The Order of the Trident (Eldarlands Book 1)
Page 10
A familiar roar echoed through the forest, shaking the limbs free of their remaining leaves. That roar recalled him to his childhood. Drawing his bow, he strung it and nocked an arrow in one fluid motion. Without hesitation, Demetrix broke into a sprint, hoping to reach it before it disappeared as it had a hundred times before. Such a beast would never expect to be hunted by him. That fact alone gave him a chance at success.
First chance he found, he shimmied up a tree and took to the branches. He could move quicker without the underbrush tearing at his cloak. His armor was a different story. He’d designed it to resist the briars and thorns. Truth was, he preferred the tree tops. While he had less cover, he was able move quieter and faster. And the typical bandits he’d taken to stalking rarely looked up. He jumped from one tree to another, making no more sound than a squirrel. He could see a gap in the trees ahead. He didn't remember this part of the forest. River, grove, rocks? He questioned to himself, unsure what to expect when he reached the edge. He stepped into view, his instincts screaming at him to stop. He locked his leather boots, letting the barbed soles dig into the bark of the thick limb. Felling his balance establish, he backed against the trunk and watched. The feeling he recalled as a child welled up inside him, torn between fear and tenacity. He wouldn't run away this time. He'd kill the dragon, or it'd kill him. Either way, he was done running from it.
The dragon extended its neck, rearing its horned head up to the tree tops. Its massive wings expanded, stretching out over the entire clearing. With an earth shattering roar, it flexed its many muscles, waving its head back and forth in the cool breeze. A powerful blast of green spray shot from its nostrils and into the sky.
Demetrix watched the sound wave escape the beast's snout. He couldn't imagine what the force would do to his body if he were caught in it. Unable to look away, he stared intently at the creature, lost in its fearful beauty. It seemed much larger than he remembered, let he was only able to see part of it's head in the cavern's underdark. How he escaped such a creature, he'd never know. He trailed down the black scales, shimmering in the sunlight, to the spiked horns running down it's back and tail. They glistened like the bits of broken glass he’d found in some of the caravans. Bracing himself, he carefully moved closer, keeping his arrow at the ready. He studied the dragon in the distance, watching for any change.
The dragon's elongated nostrils flared, sniffing at the air. A familiar scent came to him. He scanned the treeline, searching for its source. Has my prize returned?
Demetrix froze, his bow drawn and ready to release. His fear intensified, spotting the ruined, glossy opal. Did I do that?He'll certainly remember me now. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the large yellow slit of the creature's good eye locked onto him. This was a mistake! How can I to kill it, if a dagger to the eye didn't? A booming serpentine voice echoed through the trees, threatening to tear him from his perch.
“So you've returned to me, Dalari? I knew you couldn't hide forever. Your kind can never hide forever.”
He swallowed his fear, letting the wind carry his voice. “I've come to kill you. You'll haunt my dreams no longer!” He heard the words leave his mouth, unable to stop himself.
A deep, bellowing laughter erupted. Holding his belly with his front claws, as a portly human would, he shook his head and sat on his hind haunches, wrapping his thick tail around like a perched cat. “So you believe you're able to kill me? Many have tried.” Abandoning his humor, his nose wrinkled with disgust at the notion. “It took you two-hundred and eighteen years to build up the courage to die. But you came here with purpose. I respect that.” The dragon stood, rearing his head back. With a powerful thrust, he unfolded his wings and flapped them toward the ranger.
Several gusts of deadly winds washed over him. He lowered his head in an attempt to withstand the force. I have to get a shot off. He released the bow string, watching the shaft spin into the gale. The arrow twisted, its tail fanning out, catching the cross wind. The arrow flew out of sight. The winds were too strong. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Feeling himself slide backward, his barbed boots tearing against the bark, he slipped. Weightlessness took him briefly. He saw the ground rapidly approaching. Bracing himself, he rolled with the terrain, jumping back to his feet when his knees his the dirt. With blinding speed, he drew and nocked another arrow. Taking aim, he accounted for the wind and adjusted. With luck, he could fire under their currents. Letting the string fly, the arrow launched. It’s fletching spun, cutting through the gusts. In seconds the arrow sank deep into the corner of the dragon's scaled mouth.
