Quest Of The Dragon Tamer (Book 1)

by Cole Pain

  Their horses heaved deep snorts as they began to climb the steep terrain. The rocky ground soon changed to a lush landscape where red-leaf ferns and silk-leaf trees swayed gently in the breeze.

  The Cliffs never lacked water, the Old Sea sending mist and light rain almost every day. The plants surviving on top of the Cliffs thrived in rocky soil and continuous drizzle. Michel recognized many of them.

  Galvin slowed and dismounted.

  Michel frowned. “We aren’t near the camp, Galvin.”

  “I know, but we need to ride in with our full wits about us.”

  Michel understood. Now that the swordsman had seen the area and listened to the eerie trill, he wanted to access any unforeseen dangers before moving forward. Michel liked that about Galvin. The soft-spoken swordsman was never taken off guard.

  Michel dismounted and reached inside his pack for some dried meat. He wasn’t hungry, but he needed something to do. He disliked waiting even more than endings. When he turned back to Galvin, he found the swordsman studying him.

  “There’s one thing I can’t figure.”

  Michel cocked an eyebrow, curious. “That is?”

  “You left Stardom taking nothing but your name. Why didn’t you take her with you?”

  Michel blinked in shock before he smiled. “You were there?”

  “No,” Galvin said, “but the men still talk.”

  Michel had suspected as much. “If I had taken Renee, Wyrick would have followed. He had first rights.”

  Galvin didn’t speak for a short time. Michel tensed, fearing the question he knew would come.

  “How is it Ren is so much like you and nothing like Wyrick?”

  Michel forced his face into a mask of stone. “Good blood.”

  Galvin broke out into a rare grin. The silver teardrop on the loop encircling his ear shivered as he chuckled. “Good blood,” he repeated before turning serious again. “You never married?”

  Michel tore off a piece of meat, wondering if Galvin would give the underlying question voice. “No, never married. You?”

  Galvin pointed to the silver teardrop. “No. Many feel my vow rash, but until you I’ve never witnessed anything that would cause me to think marriage would be anything but trouble. What you and Renee have is rare.”

  The feeling he would never see her again stole over Michel like a shadow. “I know.”

  “You’re a rare man, Michel. You love yet you don’t take. You’re taken from yet you don’t ask for anything in return.” The dark eyes of the swordsman softened as if already aware of his sacrifice.

  Michel released a breath. “But I did, Galvin. I took everything.”

  Galvin remained silent, appraising him. “In the end, Michel, only in the end.” Galvin shook his head and turned to check his horse.

  Michel hoped Galvin was right. He hoped he would have everything in the end. The shadow danced over him again, brushing his heart with ice-cold fingertips. Michel sat where he stood, not bothering to seek shelter from the mist. The drizzle suited his feelings.

  The distant howl of the Cliffs distressed him even more. It was a constant presence, too far away to be worth pondering but too disturbing to disregard. Michel wondered if that was the way Tol felt with the silver band off his head.

  Galvin shifted, absently brushing his broadsword. Michel rubbed his arms and listened to the distant howl, sensing Galvin’s concern to hurry back to Ren. He felt the same. Ren was a like a magnet drawing the course of the world along with him. Ren didn’t have to find anything. Things would find him. Michel wanted to be there when they did.

  Galvin stood. “Ready.”

  It was more of a statement than a question, and Michel didn’t bother to reply. Soon they were riding through the trees with hurried caution. Michel had to commend Ista: she had picked the one place in the Lands few would ever approach. Not only were the Cliff’s howls uncanny, but the mist was maddening, and stories of the wolven sparked terror into the bravest of hearts. Michel almost expected to see one of the two-headed wolves rise before him, but none appeared.

  Galvin slowed and motioned him ahead, dark eyes disturbed. Michel moved beside him and saw a well-worn path in the dense forest. Although it was muggy, Michel shivered. It was the path Ista had used for almost four centuries.

  Once the horses slowed he could hear the whispering howls of the Cliffs with more intensity. Michel drew his sword, more for comfort than protection. Beside him he heard the “swish” of Galvin’s battle-ax. At least he wasn’t the only one on edge.

