The night before, Darius and Prydon hardly spoke. Morning came, and even though Darius knew the truth, pain still hung heavy in the air like a weight around his neck. His father’s death lingered so fresh—the blade, the blood, Klavon’s laugh, all new as if it had occurred only yesterday. Darius wanted to remain angry with Prydon. He wanted to shout at him. He wanted to blame him for all those years without his father, all those years he could have been raised around people who loved him and whom he loved in return. Brandor was no such place, and for a moment, he wondered why he even wanted to save it. The red veins pulsed in his wrist, a reminder of evil, and for a split second Darius could relate. Then he thought of Mr. Athus and the kindness he had bestowed upon Darius all those years…and there was his mother.
Darius blinked, willing himself away from the temptation of hatred, and the veins slowed their pulsing rage. He glanced over the small fire at his dragon friend. “You were with me when I went to Klavon’s village, weren’t you,” he stated, the fatigue of pain preventing emotion from projecting in his words.
“I have never left your side since I found you in Brandor.” Prydon’s gaze was intense. “Never, except to acquire your sword and staff.”
Darius could not look at Prydon, a shadow who stood by him all these years. A silent guardian Darius knew nothing about. Prydon had done nothing wrong. He and his mother were alive…his mother, the one person whose love he never doubted. Darius couldn’t imagine what it would have been like without her, and Prydon had kept her alive—kept them alive. Prydon sacrificed years watching him and his mother, and all for a promise he had made Thyre, a promise he kept even after Thyre’s death.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know—about my father.”
“Thank you, Darius.” Prydon stared down at the fire, his eyes flickering white in the glow.
Darius gazed at his friend. He could see pain, pain in Prydon’s eyes, pain beneath each and every scar as if they existed only to be a constant reminder that Thyre was dead, and Darius wished he could say something that would remove all doubts from Prydon’s mind.
Prydon looked up from the fire and smiled. “We make the best choices we can at the time. That is all we can do. At least you and your mother survived, and for that, I am truly grateful.”
For the first time, Darius understood that some choices, even those you must make knowing the result will cause pain, can haunt you forever. He looked back at his own and wondered which ones would haunt him…if he lived. If only things had been different.
He looked out at the scorched buildings, recalling the battle that seemed only yesterday in his mind. “Prydon, why didn’t my father call minions like Klavon?”
“Did Barsovy teach you any such spell? To call minions?”
“No.”
Prydon’s lips tightened. “There is a reason for that. Those minions are vile creatures…abominations of the worst kind. They are called from the very depth of obscene wickedness, void of conscience or morals. Would a wizard with any degree of values use such a beast?”
Darius’s response came all too quickly. “Not even to save himself and the village? To save Mom…and me?”
Prydon breathed slowly as if carefully formulating his words. “Even if he had wanted, he could not. Your father was a good man, a good wizard. Minions can only be called from evil by evil. A wizard would have to sacrifice all that is good to use such devices. Would you have wanted that of your father?”
“No. I suppose not,” Darius said. “What about Klavon’s dragon? I mean, I thought dragons were good, like you.”
“His dragon? That was no dragon. Fraenir is a creature of pure evil, hater of dragons and an enemy to my kind. Of a most malevolent spirit, its kind dwells in the bowels of the earth, an astaroth, the crowned prince of hell. However, I understand your confusion. They are able to change their form, but most often they choose to take the form of a dragon, hoping to deceive those they hate most.” Prydon stirred the fire and sneered. “But is it obvious to us. We can see through their guise, though their vanity would never allow them to admit it. They continue to portray themselves as dragons, aligning themselves with evil sorcerers such as Klavon. Sadly, in that way, they do us harm. Others, such as those who wrote the book you carry, believe the bad, and our reputation is marred.”
Darius reached in his bag and pulled out the book. He’d forgotten completely about it. “Not anymore,” he said, tossing the book into the flames. “At least not with me.”
“A fitting end for such rubbish,” Prydon laughed, “but enough of that. Now we must concentrate on your past so that you can then focus on your future.”
“But I’ve already seen…” Darius swallowed, feeling as though he were trying to consume a rancid piece of meat. “I’ve already seen my past.” His chin fell with the weight of the memory.
“True.” Prydon looked up the hill at the remains of a house next to a once grand tower, and Darius’s eyes followed. “But there is something more…something you should have.”
“What?” asked Darius, looking back at his friend.
“Your father’s sword and staff.”
“His sword and staff?” repeated Darius. Looking at his own, he asked, “Pyrdon, how did you get these for me? Is that something my father was to do?”
