Lord Owen managed to get to his feet only to see his horse take off running across the green grass, away from the forest. Sensing an opportunity, the fighter ran toward the dragon while its head was low to the ground as it ripped the once proud stallion to shreds with its fangs. Swinging his elegant blade, the baron’s protector hit the dragon’s right horn, shearing it completely off only a foot from its skull. The large horn fell to the ground, and the dragon raised its head high, roaring in pain and defiance.
The fighter held his ground, the only thing standing between the dragon and the homestead, but the man had never faced a creature of this size or deadliness. Without support, the brave defender could only watch in horror as the creature inhaled, preparing to exhale death upon the hapless human.
The dragon shouldn’t have been awake. It was the time of dreams, and she and her kind were supposed to be deep into a long slumber as they awaited the return of their queen. Somehow, the green dragon was awakened in mid-sleep, hungry and ravenous; it sought to feed, to provide itself with life by consuming the same. It did not expect to face such vicious opponents, and the blade and arrows were painful and potentially deadly.
Father Death, Dor Akun himself, however, had graced her kind with a special gift, one that allowed them to rise above mere combat with such mortals. He gave to her kind the breath of death, each of her mothers receiving that one special gift to lay waste to humanity every two centuries in the dance of death that Claire-Agon and Dor Akun played with one another. Against such an opponent, she would not risk herself further. Instead, she breathed.
Lord Owen had nowhere to go. Bravely, Baron Vulgrin’s protector was engulfed in the breath weapon of the great green dragon. He had lived his last and fell, sword beneath his body. When the cloud dissipated, the wild creature turned to look at the last fleeing soldier as he approached the inhabitants of the homestead near the woods.
Seeing the last defender fall and the last survivor running madly toward her, Emma found herself spurred into action. She stood suddenly, pushing her son to the ground and placing a foot on his chest. With her hands, she grabbed the large tin basin and held it on her knee above Elly. “No matter what you hear, do not leave and do not look, Elister. Do you hear me?”
His mother’s commands were unlike any the young boy had ever heard. He started to cry at the pressure that his mother’s shoe pressed upon his chest, and he struggled to breathe, never remembering a time that his mother had ever hurt him in such a manner. “But, Mother . . .”
“Swear it!” his mother said, and the sound of the dragon’s feet could be heard as they landed in rhythm, vibrating the very ground and increasing in tempo.
“I promise, Mother, I will—”
He never finished his sentence. Emma Brown dumped the water on her son and flipped the tin basin over, smashing it into the ground over him. The top hit his head, making him dizzy, and he luckily curled up his feet and brought his hands in toward his head reflexively in a defensive posture that saved his life.
Elly started to sob, hearing his mother placing the large washing stone on top of the tin basin, securing it over him. He stifled the urge to scream as the dragon roared, its muffled cry echoing off his tin prison, striking fear into his heart. The screams came, and he could never tell in his nightmares if they were from the soldier or his mother. They never diminished with age, and he never forgot.
Suddenly, all became eerily quiet. Elly didn’t dare do more than breathe softly and suppress his primal urges to scream and cry out. After what seemed to be a long moment, he heard the sound of sniffing followed by the ground vibrating and an odd but distinctive slithering noise that faded into the distance.
How long he lay there, in the dark, no light visible despite the overhead daytime sun, he did not know. He feared moving, remembering his mother’s last commands to him. How she had hurt him, forcing him to swear an oath the way she did. He was eight; he did not fully understand, and perhaps he never would. He could have stayed under that tin basin till he died, except for fate that dictated otherwise.
“Hello,” came a muffled voice that sounded friendly, yet was strange to his ears. It was not someone he knew. Not one of the other farmers or ranchers. Not one of the local officials who sometimes came to tax his family and take back their tribute to their baron and lord of their realm. No, this voice was different. This voice was inviting.
“Yes,” Elly said meekly from within his tin prison.
The sound of footsteps was barely audible as someone approached. “So you’re under here, are you? May I release you?”
