The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  “Maybe,” Daric said. “But either way, we should be ready. Come on.”

  Daric took the lead. With the muddy boot prints, even he could follow their tracks with ease… at least for now.

  The chase carried on for a further ten minutes until they came to the edge of the forest and another clearing. Across the open field, a truncated ridge rose steeply out of the green grass, then turned left into what looked like a deep gap in the cliff’s side. Not a cave – more an open gully.

  “Look up there. Do you see?” Daric said. He pointed to an area just east of the gully, where the dark canvas of what could only be a tent jutted out from behind a thin line of bramble.

  “If you mean their camp, then yes,” Olam replied.

  Daric took in a long breath. “Yes… a camp… It’s not just the two of them, is it?” He put his hand to his mouth and looked to the heavens for answers: how could they rescue the boy from a den of thieves?

  “Look down here,” Olam said, pointing along the tree line to his right. “We can follow this track and cut across their flank. At the very least, we can see what we are up against.

  “And look…” Olam pointed to the north at a shallow slope rising from a dip in the clearing. “There they are. It is Ealian. Can you see?”

  Daric squinted. “Yes, that’s Ealian.” Elspeth’s brother was running between his kidnappers, maybe a hundred paces from the shingle track which led up to their camp. Now and then, one of the thieves would push Ealian forward – the boy was not going quietly, Daric noticed. Good for him.

  “The other two look like… Salrians,” Olam said.

  Daric looked again. The two thieves had bald heads – which hinted at Salrians. Now he had reason to scrutinise, Daric could make out the light half-armour of the Barathian Provincial Guards – border guards.

  “Salrians? Eighty miles west of Cul’taris?” Daric whispered. “How did they get here?”

  If it had just been men and not horses, Daric might have assumed they climbed over the Speerlag Cliff. But other than through the Cul’taris pass, there was no way they could have brought horses with them, never mind carts to carry those tents.

  Then he remembered…

  “Blue Rock Pass… they came through Blue Rock Pass,” Daric said to himself.

  “I thought the pass was closed.”

  “Apparently not. But why would they risk coming this far west? What could be around here that would be worth breaking the treaty?”

  “Maybe we will get the chance to ask them,” Olam replied. “One of many questions, my friend. Shall we try for the tree line?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. It’s a good plan.”

  Daric picked himself up and led the way. Moving at a half-crouch, he ran as quickly as he could without disturbing any branches. Occasionally he glanced to his left to mark the progress of Ealian’s kidnappers.

  “They’re nearly at their camp. We must hurry.”

  Olam stopped. “I see their horses. At least ten. See. Down between those rocks.” Olam pointed beyond the Salrian camp to what appeared to be a small corral.

  “Well, either there are a few men with a lot of horses, or we are in trouble,” Daric said. He was hoping for no more than four or five. With Grady and Arfael, they could handle that many. But ten Salrians? And that was if there were not another dozen who had crossed the border on foot.

  He quickened the pace. Now they were out of the Salrians’ line of sight, he was less worried about detection and more concerned about how they would get the boy out of there.

  Soon, they arrived at the rock face and started climbing. It was steep but easy enough to climb, what with all the bramble roots as handholds. At the top, Daric ducked down behind a clump of dense thicket. Three paces of open ground separated them from the first of the Salrian tents. Checking left and right, Daric scooted across the gap and nestled quietly against the dark canvas. Carefully, he edged his way along the outside, stopping just short of the corner. From there, he had a clear view of the site.

  He heard Olam tuck in behind.

  Ealian was standing in the open space between what looked like a makeshift kitchen and the largest of three tents. To his right, Daric could see several Salrians sitting around a small fire. The alcove, where they had corralled their horses, was behind the kitchen.

  The two kidnappers stood either side of Ealian. One was standing at attention while the other rummaged through the stolen food pack.

  The canvas flap of the large tent opened, and a Salrian captain walked out.

  “What, by the gods, is the meaning of this stupidity?” the captain yelled as he walked up to the man with his head in the food pack.

