“I tried to tell you that wouldn’t work,” Tor said. “We need to work together. Don’t go playing the hero; we have no use for a dead Soul Guardian.”
Brea stared at him. “You have an uncanny way of stating the obvious, Tor.” She felt like laughing, but didn’t. “What do you suggest we do?”
“I’ll pin him down while you do your thing. There is no other way; it’s not going to stand still for you.”
Brea nodded her agreement, then heaved herself up onto her feet. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said, trying to pretend that she was ready.
Tor turned his attention back on the Cinnè’arth. The beast was shaking even more than before; it looked for all the world as if it was trying to dig a hole in the cliff face. Molten rock rolled along the beast’s arms, leaving scales where it touched the skin. Brea could see what looked like bones sprouting from under the Cinnè’arth’s coat, widening the shoulders and neck.
“I suggest you hurry,” Brea said. Tiama agreed. Rek growled and spat short puffs of smoke.
The black dragon wasted no time. He rushed at the beast and flattened it with his massive front legs. The creature cried out and immediately began to claw at Tor’s ankles. The black dragon moaned as the beast dug his knife-like talons into Tor’s calf.
“Hurry, Brea!” Tor shouted. “I can’t hold him long, not without killing him.”
Brea sprinted toward the beast, then slid along the hard ground until she was level with its shoulder. She punched at her already-healing wound until the blood began to flow again, then cupped the hand over the Cinnè’arth’s nose. She held on for all she was worth.
The beast began to thrash about uncontrollably, kicking and scrapping everything within its reach. It banged the back of its head against the cave floor, kicked out at Tor’s chest, and thumped its huge hands against the hearth as it tried to reach Brea. Tor brought his tail around and fashioned a barrier of sorts. They both knew it was only a matter of time before her blood took effect, but how long?
The beast’s frantic struggling slowed. It began to tap, almost submissively, on Tor’s leg. At the same time, its breathing slowed to a steady, quiet rhythm.
“Give it another minute, just to be sure,” Tor said.
“Give it five minutes, if you ask me,” Tiama yelled.
Rek, tucked under his mother’s wing, was still playing the brave little dragon. Brea nodded to him, smiling. The little dragon – if she could call him little at twenty feet long – calmed down and sat back on his heels.
The minute passed slowly.
Carefully, Tor removed his foot from the beast’s chest. It made no sudden move, just opened its eyes. It gave a cough, then wiped blood from its nose. It rubbed the nearly dry blood between its thick fingers and gave it a sniff, then casually looked up at Tor… then at Brea… then back to Tor. “So, you’ll be the dragon who wanted to see me,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Tor snorted. And Brea laughed. “Nice to meet you, too, Cinnè’arth,” she said, reaching up and patting Tor on his shoulder.
The beast looked up at her. “They call me, Arfael, Miss.”
Brea smiled down at Arfael, who, despite his size, was not looking nearly as beastly as he had done a moment earlier. “I am Brea,” she said, tapping her chest with her un-bloodied hand. “And this is Tor, the leader of the Gan Dragons.”
Brea heard a noise behind her.
“And they call me Olam O’lamb!” came a shout from the tunnel.
CHAPTER 9
Matters Old and New
“I thought I told you to stay down by the table.” Brea stood with fists on hips, staring at this… Olam O’lamb character as he took another step into the den. “And you still carry on coming!” Brea shook her head and waved her arms in the air.
Arfael – who was just beginning to get back on his feet – chuckled at her exasperation. “He tends to go where he wants, Ms. Brea,” he said.
“And especially when a friend of mine is in trouble,” Olam answered. “I would have been here before you, had I not had to rest a second to catch my breath and decide what this place was.”
“Then you would have gotten what you deserve, Mr. O’lamb.” Brea’s lips twisted around his name. “Have I got that right? Olam O’lamb?”
The old man bowed. “Yes, Ms. Brea.”
“Well don’t just stand there,” Tiama said from atop the rock-shelf. “You might as well come in all the way. Seems we have many visitors today. Who is that with you?” Tiama nodded at the younger man.
