Dragon Stones (Book One in the Dragon Stone Saga)

by Kristian Alva

  “Now, your grandmother was a fiery one! She spent time in Mount Velik during the Orc Wars. That was many years ago. She was one of the best healers we had—she saved many lives, human and dwarves alike. During one battle, I took a crushing blow to my left shoulder. Although my chainmail saved me, many bones were broken underneath. Carina set the bones and healed me; I was back in the fight the next day. She had a true gift, that one.”

  “My grandmother fought in the Orc Wars?” asked Elias, incredulous.

  “Yes, and the Dragon Wars, too. She fought the empire for most of her life.” Thorin sat back and puffed his pipe wistfully. “What a woman! It’s a shame she’s gone, lad. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” said Elias. He was genuinely surprised that Thorin knew so much about his grandmother. It seemed as if Thorin was talking about a stranger. “What about the story of the dagger?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, as I said, your grandmother was highly regarded by our people. During the Dragon Wars, the emperor accused the dwarves of harboring fugitive dragon riders. It wasn’t true, but it was an excuse to attack us. My people fought back, withdrawing into Mount Velik. Vosper tried repeatedly to overtake the mountain, but he never succeeded. Eventually we prevailed, but we lost many good men. During the war, your grandmother saved the life of Dracan Lindisfarne, who was the only son of Hergung Lindisfarne, a clan king. Hergung honored her, and she was given this dagger as a gift. Hergung went on to become the leader of all the dwarf clans.”

  Thorin flipped the blade in the palm, “This knife never needs sharpening, and it can never be forcibly taken from you, except by someone who shares your bloodline.”

  “But Thorin, I handed the blade to you, and nothing happened.”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to steal it!” said Thorin, wagging his finger at the boy. “The blade knows.”

  “But how?” asked Elias.

  “Magic, my boy. How else? Treasure it. It may save your life someday.” Thorin handed the blade back to Elias.

  “I wish I understood what was going on. I haven’t had time to think—when I ran from the village, it was like a dream. I’ve never seen my grandmother do anything but healing spells. But today, she killed all those soldiers! I heard her yelling—but not in fear. She mocked them, even! Then I heard explosions and smelled smoke.”

  “Your grandmother was gifted with healing spells, but she picked up other spells here and there. One of our dwarf mages, Arik, was infatuated with her, and taught her many incantations.” Thorin’s voice dropped and he cupped his hand to Elias’ ear in a embarrassed whisper. “It’s unseemly for dwarves and humans to carry on like that, but everyone knew that Arik was madly in love with your grandmother. Nothing ever came of it, though—she wouldn’t have him, either because he was a dwarf, or because she was already in love with your grandfather.”

  “You knew my grandfather? I never met him. He died before I was born.”

  “Yes, I met him, but only briefly. He was one of the other healers; a human mage like your grandmother. He died during the war. By then, your grandmother was already pregnant with your mother.” At that, Thorin grew quiet.

  “My mother… I don’t remember anything about her. Did you know her, too?” asked Elias.

  “No… not really. After your grandfather’s death, Carina left Mount Velik. She was pregnant with your mother, Ionela. I only met your mother once—and only briefly. I don’t remember much about her, I’m afraid.” Thorin paused. “Your grandmother suffered a great deal. First, she lost her husband, then her daughter. I’m sure she sacrificed herself for you because she couldn’t bear the possibility of losing you, too.”

  Elias choked back tears. He decided to change the subject. “So… how did you know about the dragon stone?”

  “During the Dragon Wars, most of the riders went missing. The majority were executed, but some defected to the other side, to fight alongside the emperor. These traitors were promised many things, including wealth and prestige. But in the end, they were all betrayed—after the war, the emperor killed all the dragons and their riders, even those who fought for him.”

  “Why does the emperor hate dragons so much?” asked Elias.

  “It’s not hate, lad. It’s fear. Fear of the prophesy.”

  “How come I’ve never heard of the prophesy?”