“Not exactly,” replied Prydon. “You see, when a young wizard is to train, he must first face the dangers of Mount Tyria. It is a journey like no other, in which a young wizard discovers much about himself. In these trials, a young wizard is compelled to face the reality of who he is and to respect the potential of who he can become. In the end, Segrath grants the journeyman a sword and staff, of no wizard power until training is complete, but powerful nonetheless. The sword and staff allow entrance into the training fields.”
“But I never did that.” Darius was puzzled.
“No, and it is the only time I know of in which Barsovy has trained before such a journey.”
Darius looked at the sword and staff which Prydon so eloquently presented to him only days before. “So…how did you get these?”
Prydon laughed. “It was not easy, I can tell you. Segrath…well, we have a connection.”
“A connection?” Darius asked.
“Segrath is a dragon.” One side of Prydon’s mouth curled in a humorous grin. “Well, I guess not exactly a dragon as the rest of us. She will never die.”
“What? How is that possible?” Darius asked.
“Darius, those stones, the stones of all wizards, come from dragons. When we die, our bodies, our essence, returns to Mount Tyria. With that, Segrath lives on, and with that she creates the stones that adorn your sword and staff…the dragon’s stone.”
Darius stared at the stones, glimmering at the ends of his sword and staff…part of a dragon. “Then why do people think so badly of dragons? Why the book?” He glanced at the burning pages, still feeding the fire.
“Fraenir and others like him,” answered Prydon. “And Segrath can be quite intimidating, especially to the young who face her. Segrath can give the impression that she is most dangerous, which she is. And while most wizards find the journey too personal to discuss freely, stories are told, and books are written.” Prydon glanced at the burning book and then back at Darius. “Even so, she was most put out that I should demand the tools on your behalf. But with a little persuasion, I was able to get them for you.”
Darius had no idea that the persuasion of which Prydon spoke was actually a sacrifice. When Segrath stabbed his heart, she not only learned about Darius but about Prydon as well.
Prydon had allowed Segrath to enter his memories, an invasive act that left him vulnerable. This was something no dragon would ever allow, but he had exposed himself and his deepest thoughts—all of them—for Darius.
Darius looked again at his staff and sword. “But if I have my own, why do I need my father’s?”
“You don’t need them, but you should have them nonetheless,” answered Prydon. “We are here, and they are something of your father’s
to which you can relate…a common bond.”
Darius looked to where his father had fallen. Pain tore at his face as there was nothing to be seen but ashes and dirt. “They were probably stolen, after all these years.”
“They are here,” said Prydon. He looked up at the remains of the old house.
“There?” asked Darius.
“Perhaps.” With one swish of his tail, Prydon covered the fire with dirt, and the two headed up the hill along an overgrown path, faintly visible beneath the weeds that now covered it.
Darius entered the doorway, the roof of the house almost completely gone, now piles of rubble scattered against half destroyed walls. Prydon stood outside, staring down through the opening.
Darius looked up at him and then walked slowly inside. He heard a scuffle off in another room. Many creatures surely would find refuge in such a maze of debris, but Darius advanced with caution. He entered what was probably their main sitting room and was greeted by a rat as it ran past, carrying a small piece of rotting cloth. Darius watched as it scurried underneath a shattered table.
Darius laughed. “I’m wasting caution on a rat!”
“Caution is never wasted,” replied Prydon.
Still amused with himself, Darius continued through splintered lumber and made his way to what would have been the master bedroom. Just as he stepped through the broken door frame, he heard a scuffle just to one side.
“Another r—”, he started, but before he finished the words, he received a stiff greeting across the top of his head.
The sound of cracking wood rang like a crash of thunder in his ears, and his head swirled in a daze. He fell to his knees as two pieces of shattered wood seemed to guide him effortlessly to the floor. Before he could recover from the fog that filled his mind, a body was full on top of him, and he involuntarily rolled in the mass of ashes and wood. Ending up on the bottom, Darius looked into the eyes of a young woman right when a fist came full upon his face.
“Hey!” he yelled, grabbing his bleeding nose.
With a crash, Prydon entered, and suddenly, the girl was high above Darius. She hung upside down in the air, her red hair dangling like flames.
“Put me down!” she screamed. “I’m not afraid of you!”
Prydon raised a brow. “As you wish,” he said, with satisfaction.
Darius snickered as Prydon dropped her from six feet high into a soft pile of ash. When she stood, she was coughing. The charcoal covered her face until Darius could hardly determine she was a girl.
She lunged at Darius, but Prydon grabbed the back of her shirt.
“I was here first! You can’t have it!” she yelled.
“Have what?” asked Darius.
“The staff. The sword. I don’t know. Whatever I find in this old, wizard’s house!”
She ceased straining to get free of Prydon and was now attempting to adjust her clothes and hair, wiping as much ash from her face as she could.
