probably wasn’t a bad idea, either.
No music played, but the hum of the lunch chatter seemed to provide a natural rhythm that made the room feel alive. It was almost like walking into the cafeteria at school. He wanted to be a part of the rhythm, to contribute his own chatter with his own significant group of friends.
But just like at school, no one noticed him when he walked in the door. No one waved him over to sit in a seat saved just for him. No one made him feel like this was where he belonged.