  “Each race on Durn has its own books of prophesy,” explained Thorin. “Vosper burned most of them, but he can’t access our libraries. In our book, the Kynn Oracle, it states that the emperor will eventually be slain by a dragon and his rider. So the emperor has done everything to try and eliminate the threat. When he burned Aonach Tower years ago, the vast libraries of the mage guilds were lost. But we dwarves have our own libraries. Our history remains unbroken. The elves have their own libraries, too.”

  “So now only the dwarves and the elves know about the prophesy?”

  “No. Many do—it’s only that the emperor has tried to keep it a secret. Even the orcs have an oracle.”

  “The orcs? Really? I thought they were just mindless savages.”

  “Savages, yes. But mindless, no. Orcs have their own myths and history, although it is unwritten. They have an oral tradition instead. Their teachings are passed down through the alpha males of each tribe. It has been thus for thousands of years.”

  “How come I never learned any of this? And how do you know so much?”

  “Boy—I’m a lot older than I look.” Thorin winked. “As for learning—well, the emperor works hard to keep his citizens ignorant.”

  “Why is the emperor doing this? Why doesn’t he just leave the dragons alone?”

  “The emperor is mad, and power-hungry. Vosper’s necromancers have learned how to extend his life and increase his powers. He has stopped aging. He is like a dwarf—he could live for hundreds of years. Vosper grows stronger with each passing cycle.”

  “Did the dwarves fight against the emperor during the Dragon War?”

  “Aye. We remained neutral for a time, choosing to wait. But then Vosper attacked one of the dwarvish cities in the west, razing it to the ground. We joined the fight after that. Thousands of dwarves died during the war, and the emperor drove us all into Mount Velik. Forced to work together, all the dwarf clans fought side-by-side. He could not defeat all of us. The emperor was never able to take the mountain. In the end, it was a stalemate. We stayed in the mountain, and the emperor retreated back to his capital.”

  “Do all the dwarves live in Mount Velik?”

  “Most of us do. Mount Velik is our last stronghold. There are some clans that have chosen to venture out again, and there is even a small dwarf outpost near the Death Sands. We do a fair amount of trade with King Mitca.”

  Elias fell silent. This information seemed unreal—dwarves, orcs, dragons—it was too much for his mind to digest. He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, shivering as a gust of wind entered the cave. He wished he’d never found the dragon stone in the first place.

  Thorin sat back, contentedly smoking his pipe. His hand touched his head again, feeling a bump that had risen when he fell from the tree. “Ouch,” he winced. The spot was a purple, like a robin’s egg.

  Elias reached out and touched the spot on Thorin’s forehead with a glowing finger. “Stay still. I will heal it for you.” Elias closed his eyes, absorbed in the spell. “Curatio!” The bump started to shrink, and the bruise dissipated. A few minutes later, it was gone. The effort tired him, and Elias sunk to the ground, exhausted. It had been a very long day.

  Thorin felt the spot, amazed to find the bump healed. “Nice job, boy. I’m much obliged.” He smiled, “You’ve definitely got your grandmother’s gift.

  “Thanks,” smiled Elias. “I’m glad you’re here, Thorin. Even if I can’t tell what’s going on.”

  “Everything will soon be clear, lad. Go to sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”

  The fire was warm, and the sweet aroma of the smokeleaf was comforting. Elias was asleep within minut
es.

  ***

  Chapter 7: Jutland

  The next morning was freezing cold, but clear. Thorin awoke before dawn and boiled some chicory root, making a delicious hot beverage for both of them. “Here you go, boy. Drink this up; it will warm your bones.” Thorin handed Elias half a cold biscuit and a steaming cup of root coffee.

  “Thanks.” Elias accepted the tin cup gratefully. “This smells wonderful.”

  “Drink up. We have a long distance to cover. First, we’ll buy you a horse in Jutland. Then we’ll travel to the Elder Willow.”

  “How long will it take for us to reach the Elder Willow?” asked Elias.

  “On horseback? At least a fortnight. Maybe longer. It’s at the eastern edge of the forest. We’ll have to cross Orvasse River, too.”

  “Orvasse River! I’ve never traveled so far east. ”

  “There’s a first time for everything, boy. After that, I expect that I’ll be taking you back with me to Mount Velik, which is in the north, past the emperor’s palace. We’ll have to be very careful near Morholt.”

