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

by T. J. Garrett

  Daric gave his son a sideways glance. “So long as you’re sure.” Gialyn’s father looked over his shoulder and spat an inaudible curse back along the track. “Bloody hateful things. I hope they plan on bringing us back during the day.”

  “Would that make any difference?” Gialyn asked.

  “Well, it can’t be any worse. At the very least, we might get through the trees quicker.”

  Gialyn nodded.

  The group kept up a good pace for the next two hours until finally they approached an area of thin brush land. From its edge, Gialyn could see the neat roofs and chimneys of their destination: the Cren village of Brae’vis.

  Cal led the group along a wide path that cut through a copse of oak and birch. At its edge, a steep dip wound its way into a narrow gully. A wooden footbridge crossed the broad, fast-moving stream. Once over, another short path turned back up the bank. At its end stood a tall gate. Cal opened the gate and led the travellers into a circular courtyard.

  Roughly twenty well-ordered, immaculate huts lay in a full circle around the edge of the courtyard. Doors and shutters were closed against the night – even though it was not unusually cold; to keep thieving animals from raiding the kitchens, maybe. In the middle of the courtyard, a single aorand tree grew. Every branch was thick with the strange fruit.

  The eastern horizon had only just begun to lighten. It was an hour yet until dawn, and three hours until a sensible breakfast time. Most folk would be in their beds.

  On the other side of the courtyard, across from the aorand, a light flickered in the one open window. The window belonged to the largest house – or hut. No, despite being on stilts, this one did look more like a house. Gialyn had just followed Cal past the tree when the front door opened. A tall – seven foot, Gialyn thought – thin man stepped quietly out onto his porch. Cal named him Kirin’thar, the Cren leader.

  Even in his rustic clothing, Kirin’thar had the look of a statesman about him. His thick black hair was greying at the temples. Despite his obvious age, his greyish-blue eyes looked young and alert. His face, like Cal’s, was carved and angular. Gialyn wondered if any of their folk were overweight or ugly.

  If the travellers were expecting a big welcome, they would be disappointed. Kirin’thar apparently did not want a fuss and certainly did not wish to wake anyone else. He quietly descended the steps, shot a quick nod to Cal, and then gestured for everyone to precede him into the house.

  * * *

  Arfael had begun to notice a tightening in his stomach even before he entered the village. Now, a curious sensation had come over him. The scent of something familiar and foreboding clouded his mind to the exclusion of all else. He could not hear Kirin’thar’s welcome, or the stream behind him, or the early chirping of the imminent dawn chorus. His eyes were set; something was down there, down behind the huts, farther along the path. The smell drove him to fits. He dropped the waterskin where he stood and, after sliding out of his pack, knelt down his with nose to the dry dirt. Whatever it was smelled stronger here, carried in the tracks spread all over the courtyard. He stood up and staggered towards the eastern gate.

  Vaguely, he could hear a fuss off to his left, as first Olam and then Kirin’thar asked him if he felt all right. Kirin, who had been on his porch, placed himself between Arfael and the gate.

  “You should come to the house,” he said, putting a hand on Arfael’s shoulder, nudging him away from the path.

  The Cren was almost as tall as he was, and when Arfael looked him in the eye, he thought he saw fear, or maybe a nervous look, stare back at him. The Cren knew he could smell something, Arfael was sure of it. Why was he trying to hide it, whatever it was?

  Olam appeared at his side. “What is it, friend?” he asked. He, too, tried to coax Arfael away from the path, but Arfael pulled his arm free and carried on towards the east gate. The smell was getting stronger; he could almost taste it. It made the hairs stand up on his neck, and his nostrils flare. He was sure he remembered the scent, but from where?

  Arfael continued, mindless of his friend’s protests. He sniffed at the air and began to breathe slowly. Sweat rolled from his brow. Left and right, he gazed, searching for the source of the scent, until he fixed his gaze on the track that lay beyond the fence. He lunged forward. Olam grabbed his arm again, but Arfael spun free of it. He jumped the fence in a single bound and ran up the path, eastwards from the village.

