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

by T. J. Garrett

  Nana stood and saluted. “Yes, sir,” she said, remaining at attention until the general was out of sight. See to it personally… Am I a water boy now? She turned to her men. “Come on; rest time is over. Skelk, you come with me; Kalf, Bertog, see that the others are formed up in ranks.”

  Of course, the ranks wouldn’t need much “forming.” If there was one thing she had learned about the Kel’madden – the real Kel’madden, those from Toi’ildrieg – in the two years that she had served with them was that they loved discipline. They hardly needed a commander, once they were set on a path, the gods themselves could not break them from it. It was a pity some of the officers didn’t share their sense of duty.

  “He didn’t look too happy,” Skelk said as he caught up with her.

  She led him down the track towards the larger of two staging areas. If the water wagons were anywhere, they would be there, she hoped.

  “Arguing with Sek,” Nana said. “It’s always the same. The man should leave the dragons be. Gods know only Vila can control them.”

  Skelk snorted. “And where is Vila?”

  Nana looked at him. She had been thinking the same thing. Oh, she knew the plan – or most of it; all the captains did – but were they really going to attack Bailryn without her? “She’ll be back in time, Sergeant. I’ll put a bottle of zachi on it.”

  “Uh… no thank you, I’m still recovering from last month’s card game. I’m just saying its strange how she left like that.”

  Nana glanced sideways at Skelk. Was he questioning Vila? She knew some of the men, mostly officers, were none-too-pleased about how this invasion was progressing. Some had even openly called it a waste of time, and that they couldn’t possibly hold Bailryn, assuming they won. She had wondered about that, too. Catching them by surprise, before they had a chance to fortify the city, was one thing; but holding out against the whole of Aleras’moya… She could only assume that Vila knew something she did not. Maybe there were alliances she hadn’t heard of. There must be something.

  “She has her business, Sergeant. It’s not for us to question her.”

  Skelk nodded, but he didn’t look satisfied with her answer. Had the men been talking? The last thing she needed was to go into battle with a group of half-hearted soldiers.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Something is bothering you, Skelk. Out with it.”

  The sergeant hesitated. He scratched at his chin and looked anywhere but at her. “If the Surabhan had attacked, caused us harm in some way… but many of the men don’t understand why we are invading. We have free trade; Kel’madden, Toyans, Krassians – all can travel Aleras un-harassed, even settle here, if they choose to. They’re wondering what we will be dying for.”

  Nana took a deep breath. She’d never considered that. Vila had made some rousing speeches about duty, honour, and glory, but never once mentioned a reason, just some ambiguous references to “ensuring the future of Moyathair,” whatever that meant. She had no answer for Skelk, and that worried her.

  “We’ll just have to trust that there are things we don’t know,” she told him. “We swore to serve, and that will have to be enough.”

  Skelk mumbled agreement but didn’t sound at all convinced.

  They turned into a long, narrow gully, one side of which was full of wagons. Some held tents, some food. Unsurprisingly, the ones she wanted were at the far end. She ordered the quartermaster’s assistant to hitch one up, and with Skelk taking the other rein, they led the horse and cart out of the gully and towards the clearing where the dragons were.

  Sek was waiting in the centre of the clearing, watching them as they led the horse up the short slope. Nana tried not to look at the Black Dragon; he had always made her nervous, far more than any other. He always had a glint in his eye that spoke of… obsession. Maybe he was just determined; but when he looked at her, she felt… small, like a child staring up at an armoured knight – and not a noble knight.

  “At last,” Sek grumbled. “Did they send you to the river for it?”

  “My apologies, sir,” Nana said. “We came as quickly as we could.” She wanted to tell him where he could stick the water wagon. It was bad enough that the human commanders treated her like an errand boy.

  Sek snorted. “I suppose it’s not your fault, Captain. You do well enough, for a Toyan.”

  Do well for a Toyan? What was that supposed to mean? “Thank you, sir.” She managed to hide her disdain, barely.