“It is I, Tiama: Alacin’tien.” The young man bowed to Rek’s mother, then turned to Tor. “It is good to see you, my old friend. It has been too long. You have grown somewhat over the past nine hundred years.”
Brea glanced at Tor, whose mouth was hanging open. “Alacin who?” Brea asked, turning back to the young man.
“This cannot be,” Tor said. He took a step towards the visitor. “What trickery is this? Who are you?” He took another step, but the boy stood still, smiling. “Speak quickly, boy. I am not known for my patience.”
“You can say that again,” the young man said, laughing. “I remember when you first met Tiama. You were in such a rush to court her; you almost broke a wing trying to beat Sek to the mating stone.”
Tor stopped in his tracks.
Alacin took a step closer. “What is it, my friend? Have I… Where is Sek? Please tell me he’s not…”
“Young man,” Tor growled. “You have yet to prove yourself, and even if you do, even if you are Alacin’tien, you do not mention that name in here.”
Alacin backed off. “Your pardon, good dragon. It has been a long time; they have not told me everything. If I have spoken out of turn, I am sorry.”
A dull silence descended over the den. Brea looked slowly from one to the other. Tor and Alacin knew each other, no doubt there; but unluckily for the newcomer, he had hit on the one subject guaranteed to put Tor’gan the Black into a foul mood.
It was Tiama who eventually broke the silence.
“If you are indeed Alacin’tien, then we should celebrate properly. Although you could have picked a better time. You always were an awkward one, boy.”
Alacin laughed. And Tor rumbled out what could have been a chuckle. Olam’s eyes flickered from one to the other.
So… Brea thought, the old man knows nothing of this, either. Strange.
“You should all rest first,” Tiama said. “Give everyone time to think on all that has happened. Go to the village, sleep, and come back in the morning. We will all do better with clear heads.”
It was a good idea, but nobody moved. Tired or not, they wanted to stay.
Typical men, Brea thought. Wading in like a ram at a picnic. Not a one would show the patience they were born with.
Of course, rest wasn’t the only reason Brea wanted them to go; she had suddenly remembered what she had asked her mother to do. Visions of the entire village racing up the slope toward the cave flashed through her mind.
She was about to speak when Tor added his thoughts. “Yes, it has been a busy day,” he said. “We should take the night to rest and think. Tomorrow, in the mid-morning, would be a good time to continue. We have a lot to discuss. Even more now that…” Tor nodded at Alacin. Brea was not sure if he was ready to believe that story, especially not after dealing with the Cinnè’arth. Tor continued, “Besides, plans may need changing, I can’t speak for the rest of the Gan without telling them what has happened. Tomorrow.” He spoke the last forcibly, nodding agreeably to himself, then at Tiama, who returned the gesture. She was probably pleased that he had followed her suggestion, for once.
“Come on then,” Brea said, ushering the visitors toward the tunnel. “It will be dark soon and I’m not cooking ‘til midnight.” She smiled at Tor and then turned to Rek – who looked fit to jump off the dais and come with her. Brea gave him a smile and reached up to pet him on the nose. “I’ll see you in the morning, my little man.”
Rek whimpered
, but nodded.
On the way out, Brea overheard Tor speaking to Tiama…
“Alacin’tien turning up now. Of all the times to make an appearance. It would be just like the witch to send…”
His voice faded as Brea made her way down the inner tunnel. Evidently, this Alacin was going to have to prove himself.
* * *
The villagers were indeed out in force. Brea laughed at the sight of her mother, cookpot in hand, standing at the front of a dozen villagers. The scowl on Affrair’s face said she wasn’t afraid to use the pan if needs be. The others looked no less determined, with their collection of garden hoes, shovels and rolling pins waving in the air. It was a wonder they had not followed Olam’s example and come all the way up to the den. Brea waved them down with a calming gesture.
“Everything is all right; we’re all friends here,” Brea said.
She gave her mother a knowing glance. What was she doing there? And bringing a cooking pot to a dragons’ den… What was she thinking?