  With the others close on his heels, Arfael entered a clearing and began to scrape at the ground. An almost frantic, uncontrolled shudder came over him as he ripped at the grass and snatched at the nearby branches. The scent was strong here. A dragon! They have a dragon!

  He felt awash with dread. Although he had no idea why he should feel that way. Panic, fear and anger filled his veins as if a mortal enemy was close by. He had to find it. Was it hiding in the trees?

  Crouching, he buried his hands in the soil. The urge to Change was strong. He tried to fight it, but the pull of the hunt was driving him now. He must find the dragon. He must kill the dragon!

  * * *

  Elspeth followed, as one after another the travellers climbed over the fence and ran after Arfael. She pushed a branch away from her face and stumbled as she tried to catch up with Daric. Gialyn was close behind, shouting for her to slow down. She ignored him and quickened her pace until suddenly she had to skid to a halt. Daric had stopped dead in his tracks. She ran into his back; both stumbled, almost falling.

  “Calm yourself, girl,” Daric said.

  Elspeth did not answer. Her attention was focused on Arfael, who was scraping and digging the ground on the edge of the clearing she had just entered.

  “What’s he doing?” she asked, taking a step forward.

  “Oh no; gods, not now!” Olam mumbled loud enough for all to hear. “He’s preparing to Change. We must calm him!”

  Olam dropped his staff and moved forward, but Kirin’thar ran in front of him. “Cinné’arth!” the Cren bellowed. “Iffrae lient eddret noist, Arlyn!”

  It had an immediate effect. Arfael turned his attention on Kirin’thar. “What have you been doing? Where is it?” he growled. His tone was menacing, with no reverence for his host, just anger. His shaking continued, his fists began to clench.

  “No good can come of this, Arlyn Gan’ifael,” Kirin’thar said. “He left, hours ago.”

  Elspeth paced back and forth, staring at Arfael, as he, in turn, glared at the Cren. She could see the anger in his eyes. He was going to Change again, she knew, and once he did, there would be no enemy there for the beast to attack. The thought of what he might do made her cringe.

  She ducked under Daric’s outstretched arm and ran to Arfael. Heedless of the cries and shouts for her to stop, she cupped her hands around the big man’s face and pulled his glaring eyes down to meet hers.

  “It is me, Arfael: your little one. Come back to us. Don’t do this, please.”

  She stroked his cheek, trying not to show the fear she felt inside. “Come back, Arfael. Come back.”

  Arfael looked down at her. For a long moment, his eyes were filled with rage. Slowly, his gaze softened. Elspeth could feel the tension seeping away. His shoulders sagged, and he began to breathe steadily.

  “There’s no enemy here, Arfael. Only us. Come sit; sit down a minute.” Elspeth led him to what looked like an outdoor dining area. They both sat on a long bench. Elspeth put her hand on his shoulder. Arfael dropped his head to his knees. Hands clasped behind his neck, he looked like a man waiting for a bout of sickness to pass.

  Elspeth turned to Kirin’thar. “What have you done? What do you want with us?”

  Kirin’thar sighed, and then mumbled something Elspeth could not make out. The old Cren looked resigned, reluctant, as if he would just as soon they all left his village and never came back. Why had he sent for them if he knew Arfael might react this way?

  Elspeth had a mind to take Arfael back to the hollow. She would, if she thought for a second that she could find her wa
y. And what about Ealian? Would the Cren continue to treat him if she left? More and more, she could curse that messenger for ever coming to the Spring Feast. If only she and the others had stayed at home.

  * * *

  It took Kirin’thar an hour to get the travellers into his house. Dawn had broken while they were in the clearing, and still they sat, waiting. Arlyn, or rather, Arfael – where did that name come from? – would not leave the girl’s side. If Elspeth had not convinced him to follow the others back to the village, they might still be there. Even then, the Cinné’arth shot a fiery glare at Kirin and the other Cren. This was not going to be easy. How am I going to persuade him to go to Braylair? The man hates us.