  Sek buried half his snout in one of the six large water barrels. He gulped as if he hadn’t had a drink in a week. Raising his head, he took a deep breath. “That’s better. Strange how delicious water can be.”

  Now Sek had finished, the other dragons began to crowd around the water wagon. Nana wondered if she would have to go back and fetch another one. They were surprisingly well ordered for such beasts; polite, even.

  Sek took a step to the side. “Tell me, Captain, what do you think of our orders?”

  Nana tried to hide her surprise. Why was Sek asking her? None of the higher officers asked her opinion. “It’s not really for me to say, sir. I think we are doing well enough. Things should move faster, now that we are out of the Tunnels.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the Tunnels were… trying. But tell me, do you agree with our tactics?”

  There he goes again, asking her for an opinion. Nana wondered whether playing the dutiful officer might not be the best response, but instead… “It might have been better if we had more ships. How are we going to blockade the harbour?”

  Sek nodded in approval. “Well done, Captain. You have a good mind, for a Toyan. And who knows, maybe we will have enough ships.” The Black Dragon raised his head and gazed to the south. “This time tomorrow, Bailryn will be in our sights. She will fall quickly; these Surabhan have no stomach for battle. By week’s end, she will be ours. For the glory of the Empire.”

  Nana took a step back and closed her gaping mouth. “The Empire?” she whispered. What Empire?

  * * *

  Daric had been staring at his mug of ale since the barmaid had brought it to his table. That was probably an hour ago, but he didn’t care; he had other things on his mind. How could they have let his son go off like that, flying on the back of a dragon? What were they thinking? Yes, the boy was eighteen; yes, he had his own mind, but they could have put him off. They could have told him to wait until more were able to come, until he could have joined him. The thought of his son off on his own, fighting to save Elspeth… he didn’t know whether to feel proud or throw up from the worry of it.

  The letter was no help. Oh, it explained everything, but Daric knew all too well that Olam had a hand in writing it; his son just wasn’t that good at letters. Olam had told him that the boy had struggled over the note, written it out a dozen times. If that were true, it should have been longer.

  He suppressed a pang of guilt. What was he doing thinking like that? His son had taken the time to write him a note, and he was… what? What was he doing? It may be the last he heard from Gialyn, and he was questioning who wrote it! How long the letter was! What was wrong with him? He took the note out of his pocket and stared at the broken wax. The boy had sealed it with one of the crosshatched buttons from his coat, the coat that Daric had brought him the last time the merchant train had come through Albergeddy. The thought made him smile. Did he take the brass button off first? That would have been a funny thing to watch; Gialyn was worse at sewing than he was at writing.

  Dear Father.

  By now, you would have heard that I have travelled to Eiras in hopes of rescuing Elspeth. Please do not be angry. I am sure you understand why I had to do it. I could not sit idly by while others risked themselves. I know it is the right thing to do, and yes, I know it is dangerous, but how could I live with myself if something happened to her, and I had not even tried? Do not worry, I promise to keep my head down and not jump before I look.

  Gialyn.

  Yes, definitely Olam. Still, he couldn’t really blame the man
; Gialyn had always been awkward, difficult. Thinking on it, he was fortunate to get a letter. It was probably Olam’s idea to write it. If there was one thing that riled him more than any other about his son, it was the boy’s single-mindedness. More than once, he had had to light a fire under the child’s feet to wake him up, to stop him walking over a cliff with one of his fanciful ideas: exploring, sailing the Cuanmor, joining the Bard’s Guild. The Bard’s Guild! the dog had a better singing voice.

  Again, he buried his anger. Why, by the gods, was he angry with Gialyn? Maybe he should have let him go to the Bard’s Guild. No, he should have taken him to Beugeddy, forced him to attend the Guild. At least then, the only danger he would be facing would be that of a heckling audience.

  No, it was no good; he knew why he was angry… Why hadn’t he kept the boy with him, and Elspeth, too? He had been trying to keep them safe, yet all he had accomplished was to land them both in the fire.

  “You thinking of going after him?” Grady asked.

