The Horsk Dragon

by A. R. Wilson

  Jurren turned. Arkose stopped, Montanya shuffling backward to cling to him. The voice repeated its request.

  Peeking around Arkose, the girl whispered to Jurren. “He’s asking who you are.”

  He stared at her. If these were her people then why didn’t she answer them?

  Perhaps if she spoke both his language and that of the hiding stranger, then the stranger might also be bilingual. “Who are you?” Jurren spoke at the same volume as the other voice.

  An arrow sliced into the tree next to him at shoulder level. He stiffened, scanning the area with only his eyes, finding nothing. A second arrow came from a different direction, landing at his feet.

  “Tell them your name.” Montanya hissed through gritted teeth.

  “I am Jurren. My friend is injured and in need of your help.”

  A different voice answered from the direction of the second arrow. “We have nothing for you.”

  “You should go back from where you came.”

  Was that a third voice? They seemed to come from all around them. He looked at the girl who simply shrugged, taking a step away from Arkose.

  “I found Montanya.” Jurren raised his empty hands.

  She froze, her eyes widening. He gave her a questioning look. Shaking her head, she took another step into the trees, hunching her shoulders.

  As he opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing, a male in his early teens stepped forward. A hooded cloak hid most of his face. This new youth looked around Jurren to catch sight of Montanya.

  Turning to Jurren, he spoke. “Where did you find her?”

  Pointing at Montanya, Jurren kept his hands up in a gesture of good faith. Kidelar continued to writhe on Arkose’ shoulder.

  Montanya straightened. “In a goblin cave.”

  The boy spoke to Montanya in a foreign tongue, pointing back and forth between the men and the trees. She shrugged and nodded a few times before saying something that appeared to satisfy him. Raising his hand, he made a single circle overhead. A dozen others came out from their hiding places, surrounding the small party. Hooded cloaks concealed all but their heights.

  One of them gave a single word command that compelled Montanya to be received by the tallest of the group. The two slipped behind a tree and disappeared without so much as the sound of a single leaf rustling. Another of the figures stepped forward, extending a thin, muscular hand toward Jurren.

  “I am Amador, son of Jordain, and guardian of Chlopahn. What injury has your friend sustained?”

  “A goblin bit him, and I fear the infection is already starting to spread.”

  “You are not from this land.”

  “No, we are from beyond the Avian Expanse.”

  “How interesting.” Amador pushed his hood back only far enough to confirm eye-contact. “You will come with me.”

  Amador extended his hand away from them, palm facing out, speaking in a foreign tongue. Rumbling shuddered through the ground as the trees pulled away from each other, walking on their roots. Jurren’s head swam with memory. Trees, silver, water, and rings. The vision from Ellesha Shan Shair crashed through him, throwing him off balance.

  A strong hand caught his shirt at the shoulder, pulling him upright. “He faints at the sight of walking trees!”

  Nausea swirled too fiercely for Jurren to counter the taunt. The hand on his shoulder gave a shove toward Amador. A path opened through the dense grove, which two of the hooded figures followed. Arkose was now cradling Kidelar like a child, his entire cloak streaked wet with a dark liquid. When Jurren fell in step to follow, the trees behind them settled back into place. It felt as though the forest were trapping them in.

  Minutes later, Amador stopped at a wall of rock. The hooded man gestured for Arkose to come closer. Placing his palm against the cliff, Amador spoke.

  “Chlopahn, vedoan anatfa.”

  Mist seeped from the rock. The integrity of the wall wavered. Hints of trees and shrubs silhouetted through this veil to another place. A shadow in the shape of a hooded figure came toward them from the mist, offering a set of hands.

  Amador looked at Arkose. “We will take your friend to Lynnelladae. Only she can treat these wounds.”

  Jurren stepped forward, and Amador blocked him with a sharp gesture.

  “No one enters this door who is not of our people.”

  “If you can make an exception for my wounded friend, I think you can allow me to stay by his side.” Jurren took another step forward, stopping short of Amador’s extended arm.