  Kirin’thar’s home was a round building raised up on stilts. It was built around a stone hearth that started on the ground and poked through the roof so each of the four rooms shared the same fire. Another hut, connected to the main building by a covered passage, had four more rooms and a store. In truth, the house was far too big for Kirin and his wife; their children had left home decades ago. They would have moved, were he not the head of the Cren Council. If nothing else, a move would stop Loreanna’s complaining about having to clean the too-big house. Not that she would ever let him help with the chores; everything had to be just so.

  Kirin led everyone into the dining room. The table was set, and Loreanna was standing at the far end, waiting.

  She was almost as tall as her husband. Taller, if you counted the greyish-yellow bun of hair tied up on top of her head.

  “Goodness, where have you all been?” she asked. Kirin’thar gave her a look she alone would understand. “Oh… never mind.”

  She turned and picked up a bowl of fruit. “Anybody hungry?” she said with a smile.

  Daric – Kirin thought he might be the Surabhan leader – bowed. “Ma’am, I believe I speak for all when I say I am famished.” He turned to Kirin. “But we are also exhausted. Can we talk while we eat?”

  “Of course,” Kirin said. “Please, take a seat. Maybe you at the end there, Arlyn… sorry, Arfael.”

  Kirin regarded Arfael – the Cinné’arth was standing in the alcove next to the front door, looking like he would rather be someplace else – and pointed to a large chair at the end of the table. Arfael stared back at him, showing no indication he had heard a word of what was said.

  Elspeth took Arfael by the arm and led him to the chair.

  Kirin shrugged off Arfael’s affront with a quiet sigh. At least the girl seems to have some control over him. Maybe she will see sense and help me persuade him to visit Bren’alor.

  “And you, Toban,” Kirin said, “We have a cushion here for you. I hope you don’t mind.” Kirin pointed to a wide crate with a large red cushion placed on top. Next to it, a water bowl sat on another crate. “If we had known you were coming, we would have done better. My apologies.” Kirin’thar bowed respectfully and did not raise his eyes until Toban answered.

  “Not at all, sir. This is fine. Thank you.”

  In fact, Loreanna had had to put cushions on all the seats. When his guests finally sat down, Kirin could not help but think they all looked like children – he would have to make some new furniture… if hosting Surabhan were to become a habit.

  “Please, eat,” he said, waving a hand that took in the full length of the table.

  Loreanna had done well in the short time she had had to prepare a meal for eight. Most of the fruit was fresh from the orchard just outside the village, and the meats had been prepared in smaller portions. Kirin wondered if the Surabhan would like the cucotes and maringoe; they were quite spicy. But he need not have worried, none of his guests wasted time examining the food. Maybe they have cucotes in Ealdihain. Although he had to smile at Daric’s raised eyebrows when the man took a bite out of a red sourquat – the red ones were the hottest. The poor man probably thought it was a radish. Kirin held back a chuckle when Daric downed a half-a-pint of chilled wildberry juice.

  Once they settled and were eating, Kirin’thar began…

  “Firstly of all, let me welcome you to Brae’vis. Before we get to the point, I think a brief history lesson is in order – for those of you who might have heard a different version of events.” He could not help a sideways glance at Daric. Of all those at the table, a soldier of the King’s Guard would likely have heard the false history of the battles of Blai’nuin and Barais’coi.

  “Before the time of the Eiras’moya, any man who found himself standing within a few miles of free earth would call himself king. The tribes fought endless battles with folk they should have called “neighbour.” Much was lost to pointless feuds.” He paused to look round the table. As he had expected, Daric had stopped eating and was paying close attention. Strangely enough, so was the girl. He continued: “The threat of Eiras changed all that. Old enemies united from both north and south. Kindred spirits rose under the same banner and battled long and hard against the armies of Toi’ildrieg and the Kel’madden. Many died, including most of the Great Southern Dragons.”

  A hush descended on the room. The travellers looked at each other with expressions of bewilderment. Kirin was about to continue when Daric asked, “What do you mean, ‘most’?”

  For a moment, Kirin’thar felt like a man hanging out his smallclothes for all to see. He drummed his fingers on the table. You would bring that up, wouldn’t you, he thought. Oh well, no point lying to them: if I’m going to be asking for their help, they may as well know it all. “A dozen Gan Dragons survived the battles. They live to the northeast in a secluded valley. For a hundred years and more, they have remained silent, waiting for the right time to make their presence known.”