Elly waited a long moment, wondering who or what could be standing just beside him. He didn’t want to see who it was. He was afraid, but the voice was so comforting. “I guess so.”
“All right then, let me move this scrub board and lift this basin off of you,” the voice said.
Elly heard the scrapping of stone on tin, and then the sucking sound of the tin’s outer lip being pulled from the soft ground. The sun had started to set, and it had been hours at least since the battle had finished. The light was so bright that it took a long moment for Elly’s eyes to adjust, and he could only hold an arm above his face and blink wildly to protect his vision. “Who are you?” he finally managed to say.
“My name is Greyson,” he said simply, taking a moment to offer his hand to the young boy.
Elly took it and stood, feeling his feet shake and his knees wobble as he struggled to gain his footing. The ground was damp, the water having long ago soaked into the ground. The boy blinked a few times, lowering his arm, and took in the scene with the old man who now stood in front of him.
The man had a brown burlap tunic and pants with brown leather boots. He had a staff that he was leaning on, made from what looked like a highly polished hardwood, oak or pine. The rock on top was nothing more than simple granite, and the man and his staff looked poor, for lack of a better word. His head was balding, a ring of white hair cresting around his dome, with a white beard, cut short and groomed to a point just below his chin.
“I’m Elly.”
“Nice to meet you, Elly,” the man said, smiling and placing a hand on his hip while he gripped his staff with the other, leaning forward, offering the boy his hand.
Elly wasn’t sure what to do with it, the gesture being meaningless to him, but he put his hand out, and the old man grabbed it and shook it and then released it. The boy felt the ritual was odd, to say the least. “Where’s my mother?” Elly asked.
The other man frowned and turned his head while his eyes looked toward the forest. Elly followed the old man’s gaze and saw what looked like a large brown cloak laid across something lying in the grass, halfway between them and the forest’s edge. Elly understood that the cloak belonged to the old man, but he didn’t understand why the man laid it there. He could see no sign of his mother, and the other man said nothing.
Hesitantly, Elly walked over to the cloak and stood there, looking at it. The old man had followed him and stood silently. Without sound, Elly felt eyes in front of him, and he looked up at the forest, half afraid that he would see the forest demon’s eyes glaring at him. Instead, there was a tall man, clad in brown leathers with a greenish cloak, and a large bow in his hands and an arrow nocked, as if ready for combat.
The other man spoke. “It is not wise for the boy.”
Elly knew the tall bowman was speaking to the old man. There was silence for a moment as Greyson thought upon the words of the fighter. “Perhaps. Then again, there may be a reason why the lady spared him.”
“Luck,” the other man said, keeping his back to a large tree and covering the entire homestead with his bow and arrow.
Elly looked up at the old man, who took a moment to return his gaze and smile. “Luck or fate, we cannot tell, Zashitor Wulfric. Would you propose to think for the lady?”
The other man shook his head. “No, and neither should you think for the Mother. The beast should have killed the boy.”
“You
are out of line, Wulfric,” said a voice from the side, as another man appeared, dressed similarly to Wulfric but with darker, longer hair and a huge axe in his hands, swinging it back and forth as he walked. “The Arnen does indeed speak for the Mother, and you should know that by now.”
“It’s all right, Edric, Wulfric means no disrespect,” the old man said.
“He should have died; the beast should have killed him,” Wulfric repeated.
“Yes,” the old man said, placing a hand on Elly’s shoulder, “but it didn’t.”
Wulfric released his grip on the arrow, holding both it and the bow with one hand, and he took the time to make the sign of warding against foul creatures and evil spirits. “The boy saw the beast and said nothing.”
“Did he now?” the old man asked, and Elly looked up to see a bushy white eyebrow bob up and down as if mocking the bowman. “What would you have us do, find the beast and return the boy to its care?”
Edric laughed, and then shook his head and addressed Wulfric. “Let it go, Zashitor, and keep the watch. The beast is still near.”