He roared in more irritation than pain. Lowering his wings, he licked at the slight trickle of blood. The tip of his forked tongue pressed against the shaft, dislodging it. “You're going to have to do better than that, if you hope to kill me.”
Demetrix nocked another arrow and readied to fire. His feet left the ground, feeling a hard force slam into his legs. He hadn’t noticed the massive tail whip around behind him. Landing hard on his back, his arrow released, flying high, disappearing into the clouds. He rolled, narrowly dodging the thick tail, crashing into the ground beside him. Thundering steps were upon him before he could move.
The dragon approached, all four legs moving in sequence. Atop the young dalari, he raked his front claw over him, pinning him to the ground.
He was completely covered, his head alone sticking between the huge, clawed talons. Demetrix struggled against the grip, unable to move. He watched the dragon's head lean in close. The rancid stench flowed from it's mouth, burning his lungs. He felt vomit work its way up, settling in his mouth. Unable to roll over to spit, he swallowed the acidic substance, bringing the sickness upon him again.
Every bone in his body shook from the booming voice, so close to him. “I was going to kill you. You deserve it for destroying my eye with that darkstone so long ago. But I've had a change of heart and to be honest, you amuse me. Besides, Dalari don’t have much meat on their bones and my stomach is already full. It's time you paid your debt.” The dragon secured the blackened dagger with the tips of his talons and brought it out for the boy to see. Careful not to cut too deeply, he drug its tip across the boy's left shoulder, splitting the flesh with ease. Crimson blood spilled from the wound. He pricked the tip of his scaled finger, letting the blade cut into him. A single drop of his darkened red blood formed. He rubbed it into the wound, releasing the boy.
Demetrix felt a rush of energy flow through him. Lying on the forest floor he closed his eyes, unsure what was happening.
***
The smell of maple came to his nostrils. He shot up, sending the damp rag from his forehead.
“Easy lad. No need to be alarmed.” A frail old man sat across from the bed, weaving a sweater from gray yarn.
“Where am I?” He cautiously looked around the cabin. It was cozy but small. An iron kettle steamed inches away from the fireplace, radiating the sweet scent throughout the hovel. Daylight peered through the single window, illuminating the entire room.
“Nearest town is Farodun. Three days west. But I’d recommend you regain your strength before you make any trips.” He worked the needles, refusing to look up. “Got some oats ready if you’re hungry.”
He locked eyes on the kettle, feeling his stomach rumble at the thought of food. “Yes, thank you. How’d I get here?” He twisted, setting his bare feet on the cold wooden floor.
The old man laid the incomplete sweater down, and grabbed two wooden bowls. Ladling a scoop into each one, he placed them on the table and poured a couple tankards of milk. “I was on my way home from a trade run when you wandered out of the woods. You were staggering every which way and clearly suffering from dehydration. You collapsed when you reached the road. I couldn’t rightly leave you there, not with bandits on the loose and all. So I loaded you up and brought you here. That was three days ago.” Taking a seat, he slid the milk to the far side of the table, gesturing toward the empty chair. “How old are you, boy? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Not to worry boy. We’ll find your folks. Until then you’re welcome to stay here. It’s been ages since I last had company. Truth be told, I tend to get a little grouchy in the solitude.” He chuckled, slurping a spoonful of the soggy oats. “You got a name?”
He sat in silence, trying to recall any memory that could answer the question. A cascade of tears started down his cheeks. He tried hiding the evidence of fear but it wouldn’t be staunched. “I-- I don’t remember.”