  The kidnapper was smaller than the captain – in width, if not so much in height. Both men wore similar half-armour: light-tan leather with thin steel plates covering vital areas. Daric was not sure, but he thought the smaller man was a sergeant. He did have a rank insignia of some kind.

  “I told you to hunt for deer or goat,” the captain continued, “not a damn Surabhan. Are you completely out of your mind you thoughtless imbecile?”

  The others – those by the fire and sitting at a table under a dark tarp – began to laugh, which seemed to intensify their captain’s anger.

  “What is it you all find so amusing?” he enquired. His voice was ominous in its plain, conversational pitch.

  Nobody answered.

  “We are miles beyond the treaty line with no backup and strict orders to stay unseen. So, I’ll ask again… where is the joke? Am I missing something?”

  Again, nobody answered.

  The captain paced back and forth in front of Ealian, all the while looking him up and down. Ealian kept his eyes front but looked scared, which was hardly surprising. Still, the boy was doing a good job of staying calm, Daric thought.

  “Put him in the east tent,” the captain said. He pointed at the tent behind which Daric and Olam were hiding.

  “And tie him up.” The captain was talking to the man who had had his head in their food bag. “We break camp at sunset. At noon, you will take a horse and drop him five miles west.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “He is only a boy,” the captain continued. “They’re not likely to raise an army on his word alone. You will see him safely away. Do you understand me, Bre’ach?”

  “Yes, Father.” Bre’ach bowed solemnly.

  “And don’t call me Father when we’re on duty. At the least use my name.”

  “Yes, Si’eth. Sorry.”

  Si’eth shot Ealian one last appraising look. He seemed ready to ask him something but turned back to Bre’ach. “Put his belongings with him. It smells like smoked fish… I hate fish.”

  Bre’ach took Ealian by the arm and pulled him into the tent.

  Daric pressed his ear against the canvas. He could hear the Salrian warning Ealian to stay silent. Then a garbled threat. Something like, “Once I’ve got you on your own…” It was hard to hear clearly.

  Daric and Olam crept back to the centre of the canvas, away from the clearing. “Any ideas?” Daric whispered.

  “Wait a second. See if they leave him alone.”

  Olam inched back to the rear corner of the tent. He pointed to the base, at a two-foot slit bound with thin rope. “We can use this. Tell me when that Bre’ach has gone.”

  After a minute, the Salrian left the tent. Olam quietly untied the binding from the corner post and slipped inside – followed closely by Daric.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit tent, Daric saw Ealian sitting, tied up, in the opposite corner. The boy had not noticed them yet.

  The tent was relatively small – compared to that of the Salrian captain. There was a table along the back wall. On the table, Daric saw an ornate box that might be something important. There were three bedrolls spread out on the floor, a small fire pit in the centre, and next to that, Daric noticed a bucket of dirt – probably used to put out the fire. A few backpacks had been propped against the
far wall, including their food.

  Daric threw a pebble at Ealian, then put a finger to his lips.

  While Daric quietened the boy, Olam sneaked to the front of the tent and peered through a small slit in the canvas doorway.

  Daric gently pulled Ealian forward and began to untie his gag. “Be quiet,” he whispered. Once the gag was off, Ealian mouthed a silent “Thank you,” then turned so Daric could undo the rest of his bonds. The Salrian had tied him wrists to ankles.

  Once the boy was free of his bindings, Daric left him to rub his wrists and joined Olam. “All clear?” he asked.

  Olam pointed to a Salrians who had taken up position next to the tent, blocking their exit. Daric cursed under his breath.

  Olam backed away from the opening. Then looked at the bucket of sand. He glanced over at Daric, then Ealian, and then back at the bucket. “I have an idea, but you are going to have to do exactly what I say, when I say.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Daric said.

  “They are going to know we were here. We need a diversion – something big enough to keep them busy.” Olam scratched at his chin. “Yes, that will do. Wait by the corner for my signal, then run as fast as you can.”