  “We only allow the healing as a gesture of gratitude for returning our Child of Destiny.” He put down his hand. “The longer we debate the point, the lower his chances for survival.”

  Arkose shifted under his burden, the scholar gurgling as he breathed.

  Jurren nodded. “I am at your mercy, my lord.”

  Arkose transferred Kidelar to the figure waiting in the mist. The moment Arkose took his step back, the mist bubbled and morphed into rock.

  Shifting his hood to better obscure his face, Amador turned. “Follow me, this way.”

  “How long will it take to treat him?”

  “I cannot say. But Lord Marvae will be eager to learn how you came upon Montanya. Particularly, how she came to be in her present condition.”

  “She has healed much since we found her.”

  Pulling his hood back enough to force eye contact, he set his jaw as though daring Jurren to repeat himself. “You call that healed?”

  “She was little more than skin and bones in that cave.”

  Amador’s eyes narrowed, his brow pulling tight. “She is now more than what she was when you found her?”

  “What are you talking about? What is this?”

  “Never mind. I will allow Lord Marvae to ask the questions.”

  Jurren watched the man open another path through the trees and walk away. What was he insinuating? Did Amador dare suggest Montanya’s captivity had anything to do with him?

  Arkose followed the hooded stranger, nudging Jurren to do the same. He complied. The effects of the vision from Ellesha Shan Shair had finally subsided, leaving him with a different gnawing in his stomach. Prickles of distrust lurked along his shoulders. A lost child returning home should be cause for celebration, yet they only snapped questions while hiding in shadows.

  The path opened into a meadow of knee-high grasses. At the far end, Amador opened a passage leading to a wide hut-like house squeezed among the trees. Light flickered in the window.

  Amador held open a door for them. Arkose shed his cloak into a heap on the ground before entering. Inside, a withered man sat on the floor by a fire in the center of the room. Shelves lined the walls with a disorganized collection of paper, tools, dishes and unfinished projects. The elderly man gestured them to come closer.

  With no visible furniture, Jurren and Arkose joined their host on the floor. The elderly man smiled behind his thick, white beard, which covered most of his face below the eyes. Equally unruly hair rested below the bald spot atop his head, covering his ears and shoulders. A gray robe bunched around him as he leaned forward.

  “I am Lord Marvae. It seems we owe you a debt of gratitude for returning our Child of Destiny.”

  Jurren nodded, putting a fist to his chest.

  A bag sat beside Lord Marvae, and he weighed the contents with his hands. “I suppose you have a great many questions for us. However, I wish for the first question to be mine.”

  Again, Jurren nodded, glancing toward Arkose who stared down at his red-smeared hands and clothes.

  “What has brought you to this place?”

  The question nagged at Jurren’s gut. What would possess this man to care more about why Montanya was found than where?

  “I am on a journey to find my daughter.”

  Lord Marvae continued sifting the contents of the sack in his lap. “Do you know who keeps her?”

  Who? What part of ‘journey to find’ automatically suggested a who? “I only know there is
a sword which will lead me to the one who knows where she is.”

  “Sounds like an enchanted sword.”

  “That is not quite the words I would use.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Jurren stiffened. “Your words give you away, old man.”

  Whiskers flexed along his cheeks as Lord Marvae’s mouth struggled between a frown and a smile.

  The white-haired man reached inside his bag, took out what looked like a handful of white sand, then tossed it into the fire. Sparks and smoke twisted and churned above the flames. Smoke clumped together in some places, thinned out in others, taking the form of a boy from the waist up, glowing embers lining his features.

  Lord Marvae’s tone lowered as he spoke. “A halfling, half-elf and half-man, once wandered these lands. They are a most dangerous creature. With the elven ability for longevity and the human need for power and conquest.”

  Jurren dug his nails into his palm but kept silent.