Seeing the boy’s obvious fear, he stood, placing his hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, son. Fear's nothing to be ashamed of. It’s how you overcome it that defines you. Since you can’t recall your name, we’ll just have to give you one until yours returns to you. Any ideas?”
The young man gently shook his head.
“Well then-- I’ve always been fond of Kane. You think that’ll suit you for the time being?”
Sobbing his agreement, he took a bite of the food, feeling his taste buds explode with sensation of flavor.
***
Sweat poured off his brow in the noonday sun. He lifted the wooden handles and pushed the strange cart through the field. The blade at the base sliced through the loose dirt, leaving it churned up for seeding. The first time he’d tried using the plow, he wasn’t able to make a single pass. Now he could cover two complete fields before he had to rest.
“Kane, dinner’s ready!”
He finished the row before pulling the blade from the dirt. Propping it upright, he grabbed his white tunic from the edge of the fence. Rinsing his hands and face in the water trough, he shook the excess off and pulled the tunic overhead. “The plow's pulling left again. I think I need to sharpen the blade.”
“You already sharpened it twice this week. Much more and there won’t be enough to get us past the harvest.” He chuckled at the young man's initiative. It was refreshing to see someone who worked as hard as he, without ever asking for reward.
“Forgive me, I hadn’t thought about that.” He gathered his bowl and took a seat, digging in before he fully sat down.
“Don’t be absurd. There’s no need to ask forgiveness. Without you, I’d still be breaking up the dirt with a shovel. I think three fields in one season is more than enough to cover a new plow should we need.”
A smile breached his lips with the old man’s praise. He liked him. He was funny and always knew how to lighten the mood. “Hey, Mortimus?”
“I’ve already told you, I can’t dress as the scarecrow and wait for the neighbors to pass by. They won’t fall for it a third time.” He smiled, taking a seat. “What’s up?”
“I was stacking hay in the loft earlier today. I moved one of the bails and found a doorway leading into a room between the walls. I didn’t go in but there looked to be a bunch of armor and weapons in there.” He stared at the old man with curiosity.
“I thought this day might come. I guess I’ll have to leave in the mid of night and find another rundown farm to call home for the next thirty years.” Me smiled slowly, betraying his ruse. “I’m just kiddin’. Finish your dinner and I show the remnants of a time long past.”
The next morning they made their way to the barn and climbed into the loft.
Mortimus strained against the stiff wooden door. Pulling it free, he climbed down the ladder and disappeared inside the hidden room. Moments later, a soft glow radiated from the hole.
Kane watched from the top. The old man came into sight, holding a weathered lantern.
“Come on down. Nothin' but spiders and history down here.”
“Which one are you?” He couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't often he was able to make a joke before his friend.
“Very funny. Just because I'm fuzzy doesn't mean I'm a spider. And as far as history-- well just say they don't make things like they use to.”
The boy climbed down the ladder, lost in the sight of the treasures within. Every wall was covered with weapons of various design and uses. Many of them, he couldn’t begin to guess what they were called. A suit of armor stood in the corner, position upon a stand. The once polished steel was coated with thick layers of dust from time and neglect. It stood over the room like a watchful protector, ready to strike at the first sign of trouble. The shelf beside it was full of glass vials of several colored liquids and scrolls, cataloged by a different colored wax seals. He spotted a wooden plaque mounted to the walk. Inspecting it closer, he noticed the tarnished gold etched into the carved words. In honor of commendable service to the crown, Sir Mortimus, Paladin of Corin, is recognized as Protector of the Realm and granted deed to one thousand acres of uninhabited land within the kingdom of Kaladrum. King Renair Kaldum the thirteenth.
“It was a long time ago. I grew tired of fighting other men’s battles. When my wife and children were murdered as a way to get back at my king, I retired, letting my reputation die in absence. I haven’t looked upon this armor in over thirty years.”
Noticing a large sword standing beside the plaque, Kane approached and ran his finger down the etching in the blade. He couldn’t read the letters but somehow knew what it said. “Kane?”