“I know, I know,” Affrair said. “I would have ducked behind a tree if anything bad happened.” Her smile slipped as she cast her eye toward the cave. Arfael was just now coming into view.
Brea did not have to look to see for herself; the gasps and cries of the villagers told her the big man was not three paces behind. She turned and gestured openhanded toward the Cinnè’arth – and then wondered if she should call him that.
“This is Arfael and his friends, Olam and Alacin’tien.”
“Ealian! My name is Ealian. Alacin has gone to sleep, I think.”
The younger man looked annoyed as he took a step away from the others. Shaking his head, he said, “I would have liked to have talked to them, Olam. Why did we have to leave so soon?”
Olam cleared his throat. “We will see the dragons tomorrow, Ealian. Let’s just have some food and rest first, there’s no rush.” The old man turned to Brea and the other villagers. “You will have to excuse my young friend; his… situation… will take some explaining. Perhaps when we are rested.”
The young man made a noise that sounded like a growl. “So where’s this village? Is it far? I’m starving.” He began to walk down the track toward the clearing. Brea knew he could see the light from the village. Why would he ask where it was?
She turned to Olam, who only shrugged.
“This last week has been hard on the boy,” he said, clasping his hands and bowing in apology. “I promise you, I will explain everything later.”
Mumbles rose from the gathered villagers, as Brea curtsied. “Then we should hurry on home; I for one can’t wait to hear this story.” She tried her best to display her annoyance, but Olam only smiled and asked her to lead on.
Brea ushered the villagers off first and then led Olam and Arfael along the track. Ealian was already halfway to the clearing. Did he think he was going to walk himself into the inn and ignore everybody? Get a room for himself and say nothing of what… what? No, Brea could not explain what she saw; one minute, he was this Alacin’tien, all confidence and good manners; the next, he was an arrogant young scoundrel. She would hear this story, even if she had to follow him into the inn and fill him with ale.
Brea paused as her mother slipped on the steep trail. However, before she could do anything…
“May I help you, madam?” Olam asked Affrair. The old man thrust out an elbow that Brea’s mother appeared happy to take.
“It is steep here, thank you. Olam, is it?” she asked, tidying the silver haired-bun at the back of her neck.
She blushed! Oh gods, she’s actually blushing.
“Olam O’lamb, madam, uh, Mrs…?”
“Oh, none of that,” Affrair chuckled and slapped Olam lightly on his shoulder. “No title here, young man, you can call me Affrair.”
For a moment, Affrair looked puzzled. “Olam…? That’s… Eurmacian, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is! Few people would know that this far north. Have you travelled?”
“I-I know some people from south of the Canyon.”
Affrair gave Brea a peculiar look as if she was speaking out of turn. Whatever it was, Brea brushed off the thought. She’d had quite enough revelations for one day.
Olam and her mother continued talking. Brea found she could not listen any longer. She backed off a step and almost tripped over Arfael. “Sorry Cin – uh, Arfael,” she said, smiling up at the huge man. Was he a man – a human?
“That’s all right, Brea. My feet are too big for this narrow trail. I’m surprised I haven’t fallen already.”
Did he just tell a joke? He is supposed to be a mysterious hero from an age long gone. Why is he telling jokes? Not that she minded his sudden turn at humour; it was just… unexpected.
“No, it’s my fault,” she told him. “It’s getting dark; these trails are dangerous at night. It’s easy to break an ankle.”
“That reminds me, I should look for my horse.” The big man scratched his head as if he couldn’t remember where he had left the animal.
“Your horses are down in the paddock. I saw them on the way up. At least I assume it’s your horse; no one in the village has an animal that size. Where did you get it? I’ve never—”
“Oh, it’s not mine, miss. The Crenach’dair let me borrow him for a while.”
Brea’s eyes widened. Why did the Cren… “Of course,” she said, almost to herself. “The Cren are tall, too, aren’t they?”
“Indeed they are, miss.”