“It may interest you to know,” said Prydon, “that this young man owns this house.”
The girl halted what she was doing and glared back and forth between Prydon and Darius. “This house,” she said with venom, “this village has been abandoned for close to fifteen years. Even if I did believe you, and it is highly unlikely that I do, you would have no more claim to this place than I.”
“And were I to agree with your assessment, and it is highly unlikely that I do, just what do you believe you could do with a staff or sword anyway?” asked Prydon.
Darius laughed, and the girl shot him an icy stare. “I would use it to save my village!”
“Your village?” asked Darius, the humor lost.
“Yes, my village,” she sneered. “My village is still alive. At least I hope it is. They’re under attack, and we need help, any help, even if it is from some archaic sword and staff.”
“Where is your wizard?” asked Prydon. He reminded Darius of Barsovy, his words shrouded with a serious power.
“Our wizard died a little over a month ago, unexpectedly. An accident of some sort.”
“And you’re under attack. By whom?” asked Darius.
“We’re not sure,” she replied. “He stands by and watches as his minions do the dirty work. Each night they come and scare the villagers. We’ve already lost several buildings, mostly businesses, but we haven’t lost any people—at least when I’d left we hadn’t. We did lose a barn with several milking cows, and it’s only a matter of time before they start destroying houses, and that means lost life.”
“How long has this been going on?” asked Prydon.
“A few days before I left, and it took me almost a week to get here.” She stood tall and readjusted her clothing. “So, you see, I need this stuff more than you.”
“It won’t work for you,” said Darius.
“How would you know?” she asked.
Prydon tilted his head, and a slight smile touched his lips. “Because he is a wizard himself.”
The girl glared at Darius. “He’s too careless.”
“I…you caught me off guard,” retorted Darius.
“Exactly!” The girl folded her arms in front of her chest and leaned heavily on one leg, her jaw set. “All right, then. For what village did you train?”
Darius looked from the girl to Prydon, and Prydon shrugged. “I…I guess Brandor.”
“You guess? Some wizard,” she snuffed. Then, as if she were stung by a bee, the young woman jolted. Her eyes were drawn to Darius’s weaponry. “Wait a minute.” Her weight shifted back to both legs and her jaw dropped. “Those are…are wizard’s tools?”
Darius pulled his sword and staff from their resting place upon his back. “Yes, they are.” He looked up at Prydon. “And apparently, I have more lessons to learn.”
“Like respecting caution?” asked Prydon with a grin.
“Yes, and apparently I can learn them from a young woman,” he said, bowing to the girl.
Darius’s attempt at a compliment appeared to fall wasted on the girl as she clambered in the ashes.
“So you weren’t lying,” she said. “You really are a wizard? Then I don’t need this stuff.” She held up what looked like a broken staff, and for Darius the world screeched to a sudden stop.
“May I see that?” he asked.
The girl handed the broken staff to Darius. “Don’t you see? You can come back with me and help our village.”
The words were like a distant echo to Darius as he looked down at the staff, the pristine white crystal cracked and the wood fractured. His eyes swelled, and he sat down on the floor.
“What’s wrong with him,” the girl asked.
Prydon spoke quietly. “As I said, this is his house.”
“But that isn’t possible. The wizard who lived here died almost fifteen years ago, and his wife was claimed by a vicious storm. He never had any children.”
“He did, and his wife escaped the storm, she and her newborn child. This is Darius, and he has come back to fulfill a destiny that has long been awaiting him.”
“But the stories—”
“Were not complete,” finished Prydon. “This is Thyre’s son.”
The girl knelt beside Darius, staring at him, and he looked up through blurred vision.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I need your help. My village needs your help.”
Darius looked up at Prydon. “The sword?”
Prydon uncovered a small pile of shattered timbers and pulled out a sword, bent completely in two. He handed it to Darius.
“No! How could this be?” asked Darius.
“Klavon. This could only have been accomplished by another wizard. No other would have that kind of power,” said Prydon.
The girl was still sitting next to Darius. “Look. I’m sorry, but your father…well, that can’t be changed, but you can still help me. So what if this staff and sword are, well, messed up. You have your own.”
“So what! So what? How dare you! This was my father’s! The only thing
I had left, and now it’s…it’s—”
The girl stood defiantly. “It’s in the past! But the destruction that is happening in my village is in the here and now! And if you would get over it and come help us, the lives of many—”
“The lives of many?” shouted Darius. “The lives of many are already being lost in Brandor! My obligation is to them!”
The words stung his throat as he said them. Never before had he cared about the people of Brandor, and why should he. They never cared about him or his mother—all except Mr. Athus. But that one man was the world to him, and he would not let him be lost. And what of his own mother?