  Elspeth gasped; Daric blinked, then stared wide around the table; Olam nodded slowly as if suddenly finding the answer to a problem that had been troubling him. The boy – Gialyn – had a smile on his face that said he thought the whole thing was very exciting. Arfael carried on eating. He had not so much as flinched at the news.

  Did he already know about the Gan? I hope Tor knows what he is doing.

  “And what ‘time’ would that be?” Olam asked.

  Olam’s question brought Kirin out of his thoughts. “Time? Oh yes… uh… That’s not important now. Please allow me to continue. There will be time for questions later.” He waited a moment for acknowledgement and then carried on: “As I was saying, many died. Eventually, the Eiras were defeated. It seemed that even Vila’slae was dead.”

  “What do you mean ‘seemed’?” Daric asked.

  Kirin’thar tsked. “Please. We’ll never finish at this rate.”

  Olam laughed. “You will have to excuse my friend. He is very quick-witted.”

  Kirin bowed, conceding to the Surabhan’s apparent wit, then continued… again: “Anyway, once Eiras and the Kel’madden were defeated, the victors split north and south. Although some, like the Rukin and Cren, decided to stay independent. The others joined together either side of the Speerlag-Aldrieg border – the Surabhan to the south, the Salrians to the north.”

  Kirin shuffled in his seat. “And then the inevitable happened. With unity, came power… with power, came ambition… and with ambition, came war. And instead of taking advantage of a once-in-a-millennia opportunity for peace, the two sides fought a pointless, decade- long battle over resources.”

  Kirin paused and looked at Daric. The man had been grumbling. Doubtless, he had been told another version of the events leading to the Brion War. Kirin waited for the man to say something, but Daric settled back in his chair.

  “So,” Kirin continued, “as the Surabhan and Salrians turned in anger towards one another, both sides slowly lost sight of the Eastern Isles. Unfortunately, our mutual enemies have used their time more wisely. Vila’slae, or someone very like her, has quietly rebuilt her armies and is even now in Northeastern An’aird Barath, preparing to attack.”

  Kirin halted his speech. Again, he drummed his fingers on the table as he looked to each of his guests in turn. Nothing but stunned silenc
e greeted his stare.

  Then…

  “So, Si’eth was telling the truth,” Daric said.

  Kirin scratched his head. “Who is this Si’eth character?”

  “The Salrian prisoner we—” Daric waved a hand as if that were of no interest. “It is a long story. We discovered he was smuggling a map of the Tunnels of Aldregair to someone unknown at the behest of a greedy Salrian—”

  “Map? What map?” Kirin was aware of the anger in his voice, but right then he could do nothing about it.

  Daric looked shocked, unsurprisingly. “Uh… a scroll, showing a safe route through the tunnels. We have it back at our camp.”

  That’s it, Kirin thought. Standing, he began to pace back and forth behind his chair. That was the answer he and Tor had pondered over: the witch was marching for the Tunnels. Well, no need to send a scout, but gods, the Tunnels. The witch could be on Bailryn inside a month, less if she has already started her march.

  “You must go back,” Kirin said. “Destroy that map. Are you sure it’s the only one? Gods, I wish Tor’gan was still here. Cinné’arth or not, he could be at your camp in an hour.”

  Kirin looked down at the travellers faces. They all appeared scared or confused… even the wolf.

  “A century ago,” Kirin began, sitting back in his chair, “we were all but defeated. Those Aldregair tunnels were all that stood between us and oblivion. If it were not for the Karakin…” He pulled in a deep breath. Shaking his head, he said, “I never thought she would risk the tunnels, not after what happened last time. But with a map…”

  “Why? What is in the tunnels?” Elspeth asked.

  Kirin looked at the girl. Should I tell them? Do they need to know everything?

  He was about to speak, but Toban answered the question for him. “The Karakin.”

  Olam and Daric shuffled in their seats. Apparently, they knew what the wolf was talking about.