  The path was deep, almost a trench, with scant water standing in its center. When they turned a slight bend, the path split in two directions. The main path was clear, and Michel pressed forward.

  The stench caught them before they broke through the trees. Michel’s stomach tightened into knots, unsure if he would be able to keep down the small amount of meat he had eaten. They heard the slight undercurrent of humming.

  “Death,” Galvin said.

  Michel nodded, suddenly wondering why he had volunteered to come. As the path widened, the silk-woods cleared and Michel spotted the overhanging rock Tol had described as his home. It was sheltered from the naked eye by thick red maples and dogwood. Ironically, the setting was beautiful. The pink and white dogwoods stood in stark contrast to the red maple.

  But as they approached the humming amplified, and the stench became even more profound.

  Michel tore a piece of cloth from his mount’s blanket and covered his nose. The smell of the horse’s sweat did more good than the cloth, but nothing could shelter the stench from filtering in.

  After looping his reins around a low branch Michel dismounted and cautiously approached the overhang. The droning grew louder until it became one continuous ringing in his ears. Even the sweat of the horse was useless to combat the smell. He kept the cloth over his nose anyway, as if breathing the air would somehow taint him. Michel tensed before he stepped around the rock, trying to prepare himself for whatever sight he was about to see.

  But nothing could have prepared him. His insides shook with revulsion and he quickly looked away. Flies pelted his arms and face like drops of rain. He shook them off, disgusted, and turned back to the abomination. Galvin whispered an oath behind him.

  There were seven small boys lying against the far wall, their legs chained to large spikes in the ground. A swarm of flies buzzed around the bodies, feasting on the exposed flesh. Beside the children were five older women, all with only one foot, but there was little left of them. Their skin hung in shreds from where the children had stripped off meat to survive. One of the cripples was clearly with child. Michel swallowed in horror, Ista’s scheme all too clear. She crippled women with the power. In her eyes women were weak, only good for childbearing. The boys with the power were the ones she trained. They were now the Collective, stationed across the Lands answering her call.

  The children hadn’t died of hunger. They had died of disease and lack of water. There were a few overturned buckets beside them. Water had been supplied, but it was gone. Anger surged inside him. Rain was plentiful in the Cliffs. How the children must have felt to sit under the overhang and watch the misty rain outside, rain they desperately needed but couldn’t reach.

  “Fates,” Michel whispered in abhorrence.

  Galvin surveyed the children with a dark look. “Ista deserves every death she finds in this war.”

  Michel nodded, noting the swordsman’s dark eyes didn’t miss anything that moved, even the slightest rustle of leaves.

  Michel forced his mind on the task at hand and appraised the overhang. At the back was an entrance to a deeper cavern. Michel drew a hesitant breath and ran through the darkened air, unnerved by the incessant droning, and broke though to a smaller chamber. Wind billowed down from above, taking most of the stench with it. Michel lowered the cloth. An overhead broken section of rock allowed scant light into the chamber, but it was more than enough to inspect the room’s contents.

  A lone shelf he
ld a few books. Full bags rested below the shelf, some large, others smaller than a traveling pouch. A broken mirror was propped against a far corner, a poorly made chair sitting before it. A crude bed sat to the left of the chair, and a long, stone slab stood in the center of the chamber and dominated the room. As Michel approached the slab, he noticed the bloodstains. Somehow they looked more ominous than the children. Michel recalled Tol’s words. “She kills all of them without magic, first thing.”

  Galvin stooped beside the bags.

  “Careful,” Michel cautioned.

  “Dirt,” Galvin declared as he peered into the first bag.

  Michel reached in, scooped up a handful and held it up to the light. The grain sparkled silver. “Magic dirt, Galvin. Silver dust.”

  Galvin looked a little uneasy as he went to the next bag. Michel untied a large burlap sack from his belt and shoved some books inside. His skin crawled as he did so, as if the books were stained with Ista’s sins, but as he surveyed the titles one appeared to be a basic training book of the Quy.

  “There’s black sand also. Is that different from silver?”

  Michel shoved the last of the books into the sack. “Yes. It can do different things. See if there’s any white sand as well.”