  Daric raised his hands in submission. “As you say; I’ll trust you.”

  He meant to wave Ealian over to the corner, but the boy was already there, pack on his back, stuffing something in his pocket. “What’s that you’ve got?” Daric asked.

  “Uh… just my kerchief.”

  Daric joined the boy in the corner.

  Olam picked up the bucket and placed it by the entrance. Reaching into the inside pocket of his cape, he brought out a curious-looking object. About the size of a small apple, it looked like it was made from clay. On top, there was a short length of twine with a black tag on the end.

  “Are you ready?” He mouthed the words at Daric, who gave a nod.

  Olam dug a small hole in the sand bucket. He pulled off the black tag attached to the “apple” and began to count quietly. “One.” He buried the apple in the bucket. “Two.” He picked up the bucket and began to swing it back and forth. “Three.” He opened the tent door. “Four.” He threw the bucket high in the air over the centre of their camp.

  On five, Daric heard an almighty explosion, and then Olam telling him to run. He pushed Ealian out of the slit in the tent, then pulled him along as they ran down the slope and back towards the trees, Olam following.

  * * *

  Si’eth dropped his cup when he heard a loud bang. The tent bowed inwards, and then there was a sound like a sack of grain being emptied over the roof. Si’eth ran outside. A storm of sandy grit filled the air. Two of his guards were lying on the ground, rolling about in pain. The men who were sitting over by the fire were on their feet, plucking what looked like giant splinters out of their arms and shoulders. Another was leaning forwards while Groll pulled off his shirt, the shredded linen was bloody.

  Then came the horses. Spooked by the explosion, they had burst through their flimsy retainer and were now galloping between the tent and down the drop to the right.

  “What by all the gods is going on here?” Si’eth shouted.

  Nobody answered.

  The guard by the east tent struggled to his feet and staggered towards him, his face covered in splinters. He made it a few paces and sat on the ground, picking splinters out of his arm. Only Bre’ach, Jern, and Groll appeared unscathed by whatever had caused the explosion.

  Balon, who was kneeling on the ground holding the side of his face where a large splinter stuck in his cheek, raised his other hand. “They’ve taken the boy,” he said, pointing a shaky finger towards the track which ran down the side of the cliff.

  Si’eth marched over to the drop. Standing where the path cut a channel in the ridge, he stared down at three Surabhan as they ran across the clearing towards the trees. One was tall, with dark hair, and loped with the relaxed stride of a soldier; the other was blond, older, maybe, and carrying a long staff. The boy ran out front, a few paces ahead of the other two.

  The dark haired man stopped and looked up at him.

  “You should not be here, Salrian. Never mind kidnapping folk!” he shouted.

  The man turned back to the other two and followed them into the woods.

  Si’eth stomped back into the camp. Groll and Jern following. They found Bre’ach inside the tent where the boy had been.

  Si’eth pointed straight at him. “You fool!” he said, jabbing an accusing finger at his son. “I have a good mind to make you walk from here on out. Pray we can get to Taris before they report us.”

  Bre’ach did not answer. Instead, he held up the empty box which had contained the scroll.

  Si’eth breathed in deeply through his nose. He snatched the empty chest from Bre’ach’s outstretched hand. Closing his eyes, he moaned, “Stupid! Stupid fool!” He threw the chest back at Bre’ach. “Well, that complicates things, doesn’t it?”

  The tent flap ripped from its awning as Si’eth yanked it out of his way. He circled around what was the fire with his hands on his head. What to do? If those Surabhan made it to Geddy… or Aralan…

  “We won’t catch up with them until we get the horses back. You two,” he said, pointing to Jern and Groll. “You will have to track the Surabhan. Leave good signs so we can catch up when we get the horses back. You’ll have to slow them down. Take their horses, if they have any. Go!”

  Bre’ach took a step forward. “You do not need to track them. They will be making for their camp,” he said with a triumphant smile on his face.