“You selfish idiot!” she shouted. “Here you are, sitting amongst ruins of a past you cannot change, rambling about some town you think you trained for, and are you there helping them now? Nooooo.” The girl waved her hands around mockingly. “You sit here like a spoiled brat while people may be dying. And if Bran— whatever it’s called—is so important to you, why did you even come back here? You already have a staff and sword.”
Darius stood, his eyes on fire as he stared at this girl. “How dare you judge me? You have no idea—”
The girl screamed. “Ugh! You egocentric little…. Give me those.”
The girl snatched from Darius’s hands the staff and sword that belonged to his father and ran. Darius and Prydon were momentarily stunned by her actions. After blinking a few times, Darius followed, but the lead she had gained was too much to overcome in the debris. Before Darius could stop her, she tossed the broken weapons down a deep well.
Darius ran to the edge of the well, screaming, but the splash below deafened his cry, and he stood in silence.
“That good enough for you?” she snapped.
“Why did you do that?” Darius demanded, raising his hands as if he wanted to strangle this girl.
“Because you needed it. Wake up, you idiot.” She slapped Darius square across the face. “This is real life here and people are dying. So what are you going to do about it?”
The sting still hung on his cheek, but Darius didn’t care. “Me? Why is this all of the sudden my responsibility?”
“Because you are the only wizard around! And we need you!”
Darius opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a puff of air. He looked over at Prydon who stood behind the girl and shrugged his shoulders.
He looked back at the girl. “I can’t. I have to go to the Valley of Wizards, and then I have to defeat Klavon.”
“So, you can’t spare even a short time to help us with our insignificant lives?” The girl’s eyes rolled. “You’re a wizard! You can fly your dragon to our town, get rid of the minions, defeat this wizard, and head back to your own more important life.”
Darius looked again at Prydon. Prydon raised a brow but was silent.
“I…” Darius stopped.
The girl started to say something, but Prydon placed a claw on her shoulder. She was silenced, and Prydon bowed his head toward Darius and then looked toward the village below.
Darius turned and walked to the edge of the hill overlooking the charred remains. Only the night before he had watched as Klavon killed his father. And as his father lay dying, the ensuing conglomerate of broken lives, revealed now in the spots of ash and tinder, glass and brick, were the result of Klavon’s minions and their vicious attack almost fifteen years before. His village had been destroyed, scattered…lost forever.
Darius’s head fell to his chest, heavy and confused. His eyes shifted to the side as he thought of the girl standing only a few yards behind him. And now minions, exactly like Klavon’s, were attacking her village, and her people were suffering just as his own people had.
He breathed heavily and his eyes scanned the wreckage once again.
Prydon moved to stand beside him and also stared out at the village below.
“What do I do, Prydon?” Darius asked quietly.
“That is a choice only you can make,” he said.
Darius thought of Brandor and the disappearance of the houses. Then he thought of the woman, swallowed by Fraenir. “They could end up just like here,” Darius said, nodding back at the girl behind them. “They could end up destroyed, in charred ruins and death.”
“Yes, they could,” said Prydon.
“But Brandor. It’s disappearing, and I have to help them.”
“Yes, you do.” Prydon’s gaze never left the village below.
Darius’s head sank. “But what makes the people of Brandor any more important than the people of her village?” asked Darius, not expecting an answer, to which Prydon obliged with none.
“Well?” asked the voice from behind them.
Darius spoke softly, “Brandor has waited this long. I guess they can wait a little longer.” He stood taller and turned around. “I’ll do it.”
The girl squealed, and Darius looked at Prydon. “Will I be able to fight without first going to the valley?”
“It is possible, but the consequences could be dire. If you fight before your character has been determined by the wizards of old, you risk everything. You must remain strong in virtue not in anger, never swaying as you fight.”
“How can I not be angry?” asked Darius.
“Anger alone is not the harm; a certain amount of anger can strengthen your resolve. It is when you allow that anger to control that you risk losing yourself.” Prydon paused and then said, “It will not be easy.”
“Of course not,” said Darius, shaking his head as if he really had no choice. “I only hope I can do this.”
“Of course you can,” said the girl. “So let’s go.”
Darius nodded slowly, and Prydon kneeled to the ground. Darius climbed on and held out a hand to the girl. “Well?”
The girl nose wrinkled, and she bit her lip. “It’s a…dragon.”
“I am,” said Prydon. “And I am your quickest way to get home.”
Alara hesitated but climbed on behind Darius and held tightly around his waist. Darius leaned forward and grabbed on to Prydon’s neck. With the familiar push up from the ground, Darius thought of Brandor.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Stolen Stone
Darius and the Dragon's Stone Page 28