  Galvin went back to the bags as Michel circled the room, looking for anything else Ista might have left. He looked at the lone bed and thought of Tol. No wonder the boy almost worshiped Renee. He had been denied every comfort until he arrived at Stardom.

  He bent to lift the bed, wanting to assure himself nothing lay hidden underneath. When he straightened, his back hit the stone slab and he felt something touch his right elbow. Galvin said he found some white sand just as a small vial, previously bathed in shadow, hit the floor. The glass burst, releasing the liquid it contained. A baby’s scream echoed around them. Galvin spun, holding some of the white sand in his palm, a strange look on his face. Michel’s throat constricted – something was wrong. Looking down at the broken vial, his vision blurred.

  “Michel? Did you hear that?”

  When Michel looked back at Galvin he saw the strange look again. Some white sand trickled from his palm and twirled around him in a hazy cloud. When their eyes met, Michel knew Galvin felt it too –evil.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Galvin slapped the back of his neck. White sand spun around him, marring his black tunic.

  Michel bent to pick up two bags of sand before jogging down the corridor. Galvin already had four bags thrown over his shoulder. As soon as they left the small chamber the stench impaled them, but Michel didn’t bother to put the cloth over his nose. He could almost feel the hands of hate reaching out to claim him.

  A distant echo of howls reached their ears, but it wasn’t the trill of the Cliffs. Galvin turned to him, dark eyes intense. “Wolven.”

  Galvin broke into a run. Michel followed, jumping on his horse and slashing the reins with his sword. His mount needed no encouragement. The horse sprang forward, instinctively reaching for the light of day.

  The wolven’s howls were getting closer. Michel spun in the saddle, almost feeling their hot breath on his neck.

  The trees of the Cliffs provided plenty of shade. The wolven could attack at any time of day here. He leaned down, giving his horse free rein, sending a silent prayer to the Maker that the edge of the Cliffs would come quickly.

  Just as he heard the wolven beside him, he broke through the trees and fled down a steep path into bright sunlight. He had never been so glad to see the sun. It beat down unmercifully, but he welcomed it. Soon the trill of the Cliffs and the howls of the wolven were just a distant memory. When he finally slowed, Galvin rode to flank him. White sand still clung to his eyelashes.

  Michel breathed in deep, desperate to rid his body of the smell and taste of death, but he knew it was too much to wish for. The memory of the camp would never leave him.

  - - -

  Bentzen’s voice droned on in the darkness, reciting the legend of the Avenger by memory. It had been his favorite as a child. Although the Avenger was death, he was also righteous judgment. Tol sat with eyes wide and mouth open in rapt attention. Tol’s mind was like a sponge. He absorbed information within heartbeats and was willing and able to soak up much more.

  They had ridden until well past dark, all anxious to reach Ketes as quickly as possible. They decided not to bother with either a bath or a hot meal. They managed to pool enough dried fruit from their pouches to satisfy their grinding hunger. Perhaps in a few days he would feel safe enough to take the time to catch a rabbit for a stew. Until then they would push on.

  Tol’s fruit lay untouched beside him. Renee kept shooing the flies away. Tol barely noticed, his mind wrapped up in the story of the Avenger.

  Bentzen leaned against his pack and delayed the story’s end for as long as possible. He enjoyed teaching Tol. The boy was remarkable. Even after the horrors Tol had witnessed the boy always aimed to please. Bentzen knew part of that obedience stemmed from the needles, but although Tol understood Ista couldn’t harm him, he exerted all his energy even in the smallest task assigned.

  When the story was complete Bentzen smiled at Tol’s astonished expression.

  “That really happens?”

  Bentzen nodded, heart warming. “That really happens.”

  Marva’s eyes widened with childlike wonder. “Just think, Tol, he might even be here now.”

  Tol remained transfixed. “I’d like to be the Avenger, to kill those who hurt.”

  Renee eyes flickered with worry as she pulled Tol into her lap. He snuggled close as she fussed with his hair.

  Just imagining the torture Tol had endured enraged Bentzen. A child was defenseless, trusting in those older to provide love and affection. When affection was denied it was unforgivable. Tol had not only been denied, he had also been asked to hurt others.