  Si’eth dropped his arms and rolled his eyes. “Wait!” he shouted to the two he had sent in pursuit of the Surabhan. “Come back!”

  Bre’ach looked puzzled. “What? Why are you stopping them?”

  Si’eth walked to meet Groll and Jern, who were now trotting back through what was left of the gate. “You kidnapped the boy from their camp?” he said, shaking his head. “Is there no end to your foolishness?”

  Si’eth stopped in front of Groll and Jern. “Gather the men who are fit enough to stand and find our horses.” He turned back to Bre’ach. “How many are in their camp?”

  “Uh… seven, maybe eight.”

  Si’eth felt his jaw drop. Did he just say ‘eight?’ Gods, what was he thinking. “They are almost our number and you kidnapped one of them.”

  “He woke up!” Bre’ach protested. “Besides, one of them is a girl.”

  Si’eth coughed out a laugh. “Right now, I’d take a girl over you, you… half-witted moron! Do you realise what you have done?”

  Bre’ach did not answer; he just looked scornfully at his father. Then, staring at his feet, he said, “You sent me for food.”

  Si’eth did not bother replying. He addressed the rest of the men. “If you can stand, get up and gather the horses!”

  He pointed to Groll and beckoned him over. “Take the first horse you find and ride over to Uld’eth. Tell him we need ten more men.”

  “What are you going to do?” Bre’ach asked.

  Si’eth clenched his jaw at the sound of his son’s voice. Gods help him; he wanted to hit the boy. “‘What are we going to do…?’ We will have to play the hunter, and pray to the gods we catch them in the open. If they make it to Albergeddy or Cul’taris…”

  He did not need to say what would happen if the Surabhan reached a town, the look on Bre’ach’s face said he understood what was at stake.

  CHAPTER 12

  Three Steps Ahead

  “I’m going after them soon!” Elspeth said. For once, she was standing still.

  Gialyn had wondered how long it would be before she said that again. Elspeth had been pacing from one side of the small clearing to the other for over an hour, grumbling to herself about ever-more-awful scenarios… Ealian was injured. No, Ealian was dead! The thieves had captured Daric and Olam, too. And now, all three had been marched across the border into An’aird Barath. On and on, it went. Much more, an
d she would make herself sick.

  “I’ll give them ten more minutes, then I’m going after them. Do not try to stop me,” she said, glaring at Grady as if willing him to try saying no to her.

  Grady was sitting on the stump of the fallen tree they had been using for firewood. He sheathed the blade he was toying with and looked up at her. “Ten more minutes, and we both go.”

  Grady had arranged makeshift defences for the camp: Gialyn had collected rocks to hurl at any attackers; Arfael had cut and whittled crude spears from the branches of the fallen tree. Elspeth should have been checking the flights of her arrows. But she had given up after the third or fourth. Still, all were as ready as they would be, given their limited arsenal.

  For the last ten minutes, Gialyn had sat up a tree, gazing north for signs of his father and the others. Elspeth noticed him looking at her. “Keep your eyes on the forest,” she muttered. Gialyn quickly obliged. He did not want her anger directed at him.

  Of the four of them, only Arfael appeared untroubled. He had spent most of the last hour sitting on the fallen tree, whittling away at his spears. He looked like a man making toys for a village picnic.

  “I can see someone,” Gialyn shouted from his perch.

  “Not so loud!” Grady hissed the command, his eyes narrowing with irritation.

  “Who is it?” Elspeth asked, pushing past Grady.

  “I can’t tell. They are moving in between the trees; they’re not in the clearing yet.” Gialyn hitched further up the branch. He cupped his hands around his eyes and thrust his neck forward. Bracing himself on a smaller branch, he leaned to his left and peered through a gap in the thick canopy. “It’s them! It’s them!” he shouted. Then began to slide back down the branch.

  “Is it all of them?” Elspeth asked.

  Gialyn hit the ground with a thud. He brushed the dust and dry leaves from his breeches. “I think so. There are three, at any rate. The one in front is Olam. I could see his cape and staff.”