  “He was to inherit a great magic.” The form in the smoke diminished to make room for another figure. “His great-grandfather tried to pass his knowledge to the youth at only twelve years of age. A millennia of training in the hands of a boy. The weakness of his human half nearly died in the transfer. Much of the remaining power overflowed into a sword.” Something long and thin formed in the hand of the smoky image as the boy grew in height and build. “This is the sword you seek.”

  “This is the Sword of Einiko?”

  “His name is not worthy to be spoken. The story goes much deeper than you know. Deeper than I will tell you. For the sake of your selflessness in returning our Child of Destiny I will tell you one thing: this will be the only time you are ever allowed to cross our borders. Should you attempt to return to Chlopahn in the future, your greeting will be very different.”

  “It was not our desire to impose.”

  “It is never an imposition to repay a debt.”

  With a deep breath, Lord Marvae cast another handful of sand into the fire. Hills formed in the smoke, thrusting into mountains. The peaks shifted as though they were in a vision flying over the suggested terrain. Forested mountains gave way to sandstone columns. Marshlands skipped through the smoke then dissolved into a dense maze.

  Sand, wind, pain, and aching loss rippled through Jurren. He pinched his eyes shut. Wet, stench, and uncertainty crashed against his soul like a raging sea. Clamping his hands tighter, he focused on breathing as he waited for it to pass.

  Lord Marvae’s voice echoed through the fog. “These are the barriers which lie before you.”

  “Barriers?” Jurren could barely form the word.

  “Some were created by the halfling to prevent us from attacking him. Others were created by us to prevent another mixing between the bloodlines of elf and man.” The hair on his cheeks swished as he changed to another line of thought. “I am most curious as to how you managed to enter our land.”

  “Our dragons aided us across the Avian Expanse.”

  Tufts of eyebrows gathered in suspicion. “You have come out of the north?”

  Jurren nodded.

  “In these lands, it is referred to as the Great Barrier, but I remember tales of those who called it by another name. Tell me, how did you come to journey to this land?”

  “I have already said it. I seek to find my daughter.”

  Leaning back, he shifted the bag of sand onto the floor beside him. “And where in the north do you come from?”

  “We are from the village of Hess Bren, in the land of Bondurant.”

  He nodded as though satisfied with the answer. “I see. Amador will show you to your quarters. You will be allowed to remain within our borders while you wait for your companion to heal of his wounds.”

  “How soon until he returns to me?”

  Scratching his chin, Lord Marvae shrugged. “Two days, maybe more. It is difficult to say. Rarely does a tale end the way one thinks it will, or should. However, you have returned a most sacred possession to us. For that I am bound by the Path of Destiny to give you something in return.”

  He stood and began rummaging through his shelves. After a few moments, he snatched up a small wooden box, then returned to hand it to Jurren.

  “Take this. A gift from us to you.” The elderly man squatted next to him.

  Jurren opened the box. Inside, he found a silver band of interwoven trees with a bluish-green stone. It was large enough to fit on the first finger of his right hand.

  “It is charmed.” Lord Marvae pointed a knobby finger at the gem. “This will produce any food or drink you desire in any quantity. I am sure it will be of use to you on your journey.”

  Crinkling his nose, Jurren inspected the gift. Somewhere between contempt for magic and not wanting to offend his host, he managed a nod of gratitude. “How does it work?”

  “Think of something you want, pour the will of your thoughts into it, and it will appear before you. Go ahead, try.”

  He glanced at Arkose, who was still staring at his hands, jaw muscles repeatedly flexing as though desperate for self-control.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think my friend and I need rest and a good wash more than we need food.” He tucked the ring into a pouch on his belt.

  “I understand.” Lord Marvae rose, gesturing to Amador. “Show these men to their accommodations. See to it they find sufficient fresh water.”

  Amador jerked open the door. “Yes, my lord.”

  Jurren stood. “And what of the goblin threat? Montanya claimed this land is protected from them.”

  “Yes, these woods are out of their range of travel.” Lord Marvae tugged at a pillow a few feet away and pulled it over to prop himself on one elbow.

  “You seem fairly confident of this.”

  “It is well known in these lands.”