Mortimus turned around, looking at the young man, lost in the runes upon the blade. He gave a gentle smile. “It seems she’s tired of being cooped up in this room. Pick her up.”
He looked from the sword to the man, wondering how he was going to lift such a heavy weapon. It appeared to weigh more than him. Finding reassurance on his friend's face, he grabbed the handguard and pulled the sword from its stand. To his surprise it weighed little more than a broom. How can something so large weigh so little?
“If you’re interested, I could teach you a thing or two.”
He smiled, unable to hide his excitement. Extending the sword, he tried to hand it to the old man.
“She’s no longer bound to me. Only the true owner can read the words inscribed upon the blade. She belongs in service to an honorable man. I lost that privilege when I locked her up in this room.”
***
The town was much larger than he’d expected. People rushed in all directions, tending to the duties of their various lives. They didn’t pay him any attention and he didn’t feel comfortable approaching them. He studied their faces. I wonder if any of them were my family before I met Mortimus? How would I recognize them, even if they were? I guess it doesn't matter. Mortimus searched for years with no success. We've visited every town for a week in each direction. If I have a family, they either don’t care about me, or they're further away than we can go. Shaking the thought from his head, he passed by one of the larger buildings, listening to the commotion within. He looked up at the wooden sign posted above the door. The Inn of the Drunken Monkey. He smiled. I've never been in a pub, but all the best stories seemed to start in them. Quickly tying the mule to the hitching post, he made sure the supplies were covered and secured before stepping through the magical doors.
The stench of pipe smoke burned his nose but it was nothing he couldn’t tolerate. Several people occupied the large room. Most sat around tables, sharing their joy with their companions. Others took seat at the bar, resting their rear ends against the rickety stools. A handful of attractive women rushed around the room, serving drinks and collecting coin. He carefully made his way to one of the empty tables and took a seat.
The patrons didn’t seem to care about the mass of people within earshot. They spoke freely, letting their opinions and ramblings of politicians fill the room. A select few clung to the topic of current events. It seemed an unknown assassin was at large, bringing his suspected death count to just under sixty. His listening was interrupted by one of the pretty women approaching him.
“What can I get for ya, doll?” She gave a slight bow, exposing her overfilled
bosom to the young man.
“I-- um-- I’ll try an ale.” He blushed, unsure how he should respond to her action.
“Comin’ right up, sweety.” She spun around and disappeared through the crowd.
He tried to find the man talking about the murders, but he seemed to have left during his distraction. He waited for her to return with his drink. Handing her a couple copper pieces, he tipped the wooden mug back, taking a long draw. The sour concoction burned his tongue and threatened to dislodge his lunch. Spitting the disgusting liquid on the floor, he jumped up and rushed out the door, hoping to wash away the taste with his waterskin.
Kane busted through the door. The bright sunlight burned spots into his vision. He hadn’t realized how dark the pub actually was until he left. Approaching the cart, he felt his anger rise with the sight. The spotted fur hide he'd used to cover the supplies was lying roughly on the ground. The cart was near empty, only the most mundane of items remained. Picking up hide tarp, he wadded it up and threw it in the cart. I was in there for no more than twenty minutes --I hate this place.” His head hung low, he untied the mule and started for home. Mortimus is going to be so disappointed in me!
Night was falling on the last leg of the three day trip. It seemed to take forever. Not only was he growing hungry from the lack of food, but the knowing failure he had to offer was eating at him. It also didn't help that his mind was playing tricks on him. That's the third time I've passed that fence post. But that's impossible. I know the way home. Mortimus made sure I knew it. He wouldn't have let me come otherwise. I guess this just proves I wasn't ready for it. “Screw this.” He pulled the mule to the side of the road and tied it to the post. Unpacking his tattered sleeping bag, he rolled it out along the small wagon and got comfortable.