  Daric shook his head. “No, Tor won’t spare the dragons, and it would take two weeks to sail there in this weather. I’d probably pass him on his way back.”

  He hoped he would have passed him on his way back. He couldn’t think about the alternative.

  Grady nodded, pulling the chair up to Daric’s table. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s with Arfael, and Olam says that that Brea girl is quite something. And don’t forget Alacin. I doubt we know half of what he can do. Olam says he’s very powerful.”

  “Olam, Olam, Olam.” Daric took a gulp of his now-flat ale. “Olam should have tied the boy to a cart. What good is Gialyn going to do in Eiras?”

  Grady gave him a cautious look. Tapping nervously on the table, he said, “The boy is not useless, Daric. You might be surprised what he can do. He’s an expert with daggers, and he’s very—”

  “I know he’s not useless,” Daric said, far louder than he had intended.

  The fifteen or so people in the common room stopped their talking and glanced in his direction. Daric sent them back to their business with a look of his own.

  All but Si’eth, that was. The Salrian was sitting in the corner with his son, Bre’ach. At least that boy had the sense to know what was best, even if he had started out on the wrong path. Indeed, the young Salrian’s information had proven useful – Olam’s, too, he supposed, but especially Bre’ach’s. They knew roughly where the Kel’madden were, and that they had twenty-thousand men, give or take, with no cavalry. Of course, the dragons would be a problem; Tor would be outnumbered three to two.

  Still, the information had saved him having to send scouts. Well, not him, Mikelmoor – the newly promoted general – would have that responsibility.

  And the best of luck to him, Daric thought. It’s about time the old coot made general.

  Mikelmoor’s first official correspondence had been to offer him a command, but Daric had refused; he was quite happy taking orders. The general had put him on the wall, though, with a hundred runners under his charge. He didn’t mind that so much. Coordinating the lines and running orders would suit him well enough. He was certainly too old – and too out of practice – to stand on the line. Even if he were inclined, he would likely get himself killed. Holding the line was a young man’s job.

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight,” Daric said to Grady. He rubbed at his temple; a headache was on its way, and little wonder, after the night he had had. “What of your orders? Where are you going?”

  Grady shrugged. “I haven’t had any orders. I think they think I’ll be with the wolves.” He took a sip of his drink and nodded in silent agreement with himself. “Yes, I think fighting with the wolves and Rarshman’s men will suit me fine.”

  Daric raised a brow. “You want to work with Rarshman?”

  “He’s not all bad,” Grady said. He put down his mug and glanced around, then leaned forward. “Don’t tell him I said this, but the man’s pretty good in a fix. You know, once all that arrogance is pushed aside.”

  Daric laughed. “They say odd things happen in war, but…”

  Grady joined in, and the two might have kept laughing, if the door to the common room hadn’t slammed against the bar.

  A young corporal rushed in and saluted. “They’re here!” he said, in a surprisingly steady voice.

  Daric stood and pulled his tunic straight. “How far?”

  “They’re setting up camp on the slope east of Barais’coi. They’re still four miles away, maybe five, but it’s definitely them.

  The common room emptied, and it didn’t take the line of officers long to get to the North Wall. With Grady following, Daric climbed the steps inside the gate tower. It still smelled of charred wood and the gate wasn’t fully repaired, but the tower itself was virtually unscathed. At the top, he ducked through the low doorway and walked out on to the parapet. Cal was already there, standing with Mikelmoor. Both men were looking north.

  The sun was almost down, and dusk was rolling in, but Daric could see what they were looking at – it wasn’t as if he could miss it. The Kel’madden troops had spread themselves thickly along a two-mile stretch of the forest. Torches had been lit: they wanted the city to know they were there. To the west, Daric saw a line of horses, not many, but at least five hundred. A line of wagons still stretched out of sight, and east of the forest, a dozen dragons were settling on the high ground, overlooking the valley between Barais’coi and the Crescent.

  Si’eth and Bre’ach moved in beside him. Bre’ach gasped. “Uh… there’s more than twenty thousand.”