She was surprised Arfael was so talkative. They chatted all the way back to Braylair. Brea even managed a laugh, a few times. More, as the conversation went on, she found herself beginning to like the big man. Then she remembered why he was here, remembered what Tor’gan would soon ask of him. A knot caught in her throat. Thankfully, they had arrived at Braylair’s small inn; she didn’t have to hide her sudden change of mood.
* * *
Arfael looked up at the swinging sign. It read The Whistling Shepherd and had a very fat man, who seemed to be skipping, painted on it, but no sign of any sheep. Was he still a shepherd if he tended goats? Arfael ducked under the lintel and squeezed himself through the front door. Thankfully, it was roomier inside than the door suggested. He managed to stand to almost full height. Although the top of his head was between two thick, black beams.
It was a quiet evening; only four people were sitting in the common room – or maybe it had been busy, before half of the village had set off up to the dragons’ cave. Three men were sitting in the corner behind a long, wooden counter. Cups in hand, the three gaped open-mouthed at Arfael. He nodded at them. They didn’t move, just stared. The innkeeper, a respectfully fat man – innkeepers should be fat, Arfael thought – stood behind his bar, frozen to the spot, towel in one hand, and a silver-coloured mug in the other. Another man, sitting on his own, to the left of the bar, had yet to turn around. When he did, he spat out a curse and made for his sword. Brea darted in front of Arfael.
“No, no, Jorgan. He is a friend!” she told the man, her hands raised.
He eased his sword back into its scabbard.
Jorgen peered at Arfael like a man who couldn’t see properly, all squint and craned neck. Olam stood at Arfael’s left, and Ealian – fresh from wandering – was on the right. The local took in all three of them, then cleared his throat. “I should be told if there are visitors, Brea. How can I keep order if I don’t know who’s in the bloomin’ village?”
Arfael relaxed a little. So… he’s a lawman.
Brea clasped her hands together and gave Jorgan a shallow bow. “I’m sorry, Master Kilmster,” she said. “But there wasn’t enough time to warn you.”
“Be that as it may, child, you could have come in first. Almost gave me a bloomin’ heart attack. The last thing I expect is to see a Kel’mai walk through the door.”
Jorgan gave Arfael a deeper bow. “How do you do, by the way?” he said. He made as though tipping his hat before nodding at both Olam and Ealian.
“I’m we
ll, thank you, Master… uh… Killermister?” Arfael said.
Jorgen was a wiry man, more creases and crinkles on his tired face than Arfael had ever seen on a human. He had bright eyes, though, and looked like the type who would take no messing around.
Jorgan chuckled. Arfael wondered what was funny. “No, it’s Kilm-ster,” Jorgan said. “But don’t you worry, everybody gets it wrong. Just call me Jorgan. Please, won’t you have a seat? Not often we get to see the Kel’mai this far south. Come to think of it, I don’t reckon I ever have.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Arfael said with a smile. He took up Jorgan’s offer of a seat, squeezing his knees under a large, round table.
Brea looked a little put out. It would seem that Jorgan had taken over her job. “I’ll just get some drinks then, shall I?” she said, curtly.
“Yes, good idea, Brea. Just the ticket,” Jorgan said. “I think some of Lance’s good wine would go down a treat. If he ever moves again, that is.” Jorgan turned to the innkeeper. “Lance, wake up, you foolish man. Ha! Fat lot of good you’d be in a tight spot.”
Lance Solaman – a brass plaque above the bar had his name written on it – broke from his stupor. He quickly turned and took down a flagon of wine from the shelf above the mirror. Wordlessly, he handed it to Brea. Then, reaching below the bar, he lined up half a dozen silver-coloured cups. When Brea eyed the cups, he eyed her right back. Apparently, he was not going to move from his side of the bar. Brea linked the cups in her fingers and struggled back to the round table. Jorgan helped her with the cups while Arfael quickly glanced at the three men opposite – they had turned away, and were now in a huddle, whispering, with their heads close together.
“Don’t mind them,” Jorgan said. “We’re used to stranger things than you, my friend. You’ll be old news, come late supper.”
“‘Stranger things?’ You mean the dragons?” Olam asked.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 55