  “We’re going to the capital?”

  “No, we’ll be going around it. I’m not sure if we’ll be following the coast or travelling inland. Either way, it’s a dangerous journey. Get used to travelling, lad—you’re in for an adventure.” Thorin smiled, but his eyes were serious. They finished the rest of their breakfast in silence, and then Elias scattered the evidence of their fire and covered the coals with dirt. As they exited the cave, Elias noticed Duster grazing on a stubborn patch of grass. Thorin placed their packs on Duster’s back, and they were off.

  Both of them walked, with Duster trotting happily behind. Their pace was brisk. Elias warmed up quickly. After a few hours, he so hot that he had to remove his cloak. They didn’t stop for lunch—they ate cold rabbit and drank water along the way.

  Thorin hummed old dwarvish songs most of the time. Elias understood a few words here and there—remnants of the old language that pervaded the speech of every race on the continent. Sometimes Thorin talked about the history of the dwarves and their accomplishments. It was interesting, if nothing else. Elias had never met another dwarf, and Thorin’s stories seemed supernatural. From the stories, Elias deduced that Thorin was at least a hundred years old. He wanted to ask his age, but he wasn’t sure if it was impolite to do so.

  While he was growing up, Elias prodded his grandmother for information, and she was always reluctant to give it. Thorin spoke freely of his people and his grandmother’s exploits. It seemed incredible that he was talking about the same person—Elias never imagined that his quiet grandmother had such a wild history.

  The trees grew sparser as the afternoon wore on, and eventually they arrived at a clearing at the top of a hill. In the distance, Elias could see the city of Jutland on the horizon. The city appeared larger than he remembered.

  “There she is, boy. Old Jutland. Looks pretty much the same as I remember. The walls are taller; and they’ve replaced the old wooden drawbridge for an iron gate. Everyone is more cautious, it seems. I’ll put on my hood and ride Duster into the city. Although it’s not unheard of for a dwarf to be travelling this far south, it’s best if we avoid attracting any unnecessary attention.” Thorin mounted Duster and tucked his long beard inside his cloak. Riding on the pony, it was difficult to determine Thorin’s height, and with his beard hidden away, he didn’t look much different from anyone else coming into the city.

  A few hours later, they arrived at the city gate and got in line behind a slew of merchants and peasants wandering into the city.

  Thorin whispered, “Listen boy, if anyone asks, my name’s Brand and you’re my son, Tyr. We’re here to buy a horse—no reason to lie about that. Keep your story simple and you’re less likely to stumble on a lie. Keep your hood on—it will help conceal your appearance, and it won’t seem odd because it’s cold.” Elias nodded.

  They reached the city gates just after sunset. As they approached the gate, Elias became nervous. He couldn’t help it. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Two watchmen stood at the gate. “What business do you have in Jutland?” asked the skinny guard, who had greasy hair and several missing teeth.

  “We’ve come to Jutland to purchase a horse,” answered Thorin.

  The watchman eyed them both. He spotted Thorin’s ornate iron brooch, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Where are you coming from?” asked the watchman, this time with interest.

  “We’ve travelled from Gardarsholm.”

  “Humph. That’s a long way to travel for a horse. Why didn’t ye just go to the city of Faerroe? It’s a lot closer.”

  “There’s a horse breeder I trust here—Everyone knows that Faerroe is full of cheats and thieves, and I don’t want to buy an animal just to have it die on the way home!” spat Thorin. He pounded his fist into his palm for good measure.

  “What’s the name of your breeder friend?” asked the guard in one final attempt to trip him up.

  “His name’s Floki Revansson,” replied Thorin calmly.

  The guard was satisfied and waved them in. “Go ahead, then. But stay out of trouble while you’re here. I’ve got a funny feelin’ about both of ye!” The guard wagged his finger accusingly.

  As soon as they were inside the city walls, Elias expelled a huge breath. “That was close!” he whispered.

  “Aye. They’re askin’ a lot of questions. Everyone’s on edge. There’s something afoot. We’d better get your horse and leave as soon as possible. I’d hoped to spend at least a day in the city and partake of some ale and hearty food, but we shouldn’t risk it. That’s a shame, because there are quite a few nice eateries in Jutland.”