  The strain building in Arkose’s features as his eyes met Jurren’s matched the questions brewing within him as well. “The attack on my friend was not far from here.”

  “Only those who wander beyond the protection of our borders are at risk. A fact I am sure played a great part in the reason for Montanya’s disappearance. That girl has never been content to stay in one place.” His eyes drifted to the fire. “But tonight, we find comfort in her return.”

  Amador stepped outside and held the door open.

  So many questions swirled in Jurren’s mind. Why didn’t Lord Marvae explain how he knew Einiko had taken Tascana? What was so important that these people had to live in absolute secrecy? And where...

  Arkose bent to pick up his hunting cloak from outside the door and dropped it. Twice.

  Questions can wait. For now, we both need rest.

  The three men walked down a winding path without the need of trees parting to show them the way. After a dozen blind turns, Amador reached to open a door. Jurren squinted. How had that man seen anything distinguishable among all these branches?

  Inside the large single room sat a bed, a table, and a hearth with a fire already burning. Amador pointed to a ladder on the back wall. “There are extra blankets and another sleeping area up there in the loft. Rest here until someone comes for you.”

  Brushing past them, the man stalked out, closing the door behind him.

  Arkose shook his head. “This isn’t exactly the hospitality I would expect after returning a Child of Destiny.”

  “It’s just as well. People this bent on keeping secrets are best left to themselves.”

  “I guess the fresh water will have to wait until morning.”

  Jurren pulled out the ring. Picturing a barrel of water, he focused on the stone in the band. Instantly, a barrel appeared before them filled to the brim. He scooped out a drink of cool water. Grinning, he looked at his friend.

  “It’s all yours.”

  Arkose nodded a thanks, his hands starting to shake. Jurren tucked the ring back in his pocket then climbed the ladder to the loft. Cleaning a friend’s lifeblood off your hands was a private business. Jurren had performed the task only a han
dful of times, but it was always the same. The motions, reflecting on the wounds, wondering about what-ifs, second-guessing every moment.

  Several splashes slopped from the barrel. Jurren pushed a few blankets toward the top of the ladder, refusing to look down as he allowed Arkose to vent without an audience.

  * * *

  Jurren stretched hard against the stiffness in his back. Rolling onto his side he saw sunlight filtering through the branches against the window. Shallow breathing told him Arkose was still asleep. The man’s once blood-soaked clothes hung over the back of a chair near the door. A folded set of fresh clothes sat on the seat. Next to the pile of blankets at the top of the ladder sat another folded set. He sighed, uncertain about the gift.

  In one motion, he hoisted himself over the ledge and onto the floor, then walked to look into the half-empty barrel. Arkose must have tossed some of the rinse water outside. Pulling out his ring, Jurren wondered if he should conjure a new supply of water. After all, this was used to wash off...

  Gritting his teeth, he replaced the water. I hate being reduced to the use of magic.

  He splashed his face, took off his boots, then peeled off his soiled shirt. After setting his belt aside, he emptied his pockets and sloshed his clothes into the water. The pile at the top of the ladder seemed to glare at him. It would be rude to refuse the gift of a fresh set of clothes. He snatched them down. The pile opened into a single garment of shirt and pants combined. A detachable cloak hung secured by a small, mechanical clasp fitting over the left shoulder. Holding the thing up, he caught a whiff of himself. Maybe he did need freshening up.

  Casting the set onto the table, he lifted himself into the water, ignoring the splash of the spillover. It was time for Arkose to wake up anyways.

  “Tell me you’re not naked.”

  Jurren turned toward the bed. “Doesn’t do much good to take a bath in dirty clothes. Did you see who dropped off the gift?”

  Arkose stretched. “What gift?”

  “That set of fresh clothes on the chair. Someone tossed me up a pile in the loft.”

  Something like a growl scratched out of the man’s throat as he lay back down. “They look fancy.”

  “Fancy but functional.” He sloshed more water under his arms. “The sleeves look like they have some kind of glove attached at the end.”