  Bentzen tossed another stick on the fire and watched the flames flicker to new heights. He never dreamed his rage could ascend past the anger he held for his own father, but it had, with Ista it had.

  As Tol sat in Renee’s arms, so open and innocent, Bentzen’s chest filled with new emotions. Tol had been through the abyss and back, but to be with him you would have never known. What had Bentzen done? He had been through his own perdition but he was beginning to think it was an abyss of his own making. If Tol could open up his heart and soul to the world after what he had experienced, why couldn’t Bentzen?

  Tol was everything Bentzen was not: open, happy, loving and eager to learn. Bentzen had been rebellious and angry. It was humbling to Bentzen. He needed to be more like Tol. Even though he was teaching Tol, the boy was also teaching him.

  Bentzen knew his heart was pure, and although he was inherently liked and held in high regard he never revealed his emotions. He was Bentzen, alone by choice. Duty was all he lived for.

  Bentzen thought about his childhood. He had held onto his anger for so long he didn’t know who he would be if he let it go. Why did Fate always hurt the innocent and leave the rest to be? Why did Fate always punish those she shouldn’t and not those she should? Why was Ista allowed to give pain to someone so defenseless, so innocent?

  The world didn’t make sense to Bentzen, and it never would. That was why he hid from the world. He didn’t want to know the world, and he didn’t want the world to know him.

  Now he felt that changing. He found himself laughing; he found himself giving; he found himself loving a child. And that child was stirring emotions inside him so quickly he couldn’t evaluate them fast enough.

  Bentzen ran his hands through his hair, undoing the small ponytail he always wore. The fire had dwindled so he threw a few more sticks on the flames and stood to gather more wood. He made a quick decision to keep the fire alive that night. They all needed its comfort. If Ista found them he would be ready. He would never let anyone hurt Tol again.

  He felt a gentle tug on his tunic and looked down to find Tol staring up at him.

  “What, li
ttle one?” he asked, ruffling Tol’s blond hair.

  Tol frowned. “Renee said I have to go to bed.”

  “Well, she’s the queen, and knights never question the queen.”

  Tol thought about Bentzen’s words before he smiled and reached out his arms. “Good night.”

  At first Bentzen didn’t understand what Tol wanted, but after another tug Bentzen knelt to Tol’s level. Tol wrapped his small arms around Bentzen’s neck before darting to his bedroll.

  Bentzen turned to the darkness, not wanting anyone to see the tears in his eyes. He stayed there for a time, ingraining his new emotions to memory. A whisper or two from Renee told him she was wishing Tol sweet dreams. Tol’s soft laughter filled the air as Bentzen went to gather more wood. Bentzen vowed once again nothing would ever harm the boy.

  When Bentzen finally lay down, he couldn’t go to sleep. He just stared up at the stars, thinking about how much his life had changed. He suddenly realized why Ren had put Tol in his care. Although Ren didn’t know Bentzen’s history or the reason behind his detachment, Bentzen knew Ren had sensed his distance long ago.

  When he had auditioned for the castle guard he had little or no weapons training. During the tryouts he had failed miserably at the scrimmages, but Ren had sensed something in him no one else had. Bentzen still didn’t know what that something was, nor did he care. Ren had helped him find dignity and pride in himself. That was all that mattered.

  Benton sighed and put his arms behind his head. It was a clear night, a fresh night. That was how Bentzen felt inside too. This was the start of a new life. Magic frightened him, but magic had brought Tol and a new beginning.

  “My prince,” he whispered, “thank you for giving me something I didn’t know I needed.”

  Then, in the starlight, Bentzen put his fist to his forehead and then to his heart.

  Chapter 15

  Ramie rode down the plank on his favorite steed, Mortar. Mortar was the fastest horse Ramie had ever seen, not to mention beautiful. His dark gray coat shone like polished silver. Ramie reached down and patted Mortar’s neck, whispering things he would rather not have his men hear. Although he longed to do things with an unconventional flair, he did not. His young age, along with his small stature, had forced him to become the model king. Appearances were everything, and as of yet no one had challenged his leadership.