That got the other man’s attention, and he nocked his arrow again, panning the area and tilting his head as if listening for something. Elly took a step forward, feeling the old man’s hand as it fell from his shoulder, freeing him. He looked back, and the old man stood still, not moving, not nodding, not shaking his head, and not speaking. This was Elly’s decision.
With a heavy heart, Elly leaned over at the waist as his hand reached for the brown cloak, and then stopped. He looked up and saw Wulfric frowning at him from his position near the tree. To his left, the man known as Edric had stopped a good dozen feet away, his axe now held at his side, also unmoving. No one spoke, and Elly leaned back up and walked to the other side so he could face the old man, turning his back on Wulfric and the forest.
He noticed a third man in leathers and a greenish brown cloak, dressed almost identically as the other two men, standing behind the old man. He had never heard the other man arrive and, indeed, had no idea that he was even there until he turned and saw him. The man had a kind face, and pity was in his eyes. He leaned forward, speaking softly to the older man, though completely audible to Elly.
“The boy should not see her like this,” the warrior said, never releasing his gaze from Elly, his eyes searching for emotion within the boy.
The old man nodded. “I agree, but the Mother wishes it. He must know the truth; it will temper him forever.”
“You know his fate?” the man asked.
“Yes, Dunric,” the old man said gently. “Go on, Elister, do what you have to do. We must leave this place soon, and there is still much to be done.”
Elly didn’t remember telling the old man his full name. Did he know his parents after all? It didn’t matter. The man’s words came as a command, not so kind but not harsh, more like compassion that was forced upon him. This gave Elly a sense of urgency, and in silence, with the four strange men watching him, he bent at the waist and pulled the cloak toward him.
There was his mother, lying next to the soldier, both of their bodies contorted in the throes of death. Their eyes mercifully were closed. His mother clutched her hunting knife in her hand. Her skin was a pale purple in color, and Elly knew instinctively that she was dead. He stood there for a long moment, tears rolling down his eyes as he looked upon her. By the grace of the Lady, she had no marks on her body. Elly knew that she had succumbed to the green fog of death that the creature breathed from its mouth. Who had died there protecting whom, he would never know.
“Enough,” Dunric said, moving around the old man and replacing the cloak over them, leaving Elly only the memory of his dead mother.
Elly sobbed quietly for a few seconds more, and then looked to his right at the creek where his sister and the other soldiers lay dead. This elicited another rebuke, this time from Wulfric. “I agree with Dunric. Enough of this. I won’t let him look upon his kin further.”
The old man nodded. “Agreed. Edric, you and Wulfric see to the others. I will tend to the young boy’s mother and the soldier here. Prepare the graves. There are blankets in the cabin.”
The next hour, the four men moved swiftly as Edric used a blanket to wrap his sister, bringing her body to a place near the forest not far from their cabin. They dug shallow graves for the soldiers and Elly’s mother and sister. A few rocks from the creek were gathered and placed upon the freshly dug dirt.
“Time to go,” Dunric said. “We have lingered here far too long, Greyson. We tempt the gods even now.”
“We can’t go,” Elly said. “My father will return soon.” The boy looked from man to man and saw only pity and sorrow there.
“He doesn’t know,” Wulfric said.
The old man knelt on one knee and grabbed Elly by his shoulders, looking intently into his eyes. Elly was riveted and could not move. When the old man was sure that he had the boy’s attention, he spoke in a compassionate voice, firm and steady. “We buried your father in the Greenfeld three days ago. Do you understand me, Elister?”
Elly nodded, more tears flowing freely down his face, and he refused the urge to wipe them. “I understand. What is to become of me?”
The old man hugged the boy and then held him at arm’s length again. “You, Elister, will come with us. The Mother has spared your life for a reason, and now your fate lies with the Order.”
Elly nodded. “What is the Order?”
“You . . .” the old man said, his eyes piercing Elly’s soul, “Elister, will become one of the order, the order of the Arnen, servant of the Mother and protector to her and her children.”
The Blue Dragon: A Claire-Agon Dragon Book (Dragon Series 2) Page 23