  “So you’ve been here before?” asked Elias. “You knew the name of a horse breeder.”

  “Yes, I’ve visited Jutland a few times. Floki Revansson is my cousin. We were raised together. He’s a half-ling—his mother was human and his father was a dwarf. He’s a gifted breeder—he raises some of the best livestock outside of Mount Velik. My clan would gladly have him, but Floki prefers to live with humans.”

  They walked to the heart of the city. Beggars and cart merchants lined the streets. A toothless woman sold black bread from the back of a donkey cart, and another farmer sold bags of dried corn on the roadside. The streets were full of litter. Elias couldn’t believe how dirty the city was.

  “Don’t they ever clean the streets?” asked Elias.

  “The city square looks worse than I remember. Keep walking. Floki’s house is in the north part of town.”

  They continued to walk north, and the neighborhood improved. The beggars disappeared. As the last of the light vanished, they found themselves before Floki’s shop. A weathered sign hung from iron rings above. It said ‘Revansson’ and displayed a carved image of a horse.

  “This must be it,” said Elias.

  “Yes, I remember the sign. It’s a good thing, too—all the other businesses have shut their doors for the night, and the streets are dark. I’m glad we found it.” Thorin walked up to the door and pounded the knocker. “Ho, ho there! Open up!” He continued to bang on the door for several minutes.

  “What the blazes? Come back tomorrow! We’re closed!” The door flung open, and a short man greeted them with a scowl.

  “What, you don’t have time for an old friend?” Thorin removed his hood and winked.

  A look of shocked recognition passed over Floki’s face. “Thorin? Is that you?” he whispered.

  “One in the same!” Thorin hopped off of Duster’s back and grabbed Floki in a rough embrace. “How are you, cousin?”

  “What a surprise!” said Floki, with a wide grin. Then he whispered, “Let’s chat inside. It’s not safe to talk out in the open.” He ushered Thorin and Elias into the house, which was richly furnished and spotless. “I’ll have my son put Duster in our stables for the night.” Floki pointed a finger at his son, about eleven, and the boy jumped up immediately and grabbed Duster’s reins.

  “Y
es, father?” asked the boy.

  “Parvel, make sure that the pony is fed. Don’t dawdle. Come back inside as quickly as possible.” The boy nodded and disappeared, leading Duster to the stable behind the house.

  Thorin marveled at the boy. “This is Parvel? Amazing how times flies. Last time I saw you, he was just a babe.”

  “Yes, he’s grown up fine and strong. We’ve recently had another child; this is my daughter, Molly.” Floki pointed at a chubby brown-haired baby playing with a ragdoll in the middle of the floor. She giggled, revealing a single tooth. “My wife, Halda, is outside gathering firewood. She’ll be back in a moment. Why don’t you both sit down?”

  Thorin and Elias walked into the cozy living room. It was tiny, but warm and inviting. “So… who’s your friend?” asked Floki, nodding at Elias.

  “This is Elias, grandson of Carina Dorgumir. We’re travelling together, and Elias needs a mount. I’m hoping to buy one of your fine horses—at a good price, of course.”

  “Grandson of Carina, eh? I knew something of your grandmother, boy. She’s a legend,” said Floki.

  “Really?” asked Elias, still surprised that so many people knew his grandmother.

  “Yes, really. Your grandmother saved my father’s life. She saved him more than once, actually. Both of my parents died fighting in the Dragon War. I was raised by Thorin’s clan. We grew up as brothers.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” said Elias. “Why did you leave Mount Velik?”

  Thorin answered. “Even though my clan treated Floki like family, the other clans don’t take kindly to half-lings. They’re discriminated against.”

  “Yes,” nodded Floki. “I got tired of being treated like an outsider. I could always pass as human, so I left the mountain as soon as I was old enough to find a mate. I wandered the countryside for a bit, and I finally met Halda,” said Floki.

  “So your wife is human?” asked Elias.

  “My wife is one-quarter dwarf—she’s a quarter-ling. Her grandmother was a dwarf. Once we found each other, we got married and settled in Jutland. I started breeding horses. Business is steady, so we’ve been here ever since.”