  “So it would seem,” Daric said. He couldn’t help a wry grin. “More like fifty.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference if we knew their numbers to the last man,” Mikelmoor said loudly, so everyone could hear. “It doesn’t change anything.” The recently promoted general turned and marched to where he could see the other soldiers gathered on the parapet – or rather, where they could see him. “All right then, stop your gawping. You all know what to do. Now get on with it.”

  Daric watched as the men began to hustle back and forth. They did know what to do, but still, they looked frightened. Most of them were not much older than Gialyn. Burying thoughts of his son, Daric turned back to the north.

  “Do you think they’ll give us the night?” Grady asked.

  Daric nodded. “Probably, but tomorrow… tomorrow, it begins.”

  END OF PART THREE: The Road to Arenthenia

  The Dragon Oracles: Part Four

  Dedication

  A writer can count themselves lucky if he/she can find one person to encourage their efforts and keep the wolves of doubt from the door. For two years, Matt Taylor, my illustrator, has been a constant friend and sounding board. Were it not for him, I am sure this book would be little more than a jumble of notes and computer files. Thanks, Matt.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Weight of Duty

  Gialyn opened his eyes and blinked. Bright sunlight filtered through the branches of the tree he was lying under. Squinting, he shaded his eyes with a flat hand and looked at the sky. It was an odd colour: blue, but the wrong blue, edging towards purple. And the sun, although bright, was not the right colour, either; too… orange.

  The air was warm. The faint breeze smelled sweetly of blossom. Gialyn forced himself up onto his elbow. The tree was near the top of a hill. Thick fog blanketed the land below. Only a single line—a road, maybe—disturbed the white covering. Above, cotton-ball clouds rolled across the not-quite-blue sky, and in the distance, Gialyn could see what looked like another hill. He thought there might be a tower standing on top. He couldn’t be sure; maybe a very tall statue. Shaking his head, he decided he didn’t care what it was. Overall, it seemed to be a perfect spring day—apart from the fog. But where was he?

  Then he remembered…

  Sitting up, he forced his hand under the white shirt he was somehow wearing. He expected to find the dagger wound Vila’s guard had given him. Nothing – just smoo
th skin. “I must be dreaming,” he whispered. He looked down at his hand, flexed it a few times, and then thumped his leg. The thump hurt. If he was dreaming, he was in the most realistic dream he had ever had.

  “No, you are not dreaming, young Gialyn.”

  Gialyn jumped to his feet. Heart pounding, he turned towards the voice—a deep voice that instantly reminded him of Tor’gan. A shadow moved in a small copse of oak and beech. He backed away. Tripping on the roots, he scrambled behind the tree he had been laying under. He could hear movement: twigs snapped and branches scraped against a rough surface. Fighting to calm his heavy breathing, and with his back against the tree, Gialyn slowly twisted around the trunk and searched for who—or what—had spoken to him. Not ten paces away, a huge, white dragon strode into the clearing near the top of the hill.

  Gialyn flattened himself against the tree trunk. He could hear the dragon moving closer. Eyes wide, and heart ringing loud in his ears, he searched for a means of escape.

  He was eyeing a rock face that might do for cover, when he remembered seeing the dragon before, in the Tunnels of Aldregair. The same dragon had helped them rescue Elspeth. But why was the beast here—wherever here was. Gathering his wits, Gialyn shimmied to the right and stole a quick look. Back in the tunnels, the dragon had come through a… portal, Olam had called it. Gialyn remembered seeing a misty world through that large oval hole. Was that where he was? Had he somehow travelled to the dragon’s world?

  “Yes, Gialyn, you are in Arenthenia, the Spirit Realm. Don’t be frightened, you are quite safe.” The dragon lay down next to the tree and regarded him with cool, grey-blue eyes.

  Gialyn drummed up courage and stepped out from behind the tree. He dusted down his white shirt and light-brown breeches—if this is real, where did my clothes come from?—and waited for the dragon to speak.